Monthly Archives: June 2012

Jun 18 2012

Love and Marriage Reunites our Family

I’m  happy you are all here to witness, read, share with me, and comment on my thoughts, feelings and experiences. I didn’t want to disappear for a couple of weeks without an explanation, so todays post is to let you know what’s going on. Why I won’t be posting or reading your posts. I’LL BE BACK though.

On June 30th my youngest son is getting married. I have three sons’, the oldest two are married. This is the first of my children’s weddings I’ve been a part of. I’m so excited, determined to stay present to the entire process. Enjoy the hustle and bustle of  wedding day preparations.  Last night my sons fiancée called to share her undiluted joy.  She’s effervescent as champagne and it’s contagious!

The first time I married I was seventeen years old. My wedding was nice  but I don’t remember it being exciting. For my  parents it was a huge financial burden which they reminded me of regularly. The wedding was something they wanted to get through and be done with. I was married in the Mormon temple so my parents couldn’t get a temple recommend to be there. Secretly I was happy about it. My dad though was bitter which caused my parents to fight more than usual.  When my current husband and I decided to tie the knot we picked up the license a few hours before we got married.  Impulsive and quick as Vegas, we called a Justice of the Peace, I ran down to the local florist, bought a cheap bouquet of flowers, and thirty minutes later we got married in the yard sitting on the tailgate of his truck. You might be a redneck if… Ha!  My youngest son [the groom], was the ring bearer and the flower boy. Thinking back on that now, I’m so happy his wedding’s an event. A celebration of love.

My dress is really something! My daughter-in-law to be went shopping with me.  I’m no frump, have my own style that I wear quite well, but formal attire is not the usual for me.  We ended up choosing a Merlot colored floor length silk gown. Think red carpet stunning. I’ve worn some pretty dresses over the years but nothing like this. I was a bit concerned about standing out too much. Juneeebug, [my nick name for the blushing bride], was very persistent about my getting this one. I’m really glad she was, I feel smashing when I’m wearing it.

Most of the preparations fall upon the brides family, but they’ve delegated a few things to me. In my family I’m known for my creative flair, so one of my contributions was making the card box. For anyone who doesn’t know, it’s a box that sits at the reception so people can drop cards into it when they come in the door. Anywho, I decided to make a card box that looked like a three-tiered wedding cake. I took three different sized square white hat boxes, cut the bottoms out of each one, then glued them one on top of the other. Next I cut a slit in the top box.  The open bottoms created a shoot that let the cards drop way into the bottom of the cardboard cake. Next I sprayed the boxes with a textured paint so it would look like frosting then sprayed the whole thing with a very light pink. I used stick on jewels in different shapes [including hearts] and sizes and in various colors of pink, then glued pretty silk flowers to the corners of each layer. I wrapped the base of each box in silk fuchsia [one of her wedding colors] ribbon. The final touch was tying a bounteous bow on the top of the cake. It turned out absolutely beautiful!

I chose bright and playful invitations to invite friends and family to a rehearsal dinner my husband  and I are hosting the Thursday evening before the wedding. One of the first things on the list of ‘what to do’ during this exciting celebration, which begins on the 26th of June and continues until the 1st of July.

I’m also making up spunky flowery welcome bags for the guests who will be staying at the hotel for the wedding weekend. Original and fun, the tissue paper I’m stuffing them with is fuchsia and orange. In the bag, like Easter basket surprises, I’m sprinkling in Hershey kisses and chewy cherry hearts.

I’m a bit nervous but really looking forward to our Mother and Son dance. There are days when I can hardly believe my baby’s getting married. I wouldn’t call him a mommies boy but we’ve always been close. Luckily Juneeebug and I hit it off. Have developed a real friendship with each other.  At the risk of sounding terribly cliché, I really am getting  a daughter. Since I never had one, it’s really fun. We share clothes and jewelry and secrets. I’ve included the song we’ll be dancing to at the bottom of this page. Yes, I am going to cry.

My oldest son has two children. His two-year old son won’t be coming but his daughter who is five will be.  She’s the flower girl. I’ve only met her once when she was 18 months old and she doesn’t remember that visit.  The story is a long one. You will be reading about it sometime in the future as it’s much later in the memoir than the excerpts you’ve been reading recently.  While she’s here for the wedding I’ve made plans to take her to the Boston Aquarium. Also to bring her and her daddy to see our cabin so they can get a picture in their mind’s eye before they head back to Utah.

When my youngest son decided to stay with me after the divorce, move to New England, it split him and his brothers apart. He and my middle son, just two years apart, were very best friends so the move was incredibly painful for them both. There’s been times when there’s been almost no contact. Times when trying to stay connected was just to painful for all of us.  We’ve spent years trying to rebuild, undo some of what’s been done, and have relationships with each other that feel natural and comfortable. Slowly, it’s coming. In ways, I believe the connections are stronger than they would have been had we stayed together. Nothing is taken for granted.

Both my older sons’ will be standing up with their little brother; once very much an outcast among them. This wedding is creating a platform, an opportunity to re-seed the garden of our family. My son and his to be bride have been together for seven years and are very much in love. Their goal, other than the obvious, has been to create an atmosphere of love that their guests will be able to feel,which they’re definitely doing.

This will be the first time me and all three of my sons have been together for well over twenty years. Broken promises and hearts kept me from being a part of the weddings of my two oldest sons of which I still have regret.  As we all gather to celebrate the youngest of our clan and his stunning brides wedding day, for me, it is also a humbling, holy, family reunion.

Jun 12 2012

Ass-squared [assuming assumptions are true].

Assumption:
The act of taking for granted or supposing.
The act of taking to or upon oneself.
The act of taking possession of something: the assumption of power.
Arrogance; presumption.

Today I’m frustrated with the misunderstandings created by making assumptions. Before I move on I want to say that I also get caught up in making them on occasion.  I work against the urge though as it doesn’t allow for any genuine intimacy [in-to-me-I-see].

Yesterday I received a message from my sister that read, “Ok, what do I have to do?” Her assumption is that I have an expectation of her that she is not meeting because I’ve chosen to step away from the relationship for the time being. I’ve told her that I’m not sure what it is that I’m struggling with, I just don’t feel comfortable engaging in relationship with her at this time. Which is the truth.  In the past, if she asked me to give her a reason, I would have made something up so neither of us would have to feel the discomfort of the truth. The problem is she would then do whatever it is I asked of her, then have the expectation that all would be well because she did. Then I would have to lie and say that it is, even if it isn’t.

Recently I called a woman I know to ask her for the time of a particular meeting I was to speak at. I really just wanted to know the time the meeting began so I would know when to arrive.  She however assumed I was asking her if she would come and support me while I spoke. Immediately she began to scheme out loud as to how she could change her plans for the evening, so she could show up to support me, which she did.  When she arrived she sat down in the chair next to me which made me feel like a child, which made me feel a bit angry, which made me feel a little guilty. I thanked her for being there for me, which made me feel resentful toward her. Why didn’t I tell her I didn’t want or need her to be there for me? I didn’t want her to think I was an asshole. I was afraid if I told her the truth she wouldn’t like me.

My experiences have taught me that more times than not, after someone shows up for you in this way, they have an expectation that you will then be glad they did. If you aren’t and you let them know this by say, not responding in the way they hope you will, they’re uncomfortable and many times get angry. Which usually manifests with them backing way off. Making an assumption that you don’t need, want, or deserve support because you didn’t receive what they offered you, in the way they offered it. They rarely, if ever, ask what it is that you want or need, then do that. Perhaps they assume I will ask for more than they can or are willing to give, and most likely, I will.

Last week I asked a group of women that were in the habit of telling me they love me, not to. They are not family and I would not call most of them close friends. They are a group of good people who have a common interest and goal, but for me, being in love with each other, has nothing to do with the desired outcome we are all hoping for.  For me love is an action. Hard work much of the time.  At the very least, the action I’m looking for is to respect who I am, whether you agree or not. And when I use the word respect, I’m referring to refraining from intruding upon or interfering with my life. To accept me for who and what I am. The people I asked not to say I love you to me are people I felt were patronizing me by telling me they loved me. These women are assuming it’s what I want and need. Assuming that when I say it’s not what I want or need, I don’t know what’s best for me. They seem to assume that by saying “I love you” they are in some way doing something for me. They also expect me to respond accordingly, which most times I can’t, in good conscience  anyway.

I’ve come to realize that other people’s assumptions about what they think I want and need, what they think I “should” want and need, has been a problem for me for most of my life. I get really confused about it. Don’t want to make people uncomfortable, or to be cast off as someone who is too much of a problem. This I believe may be the root of it for me. I can’t count the times I have been in a situation like the ones above, not done what I was supposed to do according to whatever assumption someone was making, and was therefore rejected as someone who is much to difficult to get along with. It’s true, I’m impossible to get along with, if you’re hoping to have a relationship with me based on assumptions about what’s ‘normal,’ and therefore what I want or need.

My husband and I have been married for twelve plus years. He was 43 when we married and had no intention of ever getting married. He’s a handsome, capable, sexy fun guy who had lots of girlfriends along the way. When I asked him why he married me, why he stays with me, [other than I'm wonderful, wink],  he says he saved the best for last.  He also says that having a relationship with me is like climbing Mount Everest. Not everyone can or wants to do it. But if it’s your thing, and you’re fit to make the climb, the reward, the view from the top is amazing.

Jun 11 2012

Inspiration with Beautiful Flower Photographs! ~a new collection offered by Linda Willows

Reblogged from linda willows:

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I had a wonderful time putting together this beautiful collection of Flower Photographs for you. Most photos are by the gifted Photographer, Ken Oshawa. I get all dreamy and happy when I am amidst flowers.

I hope that you enjoy them as your own! To start the show, click on one! Keep all that you like! Love, Linda

This bouquet was plucked and arranged by Linda Willows. Just had to share the beauty with ya'll.
 ~ 

A flower is a leaf gone mad with love. – Goethe

By Authentic Imperfection • Posted in Random
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Jun 8 2012

No Nostalgia November

School was out for Thanksgiving. Most the kids in the neighborhood were playing outside. Many of them riding their bikes up and down the sidewalks. I liked playing by myself most of the time and much of my play was serious business. I decided that it was my job to protect the ants that lived beneath the sidewalk in front of our house. My front line defense was formed by sitting in the center of the cement square where they emerged from the ground. A tiny sand pyramid had sprouted between two cement sidewalk squares. Their door was at the top of the bitty crater where fire ants poured out into the day like lava from a volcano.

I liked watching them scurry around. Stumble like they were drunk trying to carry pebbles and crumbs bigger than they were down into their home. I liked imagining what it must be like down there, was worried that a mommy ant would get stepped on or run over.  Her babies left alone, they’d be scared. Wonder what happened to their mama. So I claimed their square as my domain, which placed me right smack in the way of anyone who wanted to pedal past our house. When kids tried to make their way through I insisted they go around me, which required them to drive on the grass making a few of them crash. Most times they called me a  stupid retard then went around. Every now and then someone would try to usurp my position by threatening to run over me with their bike. Refusing to move, my sister and brother would come to my defense; lure them away from me by starting up some sort of game.

Mom was busy in the kitchen getting ready for Thanksgiving. When I went in the house to pee I could smell the sage and rosemary she used in her stuffing. Pumpkin pies baking in the oven. When she wasn’t looking I snatched a handful of miniature marshmallows she’d poured on top of her sweet potatoes. Her beer can sat in a puddle of sweat on the counter. She had the radio on. The newsman was talking about the movie star who was now our Governor. When my mom turned her back to rinse out a bowl I grabbed a handful of the stuffing, jammed it in my mouth. She took a drag off her cigarette then set it in the ashtray so she could stir the stuffing. Smoke blew out of her mouth and nose like puff the magic dragon.

When us kids went to bed dad still wasn’t home from work. Laying in the dark I listened to mom cleaning up the kitchen. Could hear the whispering snap of her beer cans opening, smell her cigarettes. The nine o’clock news was just coming on when I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up to explosions, heart pounding against my chest like a drum. Dark. Dad’s words coming through the wall like bullets, “You fucking bitch, I’ll kill you!” Then something else blows up. Glass shattering, mom’s body thudding against a wall. Crying.

Us kids knotted together in the same bed listening to the battle. Hot. Our bodies feel like we’re melting. Sticky skin. Can’t breathe. Twisted tight together everything including our heads tucked beneath the blankets. Buried alive we wait for it to stop. When it doesn’t we cover our ears real tight. Fall back to sleep.

Morning. Sun kissing my face, birds singing. Like a punch in the belly my mind flashes back to the bombs. Untied, but still in the same bed, my brother and sisters are sleeping. I’m careful not to wake them when I climb off the bed.

Mom and dad are nowhere in sight. I can’t put my finger on it but sense something essentials been erased. A fist inside my chest squeezes my heart. I think mom’s dead. The chandelier in the living room hangs lopsided, the only thing connecting it to the ceiling are black and red wires. No bulbs. Glass all over the living room carpet, couch turned over, TV face down on the floor.

I find three stray cats perched on the kitchen counter. Trying to shoo them away I swing my arm, making them snarl, hiss at me. Growling under their breath, they rip pieces off the thawing Thanksgiving turkey.  All that’s left of the kitchen window is a few sharp shards in the corners of the frame. Food splattered, dripping down the walls. Cups, plates and silverware tornadoed around the room. All I can think about is what we’ll eat for dinner.

Jun 7 2012

Holy Shit it’s Christmas Eve

After we moved to Utah when I was nine Christmas Eve was never the same. Our family went to my father’s aunt Edna and Uncle Pete’s house but we didn’t dress up. There was nothing special about being there and there was no other kids. If there was a tree I don’t remember it. I know we had dinner but my mind goes blank when I try to remember what we ate. The bright spot was grandma Bestemor. This is what we called her although it’s like saying grandma grandmother being that Bestemor means grandmother in Norwegian. She was kind but old so she couldn’t get around very well. I used to like sitting on her lap. She bounced me on her leg while she sang songs in Norwegian.

Mom, dad,  Aunt Edna and Uncle Pete sat around and drank most of the night. Grandma Bestemor went off to bed early. I was always nervous when we were there. Things almost always ended in a fight. And the fights were more times than not physical. I worried about who was going to drive us home. Seventy miles from our house both my parents drunk. I also worried just the way I did in California that Santa would come while we were away. That he’d think no one lived in our house and fly right past. All the fear gave me a stomach ache. Made me have to use the bathroom.

The last year we went to my aunt and uncles for Christmas Eve was the worst. Before we left to come home all the adults got into a big brawl. Dad jumped on moms back so my aunt jumped in to help her, making dad even madder. While he was lying on my mom, pinning her to the floor like a rug, he reached around behind his head, grabbed Aunt Edna by the hair and flung her off him like a rag doll. Uncle Pete jumped in to break them all up and somehow we made it to our car. As we drove away I looked out the back window. Aunt Edna and Uncle Pete were standing in their driveway watching us leave. I could see Aunt Edna’s blonde bun, normally neat as a Victorian ladies, dangling down the side of her bright red face.

On the way home mom and dad kept drinking. One thing led to another and they got into it. Us kids huddled together in the backseat as the car careened down the highway at seventy miles per hour. Trembling like leaves on a quaking aspen tree we pleaded with mom to shut up but she wouldn’t. She called dad a no good god damn drunk. Said she fuckin hated him. That he’d ruined all our lives. Dad kept telling her to shut up too but she continued slicing him to pieces with her tongue.

Suddenly the car screeched and veered sharply to the right as dad reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a gun. Cracking mom in the forehead with it he opened the door and shoved her out of the car. All I could hear was screaming then realized it was me. The car kept moving as we watched mom tumble head over heels down the embankment and out of sight.

Dad passed out as soon as we got home. Not knowing what else to do us kids hid out in our room. I tried to keep everyone calm but all I could think about was what was going to happen to us now that mom was dead. Two or three hours had passed when I heard a vehicle pull up out front. When I looked out the window I could see that it was a police car. The cop, a guy I came to know as fat Tad was slid way over on the passenger side with mom. Her shirt was off and they were kissing.

Jun 7 2012

Remembering Warmth and Norway

While we lived in California Julaften [Christmas Eve] was spent at my dad’s parent’s house. Everyone got dressed up. Us girls wore dresses and patent leather shoes mom bought just for the occasion. I don’t remember what the my brothers wore. Mom fixed herself up real pretty. She wore a dress too. Dad got cleaned up like he did when he was going out with the boys. Combed his hair into a slick looking duck tail and slathered on Old Spice cologne.

Grandma Jerry loved Christmas. Spent weeks preparing. Even though it was warm and sunny inside grandma’s house it always felt like a Norwegian winter wonderland. Her tree, placed in the same corner year after year, flocked so thick the branches drooped like a tree in the woods after a heavy snow storm. Her lights and her delicate glass orb ornaments, all the same size, were blue.

All through the evening the music never stopped. Grandpa would turn the volume up or down depending on what was going on but as soon as one record would end another would begin. Their home was full of family. Grandma bustled around with plates of food and trays of drinks, her hair wrapped up in a colorful scarf, red lipstick the only makeup she wore.

It took her days to decorate her tree. While she waited for something to come out of the oven she strung lights, placed a bulb, then sat back, studied her tree to see if things were just where they needed to be to please her. We weren’t allowed to touch. Sitting next to her beautiful winking blue tree I could almost feel the cold snow.

One table was set aside for her Pepperkaker [gingerbread] village. Like everything grandma made she was meticulous with this too. Candies and frosting adorned each house and store like semi precious stones on jewelry. She poured sugar around each building to look like drifted snow. It sparkled in the sunlight that sneaked through her heavy drapes.

Grandma and grandpa’s house always smelt like the warm food she spent weeks preparing. The perfectly set dinner table sizzled and steamed with Ribbe [pork ribs], Julepoise [pork sausage], Medisterkaker [meatballs with gravy], Kalrabi [mashed rutabaga], Biscuits and Rodkai [sweet and sour red cabbage] which made me gag. Beer flowed freely and there was always a bowl of Glogg [wine with cloves, cinnamon, ginger, brown sugar, raisins and ground almonds].

My favorite was grandma’s cookies. The same every year she made Sandkake’s. Like tiny pie crusts she pressed them into little tins, careful to make sure they weren’t too thick or thin, which they never were. I loved her Fattigmand’s, which means “poor man’s cookie.”  To make these she rolled out, cut, twisted and looped the dough, then fried them in oil. Her Krumkake’s, shaped like little cones adorned with intricate patterns, reminded me of lace. Diamond shaped Sirupsnitter’s tasted like licorice. Grandma also made Potica, Slovakian yeast bread stuffed with apples, walnuts and cream cheese. The secret to getting it tender was in the kneading she said. Letting it rise twice then pricking the bread so the air bubbles could escape.

After the feast was over all the kids would perform for the adults. Grandpa had an accordion he only brought out for Christmas. Each of us would take turns trying to play along with whatever music grandpa had playing on their phonograph. The last thing we did was open gifts. Because there were so many of us it took a long time. Grandma and grandpa gave everyone one gift. Us kids always got pajamas that we changed into before we went home.

When it was time to leave I always got nervous. If mom and dad weren’t fighting on the drive home dad would point out lights in the sky and tell us it was Santa. He was so convincing I could see reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh. Rudolf’s nose leading the way. Secretly I always worried Santa would beat us to our house; find out we weren’t in bed sleeping and leave.

Jun 6 2012

A Faerie is Born

This airy faerie piece was inspired by picture it & write prompt #29. 

~

Pregnant moon belly lifts
dancing orbs whisper
remember your wings.

Warm star fingers raise
awareness
urge inspiring birth
of a faerie.

~

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Jun 6 2012

__picture it & write

Reblogged from ermiliablog:

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I urge people to join in, comment with your paragraph of fiction to accompany the image. It doesn’t have to follow my story or reflect the same themes. It can be a poem or in a different language (provide a translation please ). Anyone who wants to join in, is welcome. This photograph will be reblogged under Ermisenda on tumblr and added to the 

Read more… 226 more words

I'm reblogging this as a sort of forward to my post, "Birth of a Faerie" that will follow it. That way I feel I've covered the bases re: image copyright and such. Also, others responses to the the image are very interesting. I made one small edit when I revisited my response to the image for my blog post. See if you can spot it! ;)
By Authentic Imperfection • Posted in Random
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