Mr. Foilwoman is angry at me. Not for any of the actually wrong things I may or may not have done in real life. Nope. He's still oblivious. He's mad because (1) I sent my father the Foilkid's passport so that he could bring her back to the U.S. from Canada, and (2) because I gardened innappropriately.
Obviously, in these hyper-paranoid times, it is easier to bring a child not your own into the U.S. if you have, how shall I put this all necessary documentation. Mr. Foilwoman doesn't have the money to travel to the Great White North to pickup the Foilkid. I don't have a car. My father is flying to the city where my daughter is anyway. He kindly volunteered to rent a car and pick up my daughter and return her to me. She's been away for three weeks now; she's going to stop and have a nice rest of summer vacation with her Aunt, Uncle and two teenage boy cousins who she thinks are the coolest boys in the world even though they are really just teenage boys with gawky limbs and rather pimply faces, her Big Grampa and his wife, and then her Mormor and Grandpapa (again, we're all very greatful that she doesn't call him Little Grampa). Now, I am glad my daughter has had a fun summer while Mr. Foilwoman and I have been skirting ever closer to disaster, and I want the rest of her summer to be fun. But damnit all, even though she's a confident, fun and outgoing kid who never met another person she was afraid of (let's not talk about peacocks though) or a little boy she couldn't turn into her absolute and willing slave, I actually do want her to come home. I know this summer has been better for her by being in a less stressful environment, but my husband (and that will be a phrase I won't be using again often, at least in the mood I'm in now) seriously discussed having Foilkid stay in Canada with our friends. Now aside from the inappropriate use of Canadian educational resources, immigration fraud problems, and complete abdication of parental responsibility, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE. Yes, sorry for shouting. The friends Foilkid is staying with are lovely, I trust them, and they love my daughter, but WTF? So my father is going to collect my daughter and return her to me (at the end of the summer, so that she can continue to be a worry-free six-year old). Mr. Foilwoman does love the Foilkid and the Foilbaby, but this one really floored me. On what planet is it acceptable behavior to farm a six-year old out to another family outside of the direst of family emergencies?
The Canada in the Summer didn't bother me. I'd rather be in Canada than the greater D.C. area. It's more fun to do just about anything kids like to do in the Summer in Canada instead of the steamy and muggy mid-Atlantic states. And the Uncle Foilkid is visiting is her favorite (he's not a real Uncle, but he is the Uncle of her heart). But come on, even the most doting of non-parental people would like us to step up to our responsibilities once the goddamn school year starts.
Obviously, I was communicating with little whiffs of miff seeping out through my pores. I went outside to garden, weeded, harvested some beans, and trimmed hedges (which needed doing since I've let the lawn service go due to fiscal restructuring). After gardening for a few hours, I put all the weeds in a lawn bag, but left the hedge trimmings to be swept later. I was hot and sticky and needed a shower. I asked Mr. Foilwoman to sweep up the trimmings. When I emerged from my bath, Mr. Foilwoman sternly told me that next time I gardened I should consult with him first. I don't think it's wise to confront a woman who has been developing an expertise with pruning shears, personally, but some people are very slow learners. When did this guy turn into such an absolute idiot? Really, he used to (1) be nicer, and (2) have common sense. Is there some disease that saps away ones responsbility and self-respect? Is it hormone-linked? Connected to food additives? The growth and development of the emerging inner asshole?
Even as I say this, I wonder is there a tumor squishing the part of his brain in charge of personal responsibility and empathy? Or has this total used-douchebag personality been there all along but I just didn't see it?
Anyway, this all goes back to the foolish supposition of economists that people are rational economic actors. Proof positive they are not lives in my house. If I turf him out, he's going to be ruined, so why is he doing everything humanly possible to make sure that I do that? This is a choice I would do just about anything to avoid. But I'm pretty good about rolling up my sleeves and doing the unpleasant work that needs to get done when its necessary. If he really can't see his way clear to either find work or live within my income (while taking care of our children) he may find that his living situation and disposable income deteriorate much much further than they have so far.
That said, when one is truly pissed off, trimming hedges with a big set of garden shears is very enjoyable. So is ripping out weeds and throwing them into the compost heap of doom. So is deadheading flowers that no longer look pretty or do anything else to carry their weight.
July 31, 2005
Sadly Disappointed in the Squaddies
I know it's the weekend, but you'd think that a military unit would keep track of who's sending it email. Sadly, so far, this has been the entire response from the Royal Dragoon Guards:
I guess I'm going to have to turn the request over to the Useless Men. Oh, wait, isn't that what the Royal Dragoons are? Useless Men, help me out here. Are you really the Royal Dragoons, and they are Useless Men impersonating Royal Dragoons? Or are Royal Dragoons, by virtue of it being a single sex outfit, by their very nature Useless? And what kind of national security/defense force doesn't manage to receive its email? Really, all I want is a truly clear copy of the video (for Innana, naturally. I'm doing this selflessly. I'm using my powers for good). Is that too much to ask? Apparently so. Bummer.
THIS IS A WARNING MESSAGE ONLY.Quel dommage. But wait, I researched the unit (they're on the internet). I sent an email to the address listed on their website. On what state of national security alert do email servers reject messages to army units?
YOU DO NOT NEED TO RESEND YOUR MESSAGE.
Delivery to the following recipient has been delayed:
[Insert Squaddies' email address here]
Message will be retried for 2 more day(s)
Technical details of temporary failure:
TEMP_FAILURE: Could not initiate SMTP conversation with any server
I guess I'm going to have to turn the request over to the Useless Men. Oh, wait, isn't that what the Royal Dragoons are? Useless Men, help me out here. Are you really the Royal Dragoons, and they are Useless Men impersonating Royal Dragoons? Or are Royal Dragoons, by virtue of it being a single sex outfit, by their very nature Useless? And what kind of national security/defense force doesn't manage to receive its email? Really, all I want is a truly clear copy of the video (for Innana, naturally. I'm doing this selflessly. I'm using my powers for good). Is that too much to ask? Apparently so. Bummer.
July 30, 2005
A Test for the Royal Dragoon Guards
As any of those of you gentle readers with the perspicacity to read Innana's blog for cultural content would know (at least if you clicked on her links), the U.K. troops in Iraq have been quite creative, most particularly the Royal Dragoon Guards. She has a link to a most amusing video that a number of the RGDs (referred to as "squaddies" I believe) made while bored out of their skulls in Al Faw. Unfortunately, the video quality is quite poor. I have written to the Royal Dragoons requesting a clearer copy:
Innana is a bit annoyed with me for bringing her into official correspondence with the squaddies, but I say, hey, they made the darn video stand behind it. The brass apparently does stand behind the video, since the Ministry of Defense's server crashed with people forwarding the video back and forth. Did the perpetrators of this national security disaster get punished? Nope. A spokesperson noted that the computer server was back up, the video was brilliant, and they applauded (or something like that) the various squaddies who put the video together as a morale booster. Here, in the States, we'd have a boring congressional investigation that spent millions of the taxpayers' dollars. Anybody who can find me a clearer copy of the video than the one shown on Innana's website or on this site, please let me know. There might be a reward. And thanks, Innana. As always, superior research skillz produces superior results.
Another thought: will the Squaddies have the time or the inclination to respond to my ever-so-polite request? I could start a pool . . . first whether they respond, and then whether the response is some hyper-polite and formal thingy or something showing the spirit (or whatever you'd call it) of the men who made the video, and how long it will take to receive such a response.
There is a down side to this: If the squaddies can't come up with the goods, I'm afaid I will have to ask the Useless Men to step in. Having seen the squaddies dance, I can only say, it would not be pretty. More news if anything develops.
Dear Sir or Madam (probably Sir, since you are in the U.K. and your army, at least from the video I've seen, appears to be a guys only outfit):
You are probably aware of the "Show Me the Way to Amarillo" video put together by a whole bunch of white guys in your outfit determined to prove, for once and for all, that white man can't dance. Consider the point proven.
However, I must complain: the quality of the video circulating online right now (at least the versions I can find) are of very poor quality. One can't even make out the features of "Lucky Pierre" (aka Staff Sergeant Roger Parr) or determine exactly what the two young men in the porta-potties are actually wearing, if anything. Additionally, would it be possible to obtain a fully credited version of the video? Fans of your unit would really like to know who the various shirtless dudes are, most particularly the young guy in the green towel with a half-shaven face.
To the extent it is beneath your dignity to answer a personal email (although having seen the video, what possibly could be?) feel free to post the information as a comment on my blog: Foilwomansdiary.blogspot.com or the blog of my best friend, lapisforinnana.blogspot.com, who posted the link to the sadly blurry video (we really need a watchable copy to esthetically appreciate it). Any information whatsoever would be greatly appreciated.
Very truly yours (believe me),
Foilwoman
Innana is a bit annoyed with me for bringing her into official correspondence with the squaddies, but I say, hey, they made the darn video stand behind it. The brass apparently does stand behind the video, since the Ministry of Defense's server crashed with people forwarding the video back and forth. Did the perpetrators of this national security disaster get punished? Nope. A spokesperson noted that the computer server was back up, the video was brilliant, and they applauded (or something like that) the various squaddies who put the video together as a morale booster. Here, in the States, we'd have a boring congressional investigation that spent millions of the taxpayers' dollars. Anybody who can find me a clearer copy of the video than the one shown on Innana's website or on this site, please let me know. There might be a reward. And thanks, Innana. As always, superior research skillz produces superior results.
Another thought: will the Squaddies have the time or the inclination to respond to my ever-so-polite request? I could start a pool . . . first whether they respond, and then whether the response is some hyper-polite and formal thingy or something showing the spirit (or whatever you'd call it) of the men who made the video, and how long it will take to receive such a response.
There is a down side to this: If the squaddies can't come up with the goods, I'm afaid I will have to ask the Useless Men to step in. Having seen the squaddies dance, I can only say, it would not be pretty. More news if anything develops.
More Shopping Without Money
I normally don't like shopping, except in bookstores. Which makes tomorrow even more fun. As you may know, if you've been to this blog before and have an attention span longer than a cricket's, for a variety of reasons, I am having a bit of a cash flow problem. I have removed the cash flow problem's access to my cash flow by opening a new bank account in my name only. I used to believe "Keep your own name, keep your own bank account" as a motto to live by. I should have stuck with that plan (still have my own name, just got back the bank account).
Innana is taking me book shopping tomorrow at our favorite used book store. Since I have shelves upon shelves of books I will not read again, I will gain currency to use in the store by bringing in trade-in books. If you take payment in kind rather than cash, you receive double the amount you would receive if you take cash. We still have a $26 credit left over from our last bookstore run. So, even though I have no $$$, I'm going to do some fun shopping, the only fun shopping there is, and I won't spend dime one. Any books anyone recommends?
Innana is taking me book shopping tomorrow at our favorite used book store. Since I have shelves upon shelves of books I will not read again, I will gain currency to use in the store by bringing in trade-in books. If you take payment in kind rather than cash, you receive double the amount you would receive if you take cash. We still have a $26 credit left over from our last bookstore run. So, even though I have no $$$, I'm going to do some fun shopping, the only fun shopping there is, and I won't spend dime one. Any books anyone recommends?
July 29, 2005
Rash Action/Ditto to Innana's Recommendation
You will notice in Innana's blog that she recommends a new blog Spoonfeeding the Walrus, which she says she will add to her sidebar after monitoring it for a bit. Why the heck do that? I like the guy, he's funny, I'll put his link up. If I don't like it, I'll take it down (a peg or two). That's the fundamental difference between Innana and myself: impulse control. Especially after no sleep.
And hooray, my mediocre project is over. Aren't you all very glad I'm not a doctor, in general, and your doctor, in particular?
And hooray, my mediocre project is over. Aren't you all very glad I'm not a doctor, in general, and your doctor, in particular?
July 28, 2005
When You've Really Shot Yourself in the Flipper . . .
Don't you just love how everyone is great at everything? People always do their best, and their best is very, very good. I think that's just an American thing. My Swedish, Norwegian, and Danish friends never say they are "great" at anything. These are highly competent people, and you certainly wouldn't want to be standing between them and some Aqvavit and smoked herring. My Norwegian galpal, we'll call her Flicka (an alias, and for those who really don't know anything, the Swedish word for "girl"), her ex-marine husband obeys her. He calls her the general. My step-grandfather called my Mormor the general. My stepfather calls my mother (the Foilkid and the Foilbaby's Mormor) the general. Are you getting the general theme here? These women, all of whom run everyone's lives like a well-run military campaign (yes, they're meddlers) are quite modest. "Can you cook?" someone will ask Flicka. "Oh no," she says in that nice sing-song voice (but using better grammar than I am in rephrasing her words), "I can make meatballs, but really, I'm not a cook." I love to cook, but I really like to eat dinner at Flicka's house. In the great Scandinavian tradition, you aren't supposed to say you are competent, you are supposed to simply be competent.
Aside from this blog, I really don't run around bragging much. That's because, skill-wise, I don't have a ton to brag about. I'm a classic underachiever. My career, such as it is, came to a standstill when I was made redundant (fired) after having the Foilbaby (but not for having her, I wasn't discriminated against). While I conducted my job search (still ongoing, interview next week), I took on some independent contractor research work. Normally that's something I love. I can spend years in libraries and online (haven't you noticed?) seeking out all kinds of tidbits of weird information that might be useful. Did you know that when you sneeze it comes out of your mouth at 200 miles per hour? It's a well known fact. Actually, that tidbit isn't from research, it's from the great Scottish flick Gregory's Girl, which can't possibly have been made in the same corner of the universe as Trainspotting (also a great, but very different, movie). But I can cough up stuff like that ad nauseum (what's that? You're nauseated already? Okay, I'll move it along).
However, this independent research job has been a disaster and I've really blown it. Tonight I am writing up a research summary of research that isn't really done (and which should have been done, oh about 50 posts ago, or early July). I'll fake it. I didn't pull all nighters all through college for nothing. But I should have more pride. Unfortunately, all I have are irritation and exhaustion. In spades.
The "Don't bite off more than you can chew" adage only helps when you have a choice of chewables. I needed money. I said: Yes, I'll do that. I did it, but did it very, very badly and incompletely. Now I feel bad. But you know what? I have my temp job (regular hours, discrete pieces to work on, doesn't get away from me), I have an interview for a permanent job, and this independent contractor work that's late and badly done? Sorry. My life's falling around my ears right now. I'm going to "finish" it (using that word very, very loosely), email it in, and get back online and go blog-crazy. Yup. I have no shame. I've done a bad job (well, maybe I'll brag a bit: I've done a less than stellar job, a rather mediocre job, a job better than most non-me people would have done, but still, not a great job) and I'm going to get it off my desk and back on theirs, I'm going to have a glass of wine, harass fellow bloggers, and then sleep the sleep of the not-completely incompetent. Since Uber-Smart-Short-Scary-White-Chick-Lawyer (USSSWCL or Uber for short) (see this post) says she's impressed that I'm still able to walk and speak, I'm giving myself a bye.
Yeah! When I get back online it will mean I have completed my not-that-brilliant review of the issue at hand. Go me and my half assed job. I think this is a personal best, really, to do mediocre work when most mere mortals would be seeking a lobotomy. Go me!
Aside from this blog, I really don't run around bragging much. That's because, skill-wise, I don't have a ton to brag about. I'm a classic underachiever. My career, such as it is, came to a standstill when I was made redundant (fired) after having the Foilbaby (but not for having her, I wasn't discriminated against). While I conducted my job search (still ongoing, interview next week), I took on some independent contractor research work. Normally that's something I love. I can spend years in libraries and online (haven't you noticed?) seeking out all kinds of tidbits of weird information that might be useful. Did you know that when you sneeze it comes out of your mouth at 200 miles per hour? It's a well known fact. Actually, that tidbit isn't from research, it's from the great Scottish flick Gregory's Girl, which can't possibly have been made in the same corner of the universe as Trainspotting (also a great, but very different, movie). But I can cough up stuff like that ad nauseum (what's that? You're nauseated already? Okay, I'll move it along).
However, this independent research job has been a disaster and I've really blown it. Tonight I am writing up a research summary of research that isn't really done (and which should have been done, oh about 50 posts ago, or early July). I'll fake it. I didn't pull all nighters all through college for nothing. But I should have more pride. Unfortunately, all I have are irritation and exhaustion. In spades.
The "Don't bite off more than you can chew" adage only helps when you have a choice of chewables. I needed money. I said: Yes, I'll do that. I did it, but did it very, very badly and incompletely. Now I feel bad. But you know what? I have my temp job (regular hours, discrete pieces to work on, doesn't get away from me), I have an interview for a permanent job, and this independent contractor work that's late and badly done? Sorry. My life's falling around my ears right now. I'm going to "finish" it (using that word very, very loosely), email it in, and get back online and go blog-crazy. Yup. I have no shame. I've done a bad job (well, maybe I'll brag a bit: I've done a less than stellar job, a rather mediocre job, a job better than most non-me people would have done, but still, not a great job) and I'm going to get it off my desk and back on theirs, I'm going to have a glass of wine, harass fellow bloggers, and then sleep the sleep of the not-completely incompetent. Since Uber-Smart-Short-Scary-White-Chick-Lawyer (USSSWCL or Uber for short) (see this post) says she's impressed that I'm still able to walk and speak, I'm giving myself a bye.
Yeah! When I get back online it will mean I have completed my not-that-brilliant review of the issue at hand. Go me and my half assed job. I think this is a personal best, really, to do mediocre work when most mere mortals would be seeking a lobotomy. Go me!
July 27, 2005
To Absent Friends
I've been blogging for more than three months now. For someone my age, that's like an eyeblink. For the Foilbaby, three months is longer than she can conceive of, literally (of course it helps that she has the attention span of a hummingbird, no, that's not right, a gnat). It makes me think of absent friends and present ones, here in "we are our persona" land and in the real flesh and blood world.
I miss the Foilkid. She'll be back in a few weeks, after having been thoroughly spoiled by her favorite Uncle in Canada (she still thinks he's great, and he made her eat vegetables! What's up with that?), then her Big Grampa, and then her Mormor, both on the coast of Maine this summer.
I miss my Mormor (the mother of Foilkid's Mormor) who died in 1990.
I miss my Grampa (who wasn't a Big Grampa, except in spirit).
I miss my Farfar (should have been called Morfar, but you know, little kids aren't big into etymological accuracy) and his stories of adventures in Mexico, Cuba, Persia, Russia, and all around the world.
I miss my sisters, who are still here, but far, far away.
I miss MVBFSHS who lives an ocean and a pretty large mountain range away.
I miss MVBFSHS and my friend from high school who has been dead some 23 years, and I only learned recently that she jumped. She'd called me from Japan before she did, and I couldn't save her. I had never asked how she did it because I didn't want to know. Now I do. Doesn't help.
I want more Tony Hillerman books. I've read them all. He's not getting any younger. I need more.
I miss Handyman. I'll see him soon, but I miss him.
I miss Mr. Foilwoman as he was when I met him sixteen years ago: there was no challenge he couldn't tackle, nothing he wouldn't try. When I went to night school, he didn't like me taking the subway home, so he drove in to pick me up at 10 pm in a not so great neighborhood, every weekday night for four years. He taught himself English and put himself through college. Where did he go?
I miss seeing all the friends (except Innana, who I still see because she makes enormous efforts *smooch* thank you) who I don't get together with because I'm working all the time, and if I'm not working, I'm too tired to interact.
Speaking of tired, that's how I feel. Sweet dreams. I didn't mean this post to be depressing, I meant that we should appreciate those we love while they are here, because one way or another, we lose people.
I miss the Foilkid. She'll be back in a few weeks, after having been thoroughly spoiled by her favorite Uncle in Canada (she still thinks he's great, and he made her eat vegetables! What's up with that?), then her Big Grampa, and then her Mormor, both on the coast of Maine this summer.
I miss my Mormor (the mother of Foilkid's Mormor) who died in 1990.
I miss my Grampa (who wasn't a Big Grampa, except in spirit).
I miss my Farfar (should have been called Morfar, but you know, little kids aren't big into etymological accuracy) and his stories of adventures in Mexico, Cuba, Persia, Russia, and all around the world.
I miss my sisters, who are still here, but far, far away.
I miss MVBFSHS who lives an ocean and a pretty large mountain range away.
I miss MVBFSHS and my friend from high school who has been dead some 23 years, and I only learned recently that she jumped. She'd called me from Japan before she did, and I couldn't save her. I had never asked how she did it because I didn't want to know. Now I do. Doesn't help.
I want more Tony Hillerman books. I've read them all. He's not getting any younger. I need more.
I miss Handyman. I'll see him soon, but I miss him.
I miss Mr. Foilwoman as he was when I met him sixteen years ago: there was no challenge he couldn't tackle, nothing he wouldn't try. When I went to night school, he didn't like me taking the subway home, so he drove in to pick me up at 10 pm in a not so great neighborhood, every weekday night for four years. He taught himself English and put himself through college. Where did he go?
I miss seeing all the friends (except Innana, who I still see because she makes enormous efforts *smooch* thank you) who I don't get together with because I'm working all the time, and if I'm not working, I'm too tired to interact.
Speaking of tired, that's how I feel. Sweet dreams. I didn't mean this post to be depressing, I meant that we should appreciate those we love while they are here, because one way or another, we lose people.
July 26, 2005
Free Advice and Guidance is Worth . . .
Well of course, I survive the horror movie:
Would you survive a horror movie? Find out @ She's Crafty
Of course, this site also says I'm relatively problem free:
What's Your Problem? Find out @ She's Crafty
So I guess I'm dead meat. Or this site doesn't know the meaning of the word problem, which is odd, since my dictionary actually has a picture of Mr. Foilwoman next to the word. But the site must be accurate, because in the Buffy-verse the female character I most resemble (except physically, I'm way taller than she is) is Buffy the Vampire Slayer herself. So these quizzes must be accurate, don't you think?
Would you survive a horror movie? Find out @ She's Crafty
Of course, this site also says I'm relatively problem free:
What's Your Problem? Find out @ She's Crafty
So I guess I'm dead meat. Or this site doesn't know the meaning of the word problem, which is odd, since my dictionary actually has a picture of Mr. Foilwoman next to the word. But the site must be accurate, because in the Buffy-verse the female character I most resemble (except physically, I'm way taller than she is) is Buffy the Vampire Slayer herself. So these quizzes must be accurate, don't you think?
Civility on the Internet
Somebody posted an anonymous and insulting comment on Criminally Vulgar's blog. Now, as I posted last week, this young woman, an American living in Britain, posted a negative review of my blogline. I posted a comment about it on her blog, and then I posted here, basically whinging about her criticism of my description of my blog. Poor, poor me. A number of readers reassured me (thank you) and some people posted comments on her post criticizing me. Some of these posts were anonymous, although not much more intemperate than my own reply comment. However, the latest comment on her blog had some mean-spirited and unfair comments. Somehow I feel responsible (big fucking surprise), although the insulting commenter (so much less a pleasant person than the Complimenting Commenter) could be someone completely unconnected to me. CV noted in her response (one of her best thought out and written pieces to date) that the commenter had a U.S. IP address. That could be pretty much anyone (except my lovely U.K., Australian, South African, Belgian, French, German, Canadian, Chilean, Italian, Kenyan, Pakistani, Saudi Arabian, and readers from all other countries save the U.S.), so I shouldn't be so egotistical as to assume a connection with me.
But if there is a connection, I want to state that anyone thinking they are defending or supporting me by being impolite, uncivil, or mean, is mistaken. If you are unsure about civility, here are the rules for if you want to be in Foilwoman's Posse (FP):
(1) You can criticize someone, but:
(i) Identify yourself
(ii) Skip any comments that are irrelevant -- i.e., comment on the post, not the appearance of the poster
(iii) No ad hominen attacks.
(2) When in doubt, come up with a better course of action rather than telling people what they did wrong. My comment to CV is an example of how not to do this.
(3) Don't be sarcastic, unless we want to start a war.
(4) Know that I can defend myself. I can go on the attack. I mostly like people to praise me rather than insult someone else. Actually, I like people to praise me no matter what. So: praise me!
Thank you. I'm sure it's someone unnconnected to this blog who did this uncivil thing. I'm just overreacting. I think I may be unable to respond to things in a low key fashion right now. I wonder why?
But if there is a connection, I want to state that anyone thinking they are defending or supporting me by being impolite, uncivil, or mean, is mistaken. If you are unsure about civility, here are the rules for if you want to be in Foilwoman's Posse (FP):
(1) You can criticize someone, but:
(i) Identify yourself
(ii) Skip any comments that are irrelevant -- i.e., comment on the post, not the appearance of the poster
(iii) No ad hominen attacks.
(2) When in doubt, come up with a better course of action rather than telling people what they did wrong. My comment to CV is an example of how not to do this.
(3) Don't be sarcastic, unless we want to start a war.
(4) Know that I can defend myself. I can go on the attack. I mostly like people to praise me rather than insult someone else. Actually, I like people to praise me no matter what. So: praise me!
Thank you. I'm sure it's someone unnconnected to this blog who did this uncivil thing. I'm just overreacting. I think I may be unable to respond to things in a low key fashion right now. I wonder why?
July 25, 2005
Andy's Interview
I realized that I did not follow the actual instructions regarding interviews. I'm supposed to post the questions in my blog and my victim should post the answers in his blog. So Andy, here goes:
(1) How many children are you planning to have (or, more realistically, would you like to have)? Does Renee know?
(2) How did you choose the name Dane? Being half-Danish, I approve. But I want to hear the reasons.
(3) Your bio says you are a counselor. What sort of counselor, and how did you choose this career.
(4) Other than Dane, what's the best thing you've ever accomplished?
(5) What action that you have taken would you most like to undo?
Rules:
1. Leave me a comment saying 'interview me please'
2. I will respond by asking you five questions here on my blog (not the same questions you see here)
3. You will update your blog/site with the answers to the questions
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions
(1) How many children are you planning to have (or, more realistically, would you like to have)? Does Renee know?
(2) How did you choose the name Dane? Being half-Danish, I approve. But I want to hear the reasons.
(3) Your bio says you are a counselor. What sort of counselor, and how did you choose this career.
(4) Other than Dane, what's the best thing you've ever accomplished?
(5) What action that you have taken would you most like to undo?
Rules:
1. Leave me a comment saying 'interview me please'
2. I will respond by asking you five questions here on my blog (not the same questions you see here)
3. You will update your blog/site with the answers to the questions
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions
July 24, 2005
Deja Vu All Over Again (Thanks, Yogi Berra)
Yup, my life still sucks and blows. At least I had a nice weekend day with MVBFITWWW and the Foilbaby. Mr. Foilwoman has managed to finally really, really irk me. Now, for all my superheroine status, I really do only use my powers for good. I do not squelch a spouse with random abandon. I am slow to anger. But really, after telling me that my parents have to rearrange their vacation schedules to pick up our daughter from the friend's house in another country where he left her (Okay, it's the perfectly wonderful other country of Canada and it's with friends who I both like and trust and who the Foilkid adores), he then says he can drive his Mercedes E500 (yup, that's the car the sonofabitch won't sell) to pick her up (I really don't want him abroad with my kid and a passport at this point, y'know?) if I would be reasonable and liquidate my IRA (for non-U.S. readers, a tax-advantaged retirement account that I can't touch without real financial penalty before 2019) so that we can have enough money to pay for today's exhorbitant gas prices so that he can drive 1,000+ miles in his gas hog V-8. I told him to rearrange with his friend, or find the cash himself (meanwhile, logging online to check out how inexpensively I can fly to Canada to collect my first born). Our friend rearranges his schedule for our convenience, and will stay in town until my parents arrive in Canada.
Then Mr. Foilwoman says he needs gas for his car right now. I have $13 on me. I tell him to take my last $13 in cash; he generously leaves me with $3. I point out that he really, really, really needs to start earning money and start spending less of mine (OK, it's ours, but I think I need to start being pretty fucking possessive). He says, in shocked horror: "You act like I am doing nothing!" If the shoe fits, Cinderella. What a tender flower.
Let me repeat my litany of woe: I gave birth in early November of 2004, lost my job in 2005, had to appeal maternity disability denial, have abdominal surgery, give birth, and start job hunting in relatively quick succession. I have found two non-permanent jobs since then and am doing both as the mother of an eight month old infant. I think Mr. Foilwoman has rather let me down.
Now, I've let him down, too. For a while, it seemed like my professional credentials were something of a license to print money. But that situation changed in no small part because I was gestating and bearing his children, which took an emotional and physical toll on me that left be a bit less efficient and with a less workaholic nature than I may previously have had. While I have been giving up things like (1) nice haircuts, (2) manicures, (3) meals out, (4) video rentals, (5) book purchases, (6) my car, (7) any hope of new and fashionable clothing, (8) long distance telephone, (9) my monthly book delivery (a fix, I admit), (10) any non-generic food product, and (11) the free time I used to have because he was "taking care" of the bank reconciliation (humorous now, truly) and budget, he has graciously allowed as how he doesn't think giving up the lawn service is a good idea, it's okay that I cancelled it. What a maroon!
Like the triangular-haired lady in Dilbert: Must restrain fist of death. Must restrain fist of death.
Handyman emailed, hoping I could make time to see him this week. I should say no, since I'm busy. We don't have a lot of time, either of us. However, I think I can see my way free to letting him take me out for drinks or dinner at a place of his choosing. Gosh, he's going to make reservations, make sure I get food I like, treat me to dinner, and tell me what an amazing person I am. Okay, he's doing all this in hopes of something. But the idea of a man actually being able to take care of logistics and finances is so unbelievably erotic at this point. He might just get lucky. Except we don't really have the time.
Okay, okay, I'm a superficial bitch. Except I'm not. I am at the end of my rope. So you heard it here first: most important seductive technique is the ability to make a plan and turn it into reality without leaving someone else holding the bag. That's it. Off to evil plans. Or to commit justifiable homicide. One or the other.
Then Mr. Foilwoman says he needs gas for his car right now. I have $13 on me. I tell him to take my last $13 in cash; he generously leaves me with $3. I point out that he really, really, really needs to start earning money and start spending less of mine (OK, it's ours, but I think I need to start being pretty fucking possessive). He says, in shocked horror: "You act like I am doing nothing!" If the shoe fits, Cinderella. What a tender flower.
Let me repeat my litany of woe: I gave birth in early November of 2004, lost my job in 2005, had to appeal maternity disability denial, have abdominal surgery, give birth, and start job hunting in relatively quick succession. I have found two non-permanent jobs since then and am doing both as the mother of an eight month old infant. I think Mr. Foilwoman has rather let me down.
Now, I've let him down, too. For a while, it seemed like my professional credentials were something of a license to print money. But that situation changed in no small part because I was gestating and bearing his children, which took an emotional and physical toll on me that left be a bit less efficient and with a less workaholic nature than I may previously have had. While I have been giving up things like (1) nice haircuts, (2) manicures, (3) meals out, (4) video rentals, (5) book purchases, (6) my car, (7) any hope of new and fashionable clothing, (8) long distance telephone, (9) my monthly book delivery (a fix, I admit), (10) any non-generic food product, and (11) the free time I used to have because he was "taking care" of the bank reconciliation (humorous now, truly) and budget, he has graciously allowed as how he doesn't think giving up the lawn service is a good idea, it's okay that I cancelled it. What a maroon!
Like the triangular-haired lady in Dilbert: Must restrain fist of death. Must restrain fist of death.
Handyman emailed, hoping I could make time to see him this week. I should say no, since I'm busy. We don't have a lot of time, either of us. However, I think I can see my way free to letting him take me out for drinks or dinner at a place of his choosing. Gosh, he's going to make reservations, make sure I get food I like, treat me to dinner, and tell me what an amazing person I am. Okay, he's doing all this in hopes of something. But the idea of a man actually being able to take care of logistics and finances is so unbelievably erotic at this point. He might just get lucky. Except we don't really have the time.
Okay, okay, I'm a superficial bitch. Except I'm not. I am at the end of my rope. So you heard it here first: most important seductive technique is the ability to make a plan and turn it into reality without leaving someone else holding the bag. That's it. Off to evil plans. Or to commit justifiable homicide. One or the other.
Carpe Diem
Anyone who doesn't know that my life both sucks and blows right now either (1) is visiting this blog for the first time, or (2) has the reading comprehension of Dubya and intelligence experts (or, alternatively, the reading comprehension of zucchini). That said, yesterday was a great day. I blogged much of yesterday when I should have been working (bad me!). Then Innana (MVBFITWWW) came over to collect me (I sold my car several months ago due to financial constraints. Mr. Foilwoman has yet to contemplate selling his luxury vehicle with is a three-year old luxury sedan from Germany -- and not the bottom line model either) and the Foilbaby. Riding in the not-so-high-end-but completely-safe-and-serviceable Innana-mobile over to Innana's condolet (we live in different parts of the DC metropolitan area, sort of like Supercookie and GBM in North and South London, btw, visit GBM's photo website, he has a good eye), I did some good knitting. I am working on a sweater for Mr. Foilwoman and a jacket for me. Oddly, the work on his jacket got left behind . . . somehow, the things I am working on are things for me, me, me.
Innana had some nice German beer available (Becks!), ordered some good Chinese grub (pork with Ginger!), and after dinner we took a walk through her kid-and-dog-friendly neighborhood to the ice cream shop, serving Gifford's Ice Cream (which is good ice cream). After making me an ice cream soda, and Innana a not so small single scoop of vanilla bean (the counter guy likes her, I could tell), he then got a teensy-weensy spoonful for the Foilbaby, so she could try ice cream for the very first time. Well, since she had already eaten some of Innana's, the very second time (Innana is a soft touch when it comes to the Foilbaby). Foilbaby, not surprisingly, likes both banana ice cream and vanilla bean ice cream.
We walked by several familyies with one to two year olds who were a good bit smaller (height wise and girth wise) than the Foilbaby (who is not yet 9 months old). Her defining characteristic is roundness. She has pillow feet, dimpled hands, dimpled knees, and little rolls of chub at her ankles, wrists, neck, and thighs. That doesn't sound great, but she looks like a cherub. Big round eyes. Absolutely no neck. She thrashes when she gets excited (which happens easily), kicking her chubby legs and flapping her chubby arms. We got back to the condolet, and the excitement of the evening had worn her out . . . She was rubbing her eyes, looking so extremely tired and woebegone. The abuse must stop.
So Innana and I stayed up and chatted for a while, and then conked out. Innana slept on her pull out couch so that Foilbaby and I could have the comfy bed. Then when we woke up, Innana made French Toast with real maple syrup (warmed, just like it should be), sausages, coffee, and oj. Foilbaby made eyes at Innana's useful cat, who cleverly kept her distance. I got home two hours ago, and took the Foildog for a pleasant walk (middle of the day and it wasn't too hot!). Once I finish this post, its back to work on my projects due Wednesday.
So, I have no idea how I will afford my daughter's school tuition due August 20th. I don't even know how we are collecting her from the friends she's visiting. I don't know where I'll be working in 6 months. I don't know how I am going to balance the budget. I know! I'll be Ronald Reagan, and I'll just spend more! That's it. My husband isn't crazy, he's just a neo-con Republican. It's all clear to me now. Whoops, that only works in imaginary places, like Bush's brain and the State of Euphoria. Here, in the greater D.C. area, we have to pay our bills with the money we make or go bankrupt. Despite all this, I'm in a great mood today. Maybe I'll even get some work done!
Innana had some nice German beer available (Becks!), ordered some good Chinese grub (pork with Ginger!), and after dinner we took a walk through her kid-and-dog-friendly neighborhood to the ice cream shop, serving Gifford's Ice Cream (which is good ice cream). After making me an ice cream soda, and Innana a not so small single scoop of vanilla bean (the counter guy likes her, I could tell), he then got a teensy-weensy spoonful for the Foilbaby, so she could try ice cream for the very first time. Well, since she had already eaten some of Innana's, the very second time (Innana is a soft touch when it comes to the Foilbaby). Foilbaby, not surprisingly, likes both banana ice cream and vanilla bean ice cream.
We walked by several familyies with one to two year olds who were a good bit smaller (height wise and girth wise) than the Foilbaby (who is not yet 9 months old). Her defining characteristic is roundness. She has pillow feet, dimpled hands, dimpled knees, and little rolls of chub at her ankles, wrists, neck, and thighs. That doesn't sound great, but she looks like a cherub. Big round eyes. Absolutely no neck. She thrashes when she gets excited (which happens easily), kicking her chubby legs and flapping her chubby arms. We got back to the condolet, and the excitement of the evening had worn her out . . . She was rubbing her eyes, looking so extremely tired and woebegone. The abuse must stop.
So Innana and I stayed up and chatted for a while, and then conked out. Innana slept on her pull out couch so that Foilbaby and I could have the comfy bed. Then when we woke up, Innana made French Toast with real maple syrup (warmed, just like it should be), sausages, coffee, and oj. Foilbaby made eyes at Innana's useful cat, who cleverly kept her distance. I got home two hours ago, and took the Foildog for a pleasant walk (middle of the day and it wasn't too hot!). Once I finish this post, its back to work on my projects due Wednesday.
So, I have no idea how I will afford my daughter's school tuition due August 20th. I don't even know how we are collecting her from the friends she's visiting. I don't know where I'll be working in 6 months. I don't know how I am going to balance the budget. I know! I'll be Ronald Reagan, and I'll just spend more! That's it. My husband isn't crazy, he's just a neo-con Republican. It's all clear to me now. Whoops, that only works in imaginary places, like Bush's brain and the State of Euphoria. Here, in the greater D.C. area, we have to pay our bills with the money we make or go bankrupt. Despite all this, I'm in a great mood today. Maybe I'll even get some work done!
July 23, 2005
Fun Weekend Ahead, Blogging Reality, and Real Reality
Mr. Foilwoman is out running errands and visiting friends so the house is quiet. Well, it's as quiet as a house with a Foilbaby and a Foildog can be expected to be. The Foilbaby and I are going over to Innana's condolet for a sleepover. Innana and I will eat and talk and she even has a bottle of limoncello in the freezer (Kira wrote a lovely post about limoncello recently. I don't have the exact link. Check out her link to the right).
Innana is my very best friend in the whole wide world (hence the abbreviation MVBFITWWW) and I got her into blogging. That's because I'm evil. And a force to be reckoned with. And right about now, going out of my mind with everything that is going one with my life. So I think she has joined me in blogging to give me comfort as pretty much everything I have done and tried to accomplish in my life crashes around me. However, that changes the nature of the beast.
When I started blogging, eons ago, I was venting about my therapist, impending job loss, and my husband apparently losing touch with reality. Since then, I fired that therapist (useless offspring of a high government official), lost my job, got some independent contract work, started a serious job hunt, got a better paying but still temp job, tried to get my husband to seek help, decided my husband wasn't changing, sought extramarital diversion, found it, noticed that my husband's grip on reality is especially sketchy when it comes to money, took steps to prevent my family from becoming homeless (i.e., took over the finances) and arranged for my eldest child to travel to her favorite relatives and then grandparents so as to have a fun and stress free summer vacation that any six-year old deserves. She turned six this week, away from me. Having a blast.
When I started blogging, eons ago, I intended this blog to be completely anonymous. It isn't completely anonymous anymore: Innana knows about and participates in this blog and a former potential swain who took himself out of the running knew about this blog (I wonder if there's a connection?). The former potential swain (FPS) who knew about this blog didn't phase me much because while I know his whole name, he only knows my first name and doesn't have my phone number, etc (I think). I wish him no ill, and if he reads something that bothers him, it isn't going to ruin his life or make him think less of me.
But I have known Innana since the Spring of 1984 (she was two). I care about her good opinion of me. I don't want to hurt her feelings. I don't want to write anything that would bother her. Because of that, those of you who have read this blog obsessively (yes, you who spent 23 hours here in the last two days, that means you unless you are a really slow reader) may notice that some prior posts have changed mainly by deletion of certain sections of certain posts.
Let's be blunt: I'm Foilwoman, but Foilwoman is a persona. She's the persona I use to kick some ass and take some names. You can read about her history in the archives. Needing to be that person again, I have assumed the mantle of Foilwoman, who, in her shiny silver unitard (or Tiger catsuit, depending on the party we are talking about) does let anyone push her or anyone she loves around. Defender of the downtrodden (and my bank account). That's our girl.
This has been enormously therapeutic, given the things I have had to face since becoming pregnant with the Foilbaby at age 43. So, again the disclaimer: this is a story. This story is funny and has a happy ending because I write the ending. I haven't decided what the ending will be: does Foilwoman reconcile with Mr. Foilwoman who learns how to count his pennies and pay attention to his wife? Does Foilwoman take on the Jill Clayburgh role in "An Unmarried Woman"? Is this going to be a series of picaresque adventures like Don Quijote or Lazarillo de Tormes? Or a roman a clef about spiritual development, personal growth, and my development as a person? We'll see. But the stories I right about are the stories I can write about.
So you will never get the nitty-gritty of Mr. Foilwoman's diagnosis or specifics of his or anyone else's bedroom performance. Handyman didn't sign up to be skewered and doesn't deserve it, so he won't be. He won't even be described much. He's about as therapeutic for me as this blog is. I should feel bad about that, but I don't.
So, yes, I have dropped some threads and left some stories hanging. Some of that is reality interfering with narration. In some instances I may provide resolutions to subplots that would otherwise remain hanging, but the larger story arc remains to be told. However, I don't want any story I tell to hurt Innana, the Foilkid, the Foilbaby, Mr. Foilwoman, or Handyman. I don't want to disclose anyone else's secrets or portray someone in an unattractive light. Unfortunately, as I write what has been happening lately, some of that description does portray certain individuals in an unattractive light, possibly vitiated a bit by the fact that the description is anonymous and one he will never (believe me) read.
But I do censor myself more now. But that's ok. Writers always censor themselves for their audiences and the reality they live in. I think I can still vent in my blog, be occasionally amusing, and tell my tale without causing offense. Maybe at the end of this, I'll be financially solvent and in an emotionally healthy, happy, and physically satisfying relationship. It's my story. I can write the ending.
Innana is my very best friend in the whole wide world (hence the abbreviation MVBFITWWW) and I got her into blogging. That's because I'm evil. And a force to be reckoned with. And right about now, going out of my mind with everything that is going one with my life. So I think she has joined me in blogging to give me comfort as pretty much everything I have done and tried to accomplish in my life crashes around me. However, that changes the nature of the beast.
When I started blogging, eons ago, I was venting about my therapist, impending job loss, and my husband apparently losing touch with reality. Since then, I fired that therapist (useless offspring of a high government official), lost my job, got some independent contract work, started a serious job hunt, got a better paying but still temp job, tried to get my husband to seek help, decided my husband wasn't changing, sought extramarital diversion, found it, noticed that my husband's grip on reality is especially sketchy when it comes to money, took steps to prevent my family from becoming homeless (i.e., took over the finances) and arranged for my eldest child to travel to her favorite relatives and then grandparents so as to have a fun and stress free summer vacation that any six-year old deserves. She turned six this week, away from me. Having a blast.
When I started blogging, eons ago, I intended this blog to be completely anonymous. It isn't completely anonymous anymore: Innana knows about and participates in this blog and a former potential swain who took himself out of the running knew about this blog (I wonder if there's a connection?). The former potential swain (FPS) who knew about this blog didn't phase me much because while I know his whole name, he only knows my first name and doesn't have my phone number, etc (I think). I wish him no ill, and if he reads something that bothers him, it isn't going to ruin his life or make him think less of me.
But I have known Innana since the Spring of 1984 (she was two). I care about her good opinion of me. I don't want to hurt her feelings. I don't want to write anything that would bother her. Because of that, those of you who have read this blog obsessively (yes, you who spent 23 hours here in the last two days, that means you unless you are a really slow reader) may notice that some prior posts have changed mainly by deletion of certain sections of certain posts.
Let's be blunt: I'm Foilwoman, but Foilwoman is a persona. She's the persona I use to kick some ass and take some names. You can read about her history in the archives. Needing to be that person again, I have assumed the mantle of Foilwoman, who, in her shiny silver unitard (or Tiger catsuit, depending on the party we are talking about) does let anyone push her or anyone she loves around. Defender of the downtrodden (and my bank account). That's our girl.
This has been enormously therapeutic, given the things I have had to face since becoming pregnant with the Foilbaby at age 43. So, again the disclaimer: this is a story. This story is funny and has a happy ending because I write the ending. I haven't decided what the ending will be: does Foilwoman reconcile with Mr. Foilwoman who learns how to count his pennies and pay attention to his wife? Does Foilwoman take on the Jill Clayburgh role in "An Unmarried Woman"? Is this going to be a series of picaresque adventures like Don Quijote or Lazarillo de Tormes? Or a roman a clef about spiritual development, personal growth, and my development as a person? We'll see. But the stories I right about are the stories I can write about.
So you will never get the nitty-gritty of Mr. Foilwoman's diagnosis or specifics of his or anyone else's bedroom performance. Handyman didn't sign up to be skewered and doesn't deserve it, so he won't be. He won't even be described much. He's about as therapeutic for me as this blog is. I should feel bad about that, but I don't.
So, yes, I have dropped some threads and left some stories hanging. Some of that is reality interfering with narration. In some instances I may provide resolutions to subplots that would otherwise remain hanging, but the larger story arc remains to be told. However, I don't want any story I tell to hurt Innana, the Foilkid, the Foilbaby, Mr. Foilwoman, or Handyman. I don't want to disclose anyone else's secrets or portray someone in an unattractive light. Unfortunately, as I write what has been happening lately, some of that description does portray certain individuals in an unattractive light, possibly vitiated a bit by the fact that the description is anonymous and one he will never (believe me) read.
But I do censor myself more now. But that's ok. Writers always censor themselves for their audiences and the reality they live in. I think I can still vent in my blog, be occasionally amusing, and tell my tale without causing offense. Maybe at the end of this, I'll be financially solvent and in an emotionally healthy, happy, and physically satisfying relationship. It's my story. I can write the ending.
July 21, 2005
A New Page
There is one person on this planet who heard the phrase "Honey, we have to talk" tonight, and yet was undeservedly shocked and surprised by the discovery that I really did go ahead and sever our finances. I almost feel bad for the guy. Not bad enough to stop my plan of action, but bad enough to wonder if my version of reality is so very, very different.
I'm going to stop nagging him about selling his Mercedes. Sooner or later, he's going to realize: he can't afford it. I'm simply not going to write checks for non-essentials. Today he went to the grocery store and DIDN'T buy steak or lobster.
I've been getting the cold shoulder. "I didn't know you were so awful," is a phrase that has been repeated maybe a tad too frequently. I have restrained the impulse to reply "I didn't know you were a spendthrift used douchebag." Oops, maybe the fact that I'm just a little peeved is showing through? Ya think?
The Foilparents, although 25 years divorce and in general loathing one another, have coordinated so that the Foilkid gets picked up in Canada and has a nice summer vacation on the coast of Maine with her adored and worshipped (God of her idolatry) 13-year old cousin who is a really good sport and plays with her. I so owe my Mom, Dad, and Sister, who have been emailing so much that internet traffic from the U.S. to Europe has been noticeable slower.
Now all I have to do is finish the project (independent contract, not the new job) that is due for my independent work. They want a meeting Monday. No way I am ready. Grrr. Arrrgh. Hey, I wrote papers throughout college in one late night with lots o' caffeine. Why should this be any different. For a political theory class that I had blown off, I got an A- (in the days before grade inflation) about my cat as a political animal. So I can cough something up.
Also, I have a real interview in early August.
I'm going to stop nagging him about selling his Mercedes. Sooner or later, he's going to realize: he can't afford it. I'm simply not going to write checks for non-essentials. Today he went to the grocery store and DIDN'T buy steak or lobster.
I've been getting the cold shoulder. "I didn't know you were so awful," is a phrase that has been repeated maybe a tad too frequently. I have restrained the impulse to reply "I didn't know you were a spendthrift used douchebag." Oops, maybe the fact that I'm just a little peeved is showing through? Ya think?
The Foilparents, although 25 years divorce and in general loathing one another, have coordinated so that the Foilkid gets picked up in Canada and has a nice summer vacation on the coast of Maine with her adored and worshipped (God of her idolatry) 13-year old cousin who is a really good sport and plays with her. I so owe my Mom, Dad, and Sister, who have been emailing so much that internet traffic from the U.S. to Europe has been noticeable slower.
Now all I have to do is finish the project (independent contract, not the new job) that is due for my independent work. They want a meeting Monday. No way I am ready. Grrr. Arrrgh. Hey, I wrote papers throughout college in one late night with lots o' caffeine. Why should this be any different. For a political theory class that I had blown off, I got an A- (in the days before grade inflation) about my cat as a political animal. So I can cough something up.
Also, I have a real interview in early August.
Interview From Rainy Pete (A/K/A More Useless Than My Cat)
From MUTMC: Here's your interrrogation Foilwoman!!
1. Why are you Foilwoman? Is it because you hurt people's teeth? NO! I am Foilwoman of ______ who was originated back in 19__ as "Foilwoman of _____, and Urban Tale of Horror, Love, and Disaster, with a Moral" when Foilwoman and Innana were roommates in the suburbs of DC. Foilwoman was a superheroine who, oh, how can I say this so you won't feel threatened, put useless men in a deep-freeze of cryogenic storage until they could be useful. Since they were mostly lobbyists, lawyers, politicians, and other yuppie scum, no-one noticed their disappearance. Except she accidentally kidnaps a kindergarten teacher, who is instantly missed. Go archive-diving for the complete history. Foilwoman was in existence prior to the existence of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so Joss Whedon stole my idea. Except Foilwoman is tall and dark, not short and blond.
2. Why do space aliens only abduct hillbillies? You want us to leave them behind to increase the chances of some offspring of yours hooking up with one of those chinless wonders? It's really charity work brought to you by Darwin . . . clean up the gene pool. Oh, but they send them back. I know! They (the aliens) are male and, you guessed it, useless!
3. What is the happiest moment of your life? Clearly, the discovery of the Useless Advice by Useless Men Blog, a discovery that proved my personal experiences and beliefs correct beyond all shadow of a doubt. Actually, birth of Foilkid and Foilbaby (for a question like that one has to be sincere). Flip and glib answer: Forbidding Innana and my (male) neighbors to call me "intimidating". They obeyed because they were intimidated. No irony there.
4. What do you want to be when you grow up? I'm already 6' tall . . . I'm getting bigger? And anyway, upon my apotheosis into Foilwoman, I wept like Alexander did, because there was no more world to conquer.
5. What is your all time favourite movie? Too many to say: Tampopo, Like Water for Chocolate, Casablanca, Woman of the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, My Brilliant Career, Road Warrior, Diva, Babette's Feast, Italian for Beginners, Room with a View, Age of Innocence, the English Patient, Deep Blue Sea, Blade & Blade II, Alien, Aliens, Six Degrees of Separation, Jonah Who Will Be 25 in the Year 2000, Night of the Shooting Stars, Z, the Battle of Algiers, Das Boot, Der Himmeling uber Berlin (Wings of Desire), the Marriage of Maria Braun, and Alice Doesn't Live Here Any More. Actually, many more. Top film is really, Foilkid doing a hula dance to the Lilo and Stitch song at her school fair day.
This interrogation brought to you by Rainypete!
And no the rules (Stinkin' rules always cluttering up life....)
1. Leave me a comment saying 'interview me please'
2. I will respond by asking you five questions here on my blog (not the same questions you see here)
3. You will update your blog/site with the answers to the questions
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions
1. Why are you Foilwoman? Is it because you hurt people's teeth? NO! I am Foilwoman of ______ who was originated back in 19__ as "Foilwoman of _____, and Urban Tale of Horror, Love, and Disaster, with a Moral" when Foilwoman and Innana were roommates in the suburbs of DC. Foilwoman was a superheroine who, oh, how can I say this so you won't feel threatened, put useless men in a deep-freeze of cryogenic storage until they could be useful. Since they were mostly lobbyists, lawyers, politicians, and other yuppie scum, no-one noticed their disappearance. Except she accidentally kidnaps a kindergarten teacher, who is instantly missed. Go archive-diving for the complete history. Foilwoman was in existence prior to the existence of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so Joss Whedon stole my idea. Except Foilwoman is tall and dark, not short and blond.
2. Why do space aliens only abduct hillbillies? You want us to leave them behind to increase the chances of some offspring of yours hooking up with one of those chinless wonders? It's really charity work brought to you by Darwin . . . clean up the gene pool. Oh, but they send them back. I know! They (the aliens) are male and, you guessed it, useless!
3. What is the happiest moment of your life? Clearly, the discovery of the Useless Advice by Useless Men Blog, a discovery that proved my personal experiences and beliefs correct beyond all shadow of a doubt. Actually, birth of Foilkid and Foilbaby (for a question like that one has to be sincere). Flip and glib answer: Forbidding Innana and my (male) neighbors to call me "intimidating". They obeyed because they were intimidated. No irony there.
4. What do you want to be when you grow up? I'm already 6' tall . . . I'm getting bigger? And anyway, upon my apotheosis into Foilwoman, I wept like Alexander did, because there was no more world to conquer.
5. What is your all time favourite movie? Too many to say: Tampopo, Like Water for Chocolate, Casablanca, Woman of the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, My Brilliant Career, Road Warrior, Diva, Babette's Feast, Italian for Beginners, Room with a View, Age of Innocence, the English Patient, Deep Blue Sea, Blade & Blade II, Alien, Aliens, Six Degrees of Separation, Jonah Who Will Be 25 in the Year 2000, Night of the Shooting Stars, Z, the Battle of Algiers, Das Boot, Der Himmeling uber Berlin (Wings of Desire), the Marriage of Maria Braun, and Alice Doesn't Live Here Any More. Actually, many more. Top film is really, Foilkid doing a hula dance to the Lilo and Stitch song at her school fair day.
This interrogation brought to you by Rainypete!
And no the rules (Stinkin' rules always cluttering up life....)
1. Leave me a comment saying 'interview me please'
2. I will respond by asking you five questions here on my blog (not the same questions you see here)
3. You will update your blog/site with the answers to the questions
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions
July 20, 2005
Work! It Gets in the Way of My Blogging Pleasure
You know, when you work in an office (or town dump or laundromat or just about anywhere) sometimes the ask you to do things you don't particularly care to do. But unless you are a trustfund baby (or married to me) you do those unpleasant tasks to be able to do the basic things like pay your mortgage. So I've been working on a new job as well as my old freelance job. After walking the Foildog twice a day, I just don't have the blogging energy I need to produce a quality product for my reading public (who are deeply disturbed, and thus I must make sure that the quality is good enough to not disturb them further).
Mr. Foilwoman has declared that I will regret separating finances. I regret not doing it a year or more ago. I regret ever joining finances. My parents are going to have the Foilkid visit them for a while after she's done visiting her favorite uncle and family in Montreal. Mr. Foilwoman told me I was just awful and that I was going crazy. I said, "At this point, that doesn't seem like an irrational response, now does it." I told him to think about how much money he would need to cover basic expenses. I told him that obviously the mortgage and high priority bills would come first. I told him I was tired of working two jobs, and he got offended "And you think I'm doing nothing?" My response: "I wasn't talking about your contribution to the family. I'm just saying . . . I'm tired."
My father sent Mr. Foilwoman an email detailing his concerns about me, the family, our finances, and other things. It was not a hostile email. It was an email saying that my Dad is worried. Mr. Foilwoman got offended. In Mr. Foilwoman's culture, you don't go to a marriage counselor, you get an older male relative involved. I guess that's one part of his culture he has conveniently forgotten. At the same time, he kept telling me that I really should obey him or "you'll see what happens." I'm not getting a physical threat vibe, but JFC that's creepy. He couldn't figure out how to cut cable service, phone service or trim anything else. And he started talking about how we needed to buy a weedwhacker. I told him not to talk about buying things.
How did we get to this place? I'm working two jobs, and if I say I'm tired, he can't sympathize, he takes the statement as an accusation that he is not pulling his weight. Well, duh. He's not. Raising the kids is a very important role, but if in order to do that he has to buy enough luxury items to make sure that I can't send the kids to college, then we've failed to some extent, I'd say. Tomorrow is the first paycheck that will go in the new account, not the joint account. Let's see how that goes.
Mr. Foilwoman has declared that I will regret separating finances. I regret not doing it a year or more ago. I regret ever joining finances. My parents are going to have the Foilkid visit them for a while after she's done visiting her favorite uncle and family in Montreal. Mr. Foilwoman told me I was just awful and that I was going crazy. I said, "At this point, that doesn't seem like an irrational response, now does it." I told him to think about how much money he would need to cover basic expenses. I told him that obviously the mortgage and high priority bills would come first. I told him I was tired of working two jobs, and he got offended "And you think I'm doing nothing?" My response: "I wasn't talking about your contribution to the family. I'm just saying . . . I'm tired."
My father sent Mr. Foilwoman an email detailing his concerns about me, the family, our finances, and other things. It was not a hostile email. It was an email saying that my Dad is worried. Mr. Foilwoman got offended. In Mr. Foilwoman's culture, you don't go to a marriage counselor, you get an older male relative involved. I guess that's one part of his culture he has conveniently forgotten. At the same time, he kept telling me that I really should obey him or "you'll see what happens." I'm not getting a physical threat vibe, but JFC that's creepy. He couldn't figure out how to cut cable service, phone service or trim anything else. And he started talking about how we needed to buy a weedwhacker. I told him not to talk about buying things.
How did we get to this place? I'm working two jobs, and if I say I'm tired, he can't sympathize, he takes the statement as an accusation that he is not pulling his weight. Well, duh. He's not. Raising the kids is a very important role, but if in order to do that he has to buy enough luxury items to make sure that I can't send the kids to college, then we've failed to some extent, I'd say. Tomorrow is the first paycheck that will go in the new account, not the joint account. Let's see how that goes.
July 17, 2005
Just Because I'm Paranoid Doesn't Mean The Universe Isn't Against Me
I don't even know where to begin. Let's start with the totally irrelevant. My blog has been dissed. No, wait, that's not quite accurate . . . my blog's title has been sneered at by a young woman, actually, an ex-patriate American in the U.K. who claims to be tired of cynicism and then picks my blog as one of her illustrations of this flaw among blogs. She clearly hasn't read the blog, she just didn't like my description:
Oh, I remember why I care: it is because my life sucks big time, like a big dog, beyond the telling of it, most particularly today. So, since the other problems are insoluble (no, they're not, but they feel that way now), I'll focus on what some completely-unimportant-to-me-and-amost-every-other-person-on-the-planet-twenty-something-who-doesn't-know-the-difference-between-cynicism-and-painfully-exposed wrote about my blog's title while she criticized everything else on the planet over a month ago -- yes, I just discovered the pan of my blog made on June 13 today, what can I say . . . I'm not such a quick study? (She's also a rabid fan of Depeche Mode, which I think means I should probably just feel pity). Except she's in IT, and could probably trash my blog, so I'll shut up now. Feel free to check out my intemperate comment and tell me how immature I am.
Back to real life, which seems increasingly like a nightmare, although one good thing has occurred: the Foilbaby arrived home hale and hearty. She has another tooth appearing, does some impressive flapping with the arms, and smiled non-stop upon seeing me.
Mr. Foilwoman immediately took exception to the state of the house. As I have been rising at 5:30 a.m. to walk the Foildog, then walk a mile to the subway, then work 8 hours, then walk a mile home from the subway, then work on my freelance projects, then walk the dog again, in order to make money to support his luxury habit addiction (and his vacation), no, I confess, I did not clean the house. Chances of me cleaning the house in the next millenia now? Zero.
Then he went into full "not-quite-here-in-the-real-world-rant" and accused me of disobeying him and not listening to him by cancelling the lawn service ($200+ per month) and buying a $10 used mower. I mowed almost all the front lawn yesterday, but the mower ran out of gas. Since I was carless, I didn't feel like walking two miles to the nearest gas station to carry home a gallon. So he was mad me not only for the extremely reckless purchase of a $10 mower, but for failing to finish the lawn. Although I had never previously been informed of this ailment, apparently he is allergic to grass (and we moved to the suburbs and he didn't mention this back in 2002, when we bought the damn house???). He wanted to return the mower to the sellers. Fortunately, they were diplomats who have left for Lima, and you can't make people in another country and on another continent rescind purchases.
We again got on the subject of retirement accounts. "Why do we need retirement accounts?" he asked me with a straight face. I said, perhaps a bit too snappily, "For our retirement?" He started screaming that we needed to use our retirement savings to pay our current expenses. I said, "No, we need to trim our current expenses." He said, "You just don't get it." No, I don't. You can finance your lifestyle on credit or future dreams, but eventually, you get to pay the bill. Before credit cards, if you didn't have enough money, you went without. We certainly haven't been doing without before the last few months, and even now, my "cost cutting" strategies would be increases in living standards for 99% of the world's population (cheaper long-distance, no lawn service, no steak, no lobster, buy food on sale, no more clothing purchases, sell second car (did that), sell jewelry (on the list), keep track of expenditures). The fact that I have to debate these completely rational and not exactly draconian belt-trimming steps as an alternative to liquidating our retirement accounts leaves me furious.
My husband also managed to get a speeding citation for reckless driving (more than 20 mph over the speed limit) on his way to vacation. This could result in increased insurance rates, a hefty fine, or even a criminal citation. He will have to make a court appearance in northern New York state a month or so from now. He wants me to tell him what to do. Since he doesn't trust my judgment regarding finances, I'm rather wondering why I am so the expert now.
My father will be calling tonight and I just dread the conversation he will have with Mr. Foilwoman. And my Dad is fond of Mr. FW. Mr. FW is my father's favorite son-in-law. Probably not for much longer. What do you do when someone just doesn't want to face reality. We're not poor by any stretch -- we're just not currently earning an upper-middle class salary. But you know, living on a middle class salary requires some monitoring one's expenditures, but really not a tragedy.
As a result of all this, Mr. Foilwoman being so (and inappropriately) angry about the cessation of lawn service and other potential cutbacks and general unwillingness to hear what I have to say, now in addition to searching for work, doing independent contractor work, working 40 hours a week at a temp job, walking the dog twice a day, doing the lawn, I now have to do the finances as well. I think I'll just start leaving clothes on the floor where they fall as I disrobe. He can pick them up and launder them. Unless he's out of town, I'm not doing laundry. Or cleaning. Or doing dishes. Can you say passive aggressive?
Oh, and I have poison ivy on my arms, legs, tummy, and breasts. Yup. I was gardening in shorts and a sports top. I am punished. Of course, I should have been more covered up. Me in that kind of outfit would be kind of like seeing the Queen in that kind of outfit. Or John Candy in a speedo. I'll never do that again universe, I promise!
What I'm finding on Bloglines is everyone feels the need to pretend they don't care. Or they use things that are supposedly wonderfully and amazingly fantastic to entice you in. Foilwoman's Diary promises you'll read about the following problems: "It's hard to be a superhero in stylish, yet affordable shoes, especially now that Buffy the Vampire Slayer is ancient history. How do I save the world, support my family, not squash my spouse's fragile ego, raise my kids right, and find fulfilment while maintaining my moral compass?" Why the moral compass description? Why the comment about the shoes? Would that actually bring in an audience besides friends?This under a post stating "I'm tired of being a cynic". I've got news for this chiquita. If she's tired of cynicism WTF is she doing living in the U.K.? And on what planet is my blog an exercise in cynicism? If anything, the mortal flaw of this blog is that it is painfully earnest. I am painfully earnest. Needless to say, this young woman has entitled her blog Criminally Vulgar. I am inclined to agree with her. Needless to say, I wrote something intemperate on her blog, which I don't regret yet, but probably will later. Oh well. Tell me what I moron I am (why do I care, again?).
Oh, I remember why I care: it is because my life sucks big time, like a big dog, beyond the telling of it, most particularly today. So, since the other problems are insoluble (no, they're not, but they feel that way now), I'll focus on what some completely-unimportant-to-me-and-amost-every-other-person-on-the-planet-twenty-something-who-doesn't-know-the-difference-between-cynicism-and-painfully-exposed wrote about my blog's title while she criticized everything else on the planet over a month ago -- yes, I just discovered the pan of my blog made on June 13 today, what can I say . . . I'm not such a quick study? (She's also a rabid fan of Depeche Mode, which I think means I should probably just feel pity). Except she's in IT, and could probably trash my blog, so I'll shut up now. Feel free to check out my intemperate comment and tell me how immature I am.
Back to real life, which seems increasingly like a nightmare, although one good thing has occurred: the Foilbaby arrived home hale and hearty. She has another tooth appearing, does some impressive flapping with the arms, and smiled non-stop upon seeing me.
Mr. Foilwoman immediately took exception to the state of the house. As I have been rising at 5:30 a.m. to walk the Foildog, then walk a mile to the subway, then work 8 hours, then walk a mile home from the subway, then work on my freelance projects, then walk the dog again, in order to make money to support his luxury habit addiction (and his vacation), no, I confess, I did not clean the house. Chances of me cleaning the house in the next millenia now? Zero.
Then he went into full "not-quite-here-in-the-real-world-rant" and accused me of disobeying him and not listening to him by cancelling the lawn service ($200+ per month) and buying a $10 used mower. I mowed almost all the front lawn yesterday, but the mower ran out of gas. Since I was carless, I didn't feel like walking two miles to the nearest gas station to carry home a gallon. So he was mad me not only for the extremely reckless purchase of a $10 mower, but for failing to finish the lawn. Although I had never previously been informed of this ailment, apparently he is allergic to grass (and we moved to the suburbs and he didn't mention this back in 2002, when we bought the damn house???). He wanted to return the mower to the sellers. Fortunately, they were diplomats who have left for Lima, and you can't make people in another country and on another continent rescind purchases.
We again got on the subject of retirement accounts. "Why do we need retirement accounts?" he asked me with a straight face. I said, perhaps a bit too snappily, "For our retirement?" He started screaming that we needed to use our retirement savings to pay our current expenses. I said, "No, we need to trim our current expenses." He said, "You just don't get it." No, I don't. You can finance your lifestyle on credit or future dreams, but eventually, you get to pay the bill. Before credit cards, if you didn't have enough money, you went without. We certainly haven't been doing without before the last few months, and even now, my "cost cutting" strategies would be increases in living standards for 99% of the world's population (cheaper long-distance, no lawn service, no steak, no lobster, buy food on sale, no more clothing purchases, sell second car (did that), sell jewelry (on the list), keep track of expenditures). The fact that I have to debate these completely rational and not exactly draconian belt-trimming steps as an alternative to liquidating our retirement accounts leaves me furious.
My husband also managed to get a speeding citation for reckless driving (more than 20 mph over the speed limit) on his way to vacation. This could result in increased insurance rates, a hefty fine, or even a criminal citation. He will have to make a court appearance in northern New York state a month or so from now. He wants me to tell him what to do. Since he doesn't trust my judgment regarding finances, I'm rather wondering why I am so the expert now.
My father will be calling tonight and I just dread the conversation he will have with Mr. Foilwoman. And my Dad is fond of Mr. FW. Mr. FW is my father's favorite son-in-law. Probably not for much longer. What do you do when someone just doesn't want to face reality. We're not poor by any stretch -- we're just not currently earning an upper-middle class salary. But you know, living on a middle class salary requires some monitoring one's expenditures, but really not a tragedy.
As a result of all this, Mr. Foilwoman being so (and inappropriately) angry about the cessation of lawn service and other potential cutbacks and general unwillingness to hear what I have to say, now in addition to searching for work, doing independent contractor work, working 40 hours a week at a temp job, walking the dog twice a day, doing the lawn, I now have to do the finances as well. I think I'll just start leaving clothes on the floor where they fall as I disrobe. He can pick them up and launder them. Unless he's out of town, I'm not doing laundry. Or cleaning. Or doing dishes. Can you say passive aggressive?
Oh, and I have poison ivy on my arms, legs, tummy, and breasts. Yup. I was gardening in shorts and a sports top. I am punished. Of course, I should have been more covered up. Me in that kind of outfit would be kind of like seeing the Queen in that kind of outfit. Or John Candy in a speedo. I'll never do that again universe, I promise!
July 16, 2005
Return of Mr. FW and Art
These are two separate subjects, which occurred to be concommitantly, but which will not intermingle.
Return of Mr. Foilwoman
Mr. Foilwoman is due home in a few hours. I am not looking forward to the reunion, except that Mr. Foilwoman's return will also mean a reunion with the Foilbaby. Since Mr. Foilwoman has a fragile male ego, I have to pussyfoot around the subject of his financial dereliction. He just assumes that I will make more money to replace the money he spent. On his last grocery trip before leaving, he bought wine, steak, skinless chicken breasts and other higher priced luxuries. We don't need skinless boneless chicken breats. Buy the whole damn roaster at $.39/pound. So now, I have established the new bank account, and am starting to sever my finances from his. Needless to say, he will not be pleased.
Part of me wants to be confrontational, but that simply won't work. My plan is to simply present him with a fait accompli. I now will be paying household bills out of my new account. Unfortunately, that will not include the private tennis, lawn care, high priced grocery items, or any non-essentials as determined by me. I will not work 80 hour weeks (missing my entire life in the process) to enable my husband to not soil his hands mowing the lawn. Nor will I give up retirement savings for that same purpose.
The thing is, Mr. Foilwoman is going to act all hurt and betrayed. I'm not the one who resulted in the savings account being empty and us needing to use the overdraft on the checking account. Nope. But he'll ask me something like "Do you think I don't know how to handle money? I have a degree in ________ (something to do with money)." If I respond honestly, "Yes, I don't trust you with money. You've messed up before, but this time you've really screwed the pooch." He will start accusing me of all sorts of things. So I'll soft pedal: I'll say something like "It seems like you've been overwhelmed with the job search and taking care of the kids, and it seemed like you wanted me to take care of more. So I have and I am. I'll be taking care of the finances from now on. I'll give you a check to put in the joint account (or you can start up your own account), but really, I think this will be best handled by me. It's not going to be fun. I'm not looking forward to it.
Art: Opening of New Building and New Exhibition at American University
This weekend, American University held an open house for it's new addition, the Katzen Arts Center. A good friend of Innana's and mine, who has been helping me with my job hunt, asked how my job hunt was going. I said, it's a bit on hold. I told her about the temp job, and then told her that I haven't gotten much done on the long range action in the last few weeks. She asked why. I told her.
Now, if GBM thinks I am a meddler (which I freely admit to being), this friend is a meddler of another order of magnitude or two. She's an occupying army. She's tiny, compared to me, but no-one can stand against her for long. Compared to her, I'm not even an amateur meddler. She is the Uber-Smart-Short-Scary-White-Chick-Lawyer (USSSWCL or Uber for short).
Needless to say, USSSWCL decided that I needed Art and then Lunch. She informed me of the opening of the Katzen Center, and asked me (but I knew it wasn't really a question, and anyway, I'd going with her to see anything she was interested in) to come see the open house and the exhibition with her. It was great. The building is of the modern style that Prince Charles loathes, but he has no chin, so who cares. Chinless wonder. It's a beautiful building. I have some doubts as to overall functionality (the Architects, Einhorn, Yafee and Prescott Architecture and Engineering, seem to have had great aesthetics, now whether they work or not is another question), but the building was beautiful. We wandered all around the building and then went to see the opening exhibit, entitled "Soft Openings", which was a lousy name for a good show. The name just sounds stupid, but the exhibit isn't. There were eight "portraits" by Lee Haner (actually, they were paintings named after Tom Corbett, Marlin Perkins, Cisco Kid, Barbara Jordan, Agnes Martin, Roy Orbison, Ming, and Howard Johnson). I'm still trying to figure out why different paintings represented each individual, but the paintings were interesting. I also liked Paul Kos's "Pawn" which was a three dimensional piece using plastic chess pieces to form the overall likeness of a pawn. It looked very different at various perspectives and was much lovelier than I expected. I was surprised how much I liked it. There was an interesting sculpture entiteld "Core" by Yuriko Yamaguchi (although the artist's written description of the piece made me wish that someone had told Mr. or Ms. Yamaguchi to please still to visual arts and leave language arts to someone else. At the same time, another artist, David Page, wrote up a hilarious description of his three dimensional work "Malevolent Tea Ball and Cozy" (inspired by a BBC news story about injuries in Britain -- 400 or so each year -- involving tea cozies, as hard as that might be to imagine), which took a piece I had previously thought "interesting" without thinking more and turned it immediately into something much more delightful. There were a number of other works that I enjoyed, but those are the ones about which I have something to say.
If you're in DC, the exhibit is free, and the building is lovely. Stop by.
On our way out, USSSWCL and I got to meet Dr. and Mrs. Katzen. We congratulated them on the beautiful building and the exhibition. He patted my hand. He gave $15,000,000 to the University to have his name attached. I think it was a worthwhile investment.
Someday, I'll give money to good institutions again, and not just for good works but for beautiful things as well (bread and roses). That may be in the distant future, but I will do it.
Return of Mr. Foilwoman
Mr. Foilwoman is due home in a few hours. I am not looking forward to the reunion, except that Mr. Foilwoman's return will also mean a reunion with the Foilbaby. Since Mr. Foilwoman has a fragile male ego, I have to pussyfoot around the subject of his financial dereliction. He just assumes that I will make more money to replace the money he spent. On his last grocery trip before leaving, he bought wine, steak, skinless chicken breasts and other higher priced luxuries. We don't need skinless boneless chicken breats. Buy the whole damn roaster at $.39/pound. So now, I have established the new bank account, and am starting to sever my finances from his. Needless to say, he will not be pleased.
Part of me wants to be confrontational, but that simply won't work. My plan is to simply present him with a fait accompli. I now will be paying household bills out of my new account. Unfortunately, that will not include the private tennis, lawn care, high priced grocery items, or any non-essentials as determined by me. I will not work 80 hour weeks (missing my entire life in the process) to enable my husband to not soil his hands mowing the lawn. Nor will I give up retirement savings for that same purpose.
The thing is, Mr. Foilwoman is going to act all hurt and betrayed. I'm not the one who resulted in the savings account being empty and us needing to use the overdraft on the checking account. Nope. But he'll ask me something like "Do you think I don't know how to handle money? I have a degree in ________ (something to do with money)." If I respond honestly, "Yes, I don't trust you with money. You've messed up before, but this time you've really screwed the pooch." He will start accusing me of all sorts of things. So I'll soft pedal: I'll say something like "It seems like you've been overwhelmed with the job search and taking care of the kids, and it seemed like you wanted me to take care of more. So I have and I am. I'll be taking care of the finances from now on. I'll give you a check to put in the joint account (or you can start up your own account), but really, I think this will be best handled by me. It's not going to be fun. I'm not looking forward to it.
Art: Opening of New Building and New Exhibition at American University
This weekend, American University held an open house for it's new addition, the Katzen Arts Center. A good friend of Innana's and mine, who has been helping me with my job hunt, asked how my job hunt was going. I said, it's a bit on hold. I told her about the temp job, and then told her that I haven't gotten much done on the long range action in the last few weeks. She asked why. I told her.
Now, if GBM thinks I am a meddler (which I freely admit to being), this friend is a meddler of another order of magnitude or two. She's an occupying army. She's tiny, compared to me, but no-one can stand against her for long. Compared to her, I'm not even an amateur meddler. She is the Uber-Smart-Short-Scary-White-Chick-Lawyer (USSSWCL or Uber for short).
Needless to say, USSSWCL decided that I needed Art and then Lunch. She informed me of the opening of the Katzen Center, and asked me (but I knew it wasn't really a question, and anyway, I'd going with her to see anything she was interested in) to come see the open house and the exhibition with her. It was great. The building is of the modern style that Prince Charles loathes, but he has no chin, so who cares. Chinless wonder. It's a beautiful building. I have some doubts as to overall functionality (the Architects, Einhorn, Yafee and Prescott Architecture and Engineering, seem to have had great aesthetics, now whether they work or not is another question), but the building was beautiful. We wandered all around the building and then went to see the opening exhibit, entitled "Soft Openings", which was a lousy name for a good show. The name just sounds stupid, but the exhibit isn't. There were eight "portraits" by Lee Haner (actually, they were paintings named after Tom Corbett, Marlin Perkins, Cisco Kid, Barbara Jordan, Agnes Martin, Roy Orbison, Ming, and Howard Johnson). I'm still trying to figure out why different paintings represented each individual, but the paintings were interesting. I also liked Paul Kos's "Pawn" which was a three dimensional piece using plastic chess pieces to form the overall likeness of a pawn. It looked very different at various perspectives and was much lovelier than I expected. I was surprised how much I liked it. There was an interesting sculpture entiteld "Core" by Yuriko Yamaguchi (although the artist's written description of the piece made me wish that someone had told Mr. or Ms. Yamaguchi to please still to visual arts and leave language arts to someone else. At the same time, another artist, David Page, wrote up a hilarious description of his three dimensional work "Malevolent Tea Ball and Cozy" (inspired by a BBC news story about injuries in Britain -- 400 or so each year -- involving tea cozies, as hard as that might be to imagine), which took a piece I had previously thought "interesting" without thinking more and turned it immediately into something much more delightful. There were a number of other works that I enjoyed, but those are the ones about which I have something to say.
If you're in DC, the exhibit is free, and the building is lovely. Stop by.
On our way out, USSSWCL and I got to meet Dr. and Mrs. Katzen. We congratulated them on the beautiful building and the exhibition. He patted my hand. He gave $15,000,000 to the University to have his name attached. I think it was a worthwhile investment.
Someday, I'll give money to good institutions again, and not just for good works but for beautiful things as well (bread and roses). That may be in the distant future, but I will do it.
I've Been Down-Graded
I am no longer a smarttallscarywhitechick (did I ever mention my race?). I am now just a tallscarywhitechick. I'm so depressed. I admit, next to Innana, while I have a snappy delivery, I just don't look that bright (no, I can't talk people out of a thousand dollars to put on a play acted by dogs -- that's ingenuity). This is so disheartening, to be dissed by people I don't even know, but want to impress.
Human vanity. Trust me, I am smart and scary. If you don't acknowledge the smart, I'll show you the scary. Thank you.
Human vanity. Trust me, I am smart and scary. If you don't acknowledge the smart, I'll show you the scary. Thank you.
July 15, 2005
Forgot My Favorite PG Rated Sensual Moment!
I am shocked and appalled.
Favorite non-sexual sensual moment:
Sitting in my coma chair (nice soft buttery letter, so comfortable you are comatose in no time) or the comfy couch (oh, please, not the comfy couch, thanks Monty Python) with a new (to me) book (or an old favorite), smelling the leather or the flowers in the living room, the new (or old) pages of the book, and starting to read. This does not apply to reading anything by Bulwer Lytton. More along the lines of Atwood, Tyler, Vargas Llosa, or any good book. This experience can be improved by the addition of any or all of the following: (1) round happy sleeping Foilbaby on lap; (2) slim but solid Foilkid using Mom as her coma-person; (3) freshly baked chocolate chip cookies; (4) glass of milk; (5) Brandenburg Concertos on CD player (or Talking Heads or Dire Straights or Aretha or Carmen or whatever); (6) purring cat next to baby on lap; (7) some good knitting alongside (in case the book is boring, needs a break, my hands get fidgety, whatever). Obviously, this can be improved even more by a simultaneous foot massage and a handsome young thing peeling me grapes and feeding them to me.
Favorite non-sexual sensual moment:
Sitting in my coma chair (nice soft buttery letter, so comfortable you are comatose in no time) or the comfy couch (oh, please, not the comfy couch, thanks Monty Python) with a new (to me) book (or an old favorite), smelling the leather or the flowers in the living room, the new (or old) pages of the book, and starting to read. This does not apply to reading anything by Bulwer Lytton. More along the lines of Atwood, Tyler, Vargas Llosa, or any good book. This experience can be improved by the addition of any or all of the following: (1) round happy sleeping Foilbaby on lap; (2) slim but solid Foilkid using Mom as her coma-person; (3) freshly baked chocolate chip cookies; (4) glass of milk; (5) Brandenburg Concertos on CD player (or Talking Heads or Dire Straights or Aretha or Carmen or whatever); (6) purring cat next to baby on lap; (7) some good knitting alongside (in case the book is boring, needs a break, my hands get fidgety, whatever). Obviously, this can be improved even more by a simultaneous foot massage and a handsome young thing peeling me grapes and feeding them to me.
July 14, 2005
Top Sensory Moments -- Rated PG
In response to MVBFITWWW's challege (see Innana's blog), I am listing my favorite family-friendly sensory moments. Where's the sex? I hear you cry. Well, I hope we all like sex, and I hope you are all having good sex, with or without Dr. Ruth. However, I think we can take if as a given that sexual experiences would encompass a fair number of any sane person's favorite sensory moments, so now we are just going to step outside that arena into a kindler, gentler, mindset. But you can take it as a given that my actual top sensory moments actually includes lots of good sex.
(1) Eating French Vanilla (or real Vanilla bean) ice cream with home made hot fudge sauce, per my recipe (everyone else's recipe just isn't chocolatey enough).
(2) A cool shower after gardening.
(3) A leg hug (the way your five year old hugs your leg with her whole body).
(4) Snuggling with a child while reading a night night story
(5) Silk against the skin.
(6) Knitting with cashmere
(7) Cuddling with a cat and baby (helps if the baby is the Foilbaby)
(8) Eating pancakes made from scratch by the Foilkid with real maple syrup.
(9) Successfully landing a single revolution jump while skating.
(10) Rowing on Casco Bay in the early morning as the mist clears off the sea and seeing seals swimming nearby.
(11) The moment of ooh after you've jumped out of the plane and have come to your senses enough to hear the words over the audio system, and these are beautiful words: "Your 'chute will hold you."
(12) A facial by Paris Alexander at the Paris Alexander Day Spa.
(13) Cross country skiing on a really cold day, but going fast enough so you get warm enough to take off your jacket, and coming around a corner and seeing the White Mountains and the Bretton Woods hotel in the distance.
(14) A nice glass of Rioja with some manchego cheese.
(15) A foot massage and a pedicure.
(16) Attending the Opera at the Staatsoper or a concert at the Musikverein in Vienna.
(17) Looking out over Fiesole or alternatively looking at the Duomo in Florence. Or looking at the view from Giotto's bell tower.
But wait, there's more. But I'll stop now. But what about dancing to the Ramones? Smelling lilacs? Swimming in a spring fed pond? Waking up early while camping in the Green Mountains and watching the sunrise from the ridge? Biking out to Bailey Island (don't worry, there are bridges) in time for 6 am breakfast with the lobsterman unloanding their catch at the dock.
Ooh, lobster with butter and lemon (NEW ENGLAND LOBSTER!!!! Anything else is a sacrilege). Danish christmas cookies. Making marzipan. Sculpting with clay. Making mud pies. Amarige perfume by Givenchy. Zen by Shiseido. Cashmere sweaters. Silk long underwear when skiing. Hot tubs. Saunas. Floating in a pool on a hot day. Must stop now . . .
(1) Eating French Vanilla (or real Vanilla bean) ice cream with home made hot fudge sauce, per my recipe (everyone else's recipe just isn't chocolatey enough).
(2) A cool shower after gardening.
(3) A leg hug (the way your five year old hugs your leg with her whole body).
(4) Snuggling with a child while reading a night night story
(5) Silk against the skin.
(6) Knitting with cashmere
(7) Cuddling with a cat and baby (helps if the baby is the Foilbaby)
(8) Eating pancakes made from scratch by the Foilkid with real maple syrup.
(9) Successfully landing a single revolution jump while skating.
(10) Rowing on Casco Bay in the early morning as the mist clears off the sea and seeing seals swimming nearby.
(11) The moment of ooh after you've jumped out of the plane and have come to your senses enough to hear the words over the audio system, and these are beautiful words: "Your 'chute will hold you."
(12) A facial by Paris Alexander at the Paris Alexander Day Spa.
(13) Cross country skiing on a really cold day, but going fast enough so you get warm enough to take off your jacket, and coming around a corner and seeing the White Mountains and the Bretton Woods hotel in the distance.
(14) A nice glass of Rioja with some manchego cheese.
(15) A foot massage and a pedicure.
(16) Attending the Opera at the Staatsoper or a concert at the Musikverein in Vienna.
(17) Looking out over Fiesole or alternatively looking at the Duomo in Florence. Or looking at the view from Giotto's bell tower.
But wait, there's more. But I'll stop now. But what about dancing to the Ramones? Smelling lilacs? Swimming in a spring fed pond? Waking up early while camping in the Green Mountains and watching the sunrise from the ridge? Biking out to Bailey Island (don't worry, there are bridges) in time for 6 am breakfast with the lobsterman unloanding their catch at the dock.
Ooh, lobster with butter and lemon (NEW ENGLAND LOBSTER!!!! Anything else is a sacrilege). Danish christmas cookies. Making marzipan. Sculpting with clay. Making mud pies. Amarige perfume by Givenchy. Zen by Shiseido. Cashmere sweaters. Silk long underwear when skiing. Hot tubs. Saunas. Floating in a pool on a hot day. Must stop now . . .
Shifting Worlds
Every so often, events occur that change our worlds. For me, those events have been:
(1) the first three times I changed schools as a kid,
(2)travelling abroad for the first time (excluding Canada) at age 12,
(3) Nixon's resignation (12),
(4) my mother's nervous breakdown (13),
(5) going to boarding school (14-18) and meeting MVBFFHS,
(6) travelling to and living in Spain (16-17),
(7) while in Spain doing some smart, some stupid, some brave, and some cowardly things and living to tell the tale (buying guitar, hitchhiking, singing in a bar & teaching English, being mean to someone who liked me),
(8) my parent's divorce (18),
(9) sex (18) (although not as earthshattering as one would have been led to believe, that's for damn sure),
(10) interning in Washington DC (19-20),
(11) suicide of good friend from high school (20),
(12) moving here permanently and meeting MVBFITWWW (Innana)(23),
(13) rooming with Innana (24-26),
(14) skydiving (25),
(15) first big heartbreak (25),
(16) big fight with Innana (26),
(17) studying Arabic (26-29),
(18) making up with Innana (27),
(19) travel to Vienna, Austria (seeing the Staatsoper, Volksoper and Musikverein -- hearing Kathleen Battle sing) (28),
(20) second big heartbreak (28),
(21) Meeting Mr. Foilwoman (28),
(22) getting opera season tickets with Innana (1990-1992?),
(23) sometime in here, the fall of the Iron Curtain and the Berlin Wal,
(24) starting graduate school (age 31),
(25) voting for the successful candidate for U.S. President for the first time ever (age 31)
(26) getting married (age 31),
(27) study in Italy (32),
(28) visiting Innana at Oxbridge (33 & 34),
(29) Mr. Foilwoman's business failure and my graduation (35),
(30) my peak earning years (36-41),
(31) Birth of Foilkid and Mr. Foilwoman's first break with reality (38),
(32) Birth of Foilbaby, complete career catastrophe, and more Mr. FW departure from reality.
Other events that should be in here include: learning to row crew, learning to figure skate, learning to lift weights, lifting more than 150 lbs., shoulder dislocation, 1st surgery (believe me, that changed my world view) and the birth of nephews.
Right now, I'm clearly in some sort of world shift, but since I don't know what is going to end up changing, it's hard to define. But I can tell it is occurring. And no, September 11 was not world changing. That stuff was happening when I lived in Spain, it just wasn't happening to Americans. It happened to the Uffizi right before I went to Italy. Nonething new under the sun in humans' capacity to hurt each other.
(1) the first three times I changed schools as a kid,
(2)travelling abroad for the first time (excluding Canada) at age 12,
(3) Nixon's resignation (12),
(4) my mother's nervous breakdown (13),
(5) going to boarding school (14-18) and meeting MVBFFHS,
(6) travelling to and living in Spain (16-17),
(7) while in Spain doing some smart, some stupid, some brave, and some cowardly things and living to tell the tale (buying guitar, hitchhiking, singing in a bar & teaching English, being mean to someone who liked me),
(8) my parent's divorce (18),
(9) sex (18) (although not as earthshattering as one would have been led to believe, that's for damn sure),
(10) interning in Washington DC (19-20),
(11) suicide of good friend from high school (20),
(12) moving here permanently and meeting MVBFITWWW (Innana)(23),
(13) rooming with Innana (24-26),
(14) skydiving (25),
(15) first big heartbreak (25),
(16) big fight with Innana (26),
(17) studying Arabic (26-29),
(18) making up with Innana (27),
(19) travel to Vienna, Austria (seeing the Staatsoper, Volksoper and Musikverein -- hearing Kathleen Battle sing) (28),
(20) second big heartbreak (28),
(21) Meeting Mr. Foilwoman (28),
(22) getting opera season tickets with Innana (1990-1992?),
(23) sometime in here, the fall of the Iron Curtain and the Berlin Wal,
(24) starting graduate school (age 31),
(25) voting for the successful candidate for U.S. President for the first time ever (age 31)
(26) getting married (age 31),
(27) study in Italy (32),
(28) visiting Innana at Oxbridge (33 & 34),
(29) Mr. Foilwoman's business failure and my graduation (35),
(30) my peak earning years (36-41),
(31) Birth of Foilkid and Mr. Foilwoman's first break with reality (38),
(32) Birth of Foilbaby, complete career catastrophe, and more Mr. FW departure from reality.
Other events that should be in here include: learning to row crew, learning to figure skate, learning to lift weights, lifting more than 150 lbs., shoulder dislocation, 1st surgery (believe me, that changed my world view) and the birth of nephews.
Right now, I'm clearly in some sort of world shift, but since I don't know what is going to end up changing, it's hard to define. But I can tell it is occurring. And no, September 11 was not world changing. That stuff was happening when I lived in Spain, it just wasn't happening to Americans. It happened to the Uffizi right before I went to Italy. Nonething new under the sun in humans' capacity to hurt each other.
July 13, 2005
In the Realm of the Senses: Vision
This is funny, because I'm really not visually oriented. I like colors (ask Innana about my budget conscious clothing color scheme which is still useful 20 years on), but in terms of aesthetics, I bow to the wisdom that is MVBFITWWW (Innana), my big (little) sister, and MOFW (an artist). Nonetheless, I do have favorite visual artists. They are, in no particular order:
(1) Cassatt
(2) Goya (esp. the Horrors of War, but also the Naked Maja and the Clothed Maja)
(3) El Greco
(4) Hieronymous Bosch (his pictures of Earth and Hell really sum up my view of religion)
(5) Van Gogh
(6) O'Keefe
(7) Velasquez
(8) Holbein
(9) Fra Angelico (I'm specifically thinking of the cells in that monastery in Florence)
(10) John Singer Sargent (yes I know, not deep and meaningful, but his portraits of Isabella Stewart Gardiner, Consuelo Vanderbilt, and Nancy Astor catch something that moves me)
(11) Dali (the melting time, etc.)
(12) Klimt
(13) Vigee LeBrun(18) Winslow Homer
(14) Whistler
(15) Matisse
I can't really describe why I like any, except that Goya and Bosch seem to capture a lot of the horror of the world. Velasquez and Holbein were not afraid to make their egotistical and royal patrons look greedy, piggish, or stupid. Cassatts mother/child paintings finally put the Madonna and child paintings in a temporal world for everyone, and often the babies are almost as good looking as mine. Van Gogh, what can I say. I liked Starry Night before I knew it was the last painting he made before he killed himself and that has always worried me a bit.
I like Francis Bacon, but don't know his work well enough (that might be because I've avoided it a bit . . . ): I think of him as being a brother of William Blake, only born 150 years later (or so).
Of course, liking crafts and textiles, my favorite artist is Anonymous.
(1) Cassatt
(2) Goya (esp. the Horrors of War, but also the Naked Maja and the Clothed Maja)
(3) El Greco
(4) Hieronymous Bosch (his pictures of Earth and Hell really sum up my view of religion)
(5) Van Gogh
(6) O'Keefe
(7) Velasquez
(8) Holbein
(9) Fra Angelico (I'm specifically thinking of the cells in that monastery in Florence)
(10) John Singer Sargent (yes I know, not deep and meaningful, but his portraits of Isabella Stewart Gardiner, Consuelo Vanderbilt, and Nancy Astor catch something that moves me)
(11) Dali (the melting time, etc.)
(12) Klimt
(13) Vigee LeBrun(18) Winslow Homer
(14) Whistler
(15) Matisse
I can't really describe why I like any, except that Goya and Bosch seem to capture a lot of the horror of the world. Velasquez and Holbein were not afraid to make their egotistical and royal patrons look greedy, piggish, or stupid. Cassatts mother/child paintings finally put the Madonna and child paintings in a temporal world for everyone, and often the babies are almost as good looking as mine. Van Gogh, what can I say. I liked Starry Night before I knew it was the last painting he made before he killed himself and that has always worried me a bit.
I like Francis Bacon, but don't know his work well enough (that might be because I've avoided it a bit . . . ): I think of him as being a brother of William Blake, only born 150 years later (or so).
Of course, liking crafts and textiles, my favorite artist is Anonymous.
July 12, 2005
Never say it can't get any worse, because it always can
Well, that cheerful header will get them lining up in the halls. I've actually been pretty productive. I worked 8.5 hours, opened a new bank account (in my name only), and found out I have a credit score of 708 which is damn good for a woman who has been underemployed for the last four months and was unemployed/on maternity or disability leave for the sixth months before that. I also followed up on the health insurance that one-more-screw-up-an-he's-an-ex-Mr. Foilwoman (not really, but I am pissed) neglected to take care of. Needless to say, because I have been diagnosed with depression, had a baby, and had a hernia, I'm uninsurable. The HIPAA-eligible insurance (the guaranteed continuation policy after expiration of COBRA) is available, but it costs . . . wait for it . . . in excess of $2,000/month. That's bigger than the average mortgage payment. Yes, its for a family of four, but really . . . who can afford that? No-one. Yes, America, with an infant mortality rate worse than that of Cuba. Our health care system is a thing of beauty, you just can't afford it. And if you do avail yourself of it, you then can't get health insurance.
I sobbed into my big sister's ear. Actually, she's smaller than me, but two years older. She said that she and the Mother-of-FoilWoman (MOFW) would find me affordable health insurance.
Did you know most bankruptcies in the U.S. are not the result of credit card debt but are the result of serious illness while uninsured? Yup. More growsing later. I have family and friends helping me, I have chocolate in the house, and I'm going to be. The Daily Show will be on in twenty minutes. Maybe Steven Colbert will do his "This Week in God" segment. I love that piece. Or Mess o Potamia. More accurate than Fox, that's for damn sure. Yup. I'm going to bed. Bed, bed, bed. Snore.
I sobbed into my big sister's ear. Actually, she's smaller than me, but two years older. She said that she and the Mother-of-FoilWoman (MOFW) would find me affordable health insurance.
Did you know most bankruptcies in the U.S. are not the result of credit card debt but are the result of serious illness while uninsured? Yup. More growsing later. I have family and friends helping me, I have chocolate in the house, and I'm going to be. The Daily Show will be on in twenty minutes. Maybe Steven Colbert will do his "This Week in God" segment. I love that piece. Or Mess o Potamia. More accurate than Fox, that's for damn sure. Yup. I'm going to bed. Bed, bed, bed. Snore.
No news is . . . no news
Well, I'm in limbo. And not in the good, Jimmy Cliff-type way. I hate to wait. I really do. And sometimes you just have to try your best and see what happens.
So far in the Foilfamily Financial Fitness Action Plan ("FFFAP"), I have picked out the correct bank for the new account (thanks Innana, you are a peach and a fertility goddess, which is actually true given the fact that you volunteering to babysit on February 14, 2004 led to the Foilbaby, no ifs ands or buts); I have my new temp job; I have the phone number to call to straighten up health insurance (we don't have any, we need some, I'm going to get some); I cancelled the lawn service (????); and I bought a used mower for $10 (it may last a few mows, but since the lawn service is $30 a pop, that baby needed to go). Next on the list: cancelling cable, making sure we have the cheapest phone service, etc. etc.
The FFFAP has ___ simple tenets: (1) One person in charge of the bank account (me); (2) spend less; (3) earn more; and (4) long term, figure out all non-essential expenses and nuke them. Wish me well. Mr. Foilwoman gets home on Thursday. I hope that works out.
So far in the Foilfamily Financial Fitness Action Plan ("FFFAP"), I have picked out the correct bank for the new account (thanks Innana, you are a peach and a fertility goddess, which is actually true given the fact that you volunteering to babysit on February 14, 2004 led to the Foilbaby, no ifs ands or buts); I have my new temp job; I have the phone number to call to straighten up health insurance (we don't have any, we need some, I'm going to get some); I cancelled the lawn service (????); and I bought a used mower for $10 (it may last a few mows, but since the lawn service is $30 a pop, that baby needed to go). Next on the list: cancelling cable, making sure we have the cheapest phone service, etc. etc.
The FFFAP has ___ simple tenets: (1) One person in charge of the bank account (me); (2) spend less; (3) earn more; and (4) long term, figure out all non-essential expenses and nuke them. Wish me well. Mr. Foilwoman gets home on Thursday. I hope that works out.
July 9, 2005
To Meddle or Not to Meddle: A Rich Family Heritage
I have two grandmothers. Actually, I had two grandmothers. Now I merely have one left alive. But I was very lucky: both were alive until I reached my 30s and I have at least some of their genes. I come from a long line of super-tough women, with an occasional weak tender flower thrown in. My grandmothers were both tough. Both were smarter and mentally stronger than their husbands (it would have been pretty tough for the old guys to have measured up: these women were tough).
What makes me think of this is Gawblimeyman's belief (or statement, whether he believes it or not) that I am a meddler. Now, nobody get all hissy. I am a meddler. Gawblimeyman is absolutely correct. Generally, people I expend my meddling energies on end up the better because of it. Despite that knowledge, meddling has a very bad reputation, especially when done by women. When done by men, it's called business, when done by nations it's either called diplomacy, foreign aid, or military action, but when done by women, it's meddling.
It seems to be a rule of modern society (particularly Anglo-Saxon society; in Spain it was more acceptable) that to interfere is bad. You know, all those naturalists letting the little baby animals die rather than move their jeep which kept the mother from finding the babies (wasn't the location of the jeep interference)? Whenever I read P.D. James (a guilty pleasure) or a number of rather morose Waspy or British writers, I am often overwhelmed by a sense of hopelessness. All these inept, lonely, spastic, and sad people (and children) and no-one steps up to the plate, no-one girds their loins for battle. I get involved. My inclination, and often my reaction, is to do something, anything, rather than just watch.
Now my two grandmothers were both incredibly tough, but otherwise very dissimilar. Similarities: they were both white women above average height for their generation. One was born a year before the other. They didn't know each other before my parents met. They were born and grew up in different countries. They were both immigrants to the U.S., one as a child, and one as an adult.
My mother's mother was European. It has been almost 15 years since she died. She grew up in Europe and left her upper-class home to marry my grandfather, the neer-do-well son of a better connected family, and move to America. We cleverly called her "Mormor" which means "mother's mother" in her language (we were creative, what can I say). Despite my grandfather switching jobs every time he sneezed and being intermittently but regularly unemployed throughout his adult life, Mormor managed to set up a stable household in a town with great schools and raise her three children to be educated people (the two girls went to Seven Sisters colleges on scholarship, the boy to the Ivy League). Despite reduced circumstances in the U.S., Mormor was always proud of her heritage, her education, and her family history. Unfortunately, she did not feel a woman was supposed to direct her husband (Morfar or Mother's father . . . see the creativity?). She had no compunction about directing her children, her grandchildren, or anyone else. But advise Morfar? Oh, no. Nonetheless, without income much of the time, she raised my mother to be (1) the president of her high school class; (2) graduate of a Seven Sisters college (Barnard, Bryn Mawr, Radcliffe, Wellesley, Mt. Holyoke, Smith & Vassar); (3) a lawyer; (4) an administrative law judge; and (5) my mother. Not too shabby. Her other two kids did equally well.
My father’s mother was born Canadian, but is a U.S. citizen now (yup, she’s still alive and kicking at 93) of Scots, Irish, and Welsh descent. Her father died in WWI. I wish I knew more about him. He was awarded the Victoria Cross for his actions in an engagement before he died in some other futile engagement in that futile war. When he died, Grammy’s mother was unable to keep up her farm and take care of her children, and they were taken in by other relatives, Grammy by an uncle in the U.S. Given the loss not only of her parents, but of her siblings as well, Grammy is a bit over-protective of her family. A bit aggressive. Okay, more than a bit aggressive. One of my sisters calls her the “nuclear grandmother”. And she is. Grampa met Grammy in college and they married and moved North. During the Depression, she ran the farm while Grampa worked on the highway for the WPA (wondering why he had gone to college). Then Grampa became a postmaster and Grammy set up a tax and insurance business with Grampa. Grampa was a sweet loving man. It became clear, a few years ago, when he was declining a lot physically and mentally, how sweet and also that he had always loved Grammy and even did when he couldn’t recognize the old women helping him dress as the young woman he had married back in 1933. A lot of people falling into dementia get meaner as they lose their minds. Not Grampa. He was unfailingly sweet and polite and loved Grammy. Grammy made no bones about who ran the show. She did. Grampa was always clear: he smoothed over the ruffled feathers – Grammy got everything done. He did what she told him to do.
The one time Grampa went against Grammy’s wishes was when he left home to go to war. Given what happened during WWI, Grammy was extremely unhappy about Grampa leaving to enlist after Pearl Harbor was bombed, especially since there she was in the rural North on a farm with three small children. Grammy took over running the post office and took over the insurance business. He came home to a thriving insurance business and a well run post office. Thereafter, he and Grammy ran the post office and the business together. “It just runs better when I do what she tells me” was his stock answer to why anything was done a certain way. After WWII, to my knowledge, Grampa and Grammy were never apart overnight. All their kids went to Ivy League colleges and were successful enough (diplomat, business man, teacher). Recently, in her nineties, Grammy got into a fight with the town’s board of assessors regarding some land that had been improperly recorded with the register of deeds. My sisters and I looked at one another and snorted. Yup, the board surrendered. My ninety-year old Grammy scared the crap out of them.
Grammy doesn’t sit back from a fight (what a treat it is to be 44 years old and write about a grandparent accurately in the present tense). She broke her hip after Grampa died. We all thought that would be the beginning of the end. Nope, she started swimming and lifting weights, and is walking about a half mile a day now. She runs her retirement home’s bridge club with a fist of iron. She still bullies my father. She fixes things.
I am more like Grammy than Mormor. This was tough when I was younger, because Mormor is “upper class”, European, sophisticated, and gracious. Grammy is a bulldog. But if you were in a fight, I think you’d want Grammy on your side. She may be a harridan, but she’s your harridan.
All my life I have striven to be more ladylike, more feminine, more cultured. It’s been a failure. I’ve got oodles of culture when I eat yoghourt. Otherwise, you have to find MVBFITWWW to get me and culture in the same room. I loved my Mormor, but I think my Grammy’s take-no-prisoners approach did very well by her family. When Morfar lost jobs, Mormor would send my mother to the grocers knowing that the grocer (who was a nice man who wanted his bill paid) would not refuse food to a 10-year old. Grammy never got into that pickle. When Grampa was gone, Grammy didn’t wait for the Army’s money to arrive. She went out and made it. Mormor would never tell Morfar he couldn’t quit a job, or that he should stay on a job. Grammy didn’t hesitate for one second to tell Grampa what he should be doing at any point in time.
Mormor and Morfar never were comfortably off. They never owned a home. They lived hand to mouth. Grammy and Grampa were never wealthy, but were quite comfortable, and I’ve always known they were available to help in any times of crisis. (I could call my Grammy tonight and have a nice big check tomorrow, but then she would fly down here and beat the stuffing out of Mr. Foilwoman. That wouldn’t be a fair fight, because he comes from a culture that reveres elders and would probably injure himself trying to avoid fighting back).
In my marriage, I have followed the Mormor behavior pattern more than the Grammy behavior pattern: I have not confronted, I have simply made my arrangements around my husband, and I have played my cards pretty close to the chest. In all my other relationships with friends and family, I have never felt any hesitation about stepping in and maneuvering, pushing, or ordering people in the direction they need to be headed. Everyone who has ever worked for me has gone on to bigger and better things. Whenever I have sat on my hands, trying to let people work out their own destinies, I’ve regretted it. I've truly helped a lot of people. So, meddling: boon or bane? Boon, at least when I do it. Mr. Foilwoman was (relatively) unmeddled with up until now. His life will change when he returns from Canada. I hope he can adjust.
What makes me think of this is Gawblimeyman's belief (or statement, whether he believes it or not) that I am a meddler. Now, nobody get all hissy. I am a meddler. Gawblimeyman is absolutely correct. Generally, people I expend my meddling energies on end up the better because of it. Despite that knowledge, meddling has a very bad reputation, especially when done by women. When done by men, it's called business, when done by nations it's either called diplomacy, foreign aid, or military action, but when done by women, it's meddling.
It seems to be a rule of modern society (particularly Anglo-Saxon society; in Spain it was more acceptable) that to interfere is bad. You know, all those naturalists letting the little baby animals die rather than move their jeep which kept the mother from finding the babies (wasn't the location of the jeep interference)? Whenever I read P.D. James (a guilty pleasure) or a number of rather morose Waspy or British writers, I am often overwhelmed by a sense of hopelessness. All these inept, lonely, spastic, and sad people (and children) and no-one steps up to the plate, no-one girds their loins for battle. I get involved. My inclination, and often my reaction, is to do something, anything, rather than just watch.
Now my two grandmothers were both incredibly tough, but otherwise very dissimilar. Similarities: they were both white women above average height for their generation. One was born a year before the other. They didn't know each other before my parents met. They were born and grew up in different countries. They were both immigrants to the U.S., one as a child, and one as an adult.
My mother's mother was European. It has been almost 15 years since she died. She grew up in Europe and left her upper-class home to marry my grandfather, the neer-do-well son of a better connected family, and move to America. We cleverly called her "Mormor" which means "mother's mother" in her language (we were creative, what can I say). Despite my grandfather switching jobs every time he sneezed and being intermittently but regularly unemployed throughout his adult life, Mormor managed to set up a stable household in a town with great schools and raise her three children to be educated people (the two girls went to Seven Sisters colleges on scholarship, the boy to the Ivy League). Despite reduced circumstances in the U.S., Mormor was always proud of her heritage, her education, and her family history. Unfortunately, she did not feel a woman was supposed to direct her husband (Morfar or Mother's father . . . see the creativity?). She had no compunction about directing her children, her grandchildren, or anyone else. But advise Morfar? Oh, no. Nonetheless, without income much of the time, she raised my mother to be (1) the president of her high school class; (2) graduate of a Seven Sisters college (Barnard, Bryn Mawr, Radcliffe, Wellesley, Mt. Holyoke, Smith & Vassar); (3) a lawyer; (4) an administrative law judge; and (5) my mother. Not too shabby. Her other two kids did equally well.
My father’s mother was born Canadian, but is a U.S. citizen now (yup, she’s still alive and kicking at 93) of Scots, Irish, and Welsh descent. Her father died in WWI. I wish I knew more about him. He was awarded the Victoria Cross for his actions in an engagement before he died in some other futile engagement in that futile war. When he died, Grammy’s mother was unable to keep up her farm and take care of her children, and they were taken in by other relatives, Grammy by an uncle in the U.S. Given the loss not only of her parents, but of her siblings as well, Grammy is a bit over-protective of her family. A bit aggressive. Okay, more than a bit aggressive. One of my sisters calls her the “nuclear grandmother”. And she is. Grampa met Grammy in college and they married and moved North. During the Depression, she ran the farm while Grampa worked on the highway for the WPA (wondering why he had gone to college). Then Grampa became a postmaster and Grammy set up a tax and insurance business with Grampa. Grampa was a sweet loving man. It became clear, a few years ago, when he was declining a lot physically and mentally, how sweet and also that he had always loved Grammy and even did when he couldn’t recognize the old women helping him dress as the young woman he had married back in 1933. A lot of people falling into dementia get meaner as they lose their minds. Not Grampa. He was unfailingly sweet and polite and loved Grammy. Grammy made no bones about who ran the show. She did. Grampa was always clear: he smoothed over the ruffled feathers – Grammy got everything done. He did what she told him to do.
The one time Grampa went against Grammy’s wishes was when he left home to go to war. Given what happened during WWI, Grammy was extremely unhappy about Grampa leaving to enlist after Pearl Harbor was bombed, especially since there she was in the rural North on a farm with three small children. Grammy took over running the post office and took over the insurance business. He came home to a thriving insurance business and a well run post office. Thereafter, he and Grammy ran the post office and the business together. “It just runs better when I do what she tells me” was his stock answer to why anything was done a certain way. After WWII, to my knowledge, Grampa and Grammy were never apart overnight. All their kids went to Ivy League colleges and were successful enough (diplomat, business man, teacher). Recently, in her nineties, Grammy got into a fight with the town’s board of assessors regarding some land that had been improperly recorded with the register of deeds. My sisters and I looked at one another and snorted. Yup, the board surrendered. My ninety-year old Grammy scared the crap out of them.
Grammy doesn’t sit back from a fight (what a treat it is to be 44 years old and write about a grandparent accurately in the present tense). She broke her hip after Grampa died. We all thought that would be the beginning of the end. Nope, she started swimming and lifting weights, and is walking about a half mile a day now. She runs her retirement home’s bridge club with a fist of iron. She still bullies my father. She fixes things.
I am more like Grammy than Mormor. This was tough when I was younger, because Mormor is “upper class”, European, sophisticated, and gracious. Grammy is a bulldog. But if you were in a fight, I think you’d want Grammy on your side. She may be a harridan, but she’s your harridan.
All my life I have striven to be more ladylike, more feminine, more cultured. It’s been a failure. I’ve got oodles of culture when I eat yoghourt. Otherwise, you have to find MVBFITWWW to get me and culture in the same room. I loved my Mormor, but I think my Grammy’s take-no-prisoners approach did very well by her family. When Morfar lost jobs, Mormor would send my mother to the grocers knowing that the grocer (who was a nice man who wanted his bill paid) would not refuse food to a 10-year old. Grammy never got into that pickle. When Grampa was gone, Grammy didn’t wait for the Army’s money to arrive. She went out and made it. Mormor would never tell Morfar he couldn’t quit a job, or that he should stay on a job. Grammy didn’t hesitate for one second to tell Grampa what he should be doing at any point in time.
Mormor and Morfar never were comfortably off. They never owned a home. They lived hand to mouth. Grammy and Grampa were never wealthy, but were quite comfortable, and I’ve always known they were available to help in any times of crisis. (I could call my Grammy tonight and have a nice big check tomorrow, but then she would fly down here and beat the stuffing out of Mr. Foilwoman. That wouldn’t be a fair fight, because he comes from a culture that reveres elders and would probably injure himself trying to avoid fighting back).
In my marriage, I have followed the Mormor behavior pattern more than the Grammy behavior pattern: I have not confronted, I have simply made my arrangements around my husband, and I have played my cards pretty close to the chest. In all my other relationships with friends and family, I have never felt any hesitation about stepping in and maneuvering, pushing, or ordering people in the direction they need to be headed. Everyone who has ever worked for me has gone on to bigger and better things. Whenever I have sat on my hands, trying to let people work out their own destinies, I’ve regretted it. I've truly helped a lot of people. So, meddling: boon or bane? Boon, at least when I do it. Mr. Foilwoman was (relatively) unmeddled with up until now. His life will change when he returns from Canada. I hope he can adjust.
July 8, 2005
MVBFITWWW Comes Through as Always
MVBFITWWW has started a blog. You should read her blog. Her blog, is without a doubt, the best blog ever. And she isn't going to post a lot, because Miniver Cheevey-ish, she dislikes 20th century technology, much less 21st century technology. She knows more than you. So broaden your horizons.
Also, yesterday I was in town on the subway, which was suddenly full of really cute dogs. Then I realized the really cute dogs were being walked around with really beefy men with sidearms. Overreaction? Also, if you're going to have the really built guys strutting around, why not let them go shirtless. At least we'd have some desire with our fear, and we all know, from watching all the slasher flicks, if the girl feels desire, she's going to die. Deep thoughts? No, I'm superficial and shallow. But MVBFITWWW drove me home after reading my blogs yesterday. So even more than a there there. You all know her as Innana1. Check out her blog.
Also, yesterday I was in town on the subway, which was suddenly full of really cute dogs. Then I realized the really cute dogs were being walked around with really beefy men with sidearms. Overreaction? Also, if you're going to have the really built guys strutting around, why not let them go shirtless. At least we'd have some desire with our fear, and we all know, from watching all the slasher flicks, if the girl feels desire, she's going to die. Deep thoughts? No, I'm superficial and shallow. But MVBFITWWW drove me home after reading my blogs yesterday. So even more than a there there. You all know her as Innana1. Check out her blog.
Stormy Weather
Unfortunately, I'm not Lena Horne, so I can't make this a glamorous and stylized piece. It's 6:45 a.m. I've been up for an hour and a half. I've taken the Foildog on his morning constitutional in a downpour (tropical storm WTF?) and now am getting my sandwiches, etc. ready for my schlep downtown. I really liked working from home, except, well, I didn't work as much as I should, so this really is a good thing. I think. Anyway, a chance to earn more money for the short term which is not a bad thing. So anyone travelling in the greater DC area today by public transportation, particularly Metro: stand to the fucking right on the escalators. And that mean you Mrs. Tourist Lady with your brood of 12 blond inbred chinless wonders. I don't care if you are here to see the sights. I've got to get to work. Why are you on the subway at 7 am with that many kids anyway? Let those of us who need to earn a living get past your hellspawn (mine are cuter anyway). And WTF? Travel after rush hour if you don't need to rush. Thanks. I feel better now.
July 7, 2005
For those of you in law enforcement
You will be happy to know that Mr. Foilwoman made it out of the house with no injuries this morning. I now have the house to myself and the Foilpets; Mr. Foilwoman is far away where the rivers run north with the Foilkid, the Foilbaby, visiting good friends, where he, if he knows what's good for him, will not spend too much money before returning home next Thursday. I think I'll have the new bank account lined up by then. Then he can straighten up and fly right.
Changes
Well, today was my last day of freedom to blog. As of tomorrow, I'm not working from home. While I will have access to a computer at the office (d'oh, it's an office job) I probably won't have freedom to post because they expect me to work on their schedule, not mine. Hellish jobs. Sometimes they make you do things you don't particularly care to do. Except of course, they do pay me by the our, so it seems a bit unethical to use their equipment and time to grouse about the universe (or give thanks for the good things in my life).
It seems to me that a lot of people in the blogosphere do most of their blogging from the office. Am I correct in that assumption? If so, do you know your employers Internet policy? Could you be fired for blogging? Would it be the use of the computer for personal use during work time, using your employer's computers at any time (misuse of resources), or the content of your statements? In the U.S., at least, most larger employers have policies regarding use of the Internet and email stating that they have the right to monitor everything you do online and that any inappropriate use is an offense for which you could be terminated. What about other countries? What about personal ethics?
I don't feel comfortable blogging from the office, for ethical reasons (that's not what they're paying me for) but also due to the nature of my blog and obvious privacy concerns. Am I just a fossil? Or does everyone have their own laptop that they use at Starbucks?
Anyway, today I had limited blogging access and it bugged me. Tomorrow I'll have even less. I may have to go for as long as twelve hours or a bit more without posting or checking others posts. How will I manage if someone irks me and I need to rant? Given my mood of late, this could be ugly. Those of you in the greater DC area, be afraid, very afraid. Good night.
It seems to me that a lot of people in the blogosphere do most of their blogging from the office. Am I correct in that assumption? If so, do you know your employers Internet policy? Could you be fired for blogging? Would it be the use of the computer for personal use during work time, using your employer's computers at any time (misuse of resources), or the content of your statements? In the U.S., at least, most larger employers have policies regarding use of the Internet and email stating that they have the right to monitor everything you do online and that any inappropriate use is an offense for which you could be terminated. What about other countries? What about personal ethics?
I don't feel comfortable blogging from the office, for ethical reasons (that's not what they're paying me for) but also due to the nature of my blog and obvious privacy concerns. Am I just a fossil? Or does everyone have their own laptop that they use at Starbucks?
Anyway, today I had limited blogging access and it bugged me. Tomorrow I'll have even less. I may have to go for as long as twelve hours or a bit more without posting or checking others posts. How will I manage if someone irks me and I need to rant? Given my mood of late, this could be ugly. Those of you in the greater DC area, be afraid, very afraid. Good night.
Blessings
I'm still waiting to read (I hope) that Cookie and GBM are ok. Especially since it was GBM's day of triumph, with London winning its Olympic bid and all. Okay, I don't believe in god, but let's get this straight, morons out there: Koran, Bible, Baghavad Gita, Tao, whatever. Whoever quotes the one who made us all in whatever text, the text normally says something like this: Thou shalt not kill. So whoever is misunderstanding this message, saying, oh but that doesn't count if I have a political point to make, no, you are misunderstanding the world of the entity you think is your deity. David Koresh was wrong. Osama Bin Ladin is wrong. Jim Jones was wrong. Timothy McVeigh was wrong. ETA is wrong. The Red Brigades were wrong. Sendero Luminoso was wrong. Heck, the Symbionese Liberation Army was not only wrong, they were stupid. Actually, all of them were stupid and wrong. Stupid and wrong. And any other group that thinks it's a good idea to kill people to advance a political agenda (or just for "fun"): morons, it's wrong. Thank you.
That said, I've been on a whinge binge lately, the primary focus being my husband who is (1) lousy with money, (2) departing from reality (at least regards money and me), and (3) generally has me pretty pissed off (not a pretty sight). Let's recap. Yes I have a troublesome spouse. But I am still blessed (not that I think there is anyone blessing me, but . . .) because:
(1) I am 44 years old and have two lovely children, a six year old and an infant. I had them without any technology. Yes I had a bunch of miscarriages, but these kids are the most beautiful kids ever, they're clearly gifted, they're funny, they love me, they love their Daddy, and they are sturdier than most water buffalo. And they're gorgeous. The big one is beautiful and funny and merry (she does karate! she breaks boards! she dances! she sings!), and the little (comparatively speaking) one is round and spherical and jolly (She grabs things! She has teeth! She drools! She kicks her chubby legs!).
(2) I have a husband who loves me and loves beyond all reason our girls. He's handsome, he's kind, and he cleans the house and does the laundry. He is stupid with money, but I have a plan. He has been inattentive or distracted or something, but I have a plan (no, I am not stealing John Kerry's stump speech). Maybe I can get things worked out, maybe I can't, regarding my husband, but my daughters have a father who loves them.
(3) I have a home.
(4) MVBFITWWW lives nearby and is doing well.
(5) Despite a difficult pregnancy at age 43, I'm finally getting back into shape. I'm still plump, but walking the Foildog relieves stress and is a useful if unintentional fitness program.
(6) My parents may have had the most hateful divorce of all time, but they both love me, and both are still alive and healthy. My stepparents are nice people, too.
(7) My sisters are alive and healthy, recovering after some bad years.
(8) Despite employment troubles, I'm still working and earning a living. Something will work out in the long haul. Would you not hire me if I turned up and loomed over you?
(9) The Foildog is almost as cute a drooler as the Foilbaby. And since he ate the linoeleum tile in the basement exposing the asbestos tile (which we replaced last year) our home has been toxic-substance-free, which I think we can all agree is a plus. Additionally, I replaced the ugly linoleum with love (and inedible) porcelain tiles, and did this before our finances went to shit.
(10) Money is only money, and even though I can't make as much as I did five years ago (old and tired), I definitely still have earning power. So our savings are wiped out? I'll save more.
(11) Mr. Foilwoman will be upset about the banking changes in his future, but I won't make him sell his car unless things get substantially worse than they are now.
(12) MVBFITWWW has a cat who is the avatar of the ubercat from the days of the birth of Foilwoman. A British white shorthair ("A fine figure of a cat. The figure 0." --Becase that's what she was shaped like).
(13) The Foilkid loves MVBFITWWW and does a [MVBFITWWW] dance whenever the Foilkid sees MVBFITWWW.
(14) I've gotten through worse than this, I'll get through this.
(15) Unlike people in London today, in Spain on March 11, and everywhere after September 11, all my nearest and dearest are healthy.
(16) I have homemade fudge sauce and ice cream.
Don't get me wrong, I'll still complain. But I know I'm lucky. At least I am in a situation where I have the power and ability to try to change the things that are going wrong. And none of the things going wrong are the really important stuff: the kids are fine.
That said, I've been on a whinge binge lately, the primary focus being my husband who is (1) lousy with money, (2) departing from reality (at least regards money and me), and (3) generally has me pretty pissed off (not a pretty sight). Let's recap. Yes I have a troublesome spouse. But I am still blessed (not that I think there is anyone blessing me, but . . .) because:
(1) I am 44 years old and have two lovely children, a six year old and an infant. I had them without any technology. Yes I had a bunch of miscarriages, but these kids are the most beautiful kids ever, they're clearly gifted, they're funny, they love me, they love their Daddy, and they are sturdier than most water buffalo. And they're gorgeous. The big one is beautiful and funny and merry (she does karate! she breaks boards! she dances! she sings!), and the little (comparatively speaking) one is round and spherical and jolly (She grabs things! She has teeth! She drools! She kicks her chubby legs!).
(2) I have a husband who loves me and loves beyond all reason our girls. He's handsome, he's kind, and he cleans the house and does the laundry. He is stupid with money, but I have a plan. He has been inattentive or distracted or something, but I have a plan (no, I am not stealing John Kerry's stump speech). Maybe I can get things worked out, maybe I can't, regarding my husband, but my daughters have a father who loves them.
(3) I have a home.
(4) MVBFITWWW lives nearby and is doing well.
(5) Despite a difficult pregnancy at age 43, I'm finally getting back into shape. I'm still plump, but walking the Foildog relieves stress and is a useful if unintentional fitness program.
(6) My parents may have had the most hateful divorce of all time, but they both love me, and both are still alive and healthy. My stepparents are nice people, too.
(7) My sisters are alive and healthy, recovering after some bad years.
(8) Despite employment troubles, I'm still working and earning a living. Something will work out in the long haul. Would you not hire me if I turned up and loomed over you?
(9) The Foildog is almost as cute a drooler as the Foilbaby. And since he ate the linoeleum tile in the basement exposing the asbestos tile (which we replaced last year) our home has been toxic-substance-free, which I think we can all agree is a plus. Additionally, I replaced the ugly linoleum with love (and inedible) porcelain tiles, and did this before our finances went to shit.
(10) Money is only money, and even though I can't make as much as I did five years ago (old and tired), I definitely still have earning power. So our savings are wiped out? I'll save more.
(11) Mr. Foilwoman will be upset about the banking changes in his future, but I won't make him sell his car unless things get substantially worse than they are now.
(12) MVBFITWWW has a cat who is the avatar of the ubercat from the days of the birth of Foilwoman. A British white shorthair ("A fine figure of a cat. The figure 0." --Becase that's what she was shaped like).
(13) The Foilkid loves MVBFITWWW and does a [MVBFITWWW] dance whenever the Foilkid sees MVBFITWWW.
(14) I've gotten through worse than this, I'll get through this.
(15) Unlike people in London today, in Spain on March 11, and everywhere after September 11, all my nearest and dearest are healthy.
(16) I have homemade fudge sauce and ice cream.
Don't get me wrong, I'll still complain. But I know I'm lucky. At least I am in a situation where I have the power and ability to try to change the things that are going wrong. And none of the things going wrong are the really important stuff: the kids are fine.
July 6, 2005
Admirable Self-Restraint
For those of you who actually know me . . . oh, that's just MVBFITWWW, Mr. Foilwoman is still alive. At present, it looks like he will be able to head toward the Great White North prior to my incarceration for causing his untimely (for him, not me) demise in a slow and painful manner. He's actually visiting good friends who will take good care of him and the Foilsprogs. This will give me a chance to (1) work like a fiend to earn money to pay ahead on bills, (2) start a separate banking system, if only to squirrel away a little money here and there, (3) have a week to catch my breathe, and (4) not succomb to the urge to scream like a harpy whenever I see his handsome yet clueless face approach. Also, I probably won't torture and maim him between now and 7 a.m. tomorrow, when he takes off.
On the positive side: the Foilkid is going to have a wonderful time travelling with Daddy and visiting her Aunt and Uncle. The Foilbaby is going to spit up all over the ever-coiffed and soignee Mr. Foilwoman at every opportunity. This is good. If I'm real lucky, she'll do some projectile peeing (she may be less than a year old, but she can spell: P is for Punished) all over some expensive and unnecessary Italian shirt or jacket he is wearing. Yes, all and all, this trip of his could be very rewarding for me.
Needless to say, the Foildog got three LONG walks today. And I'm actually tired at 10:23. Maybe I'll sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. Maybe I'll come up with new ways to appropriately torture my spouse. That takes creative thinking, you know?
On the positive side: the Foilkid is going to have a wonderful time travelling with Daddy and visiting her Aunt and Uncle. The Foilbaby is going to spit up all over the ever-coiffed and soignee Mr. Foilwoman at every opportunity. This is good. If I'm real lucky, she'll do some projectile peeing (she may be less than a year old, but she can spell: P is for Punished) all over some expensive and unnecessary Italian shirt or jacket he is wearing. Yes, all and all, this trip of his could be very rewarding for me.
Needless to say, the Foildog got three LONG walks today. And I'm actually tired at 10:23. Maybe I'll sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. Maybe I'll come up with new ways to appropriately torture my spouse. That takes creative thinking, you know?
Insomnia/Serious Whinge/Moan/Poor Pitiful Me
It is 3:00 am exactly (as I typed these words). I can't sleep. Mr. Foilwoman is sleeping soundly. Before he went to bed tonight he asked me if I had called the source of my project work to ask about my last two checks, which we haven't received yet, but normally I get the checks on Thursday or Friday following submission of my bill. I haven't gotten last week's check, but it was a holiday weekend AND my first submission did not go to the company's controller, as required, so I had to resubmit. I assume I will get two checks this week.
Meanwhile, this time last month, aside from retirement savings, I had $3,000 in my (ok, our, but I'm getting a little possessive about the money, which I don't like) savings account. That's gone. Nice magic trick. I've cut back on every expense I can think of. I don't want to go back to 80 hour weeks (and realistically, I can't). The amount of money I earn is enough for a family of four to live on in the capital area. One has to be careful, but it's entirely doable.
The spender of the $3,000 is sleeping like a baby upstairs. He's planning on taking the Foilbaby and Foilkid to visit friends who I like a lot. Because our friends had other houseguests, the start of the visit had to be delayed. Instead of heading up tomorrow morning, the trip will start Thursday morning. But, Mr. Foilwoman had a bright idea. He asked me, in all seriousness, if we could afford to stay in a hotel. Mind you, I am not taking this vacation . . . I'm staying at home and working. I'm starting full-time temporary work later this week, and get this: I had concluded that we couldn't afford to have me delay the start of full-time (albeit temporary) work and full-time pay. The best part is, he hasn't even cancelled tennis ($20-30) for tomorrow. Or rescheduled with his buddies to use, get this, the fucking public tennis courts two blocks from our house. At this point, I simply want to ask: is there any fucking thing you're willing to give up, at all, so that we can live within our means? Lawn service (nope, he's not mowing the damn thing)? Meals out (yeah, he's scaled down, but ordering pizza is still more expensive than making it at home)?
He used to actually have some semblance of financial common sense. I am so not rescuing him this time. The next check I get is paying our mortgage and I am opening up a new bank account, my name only, with the check after that. Since we never combined credit cards, he can just go commit financial suicide. But how does this start happening after more than ten years of marriage?
Whinge Alert -- Turn Back Now
Now when he started staying home with the Foilkid, that wasn't exactly by choice, but I was happy we wouldn't have to use daycare, so that was fine. He had had a job that he hated and started thinking his coworkers were trying to poison him. I came home one night, shortly after returning to work full-time, to find him disassembling various appliances to remove the poisons that had been placed inside by former coworkers who had gained access to our home. Right. He wouldn't call the police and wouldn't see a psychiatrist. Fortunately (and I never thought I would write this phrase), since I suffer from pretty severe depression at times, I was able to contact my treating doctor, explain the situation, and arrange for us to take a trip to the emergency room for treatment of "my" depression. Once we got in there, he was furious with me, but eventually allowed that something was wrong (d'oh) after I said, with admirable (for me, especially) tact: "Honey, if you believe someone is breaking into our house and putting poisons in the stereo, the phone, the dishwasher, and the heating system, this causes me a great deal of stress. We either need to contact the police or get you help." We got him help, and he got better.
At that point, I accepted that I would be the primary wage earner. I was working in a very remunerative field, and our income actually close to doubled during the year I had the Foilkid (taking three months off work) and Mr. Foilwoman lost his marbles and his job (I know, I should sound more sympathetic, but I'm tired, I'm cranky, I'm scared, and I'm fucking pissed off). The next few years were pretty exhausting for me, but Mr. Foilwoman seemed to be doing well. I did indulge him in "prestige" purchases, which at that time we could afford. We talked about having another baby, but unfortunately I kept having miscarriages (over age 35, not too surprising) so eventually stopped. I lost my job. I took a new job in what was supposed to be a slightly quieter environment where I would still be professionally challenged. At that point, I couldn't use the pill (too old) so Mr. Foilwoman was in charge of birth control. That 10% failure rate? Yup, that's Foilbaby. And she is the best failure we've ever had.
Unfortunately, in the world of female professionals, the law can be whatever, the reality is you do not start a new job and get knocked up in quick succession. It's bad form. Unprofessional. A money loser (that's absolutely true). On top of that, Foilbaby is a kicker. And being pregnant mid-forties is exhausting. I went down to an 80% "part-time" schedule of 45 hours week (think about that one). Meanwhile, Foilbaby is kicking open a previously repaired injury in by belly (which is why I can't lift weights any more, which I love doing) creating a hernia (that's where the abdominal muscles cease to hold in your tummy -- trust me, it's not fun when pregnant). My boss keeps asking me "When are you going on disability?" I start staying home. The insurance company denies my disability claim (a hole in your stomach is not a good reason to stay home from work), and let's me know about this two days after giving birth. This means I don't get disability for the pre-birth period, but also, because I wasn't getting paid prior to birth, for the normal six (generous!!!) post-partum recovery period.
While all this is going on, Mr. Foilwoman wants me to look over a business opportunity for him, which will cost $100,000. I wrote about this earlier. We had maybe $50,000 in the bank (not counting retirement savings), before I was on reduced hours and then out without pay (or disability insurance, until my mother, Mother of Foilwoman or MOFW, decided that now would be a good time for the insurance company to surrender and pay me my goddam 70% of the 80% reduced wage (yup, not even 70% of the original wage). Then my boss tells me they don't have enough work, I'm only needed three days a week. That's the kiss of death. After one month back, sorry, there's not enough work. Goodbye. After giving birth (the traditional way: God can we talk about improving this exit process? Because the method you invented sucks big time. Thank you.), I then get the pleasure of having abdominal surgery. The insurance company wants to send me home same day. My Mom explains that I'm a new Mom with a 5-year old Foilkid and they'd better fucking keep me in the hospital until I'm damn well better. (Thanks Mommy!!!). So I got to recover from vaginal childbirth and abdominal surgery at the same time. At least my Mom dropped everything and came to rescue me. At age 68. I've been mad at her in the past, but god, did she come through big time.
Mr. Foilwoman was mad because I didn't get all excited about owning a $100,000 business (with employees!) that we know nothing about running.
So, I'm the bad guy. I have lost my job. I made us sell one of our cars (my car). That's ok. I walk everywhere, and I've actually been getting into shape. I keep suggesting cutbacks (sell his car and get a used Suburu, let the lawn service know we're going to have a shaggy lawn this year, dropping ESPN and just having basic cable -- actually, I didn't suggest that -- I'm not that mean . . . yet). When I head into town, I've been bringing my lunch in paper bags. I've limited my spending to subway fare and that's it. I go two weeks on $20.
Now we've had a lot of stressful events in one year. The most important one turned out just fine (Go, Foilbaby!). The Foilkid is fine. But WTF? Living within one's means isn't such a conceptual stretch, is it? The worst thing is: he wasn't like this before. He used to be fiscally more lax than I am, but responsible.
So here's what I want: I can't have it, but it's what I want. I want to have one post-partum year where I don't have to make all the money and where I don't have to worry about my husband's sanity. That's it. Ok, I'm not getting that. Life isn't fair, we don't always get what we want. What I want is a way to rein him in without abjectly humiliating the guy. The only thing I can really think of is to start a new bank account to which he has no access. Allowance? Ugh. I just feel queasy.
Sometimes I think learned incompetence is a wonderful thing. I've done that with cars. Since Mr. Foilwoman is a car guy, I've managed to remain blissfully ignorant about anything remotely connected to the car. I don't know where the gas cap is. I'd be hard pressed to put oil or windshield wiper fluid in it. However, Mr. Foilwoman steps up to the plate for car maintenance and housecleaning. Somehow, he doesn't even know the plate is there (this is a baseball metaphor for you non-U.S. people -- when you are at bat you step up to the plate) and thus his likelihood of hitting even a single is pretty slim.
Gaaah. Now it's 3:56 a.m. and I have the munchies, and I still can't sleep.
Please note: earlier I had asked certain people (who will remain nameless, but they were so useless, I can't even recommend them to the Useless Men) to provide advice. I'm not asking for advice. You can give it, but that's not what I want. I want sympathy. And admiration. And basically a pat on the shoulder, followed by "There, there." I'd say checks would be appreciated, but until I get Mr. Foilwoman reined in, that really seems like a waste of everyone else's money as well as my own.
Now it's 4 a.m. Maybe things will seem better in a few hours . . . ? Well the Foilbaby and Foilkid will be up and smiling.
Meanwhile, this time last month, aside from retirement savings, I had $3,000 in my (ok, our, but I'm getting a little possessive about the money, which I don't like) savings account. That's gone. Nice magic trick. I've cut back on every expense I can think of. I don't want to go back to 80 hour weeks (and realistically, I can't). The amount of money I earn is enough for a family of four to live on in the capital area. One has to be careful, but it's entirely doable.
The spender of the $3,000 is sleeping like a baby upstairs. He's planning on taking the Foilbaby and Foilkid to visit friends who I like a lot. Because our friends had other houseguests, the start of the visit had to be delayed. Instead of heading up tomorrow morning, the trip will start Thursday morning. But, Mr. Foilwoman had a bright idea. He asked me, in all seriousness, if we could afford to stay in a hotel. Mind you, I am not taking this vacation . . . I'm staying at home and working. I'm starting full-time temporary work later this week, and get this: I had concluded that we couldn't afford to have me delay the start of full-time (albeit temporary) work and full-time pay. The best part is, he hasn't even cancelled tennis ($20-30) for tomorrow. Or rescheduled with his buddies to use, get this, the fucking public tennis courts two blocks from our house. At this point, I simply want to ask: is there any fucking thing you're willing to give up, at all, so that we can live within our means? Lawn service (nope, he's not mowing the damn thing)? Meals out (yeah, he's scaled down, but ordering pizza is still more expensive than making it at home)?
He used to actually have some semblance of financial common sense. I am so not rescuing him this time. The next check I get is paying our mortgage and I am opening up a new bank account, my name only, with the check after that. Since we never combined credit cards, he can just go commit financial suicide. But how does this start happening after more than ten years of marriage?
Whinge Alert -- Turn Back Now
Now when he started staying home with the Foilkid, that wasn't exactly by choice, but I was happy we wouldn't have to use daycare, so that was fine. He had had a job that he hated and started thinking his coworkers were trying to poison him. I came home one night, shortly after returning to work full-time, to find him disassembling various appliances to remove the poisons that had been placed inside by former coworkers who had gained access to our home. Right. He wouldn't call the police and wouldn't see a psychiatrist. Fortunately (and I never thought I would write this phrase), since I suffer from pretty severe depression at times, I was able to contact my treating doctor, explain the situation, and arrange for us to take a trip to the emergency room for treatment of "my" depression. Once we got in there, he was furious with me, but eventually allowed that something was wrong (d'oh) after I said, with admirable (for me, especially) tact: "Honey, if you believe someone is breaking into our house and putting poisons in the stereo, the phone, the dishwasher, and the heating system, this causes me a great deal of stress. We either need to contact the police or get you help." We got him help, and he got better.
At that point, I accepted that I would be the primary wage earner. I was working in a very remunerative field, and our income actually close to doubled during the year I had the Foilkid (taking three months off work) and Mr. Foilwoman lost his marbles and his job (I know, I should sound more sympathetic, but I'm tired, I'm cranky, I'm scared, and I'm fucking pissed off). The next few years were pretty exhausting for me, but Mr. Foilwoman seemed to be doing well. I did indulge him in "prestige" purchases, which at that time we could afford. We talked about having another baby, but unfortunately I kept having miscarriages (over age 35, not too surprising) so eventually stopped. I lost my job. I took a new job in what was supposed to be a slightly quieter environment where I would still be professionally challenged. At that point, I couldn't use the pill (too old) so Mr. Foilwoman was in charge of birth control. That 10% failure rate? Yup, that's Foilbaby. And she is the best failure we've ever had.
Unfortunately, in the world of female professionals, the law can be whatever, the reality is you do not start a new job and get knocked up in quick succession. It's bad form. Unprofessional. A money loser (that's absolutely true). On top of that, Foilbaby is a kicker. And being pregnant mid-forties is exhausting. I went down to an 80% "part-time" schedule of 45 hours week (think about that one). Meanwhile, Foilbaby is kicking open a previously repaired injury in by belly (which is why I can't lift weights any more, which I love doing) creating a hernia (that's where the abdominal muscles cease to hold in your tummy -- trust me, it's not fun when pregnant). My boss keeps asking me "When are you going on disability?" I start staying home. The insurance company denies my disability claim (a hole in your stomach is not a good reason to stay home from work), and let's me know about this two days after giving birth. This means I don't get disability for the pre-birth period, but also, because I wasn't getting paid prior to birth, for the normal six (generous!!!) post-partum recovery period.
While all this is going on, Mr. Foilwoman wants me to look over a business opportunity for him, which will cost $100,000. I wrote about this earlier. We had maybe $50,000 in the bank (not counting retirement savings), before I was on reduced hours and then out without pay (or disability insurance, until my mother, Mother of Foilwoman or MOFW, decided that now would be a good time for the insurance company to surrender and pay me my goddam 70% of the 80% reduced wage (yup, not even 70% of the original wage). Then my boss tells me they don't have enough work, I'm only needed three days a week. That's the kiss of death. After one month back, sorry, there's not enough work. Goodbye. After giving birth (the traditional way: God can we talk about improving this exit process? Because the method you invented sucks big time. Thank you.), I then get the pleasure of having abdominal surgery. The insurance company wants to send me home same day. My Mom explains that I'm a new Mom with a 5-year old Foilkid and they'd better fucking keep me in the hospital until I'm damn well better. (Thanks Mommy!!!). So I got to recover from vaginal childbirth and abdominal surgery at the same time. At least my Mom dropped everything and came to rescue me. At age 68. I've been mad at her in the past, but god, did she come through big time.
Mr. Foilwoman was mad because I didn't get all excited about owning a $100,000 business (with employees!) that we know nothing about running.
So, I'm the bad guy. I have lost my job. I made us sell one of our cars (my car). That's ok. I walk everywhere, and I've actually been getting into shape. I keep suggesting cutbacks (sell his car and get a used Suburu, let the lawn service know we're going to have a shaggy lawn this year, dropping ESPN and just having basic cable -- actually, I didn't suggest that -- I'm not that mean . . . yet). When I head into town, I've been bringing my lunch in paper bags. I've limited my spending to subway fare and that's it. I go two weeks on $20.
Now we've had a lot of stressful events in one year. The most important one turned out just fine (Go, Foilbaby!). The Foilkid is fine. But WTF? Living within one's means isn't such a conceptual stretch, is it? The worst thing is: he wasn't like this before. He used to be fiscally more lax than I am, but responsible.
So here's what I want: I can't have it, but it's what I want. I want to have one post-partum year where I don't have to make all the money and where I don't have to worry about my husband's sanity. That's it. Ok, I'm not getting that. Life isn't fair, we don't always get what we want. What I want is a way to rein him in without abjectly humiliating the guy. The only thing I can really think of is to start a new bank account to which he has no access. Allowance? Ugh. I just feel queasy.
Sometimes I think learned incompetence is a wonderful thing. I've done that with cars. Since Mr. Foilwoman is a car guy, I've managed to remain blissfully ignorant about anything remotely connected to the car. I don't know where the gas cap is. I'd be hard pressed to put oil or windshield wiper fluid in it. However, Mr. Foilwoman steps up to the plate for car maintenance and housecleaning. Somehow, he doesn't even know the plate is there (this is a baseball metaphor for you non-U.S. people -- when you are at bat you step up to the plate) and thus his likelihood of hitting even a single is pretty slim.
Gaaah. Now it's 3:56 a.m. and I have the munchies, and I still can't sleep.
Please note: earlier I had asked certain people (who will remain nameless, but they were so useless, I can't even recommend them to the Useless Men) to provide advice. I'm not asking for advice. You can give it, but that's not what I want. I want sympathy. And admiration. And basically a pat on the shoulder, followed by "There, there." I'd say checks would be appreciated, but until I get Mr. Foilwoman reined in, that really seems like a waste of everyone else's money as well as my own.
Now it's 4 a.m. Maybe things will seem better in a few hours . . . ? Well the Foilbaby and Foilkid will be up and smiling.
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