Soon it will be time to take down the Christmas tree. I have to wait until the Foilkid and the GaahGirl are with me. Because the Foilkid will want to help. She helps lots. Sometimes things even go faster when she does (cutie-pie).
Tonight, Innana and Francesca (MBFFHS), and I will be celebrating the New Year at the FoilFlat. Francesca is cooking up a lovely bouef bourgignon. We have a bottle of Veuve Cliquot (sp?) to toast the New Year, and some nice wine to accompany dinner. Tomorrow, PdeFF has agree that the girls can come over here for a visit with their favorite European non-aunt (Francesca), who will be very impressed by their increased dimensions. Francesca hasn't seen the GaahGirl before, except as a FoilFetus making my belly big. It will be a happy reunion for the Foilkid, who is pretty clear that Francesca is one of her favorite "people" friends (people = adult, FYI). I'm really looking forward to the evening.
I am thoroughly grateful that 2005 is about to get kicked out the door. I hope 2006 finds everyone happy and healthy, and that new adventures await us all. Happy New Year.
December 31, 2005
December 30, 2005
And I Say to Myself . . . My God, What Have I Done?*
Nope, not a romance or a sex post. It's just lunch hour, and since I have company for the weekend, I might not be able to write as obsessively (or compulsively?) on my beloved blog as much as is normally my wont. So I'm taking a break from my lemongrass beef with noodles and side of broccoli to write now. Several things are on my mind now: my girls, who are with their father for the weekend; MBFFHS, who is here; the anorexic girl I saw on the Metro this morning; Munich (the movie); a book I'm writing (well, I'm stalled, but I want to get back to it); a book I'm reading; a book I'm about to start reading (MBFFHS just gave it to me); Clifford the Big Red Dog; Craig's List; Mr. Studmuffin; Innana (I get to see her tomorrow, we're celebrating New Year's together -- that makes me happy); possibly going figure skating soon; the nature of cats and dogs; how to make a good omelet; why chocolate sauce shouldn't be too sweet; how to knit a multi-color sweater; the idea of South v. North; BJ's last post (just go read it atStranger's Fever); music I want to play on the guitar; movies I want to see; and what everyone is doing here (writing and reading blogs).
I'm not going to get to all those topics. In no particular order:
Anorexic Girl
She is probably a woman, but she was shivering, even though it's a balmy 47oF (8oC)late December day here in the beginning of the American South. She was shivering because she had absolutely no fat on her bones. Looking at her more closely, except for her extreme scrawniness (which made her look like a badly malnourished teenager) she looked to be in her late 20s or early 30s. She also looked as though she were dying of starvation (not just malnutrition). Her legs were skinnier than the Foilkid's or the GaahGirl's legs. She was at least 5'7", but her thighs were thinner than my wrists. Now I'm not a skinny woman, but my wrists are not plump like the GaahGirl's. It hurt to watch her. And she was disoriented. I wondered if she were on drugs of some sort, but she merely seemed to be having a lot of trouble focussing. I helped her get on the train in the right direction, but I was literally afraid to touch her. She was so frail, I thought stepping too hard must hurt her, much less shaking a hand or receiving a pat on the back. It was like looking at a skeleton.
I'm betting on anorexia, not illness induced weight loss, because she was dressed in very fashionable clothes. Which made me wonder about the designers who make clothes for the cadaverous in sizes (for adult women, height 5' or above) that only someone dying of starvation could wear. How could that possibly be a fashionable look? She didn't look good. She didn't look desirable. She looked moribund, in her tiny leather jacket and beaded tops. I could see all the bones and veins in her neck, and she was not a light-skinned woman. The veins stuck one like ropes around a mast. Except nothing about this woman suggested the solidity of a mast. Or any other object other than possibly a chopstick. It was scary.
I allowed myself a chocolate crossant ($1.35), a real treat, with my morning cafe au lait.
What Are They All Doing Here
In blogsurfing and stalking my favorites (you know who you are: be honored), I've noticed a few different kinds of blogs, only a few of which interest me.
There is the "poor misunderstood me" blog. Yup. I don't understand you. I do not believe any of my links fall into this category. If you think I'm wrong, tell me. I'll tell you that I don't understand you. You can start a blog about it. Yawn.
There is the "my [politics/religion/economic theory/whatever] is right and yours is wrong" blog. Some of these are actually funny. Eschaton, for example, and Martian Anthropologist, for another are some that I agree with. Obviously, YMMV.
There's the "I have fanatic about [surfing/skiing/travelling/chess/whatever] and I want to tell the world all about it" blog. These do nothing for me, although I understand why people write them and why others read them. Knitting blogs? I love to knit, but I certainly don't like to read or write about it.
There's the "complete data download of everything going on in my life" blog, where someone deals with a crisis (or with being incredibly introspectively navel-gazing and discussing every aspect of their none-too exciting life) by writing about everything that is going on. That's my blog. Actually, most other people's blogs like this, unless well-written, can be painful to read, and can be painful even if well-written. I assume mine is the same. Really. Waiting for the happy ending? Hah.
There's the "let me tell you how annoying other people are" blog. These can be very, very funny, but sometimes I worry (a lot) about the people who write them. Obviously these are not people in a good place and compassion, etc. seems to be in a bit short supply.
There are photoblogs, newsblogs, special interest blogs. I don't read these much, although I highly recommend Bunny's photoblog.
I like the blogs where people are trying to figure something out, or be more observant, or learn something (like Cookie). Or just writing beautifully (like BJ).
My least favorite blogs are the "look how wonderful my life is" blogs. The people who detail all their good fortune and put it on show. I worry about that when I write about the girls, because I'm definitely doing that, so I'll stop. Except I love writing about them. But isn't it the same kind of "see how lucky I am" boasting? Not Beowulf-style boasting (ask Innana). But the mutually affirming romances where every loving gesture gets detailed? That makes me nervous. Happy for the couple (for now), but over the top online adulation reminds me of Miss Manners's comments regarding how the Duchess of Windsor felt when people would see her husband and her in a restaurant, eating silently like many old marrieds. She said she could feel them thinking: "He gave up England for that?" Although, as MBFFHS would say, THWWOPT (to hell with what other people think). I also worry that having bought into the "my mate is so romantic, so lovely, so wonderful" story, one doesn't recognize the script as it changes. I wonder how much of the wonderfulness is to feed an audiences expectations. This sort of blog rather seems like wishing for bad luck. But people shouldn't hide the good and their happiness . . . . Nonetheless, these "I have a great [job/lover/talent/marriage/kids/life]" blogs make me uncomfortable and feel disingenuous to me. Appreciate the good, but be aware of the bad. And of facile stereotypical wonderfulness. I was getting worried about WW's take on her wonderful Paul (who does sound pretty nice) until she addressed some of his weak spots (money). Everyone has weak spots. It's never always sweetness and light. And a lack of self-awareness is as bad as a lack of empathy, and once one starts telling a story, one starts believing it, even when the underlying reality starts to change.
Til my next break. If I don't get on again before Sunday or Monday (oh, I will, I just don't know when), Happy New Year.
*Op cit.
I'm not going to get to all those topics. In no particular order:
Anorexic Girl
She is probably a woman, but she was shivering, even though it's a balmy 47oF (8oC)late December day here in the beginning of the American South. She was shivering because she had absolutely no fat on her bones. Looking at her more closely, except for her extreme scrawniness (which made her look like a badly malnourished teenager) she looked to be in her late 20s or early 30s. She also looked as though she were dying of starvation (not just malnutrition). Her legs were skinnier than the Foilkid's or the GaahGirl's legs. She was at least 5'7", but her thighs were thinner than my wrists. Now I'm not a skinny woman, but my wrists are not plump like the GaahGirl's. It hurt to watch her. And she was disoriented. I wondered if she were on drugs of some sort, but she merely seemed to be having a lot of trouble focussing. I helped her get on the train in the right direction, but I was literally afraid to touch her. She was so frail, I thought stepping too hard must hurt her, much less shaking a hand or receiving a pat on the back. It was like looking at a skeleton.
I'm betting on anorexia, not illness induced weight loss, because she was dressed in very fashionable clothes. Which made me wonder about the designers who make clothes for the cadaverous in sizes (for adult women, height 5' or above) that only someone dying of starvation could wear. How could that possibly be a fashionable look? She didn't look good. She didn't look desirable. She looked moribund, in her tiny leather jacket and beaded tops. I could see all the bones and veins in her neck, and she was not a light-skinned woman. The veins stuck one like ropes around a mast. Except nothing about this woman suggested the solidity of a mast. Or any other object other than possibly a chopstick. It was scary.
I allowed myself a chocolate crossant ($1.35), a real treat, with my morning cafe au lait.
What Are They All Doing Here
In blogsurfing and stalking my favorites (you know who you are: be honored), I've noticed a few different kinds of blogs, only a few of which interest me.
There is the "poor misunderstood me" blog. Yup. I don't understand you. I do not believe any of my links fall into this category. If you think I'm wrong, tell me. I'll tell you that I don't understand you. You can start a blog about it. Yawn.
There is the "my [politics/religion/economic theory/whatever] is right and yours is wrong" blog. Some of these are actually funny. Eschaton, for example, and Martian Anthropologist, for another are some that I agree with. Obviously, YMMV.
There's the "I have fanatic about [surfing/skiing/travelling/chess/whatever] and I want to tell the world all about it" blog. These do nothing for me, although I understand why people write them and why others read them. Knitting blogs? I love to knit, but I certainly don't like to read or write about it.
There's the "complete data download of everything going on in my life" blog, where someone deals with a crisis (or with being incredibly introspectively navel-gazing and discussing every aspect of their none-too exciting life) by writing about everything that is going on. That's my blog. Actually, most other people's blogs like this, unless well-written, can be painful to read, and can be painful even if well-written. I assume mine is the same. Really. Waiting for the happy ending? Hah.
There's the "let me tell you how annoying other people are" blog. These can be very, very funny, but sometimes I worry (a lot) about the people who write them. Obviously these are not people in a good place and compassion, etc. seems to be in a bit short supply.
There are photoblogs, newsblogs, special interest blogs. I don't read these much, although I highly recommend Bunny's photoblog.
I like the blogs where people are trying to figure something out, or be more observant, or learn something (like Cookie). Or just writing beautifully (like BJ).
My least favorite blogs are the "look how wonderful my life is" blogs. The people who detail all their good fortune and put it on show. I worry about that when I write about the girls, because I'm definitely doing that, so I'll stop. Except I love writing about them. But isn't it the same kind of "see how lucky I am" boasting? Not Beowulf-style boasting (ask Innana). But the mutually affirming romances where every loving gesture gets detailed? That makes me nervous. Happy for the couple (for now), but over the top online adulation reminds me of Miss Manners's comments regarding how the Duchess of Windsor felt when people would see her husband and her in a restaurant, eating silently like many old marrieds. She said she could feel them thinking: "He gave up England for that?" Although, as MBFFHS would say, THWWOPT (to hell with what other people think). I also worry that having bought into the "my mate is so romantic, so lovely, so wonderful" story, one doesn't recognize the script as it changes. I wonder how much of the wonderfulness is to feed an audiences expectations. This sort of blog rather seems like wishing for bad luck. But people shouldn't hide the good and their happiness . . . . Nonetheless, these "I have a great [job/lover/talent/marriage/kids/life]" blogs make me uncomfortable and feel disingenuous to me. Appreciate the good, but be aware of the bad. And of facile stereotypical wonderfulness. I was getting worried about WW's take on her wonderful Paul (who does sound pretty nice) until she addressed some of his weak spots (money). Everyone has weak spots. It's never always sweetness and light. And a lack of self-awareness is as bad as a lack of empathy, and once one starts telling a story, one starts believing it, even when the underlying reality starts to change.
Til my next break. If I don't get on again before Sunday or Monday (oh, I will, I just don't know when), Happy New Year.
*Op cit.
December 29, 2005
And I Ask Myself . . . Where is that Wonderful Life?*
I do worry about writing in detail about my life and putting it on the internet. However, (1) I'm not a celebrity, (2) I'm not trying to identify or hurt anyone, and (3) it really isn't that interesting. It's just my life.
It's funny that it's not the sex posts that get the most readers (although readership does spike). It's the money posts. I had the highest readership in August and September when I was trying to decide what to do about PdeFF. Now things have settled down to about 50 readers a day or less, probably 20-30 regular readers. Since I don't have 20-30 posters, I assume that there are regular lurkers. Join the fun. Write something about how you got here and what brings you back.
With all the changes, the only possessions I've missed are turtleneck shirts, rain boots, and books. Thanks to Innana, Cookie, the Pope and my long-lost BLEBRF (Baseball Loving Erstwhile Blogreading Friend (who loans me books, thank you))I've got the books, which are the most important.
Amazingly, having launched myself into the waters of single-motherhood (and despite my seeking out masculine company, I predict a not-too-short stay in single-ville, largely because I'm encumbered, I have enough baggage to sink a barge, and it really isn't time for more than flirtation or fooling around) and the level of work and responsibility that entails, I'm happy. I don't have someone who listens to what I say but doesn't actually hear me. Or who deflects all my questions or concerns or turns them all back on me. I have you (dear readers). Who read what I write. I can almost imagine someone is listening to me.
Of course Innana listens to me (with an expression of visible tolerance, much of the time), and that's a good thing. So does Mr. Studmuffin, and so do Mr. Movie and the Professor (to lesser degrees -- they're off in their own worlds). So do my other friends. But I have at least five years of being on mute to make up for. Am I writing in the blog excessively? Of obsessively? I don't think so. Normally if I write about something that scares or angers me, I don't end up feeling more scared or angered, I end up thinking of ways to handle the unwanted emotion. And happy stuff, well I just feel happier putting it in print.
For example, the Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, Foilkid had "bad dreams" (actually, a need to go to the bathroom, which woke her) and therefore moved herself into my bed and snuggled. I like being all powerful mommy who can get rid of the monsters under the bed. And she's a good snuggler (she wrote the book on it) and I get to wake up and look at her downy chubby cheek and her lashes and the little snore, and I know, I'm lucky.
Lunch break is over. Hasta luego.
*Op cit (Talking Heads again)
It's funny that it's not the sex posts that get the most readers (although readership does spike). It's the money posts. I had the highest readership in August and September when I was trying to decide what to do about PdeFF. Now things have settled down to about 50 readers a day or less, probably 20-30 regular readers. Since I don't have 20-30 posters, I assume that there are regular lurkers. Join the fun. Write something about how you got here and what brings you back.
With all the changes, the only possessions I've missed are turtleneck shirts, rain boots, and books. Thanks to Innana, Cookie, the Pope and my long-lost BLEBRF (Baseball Loving Erstwhile Blogreading Friend (who loans me books, thank you))I've got the books, which are the most important.
Amazingly, having launched myself into the waters of single-motherhood (and despite my seeking out masculine company, I predict a not-too-short stay in single-ville, largely because I'm encumbered, I have enough baggage to sink a barge, and it really isn't time for more than flirtation or fooling around) and the level of work and responsibility that entails, I'm happy. I don't have someone who listens to what I say but doesn't actually hear me. Or who deflects all my questions or concerns or turns them all back on me. I have you (dear readers). Who read what I write. I can almost imagine someone is listening to me.
Of course Innana listens to me (with an expression of visible tolerance, much of the time), and that's a good thing. So does Mr. Studmuffin, and so do Mr. Movie and the Professor (to lesser degrees -- they're off in their own worlds). So do my other friends. But I have at least five years of being on mute to make up for. Am I writing in the blog excessively? Of obsessively? I don't think so. Normally if I write about something that scares or angers me, I don't end up feeling more scared or angered, I end up thinking of ways to handle the unwanted emotion. And happy stuff, well I just feel happier putting it in print.
For example, the Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, Foilkid had "bad dreams" (actually, a need to go to the bathroom, which woke her) and therefore moved herself into my bed and snuggled. I like being all powerful mommy who can get rid of the monsters under the bed. And she's a good snuggler (she wrote the book on it) and I get to wake up and look at her downy chubby cheek and her lashes and the little snore, and I know, I'm lucky.
Lunch break is over. Hasta luego.
*Op cit (Talking Heads again)
And I Ask Myself . . . How Do I Work This?*
I started blogging back in the spring, when I knew something was wrong, truly wrong in my marriage, but thought it was merely sexual boredom or the delayed seven-year itch, or something like that. As I started writing, I started observing more clearly, and it became obvious that I was trying to maintain a fiction -- that my husband (then Mr. Foilwoman, now PdeFF --Pere des FoilFilles) and I were a functional couple and that PdeFF was even the least bit functional. Since then, I've been blogging about how I'm going to get myself out of the mess I made. Blogging for me helps me identify things I might otherwise miss, be heard when I had been silenced (or put on mute) for so long, figure out what I really am thinking or feeling, which really isn't as easy as it sounds, and figure out what I want and how I might get it. And of course, it's cheaper than therapy (well, not my therapy right now, which is free, but in general), and a trouble blogged is a trouble halved**, and all that.
*Again, "Once in A Lifetime", Talking Heads.
**TM FluffyBunnyMan
*Again, "Once in A Lifetime", Talking Heads.
**TM FluffyBunnyMan
December 28, 2005
And I Ask Myself . . . How Did I Get Here?*
I've been thinking about blogging and why I write and publish this blog. Well, largely because I can, you know. I'll write about this more, why I write personal things for public consumption. Why do you have a blog (if you do) or read other people's blogs? Thanks.
*With apologies to David Byrne.
*With apologies to David Byrne.
December 25, 2005
Blessed Are
This has been a good holiday. The Foilkid loves her presents, especially the tiger (now named Scratchy) sent by her Uncle Tony (known to all of you as Supercookie). The GaahGirl saw her stuffed Dalmation (named, creatively, Spot by the Foilkid) and just cooed. Both girls had a great Christmas morning. I managed sufficient Santa-esque behavior that the Foilkid expressed no doubts. Especially since the evidence (gingerbread and brownie crumbs and a emptied glass of milk by the fireplace) led to the belief in the continued existence and beneficence of Santa (showing why going from the specific to the general can often lead to very faulty reasoning).
We made pancakes from scratch, and Innana stopped by to join us for breakfast, pick up her present from Cookie, and play games with the Foilkid. And she held the Foilkid down so that I could trim the toenails before they turned into cloven hooves.
Then we went to cousin Helen's for Christmas dinner. Again, a wonderful meal, Foilkid played with her cousins, and GaahGirl toddled around being round and cheerful. A good day. On the drive over, I heard a version of what sounded like "Children Go Where I Send Thee" that was unearthly in its beauty. I didn't get the actual information on its provenance. It was recorded in a Southern penitentiary by 4 convicts in 1939. I didn't hear any of the other details. I hope I'll find it again. I had a wonderful day, and now am relaxing with a restorative glass of sherry.
Merry Christmas, Happy Channukah, whatever. I hope you spend the holidays with someone who loves you. Or people who love you.
We made pancakes from scratch, and Innana stopped by to join us for breakfast, pick up her present from Cookie, and play games with the Foilkid. And she held the Foilkid down so that I could trim the toenails before they turned into cloven hooves.
Then we went to cousin Helen's for Christmas dinner. Again, a wonderful meal, Foilkid played with her cousins, and GaahGirl toddled around being round and cheerful. A good day. On the drive over, I heard a version of what sounded like "Children Go Where I Send Thee" that was unearthly in its beauty. I didn't get the actual information on its provenance. It was recorded in a Southern penitentiary by 4 convicts in 1939. I didn't hear any of the other details. I hope I'll find it again. I had a wonderful day, and now am relaxing with a restorative glass of sherry.
Merry Christmas, Happy Channukah, whatever. I hope you spend the holidays with someone who loves you. Or people who love you.
December 24, 2005
Yes, It's True: I Am Santa, and I Look a Damn Sight Better Than the Fat Guy in All the Illustrations
Okay, the GaahGirl is going to like anything, particularly the boxes and the wrapping paper. But the FoilKid is in true Christmas mania. She helped me bake pecan pies for the dinner at Helen's tomorrow. We made brownies. She tenderly prepared a plate of (truly inedible) gingerbread and the aforementioned brownies along with a glass of whole milk (Santa avoids the fat free stuff) for the big guy. We discussed delivery logistics. She expressed doubts. Apparently a grinch in her class who is truly named Cyril (okay, I feel sorry for the kid stuck with that handle) told her that Santa isn't real.
I was that kid growing up (older siblings, you know?). I don't remember ever believing in Santa. But Foilkid wants to believe in Santa and therefore my mission is to support this delusional but age appropriate thinking. Yes, honey, there really is a fat man riding around in a flying-reindeer drawn vehicle, making it to millions of homes in one 8 hour stretch, delivering enough toys to smother the remainder of the Aral Sea. Why shouldn't she believe that?
So we discussed Cyril's belief, and I asked her why he doesn't believe in Santa. She mentioned that his Mom is mean. After naming her kid Cyril, I believe it. The cookies and milk were Foilkid's idea of how to test the hypothesis of the existence of Santa. We'll work on more accurate experiments later on. I just have to remember to be a messy eater, as the Foilkid is quite clear that Santa will leave crumbs.
I do not have the Christmas wit of some, but I would like to direct your attention to the poetry efforts of the Champ in Spanish and English as well as the snark of Gawblimeyman (directed at me, I feel so honored -- there is a whole blog sniping at me).
Merry Christmas and Happy Channukah. Or whatever
I was that kid growing up (older siblings, you know?). I don't remember ever believing in Santa. But Foilkid wants to believe in Santa and therefore my mission is to support this delusional but age appropriate thinking. Yes, honey, there really is a fat man riding around in a flying-reindeer drawn vehicle, making it to millions of homes in one 8 hour stretch, delivering enough toys to smother the remainder of the Aral Sea. Why shouldn't she believe that?
So we discussed Cyril's belief, and I asked her why he doesn't believe in Santa. She mentioned that his Mom is mean. After naming her kid Cyril, I believe it. The cookies and milk were Foilkid's idea of how to test the hypothesis of the existence of Santa. We'll work on more accurate experiments later on. I just have to remember to be a messy eater, as the Foilkid is quite clear that Santa will leave crumbs.
I do not have the Christmas wit of some, but I would like to direct your attention to the poetry efforts of the Champ in Spanish and English as well as the snark of Gawblimeyman (directed at me, I feel so honored -- there is a whole blog sniping at me).
Merry Christmas and Happy Channukah. Or whatever
December 23, 2005
FoilKid: All Keyed Up and Driving Me Nutso
The FoilKid is not a phlegmatic child. When she feels something, I know it. You know it too, if you live within a 50 mile radius of our home. She's in a tizzy right now. I've reassured her that Santa will be able to find her. She knows Santa will stop here and at her Daddy's place. She know's she's going to play with cousin Helen's kids on Christmas Day. She's keyed up.
She also hates having her toenails trimmed and has been stalling me for the last two weekends here. It finally occurred to me that I only have her with me every other weekend, so it has been a month or more. Her toenails are beginning to resemble nothing so much as hooves.
Have you ever tried to trim the toenails of a thrashing six-year old with good strong muscles (this is my kid, of course she's got muscles)? Not pretty. I failed. She got sent to bed (saying loudly how unfair it was, because she wanted to play on the compuuter). Fortunately, a belief in Santa and the dread "naughty and nice" list really did hold sway. Next year will be tougher.
She also hates having her toenails trimmed and has been stalling me for the last two weekends here. It finally occurred to me that I only have her with me every other weekend, so it has been a month or more. Her toenails are beginning to resemble nothing so much as hooves.
Have you ever tried to trim the toenails of a thrashing six-year old with good strong muscles (this is my kid, of course she's got muscles)? Not pretty. I failed. She got sent to bed (saying loudly how unfair it was, because she wanted to play on the compuuter). Fortunately, a belief in Santa and the dread "naughty and nice" list really did hold sway. Next year will be tougher.
Where is Evil Sandra?
The first blog I ever read was Sandra Is Evil. I don't read her blog as much as I used to do (she and I have very different views on life and despite both being single mothers are in very different places and faced with different choices), but I still pop in now and then to see how she's doing. I have a soft spot in my heart for Evil Sandra (who really isn't that evil, as I have said before). I just popped in and her blog isn't there. Does anyone know where she is/how she's doing/what the reasons are behind her absence from Blogger? Thanks.
Sleepless in Suburbia
Well, Kira, it's insomnia time again. And it bothers me more now (1:15 a.m., Dec. 23) because while I have worries, the big problems have been solved. I am no longer living with an insane man. That's a good thing. I think it's time for a list of things to be happy about.
(1) I had a nice evening with SNV (Short Norwegian Valkyrie) and we had some good wine and a bunch of laughs.
(2) There are at least 8 nice people who like me in the greater metropolitan DC area (Innana, Mr. Studmuffin, SNV, Mr. Movie, the Professor, the Handyman, Uber, Cousin Helen), and they really, really like me, or at least act as though they do.
(3) The GaahGirl has a very cute molar.
(4) The GaahGirl is walking. Well, reeling like a drunken sailor with a widelegged toddle of destruction.
(5) I have a car with 17,000 miles on it!
(6) I sold the Suburu.
(7) I like my job.
(8) The Useless Men have yet to answer my questions, which mean I can look forward to some funny posts on their site sometime in the next week or two. Unless the holidays make them even more Useless, if that's even possible.
(9) I have a red dress.
(10) I'm the custodial parent this (Christmas) weekend.
(11) Innana lives not too far from me. Unlike, say, when she was in school in the U.K.
(12) The Foilkid had a great report card (aside from the reprehensible bossing the little boys around problem: In all honesty, they do what she tells them. This is better for all concerned. What's the problem?
(13) I have a classical and a twelve string guitar.
(14) Foilkid is learning to knit (it must be genetic).
(15) My girls are jewels.
(16) My boss is nice to me.
(17) My parents love me.
(18) I get to spend New Year's Eve with MVBFFHS and Innana (MVBFITWWW).
Maybe I'll sleep now. Night night.
(1) I had a nice evening with SNV (Short Norwegian Valkyrie) and we had some good wine and a bunch of laughs.
(2) There are at least 8 nice people who like me in the greater metropolitan DC area (Innana, Mr. Studmuffin, SNV, Mr. Movie, the Professor, the Handyman, Uber, Cousin Helen), and they really, really like me, or at least act as though they do.
(3) The GaahGirl has a very cute molar.
(4) The GaahGirl is walking. Well, reeling like a drunken sailor with a widelegged toddle of destruction.
(5) I have a car with 17,000 miles on it!
(6) I sold the Suburu.
(7) I like my job.
(8) The Useless Men have yet to answer my questions, which mean I can look forward to some funny posts on their site sometime in the next week or two. Unless the holidays make them even more Useless, if that's even possible.
(9) I have a red dress.
(10) I'm the custodial parent this (Christmas) weekend.
(11) Innana lives not too far from me. Unlike, say, when she was in school in the U.K.
(12) The Foilkid had a great report card (aside from the reprehensible bossing the little boys around problem: In all honesty, they do what she tells them. This is better for all concerned. What's the problem?
(13) I have a classical and a twelve string guitar.
(14) Foilkid is learning to knit (it must be genetic).
(15) My girls are jewels.
(16) My boss is nice to me.
(17) My parents love me.
(18) I get to spend New Year's Eve with MVBFFHS and Innana (MVBFITWWW).
Maybe I'll sleep now. Night night.
December 22, 2005
Sometimes You Really Have to Wonder
One of the joys of Stat Counter is the ability to see what searches brought people to this blog. Except sometimes it just make me queasy. I hadn't checked to see the searches bringing readers here for a while. But I did today. Funny. Here are some recent search terms:
meaning of enchilidas
superheroine
annie broccoli
adhd and pornography help spouses
gay cruising c&o canal sex
jobs daughers
taberna del alaberdero
how much does jose carreras weigh and how tall is he?
foilwoman
It does make me wonder how much people understand about computerized search logic and various search engines. Is someone actually looking for the meaning of enchiladas? Aside from yumminess, what would that meaning be? The superheroine search I understand. Everyone needs a superheroine now and then, and this lucky searcher found me. The Annie Broccoli search makes me feel a bit guilty. She's a Quebecoise kid's entertainer. That poor French-speaking parent found my blog of immorality. Oops. Exactly what was the search logic behind "adhd and pornography help spouses"? This person had more than one spouse, ADHD and is looking for related porn or what? It's a mystery. Oh, I'll stop there. Goodnight.
meaning of enchilidas
superheroine
annie broccoli
adhd and pornography help spouses
gay cruising c&o canal sex
jobs daughers
taberna del alaberdero
how much does jose carreras weigh and how tall is he?
foilwoman
It does make me wonder how much people understand about computerized search logic and various search engines. Is someone actually looking for the meaning of enchiladas? Aside from yumminess, what would that meaning be? The superheroine search I understand. Everyone needs a superheroine now and then, and this lucky searcher found me. The Annie Broccoli search makes me feel a bit guilty. She's a Quebecoise kid's entertainer. That poor French-speaking parent found my blog of immorality. Oops. Exactly what was the search logic behind "adhd and pornography help spouses"? This person had more than one spouse, ADHD and is looking for related porn or what? It's a mystery. Oh, I'll stop there. Goodnight.
Lunch Hour: Intelligent Design, Beauty, Other Stuff
I'm on my lunch break and am allowing myself the luxury of posting an entry during the work day. I've been furious this past week at our foolish Commander in Chief breaking his oath to uphold the Constitution and the laws of this land. I've fortunately thought of other things to make me happy:
Intelligent Design
The Honorable Judge John E. Jones, III of the United States District Court for the Middle District has found the Dover, Pennsylvania School Board (since voted out of office) acted unconstitutionally (by seeking to use its power to establish religion by teaching an essentially religious belief, not science in science class) by requiring some discussion of the belief in Intelligent Design questioning the theory of evolution.
Judge John E. Jones is my new "celebrity" crush. I don't know what he looks like, but I am declaring him to be damn attractive. I haven't read his entire opinion yet (my printer is on the fritz), but have skimmed it and read the key parts. My favorite section, so far, is toward the end:
If you believe in ID, great. No-one's saying you can't. It's just not science. Go Judge Jones.
Beauty
In a comment to one of my preceding posts, Divine Calm commented that Mr. Movie sounded tragic. I don't think he's tragic, as much as overlooked an unsure of finding his place in the sun. Why has he been overlooked (by many, including me, at times)? This ties into a discussion over on Stanger's Feverabout the benefits and price of beauty. Mr. Movie is not very physically attractive, although he definitely looks more attractive as a late-40-ish guy than he did as a 20-ish and 30-ish guy. I think a lot of people dismiss him before he even speaks. He doesn't make a strong statement, physically. He is from a large family, and while he is smart and not ugly, I think he was a bit invisible growing up next to some brilliant, creative, witty, and beautiful sisters and brothers. Just average.
Except he's not just average. He feels lots of empathy, has a strong visually creative esthetic (which is why he is drawn to cinema rather than literature), and yearns to help the underdog. He's a hopeless romantic. If I could, I would fix him up in a minute. Of course, to get him to make a move would require locking him in a closet for a few days with the proposed inamorata. I still hope for him: that he will feel he has a purpose in life, that he will feel loved, that he will enjoy himself more. He used to be quite overweight and now is just slightly out of shape. That's one of the things that changes with age. As a late 20s guy, he looked out of shape. Having slimmed up a bit, he looks better than many. He's still not a piece of prime USDA beefcake, but he shouldn't have to be.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: initially, I am drawn to beauty. But amazingly, as I get to know people, over time, people who act in a manner that I find attractive (kind, forgiving, generous, empathetic, honest, responsible, humorous -- some of those qualities) become more attractive and I can no longer see them through an unbiased lens. So Mr. Movie has a pot belly. Any woman (or man) who would dismiss him for that totally superficial flaw and not get to know his hidden lyricism is really not much of a person, no? I think that I am not the right person for Mr. Movie (he would disapprove, strongly, of so much of my behavior, and I think I'm just too out there for him), but there must be someone for him.
Miscellanea
I desperately have to finish the Foilkid's sweater for Christmas. It's a beautiful (if I may say so myself) cabled thing, with bobbles, and trees of life, and it's in a soft, non-itchy cotton. It makes me remember the possibly apocryphal story I heard or read (can't remember) about Irish fisherman's sweaters. They existed as identifiers. You would knit your man a sweater. He would go out fishing on the ocean. If there were a storm, and he drowned, he would eventually wash ashore, most likely unrecognizable after days in the water (and since everyone in the same village would likely have the same coloring due to inter-relatedness, hair color wouldn't do it either). You would know that you had found your husband or son to bury if he were wearing the sweater you knit him because you used your own stitches. Maybe your cables would have a right to left twist or you would have an extra branch in the tree of life, or the way the honeycomb stitch was made was your stitch and no-one else's. That's how you would know for certain that your husband or son or brother was dead. Sad, but beautiful, no? Kind of like knitted DNA.
Intelligent Design
The Honorable Judge John E. Jones, III of the United States District Court for the Middle District has found the Dover, Pennsylvania School Board (since voted out of office) acted unconstitutionally (by seeking to use its power to establish religion by teaching an essentially religious belief, not science in science class) by requiring some discussion of the belief in Intelligent Design questioning the theory of evolution.
Judge John E. Jones is my new "celebrity" crush. I don't know what he looks like, but I am declaring him to be damn attractive. I haven't read his entire opinion yet (my printer is on the fritz), but have skimmed it and read the key parts. My favorite section, so far, is toward the end:
Those who disagree with our holding will likely mark it as the product of an activist judge. If so, they will have erred as this is manifestly not an activist Court. Rather this case came to us as the result of the activism of an ill-informed faction on a school board, aided by a national public interest law firm eager to find a constitutional test case on ID, who in combination drove the Board to adopt an imprudent and ultimately unconstitional policy. The breathtaking inanity of the Board's decision is evident when considered against the factual backdrop which has now been fully revealed through this trial. The students, parents, and teachers of the Dover Area School District deserved better than to be dragged into this legal maestrolm, with its resulting utter waste of monetary and personal resources.Read the decision.
If you believe in ID, great. No-one's saying you can't. It's just not science. Go Judge Jones.
Beauty
In a comment to one of my preceding posts, Divine Calm commented that Mr. Movie sounded tragic. I don't think he's tragic, as much as overlooked an unsure of finding his place in the sun. Why has he been overlooked (by many, including me, at times)? This ties into a discussion over on Stanger's Feverabout the benefits and price of beauty. Mr. Movie is not very physically attractive, although he definitely looks more attractive as a late-40-ish guy than he did as a 20-ish and 30-ish guy. I think a lot of people dismiss him before he even speaks. He doesn't make a strong statement, physically. He is from a large family, and while he is smart and not ugly, I think he was a bit invisible growing up next to some brilliant, creative, witty, and beautiful sisters and brothers. Just average.
Except he's not just average. He feels lots of empathy, has a strong visually creative esthetic (which is why he is drawn to cinema rather than literature), and yearns to help the underdog. He's a hopeless romantic. If I could, I would fix him up in a minute. Of course, to get him to make a move would require locking him in a closet for a few days with the proposed inamorata. I still hope for him: that he will feel he has a purpose in life, that he will feel loved, that he will enjoy himself more. He used to be quite overweight and now is just slightly out of shape. That's one of the things that changes with age. As a late 20s guy, he looked out of shape. Having slimmed up a bit, he looks better than many. He's still not a piece of prime USDA beefcake, but he shouldn't have to be.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: initially, I am drawn to beauty. But amazingly, as I get to know people, over time, people who act in a manner that I find attractive (kind, forgiving, generous, empathetic, honest, responsible, humorous -- some of those qualities) become more attractive and I can no longer see them through an unbiased lens. So Mr. Movie has a pot belly. Any woman (or man) who would dismiss him for that totally superficial flaw and not get to know his hidden lyricism is really not much of a person, no? I think that I am not the right person for Mr. Movie (he would disapprove, strongly, of so much of my behavior, and I think I'm just too out there for him), but there must be someone for him.
Miscellanea
I desperately have to finish the Foilkid's sweater for Christmas. It's a beautiful (if I may say so myself) cabled thing, with bobbles, and trees of life, and it's in a soft, non-itchy cotton. It makes me remember the possibly apocryphal story I heard or read (can't remember) about Irish fisherman's sweaters. They existed as identifiers. You would knit your man a sweater. He would go out fishing on the ocean. If there were a storm, and he drowned, he would eventually wash ashore, most likely unrecognizable after days in the water (and since everyone in the same village would likely have the same coloring due to inter-relatedness, hair color wouldn't do it either). You would know that you had found your husband or son to bury if he were wearing the sweater you knit him because you used your own stitches. Maybe your cables would have a right to left twist or you would have an extra branch in the tree of life, or the way the honeycomb stitch was made was your stitch and no-one else's. That's how you would know for certain that your husband or son or brother was dead. Sad, but beautiful, no? Kind of like knitted DNA.
You Can't Make Old Friends
There is such a comfort to being in the company of people who really know you. At least there is for me. With Mr. Movie, the Professor, the Norwegian Valkyrie, Innana, Mr. Studmuffin, Ex-Marine Fred and the like, these are people where I don't have to adopt a persona. They actually know me, and think of me (clearly due to some delusions on their part) as Foilwoman. I believe Mr. Movie, the Professor, Norwegian Valkyrie, and Innana knew me as Foilwoman and knew Foilwoman back in the 1980s when she was created. These people actually think of me as a vibrant and lively person.
Dinner with Mr. Movie was a delight. He hasn't gotten super-funny. He remains a serious, serious guy. And at some level I do wish her were less somber. But he's done some superhero work of his own (right now, as a layperson, he's been trying to save a working class family of his acquaintance from eviction), and there was the comfort of long familiarity. New friends are nice, and I love the excitement, the thrill of the chase, if you will, of finding out about someone new. But nothing beats someone you already know and like. Fortunately, given my status right now, I have a lot of old friends. I'm making new ones too, but only time tells you which friends are destined to be keepers. The kind of friend who babysits on a day's notice, using a vacation day. The kind of friend who stays with you while waiting for the sheriff to arrive and serve the temporary restraining order. A true friend can be found in a new friend, but you're much more likely to have one in an old friend.
I'm very lucky.
Dinner with Mr. Movie was a delight. He hasn't gotten super-funny. He remains a serious, serious guy. And at some level I do wish her were less somber. But he's done some superhero work of his own (right now, as a layperson, he's been trying to save a working class family of his acquaintance from eviction), and there was the comfort of long familiarity. New friends are nice, and I love the excitement, the thrill of the chase, if you will, of finding out about someone new. But nothing beats someone you already know and like. Fortunately, given my status right now, I have a lot of old friends. I'm making new ones too, but only time tells you which friends are destined to be keepers. The kind of friend who babysits on a day's notice, using a vacation day. The kind of friend who stays with you while waiting for the sheriff to arrive and serve the temporary restraining order. A true friend can be found in a new friend, but you're much more likely to have one in an old friend.
I'm very lucky.
December 20, 2005
Books, Movies, Friends, Keeping Busy
I just finished reading Saturday by Ian McEwan, which was quite an interesting read. A very busy day in the life of a very busy man. Somehow it made me think of The Known World, by Edward P. Jones, which I finished reading earlier this year. Two very different authors and two very different books. I'm not quite sure what the common link was that joined the two together in my mind. One (Saturday) is a chronological (mostly) reporting of the events of a single day in a man's life and the memories that pop into his head during that day (that the protagonist is a neurosurgeon makes the awareness, or lack thereof, of memories, emotions, moods, and thought processes adds something to the novel, but isn't the focus of it), and the other (The Known World) is how the actions and relationships made by one man in his life (and the moral choices he makes) ripple through the world around him during his life and after his death.
I was beginning The Secret Life of Bees, but have put that down to read Harper's and to start on The Time Traveller's Wife. I had thought I would be seeing a movie tomorrow night with, you guessed it, Mr. Movie, but given that he and I haven't been in touch much since 1996, he suggested a dinner in a place we could talk to catch up.
That touches me, since Mr. Movie is almost pathologically antisocial. When I invite him to parties, I ask him to take pictures. Aided by his prop, the camera, he then interacts with people much more than he otherwise would. He is much more comfortable discussing cinematography and the movies of Ed Wood, Orson Welles, Federico Fellini, Ingmar Bergman, the Coen brothers, Roger Corman, and Merchant and Ivory than discussing anything human. One (former) acquaintance of mine called Mr. Movie boring. It's more like he's opaque and inaccessible, but doesn't want to be so. Interacting through the gauze of talking about movies protects him.
Last week, preparing for this (past) weekend without the Foilkid and the GaahGirl, I called Mr. Movie and suggested we get together to catch up. I simply assumed that we would go to a movie and chat a bit (his most comfortable conversational gambit). I'm really moved that he is willing to sign up for a full evening of social interaction.
I felt a bit reluctant to call Mr. Movie, not because I didn't think he wanted to see me, but because I have inadvertantly hurt him in the past. I met Mr. Movie before I met PdeFF. All through my first few years dating PdeFF, I would go to movies and dinner with Mr. Movie. He never kissed me goodnight, never so much as touched me. Since I wasn't physically drawn to him, I didn't reflect or repine on the lack of physical contact. I thought "We're friend. It's nice to have male friends without the spectre of sex always making a nuisance of itself requiring that I reject him or he reject me." When I told Mr. Movie that I was marrying PdeFF, he said "I guess we won't be seeing each other any more, then?"
Innana knows Mr. Movie, and knew him then. I chatted with her about this puzzling phrase, and she explained to me (or maybe I was bright, and clued in, but I doubt it) that Mr. Movie had thought we were dating. I don't know your definition of dating, but in my version of it, the people who are doing it desire one another and are trying to determine whether the whole thing is worth the risk. After a few weeks (or months, max) one either says yes or no. If the answer is no, one either stops contact or moves into friendsville. If the answer is yes, well, some physical contact is presumed.
We stayed friends after my marriage, but things were awkward, and I found Mr. Movie frustratingly immobile about his life. Maybe guilt, or just empathy and a bit of pity? I don't know. I do know that we drifted apart (he didn't take a shine to PdeFF, that's for damn sure). I have to be a bit more conscious of everything this time around. I'm thinking we're friends, but I'll pay attention. If I think Mr. Movie thinks we're dating (despite the complete lack of kissing or anything else), I'll try to address the issue.
It's funny, because there are a bunch of movies I really want to see right now. Darwin's Nightmare. Syriana. Pride and Prejudice. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Paradise Now. Munich.
But I'm so far behind on the movie front that I can just go straight to videotape. On Saturday, at Innana's, I finally saw The Blair Witch Project. Next cozy movie for a girl's night in? 28 Days Later, except Innana won't go for that one.
I was beginning The Secret Life of Bees, but have put that down to read Harper's and to start on The Time Traveller's Wife. I had thought I would be seeing a movie tomorrow night with, you guessed it, Mr. Movie, but given that he and I haven't been in touch much since 1996, he suggested a dinner in a place we could talk to catch up.
That touches me, since Mr. Movie is almost pathologically antisocial. When I invite him to parties, I ask him to take pictures. Aided by his prop, the camera, he then interacts with people much more than he otherwise would. He is much more comfortable discussing cinematography and the movies of Ed Wood, Orson Welles, Federico Fellini, Ingmar Bergman, the Coen brothers, Roger Corman, and Merchant and Ivory than discussing anything human. One (former) acquaintance of mine called Mr. Movie boring. It's more like he's opaque and inaccessible, but doesn't want to be so. Interacting through the gauze of talking about movies protects him.
Last week, preparing for this (past) weekend without the Foilkid and the GaahGirl, I called Mr. Movie and suggested we get together to catch up. I simply assumed that we would go to a movie and chat a bit (his most comfortable conversational gambit). I'm really moved that he is willing to sign up for a full evening of social interaction.
I felt a bit reluctant to call Mr. Movie, not because I didn't think he wanted to see me, but because I have inadvertantly hurt him in the past. I met Mr. Movie before I met PdeFF. All through my first few years dating PdeFF, I would go to movies and dinner with Mr. Movie. He never kissed me goodnight, never so much as touched me. Since I wasn't physically drawn to him, I didn't reflect or repine on the lack of physical contact. I thought "We're friend. It's nice to have male friends without the spectre of sex always making a nuisance of itself requiring that I reject him or he reject me." When I told Mr. Movie that I was marrying PdeFF, he said "I guess we won't be seeing each other any more, then?"
Innana knows Mr. Movie, and knew him then. I chatted with her about this puzzling phrase, and she explained to me (or maybe I was bright, and clued in, but I doubt it) that Mr. Movie had thought we were dating. I don't know your definition of dating, but in my version of it, the people who are doing it desire one another and are trying to determine whether the whole thing is worth the risk. After a few weeks (or months, max) one either says yes or no. If the answer is no, one either stops contact or moves into friendsville. If the answer is yes, well, some physical contact is presumed.
We stayed friends after my marriage, but things were awkward, and I found Mr. Movie frustratingly immobile about his life. Maybe guilt, or just empathy and a bit of pity? I don't know. I do know that we drifted apart (he didn't take a shine to PdeFF, that's for damn sure). I have to be a bit more conscious of everything this time around. I'm thinking we're friends, but I'll pay attention. If I think Mr. Movie thinks we're dating (despite the complete lack of kissing or anything else), I'll try to address the issue.
It's funny, because there are a bunch of movies I really want to see right now. Darwin's Nightmare. Syriana. Pride and Prejudice. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Paradise Now. Munich.
But I'm so far behind on the movie front that I can just go straight to videotape. On Saturday, at Innana's, I finally saw The Blair Witch Project. Next cozy movie for a girl's night in? 28 Days Later, except Innana won't go for that one.
December 19, 2005
Family Holidays
I'm pretty much ready for Christmas. With a small portion of the proceeds from the sale of the Subaru, I got a few more presents for the girls. Just little stocking stuffers. My LOS's presents for the girls arrived, as have FoilDad's and FoilMormor and the Second Mates. The tree is up and decorated primarily with ornaments of Innana's and decorations made by the Foilkid. I have advent calendars up, and I am ready. Foilkid is getting pretty hyper. I remember. Patience is something neither she nor I are good at. GaahGirl said, of course, Gaah.
Mancini's
It's dead today in the office. Absolutely no-one is here. So I'm going to correct and omission and write about Mancini's Cafe in Alexandria, Virginia in the Del Ray neighborhood on Mount Vernon Avenue. It's a wonderful Italian bakery, which until fairly recently had counter service for breakfast and lunch. Omelettes, pastries, sandwiches, brownies, good coffee, and the like. The owner/baker (and cook) Barbara Mancini, offered cooking classes (at least one of which was taken by ex-marine Fred). Mancini's recently started offering evening sit-down dining.
Innana and I ate there on Saturday. We had the cliched spinach, artichoke, and cheese dip, except the dip wasn't cliched at Mancini's. It was delicious. Then Innana had salmon in a mustard sauce and I had the veal marsala. This is a neighborhood restaurant. It's not too expensive, and they serve wine but don't have a full bar. There are no pretensions to haute cuisine. Except the food was marvellous. Innana said her salmon was the best she had ever had. My veal marsala was tasty, and it wasn't too sweet, which is often a problem with marsala. It was yummy and scrumptious and a perfect splurge. And dinner for two with 3 glasses of wine (no surprises here, I drank two, Innana one) was about $55. A bargain and delicious.
If you are in Alexandria, or nearby, think about eating at Mancini's. You'll be happy you did.
Innana and I ate there on Saturday. We had the cliched spinach, artichoke, and cheese dip, except the dip wasn't cliched at Mancini's. It was delicious. Then Innana had salmon in a mustard sauce and I had the veal marsala. This is a neighborhood restaurant. It's not too expensive, and they serve wine but don't have a full bar. There are no pretensions to haute cuisine. Except the food was marvellous. Innana said her salmon was the best she had ever had. My veal marsala was tasty, and it wasn't too sweet, which is often a problem with marsala. It was yummy and scrumptious and a perfect splurge. And dinner for two with 3 glasses of wine (no surprises here, I drank two, Innana one) was about $55. A bargain and delicious.
If you are in Alexandria, or nearby, think about eating at Mancini's. You'll be happy you did.
December 18, 2005
More About Me
Yet another "Exercise in Narcissism" or "Profiles in Navel Gazing" or some such nonsense. To the extent my cast of characters is confusing, I have added a handy "Cast of Characters" on the right hand side bar, just below the archives. Just scroll down a bit. As characters appear or reappear, I'll add them. If I use an acronym or nickname you don't recognize, just make a comment, and I'll try and add that acronym or nickname to the cast. I'm not trying to confuse, I'm just trying not to inadvertently identify anyone who might be mortified to be mentioned in this blog.
On to the mortifying stuff. Or the mortification of the flesh, anyway. I'm taking Innana's advice. I'm trying to wear bright colors. I put on red lipstick. I dress up. I call up friends. I go out. I date.
However, and I am about to reveal something very personal here, I have not had sex since early July, except some very unsatisfying (for me) sex with PdeFF in early August. Of course, it takes a heck of a man to be better than none, and my current mateless state is infinitely preferable to being back with PdeFF being told I'm enjoying myself but just don't know it. Or being told that a punch wasn't a punch and didn't hurt me.
But it's funny ironic and weird. Married and potentially adulterous me was a much hotter ticket that regular old single me. Actually, that's not right. As a married woman hoping to just fill in the gaps of what was missing in my marriage, I wasn't looking for the complete package. And I certainly didn't feel too vulnerable. I new I held most of the cards. So I could simply act on physical impulse once I met Handyman and decided he filled the bill. Of course, when his wife got sick and my marriage went truly south, we decided that we shouldn't continue on our path (making me actually like him better).
Now, however, I know I really should take time off. And I'm not rushing into bed. At one point I wanted to, but the guy in question didn't want me (shocking, I know). Or didn't want me enough. Now, I go out and generally don't feel the inclination to pursue things beyond a dinner or two. One guy, Mr. Swinger, told me after going out just a few times, that in his prior marriage, he and his wife had been swingers. Now, I'm not a prude, but that's a bundle of information early on. Further, can you say "disease vector"? That ended it for me. Not discreet. Not safe for me. A bit overreaching.
Mr. Cat did the same. On our third dinner out, he told me about his search for the perfect bed, trying out the different beds of the women he dated. Huh? Not my bed, thank you.
But maybe I'm just wasting everybody's time. I'm scared enough of my own vulnerability that I'm not anxious to get physical, and possibly I look for reasons to flee. The one guy I actually pursued a bit was not really in a position to respond, and maybe that's why I pursued him (except I really did like him and find him smart and attractive).
So today I had a lovely lunch with the Professor, wandering around Tacky Park, and generally enjoying the day. The Professor quoted statements I had made to him back in 1987 (regarding chocolate and politics, two important subjects, we will all agree). I had always thought that the Professor liked me, but wasn't attracted to me. Even today, I didn't feel that heat, that desire that any man who wants you needs to be able to communicate somehow. Now the professor is a native-born U.S. citizen, but his family is from a more restrained culture than that of the mainstream U.S. Nonetheless, desire isn't that hard to sense. I know the Professor really likes me and thinks highly of me, but it's pretty lukewarm.
The same will be true when I get together with Mr. Movie later this week.
So I get the masculine company without the bothersome sex issues. But there's the rub. I want the sex and I miss it. Five months is a long time to do without. Of course, I've gotten some nice kissing and that sort of thing, but really, not quite the same thing. Not at all. What to do?
Yes, if I want sex, I just have to indicate as much in one forum or another (hey, if you can't find it on Craig's List, you probably don't need it), but the problem is, for it to be good for me (and for most women, I assume), any guy won't do. I need someone who will care about me enough to take a lot more time than it will take him. So then I'm back in the relationship game. I really think that bites. Not as badly as our President bites (and not in a good way, either), but still.
So, frustrated, but gun-shy, and living in a police state. At least I cooked some nice food for the Foilkid and the GaahGirl. And the Babysitter is back in town. Yay! Advice? Volunteers? Step right up.
On to the mortifying stuff. Or the mortification of the flesh, anyway. I'm taking Innana's advice. I'm trying to wear bright colors. I put on red lipstick. I dress up. I call up friends. I go out. I date.
However, and I am about to reveal something very personal here, I have not had sex since early July, except some very unsatisfying (for me) sex with PdeFF in early August. Of course, it takes a heck of a man to be better than none, and my current mateless state is infinitely preferable to being back with PdeFF being told I'm enjoying myself but just don't know it. Or being told that a punch wasn't a punch and didn't hurt me.
But it's funny ironic and weird. Married and potentially adulterous me was a much hotter ticket that regular old single me. Actually, that's not right. As a married woman hoping to just fill in the gaps of what was missing in my marriage, I wasn't looking for the complete package. And I certainly didn't feel too vulnerable. I new I held most of the cards. So I could simply act on physical impulse once I met Handyman and decided he filled the bill. Of course, when his wife got sick and my marriage went truly south, we decided that we shouldn't continue on our path (making me actually like him better).
Now, however, I know I really should take time off. And I'm not rushing into bed. At one point I wanted to, but the guy in question didn't want me (shocking, I know). Or didn't want me enough. Now, I go out and generally don't feel the inclination to pursue things beyond a dinner or two. One guy, Mr. Swinger, told me after going out just a few times, that in his prior marriage, he and his wife had been swingers. Now, I'm not a prude, but that's a bundle of information early on. Further, can you say "disease vector"? That ended it for me. Not discreet. Not safe for me. A bit overreaching.
Mr. Cat did the same. On our third dinner out, he told me about his search for the perfect bed, trying out the different beds of the women he dated. Huh? Not my bed, thank you.
But maybe I'm just wasting everybody's time. I'm scared enough of my own vulnerability that I'm not anxious to get physical, and possibly I look for reasons to flee. The one guy I actually pursued a bit was not really in a position to respond, and maybe that's why I pursued him (except I really did like him and find him smart and attractive).
So today I had a lovely lunch with the Professor, wandering around Tacky Park, and generally enjoying the day. The Professor quoted statements I had made to him back in 1987 (regarding chocolate and politics, two important subjects, we will all agree). I had always thought that the Professor liked me, but wasn't attracted to me. Even today, I didn't feel that heat, that desire that any man who wants you needs to be able to communicate somehow. Now the professor is a native-born U.S. citizen, but his family is from a more restrained culture than that of the mainstream U.S. Nonetheless, desire isn't that hard to sense. I know the Professor really likes me and thinks highly of me, but it's pretty lukewarm.
The same will be true when I get together with Mr. Movie later this week.
So I get the masculine company without the bothersome sex issues. But there's the rub. I want the sex and I miss it. Five months is a long time to do without. Of course, I've gotten some nice kissing and that sort of thing, but really, not quite the same thing. Not at all. What to do?
Yes, if I want sex, I just have to indicate as much in one forum or another (hey, if you can't find it on Craig's List, you probably don't need it), but the problem is, for it to be good for me (and for most women, I assume), any guy won't do. I need someone who will care about me enough to take a lot more time than it will take him. So then I'm back in the relationship game. I really think that bites. Not as badly as our President bites (and not in a good way, either), but still.
So, frustrated, but gun-shy, and living in a police state. At least I cooked some nice food for the Foilkid and the GaahGirl. And the Babysitter is back in town. Yay! Advice? Volunteers? Step right up.
Can You Spell Democracy, Dubya?
The New York Times, probably desperately trying to regain its status as the paper of journalistic integrity (or possibly seeking the Watergate-era Washington Post's mantel of vigorous investigative reporting) reported, on Friday, that the President of the United States has been authorizing domestic telephonic spying and wiretaps without court orders (you have to sign on to read the article, but the subscription is free). Mr. Bush asserts that such spying is legal and constitutional. Trust me, it's not. I can assert that I'm a 5'2" perky blonde cheerleader, but no matter how often I make the assertion, no matter how emphatically I make it, I'm still a dark, tall, pissed-off chick who think that Andover, Yale, and Harvard have a lot to apologize for in clearly promoting Dubya well beyond his capacity for moral, logical, or empathetic thought.
It only took the White House six months to reluctantly agree than torture is a bad idea (and it's clear that the U.S. has been handing over detainees to people who don't disdain torture at all). We have secret prisons in Iraq. Our President doesn't know, understand, or respect the Constitution. We wiretap without warrants. We invade preemptively. We manufacture intelligence and lie about it.
Our nation impeached Bill Clinton for lying about getting a blow job. At the time, everyone said, "It's not the sex, it's the lying." Dubya has lied about just about everything relating to his job, he's fucked the Constitution (fortunately, it's no virgin, it's survived the XYZ affair, the first President Adam's Alien & Sedition Act, Andrew Jackson's ignoring the Supreme Court, Richard Nixon, and countless other indignities; it can survive Dubya's unwanted advances, and let's be honest, George W. Bush's two-inch dick can't really do much damage), and he seems to have no understanding of the concept of constitutional rights and liberties, the rule of law, or the idea of checks and balances.
I used to think Bush was simply too stupid to grasp the issues. I still think he's pretty dim (just think of it genetically: he sired Jenna and Barbara, neither young woman a bright intellectual light) and not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He's a few beers short of a six back, a few scoops short of a sundae, a few beans short of the full enchilada. But now I have to accept that my conspiracy theorist acquaintances were right. He has no respect for the laws and documents that created the U.S., he has no respect for the people of this country, he is demeaning our law enforcement personnel by having them perform these totally unconstitutional acts, and he's still and ungly, stupid, mean-spirited guy with an unpleasant smirk.
And he has machismo issues. It must be something about being from Texas, because LBJ had the same issue in Viet Nam. George Carlyn had a great riff about the U.S. not wanting to pull out of Viet Nam, speaking of it in sexual terms. I guess George is worrying about being thought to be a quick squirter. All his macho talk just makes me wonder. It doesn't make me wonder if he is as tough and strong as he is purporting to be. No, it makes me think "Gosh, adequacy is really an issue for this guy." Let me clue him in now. George, quit now. You're not adequate. Intellectually, morally, linguistically, spiritually, empathetically you would have to improved by more than several orders of magnitude to be in the same state as adequate, much less the same zip code.
You have shamed yourself, the nation, and everyone who lives here. Take it from this divorcing, heathen, adulterous-but-way-more-moral-than-you-could-ever-be, slightly tarnished but still decent superheroine. You are a sorry excuse for a human being, much less a U.S. citizen, much less and educated member of our elite, much less our chief executive. Shame on you.
It only took the White House six months to reluctantly agree than torture is a bad idea (and it's clear that the U.S. has been handing over detainees to people who don't disdain torture at all). We have secret prisons in Iraq. Our President doesn't know, understand, or respect the Constitution. We wiretap without warrants. We invade preemptively. We manufacture intelligence and lie about it.
Our nation impeached Bill Clinton for lying about getting a blow job. At the time, everyone said, "It's not the sex, it's the lying." Dubya has lied about just about everything relating to his job, he's fucked the Constitution (fortunately, it's no virgin, it's survived the XYZ affair, the first President Adam's Alien & Sedition Act, Andrew Jackson's ignoring the Supreme Court, Richard Nixon, and countless other indignities; it can survive Dubya's unwanted advances, and let's be honest, George W. Bush's two-inch dick can't really do much damage), and he seems to have no understanding of the concept of constitutional rights and liberties, the rule of law, or the idea of checks and balances.
I used to think Bush was simply too stupid to grasp the issues. I still think he's pretty dim (just think of it genetically: he sired Jenna and Barbara, neither young woman a bright intellectual light) and not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He's a few beers short of a six back, a few scoops short of a sundae, a few beans short of the full enchilada. But now I have to accept that my conspiracy theorist acquaintances were right. He has no respect for the laws and documents that created the U.S., he has no respect for the people of this country, he is demeaning our law enforcement personnel by having them perform these totally unconstitutional acts, and he's still and ungly, stupid, mean-spirited guy with an unpleasant smirk.
And he has machismo issues. It must be something about being from Texas, because LBJ had the same issue in Viet Nam. George Carlyn had a great riff about the U.S. not wanting to pull out of Viet Nam, speaking of it in sexual terms. I guess George is worrying about being thought to be a quick squirter. All his macho talk just makes me wonder. It doesn't make me wonder if he is as tough and strong as he is purporting to be. No, it makes me think "Gosh, adequacy is really an issue for this guy." Let me clue him in now. George, quit now. You're not adequate. Intellectually, morally, linguistically, spiritually, empathetically you would have to improved by more than several orders of magnitude to be in the same state as adequate, much less the same zip code.
You have shamed yourself, the nation, and everyone who lives here. Take it from this divorcing, heathen, adulterous-but-way-more-moral-than-you-could-ever-be, slightly tarnished but still decent superheroine. You are a sorry excuse for a human being, much less a U.S. citizen, much less and educated member of our elite, much less our chief executive. Shame on you.
December 17, 2005
And a Big THANK YOU to Cookie
Supercookie, saving Christmas for the Foilkid and the GaahGirl. My girls are very lucky. The Foilkid is getting the cutest stuffed tiger (because she's such a tiger) sent from England from her Uncle Tony. Who will not be teaching her any British curse words, if he wants to remain in good health. And the GaahGirl will be cuddling up with a cute and cuddly dalmation that is possibly larger than she is (and she is sizable). Thanks, sweetie.
Yippeee! I Sold the Subaru!
And I am very sad to see it go. It's a nice car, and it is now owned by a very nice man. And I have some money. So I put half in the bank, set $200 aside to register the car, set $200 aside to pay the babysitter, did a little additional Christmas shopping for stocking presents for the kids, bought some nice rain boots (usable in snow as well, of course, it really doesn't get that cold here), socks, and tights at Marshalls (total for all items of clothing: $16), and a coffee at Starbucks. I did a good grocery shopping, and still have a little bit extra to take someone out for a nice meal. An admirer? A former would be adulterer? A male colleague who I owe one?
Heck no. I'm having dinner tonight with MVBFITWWW, Innana. We were going to have dinner in at her condolet, but since the car is no longer looming, we're going to an inexpensive but nice Italian place near her house and having a nice meal. It's probably the only time this year or next I'll be treating someone for more than coffee, and it should be Innana.
So a little, tiny splurge, and then back to budget-conscious living. I'm actually enjoying the challenge of finding the right stuff at a decent price that living on a tight budget requires. I'll be happier when PdeFF is out of the house and it is sold (I hope). But finding the right bargains quickly (I hate shopping) is very satisfying. More satisfying than just marching into Nordstroms or Saks and finding something nice and paying for it. And grocery shopping on a budget is actually nice for someone who likes to cook. Tomorrow I'm cooking for the week ahead: veal and ground turkey meatloaf. Roast chicken (with walnut stuffing). Gravy. Maybe a stew, but that will probably be next weekend. So meatloaf and roast chicken. And cream gravy (I learned how to make that from DOL--Department of Louise, Innana's mom).
Tomorrow I'm also seeing another former colleague and friend (still a friend, but I had lost touch with him for a while when we both were gone from DC) who just bought a house in Tacky Park (actually, Takoma Park, a nice, hippyish neighborhood). He's a former academic, now living the professional life in DC. Like most of my male friends (as opposed to potential swains or actual lovers, not that I have any right now, but hey), he's a shy, cerebral guy. I wonder why: Mr. Studmuffin, Mr. Movie (a friend I haven't mentioned, but will soon, since I'm getting together with him next week), and the Professor (the friend I'm seeing tomorrow), are all shy men. Mr. Studmuffin and the Professor are both funny, with wacky senses of humor, but self-effacing. Mr. Movie is more earnest and serious, but also self-deprecating and reserved, just like the other two. Am I such a loud and boisterous person that the people around me all have to be subdued? I don't think so, but I am seeing a trend. Or maybe I just liven things up for quieter people. I'll aski Innana tonight. After I get some limoncello into her and we are watching a good movie.
But I've seriously got to finish the Foilkid's sweater for Christmas. After the back (almost done) I have to do the sleeves. I can finish the sleeves in a week. Foilkid will like her other presents better now, but when she's grown I hope she'll remember her handknit sweaters. One of the hats Foilkid wears now is a brightly colored hat knit in the Lapland style. It was knit for Foilmormor by her mother (my Mormor) back in 1942 or so. I wore it when I was a little girl too. I have to add to the chain.
Heck no. I'm having dinner tonight with MVBFITWWW, Innana. We were going to have dinner in at her condolet, but since the car is no longer looming, we're going to an inexpensive but nice Italian place near her house and having a nice meal. It's probably the only time this year or next I'll be treating someone for more than coffee, and it should be Innana.
So a little, tiny splurge, and then back to budget-conscious living. I'm actually enjoying the challenge of finding the right stuff at a decent price that living on a tight budget requires. I'll be happier when PdeFF is out of the house and it is sold (I hope). But finding the right bargains quickly (I hate shopping) is very satisfying. More satisfying than just marching into Nordstroms or Saks and finding something nice and paying for it. And grocery shopping on a budget is actually nice for someone who likes to cook. Tomorrow I'm cooking for the week ahead: veal and ground turkey meatloaf. Roast chicken (with walnut stuffing). Gravy. Maybe a stew, but that will probably be next weekend. So meatloaf and roast chicken. And cream gravy (I learned how to make that from DOL--Department of Louise, Innana's mom).
Tomorrow I'm also seeing another former colleague and friend (still a friend, but I had lost touch with him for a while when we both were gone from DC) who just bought a house in Tacky Park (actually, Takoma Park, a nice, hippyish neighborhood). He's a former academic, now living the professional life in DC. Like most of my male friends (as opposed to potential swains or actual lovers, not that I have any right now, but hey), he's a shy, cerebral guy. I wonder why: Mr. Studmuffin, Mr. Movie (a friend I haven't mentioned, but will soon, since I'm getting together with him next week), and the Professor (the friend I'm seeing tomorrow), are all shy men. Mr. Studmuffin and the Professor are both funny, with wacky senses of humor, but self-effacing. Mr. Movie is more earnest and serious, but also self-deprecating and reserved, just like the other two. Am I such a loud and boisterous person that the people around me all have to be subdued? I don't think so, but I am seeing a trend. Or maybe I just liven things up for quieter people. I'll aski Innana tonight. After I get some limoncello into her and we are watching a good movie.
But I've seriously got to finish the Foilkid's sweater for Christmas. After the back (almost done) I have to do the sleeves. I can finish the sleeves in a week. Foilkid will like her other presents better now, but when she's grown I hope she'll remember her handknit sweaters. One of the hats Foilkid wears now is a brightly colored hat knit in the Lapland style. It was knit for Foilmormor by her mother (my Mormor) back in 1942 or so. I wore it when I was a little girl too. I have to add to the chain.
December 16, 2005
Clarification of Sorts
I haven't been that clear of late, regarding Mr. Cat, Mr. Swinger, lunch with my former assistant, dinner with my former colleague, and many other events. Someone told me it's hard to keep track of characters in my life, but I'm not trying to make other people identifiable. I'm trying to make sure they aren't identifiable. So I'm sorry if it gets confusing. I'll try to clarify later this weekend, without identifying anyone.
Sharing Food With Friends
Of course, it's best when you make the food yourself, but a nice meal out with a friend is a friend in and of itself. Today, I had lunch with one former colleague and dinner with another. The first a young man who once was my assistant, and now has the position I held at that company. It's nice to see how he has grown in confidence and skill. And we genuinely like one another. He and his partner are doing well.
The second, a professional colleague, Kevin, who I worked with Boston is in town interviewing. He took me to dinner at Asia Nora which was scrumptious. I hadn't heard from him, except for a postcard from Tangiers, in quite a while. Now he may be in the same city again. Asia Nora has the most delicious and additive free food in town.
During dinner, we talked about the last year. Kevin's mother has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and he is understandably stressed. I shared my NSLOS and PdeFF expereiences that might might be helpful in dealing with someone not entirely sane. If we hadn't been eating food and bonding I never would have learned about Kevin's mother. It's the food that makes you share more than you intended. Tired. Good night.
The second, a professional colleague, Kevin, who I worked with Boston is in town interviewing. He took me to dinner at Asia Nora which was scrumptious. I hadn't heard from him, except for a postcard from Tangiers, in quite a while. Now he may be in the same city again. Asia Nora has the most delicious and additive free food in town.
During dinner, we talked about the last year. Kevin's mother has recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, and he is understandably stressed. I shared my NSLOS and PdeFF expereiences that might might be helpful in dealing with someone not entirely sane. If we hadn't been eating food and bonding I never would have learned about Kevin's mother. It's the food that makes you share more than you intended. Tired. Good night.
December 14, 2005
Useless v. Useful
As you may know, I do not despise Uselessness, particularly in men who admit to this as a predominant trait. I find it endearing. What I do find disturbing is women who seek to achieve this state. Admit it. We just aren't programmed to sit in the Barcalounger with the remote in one hand and a beer in the other.
I can't sit still that long. I have to do something. Cook something. Knit something. Hit something. But tonight, while waiting for Blogger to recover and accept the post I wrote three hours ago (the previous post), I did my hair in anticipation of multiple social engagements tomorrow and started pondering why everything that is supposedly sexy or designed to indicate that a woman is making herself attractive (read: possibly sexually available) is also designed to decrease overall physical functionality. High heels: it's harder to walk. Much harder. I don't think it's like Chinese foot-binding or anything, but it is a less functional stride when wearing high heels. Okay, high heels also make damn sure I'm taller than the guy in question (a good thing) unless he's in the NBA, but that only works for 5'11" me, not your average gal. Painted nails: you can't cook, knit, play the guitar, or even dial a phone if you've also grown the nails long. I never get to do my fingernails, so my nail painting seduction arsenal is limited to toenails. So you can't walk comfortably or do manual work of most kinds. Long hair, which lots of guys seem to find attractive is cumbersome.
Are we doing this to be more appealing to otherwise Useless men? Seem more of their ilk? It's a mystery. Men don't increase thei appeal by appearing incompetent, or do they? The whole I'm-a-little-boy-and-I-need-you-to-cook-for-me thing? That doesn't attract me to begin with, but I've been suckered before (see PdeFF).
I can't sit still that long. I have to do something. Cook something. Knit something. Hit something. But tonight, while waiting for Blogger to recover and accept the post I wrote three hours ago (the previous post), I did my hair in anticipation of multiple social engagements tomorrow and started pondering why everything that is supposedly sexy or designed to indicate that a woman is making herself attractive (read: possibly sexually available) is also designed to decrease overall physical functionality. High heels: it's harder to walk. Much harder. I don't think it's like Chinese foot-binding or anything, but it is a less functional stride when wearing high heels. Okay, high heels also make damn sure I'm taller than the guy in question (a good thing) unless he's in the NBA, but that only works for 5'11" me, not your average gal. Painted nails: you can't cook, knit, play the guitar, or even dial a phone if you've also grown the nails long. I never get to do my fingernails, so my nail painting seduction arsenal is limited to toenails. So you can't walk comfortably or do manual work of most kinds. Long hair, which lots of guys seem to find attractive is cumbersome.
Are we doing this to be more appealing to otherwise Useless men? Seem more of their ilk? It's a mystery. Men don't increase thei appeal by appearing incompetent, or do they? The whole I'm-a-little-boy-and-I-need-you-to-cook-for-me thing? That doesn't attract me to begin with, but I've been suckered before (see PdeFF).
Out of the Dark
I don't have a lot of Christmas season plans. I did have tickets to the Christmas Eve services at the National Cathedral (a truly beautiful institution, both physically and spiritually) but could not use them as my offspring are not quite well-behaved enough for such solemnity. Foilkid would probably manage fine but Gaah Girl would most likely emit a large "Gaah!" plus a chortle in the middle of a reading. Maybe even two "Gaah!"s. Good doobie that I am, I will give the tickets to Innana (who loves all things British, including Anglican-type religiosity) and thus guarantee myself a sad Innana-less Christmas Eve.
Cousin Helen will have a Christmas dinner (she's a better woman than I am!) and my kids and her kids will run amok, or since we're Scandinavian, go beserk. Little beserker children (including the Gaah Girl, growling like a bear) terrorizing the neighbors. It's the Christmas spirit.
I'm not a believer in the actual Christmas story. And enough of Christianity is associated with anti-semitism, pograms, prejudice, and other lovely examples of how hateful we can be that I just embrace the season without the dogma, in a pagan (and, of course, Scandinavian, sense). We're soon going to be coming out of the dark, the world will be reborn.
We got a tree last weekend with FoilMormor and the Second Mate. Foilkid made most of the decorations (paper chains, paper people holding hands, Danish Christmas hearts, snowflakes) and Innana brought the others (thank you, MVBFITWWW). We made cookies to send to cousins. Foilkid is opening the Advent Calendar Innana bought her at the Danish Christmas Fair and the Advent Calendars my Little Older Sister (LOS) gave Foilkid and GaahGirl. This year the holiday seems very fitting for me. In a pagan sense, out of the dark and I am reborn. And the world will be new again, even though I will not be.
I'm practicing "Once in Royal David's City" arranged for classical guitar. That's a good thing. I'm almost done with Foilkid's green/blue sweater. Foilkid and GaahGirl are with their father for the next five days, but Foilkid has been rehearsed in dialing my number (cellphone) and has been instructed that she can call me any time for any reason. I got presents wrapped tonight, and I'm now going to get ready for a busy social day tomorrow (lunch and dinner with former colleagues). More later. I'm in a blogging mood.
Cousin Helen will have a Christmas dinner (she's a better woman than I am!) and my kids and her kids will run amok, or since we're Scandinavian, go beserk. Little beserker children (including the Gaah Girl, growling like a bear) terrorizing the neighbors. It's the Christmas spirit.
I'm not a believer in the actual Christmas story. And enough of Christianity is associated with anti-semitism, pograms, prejudice, and other lovely examples of how hateful we can be that I just embrace the season without the dogma, in a pagan (and, of course, Scandinavian, sense). We're soon going to be coming out of the dark, the world will be reborn.
We got a tree last weekend with FoilMormor and the Second Mate. Foilkid made most of the decorations (paper chains, paper people holding hands, Danish Christmas hearts, snowflakes) and Innana brought the others (thank you, MVBFITWWW). We made cookies to send to cousins. Foilkid is opening the Advent Calendar Innana bought her at the Danish Christmas Fair and the Advent Calendars my Little Older Sister (LOS) gave Foilkid and GaahGirl. This year the holiday seems very fitting for me. In a pagan sense, out of the dark and I am reborn. And the world will be new again, even though I will not be.
I'm practicing "Once in Royal David's City" arranged for classical guitar. That's a good thing. I'm almost done with Foilkid's green/blue sweater. Foilkid and GaahGirl are with their father for the next five days, but Foilkid has been rehearsed in dialing my number (cellphone) and has been instructed that she can call me any time for any reason. I got presents wrapped tonight, and I'm now going to get ready for a busy social day tomorrow (lunch and dinner with former colleagues). More later. I'm in a blogging mood.
December 13, 2005
Mr. Studmuffin -- It Really Is Macho to Change a Diaper
Mr. Studmuffin was a neighbor of mine back in 1985. He lived in the flat upstairs from Innana and my flat with an insane and moderately stupid man. Mr. Studmuffin is my beloved in so many ways. He has a wacky sense of humor that is self-deprecating, kind to others, and just plain silly. He once dressed up as a hibiscus for a Halloween party. He once went out for chocolate chips in the middle of the night because I needed them. I wish he had a beloved, but he doesn't, and he doesn't want one.
He would tell you that he is an unprepossessing, glasses-wearing book-editor. And in his mortal disguise, perhaps he is. But as the uber-babysitter Mr. Studmuffin (actually, that's his superhero persona for rescuing female friends from functions to which they need to bring a date, but I'm not giving him two blog-identities, so he remains Mr. Studmuffin when babysitting) really is, he can leap small leggo buildings in a single bound. He's faster than a running toddler intent on toppling the Christmas tree. He has enough energy to outlast a hyper six-year old. He is, in short super. And a superhero to me.
He took a vacation day today (he has been with his employer for 20+ years and has beaucoup de vacation leave) so that I didn't go into leave arrears on a new job. I told him my situation, and he requested and got leave to help me out. Just like that. And the Foilkid and GaahGirl both had great times. As he was putting on his hiking boots before heading out after his adventures in babysitting, he had to climb out from under the increasingly frantic hugs of both of my daughters.
Feats of heroism by Mr. Studmuffin: (1) He helped Foilkid remove all the pillows from all chairs, couches, and beds to make a "swimming pool" into which Foilkid and GaahGirl could dive without waking the neighbors. (2) He helped turn (magically) a quilt into a surfboard so that Foilkid could teach GaahGirl how to surf (on the planet delusional, but that's okay, Foilkid is 6 and has a good imagination). (3) He got GaahGirl tired enough so that she was out before 8 pm. (4) He ordered pizza. (5) He was cheerful and happy when I got home. (6) He handled diapers without complaint. Nothing is more macho than the ability to face down a diaper.
I think Mr. Studmuffin will get the previously-made-for PdeFF sweater. He's a similar build to PdeFF. It should fit.
He would tell you that he is an unprepossessing, glasses-wearing book-editor. And in his mortal disguise, perhaps he is. But as the uber-babysitter Mr. Studmuffin (actually, that's his superhero persona for rescuing female friends from functions to which they need to bring a date, but I'm not giving him two blog-identities, so he remains Mr. Studmuffin when babysitting) really is, he can leap small leggo buildings in a single bound. He's faster than a running toddler intent on toppling the Christmas tree. He has enough energy to outlast a hyper six-year old. He is, in short super. And a superhero to me.
He took a vacation day today (he has been with his employer for 20+ years and has beaucoup de vacation leave) so that I didn't go into leave arrears on a new job. I told him my situation, and he requested and got leave to help me out. Just like that. And the Foilkid and GaahGirl both had great times. As he was putting on his hiking boots before heading out after his adventures in babysitting, he had to climb out from under the increasingly frantic hugs of both of my daughters.
Feats of heroism by Mr. Studmuffin: (1) He helped Foilkid remove all the pillows from all chairs, couches, and beds to make a "swimming pool" into which Foilkid and GaahGirl could dive without waking the neighbors. (2) He helped turn (magically) a quilt into a surfboard so that Foilkid could teach GaahGirl how to surf (on the planet delusional, but that's okay, Foilkid is 6 and has a good imagination). (3) He got GaahGirl tired enough so that she was out before 8 pm. (4) He ordered pizza. (5) He was cheerful and happy when I got home. (6) He handled diapers without complaint. Nothing is more macho than the ability to face down a diaper.
I think Mr. Studmuffin will get the previously-made-for PdeFF sweater. He's a similar build to PdeFF. It should fit.
December 12, 2005
Old Home Week (Or Something Like That)
One very nice thing about having made it through about half of this mortal coil is that one can appreciate old friends and renewed friendships. While a lot of the dinners out etc. in the last six months have been remnants of my foray into online dating this spring and summer (Yes, it's the gift that keeps on giving -- guys stay horny. Given their problems in this area, you wonder why Viagra is such a big hit. Really, if everyone is having so much trouble getting sex, medicine to get a guy aroused just seems like a bit of an unnecessary embellishment.), I've also had a lot of contact from people I've been out of touch with for a while. This week is a case in point.
Before going back to graduate school to become and overpaid professional, I worked in two jobs similar to my current position. After getting my graduate degree I worked at a professional services firm for five years. Tomorrow I am having lunch with a former colleague who now has my pre-grad school job 2 job. She rented my condo for a while after replacing me when I moved on to bigger and better things. On Thursday, I'm lunching with my former assistant from my pre-grad school job 1 job. He now has the position I had at job 1. So despite the career trauma of this year, I'm getting reinforcement that I was a valued colleague, boss, and employee, because job-1 former assistant only knows where I am because the information was forwarded to him by another former colleague. And then I'm getting taken out to dinner by a guy (10 years younger than me, hee!) who I used to work with at the post grad-school job who has stayed in touch and now is here in DC interviewing. The nicest thing is these two guys and one gal don't know about all the trauma in my life (well, one probably does through the grapevine, but the guy here on the interview was in Tangiers. I don't think he knows.) and will just be looking for general me silliness. Or so I hope.
Before going back to graduate school to become and overpaid professional, I worked in two jobs similar to my current position. After getting my graduate degree I worked at a professional services firm for five years. Tomorrow I am having lunch with a former colleague who now has my pre-grad school job 2 job. She rented my condo for a while after replacing me when I moved on to bigger and better things. On Thursday, I'm lunching with my former assistant from my pre-grad school job 1 job. He now has the position I had at job 1. So despite the career trauma of this year, I'm getting reinforcement that I was a valued colleague, boss, and employee, because job-1 former assistant only knows where I am because the information was forwarded to him by another former colleague. And then I'm getting taken out to dinner by a guy (10 years younger than me, hee!) who I used to work with at the post grad-school job who has stayed in touch and now is here in DC interviewing. The nicest thing is these two guys and one gal don't know about all the trauma in my life (well, one probably does through the grapevine, but the guy here on the interview was in Tangiers. I don't think he knows.) and will just be looking for general me silliness. Or so I hope.
December 11, 2005
How the Heck Do You Sell A Car -- Early 90s Subaru?
I'm quite frustrated by my good fortune (bad luck just seems to make me grateful for the good in my life, so this is a logical reversal of fortune). Big Bob, my father's (the Foildad's) brother, gave me a 1996 Oldsmobile with less than 20,000 miles on it. Gave it. No strings. So I have to sell the early 90s Subaru from FoilMormor (with 183,000 or so miles on it). The Subaru is the more fun vehicle. The Oldsmobile is a grammymobile. And I listed the Subaru on Craiglist for a low price, got only a few responses, and haven't gotten an offer. It's in good shape. I'm not asking a lot ($1,500, for a car in good shape that drives, for crissakes).
And I have to register the Olds. I don't have the time or energy. I have offspring to chortle at, a job to do, cookies to cook, and a warm bath awaiting. Doesn't anybody want to pay less than two grand for a good car? And it's cute. It's a Subaru. And I need the money. So here I am complaining that in the course of three months, I have been given two cars. Ah, the inconvenience and trauma that is my life. I think it's time to stop whinging now. But someone, email me with an offer. Thank you.
I should be flattered. When I listed my 44-year old self online, I got lots of interest. But this totally deserving vehicle? No takers. Quel dommage. Its feelings are going to get hurt. It's a nice car. It deserves more interest.
And I have to register the Olds. I don't have the time or energy. I have offspring to chortle at, a job to do, cookies to cook, and a warm bath awaiting. Doesn't anybody want to pay less than two grand for a good car? And it's cute. It's a Subaru. And I need the money. So here I am complaining that in the course of three months, I have been given two cars. Ah, the inconvenience and trauma that is my life. I think it's time to stop whinging now. But someone, email me with an offer. Thank you.
I should be flattered. When I listed my 44-year old self online, I got lots of interest. But this totally deserving vehicle? No takers. Quel dommage. Its feelings are going to get hurt. It's a nice car. It deserves more interest.
December 10, 2005
A Good Boss
I'll probably have to eat these words at some point in the future, but not today. My boss really supported me on a couple of issues, one of which is truly office politics (at which I suck, big time) and the other is just an employee relations issue. I can't really discuss the first issue except to say that my boss kicked the backside of a person who was trying to pull rank and abuse me a bit (not really, and it was nothing I couldn't handle, but it sure was nice not to expend energy on a fight with a useless fribble of a human and his ideas about rank and worth). For the second, Friday afternoon, after trying desperately to line up child care that lasted all day for some days next week, I went to tell my boss I would need to leave early two days next week. I'll be borrowing leave, which needs to be approved, and I hate doing this just a month into a new job.
Her response: "Of course you have to be home with your children. Isn't this why you left the rat race of [the similar, but much more workaholic environment where I used to earn lots of money]? Don't worry about it." I've been a working mother for six years now. That is the first time I have asked for kid-related time off to which the response didn't include lots of hemming and hawing and "are you sure you can't make other arrangements?" So I'm feeling pretty good about this job.
Her response: "Of course you have to be home with your children. Isn't this why you left the rat race of [the similar, but much more workaholic environment where I used to earn lots of money]? Don't worry about it." I've been a working mother for six years now. That is the first time I have asked for kid-related time off to which the response didn't include lots of hemming and hawing and "are you sure you can't make other arrangements?" So I'm feeling pretty good about this job.
December 8, 2005
Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover
While I'm waiting for back up child care requests to be responded to and options to finalize, since I'm in a crisis (AGAIN), I'm going to be blogging up a storm. And what better to right about than sexual or dating etiquette. Our issue of the day: how to reject someone. Or, considering it from the golden rule perspective, how would I best like to be rejected.
The short answer is, not at all, thank you. But that option isn't on the menu. Everyone gets kicked in the teeth by an object of her affections once, twice, or three times or more. Everybody gets to wonder whether the loved one didn't receive the messages to which she isn't replying.
There are a number of philosophies about how to reject someone. There is avoidance: simply not responding or avoiding an explicit response. There is explaining exactly why you can't continue in a relationship in way more detail that even the most dedicated masochist would want to here about. There is bluntly saying: "This isn't going anywhere" or "This is over." There's the dump him by treating him so badly he'll flee (surprisingly ineffective). There is the classic "Let's be friends" route.
Let's look at the options and come up with a game plan. We can even diagram our moves. Before we get into our rejection strategies, we must consider milieu. Do not break up in the bedroom, the kitchen, or really anywhere else in your house. Bedroom: do I need to explain this? Kitchen: too many sharp objects. Really. In a private residence: too private. Especially if you are breaking up with someone larger than you. Not as much a problem for me as it is for most women, but most men are bigger and stronger than most women. And they have all that testosterone floating around to help them get really, really angy. So, someplace reasonably public, but where one can talk quietly, but where one can escape quickly. I.e., don't break up in a sit-down restaurant with a wine list and maitre d'. A coffee shop will do nicely. Pick a secluded corner. Remember, somebody shouting at you in public might embarrass you a bit. Someone shouting at you in private might then hit you. Or more.
Now that that is covered, I'll look at the various choices.
Avoidance: simply not responding or avoiding an explicit response.
I've done this. I think we all have. Sometimes it's just cowardice, sometimes it's wisdom. Some people can accept without explanation that would-be relationships can end for no good reason. You had originally felt a spark, but it's gone, and your rejectee can accept that. These people are fine with avoidance. But others can be deeply hurt by it. I use a three call/three message rule. Basically, if I get three "no thank yous", without the other person planning to do something with me, I assume it's over. However, if the person you are rejecting is vulnerable, this is a very bad strategy.
There is explaining exactly why you can't continue in a relationship in way more detail that even the most dedicated masochist would want to here about.
This is the curse of the whole "honesty is the best policy" die-hards. All the other person really needs to know is that you aren't looking for that kind of a relationship. Explaining that the dandruff, the halitosis, the poor spelling, the ordering of sweet and sour pork (really, Innana told me a friend of hers once rejected a guy for eating that, which the friend considered "too working class": we decided the friend was too shallow and moronic) means rejection. Or going into lengthy dialectical discussion of the "relationship" how it has evolved, mutated, died, and become extinct and now there you both are, excavating the totally eviscerated and calcified fossil. No good comes of this, unless both parties are philosophy majors or something like that and would actually prefer to sit around and dissect almost non-existent feelings and events rather than expereience new events and emotions. Narcissistic, often hurtful, and a damn waste of time. Just say no to meaningless psychobabble.
There is bluntly saying: "This isn't going anywhere" or "This is over." I don't like this one when it happens to me, but it's clear, to the point, understandable, and relatively quick to recover from (if dating; not if your spouse says it to you after years of marriage. That hurts, I think.)
There's the dump him by treating him so badly he'll flee (surprisingly ineffective). I've tried this. Apparently any person who inspires this kind of rejection strategy is a pretty tenacious sort. Try a blunt statement insteadl.
There is the classic "Let's be friends" route. This is the clearest sign that I've changed. This is actually my favorite (as the person being rejected) rejection. If I like a man well enough to date him, I certainly would like him well enough to be friends with him. If used euphemistically (in lieu of "It's over"), this can be a cruel rejection approach. But if one certainly wants to be friends with one's now-former inamorata, this works. I'm not as good at using this strategy. For me, being a friend is a much higher standard than being a date. But if I truly like someone but just can't desire them, "let's be friends" works for me.
The short answer is, not at all, thank you. But that option isn't on the menu. Everyone gets kicked in the teeth by an object of her affections once, twice, or three times or more. Everybody gets to wonder whether the loved one didn't receive the messages to which she isn't replying.
There are a number of philosophies about how to reject someone. There is avoidance: simply not responding or avoiding an explicit response. There is explaining exactly why you can't continue in a relationship in way more detail that even the most dedicated masochist would want to here about. There is bluntly saying: "This isn't going anywhere" or "This is over." There's the dump him by treating him so badly he'll flee (surprisingly ineffective). There is the classic "Let's be friends" route.
Let's look at the options and come up with a game plan. We can even diagram our moves. Before we get into our rejection strategies, we must consider milieu. Do not break up in the bedroom, the kitchen, or really anywhere else in your house. Bedroom: do I need to explain this? Kitchen: too many sharp objects. Really. In a private residence: too private. Especially if you are breaking up with someone larger than you. Not as much a problem for me as it is for most women, but most men are bigger and stronger than most women. And they have all that testosterone floating around to help them get really, really angy. So, someplace reasonably public, but where one can talk quietly, but where one can escape quickly. I.e., don't break up in a sit-down restaurant with a wine list and maitre d'. A coffee shop will do nicely. Pick a secluded corner. Remember, somebody shouting at you in public might embarrass you a bit. Someone shouting at you in private might then hit you. Or more.
Now that that is covered, I'll look at the various choices.
Avoidance: simply not responding or avoiding an explicit response.
I've done this. I think we all have. Sometimes it's just cowardice, sometimes it's wisdom. Some people can accept without explanation that would-be relationships can end for no good reason. You had originally felt a spark, but it's gone, and your rejectee can accept that. These people are fine with avoidance. But others can be deeply hurt by it. I use a three call/three message rule. Basically, if I get three "no thank yous", without the other person planning to do something with me, I assume it's over. However, if the person you are rejecting is vulnerable, this is a very bad strategy.
There is explaining exactly why you can't continue in a relationship in way more detail that even the most dedicated masochist would want to here about.
This is the curse of the whole "honesty is the best policy" die-hards. All the other person really needs to know is that you aren't looking for that kind of a relationship. Explaining that the dandruff, the halitosis, the poor spelling, the ordering of sweet and sour pork (really, Innana told me a friend of hers once rejected a guy for eating that, which the friend considered "too working class": we decided the friend was too shallow and moronic) means rejection. Or going into lengthy dialectical discussion of the "relationship" how it has evolved, mutated, died, and become extinct and now there you both are, excavating the totally eviscerated and calcified fossil. No good comes of this, unless both parties are philosophy majors or something like that and would actually prefer to sit around and dissect almost non-existent feelings and events rather than expereience new events and emotions. Narcissistic, often hurtful, and a damn waste of time. Just say no to meaningless psychobabble.
There is bluntly saying: "This isn't going anywhere" or "This is over." I don't like this one when it happens to me, but it's clear, to the point, understandable, and relatively quick to recover from (if dating; not if your spouse says it to you after years of marriage. That hurts, I think.)
There's the dump him by treating him so badly he'll flee (surprisingly ineffective). I've tried this. Apparently any person who inspires this kind of rejection strategy is a pretty tenacious sort. Try a blunt statement insteadl.
There is the classic "Let's be friends" route. This is the clearest sign that I've changed. This is actually my favorite (as the person being rejected) rejection. If I like a man well enough to date him, I certainly would like him well enough to be friends with him. If used euphemistically (in lieu of "It's over"), this can be a cruel rejection approach. But if one certainly wants to be friends with one's now-former inamorata, this works. I'm not as good at using this strategy. For me, being a friend is a much higher standard than being a date. But if I truly like someone but just can't desire them, "let's be friends" works for me.
Having a Family Under an Administration that Claims to Have Family Values, but Really Doesn't Value Families
Never say things "can't get any worse", because they always can. Never say "I can't take any more" because you always can. You won't like it, but unless the "worse" or "more" involves a lead injection or some type of severe stabbing or puncture wound, you're going to survive it. Or you could give up, but then the universe or the evil deity or the enemies conspiring against you would have won.
That's probably why, even though I suffer from pretty severe depression at times, I have never, ever contemplated suicide. I've told Innana this when I was in a deep depression and she was trying to figure out if I was going to do something, as she so tactfully put it "that everyone else would regret." I responded "Nope, I had never contemplated doing such a thing. Then "they" would have won." And that wasn't (and isn't) going to happen on my watch. Maybe some weakling, but not me.
Yesterday, I was feeling pretty certain that I was at the end of my rope. I have to do so many logistical things. My job is going well, but I am exhausted dealing with banks, lawyers, health plans, insane spouses, and everything else. I really need to tackle some things and just am not up to it.
So this morning, I got up, and wore a red top (always cheers me up), put on red lipstick, and got ready to face the day. I felt some renewed sense of purpose. That's when everything goes to shit.
My babysitter called me early this afternoon. She comes from a culture of extended family and big family obligations. Her aunt died and she has to travel to the funeral next week. Great. I'm not in a position to tell her she can't go (she could refuse to come back, you know?) and anyway, that would be the wrong thing to do. But that does mean I need to line up day care for next week. And afterschool pick up for the Foilkid Tuesday through Friday (Monday is late afterschool activities, so I can just pick her up from school). So I've been on the phone since then, trying to line things up. I have no leave accrued yet, and I used a half day last week on GaahGirl's well-baby check.
The babysitter that PdeFF fired without any reason has an afternoon job, and she is available from 7 to 3 on Monday and Wednesday. Mr. Studmuffin (he's my hero) is taking a day off work (he has beaucoup de leave) to babysit the GaahGirl and pick the Foilkid up at school on Tuesday. The girls go to their father's on Wednesday evening, so all I need is someone to stay with the GaahGirl from 3 to 5:30 on Monday, and the same as well as pick the Foilkid up after school on Wednesday. Or I'll request some advance leave for partial days on both days. Doable. In a pinch, I'll take GaahGirl to the office with me. She's cute. She'll be a big hit.
Is there any emergency day care center in the nation's capital? Not that I can find. When this happens, you're on your own. Family values. Pah. Oh, DC area readers, nows the time to show up, btw. If you have a back up babysitter or the like, let me know about it.
More blogging about something lighthearted later. If I get in that frame of mind.
That's probably why, even though I suffer from pretty severe depression at times, I have never, ever contemplated suicide. I've told Innana this when I was in a deep depression and she was trying to figure out if I was going to do something, as she so tactfully put it "that everyone else would regret." I responded "Nope, I had never contemplated doing such a thing. Then "they" would have won." And that wasn't (and isn't) going to happen on my watch. Maybe some weakling, but not me.
Yesterday, I was feeling pretty certain that I was at the end of my rope. I have to do so many logistical things. My job is going well, but I am exhausted dealing with banks, lawyers, health plans, insane spouses, and everything else. I really need to tackle some things and just am not up to it.
So this morning, I got up, and wore a red top (always cheers me up), put on red lipstick, and got ready to face the day. I felt some renewed sense of purpose. That's when everything goes to shit.
My babysitter called me early this afternoon. She comes from a culture of extended family and big family obligations. Her aunt died and she has to travel to the funeral next week. Great. I'm not in a position to tell her she can't go (she could refuse to come back, you know?) and anyway, that would be the wrong thing to do. But that does mean I need to line up day care for next week. And afterschool pick up for the Foilkid Tuesday through Friday (Monday is late afterschool activities, so I can just pick her up from school). So I've been on the phone since then, trying to line things up. I have no leave accrued yet, and I used a half day last week on GaahGirl's well-baby check.
The babysitter that PdeFF fired without any reason has an afternoon job, and she is available from 7 to 3 on Monday and Wednesday. Mr. Studmuffin (he's my hero) is taking a day off work (he has beaucoup de leave) to babysit the GaahGirl and pick the Foilkid up at school on Tuesday. The girls go to their father's on Wednesday evening, so all I need is someone to stay with the GaahGirl from 3 to 5:30 on Monday, and the same as well as pick the Foilkid up after school on Wednesday. Or I'll request some advance leave for partial days on both days. Doable. In a pinch, I'll take GaahGirl to the office with me. She's cute. She'll be a big hit.
Is there any emergency day care center in the nation's capital? Not that I can find. When this happens, you're on your own. Family values. Pah. Oh, DC area readers, nows the time to show up, btw. If you have a back up babysitter or the like, let me know about it.
More blogging about something lighthearted later. If I get in that frame of mind.
December 7, 2005
Missing Muse & Four Chicks Talk About Sex
Muse APB
I'm just not feeling much like writing lately. My muse has gone missing. It's probably just that I'm finally coming down from the adrenaline rush of getting everything taken care of and am now sitting down and dealing with the gravity of the situation in which I find myself. No amount of flirting is going to take care of the real problems confronting me (spousal, financial, future planning, credit rating, blah-blah-blah). To quote the Travelling Wilburys I've been down and made a mess "but I'll clean it up myself I guess"*, and that's the way it's supposed to be.
At the same time, even if I will be eating tuna noodle casserole and red beans and rice (two cheap, cheap meals, for those who don't know) for the next decade without a decent Chateauneuf du Pape, Cotes du Rhone, Rioja, Chianti, or one of the fine fighting wines of Oz to be drunk, at least on my dime and in my home, there is still lots of good in my life. Although I do suspect that over the next few months as I wrestle with some of the less attractive issues involved in the husband-ectomy, I'll be hearing a lot less about how amazing I am. This is a marathon, not a sprint, and most people get sympathy-fatigue after your time in their mental screen is used up.
Chick Sex Talk
Nonetheless, I had a nice time with a bunch of women friends I hadn't seen in a while and it was clear: I'm truly single again. Single women censor themselves around married women because married women censor themselves. We make excuses for the men in our lives. Single women may be able to provide a million and one reasons why Mr. Wonderbar hasn't called, but if he uses the wrong fork to eat his salad (much less kisses sloppily, if sloppiness is not preferred) and he's dog meat. As in food for the drooly mastiff down the street.
So the complete lack of censorship in the conversation made me realize that previous conversations (while I lived with PdeFF) with these women had been quite subdued. So without further ado, as of Sunday morning (at a truly great brunch with mimosas): here are three single women's complaints about the men they date, have dated, have had sex with, or have kicked out of bed (sometimes all three, for the truly lucky guys)**
(10) Poor hygeine. Nope, she's not kissing you there if you don't bathe regularly. Ditto on changing the underwear, brushing the teeth, etc. It's really not attractive to smell bad.
(9) Grabbing not caressing (2 or the 3, but 1 of the three disagreed and said all the feathery light touching made her ticklish and didn't get her hot and bothered in the least).
(8) After prompting by me, all three agreed that air guitar is a definite turn-off. As is dancing as though you were an epileptic squid.
(7) Explicitly or implicitly comparing the female in question to other females. Simply put, this is stupid, stupid, stupid.
(6) Falling asleep right afterwards, particularly if you finished and she didn't.
(5) Falling asleep during is probably worse.
(4) Not taking directions or suggestions. Trust me, if she knows what she wants and has the confidence to tell you, damn well do it, please. Unless you really don't want her to express her actual feelings and desires to you, which would be a v. v. bad sign.
(3) Being too chatty during sex (2 of the 3) or Being silent during sex (1 of the 3).
(2) Simply being clumsy in bed
(1) Acting as though some technique, skill, position, or practice that you learned (elsewhere) is invariable. Unless you really want to convince her she is fungible.
That's it for now.
*"Handle With Care" by the Travelling Wilburys
**My complaints are not detailed here.
I'm just not feeling much like writing lately. My muse has gone missing. It's probably just that I'm finally coming down from the adrenaline rush of getting everything taken care of and am now sitting down and dealing with the gravity of the situation in which I find myself. No amount of flirting is going to take care of the real problems confronting me (spousal, financial, future planning, credit rating, blah-blah-blah). To quote the Travelling Wilburys I've been down and made a mess "but I'll clean it up myself I guess"*, and that's the way it's supposed to be.
At the same time, even if I will be eating tuna noodle casserole and red beans and rice (two cheap, cheap meals, for those who don't know) for the next decade without a decent Chateauneuf du Pape, Cotes du Rhone, Rioja, Chianti, or one of the fine fighting wines of Oz to be drunk, at least on my dime and in my home, there is still lots of good in my life. Although I do suspect that over the next few months as I wrestle with some of the less attractive issues involved in the husband-ectomy, I'll be hearing a lot less about how amazing I am. This is a marathon, not a sprint, and most people get sympathy-fatigue after your time in their mental screen is used up.
Chick Sex Talk
Nonetheless, I had a nice time with a bunch of women friends I hadn't seen in a while and it was clear: I'm truly single again. Single women censor themselves around married women because married women censor themselves. We make excuses for the men in our lives. Single women may be able to provide a million and one reasons why Mr. Wonderbar hasn't called, but if he uses the wrong fork to eat his salad (much less kisses sloppily, if sloppiness is not preferred) and he's dog meat. As in food for the drooly mastiff down the street.
So the complete lack of censorship in the conversation made me realize that previous conversations (while I lived with PdeFF) with these women had been quite subdued. So without further ado, as of Sunday morning (at a truly great brunch with mimosas): here are three single women's complaints about the men they date, have dated, have had sex with, or have kicked out of bed (sometimes all three, for the truly lucky guys)**
(10) Poor hygeine. Nope, she's not kissing you there if you don't bathe regularly. Ditto on changing the underwear, brushing the teeth, etc. It's really not attractive to smell bad.
(9) Grabbing not caressing (2 or the 3, but 1 of the three disagreed and said all the feathery light touching made her ticklish and didn't get her hot and bothered in the least).
(8) After prompting by me, all three agreed that air guitar is a definite turn-off. As is dancing as though you were an epileptic squid.
(7) Explicitly or implicitly comparing the female in question to other females. Simply put, this is stupid, stupid, stupid.
(6) Falling asleep right afterwards, particularly if you finished and she didn't.
(5) Falling asleep during is probably worse.
(4) Not taking directions or suggestions. Trust me, if she knows what she wants and has the confidence to tell you, damn well do it, please. Unless you really don't want her to express her actual feelings and desires to you, which would be a v. v. bad sign.
(3) Being too chatty during sex (2 of the 3) or Being silent during sex (1 of the 3).
(2) Simply being clumsy in bed
(1) Acting as though some technique, skill, position, or practice that you learned (elsewhere) is invariable. Unless you really want to convince her she is fungible.
That's it for now.
*"Handle With Care" by the Travelling Wilburys
**My complaints are not detailed here.
December 6, 2005
Broken Record
God, I want a PdeFF-ectomy. I just got off the phone with him, and any charity I have ever felt for any other creature, ever, is gone. The Mercedes? It's his car. The house? He deserves to live there. Why won't I pay the mortgage? (On my reduced salary I should manage the mortgage, which was based on a salary more than twice what I am making now, my rent, and all other expenses . . . and he's an accountant!) If he keeps this up, we'll lose everything. The house, all the equity tied up in it, and everything else. He wants to keep it for the girls. Hey, I want to be Queen Victoria (except she was short, and I wouldn't like that, even if I could go around snarking "We are not amused" at every feckless nitwit who crossed my path. Plenty of good has happened lately. I have to keep reminding myself of that. Good family, good friends. Old friends, new friends. This next year will be tough, though.
December 4, 2005
In Praise of Useless Men
The Useless Men (including the Formerly Useless Man, who is of course, Still Useless) are my heroes. I love to cyber-stalk them. Why? They're cute, they're Canadian, they're funny, and they freely admit their Uselessness. Obviously, they are paragons of masculinity. I haven't pestered them in a long time. Too long. They probably were relaxing and enjoying themselves while settling down for a long, cold Canadian winter (speaking of which, who is the reader from Churchill or somewhere near there on Hudson Bay? Thanks for turning up on the Clustermap, btw). Of course, they can never relax. They are the Useless Men and might need to be Useless somewhere. Which is where I come in.
They say they answer all questions asked. I assume that means all questions asked even if publicized in advance. I hope so, because I want questions to the following, and have submitted these to the trademarked Advice Randomizer:
(1) Dear Useless Men:
I am newly not-quite single (I'm female) and have started dating again. There is no problem finding men. They are cheap and they are easy. Sluts, if you will. The problem is finding a man who has some good qualities, which would include (1) the ability to listen, (2) the ability to talk about subjects other than himself; (3) financial solvency (not wealth, just no bankruptcies or overwhelming debt), (4) employment, (5) some intelligence, and (6) a sense of humor. Oh, and he should also be single (or at least as single as I am). And not incarcerated or otherwise institutionalized. Any suggestions?
Foilwoman (or you can make out some Useless and dorked out but truly funny nickname).
(2) Dear Useless Men:
Imagine my horror. My six-year old daughter wants to be a boy. She's smart, competent, funny, attractive, energetic, goal-oriented, and very, very pretty. How do I convince her (or just show her) that masculinity would be a big step down from the state of grace she currently occupies. I don't care if she never wears a ruffly dress (too much bother to clean), but I do want her to like herself for who she is. How do I do this?
Foilwoman (ditto parenthetical as #1)
(3) Dear Useless Men:
My daughter's first grade teacher has told me, in tones of complaint, that my daughter bosses the little boys in her class around. She tells them what to do, and they do it (for reasons why, see question 2, above, she's smart, competent, funny, attractive, energetic, goal-oriented, and very, very pretty). I don't have a problem with this. Little boys are her willing slaves. What's wrong with that? Begin as you intend to continue, and all that. My question is, what should I do with this moron of a teacher, who doesn't understand effective Useless-Male-Handling-Strategies that all women should be happy to adopt. It's not hard, you just have to be smart, competent, funny, attractive, energetic, goal-oriented, and very, very pretty. So what's the fate of the teacher to be?
Foilwomen (ditto)
(4) Dear Useless Men:
A coworker of mine recently told me more information than I wanted about his past (he used to be a swinger). I didn't want to know this. I still don't. Is there any anti-swinger-cootie spray I can use? Or something else to decontaminate the workplace? Does anyone need mechanic trainers way up north in Canada, maybe in Yellowknife? Moosejaw? Somewhere in the Yukon? Can we send him there. Ewww. Thanks.
Foilwoman (ditto)
Let's see what they post. It's sure to be good. Who can forget their Pinnacle of Uselessness group response to my timely (the end of the world is clearly nigh) question about how to survive the coming Apocalypse? I'm anxiously awaiting their response(s) and hope you are, too.
They say they answer all questions asked. I assume that means all questions asked even if publicized in advance. I hope so, because I want questions to the following, and have submitted these to the trademarked Advice Randomizer:
(1) Dear Useless Men:
I am newly not-quite single (I'm female) and have started dating again. There is no problem finding men. They are cheap and they are easy. Sluts, if you will. The problem is finding a man who has some good qualities, which would include (1) the ability to listen, (2) the ability to talk about subjects other than himself; (3) financial solvency (not wealth, just no bankruptcies or overwhelming debt), (4) employment, (5) some intelligence, and (6) a sense of humor. Oh, and he should also be single (or at least as single as I am). And not incarcerated or otherwise institutionalized. Any suggestions?
Foilwoman (or you can make out some Useless and dorked out but truly funny nickname).
(2) Dear Useless Men:
Imagine my horror. My six-year old daughter wants to be a boy. She's smart, competent, funny, attractive, energetic, goal-oriented, and very, very pretty. How do I convince her (or just show her) that masculinity would be a big step down from the state of grace she currently occupies. I don't care if she never wears a ruffly dress (too much bother to clean), but I do want her to like herself for who she is. How do I do this?
Foilwoman (ditto parenthetical as #1)
(3) Dear Useless Men:
My daughter's first grade teacher has told me, in tones of complaint, that my daughter bosses the little boys in her class around. She tells them what to do, and they do it (for reasons why, see question 2, above, she's smart, competent, funny, attractive, energetic, goal-oriented, and very, very pretty). I don't have a problem with this. Little boys are her willing slaves. What's wrong with that? Begin as you intend to continue, and all that. My question is, what should I do with this moron of a teacher, who doesn't understand effective Useless-Male-Handling-Strategies that all women should be happy to adopt. It's not hard, you just have to be smart, competent, funny, attractive, energetic, goal-oriented, and very, very pretty. So what's the fate of the teacher to be?
Foilwomen (ditto)
(4) Dear Useless Men:
A coworker of mine recently told me more information than I wanted about his past (he used to be a swinger). I didn't want to know this. I still don't. Is there any anti-swinger-cootie spray I can use? Or something else to decontaminate the workplace? Does anyone need mechanic trainers way up north in Canada, maybe in Yellowknife? Moosejaw? Somewhere in the Yukon? Can we send him there. Ewww. Thanks.
Foilwoman (ditto)
Let's see what they post. It's sure to be good. Who can forget their Pinnacle of Uselessness group response to my timely (the end of the world is clearly nigh) question about how to survive the coming Apocalypse? I'm anxiously awaiting their response(s) and hope you are, too.
December 2, 2005
Grumpy, Grumpy, Grumpy
And I'm grumpy for a reason! I have an HMO (health maintenance organization, for those of you fortunate enough to live in lands of civilized medical coverage). It's called MAMSI (which I believe, stands for Malevolant and Mean Sickness Inducer). It's a loathsome piece of scum. It's an imp of Satan. I hate them. They cover your health care needs, but only after you fight them for it. Not really what you need when you want your prescription filled. Yes, they gave me trouble about my Adderal for my ADHD. Adderal is pretty commonly prescribed for ADHD, and yet I had to call up and get pre-approval after my doctor sent them a prescription. Let me just say, when my superpowers are fully functional (after medication, of course), I will smite them. With glee.
On the plus side, I had dinner last night with two graduate school friends who were so supportive and kind. And they are both doing well! One suffers from fairly severe depressive, the other from an anxiety disorder. Both are doing well professionally and enjoying themselves socially. We had some beers, and got all giggly. This weekend, I'm kidless and missing my amazing offspring, but have nice plans for brunch with my grad school friends, hanging out with Innana, and seeing my cousin Brendan and his wife as they drop off the Grammy-mobile. No annoying dates with guys who will assume an intimacy that is not there. Although maybe I'll call Mr. Studmuffin, for some platonic, but nicely masculine, company. Or someone else. Anyway, I have lots to do, all with good friends, a nice weekend planned, and I also have chocolate in the house. Maybe I'll catch a movie tomorrow afternoon. We'll see.
So, while I loathe and despite MAMSI with vehemence, my life is still pretty darn good.
On the plus side, I had dinner last night with two graduate school friends who were so supportive and kind. And they are both doing well! One suffers from fairly severe depressive, the other from an anxiety disorder. Both are doing well professionally and enjoying themselves socially. We had some beers, and got all giggly. This weekend, I'm kidless and missing my amazing offspring, but have nice plans for brunch with my grad school friends, hanging out with Innana, and seeing my cousin Brendan and his wife as they drop off the Grammy-mobile. No annoying dates with guys who will assume an intimacy that is not there. Although maybe I'll call Mr. Studmuffin, for some platonic, but nicely masculine, company. Or someone else. Anyway, I have lots to do, all with good friends, a nice weekend planned, and I also have chocolate in the house. Maybe I'll catch a movie tomorrow afternoon. We'll see.
So, while I loathe and despite MAMSI with vehemence, my life is still pretty darn good.
Longing
I'm in my second day with the girls away. I'm actually getting stuff done and things like that, (Paying bills! Oh joy.) but I miss my girls. Especially the very specific-to-a-parent stuff that's gross, but really says "I'm this kid's mother." Like double-checking that the Foilkid actually brushed her teeth by having her exhale in my face. Or diaper changing.
Which makes me think about smells again. How do babies smell so nice, when all they really do is poop and pee in their diapers all day. At least, my baby always smells nice. I don't really care about all those other babies (well, I do care about them, just not the same way I care about my baby). GaahGirl always smells so sweet and clean and healthy. It's amazing. The Foilkid's smell has changed, but she smells sweet too. Last night, I missed them both so much, I moved their bedding into my room, and then was able to go to sleep. And the bedding didn't kick me, try to shove me off the bed, or otherwise appropriate all the space as either the GaahGirl or the Foilkid are wont to do. Somehow the rule is this: the smaller the child, the more things they need. And: the smaller the child, the more space she will appropriate in bed. They come home Monday night.
Which makes me think about smells again. How do babies smell so nice, when all they really do is poop and pee in their diapers all day. At least, my baby always smells nice. I don't really care about all those other babies (well, I do care about them, just not the same way I care about my baby). GaahGirl always smells so sweet and clean and healthy. It's amazing. The Foilkid's smell has changed, but she smells sweet too. Last night, I missed them both so much, I moved their bedding into my room, and then was able to go to sleep. And the bedding didn't kick me, try to shove me off the bed, or otherwise appropriate all the space as either the GaahGirl or the Foilkid are wont to do. Somehow the rule is this: the smaller the child, the more things they need. And: the smaller the child, the more space she will appropriate in bed. They come home Monday night.
December 1, 2005
Introspection
One of the most unattractive human traits is the willingness, no eagerness, to find things that make us superior to others. I've definitely been the mayor of that town at times, and particularly yesterday evening. Almost Dubya-esque. Yes, my situation is serious and requires some real action. However, I have resources many, many people do not and may never have. Not just the financial and emotional support of family, although that is real and vitally important, but nurturing and loving friends, who believe in me and value me.
I am both other-directed and inner-directed. I live for the things I enjoy (reading, movies, knitting, skating, biking, playing the guitar, cooking) on my own, but I also live to make (some) other people happy, and it pleases me when I can connect and I feel badly when I don't. Right now I worry that I am not making Innana very happy (I get tired and drop off during phone conversations, not so nice; I can't follow the news on the Victorian Dog Melodrama, she keeps having to repeat). But I don't worry about her friendship, or that of Mr. Studmuffin, or that of Ex-Marine Fred and Norwegian-Viking Girl. Tonight, two friends from graduate school are getting together with me. We'll talk and laugh and have a good time.
These people who get overwhelmed by their (to me small) problems? They don't have all the backing I do. Especially from my small but deeply disturbed (but in a good way) readership. Thanks.
I am both other-directed and inner-directed. I live for the things I enjoy (reading, movies, knitting, skating, biking, playing the guitar, cooking) on my own, but I also live to make (some) other people happy, and it pleases me when I can connect and I feel badly when I don't. Right now I worry that I am not making Innana very happy (I get tired and drop off during phone conversations, not so nice; I can't follow the news on the Victorian Dog Melodrama, she keeps having to repeat). But I don't worry about her friendship, or that of Mr. Studmuffin, or that of Ex-Marine Fred and Norwegian-Viking Girl. Tonight, two friends from graduate school are getting together with me. We'll talk and laugh and have a good time.
These people who get overwhelmed by their (to me small) problems? They don't have all the backing I do. Especially from my small but deeply disturbed (but in a good way) readership. Thanks.
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