Classic Cathy

Since I've just discovered I have a loyal following of THREE people, I feel that I must post after such a long lapse.  Unfortunately, I got nothing.  So I've combed the archives and have found this email exchange.  In 2008, my sister forwarded to me a burning question she'd received from her friend Amy regarding the TV classic "thirtysomething" (which has just recently been released on DVD).

The question:

Howdy! The Melanie Mayron character. She was perpetually single, right?  And she was the one who was still single at the end of the series, because the curly-haired girl got married, right?


My answer:
I'm so proud! I know the answer! Curly-haired Ellen Warren married Billy Sidell near the end of the series. At her wedding, the ghost of Gary tells Michael Steadman how it will all turn out. When doing so, he foretells that Melissa (Melanie Mayron) and her beau Lee (the painter/artist who is much younger than she) will have a daughter (though he doesn't say they wed).  FYI, in addition to "thirtysomething," I can do "The Dick Van Dyke Show," "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," and "My So-Called Life."

I'm always thrilled to be an expert in something.  If anyone needs more expert advice, I'm aces in the following areas:

*Pimple popping [I can tell at a glance if it's ready to go, if it needs to be primed a day ahead, or if it's (as my husband calls it) subterranian]
*Meat expiry [how long it can be stored, cooked or raw (factoring in refrigerating vs. freezing, date of purchase vs. sell-by-date, and other items of concern only us experts would know)]
*The use of brackets and parentheses.

I admit that my areas of expertise might be considered pathetic by some.  What would be, I'm sure, considered pathetic by all is that I archived a two-year old email that showcases my near autistic recall of defunct TV shows.  We take what we can get.

Those Were the Days

So there I was, checking my email and planning my next snack, when I see this Facebook message:

Pretty sure this is you. We went out once in Nashville, long long ago when I was in my early 20s. You sent me a postcard from Italy afterward and that's what made me remember your name. It just popped into my head now. LOL Hope you're well. :)

Now, I didn't recognize the guy's name or his ID photo (or whatever you call the picture that goes with your Facebook account), but since a) I did go to Vanderbilt a long time ago, b) I frequently had only one date back then and c) I would be pathetic enough to send someone a postcard (why would I have his address?) even if he had never called again.  (In those years, I took an unreasonable amount of solace in the lyric "If you never hear from him, it just means he didn't call" from Van Morrison's "Domino".)  Still, despite the reminder of a dating past I can only describe as "sorry-ass," it put a spring in my step that someone had remembered me.  I even felt shyly boastful when I told my family about the message at dinner (where the only comment was from my 11 year-old who said, "Mommy, just remember that those Facebook people are kind of..." and she raised her eyebrows.)  Even though I'd just told everyone, I still felt like I had a secret only for me and my 20 year-old self.

I think my 11 year-old and I are at the same stage.  We're both feeling a little reined in by the restrictions of how our family defines us.  We're both starting to flirt with the idea of creating an identity outside of the four of us.  Of course, she'll need to break away to do that, and I have no intention of doing so.  Sometimes I just need to be reminded that the me that I was is still a part of the me I am now.  While I treasure having so much of my identity tied to this family, I'm thinking there might just be more to me than that.

Adventureland

My husband loves coming-of-age stories.  He also likes movies shot in Pittsburgh.  A great evening it was, then, when we watched the indie film "Adventureland" (available On Demand).  The movie followed recent college grads who were working at an amusement park for the summer.  Because they're young and biologically primed to mate (as opposed to me, whose eggs have definitely passed the "use by" date) and because it's so much easier to persuade other people to join you if you throw in a drink or two, sex and alcohol (two things I've traditionally supported) also played starring roles.  As my husband and I drank wine (see:  my support of alcohol) and snuggled (see:  my expired eggs), we watched this story of overwhelming desire and seemingly limitless possibility, and I remembered living in that time myself.  I didn't start teaching until I was 25 or get married until I was 29, so I had many of those moments where my story had yet to be written and really anything could happen.  Of course, much of that time involved despair over what would I be and would I end up alone, but a lot was quite simply thrilling.

As I was enjoying the movie with my husband, in our home with our children in bed, I knew I wouldn't trade this time of my life for the time before.  Nonetheless, you can't help but be nostalgic for when you were young and brimming with all different kinds of passion.  That's when it hit me.  This movie wasn't written for me.  It's written for my older daughter and who'll she be five years from now.   And that just made me sad. 

Of Mice and Men (or Gerbils and Girls)

I'm always amazed by how differently my two girls have turned out.  Case in point:

My niece's gerbil, Larry, died over the weekend.  He had a proper funeral with just the immediate family and words and tears at graveside.  My daughters were acquainted with Larry, having spent some time in the summer and just this past Thanksgiving with him.  After I told them, my 11 year-old daughter gasped and asked the circumstances, his final resting place, and if she'd be able to pay her respects.  I swear she was on the verge of asking where donations could be made in his name when my 9 year-old broke in and said, "Eh, that's life."

Mamma Mia

This past Christmas was one of the smoothest of holidays between my mother and me.  I had challenged myself to just shut up for a change, instead of lashing back at every perceived provocation.  Even my kids noticed that I was doing better.  But I guess the karma in my house requires a certain level of maternal confrontation because, as I eased up, my husband (for the first time) laid in.  Normally my husband and mother love to chatter away (most often about my failings, but who cares), and he treats her with the respect and love she has earned.  This Christmas found him irritable and rude, overall much prickier than his usual self (not a typo for "pricklier," but an adjective meaning "more of a prick").  He ended up snapping at my mom several times, even raising his voice in annoyance.  I was so embarrassed (for myself and for him) and hurt (for my mom).  On the day my mom was leaving, after my husband had gone to work, I apologized for his behavior.  She told me that he'd already done so and that they'd had a good talk.  She finished with the pronouncement, "Body of Work, Cathy, Body of Work" in which she is a true believer.  With my mom, she can forgive specific injustices if a person's overall behavior is decent.  When she forgives, as she did my husband, she forgives.  I envy her inability to hold a grudge.  She seems to think that one bad moment should not ruin an entire day, whereas I can sulk it out for an entire weekend (and I can't seem to grasp that this ruins my weekend, too).

When the whole mother/daughter dynamic starts making me a nutcase, I flash back to a moment last Thanksgiving.  (The background:  when my dad left after 36 years of marriage, she was devastated and alone.  After a few years, she began a romance with a friend whose wife had died after a very long marriage that spawned thirteen children.  As the whole email thing was taking hold, she pushed her friend to send out a daily email to his kids, just as a quick update of things going on in his life.  On occasions like Mother's Day, she would push him to mention his wife in his notes, because she's like that.  As she's said many times, "Why on Earth would I be jealous of a dead woman.")  We're sitting at the breakfast table Thanksgiving morning as my mom checks her email.  She says, "Awwww," with that face that shows you think something is sentimental and sweet, and starts reading an email aloud.  It's from her friend/partner/boyfriend/whatever-you say-when-someone's-over-70.  He writes in his note to his kids (which he also sends to friends, my sister and me, and other relatives) that Thanksgiving was his and "mom's" anniversary, and he goes into detail about their wedding day, their hopes and dreams, and their good life together.  And my mom tears up a bit.  Not because she's jealous (see:  me), but because she thinks it's such a kind and loving note that will mean so much to his kids.  That's how she is. I (and my husband and kids) should be so lucky if I became more like her.