One of our worst fears is becoming our parents. This is really a nightmare when the parent has BPD. My mom was worried about this, and she would tell my husband to "watch out for me." She seriously thought I might emotionally and physically abuse him the way my dad abused us.
To my mom's credit, there are often things I find myself doing that remind me of my dad.
Indecision - mulling over a decision for hours, and then seconding guessing oneself after making a decision. I wrote a blog about this previously.
Intense emotional reaction - I hate surprises. I hate being thrown for a loop in any negative way. So does my dad. When he rages, it's like a tornado or a tsunami. I have learned that I can do this too, so while I don't know how to control my immediate feelings, I can control what I do with these emotions. I know that I need time to stop and think before going into a frenzy.
Paranoia - My dad has always been paranoid, but I think with age and the onset of dementia, he is experiencing more paranoia. Anytime he can't find anything, he thinks someone took it. Seriously. When he was "supervising" the moving of his furniture back into his house, he accused the movers of stealing the dirty old couch cushions before they had even finished unloading. When my sisters and I went to visit, he said people had taken photos. He also said his whole photo album of a trip to Europe was gone. When I showed him one, he said it was another, when I showed him the other, he said that wasn't it either.
I too, find myself having paranoid thoughts. I had been at work thinking I was going to be fired. Well, that wasn't too far from the truth, but I don't believe there were intentions quite as evil as I imagined. I felt that every move my bosses made was a calculated move with ulterior motives. Sometimes that was probably the case. Other times, probably not. I know they couldn't have spent that much energy focused on me.
I feel like spending too much time obsessing over something, and too much time alone can feed paranoia. My dad spends 95% of his time alone in his house. Plenty of time to think paranoid thoughts.
Not working, and consequently, not earning income, I too have been keeping to myself in our apartment. I do have my husband most of the day, and the cats, so I have more company than my dad, but still less companionship than a normal human being craves.
Splitting - this is viewing someone as either perfect and moral, or defective and evil. Once someone would do something to shatter my dad's image of them, that would be it. He would no longer trust them, ask them to help him or even acknowledge them. On the other hand, if someone else would surface to do something for him, then they would be the one virtuous and intelligent person. When my mom was in the hospital, my childhood friend came to visit. She is a few years older than me, and she is a physician. She has experience speaking with patients who are hard of hearing, so she was able to speak to my dad, and he could understand her.
No one, NO ONE had ever told me up until that point, not to yell at him when trying to communicate. All I had ever heard was, I can't hear you. I didn't know that the pitch of my voice, coincidentally, is out of my dad's range of hearing. If I want to be able to talk to him, I have to learn to lower the register of my voice. I have a very shrill voice, so this is no easy task.
So getting back to my childhood friend - my dad could not say enough positive things about her, as an insult to me. By extolling her virtues, her ease with which she could communicate with him, he was also pointing out my lack of communication skills. By saying she was a successful doctor, that was showing how I was a disappointing failure of a daughter who would never fulfill the potential he thought I had. I'm not jealous of my friend. I'm happy for her, and she has a great family. I don't think I could have ever had the stability of mind to become a physician when I was younger. I wouldn't have been ready for it. I could have done things different with my life along the way, but I wouldn't have ever taken the path my friend took. And for that, my dad hates me. My "failure" is his failure.
When I was working at my last job, I felt like I was playing wack a mole. If one person wasn't calling off work, coming in late, or fucking up in some other way, then someone else was. So the cook who fucked up last week might become my favorite this week. Because I knew this about myself, I tried to not work too closely with any one cook for too long. They would play this game with me, talking shit about each other and trying to be the favorite. Boy, did we function like a family.
Abandonment - I always felt so alone as a child, and really even still now. When I started having boyfriends, which was before I started officially dating, since I wasn't allowed to date before I turned 18, the relationship was always so intense. I had a long distance letter writing relationship with my band camp boyfriend. We wrote each other at least two thick letters a week. We poured our hearts out to one another, we explained the details of our daily lives to each other (except for when he started dating girls in his town). I needed those letters and the trinkets he sent me as constant reminders of him.
In college, when I met my now husband, we took it fairly slow the first six months. We went on dates a couple times a week, and we met with our friends at clubs. We made a point not to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend for six months. And during those six months we never fought. Then, one night, something happened. Our first fight ensued. And that might have been when we became official. We started spending more and more time together. We invaded each other's apartments, and our roommates felt like they had another roommate against their will.
It was difficult being a quiet, socially awkward, non jock, non drinking girlfriend of a hot jock. Whenever he went out with friends, girls were always hitting on him. And college girls can be so forward. I was jealous and had no self esteem, and clingy. I would start fights. If he was pissed off at me at a club, it was easy for him to find a girl eager to talk to him. I was always sure we would get in one fight too many over my abandonment issues and he would get fed up and leave me. For whatever reason he didn't. As I grew out of my sheltered childhood issues, I grew out of the jealousy and clingyness to a certain extent. Well, we both grew together.
I really don't know if I would be diagnosed with BPD, or if having grown up with someone who suffers from it made me react or mirror the disorder. I do know, that I see the ugliness in myself, and when I catch myself in a moment, I try to correct my actions or thinking. It is difficult to correct one's feelings, but it is possible to rationalize through them to feel a different way.
I still go to back out of a parking space and find myself leaning my elbow against the back of the passenger side chair, turning my whole body back to make sure the path is clear. This really pisses me off, because my dad always did this. It was such an obnoxious way of over driving. When I find myself with my elbow all propped up, I stop, I lower it, and I calmly back out of the space.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Afterschool Activities
If you haven't guessed, or have not read this blog yet, my parents were very strict. With my dad, I feel like it was a control issue. With my mom, I think she was just overprotective. If I wanted to do anything, I would have to ask my mom. Then she would tell me to ask my dad. He would tell me to ask my mom, at which point I would tell him that I did, and she told me to ask him. If it was something that they didn't want me to do, there would be the inflection in the voice, the "I don't know, but ask Papa."
There were certain things I could do on the weekends, usually without a hassle; invite friends over, walk around the lake, go to certain friends' houses to watch VHS movies, and, that was about it.
One thing that my mom in particular had a problem with was going to the movies. Once I was in junior high and started taking more of an interest in boys, my mom did not want me to go to the movies. Her belief was, if adolescents go to the movies unchaperoned, they are going to pair up and make out in the dark. Maybe she watched Happy Days too much or something. Between not being allowed to have a boyfriend until I turned 18 and having low self esteem from my dad's constant criticism and being suspected of liking girls, I was far from being the girl that all the boys were after - that was usually one of my friends. I think her other objection was the subject matter of the movie itself. Was it sexual, profane, violent? For whatever reason, movies watched in the movie theather unchaperoned were more dangerous to the adolescent mind than movies watched in the home under parental supervision.
Another activity that was NEVER permitted was sleepovers. Except if it were at our family friends' house in Winter Park. So, I spent as much of my youth in Winter Park as I could. Even if my parents also stayed the weekend, it was better than being trapped in our house where I would inevitably do something wrong.
So, I "studied" a lot. Okay, I did study. You know the stereotype of Philippine parents being very demanding of their kids so they will accelerate in academics....So, I did strive to keep up with my grades. Well, sometimes. I always tried to get Bs at least, so I wouldn't get in trouble.
Anyway, when I was in junior high school, I went to the library a lot. If I didn't have band practice or lessons, then I went to the library. I did study. It was really more of a social hour though. I would meet my friends and we would camp out in the young adult section. We would do our homework, pass notes, get in trouble with the library security guy who we lovingly nicknamed Titwacker. There, was a convience store across the street from the library, so if we got thirsty or hungry we would take a study break and buy cokes and candy. Lots of candy.
There was also a lake across the other side of the library. There were ducks, geese and swans there, and we would bring stale bread or splurge and buy some bread at the store and feed the ducks. The study sessions were gruelling, but, we had to make those good grades.
Starting in eighth grade I went to band camp in the summer. The first two years were at FSU and only for a week or so, but it was...the time of my life. The first time I had been away from my parents or my friends' parents. I loved it, so when I found out there was a camp in Boone, NC for three weeks, I was in.
Some of my friends went to another better camp for 6 weeks, but it was that much more expensive, so I went to Cannon Music Camp. This was even better. We were on campus in the mountains. During the first summer, I met so many friends. I wrote lots of letters to my band camp friends when I got back home. Some people wrote me back. Some wrote more than others. One friend, a boy with whom I shared a common musical taste, wrote a lot. And I wrote back. We were averaging a letter a week. Thick letters that sometimes needed two stamps. My mom worried. My dad didn't like it, although he didn't really say anything.
So, when I asked to go back to band camp the next year, my dad said no. I'm sure my mom probably didn't want me to go either, but it was my dad who was the most vocal. I begged and begged, and I pleaded that I wanted to go to learn music. I don't know how, but finally I got my parents to agree to let me go. I think they were in fear of my virginity. Which is funny, because I was not ready for that step. Not with a three week band camp. For me, holding hands in public and making out whenever we felt like it was a big deal.
During the school year, band was still my main escape. For some reason, before I marched in band, my mom was scared to let me go to football games in junior high. Every once in a while, a big game with rival teams would get rowdy, but it wasn't like going to a scottish "footy" match.
Band took up more time in high school, and once my friends got their drivers licenses, band allowed more freedom. Whenever I left the house, I had to say who was driving, who was in the car, where we were going and what time I would be back (which was always whenever my curfew was). With Friday night football games came later nights. The game would end fairly late, and sometimes I was allowed to go to Pizza Hut afterwards, which is where all us band geeks hung out. This was the life. I could go to games, no questions asked, and I could stay out later! I could almost feel like a regular teen.
When I was in high school and gas was still cheap and cars that my friends drove got good mileage, we used to just drive around on the weekends. I would tell my mom we were "going around the lake", which would technically not be a lie. We would drive around the lake a lot. We would also go to the Ames lot where the cute skater boys skated. We also went to two of the older skater boys' houses. They were older and so their pads became hangouts.
I didn't really do too many things that were particularly bad before I graduated high school. The first time I got drunk was my senior year of high school, and it's not like I started getting drunk every weekend after that. I did lie a lot, or not tell the whole truth. I didn't want to be trapped in the house with my dad, so I left as much as I could. I think it sometimes hurt my mom, but she didn't quite understand the trepidation I lived with 24/7. If I was in the house with my dad, I had to premeditate every move. I stayed in my room a lot, even though I knew it was no safe haven, but the less he saw me, the less chance of me enraging him.
So, it's no wonder I wanted to go to college far away. I applied to Boston University and was accepted, but my dad said it didn't matter where I did my first two years of college and I should stay in state because the tuition was cheaper. So, I went as far north as I could, to FSU. Then I went to Emerson College in Boston for grad school. Now I live in San Diego. I can try to move as far away from my dad as I want, but I know that my unresolved issues with him, and his problems that he faces won't go away just because I am not nearby.
Another activity that was NEVER permitted was sleepovers. Except if it were at our family friends' house in Winter Park. So, I spent as much of my youth in Winter Park as I could. Even if my parents also stayed the weekend, it was better than being trapped in our house where I would inevitably do something wrong.
So, I "studied" a lot. Okay, I did study. You know the stereotype of Philippine parents being very demanding of their kids so they will accelerate in academics....So, I did strive to keep up with my grades. Well, sometimes. I always tried to get Bs at least, so I wouldn't get in trouble.
Anyway, when I was in junior high school, I went to the library a lot. If I didn't have band practice or lessons, then I went to the library. I did study. It was really more of a social hour though. I would meet my friends and we would camp out in the young adult section. We would do our homework, pass notes, get in trouble with the library security guy who we lovingly nicknamed Titwacker. There, was a convience store across the street from the library, so if we got thirsty or hungry we would take a study break and buy cokes and candy. Lots of candy.
There was also a lake across the other side of the library. There were ducks, geese and swans there, and we would bring stale bread or splurge and buy some bread at the store and feed the ducks. The study sessions were gruelling, but, we had to make those good grades.
Starting in eighth grade I went to band camp in the summer. The first two years were at FSU and only for a week or so, but it was...the time of my life. The first time I had been away from my parents or my friends' parents. I loved it, so when I found out there was a camp in Boone, NC for three weeks, I was in.
Some of my friends went to another better camp for 6 weeks, but it was that much more expensive, so I went to Cannon Music Camp. This was even better. We were on campus in the mountains. During the first summer, I met so many friends. I wrote lots of letters to my band camp friends when I got back home. Some people wrote me back. Some wrote more than others. One friend, a boy with whom I shared a common musical taste, wrote a lot. And I wrote back. We were averaging a letter a week. Thick letters that sometimes needed two stamps. My mom worried. My dad didn't like it, although he didn't really say anything.
So, when I asked to go back to band camp the next year, my dad said no. I'm sure my mom probably didn't want me to go either, but it was my dad who was the most vocal. I begged and begged, and I pleaded that I wanted to go to learn music. I don't know how, but finally I got my parents to agree to let me go. I think they were in fear of my virginity. Which is funny, because I was not ready for that step. Not with a three week band camp. For me, holding hands in public and making out whenever we felt like it was a big deal.
During the school year, band was still my main escape. For some reason, before I marched in band, my mom was scared to let me go to football games in junior high. Every once in a while, a big game with rival teams would get rowdy, but it wasn't like going to a scottish "footy" match.
Band took up more time in high school, and once my friends got their drivers licenses, band allowed more freedom. Whenever I left the house, I had to say who was driving, who was in the car, where we were going and what time I would be back (which was always whenever my curfew was). With Friday night football games came later nights. The game would end fairly late, and sometimes I was allowed to go to Pizza Hut afterwards, which is where all us band geeks hung out. This was the life. I could go to games, no questions asked, and I could stay out later! I could almost feel like a regular teen.
When I was in high school and gas was still cheap and cars that my friends drove got good mileage, we used to just drive around on the weekends. I would tell my mom we were "going around the lake", which would technically not be a lie. We would drive around the lake a lot. We would also go to the Ames lot where the cute skater boys skated. We also went to two of the older skater boys' houses. They were older and so their pads became hangouts.
I didn't really do too many things that were particularly bad before I graduated high school. The first time I got drunk was my senior year of high school, and it's not like I started getting drunk every weekend after that. I did lie a lot, or not tell the whole truth. I didn't want to be trapped in the house with my dad, so I left as much as I could. I think it sometimes hurt my mom, but she didn't quite understand the trepidation I lived with 24/7. If I was in the house with my dad, I had to premeditate every move. I stayed in my room a lot, even though I knew it was no safe haven, but the less he saw me, the less chance of me enraging him.
So, it's no wonder I wanted to go to college far away. I applied to Boston University and was accepted, but my dad said it didn't matter where I did my first two years of college and I should stay in state because the tuition was cheaper. So, I went as far north as I could, to FSU. Then I went to Emerson College in Boston for grad school. Now I live in San Diego. I can try to move as far away from my dad as I want, but I know that my unresolved issues with him, and his problems that he faces won't go away just because I am not nearby.
Friday, August 12, 2011
A different perspective
When I was a kid, I loved Madonna. She was so... different. And I loved that song, Borderline. I never thought much about the meaning of the lyrics in the chorus, but now, it takes on a whole new perspective.....
Here are the lyrics from the Madonna song, Borderline, written by Reggie Lucas
Something in the way you love me won't let me be
I don't want to be your prisoner so baby won't you set me free
Stop playin' with my heart
Finish what you start
When you make my love come down
If you want me let me know
Baby, let it show
Honey, don't you fool around
Just try to understand
I've given all I can 'cause you got the best of me.
CHORUS:
Borderline … feels like I'm goin' to lose my mind
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline
Borderline … feels like I'm goin' to lose my mind
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline (borderline)
Keep on pushin' me, baby
Don't you know you drive me crazy
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline.
Something in your eyes is makin' such a fool of me
When you hold me in your arms you love me till I just can't see
But then you let me down, when I look around, baby you just can't be found
Stop driving me away, I just wanna stay,
There's something I just got to say
Just try to understand
I've given all I can 'cause you got the best of me.
REPEAT CHORUS
Look what your love has done to me
Come on, baby, set me free
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline (borderline)
You cause me so much pain, I think I'm goin' insane
What does it take to make you see?
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline.
Keep pushin' me, keep pushin' me, keep pushin' my love
(You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline, borderline)
Come on, baby, come on, darlin', Yeah
Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da
Here are the lyrics from the Madonna song, Borderline, written by Reggie Lucas
Something in the way you love me won't let me be
I don't want to be your prisoner so baby won't you set me free
Stop playin' with my heart
Finish what you start
When you make my love come down
If you want me let me know
Baby, let it show
Honey, don't you fool around
Just try to understand
I've given all I can 'cause you got the best of me.
CHORUS:
Borderline … feels like I'm goin' to lose my mind
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline
Borderline … feels like I'm goin' to lose my mind
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline (borderline)
Keep on pushin' me, baby
Don't you know you drive me crazy
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline.
Something in your eyes is makin' such a fool of me
When you hold me in your arms you love me till I just can't see
But then you let me down, when I look around, baby you just can't be found
Stop driving me away, I just wanna stay,
There's something I just got to say
Just try to understand
I've given all I can 'cause you got the best of me.
REPEAT CHORUS
Look what your love has done to me
Come on, baby, set me free
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline (borderline)
You cause me so much pain, I think I'm goin' insane
What does it take to make you see?
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline.
Keep pushin' me, keep pushin' me, keep pushin' my love
(You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline, borderline)
Come on, baby, come on, darlin', Yeah
Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Celebrity BPD
So, this video is of an NFL player who admitted that he was diagnosed with BPD after some crazy shit went down with him this spring. He is filming a documentary now, so it will be interesting to see if it brings his BPD personality to light or it's just a PR thing. The most disturbing thing about this video, though is the viewer comments. People are very harsh. Comments like those are part of the reason I was hesitant to "advertise" this blog. I didn't want to be judged or corrected in a nasty hateful way. I mean, this guy was just trying to admit his vunerability to the public and people slam him on youtube?
I really don't know much about what really happened in the spring with the stabbing and all, but I don't think he was trying to absolve himself of his actions. To anyone who mocks this disorder, however the terminology and classification came about, I suggest that you go to my dad's house and live with him for a month, and then we'll see how sane you feel dealing with a BPD.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The Garbage Disposal
Our garbage disposal was slowly dying, and when it got to the point where the motor would barely hum but not really turn, I finally put a note about it in with the rent. So, I knew that misuse, or overuse was a part of it, beside the fact that it was pretty old. We had had a problem with it a year or more ago, and it had been fixed, but this time it seemed dead.
So, the maintenance man came today and replaced it. He told us that we needed to use the disposal only "for emergency", not as a garbage. He found scrubber sponges in it and other whatnot. We didn't purposely put them in there.
My dad, on the other hand, has never owned a garbage disposal. This is not for lack of money. Also, with the building of the new house, I'm sure the contractor asked twice or three times if my parents were sure that they didn't want a garbage disposal. There are some old Philippine ways that my dad will never shake. This is one reason that I'm sure it would be difficult to get him to a psychiatrist and diagnosis his borderline personality disorder. So many of his behaviors and actions are chalked up to being the old Philippine way, or how he took after his traditional old Filipino parents. As if, that was all the explanation that was needed. Oh, when he beat us, he was just being a traditional Philippine parent, nothing to worry about. Although, when people start to see more of the picture, they realize that it's beyond normal Philippine tradition, and that maybe it isn't okay.
I guess I digress. I'm not saying that not having a garbage disposal is unrealistic. But having to wipe out every single crumb, morsel, grain of food from the sink every time one wants to run water is a pain in the ass. Surely, some of it can go down the drain. But my dad scrapes every last piece out of the sink and the strainer. And the rice is another thing. I think my parents would soak the rice cooker bowl. Then they would strain the old rice and incorporate it back into the new batch of rice. When we were staying with my dad last year my husband did most of the cooking. We would clean the kitchen as quickly and gently and thoroughly as possible, but it was never the correct way for my BPD father, of course. One time, my husband left the rice cooker bowl in the sink to soak, with soapy water. A few hours later, we saw the rice from the cooker laid out on a paper towel next to the sink. I really don't know if my dad intended to eat it, but I'm sure if we had told him it had soap on in, he would call us wasteful.
My dad is proud of the fact that he has amassed his fortune from unnecessary self-denial which of course affected the whole family. We weren't allowed to run the air conditioner at a bearable temperature - always a few degrees too warm. When the air conditioner broke, it was never fixed, and my parents would sit in the hot Florida house in summer sweating in front of fans. My mom would still have to stand over the stove to prepare every meal for my dad, or be accused of neglecting him.
Don't get me started with road trips and family vacations. Shift driving, napping at shady rest areas, occasionally checking into cheap seedy roach infested hotel rooms when my parents couldn't keep their eyes open for more longer than 8 seconds at a time. There would be one room for all five of us. We would still be eating poorly refrigerated corn on the cobb and corned beef sandwiches for several days in a row until they were all consumed. Even if we had reached our destiny, usually a relative's house, we would still eat our leftovers with whatever meal was cooked for us. That didn't differ from meals at home either. We barely ever threw food away. If my mom cooked a big pot roast or stew, we would primarily eat that for the first three or four days, then she would cook other things and integrate them into the meal, until the last day of the pot roast or stew - it would smell or taste tangy, but we would eat it. I think that sometimes my mom (who was a general practitioner) would fear for our health and discreetly dispose of something two weeks old, hoping my dad wouldn't find it in the trash.
So, after the maintenance man replaced the disposal, I was washing a pot that my husband had used for macaroni and cheese. It was a soaker. Maybe not a three day soaker like we let it go, but at least a two hour soaker at any rate. So, I scrubbed the pot out with the scrubber sponge since all the stainless steel scrubbers had apparently gone down the old disposal. The cheese sauce and macaroni came off easily and slid down the drain. I rinsed the pot, scrubbed the sink basin, and with the water still running, I turned on the disposal. As I listened to the sweet crunch of the new motor grinding up mac and cheese, I thought of my dad's spindly shakey fingers combing the drain of his new kitchen sink for debris.
So, the maintenance man came today and replaced it. He told us that we needed to use the disposal only "for emergency", not as a garbage. He found scrubber sponges in it and other whatnot. We didn't purposely put them in there.
My dad, on the other hand, has never owned a garbage disposal. This is not for lack of money. Also, with the building of the new house, I'm sure the contractor asked twice or three times if my parents were sure that they didn't want a garbage disposal. There are some old Philippine ways that my dad will never shake. This is one reason that I'm sure it would be difficult to get him to a psychiatrist and diagnosis his borderline personality disorder. So many of his behaviors and actions are chalked up to being the old Philippine way, or how he took after his traditional old Filipino parents. As if, that was all the explanation that was needed. Oh, when he beat us, he was just being a traditional Philippine parent, nothing to worry about. Although, when people start to see more of the picture, they realize that it's beyond normal Philippine tradition, and that maybe it isn't okay.
I guess I digress. I'm not saying that not having a garbage disposal is unrealistic. But having to wipe out every single crumb, morsel, grain of food from the sink every time one wants to run water is a pain in the ass. Surely, some of it can go down the drain. But my dad scrapes every last piece out of the sink and the strainer. And the rice is another thing. I think my parents would soak the rice cooker bowl. Then they would strain the old rice and incorporate it back into the new batch of rice. When we were staying with my dad last year my husband did most of the cooking. We would clean the kitchen as quickly and gently and thoroughly as possible, but it was never the correct way for my BPD father, of course. One time, my husband left the rice cooker bowl in the sink to soak, with soapy water. A few hours later, we saw the rice from the cooker laid out on a paper towel next to the sink. I really don't know if my dad intended to eat it, but I'm sure if we had told him it had soap on in, he would call us wasteful.
My dad is proud of the fact that he has amassed his fortune from unnecessary self-denial which of course affected the whole family. We weren't allowed to run the air conditioner at a bearable temperature - always a few degrees too warm. When the air conditioner broke, it was never fixed, and my parents would sit in the hot Florida house in summer sweating in front of fans. My mom would still have to stand over the stove to prepare every meal for my dad, or be accused of neglecting him.
Don't get me started with road trips and family vacations. Shift driving, napping at shady rest areas, occasionally checking into cheap seedy roach infested hotel rooms when my parents couldn't keep their eyes open for more longer than 8 seconds at a time. There would be one room for all five of us. We would still be eating poorly refrigerated corn on the cobb and corned beef sandwiches for several days in a row until they were all consumed. Even if we had reached our destiny, usually a relative's house, we would still eat our leftovers with whatever meal was cooked for us. That didn't differ from meals at home either. We barely ever threw food away. If my mom cooked a big pot roast or stew, we would primarily eat that for the first three or four days, then she would cook other things and integrate them into the meal, until the last day of the pot roast or stew - it would smell or taste tangy, but we would eat it. I think that sometimes my mom (who was a general practitioner) would fear for our health and discreetly dispose of something two weeks old, hoping my dad wouldn't find it in the trash.
So, after the maintenance man replaced the disposal, I was washing a pot that my husband had used for macaroni and cheese. It was a soaker. Maybe not a three day soaker like we let it go, but at least a two hour soaker at any rate. So, I scrubbed the pot out with the scrubber sponge since all the stainless steel scrubbers had apparently gone down the old disposal. The cheese sauce and macaroni came off easily and slid down the drain. I rinsed the pot, scrubbed the sink basin, and with the water still running, I turned on the disposal. As I listened to the sweet crunch of the new motor grinding up mac and cheese, I thought of my dad's spindly shakey fingers combing the drain of his new kitchen sink for debris.
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