I've been thinking about compatibility a lot lately. Mr. Foilwoman and I used to be very compatible in terms of division of labor. I remained in complete ignorance of the mysterious operations of the dishwasher, the vacuum cleaner (indeed, I manage to maintain that its whereabouts are a mystery to me despite the fact that it is directly behind the chair in which I sit typing these words), and anything related to cleaning, straightening, or organization. Broom and dust pan? Beats the hell out of me. Mr. Foilwoman took care of all of those things, and in return for that, I made really good money.
Those days are over. Now we're not so compatible.
What made me think about this was the sub rosa email correspondence that followed my post on kissing. I received emails from lurkers who had been visiting this blog almost since its inception, but never posted. Apparently, in addition to every married man over 35 in the greater DC area not getting enough sex, there are hundreds (okay, fourteen who wrote to me, but that's a lot) of people who do not find the kisses they share with their life's mate satisfactory. Make it fifteen, because at this point, we definitely have to include me in that number.
Now, I'll leave aside the "How does this happen?" question. (I mean, were they good kissers who turned crappy, or was there other exciting stuff going on that distracted us from the poor kissing quality? Did our standards change?) What I want to know is: who the hell are these people who don't like kissing with their mouths open? Who don't like using their tongues? Who don't like a little nibble now and then? Who think a little spittle will end the world? (Especially if these people are parents: if you've raised at any point between day 1 in the world and age three, believe me, you've learned to know and accept drool. Nothing a lover could do could possibly top the loving and friendly kiss of a teething one year old who has just eaten peas. And you can't reject the kiss. Any parent worthy of the title Mom or Dad accepts the kiss and kisses back.)
Is failing to want to freely and messily kiss your mate a sign of withholding? Distrust? Or just excessive hygeine? Again: germ swapping is definitely a part of the whole process. Safe sex is wise, commendable, and should be practised, but anyone who can manage kissing without a little spit swapping isn't really kissing.
Basically, the question is, for those of us on the wrong side of the equation: Who the fuck are these people and why is one of them married to me? Also: is there a known treatment? All information helpful. Please respond. Thank you.
August 31, 2005
Question From The Ultimate Arbiter
All of a sudden my sidebar links to prior questions to the Ultimate Arbiter don't work. I tried changing the archive to daily, and they still don't work. Come on, this is the Internet. Some techie person, please stand up and be counted. Thank you.
And you think I don't have faith
Now Our Holiness (or My Holiness, really, because comments on Champurrado aside -- I'll make an exception for him, with the cake and all -- I really don't like to share) is telling religion jokes. Some things are just wrong. Some jokes are just bad. It's a pity I like both so much. But notice, Holy Benny's own jokes are better than the ones he stole. As someone raised in the Unitarian Church, educated in the Episcopal and Catholic Church, former roommate of a Buddhist, related by marriage to Jews and Muslims, I found the whole thing amusing. I shouldn't, of course.
August 30, 2005
A Kiss Is Just a Kiss
I've read lots of posts on the Internet in various blogs, various porn sites (yes, I know I don't really proof-read, but for fuck's sake, and I do mean that literally, come up with a style book and learn to spell, damn it all!), and other more or less creative or imaginative endeavors on the web and elsewhere about various techniques for performing all kinds of sexual acts. Whoop de doo.
I'm here to tell you, everyone's missing the point. I'm talking about my own preferences here, so anyone seeking the universal guide to gals (see "What Do Women Want" from May 10) can rest assured that this only works for me. Brittney Spears likes something differet. Michelle Pfeiffer likes something different. Innana, bless her heart, after she figures out the hockey scoring, likes something different.
And to make it even more complicated: I sometimes like something different. Actually, I basically should be unique like a snowflake. So its not step 1, kiss lips, step two touch neck. Nope. Its reactive and interactive. Like Jazz.
But like jazz, or tuning your guitar, the other party (moi) will give you signs. The little noises? That's very good news. Anytime I touch you back? That's good news. Oh, one hard and fast rule: remember what you want to do and plan accordingly. If your planning on snuggling, shaving in recent history is a very clever move. Thank you.
A friend was talking about concern over being (or not being) a good kisser. That's like worrying about being a sociopath. Sociopaths don't worry about whether they have no morals. Their absence of morality and empathy means that they don't worry about abstract concepts they just don't get. People with no sensual nature don't worry about the quality of the interaction. They have their little manual ("minute three: cup breast with left hand while kissing mouth; nibble on lip.") and are sticking to it.
And if you're kissing someone who tells you you are doing it wrong, you are. You shouldn't be kissing that person. That's your mistake.
Kissing. Mmmmmm.
I'm here to tell you, everyone's missing the point. I'm talking about my own preferences here, so anyone seeking the universal guide to gals (see "What Do Women Want" from May 10) can rest assured that this only works for me. Brittney Spears likes something differet. Michelle Pfeiffer likes something different. Innana, bless her heart, after she figures out the hockey scoring, likes something different.
And to make it even more complicated: I sometimes like something different. Actually, I basically should be unique like a snowflake. So its not step 1, kiss lips, step two touch neck. Nope. Its reactive and interactive. Like Jazz.
But like jazz, or tuning your guitar, the other party (moi) will give you signs. The little noises? That's very good news. Anytime I touch you back? That's good news. Oh, one hard and fast rule: remember what you want to do and plan accordingly. If your planning on snuggling, shaving in recent history is a very clever move. Thank you.
A friend was talking about concern over being (or not being) a good kisser. That's like worrying about being a sociopath. Sociopaths don't worry about whether they have no morals. Their absence of morality and empathy means that they don't worry about abstract concepts they just don't get. People with no sensual nature don't worry about the quality of the interaction. They have their little manual ("minute three: cup breast with left hand while kissing mouth; nibble on lip.") and are sticking to it.
And if you're kissing someone who tells you you are doing it wrong, you are. You shouldn't be kissing that person. That's your mistake.
Kissing. Mmmmmm.
Innana and Athletics
Innana has many, many fine features. She's smarter than you or I. She's well bred. She's educated. She has a keen interest in theater, history, and culture. The Foilkid just loves her. The Foilbaby says "Gahh" with a great deal of enthusiasm whenever Innana is spotted. Innana has helped many clueless governmental drones who otherwise wouldn't communicate in English actually combine nouns, verbs, and prediates to make complete and coherent sentences. She's pretty. She has a beautiful white cat with pink ears, nose, and paws. If Innana hadn't babysat for the Foilkid so that Mr. Foilwoman and I had an evening out as a couple on Feburary 14, 2004, the Foilbaby wouldn't exist, so her pseudonym-sake (a Middle Eastern fertility goddess) is absolutely spot-on.
That said, even such a paragon has flaws. Please don't be too shocked and disappointed. She has feet of clay.
Innana simply has no use for athletics (unless it's athletics in the style of ancient Greece, involving naked young men cavorting around). Innana likes to be comfy. Therefore, getting hit in the head with a squash ball, falling off a bike, or other ways of injuring yourself whilst claiming you are improving your fitness hold absolutely no interest for Innana. She may even have said, of tennis: "If they keep rejecting the ball I keep throwing to them, I'm going to assume they don't want it back, and stop all this nonsense."
Despite these restful tendencies, Innana taught herself how to skate, despite the danger of falling. She also took horsebackriding lessons as an adult, and earned a broken arm (treated by NHS) for her troubles.
However, even more of a sign of Innana's truly adventurous spirit are her forays into spectator sports. Innana used to go to hockey games with me pretty regularly. She would help me cheer on the (cute) players of my choice. She went to many a game just to keep me company. She was a really good sport. I never realized quite how good a sport she was until one night when Scott Stevens (yum) got the puck in the goal. Innana turned to me and asked: "How many points do they get with the puck goes in there?" This shocking discovery was followed by some pointed questions whereupon it became clear that the concepts of penalties, offsides, checking, and scoring were not living in the same zip code or state as Innana.
Once Innana got free Orioles tickets through an employer, and invited a charming young man to accompany her to the ball game. Halfway through the game, Innana's escort asked her: "Who's winning?" Innana looked at him and shrugged: "We are?" Her escort then, realizing something was amiss, asked: "Which team is the Orioles?" Good thing Innana has a really cute befuddled expression.
Champurrado and GBM: You both know hockey. Can you explain it to Innana? She'll care much, much more about it if you find some way to tie it into the Victorian era.
Anonymous: Can you help her with the baseball?
Remember, be nice. We all have our weak spots. With me, that would be locating or using a vacuum cleaner (I presume if it's hiding, it doesn't want to be found and I respect its privacy).
That said, even such a paragon has flaws. Please don't be too shocked and disappointed. She has feet of clay.
Innana simply has no use for athletics (unless it's athletics in the style of ancient Greece, involving naked young men cavorting around). Innana likes to be comfy. Therefore, getting hit in the head with a squash ball, falling off a bike, or other ways of injuring yourself whilst claiming you are improving your fitness hold absolutely no interest for Innana. She may even have said, of tennis: "If they keep rejecting the ball I keep throwing to them, I'm going to assume they don't want it back, and stop all this nonsense."
Despite these restful tendencies, Innana taught herself how to skate, despite the danger of falling. She also took horsebackriding lessons as an adult, and earned a broken arm (treated by NHS) for her troubles.
However, even more of a sign of Innana's truly adventurous spirit are her forays into spectator sports. Innana used to go to hockey games with me pretty regularly. She would help me cheer on the (cute) players of my choice. She went to many a game just to keep me company. She was a really good sport. I never realized quite how good a sport she was until one night when Scott Stevens (yum) got the puck in the goal. Innana turned to me and asked: "How many points do they get with the puck goes in there?" This shocking discovery was followed by some pointed questions whereupon it became clear that the concepts of penalties, offsides, checking, and scoring were not living in the same zip code or state as Innana.
Once Innana got free Orioles tickets through an employer, and invited a charming young man to accompany her to the ball game. Halfway through the game, Innana's escort asked her: "Who's winning?" Innana looked at him and shrugged: "We are?" Her escort then, realizing something was amiss, asked: "Which team is the Orioles?" Good thing Innana has a really cute befuddled expression.
Champurrado and GBM: You both know hockey. Can you explain it to Innana? She'll care much, much more about it if you find some way to tie it into the Victorian era.
Anonymous: Can you help her with the baseball?
Remember, be nice. We all have our weak spots. With me, that would be locating or using a vacuum cleaner (I presume if it's hiding, it doesn't want to be found and I respect its privacy).
August 29, 2005
Fourth Question for the Ultimate Arbiter: Truth or Fiction?
Delta Diva has asked, "Please tell us which is better for long term relationships: truth or fiction?"
Unfortunately, that all depends on the type of relationship. In modern times there is a trend toward seeing truth-telling as a virtue in and of itself. It can be, but it isn't necessarily so. In relationships between equals, any variation from truth telling can lead one astray. It implies that the party who is lying believes that the party being lied to can't handle whatever the truth is. However, sometimes, a truth need not always be uttered and sometime should, in all kindness at least remain silent or even affirmatively covered up.
For instance, the question plaguing men since the discover, finally, after their wives have babies, that women do gain weight as they age (It doesn't matter than they had their entire lives prior to the birth of their first child to witness this phenomenon. Presume the average man to be innocent as a newborn baby with regard to well-known phenomena that do not directly affect him.): The dreaded question is "Honey, do I look fat?" or possible variants, including "Does this dress make me look fat?"
Let's be blunt here guys: she and you know the answer. Yes, she looks fat. No, the dress doesn't make her look fat, it's the extra 15 pounds that make her look fat, or it's her fat ass that makes her look fat. Truth is not your friend here.
Ask yourselves a few things: is she asking this question when starting on a running/biking/hiking/weightlifting program or before heading out the door to attend the third wedding of her erstwhile college rival who has remained a size six? (I know, you have no idea what a size six is. Work with me here.)
If the former, you can say "Honey, you've been working out a lot, and this new fitness program will work wonders. I'm so impressed." Accompany this statement by, at a minimum a hug and if possible a full fondle. Hey, it's a freebie. Trust me, she won't get mad.
If the latter (pay very close attention, this is the important part), say "That's the woman I married [or: moved in with/left the priesthood for/whatever, as appropriate]." Accompany this non-answer response by a squeeze, fondle, kiss, full on grope, or heck, if you have time, pull her into the bedroom or the nearest available comfortable and functional surface you can find. Yes, it's another freebie.
Listen close and listen tight, now: The queston you were asked was not the real question. And in your heart of hearts, you know it. She knows she's gained weight. So do you. If that bugs you so much, get a vasectomy and stop knocking women up. They'll stay skinny that way, or at least be more likely to do so. She's really asking: "Do you still find me attractive." Answer the real question asked.
I used the above example before, and I apologize for recycling, but it really is appropos.
On the other hand, when asked "How much money do we owe?" answer honestly.
So, it all depends.
Unfortunately, that all depends on the type of relationship. In modern times there is a trend toward seeing truth-telling as a virtue in and of itself. It can be, but it isn't necessarily so. In relationships between equals, any variation from truth telling can lead one astray. It implies that the party who is lying believes that the party being lied to can't handle whatever the truth is. However, sometimes, a truth need not always be uttered and sometime should, in all kindness at least remain silent or even affirmatively covered up.
For instance, the question plaguing men since the discover, finally, after their wives have babies, that women do gain weight as they age (It doesn't matter than they had their entire lives prior to the birth of their first child to witness this phenomenon. Presume the average man to be innocent as a newborn baby with regard to well-known phenomena that do not directly affect him.): The dreaded question is "Honey, do I look fat?" or possible variants, including "Does this dress make me look fat?"
Let's be blunt here guys: she and you know the answer. Yes, she looks fat. No, the dress doesn't make her look fat, it's the extra 15 pounds that make her look fat, or it's her fat ass that makes her look fat. Truth is not your friend here.
Ask yourselves a few things: is she asking this question when starting on a running/biking/hiking/weightlifting program or before heading out the door to attend the third wedding of her erstwhile college rival who has remained a size six? (I know, you have no idea what a size six is. Work with me here.)
If the former, you can say "Honey, you've been working out a lot, and this new fitness program will work wonders. I'm so impressed." Accompany this statement by, at a minimum a hug and if possible a full fondle. Hey, it's a freebie. Trust me, she won't get mad.
If the latter (pay very close attention, this is the important part), say "That's the woman I married [or: moved in with/left the priesthood for/whatever, as appropriate]." Accompany this non-answer response by a squeeze, fondle, kiss, full on grope, or heck, if you have time, pull her into the bedroom or the nearest available comfortable and functional surface you can find. Yes, it's another freebie.
Listen close and listen tight, now: The queston you were asked was not the real question. And in your heart of hearts, you know it. She knows she's gained weight. So do you. If that bugs you so much, get a vasectomy and stop knocking women up. They'll stay skinny that way, or at least be more likely to do so. She's really asking: "Do you still find me attractive." Answer the real question asked.
I used the above example before, and I apologize for recycling, but it really is appropos.
On the other hand, when asked "How much money do we owe?" answer honestly.
So, it all depends.
The Future New and Improved Mr. Foilwoman
No, I actually haven't done anything, and still live in hope that I may not have to do so (fantasy is such a wonderful thing; reality is such a personal thing; that's probably a good thing). But I have figured out who the New and Improved Mr. Foilwoman should be. Since he loves his wife and Innana wants him too, I've decided, in this particular instance I'll share. Who is he? Champurrado. Why? Check this out. I think this is where all the women, everywhere, say mournfully: "Why are all the good ones taken." [sob]. I don't know him, really, but god, I want that man. In my kitchen. Now. Supercookie: Please take notes.
Various Thoughts
I'll be at work later tonight (for real) because I just have to write some things down. First of all, back to my belief about the narrative. We are the stories we tell. The more I adopt the mantel of Foilwoman, the more I feel like her again. I cease to be an underemployed suburban mother of two (one less than a year old) whose husband's ability to hear me, take care of me and my children, or assist me in the struggles of life has gone fishing. It's a construct, but it helps.
My online persona is a lot brasher than I actually am, although I have gotten brave again. I've yanked the finances back. I've lined up exernal sources of admiration and support. I've gotten compliments on skills of mine I hadn't really counted as skills -- my writing -- and attributes I tend to downplay -- my sense of humor. I certainly have gotten positive feedback on my attractiveness (although given that those I receive this feedback from definitely hope to receive something in return, the flattery is a bit suspect).
This confidence and the admiration it brings seeps over into other areas of my life: the concierge at the building where I work, a lovely older gentleman from Peru, has started giving my very charming compliments, even before I started responding to him in Spanish. A young man sitting next to me on the subway starts asking me questions (About my knitting! Not normally a guy-magnet prop.) and manages to ask whether I'm single. (Okay, there he's a moron. He's watching my hands knit. Visible signs there.) I get all kinds of information about his lovelorn-ness to file away. Innana will dismiss him as too young and too callow, and besides, he was reading a Tom Clancy book (not an immediate disqualifier for me, but pretty much the kiss of death for Innana), so I don't collect the information that obviously would have been obtainable. My dog-owning neighbor's dad stops by to introduce himself (50s, not too old) while I'm throwing tennis balls for the Foildog.
Yet I know I am just me. A pretty competent, pissed off, and vibrant me, after a few years of being rather muted. But still just me. It's only been a year or two since Innana expressed her concern that I was no longer wearing bright colors. "Why aren't you wearing red anymore?" Well, red and magenta are back. As is royal blue. Painted toenails. Was it just motherhood, exhaustion, and nagging worry about Mr. Foilwoman that got it all sealed away? Or was the fact that my Foilwoman persona started to fade one of the causes of Mr. Foilwoman's troubles?
I am firmly convinced that none of us have a certain quota of happiness to which we are entitled. Especially now, I know that anything I get, I am going to simply say "I want" and then try to grab, provided it doesn't harm the Foilsprogs. See, that's the kicker. When you care about someone else more than yourself, you're a hostage. You can't just don the superheroine cape. You have to make sure that whatever you do, they don't end up hostage. They love their Daddy. I could play tough love, and turf him out. Even if guaranteed success in any custody battle, there is no guarantee that he won't fall apart. To have a spouse take your kids and leave is not tripping over a minor molehill. It's falling off a fucking cliff. He didn't react really well to much less humiliating hardships in his life. I can't realistically say I expect he would weather that trial well. And that would be bad for the girls. So then what about me? Back to square one.
Oh, anonymous goddess of superheroines everywhere, how do I do the right thing so that I don't harm my daughters' beloved Daddy and thus harm them. Because even though he is a bit out of it, last night we were sitting at the table (with the new babysitter) and the Foilbaby and Foilkid were playing a kissing game with their Daddy, with lots of giggling and gurgling and laughing and smacking lips, and I knew: I have it in my power to break all of their hearts. I have it in my power to put up with a lot. I'm stronger than he is. I'm not so strong I can put up with this forever, but I don't have to make a move right now. I may be up to bad, but I'm still using my powers for good.
That said, I want a single malt scotch, a good looking guy to bring it to me, tickets to a Caps game, and a day of pampering at some ridiculously luxurious spa. And new Italian shoes from Nordstroms. And peace in the Middle East. And almost eternal youth. And the ability to bench press more than 120 pounds (like I used to do). And a trust fund. I may not have these things, I may never have them, and I can live with that. But if I do have them, however briefly, I'll enjoy them.
I've lost my train of thought now and need to get back to work anyway. Oh, and the Ultimate Arbiter needs more questions. Oh, anonymous writer friend: either ask me one, or ask the Useless Men. Thanks.
My online persona is a lot brasher than I actually am, although I have gotten brave again. I've yanked the finances back. I've lined up exernal sources of admiration and support. I've gotten compliments on skills of mine I hadn't really counted as skills -- my writing -- and attributes I tend to downplay -- my sense of humor. I certainly have gotten positive feedback on my attractiveness (although given that those I receive this feedback from definitely hope to receive something in return, the flattery is a bit suspect).
This confidence and the admiration it brings seeps over into other areas of my life: the concierge at the building where I work, a lovely older gentleman from Peru, has started giving my very charming compliments, even before I started responding to him in Spanish. A young man sitting next to me on the subway starts asking me questions (About my knitting! Not normally a guy-magnet prop.) and manages to ask whether I'm single. (Okay, there he's a moron. He's watching my hands knit. Visible signs there.) I get all kinds of information about his lovelorn-ness to file away. Innana will dismiss him as too young and too callow, and besides, he was reading a Tom Clancy book (not an immediate disqualifier for me, but pretty much the kiss of death for Innana), so I don't collect the information that obviously would have been obtainable. My dog-owning neighbor's dad stops by to introduce himself (50s, not too old) while I'm throwing tennis balls for the Foildog.
Yet I know I am just me. A pretty competent, pissed off, and vibrant me, after a few years of being rather muted. But still just me. It's only been a year or two since Innana expressed her concern that I was no longer wearing bright colors. "Why aren't you wearing red anymore?" Well, red and magenta are back. As is royal blue. Painted toenails. Was it just motherhood, exhaustion, and nagging worry about Mr. Foilwoman that got it all sealed away? Or was the fact that my Foilwoman persona started to fade one of the causes of Mr. Foilwoman's troubles?
I am firmly convinced that none of us have a certain quota of happiness to which we are entitled. Especially now, I know that anything I get, I am going to simply say "I want" and then try to grab, provided it doesn't harm the Foilsprogs. See, that's the kicker. When you care about someone else more than yourself, you're a hostage. You can't just don the superheroine cape. You have to make sure that whatever you do, they don't end up hostage. They love their Daddy. I could play tough love, and turf him out. Even if guaranteed success in any custody battle, there is no guarantee that he won't fall apart. To have a spouse take your kids and leave is not tripping over a minor molehill. It's falling off a fucking cliff. He didn't react really well to much less humiliating hardships in his life. I can't realistically say I expect he would weather that trial well. And that would be bad for the girls. So then what about me? Back to square one.
Oh, anonymous goddess of superheroines everywhere, how do I do the right thing so that I don't harm my daughters' beloved Daddy and thus harm them. Because even though he is a bit out of it, last night we were sitting at the table (with the new babysitter) and the Foilbaby and Foilkid were playing a kissing game with their Daddy, with lots of giggling and gurgling and laughing and smacking lips, and I knew: I have it in my power to break all of their hearts. I have it in my power to put up with a lot. I'm stronger than he is. I'm not so strong I can put up with this forever, but I don't have to make a move right now. I may be up to bad, but I'm still using my powers for good.
That said, I want a single malt scotch, a good looking guy to bring it to me, tickets to a Caps game, and a day of pampering at some ridiculously luxurious spa. And new Italian shoes from Nordstroms. And peace in the Middle East. And almost eternal youth. And the ability to bench press more than 120 pounds (like I used to do). And a trust fund. I may not have these things, I may never have them, and I can live with that. But if I do have them, however briefly, I'll enjoy them.
I've lost my train of thought now and need to get back to work anyway. Oh, and the Ultimate Arbiter needs more questions. Oh, anonymous writer friend: either ask me one, or ask the Useless Men. Thanks.
I Didn't Meddle
My co-worker (the one who met her Nice-but-Potentially-Fictional-Fiance or NBPFF this weekend) didn't show up for work this morning. So I did meddle. I emailed her, asking what was up (perhaps an infelicitous turn of phrase). She's coming in late. She's fine. She's engaged for real, to a real man she really met on Thursday afternoon for the first time. She's deleriously happy. He met her parents on Saturday.
I'll congratulate her on the ring. Hey, I knew Mr. Foilwoman for three years before I married him, and we know how well that's working out. Maybe it's better to just roll the dice. More news when I actually see her.
I'll congratulate her on the ring. Hey, I knew Mr. Foilwoman for three years before I married him, and we know how well that's working out. Maybe it's better to just roll the dice. More news when I actually see her.
August 28, 2005
Very Happy News (It's Not About Me, But It's Happy)
Congratulations to RainyPete (aka More Useless Than My Cat who erroneously calls himself Any More Useless, I'd Be a Cat) and Mrs. Rainy on the safe and healthy arrival of the newest addition to the Rainy clan, Jakob. As you can see, Jakob is very cute. We're all profoundly grateful that Jakob resembles his mother. ;p
Anyone wondering what RainyPete looks like without the red nose, well there he is. I've babysat people older than this guy. He made me feel old. Useless!
Anyone wondering what RainyPete looks like without the red nose, well there he is. I've babysat people older than this guy. He made me feel old. Useless!
August 27, 2005
The Absolute Fecklessness That Is Most Men (But not All Men)
When I was a teenager, I asked my Dad why boys were so stupid, like so: FW: "Daddy, why are boys so stupid?" He explained, with his immortal wisdom: FW's Dad: "Honey, remember this and you'll know all you need to know about men: Testosterone makes men stupid. Whenever a man does a stupid thing, stop and think, 'How was this influenced by testosterone?' Inevitably, once you see testosterone's malevolent influence, you will understand all and you will have the power." No-one has ever disproved this statement. It's probably more widely accepted (especially in the Bible belt) than Darwin's Theory of Evolution.
An example: In my looking for bad days, meeting up with swains from my listing, I had one professional gentleman (ok, big law firm attorney) who wanted to meet me for lunch. We had a nice lunch planned for our first meeting. The lunch was at a hotel restaurant. He emailed me that morning to confirm that I could still attend. I replied that I could. An hour later, he emailed me again: "I just want to confirm: if we hit it off will you be able to check into the hotel this afternoon?" I emailed back "No." He emailed back: "Well, I just don't see that it would be worth the bother to meet for lunch if we aren't going to have sex." I replied: "Fine. Good luck."
Please let me know: most women wouldn't even place such an ad. I can't think of one actual human female (non-prostitute) who would turn up for lunch with someone she did not actually know if that person had made it clear that the lunch was
conditioned on sexual availability. Needless to say, unless he hired someone, I don't think he got any action that day. WTF?
An example: In my looking for bad days, meeting up with swains from my listing, I had one professional gentleman (ok, big law firm attorney) who wanted to meet me for lunch. We had a nice lunch planned for our first meeting. The lunch was at a hotel restaurant. He emailed me that morning to confirm that I could still attend. I replied that I could. An hour later, he emailed me again: "I just want to confirm: if we hit it off will you be able to check into the hotel this afternoon?" I emailed back "No." He emailed back: "Well, I just don't see that it would be worth the bother to meet for lunch if we aren't going to have sex." I replied: "Fine. Good luck."
Please let me know: most women wouldn't even place such an ad. I can't think of one actual human female (non-prostitute) who would turn up for lunch with someone she did not actually know if that person had made it clear that the lunch was
conditioned on sexual availability. Needless to say, unless he hired someone, I don't think he got any action that day. WTF?
The Absolute Fecklessness That Is Mr. Foilwoman
Again, let me repeat, he was not always this way. When I met him and in the first years of our marriage, he never spent to excess. While he has always liked high-end items, before the Foilkid arrived and he started staying home, he never wanted things that were simply unnecessarily extravagant. He might have wanted things a little higher end than I did, but it was nothing that really screwed up a budget or a bank account.
Mr. Foilwoman has been working for two weeks now, after six years home with the Foilkid. As noted before, he has just thrown a perfectly good child care arrangement away, causing harm to another human being without my involvement or consent. The job he has is professional, but not much above entry level (again, returning after a long absence). He drives to work in his "I have arrived car". It has dawned on him that maybe this is not a car he wants to park with his co-workers' cars and have them notice and wonder WTF is going on with him. This is the car I wanted him to sell six months ago. We have no spare cash (well, that he knows of, I have already managed to save $550, but I'm not telling, and that's not much, anyway).
Mr. Foilwoman wants to buy a used car for his commute. He does not want to sell the Mercedes. And the used car that he wants isn't a Kia or a Hyundai. No, he's thinking about a Mazda 626 or a Toyota Camry or Avalon (not superexpensive, but definitely real $$). Please note that I am walking, biking, or taking public transportation everywhere. Here's my suggestion: Sell the machomobile, buy a used Suburu for half that amount, use the rest to pay bills, add to the Foilsprogs college funds, and replenish the rainy day funds which has been empty since it started raining three months or so ago.
Mr. Foilwoman's comment: "You don't respect me, do you." When I wouldn't answer, he said "You can't even reply." I actually think I did, just not verbally. I used to respect him. Right now, I'm trying not to filet him. Slowly. With a rusty spoon. No, I'm not trying to talk to him about it. WTF could I possibly say that would be constructive? "Have you lost what remains of your teensy-weensy mind" might make me feel better in the short term, but I do not believe it is the response needed in this situation. However, rest assured, I don't have funds to make available for a totally unnecessary car purchase, and will not making the minimal funds that I have on hand available for such a purpose.
Mr. Foilwoman has been working for two weeks now, after six years home with the Foilkid. As noted before, he has just thrown a perfectly good child care arrangement away, causing harm to another human being without my involvement or consent. The job he has is professional, but not much above entry level (again, returning after a long absence). He drives to work in his "I have arrived car". It has dawned on him that maybe this is not a car he wants to park with his co-workers' cars and have them notice and wonder WTF is going on with him. This is the car I wanted him to sell six months ago. We have no spare cash (well, that he knows of, I have already managed to save $550, but I'm not telling, and that's not much, anyway).
Mr. Foilwoman wants to buy a used car for his commute. He does not want to sell the Mercedes. And the used car that he wants isn't a Kia or a Hyundai. No, he's thinking about a Mazda 626 or a Toyota Camry or Avalon (not superexpensive, but definitely real $$). Please note that I am walking, biking, or taking public transportation everywhere. Here's my suggestion: Sell the machomobile, buy a used Suburu for half that amount, use the rest to pay bills, add to the Foilsprogs college funds, and replenish the rainy day funds which has been empty since it started raining three months or so ago.
Mr. Foilwoman's comment: "You don't respect me, do you." When I wouldn't answer, he said "You can't even reply." I actually think I did, just not verbally. I used to respect him. Right now, I'm trying not to filet him. Slowly. With a rusty spoon. No, I'm not trying to talk to him about it. WTF could I possibly say that would be constructive? "Have you lost what remains of your teensy-weensy mind" might make me feel better in the short term, but I do not believe it is the response needed in this situation. However, rest assured, I don't have funds to make available for a totally unnecessary car purchase, and will not making the minimal funds that I have on hand available for such a purpose.
When Reality Just Doesn't Do It For You . . . Why Not Fantasize A Bit
Supercookie and Lorena have done up the guest list for their imaginary dinner parties, and while Cookie's guest list makes me wonder (but I'm on it, so I'm not complaining, as long as I get to bring a weapon of some sort), since dealing with reality right now just isn't cutting it, I'm planning an imaginary dinner party (now that the Foilkid is fed and rested and ready to bathe). On my guest list, in no particular order (this would obviously have to be a series of dinner parties to avoid bloodshed and so that I could talk with everyone at some length):
(1) Hannah Arendt
(2) Susan Sontag
(3) Nora Ephron
(4) Gene Weingarten
(5) Mario Vargas Llosa
(6) Jorge Amado
(7) Jorge Luis Borges
(8) Federico Garcia Lorca
(9) Miguel de Unamuno
(10) Supercookie (Cookie Monster)
(11) Both of my grandmothers
(12) Innana, of coursem MBFFHS, Uber
(13) Leonardo da Vinci
(14) Elizabeth I (of England)
(15) Beatriz & Isabella d'Este
(16) Elisabeth Vigee Lebrun
(17) Mary Cassatt
(18) Emma Lazarus
(19) Joan Didion
(20) King Hussein of Jordan
(21) Golda Meir
(22) David Ben Gurion
(23) Dave Barry
(24) Someone who would probably wish to remain anonymous
(25) Champurrado, Pope Benedict XVI (that's my holiness, who posts here, not the ex-National Socialist who's in the Vatican), De-ID man, Andy & Renee (of course, Dane must come also, and play with the Foilbaby), DaveO, Kira, Prom, & WW)
(26) Placido Domingo, Kathleen Battle, Maria Ewing, Montserrat Caballe, Leontyne Price, Denyse Graves, & Maria Callas
(27) Martin Luther, Aimee Semple McPherson, Mary Baker Eddy, Martin Luther King, & Mother Ann Lee
(28) Jane Addams
(29) Bill Clinton, Franklin Roosevelt, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Harry Truman, James Monroe, James Madison
(30) Eleanor Roosevelt
(31) Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
(32) Rick Moody, Julian Barnes, Margaret Atwood, Anne Tyler, John Gardiner, Yann Martel, Martin Amis, Kingsley Amis, Pat Barker
(33) Paul Tillich, C.S. Lewis
(34) Pope John XXIII
(35) Bronze John from Stranger's Fever
(36) Amie Oliver
(37) The Useless Men (all equally Useless and beloved)
(38) Shakespeare
(39) Cervantes
(40) Marcus Aurelius
(41) Boudicca, Crazy Horse, Chief Joseph, Ulysses S. Grant, William Tecumseh Sherman, Omar Bradley, the Duke of Wellington, Zhukov, Kutuzov, Omar Bradley, George Marshall, Patton, Julius Caesar, Chaka Zulu, Haile Selaisse, Jomo Kenyatta, Robert the Bruce, William Wallace, Atilla, Genghis Khan, Alexander, Hannibal, Scipio Africanus
(42) Mary Chestnut, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Frederick Douglass
(43) Winston Churchill
(44) Queen Margrethe of Denmark (and basically pretty much anyone from Denmark, anytime)
(45) King Juan Carlos of Spain (and pretty much anyone from Spain, anytime)
(46) Zoe & the Twat (don't worry, we'll seat you apart)
(47) Sandra & Firefly (don't bring guys, I'm sitting you both near Cookie)
(48) Margaret Sanger
(49) Mary Wollstonecraft & Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
(50) Conrad Aiken, W.H. Auden, Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dante
(51) Elizabeth Bowen, Muriel Sparks, Dorothy Sayers, Eudora Welty
(52) Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Odetta, Kris Kristopherson, Janis Joplin, Billie Holliday, Lena Horne, Chrissie Hynde, David Byrne, Mark Knopfler, Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff, Bruce Springsteen, Mary Chapin Carpenter
(53) Francis Ford Coppola, Sophia Coppola, Orson Welles, David Lean, the Marx Brothers, Bunuel, Ingmar Berman, that Danish guy from the 20s (Innana, who was that, you made me watch thate great movie . . .), Eric Rohmer, Cocteau, Carlos Saura, Quentin Tarantino, Fellini, Antonioni, and many, many more.
(54) Bill Murray, Jane Curtin, Gene Wilder, Mel Brooks, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert
(55) Italo Calvino
(56) Primo Levi
(57) Victor Frankl
(58) Herman Melville, Nathaniel Hawthorne
(59) Abigail Adams
(60) Isaac Newton
(61) Charles Darwin
(62) Benjamin Franklin
(63) Goya, El Greco, Velazquez, Michelangelo, Titian, Rubens, Hans Holbein, John Singer Sargeant, Matisse, Hieronymous Bosch, Giotto, Fra Angelico, Brunelleschi, Degas, Monet, Manet, Morisot, Joan Miro, Salvador Dali
(64) Gary Trudeau
(65) Thucydides, Herodotus
(66) Plato, Socrates, St. Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Locke, Hobbes, Rousseau, Bentham, Montesquieu.
(67) Sappho
(69) Mary, Queen of Scots
(70) Sir Thomas More
(71) Galileo
(72) Eugene Debs
(73) Earl Warren, Thurgood Marshall, Felix Frankfurter, Benjamin Cardozo, Oliver Wendell Holmes, & Ruth Bader Ginsburg
(74) Sean Bean and Alan Rickman, to sit with Innana.
Oh, I think that should keep us busy for a good while. And keep some caterers in business.
(1) Hannah Arendt
(2) Susan Sontag
(3) Nora Ephron
(4) Gene Weingarten
(5) Mario Vargas Llosa
(6) Jorge Amado
(7) Jorge Luis Borges
(8) Federico Garcia Lorca
(9) Miguel de Unamuno
(10) Supercookie (Cookie Monster)
(11) Both of my grandmothers
(12) Innana, of coursem MBFFHS, Uber
(13) Leonardo da Vinci
(14) Elizabeth I (of England)
(15) Beatriz & Isabella d'Este
(16) Elisabeth Vigee Lebrun
(17) Mary Cassatt
(18) Emma Lazarus
(19) Joan Didion
(20) King Hussein of Jordan
(21) Golda Meir
(22) David Ben Gurion
(23) Dave Barry
(24) Someone who would probably wish to remain anonymous
(25) Champurrado, Pope Benedict XVI (that's my holiness, who posts here, not the ex-National Socialist who's in the Vatican), De-ID man, Andy & Renee (of course, Dane must come also, and play with the Foilbaby), DaveO, Kira, Prom, & WW)
(26) Placido Domingo, Kathleen Battle, Maria Ewing, Montserrat Caballe, Leontyne Price, Denyse Graves, & Maria Callas
(27) Martin Luther, Aimee Semple McPherson, Mary Baker Eddy, Martin Luther King, & Mother Ann Lee
(28) Jane Addams
(29) Bill Clinton, Franklin Roosevelt, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Harry Truman, James Monroe, James Madison
(30) Eleanor Roosevelt
(31) Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
(32) Rick Moody, Julian Barnes, Margaret Atwood, Anne Tyler, John Gardiner, Yann Martel, Martin Amis, Kingsley Amis, Pat Barker
(33) Paul Tillich, C.S. Lewis
(34) Pope John XXIII
(35) Bronze John from Stranger's Fever
(36) Amie Oliver
(37) The Useless Men (all equally Useless and beloved)
(38) Shakespeare
(39) Cervantes
(40) Marcus Aurelius
(41) Boudicca, Crazy Horse, Chief Joseph, Ulysses S. Grant, William Tecumseh Sherman, Omar Bradley, the Duke of Wellington, Zhukov, Kutuzov, Omar Bradley, George Marshall, Patton, Julius Caesar, Chaka Zulu, Haile Selaisse, Jomo Kenyatta, Robert the Bruce, William Wallace, Atilla, Genghis Khan, Alexander, Hannibal, Scipio Africanus
(42) Mary Chestnut, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Frederick Douglass
(43) Winston Churchill
(44) Queen Margrethe of Denmark (and basically pretty much anyone from Denmark, anytime)
(45) King Juan Carlos of Spain (and pretty much anyone from Spain, anytime)
(46) Zoe & the Twat (don't worry, we'll seat you apart)
(47) Sandra & Firefly (don't bring guys, I'm sitting you both near Cookie)
(48) Margaret Sanger
(49) Mary Wollstonecraft & Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
(50) Conrad Aiken, W.H. Auden, Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dante
(51) Elizabeth Bowen, Muriel Sparks, Dorothy Sayers, Eudora Welty
(52) Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Odetta, Kris Kristopherson, Janis Joplin, Billie Holliday, Lena Horne, Chrissie Hynde, David Byrne, Mark Knopfler, Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff, Bruce Springsteen, Mary Chapin Carpenter
(53) Francis Ford Coppola, Sophia Coppola, Orson Welles, David Lean, the Marx Brothers, Bunuel, Ingmar Berman, that Danish guy from the 20s (Innana, who was that, you made me watch thate great movie . . .), Eric Rohmer, Cocteau, Carlos Saura, Quentin Tarantino, Fellini, Antonioni, and many, many more.
(54) Bill Murray, Jane Curtin, Gene Wilder, Mel Brooks, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert
(55) Italo Calvino
(56) Primo Levi
(57) Victor Frankl
(58) Herman Melville, Nathaniel Hawthorne
(59) Abigail Adams
(60) Isaac Newton
(61) Charles Darwin
(62) Benjamin Franklin
(63) Goya, El Greco, Velazquez, Michelangelo, Titian, Rubens, Hans Holbein, John Singer Sargeant, Matisse, Hieronymous Bosch, Giotto, Fra Angelico, Brunelleschi, Degas, Monet, Manet, Morisot, Joan Miro, Salvador Dali
(64) Gary Trudeau
(65) Thucydides, Herodotus
(66) Plato, Socrates, St. Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, Locke, Hobbes, Rousseau, Bentham, Montesquieu.
(67) Sappho
(69) Mary, Queen of Scots
(70) Sir Thomas More
(71) Galileo
(72) Eugene Debs
(73) Earl Warren, Thurgood Marshall, Felix Frankfurter, Benjamin Cardozo, Oliver Wendell Holmes, & Ruth Bader Ginsburg
(74) Sean Bean and Alan Rickman, to sit with Innana.
Oh, I think that should keep us busy for a good while. And keep some caterers in business.
Is Cluelessness Contagious?
Yes, another anti-spousal rant. Mr. Foilwoman is really trying hard to become ex-Mr. Foilwoman, and I have very real reasons for NOT wanting to do that to him or to the Foilsprogs that I cannot explain in detail on this blog in order to maintain anonymity. Aside from the fact that an even 1% chance of losing custody would be too high odds against me and my girls.
He fired the babysitter. She's too expensive (which is true, but I figure, you skimp on things other than childcare: LIKE YOUR CAR, SHITHEAD). He has hired another babysitter. I actually have no complaints about the new babysitter, but I really liked the old babysitter. Better yet, the new babysitter is going to be a live-in. I truly hope she is as calm as she seems, because this house is not exactly a stress free zone.
The old babysitter (not old, but the one we both agreed to hire) has a college degree in social work from another country. She plays the piano beautifully. She talks knowledgeably about child development. She has kept the Foilkid eating vegetables and fruits. She dotes on the Foilbaby. She's nice, she did nothing wrong, we hired her, she made her plans, and my husband fired her. I've placed an ad for her on Craig's List, made sure she knows she has a great reference from me, and am calling anyone who might need a nanny recommending one. Need someone in the DC area like that? Who speaks Hebrew, an Eastern European language and English? Call me. Like I don't have enough mess to clean up after, now I get to straighten out the disasters this man is making of other women's lives. Fortunately, the new babysitter comes to us through a friend of my husband's -- doing anything unkind to her would pretty much get him ostracized by people more important to him than I am.
There's nothing wrong with the new babysitter. But it's going to be hard to warm up to her. I really loved the old one, and now I just don't want to reach out. Of course, I have to. She's living in my house and caring for my children.
Okay, I've separated the finances, etc. Is there anybody who can goddamn-well guarantee that if I file I'll get custody? We need to talk. Oh, one good thing about a live-in. If I have to work late, or do anything, my husband will have to pay the babysitter more in overtime (I insisted on that) if he's not home on time, but I don't have to worry about it. Sort of frees me up a bit. He really should have stuck with the woman who had to leave at 6:15 every day. More limiting for those of us making other plans, you know?
God, I'm evil, and I'm mean. Not to mention plotting immorality, if not 24/7, then 23/6 (the person I stole that delightful phrasing from wishes to remain anonymous, but thank you).
He fired the babysitter. She's too expensive (which is true, but I figure, you skimp on things other than childcare: LIKE YOUR CAR, SHITHEAD). He has hired another babysitter. I actually have no complaints about the new babysitter, but I really liked the old babysitter. Better yet, the new babysitter is going to be a live-in. I truly hope she is as calm as she seems, because this house is not exactly a stress free zone.
The old babysitter (not old, but the one we both agreed to hire) has a college degree in social work from another country. She plays the piano beautifully. She talks knowledgeably about child development. She has kept the Foilkid eating vegetables and fruits. She dotes on the Foilbaby. She's nice, she did nothing wrong, we hired her, she made her plans, and my husband fired her. I've placed an ad for her on Craig's List, made sure she knows she has a great reference from me, and am calling anyone who might need a nanny recommending one. Need someone in the DC area like that? Who speaks Hebrew, an Eastern European language and English? Call me. Like I don't have enough mess to clean up after, now I get to straighten out the disasters this man is making of other women's lives. Fortunately, the new babysitter comes to us through a friend of my husband's -- doing anything unkind to her would pretty much get him ostracized by people more important to him than I am.
There's nothing wrong with the new babysitter. But it's going to be hard to warm up to her. I really loved the old one, and now I just don't want to reach out. Of course, I have to. She's living in my house and caring for my children.
Okay, I've separated the finances, etc. Is there anybody who can goddamn-well guarantee that if I file I'll get custody? We need to talk. Oh, one good thing about a live-in. If I have to work late, or do anything, my husband will have to pay the babysitter more in overtime (I insisted on that) if he's not home on time, but I don't have to worry about it. Sort of frees me up a bit. He really should have stuck with the woman who had to leave at 6:15 every day. More limiting for those of us making other plans, you know?
God, I'm evil, and I'm mean. Not to mention plotting immorality, if not 24/7, then 23/6 (the person I stole that delightful phrasing from wishes to remain anonymous, but thank you).
August 25, 2005
Deeply Romantic Feelings
Yes, it's true. I love my guitars. I love my Spanish Classical guitar which I picked up in Barcelona in 1978 for $100. And yes, I love my Hofner 12-string acoustic guitar that I picked up on Monday at a bargain-basement price by agreeing to meet its prior owner for dinner (if you haven't read the prior posts one this subject, guess: Was the guitar seller: ____ male or ____ female? Anyone who cannot figure the answer to that question, there must be a remedial gender-characteristic education class out there somewhere). He knew what was what: "I can have dinner with you, and you can have dinner with the guitar." What a good sport. And it was a nice dinner. It's well-constructed, it has a nice tone and timbre. The notes are bright. It's fun to play. Of course, it hurts to play, and my fingers are sore.
I love having both a classical and a folkie guitar. And they are both very nice guitars. I've never had quite such a delightful feeling of infatuation at the beginning of a relationship before.
I think after this sort of union, you congratulate me, and wish the guitars well. Just remember, August 22nd is the anniversary date. Remind me to make reservations and buy flowers next year. Because I normally forget that crap.
I love having both a classical and a folkie guitar. And they are both very nice guitars. I've never had quite such a delightful feeling of infatuation at the beginning of a relationship before.
I think after this sort of union, you congratulate me, and wish the guitars well. Just remember, August 22nd is the anniversary date. Remind me to make reservations and buy flowers next year. Because I normally forget that crap.
August 24, 2005
Is Your Life Meaningless? Help Available Here.
The Useless Men have done it again. In a moment of despond, I asked them (anonymously, but now I'm blowing it . . . but then I'm still anonymous except for Innana, Cookie (because he's special to me), and one other person on this planet) how to have a meaningful life. Proving his Uselessness, once again, MUTMC (More Useless than My Cat a/k/a Rainy Pete a/k/a Any More Useless, I'd Be a Cat which is just a wrong, wrong, wrong nom d'Uselessness as MUTMC and I have discussed and I have proven many, many times, but he hasn't changed said nom because he is, how shall I put this, Useless) has attempted to answer this question. He hasn't of course; no-one can, but by all means check it out. Also, check out one of the earlier answers to another of my no-longer anonymous questions about how to survive the apocalypse.
More sexual theory (not really a theory, hardly even a thought, but there you are)
I shouldn't do this from the office, but I'm the only one here right now, and I'm using someone else's computer. Bad me. But I haven't written about sexuality and issues like that for a while. That doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about it. My brain, it just goes places.
I've been wondering about all those men out there who aren't getting enough sex. Are there actually women who thing once a week is a good number? I mean women in relationships. If you haven't been in a relationship for a while, I understand, once a week doesn't sound so bad, but really, it's a nice way to wake up in the morning, it's a nice way to go to bed, heck, it's a nice way to have breakfast or dessert--take my word for it: just go watch Tampopo orLike Water for Chocolate (or Eat Drink Man Woman). And, if done with enthusiasm, it's good exercise! So all those people out there trying to shrink (what's that all about?), just get lively, often.
So back to the women and once a week or once a month sex: My theory is that women actually would like sex a lot more than that. They just don't like 5 minutes, one quick squirt, and it's over. We're funny that way. So once a woman realizes that sex has devolved into something that takes less time than a nice bath or an ice cream sundae (and is often much less satisfying), the woman starts to withdraw. Especially if requests and suggestions have been less than effective or, worse yet, completely unheard. It's kind of damned if you do, damned if you don't.
That's the worst thing: As a woman, you probably won't get much satisfaction from a one-off -- a one night stand. It might be fun, it might be exciting, but your chances of satisfaction from anything other than your own devices? Small. You need someone who has patience and time. So even when you just feel desire, you seek out relationships, because that will work better for your ultimate satisfaction. Except that a lot of guys are only super-attentive in the early stages. So there you are, with someone you've committed to (who you probably should have committed) who has stopped committing himself to your pleasure. Yes, you can do it for yourself, you know that. But so can guys. Everyone can go have a good wank if all we want is the release. Yet men expend enormous amounts of energy and money (believe me, I know), in the often forlorn hope that a woman will actually have sex with them.
Here's a thought: once a guy has found a woman who actually will have sex with him, I'd bet hard cold cash (we could take up a pool, but who will verify?) that sex wouldn't diminish to once a week or less if they guy in question devoted himself each and every time to making sure his partner was satisfied. Remember, these are the half of the human race whose libidos have led to the creation and enormous growth of the porn industry, almost all prostitution, strip clubs, and anything else involving female breasts, genitalia, or really any other female body part or hint thereof. So, an investment of 45 minutes, once or twice a day will ensure that the man himself gets one to two orgasms (with another human being) each day, and maybe even a few exceptions for quickies, whatever. Talk about people not being rational actors. And I'm sure women play into this as well, I just can't see the trend. I'm pretty clear I'm a somewhat different make and model than most women, but no, I'm not going to run around in saran wrap or whatever the "Surrendered Woman" suggestions are (what a horrible book) to get someone aroused and then satisfied who isn't going to do the same for me. But why do we shoot ourselves in the foot like that.
Men are willing to spend more money than most of their wives are aware they have stashed away to get more sex. There must be another explanation here that I am missing (because I'm seeing it from my limited perspective, but it is not always all about me). Any ideas?
I didn't just write this to get more hits and increase readership (which always happens when I write about sex and money, actually money even more than sex). This was a thought or two or three I was having along with the rest of the flood on consciousness coursing through my brain. I was also thinking of knitting patterns, but I won't subject anyone to that. Speaking of which, there are actual knitting blogs out there. I love to knit, but crap, that's boring (writing about it). Now I feel bad about anyone who lands on this post because of searching for blogs about knitting. Oops.
I've been wondering about all those men out there who aren't getting enough sex. Are there actually women who thing once a week is a good number? I mean women in relationships. If you haven't been in a relationship for a while, I understand, once a week doesn't sound so bad, but really, it's a nice way to wake up in the morning, it's a nice way to go to bed, heck, it's a nice way to have breakfast or dessert--take my word for it: just go watch Tampopo orLike Water for Chocolate (or Eat Drink Man Woman). And, if done with enthusiasm, it's good exercise! So all those people out there trying to shrink (what's that all about?), just get lively, often.
So back to the women and once a week or once a month sex: My theory is that women actually would like sex a lot more than that. They just don't like 5 minutes, one quick squirt, and it's over. We're funny that way. So once a woman realizes that sex has devolved into something that takes less time than a nice bath or an ice cream sundae (and is often much less satisfying), the woman starts to withdraw. Especially if requests and suggestions have been less than effective or, worse yet, completely unheard. It's kind of damned if you do, damned if you don't.
That's the worst thing: As a woman, you probably won't get much satisfaction from a one-off -- a one night stand. It might be fun, it might be exciting, but your chances of satisfaction from anything other than your own devices? Small. You need someone who has patience and time. So even when you just feel desire, you seek out relationships, because that will work better for your ultimate satisfaction. Except that a lot of guys are only super-attentive in the early stages. So there you are, with someone you've committed to (who you probably should have committed) who has stopped committing himself to your pleasure. Yes, you can do it for yourself, you know that. But so can guys. Everyone can go have a good wank if all we want is the release. Yet men expend enormous amounts of energy and money (believe me, I know), in the often forlorn hope that a woman will actually have sex with them.
Here's a thought: once a guy has found a woman who actually will have sex with him, I'd bet hard cold cash (we could take up a pool, but who will verify?) that sex wouldn't diminish to once a week or less if they guy in question devoted himself each and every time to making sure his partner was satisfied. Remember, these are the half of the human race whose libidos have led to the creation and enormous growth of the porn industry, almost all prostitution, strip clubs, and anything else involving female breasts, genitalia, or really any other female body part or hint thereof. So, an investment of 45 minutes, once or twice a day will ensure that the man himself gets one to two orgasms (with another human being) each day, and maybe even a few exceptions for quickies, whatever. Talk about people not being rational actors. And I'm sure women play into this as well, I just can't see the trend. I'm pretty clear I'm a somewhat different make and model than most women, but no, I'm not going to run around in saran wrap or whatever the "Surrendered Woman" suggestions are (what a horrible book) to get someone aroused and then satisfied who isn't going to do the same for me. But why do we shoot ourselves in the foot like that.
Men are willing to spend more money than most of their wives are aware they have stashed away to get more sex. There must be another explanation here that I am missing (because I'm seeing it from my limited perspective, but it is not always all about me). Any ideas?
I didn't just write this to get more hits and increase readership (which always happens when I write about sex and money, actually money even more than sex). This was a thought or two or three I was having along with the rest of the flood on consciousness coursing through my brain. I was also thinking of knitting patterns, but I won't subject anyone to that. Speaking of which, there are actual knitting blogs out there. I love to knit, but crap, that's boring (writing about it). Now I feel bad about anyone who lands on this post because of searching for blogs about knitting. Oops.
Peaceful
For whatever reason, I woke up this morning feeling great. The Foilbaby was kicking me with her chubby little legs (she actually slept pretty well last night, largely because she somehow managed to communicate that she would not be happy in her own crib). Kicking me from the outside is actually preferable to getting kicked from the inside when I was pregnant with her. She was cheerful. And round. Okay, I should stop saying that: she's like a Renaissance cherub. You see babies like her with little wings on them all the time in European ceilings. Round is pretty much her raison d'etre.
The Foilkid has been a joy to have back (although exhausting). "Mama, can I tell you something . . ." is her current introductory phrase (it's not actually a question), which is always immediately followed by some fascinating piece of news. We made pancakes on Saturday, French Toast Sunday, and home made spaghetti sauce (the sauce of spag bol, for GBM and Cookie) and meat loaf on Sunday afternoon (that way, I don't have to cook during the week). Foilkid is eating carrots (thanks Mormor) and more fruit and actually tries new dishes that are presented to her. She likes meatloaf. This is a stunning development for the all mac & cheese girl.
It's cool enough so that the Foildog and I are having quite pleasant walks. I have a new guitar that has a very good sound. The air is crisp, like a New England summer day (not the soupy summer days of the mid-Atlantic region). I'm almost finished reading Against Love, a Polemic and The Price of Glory: Verdun 1916, by Alistair Horne. I'm on the sleeves of a nice jacket that I'll have finished sometime this fall (red and blue), so I'll have a new item of clothing without having to go to a store (and yes, 100 hours of knitting vs. 1/2 hour in TJ Maxx getting bumped into by other people plus some cash I don't want to spend, yes, its a fair tradeoff).
Haven't talked with Innana enough, but we'll see each other this weekend. Life is pretty good.
The Foilkid has been a joy to have back (although exhausting). "Mama, can I tell you something . . ." is her current introductory phrase (it's not actually a question), which is always immediately followed by some fascinating piece of news. We made pancakes on Saturday, French Toast Sunday, and home made spaghetti sauce (the sauce of spag bol, for GBM and Cookie) and meat loaf on Sunday afternoon (that way, I don't have to cook during the week). Foilkid is eating carrots (thanks Mormor) and more fruit and actually tries new dishes that are presented to her. She likes meatloaf. This is a stunning development for the all mac & cheese girl.
It's cool enough so that the Foildog and I are having quite pleasant walks. I have a new guitar that has a very good sound. The air is crisp, like a New England summer day (not the soupy summer days of the mid-Atlantic region). I'm almost finished reading Against Love, a Polemic and The Price of Glory: Verdun 1916, by Alistair Horne. I'm on the sleeves of a nice jacket that I'll have finished sometime this fall (red and blue), so I'll have a new item of clothing without having to go to a store (and yes, 100 hours of knitting vs. 1/2 hour in TJ Maxx getting bumped into by other people plus some cash I don't want to spend, yes, its a fair tradeoff).
Haven't talked with Innana enough, but we'll see each other this weekend. Life is pretty good.
August 23, 2005
12-String Guitar
Okay, I lied. I was picking the guitar up last night, not today. And I have it in my possession, no loss of virtue or anything. The guitar's donor was pretty funny. The guitar cost less than the dinner did, and is worth a great deal more.
Champurrado: It's a 1970 Hofner 12-String. Very good condition, no warping of the neck. Hopelessly out of tune (what this guy was doing with it, I don't know -- guitars don't like to be left alone, and this was too nice a guitar to just buy and leave in a closet for 35 years), and I've gotten it about halfway tuned. Very solid construction, no defects. Probably worth $400 or $500 on Ebay, maybe more. Not a Martin or anything, but a good guitar. Paul McCartney used to play a Hofner 12-string bass. This is not a bass (which I wouldn't want), but is from that era and is a good guitar. I'm so happy.
First songs I'm going to play once I have it restringed (yes, the strings look like they are 35 years old also) and tuned will be a lot of Dylan) (that's)Bob Dylan, Supercookie : Love is Just a Four Letter Word, I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine, Lay Lady Lay, Hurricane, and then stuff like Tom Petty (with apologies to Innana that a Yankee like myself can play it) Born a Rebel, Southern Accents, the a little Ramones (really can't play it, but with their musicality, I really don't need to), then Runaway, Angel from Montgomery, some Bruce, some Dire Straits. I might not have time to blog for a bit.
Oh, who am I kidding. I'll just not sleep. I'm not doing much of that anyway.
Champurrado: It's a 1970 Hofner 12-String. Very good condition, no warping of the neck. Hopelessly out of tune (what this guy was doing with it, I don't know -- guitars don't like to be left alone, and this was too nice a guitar to just buy and leave in a closet for 35 years), and I've gotten it about halfway tuned. Very solid construction, no defects. Probably worth $400 or $500 on Ebay, maybe more. Not a Martin or anything, but a good guitar. Paul McCartney used to play a Hofner 12-string bass. This is not a bass (which I wouldn't want), but is from that era and is a good guitar. I'm so happy.
First songs I'm going to play once I have it restringed (yes, the strings look like they are 35 years old also) and tuned will be a lot of Dylan) (that's)Bob Dylan, Supercookie : Love is Just a Four Letter Word, I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine, Lay Lady Lay, Hurricane, and then stuff like Tom Petty (with apologies to Innana that a Yankee like myself can play it) Born a Rebel, Southern Accents, the a little Ramones (really can't play it, but with their musicality, I really don't need to), then Runaway, Angel from Montgomery, some Bruce, some Dire Straits. I might not have time to blog for a bit.
Oh, who am I kidding. I'll just not sleep. I'm not doing much of that anyway.
August 20, 2005
If it makes me happy . . . (1st Revision)
Innana orders, I obey. Below, 100 things that make me happy:
1--The Foilkid (and pretty much anything she says or does).
2--The Foilbaby (and anything she does and all newly appearing teeth, and anything she attempts to say).
3--The Foildog, most of the time.
4--My nephews.
5--My sisters.
6--MVBFITWWW (Innana).
7--Hanging out with my Mom (and it wasn't always this way, so this is nice)
8--My Spanish classical guitar.
9--My soon-to-be-new-to-me 12-string guitar (or the very thought of it).
10--Playing the guitar.
11--Singing along with the radio or CD player in the car (Dire Straits, Ramones, Sex Pistols, Bruce Springsteen, Patti Smith, Aretha, the Four Tops, the Drifters, Bonnie Raitt, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Bob Marley, Nanci Griffith, Van Morrison, Warren Zevon, Elvis Costello & many more.
12--Aretha singing Who's Zoomin' Who, Until You Say You Love Me, Spanish Harlem, Do Right Woman Do Right Man, I Say a Little Prayer, Bridge Over Troubled Water, or pretty much anything else. Aretha singing Mary Had a Little Lamb or Itsy Bitsy Spider would probably do it for me.
13--Speaking or singing in Spanish.
14--Cooking, particularly desserts.
15--Single malt scotch (but not to excess).
16--Rioja, Chianti, Cote du Rhone, Brunello del Montelcino, or Chateauneuf du Pape (good red wines).
17--Rodney Strong Chardonney, Sancerre, Blanc de blancs, Marlborough Sauvignon Blancs (good white wines).
18--The Fine Fighting Wines of Australia (with apologies to Chuck Nalls, who, as far as I know, invented that felicitous turn of phrase).
19--The works of Jane Austen.
20--Don Quixote de la Mancha.
21--Jorge Amado's work, especially Dona Flor and her Two Husbands and Gabriella Clove and Cinnamon .
22--MBFFHS.
23--Cross country skiing up by Sugarloaf in Maine or Mt. Washington in New Hampshire.
24--That feeling of "ooh" before your 'chute opens when skydiving, if followed by that feeling of "aah" after your chute has opened (don't think about the alternative).
25--Swimming in an outdoor heated pool on a cold winter day (Thank you BCC Y)
26--Sitting in the back yard with the Foildog.
27--Knitting.
28--Reading about Innana's latest internet intellectual find (performing Victorian dogs? Trained cat circuses? And you though academia was dry and dull).
29--Conversing with Supercookie as well as reading his blog or emails.
30--Tapas at Jaleo
31--Dining at Taberna del Alaberdero
32--Tea at the Four Seasons in Georgetown
33--Shopping in a good bookstore
34--Having a stack pass to the library of congress
35--Membership in the Middle East Institute with access to their garden and library.
36--Crab cakes or steak salad at C.F. Folks (while watching Art be grumpy to customers). The red beans and rice with Andouille sausage is also quite good.
37--When a candidate I voted for is sworn in as president of the U.S. (hey! it happened twice in my lifetime).
38--The Red Soxx winning the series.
39--The 1985 Washingtonian photo of Scott Stevens's torso (yum).
40--Listening and watching Kathleen Battle perform lieder live at the Musikverein in Vienna.
41--The CD of MBFFHS's birthday concert.
42--That my daughter wears the Danish costume I wore when I was her age and that my mother (Foilkid's Mormor) wore when she was Foilkid's age and that my Mormor (Foilkid's Olemor and my mother's mother -- that's what Mormor means) made for my mother in 1942 for a sad concert at Carnegie Hall commemorating all the countries occupied by Germany whose families were now out of touch. Sixty-three years later and it's still looking good.
43--The organ piece, Sleeper's Awake, by J.S. Bach as rearranged for classical guitar (available on Parkening Plays Bach, not sure if it's been remasterd and reissued for CD, but it's great). I like listening to Christopher Parkening play it, and I enjoy trying to play it on the piano. I can't really, but I still enjoy trying.
44--Making marzipan for Christmas with all the women in my family.
45--Decorating a Christmas tree with traditional Danish decorations that my mother, my sister, and I have made by hand.
46--Knitting (a sweater).
47--Receiving compliments on a sweater I have knitted.
48--Seeing Innana wear a sweater I knitted for her.
49--Hearing that Innana's Mom, Department of Louise, likes the sweater I knitted for her.
50--Knitting clothes for the Foilkid's Teddy on request.
51--Punching a bully in the nose.
52--Successfully landing a single revolution jump whilst figure-skating (this hasn't happened since before the birth of the Foilkid).
53--Eating ice cream with my homemade chocolate sauce. No, Hershey's chocolate sauce does NOT suffice.
54--Waking up in Rincon de Guayabitos in Mexico in my room with a terrace overlooking the pacific.
55--Seeing a whale breaching while out on the ocean.
56--Amarige, by Givenchy.
57--That I can play the piano, although not well. Playing Minuet in G from the Notebook of Anna Magdalena Bach.
58--Wandering through the Prado or the Uffizi.
59--Barcelona, Florence, Siena, Lucca, Ferrara, Burgos, Copenhagen, Vienna, Salzburg, Innsbruck, Oxford, Madrid, Oslo, Monterrey, San Francisco, Lake Tahoe, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, and being a tourist or visitor in those places.
60--Staying at Essex House on business in NYC.
61--Opera and that I've learned to like it and occasionally get to see it.
62--Hiking in the Green or White Mountains in New England.
63--Rowing on Casco Bay.
64--Taking a lunch break on the C&O Canal Trail.
65--Skyline Drive in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
66--Having control over my own finances.
67--Knowing that I don't have a lot of friends, but the ones I do have are very high quality.
68--Innana's kitty.
69--Writing in general, blogging in particular.
70--Getting real mail.
71--Duking it out with GBM.
72--Coming up with totally dorked out questions to ask the Useless Men.
73--The forlorn hope that Rainy Pete, whose nom d'Uselessness is "Anymore Useless, I'd be a cat" will someday concede that this pseudonym should be, for truth in advertising purposes if nothing else "More Useless than Foilwoman's Cat".
74--Walter Mitty-esque fantasies in which I save the world. Or at least a cute guy.
75--Flirting.
76--Getting in touch with old friends after years apart.
more later.
77--Playing monopoly.
78--Playing bridge.
79--Biking on a cool sunny day.
80--Body surfing.
81--Maine lobster.
82--Train rides.
83--Stretching.
84--Eating breakfast outdoors.
85--Wacoal and Chantelle lingerie.
86--Silk clothing.
87--Cashmere.
88--400+ count bed linens.
89--Good sex (and by that, I mean, good for me).
90--Fresh cut flowers indoors.
91--Sitting in my living room looking at the marigolds and other flowers in my garden.
92--Having my hair brushed.
93--Massage at Elizabeth Arden Red Door salon.
94--Facial by Paris Alexander.
95--Yves St. Laurent and Christian Dior cosmetics.
96--Knowing the rules and choosing not to boey them.
97--Caller ID and the ability to avoid telephone marketers.
98--Staying in bed
99--Coffee in the morning.
100--Cuddling.
I'll add more later.
1--The Foilkid (and pretty much anything she says or does).
2--The Foilbaby (and anything she does and all newly appearing teeth, and anything she attempts to say).
3--The Foildog, most of the time.
4--My nephews.
5--My sisters.
6--MVBFITWWW (Innana).
7--Hanging out with my Mom (and it wasn't always this way, so this is nice)
8--My Spanish classical guitar.
9--My soon-to-be-new-to-me 12-string guitar (or the very thought of it).
10--Playing the guitar.
11--Singing along with the radio or CD player in the car (Dire Straits, Ramones, Sex Pistols, Bruce Springsteen, Patti Smith, Aretha, the Four Tops, the Drifters, Bonnie Raitt, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Bob Marley, Nanci Griffith, Van Morrison, Warren Zevon, Elvis Costello & many more.
12--Aretha singing Who's Zoomin' Who, Until You Say You Love Me, Spanish Harlem, Do Right Woman Do Right Man, I Say a Little Prayer, Bridge Over Troubled Water, or pretty much anything else. Aretha singing Mary Had a Little Lamb or Itsy Bitsy Spider would probably do it for me.
13--Speaking or singing in Spanish.
14--Cooking, particularly desserts.
15--Single malt scotch (but not to excess).
16--Rioja, Chianti, Cote du Rhone, Brunello del Montelcino, or Chateauneuf du Pape (good red wines).
17--Rodney Strong Chardonney, Sancerre, Blanc de blancs, Marlborough Sauvignon Blancs (good white wines).
18--The Fine Fighting Wines of Australia (with apologies to Chuck Nalls, who, as far as I know, invented that felicitous turn of phrase).
19--The works of Jane Austen.
20--Don Quixote de la Mancha.
21--Jorge Amado's work, especially Dona Flor and her Two Husbands and Gabriella Clove and Cinnamon .
22--MBFFHS.
23--Cross country skiing up by Sugarloaf in Maine or Mt. Washington in New Hampshire.
24--That feeling of "ooh" before your 'chute opens when skydiving, if followed by that feeling of "aah" after your chute has opened (don't think about the alternative).
25--Swimming in an outdoor heated pool on a cold winter day (Thank you BCC Y)
26--Sitting in the back yard with the Foildog.
27--Knitting.
28--Reading about Innana's latest internet intellectual find (performing Victorian dogs? Trained cat circuses? And you though academia was dry and dull).
29--Conversing with Supercookie as well as reading his blog or emails.
30--Tapas at Jaleo
31--Dining at Taberna del Alaberdero
32--Tea at the Four Seasons in Georgetown
33--Shopping in a good bookstore
34--Having a stack pass to the library of congress
35--Membership in the Middle East Institute with access to their garden and library.
36--Crab cakes or steak salad at C.F. Folks (while watching Art be grumpy to customers). The red beans and rice with Andouille sausage is also quite good.
37--When a candidate I voted for is sworn in as president of the U.S. (hey! it happened twice in my lifetime).
38--The Red Soxx winning the series.
39--The 1985 Washingtonian photo of Scott Stevens's torso (yum).
40--Listening and watching Kathleen Battle perform lieder live at the Musikverein in Vienna.
41--The CD of MBFFHS's birthday concert.
42--That my daughter wears the Danish costume I wore when I was her age and that my mother (Foilkid's Mormor) wore when she was Foilkid's age and that my Mormor (Foilkid's Olemor and my mother's mother -- that's what Mormor means) made for my mother in 1942 for a sad concert at Carnegie Hall commemorating all the countries occupied by Germany whose families were now out of touch. Sixty-three years later and it's still looking good.
43--The organ piece, Sleeper's Awake, by J.S. Bach as rearranged for classical guitar (available on Parkening Plays Bach, not sure if it's been remasterd and reissued for CD, but it's great). I like listening to Christopher Parkening play it, and I enjoy trying to play it on the piano. I can't really, but I still enjoy trying.
44--Making marzipan for Christmas with all the women in my family.
45--Decorating a Christmas tree with traditional Danish decorations that my mother, my sister, and I have made by hand.
46--Knitting (a sweater).
47--Receiving compliments on a sweater I have knitted.
48--Seeing Innana wear a sweater I knitted for her.
49--Hearing that Innana's Mom, Department of Louise, likes the sweater I knitted for her.
50--Knitting clothes for the Foilkid's Teddy on request.
51--Punching a bully in the nose.
52--Successfully landing a single revolution jump whilst figure-skating (this hasn't happened since before the birth of the Foilkid).
53--Eating ice cream with my homemade chocolate sauce. No, Hershey's chocolate sauce does NOT suffice.
54--Waking up in Rincon de Guayabitos in Mexico in my room with a terrace overlooking the pacific.
55--Seeing a whale breaching while out on the ocean.
56--Amarige, by Givenchy.
57--That I can play the piano, although not well. Playing Minuet in G from the Notebook of Anna Magdalena Bach.
58--Wandering through the Prado or the Uffizi.
59--Barcelona, Florence, Siena, Lucca, Ferrara, Burgos, Copenhagen, Vienna, Salzburg, Innsbruck, Oxford, Madrid, Oslo, Monterrey, San Francisco, Lake Tahoe, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, and being a tourist or visitor in those places.
60--Staying at Essex House on business in NYC.
61--Opera and that I've learned to like it and occasionally get to see it.
62--Hiking in the Green or White Mountains in New England.
63--Rowing on Casco Bay.
64--Taking a lunch break on the C&O Canal Trail.
65--Skyline Drive in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
66--Having control over my own finances.
67--Knowing that I don't have a lot of friends, but the ones I do have are very high quality.
68--Innana's kitty.
69--Writing in general, blogging in particular.
70--Getting real mail.
71--Duking it out with GBM.
72--Coming up with totally dorked out questions to ask the Useless Men.
73--The forlorn hope that Rainy Pete, whose nom d'Uselessness is "Anymore Useless, I'd be a cat" will someday concede that this pseudonym should be, for truth in advertising purposes if nothing else "More Useless than Foilwoman's Cat".
74--Walter Mitty-esque fantasies in which I save the world. Or at least a cute guy.
75--Flirting.
76--Getting in touch with old friends after years apart.
more later.
77--Playing monopoly.
78--Playing bridge.
79--Biking on a cool sunny day.
80--Body surfing.
81--Maine lobster.
82--Train rides.
83--Stretching.
84--Eating breakfast outdoors.
85--Wacoal and Chantelle lingerie.
86--Silk clothing.
87--Cashmere.
88--400+ count bed linens.
89--Good sex (and by that, I mean, good for me).
90--Fresh cut flowers indoors.
91--Sitting in my living room looking at the marigolds and other flowers in my garden.
92--Having my hair brushed.
93--Massage at Elizabeth Arden Red Door salon.
94--Facial by Paris Alexander.
95--Yves St. Laurent and Christian Dior cosmetics.
96--Knowing the rules and choosing not to boey them.
97--Caller ID and the ability to avoid telephone marketers.
98--Staying in bed
99--Coffee in the morning.
100--Cuddling.
I'll add more later.
August 19, 2005
More Most Excellent News (Guitar)
Remember my suitors, from way back, after this blog had stopped being about a bad therapist and depression (hint to all in same situation: Fire the bad therapist! Yes, Leilla, that means you.) and had turned to contemplation of a totally unsatisfactory spouse and what to do about that sad situation. Remember those days? Well, I had many suitors. Some are back. Not in a bad way. Indeed, I don't really have time to really get into trouble. When would I do it?
But, one nice guy who I did not click with has become a friendly acquaintance (we work in the same part of town, so we might as well be civil, no?). He has a 12-string guitar that he does not play. He was going to sell it on Craig's list or E-bay, but instead, he's selling it to me. He actually had an e-bay listing for it for $500 (and I've priced these things, and if it's in reasonably okay shape, well it's worth close to $1,000), but I'm getting it for much, much less than that. I wonder if he thinks anything else is up for negotiation.
So, I want this guitar. I really shouldn't spend the money, but I've been so careful, and this will be such a treat. I really should feel guilty because in some way I feel like I'm taking advantage of this successful partner in a law firm who is practically giving me this guitar. Oh, and why don't I just meet him for dinner, where I can collect the guitar? Nice steak house. Do I feel guilty? No. Am I taking advantage? I think so. Do I care? A little bit, but I'm getting the guitar.
I went to the a guitar shop and played some twelve strings, and even though they are pretty tough to play compared to my nylon string guitar, I can still play it without my hands bleeding (always a good thing when your hands don't bleed, I think we would all agree). I've wanted one of these brighter sounding guitars since the dawn of time and now I'm going to have one.
Ethically, well, I didn't ask him to sell me the guitar for less than fair market value. He offered it to me, I said, "I can't really afford to buy anything" and he said "I need to get it out of my basement, and it's not getting played. You'd be doing me a favor. What could you afford to pay?" Me: "$25" Him: "$50" Me: "Deal. And that's a legally binding contract and you know it."
So, how bad am I? No matter what you say, I'm still taking the guitar.
But, one nice guy who I did not click with has become a friendly acquaintance (we work in the same part of town, so we might as well be civil, no?). He has a 12-string guitar that he does not play. He was going to sell it on Craig's list or E-bay, but instead, he's selling it to me. He actually had an e-bay listing for it for $500 (and I've priced these things, and if it's in reasonably okay shape, well it's worth close to $1,000), but I'm getting it for much, much less than that. I wonder if he thinks anything else is up for negotiation.
So, I want this guitar. I really shouldn't spend the money, but I've been so careful, and this will be such a treat. I really should feel guilty because in some way I feel like I'm taking advantage of this successful partner in a law firm who is practically giving me this guitar. Oh, and why don't I just meet him for dinner, where I can collect the guitar? Nice steak house. Do I feel guilty? No. Am I taking advantage? I think so. Do I care? A little bit, but I'm getting the guitar.
I went to the a guitar shop and played some twelve strings, and even though they are pretty tough to play compared to my nylon string guitar, I can still play it without my hands bleeding (always a good thing when your hands don't bleed, I think we would all agree). I've wanted one of these brighter sounding guitars since the dawn of time and now I'm going to have one.
Ethically, well, I didn't ask him to sell me the guitar for less than fair market value. He offered it to me, I said, "I can't really afford to buy anything" and he said "I need to get it out of my basement, and it's not getting played. You'd be doing me a favor. What could you afford to pay?" Me: "$25" Him: "$50" Me: "Deal. And that's a legally binding contract and you know it."
So, how bad am I? No matter what you say, I'm still taking the guitar.
More Most Excellent News (Although Not As Excellent as the News About the Foilkid)
Dave Orsborn (of Spoonfeeding the Walrus fame) is taking part in a comedic extravaganza in NYC next Saturday, August 27th. If I can cough up the money, I am so taking a road trip. Okay, an Amtrak trip. Innana, is that one of your "I am a social butterfly gallivanting around the greater tidewater area" weekends? If not, well, you saw Dave first, but I'm going to see him LIVE and IN PERSON. [Dave, be afraid. Be very afraid.]
It's at 8 pm, Saturday, August 27th.
Juvie Hall at the Gene Frankel Theater
24 Bond Street between Bowery and Lafayette (this doesn't sound like a great neighborhood, but I'm a superheroine, so WTF)
Tickets will be around $8 or so, I think. Beer will be available for sale. But it's American beer, so you might want to get drinks first.
Now, you may recall that I have banned spam and advertising on this blog. This is not spam, this is me saying, "Hey, I bet this guy will be funny in person, as well as on his blog." I'll let you know when AmieO has a show too. She can post a message here. David can post a message here. Anonymous douchebags of the blogosphere? Not so much.
Oh, and Bronze John, My Holiness, and De-ID man? It's a really short flight from where you are to NYC. Really. Cross my heart. And Cookie and GBM? You could practically swim. Zoe, you too.
Any bloggers who might be in NYC then, contact me so we can arrange to be bad influences on each other.
It's at 8 pm, Saturday, August 27th.
Juvie Hall at the Gene Frankel Theater
24 Bond Street between Bowery and Lafayette (this doesn't sound like a great neighborhood, but I'm a superheroine, so WTF)
Tickets will be around $8 or so, I think. Beer will be available for sale. But it's American beer, so you might want to get drinks first.
Now, you may recall that I have banned spam and advertising on this blog. This is not spam, this is me saying, "Hey, I bet this guy will be funny in person, as well as on his blog." I'll let you know when AmieO has a show too. She can post a message here. David can post a message here. Anonymous douchebags of the blogosphere? Not so much.
Oh, and Bronze John, My Holiness, and De-ID man? It's a really short flight from where you are to NYC. Really. Cross my heart. And Cookie and GBM? You could practically swim. Zoe, you too.
Any bloggers who might be in NYC then, contact me so we can arrange to be bad influences on each other.
Most Excellent News
The Foilkid was scheduled to arrive home tomorrow, but instead she arrives tonight. My mother called but also sent an email with flight times, etc. After which, was added:
"[Foilkid] wants to type something:Collectively, now: AWWWWW. Isn't my girl just the best?
hgfjufbjijbjihumn hbjujymjhjyuy
love [Foilkid]"
What is Good? What is Love?
Innana asked me the question "what is the good?" which I shall try to answer. As an arbiter, I am happier telling you not to wear white shoes after Labor Day or how to get rid of an annoying suitor or which member of a fighting couple is correct. Below, we have had a debate on Respect v. Love which has turned into a debate on "what is love?" So, what is the good? What is Love? I must define the terms I am using.
What is Good
Can I please just make peace in the Middle East instead, Innana? But here goes. There are several kinds of good: there is individual good and there is group good. For instance, it is good for me to have national security. In order to do that, most people would agree armed forces are necessary (to a greater or lesser extent, depending on the individual, but anyway), and that in times of danger sometimes individual sacrifice is for the good of the whole. However, the individual death or harm resulting from such sacrifice and bravery is not good for the individual. Similarly with other protectors and defenders.
And it's all matter of perspective. From the perspective of the mother grizzly, the stupid human's mutilation and/or death following a too close approach to her cubs (and what is too close -- I suggest you don't debate it with her, just take her word for it) is of the good. It is good, to her, that all threats to her offspring are quickly dispatched or at least left without capability of causing more harm. It's not so good to the individual stupid human. For society as a whole, probably this thinning of the gene pool is good. But what if the stupid human has children? Then it's not good for them. Or a mother who loves him, stupid though he is. That's not good. So good is a moving target.
Nonetheless, let's define clearly some things that are good, in and of themselves:
Health, friends, chocolate, wine, Italian cooking, French cooking, Thai, Vietnamese, Korean, Chinese, Greek, Spanish, Mexican, and Middle Eastern cooking. Danish pastries. Cross country skiing. Fresh fallen snow. Kittens. Cats. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Cervantes. Shakespeare. Quentin Tarantino. Margaret Cho. Jon Stewart. Stephen Colbert. Margaret Atwood. The Smithsonian Institution (no entrance fee!). Swimming. The Foilkid. The Foilbaby. Innana. Cookie. The Library of Congress. The Bodleian Library. St. Paul's Cathedral. Georgetown University's Liberal Studies Program. The W&OD Bike Trail. Taberna del Alaberdero. Jaleo. La Sagrada Familia. Cibreo in Florence. The Magic Flute. Don Giovanni. Denyse Graves. Ruth Ann Swenson. Maria Ewing, particularly in Salome. Kathleen Battle. Cosi Fan Tutti. Aida. Tosca. Tampopo. Babette's Feast. Gregory's Girl. J.S. Bach. Mozart. Beethoven. Saint Saens. Bizet. Chopin.
What is Love?
Innana commented on the Greek definitions of love: Eros (passionate, sensual, or erotic love: mindless and hormone driven), Agape (the highest form of love, the love from which all other loves flows: spiritual love, for example, the love of god for humanity and the love of humans for the divine), Philia (platonic or brotherly love), and Storge (parental love).
Most modern people talking of love are really talking about Eros or Storge. These a but parts of the whole of Agape. I do not regard Eros as being real love, or if it is love, it is in such a limited and selfish form that it really isn't love. I agree that Storge and Philia are love, but again, in a limited way. When I talk about love, I am talking Agape. Not just a passing fancy. Not "in love".
Another thing that I don't think is clear: feeling love. Lots of people have killed people they claim to love out of jealousy, desperation, need to control, etc. They love so much. Except, in my book, that's not love. Neediness isn't love. Desire isn't love. Obsession isn't love. Control isn't love. Bullying isn't love. People can say "I love" and mean it, and behave in a completely non-loving manner (treating someone respectfully, acknowledging bounderies and limits, would to me, seem to be essential components of true love). Conversely, people can behave in a loving manner yet not feel love (out of duty, self-denial, religious belief, good manners, whatever). To have love actually exist, the feeling and the action have to combine. A person who thinks he loves me but expresses that love by harming me does not love me. A person who treats me in a loving fashion, but doesn't feel love toward me does not love me. Both factors need to be present: feeling and action.
At which point, I realize, I don't respect Mr. Foilwoman at this point, and thus, by my own definition, I do not love him, at least by Agape standards. I do still feel protective toward him, but more in a motherlike way. His love for me is definitely childlike, not that of a peer. Maybe he'll grow up? He's over 50.
What is Good
Can I please just make peace in the Middle East instead, Innana? But here goes. There are several kinds of good: there is individual good and there is group good. For instance, it is good for me to have national security. In order to do that, most people would agree armed forces are necessary (to a greater or lesser extent, depending on the individual, but anyway), and that in times of danger sometimes individual sacrifice is for the good of the whole. However, the individual death or harm resulting from such sacrifice and bravery is not good for the individual. Similarly with other protectors and defenders.
And it's all matter of perspective. From the perspective of the mother grizzly, the stupid human's mutilation and/or death following a too close approach to her cubs (and what is too close -- I suggest you don't debate it with her, just take her word for it) is of the good. It is good, to her, that all threats to her offspring are quickly dispatched or at least left without capability of causing more harm. It's not so good to the individual stupid human. For society as a whole, probably this thinning of the gene pool is good. But what if the stupid human has children? Then it's not good for them. Or a mother who loves him, stupid though he is. That's not good. So good is a moving target.
Nonetheless, let's define clearly some things that are good, in and of themselves:
Health, friends, chocolate, wine, Italian cooking, French cooking, Thai, Vietnamese, Korean, Chinese, Greek, Spanish, Mexican, and Middle Eastern cooking. Danish pastries. Cross country skiing. Fresh fallen snow. Kittens. Cats. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Cervantes. Shakespeare. Quentin Tarantino. Margaret Cho. Jon Stewart. Stephen Colbert. Margaret Atwood. The Smithsonian Institution (no entrance fee!). Swimming. The Foilkid. The Foilbaby. Innana. Cookie. The Library of Congress. The Bodleian Library. St. Paul's Cathedral. Georgetown University's Liberal Studies Program. The W&OD Bike Trail. Taberna del Alaberdero. Jaleo. La Sagrada Familia. Cibreo in Florence. The Magic Flute. Don Giovanni. Denyse Graves. Ruth Ann Swenson. Maria Ewing, particularly in Salome. Kathleen Battle. Cosi Fan Tutti. Aida. Tosca. Tampopo. Babette's Feast. Gregory's Girl. J.S. Bach. Mozart. Beethoven. Saint Saens. Bizet. Chopin.
What is Love?
Innana commented on the Greek definitions of love: Eros (passionate, sensual, or erotic love: mindless and hormone driven), Agape (the highest form of love, the love from which all other loves flows: spiritual love, for example, the love of god for humanity and the love of humans for the divine), Philia (platonic or brotherly love), and Storge (parental love).
Most modern people talking of love are really talking about Eros or Storge. These a but parts of the whole of Agape. I do not regard Eros as being real love, or if it is love, it is in such a limited and selfish form that it really isn't love. I agree that Storge and Philia are love, but again, in a limited way. When I talk about love, I am talking Agape. Not just a passing fancy. Not "in love".
Another thing that I don't think is clear: feeling love. Lots of people have killed people they claim to love out of jealousy, desperation, need to control, etc. They love so much. Except, in my book, that's not love. Neediness isn't love. Desire isn't love. Obsession isn't love. Control isn't love. Bullying isn't love. People can say "I love" and mean it, and behave in a completely non-loving manner (treating someone respectfully, acknowledging bounderies and limits, would to me, seem to be essential components of true love). Conversely, people can behave in a loving manner yet not feel love (out of duty, self-denial, religious belief, good manners, whatever). To have love actually exist, the feeling and the action have to combine. A person who thinks he loves me but expresses that love by harming me does not love me. A person who treats me in a loving fashion, but doesn't feel love toward me does not love me. Both factors need to be present: feeling and action.
At which point, I realize, I don't respect Mr. Foilwoman at this point, and thus, by my own definition, I do not love him, at least by Agape standards. I do still feel protective toward him, but more in a motherlike way. His love for me is definitely childlike, not that of a peer. Maybe he'll grow up? He's over 50.
August 17, 2005
Third Question for the Ultimate Arbiter: Positive Reinforcement
Dear Ultimate Arbiter:
if i need to use positive reinforcement to help others that want to change, who will give me positive reinforcement whenI need to change?
Supercookie
Dearest Supercookie:
I want to look back through the last month or two of posts. Look at Innana's comments, Sandra's comments, Firefly's comments, Kira's comments, and the comments of other admirers who are unknown to me.
Do you know the answer to your queston? Do you consider transatlantic phone calls from two minor deities negative reinforcement? Be very careful how you answer that question.
What about Padme and Leia? Aren't they happy to see you. Or at least energetic enough to try and climb you like a tree, digging in with little sharp kitteny claws every step of the way. Is that positive reinforcement?
XOXOXOXOXOXOX
if i need to use positive reinforcement to help others that want to change, who will give me positive reinforcement whenI need to change?
Supercookie
Dearest Supercookie:
I want to look back through the last month or two of posts. Look at Innana's comments, Sandra's comments, Firefly's comments, Kira's comments, and the comments of other admirers who are unknown to me.
Do you know the answer to your queston? Do you consider transatlantic phone calls from two minor deities negative reinforcement? Be very careful how you answer that question.
What about Padme and Leia? Aren't they happy to see you. Or at least energetic enough to try and climb you like a tree, digging in with little sharp kitteny claws every step of the way. Is that positive reinforcement?
XOXOXOXOXOXOX
Second Question for the Ultimate Arbiter: Love or Respect?
Dear Ultimate Arbiter: Love or Respect? If one can't have both which is best for mental health and happiness?
Amieo
Dear Amieo:
I would say Respect, except there is a caveat. Love as a feeling is worthless. People can feel love until they are blue in the face and still do things that harm you. People harm people they say they love every minute of every day. Just look at who the usual suspects are for any homicide. While there are exceptions, the general rule is that the usual suspects are the victim's nearest and dearest. People can do things that harm people they respect, but are much less likely to do so (while military officers may get fragged during wartime, I would bet my remaining life savings ($7.43) that officers offed in such a way are those who are not respected). Mr. Foilwoman "loves" me, or so he says. I'd be happier (and in the long run so would he, believe me) with some healthy respect and fear.
However, Love as an action incorporates respect. Not just feeling Love, but acting in a Loving way. Thus, take Love, actual demonstrated (and not just felt) Love. You'll get the respect, and someone who actually wants to be around you and acts as if he wants to be around you. That said, people can say anything they want. Don't confuse stated emotion with actual emotion or confuse actual emotion with action. Go for being treated with Love, which will include being treated with Respect.
Yours,
The Ultimate Arbiter
Amieo
Dear Amieo:
I would say Respect, except there is a caveat. Love as a feeling is worthless. People can feel love until they are blue in the face and still do things that harm you. People harm people they say they love every minute of every day. Just look at who the usual suspects are for any homicide. While there are exceptions, the general rule is that the usual suspects are the victim's nearest and dearest. People can do things that harm people they respect, but are much less likely to do so (while military officers may get fragged during wartime, I would bet my remaining life savings ($7.43) that officers offed in such a way are those who are not respected). Mr. Foilwoman "loves" me, or so he says. I'd be happier (and in the long run so would he, believe me) with some healthy respect and fear.
However, Love as an action incorporates respect. Not just feeling Love, but acting in a Loving way. Thus, take Love, actual demonstrated (and not just felt) Love. You'll get the respect, and someone who actually wants to be around you and acts as if he wants to be around you. That said, people can say anything they want. Don't confuse stated emotion with actual emotion or confuse actual emotion with action. Go for being treated with Love, which will include being treated with Respect.
Yours,
The Ultimate Arbiter
August 16, 2005
First Question for the Ultimate Arbiter: Tolerating the Intolerable
Innana (a deity in her own right), has asked:
You mistake the meaning of Commandment #2, minor deity that you are (although you keep a neater house than I do, so I think we're even). We can't impose our own sexual preferences or mores on others. There are still universal rights and wrongs. For instance: chocolate, good; killing, bad; single malt scotch, good; gross public drunkenness, bad; Alan Rickman, good; Tom Cruise, bad . . . . Do you see the obviousness and universality of these good and bad things? Is there a planet on which Tom Cruise is "good"? Maybe on the Planet Happy and Delusional, but not on this earthly realm.
Dubya, Phelps, Cheney, bin Laden: All bad. Bad, bad, bad. Indeed, bin Laden, Phelps, Cheney, and Dubya all seek to impose their religious morality regarding sexuality on others, therefore, all are bad. Very bad. We can't impose our vision of tolerance on them, but heck, Dick and Lynn, due to their morality, can only sleep with each other for the rest of their lives (or be shameless hypocrites) and for both of them, I think that's pretty much a fate worse than death.
No, our tolerance does not have to extend to letting others be intolerant of us. George Dubya can believe in whatever he wants, but when he tries to make every 21 year old who wants to be "young and irresponsible" like he was up until his 40s give up fun and "just say no" I say, no. He's wrong, we're right. It's a well-known fact, it's absolute, and there is no irony in this sentence.
If I can only apply my moral values to myself, does that mean I can't get outraged with Dick Cheney, Osama bin Laden, Phred Phelps, Exxon Oil, etc?and My Holy Benny added:
Or George W.?No. It is practically a requirement that we get outraged with Dick Cheney, Osama bin Laden, Phred Phelps, and Dubya. That's commandment number 10, I believe. I'll let you know once I have it engraved on the tablet. Exxon gets a bye on this one because it isn't human. We can still loathe and despite oil companies at will, but it's not required.
You mistake the meaning of Commandment #2, minor deity that you are (although you keep a neater house than I do, so I think we're even). We can't impose our own sexual preferences or mores on others. There are still universal rights and wrongs. For instance: chocolate, good; killing, bad; single malt scotch, good; gross public drunkenness, bad; Alan Rickman, good; Tom Cruise, bad . . . . Do you see the obviousness and universality of these good and bad things? Is there a planet on which Tom Cruise is "good"? Maybe on the Planet Happy and Delusional, but not on this earthly realm.
Dubya, Phelps, Cheney, bin Laden: All bad. Bad, bad, bad. Indeed, bin Laden, Phelps, Cheney, and Dubya all seek to impose their religious morality regarding sexuality on others, therefore, all are bad. Very bad. We can't impose our vision of tolerance on them, but heck, Dick and Lynn, due to their morality, can only sleep with each other for the rest of their lives (or be shameless hypocrites) and for both of them, I think that's pretty much a fate worse than death.
No, our tolerance does not have to extend to letting others be intolerant of us. George Dubya can believe in whatever he wants, but when he tries to make every 21 year old who wants to be "young and irresponsible" like he was up until his 40s give up fun and "just say no" I say, no. He's wrong, we're right. It's a well-known fact, it's absolute, and there is no irony in this sentence.
I Am the Ultimate Arbiter
Amieo graciously suggested that I step up to the plate as the ultimate arbiter of human mores (I might be expanding my purview a bit, but as a deity who has just undergone her apotheosis, you'll have to bear with just a tad of hubris -- except as a minor deity, I don't think hubris applies to me. Innana? Is that right?). I happily assented despite the obvious result that there will be many sleepless nights in my future. Just so everyone understands the rules of civilization, and this blog, let me state them.
(1) You can only really apply your moral beliefs to yourself. If you have children, they will learn from you by observation.
(2) Unless you want to have sex with someone and that person wants to have sex with you (PLEASE NOTE: Both preceding clauses must be true each time you seek to use this commandment, and they must be true without coercion, undue influence, or bribery), it is none of your business who that person wants to have sex with, unless the other object of desire is someone without meaningful ability to consent (a child, a captive, an employee, a mentally handicapped person, a person one is blackmailing, a less than fully aware being -- i.e., someone incapacited, someone unconscious, a non-human animal, etc), in which case we can intervene to protect or preserve the freedom of consensual choice of the person or creature unable to meaningfully consent. All other interference in others psexual relationships and endeavors is explicitly prohibited. Forbidden. Taboo. Verboten. Prohibido. A no-no.
(3) As a corollary to (2), above, thoughts alone are not a crime.
(4) Be kind and sympathetic to others.
(5) If you want people to change, use positive reinforcement.
(6) Realize that not everyone is like you or has had similar experiences and act accordingly.
(7) Try to understand why you want to do things and what you really think you will accomplish.
(8) Being human isn't necessarily a good thing. Animals harm others without real awareness of the existence of the other. However, whenever you think "Nobody could be that stupid or that cruel" [Stealing from Bronze John's blog now, but it's a true statement] somebody probably was. Don't be that person. Try to help those who have been hurt by people who are that stupid and that cruel. Also, while people have an immense capability for cruelty, there is absolutely no reason to try and discover your own capacity. Actually, I forbid it.
(9) If you see a problem affecting someone else, the appropriate response is not to say to them "You need to . . . " following by any set of suggestions or orders. The proper response is "I noticed [problem]. Do you need help?" Your perception of a problem is not the universe calling for your blabbing to other people. It is the universe asking: "Do you have anything to bring to the table?"
More rules and guidelines later. If you have any questions for which you wish me to be the ultimate arbiter, feel free to ask by sending an email to me with the subject line reading "Questions for the Ultimate Arbiter" at Foilwoman@gmail.com.
(1) You can only really apply your moral beliefs to yourself. If you have children, they will learn from you by observation.
(2) Unless you want to have sex with someone and that person wants to have sex with you (PLEASE NOTE: Both preceding clauses must be true each time you seek to use this commandment, and they must be true without coercion, undue influence, or bribery), it is none of your business who that person wants to have sex with, unless the other object of desire is someone without meaningful ability to consent (a child, a captive, an employee, a mentally handicapped person, a person one is blackmailing, a less than fully aware being -- i.e., someone incapacited, someone unconscious, a non-human animal, etc), in which case we can intervene to protect or preserve the freedom of consensual choice of the person or creature unable to meaningfully consent. All other interference in others psexual relationships and endeavors is explicitly prohibited. Forbidden. Taboo. Verboten. Prohibido. A no-no.
(3) As a corollary to (2), above, thoughts alone are not a crime.
(4) Be kind and sympathetic to others.
(5) If you want people to change, use positive reinforcement.
(6) Realize that not everyone is like you or has had similar experiences and act accordingly.
(7) Try to understand why you want to do things and what you really think you will accomplish.
(8) Being human isn't necessarily a good thing. Animals harm others without real awareness of the existence of the other. However, whenever you think "Nobody could be that stupid or that cruel" [Stealing from Bronze John's blog now, but it's a true statement] somebody probably was. Don't be that person. Try to help those who have been hurt by people who are that stupid and that cruel. Also, while people have an immense capability for cruelty, there is absolutely no reason to try and discover your own capacity. Actually, I forbid it.
(9) If you see a problem affecting someone else, the appropriate response is not to say to them "You need to . . . " following by any set of suggestions or orders. The proper response is "I noticed [problem]. Do you need help?" Your perception of a problem is not the universe calling for your blabbing to other people. It is the universe asking: "Do you have anything to bring to the table?"
More rules and guidelines later. If you have any questions for which you wish me to be the ultimate arbiter, feel free to ask by sending an email to me with the subject line reading "Questions for the Ultimate Arbiter" at Foilwoman@gmail.com.
August 15, 2005
Let's Go Smite Something
You will all be happy to know that I have spent much too much free time (approximately 7.5 seconds) removing miscellaneous spam comments, so now you won't have to wonder whether there really is some poor schmeckle of a guy (a little schmuck) who has a blog about hair loss or Viagra. Nope, those were ads. Since anyone smart enough to read my blog regularly can recognize crass commericialism when confronted with it, I wasn't really worried about that. I then spent 15 minutes drafting up an appropriate notice and user's fee agreement for future spammers (overkill, anyone? Where's my flexible response system?). If enough of these jerk-offs (Cookie and GBM, that's American for "wankers") pay up, I'll host a hospitality suite in Vegas!Baby! Good luck with that, I hear you cry.
None the less, this War Against Spam Hits, or WASH, put me in the mood for a good smiting. The other thing that put me in a mood for a good smiting was John of Argghhh!!!'s posting of the letter about Biblical interpretation apocryphally sent to Fred Phelps.
So, methods of smiting spammers? Too many to list. Spammers? Impossible to find. What shall we do? All suggestions gratefully appreciated. Except no offers to smite feckless and impecunious current spouses will be accepted by this blog. Thank you.
None the less, this War Against Spam Hits, or WASH, put me in the mood for a good smiting. The other thing that put me in a mood for a good smiting was John of Argghhh!!!'s posting of the letter about Biblical interpretation apocryphally sent to Fred Phelps.
So, methods of smiting spammers? Too many to list. Spammers? Impossible to find. What shall we do? All suggestions gratefully appreciated. Except no offers to smite feckless and impecunious current spouses will be accepted by this blog. Thank you.
August 14, 2005
Spam Comments (WTF?)
Does anyone know how to eliminate spam comments? I'm getting more. I deleted three so far today.
NOTICE TO SPAM COMMENTERS: Your comments will be deleted the minute I see them. I receive notification of comments on my email, and delete all non-Foilwoman related items. Yup. This blog is ALL ABOUT ME. I don't care about hair loss. I don't care about system comparisons. I certainly don't care about whatever religious cult that was, and, while I care about a few people who are dear to me, I don't care about you. Go away. Do not waste bandwidth here.
TO EVERYONE: This blog is available for talking about personal experiences, friends, annoying things, good things, political beliefs, sex, religion, infidelity, parenthood, the War in Iraq, cute guys in uniform, how white men can't dance, the general Uselessness of Men, how Zoe's boyfriend is a twat, medical care (and lack thereof) in Australia, Amie Oliver's art, Innana (who you all should worship), Cookie Monster the Cutiepie and Supercookie (yum), GBM (snark), the evilness that is Sandra, Firefly, Tom Lehrer, Don Quixote, Gene Weingarten's humor, the Royal Dragoon's non-responsiveness, Stoic Stranger, Bronze John, the Complimenting Commenter, Spain, Spanish men, Cockney rhyming slang, word usage, linguistics, etymology, Platonic ideals, cooking, the Foilspawn and Foilpets, Handyman, Mr. Foilwoman, fatherhood (in particular being Dane's Dad), the muy machoness that is Andy, lawn mowers, household budgets (and men who can't keep them), Cute Canadians, Rainy Pete (aka More Useless than My Cat), Jodster, John of Arrrgh & Castle Arrrgh, His Holiness, Aretha, professional advancement, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Life of Pi, Lituma en los Andes, Los Lobos, opera, figure skating, weightlifting, knitting, the chinlessness of the British Royal family, the height and loveliness of the Danish Royal family, the complete wankerness that is George Dubya Bush, the female impersonator who is Anne Coulter (the best sit down comedian around), the awfulness of British cuisine, the wonderfulness of Scotch, the status of women, what women want, and me. Or anything else, as long as it's personal, and not some shill to drag some poor schmoo off to some meaningless and fake blog that's really an advertising gimmick.
I am adding a notice to this blog as follows:
Anyone posting a comment here that is not germane to the subject matter and tone of Foilwoman's Diary ("this blog") that is intended to draw visitors to this blog to another blog or website for the purpose of advertising, selling merchandise, or promoting any commercial or political enterprise (an "advertising comment" or an "uninvited and unwanted comment") hereby agrees to pay the author of this blog $100 (US) for the publication of the initial advertising comment or uninvited and unwanted comment with an additional $1 due for every visitor drawn to the sites linked to by the advertising comment or uninvited and unwanted comment from this blog, and an additional $2 due for each day that the advertising comment or uninvited and unwanted comment remains posted on this blog. Whether a comment is an advertising comment or an uninvited and unwanted comment will be determined by the author of this blog, in her discretion. Thank you.
NOTICE TO SPAM COMMENTERS: Your comments will be deleted the minute I see them. I receive notification of comments on my email, and delete all non-Foilwoman related items. Yup. This blog is ALL ABOUT ME. I don't care about hair loss. I don't care about system comparisons. I certainly don't care about whatever religious cult that was, and, while I care about a few people who are dear to me, I don't care about you. Go away. Do not waste bandwidth here.
TO EVERYONE: This blog is available for talking about personal experiences, friends, annoying things, good things, political beliefs, sex, religion, infidelity, parenthood, the War in Iraq, cute guys in uniform, how white men can't dance, the general Uselessness of Men, how Zoe's boyfriend is a twat, medical care (and lack thereof) in Australia, Amie Oliver's art, Innana (who you all should worship), Cookie Monster the Cutiepie and Supercookie (yum), GBM (snark), the evilness that is Sandra, Firefly, Tom Lehrer, Don Quixote, Gene Weingarten's humor, the Royal Dragoon's non-responsiveness, Stoic Stranger, Bronze John, the Complimenting Commenter, Spain, Spanish men, Cockney rhyming slang, word usage, linguistics, etymology, Platonic ideals, cooking, the Foilspawn and Foilpets, Handyman, Mr. Foilwoman, fatherhood (in particular being Dane's Dad), the muy machoness that is Andy, lawn mowers, household budgets (and men who can't keep them), Cute Canadians, Rainy Pete (aka More Useless than My Cat), Jodster, John of Arrrgh & Castle Arrrgh, His Holiness, Aretha, professional advancement, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Life of Pi, Lituma en los Andes, Los Lobos, opera, figure skating, weightlifting, knitting, the chinlessness of the British Royal family, the height and loveliness of the Danish Royal family, the complete wankerness that is George Dubya Bush, the female impersonator who is Anne Coulter (the best sit down comedian around), the awfulness of British cuisine, the wonderfulness of Scotch, the status of women, what women want, and me. Or anything else, as long as it's personal, and not some shill to drag some poor schmoo off to some meaningless and fake blog that's really an advertising gimmick.
I am adding a notice to this blog as follows:
Anyone posting a comment here that is not germane to the subject matter and tone of Foilwoman's Diary ("this blog") that is intended to draw visitors to this blog to another blog or website for the purpose of advertising, selling merchandise, or promoting any commercial or political enterprise (an "advertising comment" or an "uninvited and unwanted comment") hereby agrees to pay the author of this blog $100 (US) for the publication of the initial advertising comment or uninvited and unwanted comment with an additional $1 due for every visitor drawn to the sites linked to by the advertising comment or uninvited and unwanted comment from this blog, and an additional $2 due for each day that the advertising comment or uninvited and unwanted comment remains posted on this blog. Whether a comment is an advertising comment or an uninvited and unwanted comment will be determined by the author of this blog, in her discretion. Thank you.
Surprises: Knowing Others and Knowing Yourself
People often say that someone "still has the capacity to surprise them" as though that is a uniformly good thing. But not all surprises are good. For instance, discovering that one's spouse, who had hitherto been in charge or the family finances, has the budgeting acumen of MC Hammer or Meat Loaf is not a good surprise. Discovering that one's apparently content and docile wife has taken the words of Mary Chapin Carpenter's "He Thinks He'll Keep Her" is not a good surprise. Discovering that one's husband of 20 years is gay could be good or bad news, depending. Discovering that a spouse wants a sex change operation? Well, you tell me.
Fortunately, I've only experienced one of the above-mentioned surprises, but it becomes increasingly clear to me that Mr. Foilwoman will be experiencing some sort of surprise sooner or later (how he keeps not reading the billboard I have on the side of the house kind of floors me, but some people like surprises).
But yesterday, I was talking with a new friend (yup, that's the word I'm using) on the phone, and I realized that the most important and necessary surprises are the ones about our own nature. I remember believing that I was destined to be friendless and also believing that I was very unattractive. Fortunately, I have had the luxury of making a few good friends in my lifetime. Not lots, but a few, true friends (Thanks Innana, Thanks MBFFHS). Eventually, I realized that I was not doomed to friendlessness. Fortunately, also, when I was a teenager, I lived in Spain for a year, which cured me forever of thinking I was unattractive because I was very tall. Invariably, a man making a pass at me would say (as a compliment!): "Tu eres tan grande. Es maravillosa. Eres una mujer fantastica." This statement (trans: You're so big/tall. It's marvellous. You're a fantastic woman) was never uttered sarcastically, simply in plain old admiration. Given that up until that time, everyone always said: "Oh, maybe she'll meet someone as tall as she is" or "the boys will eventually catch up, at least a few of them", I had always thought my height was a liability. Not in Spain (and never since). Men in Spain, almost invariably shorter than I was, never seemed the least bit put out by leaning up to kiss me (or trying to do so). So I got over the whole "I'm unattractive" thing, no thanks to your average American guy.
But people actually need to welcome surprises about themselves. Yes, even though your parents said "You never finish anything" the reality is they were talking more about their own failings than yours. We always criticize and despise most the failings in others that we fear most in ourselves, so most of the time when someone says "My father has always told me I was bad with money", it may be true that that individual has difficulty with money, but I'll be quite suspicious of how dear Papa actually handles cash, much more suspicious of the father than the child. So how do we break free of these self-fulfilling criticisms? We need a little luck. I've had some. How to share?
Fortunately, I've only experienced one of the above-mentioned surprises, but it becomes increasingly clear to me that Mr. Foilwoman will be experiencing some sort of surprise sooner or later (how he keeps not reading the billboard I have on the side of the house kind of floors me, but some people like surprises).
But yesterday, I was talking with a new friend (yup, that's the word I'm using) on the phone, and I realized that the most important and necessary surprises are the ones about our own nature. I remember believing that I was destined to be friendless and also believing that I was very unattractive. Fortunately, I have had the luxury of making a few good friends in my lifetime. Not lots, but a few, true friends (Thanks Innana, Thanks MBFFHS). Eventually, I realized that I was not doomed to friendlessness. Fortunately, also, when I was a teenager, I lived in Spain for a year, which cured me forever of thinking I was unattractive because I was very tall. Invariably, a man making a pass at me would say (as a compliment!): "Tu eres tan grande. Es maravillosa. Eres una mujer fantastica." This statement (trans: You're so big/tall. It's marvellous. You're a fantastic woman) was never uttered sarcastically, simply in plain old admiration. Given that up until that time, everyone always said: "Oh, maybe she'll meet someone as tall as she is" or "the boys will eventually catch up, at least a few of them", I had always thought my height was a liability. Not in Spain (and never since). Men in Spain, almost invariably shorter than I was, never seemed the least bit put out by leaning up to kiss me (or trying to do so). So I got over the whole "I'm unattractive" thing, no thanks to your average American guy.
But people actually need to welcome surprises about themselves. Yes, even though your parents said "You never finish anything" the reality is they were talking more about their own failings than yours. We always criticize and despise most the failings in others that we fear most in ourselves, so most of the time when someone says "My father has always told me I was bad with money", it may be true that that individual has difficulty with money, but I'll be quite suspicious of how dear Papa actually handles cash, much more suspicious of the father than the child. So how do we break free of these self-fulfilling criticisms? We need a little luck. I've had some. How to share?
August 12, 2005
The Best Years of Our Lives????
Why do our twenties suck so much? I mean the decade after we turn twenty. I assume that everyone was miserable as a teenager, that's a given. But I also remember my twenties being dreadful. My life right now has an awful lot wrong with it (but some wonderfully good things as well), but even with a spendthrift spouse who apparently thinks I exist to take care of him (AND I DO! WTF IS WRONG WITH ME), a career change opportunity (fired, temping, looking for work), money trouble, lack of a meaningful sexual relationship with my spouse (we still have sex, until he's done . . .), and the constant feeling that I should be doing more, feeling more, and am somehow failing, I definitely feel better off, for the most part, than I did at 25 or 26 or 29.
Someone I care about (don't know well, but care about) in his twenties is having a hard time right now, and part of it sounds so familiar. The basic problems seem to be (1) inability to believe that he is a worthwhile person (trust me, honey, I know worthless, and you aren't worthless), (2) trouble seeking a meaningful connection with others (it's always hard, it takes time, You can't hurry love), and (3) and wondering how to fit into the modern world and whether one ever will (solution: declare your space to be where you fit in, declare yourself to be fit in, say you're perfectly fine, declare victory, don't worry about it any more). It's hard. I think we all think there are answers or rules. That if you do "all the right things" you are promised a reward or at least won't have bad stuff happen to you. Unfortunately, that's a bunch of crock. I think the people we grow into are more fully realized (and I know, we'd all rather be less than fully realized and have fewer challenges to face) for really facing up to the essential human question of how to connect with others and what to do about the essential fact that others, no matter how well we think we know them (or they think they know us, or we think we know each other) are essentially foreign countries, terra incognita. Like the cartographer's maps from the Middle Ages, we all have dark seas mark "Here abide monsters." And the human heart (or id, if you want to be Freudian) is a dark and dangerous thing.
But we have to face our essentially aloneness and loneliness to be able to truly connect. Once we accept that there is no happily ever after ending where we ride off into the sunset, then we can start the real challenge of making meaningful connections despite our essential isolation.
But anyone who says their teen years or twenties are the best years of their lives is a moron. You couldn't pay me enough to go back there. I'd like the body I had then, but that's it. And I wouldn't trade my present knowledge even for that.
So, my friend, I hope you know who you are: you've gotten through much, much worse, and you'll get through this. And remember, kittens always help. God! I said something mushy! Somebody, anybody, get me the goddamn snark transplant STAT!!! Holy Benny: Get to work on this in your religious and surgical capacities. Thanks.
Someone I care about (don't know well, but care about) in his twenties is having a hard time right now, and part of it sounds so familiar. The basic problems seem to be (1) inability to believe that he is a worthwhile person (trust me, honey, I know worthless, and you aren't worthless), (2) trouble seeking a meaningful connection with others (it's always hard, it takes time, You can't hurry love), and (3) and wondering how to fit into the modern world and whether one ever will (solution: declare your space to be where you fit in, declare yourself to be fit in, say you're perfectly fine, declare victory, don't worry about it any more). It's hard. I think we all think there are answers or rules. That if you do "all the right things" you are promised a reward or at least won't have bad stuff happen to you. Unfortunately, that's a bunch of crock. I think the people we grow into are more fully realized (and I know, we'd all rather be less than fully realized and have fewer challenges to face) for really facing up to the essential human question of how to connect with others and what to do about the essential fact that others, no matter how well we think we know them (or they think they know us, or we think we know each other) are essentially foreign countries, terra incognita. Like the cartographer's maps from the Middle Ages, we all have dark seas mark "Here abide monsters." And the human heart (or id, if you want to be Freudian) is a dark and dangerous thing.
But we have to face our essentially aloneness and loneliness to be able to truly connect. Once we accept that there is no happily ever after ending where we ride off into the sunset, then we can start the real challenge of making meaningful connections despite our essential isolation.
But anyone who says their teen years or twenties are the best years of their lives is a moron. You couldn't pay me enough to go back there. I'd like the body I had then, but that's it. And I wouldn't trade my present knowledge even for that.
So, my friend, I hope you know who you are: you've gotten through much, much worse, and you'll get through this. And remember, kittens always help. God! I said something mushy! Somebody, anybody, get me the goddamn snark transplant STAT!!! Holy Benny: Get to work on this in your religious and surgical capacities. Thanks.
August 11, 2005
The Champ Is Back
To his legion of admiring female fans, Champurrado is back! Still No-One's Fool. Check out the link to the right. Just because I posted again so quickly doesn't mean I'm not still looking for the snark donor, to be taken into custody by my crack snark transplant team. Don't be shy.
Need a Snark Transplant
While I use my blog freely to vent up the wazoo, I also like to add a little humor to most events I describe. Actually, normally I see the humor there, and maybe I just embellish it a bit. The last few days I have not been able to add the appropriate level of zip to my posts. While I am in general a very (believe me) earnest person, the earnestness of my writing has begun to bother even me.
So, is there someone out there who needs a bit of a snark-ectomy who can share a little bit of snark (kind of like bile in the gall bladder, not in an of itself a good thing, but necessary to digest much of life's rich pageant)? I promise it will only hurt a little. If I don't get volunteers, I may have to appoint some, so don't be shy, step right on up.
So, is there someone out there who needs a bit of a snark-ectomy who can share a little bit of snark (kind of like bile in the gall bladder, not in an of itself a good thing, but necessary to digest much of life's rich pageant)? I promise it will only hurt a little. If I don't get volunteers, I may have to appoint some, so don't be shy, step right on up.
August 7, 2005
Who's Zooming Who (or You Can Never Have Too Much Aretha)
I just can't help paraphrasing Aretha, even when it's totally inappropriate. Which reminds me (and totally off subject), I'm a big Aretha Franklin fan, as is my best guy buddy ("BGB", for short). My BGB is really fit; he can bench press a bunch, he runs every day, he has really nice pecs, lats, and abs (no, GBM, he's married, and I'm not introducing you). He is a really nice total package, and on top of that he's a good guy. But most of all, he likes Aretha. He really, really likes Aretha. So much so, that even though he generally wants other people to be fit, he defends Aretha against all charges of chubbiness. He concedes, Aretha has been packing on the pounds lately. There's more Aretha every year. But when some lowly (and tasteless) individual used a negative word to describe Aretha's mass, my BGB defended his lady just like a knight would. The quelling comment (in response to the statement that "there seems to be a bit more Aretha" at a recent appearance) was: "You can never have too much Aretha."
What this has to do with the subject of my post, which is how much people will put up with to be in a relationship, I don't know. But you can never have too much Aretha. I try to be as truthful as discretion and anonymity require, but that is the truest statement I will ever right in this blog or elsewhere. You can never have too much Aretha.
Which brings me back to the concept of "too much". There are many things you can't have too much of: Aretha, books, opera, ability to play music, time to play with your kids, love, stuff like that. But you can have had enough. In reflecting on the past year, I wonder why I didn't say "That's it. That's enough" and leave (with the children). But I didn't. I've seen this happen a lot, where women stay even when, outside of bizarre religious and societal traditions, any sane person would say "No-one should put up with that."
[Now I am going to quote statistics that I remember reading, but can't cite to. Work with me.] The person people are speaking about, the person who is putting up with something that no-one should have to put up, is normally, how shall I put this, female (although there are occasionally men who make really good doormats, and boy is that fun, but I digress).
This is odd, because women generally are the spouse who files for divorce. Women file for divorce 70-80 of the time or "twice as often as men. See Why Do People Divorce or Why Women Leave Men (I'll let someone else find the official statistics for the U.S. and other countries, but I think it's generally accepted that where permitted -- and where women have the ability to earn a living, it's women who generally find one of the fifty ways to leave their husbands and not vice versa). At the same time, it's generally women who try to save their marriage. Women are much more likely to seek marriage counselling, get marriage self-help books, go on a diet, try to engage their spouses in new activities, and generally take action, any action, to keep the marriage alive. Men generally refuse to go to counselling, refuse to respond to "nagging", and then go postal when confronted with their wives meeting them at the door with their suitcase, saying "It's over."
Why? Is it just that men aren't as vested in relationships as women are? Or that women will put more effort both into trying to salvage a clearly broken relationship and into getting out of a broken relationship once they realize they are at the "No-one should have to put up with that" stage, or, more realistically, long past that stage?
I have not concluded that I need to pack Mr. Foilwoman's suitcase. But now that he has a job and breaking up with him wouldn't mean condemning him to homelessness (or condemning me to giving up custody of my children), his refusal to address the financial and other changes in our lives as well as my clearly expressed and not unreasonable requests of him to consider my needs (financial, physical, and emotional) or seek help to do so means that I am now hypervigilant. Now I'm not leaving the bank account with him. He can keep the joint account, but my wages go into a separate account (out of which I pay the mortgage and other important bills), and I save 10% every payday. If he pulls a stunt like this last one of continuing to spend money even as our bank accounts empty, well, it will only be his bank account. I'll be gone and he'll be devastated. I'll feel bad, but if I'm anywhere near broke again due to his bad habits, I'll leave. I've set it up so that I will have the means to do so.
Does he simply not know that this shift has occurred? Is that why so many guys are stunned when their wives leave? They just didn't notice (her, her needs, her demands, whatever)? That's why she's gone.
Now, statistically (again, common knowledge, no real links, but they are out there), men are healthier and happier when married than when single. The same is not true for women. Is it a parasitic relationship?
Obviously, my own experiences this last year are leading me to globalize. There are men who do the caretaking. There are women who are users. There are definitely women who, like my husband, shouldn't be in charge of the finances. These misanthropic thoughts are pretty much based on some articles I've read in the past and my negative experiences in the last year. But if those statistics and stories are true, if marriage is better for men than it is for women, why aren't the guys trying just a tad harder? Oh, I forgot, it's just me. I'm a weirdo, and it's all my fault.
What this has to do with the subject of my post, which is how much people will put up with to be in a relationship, I don't know. But you can never have too much Aretha. I try to be as truthful as discretion and anonymity require, but that is the truest statement I will ever right in this blog or elsewhere. You can never have too much Aretha.
Which brings me back to the concept of "too much". There are many things you can't have too much of: Aretha, books, opera, ability to play music, time to play with your kids, love, stuff like that. But you can have had enough. In reflecting on the past year, I wonder why I didn't say "That's it. That's enough" and leave (with the children). But I didn't. I've seen this happen a lot, where women stay even when, outside of bizarre religious and societal traditions, any sane person would say "No-one should put up with that."
[Now I am going to quote statistics that I remember reading, but can't cite to. Work with me.] The person people are speaking about, the person who is putting up with something that no-one should have to put up, is normally, how shall I put this, female (although there are occasionally men who make really good doormats, and boy is that fun, but I digress).
This is odd, because women generally are the spouse who files for divorce. Women file for divorce 70-80 of the time or "twice as often as men. See Why Do People Divorce or Why Women Leave Men (I'll let someone else find the official statistics for the U.S. and other countries, but I think it's generally accepted that where permitted -- and where women have the ability to earn a living, it's women who generally find one of the fifty ways to leave their husbands and not vice versa). At the same time, it's generally women who try to save their marriage. Women are much more likely to seek marriage counselling, get marriage self-help books, go on a diet, try to engage their spouses in new activities, and generally take action, any action, to keep the marriage alive. Men generally refuse to go to counselling, refuse to respond to "nagging", and then go postal when confronted with their wives meeting them at the door with their suitcase, saying "It's over."
Why? Is it just that men aren't as vested in relationships as women are? Or that women will put more effort both into trying to salvage a clearly broken relationship and into getting out of a broken relationship once they realize they are at the "No-one should have to put up with that" stage, or, more realistically, long past that stage?
I have not concluded that I need to pack Mr. Foilwoman's suitcase. But now that he has a job and breaking up with him wouldn't mean condemning him to homelessness (or condemning me to giving up custody of my children), his refusal to address the financial and other changes in our lives as well as my clearly expressed and not unreasonable requests of him to consider my needs (financial, physical, and emotional) or seek help to do so means that I am now hypervigilant. Now I'm not leaving the bank account with him. He can keep the joint account, but my wages go into a separate account (out of which I pay the mortgage and other important bills), and I save 10% every payday. If he pulls a stunt like this last one of continuing to spend money even as our bank accounts empty, well, it will only be his bank account. I'll be gone and he'll be devastated. I'll feel bad, but if I'm anywhere near broke again due to his bad habits, I'll leave. I've set it up so that I will have the means to do so.
Does he simply not know that this shift has occurred? Is that why so many guys are stunned when their wives leave? They just didn't notice (her, her needs, her demands, whatever)? That's why she's gone.
Now, statistically (again, common knowledge, no real links, but they are out there), men are healthier and happier when married than when single. The same is not true for women. Is it a parasitic relationship?
Obviously, my own experiences this last year are leading me to globalize. There are men who do the caretaking. There are women who are users. There are definitely women who, like my husband, shouldn't be in charge of the finances. These misanthropic thoughts are pretty much based on some articles I've read in the past and my negative experiences in the last year. But if those statistics and stories are true, if marriage is better for men than it is for women, why aren't the guys trying just a tad harder? Oh, I forgot, it's just me. I'm a weirdo, and it's all my fault.
August 5, 2005
Best Anti-Smoking Commercial Idea Ever
Normally I read Stranger's Fever for more serious topics, like medical care and treatment of mental illness. Bronze John is half my age (I think) but seems boatloads wiser than me. However, his anti-smoking commercial idea really cries out for some over-commercialized big business ad company to take it on and make some public service commercials. I had a complete visual accompanying the post. Poor Brad. If John ever quits emergency medicine, psychiatry, and/or blogging, he certainly has a bright future as an ad executive.
August 4, 2005
We Return You Now to Your Regularly Scheduled Program
Of course, if anything in my life were regular, or scheduled, I wouldn't be blogging right now. But a number of relatively good things have happened.
Mr. Foilwoman found a job.
Handyman found a really good ice cream shop and got me some good ice cream. That's all for now.
Mr. Foilwoman found a job.
Handyman found a really good ice cream shop and got me some good ice cream. That's all for now.
I'm Not Going to Meddle, I'm Not Going to Meddle, I'm Not Going to Meddle
This one time, anyway. I have enough problems of my own to think about. The coworker, the one whose guy asked her for her ring size? I've found out a few salient facts. First, the coworker has never actually met the guy in question. She's over 35, religious, and wants to have a family. She signed up with a Christian dating service over the Internet, and met Nice-But-Potentially-Fictional-Fiance ("NBPFF") several months ago. He lives in another state about one day's drive from here. He's coming down to meet her later this month.
Normally, having discovered that I had helped a colleague look at engagement rings for an upcoming engagement to a man, who for all she talks to him on the phone at night, she does not know I would take immediate corrective action. I'd give her the handy-dandy guy-selection checklist, remind her how important smell, taste and touch are. But having made this unsettling discovery, I've decided, hey, she's a grown woman, and by walking with her to the store, I have not given this relationship anything like my imprimatur or official vote of approval. I didn't even let me jaw drop or tactfully say "You're shitting me, right?" upon discovering that NBPFF is at this point not a physical presence in my colleague's life. Hey, they're both Christians, so we know they'll treat one another right, right?
Why the sudden restraint? I guess I have a few other things on my mind. Like my relationship with the husband who I knew for three years before I married him and have known for over a decade and a half and yet in the past 5 years has increasingly become a stronger. Maybe my coworker is actually doing everything right. I don't think so, but hey, I'll just observe. Anyway, what good would my advice be anyway?
Normally, having discovered that I had helped a colleague look at engagement rings for an upcoming engagement to a man, who for all she talks to him on the phone at night, she does not know I would take immediate corrective action. I'd give her the handy-dandy guy-selection checklist, remind her how important smell, taste and touch are. But having made this unsettling discovery, I've decided, hey, she's a grown woman, and by walking with her to the store, I have not given this relationship anything like my imprimatur or official vote of approval. I didn't even let me jaw drop or tactfully say "You're shitting me, right?" upon discovering that NBPFF is at this point not a physical presence in my colleague's life. Hey, they're both Christians, so we know they'll treat one another right, right?
Why the sudden restraint? I guess I have a few other things on my mind. Like my relationship with the husband who I knew for three years before I married him and have known for over a decade and a half and yet in the past 5 years has increasingly become a stronger. Maybe my coworker is actually doing everything right. I don't think so, but hey, I'll just observe. Anyway, what good would my advice be anyway?
August 2, 2005
The Best Things in Life Are Free
One of my coworkers has been asked her ring size by her inamorata. I went with her to find out. I did not point out that the guy she's seeing now might be a completely different person by the time 10 years have passed. She's so happy, and didn't want to go into the jewelry store without a female companion.
On our way back to the office, we tripped over an "ice cream social" our employer is throwing. Ben & Jerry's ice cream and toppings. I am wallowing in some coconut almond fudge ice cream. Almost too much. So the chocolate I had brought for my mid afternoon snack can wait until tomorrow (saving me $$$, which I care deeply about right now). Oh, isn't Ben & Jerry's GBMs favorite ice cream (chocolate chip cookie dough)? My life may in general blow chunks, but my current job is providing me with free Ben & Jerry's. A moment of goodness.
On our way back to the office, we tripped over an "ice cream social" our employer is throwing. Ben & Jerry's ice cream and toppings. I am wallowing in some coconut almond fudge ice cream. Almost too much. So the chocolate I had brought for my mid afternoon snack can wait until tomorrow (saving me $$$, which I care deeply about right now). Oh, isn't Ben & Jerry's GBMs favorite ice cream (chocolate chip cookie dough)? My life may in general blow chunks, but my current job is providing me with free Ben & Jerry's. A moment of goodness.
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