Surviving Halloween when you have a social six-year old is nothing to sneeze at. Upon returning home from her carousing this evening, the Foilkid insisted on counting all her candy. She received over 100 pieces. Fortunately, most of it is chocolate. In what is clearly a genetic malfunction, Foilkid doesn't like chocolate. I do. Halloween after the kids are in bed is a sweet, sweet time of year.
Yes, I know, the candy is dreadfully low quality. But the nostalgia that overwhelms me as I bite into a Tootsie Roll, a Three Musketeers morsel, or a Milky Way bar is such that I might as well be Swann nibbling on a madeleine.
October 31, 2005
Real Medical Coverage
I have a choice of four health plans under my soon-to-be-current employer's benefit program. This is good. Two HMOs (health maintenance organizations, otherwise known as health plans of total crap) and two PPOs (preferred provider organizations). No actual straight indemnity insurance that lets you pick your doctor without penalty. I'm trying to make sure that whatever plan I pick covers the Foilfilles doctors. It won't cover mine and I don't want to switch, but may have to for budgetary purposes. Crap.
Fortunately, my treating physicians and others right now know about my circumstances and are simply not billing me. Nice. A friend of mine who also suffers from depression has Aetna's PPO. None of the psychiatrists listed as preferred providers are taking patients, answer phone calls, or are even still in the network. Except one, who she saw before and can't stand. So she's not getting treatment. She's taking Cymbalta (???), which isn't working, and her primarcy care physician is at a loss as to what to do. Note to Aetna: get some more psychiatric providers in your network, preferably some with real experience and knowledge in the greater DC area. Okay?
Why does everyone (in the U.S.) still say our health care system is good? We rank 20th or so in terms of infant mortality. We don't treat the poor adequately. People end up going to emergency rooms for basic care. It's very easy to be uninsured (and thus potentially bankrupt or alternatively untreated). Bankruptcies due to health care costs are so common as to be embarrassing (or should be embarrassing, unfortunately embarrassment isn't something those who seek power tend to feel a lot of or be susceptible to). Keeping a physician when you change employers (and thus health plans) or when your employer changes coverage is damn near impossible.
I'm heading back into covered-by-real-health-insurance-land. However, I'm not sure that will make much difference. I feel another rant specifically about access-to-care and psychiatric treatment, but I'll save it. I need to get back to work.
Fortunately, my treating physicians and others right now know about my circumstances and are simply not billing me. Nice. A friend of mine who also suffers from depression has Aetna's PPO. None of the psychiatrists listed as preferred providers are taking patients, answer phone calls, or are even still in the network. Except one, who she saw before and can't stand. So she's not getting treatment. She's taking Cymbalta (???), which isn't working, and her primarcy care physician is at a loss as to what to do. Note to Aetna: get some more psychiatric providers in your network, preferably some with real experience and knowledge in the greater DC area. Okay?
Why does everyone (in the U.S.) still say our health care system is good? We rank 20th or so in terms of infant mortality. We don't treat the poor adequately. People end up going to emergency rooms for basic care. It's very easy to be uninsured (and thus potentially bankrupt or alternatively untreated). Bankruptcies due to health care costs are so common as to be embarrassing (or should be embarrassing, unfortunately embarrassment isn't something those who seek power tend to feel a lot of or be susceptible to). Keeping a physician when you change employers (and thus health plans) or when your employer changes coverage is damn near impossible.
I'm heading back into covered-by-real-health-insurance-land. However, I'm not sure that will make much difference. I feel another rant specifically about access-to-care and psychiatric treatment, but I'll save it. I need to get back to work.
October 30, 2005
Far, Far Away
One thing I learned when I lived in Spain is that there are real benefits to being a foreignor. To being the Other. I'm not sure if this is just my makeup, if it's ADHD/ADD (and the corresponding inability to keep up with all the annoying social nuances), or if it's the longing to be on a big adventure which always is just around the corner, but I always feel like an outsider, but when I actually am the outsider, I enjoy it.
Maybe it was the timing of my first trip abroad alone. I lived in Spain for a full year when I was 16 to 17 years old. At nearly 6', I definitely stood out from the crowd, and nothing was going to make me part of the background. While I did feel self-conscious, I actually dived into the pseudo-celebrity status of being the foreign chick. I sang in a bar. I taught English. I hitch-hiked (bad idea, enough said). I really enjoyed the luxury of being allowed to be different and not being required to meet all the social obligaitons that would otherwise be expected of me. I was like a big puppy, all enthusiasm and ungainliness, let loose on Iberia.
As a foreignor, that was ok. In the U.S., I was also an outsider (parents divorcing, totally clueless about social customs and ranking systems among adolescents, a little to loud-mouthed), but I didn't get the bye I got in Spain.
In my current (soon to be former, thank god) job, I am definitely not in the little clique that lunches together everyday, compares hair styles, and generally acts like we're still in high school (we're not). It's too much energy. And it's energy I can't spare.
I got a taste of my Iberian idyll yesterday, escorting the Foilkid to one of her social engagements. The hosts and most of the guests were from South America. For a while, I was the only U.S.-native present. I chatted (in Spanish, which, though not fluent, did allow me to participate) with a lovely circle of women from Chile, Argentina, Bolivia, Peru, Colombia, and Venezuela. As more guests arrived, more English was spoken, but it was a mostly embassy-type crowd. I was definitely the least stylishly dressed, the least soignee, and the tallest. But as the token native, I could be a little gauche and not feel like I hadn't dressed up enough. Everyone was very friendly -- I just didn't know their rules, that's all. Next time, though, I'll have to dress up to go to a children's party. Who knew?
The luxury of being the foreignor, of being the person from far away, is that you are excused a lot of the details that give us headaches. Wearing white shoes after labor day (a no no in the U.S.), using a knife on fish (a no no in Austria), using a knife on your salad (a no no in France -- you fold the lettuce with the fork), not sharing an umbrella with a member of the opposite sex unless engaged (Japan), and many other little unknowable (unless someone tells you) rules that some people seem to place a lot of import. While I follow all the rules mentioned above (to the extent I can remember them), I also know that I don't care. There are so many good reasons to like or not like someone. Why should I care if a woman wears open toed shoes (considered v. v. bad by the Society of Colonial Dames, just ask Innana) or a man wears a short-sleeved shirt with a collar (calling Andy Sipowicz)? Or some other little in-crowd thing that lets some otherwise obviously mediocre or less people feel superior to the person committing the faux pas. That's what's nice about being a declared outsider. Everyone knows you don't know that stuff. And you get a bye.
Maybe it was the timing of my first trip abroad alone. I lived in Spain for a full year when I was 16 to 17 years old. At nearly 6', I definitely stood out from the crowd, and nothing was going to make me part of the background. While I did feel self-conscious, I actually dived into the pseudo-celebrity status of being the foreign chick. I sang in a bar. I taught English. I hitch-hiked (bad idea, enough said). I really enjoyed the luxury of being allowed to be different and not being required to meet all the social obligaitons that would otherwise be expected of me. I was like a big puppy, all enthusiasm and ungainliness, let loose on Iberia.
As a foreignor, that was ok. In the U.S., I was also an outsider (parents divorcing, totally clueless about social customs and ranking systems among adolescents, a little to loud-mouthed), but I didn't get the bye I got in Spain.
In my current (soon to be former, thank god) job, I am definitely not in the little clique that lunches together everyday, compares hair styles, and generally acts like we're still in high school (we're not). It's too much energy. And it's energy I can't spare.
I got a taste of my Iberian idyll yesterday, escorting the Foilkid to one of her social engagements. The hosts and most of the guests were from South America. For a while, I was the only U.S.-native present. I chatted (in Spanish, which, though not fluent, did allow me to participate) with a lovely circle of women from Chile, Argentina, Bolivia, Peru, Colombia, and Venezuela. As more guests arrived, more English was spoken, but it was a mostly embassy-type crowd. I was definitely the least stylishly dressed, the least soignee, and the tallest. But as the token native, I could be a little gauche and not feel like I hadn't dressed up enough. Everyone was very friendly -- I just didn't know their rules, that's all. Next time, though, I'll have to dress up to go to a children's party. Who knew?
The luxury of being the foreignor, of being the person from far away, is that you are excused a lot of the details that give us headaches. Wearing white shoes after labor day (a no no in the U.S.), using a knife on fish (a no no in Austria), using a knife on your salad (a no no in France -- you fold the lettuce with the fork), not sharing an umbrella with a member of the opposite sex unless engaged (Japan), and many other little unknowable (unless someone tells you) rules that some people seem to place a lot of import. While I follow all the rules mentioned above (to the extent I can remember them), I also know that I don't care. There are so many good reasons to like or not like someone. Why should I care if a woman wears open toed shoes (considered v. v. bad by the Society of Colonial Dames, just ask Innana) or a man wears a short-sleeved shirt with a collar (calling Andy Sipowicz)? Or some other little in-crowd thing that lets some otherwise obviously mediocre or less people feel superior to the person committing the faux pas. That's what's nice about being a declared outsider. Everyone knows you don't know that stuff. And you get a bye.
October 28, 2005
The Social Life of a Suburban Six Year Old
It's a good thing that I got to see Good Night and Good Luck on Wednesday and had a nice dinner out on Thursday. Because now that the girls are home, my job is chauffeur. Foilkid has a "Halloween Discoteque" tomorrow. She's six, for fuck's sake. But one of her little boyfriends has invited her superheroine self to his Halloween birthday party. Of course, it is at a six year old level. The code word for admittance, the secret, secret code word is, you guessed it, Booh! With the exclamation point. Since six year olds talk in exclamation points anyway, that's really not a problem.
On Sunday, we have a Halloween parade to attend in Innana's neighborhood. Many of the neighborhood dogs turn up in costume. The ones that don't are golden retrievers in bandanas, apparently masquerading as cosseted suburban pets. Innana's neighborhood has a doggy bakery. The apocalypse is clearly upon. The Useless Men gave tips on how to survive the apocalypse (I asked) earlier; you might want to check that out.
Then on Monday, IT'S HALLOWEEN! Yeesh.
Fortunately Innana got tickets to a lecture on Thursday night that we are attending, so I have something reasonably interesting to think about. Also, there's an Alice Neel (a great portraitist) show at the National Museum of Women in the Arts. I haven't been there for a while. Next weekend when I'm childless and alone, that might be a good use of time.
I'm exhausted tonight. I got home from work to two very hyper girls. After dinner, we played "flying kid" and "flying baby". These games consist of me lying on my back and balancing the Foilkid or the GaahGirl on my feel while holding her hands and lifting her over my body as I raise my legs to be perpendicular to my torso, and then tickling with toes. Chortling and giggling ensue. Then Foilkid plays "spin the baby", which looks pretty alarming, but is one of the highlights of both girs' day. Basically, Foilkid rolls GaahGirl, in her pre-toddler rotundity, around. Gaah girl squeals with delight. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Never underestimate the amount of repetition a child can enjoy. Of course, Foilkid then got the idea that she should try and roll me around on the floor. Funny how she was out like a light once I tucked her into bed.
She needs her sleep. She has a busy social calendar this weekend.
On Sunday, we have a Halloween parade to attend in Innana's neighborhood. Many of the neighborhood dogs turn up in costume. The ones that don't are golden retrievers in bandanas, apparently masquerading as cosseted suburban pets. Innana's neighborhood has a doggy bakery. The apocalypse is clearly upon. The Useless Men gave tips on how to survive the apocalypse (I asked) earlier; you might want to check that out.
Then on Monday, IT'S HALLOWEEN! Yeesh.
Fortunately Innana got tickets to a lecture on Thursday night that we are attending, so I have something reasonably interesting to think about. Also, there's an Alice Neel (a great portraitist) show at the National Museum of Women in the Arts. I haven't been there for a while. Next weekend when I'm childless and alone, that might be a good use of time.
I'm exhausted tonight. I got home from work to two very hyper girls. After dinner, we played "flying kid" and "flying baby". These games consist of me lying on my back and balancing the Foilkid or the GaahGirl on my feel while holding her hands and lifting her over my body as I raise my legs to be perpendicular to my torso, and then tickling with toes. Chortling and giggling ensue. Then Foilkid plays "spin the baby", which looks pretty alarming, but is one of the highlights of both girs' day. Basically, Foilkid rolls GaahGirl, in her pre-toddler rotundity, around. Gaah girl squeals with delight. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Never underestimate the amount of repetition a child can enjoy. Of course, Foilkid then got the idea that she should try and roll me around on the floor. Funny how she was out like a light once I tucked her into bed.
She needs her sleep. She has a busy social calendar this weekend.
Mr. Libby and Mr. FitzGerald
Now, don't worry. This isn't going to be a political blog, but it was a treat today to see Mr. Libby's indictment come down. All you Republicans, those who kept saying that during the Lewinsky scandal it wasn't the sex that was problematic, it was the lying, where are you now? Personally, I like Clinton's lying more. Anyone participating in a political scandal which allowed me to use phrases "our commander in chief", "President of the United States", and "blow job" in the same sentence, well, he gets my vote. Just saying. Tipping your hand to publicize the identity of a spy? Not so fun and sexy.
So, Mr. FitzGerald. Thank you. And whoever our next Commander in Chief might be (with or without the oral sex), remember, it's not the screw up that brings you down. It's the cover up.
Dubya, you're still young and irresponsible. My six-year old has a more mature and developed sense of ethics and truthfulness than you do. Of course, she's a very advanced six-year old, but come on. (And yes, she's brighter, prettier, and more morally developed than both Jenna and Barbara. Not that that's a very high hurdle to jump.)
So, Mr. FitzGerald. Thank you. And whoever our next Commander in Chief might be (with or without the oral sex), remember, it's not the screw up that brings you down. It's the cover up.
Dubya, you're still young and irresponsible. My six-year old has a more mature and developed sense of ethics and truthfulness than you do. Of course, she's a very advanced six-year old, but come on. (And yes, she's brighter, prettier, and more morally developed than both Jenna and Barbara. Not that that's a very high hurdle to jump.)
Like Mother, Like Daughter
The FoilKid is going to be a superhero for Halloween. A power ranger of some sort, to be exact. My neighborhood feels safer already.
Politics/Other Stuff
Well, good-bye Harriet. I'm no political heavyweight, but were they harder on her for not being well-read and having a coherent "judicial philosophy" than they were on some other less than intellectual heavy lifters who've been nominated. Although I followed the rule: when your enemy is busy hanging himself, get out of the way.
Otherwise, a weekend with my girls! And exhaustion for me (and Innana). Halloween parade and other fun events. I had a nice dinner last night with an old friend in town on business. Reaching out for me, right now, is good. Especially when it involves very nice food. Got to go to work.
Otherwise, a weekend with my girls! And exhaustion for me (and Innana). Halloween parade and other fun events. I had a nice dinner last night with an old friend in town on business. Reaching out for me, right now, is good. Especially when it involves very nice food. Got to go to work.
October 27, 2005
Bury the Chains
This is a book lent to me by Innana. It's about the anti-slavery movement. I'm reading it right now. You should do. It's Bury the Chains by Adam Hochschild,
Rejection and Feminine Desireability
One of the rules or myths of human sexuality is that women are the pursued. Women play into this by the stories we tell. I have been doing it without realizing it, and having clued in to this truly malevolent tendency, I will deconstruct it and my role in it. Jacques Derrida, you just wish you had such a text to work with.
Basically, our culture presumes that men do the desiring and the pursuing. Women simply show up. I've noticed that when women talk about relationships, they talk about how men are pursuing them. You rarely here a woman say "Gosh, I liked him, and I asked him out." Or even, "I wanted more from him, and he wasn't sure. But I was patient." No, no, no. Women always tell the story about the difficulty of the courtship (how difficult they made it for the guy). This is all crap.
That is not to say there are not women who engage in most or all of their relationships with men in a fairly passive manner. But I know lots of women who will do a lot to ensure that a man they like pays attention to them. Some are subtle. Some (me, for instance) are not.
But most women, when they talk, talk as though they are desired, not desiring. Which may very well be true, but it's very disempowering. Why should women be waiting around to see who desires them? Why not say what we want? Who we want.
I've noticed in this blog, I write as though men become interested in me and then pursue me. Maybe, but I set things in motion. So then I should wait? Well, my job on this planet is not to be desireable. It's to be me. Sometimes, to some people, that me will be a desireable person. But it's not a requirement. And sometimes I will want more than the man does. And then I might get rejected. That doesn't make me unattractive or unfeminine. It makes me someone who reached out.
I'd rather be someone who reaches out to people and have that be my defining characteristic than be someone whose defining characteristic is that she is desired by others. Being desired is rather passive. You don't even really have to be there (think of desire and videos and DVDs and this point becomes painfully, obscenely clear). I'd like to hear more women talk, not about the men who want them, but about the people (men and women) they have reached out toward. About the actions we take rather than the feelings people have toward us.
Basically, our culture presumes that men do the desiring and the pursuing. Women simply show up. I've noticed that when women talk about relationships, they talk about how men are pursuing them. You rarely here a woman say "Gosh, I liked him, and I asked him out." Or even, "I wanted more from him, and he wasn't sure. But I was patient." No, no, no. Women always tell the story about the difficulty of the courtship (how difficult they made it for the guy). This is all crap.
That is not to say there are not women who engage in most or all of their relationships with men in a fairly passive manner. But I know lots of women who will do a lot to ensure that a man they like pays attention to them. Some are subtle. Some (me, for instance) are not.
But most women, when they talk, talk as though they are desired, not desiring. Which may very well be true, but it's very disempowering. Why should women be waiting around to see who desires them? Why not say what we want? Who we want.
I've noticed in this blog, I write as though men become interested in me and then pursue me. Maybe, but I set things in motion. So then I should wait? Well, my job on this planet is not to be desireable. It's to be me. Sometimes, to some people, that me will be a desireable person. But it's not a requirement. And sometimes I will want more than the man does. And then I might get rejected. That doesn't make me unattractive or unfeminine. It makes me someone who reached out.
I'd rather be someone who reaches out to people and have that be my defining characteristic than be someone whose defining characteristic is that she is desired by others. Being desired is rather passive. You don't even really have to be there (think of desire and videos and DVDs and this point becomes painfully, obscenely clear). I'd like to hear more women talk, not about the men who want them, but about the people (men and women) they have reached out toward. About the actions we take rather than the feelings people have toward us.
Preventative Posting
Well, at my soon-to-be-former employer's, there is no real opportunity to blog during the day. At my soon to be current employer's, I shouldn't blog during the day. And I've already fallen behind. So here come a few nice mammoth-sized posts to help me vent in advance . . . .
Good Night and Good Luck
Good Night and Good Luck was of course Edward R. Murrow's sign off, and it is the title of a film about Murrow. I went with Mr. Cat, and he took me for a nice dinner at a nice French bistro. Steak frites and a nice Cotes du Rhone. Mmmm. Then movie.
It's a good movie. I was worried when I saw that George Clooney directed it (or did he produce? And what's the difference?), but it was quite watchable. It was helped enormously by the casting of David Strathairn (Do any of you know how to pronounce his last name correctly? Because I would like to say it properly when I swoon with delight upon meeting this lovely, lovely man.), a man incapable of not acting well. He's my favorite actor ever. I find him incredibly attractive, and even I will admit: he looks like a ferret. Takes all kinds.
The movie was not a biography, showing Murrow's entire life. Instead, it focussed on Murrow's clash with Senator Joseph McCarthy and the Army/McCarthy hearings ("have you no decency?"). Rather a timely subject.
Other than that, I'm getting out of the pissy, hormonal, and self-pitying mood I was in earlier this weekend. It was a beautiful day today. Tomorrow is payday. The girls will be back home on Friday. We have a Halloween parade to attend in Innana's neighborhood. I have a new acquaintance who looks like he'll become a friend of sorts. I'll start my new job soon. With benefits. Things I'd thought were lost aren't. Too tired (maybe I'll sleep!). Night, everybody.
It's a good movie. I was worried when I saw that George Clooney directed it (or did he produce? And what's the difference?), but it was quite watchable. It was helped enormously by the casting of David Strathairn (Do any of you know how to pronounce his last name correctly? Because I would like to say it properly when I swoon with delight upon meeting this lovely, lovely man.), a man incapable of not acting well. He's my favorite actor ever. I find him incredibly attractive, and even I will admit: he looks like a ferret. Takes all kinds.
The movie was not a biography, showing Murrow's entire life. Instead, it focussed on Murrow's clash with Senator Joseph McCarthy and the Army/McCarthy hearings ("have you no decency?"). Rather a timely subject.
Other than that, I'm getting out of the pissy, hormonal, and self-pitying mood I was in earlier this weekend. It was a beautiful day today. Tomorrow is payday. The girls will be back home on Friday. We have a Halloween parade to attend in Innana's neighborhood. I have a new acquaintance who looks like he'll become a friend of sorts. I'll start my new job soon. With benefits. Things I'd thought were lost aren't. Too tired (maybe I'll sleep!). Night, everybody.
October 25, 2005
Circles of Friends
One of the nice things about old (i.e., lifelong) friends is that you know what you are getting. Innana (MVBFITWWW, since I haven't said it recently), MBFFHS, Mr. Studmuffin, and a few others fall into this category. While I can't rely on them completely during this time (I figure in terms of full-time man or woman-hours, assuming a 20-hour friendhsip week, I realistically need about 10 additional friends to get me through the next six months. I'm just that needy.), I do know their capabilities.
You can't make old friends, only new ones. And new ones, well, it's iffy. You don't know until you've expressed a need and seen how someone responds whether or not you want to vote that person off the island. While I love making new friends, as an idealistic person, I have a hard time whenever I look up in the middle of the friend-making process and find myself disappointed. This often happens with racism or sexism. It also can happen with how people treat me. I know people will lie to get what they want or simply to make their lives easier. I'm not shocked, just saddened. But of course, that's simply how things can play out. Not much of a mystery really.
But then I think, old friends. Clearly, the network has been busy. I'm getting phone calls and emails from people I haven't seen or heard from in years. These are people who knew me as an awkward teen. What a treat for them! Now they get to see me as an awkward midlife crisis person.
You can't make old friends, only new ones. And new ones, well, it's iffy. You don't know until you've expressed a need and seen how someone responds whether or not you want to vote that person off the island. While I love making new friends, as an idealistic person, I have a hard time whenever I look up in the middle of the friend-making process and find myself disappointed. This often happens with racism or sexism. It also can happen with how people treat me. I know people will lie to get what they want or simply to make their lives easier. I'm not shocked, just saddened. But of course, that's simply how things can play out. Not much of a mystery really.
But then I think, old friends. Clearly, the network has been busy. I'm getting phone calls and emails from people I haven't seen or heard from in years. These are people who knew me as an awkward teen. What a treat for them! Now they get to see me as an awkward midlife crisis person.
Jury Duty
Normally, I would be excited about receiving a summons for jury duty. Meet my civic responsibilities, take part in the judicial system, and get a paid day off from work. Except of all the benefits my new employer offers, I'm not sure paid jury duty is one of them. And I'm supposed to start jury duty within two weeks of starting work. I won't have ANY leave built up, and don't know how flexible they'll be. Crap.
I can't afford to work for the $15 a day they give you for jury service. I can't pay for child care during that time. I've asked for an extension, and don't have to do my jury duty until early 2006. Maybe by then I'll know whether my employer will pay me or my finances will be in a good enough state to take care of this. I asked the jury administrator about child care (if I'm not getting paid . . . ) or whether I could bring the kids to court (I knew the answer: No). I just don't have the energy to make any more special arrangements right now.
And I have to get the tax situation resolved. What PdeFF did makes no sense. No surprises there. Very disheartened (and tired), but of course, I'll be keyed up again and won't sleep.
Could someone please arrange it so that this is the last bit of disruptive news falling on me in a little while? Thank you.
I can't afford to work for the $15 a day they give you for jury service. I can't pay for child care during that time. I've asked for an extension, and don't have to do my jury duty until early 2006. Maybe by then I'll know whether my employer will pay me or my finances will be in a good enough state to take care of this. I asked the jury administrator about child care (if I'm not getting paid . . . ) or whether I could bring the kids to court (I knew the answer: No). I just don't have the energy to make any more special arrangements right now.
And I have to get the tax situation resolved. What PdeFF did makes no sense. No surprises there. Very disheartened (and tired), but of course, I'll be keyed up again and won't sleep.
Could someone please arrange it so that this is the last bit of disruptive news falling on me in a little while? Thank you.
Sleeplessness
Can't sleep, but am very tired. I didn't think I was keyed up or nervous (more than usual), but something's keeping me up. What could I possibly be worried about? I hate taking sleeping pills, but Lunesta, here I come.
October 24, 2005
Work/Home/Me Balance
Obviously, my life has been out of balance lately. I'm powered by fumes, not real fuel. I don't sleep. I have almost manic energy. I can function like this for quite some time. It's a rather insane way to be. Not real insanity. No-one's trying to poison me or persecute me. Well, one person is, and the sad thing is that he thinks he's being a good husband. Not so much. If he'd put half as much effort into trying to fix things when I told him: "Things have to change" or "We're going bankrupt" or "Sexually, I'm not the happiest woman on the planet right now", he might not be standing there wondering what the hell happened.
But of course, he's off-kilter. He's a fish out of water, he's psychotic, he's paddling up the Nile, which is a state where he apparently thrives. Or at least functions as a parasitic life form.
My work, in response to some totally irresponsible co-workers, has cut off internet access to all email-type functions. I can still read my blog, but I can't read my email. I have been resisting posting, even though I can, because it just doesn't look good. Why am I worrying?
I have my job, starting on Nov. 1. So do I need to worry about being fired? Actually, yes. I need every penny right now. Every single one. So I need to work through October 31. But staying once you know you're gone is tough. This isn't as bad as when I was staying in the house with PdeFF after I knew it was over, but it's not pleasant. I'm done. I've moved on already. I don't need to "process" it. I'm already at the next position, planning my first week on the job. The next week is going to be tough. Not awful, just hard to keep my eye on the ball, or computer screen, as it were.
The job, now that it is a reality, is both cheering and disheartening. This is the same job (not the same organization, but the same position) that I had 10 years ago before going to graduate school. It's a good job, with a good organization, and the pay is decent, all things considered. But I thought I had moved on. One step forward, two steps back.
But I know I can do some good. This employer needs someone with my skills. Basically, the most essential skills is the ability to say "That needs to be completed. Now." I'll be well-loved, I'm sure.
The Foilkid was sick tonight (yup, you know you're a parent when . . . [insert gross description here]). After I bathed her and tucked her into my bed (because her bed is uninhabitable for a bit) I remembered why the completely manageable job is a good idea.
Career, kids, oh, me. Yeah, that's on the list too. Well, that's what this blog is about.
Now, everyone, go read Champurrado's pumpkin post (thank you, and I have the small child necessary for the recipe, so even better) and Bronze John's latest adventures. Night night. To sleep, perchance to dream.
But of course, he's off-kilter. He's a fish out of water, he's psychotic, he's paddling up the Nile, which is a state where he apparently thrives. Or at least functions as a parasitic life form.
My work, in response to some totally irresponsible co-workers, has cut off internet access to all email-type functions. I can still read my blog, but I can't read my email. I have been resisting posting, even though I can, because it just doesn't look good. Why am I worrying?
I have my job, starting on Nov. 1. So do I need to worry about being fired? Actually, yes. I need every penny right now. Every single one. So I need to work through October 31. But staying once you know you're gone is tough. This isn't as bad as when I was staying in the house with PdeFF after I knew it was over, but it's not pleasant. I'm done. I've moved on already. I don't need to "process" it. I'm already at the next position, planning my first week on the job. The next week is going to be tough. Not awful, just hard to keep my eye on the ball, or computer screen, as it were.
The job, now that it is a reality, is both cheering and disheartening. This is the same job (not the same organization, but the same position) that I had 10 years ago before going to graduate school. It's a good job, with a good organization, and the pay is decent, all things considered. But I thought I had moved on. One step forward, two steps back.
But I know I can do some good. This employer needs someone with my skills. Basically, the most essential skills is the ability to say "That needs to be completed. Now." I'll be well-loved, I'm sure.
The Foilkid was sick tonight (yup, you know you're a parent when . . . [insert gross description here]). After I bathed her and tucked her into my bed (because her bed is uninhabitable for a bit) I remembered why the completely manageable job is a good idea.
Career, kids, oh, me. Yeah, that's on the list too. Well, that's what this blog is about.
Now, everyone, go read Champurrado's pumpkin post (thank you, and I have the small child necessary for the recipe, so even better) and Bronze John's latest adventures. Night night. To sleep, perchance to dream.
October 23, 2005
Bad Mother (That Would Be Me)
Of course, since the standard for being a good mother is perfection, I'm pretty much doomed. I started chatting with some of my new neighbors. There are a couple of single mothers in the apartment complex (which is aswarm with young married with children). I got talking with my soon-to-be-peers, and apparently, I'm as abberant as ever.
I'm older than the average mother of kids my age, and I'm definitely older than the average single mother my age. By ten or fifteen years. I felt very badly for these young women. I'm struggling, but I have lots more resources. And common sense. But that translates into callousness, somehow.
Suzie, a mother of two boys, went on at length at the difficulty her boys were having with the divorce, the deadbeat nature of the father, the fact that she simply didn't want to deal with men. Of course, she was saying this within earshot of her boys. I asked her when her divorce would be final, and she said that it was finalized in mid-2003. I asked her how her social life had been. "Oh, I just don't do that anymore" was her not incredibly clear response. "Dating?" I asked. "No, going out at all. I really don't think I'll be able to go out much before the boys are in high school."
This seemed a bit self-abnegating to me, and I said (not that I really have the time, but . . .) that when I had the girls on the weekend, I could babysit for her (if she otherwise couldn't afford to go out). She said, "No, I really need to dedicate myself to their needs.
Great . . . ? Another two future men who will think that women's lives revolve around them. Also, being a mother means you never get to do anything? WTF? That's not a standard, that's subjugation. I almost asked her if she would miss sex, but shut myself up just in time. I said something pretty vague about liking male company, and she said, "Oh, I just can't think about men and sex until the boys are grown." Nice self-immurement there. And we can't have young men think their mothers need sex. Uh-uh.
The idea of waiting until the next decade to have sex again seems horrific to me. Beyond horrific. Inhuman and about as defeminizing as female circumcision. Nope, she doesn't cut it off, she just shuts it off. That just doesn't make sense. That's like saying, my kids need to get through school, so I won't eat until they are done.
Go a decade without sex? I don't want to go another week. Of course, as a tarnished maternal figure, I should, by any Victorian standard, completely renounce sex. I'm not going to do that. I got to basically live without sex (well, okay, good sex) in marriage. Enough of that.
I just wonder, does Suzie think that simply sacrificing that part of her life is an appropriate price? And does she think it guarantees her boys well-being or otherwise provides some tangible benefit? It's a mystery to me. I can't do think. Just not selfless enough. And you know what? I'm pretty capable of being selfless, so I think that standard is just too high.
I'm older than the average mother of kids my age, and I'm definitely older than the average single mother my age. By ten or fifteen years. I felt very badly for these young women. I'm struggling, but I have lots more resources. And common sense. But that translates into callousness, somehow.
Suzie, a mother of two boys, went on at length at the difficulty her boys were having with the divorce, the deadbeat nature of the father, the fact that she simply didn't want to deal with men. Of course, she was saying this within earshot of her boys. I asked her when her divorce would be final, and she said that it was finalized in mid-2003. I asked her how her social life had been. "Oh, I just don't do that anymore" was her not incredibly clear response. "Dating?" I asked. "No, going out at all. I really don't think I'll be able to go out much before the boys are in high school."
This seemed a bit self-abnegating to me, and I said (not that I really have the time, but . . .) that when I had the girls on the weekend, I could babysit for her (if she otherwise couldn't afford to go out). She said, "No, I really need to dedicate myself to their needs.
Great . . . ? Another two future men who will think that women's lives revolve around them. Also, being a mother means you never get to do anything? WTF? That's not a standard, that's subjugation. I almost asked her if she would miss sex, but shut myself up just in time. I said something pretty vague about liking male company, and she said, "Oh, I just can't think about men and sex until the boys are grown." Nice self-immurement there. And we can't have young men think their mothers need sex. Uh-uh.
The idea of waiting until the next decade to have sex again seems horrific to me. Beyond horrific. Inhuman and about as defeminizing as female circumcision. Nope, she doesn't cut it off, she just shuts it off. That just doesn't make sense. That's like saying, my kids need to get through school, so I won't eat until they are done.
Go a decade without sex? I don't want to go another week. Of course, as a tarnished maternal figure, I should, by any Victorian standard, completely renounce sex. I'm not going to do that. I got to basically live without sex (well, okay, good sex) in marriage. Enough of that.
I just wonder, does Suzie think that simply sacrificing that part of her life is an appropriate price? And does she think it guarantees her boys well-being or otherwise provides some tangible benefit? It's a mystery to me. I can't do think. Just not selfless enough. And you know what? I'm pretty capable of being selfless, so I think that standard is just too high.
Ich Bin Ein Hausfrau
Of course, a hausfrau is probably just some kind of a pastry. Everyone in the U.S. talks about how JFK said "Ich bin ein Berliner" which gave hope to all the citizens of Berlin. I think it would really help if our leaders would actually make their bold statements in correct grammar in whatever language they happen to be speaking. When someone figures out what language W is capable of speaking correctly, let me know. "Ich bin Berliner" means "I am a Berliner". "Ich bin ein Berliner" means "I am a jelly donut [a Berliner, a type of pastry, I'm actually not sure what kind]." Kind of like this: I am a Dane vs. I am a Danish. So we'be been touting his statement all these years and it just makes us sound stupid.
But I have been so hausfrau like today. I got up at 7. Went to the 24 hour grocery store, and got groceries for the week. Came home and made breakfast. Did the dishes. Cleaned the bathrooms. Did three loads of laundry. Changed the sheets on the beds. (Mmmmm. Clean sheets.) Did some knitting. Took a walk. Cleaned and salted the roasting chicken, made stuffing, boiled the giblets for broth, and stuffed the chicken and started roasting the bird. Ground up veal ends and beef ends, chopped an onion, mixed in bread crumbs, egg, tomato sauce, and made meat loaf. Cleaned up. My girls are going to have home cooked food this week.
Yesterday, I went to the Foilkid's martial arts exam. It's PdeFF's weekend with the girls. I got to lift the GaahGirl. She promptly pulled my hair and threw my glasses on the floor. Next, she'll be stealing my lunch money. Foilkid attacke and defended with vigor. She got an actual dark-colored rather macho belt. Anyone needs a bodyguard, my kid is up to the task.
Of course, one of Foilkid's schoolmates is in the class. The parents are from PdeFF's homeland, and were chatting with him. It soon became quite apparent that PdeFF had not told them (and had no intention of telling them) that we are no longer together. (Why not? Maybe they'll introduce him to a nice young woman. Who, as a primary qualification is not me!) At the end of the class, I put GaahGirl back in her stroller, hugged Foilkid, and told her I'd see her tomorrow night. The homeland-friend-parents looked shocked.
I got home, and PdeFF called to harangue me about telling our business in front of "strangers." I don't think it would have bothered him as much if they had been strangers. It was because they knew him that he was bothered so much. So now PdeFF is irked because I don't hide the fact that I have moved out. What will next upset him? That I use a different address? Newsflash here.
And the irony is that I am being such a good little domestic doobie, getting everything ready for my girls and the babysitter. Homemade food, laundry, cleaning, washing dishes. Ich bin ein hausfrau. Hopefully with a nice caramel topping.
But I have been so hausfrau like today. I got up at 7. Went to the 24 hour grocery store, and got groceries for the week. Came home and made breakfast. Did the dishes. Cleaned the bathrooms. Did three loads of laundry. Changed the sheets on the beds. (Mmmmm. Clean sheets.) Did some knitting. Took a walk. Cleaned and salted the roasting chicken, made stuffing, boiled the giblets for broth, and stuffed the chicken and started roasting the bird. Ground up veal ends and beef ends, chopped an onion, mixed in bread crumbs, egg, tomato sauce, and made meat loaf. Cleaned up. My girls are going to have home cooked food this week.
Yesterday, I went to the Foilkid's martial arts exam. It's PdeFF's weekend with the girls. I got to lift the GaahGirl. She promptly pulled my hair and threw my glasses on the floor. Next, she'll be stealing my lunch money. Foilkid attacke and defended with vigor. She got an actual dark-colored rather macho belt. Anyone needs a bodyguard, my kid is up to the task.
Of course, one of Foilkid's schoolmates is in the class. The parents are from PdeFF's homeland, and were chatting with him. It soon became quite apparent that PdeFF had not told them (and had no intention of telling them) that we are no longer together. (Why not? Maybe they'll introduce him to a nice young woman. Who, as a primary qualification is not me!) At the end of the class, I put GaahGirl back in her stroller, hugged Foilkid, and told her I'd see her tomorrow night. The homeland-friend-parents looked shocked.
I got home, and PdeFF called to harangue me about telling our business in front of "strangers." I don't think it would have bothered him as much if they had been strangers. It was because they knew him that he was bothered so much. So now PdeFF is irked because I don't hide the fact that I have moved out. What will next upset him? That I use a different address? Newsflash here.
And the irony is that I am being such a good little domestic doobie, getting everything ready for my girls and the babysitter. Homemade food, laundry, cleaning, washing dishes. Ich bin ein hausfrau. Hopefully with a nice caramel topping.
Just Friends
Last night, I had my first first date since moving out of the house. I know, I know, I had a bunch of first states while I still lived with my husband, and I'm scum. But that was a different search and a different set of parameters. I was all ready to write up a hilarious disaster dating post with all kinds of commentary. Except it wasn't disastrous. And you have to give a guy points for asking out someone in my circumstances. That's not a timid man.
We had a lovely evening. He cleverly invited me for dinner (I like food), and specified the restaurant to which he would take me. A nice, not too fancy Vietnamese place, which is fine, because I like Vietnamese food. But we got there, it was raining, the place was crowded, and he then suggested the Italian place accross the street. A trattoria-type place. Not too fancy, but definitely nicer than the Vietnamese place. And much better chance of a good wine and a good dessert.
Surprisingly, we had a great conversation about all kinds of things. As we talked, I kept thinking: "This guy would really be perfect for Innana." He's reticent. He's highly intelligent. He does theater and video stuff. He's a trivia buff. (Innana and I kill at Trivial Pursuit and similar games. We just need someone to handle the sports questions.) He's sensitive. He's a cat lover and animal rescuer. (Innana's a softy about the warm fuzzy little critters, in case you can't tell by the "Kitten of the Day" link on her otherwise rather cerebral blog.) Additionally, he has a good job and owns his own home.
Now, in Gregory's Girl, a sweet movie, a boy asks the girl who is the object of his affections out on a date with him. She's too high speed, so she lines up the Scottish early 1980s teen equivalent of speeddating for him to go out with the other girls in the class to find the one who is at his level. (Rather socially clueless, if I remember correctly. Of course I remember correctly. We're talking about a teenage boy.)
After dinner, we took a walk, and then he escorted me to my car. Eventually, I headed home. Alone. With orders to email him and let him know I was home safe. I think about how I could introduce him to Innana, while still acknowledging: he's attracted to me, I'm attracted to him. And I've been up-front and fair. He knows I've just barely left a disastrous marriage. At age 44 I have two young children. My husband is nuts and has hit me. He knows my finances are absolutely FUBAR (for those who done know American military acronyms: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition). Yet he wants more.
Now, everyone, feel free to share your opinion. How is it that we decide some people are sexually or emotionally worth pursuing? When does that just friends switch get hit? Now, I may decide that this man is someone with whom I want to have sex (I certainly wasn't going to make that decision on a first date, what do you think I am? Easy? I'm wounded.) but whatever happens won't be long-term, unless we skip the sex and head straight to friendsville. Which is not a bad place to be. And he might be looking for more and be hurt by that.
Why aren't these things ever equal? Perfectly nice, single, attractive man. Even a spark. I don't have to make any decisions, except I'm going to encourage him to help with video stuff for Innana's next big artistic production. Anyway, one date. Not enough to make a judgment. I don't have that big crush feeling, but that's not a prerequisite to a real relationship, sexual or otherwise.
And the crush I have had, that looks like it's moving to friendsville too. That's okay. I wish it weren't, but I'm really not in a position to change things. I could be misreading things, but I don't think so.
Things change so much day-to-day, by next week, who knows, I might be sipping Chardonnay in the Seychelles. It's not time to make plans or set agendas regarding the relationships in my life. Except relationships with friends. I can never have too many of those.
Oh, and more PdeFF weirdness yesterday. Don't want to talk about it.
We had a lovely evening. He cleverly invited me for dinner (I like food), and specified the restaurant to which he would take me. A nice, not too fancy Vietnamese place, which is fine, because I like Vietnamese food. But we got there, it was raining, the place was crowded, and he then suggested the Italian place accross the street. A trattoria-type place. Not too fancy, but definitely nicer than the Vietnamese place. And much better chance of a good wine and a good dessert.
Surprisingly, we had a great conversation about all kinds of things. As we talked, I kept thinking: "This guy would really be perfect for Innana." He's reticent. He's highly intelligent. He does theater and video stuff. He's a trivia buff. (Innana and I kill at Trivial Pursuit and similar games. We just need someone to handle the sports questions.) He's sensitive. He's a cat lover and animal rescuer. (Innana's a softy about the warm fuzzy little critters, in case you can't tell by the "Kitten of the Day" link on her otherwise rather cerebral blog.) Additionally, he has a good job and owns his own home.
Now, in Gregory's Girl, a sweet movie, a boy asks the girl who is the object of his affections out on a date with him. She's too high speed, so she lines up the Scottish early 1980s teen equivalent of speeddating for him to go out with the other girls in the class to find the one who is at his level. (Rather socially clueless, if I remember correctly. Of course I remember correctly. We're talking about a teenage boy.)
After dinner, we took a walk, and then he escorted me to my car. Eventually, I headed home. Alone. With orders to email him and let him know I was home safe. I think about how I could introduce him to Innana, while still acknowledging: he's attracted to me, I'm attracted to him. And I've been up-front and fair. He knows I've just barely left a disastrous marriage. At age 44 I have two young children. My husband is nuts and has hit me. He knows my finances are absolutely FUBAR (for those who done know American military acronyms: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition). Yet he wants more.
Now, everyone, feel free to share your opinion. How is it that we decide some people are sexually or emotionally worth pursuing? When does that just friends switch get hit? Now, I may decide that this man is someone with whom I want to have sex (I certainly wasn't going to make that decision on a first date, what do you think I am? Easy? I'm wounded.) but whatever happens won't be long-term, unless we skip the sex and head straight to friendsville. Which is not a bad place to be. And he might be looking for more and be hurt by that.
Why aren't these things ever equal? Perfectly nice, single, attractive man. Even a spark. I don't have to make any decisions, except I'm going to encourage him to help with video stuff for Innana's next big artistic production. Anyway, one date. Not enough to make a judgment. I don't have that big crush feeling, but that's not a prerequisite to a real relationship, sexual or otherwise.
And the crush I have had, that looks like it's moving to friendsville too. That's okay. I wish it weren't, but I'm really not in a position to change things. I could be misreading things, but I don't think so.
Things change so much day-to-day, by next week, who knows, I might be sipping Chardonnay in the Seychelles. It's not time to make plans or set agendas regarding the relationships in my life. Except relationships with friends. I can never have too many of those.
Oh, and more PdeFF weirdness yesterday. Don't want to talk about it.
October 22, 2005
Crafts: The Bane of Middle-Aged Women Everywhere
Back when I was young and single, I worried about being a cat-lady. You know. The single ladies with lots and lots of cats, almost invariably single, who talk about them as if they were children.
Now I worry about being a woman into crafts. What does that mean? You know the type. Except these are mostly married women, so I will no longer fit into that slot. Thank god. But what is it about the late thirties, early forties, and beyond that makes women get so into crafts. I'm stretching a bit here. For me, crafts that I do are basically knitting and calligraphy (that's actually an art form). But the definition of crafts has stretched by the evil craft stores of doom. You know them.
Normally I rank knitting above the other annoying crafts* such as stenciling, basket-weaving, etc. But today, I had to downgrade. What made this sad realization occur? Someone on this planet is knitting cell-phone cozies. WTF? Covering up the cellphone so you can't answer it makes it LESS convenient. And you know what? Unlike a teapot with tea in it, you don't need to keep the cellphone warm. And, here's the real kicker: cellphones are inanimate non-sentient objects and therefore DON'T FEEL COLD. Who knits cell phone cozies?
The same people who make hideous homemade Halloween decorations out of fake straw and pumpkins. Decorations my six-year old would not want to call her home. The people who go out and buy quilting supplies, paying lots of money rather than using scrap materials like you're supposed to. The people who scrapbook.** I'm always amazed and the stuff people will buy to make hideous and useless things. Whatever happened to making useful things? (I'm not talking about producing girls so the next generation is saved, but I've done that too.) Like sweaters for people you love. Potholders are even acceptable. Making clothes. Making furniture (not decorative crap, real things people can use). No, instead people spend money to make ugly straw thingamajigs.
*Public Service Announcement (PSA) #1: Scrapbooking is not a craft. It's not an anything. Put your pictures in the damn album and don't act like that action contained any creativity whatsover. And, here's more food for thought: all the videotapes that you'll never have time to watch? The recording of the moment isn't as important as the moment. Put down the goddamn camera and play with your kid. Thank you. You could even teach her to do carpentry, or knit, or do papier mache. Keep the thing made as the keepsake. The record of the actions is much less important than the actions themselves.
**PSA #2: I don't care if you "scrapbook" (btw, it's NOT A VERB) and I hurt your feelings. Someone needs to tell you this, and it might as well be me. The irony of recording a meaningless life isn't lost on me any more than it wasn't lost on Laurence Sterne, author of Tristram Shandy, but recording isn't the same as living. And perfectly scrapbooking (ugh, the word use just hurts me) the invitation to a party isn't the same this as enjoying the party. Or anything else.
Now I worry about being a woman into crafts. What does that mean? You know the type. Except these are mostly married women, so I will no longer fit into that slot. Thank god. But what is it about the late thirties, early forties, and beyond that makes women get so into crafts. I'm stretching a bit here. For me, crafts that I do are basically knitting and calligraphy (that's actually an art form). But the definition of crafts has stretched by the evil craft stores of doom. You know them.
Normally I rank knitting above the other annoying crafts* such as stenciling, basket-weaving, etc. But today, I had to downgrade. What made this sad realization occur? Someone on this planet is knitting cell-phone cozies. WTF? Covering up the cellphone so you can't answer it makes it LESS convenient. And you know what? Unlike a teapot with tea in it, you don't need to keep the cellphone warm. And, here's the real kicker: cellphones are inanimate non-sentient objects and therefore DON'T FEEL COLD. Who knits cell phone cozies?
The same people who make hideous homemade Halloween decorations out of fake straw and pumpkins. Decorations my six-year old would not want to call her home. The people who go out and buy quilting supplies, paying lots of money rather than using scrap materials like you're supposed to. The people who scrapbook.** I'm always amazed and the stuff people will buy to make hideous and useless things. Whatever happened to making useful things? (I'm not talking about producing girls so the next generation is saved, but I've done that too.) Like sweaters for people you love. Potholders are even acceptable. Making clothes. Making furniture (not decorative crap, real things people can use). No, instead people spend money to make ugly straw thingamajigs.
*Public Service Announcement (PSA) #1: Scrapbooking is not a craft. It's not an anything. Put your pictures in the damn album and don't act like that action contained any creativity whatsover. And, here's more food for thought: all the videotapes that you'll never have time to watch? The recording of the moment isn't as important as the moment. Put down the goddamn camera and play with your kid. Thank you. You could even teach her to do carpentry, or knit, or do papier mache. Keep the thing made as the keepsake. The record of the actions is much less important than the actions themselves.
**PSA #2: I don't care if you "scrapbook" (btw, it's NOT A VERB) and I hurt your feelings. Someone needs to tell you this, and it might as well be me. The irony of recording a meaningless life isn't lost on me any more than it wasn't lost on Laurence Sterne, author of Tristram Shandy, but recording isn't the same as living. And perfectly scrapbooking (ugh, the word use just hurts me) the invitation to a party isn't the same this as enjoying the party. Or anything else.
October 21, 2005
Some Very Good News
Now that I am home (rather than at work, where they cut off everyone's, not just my, personal email access), I can check my mail. Thank you all for all the posts, and the kind emails. Very cheering. I also talked with the Supercookie tonight, and that was cheering as well. Very nice. And Benny: Joan Armatrading's Love & Affection, mmmmm. And the Benniette with her chocolate face and frog. Hee. What a doll.
We really are all blessed to have found this community, disembodied though it might be, where we are able to discuss our thoughts and feelings openly without discomfort. I may say I'm the superheroine, but the reality is I'm tall and imposing, yes, but I'm plump, a bit socially awkward, and aware that in conversation I often tread on other peoples lines and interrupt. In writing, we're all fluent and eloquent. And no-one worries about awkward body language or what an expression (probably caused by gas) means. Thank you all.
Now, remember the interview back in September. They have definitively offered me the job. Right now, I'm temping. No benefits. No security. Heck, no place to put my purse or hang my coat. No paid vacation. This job is a good job. Not my dream job, but a good job, in an organization that has a mission that I believe in and would like to assist, a decent physical environment, more job security than I have ever, ever had (and need desperately), health benefits, dental benefits, retirement benefits, vacation pay, sick pay, personal pay, 12 paid holidays, and work I can do and enjoy. And a not so small fiefdom for me to run. Actually, I don't like supervising others too much so that will be the toughest part of the job for me.
Now, there are two other jobs I interviewed for that would pay more. They would also be more stressful. Uber has approved the less stressful job for me right now while the GaahGirl is still little. In two years, I will be getting my marching orders. Now, if one of the other jobs comes through on Monday, that will be a tough call (I don't have to accept until I receive the written offer, which gives me a few more days). But that to do list from a while ago ("Get a job with benefits"), I can check that one as done.
We really are all blessed to have found this community, disembodied though it might be, where we are able to discuss our thoughts and feelings openly without discomfort. I may say I'm the superheroine, but the reality is I'm tall and imposing, yes, but I'm plump, a bit socially awkward, and aware that in conversation I often tread on other peoples lines and interrupt. In writing, we're all fluent and eloquent. And no-one worries about awkward body language or what an expression (probably caused by gas) means. Thank you all.
Now, remember the interview back in September. They have definitively offered me the job. Right now, I'm temping. No benefits. No security. Heck, no place to put my purse or hang my coat. No paid vacation. This job is a good job. Not my dream job, but a good job, in an organization that has a mission that I believe in and would like to assist, a decent physical environment, more job security than I have ever, ever had (and need desperately), health benefits, dental benefits, retirement benefits, vacation pay, sick pay, personal pay, 12 paid holidays, and work I can do and enjoy. And a not so small fiefdom for me to run. Actually, I don't like supervising others too much so that will be the toughest part of the job for me.
Now, there are two other jobs I interviewed for that would pay more. They would also be more stressful. Uber has approved the less stressful job for me right now while the GaahGirl is still little. In two years, I will be getting my marching orders. Now, if one of the other jobs comes through on Monday, that will be a tough call (I don't have to accept until I receive the written offer, which gives me a few more days). But that to do list from a while ago ("Get a job with benefits"), I can check that one as done.
Oh, Gaah! Both my email addresses are unavailable to me
This is bad, very bad. I can't, right now, receive funny stories from people that aren't posted on the blog (I like those). I can't read email from FoilMormor or FoilDad. I can only read stuff posted on this blog, and of course, I can't tell FoilMormor and FoilDad that that is how they can communicate with me. This is not a blog for my Mother and Father. Feeling a bit out of touch here.
Chocolate. Thanks, Champ. Do you like your new sidebar description? Now I have to update the acronyms used, aliases used, and list them.
Chocolate. Thanks, Champ. Do you like your new sidebar description? Now I have to update the acronyms used, aliases used, and list them.
Good Lists
After a whopping 3 hours of sleep last night (and 2 hours of listening to NPR after the alarm went off), today isn'at looking like it will be super-high functional for me. PdeFF really is giving me the creeps right now. People just have other things going on in their lives other than my petty concerns. (Well, they're pretty damn important to me, but that's because this is my life I'm writing about. To a new or casual acquaintance, what sinks me into the pit of despond (cliche, I know, sorry) may be something that just causes a little withdrawal or feeling of unease about me.
Things to be happy about:
Okay, I need a little help with my usually cheering lists. Feel free to chip in.
Things to be happy about:
Okay, I need a little help with my usually cheering lists. Feel free to chip in.
October 20, 2005
And Remind Me Why I'm the Party Taking the Psychopharmaceuticals?
Actually, I just take Zoloft (antidepressant, 50 mg), Adderal (basically amphetemines, anywhere from nothing to 50 mg p.d), and Lunesta (sleeping, either 1.5 mg or 3 mg I'm not sure, as needed. Now that I wrote it down, I think I'm a drug-seeking fiend. Except I'm not.
I stopped by the house to pick up some clothes, Foilkid's guitar, the rest of my knitting supplies, and some books. The babysitter is there, so I wasn't too concerned. Everything went fairly well, until the end. Foilkid was helping me by carrying things to the door so I could carry them to the car. PdeFF was criticizing her every move. Yes, she dropped some of my clothes on the floor. You know what? I didn't care. She was trying to be cheerful and helpful.
As we were doing the car-lading, I heard whining. Yup, Foildog was back in the house. He is such a lovely dog, and he deserves better than being left alone in the family room 95% of the time. He clearly had not been out for a nice long walk today. (Exactly what does PdeFF DO with his days? The babysitter cares for the baby and the Foilkid. The dog doesn't get walked. It's a mystery. Really.) I restrained the urge to ask when the dog was getting walked and where the dog was going to live when the house got sold. Also, Foildog is not a small animal. He's a skinny animal, but he still costs a lot to feed. And take to the vet. I'm just not sure where this money is coming from.
Next, as I finished the loading, PdeFF asked me "where are your rings?" Now, I have a wedding ring and an anniversary ring. I was wearing one (the anniversary ring, actually given as a Christmas gift the year I had the Foilkid). I haven't been wearing the wedding ring. But the anniversary ring looks like a wedding ring. And who CARES. I've moved out. I've left him. I'm getting a divorce. It's over.
He didn't think it was over when the deputies came to serve him the restraining order? When I testified in court that he hit me and I didn't want to live with him and was afraid of him? Or when I changed the locks? Or when the temporary order expired and he moved back in when I moved into the basement? Or when I moved into an apartment? Or, more to the point here, when he changed the locks? And now he's upset that I'm not wearing my no-longer-totally-effective-at-best wedding ring?
What am I going to have to do to communicate things to him? The answer to that is so sad. Nothing, because nothing will make any difference. He won't hear what I say. That was the whole problem anyway. Everything I said just rolled off the waterproof duck's back of his insanity.
I wonder whether he'll notice a court order regarding sale of the house or the car? Rational thought is SO underappreciated. Ish.
I guess I have to plan to move to Oz. Benny, you've still got the shed? Do you live in the part of Australia where the superpoisonous snakes and spiders are, BTW?
It's late. I haven't eaten dinner, but I'm about to heat up what FoilMormor calls Gascoigne Beef Stew. I don't know why she calls it that. But she makes it and it tastes delicious. I had three frozen containers of FoilMormor-made stew, and while I've posted this, I just heated up one. I'm going to go eat now. Food my Mom made. Yum.
I stopped by the house to pick up some clothes, Foilkid's guitar, the rest of my knitting supplies, and some books. The babysitter is there, so I wasn't too concerned. Everything went fairly well, until the end. Foilkid was helping me by carrying things to the door so I could carry them to the car. PdeFF was criticizing her every move. Yes, she dropped some of my clothes on the floor. You know what? I didn't care. She was trying to be cheerful and helpful.
As we were doing the car-lading, I heard whining. Yup, Foildog was back in the house. He is such a lovely dog, and he deserves better than being left alone in the family room 95% of the time. He clearly had not been out for a nice long walk today. (Exactly what does PdeFF DO with his days? The babysitter cares for the baby and the Foilkid. The dog doesn't get walked. It's a mystery. Really.) I restrained the urge to ask when the dog was getting walked and where the dog was going to live when the house got sold. Also, Foildog is not a small animal. He's a skinny animal, but he still costs a lot to feed. And take to the vet. I'm just not sure where this money is coming from.
Next, as I finished the loading, PdeFF asked me "where are your rings?" Now, I have a wedding ring and an anniversary ring. I was wearing one (the anniversary ring, actually given as a Christmas gift the year I had the Foilkid). I haven't been wearing the wedding ring. But the anniversary ring looks like a wedding ring. And who CARES. I've moved out. I've left him. I'm getting a divorce. It's over.
He didn't think it was over when the deputies came to serve him the restraining order? When I testified in court that he hit me and I didn't want to live with him and was afraid of him? Or when I changed the locks? Or when the temporary order expired and he moved back in when I moved into the basement? Or when I moved into an apartment? Or, more to the point here, when he changed the locks? And now he's upset that I'm not wearing my no-longer-totally-effective-at-best wedding ring?
What am I going to have to do to communicate things to him? The answer to that is so sad. Nothing, because nothing will make any difference. He won't hear what I say. That was the whole problem anyway. Everything I said just rolled off the waterproof duck's back of his insanity.
I wonder whether he'll notice a court order regarding sale of the house or the car? Rational thought is SO underappreciated. Ish.
I guess I have to plan to move to Oz. Benny, you've still got the shed? Do you live in the part of Australia where the superpoisonous snakes and spiders are, BTW?
It's late. I haven't eaten dinner, but I'm about to heat up what FoilMormor calls Gascoigne Beef Stew. I don't know why she calls it that. But she makes it and it tastes delicious. I had three frozen containers of FoilMormor-made stew, and while I've posted this, I just heated up one. I'm going to go eat now. Food my Mom made. Yum.
I Figured It All Out & Oh No! Not Again (Two Separate Posts Really)
I Figured It All Out
Because I'm so smart (notice the return of appropriate self-esteem following sufficient dosing with chocolate), I finally figured out, aside from the crisis that is my life and my current hormonal state exactly what is making me so damn grumpy. This is it: it's the week the FoilDad was going to visit, but he stayed on his other continent taking care of the recovering Nice Younger Third Wife (NYTW). This is understandable and not inconsiderate of him. A wife getting exploratory surgery for possible (but thankfully non-existent) ovarian cancer trumps a divorcing daughter. It's true. It's a well-known fact.
Especially when your Nice-and-Not-Quite-So-Young-But-Still-Too-Young-To-Die-Second Wife (NANSYBSTYTDSW) died horribly of ovarian cancer just a decade ago.
Completely understandable. Not a distant Dad, except physically, just a terrified man, who has already lost one woman he loves and really couldn't deal with anything else until he was reassured that he wouldn't lose the second. Not really fair to give him that choice. He didn't choose me, and, really, he shouldn't have. I'll see him over Christmas. He loves me. He'll help me through this. Just not right now.
Of course, I understand this all intellectually. And I feel completely and utterly abandoned and betrayed. I'll get over it. I can feel it, understand why I feel that way, and move beyond it. But I need my Dad, I want him, and he's NOT HERE. FoilDad wasn't here when I had my surgery (he teaches, and didn't have leave, he came later), but he's with NYTW when she has her surgery. PdeFF, Mr. Foilwoman at the time, did nothing for me when I had the surgery on my hernia two weeks after bearing his second child at age 44. FoilMormor flew in and took care of things. That's probably why she wasn't so shocked and was ready to move when things when completely to shit.
I know I'm not being fair, and I'll get over these feelings of abandonment. (I'm 44. It's a bit late to be so reliant upon Mummy and Daddy. Especially ironic given how estranged from them and then independent of them I have been since age 15.) In the meantime, why is my knight on a white horse always a gal?
Oh NO! Not Again (Uber Rides Again)
Speaking of which, Uber is showing her innate capacity to meddle. It's a gift really. She seemed to notice how out of sorts I was yesterday, and reassured me that I was a perfect fit for the committee. Yup. Me and the corporate leaders, law firm partners, directors of agencies, and ambassadors. Absolutely.
Further, Uber has decided that I need to have lunch with her and one of the gentleman on the committe, a nice man in his sixties. Either of former ambassador or agency director or the like. Some muckety muck. It's forced networking. Like a forced march, only with slightly better food. I say slightly, because we're lunching at one of the formerly all-male professional clubs in town, very prestigious, leather chairs, clubby, and dreadful, British-style, flavorless food. I can't think this is a fix up/blind-date. He's my Dad's age. But I can't turn down the lunch either. It is a good opportunity/connection/whatever. And I know he's pleasant. He's not a floor hog at the meetings. He speaks intelligently and seems downright kind and sweet.
Uber also has a plan for career rescusitation in two years. I said 5. She said two. Non-negotatiable.
So I take it back. There is someone who has more energy than I have. Uber runs her law practice, volunteers for several high profile entities, runs political fundraisers, networks for many other people (not just me, although I have a hard time seeing how she could be doing half as much for anyone else as she does for me and have time to sleep at all), plus organizing her step-daughter's life, runs her husband like a railroad, and runs what appears to be a full-time matchmaking service. And still has time to take friends to lunch, attend Innana's theatrical productions, and generally be a social butterfly. Are there any men that capable and involved on this planet? And why does Uber take SUCH an interest in me. Not complaining. I'm a bit of a parasite right now, and can't wait to be able to do as much (well maybe a third or a quarter as much) for others. I'm just impressed. And scared. But grateful.
Because I'm so smart (notice the return of appropriate self-esteem following sufficient dosing with chocolate), I finally figured out, aside from the crisis that is my life and my current hormonal state exactly what is making me so damn grumpy. This is it: it's the week the FoilDad was going to visit, but he stayed on his other continent taking care of the recovering Nice Younger Third Wife (NYTW). This is understandable and not inconsiderate of him. A wife getting exploratory surgery for possible (but thankfully non-existent) ovarian cancer trumps a divorcing daughter. It's true. It's a well-known fact.
Especially when your Nice-and-Not-Quite-So-Young-But-Still-Too-Young-To-Die-Second Wife (NANSYBSTYTDSW) died horribly of ovarian cancer just a decade ago.
Completely understandable. Not a distant Dad, except physically, just a terrified man, who has already lost one woman he loves and really couldn't deal with anything else until he was reassured that he wouldn't lose the second. Not really fair to give him that choice. He didn't choose me, and, really, he shouldn't have. I'll see him over Christmas. He loves me. He'll help me through this. Just not right now.
Of course, I understand this all intellectually. And I feel completely and utterly abandoned and betrayed. I'll get over it. I can feel it, understand why I feel that way, and move beyond it. But I need my Dad, I want him, and he's NOT HERE. FoilDad wasn't here when I had my surgery (he teaches, and didn't have leave, he came later), but he's with NYTW when she has her surgery. PdeFF, Mr. Foilwoman at the time, did nothing for me when I had the surgery on my hernia two weeks after bearing his second child at age 44. FoilMormor flew in and took care of things. That's probably why she wasn't so shocked and was ready to move when things when completely to shit.
I know I'm not being fair, and I'll get over these feelings of abandonment. (I'm 44. It's a bit late to be so reliant upon Mummy and Daddy. Especially ironic given how estranged from them and then independent of them I have been since age 15.) In the meantime, why is my knight on a white horse always a gal?
Oh NO! Not Again (Uber Rides Again)
Speaking of which, Uber is showing her innate capacity to meddle. It's a gift really. She seemed to notice how out of sorts I was yesterday, and reassured me that I was a perfect fit for the committee. Yup. Me and the corporate leaders, law firm partners, directors of agencies, and ambassadors. Absolutely.
Further, Uber has decided that I need to have lunch with her and one of the gentleman on the committe, a nice man in his sixties. Either of former ambassador or agency director or the like. Some muckety muck. It's forced networking. Like a forced march, only with slightly better food. I say slightly, because we're lunching at one of the formerly all-male professional clubs in town, very prestigious, leather chairs, clubby, and dreadful, British-style, flavorless food. I can't think this is a fix up/blind-date. He's my Dad's age. But I can't turn down the lunch either. It is a good opportunity/connection/whatever. And I know he's pleasant. He's not a floor hog at the meetings. He speaks intelligently and seems downright kind and sweet.
Uber also has a plan for career rescusitation in two years. I said 5. She said two. Non-negotatiable.
So I take it back. There is someone who has more energy than I have. Uber runs her law practice, volunteers for several high profile entities, runs political fundraisers, networks for many other people (not just me, although I have a hard time seeing how she could be doing half as much for anyone else as she does for me and have time to sleep at all), plus organizing her step-daughter's life, runs her husband like a railroad, and runs what appears to be a full-time matchmaking service. And still has time to take friends to lunch, attend Innana's theatrical productions, and generally be a social butterfly. Are there any men that capable and involved on this planet? And why does Uber take SUCH an interest in me. Not complaining. I'm a bit of a parasite right now, and can't wait to be able to do as much (well maybe a third or a quarter as much) for others. I'm just impressed. And scared. But grateful.
Top Ten (Congratulations, One Useless Man)
Yes, they are now giving out awards for Useless men. Feel free to enter your husband, your boss, your neighbor, your co-worker, your would-be lover. Go to town.
Really, Jodster (One Useless Man) placed in the top ten of the Comic Genius stand-up comedy contest. I believe there is still more voting going on. So support male Uselessness! Support Comedy. Support Canadian TV. Except for the Uselessness part, they all need all the help they can get. Vote early. Vote often. Register your nearest, dearest, and deceased.
Really, Jodster (One Useless Man) placed in the top ten of the Comic Genius stand-up comedy contest. I believe there is still more voting going on. So support male Uselessness! Support Comedy. Support Canadian TV. Except for the Uselessness part, they all need all the help they can get. Vote early. Vote often. Register your nearest, dearest, and deceased.
October 19, 2005
Volunteer Work and Personal Status
Uber and I had a committee meeting tonight. It's a committee Uber got me on. It's a very prestigious social register-type WASPy organization. I'm definitely the least accomplished and socially prominent person on the committee. People on the committee are: (1) ambassadors, (2) muckety-mucks at the CIA and other nefarious organizations known and feared and referred to by their initials, (3) people who went to high school with presidential candidates, (4) lots of multiple Ivy League degrees, (5) authors, (6) partners in law firms, (7) millionaires, and/or (8) major successes in some prestigious field. Then there's me.
Failed professional. Living in an apartment rented by her mother. Soon to be mid-ranking quasi-governmental employee. Author of nothing but this blog (and a few professional articles written in the early-to-mid-90s that no-one in their right mind would ever willingly seek out much less read).
What am I doing there? Fortunately, one of the other volunteers is a dead ringer for Anthony Stewart Head as Giles in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the late great TV show (best show ever). So I had something to look at, anyway.
I participated, but felt a bit out of my league.
Everyone I'm meeting now is all Ivy. Uber is Princeton and Columbia. MBLBRF is Columbia (or was it Cornell?). Some hateful colleagues are from Harvard (proving, once again, you can always tell a Harvard man, you just can't tell him much). Everyone I'm meeting has published a book, been granted tenure, been nominated for a directorship. Me, I work as a temp, hoping for better.
I don't want to be envious of others, jealous of what they have. For instance, I know that several of the high-powered professional women on the committee are not childless by choice. They simply haven't conceived, despite years of trying, and thousands of dollars spent. Or they've conceived and lost the baby. I think we'd all agree, I may not have the big public success, but I have been very lucky in that regard. I wouldn't trade my girls for career success, which means that the esteem-and-concentration absorbing black hole of my marriage had real value.
But what do these ultra-professional, ultra-plugged in people think of me? Had potential, but hasn't measure up? NQOKD (Not Quite Our Kind Dear)?
The real answer is who cares. Except I do. What difference does it make? Why do I care?
Failed professional. Living in an apartment rented by her mother. Soon to be mid-ranking quasi-governmental employee. Author of nothing but this blog (and a few professional articles written in the early-to-mid-90s that no-one in their right mind would ever willingly seek out much less read).
What am I doing there? Fortunately, one of the other volunteers is a dead ringer for Anthony Stewart Head as Giles in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the late great TV show (best show ever). So I had something to look at, anyway.
I participated, but felt a bit out of my league.
Everyone I'm meeting now is all Ivy. Uber is Princeton and Columbia. MBLBRF is Columbia (or was it Cornell?). Some hateful colleagues are from Harvard (proving, once again, you can always tell a Harvard man, you just can't tell him much). Everyone I'm meeting has published a book, been granted tenure, been nominated for a directorship. Me, I work as a temp, hoping for better.
I don't want to be envious of others, jealous of what they have. For instance, I know that several of the high-powered professional women on the committee are not childless by choice. They simply haven't conceived, despite years of trying, and thousands of dollars spent. Or they've conceived and lost the baby. I think we'd all agree, I may not have the big public success, but I have been very lucky in that regard. I wouldn't trade my girls for career success, which means that the esteem-and-concentration absorbing black hole of my marriage had real value.
But what do these ultra-professional, ultra-plugged in people think of me? Had potential, but hasn't measure up? NQOKD (Not Quite Our Kind Dear)?
The real answer is who cares. Except I do. What difference does it make? Why do I care?
The Perils of Not Meeting Your Assigned Gender Stereotype
One of the things I liked most about being married was not having to date. Also, PdeFF's isolation of me meant I didn't go out and meet people.
Actually, I like meeting people and I like being with men (anyone who hasn't figured that one out by now, I don't mean to be cruel but there's no need for you to take an IQ test now, is there?), but I don't like the way my personality traits affect how friendships and other relationships develop. I wrote at length, earlier, about
why sometimes I wonder if I am actually female., and the concerns I had are going to come back with a vengeance once I'm out and about.
Why? Because I'm enthusiastic. This may not seem like a liability, but for a woman it seems like it is. When I meet people (men, women, children) I like, I don't "take it slow". I also don't worry about or discuss "where the relationship is going". If I like someone, I want to be with them, and will make time to do so. In modern society, you're supposed to be busy all the time. Somewhat unavailable. I have no scientific backup, but I think women are supposed to be more busy and unavailable than men are (because we're supposed to be inherently desirable, as demonstrated by others' desire for us).
Now, one would think that with everything going on in my life, I wouldn't be worrying about being over-available. But I do. Because everyone I'm meeting lately, who seem to have lots less going on in their lives than I have (no 6-year old and soon to be toddler, no job search, no soul-sucking divorce on the horizon) seem to have a lot harder time getting things done that I have. Now I know, I'm higher energy than most. I can get up at six, make breakfast for the Foilkid, play with the Gaah Girl, eat breakfast, walk Foilkid to school, walk to the train, go to work, run several important errands at lunch, have a doctor's appointment, work some more, go to a volunteer meeting, take the train and then walk home, make dinner, do laundry, put the girls to bed, play the guitar, do the dishes, do more laundry, read some, blog some, comment on others blogs, write overdue thank you notes (mailed yesterday, Prom and Kira, sorry for being late), start sewing together recently finished sweater, and then go to bed. I can get a phone call from a friend, ValkyrieGal, and agree to meet for drinks tomorrow, arrange to meet MBLBRF for lunch on Friday, plan to see Foilkid's martial art exam on Saturday and then go out to dinner with a new friend, and still plan on doing lots more over the next few days. If I can't get together with someone when they want to, and I want to see them, I'll immediately work on coming up with another plan within a few days, not a few weeks.
This is NOT the way you are supposed to behave when dating. I'm not going to change, but I know it puts me in the position of weakness (being enthusiastic or eager). But you know what? I'm going to enjoy myself, and not worry about whether I'm perceived as being forward. Someone who wants someone who is not enthusiastic (why?), isn't going to want me. Or shouldn't.
When I met PdeFF, I was in a depression. I was standoffish. He really had to chase me. (Ask Innana, it's true.) I didn't play hard to get. I was hard to get. I should have stayed not gotten. I wonder if I had been my normal gung-ho self if he would have fled the scene. That wouldn't have been a bad thing in the long run, except that a world without the Foilkid and the GaahGirl would be a gray and misshappen corner of the universe and opposed to the radiant planet we now live on. (Thanks to me . . . aren't you glad?)
Next time round, once I'm past the transition guy stage (one year, minimum), no playing hard to get. No being hard to get. If I don't like, no getting. And I'm not going to pretend that I'm not liking the end of date stuff either. If that makes someone judge me badly, well, ugh. Judge away.
I'm really not looking forward to dating, but I think I'll manage the whole thing quite well. Once I'm ready. Just thinking about it makes me want to go home and take a bath. With a glass of wine.
Actually, I like meeting people and I like being with men (anyone who hasn't figured that one out by now, I don't mean to be cruel but there's no need for you to take an IQ test now, is there?), but I don't like the way my personality traits affect how friendships and other relationships develop. I wrote at length, earlier, about
why sometimes I wonder if I am actually female., and the concerns I had are going to come back with a vengeance once I'm out and about.
Why? Because I'm enthusiastic. This may not seem like a liability, but for a woman it seems like it is. When I meet people (men, women, children) I like, I don't "take it slow". I also don't worry about or discuss "where the relationship is going". If I like someone, I want to be with them, and will make time to do so. In modern society, you're supposed to be busy all the time. Somewhat unavailable. I have no scientific backup, but I think women are supposed to be more busy and unavailable than men are (because we're supposed to be inherently desirable, as demonstrated by others' desire for us).
Now, one would think that with everything going on in my life, I wouldn't be worrying about being over-available. But I do. Because everyone I'm meeting lately, who seem to have lots less going on in their lives than I have (no 6-year old and soon to be toddler, no job search, no soul-sucking divorce on the horizon) seem to have a lot harder time getting things done that I have. Now I know, I'm higher energy than most. I can get up at six, make breakfast for the Foilkid, play with the Gaah Girl, eat breakfast, walk Foilkid to school, walk to the train, go to work, run several important errands at lunch, have a doctor's appointment, work some more, go to a volunteer meeting, take the train and then walk home, make dinner, do laundry, put the girls to bed, play the guitar, do the dishes, do more laundry, read some, blog some, comment on others blogs, write overdue thank you notes (mailed yesterday, Prom and Kira, sorry for being late), start sewing together recently finished sweater, and then go to bed. I can get a phone call from a friend, ValkyrieGal, and agree to meet for drinks tomorrow, arrange to meet MBLBRF for lunch on Friday, plan to see Foilkid's martial art exam on Saturday and then go out to dinner with a new friend, and still plan on doing lots more over the next few days. If I can't get together with someone when they want to, and I want to see them, I'll immediately work on coming up with another plan within a few days, not a few weeks.
This is NOT the way you are supposed to behave when dating. I'm not going to change, but I know it puts me in the position of weakness (being enthusiastic or eager). But you know what? I'm going to enjoy myself, and not worry about whether I'm perceived as being forward. Someone who wants someone who is not enthusiastic (why?), isn't going to want me. Or shouldn't.
When I met PdeFF, I was in a depression. I was standoffish. He really had to chase me. (Ask Innana, it's true.) I didn't play hard to get. I was hard to get. I should have stayed not gotten. I wonder if I had been my normal gung-ho self if he would have fled the scene. That wouldn't have been a bad thing in the long run, except that a world without the Foilkid and the GaahGirl would be a gray and misshappen corner of the universe and opposed to the radiant planet we now live on. (Thanks to me . . . aren't you glad?)
Next time round, once I'm past the transition guy stage (one year, minimum), no playing hard to get. No being hard to get. If I don't like, no getting. And I'm not going to pretend that I'm not liking the end of date stuff either. If that makes someone judge me badly, well, ugh. Judge away.
I'm really not looking forward to dating, but I think I'll manage the whole thing quite well. Once I'm ready. Just thinking about it makes me want to go home and take a bath. With a glass of wine.
October 18, 2005
Five Days with the Foil Filles
Don't get me wrong: my daughters are the absolute best ever. Just ask Innana. But five days, uninterrupted? I'm exhausted. And I even had a "break" on Sunday when the car broke down and Innana took them on to the colonial farm and I went with the car to the dealership. (Thanks BLBRF for the name of a good mechanic fairly close by.) Of course, Innana may never speak to me again, except to sing songs with all syllables spoken as "arf". I need a full-body massage and a pedicure (and I bet Innana does too).
But as exhausted as I am, I really don't want them to head over to their Dad's after tomorrow. I know he loves them and will take care of them, and I know the babysitter is with them, but I don't want them there for five days. They won't get to bed on time, he won't be proactive about making sure they have what they need, etc., and he will not watch what he says around them. Nothing I can do at this stage. Grrr.
Since there is nothing I can do, I'm not going to launch myself into a frenzy of anxiety (I could, but it would be fruitless). I don't like them being with him for five days at a stretch, but since I will have time to myself, I'll finish my current sweater project, get started on another, practice the guitar, clean the house, and go out in the evening. Sounds like a plan.
But as exhausted as I am, I really don't want them to head over to their Dad's after tomorrow. I know he loves them and will take care of them, and I know the babysitter is with them, but I don't want them there for five days. They won't get to bed on time, he won't be proactive about making sure they have what they need, etc., and he will not watch what he says around them. Nothing I can do at this stage. Grrr.
Since there is nothing I can do, I'm not going to launch myself into a frenzy of anxiety (I could, but it would be fruitless). I don't like them being with him for five days at a stretch, but since I will have time to myself, I'll finish my current sweater project, get started on another, practice the guitar, clean the house, and go out in the evening. Sounds like a plan.
October 17, 2005
Acquisitive Moi
I'm feeling lucky, greedy, and guilty, all at once. Today I received two packages, and one overseas envelope. All packages and letters came from blogging friends. Nice wool for knitting from Prom. Nice kids clothes from Kira. A lovely birthday card for the GaahGirl. More than I deserve, but very nice. Thank you so much, Prom, Kira, and Cookie.
Why Make Life Harder Than It Has to Be?
In high school, I student the Tao, the writings of Confucius, Buddhism, and other religions outside the Judeo-Christian tradition (it was an Episcopalian school. Take it as given that I studied the Judeo-Christian tradition). I always thought Buddhism was a rip-off. Basically, the whole "You attain happiness by not wanting things" made no sense to me. Of course, you wouldn't feel want if you did not want. I didn't get the whole idea of simply enjoying the good that presents itself to you. I finally feel like I've figured that part of the philosophy out.
Getting "things" doesn't give anyone real happiness. Any joy we feel, no matter how profound, is transitory. That doesn't mean don't enjoy good things. It just means don't think of them as your due. They're gifts.
The message of our society (which tells us all the time that you'll be happy if you: wear the right clothes, drive the right car, have the right girlfriend, have the right token of affection from your boyfriend), especially relating to things we're told will make us happy and the build up of always wanting more, leads to unhappiness, not contentment, inner peace, or serenity.
I keep hearing about people who keeps getting extremely upset about relatively minor problems. For example, painting a door or a wall the wrong color, or not proberly hangin up a bike or gold clubs. Are these occurrences worth a fight with a partner or a night on the couch? Why would someone who deals with human tragedy at work be unable to put such events in perspective? I know this person has had trouble in earlier times. but not right now. Why would anyone want to waste time being angry or unhappy over a haircut or whatnot? Especially someone who has some awareness of what real troubles worth worrying about are. It's a mystery to me.
Why do some people spend their entire lives focussed on the trivia, when the real thread of their lives is unravelling, as certainly as if one of the Fates were already trimming the most essential threads. I know I missed a lot while I was trying to stay married to PdeFF (in some rather crazy ways, I know can admit, in hindsight), but getting fussed over anything minor seamed to me to indicate a lamentable lack of connection to reality.
Getting "things" doesn't give anyone real happiness. Any joy we feel, no matter how profound, is transitory. That doesn't mean don't enjoy good things. It just means don't think of them as your due. They're gifts.
The message of our society (which tells us all the time that you'll be happy if you: wear the right clothes, drive the right car, have the right girlfriend, have the right token of affection from your boyfriend), especially relating to things we're told will make us happy and the build up of always wanting more, leads to unhappiness, not contentment, inner peace, or serenity.
I keep hearing about people who keeps getting extremely upset about relatively minor problems. For example, painting a door or a wall the wrong color, or not proberly hangin up a bike or gold clubs. Are these occurrences worth a fight with a partner or a night on the couch? Why would someone who deals with human tragedy at work be unable to put such events in perspective? I know this person has had trouble in earlier times. but not right now. Why would anyone want to waste time being angry or unhappy over a haircut or whatnot? Especially someone who has some awareness of what real troubles worth worrying about are. It's a mystery to me.
Why do some people spend their entire lives focussed on the trivia, when the real thread of their lives is unravelling, as certainly as if one of the Fates were already trimming the most essential threads. I know I missed a lot while I was trying to stay married to PdeFF (in some rather crazy ways, I know can admit, in hindsight), but getting fussed over anything minor seamed to me to indicate a lamentable lack of connection to reality.
The Good
Yesterday, Innana was probably muttering her key phrase* as she pushed the GaahGirl (in stroller) and marched the Foilkid all over the colonial farm. The Foilkid swang on a old-fashioned rope swing. She scratch a black pig with a stick (pigs apparently like that). She had several sausages. She played tug of war. She painted various 18th pirate characters, like Blackbeard and Anne Bonney (I've always liked her. She was captured and imprisoned. Her none-too-effective first-mate and lover was hung for piracy whilst her life was spared, I believe, because she was pregnant. When the first-mate was hung, she said to him: "If you'd fought like a man you wouldn't die like a dog." Shortly thereafter, she escaped, and pregnant, took up piracy again. Not a pushover, that's for darn sure. Please correct all errors in this story. I'm remembering it from a book I may have read in 1975 or earlier.) On the way back to my place, GaahGirl cried the whole way. And Foilkid kept singing songs pretending she was a dog: substituting "arf" for every known syllable. Innana is still speaking to me.
Additionally, I just got an email from the FoilDad (he lives abroad). My stepmother (not really a mother figure, she only married my father five years ago or so and we have never lived on the same continent, much less country, but she is a lovely woman who makes my father very happy) had her surgery, and according to the surgeon, nothing looks suspicious. Biopsy results await, of course, but FoilDad sounded pretty confident and relieved. Your Holiness, Benny XVI (madder and badder than the XV) and B. John, can they really tell just by looking? Does cancerous tissue, even when tiny, look different enough that you can tell when it's not there?
Anyway, let's weigh the good/bad balancing for today.
Bad: $1,700 car repair bill.
Missing half a day of fun at the farm.
Absolutely exhausting Innana to the point where she may cross the street to avoid my offspring and me.
Good: Relatively pain-free arrangement of repair, tow, and not ruining Foilkid's day.
FoilDad's wife isn't going to die in the near future of horrible cancer.
I think Good wins.
* And I quote: "But I used the birth control!!!!"
Additionally, I just got an email from the FoilDad (he lives abroad). My stepmother (not really a mother figure, she only married my father five years ago or so and we have never lived on the same continent, much less country, but she is a lovely woman who makes my father very happy) had her surgery, and according to the surgeon, nothing looks suspicious. Biopsy results await, of course, but FoilDad sounded pretty confident and relieved. Your Holiness, Benny XVI (madder and badder than the XV) and B. John, can they really tell just by looking? Does cancerous tissue, even when tiny, look different enough that you can tell when it's not there?
Anyway, let's weigh the good/bad balancing for today.
Bad: $1,700 car repair bill.
Missing half a day of fun at the farm.
Absolutely exhausting Innana to the point where she may cross the street to avoid my offspring and me.
Good: Relatively pain-free arrangement of repair, tow, and not ruining Foilkid's day.
FoilDad's wife isn't going to die in the near future of horrible cancer.
I think Good wins.
* And I quote: "But I used the birth control!!!!"
Kids and Car Repairs
Is $1,700 really a reasonable price for a clutch replacement on a 1991 Suburu Legacy? Now, I'm really going to be broke.
More about Foilkid and Innana's Big Adventure (or Most Excellent Adventure, since Innana and I think Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure and Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey are way underrated and some of Keanu Reeves's greatest work) later. $1,700.
More about Foilkid and Innana's Big Adventure (or Most Excellent Adventure, since Innana and I think Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure and Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey are way underrated and some of Keanu Reeves's greatest work) later. $1,700.
October 16, 2005
You've Got to Have Friends (with Apologies to the Divine Ms. M)
And I do. I really do. (They like me. They really like me.)
Today, Innana had selected a cultural event/outdoors/fun event for my girls. One of the Colonial Farms (farms with traditional breeds of animals, colonial technology, and volunteers in uncomfortable and authentic dress, who once included Innana) is having a market day today. With authentic pre-revoluationary activities, etc. With my new (14 years old) car, the Foilkid, the GaahGirl, and I all headed down to pick up Innana and then headed out to the farm.
For those elsewhere, today is a beautiful fall day. Crisp and clear and sunny. On our way to the farm, the stick shift (of Driving Stick fame) ceased functioning. My clutch had died. We were on a slight incline when it became clear to me. Maybe the clutch on this car isn't generally as soft and spongy as I had thought. Maybe it's normally stiff, but was just dying on me.
We pulled over, fortunately near a field with a view of a nice white horse. Innana and I debated whether something would cool down or not. (Hey! Stop with the visibly tolerant look. Somethings do improve if they cool down. Even some car-related things. It was not an unreasonable guess. Unless you know something about cars.) After waiting a bit and trying again, we then debated what to do. This was one of the few areas where PdeFF used to take care of. I have no idea, not a clue, what to do when a car breaks down. Well, when I was younger I knew: get out of the car and wait for the inevitable offers of assistance. Those days are gone.
I knew I had to get a tow, and I knew I wanted the tow to take me to the Suburu dealer near my house. But tow trucks don't take kids. So I thought about who would be a reliable person in this sort of crisis. PdeFF did not immediately come to mind. Fortunately, after about three seconds, somebody did come to mind. The fiance or whatever of my Norwegian friend is an ex-marine who simply exudes competence. He also actually gets pleasure from being a knight in shining armor. Really. He drove up to get us, collected the girls, the car seats, and Innana. I stayed and waited for the tow. Innana is currently at the Colonial Farm being exhausted by my offspring. The tow truck driver was a deeply creepy 23-or-so-year-old who kept talking about his lovely girlfriend who is still in high school (and under 18). I'm so glad Ex-Marine Fred had removed the girls already. (I know, I know, 17 isn't the same as 12 or anything, but still this guy exuded an aura of creepiness and I was pretty sure the jailbait girlfriend was fictional, or if real, didn't know she was his girlfriend. I don't want that anywhere near my beautiful girls, at any age.) I would have had to kill the cretin. Of course, I didn't. He even gave me a discount "Because you're such a pleasant lady to talk to." I really didn't want to talk to him. But he was driving me to the garage. It was a relief to have the cabbie pick me up at the garage and start talking about his kids.
But despite the breakdown, tow, and impending cost of repair, the day worked out well. My friends helped me out (big time) and my girls are having a blast with someone who loves them. It's not me, but they are still having a good weekend. Pretty soon I have to start paying everybody (and the universe) back. This series of favors has been pretty much a one way street.
Now, that doesn't mean I'm picking up any restaurant checks for meals with any real or potential admirers. I had such a one way I-end-up-paying-for-everything deal going with PdeFF for so long that it will be 2015 or so before I feel the scales are in equilibrium (and I can afford a meal out that someone else doesn't pay for). Except I'm even beginning to feel guilty about that. I'll get over that in a hurry.
Today, Innana had selected a cultural event/outdoors/fun event for my girls. One of the Colonial Farms (farms with traditional breeds of animals, colonial technology, and volunteers in uncomfortable and authentic dress, who once included Innana) is having a market day today. With authentic pre-revoluationary activities, etc. With my new (14 years old) car, the Foilkid, the GaahGirl, and I all headed down to pick up Innana and then headed out to the farm.
For those elsewhere, today is a beautiful fall day. Crisp and clear and sunny. On our way to the farm, the stick shift (of Driving Stick fame) ceased functioning. My clutch had died. We were on a slight incline when it became clear to me. Maybe the clutch on this car isn't generally as soft and spongy as I had thought. Maybe it's normally stiff, but was just dying on me.
We pulled over, fortunately near a field with a view of a nice white horse. Innana and I debated whether something would cool down or not. (Hey! Stop with the visibly tolerant look. Somethings do improve if they cool down. Even some car-related things. It was not an unreasonable guess. Unless you know something about cars.) After waiting a bit and trying again, we then debated what to do. This was one of the few areas where PdeFF used to take care of. I have no idea, not a clue, what to do when a car breaks down. Well, when I was younger I knew: get out of the car and wait for the inevitable offers of assistance. Those days are gone.
I knew I had to get a tow, and I knew I wanted the tow to take me to the Suburu dealer near my house. But tow trucks don't take kids. So I thought about who would be a reliable person in this sort of crisis. PdeFF did not immediately come to mind. Fortunately, after about three seconds, somebody did come to mind. The fiance or whatever of my Norwegian friend is an ex-marine who simply exudes competence. He also actually gets pleasure from being a knight in shining armor. Really. He drove up to get us, collected the girls, the car seats, and Innana. I stayed and waited for the tow. Innana is currently at the Colonial Farm being exhausted by my offspring. The tow truck driver was a deeply creepy 23-or-so-year-old who kept talking about his lovely girlfriend who is still in high school (and under 18). I'm so glad Ex-Marine Fred had removed the girls already. (I know, I know, 17 isn't the same as 12 or anything, but still this guy exuded an aura of creepiness and I was pretty sure the jailbait girlfriend was fictional, or if real, didn't know she was his girlfriend. I don't want that anywhere near my beautiful girls, at any age.) I would have had to kill the cretin. Of course, I didn't. He even gave me a discount "Because you're such a pleasant lady to talk to." I really didn't want to talk to him. But he was driving me to the garage. It was a relief to have the cabbie pick me up at the garage and start talking about his kids.
But despite the breakdown, tow, and impending cost of repair, the day worked out well. My friends helped me out (big time) and my girls are having a blast with someone who loves them. It's not me, but they are still having a good weekend. Pretty soon I have to start paying everybody (and the universe) back. This series of favors has been pretty much a one way street.
Now, that doesn't mean I'm picking up any restaurant checks for meals with any real or potential admirers. I had such a one way I-end-up-paying-for-everything deal going with PdeFF for so long that it will be 2015 or so before I feel the scales are in equilibrium (and I can afford a meal out that someone else doesn't pay for). Except I'm even beginning to feel guilty about that. I'll get over that in a hurry.
October 15, 2005
Monday
Monday the 17th will be a bit of a red-letter day (where does that phrase come from?) as my father's wife is having her surgery to determine whether or not she has ovarian cancer. I'm trying not to be too negative here, but in my admittedly negativist (right now) mind, and based on what I know about ovarian cancer (make sure your will is up to date), the question being answered on Monday is whether or not she will be alive in 2007. She's just a few years older than I am.
It's also one of my nephews' birthday, my LOS's wedding anniversary, and a day when our own Supercookie is having lots of medical tests (after fasting, which I don't think our cookie-lover will enjoy too much). I hope those celebrating good things get to enjoy their day, and those waiting anxiously on results get good news. No time or energy for anything lengthy; the girls kept me quite busy.
It's also one of my nephews' birthday, my LOS's wedding anniversary, and a day when our own Supercookie is having lots of medical tests (after fasting, which I don't think our cookie-lover will enjoy too much). I hope those celebrating good things get to enjoy their day, and those waiting anxiously on results get good news. No time or energy for anything lengthy; the girls kept me quite busy.
October 14, 2005
Tooth Fairy In Action
It's a very good thing the Foilkid sleeps so soundly. She lay there snoring her little heart out. I had to scrabble around a bit to find those baby teeth and replace them with $1 each. She snored. Beautifully.
I left work at 5 and headed straight home. GaahGirl was having and wearing her dinner when I walked in the door, and Foilkid was demolishing her second serving of mac and cheese. She showed me her new grown up teeth and then gave me the baby teeth extracted by the dentist. She was worried the tooth fairy couldn't find her with the moving around. I knew my role here: I lied like a rug. Tooth fairies, as we all know, have a built in kid-with-recently-lost-tooth locating system. Why didn't the tooth fairy pay the visit at the house? Because tooth fairies work through Mama, that's why.
I was then given the extracted teeth to inspect. No wonder they didn't fall out. They had roots like adult teeth. No little stubby baby teeth. They were tiny, but had a base longer than the part of the tooth that would have shown up above the gum line. Of course, my Foilkid has the supertough non-desctructible and hard to get rid of baby teeth. It was a bit bizarre, but she actually looked a little bit shark-like there with the two sets of teeth. Now I'm worrying about orthodontia. The adult teeth are pushed back a bit because the baby teeth simply wouldn't budge. I'm hoping (1) her other baby teeth are a bit less tenacious, (2) the adult teeth present now move forward a bit, and (3) the tooth fairy visits me and gives me, oh, say $20,000 to pay for future braces.
But as far as the Foilkid goes, the tooth fairy is on the job and can be relied upon.
I left work at 5 and headed straight home. GaahGirl was having and wearing her dinner when I walked in the door, and Foilkid was demolishing her second serving of mac and cheese. She showed me her new grown up teeth and then gave me the baby teeth extracted by the dentist. She was worried the tooth fairy couldn't find her with the moving around. I knew my role here: I lied like a rug. Tooth fairies, as we all know, have a built in kid-with-recently-lost-tooth locating system. Why didn't the tooth fairy pay the visit at the house? Because tooth fairies work through Mama, that's why.
I was then given the extracted teeth to inspect. No wonder they didn't fall out. They had roots like adult teeth. No little stubby baby teeth. They were tiny, but had a base longer than the part of the tooth that would have shown up above the gum line. Of course, my Foilkid has the supertough non-desctructible and hard to get rid of baby teeth. It was a bit bizarre, but she actually looked a little bit shark-like there with the two sets of teeth. Now I'm worrying about orthodontia. The adult teeth are pushed back a bit because the baby teeth simply wouldn't budge. I'm hoping (1) her other baby teeth are a bit less tenacious, (2) the adult teeth present now move forward a bit, and (3) the tooth fairy visits me and gives me, oh, say $20,000 to pay for future braces.
But as far as the Foilkid goes, the tooth fairy is on the job and can be relied upon.
How Angry Can One Person Be?
No, not PdeFF. One of the horrors of the ten-year period leading up to and following my parents divorce (six-year lead up, one year divorcing, three years of invective) was the level of rage that both FoilMormor and FoilDad felt toward each other. I never understood it. I think I'm going to have the opportunity to do so, and I don't want my children to know that.
PdeFF has asked to spend the day with the FoilKid tomorrow. I said no, and he got upset. I actually have plans (she needs winter clothes, for instance, and we're going to have some sort of cultural event with Innana). He then mentioned that he would drop the bill for the dentist's appointment, which he had declined to tell me about beforehand so I could be there, by. Cause I pay everything, right? It's $350+ dollars. Of course, I will pay it. It's my daughter's teeth, right? And I'm not going to grump about it in front of her.
Then he asks if I have elected COBRA (continuation health coverage). I have until December 2 to do this, and one can do it retroactively. So I'm stalling. If I accept the job (Formal offer to be received next week, I believe. I already have the informal offer.) that I'm leaning toward, we might have coverage as of November 1, and if no doctor's appointments occur, there will no need to pay $485 for coverage of the girls and I for October if we didn't need it. Of course, I also infer that PdeFF expects that in electing COBRA, I will elect Family COBRA coverage, which costs $745, not $485. I will give him a (filled out) form, so that he can correctly elect individual COBRA coverage ($260/month). Of course, even if he were working, there is no way in hell I would trust him to make sure the girls are appropriately covered. I feel like I should pay for PdeFF's COBRA, but I'm not going to do so. He's a grown man. He has choices to make. He's driving around a high end luxury vehicle and then expecting me to pay for his necessities. Let me just say, with some spite, that a 1991 Suburu Legacy is (1) safe, (2) relatively gas-conserving, (3) comfortable, (4) inexpensive to repair, and (5) not a barrier to providing health insurance and other essentials for the Foilfilles.
I'm going to have to get the attorney involved to get the key. That, or engage in dueling locksmiths. (Since I am on the title to the house, I can hire a locksmith to open it for me. Of course, PdeFF can then hire the same locksmith to change the locks again, locking me out. Only winner: the locksmith, at $150 a pop. No need to revisit that scene which was played out during the time of the TRO (temporary restraining order for those who forget). He'd willingly spend $150 that he does not have again and again (I can't expect him to think rationally, now), so I have to resolve this issue some other way.) This is a totally inappropriate use of my lawyer's time. And costs me (or more realistically, at this point, FoilMormor or FoilDad) $350/hour.
But you know what? It's less stressful getting the PdeFF-ectomy than living with him. Having retitled him (from his once honorable title of Mr. Foilwoman) to PdeFF (Pere des FoilFilles), I just don't mind as much. He's still a thorn in my side, a boil on my flesh, but not as hurtful, and I have hopes that he will, eventually, be successfully extricated from my life.
It's sad to wish that for someone one once loved. I actually still care about the guy. But really. In that distant, removed way you care about a co-worker you don't like too much but who just had something awful happen to her. You want her to get better, but you don't want to get involved, and hope that some other good citizen will step up and volunteer his services.
At least I can put the phone down or leave. And I have five days with my girls. Yay. And no talk of PdeFF, although he will call to talk with the Foilkid. But other than that, no insane person trying to discuss fantasy finances.
PdeFF has asked to spend the day with the FoilKid tomorrow. I said no, and he got upset. I actually have plans (she needs winter clothes, for instance, and we're going to have some sort of cultural event with Innana). He then mentioned that he would drop the bill for the dentist's appointment, which he had declined to tell me about beforehand so I could be there, by. Cause I pay everything, right? It's $350+ dollars. Of course, I will pay it. It's my daughter's teeth, right? And I'm not going to grump about it in front of her.
Then he asks if I have elected COBRA (continuation health coverage). I have until December 2 to do this, and one can do it retroactively. So I'm stalling. If I accept the job (Formal offer to be received next week, I believe. I already have the informal offer.) that I'm leaning toward, we might have coverage as of November 1, and if no doctor's appointments occur, there will no need to pay $485 for coverage of the girls and I for October if we didn't need it. Of course, I also infer that PdeFF expects that in electing COBRA, I will elect Family COBRA coverage, which costs $745, not $485. I will give him a (filled out) form, so that he can correctly elect individual COBRA coverage ($260/month). Of course, even if he were working, there is no way in hell I would trust him to make sure the girls are appropriately covered. I feel like I should pay for PdeFF's COBRA, but I'm not going to do so. He's a grown man. He has choices to make. He's driving around a high end luxury vehicle and then expecting me to pay for his necessities. Let me just say, with some spite, that a 1991 Suburu Legacy is (1) safe, (2) relatively gas-conserving, (3) comfortable, (4) inexpensive to repair, and (5) not a barrier to providing health insurance and other essentials for the Foilfilles.
I'm going to have to get the attorney involved to get the key. That, or engage in dueling locksmiths. (Since I am on the title to the house, I can hire a locksmith to open it for me. Of course, PdeFF can then hire the same locksmith to change the locks again, locking me out. Only winner: the locksmith, at $150 a pop. No need to revisit that scene which was played out during the time of the TRO (temporary restraining order for those who forget). He'd willingly spend $150 that he does not have again and again (I can't expect him to think rationally, now), so I have to resolve this issue some other way.) This is a totally inappropriate use of my lawyer's time. And costs me (or more realistically, at this point, FoilMormor or FoilDad) $350/hour.
But you know what? It's less stressful getting the PdeFF-ectomy than living with him. Having retitled him (from his once honorable title of Mr. Foilwoman) to PdeFF (Pere des FoilFilles), I just don't mind as much. He's still a thorn in my side, a boil on my flesh, but not as hurtful, and I have hopes that he will, eventually, be successfully extricated from my life.
It's sad to wish that for someone one once loved. I actually still care about the guy. But really. In that distant, removed way you care about a co-worker you don't like too much but who just had something awful happen to her. You want her to get better, but you don't want to get involved, and hope that some other good citizen will step up and volunteer his services.
At least I can put the phone down or leave. And I have five days with my girls. Yay. And no talk of PdeFF, although he will call to talk with the Foilkid. But other than that, no insane person trying to discuss fantasy finances.
October 13, 2005
Weltschmertz
I'd rather have schadenfreude, except I think people who don't like me much can feel that when they think about me right now. Irksome. It's probably time to reheat the chocolate sauce. And I had a good lunch today, and then a nice nutritious potroast with carrots and peas for dinner. Protein normally helps my brain stay cheerful. I wish I could play the tooth fairy for the Foilkid tonight. My suspicion is that PdeFF won't have done anything, so I'll get to do it tomorrow night.
The Foilfilles come over here tomorrow and stay through Wednesday morning. I can tell you one thing: we'll do fun stuff, and they'll go to bed at 8 p.m. I can't wait until tomorrow. Just to here Foilkid interrupt me and say: "Mommy, can I tell you something?" and then rattle off some completely insignificant to all but her fact or piece of information. And to see the GaahGirl do the crawl of intensity and glee.
The Foilfilles come over here tomorrow and stay through Wednesday morning. I can tell you one thing: we'll do fun stuff, and they'll go to bed at 8 p.m. I can't wait until tomorrow. Just to here Foilkid interrupt me and say: "Mommy, can I tell you something?" and then rattle off some completely insignificant to all but her fact or piece of information. And to see the GaahGirl do the crawl of intensity and glee.
Thank you, Prom
I know have dots on my map on Hawaii, the Yucatan, what looks like Nayarit province in Mexico (Pacific beaches), Copenhagen (if it moved to Norway, but close enough!), and Boston. Nice! If someone in South America will post, I'll have some tags from every continent. I wish I could say why I like this so much, but suffice it to say, I do. Just that. Thank you so much. And thank you Jezzy, and Charlie, and all recent and early map-pin-stickers. I learned where countries were in high school by marking up a map of the world with pins, each pin marking the dateline for a news story I had read. When I lived in Spain, I marked up my map of Spain with a pin for each town or city I visited. This makes me happy. Again, thank you.
Lunch
Mr. Studmuffin volunteered his role model/babysitting/FoilFilles entertaining and exhausting services before I could ask. That's a friend. He noted Innana's divinity, for any who had any doubts. He told me I was doing the right thing. After lunch, he checked my pulse and noted the lack of dessert in the system. Since we were at Trattu (a great Italian restaurant -- cozy and yummy), tiramisu was ordered toute de suite. Now, back to work. Trattu is great, especially with an old and dear friend. And yes, we laughed so loud as I was regaling him with the key withholding followed almost immediately by the request for me to move back in, that we felt guilty for scaring the other customers. I didn't mention Foilwoman.
More
There's always more. Actually this more is actually less, because it just isn't as bad as last night's phone conversation of the damned. PdeFF called me at work (on my cell, at least, last night he called me on the unlisted home number which I had not given him), to tell me that if I ever hung up on him again he would, get this, never call me again. I should have just hung up, right? But I thought, I've got to be the grown up here. I told him, in as mild a voice as I could feign: "When a conversation is over, it's over. I can't spend hours on the phone simply repeating stuff." PdeFF actually seemed to take this in. He said: "All right" and then imparted some information about Foilkid's dentist's appointment. I missed her first lost tooth. It had to be extracted by the dentist, which is two blocks from where I work. I would have liked to have been there. I'll set aside a magic tooth fairy dollar, however, for tomorrow night at our house.
Otherwise, no indicia of rationality.
I'm having lunch with Mr. Studmuffin, a friend of Innana's and mine since 1985. He lived in the same apartment building we did. I used to send him out for chocolate chips in the middle of the night. Innana has been a bit worried about Mr. Studmuffin. The last few times they spoke, he didn't tell jokes or use really godawful puns or generally be his lively, charming self. I'm going to use the great cure all of other people's problems. I'm going to tell him my problems. He dotes on the FoilKid and the GaahGirl, and I'm doing to give him his marching orders. The Foilfilles need sane male role models. Guess what? He's it. There are several other male friends who can be drafted for extra-man escort duty (when I really, really, really don't want to bother with the hassle involved in dating), but I'll spare Mr. Studmuffin that chore (even though he looks real cute in a tux) and instead sign him up for GaahGirl Gurgling time and FoilKid finagling and fake-fighting. He can be very silly, so that's a good fit.
I am worried about Mr. Studmuffin too, and I hope this will bring him out a bit. Innana and I have never known Mr. Studmuffin to have a significant other of either sex (or any intermediate variety). We suspect women might not be his thing (although he's quite a good flirt), but have no indication of the contrary other than a large number of attractive and well-groomed male friends (okay, that's pretty darn obvious, if stereotypical, but it's his business). If he wants to keep most of his life private, that's fine.
What's not fine is that he's so restrained because he is scarred beyond belief. He is the eldest of 10 or so (I've lost count) siblings. His father got a head-injury doing construction work, and became a different, non-paternal person. Irresponsible, foul-mouthed, non-wage-earning. His mother got cancer and was dying of it, but she died before that when a burglar broke in and shot her. Yes.
You read that right. The Mr. Studly's dad failed miserably to provide for any of the children he had helped bring into the world, from Mr. Studly (the aged 13) to the littlest (a baby). Mr. Studmuffin actually managed to keep his brothers and sisters together for another few years, but at some point before college (on complete scholarship), he told social services what was going on in the house, and his brothers and sisters were placed in foster care. Only three of his many siblings have turned into reasonable complete adults (employed, no felonies on their record, significant others, children). Of the others, one is a high school dropout and unwed mother whose kids have been taken by social services one by one in turn (she's in her early 40s), one has a serious criminal record and more to come, one simply isn't functioning and works as a day laborer, one is in an abusive marriage and works, but at a pretty low level. A few others have fallen off my radar screen. Mr. Studmuffin has loaned them all money (never to be paid back; as far as I know, the only person he has ever loaned money to who actually paid him back was Innana, but then, she's a Goddess). He has said many times that he never wants to marry and have kids. "Too much heartbreak." He still feels guilty for "failing" his siblings. Of course, he's great with kids, and he would be a great partner to anyone who chose him. If I reasonably believed there were any chance he was straight (or even bisexual leaning toward heterosexual), he'd be first on my shortlist (Champurrado, that fictional position remains yours for now. I 'll let you know when it's safe to come out of the house.) to be the future New-And-Improved-Mr. Foilwoman.
But I am going to drag him, kicking and screaming, into the messy pleasure that is life with the Foilfilles. There are country fairs to go to, the Insect Zoo and the Smithsonian, circuses, mud pies, kitty cats to pat and terrorize, doggies to drool on. He'll adapt, and it will cheer him up. They love him, and he likes that. I wish it were easier for him to accept. I love him, too, of course, but would never tell him. He might get embarrassed. Of course, he's one of perhaps ten people who knew of Foilwoman's existence back in 1985. I'm not sure why or how he would ever find this blog, but if he does, Mr. Studmuffin! It's true and completely unhyperbolic. If I got the sibling count wrong, I apologize and will remove this post if you so request. Smooch.
It will be a nice lunch.
Otherwise, no indicia of rationality.
I'm having lunch with Mr. Studmuffin, a friend of Innana's and mine since 1985. He lived in the same apartment building we did. I used to send him out for chocolate chips in the middle of the night. Innana has been a bit worried about Mr. Studmuffin. The last few times they spoke, he didn't tell jokes or use really godawful puns or generally be his lively, charming self. I'm going to use the great cure all of other people's problems. I'm going to tell him my problems. He dotes on the FoilKid and the GaahGirl, and I'm doing to give him his marching orders. The Foilfilles need sane male role models. Guess what? He's it. There are several other male friends who can be drafted for extra-man escort duty (when I really, really, really don't want to bother with the hassle involved in dating), but I'll spare Mr. Studmuffin that chore (even though he looks real cute in a tux) and instead sign him up for GaahGirl Gurgling time and FoilKid finagling and fake-fighting. He can be very silly, so that's a good fit.
I am worried about Mr. Studmuffin too, and I hope this will bring him out a bit. Innana and I have never known Mr. Studmuffin to have a significant other of either sex (or any intermediate variety). We suspect women might not be his thing (although he's quite a good flirt), but have no indication of the contrary other than a large number of attractive and well-groomed male friends (okay, that's pretty darn obvious, if stereotypical, but it's his business). If he wants to keep most of his life private, that's fine.
What's not fine is that he's so restrained because he is scarred beyond belief. He is the eldest of 10 or so (I've lost count) siblings. His father got a head-injury doing construction work, and became a different, non-paternal person. Irresponsible, foul-mouthed, non-wage-earning. His mother got cancer and was dying of it, but she died before that when a burglar broke in and shot her. Yes.
You read that right. The Mr. Studly's dad failed miserably to provide for any of the children he had helped bring into the world, from Mr. Studly (the aged 13) to the littlest (a baby). Mr. Studmuffin actually managed to keep his brothers and sisters together for another few years, but at some point before college (on complete scholarship), he told social services what was going on in the house, and his brothers and sisters were placed in foster care. Only three of his many siblings have turned into reasonable complete adults (employed, no felonies on their record, significant others, children). Of the others, one is a high school dropout and unwed mother whose kids have been taken by social services one by one in turn (she's in her early 40s), one has a serious criminal record and more to come, one simply isn't functioning and works as a day laborer, one is in an abusive marriage and works, but at a pretty low level. A few others have fallen off my radar screen. Mr. Studmuffin has loaned them all money (never to be paid back; as far as I know, the only person he has ever loaned money to who actually paid him back was Innana, but then, she's a Goddess). He has said many times that he never wants to marry and have kids. "Too much heartbreak." He still feels guilty for "failing" his siblings. Of course, he's great with kids, and he would be a great partner to anyone who chose him. If I reasonably believed there were any chance he was straight (or even bisexual leaning toward heterosexual), he'd be first on my shortlist (Champurrado, that fictional position remains yours for now. I 'll let you know when it's safe to come out of the house.) to be the future New-And-Improved-Mr. Foilwoman.
But I am going to drag him, kicking and screaming, into the messy pleasure that is life with the Foilfilles. There are country fairs to go to, the Insect Zoo and the Smithsonian, circuses, mud pies, kitty cats to pat and terrorize, doggies to drool on. He'll adapt, and it will cheer him up. They love him, and he likes that. I wish it were easier for him to accept. I love him, too, of course, but would never tell him. He might get embarrassed. Of course, he's one of perhaps ten people who knew of Foilwoman's existence back in 1985. I'm not sure why or how he would ever find this blog, but if he does, Mr. Studmuffin! It's true and completely unhyperbolic. If I got the sibling count wrong, I apologize and will remove this post if you so request. Smooch.
It will be a nice lunch.
Comic Genius
No, not me. Jodster (Known to most of us, fondly, as One Useless Man of the Useless Men, and boy, is he Useless!) has Uselessly signed up for a comedy competition at The Corner Gas web site. Since he is, truly, Useless, he needs your help. I watched it. Since I couldn't get the sound on my laptop to work, I couldn't hear it, but I'm sure it was worth the five stars I gave it. Anyway, I like him better than the other competitors. They haven't provided Useless Advice to Foilwoman. So go check it out. Vote early and often.
October 12, 2005
Like There's Not Enough Crap in the World Already?
I am in an amazingly foul mood right now. Innana helped a great deal (her last words, before hanging up the phone were, "Why don't you make some nice chocolate sauce?"), but the sauce is still cooking. I'm in this foul mood for a number of reasons, a lot of reasons, some petty and some profound. I'm going to go through them all. You'll probably want to return tomorrow, when I have regained, if not my equanimity, my ability to see the positive and appreciate it.
Artificial Personality/Character
First off, I forgot to take my antidepressants this morning and I have pretty bad PMS. Those two alone should encourage the faint-hearted to flee the scene. The first is exacerbated by the second, but what makes me angrier (and I know it's the depression, peeking through like the monster underneath the bed) is that I hate that my outlook can change based on chemicals. And hormones. Everyone talks about how amazingly well I am dealing with the highly stressful changes in my life (GaahGirl isn't one year old, so in one year I've (1) had a baby, (2) had surgery -- I can't call abdominal surgery major surgery because it wasn't back surgery or an ovarian cancer look see, but still, it hurt, (3) lost a job, (4) engaged in a job search, (5) watched my husband reveal himself as batshit insane, (6) have my husband lose a job, (7) discover my husband had spent all our money, (8) separate from my husband and begin planning for divorce. That's a lot, even in my book.), but sometimes I think it isn't me dealing so well, I'm just taking enough happy pills that I could smile while Jaguars Ripped My Flesh (the title of a truly enjoyable book, btw). I'd hate if it were chemicals or hormones, and not something that is innately me.
Bad Medicine: Loathing of Lousy Shrinks
This blog started when I was under the "care" (using the word more than loosely) of a incompetent counsellor. Fortunately, I replaced her with a new-and-improved-shrink, a mature woman who I saw a few years ago who is amazingly kind and helpful. So I know there are good shrinks around. Most of the good shrinks have years of living and years of experience under their belts. This means the new/young ones are normally plenty incompetent.
Without even trying, I have found someone who will be a truly useless (no capital U for this gal) shrink. Actually, a psychologist. She's a coworker who wants to leave our profession, return to grad school, and then be a psychologist. She's in her twenties, and is possibly the most superficial person I have ever had the pain of knowing. She does spend a lot of time watching people, analyzing them, commenting on them, and thinking about why people do things. For instance, she wonders why a divorced colleague is a bit bitter about women. (Huh?) She wonders why people eat foods she doesn't like. She wonders where people bought their makeup or got their manicures done. She twirls her hair (really). She chews gum. I have never heard her discuss books she has read, motivations about non-fashion-related items, concern about finances other than whether her husband will mind or her daddy will pay (both, simultaneously, apparently). She has travelled around the world (from one Club Med to another) without learning any foreign languages or apparently understanding that there are people outside of the upper middle class.
Exactly who she will treat and how is a mystery, except I know she will be a disaster as a therapist. When she expressed disdain for a clearly slightly off colleague (maybe OCD?) who has to have her papers organized a certain way, I wanted to ask her if such a mild dysfunction discomfited her, what was she going to do when a paranoid schizophrenic with that awful smell that only heavy psychotropic drugs combined with not bathing can elicit starts going on about the radio signals and the voices and his urge to kill the cat who is channelling evil martians who plan on invading? Fortunately, she got a crappy score on the GRE. So maybe she won't get in to a school she deems prestigious enough. I can't hope that she won't get funding. If she doesn't get funding, her dad or her husband will pay. I wish that last sentence weren't sour grapes, but I'm very much afraid it is. Maybe she'll change her mind and become an art critic?
Yes, A Consensual Relationship CAN Be Ended Unilaterally (That's Why We Call It Consensual, Douchebag for Brains)
I'm not even going to try to be fair here. If bitter invective offends, well, go elsewhere.
I sent PdeFF an email today telling him I wanted to sell the house (I'm paying the mortgage, which I will not be able to afford with the new less stressful but lower paying job I will probably be taking). He's been living in the house during the week since I moved out. On weekends, he goes to friends' houses. He does not have a job. He does not pay the mortgage. He changed the locks (I had changed the locks during the restraining order period, but I had a court order). I also mentioned that I needed a key for the house, and needed the remainder of my possessions: clothes, books, piano, my Mormor's antiques (my Mormor is FoilMormor's mother, FoilMormor is the Mormor of the Foilfilles), my Royal Danish China, FoilMormor's paintings, leaving pretty much all non-antique furniture for him. I also asked about a few kid-logistic things.
He called me today at work to talk. I told him I was working. He emailed his response. (He doesn't want to sell the house. I guess he likes living there without paying anything.) Then he called tonight on my unlisted home number. As we talked, it became apparent (at 9:30 in the evening) that GaahGirl was sitting next to him trying to gurgle while he ranted at me. He wouldn't answer when I asked if the Foilkid was in the room, but since she would have made noise and a lot of it, I hope she was asleep. He repeated, perhaps six times, that he did not want to sell the house. I asked how he would pay the mortgage, to which he replied: "I don't want to sell the house." He kept telling me to listen to him. Then he told me I couldn't have a key, because I moved out. Then he told me I should move back in with him. I told him the two answers were not consistent.
He told me that I didn't appreciate him. He had never put restrictions on me (?????). He told me he forgave me and I should come home. I told him I did not want to come home. I told him our marriage was over. He said, "Do you really think so?" I again reiterated my wish to sell the house and my right to a key (I don't want to spend more money on locksmiths). He then came up with this beaut: "I'll give you a key to the house if you give me a key to the apartment." I pointed out that he did not rent the apartment, while I did pay mortgage on (and have joint title to, with him) the house. He then started repeating that he wouldn't sell the house. I mentioned we would both get some money out if we sell now while the market is high. I mentioned again that I wouldn't be able to pay the mortgage much longer. He said he would pay the mortgage. "With what money?" I asked.
He got offended. Did I doubt his ability to pay the mortgage? (Well, yes, don't you?) Then he told me I had to listen to him. I said that the conversation was over. He kept saying I had to listen to him, and then would say that he wouldn't sell the house, or give me a key, but he wanted me to move back in, and he forgave me. I said "I'm putting the phone down. Email me any response you have. Good night."
Then I was overcome with the dread and disgust and went and checked all locks and put a chair underneath the doorknob. I'll have the girls all weekend. Thank god. Five days. Oh, he's just nuts. We'll go bankrupt, and he'll blame me for moving out. The decision not to sell the house (We probably have $300-$400K in equity, this is not a minor issue: I'd be able to pay my mother back and buy a condo or townhouse. Heck, he could start a business and run it into the ground. Or buy a small condo for cash since I don't think he could get a mortgage.) is absolutely nuts. And unless he's doing something illegal, he's financing his entire life right now on credit card debt.
Among the Believers
I have two babysitters. One is a secular Jewish woman, the other is a devout Muslim. Both have holy days today. It is Yom Kippur until 6 pm tomorrow. From October 3 until November 3, it's Ramadan. Both are celebrating their respective religious festivals, the Jewish babysitter by eating unleavened food and doing something with regard to atonement (somebody, please fill in the blanks here, but I definitely consider Matzo pastry to be an atonement, definitely), the Muslim babysitter by fasting from sunup to sundown (And she really fasts: no food or liquid. I'm glad the days are getting shorter) and praying five times a day. I wish I had the comfort of faith and custom. Growing up Unitarian really didn't do it. I like the Anglican traditions, but really can't bring myself to believe. I just can't. I don't know why I find that so depressing. Or even more depressing, it's just the lack of SSRIs in my bloodstream. Who knew? Religious faith: take the right drugs and you'll have it.
Item: Tomorrow morning, take the fucking Zoloft.
Artificial Personality/Character
First off, I forgot to take my antidepressants this morning and I have pretty bad PMS. Those two alone should encourage the faint-hearted to flee the scene. The first is exacerbated by the second, but what makes me angrier (and I know it's the depression, peeking through like the monster underneath the bed) is that I hate that my outlook can change based on chemicals. And hormones. Everyone talks about how amazingly well I am dealing with the highly stressful changes in my life (GaahGirl isn't one year old, so in one year I've (1) had a baby, (2) had surgery -- I can't call abdominal surgery major surgery because it wasn't back surgery or an ovarian cancer look see, but still, it hurt, (3) lost a job, (4) engaged in a job search, (5) watched my husband reveal himself as batshit insane, (6) have my husband lose a job, (7) discover my husband had spent all our money, (8) separate from my husband and begin planning for divorce. That's a lot, even in my book.), but sometimes I think it isn't me dealing so well, I'm just taking enough happy pills that I could smile while Jaguars Ripped My Flesh (the title of a truly enjoyable book, btw). I'd hate if it were chemicals or hormones, and not something that is innately me.
Bad Medicine: Loathing of Lousy Shrinks
This blog started when I was under the "care" (using the word more than loosely) of a incompetent counsellor. Fortunately, I replaced her with a new-and-improved-shrink, a mature woman who I saw a few years ago who is amazingly kind and helpful. So I know there are good shrinks around. Most of the good shrinks have years of living and years of experience under their belts. This means the new/young ones are normally plenty incompetent.
Without even trying, I have found someone who will be a truly useless (no capital U for this gal) shrink. Actually, a psychologist. She's a coworker who wants to leave our profession, return to grad school, and then be a psychologist. She's in her twenties, and is possibly the most superficial person I have ever had the pain of knowing. She does spend a lot of time watching people, analyzing them, commenting on them, and thinking about why people do things. For instance, she wonders why a divorced colleague is a bit bitter about women. (Huh?) She wonders why people eat foods she doesn't like. She wonders where people bought their makeup or got their manicures done. She twirls her hair (really). She chews gum. I have never heard her discuss books she has read, motivations about non-fashion-related items, concern about finances other than whether her husband will mind or her daddy will pay (both, simultaneously, apparently). She has travelled around the world (from one Club Med to another) without learning any foreign languages or apparently understanding that there are people outside of the upper middle class.
Exactly who she will treat and how is a mystery, except I know she will be a disaster as a therapist. When she expressed disdain for a clearly slightly off colleague (maybe OCD?) who has to have her papers organized a certain way, I wanted to ask her if such a mild dysfunction discomfited her, what was she going to do when a paranoid schizophrenic with that awful smell that only heavy psychotropic drugs combined with not bathing can elicit starts going on about the radio signals and the voices and his urge to kill the cat who is channelling evil martians who plan on invading? Fortunately, she got a crappy score on the GRE. So maybe she won't get in to a school she deems prestigious enough. I can't hope that she won't get funding. If she doesn't get funding, her dad or her husband will pay. I wish that last sentence weren't sour grapes, but I'm very much afraid it is. Maybe she'll change her mind and become an art critic?
Yes, A Consensual Relationship CAN Be Ended Unilaterally (That's Why We Call It Consensual, Douchebag for Brains)
I'm not even going to try to be fair here. If bitter invective offends, well, go elsewhere.
I sent PdeFF an email today telling him I wanted to sell the house (I'm paying the mortgage, which I will not be able to afford with the new less stressful but lower paying job I will probably be taking). He's been living in the house during the week since I moved out. On weekends, he goes to friends' houses. He does not have a job. He does not pay the mortgage. He changed the locks (I had changed the locks during the restraining order period, but I had a court order). I also mentioned that I needed a key for the house, and needed the remainder of my possessions: clothes, books, piano, my Mormor's antiques (my Mormor is FoilMormor's mother, FoilMormor is the Mormor of the Foilfilles), my Royal Danish China, FoilMormor's paintings, leaving pretty much all non-antique furniture for him. I also asked about a few kid-logistic things.
He called me today at work to talk. I told him I was working. He emailed his response. (He doesn't want to sell the house. I guess he likes living there without paying anything.) Then he called tonight on my unlisted home number. As we talked, it became apparent (at 9:30 in the evening) that GaahGirl was sitting next to him trying to gurgle while he ranted at me. He wouldn't answer when I asked if the Foilkid was in the room, but since she would have made noise and a lot of it, I hope she was asleep. He repeated, perhaps six times, that he did not want to sell the house. I asked how he would pay the mortgage, to which he replied: "I don't want to sell the house." He kept telling me to listen to him. Then he told me I couldn't have a key, because I moved out. Then he told me I should move back in with him. I told him the two answers were not consistent.
He told me that I didn't appreciate him. He had never put restrictions on me (?????). He told me he forgave me and I should come home. I told him I did not want to come home. I told him our marriage was over. He said, "Do you really think so?" I again reiterated my wish to sell the house and my right to a key (I don't want to spend more money on locksmiths). He then came up with this beaut: "I'll give you a key to the house if you give me a key to the apartment." I pointed out that he did not rent the apartment, while I did pay mortgage on (and have joint title to, with him) the house. He then started repeating that he wouldn't sell the house. I mentioned we would both get some money out if we sell now while the market is high. I mentioned again that I wouldn't be able to pay the mortgage much longer. He said he would pay the mortgage. "With what money?" I asked.
He got offended. Did I doubt his ability to pay the mortgage? (Well, yes, don't you?) Then he told me I had to listen to him. I said that the conversation was over. He kept saying I had to listen to him, and then would say that he wouldn't sell the house, or give me a key, but he wanted me to move back in, and he forgave me. I said "I'm putting the phone down. Email me any response you have. Good night."
Then I was overcome with the dread and disgust and went and checked all locks and put a chair underneath the doorknob. I'll have the girls all weekend. Thank god. Five days. Oh, he's just nuts. We'll go bankrupt, and he'll blame me for moving out. The decision not to sell the house (We probably have $300-$400K in equity, this is not a minor issue: I'd be able to pay my mother back and buy a condo or townhouse. Heck, he could start a business and run it into the ground. Or buy a small condo for cash since I don't think he could get a mortgage.) is absolutely nuts. And unless he's doing something illegal, he's financing his entire life right now on credit card debt.
Among the Believers
I have two babysitters. One is a secular Jewish woman, the other is a devout Muslim. Both have holy days today. It is Yom Kippur until 6 pm tomorrow. From October 3 until November 3, it's Ramadan. Both are celebrating their respective religious festivals, the Jewish babysitter by eating unleavened food and doing something with regard to atonement (somebody, please fill in the blanks here, but I definitely consider Matzo pastry to be an atonement, definitely), the Muslim babysitter by fasting from sunup to sundown (And she really fasts: no food or liquid. I'm glad the days are getting shorter) and praying five times a day. I wish I had the comfort of faith and custom. Growing up Unitarian really didn't do it. I like the Anglican traditions, but really can't bring myself to believe. I just can't. I don't know why I find that so depressing. Or even more depressing, it's just the lack of SSRIs in my bloodstream. Who knew? Religious faith: take the right drugs and you'll have it.
Item: Tomorrow morning, take the fucking Zoloft.
A Favor: A Refrain (It'll Make Me Happy)
To everyone who has stuck a pin on the map to the right, thank you so much. To everyone else: it would make me happy if you would. I love seeing that I've had readers from other states, countries, and continents. You can create a fictitious ID and post anonymously, I just like seeing the places where people who have visited the site are from.
My statistics counter is erratic at best. Sometimes Innana shows up as located where she is, sometimes 100 miles away. Go figure. Unless I pay money (which I don't have and won't do), I won't know anything about you that you don't choose to share. Those bloggers who have visited the site from: Seward or Soldatna (or anywhere else in) Alaska; Whitehorse, Yukon; Thule, Greenland; Distrito Federal, Mexico; Madrid, Espana; Lisboa, Portugal; Vilnius, Lithuania; Montevideo, Uruguay; Milano, Italia; Vanuatu; Kiribati; please, please, please, put a dot on the map.
Y si cualquier persona que habla castellana llegue aqui, hagame el favor de poner una marca en el mapa. De esta maner puedo ver todos los pueblos de todos que hayan visitado este sitio. Agradeciendole de antemano, FoilWoman.
My statistics counter is erratic at best. Sometimes Innana shows up as located where she is, sometimes 100 miles away. Go figure. Unless I pay money (which I don't have and won't do), I won't know anything about you that you don't choose to share. Those bloggers who have visited the site from: Seward or Soldatna (or anywhere else in) Alaska; Whitehorse, Yukon; Thule, Greenland; Distrito Federal, Mexico; Madrid, Espana; Lisboa, Portugal; Vilnius, Lithuania; Montevideo, Uruguay; Milano, Italia; Vanuatu; Kiribati; please, please, please, put a dot on the map.
Y si cualquier persona que habla castellana llegue aqui, hagame el favor de poner una marca en el mapa. De esta maner puedo ver todos los pueblos de todos que hayan visitado este sitio. Agradeciendole de antemano, FoilWoman.
The Song at the End of the Movie
It would have been PdeFF and my more than 10th anniversary just a few days ago. I'm actually in quite a good mood, which makes me feel wistful. There was a time when the idea that my marriage to then-Mr. Foilwoman would end badly was pretty inconceivable to me. When we married, in the early 1990s, it was a beautiful fall day and I was so happy. I thought I was old, getting married in my 30s, but I look at the pictures and I was a baby.
I loved then-Mr. Foilwoman. I wanted to make him happy. I was thrilled to have children with him (and to have children at all, at 38 and 43), even though our marriage had been crumbling for a while when the Foilbaby (now GaahGirl, soon to be upgraded) arrived.
When we met he was physically beautiful, hardworking, and adventurous. He was exotic, and had endless energy and ambition. He came to the US not speaking any English, taught himself, and then put himself through college. A go-getter. And he loved me. He used to touch the little bump on my lower lip and say "That is my most favorable one." His English improved and he stopped saying that.
The change was so gradually, I didn't even notice, but PdeFF now bears almost no resemblance to the then-Mr. Foilwoman of the early to mid 1990s. Where did he go? I hope he can find himself. I can't do it for him, and I have moved on and away. I loved him, but it's over. This is the song at the end of the movie.* It's over. We're over.
*A great song on Joan Baez's "Honest Lullaby" LP/CD.
I loved then-Mr. Foilwoman. I wanted to make him happy. I was thrilled to have children with him (and to have children at all, at 38 and 43), even though our marriage had been crumbling for a while when the Foilbaby (now GaahGirl, soon to be upgraded) arrived.
When we met he was physically beautiful, hardworking, and adventurous. He was exotic, and had endless energy and ambition. He came to the US not speaking any English, taught himself, and then put himself through college. A go-getter. And he loved me. He used to touch the little bump on my lower lip and say "That is my most favorable one." His English improved and he stopped saying that.
The change was so gradually, I didn't even notice, but PdeFF now bears almost no resemblance to the then-Mr. Foilwoman of the early to mid 1990s. Where did he go? I hope he can find himself. I can't do it for him, and I have moved on and away. I loved him, but it's over. This is the song at the end of the movie.* It's over. We're over.
*A great song on Joan Baez's "Honest Lullaby" LP/CD.
October 11, 2005
Driving Stick
No, that is not a sexual reference. But there is machismo involved. When discussing girly stuff and guy stuff, I think everyone will agree that stick shift (standard transmission) cars are guy cars. This might not be so clear outside the US, but here, where most cars are automatic transmission, a stick shift car is a guy car. Recently a friend of mine spoke mildly disparagingly of his '94 Volvo station wagon with automatic transmission, not because of the age or sedateness of the car, but apparently because it has an automatic transmission.
If my gender transgressive nature weren't obvious to all by my behavior, I've got a new (old) car, and it's a stick shift. And yes, changing gears is fun. It's funny, because two of my teenage nephews wanted the car I got (the one that FoilMormor and the SecondMate just signed over to me) because it is a stick shift. So I've saved FoilMormor and Second Mate the agony of choosing between grandchildren. I got the car the two teenaged boys wanted.
No, it's not a Trans Am, Corvette, Mustang, or even a Mazda Miata. It's a 1991 Suburu Legacy. 180,000+ miles. But you know the cream puff cars that everone wants? The ones an elderly lady drove and kept garaged? I have that car. It's been garaged every winter in New England since 1995, when FoilMormor and the Second Mate started spending winters in Florida. Second Mate, a particularly competent and fussy engineer has maintained the car within all manufacturer recommended guidelines.
So I have what should be a completely bland car, except two teenaged boys want it. I almost feel macho driving it. Except when I'm starting on a hill. You might not want to pull up too close.
If my gender transgressive nature weren't obvious to all by my behavior, I've got a new (old) car, and it's a stick shift. And yes, changing gears is fun. It's funny, because two of my teenage nephews wanted the car I got (the one that FoilMormor and the SecondMate just signed over to me) because it is a stick shift. So I've saved FoilMormor and Second Mate the agony of choosing between grandchildren. I got the car the two teenaged boys wanted.
No, it's not a Trans Am, Corvette, Mustang, or even a Mazda Miata. It's a 1991 Suburu Legacy. 180,000+ miles. But you know the cream puff cars that everone wants? The ones an elderly lady drove and kept garaged? I have that car. It's been garaged every winter in New England since 1995, when FoilMormor and the Second Mate started spending winters in Florida. Second Mate, a particularly competent and fussy engineer has maintained the car within all manufacturer recommended guidelines.
So I have what should be a completely bland car, except two teenaged boys want it. I almost feel macho driving it. Except when I'm starting on a hill. You might not want to pull up too close.
Ambivalence (What Is This?)
I tried to post this several times. I'm getting a bit peevish.
Someone foolish said they had written more than I had yesterday, which was probably true, since I had computer trouble and could post and was in too foul a mood to blog with humor. Good thing I recover quickly. I'm still furious with the universe or those in charge or whatever, but that's not going to keep me sad and mad. Oh no. If that happened, whoever the creepazola in charge is, well, he would have won. So here's the bounce back.
Unfortunately, I'm thinking about a number of rather troubling things, one of which is the nature of blogging in general and the nature of my blog. I'm not stopping blogging, of course. I think I would have an easier time amputating my leg with a pen knife. (The guy who amputated his arm has, in an effort to win at the Darwin awards, started rock climbing again. I'm assuming not alone, but you never know.) For whatever reason, this blog works better for me than a diary. Actually, this blog, plus therapy, plus Zoloft, plus Innana, plus my family, plus many other friends, virtual and otherwise, have gotten me through the last six months, which would have reduced a non-Foilme to a blithering blob of jello.
But Innana (curse you, Innana, in a Jon Stewart voice, leaning my head back and crying to the heavens) said a bad word about my blog. She referred to my writing as erotica. It is so not erotic. Well, maybe parts of the blog are erotic, but anyone thinking they are ever going to read a detailed description of me making love with, having sex with, or just plain fucking another person, trust me, you will never read that scene from me. I'm writing about my family (particularly my fantastic children), my feelings, my finances, my understanding of the world around me, my dealings with other people, my job hunt, my therapy, my relationships with men and women (physical, emotional, and intellectual), and occasionally venting my (perhaps undifferentiated) anger at a handy target or two.
I'm not (intentionally) writing erotica. I don't think what I write is erotica. There is nothing wrong with erotica, and I'm happy to read other people's erotica. Who knows, someday, I may write some of my own. But this blog isn't intended to be about sex per se. It's about my life. All of my life, which I am desperately trying to get a handle on. Of course, I am a living person, and I do have sexual needs and feelings. I do write about them and will continue to do so. But no play-by-plays. Except regarding Edna the Wonder-Dog and how she works to interrupt good snogging (she must be a Puritan or a Muslim or of some religion that wants to discourage sex, but fails), and that was heavily redacted to leave out salacious details.
To anybody who has visited this blog on occasion, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me (1) how you found this blog, and (2) why you read it? (If you do -- well you must, this is the fifth paragraph, after all, and you're here, aren't you?) Thank you.
Someone foolish said they had written more than I had yesterday, which was probably true, since I had computer trouble and could post and was in too foul a mood to blog with humor. Good thing I recover quickly. I'm still furious with the universe or those in charge or whatever, but that's not going to keep me sad and mad. Oh no. If that happened, whoever the creepazola in charge is, well, he would have won. So here's the bounce back.
Unfortunately, I'm thinking about a number of rather troubling things, one of which is the nature of blogging in general and the nature of my blog. I'm not stopping blogging, of course. I think I would have an easier time amputating my leg with a pen knife. (The guy who amputated his arm has, in an effort to win at the Darwin awards, started rock climbing again. I'm assuming not alone, but you never know.) For whatever reason, this blog works better for me than a diary. Actually, this blog, plus therapy, plus Zoloft, plus Innana, plus my family, plus many other friends, virtual and otherwise, have gotten me through the last six months, which would have reduced a non-Foilme to a blithering blob of jello.
But Innana (curse you, Innana, in a Jon Stewart voice, leaning my head back and crying to the heavens) said a bad word about my blog. She referred to my writing as erotica. It is so not erotic. Well, maybe parts of the blog are erotic, but anyone thinking they are ever going to read a detailed description of me making love with, having sex with, or just plain fucking another person, trust me, you will never read that scene from me. I'm writing about my family (particularly my fantastic children), my feelings, my finances, my understanding of the world around me, my dealings with other people, my job hunt, my therapy, my relationships with men and women (physical, emotional, and intellectual), and occasionally venting my (perhaps undifferentiated) anger at a handy target or two.
I'm not (intentionally) writing erotica. I don't think what I write is erotica. There is nothing wrong with erotica, and I'm happy to read other people's erotica. Who knows, someday, I may write some of my own. But this blog isn't intended to be about sex per se. It's about my life. All of my life, which I am desperately trying to get a handle on. Of course, I am a living person, and I do have sexual needs and feelings. I do write about them and will continue to do so. But no play-by-plays. Except regarding Edna the Wonder-Dog and how she works to interrupt good snogging (she must be a Puritan or a Muslim or of some religion that wants to discourage sex, but fails), and that was heavily redacted to leave out salacious details.
To anybody who has visited this blog on occasion, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me (1) how you found this blog, and (2) why you read it? (If you do -- well you must, this is the fifth paragraph, after all, and you're here, aren't you?) Thank you.
How to Cheer Yourself Up
Aside from developing magic powers which will cure my sister's back problems and my sister's and husband's psychiatric problems with a mere wave of the hand and a muttered "Shazaam," there are things I do that cheer me up.
Sunday night I was home alone. The Foilfilles were with their father, FoilMormor and the SecondMate had returned to their hotel, and I was alone in the new apartment. I, of course, blogged. But I also dissected the remains of the roast chicken carcass in the fridge and made (1) a chicken pot pie, (2) chicken croquettes with white sauce, and (3) chicken broth, from the bones. I also made up a nice beef pot roast. That took care of dinner for this week. I sat down to a nice dinner of croquettes and salad. Tonight, it's homemade chicken pot pie. With some nice broccoli or lima beans on the side.
I'm almost finished with my last sweater creation. It will be nice to have a new article of clothing. It's been a while. And, of course, I practiced the guitar.
From my to do list I have: (1) tentatively gotten a new job with benefits (sent off background check information today), (2) registered the new (to me) car, (3) gotten car insurance, and (4) gotten apartment insurance. Still do do: join AAA (it's an old new car), do COBRA (health insurance continuation coverage from husbands old job), get a file cabinet, and file the quarterly taxes (due Sept. 15 -- oops). Slowly digging my way out. I like chicken pot pie when I make it.
Sunday night I was home alone. The Foilfilles were with their father, FoilMormor and the SecondMate had returned to their hotel, and I was alone in the new apartment. I, of course, blogged. But I also dissected the remains of the roast chicken carcass in the fridge and made (1) a chicken pot pie, (2) chicken croquettes with white sauce, and (3) chicken broth, from the bones. I also made up a nice beef pot roast. That took care of dinner for this week. I sat down to a nice dinner of croquettes and salad. Tonight, it's homemade chicken pot pie. With some nice broccoli or lima beans on the side.
I'm almost finished with my last sweater creation. It will be nice to have a new article of clothing. It's been a while. And, of course, I practiced the guitar.
From my to do list I have: (1) tentatively gotten a new job with benefits (sent off background check information today), (2) registered the new (to me) car, (3) gotten car insurance, and (4) gotten apartment insurance. Still do do: join AAA (it's an old new car), do COBRA (health insurance continuation coverage from husbands old job), get a file cabinet, and file the quarterly taxes (due Sept. 15 -- oops). Slowly digging my way out. I like chicken pot pie when I make it.
October 9, 2005
I'm Not Liking the One In Charge of All This Much Right Now
My life is fine; actually, it's much improved. What has me wondering about the sadistic sonofabitch (if such an entity exists) who runs everything -- the One Who Made Us All (TOWMUA) or The Powers That Be (TPTB) and wondering whether such an entity is really a relative of some sick serial killer who likes to watch people hurt is some bad things that have happened to other people.
My handicapped sister, Not-So-Little-Older-Sister (NSLOS), has had a very hard and unfair life. First off, she had me has a little sister. I was 18 months younger than her, and was always taller, smarter, and stronger. Little Older Sister (LOS) was also always beating NSLOS at everything. NSLOS was plenty smart and plenty pretty, but she just couldn't keep up. LOS and I were in a duel to the death of sibling rivaly, and NSLOS was just sort of sidelined.
Then NSLOS developed scoliosis at age 11, or it was diagnosed, anyway. Just as she was starting adolescence, she got to wear a back brace for 6 years. All through adolescense, she was caged up in this metal frame. Finally, when she was 18, the doctors decided to operate on her spine, inserting metal rods, drilling screws into her vertebra, and basically using wrenches and plyers and drill bits during a twelve hour surgery. She then was on a Stryker frame, a bed that rotates so that they can flip you like a pancake. First you're on your back, then stomach, for several weeks. Then they put you in a full body cast. For six months. You stink to high heaven.
This during the years when she should be flirting, checking out the impact she can have on guys, gaining confidence, etc. To add insult to injury, she did the whole body cast thing at home during the second to last year of my parents marriage. That was the year I was in Spain, generally having a great time. That house was hell.
She went away to college, only to have a nervous breakdown and be sent home. This repeated several times, but she managed to finish college by age 25. She then needed more back surgery. Since college, she has had two corrective spinal surgeries. Each time, her mental condition deteriorates. She used to read and play the piano, but no more. She gets confused easily. Pain didn't make her stronger. It destroyed her. She has never had a boyfriend. She hadn't had a job since she was 26 or so. She has had a host of other medical problems. She now lives in a protected living environement.
Her mental diagnosis right now is that she has schizoaffective disorder. She sometimes has hallucinations. She is constantly in physical pain. She's had three spinal surgeries. And now, WHAT A FUCKING GIFT, she gets to have another one. She really needs this. She can't even process what the doctor is saying. She's confused. But she knows (1) back surgery hurts a lot; and (2) and she has to have more back surgery. Isn't third time supposed to be a charm? This is her fourth back surgery. Also, the orthopedist who is planning the surgery is no mensch. He keeps rescheduling appointments. Since NSLOS can't process the information, another family member has to travel to be there. Rescheduling causes problems. Additionally, he, how do I say this in a non-hyperbolic way, has the bedside manner of a hired assassin. I think I'll wait till I'm in the middle of some really nasty separation-related crisis, and then I'll volunteer to be the family member getting the information. That should be a fun meeting. I'll wear heels, red liptick, a red suit, and I'll squash him like the arthropod he clearly resembles.
I was a big, big baby about abdominal surgery (I'm still whining about it), but that's, comparatively speaking, a hangnail. It certianly affected my mental well-being. I can't imagine this. I especially can't imagine facing this having faced it three times before. Come on, big sicko in the sky who sends thousands in Asia to be crushed to death, who washes entire towns away for fun, who oversees a world in which children have the highest death rates (isn't that just sweet), give my NSLOS a fucking break. Anybody who posts anything about the "Lord Works in Mysterious Ways" shit, well, Son of Sam worked in mysterious ways too. Mysterious, sick, and criminally insane. I'm all for straightforward. Yeah, yeah, yeah, suffering has to exist for free will. Exactly what free will has NSLOS ever had? She's been living in a world of physical humiliation and pain since 1970 (the year the brace went on) or 1977 (the year of her first surgery) depending on how you calculate it. It started when she was 11. It never ended. So, anybody saying, hey, that's just the way the universe works, where's your healthy first born?
To add insult to injury, my father cannot come visit me next week. He feels awful about it. I'm doing fine. He can't travel because my stepmother (actually my second stepmother) is in having undisclosed surgery. While I don't know what the surgery is for, FoilDad described it as "major" and cancelled his trip. That leads me to assume it's something truly serious and scary. My stepmother is a tough cookie, and the fact that she won't name the surgery pretty much clues me in that it's probably a nice cancer where they're lopping off body parts (she comes from a very environmentally poisoned area, and the cancer rates are high). Her mother died horribly from industrial poisoning, and I'm hoping I'm very wrong about my understanding of the situation. My first stepmother, a kindergarten teacher who didn't smoke or drink, ten years younger than the FoilDad, died of ovarian cancer in her forties. Second stepmother is older than I, but not by much. I hope it's really nice mechanical plumbing surgery, not the cancer I think it is. But knowing stepmother, if it were something straightforward like a bypass or the like, she'd just say what it was. It sucks.
Last, but not least, yesterday, Innana and I went to the airport to visit with her Mom, DOL, who was travelling back from a holiday trip abroad. Bad connections and horrible airport and airline management meant we didn't catch a glimpse. I wanted to see DOL, and I know Innana wanted to see her Mom.
Now, I can't trade my suffering for other peoples (it doesn't work that way), but I feel guilty whinging on about career decisions and marital mayhem. My spinal column isn't shrinking. I have my faculties. Now, anyone who wants to pray, chant, whatever, for NSLOS or my Stepmother, go to town, but remember who your begging favors from. Why is this creep going to be nice to NSLOS (it would be a first) when he clearly gets his kicks from suffering. If this entity exists, if the entity were a person, we'd call him a psychopath.
I'm fed up.
My handicapped sister, Not-So-Little-Older-Sister (NSLOS), has had a very hard and unfair life. First off, she had me has a little sister. I was 18 months younger than her, and was always taller, smarter, and stronger. Little Older Sister (LOS) was also always beating NSLOS at everything. NSLOS was plenty smart and plenty pretty, but she just couldn't keep up. LOS and I were in a duel to the death of sibling rivaly, and NSLOS was just sort of sidelined.
Then NSLOS developed scoliosis at age 11, or it was diagnosed, anyway. Just as she was starting adolescence, she got to wear a back brace for 6 years. All through adolescense, she was caged up in this metal frame. Finally, when she was 18, the doctors decided to operate on her spine, inserting metal rods, drilling screws into her vertebra, and basically using wrenches and plyers and drill bits during a twelve hour surgery. She then was on a Stryker frame, a bed that rotates so that they can flip you like a pancake. First you're on your back, then stomach, for several weeks. Then they put you in a full body cast. For six months. You stink to high heaven.
This during the years when she should be flirting, checking out the impact she can have on guys, gaining confidence, etc. To add insult to injury, she did the whole body cast thing at home during the second to last year of my parents marriage. That was the year I was in Spain, generally having a great time. That house was hell.
She went away to college, only to have a nervous breakdown and be sent home. This repeated several times, but she managed to finish college by age 25. She then needed more back surgery. Since college, she has had two corrective spinal surgeries. Each time, her mental condition deteriorates. She used to read and play the piano, but no more. She gets confused easily. Pain didn't make her stronger. It destroyed her. She has never had a boyfriend. She hadn't had a job since she was 26 or so. She has had a host of other medical problems. She now lives in a protected living environement.
Her mental diagnosis right now is that she has schizoaffective disorder. She sometimes has hallucinations. She is constantly in physical pain. She's had three spinal surgeries. And now, WHAT A FUCKING GIFT, she gets to have another one. She really needs this. She can't even process what the doctor is saying. She's confused. But she knows (1) back surgery hurts a lot; and (2) and she has to have more back surgery. Isn't third time supposed to be a charm? This is her fourth back surgery. Also, the orthopedist who is planning the surgery is no mensch. He keeps rescheduling appointments. Since NSLOS can't process the information, another family member has to travel to be there. Rescheduling causes problems. Additionally, he, how do I say this in a non-hyperbolic way, has the bedside manner of a hired assassin. I think I'll wait till I'm in the middle of some really nasty separation-related crisis, and then I'll volunteer to be the family member getting the information. That should be a fun meeting. I'll wear heels, red liptick, a red suit, and I'll squash him like the arthropod he clearly resembles.
I was a big, big baby about abdominal surgery (I'm still whining about it), but that's, comparatively speaking, a hangnail. It certianly affected my mental well-being. I can't imagine this. I especially can't imagine facing this having faced it three times before. Come on, big sicko in the sky who sends thousands in Asia to be crushed to death, who washes entire towns away for fun, who oversees a world in which children have the highest death rates (isn't that just sweet), give my NSLOS a fucking break. Anybody who posts anything about the "Lord Works in Mysterious Ways" shit, well, Son of Sam worked in mysterious ways too. Mysterious, sick, and criminally insane. I'm all for straightforward. Yeah, yeah, yeah, suffering has to exist for free will. Exactly what free will has NSLOS ever had? She's been living in a world of physical humiliation and pain since 1970 (the year the brace went on) or 1977 (the year of her first surgery) depending on how you calculate it. It started when she was 11. It never ended. So, anybody saying, hey, that's just the way the universe works, where's your healthy first born?
To add insult to injury, my father cannot come visit me next week. He feels awful about it. I'm doing fine. He can't travel because my stepmother (actually my second stepmother) is in having undisclosed surgery. While I don't know what the surgery is for, FoilDad described it as "major" and cancelled his trip. That leads me to assume it's something truly serious and scary. My stepmother is a tough cookie, and the fact that she won't name the surgery pretty much clues me in that it's probably a nice cancer where they're lopping off body parts (she comes from a very environmentally poisoned area, and the cancer rates are high). Her mother died horribly from industrial poisoning, and I'm hoping I'm very wrong about my understanding of the situation. My first stepmother, a kindergarten teacher who didn't smoke or drink, ten years younger than the FoilDad, died of ovarian cancer in her forties. Second stepmother is older than I, but not by much. I hope it's really nice mechanical plumbing surgery, not the cancer I think it is. But knowing stepmother, if it were something straightforward like a bypass or the like, she'd just say what it was. It sucks.
Last, but not least, yesterday, Innana and I went to the airport to visit with her Mom, DOL, who was travelling back from a holiday trip abroad. Bad connections and horrible airport and airline management meant we didn't catch a glimpse. I wanted to see DOL, and I know Innana wanted to see her Mom.
Now, I can't trade my suffering for other peoples (it doesn't work that way), but I feel guilty whinging on about career decisions and marital mayhem. My spinal column isn't shrinking. I have my faculties. Now, anyone who wants to pray, chant, whatever, for NSLOS or my Stepmother, go to town, but remember who your begging favors from. Why is this creep going to be nice to NSLOS (it would be a first) when he clearly gets his kicks from suffering. If this entity exists, if the entity were a person, we'd call him a psychopath.
I'm fed up.
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