It’s always the right time for Family Drama!

It’s been a year exactly since my beloved sister in law – Stephanie – died.

(Have you made your will?)

I miss her every day.

And today – Thanksgiving – I remember her again, and our common enemy, our father in law, Sly.

This is the Great Turkey Story that connected Stephanie and me forever.

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About 15 years ago, shortly after Mr T and I married, we were all at Thanksgiving at Mr T’s mom and dad’s house. It was Sly and Doris, his parents, Mr T, me, Stephanie, Stephanie’s soon to be ex-husband AKA Mr T’s half brother (remember Sly left his first wife for Doris but he had to because his first wife was so so bad), and their three children.

Ten people.

A 24-lb turkey.

A 24-lb turkey will feed 20 people. (And probably still provide leftovers.)

Sly told the kids, who were young teenagers, to serve themselves first from the plate of carved turkey.

They each served themselves a modest portion of white meat and then started to get potatoes and stuffing and cranberries.

Sly shouted, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

The kids stopped. They were serving themselves food as instructed?

Sly raged. “How DARE you serve yourselves only white meat? When I was a kid, I would never have taken all the white meat!”

Remember. Huge turkey and Sly had told them to serve themselves first.

Sly turned to Stephanie. “Didn’t you teach your children anything? You are a bad mother!”

Note: He does not accuse his son of being a bad father.

The kids are frozen in fear.

As Sly continues to rage at Stephanie, she hisses, “That’s it I am not taking this shit I’m leaving.”

I follow her into the living room as she grabs her purse. “Do you want some xanax? I have some.”

“Nope,” she says. “I have some at home.”

Her soon to be ex-husband tries to convince Stephanie to stay.

She refuses, walks out the front door and to the car. He follows her.

Sly rages and yells his way into his office, where Mr T and soon, Stephanie’s soon to be ex-husband follow him.

Doris, the kids, and I stand in the kitchen, wondering what on earth to do.

Doris instructs the kids to finish serving themselves and sit.

I am frozen. This is not how fights worked at my house when I was a kid and it sure wasn’t how my dad or my grandfather ever acted. I do not have a script for this scenario.

Mr T and his brother convince Sly to emerge from his office and return to the dinner table. Sly, the injured party for sure. Sly, who is unhappy that his own grandchildren have it better than he did as a kid.

Stephanie’s soon to be ex-husband convinces her to return to the house.

We all serve ourselves and sit.

Sly is calm and smiling and asks Mr T, “What do you think about the Steelers this year?”

The rest of us keep our mouths shut because.

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The next year, we are all at Sly and Doris’ again – all ten of us, only now, Stephanie and Mr T’s brother are divorced.

The kids very carefully serve themselves only a small amount of dark meat turkey.

We are all careful about what we do and say.

As we start eating, Sly muses – without prompting – that he has never liked the white meat. “Too dry,” he says. “I prefer the dark meat.”

Stephanie and I lock eyes as our jaws drop.

WTAF?

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I mentioned this story to my niece recently and she has no memory of it.

When I ask Mr T about his father’s temper tantrums and mention specific ones, Mr T does not remember.

“You have a really good memory,” I say to Mr T. “Do you not remember because you have forgotten or because your dad’s tantrums were so frequent that they all blend into each other?”

“The latter,” Mr T answers. “The latter.”

And other learnings from The Patriarchy

I’m all stressed because Mr T has a friend coming to visit for five days, arriving on Tuesday – I am writing this on Sunday night – and he has exactly one meal planned and he hasn’t prepared the guest room or bathroom or gotten his stuff off the stairs or cleared stuff off the dining room table where I presume we will eat the unplanned meals.

I am stressed because if this work does not get done and the friend – let’s call him Ulysses – arrives to a messy house and the guest room bed not made, he will assume it’s my fault.

Because housework is the province of the wife, right?

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So here’s some internalized patriarchy.

Years ago, a male work friend – Dave – invited a few of us to his house on a Saturday. He was brewing his own beer and wanted to share and I don’t like beer but I was new in town and I liked these co-workers and wanted to hang out.

When we got to Dave’s house, his wife, Sue, was just leaving.

He introduced us to her and then she left.

And I was kind of shocked because she was leaving.

Because who was going to make us a snack? Offer us something to drink?

And how could a married couple not entertain jointly? Doesn’t an invitation from a husband bind a wife?

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I always assumed that everyone knew that you offer guests something to eat and drink. You cross the threshold in my house and I ask if you would like a drink. If you’re here longer than a few minutes, I will probably offer you food.

It’s what My People do.

Mr T’s parents did not teach him this.

The first time I visited their house – the first time I met them, Mr T and I had started our journey early in the morning in Milwaukee. We had flown to Jacksonville, rented a car, and driven the hour to St Augustine. We arrived at Mr T’s parents’ at about 2:00, I think.

I was hungry.

They did not offer water.

They did not offer food.

After half an hour of their pretty much ignoring me (they already did not like me because of my previous blog), I finally asked if I could have a glass of water.

Y’all.

I had to *ask* for water.

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And now it’s Monday morning and I think Mr T did some cleaning. I know he will get all the cleaning done, even if he has to stay up late to do it, but he is happy to leave the meal planning up in the air.

When Mr T and I would visit his parents, I had to find my own lunch every day (like – drive to a store to buy something) because they did not eat lunch and they did not plan for anyone else to eat lunch and the one time I ate leftovers for lunch, Mr T did not hear the end of it. Even in his last weeks of life – ON HIS DEATHBED, Mr T’s father was complaining to him about all the things I had done wrong, including Eating The Leftovers.

(How I eat bacon wrong was another complaint.)

When we would visit, Mr T and I got to where we would stop at the grocery store on the way from the airport to buy food – bread and sandwich meat and fruit – for our lunch. I packed almonds and other snacks in the suitcase.

Now, it’s not like I expected to be treated like royalty. I don’t expect hosts, especially parent hosts, to wait on me. I am happy to help with cooking and chores. I am even happy to buy groceries. I don’t expect other people to spend their money to feed me.

But we didn’t even want to visit them. These were command performances that required us to spend a lot of money on plane tickets and auto rental and to use precious vacation days.

The least they could have done was provide lunch.

But even without that experience, I knew to feed my guests. It’s what’s done, right?

You have a guest in your home and you feed her.

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Mr T plans to grill steak and veg one night, which is great.

But the other nights? (And the breakfasts? and the lunches?)

He has no plans.

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Let me back up.

When Mr T said Ulysses wanted to visit, I was happy because Mr T and Ulysses have been friends for decades. Mr T has been pretty lonely since covid started and a lot of his usual activities have been curtailed. (Like singing at karaoke.)

But I told him all the preparation was on him.

His guest – his work.

Not that I won’t help – I will clean the kitchen and the downstairs bathroom, both of which are on my usual chore list, but the guest room and bath are both on him. (And, like I said, he will do it, but it will be last minute, instead of a week in advance as I would do it.)

And, I said, he needs to figure out the food.

I will help prepare and cook whatever he wants, but he has to figure out what the menu is.

That is, he has to do the emotional labor.

“But that’s *hard*!” he said.

“I know,” I answered. “That’s why I don’t want to do it.”

The stories we are told versus the truth

The mother of Mr T’s two half-brothers died last week.

The story, as long as Mr T’s parents, especially his dad, were alive, was that Wife 1 (Mr T’s mom was Wife 2) was Bad.

According to Mr T’s dad, Wife 1 was an alcoholic who was also frigid.

Me: Wait. Your dad actually used those words with you? He told you Wife 1 was frigid?

Mr T: Yes.

Me: He talked about his sex life with you?

Mr T: Well, not when I was a kid!

Me: That’s not something parents do even with adult children! Your dad never heard of this thing called “boundaries,” did he?

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The story was that Wife 1 was an alcoholic so of course Mr T’s dad had to leave her.

Leave her for Mr T’s mom, whom Mr T’s dad had just happened to meet (while they were both singing in a church choir)(while Wife 1 watched the kids)(after being at work all day)(and making supper)(and cleaning the house)(and doing laundry)(and wanting to do nothing more than sit down with a good book but she couldn’t because Mr T’s dad was at choir rehearsal).

Mr T’s dad had to leave Wife 1 because she was alcoholic but it was more important to leave her than to stay to protect his two little boys, both under five years old at the time, from their allegedly alcoholic mother?

Wife 1 was bad bad bad.

That’s all Mr T ever heard when he was a kid.

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Wife 1 went on to meet her Husband 2 and have two more children.

But there was no Mixing of the Children with Wife 1 and her new family. As children, Mr T and his sister never met their half-brothers’ half siblings.

The half brothers came to Mr T’s home, but never the other way around.

Maybe that’s the norm? I don’t know. I do know that my aunt was Wife #2 to her husband. And that my aunt and Wife #1 are friends. And that my aunt and uncle and Wife #1 and her Husband #2 threw a party to celebrate what would have been Wife #1 and aunt’s husband’s 30th wedding anniversary.

Sometimes people can actually get along.

Sometimes people can admit that they just weren’t right for each other and move on without demonizing each other.

To be fair, my uncle did not leave Wife #1 for my aunt. He was already divorced when my aunt met him.

Still, the children are innocents in all of this and why wouldn’t you do everything you can to make things easier for your kids?

Mr T’s parents trash-talked Wife 1 and her new husband to Mr T and his sister. All. The. Time.

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The story from Mr T’s parents was that Wife 1 was bad and worthless and to be avoided. She had nothing to commend her.

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And then I read Wife 1’s obituary.

Holy. Smoke.

This woman was amazing.

(I am so glad my wonderful nieces have her genes!)

She was an RN and apparently, going by dates in her obituary, put Mr T’s dad through graduate school. While taking care of two little boys.

I never knew that.

Let’s sit with that, shall we?

Wife 1. Put. Mr T’s dad. Through graduate school.

Yet he never breathed a word about it.

Mr T did not know this.

Mr T’s dad said only she was an alcoholic.

I don’t even know if that’s true, but if Wife 1 had a glass of wine now and then to deal with

1. Taking care of – BIRTHING – two little boys
2. While also doing all the housework and cooking because let’s not kid ourselves leopards don’t change their spots and Mr T’s dad didn’t lift a finger to help Mr T’s mom even after he retired
3. While also working as a nurse
4. While being married to a man who later claimed she was frigid. (I don’t know the truth but can we all acknowledge that if she wasn’t always ready for sexy time, it might have been because of 1, 2, and 3?)

I do not blame her.

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If you have not read Anna Funder’s Wifedom, do so. She writes about Eileen O’Shaughnessy, who was married to George Orwell.

What?

You didn’t know George Orwell had a wife?

That’s because he erased her.

Just like Mr T’s dad tried to do to Wife 1.

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Mr T’s mom became an alcoholic.

Mr T said, “My dad turned his wives into alcoholics.”

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After Mr T’s dad left her, Wife 1 became a college professor, teaching nursing and winning teaching awards, and was published in several peer-reviewed journals.

Mr T’s dad never mentioned any of this, either.

Wife 1 was just bad.

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When Mr T read Wife 1’s obituary, he was stunned.

“I didn’t know any of this,” he said.

And why would he? It didn’t serve his dad’s narrative.

His shoulders sagged. “I didn’t know. My dad never told me any of this. I guess my dad really was an asshole.”

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Wife 1 probably watched Mr T’s dad turn Mr T’s mom into a sad, lonely alcoholic. When Mr T’s dad met Mr T’s mom, she had just been accepted to a prestigious music conservatory to stufy voice. She was going to be a professional singer.

Mr T’s dad convinced her not to go to conservatory.

She spent her life as his housemaid.

In her obituary, Mr T’s dad wrote – first line – that Mr T’s mom had lived long enough to know Mr T’s dad had survived surgery. (She died the day after he had cancer surgery.)

If you have ever wondered if a narcissist can make someone else’s obituary about him, now you know the answer is yes.

Wife 1 probably watched all that and breathed a sigh of relief that she had dodged that bullet.

I would rather leave money on the table than leave time on the table – but it still feels like I failed

One of my fears is that I haven’t reached my potential.

My worse fear is that I have.

What do I mean by “potential?”

The same thing almost everyone else in US society does: income level + power + social acceptability.

Shouldn’t I be a vice president or CEO at a Fortune 100 company? I went to top schools for both college and grad school.

What’s wrong with me that I’m not there?

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I read this in The Atlantic.

Relieved of the deforming crush of financial fear, and of the world’s battering demands and expectations, people’s personalities have started to assume their true shape. And a lot of them don’t want to return to wasting their days in purgatorial commutes, to the fluorescent lights and dress codes and middle-school politics of the office….More and more people have noticed that some of the basic American axioms—that hard work is a virtue, productivity is an end in itself—are horseshit.

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I saw a former co-worker last week. She’s lovely and I am so happy she wants to stay friends outside of the job. She is in her early 40s, I would guess, and is a VP.

She is amazing. She works hard and does all the stuff you need to do to advance in corporate America. She likes it. She is ambitious.

I want her to succeed! I want her to advance.

But I didn’t and don’t share her ambition. Am I lazy? Am I afraid? What’s wrong with me?

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Maybe part of it is that I am older than she is and that I have been laid off not once but twice from a corporate job. It’s hard to stay emotionally invested in a job when you know they will get rid of you in a second.

Ever since the first layoff, I have viewed a job as nothing more than a financial transaction.

Even before that, I struggled to love my work in the way others seemed to love theirs. Maybe because I grew up on military bases during the Cold War, when I saw that my dad and his colleagues had a clear sense of mission? It’s hard to feel like selling widgets is important enough to merit your heart and soul (and long hours) after seeing people literally trying to keep democracy alive.

“The world is literally on fire. Income inequality is out of control. Racial injustice is horrifying and crying out for resolution. And I’m sitting here writing pitches for big-box retailers on how they can sell more products that people don’t need.”

The New Yorker

Even if the work is important – I just left a job working for a company with a very worthwhile mission, I don’t want to do it more than 40 hours a week.

Yet I saw – I still see – others willingly work long hours and on the weekend (and not get paid overtime).

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When I compare myself to my college friends, I feel like a failure. They have reached the tops of their professions: CEOs, senior partners at major law firms, federal judges.

At a party once, I overheard some friends laugh about a former co-worker who had quit and was consulting for “only” $300 an hour.

Me?

I have been a wage slave. In my most recent job, at a local insurance company, I made, according to a friend who also worked there, less than a new-hire college grad.

I have never had a title better than “manager.”

I have never had a corner office. Indeed, I have gone from office to cubicle. I didn’t have any office by the end.

I have never had any power. I have never had any prestige.

When I quit my last job – without another job lined up, a dear friend, whose husband has a highly-paid, highly-respected position, asked how I could walk away from the money.

I laughed.

“It’s easy to walk away from almost no pay!” I told her. “I’m making less than I did three years out of college. And I’m treated like crap. I’m not the boss. It’s easy.”

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I remind myself that our friends have started to die. And that Mr T and I, although neither wealthy nor powerful, are happy volunteering our time for causes we care about and goofing off the rest of the time.

But I have to admit I am slightly dreading seeing my college friends at our reunion because I know I am The Loser in the group.