unceremonious

On New Year's Eve 2002, I met my mom's boyfriend, Ken. This was a surprise. My parents recently told me and my sisters about their impending divorce (years later I found out that Ashley actually met Ken prior to New Year's Eve) but this was still a bit of a shock to ten-year-old Haley. Looking back, it is absurd. Mom and Dad were at work, and there were my sisters and I at our grandparents' house a few blocks from our own, uncomfortably sitting next to a man with a thick Rhode Island accent as he casually drinks beer and eats cheese and crackers. Surprise! This man who pronounces "pizza" with an "-er" is your mother's new boyfriend; don't tell your father you met him; be nice to this stranger and don't question anything.

I remember very little from that night, aside from an intense gut feeling that I had to be polite to him or I'd be in trouble. Why did I feel that way? Why was I so concerned with being nice to this interloper? Despite this instinct, I was still frustrated and confused, so I was not as nice as he hoped. One little snippet from that evening has always stuck out to me: he asked me if I could ever say anything nice to him, and I said "I like the wrinkles around your eyes." This man must have been 34 or 35 years old. In present day, I have friends that age and I can't imagine them dating a married woman with three children, expecting the children be nice to him on their first meeting, much less demanding it.

It rained that night, flooding our neighborhood and my mom's van. She recruited not only Ken to help, but also my dad. My dad is not a saint, but I think it's pretty bold that my mom called her boyfriend and her husband to help navigate her flooded vehicle, though for all I know my dad was more than happy to help. He has always made very Provider Dad statements like "I just want my kids to be happy," all while having no more than five conversations with me my entire childhood.

From there I actually warmed up to Ken. Mom drove me to his home for hangouts (he lived with his parents, naturally). Unbeknownst to Dad, he visited our home, oftentimes cleaning it and saying "Don't tell ya fathah I was here." The absolute audacity of that man. 

Several times Mom set us kids wild in Wal-Mart so she could chat with Ken on a pay phone outside. When pestered about wanting to leave she would shoo us away, giggling, a lovebird smitten by a recent divorcee with four young children of his own. "Ken's ex-wife is crazy," she'd say. "Once when he came home from spending time with friends, she threw toilet paper rolls at him. She didn't even tell him when their youngest was born. " Gosh. I'm sure he was innocent in all of this. 

Looking through my 2021 glasses, it's easy to see that when someone calls their ex "crazy," it's because they themselves are an asshole. Unfortunately, back in the nineties and early aughts, Janice was still terrorizing the gang on Friends and wasn't it hilarious? So, what's the best protection against anyone ever accusing you of being a Janice? Believe everything a man tells you about his ex. 

After god knows how long of sneaking Ken around us kids, Mom and Dad finally got divorced. The State of Florida required we attend a workshop on divorced parents, where we watched Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen's 1995 hit It Takes Two, a film about twin strangers coming together to stop the Wealthy Twin's Father, Steve Guttenberg, from marrying a 90s Evil Stepmother, Jane Sibbett. They succeed, and instead Wealthy Father gets with Orphan Twin's... Orphanage Caretaker, the now-disgraced Kirstie Alley. I think the state employee in charge of pressing play on the VCR may have asked the group if we had any questions, but aside from that I don't recall there being any discussion around the film, particularly whether mistreating one's stepparents and manipulating one's parent into dating the caretaker of a long-lost twin sister is an appropriate way to dealing with the emotions stemming from a parent's changing romantic life.

I want to say our beautiful Sunshine State handles these things better now but, based on the way everything else is going... I'm reluctant. 

The day Dad moved out, I played on the family computer while he packed up his Toyota Tacoma with the few personal belongings he would bring to his brother and sister-in-law's home. On his last trip he paused at the front door, small cardboard box in hand, and said, in his low, scratchy voice, "Bye, kids." 

I regret not getting up to hug him. I wonder if my memory has erased my mom and sisters from the scene or if they really were off doing something else, meaning he left his home of ten years with so little fanfare that he might have been going to the gas station for milk. I do know that my relationship with my dad was little more than polite up until just a few years ago, when I became a somewhat interesting adult and he became more comfortable with texting. We now talk regularly: exchanging jokes, food pictures, and recommending books to one another. Between the divorce and my sisters aging out of visits with Dad, it was I who cared enough to leave a voicemail every other week, asking when he would be off work next. To this day, the only way I can remember his phone number is by reciting it in my head in the musical voice of Sprint PCS' voicemail robot. 

SORRY, I don't believe in expiration dates.

Recently I was offended by a friend's rejection of my three-month-past "best buy" date of my 1.7oz dulce de leche spread six-pack. "I'm not feeding [daughter] expired milk," she said, with a chuckle. One might have even interpreted the chuckle as smug, if one were feeling particularly sensitive in relation to her expired sugar products. 

"Fine!" I said, louder and shriller than necessary. "I'll eat them!" 

And guess what! I just ate one and it was delicious. I used a teeny tiny spoon from the package, which was both adorable and functional. Aside from the impending sugar crash, I am certain I will be A-OKAY, suffering no ill effects from eating barely "expired" cooked milk and sugar.

I'm getting worked up again. Which leads me to the point of this post: why was I offended? 

I do not believe in expiration/"best by" dates and this challenges by beliefs.

I've been known to eat bread well past the "best by" date, though to be fair I freeze all my bread. Perhaps a bit less reasonable, I'll cut the fuzzy part off a block of hard cheese and eat the rest. Definitely less reasonable, I'll scrape the moldy part off a blob of soft cheese, eat the rest, and lie about it while discussing expiration dates with friends months after. 

I once read that expiration dates for things like bottled water are only printed because certain states require consumables to expire. I think I saw that on Reddit and I'm not in the mood to find a real source, so you're just going to have to take my word for it as I did with the original internet stranger. I even have a vague memory of packages having different expiration dates for different locations. That's how laws are! Why? I don't know. I'm not a law scientist.

ALSO (and this is super important) "best by" means just that: BEST BY. You can still eat the caramel, my friend. Anyone who tells me different is just wrong. Any attempt at a real discussion would undoubtedly involve actual scientific data, which I'm not interested in supplying. It's just not worth the time. I'm happy with my maybe-old cheese. 

Okay, yes, food can and does expire. I am not denying that. But I'm not going to blindly follow silly things like printed dates or spores that weren't there yesterday.

I felt silly and embarrassed for offering old food to someone who so clearly is above old food, and my reaction was to lash out.

Too good for some expired milk, are we?! Plenty of people eat out of garbage cans and they're FINE. OKAY? FINE. I'll eat it myself!! Your loss! 

A combination of spending most of my time in my house for the past seven months and being on anti-depressants has protected me from feeling really any form of embarrassment for quite some time. Nowadays I just sort of exist alongside my husband and the pets, not caring if I say something stupid or forget which foods are socially acceptable. Jason wouldn't judge me for eating a piece of toast that fell on the floor, and the cats and dog would envy me for eating a piece of toast that fell on the floor. 

This friend rejecting and chuckling at my offer of food that I considered perfectly acceptable forced me to, very quickly, question what I have become. Was that not a normal food to offer? Was it not kind? Thoughtful, even?? What else am I doing that might not be considered socially acceptable? Are tacos still popular? Is water still okay? We're still against single-use straws, right? Socks still go on feet, yes?

I'm looking forward to the day--if ever it arrives--when we can all readjust to being together after spending so long in isolation. What habits developed in quarantine will awkwardly show up in the real world? Nose-picking? Wedgie-picking? Not wearing pants? How many office workers will sneak booze into their travel mugs, after all those months of mixing a drink in their kitchens at noon? Fortunately I've been able to come to the office at least once a week, giving me a weak grasp on reality and some small semblance of normalcy. This isn't to say I'm not used to napping in my comfy bed during lunch, just that I haven't forgotten how to tie my shoes. When things return to "normal" I'll still eat questionable food and I'll... probably be worse at hiding it than before.

Death.

Lately I've been struggling with the idea of death, which always leads me to struggle with how unoriginal and boring my struggles are. People have always struggled with loss! I'm not experiencing anything new and special. I feel like I should be able to call upon the emotional wisdom of my ancestors and just... get over it. People die, Haley! Animals die. Plants die. Everything dies! MOVE ON. You're going to die, even. Sorry to tell ya, bud. I sure hope you're enjoying not being dead and that you stop spending all your time obsessing over death. 

Though I've always felt... uneasy about death, my current issue with it is that I've recently lost someone who meant a lot to me. Let me clarify: she died. She isn't lost; I know where she is, which is nowhere. But everywhere, because she was (is?) such an incredible, genuine, kind, wildly smart person who left a deep impression on everyone in her life. The impression she left on me is making it difficult to accept that she is gone. How could she be? How can someone who I loved so much, who I saw nearly every day, be gone from my life? From the world? Unfathomable!

That's not true, though, that I saw her nearly every day. I haven't seen her since The Before Times, in March. When COVID-19 began to look like a real threat to us Floridians, she stopped coming into the office because she was At Risk. Then I stopped coming into the office, and didn't start coming into the office until a couple months ago. 

Then she died.

So what I am having difficulty accepting is that someone who has been in my life for many years, who was there even when she wasn't, is very much physically not here anymore. I think not seeing her six months before her death has made it even harder, as I'd grown accustom to simply imagining her in her home, reading or working on her laptop. My brain is telling me she's not dead, she's working at home and is too busy to talk. Is it unhealthy to allow my brain to think that? Or should I force myself to acknowledge that my friend is dead? Should I write it down one hundred times? Would that help? Or is it okay and perfectly healthy to use my imagination as a coping mechanism? Is that the point of heaven? I'm not a religious person so I don't really know. In fact, I've dismissed heaven as a way for religious people to deal with death because they don't want to accept that someone they love has simply stopped existing. 

Having never lost a part of my daily life before and having lived most my life as a smug asshole who wanted only to show weakness when it could be used as a tool for manipulation, I thought everyone could and should simply move on, as I said earlier. Believing your beloved to be "in a better place" was a sign of weakness to me, the asshole. 

I don't think I've ever seen Proper Grief. When I was seven or eight years old, my mom's younger brother was shot and killed at a party. He was much younger than her, so he would have been 23 or 24. If I'd ever met him I have and had absolutely no recollection of it, and all I remember from his death is that my mom locked herself in the bathroom and that my paternal grandma took us kids to Disney World. I don't know if this trip was planned ahead of time, or if our grandma took us so our mom could grieve in relative peace. I don't know if Mom would have preferred having her kid nearby. Truly, I'm not sure if it actually happened like that because memory--particularly the memory of a child--is unreliable and I'm certainly not going to ask about it. Even if it didn't happen that way, it may as well have because the impression it left on me is this: grief is not to be seen or shared, it is to be locked in the bathroom while everyone around you goes to Disney World. 

When that same grandma died in the fall of 2017, the funeral was put on hold due to a hurricane, then my family scheduled it while my dad was to be on a cruise. I think it would have cost money for him to cancel or reschedule the cruise and he was of the mind that the funeral had already been delayed once, so why can't it wait another week? I believe she'd been cremated so there wasn't a body sitting around. We didn't really talk about it. We don't really talk about anything. My sisters and I did not attend the funeral, in solidarity with my father and for the simple fact that no one invited us. I actually only learned the time and location of the event from some pictures an aunt posted on Facebook. I told my dad that once he returned, we'd have a small get together at his house where we'd share our favorite memories of Grandma, but he didn't bring it up and neither did I and it never happened. 

As with my friend, since I didn't see Grandma every day it is easy to imagine her at home, sewing a quilt. Is that her heaven? Or, at least, the heaven I've imagined for her, which for my sake is the real heaven?

So my experience in dealing with death is this: Don't. 

Hi there.

My last post was made over seven years ago, as you will see below. I'm not sure exactly why I stopped (probably combination of regular stress, school stress, social stress, everything I write must be perfect and hilarious stress) or why I'm writing this now. I don't know anything, frankly. 

Anyway. 

Despite not writing for years, the blog remained bookmarked at the top of the browser, along with my work email, The Sims Medieval tips, a recipe for bacon and eggs savory cupcakes (which I have never made??), a Buzzfeed article on "31 insanely easy and clever DIY projects" (of which I've never made any??), and a dead link I'd named "Blog with patterns n stuff." Are there people out there who delete bookmarks when they're done with them? People who don't have to scroll alllllllll the way to the bottom to find pages relevant to their present-day lives? I wish I could be like that but I have trouble letting go of things like... insurance information from my employer's Open Enrollment period five years ago. What if I need it one day? What if I want to compare it to this year's insurance or maybe print it out for paper crafts?

Earlier I said I don't know why I'm writing now, which isn't quite true. Recently I listened to Samantha Irby's most recent book of essays, WOW, NO THANK YOU on Audible, delightfully read by the author. She is funny in the way I want to be funny! I was reminded of my sporadically updated blog (THIS ONE), dreaming of becoming successful for writing funny things about my boring life and my lower-middle (middle-middle???) -class upbringing. (Though, honestly, Irby can write more freely than I'd feel comfortable doing because both her parents are dead.) As I usually do with books I like I suggested the book to my sister Ashley, who let me know she'd been reading Irby's blog BITCHES GOTTA EAT for some time. So I read that during my night time outside time with my dog, rather than going on my usual Reddit doomscroll. (Unfortunately I've fallen back into the doomscroll as a result of some... things happening in the world.)

But that's not all! Allie Brosh's much anticipated, long awaited second book Solutions and Other Problems came out last month and boy is it a funny, heartbreaking piece of ART. She inspired me to create this blog originally. I wanted to be her! I even made some bad drawings, some with my mouse and some with the Wacom tablet I convinced myself I'd use, despite rarely drawing with a regular ol' ink pen or pencil (which is much easier for my brain to understand than drawing on a BLANK SURFACE and seeing it appear on a COMPUTER SCREEN. Where is where?!). 

Brosh addresses depression, uncertainty, general sadness, having weird thoughts, loss, beginnings, childhood. So many things. I can't list them all so you'll have to see for yourself. She's also been posting photo albums on Facebook, as sort of companions to her book, to fill in the seven-year gap during which time she was missing from the internet. The context it gives her book makes me want to reread it, despite just finishing it a few days ago. 

So how did this all inspire me to get back here? Hm. I think I'm feeling... freer to post insignificant things without the pressure to impress anyone. And maybe I have some things I want to shout into the nether that is the internet. I keep a journal, but this is different. This is the illusion of talking to someone. Is that sad? Maybe! But who cares? Internet is HUGE. And being sad is okay. And maybe someone else out there will find comfort in something I write, no matter how insignificant it may feel to me. 

I just have a lot of thoughts and would like to get them out. Or not.

Goodbye.

Helpful Advice

You Are So Smart and Awesome

If you have limited knowledge on a subject, do not let that stop you from correcting anyone who says anything about that subject. You are an expert, with your very limited experience. Make sure everyone knows that.

If someone else has knowledge on an obscure topic, such as the mating rituals of the flamingo, question how they acquired such knowledge. Look down on their understanding of such a topic, and do your best to make them feel badly about it. Furrowing your brow and frowning works well, as it often causes said person to question themselves and makes you, the genius, look so much smarter and much more beautiful. Later, when you are home alone, basking in your own brilliance, find as much information as you can on the mating rituals of the flamingo. No way is that commoner showing you up again.

Smart phones are extremely useful nowadays for finding information. If some peon thinks they know more than you about anything, prove them wrong. When they’re busy drooling and trying to remember how to blink, whip out your fancy iPhone right there and use that Google app, which was created just for you, you super smart, magical human. “Do flamingos really start breeding when they are five years old?” Haha, NO! It’s when they’re six years old!! Say this loud enough so that bumbling idiot can hear you over the sound of their own heavy breathing, and with a tone that says I totally already knew this, but I waited to say it so you’d feel good about yourself for once in your life.

If ever another person makes a generalized statement, such as “I think that, by now, all American adults know where cow’s milk comes from,” disagree with them. “Actually,” you’ll say, “A lot of adults living in America don’t know where cow’s milk comes from. You would be surprised.”* When the peasant looks confused, smile and tilt your head to the side, so they can actually see your amazing intelligence seeping out of the glorious pores that have the privilege of making up your face.

Has someone done something creative, like recreate a battle from The Civil War, in 3D, using just an old hardcover book and an X-Acto knife? Roll your eyes and ask this artist “How do you have time for that?” Then, sneering, go back to reading that article on how flamingos do it.

Did someone just make a joke you don’t understand? NOT FUNNY. Make sure they are aware of this. Narrowing your eyes and shaking your head does wonders.

When in class, speak up as much as possible, even if what you have to say is not related to the discussion. It can be your person opinion on Starbucks' blonde roast, what your genius cat did that morning, how often you change your Egyptian cotton sheets, the A+ you received in high school algebra, the fact that you read Life of Pi before the movie came out (and you thought it was totally unrealistic, but you get the metaphors), anything. Everyone wants to hear you speak, all the time, always. Everything you say has true value.

Playing a video game and losing? Turn the system off! If the Wii doesn't remember you lost at Mario Kart, no dumb humans will, either.

Remember: You are super fantastic and amazing! Everyone loves you and can find no fault in anything you do! You are the really big, expensive Christmas gift to the world, and everyone else is just those shitty gas station chocolates that parents put in their kids' stockings to make it look fuller.

  

*Even if you do not know, per se, that a lot of people living in America don’t know where cow’s milk comes from, you should still say this. Most likely you’re right, because you are always right. 

Things to Not Say Part One

*Edit: Where are my eyebrows?? I do not know.