Banana-fanna-fo-fanna

When I was younger and rageful against my brother, I remember a fight where I told him that I couldn't wait to get married and change my name so I wouldn't be associated with him anymore.  He cried and told me it was the worst thing I could have possibly said.  His tears took me aback.  I just thought my statement was the same as telling him he had cooties or something.  Apparently it held a lot more weight than I thought.

By the time I hit my early twenties I was certain I would keep my maiden name.  After all, this is my identity.  Mind you, I had no super suitors at this point in time asking for my hand in marriage, but I was prepared!  Most of my girlfriends who got married at this point in their lives did the hyphen thing.  By the time graduate school ended I had then made the rule that if I wasn't married by the time I had my LCSW, then I was just going to keep my maiden name.  Again, it was an identity issue.

I found that this is a hot topic for guys.  Every single guy I've ever dated thought it was a HUGE deal.  They wanted their future wife to take their name.  The only logical argument given to me was the confusion for the children with parents of two separate names.  There were kids in school growing up who had the hyphenated last name taking after their mothers, but I always wondered if their dads' had the hyphen and took their wives' names as well.

My cousin's husband (the one who is running for prom queen of the mommies) actually took her name.  They did it actually because he didn't like his biological dad and they thought they would carry on my uncle's legacy.  Ironically, they only have daughters and don't plan on having any other children.

As the time approaches for me to be seriously considering this issue, wouldn't you know I found a guy who truly doesn't care if I take his name or not.  He asked why would I take his name?  This is a really good question.  Its not like my status in the alphabet will improve.  When I was a kid I liked the fact that I was always at the first part of the alphabet.  Now I would be downgrading from a "B" to a "G." 

Another factor to consider is how the whole name would sound together.  Rhyming names are the worst like Julia Goolia in the Wedding Singer or Davey McGrady, my aunt.  Fortunately for me, I don't have to worry about this particular problem. 

Another issue could be a name that acutally conjures an image.  Take, for instance, Dusty Housepan, Mitt Baton, or Gayle Wind.  Or worse, those that sound like they belong in bad B movies or adult films.  (Use your imagination here)  Again, I don't have to worry about this.

For awhile I dated mostly ethic men.  Given the first and last name potential combos I sounded like I should be a guy from the Middle East or out of Aladdin.  What a shocker to get me, blue eyed, blondish straight haired female.  Names on resumes typically give away the cultural identity.  Only in Utah would you expect a girl named Charonne or Sheree and have her be white.  Ah, but I digress...

For my names, hyphenating sounds awful.  Its like swallowing and regurgitating too many vowels.  And then there is the spelling issue.  Everyone mispronounces my fiance's last name (including the priest who officiated his uncle's funeral).  Generally, you always have to spell it out for people.  This isn't a new challenge for me as I have to always spell out my first name for people because there are so many ways of spelling it.  But do I really want to spell out both my first and last name?

The thing that gets me hung up is the tradition thing.  Now that I'm established in my career I really could care less what my last name is.  Funny, you would expect the opposite.  I worry about the kids and really hyphenating is out of the question.  But, I have been my name for 30+ years.  Perhaps it will all come down to the issue of me taking on the hurdle of legal changes vs. being lazy.  Do I really have time to sit in the Social Security office for hours?

Martyrdom

 Today I began to reflect upon this topic and my past entry about people causing wars over beliefs.  I actually decided to google the topic and came across the standard definition about someone dying for their convictions or faith.  I could list a few off the top of my head, namely Joan of Arc, but there were lists at the bottom of the page of others.

I was surprised to see Joseph Smith on the list.  I guess it fits as he was killed from gunfire falling from the prision window.  What shocked me was to find other names on the shared list:  Harvey Milk, Gwen Araujo, and Matthew Shepard.  These are all martyrs of the gay, lesbian, and transgendered population.  Who would have thought that they would all be classified as being similar?  I wondered if Joseph would turn in his grave knowing that he shared common ground with those who stood so firmly against what his church believes? 

 

Relationship Punctuation

Its amazing to me how fear can manifest itself.  The past few weeks have been a bit rocky for my fiance and I.  If it wasn't the budget, it was the household finances, or the philosophical nature of a marriage, or the holidays, or my job.  We dance the dance of fear of what it means to create the "we" from our independent selves.

Its hard at times to wonder if you are just scared or seeing big red flags.  The last thing you want is your life running like a horror movie where you keep screaming at the stupid girl not to go into the dark house and check out the noise.  This is my fear.  How does one tell if it is just cold feet or something bigger?

I've talked to my bridesmaid chaplain who has done a lot of marital and premarital counseling in his life.  He listened and said that it just sounds like normal fear.  This was reassuring as well as consulting all of my feminist essay books and couples counseling texts about what is normal.  However, I realize that my fiance does not have this advantage for reassurance and so it seems that every few days there is another issue to tackle, whether imagined or real. 

Last night we tested the waters over family identification.  How do we spend 4 days of precious and isolated time with those that we love?  Add in a holiday and it gets more complicated.  Do we just split up at the airport and do our thing with our respective family of origins?  I said that does not feel like a stable marriage pattern to me, only because the idea of being separate in a marriage was never encourgaged or even entertained in my role models.  He countered with the fact that it felt more stable because we were comfortable with our individuality.  He didn't want to be attached at the hip, neither did I, but I also didn't want us having sleepovers with our respective parents without one another.  I began to question if the apron strings were cut or if they ever would be and how would I keep that from being "chatter" in my family?  In my view, we needed to create an identity of us within our families.  Not to assimilate, but to incorporate.  Two hours and 44 minutes of conversation later we both just admitted to being scared and then he asked if we would ever get the issues of our families resolved?

I spent some time with my girlfriend on Saturday morning.  Over cheap breakfast she gave me some insight as to how her marriage of 6 years + twins has worked.  She laughed when I said that all we need to do is find our rhythm and we'll be fine.  She told me to just get ready, because just when you find that pattern, it changes. 

I remember when she was a newlywed and family issues emerged.  Her husband came from a really strong families together approach and she was used to her nuclear family spread across the Nation only seeing one another at holidays.  Weekly Sunday dinners a la in laws were intrusive to her routine and idea of what a marriage should be.  Years later, although they are more independent as a couple from their family of origins, the topic still carries a lot of heat.

You always view yourself as "the normal one" and that your viewpoints you were raised with are the "right ones."  Last night when I was drawing the line in the sand of what I needed him to commit to and where my boundary was, I realized something.  I told him that through my relationship with him I've come to find that statements and beliefs I have that I thought ended with a period, actually had a comma.  And those that I thought were negotiable with a comma, some had a period of definition.  Its a process finding the punctuation in a relationship.  Questions lead to all sorts of exclaimation points, commas, and periods when you are writing your own story.

Friller, Filler, and Spiller

Last Saturday Mom and I ventured back out to the garden store.  This is the same store that I mentioned about a year ago where Dave, the weed expert, used my mom in a spacial relations experiment with henbit (ah, it only took me 10 months, but I diagnosed the weed species myself!)  This garden store has been a landmark in Salt Lake and quite frankly, everyone in my family goes there so we haven't sought out many other experts.

I was stressed out about my impending marriage so mom indulged me by buying all of the flowers if I would just fill the pots.  I love to garden, she doesn't have the time.  It worked out well.  We began to puruse the snapdragons, petunias, nicotania, and other really pretty flowers I don't know the names of.  As our cart was getting full, a small Asian woman with the nametag, "Clara," approached us.

"How are you going to arrange your pots?"  She asked in a very heavy accent.

"Uh, like we always do.  We stuff them in there."  I replied, truly showing my artistic landscaping genius.  She looked horrified.

"No no no!  You must have a fwiller, fillwer, and spillwer."  Ok, I looked again at her nametag.  It noted that she also spoke Dutch and German.  No wonder I couldn't understand her.  Is Clara really a popular Asian name?

"Thriller?"  Thinking Michael Jackson style.

"No," she paused to make sure her consonants were correct, "frwiller, fillwer and spillwer."  She went to get a pot and pointed to the components again.  "I am here to make sure you have the formula to make your neighbors jealous of your pots, you choose the colors.  All you have in your cart are fillwers."

I began to think back to my grandmothers' pots over the years, whom I regarded as greenthumbs, and never heard these three terms come out of their mouths.

I once again began to ask about the "thriller" again in my cultural insensitivity.  Was it more rude to just smile and pass her off or keep asking for clarification?  I still could not understand her when my mom rescued me, "What's a friller?" 

"Ah!" Clara ran over to another pot to point at grass.  "Fth, frwillers are tall spiky things that stick up.  Gwrasses, you know.  Fwrillers."   She was beaming as she pointed to things that looked like mini yucca plants that I mistakenly planted in my back yard months ago not realizing they belonged in pots.  No wonder they weren't thriving.

We picked up two of them and asked if we had any spillers.

"No, no.  You want some of these, but we are out."  She pointed to some lovely looking yellow mumish daisy things.  "Very popular."  She added not realizing that her advice was not helpful if they were out of stock.

I left my mom  with Clara as she once again began to repeat the formula to her and I looked for anything looking like it was trying to escape its plastic container.  I didn't even notice the colors of the blooms or how big it grew, I just started throwing them in the cart.  Spillers my foot.

I came back to Clara then telling my mom that hanging baskets only should have spillers in them.  Ok, now I realize I committed gardening cardnal sin #45 of only putting in fillers in those suckers months ago.  I just figured the leggy pansies looked fine.  We thanked Clara who seemed pleased with herself that she had helped another struggling customer with her gardening wisdom and checked out.

On the way home I began to note the neighbors who got the formula right.  I think I only counted about 4.  That night I was telling my grandmother, Ginny, the story and asked if she had heard of this friller, filler, spiller theory.  She looked me dead in the eye and said, "yes."  It was like my years of shadowing this woman in the garden did squat.  However,  Clara would be proud of the envy over the 9 pots  I filled correctly with the holy trinity of potting formula.
 

Doggie Ambassador

Remember back in December when my father, Saint Nick himself, got his panties all wadded up and raided the next door neighbors' Christmas gifts?  Today I hopefully sent Edgar on the ambassadorship quest of Hubbard Avenue. 

After work I stopped by to check on the doggy daycare my parents have provided, afterall he is their grand-dog and once the engagement was announced, Edgar could do no wrong.  He was my Dad's buddy and my Mom's lovebug instantly.  All of which I am extremely grateful for by the way.  I wouldn't be surprised if they asked for joint custody once I move to Indiana.  Edgar is a pack animal and really HATES being alone.

Edgar has developed a buddy relationship with the dog next door, Guthrie.  My father, in particular, does not get along with the neighbors.  I think him blatently accusing them of shooting Murphy (another old dog of ours) with a BB gun pushed them over the edge, especially considering we have no proof.  Dad still holds this premise as true with no evidence.  Hence, they dislike Dad and mildly tolerate us.
 
They got Guthrie soon after their youngest son was found dead of accidential causes in their basement a year ago Christmas...coinciding with the anniversary gifts arriving on their front door Scrooge took.  Guthrie is a black lab.  Edgar and Guthrie love each other.  They spend hours running back and forth along the fence that separates the yards.

Today I complimented Guthrie's father about what a good dog he is and I got invited over for a play date.  My mom and I took Edgar over to get acquainted and they hit it off immediately.   The owner said to just leave him there and they would play fetch.  I took this as an olive branch of trust and left for about 45 min.  They got along famously. 

Guthrie's father brought Edgar back to our yard complimenting my dog and said he was welcome over for play dates anytime.  I complimented Guthrie and thanked him for the offer.  A small exchange occurred about his artwork he had in hand about his dead son and I think a connection was made.  The whole time my parents sat inside in awe.

Who knew furry friends could bridge a simple chain link fence?

Peccadillos

Last night I hired a property management company to help me get my house listed for rent, market it, and then manage the tenants.  When RaNae (literal Utah spelling) put the metal sign on my lawn (one of the most effective marketing strategies, she said), my heart plummeted into my stomache.  MY house.  I felt like I was prostituting out part of myself. 

I realized at that point that I have a lot more than just a few little quirks that my husband-to-be will be taking, for better or worse, as long as we both shall live.  Here are just a few of them.

1)  I anthropormorphize just about everything.  Of course the couch, floor, plants, and cars have feelings.  Of course I don't typically remember to apologize to poor spiders before I smash them into oblivion (not my fault they came into my space), but I will apologize to the wall if I accidentially run into it and feel really bad for crashed cars.
2)  I sing constantly to Edgar.  Usually its made up tunes about him being a sweetpea and Edgar-roo, and my baby puppy and there isn't a melody to save your life.  I also spoil the dog.  I actually bake him bones from the butcher.  My whole family does this for dogs.  I just though it was normal.
3)  I like my showers/baths hot hot hot and the room I am sleeping in to be cold.
4)  All of my laundry must be done on Sunday.  House cleaned on the weekends.
5)  I like the snooze button.  Not just one alarm.  I usually set 2-4 of them and it is only when NPR and my ring tones are competing for my attention do I get up.  This ususally happens after 3 or 4 cycles of my hitting snooze.
6)  I'm perpetually late...although I'm getting better at that.
7)  I can't drink milk in the mornings.  Makes me nauseous.
8)  I'm a cookie monster.  Its my comfort food.
9)  Weeding is fun to me.
10)  I hate John Denver.
11)  High crisis and trauma turns me on.  Just yesterday we had a code blue and I was sailing!
12)  I love water sports but it does creep me out to be in the middle of the lake wondering what fish (I can't see) could be swimming and touching my toes.
13)  I am afraid of going blind, bugs, and ghosts.
14)  I firmly believe in tarot and astrology.  They can give just as good counsel as a religious figure head.  (Now that I've typed that I'm certain I'mgoing to hell)
15)  I'm caddy.  I like being caddy with my girlfriends although I'm also ashamed of it.
16)  I'm a toilet paper snob.  I only will buy one brand:  Kleenex Cottonelle 
17)  I can't stand dishes in the sink or a dirty floor.
18)  I'll pick goobers out of Edgars eyes with my bare fingers.
19)  I have an addiction to Real Simple magazine, baths, cafe au laits, neat serving platters or dishes, and lavender.
20)  I only like music where I can relate to the lyrics.
21)  You know I'm in trouble coping wise if I begin to write novels out of the current experiences.
22)  I love listening to the Today show while I'm getting ready for the day.
23)  I only like my nails filed off to be more square vs. oval.
24)  I hate beets.
25)  I get depressed easily but I think life is generally funny and everything happens for a reason.
26)  I despise people who can only complain about the problem without moving forward into thinking how to fix it, ignorance combined with arrogance, and entitlement.
27)  I'd rather clean the house than go to the grocery store.
28)  I love day lilies, snap dragons, peonies, orchids, periwinkle, and butterfly bushes.  I hate marigolds, carnations, and daisies.
29)  Money makes me uncomfortable.
30)  I make decisions quickly.  If its the wrong decision then I'll fix it.  No harm done.
31)  I like to purge things in my house.  I love getting rid of crap.  I am not a pack rat and only few sentimental pieces will do.
32)  I hate my feet. 
33)  Nine times out of ten, if you call me, I am multi tasking.  It is very rare that I can just sit and focus on a conversation.
34)  I love to scrapbook.  I realize this is a very Utah thing to do, but its fun.

I'm certain there are more.  But there are some for starters.

I don't need no stinkin man

I think I'm offically beginning to freak out. 

It all started when I began to explore the idea of refinancing my house.  I figure it would be good to see about the potential of locking in a better interest rate for a longer period of time while I'm away in the midwest.  When it came to the point of making a decision of moving forward I found myself doing a huge explaination to the mortgage broker.

"You see, I have to run this by my fiance.  Not that I'm used to this.  I usually can make decisions all by myself, in fact I'm used to it, but now that I'm engaged I think its important that I get his input and so that I...I mean WE can agree and decide on what would be best for us in the long run.  I mean, that is what you do when you are married, but I'm just getting used to the idea, so is it ok if I call you back within the next 24 hours?  I'm sorry I can't give you an answer now." 

The mortage broker probably thought I was needing more psychotropics by then.  You see, when I said "I need to run this by my fiance," it felt as if I were saying, "I'm not strong enough to make a decision by myself and I have to wait on my man."

Needlesstosay, given my fiance's call schedule and sleep deprivation as well as his sheer adversity to making decisions, not only has 24 hours eclipsed, but 72 hours and I still haven't called back the mortgage broker.

At work, I've been getting used to the idea of someone else sitting in my chair...ooh, Freudian slip...sitting in THE DIRECTORS chair.  I've been thinking of internal candidates more so than external.  Today I heard that one of my former male therapists who quit within 3 months of my directorship was planning on applying for my job, I was thinking, "oh no he didn't!" 

Here's the deal.  I live in a profession with 90% of the workforce women, but most of the top administrative jobs held by the males.  Stupid males.  Stupid sexism.  Makes me think that I would rather have my nemesis in the chair than some guy.  ESPECIALLY some guy who quit on me.  Sure I told him he could come back any time...I meant as a CLINICIAN. 

In graduate school I actually signed up to run as vice president of the school until one of my professors pointed out the sexist descrepancy of leadership within the profession.  I got so mad I went up and erased my name for v.p. and wrote in for president.  I won.  That same drive haunts me now. 

The drive to be an indepenent feminist.

Redwood in a Can

Well, it took me about 3 weeks start to finish minus rain delays, two products that couldn't be applied in direct sunlight, and my lazy side on weekday mornings, but the first coat of the deck is done!  I have to tell you, its been quite the ordeal.  When I first went to Home Depot and began to invest in products, my mother told me I had been "sold a bill of goods" (another strange cliche I'm not certain of the meaning, but its been in my family for generations.)  There was the stripper, the brightener, the brushes, the spongey applier thingys, the deck brush, and a squirt bottle. 

I usually began in the mornings.  Edgar would be tied up in the back yard so he felt included (hello, he's a pack animal), but far enough away from the chemicals.  Sometimes Mom would show with bagels and a sense of humor.  I always had music on.  I kept thinking, "this can't be that hard."  And I also remembered my uncle's advice that you can always fix it.

The stripper (ok that just sounds strange), the paint stripper was advised to be applied by the squirt bottle.  My hands began to cramp by board 4.  Mom, who accompanied me in this little journey bright and early before the sun hit the deck, suggested we try a mop.  The mop only just sucked up the paint stripper and failed to distribute it.  It also subsequently ruined my mop.  We turned to the brushes.  Yup, hours upon hours of bending over painting, waiting for it to cure, then madly brushing the chemical up before it dried, and finally pressure hosing it down.  It was rewarding though to watch the stain just lift right up.

I moved onto the brightener just this past Thursday.  I got up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 to get it going.  I finished the whole thing that morning.  I think this was the part that my mom doubted, but it turned ugly weathered wood the color of honey and was worth the $19.99 or whatever I paid for it. 

This morning I was ready for the stain.  I went with a redwood tint, mostly because it was what the previous owners had and I didn't want to condition the bloody benches.  Besides, it looks nice with my sandstone wall.  My first problem was I didn't know how to open the paint can.  Oh, how I wish I were kidding. 

Remember how my father isn't handy so its not like I had a role model.  When I was about 11 or so my grandfather "commissioned" his granddaughters to paint the white fence that went the full perimeter of the ranch up in Oakley, Utah.  It was a BIG ranch.  We spent about a week doing this and keeping a timecard so we could get paid.  I think we were just child labor, but whatever.  Of course, he was meticulously Army trained and a bit OCD so he took care of the messy parts like opening the paint cans and pouring it into the container (I'm certain there is a fancy name for it, but "container" works just fine.)  As prepubescent girls go, we of course screwed things up like managed to get paint EVERYWHERE and loaded the brushes all the way to the metal.  This causes the bristles to separate.  I earned about $50 that summer.

Once I called my mom to find out how to open the can, I was off and rolling (nice pun.)  Then it dawned on me, I had everything BUT stuff to clean the paint off of me.  Because although it had been decades, I made the same mistakes.  Paint everywhere and I loaded the brushes.  I called my mom again to ask for paint thinner.  There wasn't a way I could paint laden get in my car and get back to Home Depot.  I began to curse the sales dudes who just happened to forget this important part. 

My fiance called me part way through the morning post-call.  I told him of my debacle and he told me I needed spirits.  Ok, I thought he was joking and could picture me going into the store asking for spirits or ghosts or something and only for the clerk to burst into hysterics.  He clarified mineral spirits, but I wasn't convinced.  Only once we hung up did I call my dad who just said they didn't have any paint stuff at the grocery store. 

I actually began to read the can.  Hey!  Its water clean up!  Ok, so back to the sink!  Yeah, not so much.  I began to wonder if I would be permanently redwood myself.  Screw it, I went back outside to complete my venture.  My work became a bit sloppy in an effort just to get the damn thing done.  So what if some of the stain landed on the metal.  Its Water Soluable!  I'm certain it will clean up.  I continued to work on the wood around the fence....that is, until I ran out of paint. 

In the meantime, my parents stopped by with paint "kleenup."  Didn't look to environmentally friendly, but perhaps it could work.  My father remarked that I didn't get inbetween the boards.  Say what?  They left with Edgar (rescued from the boring backyard) and I began to shove my already loaded brush inbetween the boards, which, by the way, doesn't work.

Well, like I said, I ran out of paint (yes, I'm certain this story is just riveting you to the screen, but you can stop reading if you'd like.)  So I attempted to wash off best I could without the Kleenup and made it to Home Depot.  They had to mix another can for me and then I asked about the inbetween parts.  Wouldn't you know, for only $19.95 there was a wonder brush with surface appliers and a small wedge that also went inbetween the boards.  But wait, there's more!  A rebate!  I began to look at the $3.00 sponges thinking I could do this for cheaper, but in the end I just gave up and bought the sucker.

Did I mention I was getting sloppy?  Who cares if part of it lands on the concrete/plant leaves/hose?  It's Water Soluable!  The whole time I was painting the fence and watching it drip I kept hearing a song from "Alice in Wonderland" in my head.  "We're painting the roses red, painting the roses red, not pink, not green, not aquamarine, We're painting the roses red!"  Perhaps the paint fumes were getting to me.

I began to doubt my confidence in the water based cleaning when I tried to wash the brushes and me and it just smeared the tacky substance around.  I first read on the container that it was ok to have human skin contact and then dampened a rag like my grandfather did before to scrub it off of me.  It took me roughly 7 hours today to get one coat done on everything.  I have a bit of a sunburn and a wee headache from dehydration. 

Only another 72 hours before I can do coat 2!

Family Inc: Mergers and Acquisitions

They say that all major wars were launched due to faith and beliefs.  The Cruisades, the World Wars, even Jihad.  I would argue that it is power framed as being related to faith and beliefs.  See, for example, my current battle over the rehearsal dinner.

It all began with a common misunderstanding about expectations.  What resources were being dedicated to which part of the overall wedding experience.  I found that my unspoken number was quite different than my family-in-law-to-be.  Both sides believed they were being reasonable and had faith all would work out in the end.  But would it? 

Resources = power.  Just ask the social worker who's days' work is finding resources for those who don't have any.  Generally speaking, these are the mentally ill, poverty stricken, and now more than ever, the middle class.  But anyway, I'm off that soap box. 

The problem was that both my fiance and I believed that there was one big pot of resources vs. dividing out across the traditional roles.  We planned the budget from this point of view and were, sorely, sorely mistaken.  Feelings were hurt, mixed messages were sent, and to be honest, I'm still not certain where we stand.

Last night my fiance said that politics are just a fancy way of using soft language to get what you want.  I find that family politics do not work out this way at all.  I have never heard a 16 year old finesse an agreement from their parents for things like having a huge party with no supervision.  (If I had, I would have been refering to DCFS for neglect...sure, have your whole high school come by while we're out of town and here's the liquor cabinet key)  I don't think so.

Soft language would be ok...if you were at a childrens' hospital (don't say large needle, but a small straw that may feel like a tiny pinch).  Soft language in families doesn't fly.  I'm a literal kind of person.  You tell me, yes, it means yes.  No means no.  So when you tell me that it is ok to use the backyard and then the next day ask if I really understood you that what you meant was, no...well, this doesn't fly for me.  However, in some families between the lines reading is the M.O.  With my family, you almost wish there were lines because the game is on even at the Sunday dinner table.  Both families believe they have the best way of communicating.  Do you come to Sunday dinner with a magnifying glass to pick apart the clues or a shield to abort the blows?

Who has the power?  That has yet to be decided as the two families blend with their beliefs.  Will it be the "strong and silent" or the "honesty is the best policy?"