Crying shame

I am a crier. This is hardly a shocking admission to anyone who has spent more than twelve seconds with me. I cry at everything; from touching Maxwell House TV ads to tragic hit and run reports on the nightly news. I cannot seem to detach myself emotionally from anything. It’s always been a problem for me. But it’s getting worse.

I now find myself crippled with anguish as I peruse the aisles of Walgreens or CVS. I am not exaggerating. They play horrible, sad muzak everywhere I go these days. And for some reason, drug stores play the most heart wrenching songs imaginable. Why do they do that? I mean, what’s wrong with some upbeat Jazz or twangy Blue Grass? I bet they did research and found a link between devastating dirges and increased profit margins, kind of goes with the whole “retail therapy” concept. The more depressed the consumer, the bigger the buy. Well, it doesn’t work for me. I have been unable to step foot in a grocery, big box or other retail establishment in weeks since I broke down in front of the dairy case at Frys listening to John Denver singing “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”

I just can’t block it out. That’s what everyone tells me to do. “Just don’t listen.” “Think about something else.” “Turn your attention elsewhere.” But, I am mentally unable to do that. Music has a direct path to my soul. It bypasses my brain and intellect and goes right for the jugular of my internal core. It’s like my Kryptonite. A soft lilting tune, even barely audible in an elevator or as I walk to my car in a mall parking lot, can reduce me to a whimpering idiot after mere seconds of listening to it.

The other day we attended a birthday celebration for a friend’s mom who had reached the age of 90. Quite the joyous occasion. They showed a video montage of the honoree’s life. I was sobbing by the second photo. I tried biting my tongue and digging my nails into my arm to create physical pain that might distract me from the pictures and the medley of sentimental Frank Sinatra ballads. But, nothing worked to slow the flow of tears that gushed from my baby blues.

My husband offered me a napkin with embarrassment. “This isn’t even your family,” he chastised. “You don’t even know these people.” “I can’t make it stop,” I lashed back. “It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose.”

I weep at services at our synagogue every single time I go. My son’s taking bets on whether I’ll be able to make it through his Bar Mitzvah service without mascara zebra striping running down my cheeks. I’ve bought commercial grade waterproof mascara for the event. You need turpentine to remove it. But I’ve yet to find anything to address the bulbous red nose, blood-shot eyes and crackling voice that always accompanies my tearful outbursts.

About a year ago I had a play reading at a theatre in LA that happened to be connected to a church. The actors had a meeting prior to taking the stage. They concluded it with a few moments of shared prayers for people in need, asking Jesus to step in and guide the poor souls who were struggling. While everyone else seemed to manage hearing the tales of poverty, divorce and other unexpected woes that had impacted people’s lives, I became completely overcome with anguish and wept as if each story was about my very own family. Please understand, I’m not talking about a faint stream of tears inconspicuously streaming down my face. I’m talking about a waterfall of wetness, snot pouring out my nose, and hyperventilating gasps of air as I tried to compose myself unsuccessfully. “Remember, you’re Jewish,” my friend whispered as everyone held hands and thanked the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. It didn’t matter. Nothing could suppress my sobs.

How do I live? Well, basically I’m trying to avoid every person, place or event that might trigger some sort of sentimental reaction. As you might imagine, this makes living life rather tricky. No TV or radio for fear of an update on Nairobi or a reality check regarding Rwanda. No mall shopping in avoidance of sad, twenty-something break-up songs. No grocery jaunts or prescription pick-ups so as to miss those sappy Carpenter songs (It really was tragic what happened to Karen).

So, if you’re hanging around and have only good news to share, call me or shoot me an email, just don’t attach any .mp3, .wav or .aiff files. K?

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Self reliance

I am a rock. I am an island!

Sometimes I write for fun. Most of the time, though, I write out of necessity. I write to make sense out of unfathomable things. And here’s todays:

Every July my family goes to California. We spend a week at a generous family friend’s beach house and enjoy for a short while, living like the other half do. It’s my kids’ favorite place in the world and a treat we all look forward to from August to June.

The first summer we visited, my eldest son, Levi, was 3 and a half and his brother, Eli, a new born babe. It was a tough time of adjustment for us. At the time, Eli had been diagnosed as blind and Levi was struggling to cope with the sudden appearance of an annoying baby brother who seemed to suck all the attention out of his world. We brought our babysitter on the trip and she had some kind of nervous breakdown and went AWOL. Seriously. She left us a bizarre, incoherent goodbye note and that was the last we saw of her. Given our stressful situation, we inadvertently let some of the household chores fall by the wayside.

We received a stern reproach from Lois, our beach house hostess, the following spring when I called to inquire about our upcoming summer visit. Frankly, it was mortifying. Accused of not leaving their lovely home in the same condition in which we had found it, I apologized profusely and assured her that I would never again allow toddlers, teething or childcare trauma to distract my attention from my housekeeping responsibilities.

From then on, I cleaned each summer like an army recruit trying desperately to impress her platoon sergeant. I scrubbed, shined and sparkled everything from the grout in the kitchen tiles to the bottom of the white marble toilet bowls. I cleaned this house like none other I had ever lived in.

Years passed and things seemed normal between us and our friends. So it was with great confidence that I sent this year’s email inquiring about a July visit. A few days later I received a phone call from Mel, our affable host who has always reminded me of my beloved father.

“This is very difficult for me,” he started. “You know we love you guys.” (Note to self: it is never a good sign when a conversation begins with a heartfelt declaration of love) He then proceeded to tell me that we had left their beautiful home in shambles last summer. I will leave out the details, but suffice to say that according to him, walls needed repainting, appliances repair, and furniture replacement. He said that we had left the beach house in bad shape before, but that this past summer was the worst of all and he simply had no choice but to ask us never to visit again.

I was seriously stunned. This seemed impossible to me. I distinctly recall our final Sunday morning cleaning session in which we washed and replaced the linens, scrubbed all the bathrooms, cleaned out the refrigerator, and did a host of other cleaning duties.

“But, we cleaned…” I stammered. “…for hours. I just don’t understand.” By this point, I was sobbing and close to hyperventilating. He graciously suggested that our definitions of “clean” must be vastly divergent. I offered to replace the recliner we had allegedly stained and cover the costs of any household repairs even though I remembered the tattered arm chair looking very near death upon our arrival last summer. He, of course, refused. No, there was nothing I could say or do to redeem myself or my family.

Beside the sheer mortification of this experience, I am deeply saddened to know that people we so greatly admire and respect believe us to be selfish, reckless and inconsiderate. I know we weren’t responsible for the damage they believe we caused. They lend out that house to countless friends and family who do not treat it with the same level of respect that we do and they probably have not set foot in the house in years. But I couldn’t argue with him. They apparently inspected the house and found several things wrong with it directly after our visit. So we, in their minds, are the culprits. Arguing seemed pointless. So I apologized again and hung up.

I want there to be a lesson in this. But I’m having a hard time finding it. All I seem to come up with is that you should never stay in anyone else’s home, borrow anyone else’s car, or utilize anything that doesn’t personally belong to you, yourself. Because the potential for something bad happening is just enormous. It’s like driving without car insurance. You’ll never have an accident until the day your policy lapses due to an overdrawn checking account.

Self reliance is the only way to go. I remember back in 8th grade when my best friend, Annie, dumped me for a more popular, less uptight burn-out chick. I sat in my bedroom playing Simon and Garfunkel’s “I am a Rock,” over and over until I fell asleep. I woke up feeling better though. I guess as a mom, I’d just bought into the whole “It take a village” thing; believing that you could rely on other people, that accepting help was a good thing, that you weren’t really out there all alone.

Forgive me if I sound callous or cynical, but accepting anything from anyone leaves you vulnerable and, as far as I’m concerned, vulnerability sucks.

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Go live with a car battery…

I love you...I love you not.

My husband is moody. This bothers me a great deal; especially because his darker moods are the ones that often accompany him home after a hard day of pleasantries and professionalism. But I’ve realized something huge about this. You see, my husband was raised in a loving, nurturing environment. His parents loved him unconditionally. But this, I’ve come to realize, is the crux of the problem.

You see, unconditional love is a crock of shit, and I want to officially declare: it doesn’t work. In fact, it accomplishes the exact opposite of what it promises to deliver. Which poses a substantial problem for those of us raising little ones today.

Think about this: my son is loved unconditionally by me and his father. We love him when he’s kind. We love him when he’s cruel. We love every inch of him, even when he’s at his worst. If he grows up believing that he is, and always will be, 100% lovable, how, I ask you, is he going to treat the people who are unlucky enough to end up living with him?

Unconditional love is the culprit of all rotten behavior. Do you think your husband would yell at you for spending too much money if he thought you might just pack a bag and exit the premises the next time his voice raised to a certain decibel? Would he really forget to bring you flowers on Valentine’s day if the possibility existed that he’d be spending all future cherub-related holidays on his own, taking care of the kids, or nursing a Stella all by his lonesome self on a bar stool in a smokey gin joint? Of course not.

But instead we parents lavish our children with so much unconditional love it’s like a recipe for future marital disaster. We’re practically asking our kids to treat the people they love with disdain. The message is crystal. No matter how thoughtless, insensitive, moody or just plain mean you are, those closest to you will love you unconditionally so don’t bother putting any effort at all into those relationships.

Sure people get divorced. But most marrieds don’t walk around thinking that each day may be the last day of blissful couplehood. However, if they did, they might end up treating each other a whole lot better. Husbands might choose not to expend an audible sigh coupled with that ever annoying eye roll when asked to take out the garbage, for instance. Wives might decide that continued nagging over the unseparated whites and colors might not be worth spending eternity with a naked ring finger and sole custody of three hormonal teenagers.

The truth is, we need to impart a bit of fear and insecurity into the hearts of our children. “No, Johnny, mommy might not love you if you don’t eat all your vegetables.” Keep them on their toes. Reward good behavior with overflowing amounts of love, warmth and admiration. But we must stop reinforcing their vicious tantrums, irrational melt-downs and mean-spirited remarks with the promise to love them, warts and all, for all eternity.

Only by refusing to love without question will we raise children who can be civil to their spouses, gentle with their own children and careful with all the people in their lives. So I urge you to stop loving your kids absolutely. Instead, teach them to treat those around them with kindness, honor and respect by instilling a sense of insecurity and fearfulness. If they are not loving, you may not stick around. That’s the message you want to impart. It may sound cruel, but it’s really the best way to prepare them for a happy, fulfilling life with a partner. Just like the wise and thoughtful Erma Bombeck once said, “Marriage has no guarantees. If that’s what you’re looking for, go live with a car battery.”

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Breaking up is hard to undo

Breaking up is hard to do

Have you ever had a friendship just kind of fizzle? It’s like you suddenly realize that someone you cared about isn’t a part of your life anymore. It’s a crummy feeling, especially if you’re not sure why it happened. How does one deal with this type of situation?

Well, there are several options. If you’re a normal person, you wonder about it, lament the loss for a total of 32 seconds, then move on to the daily tasks at hand. I, on the other hand, think about things like this rather obsessively. I try to imagine what I could have said or done to drive this person away, what casual faux pas one of my children might have committed at the last remembered family get together, or on what commemorative event I must surely have forgotten to send a card. (Believe me, it’s exhausting being me.)

Maybe you’ve even imagined approaching the person you lost and saying something like, “Hey, WTF? What the hell happened?” Here again I will draw the distinction between a normal person’s response and my own. The normal person might briefly imagine this type of curious interchange at some kind of random reunion at Costco. Then, realizing she has genuinely more pressing issues to which she must attend, our normal person lets go of the fantasy scenario, accepts that people move on in life, and goes back to folding laundry. I, however, will actually go to great lengths to seek out the estranged person, sometimes years after our final meeting, and will, in fact, inquire as to the reason for our alienation.

This, I assure you, is a bad idea. I now know that from my most recent foray into the land of hopeless friendship salvaging. You see, my husband and I ran into a couple from our past recently at one of our fave sushi places. The husband was cordial and warm. His wife, on the other hand, could have frozen a skin-scalding hot tub with one glance of her icy stare.

Even my husband was taken aback by the shiver. “Why do you suppose she acted like that?” I wondered out loud. “I don’t know,” he replied, “Maybe this time you really did do something to offend her.” Of course I pined over this for the next 48 hours and then finally decided to pen a good, old fashioned, snail mail note that I sent off the following day. The note basically said that I was sad that our friendship had faded and that I’d always wondered what had happened and that I was sincerely regretful if I had offended her in some way.

Now I know you’re not supposed to want a particular outcome when you write a letter like that. But somewhere, deep in my mind, I guess I hoped such a note might rekindle our friendship. I waited weeks for a response. What finally came was a stunner.

Her letter was curt and pointed. “How interesting it is that people remember things so differently,” she started. She then went on to recount an episode where the toilet in their guest casita had overflown and they’d had to cancel dinner plans with us. According to her, I’d been irritated by their last minute cancelation and hadn’t called the following day to make sure all was well. To her, that breach meant the end of the relationship.
I do actually remember the event. She was always a bit unreliable and had cancelled plans with us on several earlier occasions. When this happened, I recall thinking that an overflowing toilet was a lot like the old “I have to wash my hair” excuse our mothers used to use to get out of an unwanted date in the olden days. Maybe I was wrong, but since at least one of our toilets overflows on a daily basis, her catastrophe seemed barely trivial to me. And in truth, I didn’t react as if she’d been hit with a devastating deluge.

But I never in a million years would have thought that my failure to acknowledge her sewage inundation would have caused the total demise of our friendship. The letter ended abruptly noting that she and her husband had moved on and she certainly hoped that we would do the same. There was no mention of rekindling our friendship, no faint hint of sorrow at the loss of our relationship, not even a feigned pretense of gratitude for the bold honesty of my letter.

It was a little weird I have to admit. I mean, to end the friendship over a torrential toilet? And then to take the time to write back and say that because of this heinous insult, she and her mate had no intention of ever reconnecting with us in the future. I was kind of shocked. While she did concede that they would be publicly cordial if ever our paths were to cross, her dismissal felt more like that of an orthodox jewish parent’s whose only daughter had decided to marry an Episcopalian.

I’m trying not to obsess over this. Obviously they weren’t as good of friends as I thought. But is there something to be learned from this mishap? Perhaps I was mistaken in judging my friend’s misfortune. What seems superficial to one person might be cataclysmic to another. After all, as my father, the king of the overused cliche, used to say, “One man’s meat is another man’s poison.”

I’ll leave you to figure that one out.