Andrew and I got invited to a work party and the invitation we got in the mail stated that drinks and hors d’oeuvres would be served. We both stood there reading it and I just sorta shrugged my shoulders like, cool. But Andrew scrunched up his face and asked, “They’re only serving that one type of appetizer from M&M Meats? Weird.”
See, first of all, he thought the term was pronounced like this: Whores Deh-Vores. Innocent enough. I think we have all struggled with its pronunciation at some point. But he took it even further, thinking that the box of hors d’oeuvres at M&M Meat Shops are the only hors d’oeuvres that exist.
He assumed that one type, in one box, in one shop, represented the entire hors d’oeuvres universe.
I used to be a man-hater, because my first boyfriend Gabe treated me like crap during a super vulnerable time of my life and the combination of the two just really did me in. I remember standing there at summer camp, feeling my life closing in on me like an avalanche, and I let this coldness wash over me, deadening first my limbs and then my spirit.
You crack open pain, and fear climbs out and picks off any life left in our bones.
I guess the psychological term used to describe this “man-hating” ideology would be transference. I transferred the pain that specific people had caused me onto other innocent people that didn’t deserve it.
Thank goodness I developed juuuuust enough emotional maturity to realize that Gabe didn’t represent all men and that my taking it out on everybody else was hurting me the very most. It’s like swallowing rat poison and waiting for the rat to die.
How does this all relate to blended families? Because families like ours are full of labels. We don’t just have mom, dad, daughter, son but we have step-dad, step-mom, step-daughter, step-son, half-brother, step-sister, step-brother. If any one of us dies, we’re going to take up about 15 pages of the motherfucking newspaper.
Not all step-dads play video games and buy beer for their teenagers. Not all step moms wear slutty clothes. Not all step sons are angry, and not all step daughters wear all black and have tongue piercings.
But anyway, if it’s me who ends up popping off, can we just skip the hors d’oeuvres and serve ketchup chips and ganache torte from Milestones? Thanks.
What do you imagine when you think of a step-mom? You know I want the truth, right? And a hug.
What kind of food do you want at your own funeral?
I don’t want people to be happy I’m dead, but I don’t want them to be sad, either. I want the food to be decent, but not too enjoyable, you know? That wouldn’t be fair.