The Oldest Child on The LIRR–from April, 2005

Blogdom’s own Dead guy who lives, a very good friend, a very talented cartoonist, and yes he won First Place in Humor in the BOB’s had an interview at his local UPN station. Here’s the link

The post below has links to “best of” and other posts found on the left sidebar. Explain about how behind I am in comments
below.

I encourage lurkers readers because many times I just want to read without commenting. I leave it to Sar, Doug, Janet and so many others who are so much better than I am at hosting their sites–and I love them for having a gift and talent for puns, clever wit and more.

My talents are still being discovered somewhere and being sent to not-quite-finishing-school this weekend to be analyzed in depth.

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Why is this night different than all other nights?

Because I have to go out to Long Island as it’s so much easier than coming to my apartment in Manhattan. LIRR is the acronym for Long Island Railroad. I hated with a vengeance the first ten minutes of the Jim Carrey/Kate Winslet movie, because it took place on the railroad.

I will never know the joy of celebrating a family holiday in my own apartment and I have resented that for a long time.

” Your apartment is too small,” “Too much work.” “We don’t want you to go to any trouble.” “Where are you going to put the turkey?” Oh wrong holiday–“the matzoh kugel.”

I admit that my sister is a great cook with great dishes, and does wonderful presentations.

So do I. Hardly anybody cooks anymore, and I’m so practiced at the art of presentation, or taking food bought and cooked at some of the best take-out establishments in the world, and making it look really pretty.

Now there are great take-out places on the Island, so my only real argument is moot.

Tonight it’s at my sister’s in-laws.

Tomorrow it’s at my sister’s where I will sleep tonight. I’m usually a first night, no day person, but I promised fave niece. Actually I promised her mom–but a promise is a promise. This brings up many other issues.

My sister’s house used to be my parents house; we moved there when I was twelve–which would have been child abuse–had they have been aware of the consequence of their actions.

The house looks great. It no longer looks like the house I spent the most miserable five years eight months of my life in. Not that I counted the time or anything like that.

I love visiting the house now.

But holidays always make a single woman who is not the host–or the mommy–feel demeaned. They’re designed that way.

It doesn’t matter what you’ve achieved or not achieved in life. It doesn’t matter what people are really thinking or that once you actually get to the dinner you have a good time. It’s the day leading up to the dinner that’s a bitch.

You think that people who have known you all or most of your life are going to silently nod their heads (and later discuss with spouse) “she had so many opportunities; was such a knock out–how could she have let them all slip away?” As if success in life is measured by first the amount of marriage proposals one has had, and then by being and staying married.

You think that the people who are going to meet you for the first time or have met you once or twice will think: “She’s a great conversationalist; not bad looking–actually almost pretty. What could be wrong with her?” You know that they’re going to spend the next two hours dissing you. Though rationally you know that you’re not worth two hours of their time. They have kids. They have really important jobs. They have a 5600 square foot house; your entire apartment could fit into their master closet. Though your apartment is worth as much as their newly married daughter’s 2800 square foot house.

Who cares about your accomplishments? Or that you’ve traversed much of the globe by yourself; have never been a single/divorced/whatever person to sit home and pout over your single status. Since it was by choice you really can’t.

Oh that’s a lie. Not the choice part; the pouting part. I have sat home very very occasionally and pouted, because I will do almost anything to get out of taking the LIRR on a holiday.

It’s me, the 20 somethings, a few people in mismatched plaids (who aren’t making a fashion statement,) and some couples of all ages who whine at each other.

Passover happens to be my favorite holiday. I even find reading the Haggadah comforting. Though I didn’t go to my first real Seder until I was fifteen, and we visited relatives in Mobile Alabama.

Yes my father found his religious Jewish identity in the deep South.

Holidays were fun then; I felt secure and loved. But both my parents are gone now, and holidays bring up every unresolved issue in my life. As soon as I get to where I’m going, the issues become resolved until the next time.

I am a happy person who loves to complain in print. I know many singles of all major religions who do believe in God, and complain twice as loudly as me about how unfair holidays are.

Two major differences: They only complain to other singles.

Second difference: I don’t want to get married so that I’ll have a Saturday night and holiday date.

Boring. Stupid.

I really would rather read a book, or travel where I want to.

I mastered solo dining in swank restaurants many years ago. If I want to, I can always find somebody to take me or go with.

Truthfully I’m more satisfied with my self and my life than many married people I know are satisfied with their lives

But on the day before, or the day of a major family holiday I turn into a disgruntled childlike idiot.

Excuse me while I go pout.
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While a year has gone by since I originally wrote this, it’s just as true this year. My blog has progressed further than I have.

My blog is bigger than me. Smarter and wiser. It’s becoming more difficult to write in it. Though I tend to love challenges, and my newest challenge is to keep writing my truths despite people in my real life knowing that Courting is a blog people actually read.. Oh they knew before. Just didn’t take it seriously.

I owe so many comments that I feel I shouldn’t be posting or even reposting. Not owe in the literal sense, but want to comment on blogs that have commented here. I will.

This was a rather big week for me. For a long time I have been demeaning my accomplishments. What do they mean? They’re mine, so how good can they be?

Made a Passover promise to myself to stop that type of thinking. I understand where they came from; I have always known the root causes, and they have nothing to do with my problems

Not sure that a Passover promise is any more meaningful than any other promise, but a promise….

Knowing why I constantly demean myself would have been a start, if I had acted to stop that type of thinking years ago. But I didn’t so I will begin now.

“Leaving New York’s never easy.”