Respite

I took a much needed vacay to recharge my batteries.  Now I'm fully charged and ready to go.  Try to keep up.  :-)

Truer words have never been spoken

I got this in an e-mail today from my friend Laverne:

"Never allow someone to be your Priority, while allowing yourself to be their Option."

Truer words have never been spoken.

Keeping Score

I know few genuinely nice people.  You know, the kind of people who will go out of their way to do something for you and expect nothing in return. My oldest sister, E., is one such person.  Her twin, A., is another.  My cou-sis, T., stands by me, even when I don't feel like I deserve it.  My mother-in-law takes the cake in generosity -- she has been there for me at times when my own parents couldn't be bothered.

But that's it.  Four people out of the hundreds that I know.  I used to be such a person.  Then, last year, it was as if I was jarred awake.

Every Christmas, my mother makes a list of people.  "This person," she'll say, "was nice to me all year.  I have to get her a gift."  Then she'll peer at another name, "I've bought this person a gift three years in a row and he has never once said 'here's a flower for you or $20 to buy yourself something.'  This year, I'm not getting him anything."  

The way my mother did things frustrated me.  I would tell her, "Mother, you don't give someone a gift because you expect one back.  If you like that person or appreciate them, give them a gift, even if 20 years go by and they don't give you anything back."  But she would just shake her head and keep doing her list, as if I had not interrupted.

I began last year the way I always do -- I bankrupted myself to make sure that I got each and every person on my list something that I knew they would love.  The same mentality extended through the beginning of the year:  helping my sister out financially; driving an hour to pick up my mom to take her to the mall, then driving an hour to get to the mall, then driving an hour back to drop her off at home, before driving the final hour back to my own house; picking up my nieces and nephews from the Bronx on the weekends so they could have "a change of scenery"; and sharing any monetary bonuses I received from work with Big Bren.

Then, a few things happened that hurt me so deeply that I couldn't pretend they didn't bother me.

First, on Brendan's birthday last year, I made the rounds and picked up all my nieces and nephews so they could spend Bren's birthday weekend at the house.  I try to make weekends at my house fun: we go out to eat; go to the movies; for Halloween, we go to the haunted houses; in the fall, we go apple and pumpkin picking; in the summer, we do a pool-side barbeque.  That day, before I picked them up, I went to the ATM, so that I'd have enough cash on hand for our activities.  I ordered pizzas and left them -- and my wallet -- in the car, while I went inside to get the pizzas.  

When I returned to the car and opened my wallet to put the change from the pizza back, I noticed that the rest of my money was gone.  I questioned them separately, but each one denied taking the money or knowledge of who took it.  That incident put a damper on the weekend for me.  And that was the last time that I picked them up or invited them to my house.  My niece calls me now and then just to chat, but the rest of them don't bother to pick up the phone to ask how I'm doing or to speak to Brendan.  It shows me that the affection only went one way.

The next incident was when I planned a birthday party for my father and he refused to attend.  His response was that not even if Jesus Christ told him to go to my house would he go.  As with everything else, I had gone out of my way to please my dad; buying him first-class airplane tickets to Honduras; paying his way on a cruise the family took; driving an hour to his auto repair shop to give him the business when it would be cheaper and more convenient to do it around my way.  

Until that birthday incident, I had no idea that my father disliked me so much.  It was a real eye-opener.  And a depressing one at that.

Then, over the summer, I invited my sister on numerous occasions to spend some time with me.  She only accepted when it was convenient for her.  I had to drive to meet her in the Bronx and do the things that she wanted to do.  Whenever I suggested something different, she would decline the invitation.

At work, I would run myself ragged putting on training for the claims people, answering e-mails at all hours of the night and on the weekends, only to have my boss be partial to those who were doing nothing for the betterment of the team.

So, one day, I sat down and looked at all the stuff I was doing for people and all the things I was paying for and realized that perhaps my mother was right:  you can do as much as you want for someone, and you can love and appreciate someone, but that won't change the way they feel about you.  

So I stopped doing and being all things to all people.  It gets tough sometimes, because I am a doer.  But I stop myself.  Sometimes, someone will say something about how I've made myself scarce, and my standard response has gotten to be, "you know where I live; you have my telephone number.  My door is always open."  Funny how no one has gotten off his/her butt to take me up on the offer.  People will take whatever you give them, so I've learned the hard way to hold on to some things a little more tightly.

Are you kidding me?

"Eliot Spitzer:  Why I liked ho's."  No, this headline is not from Bossip.com; it's from the New York Post. There are so many things wrong with this, that I don't know where to begin. 

First, isn't the Post supposed to be a reputable newspaper?  So, could someone explain to me why they are resorting to vulgar urban slang to make a point?  And in a headline, no less.

Second, what is this alleged "ho" in possession of?  Correct me if I'm wrong, but a plural of something has no apostrophe.  I guess they feel there is no need to check the grammar on their vulgar urban slang.

Don't get me wrong, my ire is not directed at the Post because I support Spitzer and his hooker habit.  I think he got everything he deserved.  In fact, he didn't get enough.  Here he was, the top politician in the State and fresh off the job of being the top law enforcer in the State, and he was patronizing prostitutes.  Why isn't he in jail?  Worse yet, why is his idiot wife staying with him?  Especially after it became common knowledge that he prefered to savor his whores au natural?

The point is that there is a place for irreverence and slang; the supposedly serious newspaper is not it.  I guess I'll be sticking to the Times from here on in.