Fuck gratitude

I know I've not written often of late. There was a long gap and then my first post back was a big one (I won’t apologize for that first post back being one with significant weight.) Current events had kept me up (they still do), worried in ways I didn’t expect and I ultimately decided to share for reasons explained in the post. I wasn't been absent for any one reason. Just life. I felt my content was getting stale and I had nothing more to say. Friendship felt a narrow topic. I couldn’t keep track of code names I had given people. And, I was tired. And, lazy.

Several folks have asked me about writing again and while I would get a spark of an idea once in a while, nothing really stuck. After all, the writing was more for me – if others wanted to read it, great. If they enjoyed it, even better. It turns out, I rarely run out of things to say. No one is less surprised by that than me. So, I’m back. I may or may not be talking about the beauty of friendships – or the bullshit of them. I won’t use code names for my friends but I won’t publicly out them either. I’ll leave it up to them to admit they know me. If they have something to say, I trust they will. My friends are rarely at a loss for words. 

So, I'm going try and get at this more regularly. It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well. What have you been up to? What have I been up to you ask? Well, I’ve decided to say “Fuck you” to gratitude – and before you get your gracious knickers in a twist, read on.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I recognize how lucky I am. I have my health, an amazing daughter and family, terrific friends and a job I don’t hate. But the relentless platitudes of gratitude, of only focusing on the positive, being grateful for every little thing and cherish every moment is bullshit. It not only pushes aside the very real range of emotions that people have every day, but tells them those emotions are wrong.

“That accident/incident sounds terrible. You should just be grateful it wasn’t much worse,” or “Well, that’s what insurance is for – you’re lucky you have it.”

You are allowed to be angry. Your anger does not negate any other feeling you may have. Anger does not mean you don’t love someone, are unable to move on or are not appreciative that things could, indeed, be worse. The fact is, sometimes you need to process that anger in order to move forward. Being angry sometimes is normal. If you are never angry – where the hell are you stuffing your emotions? Are you drinking them? Eating them? Taking it out on others? I’ve done all of that – none of it works. Being angry does not mean you are ungrateful.

“Oh look at that precious baby/darling child (who is clearly not being precious or darling), just cherish this time, it goes so fast.”

Seriously? You are allowed to be super annoyed, frustrated, at the end of your rope with your kid. Let’s face it, great kids can still sometimes be assholes. Sometimes they are too little to realize; often times they are old enough to know better. My daughter is out of the toddler phase and I can assure you that while there is much to miss about that time – I do not miss tantrums, sleepless nights and potty training nor do I look back on them with any nostalgia. I may laugh about them more often now – but time does that with many things. Parenting is hard and sometimes, we're simply exhausted and at the end of our emotional rope. Thinking your kid is sometimes an asshole does not diminish your love for your kid or how lucky you know you are to have him/her.

“You should feel lucky you have such a good job.”

You are allowed to fucking hate your job sometimes. Because frankly, sometimes my job sucks. The deadlines are unreasonable, the people are twats and the lack of resources is frustrating. Venting is okay – as long as it’s not the only thing you do. Sometimes, you need to get it out in order to become part of the solution and be a more productive team member. My venting does not mean that I don’t recognize how lucky – or grateful - I am to have my job. Just means that that sometimes, it sucks.

“People just need to be nice to one another. I mean, I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said.”

You are allowed to pissed off at the state of current affairs. You can vent, vote, protest and spew forth your views. For me personally, it helps to back it up with facts. But being told to “suck it up” or just “focus on the positive” is frankly a privilege afforded to those not affected by things that are happening. Being angry or afraid is okay and very real – those feelings aren’t diminished because things are going well for you or you choose not to engage.

“Consider yourself lucky your [insert family member] is available to help you, just ignore what s/he says,” or “Just ignore move on.”

You are allowed to be fed up with your family. Family can be frustrating as hell. I don’t have any family living near me – this is both a blessing and a curse and I can easily see both sides of that coin. I remember talking to my brother about this – we may fight, we may disagree, we may live miles apart but at the end of the day, I know my family would be there should I need it. That doesn’t mean that don’t annoy the ever-loving fuck out of me sometimes (as I’m sure I annoy them, as well.) And, I say that with the utmost love. This doesn’t mean that I am not grateful for them.

“I’m cutting all negative people out of my life. I am just going to practice gratitude every day and want to be surrounded by positivity only.”

Well aren’t you a ray of fucking sunshine. Hope you’re not indulging in any unhealthy behaviors to manage those less than positive emotions – you know, like eating too much, drinking, drugs or making otherwise poor or unhealthy choices. Hope you’re not desperately trying to control every aspect of your environment, to create a self-imposed bubble that must be exhausting to maintain. And, what a great friend you must be to only want to deal with your friends who are going through a good time. It’s easy to get everyone to ride with you in the limousine – you may have less company when you have to take the bus but you will find out who are your real friends. I’m actually a pretty optimistic person but that doesn’t mean I don’t go through bouts of trying times when I’m less than chipper. This doesn't mean I'm not a positive person and that I am not grateful for my life. My real friends know that.

“They lived a good long life,” or “It’s nature’s way or God’s way of….,” or “At least you already have one (or another) child,” or “It was just a dog/cat/horse, you’re lucky you can go get another.”

I can’t even with these. Grief is deeply personal and there is no rulebook. Grief is painful and lonely and long-lasting. It may be deeply rooted and it may appear to move through someone quickly. There is no comfort in telling a grieving parent to be grateful for a surviving child or that they can have another. Knowing a parent or grandparent lived a long and happy life does not make you grateful for the pain you may feel at their passing. And for so many, me included, our pets are family and their loss is just as devastating and unique to each animal. Grief is normal and real. It is not something we move through but learn to live with as a new normal has to be defined. Grief does not mean you were not grateful for what you had – it just means you’re in pain as you learn to live with that loss.

“Just cheer up. It’s up to you to be happy.”

Okay, just fuck that shit. It’s completely normal to have a case of the blues, to be struggling with anxiety or overwhelmed by something happening in your life or around you. It's normal to just have a bad day. For some, sadness, fear, anxiety and depression are so overwhelming that it’s hard to function. These feelings may be short-lived but for many they are lifetime struggle. A pithy platitude of, “Choose happiness,” is patronizing, dismissive and arrogant. Gratitude is not unique to happy people, it just may show itself differently in different people.

At the end of the day, it is important to appreciate what you have and be grateful for what you receive. It is a good thing to treat others with kindness for no other reason than it's the right thing to do and besides, being kind feels way better than being an asshole (most of the time.) But don’t diminish the very real feelings of someone who may be in a different place than you are. Feelings are real – whether they are the ones you are having or are familiar with or don’t understand. Anger, anxiety, frustration and fear are as real as happiness, joy, and contentment. Part of being authentic – is not only having those range of emotions but acknowledging them, learning from them, seeking help in managing them and accepting these emotions are part of you or your family and friends.

We must quit telling people to stop feeling [insert emotion] and just replace what is perceived as a negative feeling with “happiness” or “gratitude” – that is more likely your own discomfort with those emotions and not theirs. Learn to sit in your own discomfort – you don’t always have to say something or fix someone. Sometimes, just acknowledging those emotions in yourself or others is enough. Remember, privilege is thinking that because something isn’t a problem for you, it isn’t a problem for anyone. Empathy is recognizing that, being supportive and wanting things to be better for all people. Gratitude is being thankful you can help, thanking those that helped you and recognizing that privilege in the first place.

Josh Lieb once said, “Gratitude can sometimes be as annoying as whininess.”

I don't know Josh Lieb but man, I like him.

What is your secret ingredient?

It’s no secret that I love to cook. I also love to eat. I read cookbooks and watch Food Network like porn. I love to see what friends are cooking and more than a few of my recipes are tried and true favorites from family and friends.

My mom and Big Susan liked to cook. Nothing got them going more than planning the Friday night dinners before the mitzvah of one of Susan’s grandkids. Or a Jewish holiday. Or Thanksgiving. They shared menus. They prepped, peeled, sliced and basted. They set tables, taste tested and shooed many a kid out of the kitchen. At the beach, lunches often included massive bowls of tuna and egg salad while dinners included my mother’s infamous “beach chicken” – a foul concoction of chicken roasted with French dressing, onion soup mix and apricot jam. I can assure you, I am not making that.

As I was cooking for this last Passover, I really wanted to make roast chicken. But, not any roast chicken – I wanted Big Susan’s roast chicken. It looked just right – skinless, boneless chicken pieces nestled in a bed of roast onions (onions must always be on the side – one her boys does not like them!) Everything was the perfect roasty color – the seasoning just right. Years ago, I asked Big Susan for her recipe. Much like my mom, she didn’t follow one. She just did it. I watched, I tried to remember. If I took notes, I’ve long since lost them. I’ve tried to recreate and I’ve failed. This year, I asked her daughter. Her response was exactly the same as her mothers, which was of no help to me. I tried again and while it was okay, it wasn’t Big Susan’s roast chicken. I don’t even think about attempting her chicken salad.

Food brings back memories. One time – one single time – one of my sisters remarked that she liked

my stepfather’s homemade BBQ sauce and mom’s coleslaw. You can bet they made that all the time for her - long after she stopped liking it. One of my sisters likes to keep her cooking healthy and we have mocked her more than once – tofu cheesecake just isn’t the same. Once, that same sister and I made a pie that required freezer time. When taking it out, we discovered that a small, very frozen, Cornish game hen had fallen into said pie and frozen in the center. You could literally pick that frozen bird up and the whole pie came with it. Cornish game hen banana pie. We still laugh about it.

Cookbooks are my scrapbooks

Now, many of my friends are very good cooks. T makes wicked good meatballs and her hot fudge sauce is sublime. M taught me how to make sopa and is my go-to when I have questions about making biscuits. L follows a good recipe and will always share but whenever I make good Italian – I must call and tell her so that she can share with her mother – a New York Italian if ever there was one. Another friend makes this meatball thing that my daughter loves – one of those crazy three ingredient things that are always a hit. So when I bring a slow-cooker full of meatballs to a gathering – we can thank her for the recipe. Now, my dear friend N also loves to cook and we rarely plan our Jewish holiday menus without checking with each other for something new and different. Her broccoli soufflé has graced my table – and that of my sister. Her zucchini soup is a favorite (and a great way to use all that summer squash!) An old friend made a kugel every year for the holidays and it was delicious. I begged for that recipe and for years she would not share it. She finally did. I make it and like I promised – I don’t share that recipe.

My sister-in-law is a very good cook and many of her recipes have graced my table – triple-chip cookies, black bean shrimp salsa and pork tenderloin salsa verde all came from her kitchen. My sisters have also contributed to my recipe book. I so loved the meatball soup that S used to make - I learned to make it for mini-me and her turkey meatloaf is the bomb. My other sister doesn’t love to cook but she sure turns out a mean fruit crumble (strawberry-rhubarb is my fav) and her well-seasoned salmon made Mini-me a fish lover at a very young age.

Each time I use a recipe from a friend or family member, it’s a bit like spending time together. It always makes me smile and “remember when.”

This year, Mini-me has taken to baking. I taught her to make my dad’s favorite Crescent Cookies – little moon-shaped shortbread cookies with tiny bits of pecan and dusted with powdered sugar. They are melt-in-your-mouth good! While we baked – and I told her they were Grandpa Bob’s favorites, she asked questions about him and I told her stories. Some she may have heard before but she graciously listened as I waxed nostalgic.

Side story: Mini-me is not a picky eater. Never has been. But, she does have some food she absolutely dislikes and has never liked. Every one of those foods are the same foods my father disliked. They never met. She has his palate completely – including her love of dark chocolate (from a very young age), her utter disgust at cream cheese, mayonnaise, most jams/jellies and ranch dressing, her preference for not-too-sweet desserts and good ice cream. Genetics people. They are strong.

Back to cooking. Now, T’s hubby is also a good cook and I’ve started to gather some good recipes from him. A stew with sweet potatoes and peanut butter is perfect on a cold night. And the lettuce wraps from old friends still shows up on those hot summer nights. My sister’s Chinese chicken salad is the best ever and my brother does a mean rub for grilled meats and can always be counted on for a cocktail recipe. His eggnog should be illegal and his Sangria is delicious….and the Moscow Mules never suck nor do his Bloody Mary’s. Years ago (think early ‘80s), his go-to recipe was soy sauce chicken cooked in the wok. I remember being so impressed. My cousin B is also a great cook, something he inherited from his folks. The family recipe of a roast cooked rock salt will be tried in my house this year – I’m determined!

Mom & Jack's handwritten recipes

Sure, I pull recipes from online, magazines and such – but there is something special about a recipe from a friend or family member. I have recipe binders – full of clippings and copied recipes. There are some in there I’ve never tried – but they’re in my mom’s handwriting so in the binder, they will stay. I have a curated collection of cookbooks. I do periodically weed it all out but these are some of my favorite reads. Each time I try a recipe, I note the date and any important notes or changes or ideas. When I later go back to them, it’s nice to see….and remember.

All of my family and many of my friends live so far away. We rarely cook together and I want to cook with them – with you. So, I am asking you. Send me your favorite recipe – maybe it’s one that’s been in your family and maybe it’s a new one you just tried. Tell me why it’s your favorite. I promise to try and live up the expectation and hope it will be as good as yours. I want to make that recipe – it will be like spending some time together. You can send your recipes to WhoIsYourBigSusan@gmail.com.

Bon Appetit!

The sun, the surf and the memories

20 years.7300 days. 175,200 hours. 10,512,000 minutes.

A lifetime and just yesterday.

Life does not stop when someone dies. It changes. There is a new normal as day to day activities, routine and milestones are re-defined around the absence.

I think of her often – especially in these summer months. The beach, every time I see someone with that golden brown tan (however unhealthy) or see pictures of the sand and surf. During the next few weeks there will be countless pictures posted of friends and family at “the beach” – the great getaway down Route 50, over the bridge, take Route 404. Stop at Adam's Fruit Stand. Bethany Beach, Ocean City, and Rehoboth – the sleepy towns of my childhood have changed but still bring back the same old memories. And, the beach always reminds me of Rona.

It’s funny how a place can remind you of people – as much as any other shared memory with that person. Rona isn’t the only one I think of when I think of the beach – but I always think of her when my toes hit the sand.

Me, Bethany Beach House, 1970

My beach thoughts always start with Big Susan. It was her beach house that brings me my earliest beach memories. The old bikes stored under the house. I was too little to keep up with everyone and would ride on the handlebars. Destination? York Beach Mall where the grocery had donuts every morning. Off we went – to bring them back to the house. Everyone grabbed their favorite and my mom would eat only half. Half a donut. Who the fuck eats just a half?

Swimming in the ocean. Doesn’t matter if it’s just my toes getting wet or if I’m out diving under the waves. Always reminds me of Big Susan’s kids – I would go out soooo far into the ocean. One of the big kids pushing me on those old thick rubber/canvas rafts when I was too small to manage on my own. I’m sure I went ass over tea kettle more than once – but I do not remember ever being afraid.

Once summer, we stayed at a hotel – Summer Place. It was near the beach house so we spent our days there. It was me, my mom and my sisters. My biggest memory of that summer was that our bathing suits got stolen off the clothes line outside. It was my blue and white bikini.

Mini-Me, Bethany Beach, 2014

As I got older, the beach brings me memories of other friends. In high school, D and I went to her family’s beach house. Alone. No parents. Did I say alone and with no parents? There we were, relishing that bit of freedom to set our own hours and act like grownups. We laugh about that parenting choice and how we would never. I was lucky to go to that beach house often – and I have wonderful memories of her dear dad in that house. I can hear his laugh as he told jokes. I hear his voice telling great stories as we sat around the table eating hard-shell crabs and drinking beer. I am grateful that I was able to take my mini-me to that house – and share with her the magic of Bethany Beach.

Not all of my beach memories were of my time there. There is an old story of my mom and Big Susan driving to the beach house to set it up for the summer. There they went in the old station wagon. Two broads – two best friends, with no kids, and a car loaded to the brim with toilet paper, cleaning supplies (my mom was quite the cleaner), cereal, cans of tuna and other assorted necessities for the summer at the beach. The only thing between them and the sand that year was the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and a major summer storm. They would tell the story of driving across the bridge in rain coming down so hard you could barely see, winds pushing against the car so hard they swore it blow them off the bridge. They made it across the bridge, pulled over, hugged each other and cried. I told that story to mini-me as we drove across the bridge – she said she completely understood their feelings as she peered out the window to the water far below.

Beach memories and the people in them changed as I got older and changed coasts. When I moved to CA, I was just a short drive to Santa Cruz. Many a Sunday morning found my brother and me flying over Hwy 17 to spend a day in the sand. There was nothing earth-shattering that happened, no major event. Just a memory of a place that always makes me think of those Sunday mornings with my brother.

Mini-me & cousins, Manhattan Beach, 2013

Now, when I think of the beach – I often picture the wide stretch of sand, the picture-perfect pier and the long walk to the bathroom at Manhattan Beach. I think of my brother and his family. This is the beach of my mini-me’s memory – where cousin T took her out on a surfboard and taught her to love the waves. Where she played for hours with her cousins – digging for sand crabs, playing in the surf. Those super early mornings when only parents of young children were awake and we’d hustle the kids into town to get breakfast before we woke anyone else. She thinks of her aunt and uncle, her cousins, the family friends. We’d walk to those special places at the beach that we visited each time we were there – The Creamery, Pages and Udderly Perfect. Even in the winter. Mini-me has very vivid memories of Christmas Eve walking along the pier with me, her aunt, uncle and cousin and ending up in Shellback Tavern where the nice bartender made her a hot chocolate she could stir with a candy cane. Grownups opted for something a bit stronger. (I’m both proud and horrified that one of her favorite beach memories is of being in a bar on Christmas Eve.) Those evenings at the house where we’d have drinks by the fireplace – our skin a bit redder, our eyes a bit bleary and our souls the kind of blissfully tired that only the beach can bring.

We shared that beach house with friends. For a few years, K and I would pull the girls out of school and escape to the beach for the perfect September weather. Those girls would play for hours on the beach. K would obsessively apply – and re-apply sunscreen. We’d occasionally feed the seagulls that would hover over any potential snack. One year, there was a gull who had a string wrapped around his legs. There were K and I, trying to wrangle this bird to cut this string off – I made her do the cutting. She was a nurse was my excuse. We’d walk the piers in the evening as the girls ran down and peered over the edge. These are Mini-me's beach memories.

My mom loved the beach. Big Susan loved the beach. They loved being there together. Some kid was always getting yelled at. There was sand everywhere. No one watched much TV (only had about three channels so no one really bothered.) The ginormous dining room table that my mother was always – and I mean always – wiping down. Reading comics I found lying around and Stephen King books as I got older. An occasional evening out to Jolly Roger or the boardwalk but that was rare. The beach was the destination.

Rona loved the beach – everything about it. Our last trip was to Bethany. We stayed at friend’s house right in town on beach block. We’d get up early and walk along the water. Sitting on the beach or in the screened-in porch reading. People watching, possibly running into (or avoiding) people we knew. Hard shells at least once during our trip along with Thrasher’s fries with vinegar. It was one of her happiest places. Even when she wasn’t feeling great, she felt removed from her illness at the beach. More peaceful. It is the place I most often picture her. Remember her.

I am not at the beach today though I am wishing my toes were in the sand. And, I wish I was with those who loved the beach the most.

Miss you.

Rona Diane Majower

November 1, 1964 – June 27, 1999