The (New) Gathering Spot.

Dear Siblings-

Today is the one-year anniversary of the weekend Dad dropped the nuclear bomb on our family.  In the beginning, we clung to Mom.  But the effects of nuclear fallout have made Mom unrecognizable one year later.  With Mom and Dad moving on and moving in to more serious relationships, I feel like the infrastructure of our family is in peril.  Will we ever be together again?  And if we are, what will it look like?  Will Mom's new boyfriend bring his military-issued assault rifle to the Thanksgiving table?  Will Dad invite us over to the apartment he now shares with the other woman for pancakes on Christmas morning?

As the eldest (and bossiest), I have taken it upon myself to begin shopping for HUGE dining room tables.  (Never mind that I don't cook, and I haven't the faintest idea how to host large groups--I'll learn.)  The point is that we are still family and we can still have family get togethers.  I'm going to have a dining room table big enough for all of us.   Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Labor Day, summer breaks, long weekends.  Consider yourself invited.  The table will have enough room for each of our significant others too.  But no assault rifles, please.

Sincerely,
SEE

Locks of Self Love

Dear Locks of Love-

I like what you do.  But if I make a hair donation and I get cancer and I call you up, will you give me a hair piece for free?  No, you most certainly will not.  Of course not.  After all, a hairpiece costs a lot to produce.  Plus, according to your website, your charity only makes "hair prosthetics" for children.  Since I'm not a child, that's not really going to work for me.

So, I'm starting my own project called Locks of Self Love.  I will grow 10 inches of my own hair, secure it in a snug ponytail and chop it off.  Then I will place my 10 inch ponytail in a shoebox and save it for myself.  Just in case.  (Don't worry, your website also assures me that hair cut years ago is usable as long as it has been stored in a ponytail or braid.) 

Is Locks of Self Love over the top?  Possibly.  But according to cancer.org, females have a 38.08% chance of developing cancer during their lifetime.  That's a lot of cancer.  With Locks of Self Love, I'll have a 100% chance of being able to afford my own hair prosthetic.  And I think it would be empowering to wear a wig made of my own tresses, grown and harvested in healthier times. 

I know it probably sounds selfish to keep my own hair just in case.  But I promise to write your name and address on the top of my ponytail shoebox.  If I'm one of the luckier 62% of women who never get cancer, then I promise to drop my locks of self love in the mail to you.

Sincerely,

SEE

Sometimes Roses Stink.

Dear Shakespeare-

I realize you've been dead nearly 400 years, but I believe you may have overlooked something obvious. When you wrote, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."  you assumed that roses smell sweet.  Unfortunately, Shakespeare, sometimes roses stink.

Earlier this year, I went with my mom to have her decades-long marriage to my father officially terminated in court.  Afterwards, we went back to her lawyer's office to get copies of everything. Before the ink on the copies was dry, Mom asked her lawyer to keep his eyes out for any potential dates for her.  Mom made (and continues to make) the same request of her landscaper, dentist, housekeeping crew, pool cleaner, neighbors, HVAC repairman, pharmacist, clergymen, co-workers and children. 

About a month ago, Mom made friends with the guy seated next to her on the plane.  Lieutenant Tan* was headed oversees to some war-torn desert place. Mom and Lieutenant Tan exchanged e-mail addresses and then phone numbers.  Apparently, they talk on satellite phone every day now.  Earlier this week, Mom blasted e-mail pictures of the flowers Lieutenant Tan sent to her at her office.  Mom insists she and Lieutenant Tan are just penpals, but do penpals send red roses?  I think not. 

Amid countless other changes in the past year, I am now trying to get comfortable with a mom who likes to flutter and gush about her new social life. I know its normal for Mom to want to get out and date.  I know this is Mom's "time," whatever that means.  I know I should be happy for her and her I am genuinely trying to be supportive of her new romantic endeavors. But flowers?  Already?

It was thoughtful and romantic when Dad gave Mom flowers.  These roses from Lieutenant Tan feel completely different.  These roses mean that Mom is moving on.  These roses mean that Mom is pursuing a relationship with someone who can't possibly love me as much as Dad did.  These roses mean that Mom has a whole new life . . . and I'm not sure where I'll fit in to it. These roses stink.

Shakespeare, in the future, it would be helpful if you clarified blanket statements about roses smelling sweet.  If you'd given me some warning about the complexity of families or the insecurities of watching your parents date strangers they meet on airplanes, I might have been more prepared for this moment. I might have known that sometimes, roses stink.

Sincerely,

SEE

*Name changed to protect the innocent flower-bearer. 

Everything is copy.

Dear Nora Ephron-

I miss you.  In 2011 when I saw you speak in person, you told me, "Everything is copy." 

I thought about you last Saturday night when I invited Benjamin* to my apartment.  Benjamin is from Egypt and we've had a blast laughing over cultural differences and curiosities.  We had gone out several times before, and it seemed like a good time to show him around before we headed out to dinner.  Upon entering my apartment, Benjamin takes one look around and becomes perplexed: 

"Does that have a home?"

"Yes, of course, Benjamin.  This is his home."

"No, no.  I mean, does that have a smaller home."

"Benjamin, my apartment is only 768 square feet.  This is a small home."

"What is the word I'm thinking of . . .  a hut?  Does it have a hut?" 

In his broken English, and my earnestness to communicate, it takes a moment for me to realize what he's saying.  

 "No Benjamin, this little dog who might just be the great love of my life does NOT have a kennel or a cage or a hut."

"So you just let it jump all over?"

 "He sleeps about 22 hours a day.  And he's too fat to jump."

"This is . . . how do you say? . . . Gross.  Animal belongs to cage.  Person belongs to house."

Silence.

Nora, if you were here, you could make this situation comic and light and pee-in-your-pants funny.    When I stop being disappointed about failed date No. 1,467, I'll remember that this was copy too, and then I'll laugh. 

Thank you for reminding me of that, Nora.

Sincerely,

SEE

*Name changed to protect the identity of said dog-hater.

Introducing Sincerely, SEE

Dear World,

I'm tired of your blogs.  Mine will be better.

Sincerely,

SEE