Family Matters Part I

My mother-in-law told me I am not part of her family because I do not have her last name.  Never mind the fact that I am married to her son and we have been together almost nineteen years.  Never mind the fact that we took her in after Alberto died and she resides in the guest bedroom downstairs that I spent months decorating.  None of that matters to her.  What matters is that my moniker is Juanita Mantz not Juanita Pelaez. 

This is the world according to Orieta and only Orieta because despite my choice not to take my husband's last name, I do consider myself a Pelaez as does my husband. 

The question is not whether she was serious when she told me this in her strong Argentine accent but why she said this.  It is more complicated than it seems and while I am inclined to treat this as a joke, it isn't.  She hurt my feelings and after a childhood like mine, I am sometimes surprised that my feelings can be hurt at all.

I am upstairs in my bedroom feeling rather bruised right now.  I don't want to see her.  I have worked hard at being pretty damn good at forgiveness, but forgiving Orieta's comment may take some time. 

It all started with Vegas and her birthday.  My best friend Tracy and her fiance J invited us to Vegas with them to see Lewis Black, the comedian.  We quickly answered yes, but soon realized that the weekend at issue was both Easter and my mother-in-law Orieta's birthday.  We felt compelled to invite Orieta and my mom along.  They accepted.

Then came the decision of where to stay.  Tracy and J were staying at the Luxor in a suite.  I wanted to stay in the same hotel with them.  Orieta wanted to stay anywhere but the Luxor.  "I don't like the Luxor," she said in a firm voice as she waved her finger in the air.  "It is too far from Cesar's Palace and the rooms are feo (ugly)." 

I tried to reason with her.  "Orieta, there are new rooms in the Luxor tower, don't you think we should stay in the same hotel?"

It wasn't working.  "No Juanita, I don't like the rooms and it is too far."

I looked to my mom for support.  "Mom, don't you want to stay at the same hotel as us?  That way we can have breakfast together."  My mom who is usually outspoken refused to take a stand, "I'll stay anywhere," she said.

Now that my mom was acting like fucking Switzerland, Orieta continued to argue her point, "I don't like the Luxor.  Maybe I'll stay home for my birthday.  Why do you care?  You are going for Tracy and J, not for me, not for my birthday."

I looked at her and shook my head, "But we invited you Orieta.  We wanted you to come with us."

"It doesn't matter," she said.  "I have no one.  Only my sons."

I looked at her.  "I'm your family too Orieta."

Then came the zinger. 

"You are not a Pelaez.  You are Juanita Mantz, not Juanita Pelaez."

"But, we are married Orieta," I responded.

"Yes, but even Alberto said, she married him and did not take the Pelaez name.  I remember he said that."

By this time Adrian was downstairs listening at the table while we argued.  I was glad he was there to hear her so he couldn't accuse me of exaggeration.  She was hitting below the belt.

I had enough.  I got on the phone and made the reservations.  It was the Luxor for us and Paris for Orieta and my mom.

My poor mom.

To be continued...

Blow Up

When I get angry, I sometimes lose myself.  I mean, not literally, but I forget the person I want to be, the person I try to be.  My personality morphs from sunny to dark and ugly.   I grew up in a house where everyone screamed and fought all the time and these childhood norms may have predisposed me to a certain darkness in my soul. 

This anger is self destructive and the person who pissed me off probably forgot about it almost immediately while I focused and obsessed over it for hours (or days).

Yesterday, I had a blow out with a colleague at work and it ruined my day.  Angry as hell, I talked a lot of shit to whoever would listen.  I tossed and turned all night.  I cried bitter tears.  When I woke up in the morning I still felt miserable.  My head hurt, my feet hurt, and I stood in the shower with the water pounding on my face.

I got to work and the negativity continued.  That's the thing, when you are miserable and angry, people pick up on it.  Even an afternoon off did not lift my ugly mood.  I felt like a dark cloud hung over my head wherever I walked, no matter now sunny it was outside.

Perhaps a pedicure, I thought to myself.  It didn't help.  The guy was too rough and the dry callused soles of my feet were too tender.  Afterward, I limped into the Dollar Tree to buy some jelly, bread, a pregnancy test (a story for another blog) and wheat crackers.  At the last minute, I saw a lavender face mask and threw it in my cart to cleanse some of my bitterness out of my pores. 

When I got home, it was already three-thirty.   I walked in the house and the moms were sitting on the couch.  I threw the mail on the table and called Frodo and Chewie upstairs with me.  I put on the mask, ran a bath and opened my Kindle to finish a memoir called "Made for You and Me" by Caitlin Shetterly.  The memoir is about her and her husband's struggle to make it through the recession in a new city with a brand new baby.   In the end, they ended up moving home with her mom.   It felt a bit too close for comfort, but her voice got into my head and her anxiety lessened mine. 

That's why I love memoir.  Her story made me feel less bleak and reminded me that it can always get worse.  Yes, I have our two moms in the house, but we have plenty of room and both have good jobs.

Fast forward to tonight, Adrian stayed late at dinner with his business partner and I blew up again.  I had good reason mind you.  We are getting our taxes done tomorrow and when I saw the W2s, I freaked out.  In undergrad, I did people's taxes (longhand before the age of TurboTax) and know the tax brackets.  I was worried we hadn't withheld enough.  And, Adrian is a 1099er so I had to shift through a box of his receipts for more than three hours as I cussed him out silently to myself.  Well maybe not always silently because I might have said the word asshole aloud once or twice much to his mother's chagrin.  Don't worry dear reader, I made sure to tell her, "Not you Orieta, Adrian, tu hijo."

When Adrian waltzed in at nine, I was upstairs in bed on the last page of my book.  I started screaming at him and he walked out of the bedroom toward his usual safe haven of Black Ops.  For some reason as I watched his back, I wasn't angry anymore and I called him back in and said, "Shit babe, you should have stayed home tonight to go through those fucking receipts.  But fuck it, come to bed"

He did.  Thank goodness he is easily pleased.  And, in the end, it was nicer to go to bed happy rather than angry again.  Plus, there is nothing closer to pure bliss than laying in bed with my fluffy comforter, a dog on each side and my husband's hand in mine.

Cocoon

My seventy year old mother Judy has a crush.  She has always had a fondness for old white men in cowboy hats. 

My dad John was a cowboy and my mom loved him to distraction.  She admitted to me that she loved him more than us girls.  My dad died more than five years ago and we buried him with his "Big John" belt buckle. 

I think my mom yearns for someone to take care of her.  She always has.

My grandmother died when my mom was only fourteen from complications with diabetes.   My mom was devastated and tried to throw herself in the coffin at her mother's funeral.

My grandfather had a new woman before his dead wife was in the ground.  He put my mom in a convent to live.  My mom was depressed and her brothers convinced their dad to let her come back home after a year.  When my mom returned from the convent, she responded with a teenage rebel yell and caroused the streets with her best friend Tilly looking for love in all the wrong places.  My mom had no shortage of suitors with her dark skin, short skirts and beehive hair.

At sixteen, my mom got married to a boy named Leroy and by eighteen she was divorced.  She said she didn't love him and that he bored her.

At twenty, my mom got pregnant by Jerry and at twenty one she became a mother.  Their son David was born deaf and my mom's relationship with Jerry lasted only months past her twenty first birthday. 

Two years later, my mom married a man named Frank.  She thought it was a good idea, David needed a father.  She divorced him within three weeks because he bossed her around.
 
When my mom met my dad, she was twenty six and living in Oregon trying to get David into a deaf school.  All of her family was back in California and she struggled to pay the rent.  When my mom met my dad at a honky tonk bar, he offered her a place to stay and she took him up in it.  He told her that he would take care of her and her little boy.

David was only five when he got hit by a car and died.  My mom clung to my father in her grief.  My dad knew what it was like to lose a child because his ex-wife (also named Judy) killed his daughter Debbie when she was a toddler.

After David died, my mom and dad moved to Montana to be closer to my dad's two girls Barbara and Roberta who lived with his ex-wife Tiny in South Dakota.  My mom tried in vain to get pregnant for years.  To hear her tell it, God answered her prayers.  She promised God that she would take her kids to church every Sunday. 

My mom found out she was pregnant with twins when she was almost thirty.  We were born in 1971.  My mom says my dad was overjoyed and they wheeled us around Great Falls in a twin stroller dressed in identical snow outfits.  Only my mom could tell the difference between Jackie and I.  She said my head always lolled to the side.  We cried so much that we gave my mom headaches. 

Six months later, my mom found out she was pregnant again and convinced my dad to move to California to be closer to her family.  Annie was born in Orange County in 1973.  My mom said Annie was a perfect baby because she never cried. 

When my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer at age sixty nine, my mom was in a state of disbelief.  She thought he could be cured.  The day he died she hugged me for the first time in years and wailed his name.

When my mom moved in a couple of months ago even the smallest things would annoy me.  Her coffee cups left around the house half full.  Empty sugar packets scattered on the counter tops. The front door left wide open.  She talked during my television shows.  She set off the alarm every morning.

For some reason, my mom doesn't annoy me as much anymore.  Maybe it's because she tries so hard to be nice to me, even when I'm irritable.  Maybe it's because she is a companion to my mother in law and drives her to the senior citizen center in Fontana.  Maybe because I see how hard my mom struggles for her independence and how lonely she is.  

My mom goes dancing every Saturday night with her singles club at the American Legion in West Covina.  I picture the group of them dancing to the oldies.  In my mind's eye, I see my mom jumping and waving her hands in the air to the fast songs.  Her rhythm is always off. 

A slow song comes on.  My mom asks a man in a cowboy hat to dance.  His arms wrap around her as they sway to the music.  She leans her head on his shoulder and sighs.

TV Wasteland

When I was growing up, TV was more real, sometimes too real.  And not the fake reality of today, but a gritty real.

The most realistic shows were the blue collar shows.  There was "All In The Family" with Archie and Edith which was set in Queens, "Good Times" which was set in the Chicago projects and "What's Happening” about a single mom raising her kids in Watts, and of course, "Sanford and Son".

The protagonist of "Sanford and Son" was Fred, a widowed, old black man and the original hoarder.  He lived with his son Lamont.  The show was set in a junkyard in Watts.  The opening credits depicted the city's boarded up business and dilapidated houses.  Everyone was poor and struggling to get by.  The Sanfords owed an old pick up truck.

"What's Happening” was centered on single mother Mabel, her son Roger and her daughter Dee.  Roger and his two best friends Dwayne and Rerun always met at the diner where "Big Shirley" worked.   Dwayne's saying was "hey, hey, hey" and my sisters and I used this expression whenever possible.  Dee was a tattle tale just like my little sister Annie who blackmailed me into paying her off just like Dee did to Roger.

"Good Times" hit even closer to home.  In "Good Times" the family of five struggled to get by.  James and Florida Evans had three kids: J.J., Thelma and Michael.  The Evans family was often in danger of eviction.  James worked hard like my dad and fancied himself a pool shark.  My favorite characters were the feminist neighbor Willona and her adopted daughter Penny who was played by Janet Jackson.  Penny's mother was abusive (she burned her with an iron in one episode) and Willona called CPS and saved Penny.

Archie Bunker from "All in the Family" reminded me of my father in his heavy coat and hat and his thinning hair.  Archie always got his words mixed up just like my dad.  I remember watching the episode where Edith died.  I couldn't stop crying.  After Edith died, Archie bought a bar that reminded me of my dad's bar "The Big O".  Sometimes, I switch the channel to an old rerun of the show when I want to be reminded of my father. 

A blog about television must talk about the "The Brady Bunch" which defined suburban life in the 1970's.  As a child watching reruns, I was transfixed by the Brady Bunch episodes.  The story lines were simple, Jan broke her glasses, Marcia's prom date stood her up, the kids used the phone too much, but the narratives were well plotted and always tied up at the end.  What drew me into the Brady house was how pleasant life was.  No one ever threw anything at one another or screamed at each other in the Brady house.  And, they had a maid.  It was an escape into another life for me.

Nowadays, with the obsession with reality television, TV is a wasteland of the worst sort.  The problem with reality television is that it is not realistic at all.  Instead, it is fake and melodramatic making TV mountains out of molehills.  Shows such as "Real World", "The Hills" and Jersey Shore" fall into this category.  And, please do not even get me started on the celebrity reality television sub-genre which is meaningless, mind numbing television,  These shows are addicting like candy bars and if you watch too much you get a stomach ache.

 The concept of reality television has undermined the whole purpose of television that was present in the 1970's.  "The Jeffersons" showed it was possible for a man of color to make it, Archie Bunker showed viewers that a man could be more than the sum of his prejudices and "Good Times" demonstrated that life in the projects was hard, but still a life full of love and laughter.

And, that is what I want more of in my television.  I will continue to watch the quest like/game show reality television (i.e., "Top Chef", "Amazing Race" and "Project Runway"), but from now on, I expect more. 

We all should.

Creature Comforts

I bought a Ralph Lauren comforter this weekend at Marshalls.  It is made of a stiff, thick cotton with pale blue stripes on one side and flowers on the other.  The total on the register made me wince, but I resisted the urge to put it back. 

When I got it home, my instincts were right on, the comforter was perfect.  It hung over the sides of our large sleigh bed.  I vowed to make my dogs sleep on the floor because Frodo sucked our last down blanket until its edges fell apart and Chewie peed the bed last week.   

The month before, I spent thirty dollars on a "bed in a bag" from Anna's Linens that turned out to be too small and fifty dollars on a quilted comforter that made our bedroom look like Holly Hobbie's.  The search for a low cost comforter was a natural urge because you see, I am cheap.  The trait was handed down from my parents like an old dresser. 

Some families try and impress people with their possessions.  My family, on the other hand, has always tried to impress people with how little they paid for their possessions. 

"Oh, you like the shirt?  Six dollars." 

"Nice necklace."  "Thanks.  I got it at the dollar store." 

Cheap is a Mantz badge of honor.

Adrian finds this horrifying.  His mom has class and style, but is thrifty and discrete.  I have never heard her say how much she paid for anything. 

My obsession with money is not just limited to bargain shopping.  Like most people, I worry about it constantly.  The worst part of being an adult is the focus on money.  Everything is about money.  I am constantly on Adrian about how we need more of it.   When I say constantly, I mean an every day kind of constantly.

My mom is even worse.  When my dad was alive, my mom and dad split the bills fifty fifty.  My dad was always behind because my mom worked and he didn't.  He had his social security check but there wasn't a lot left over after cigarettes, gas and his half of the rent.  Add in his gambling addiction and he was perpetually broke.  As a result, my dad borrowed money from my mom each month and paid her back on the first.  My mom had a little notebook where she kept a tally of every cent my dad owed her per month. 

"OK John, you owe me four dollars for those damn cigarettes," my mom would say as she wrote down the figure in her notebook.

My money obsession may also have something to do with the fact that I was a waitress for ten years.  I was a good waitress and made decent money.  If I didn't go home with at least two Benjamins in my wallet on a night shift, I was unhappy.  When I waitressed at Applebee's, the restaurant stayed open until 2 a.m. and I usually worked until close to get the late post club rush.  One night, a table came in at five minutes to closing and stayed until almost three a.m.  They left me a dollar and a couple of quarters on a hundred dollar check (which didn't even cover the taxes I paid).  I ran after them and threw their dollar and coins at their feet and said, "Here, you obviously need this more than I do."  

My focus on money has had some pretty serious ramifications in my life.  I majored in journalism at my junior college and was the editor-in-chief of the college newspaper.  I loved writing and my newspaper advisor pushed me to apply to Columbia's journalism program.  I researched the average salaries of reporters and decided to apply to UCR and major in English.  It seemed more practical. 

After graduating from UCR, I went to law school.  I couldn't qualify for any private loans and my public loans barely covered USC's tuition even with my scholarship.  Adrian gave me a car to drive and gas money and I stayed with him and his parents in their West Covina house to save on rent. 

When the commute got to be too much, I moved in with some fellow classmates into a three bedroom apartment off of Adams and Figueroa.  Our apartment had wires coming out of the walls, only one bathroom and lots of critters, but it was a steal at eleven hundred a month.  Despite the low rent, I still struggled to get by and we cut coupons from the Sunday newspaper before grocery shopping.  Some months, I didn't have enough for groceries and my roommate Bridget spotted me.

I figured once I graduated from law school and took a job at a fancy law firm that all my money problems would be solved.  I was wrong.  I was doing all right financially for a while as a private big firm lawyer with a six figure salary, yet, I was miserable. 

Despite knowing right away that civil practice wasn't for me, I let money, and my fear of not having any, rule my life for six years.  I went from firm to firm hoping it would get better.  It didn't.  Then fate intervened and I came to the public defender's office.  I knew it would be hard financially.  I took a fifty percent pay cut and Adrian had just graduated from dental school and wasn't even licensed yet.

Things are still not stable, two years and one loan modification later.  Adrian started his own business and then his dad died and we took his mom in.  Then my mom.  It has been a transition.  Last night, when everyone was asking what was for dinner, I thought to myself, how is it my responsibility?  I want to watch the Oscars!  I whispered to Adrian, "You better make them buy take-out."

The moms bought take out and we all ate together watching the Oscars.  It was nice.  And, that's the thing, money really shouldn't matter.  At least it shouldn't matter so much that it ruins precious moments or opportunities.  Those moments that you can never replace.  Like spending the last two weeks of my dad's life with him.  Taking my nieces for the day.  Winning a jury trial.  Hearing the moms laugh so hard they hold their sides.

Or a comforter that envelops you in its softness when you are at home sick in bed.

Cupcakes and Black Ops

It was five p.m. on a Friday night.  Tracy and I sat at Wing Nuts in Upland sipping on our Hanger 24.   It was not as if we needed to catch up.  Aside from my husband Adrian and our two moms that live with us, I talked to Tracy more than anyone and called her every day driving home from work.  We've been best friends since high school. 

There is something easy about our friendship and Tracy always sees the best in me.  I try and remind her on a daily basis how truly fabulous she is.  We are both in the same existential crisis.  We have the shared feeling there must be more to life, something out there waiting.  It must be the turning forty soon thing. 

Tracy and I finished our second beer and headed over to New Age Comics.  We browsed through their collection of punk rock t shirts.  Tracy bought her fiance John a T-shirt and I bought a Ramones t-shirt.   I couldn't decide whether to give it to Adrian or keep it for myself.  We wandered into the gourmet cupcake shop next door and I had a couple of maple bacon cupcakes boxed for breakfast for the next morning.

Even though I knew Adrian was waiting at home, I dawdled with Tracy in her truck.  We listened to music on her IPOD and laughed.  We talked about taking guitar lessons together or maybe a cooking class.  We agreed we needed to do something different.

I drove home squinting through the rain hitting my windshield.  I stopped at Chipolte to get dinner.  When I walked inside, the house was cozy warm and the moms were setting the table.  We ate dinner quickly and Adrian walked upstairs.  Is this what I hurried home for? 

"Oh no, he goes back up to the video game, not good," Adrian's mom said with a shake of her head.

I heard Adrian say, "Hey John, what's up?", as the door to his game room closed.  If I listened closely, I could still hear the rat a tat tat of gunfire.

I was back to reality and my husband's obsession for the last three months: Call of Duty Black Ops.  Adrian and John played on wireless headsets together until two in the morning most nights.  One night, there were half a million people playing the game.  There are a lot of lonely wives and girlfriends.

Adrian has a lot of stress and he says that the game helps him unwind.  The only thing is, I miss my husband. 

I know it's not easy living with our two moms, especially because my mom asks inane questions and is always going to the fridge like she hasn't eaten in years.  Adrian's mom is no better.  Even her sighs are depressing.  And, the two moms together, well it's like those two chipmunks, Chip and Dale, only one has a strong Argentine accent.  They love to talk even when American Idol is on.

So, here I am.  Adrian has Black Ops, our moms have one another and I have...well, at least I have my dogs...oh, and my Kindle. 

I ate my maple bacon cupcake for dessert and climbed the stairs to my room.  Snuggled under the covers, a dog on each side, I picked up my phone and called Tracy.  What the hell.

The Quest

My quest for weight loss has officially begun. 

Today, I took the day off and went to a bariatric surgery conference in Orange County.  I woke up at five thirty in the morning to get dressed.   I threw on my stretchy jeans, a pink striped shirt with my grey high suede boots and a big snugly cardigan.  Comfort was of paramount importance and besides, there was no one to impress.

After more than an hour of traffic on the 91 freeway (the "Corona crawl" was made bearable by NPR), I pulled up to the hospital.  The office was on the fifth floor and I walked into the waiting room and gave my name to the receptionist.  They called my name and weighed and measured me.  I weighed more than I expected.  They took a picture.  I didn't smile.

The medical assistant directed me to an office where I met with a nurse practitioner who happened to be young and male.  He put me at ease as he went over my medical history, but that ease disappeared the minute he made me lift my shirt.  He seemed to sense my discomfort and took a (thankfully) brief glance at my abdomen. 

Next stop was an insurance coordinator named Peggy.  Peggy led me through the hoops I had to jump through to get approved for weight loss surgery: nutrition classes, support group meetings, and a cardiac clearance. 

"What procedure are you here for?" she asked. 

"I'm not sure," I said. 

"You can let me know later," she replied with a kind smile.  "Now go ahead and take a seat in the meeting room," she said, motioning to the right.

I walked into the meeting room and noticed that the seats were double the size of regular chairs.  I was struck by how many large women surrounded me.  They were all ages and colors.  Fat knows no boundaries. 

Some of the women were big and sexy, dressed in the latest Lane Bryant trends with their hair and makeup done.  A few women wore sad, stretchy pants and long, faded t-shirts.  One woman wore a burka like black robe.  Her pixie face peeked out from under her veil.  Another woman in her twenties was not very overweight.  A couple of husbands were there with their wives.  One man of at least four hundred pounds was there for himself.

The meeting started off with the director talking about each surgery.  For those of you who don't know, there are three different bariatric surgeries.  There is the gastric bypass surgery, the lap band and a relatively new procedure known as the sleeve.  In the gastric bypass, the surgeon stitches the stomach into a small pouch and cuts off a piece of the intestine and the system is re routed.  In the lap band, a plastic band is placed over the stomach and then tightened to restrict food intake.  In the sleeve, part of the stomach is removed and only a small banana shaped portion is left.   Each procedure has its own risks and benefits and they all sounded scary. 

By the end of the seminar, I was dizzy with all of the information.  I signed up for my nutrition class and left the building at a quick clip.  Once outside, I gave myself a quick shake. 

What had I gotten myself into?