Painting Chef – Cheaper Than Therapy

Everyone deals with grief differently. And although it’s been over 2 years since my grandmother passed away, it’s something that is still present in my interactions with my mother in a very big way. I’m been so upset with her about the way she has dealt with it and that’s incredibly unfair to her. But she has just been angry about it. Not sad or willing to remember her mother’s long life and all the great memories that we shared, she’s just been pissed off with no idea how or, what appeared to me, desire to feel any differently.

But recently, she’s started in on a project that I think has been extremely cathartic. She has decided to pull out all the pictures she has laying around in albums, boxes, tucked into drawers, stuck in mirrors, and everywhere else photographs used to accumulate before we all went so very digital and she is scanning them all. I think that this has been a great way for her to look back and remember that there were lots of good memories that she was pushing out of her mind to make room for her grief. And grief is a very real thing, I don’t pretend for even a second that it isn’t. But I think that eventually it should dissipate and what is left are the memories. And getting to that point is going to be differently for everyone. I think about Neena every single day. But I don’t cry every time she crosses my mind anymore.

I think that there is a good chance that, subconsciously, this whole Bad Kitty Bakery thing is a vehicle for my grief and acceptance of a life without the physical presence of one of my favorite people in the entire world. And every time I start to make something (like one of the three cakes I’m doing this weekend!!) I kind of feel her near me and can almost sense her perched on a stool cradling a steaming hot mug of coffee (regardless of the weather) and taking a second to sit back and watch me do what she taught me.

But anyway… blah, blah, blah, therapy speak… how about some pictures instead? I just have a couple for you today but I’m going to continue posting them sporadically (much like everything else related to this website and… let’s be honest… my life in general).

Easter was, apparently, a huge deal in Athens, Tennessee in the late 50s and early 60s (much as I imagine it still is today) and the annual Easter picture was always glorious. Mainly because, at the time, my grandmother owned a fabric store and made every stitch of clothing that family wore. It’s no coincidence that my mother was voted Best Dressed of her senior class, I’m sure…

And this one is from my mother’s rehearsal dinner when she married my father in, I think, 1975. This wedding marked the beginning of my grandmother’s culinary business and her dance card stayed full until I was in my mid-20s. But I’m telling you… I would maim or even kill for that long grey dress my grandmother has on. And my mom’s gypsy-inspired outfit? Yes please. Total glamour, those women.

And then there is this… me and my dad… the show-off. Wonder if he can still do this?

I should make him try because once he did this to me… (I lie. That has mom written all over it. Even my dear old young dad looks confused as to how he ended up with a very ill-tempered and somewhat squinty pirate baby.)

Also? BRAAAAAAAAIDS!

And the beginning of my illustrious 5 minute career as a swimsuit model.

I was much better at the attitude.

I called this one Pink Steel…

Well this went downhill pretty quickly…

(Rim Shot)

Holidays are so magical when you are little. But aside from that, they are EASY. When you are a kid, the hardest part of the holidays is dealing with the itchiness of that god-awful Christmas sweater and staying in bed until you are allowed to get up on Christmas morning.

We all have our own traditions and they change from family to family. We spent every Christmas at my great-grandparents house in Tellico Plains and then later at Neena’s house just a quick 5 minute drive from our own house. As far as the itchy sweaters went, we usually lucked out because pajamas were de rigeur for Christmas Eve from about 6:00 on. And my sister and I had a hard-fast rule for the getting out of bed trick… you see, Neena’s house was across the street from a Weigel’s (think regional convenience store, sort of a kid’s version of the bar in Cheers where everyone knows your name) and they were open from 6 am till midnight, 356 days a year. So if Weigel’s was open, we were allowed to come downstairs. Luckily… we could see their light from the bedroom window at Neena’s house.

And of course as soon as we saw that light click on we would race downstairs to see everything all sparkly, because nothing sparkles like Christmas morning and we would race up to wake up mom and dad who, bless their hearts, had been up since 3 am making everything so freaking sparkly. And it amazes me that they were able to keep opening one eye and grumpily snarling “no shit Sherlock” as we shook them awake with the urgency and ferocity that would normally only be equaled by the most pressing need to escape a burning building.

So as we would lounge in our pjs, (matching, natch) comparing loot and emptying stockings and just generally rolling around in Christmas, the biggest breakfast you’ve ever seen would be under construction in the next room. Every bit of it from scratch. Once our bellies were full, we would all roll into the living room for another obscene display of Christmas, with even my parents receiving bags from “Santa” until it was time for the four of us to pack it up and head home where, amazingly, there was one final round of Santa to encounter (but not until we had showered and climbed BACK into pajamas, obviously)

But this long diatribe is just a way for me to explain to you that my Christmas traditions have always been something I’ve guarded fiercely. I can’t imagine that I was an easy person to marry as I’m so unwilling to compromise on what Christmas activities take place. But compromise I must. And then as our families undergo the changes that are to be expected as the years tick by, people aging and eventually passing away, siblings marrying, cousins finding their own ways, divorce, remarriage, and, of course, our own marriages and the addition of new families and new sets of traditions. Nothing stays the same. And you don’t realize that when you are 7 years old and every year is the same but still spectacular and maybe there is even snow.

But things do change. New traditions are created. And learning to roll with the punches is kind of vital. This year has been the most un-traditional of years for us and I was dreading it because there has been so much upheaval in our lives the past couple of years. That safe and sparkly house where I spent every Christmas for a good 20 years doesn’t even exist anymore. And nobody that lived there is still with us. So you adapt. You come up with new plans. You crash your daughter’s in-laws Christmas dinner and find out it isn’t so bad. You plan Christmas for a few days later. Stretching out a holiday isn’t exactly bad. As I type this, I haven’t even had half of Christmas yet.

And guess what? We’ve done just fine. It’s alright when things are different. When change becomes necessary. And maybe its even a good thing when your new traditions aren’t anything like your old ones. Maybe that’s not so bad. The only part of it that matters to me is that it exists. That there is a day, sometime in the winter, when we all manage to come from our different corners of life and sit down and just enjoy each other. When we can relax and tell our same stories and pretend that they are new and we can curl up on the couch together and read a book or watch “A Christmas Story” and pretend that none of us have ever seen the whole movie at one time and drink hot chocolate and just be a family. Not because we have to be but because we are lucky enough to be related to each other.

It’s been my experience, in my VAST 33 years, that there are two types of households. Those that play games together and those that don’t. And those of us entrenched firmly in the “DO” column inevitably spend a portion of our teen years undercover, so to speak. Because as you may know (if you are a member of the board and card game playing elite such as myself) we choose these family game nights. They are FUN. We enjoy sitting around a table with our parents and siblings. And sometimes, on a Friday night, they are the best thing going on.

This is where I come clean. Throughout my teens, I begged off many a Friday night outing, movies, football games, parties and even dates because quite honestly? Nothing sounded as appealing as lounging in pajama pants, drinking hot chocolate, laughing and talking with my sister and parents over a game of Rook, Rummy, Dominos or one of the dozens of board games that filled the closet beside our breakfast room. But I dare you to try and pass that one off with your friends and keep your oh-so-important social status in high school. Not happening.

As I’ve mentioned numerous times here, I was an asshole. A completely unlikable person. Hello, my name is Susannah and I was a teenage asshole. I had the jerk boyfriend who I thought ruled my world. I snuck out with friends to drink and smoke pot, I lied to my parents about where I was and who I was with and when I would be home. I talked back, pouted, rolled my eyes and was generally a plague on my family for the better part of a decade. No joke. Ask them. They’ll confirm it.

But we still played games. All that could be pushed aside for a few hours and we could just sit down, hang out and enjoy each others’ company.

It was fairly early on that I learned that my family’s obsession with games wasn’t the most normal thing on the block. I was always surprised when I would go to a friend’s house and come across their “game closet” which would usually be a few abandoned and dusty children’s games long forgotten on the top shelf of a closet or under a bed. I would ask “where is Sorry? Parcheesi? Life? WHERE IS SCOTLAND YARD!?!? (Or Mr. X as it was fondly known in my house) Eventually I learned to stop asking. Apparently it wasn’t the coolest thing to admit hanging out with the ‘rents and LIKING it.

But family game night holds its place of honor in my life. And when we all find ourselves in the same time zone, we always sit down to a game night as often as possible and break out the wine, cookies and the scorepad. Last night, my parents and I indoctrinated Patrick into the way of Mr. X (Scotland Yard is one of my family’s most beloved board games. If you are a game person or family, I HIGHLY recommend it.) Patrick doesn’t come from a game family but he has blended seamlessly into ours and I think enjoys it as much as the rest of us. (At least enough to have hit the game aisle at Target pretty heavily when we were registering for wedding gifts nearly a decade ago.)

It was a great evening, we sat around my dining room table and laughed and chatted and shared memories and remembered how to play one of our favorite games. We hadn’t played it in years but I have a feeling that it will find its way back out again this Christmas when Betsy and her husband are in town too. But in the meantime, I managed to convince them to leave it with me… Patrick and I need the practice!

And once again… there was peace in the world.

For the record, those of you who thought I was trying to make a situation “all about me and my busted uterus” and being selfish in my very honest and sincere reaction to something that took me and every single person who heard it completely by surprise shook my entire world to its very core? You? Can suck it.

As for the rest of you… I’m tempted to ask for your addresses so I can send you cookies. And a puppy.

So. Have I told you how awesome you internet people are lately? Your emails and your comments were so sweet and left me with a warm fuzzy feeling that I have been otherwise lacking this past week.

Sweet chocolate corncakes… where to start…

My little sister is pregnant. I’m going to be an aunt. But wait… there’s more. She’s, um, 12 weeks pregnant. Now as anyone with a friend or family member or colleague who has dealt with infertility can tell you… there is no handbook. There is a lot of guessing and wondering and treading lightly. There are lots of questions about “How” and “When” and “In Person or in Email” and such when it comes to someone with a non punk-ass uterus and non-busted ovaries finding themselves in a knocked-up state in proximity to someone with decidedly more shitty reproductive regions.

I will now give you a general rule of thumb. Do. Not. Wait. Tell them early. Hell, mention its on the radar before you even find yourself knocked up. If you are inclined to consider your infertile person differently (and some people aren’t… those people are mean) always lean towards more information at an earlier point in time. Trust us to keep your secret. Please understand that we know that your lady bits aren’t all about us, but also remember that lady-bit activity can trigger our infertility shame spiral and the more time you give us to adjust to your fertile-ness, the better we are going to be able to handle it and the less likely your maternity wardrobe is to send us into the bathroom sobbing. And trust me… that’s just awkward for everyone.

My sister, whom I love more than a triple layer chocolate cake topped with a pair of Jimmy Choos, is pregnant with a non-surprise fetus. And she will be an awesome mother. But to say that this announcement took the wind out of my sails is a huge understatement. There are no time machines and there is no amount of conversation or crying or questioning that can undo the debacle of the past week. Despite that though, I’m scarred by the events and the way things unfolded. Maybe I am just a selfish bitch. I don’t know.

I was the last one to know. My mother, who up until this past week, has been a huge source of comfort and understanding with this whole infertility mess and she has wiped my tears on more occasions than I could possibly count. And I can’t imagine how happy she was to find out that she was going to be a grandmother. Finally. But then she just… didn’t call me. In my mind, she should have called me as soon as my sister told her. She should have picked up the phone and said, “I need to tell you something that is going to be very hard for you.” But she didn’t. She let me get walloped in the face with this news. And then she still didn’t call me. She very, very loudly didn’t call me for a week. Not even to say “Hey kid… you okay?” Nothing.

So while all this very loud and very hurtful not calling was going on, I was getting angrier and angrier trying to understand what she was thinking. Until one day at work she sent me a card that very clearly stated she thought she was being forced to choose a side of a situation where there were no sides. Me? Happy for Betsy. Excited to be an aunt. Happy for mom and dad, the grandparents-to-be. But also? Wanting a little fucking consideration and compassion. However, choosing sides? Never. There were no “sides” to be chosen.

My first instinct is to chalk this all up to me being selfish and trying to make a situation all about me and I feel guilty for it. But as a very dear friend of mine said “When are you going to get up off this bed of nails? She (referring to my mother) knows what you’ve been through and didn’t protect you when you needed and wanted it most, like a mother should. I’d feel let down and pissed too. You’ve taken more beatings than anyone’s fair share in the area of loss. And yet, you still seem to believe you are not supposed to have anything but happiness for everyone else in your life.. And just because you acknowledge that you are mad, doesn’t make you a selfish, spoiled brat of a person. It makes you real, with real feelings and real emotions and real heartache.”

And you know what… I needed that. I needed permission to be angry.

All week the not calling and the not speaking continued so very loudly. I’m hesitant to go out, to leave the house, what if I miss her call, surely she will call today, why isn’t she calling me. Patrick “why can’t you just call her?” Me “because the PROBLEM is the not calling. How can that be fixed by me calling her?” More not calling. And finally, on Sunday night, after pep talks from both Patrick and Zube, I called her.

That? Was a disaster. Apology? Understanding? Compassion? Yeah… not so much. More like a “Yeah, sorry, what do you want me to do about it? Talk to you later bye.” I was MOST unsatisfied. I don’t know what I wanted. An apology, some sort of explanation, an idea of WHAT she could have been thinking, what could have possessed her to so loudly not call and not call and not call. Some acknowledgment that I NEEDED her because she could have cushioned the blow and she didn’t find that necessary. And just… WHY??

God this is so fucking morose and full of self-pity. But it is also what has taken over my life. It’s front and center all the time and I want to just be done with it. I WANT to let it go and just chalk it up to insensitivity and poor judgment. But I think I have too much faith in my family to do that. They KNOW better. And I’m still angry. And hurt. And confused. I don’t know what I expected to accomplish by calling her and I thought I would feel better afterward but I didn’t and I don’t. I feel like an afterthought. Like all the years and heartache and miscarriages and uncertainty and roller coasters we’ve endured while trying to become parents are suddenly insignificant to the person who, until last week, had been secondary only to Patrick in the support and compassion she’d given me.

So now what? Do I just go back to waiting for her to call me? Ignore it all? Pretend everything is fine? Shut the fuck up and move on?

Also… does anyone know a housekeeper who will work for cookies? Because apparently I’m incapable of doing laundry or dusting when I’m in the midst of an existential crisis.