Pessimistic Redhead

Thank you all for the kind comments and emails. It meant alot to me. I was really sad Sunday night and Monday morning. Then, on top of all the nice words from you guys, I got an email from my mom thanking me for my help with Super Nephew when she was away. It ended with, “I want you to know how appreciated you are. I couldn’t ask for a better daughter.” And then HOM made me dinner–taco salad with ground chicken, something he would never make for himself–and I realized what a dick I am for going all “woe is PR.”

My family is far from perfect. But I love them. And they really, really love me. So, in case you guys have it stuck in your heads that I have a Nightmare Family From Hell, I thought I would write one great thing about each one of my family members. (I’m not going to write about Super Nephew because I think we all know how I feel and it could take a whole day to sum up why I love him so, so much.)

My mom thinks I’m the funniest person in the whole world. When we are with her sisters and I say something that strikes her as funny, she will say, “Did everyone just hear what [PR] said? Say it again, [PR]!” There is a Seinfeld episode where Jerry tells his mom that someone doesn’t like him. She responds, “How can anyone not like you?” My mom and I joke about that all the time. She really does feel that way about me.

My dad makes me laugh like no one else can. When I was younger, his inability to be embarrassed–by ANYTHING–just made me want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Now? It just makes me laugh. And he is so, so proud of me. And gives me sappy birthday cards about him still being my daddy and me being is little girl (puke, I know–but cute). And he still takes care of things around my mom’s house and helps out with Super Nephew and comes to all our family events and holidays, most of which are held at my mom’s sister’s house. Not because he feels like he has to, but because he is truly a member of the extended family, regardless of what his status with my mom is.

When my brother is in a good mood (which is rare, I’ll admit), he can really get going and do a really good impression of my mom. It makes him laugh wicked hard, makes her laugh wicked hard, and is super fun to watch. And, when he wants to be, he can make Super Nephew smile like no one else can.

So there you have it. My fucked up, dysfunctional, loving, hysterical family. I hope I haven’t bored anyone too much.

Happy Hump Day.

On Saturday afternoon, I sat at a table at a local, upscale restaurant, surrounded by HOM’s family. Flowers were handed out to all the mothers (and even to me, despite the fact that I am not a mother). People laughed and poked fun at each other. HOM’s mother talked about the trip she was taking HOM’s father on when he turns 70 this summer. And I sat in the middle of it all, fake smile plastered on my face, thinking about my own family.

I hate that my mom will never take my dad on a trip, for his 70th or any other birthday. I hate that if I was to make plans for my whole family to go out to lunch, my brother wouldn’t show up, my dad would say before he even sat down that he had to be gone by a certain time because he had an AA commitment to go to, and my mom would piss off my dad by ordering a third glass of wine. And of course, Super Nephew would be there, without either one of his parents.

I’ve honestly been tempted to move across the country so that I could remove myself from the day to day drama that is my family. So that I didn’t have to think about the fact that my 57 year old mother is raising her grandson, by herself, instead of planning retirement with my father. I wouldn’t have to have my brother to tell me to “go fuck yourself” when I asked him why he had left my mother’s house a complete wreck when he had watched Super Nephew-his own son-overnight, for perhaps the fifth time in the five years Super Nephew has been alive. And when I asked my dad for the monthly half of my tuition bill that he promised he would pay, he wouldn’t tell me that he couldn’t give me $130 because times are really tough and he’s “dug himself into a little ditch but he’s working his way out of it.”

I hate that when HOM and I get married, we won’t be blending two perfect families. Yes, I know, no one’s perfect. But they’re close. His parents have been married for 40 years and are still so obviously head-over-heels in love. HOM and his siblings choose to hang out with each other, instead of timing visits to their mother to make sure they don’t run into each other (as my brother did yesterday). They’re so close to perfect that HOM can’t even begin to relate or understand when I get upset about my family. The only flaw in their Brady Bunch like existence? HOM is 35 and unmarried. And he’s working on that.

I hate that I feel this way about my family. My mother would cry if she ever read this. My dad would apologize, for the millionth time, for the fact that my family isn’t as perfect as I deserve. 

I don’t know how to end this. There’s no clever way to wrap up my issues with my family. If there was, I would have written it long ago. I wish I knew what to write to make myself feel better. After writing this, I just feel worse.

Yesterday after work, instead of going to the gym and working out by myself, Best Friend/Roommate and I went for a long walk on the beach near our house. It was a sunny late afternoon/early evening and there was a warm breeze blowing over the sprawling beach. We walked briskly but kept up conversation the entire length of the beach, and back.

We talked about what was going on with her on-again, off-again, about the possibility of her getting a second job for the summer, and about what we both needed to wrap up before the end of the semester. When we got home, we decided to take showers and go to the restaurant where she bartends for dinner and wine.

We chatted with the girls she worked with, watched the Red Sox game, and talked about me moving out of our apartment and in with HOM. She has known I’m moving in with him for a long time, and is surprisingly cool with it. When I started telling her about HOM’s and my recent conversations about marriage and pregnancy and the rest, she was completely shell-shocked. I guess in our completely separate lives, I haven’t really shown or told BF/RM how real things are with HOM.

She, of course, knows I love him. But HOM and I had a rocky and slow start to our relationship, and she bore witness to every fight, tear-filled night, and disappointing weekend. However, since that time, she has made more friends–friends that we do not share–through work, I’ve made more friends through work, and I’ve spent more and more time with HOM. Yes, BF/RM and I may live in the same 700 square feet, but we lead almost completely separate lives.

Sitting next to her last night, sipping wine, splitting cheesecake, taking dumb pictures of each other on our cell phones, and laughing at almost nothing, it made me miss how we used to be. How when we didn’t live together, we called each other 10 times a day. How our old boss used to want us to work separate shifts since neither one of us could be around the other without being reduced to giggles. How we always knew every detail of what was going on in the other one’s life.

But now, things have changed. Our differences are more apparent. She has her life, and I have mine. And as we get older and head in different directions, our paths overlap less and less.

I wonder what it will be like when we don’t live in the same apartment. When it takes making plans to take a walk or go out to dinner, will we bother? Part of me thinks that we will, and we should. Other parts of me think maybe we’re outgrowing the friendship and it wouldn’t be the worst thing for us if we grew apart.

I guess only time will tell.

“Remember, [Super Nephew], we are making muffins, not cupcakes.”

Super Nephew doesn’t look up. He is too busy pouring teaspoons of oil into a large silver bowl where two eggs (which he cracked, with some help) and a half cup of water mix together with a box of cranberry muffin mix.

It is 8:15 on a Saturday morning. We are making muffins because there are only so many things you can do with a 5 1/2 year old on a rainy day.

As I watch Super Nephew stir the mix with a large wooden spoon, I smile. Even though I am exhausted, having been woken up at 6 to him standing next to my bed, I can’t help but think of how adorable he is, and how far he has come.

“And what are you going to tell Daddy you made?” I ask him.

“Cranberries!” he yells, excitedly.

“Cranberry whats?”

“CRANBERRY MUFFINS!”

I am periodically reminding him that these are not cupcakes since he’s had muffins but never made them. He has, however, made cupcakes, and I can understand how his young mind wouldn’t be able to decipher between two baked goods, both of which are poured into brightly decorated, little paper cups.

After he has helped me spoon the mix into each little cup and I’ve carefully put the pan into the oven, I turn on the oven light so Super Nephew can check on the progress.

“Look!” he exclaims. “They’re getting bigger and browner!”

I smile. “They sure are.”

He looks into the oven again, and then up at me, brown eyes shining.

“And when they turn into chocolate cupcakes, then we can eat them!”

I haven’t done one of this in awhile, so…. here you go! An ABC post.

Am drinking my first coffee in quite some time. It’s making my eyes shake.

BF/RM and I decided to go to Vegas Columbus Day weekend! It’s far off but we used to go away together that weekend before we lived together. We won’t be living together by the time Columbus Day rolls around this year, so we decided to return to the tradition.

Can’t wait for my sleepover with Super Nephew tonight.

Dunkin Donuts drive in lady asked me if I wanted to try a flatbread sandwich this morning. Turkey and cheese at 7:45 AM? Umm, no thanks.

Even though I’ve started research for my BIG PAPER due May 16th, I still feel really behind. It’s going to be a doozy.

UPDATED: Fuckin A. I forgot F.

Got to go to the Sox game last night. HOM and I had a blast, despite the loss.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CRYSTAL!

I think I’m going to cry if it rains all day. Wet and cold Fridays take all the fun out of Fridays. Well, almost.

Just realized 27 Dresses is on OnDemand, and I will have my mom’s house allllll to myself once Super Nephew goes to bed. Chick flick it is. UPDATED: It’s not OnDemand yet. Poop. Gues I’ll stick to the Sox game.

K is a tough letter. I don’t have anything, k?

Lunch today with my friends from work: woohoo! I love when the bosses are out

Made of Honor: to see or not to see? Yes, it will probably be terrible. But I LOVE Patrick Dempsey. Not because of Grey’s Anatomy (which I’ve never seen), but because of my favorite movie from childhood, Can’t Buy Me Love. How I wanted to be Cindy Mancini and ride off into the sunset on the back of Ronald Miller’s lawn mower.

Never thought I’d have this conversation at Fenway Park, but last night I think HOM and I decided that we would try to get me pregnant as soon as we get married. Ummm, yeah, I know.

Only bad thing about the hash browns I had for breakfast: the lady forgot to give me ketchup. Boo you, lady.

Please, oh please, someone write my 12 page literature review for me. It’s due May 16th. You can just leave the paper in the comments.

Quick! Someone give me something that starts with the letter Q!

REALLY wish I had Tivo or DVR so I could have recorded The Office last night. John Krasinski, how I love thee. And, his last name could have been my “k.” Damnit.

Since I had a Fenway Frank, a cheeseburger, and hashbrowns in the last 14 hours, I should probably break my own rules and go to the gym both days this weekend, no?

Too bad that’s not going to happen.

Unless, by some miracle, I don’t have any wine Saturday night.

Very doubtful.

Wordpress is being a bitch and won’t let me bold anything or link anything. Lovely. UPDATED: WordPress is no longer being a bitch.

Xtremely annoying when you want to bold all the letters of the alphabet for your ABC post or link to Crystal’s page to wish her a happy 2-6.

YIKES. Jess pointed out that I skipped over Y. Not because I didn’t have anything but because I simply forgot. That can’t be a good sign.

Zis iz de end of my post! Everyone, have a good weekend!

It is 7:30.

I am wearing a Red Sox tank top (beater style), florescent green knee socks, and a pair of boy shorts that say “Cosmo Queen” on them. There is a marinara stain on the tank top from when I poured the sauce out of the jar and into a pot.

I am eating a big bowl of pasta on the couch. The Deadliest Catch is on the TV. 

A bit of pasta falls onto my arm. I crane my neck to lick it off. While craning, a piece of shredded parm falls out of the bowl and down the front of my shirt. I pick it out and sprinkle it on to the floor.

I finish the pasta and put the bowl on the floor. Without getting up, I get a fleece blanket from the chair next to the couch. I do this by reaching over to the chair and pulling the entire chair closer to the couch.

I pull the blanket over me. I scrunch down to take a nap before I get in the shower and watch The Hills.

I remember I still have my undies on. I don’t like to sleep with undies on. I take them off and hurl them towards the TV. They get stuck on a dying flower HOM’s mom gave me for Easter. I set my cell phone alarm for 8:15. At night.

Will I still do this stuff when I live with him? And if I do, will HOM fall out of love with me for being such a nasty sloth?

On Saturday morning, Super Nephew and I met up with HOM’s family and went to a kite festival.

As you can see, these were no ordinary kites.

That’s Super Nephew in the red.

If a Kite Festival ever comes to your town, you should go. Nothing makes you feel more like a kid again then looking up into the sky and grinning uncontrollably at a humongous puppy.

I pretty much had a wonderful weekend. 

Saturday morning I took Super Nephew to a kite festival at the beach down the street from my house (pictures to come tomorrow. They would be here today but my camera is out of batteries) and then to lunch with my mom. After, I stopped by the restaurant where BF/RM bartends to “say hi” and ended up having 2 drinks in the middle of the day. After that? Some drunken shopping where I was very, very bad. $336 bad. But hot damn, I got some really cute dresses

Saturday night was the best. HOM surprised me by taking me to a restaurant that I’ve wanted to try for awhile. I wore one of my new dresses, which he repeatedly told me I looked hot in. The food was delicious, there was an unbelievable jazz trio, and we really just enjoyed each other’s company. We laughed and flirted with each other and in between that, talked to our ridiculously cute-but-in-a-non-threatening-non-sexual-way waitress. 

Then the bill came. Being a former waitress, he always asks me to write in the tip. 

“Give her a good tip,” he tells me.

I looked at the bill. $73? For reals? $73 for a lychee martini, a redhead beer cocktail (which I made him order because I’m a dork like that), a bottle of pinot gris, steak eggrolls, a cup of sweet and sour spicy chicken tom yum soup, a cup of tortilla soup, a half crispy chicken flavored with mint and parmesan, a bleu cheese stuffed burger, and churros with a cayenne chocolate dipping sauce? Something is not right.

I looked over the bill and my eyes widened.

“Hey!” I whispered, leaning dangerously close to the candle in between us. “She forgot to put the wine on here!” Score one of the good guys.

“What should we do?” HOM says, blue eyes sparkling with just a hint of a buzz behind them.

“Don’t say anything. Just give her a ridiculous tip so that if she ends up having to pay for it, she’ll still make 20% off our table.”

HOM furrowed his brow. “I just wouldn’t feel right.”

Just then, ridiculously cute-but-in-a-non-threatening-non-sexual-way waitress walks by our table.

“Excuse me,” HOM says. Rdiculously cute-but-in-a-non-threatening-non-sexual-way waitress walks over to our table. 

“The wine isn’t on here.”

Ridiculously cute-but-in-a-non-threatening-non-sexual-way waitress sucks in her breath and widens her eyes.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Thanks so much for telling me. I’ll be right back!” She quickly steps away from the table and goes to run HOM’s card with the correct bill. When she returns, she thanks us again for pointing our her mistake.

HOM slides the check tray over to me.

“Give her whatever you were going to give her before,” he says, smiling at me.

“Like, before when the wine wasn’t included?”

“Yeah, why not? She was good. I mean, you liked her, and you don’t like anyone.”

It’s true. I did like her and I don’t like anyone. I wrote in her almost 40% tip, HOM signed his name, and he helped me put my coat on. 

As we walked down the street in the cool night, eyes a bit blurry, stomachs full, I gave HOM’s hand an extra squeeze.

He looked at me. “You really do look hot in that dress.”

We got to his car and he walked over to my side to open the door. I pushed it closed and pushed myself up against him.

“You are just wonderful,” I said to him, only slightly cringing at my lack of a better adjective.

He looked back at me. “You’re alright yourself.”

I stepped away and he opened the door.

I fell asleep before we even hit Mass Ave with butterflies in my stomach.

The next morning, I declared that it was the best date we had been on in two years. To which he replied, “What about when I took you to Europe for 10 days?”

Oh yeah. That was good too.

Recently, a new catering company opened in my town. In addition to catering, they also offer a small variety of dinner entrees Monday through Friday. The menu is pretty small but changes every day, and my mom and I have enjoyed several take out dinners from there. 

I have mentioned this place to HOM a few times and he hasn’t been too enthused. I thought it was strange because we get take out at LEAST once a week and this place would be a nice change.

“I don’t get why you won’t give this place a try,” I said to him a couple weeks back.

He turned and looked at me. 

“I wasn’t going to say anything because I didn’t want you and your mom to stop going there, but I know something weird about the owner.”

I braced myself for the worst: his former restaurants have been closed for health violations. He’s a molester, murderer, spouse abuser.

“What?!” I am borderline freaking out. I am in NO WAY supporting a business that belongs to a molester, murderer, or spouse abuser, no matter how good his vegetarian lasagna is.

“You know my friend Bill who owns the catering company in [town HOM grew up in]?”

“Yes…” Hurry up and tell me.

“Well, that guy used to work for him and one time he decided to Google him. It turns out, the guy runs a foot fetish website!”

Friends, I think feet are gross. And I CERTAINLY don’t understand why feet play a role in anyone’s sex life. But I do NOT care what this guy does in his bedroom. In fact, I don’t understand why anyone gives a crap about what other people are doing in their bedrooms, unless it’s harming someone. This guy likes feet on his meat? Meh, whatever.

HOM was shocked at my lack of concern, and the next time my mom and I had takeout from Cafe Pinky Toe (I kid), I made sure to tell HOM. This brings us to last night.

“What do you want for dinner?” HOM called from the bathroom where he is shaving his head.

“Not pizza. How about Thai?”

HOM pokes his head, covered in shaving cream, into the living room. “I had Thai for lunch. Any other suggestions?”

“How about [Cafe Pinky Toe]?”

“Babe, I told you about that guy. Doesn’t that weird you out?”

I march into the bathroom and lean against the sink. 

“Listen,” I say, exasperated. “Everyone has sex. And some people have weird sex. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your [construction] guys [at work] to know what we do behind closed doors. But the guy makes good food. And if he wants to go home and play with some feet after he’s made me a delicious dinner? I’m okay with that.”

An hour later, HOM is putting his leftover chicken and mushroom lasagna in the fridge. I am finishing up my Portuguese kale soup and spring rolls.

“So, are you still weirded out by the foot thing?” I ask when HOM has returned to the living room.

“Yeah, kinda. But he makes wicked good food, and what you said before made alot of sense.”

I lean back in my chair, satisfied at changing HOM’s mind.

“But don’t tell anyone I went there. I don’t want them to think I have a foot thing, too.”

Sigh.