Potato Salad

Dear Bridget,

Just finished reading your diary and LOVED it. Thought you were vulnerable, raw, and real. Oh, and hilarious. Fucking hilarious, actually. And now, I have this strong desire to start a diary of my own.

So here I am. Trying to keep up with your entries, today’s haul was tragic: 148 pounds, 3 alcohol units, 4 cigarettes.

Don’t think I’ll keep up that tradition of yours. Can’t calorie count for my life. Instead, I try to follow the saying “move more, eat less,” and things mostly turn out Ok.

The only days I never pay attention to what I’m eating are holidays like today. It’s Cesar Chavez Day, and even though I don’t believe in supporting this terrible man (like my employer does), I will take the free day off.

Days off feel like a gift. I get to do whatever I want when I want. Eat ice cream for breakfast, walk around the flat naked, you know, shit like that. And even though I had the best lazy day, I can’t stop thinking about last night.

Why do things work like that, Bridget? Why can one bad moment outlive all the other amazing moments? Why do I only focus on the bad, never the good?

This isn’t supposed to be therapy, Bridget, just some light journaling. Anyways, last night I had a really strange interaction with my dad. You need a little bit of background before I can dive into what happened, or else you’ll just think I’m making a big deal about potato salad.

But trust me Bridget: this isn’t about potato salad. Not really. So let me start at the beginning.

I didn’t go see my dad’s mom last weekend for her birthday. Her name is Mama C / Grandma Carol, you can call her either, it’s the same shit. Except, no it’s not, at least, not for her (side bar, when I was little I called her Mama C because I called my uncle, her son, Uncle C. This made sense to my small mind, to name my grandma after my favorite uncle, his mother. But as soon as the other grandchildren were born, Mama C would correct me and demand that I call her “Grandma Carol” so as to not confuse the other grandchildren. Terms of endearment my ass).

Ok. That was a long side bar. I’ll try to refrain from doing that again unless it’s absolutely necessary. Let’s just get back on track.

Anyways, I didn’t feel bad about not seeing Grandma Carol (COUGH, COUGH Mama C) for her birthday. Every time I see her, I am reminded why I usually choose not to see her. She’s racist and cruel and hides all of this behind her religion (which she wears like Prada sunglasses). I stood up to her once, when she made my mom cry, and Grandma Carol (COUGH, COUGH Mama C) made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to see me either (I believe the exact words she used were, “let’s terminate this relationship, child). So at this point, it’s easier to just call things for what they are and let her go.

It’s gotten easier over the years for me to let go some of the pain she’s caused, but it never fully goes away, not really. I only know I am protecting my mental health by not seeing her.

I think my dad understands this, but the problem is I’ve been making an effort to see the grandparents I actually feel safe with (my mom’s parents, my boyfriends Damon’s). I spent last Friday cooking with Damon’s grandma. She told me stories about her mother giving birth in the italian Alps one month before WWII ended. She sounded like a bad ass. Then I spent three days with my mom’s parents. We saw the new Ryan Gosling movie (Bridget, he is SO hot and yes, my boyfriend it ok with me saying that, he even agrees with me!) and made homemade potato salad. We played Yahtzee and looked at their old wedding photos.

I find a lot of value learning about and loving all my grandparents.

Just not Grandma Carol. Especially, not Grandma Carol.

So that’s everything you need to know about Grandma Carol. My dad gets butt hurt whenever I miss a family thing that involves her, but such is life.

Alright, no now we need to get into more about how my dad is doing, and to put it lightly, my dad has been in a shitty mood since I was born. Here’s my dad in a nutshell: let’s say you two are both sitting in the sand beside the ocean, watching brilliant colors streak the sky as the sun sets. It’s warm, it’s gorgeous, and my dad is the guy who says something to the affect of: There goes another sunset. This means I’m another day closer to my death.

Or: You see all those colors up there? Means the pollution is getting worse.

Or: Hey, let’s leave now before the sun sets so we can pass all these idiots taking pictures and beat the traffic.

We often call my dad Eeyore and he hates it. Go figure.

So now that you have a better picture of this guy, guess how he’s feeling now that he messed something up at work the other week. Whatever he did (and it was something big) I think it cost his company a major opportunity. Like, I don’t think the company will be bought out anymore. So, he’s doing worse than usual.

On top of that, my mom lost one of her part time jobs, and instead of supporting her, or feeling sorry for her, he’s pissed that she gets to come home early and he has to provide for her. I hate it when my mom calls me to tell me how badly she feels about herself, usually because of something my dad says.

Bridget, it’s important to note I’m just venting here. Like, I still really love my dad, but sometimes he can take something as simple as potato salad—

The potato salad! OMG I almost forgot the entire….

So that’s everything you mainly need to know. Now, we can get to the meat of this. Or really, the potato salad of this. See what I did there? No? If you haven’t figured it out yet Bridg (can I call you Bridg) I am GIANT dork.

Because sadly, I’m venting to a fictional character about my dysfunctional dad in the form of a creative writing prompt that no one ever will ever read.

That’s probably for the best.

Ok, now back to the potato salad.

So, I got back home from visiting my grandma’s yesterday (the grandma I do have a relationship with, not Grandma Carol (COUGH, COUGH Mama C) and she had packed me up some potato salad we made together.

Precious, right? She even drove to the store and got me a small bag of ice and a cooler so it would stay fresh the entire way home. But she only gave me enough for Damon to try some. It truly wasn’t a lot, and this context is very important Bridget. She had scooped me literally like a third of a Ziploc bag, enough for maybe two servings each.

It was special, though. Damon and I are trying to make all of our grandparents’ potato salads, and make a family recipe book, you know, cute shit like that. So I really wanted to bring back Damon some.

So I walked into my parents house and my dad’s in the kitchen, making himself a hot dog. And right away, he goes, “Where’s the potato salad? Your mom said you brought some back for me.”

You should know this all started as a joke. Like funny hilarious father-daughter banter. I laughed and said I didn’t really have enough to share, just enough for me and Damon. And my dad kept joking and poking, but then his tone shifted. It was subtle, but I felt it.

He started saying things like, “I’ve given you so much in life… paid for your food, paid for this house… and you’re not going to share your potato salad with me?”

I started to feel his weird Eeyore vibes, so I said fine, I’d go get hims some. Even though I didn’t want to, I just wanted to keep things light. I didn’t want to fight with my dad about potato salad and ruin the night for my mom. I went out to my car, grabbed the bag from the cooler my grandma packed for me, and brought it in.

When my dad saw the bag of potato salad, he said I had lied and that there was definitely enough to share. He told me I wasn’t being a good daughter, yachta-yachta. He was still being mildly playful.

Then my mom chimed in and everything changed. I think she thought she was helping, or trying to mediate or something, but when she said he should just have bite and let me take home the rest, it was like a bomb exploded. Or a switch going off.

Something about what my mom said set him off (cue dramatic 20-years-in-20-seconds montage of parental fighting). My dads whole energy changed. He started yelling and I knew where this was headed.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said. “She can’t even share with her own father after everything I’ve given her?”

And suddenly the room felt exactly like it used to when I lived at home. Thick. Heavy. Like you could reach out and touch the tension. My mom got real quiet, like she always does. And my dad gave me the death stare. I looked back at my mom and she was mouthing “don’t piss him off.”

I hadn’t said anything wrong, I knew that. I had been joking the entire time, been kind enough and playful. And I had even gotten him the potato salad.

But it didn’t matter. Dad was still dad, and right now he was mad.

And it was right there, in the middle of my parents kitchen, where I had this moment of revelation Bridget. I thought so clearly to myself, I don’t live here anymore. I don’t have to take this shit.

So I just said, “You know what dad, I have 99 problems and potato salad isn’t one of them. Go ahead, keep the entire thing.”

And then I left.

And it all sounds so small, right? Fighting over potato salad.

But of course, it never really was about the potato salad. It’s about my dad wanting to keep his hold over me. So he could remind me that I had failed as a daughter, as a granddaughter, and that in his household, he still called the shots.

Being in my parents kitchen felt like I had walked into territory where I didn’t belong in anymore. Like a stray animal stepping into someone else’s land and immediately being chomped and chased out…

That’s what it felt like. Like he needed me to remember: I still own you when you’re here.

And I hate that feeling. It’s exactly why I’ve worked so hard to become financially independent. Because anytime he has chance to remind me of what a big burden I was, he does.

And the worst part is—I still feel guilty. I still feel like I’ve ruined his life.

I had this realization last weekend when I was alone, a few glasses of wine in, journaling, and watching Bridget Jones’s Diary (they turned your book into a movie, Bridg). I loved all the parts with her and her dad. They had this softness to them, like they were real friends. They just enjoyed being around each other. And I started crying because I realized I’ve always wanted that.

I’ve always wanted my dad to just like me.

And more than that, I realized why I am the way I am.

Why I’m such a perfectionist. Why I push so hard. Why I feel like I have to prove myself constantly.

It’s because somewhere deep down, I believe that if I don’t become something—if I don’t succeed, if I don’t justify my existence—then I wasn’t worth it. That I was a mistake. That I ruined their lives, and the least I can do is make it mean something.

I hate that.

It’s also why I’m so scared to have kids. Because I never, ever want someone to feel the way I feel all day everyday. Like I owe him. Like I was and still am a burden. Like I have to earn my worth just for existing.

I want to know what I want, fully, before I ever bring a kid into this world. I want to know who I am, be happy with myself, my choices, and choose that kid outright. I want to still be in love with Damon, and I want my kid to know that they were wanted into this world.

So yeah. Potato salad.

It can really get you. I mean, it got me good.

Anyway. Happy Cesar Chavez Day (in light of explosive sexual abuse allegations!!).

Kindly,

Amanda