I am a patient woman. Well, no I'm not. Just ask Innana. I hate to wait. But I am trying hard to not be the sort of person about whom others say "She doesn't suffer fools gladly" because really, at one time or another we're all fools.
And I'm annoyed and one of the reasons I am annoyed is that the consequences of my actions, while in some ways are satisfying, are also mortifying and painful. And I have harmed another person, even if the harm caused was largely of her own creation.
Tonight I saw Dramatiste for the first time since I picked up the phone and dialed and said "Hey, you've got an employee with projectile vomiting of the confidential information disease."
No, she wasn't talking loudly about clients. But she was talking loudly about how she is not indiscreet. Yup.
At the bus stop, I'm in my meek, mild, underneath your radar disguise. I see her, but she isn't focussing on me. She walks right up to a rather slim and distinguished looking man (he looks a bit like my BLBRF, not that that helps you at all, but it will give at least one reader a point of reference) and says: "Are you a lawyer?" I begin to feel pity for him already.
No conversation that starts "Are you a lawyer" is a conversation you want to be having, by the way, and it is most definitely not a conversation you want to be haviing in a public spot.
Then she asks him, again in the completely unmodulated voice for which she is famed and despised in this blog, whether he called up her firm and accused her of revealing client secrets on the bus. He says no. And I, for one, know he is telling the truth. It wasn't him. It was me. She then loudly declaims that she has never told a secret on the bus and no-one would have overheard her anyway.
Now comes the part where I actually feel bad for Dramatiste as well as older-but-attractive-but-skinny* lawyer-guy. I feel bad for Dramatiste despite the reality that her worries are only being compounded by her confrontational and loud nature and her inability to hear what others are saying.
After lawyer-guy assures D. that he did not rat her out to her firm, he tells her he doesn't know what firm she works for. She then explains her theory that the whole thing is a plot by people in her firm who are trying to make her look bad.** I've heard this kind of logic before, and now I know why she gets my goat so completely. But she keeps yammering on. She insists that her employer tell her who called, and because they won't tell her, she knows it's a coworker trying to harm her. There's simply no other possibility in her mind or frame of reference. Because she is certain no-one could ever know where she lives or works without being a colleague. Maybe that's when I should have said, "No, I know you live at the Kennedy-Warren***, I know you work at Upright, Deadly and Dull, and I've heard you orate at length about many topics no-one one this bus deserves to be subjected to." But I didn't. She asks lawyer-guy (who is clearly trying to back the fuck out of this insane loon's minefield of a paranoid delusion) if her employer isn't obligated to tell her who called.
Then comes the best part. Any colleague could use star 67 to screen their identity and make this complaint. Except, of course, the professional responsibility partner knows my name. And has called me to confirm that Dramatiste had been spoken to. And thanked me. The PR partner is simply keeping my information confidential, since the whole thing would boil down to a "she said/she said" debate. But the fact remains that from overhearing her, I knew where she lived, where she worked, and a few salient details about the inner workings of the firm and some cases that should give Dramatiste real pause. Maybe she might consider conducting her investigation into who ratted her out at a lower decibel level?
She's just proved why my initial instinct not to confront her directly was correct. But now she's going to harass everyone on the damn bus. And she thinks the world is out to get her, or her coworkers, at least. I've been in this woman's company for a grand total of possible 15 hours that I am aware of, probably less. It feels like an eternity+ and I'm rather out to get her. I can't imagine her coworkers, or at least a goodly number of them, feel any differently than I do.
But she is worried. She's not correcting the behavior that have made her feel exposed, and she's still emoting and exposing all over the place, but she's worried. And that makes me feel badly. Do I have a responsibility to step up and tell her? How much unpleasantness (beyond listening to her again, and again, and again, and again) do I have to shoulder now that I've taken that first (and what I thought was last) step.
I know I did the right thing, but doing the right thing does not mean things necessarily end well or that no-one gets hurt. Dramatiste is hurt. And scared. And louder than ever. And haranging fellow passengers about who betrayed her. Should I let her know it was me so that she only has to worry about the knitting? I don't want to, but I fear I may be avoiding the unpleasantness o me, only because it's unpleasant for me, and not for any other real reason. Am I horribly selfish if the "it's unpleasant for me" factor trumps her discomfort?
And yet, indiscretion: the gift that keeps giving. Today, someone sat next to me and opened his mail. With tax forms. With address, social security number, income (low), and other information he shouldn't want me to have. I said nothing. I can't help the congenitally stupid.
*Yes, I always notice that stuff. No, it's not something I want to shut off. You're dead if you don't look. Ask Our Eminence, Benedict the Sixteenth (Madder and Badder than the Fifteenth). He will tell you, in his considered medical opinion, that if you don't ogle attractive members of the gender that you prefer you are either (1) in the morgue, or (2) buried.
**Really, why? And so unnecessary. She's doing fine on her own, that much is clear.
***Building name changed to protect the idiotic.
+Hell really is other people.
January 31, 2006
More Guests
Marcus Aurelius, because since he's a stoic, I'd be able to steal all the chocolate off his dessert plate without him complaining. Oh, and he wrote Meditations.
Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun because, while I am full o' snark, I love her luscious paintings and also the changes one sees in them as she lives through the French Revolution and its aftermath. Also, she painted an idyllic world even though she had to struggle to be accepted as a painter (since, as a female, her ability to obtain the appropriate licenses and credentials -- as a painter!-- was handicapped).
Artemisia Gentileschi because aside from her struggle to become the first female painter accepted into Florence's academy, her Judith beheading Holofernes is all about female power (and you wonder why the Protestants left the story of Judith out of their misogynistic Bible). Being raped by a teacher and then tortured to test the truth of her accusations (okay, the Catholics weren't nice to women either), she still went on to produce glorious art that never says "victim".
Laurel Thatcher Ulrich a lovely woman and author of many books including Good Wives and A Midwife's Tale, both of which I own first editions of, one signed by Ms. Ulrich. A lovely woman and a scholar, her history of childbirth in Colonial and early Independent Maine (Martha Ballard's patients died at a much lower rate than those of the doctors who moved in encroaching on her territory), peeking into the hidden corners of history, is a delight. Also, I once knew her, and I would love to talk with her again.
More later.
Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun because, while I am full o' snark, I love her luscious paintings and also the changes one sees in them as she lives through the French Revolution and its aftermath. Also, she painted an idyllic world even though she had to struggle to be accepted as a painter (since, as a female, her ability to obtain the appropriate licenses and credentials -- as a painter!-- was handicapped).
Artemisia Gentileschi because aside from her struggle to become the first female painter accepted into Florence's academy, her Judith beheading Holofernes is all about female power (and you wonder why the Protestants left the story of Judith out of their misogynistic Bible). Being raped by a teacher and then tortured to test the truth of her accusations (okay, the Catholics weren't nice to women either), she still went on to produce glorious art that never says "victim".
Laurel Thatcher Ulrich a lovely woman and author of many books including Good Wives and A Midwife's Tale, both of which I own first editions of, one signed by Ms. Ulrich. A lovely woman and a scholar, her history of childbirth in Colonial and early Independent Maine (Martha Ballard's patients died at a much lower rate than those of the doctors who moved in encroaching on her territory), peeking into the hidden corners of history, is a delight. Also, I once knew her, and I would love to talk with her again.
More later.
January 30, 2006
The Guests
I'll just start my way down the list with a brief description of each guest and why I want them at the table, for good or ill.
Susan Sontag: Late, great intellectual. Her essays never cease to please me. They are just satisfying, and well written. Illness as Metaphor, later followed by AIDs As Metaphor explained the way we talk about ailments in a manner I recognized but had never thought of.
Jorge Amado: A luscious and seductive Brazilian author, he wrote Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon and Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, both celebrations of female sensuality. Also, I long to each the food described in Dona Flor. Maybe Champurrado has tried some of these recipes?
Mario Vargas Llosa: Not for his politics (bleh), but for his writing. La Guerra del Fin del Mundo (The War of the End of the World) and Lituma en los Andes (mistranslated, but the English title is a good one as Death in the Andes) make you wonder why gringos can't write substantive stuff. He can.
Toussaint L'Ouverture: Leader of the only ultimately successful slave uprising in the New World, he led the slaves of Haiti to overthrow their masters. How he managed this and where he learned strategy and tactics are subjects I'd like to talk about with him. Someone who simply didn't acknowledge the limitations to which he was born. Was it luck? Act of will? Being absolutely exceptional? Or something else?
Elizabeth I: I can't imagine being as calculating as she must have been every day of her life. Even as a teenager, she kept her own counsel and lived to fight another day. Anybody who says women are ruled by their emotions simply isn't taking into account women like this one.
Abraham Lincoln: Do I really need to give a reason?
Ulysses S. Grant: He fought when no-one else in the North seemed capable of doing that (and Lincoln acknowledged that). He was a great general, a horrible president, and a loving husband and father. The thought of him sitting on his porch while dying of throat cancer scribbling away to finish his memoirs so that his wife would have a means of support after his death (which followed ruinous financial scandals) moves me. The stoic self-sacrifice (after being pretty self-indulgent in the years leading up to the scandal) showed what he was made of. A nice bit of steel in his backbone.
William Tecumseh Sherman: He lived in and loved the South but didn't hesitate to break its agricultural back. He ordered his men, in the March to the Sea and the march through the Carolinas to lay waste to the land so that a crow flying overhead would need to bring its own provender. Yet when it came time to negotiate peace, his terms were considered unnecessarily generous. He was also loyal to Grant through everything after the war, saying something like "I stood by him when he was a drunk, he stood by me when I was crazy, and I'll stand by him to the end" when Grant had lost millions of other people's money and faced ruin and humiliation (and then found out he was dying, hence the memoirs, see above). Again, not a perfect human being, but lots of evidence of being a vertebrate with a real and functional spine.
Chief Joseph: I'd simply like to feed him a nice meal and make him feel welcome and comfortable. To go so far and fall forty miles short. I can't imagine what it must have been like for American Indian leaders in the nineteenth century, who must have known at some level that there really was no hope and that they faced obliteration and yet kept fighting -- or sadder still, trying to maintain peace and enforce treaties that we violated again and again. "I will fight no more forever" indeed. Men like him make me wonder what bully boys like Bush and Cheney would do in a losing battle against insurmountable odds. Nothing have as dignified as Chief Joseph, that's for damn sure.
King Philip: Another courageous man fighting against the teaming white tide that obliterated so much. I would simply want to get a glimpse of him, not through the lens of other narrators, but to see him as he was, share a meal with him, and wish him a peaceful journey, should it be a multistage trip.
More later.
Susan Sontag: Late, great intellectual. Her essays never cease to please me. They are just satisfying, and well written. Illness as Metaphor, later followed by AIDs As Metaphor explained the way we talk about ailments in a manner I recognized but had never thought of.
Jorge Amado: A luscious and seductive Brazilian author, he wrote Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon and Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, both celebrations of female sensuality. Also, I long to each the food described in Dona Flor. Maybe Champurrado has tried some of these recipes?
Mario Vargas Llosa: Not for his politics (bleh), but for his writing. La Guerra del Fin del Mundo (The War of the End of the World) and Lituma en los Andes (mistranslated, but the English title is a good one as Death in the Andes) make you wonder why gringos can't write substantive stuff. He can.
Toussaint L'Ouverture: Leader of the only ultimately successful slave uprising in the New World, he led the slaves of Haiti to overthrow their masters. How he managed this and where he learned strategy and tactics are subjects I'd like to talk about with him. Someone who simply didn't acknowledge the limitations to which he was born. Was it luck? Act of will? Being absolutely exceptional? Or something else?
Elizabeth I: I can't imagine being as calculating as she must have been every day of her life. Even as a teenager, she kept her own counsel and lived to fight another day. Anybody who says women are ruled by their emotions simply isn't taking into account women like this one.
Abraham Lincoln: Do I really need to give a reason?
Ulysses S. Grant: He fought when no-one else in the North seemed capable of doing that (and Lincoln acknowledged that). He was a great general, a horrible president, and a loving husband and father. The thought of him sitting on his porch while dying of throat cancer scribbling away to finish his memoirs so that his wife would have a means of support after his death (which followed ruinous financial scandals) moves me. The stoic self-sacrifice (after being pretty self-indulgent in the years leading up to the scandal) showed what he was made of. A nice bit of steel in his backbone.
William Tecumseh Sherman: He lived in and loved the South but didn't hesitate to break its agricultural back. He ordered his men, in the March to the Sea and the march through the Carolinas to lay waste to the land so that a crow flying overhead would need to bring its own provender. Yet when it came time to negotiate peace, his terms were considered unnecessarily generous. He was also loyal to Grant through everything after the war, saying something like "I stood by him when he was a drunk, he stood by me when I was crazy, and I'll stand by him to the end" when Grant had lost millions of other people's money and faced ruin and humiliation (and then found out he was dying, hence the memoirs, see above). Again, not a perfect human being, but lots of evidence of being a vertebrate with a real and functional spine.
Chief Joseph: I'd simply like to feed him a nice meal and make him feel welcome and comfortable. To go so far and fall forty miles short. I can't imagine what it must have been like for American Indian leaders in the nineteenth century, who must have known at some level that there really was no hope and that they faced obliteration and yet kept fighting -- or sadder still, trying to maintain peace and enforce treaties that we violated again and again. "I will fight no more forever" indeed. Men like him make me wonder what bully boys like Bush and Cheney would do in a losing battle against insurmountable odds. Nothing have as dignified as Chief Joseph, that's for damn sure.
King Philip: Another courageous man fighting against the teaming white tide that obliterated so much. I would simply want to get a glimpse of him, not through the lens of other narrators, but to see him as he was, share a meal with him, and wish him a peaceful journey, should it be a multistage trip.
More later.
January 28, 2006
The Dinner Party
Inspired by Doc-T's desire to invite Catherine the Great to dinner, I am paying homage* his and Judy Chicago's** idea of imagining who, of all historical personages I would invite to a dinner party. The list is practically endless, but I'll just start saying who I would invite and later on I'll talk about who they are I why I want to meet them:
Susan Sontag
Jorge Amado
Mario Vargas Llosa
Toussaint L'Ouverture
Elizabeth I
Abraham Lincoln
Ulysses S. Grant
William Tecumseh Sherman
Chief Joseph
King Phillip (of King Phillip's War)
Marcus Aurelius
Elisabeth Vigee-LeBrun
Artemisia Gentilleschi (sp? Innana?)
Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
C.S. Lewis
Maimonides
Saladin
Eleanor of Aquitaine
Peter the Great
Catherine de Medici
Lorenzo de Medici
Fra Angelico
Brunneleschi
Martin Luther
Martin Luther King, Jr.
Margaret Atwood
Anne Tyler
Jane Smiley
John LeCarre
Julian Barnes
Jane Austen
Emily Bronte
Charlotte Bronte
Anne Bronte
Miguel de Unamuno
Federico Garcia Lorca
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Julio Cortazar
David Lodge
Graham Greene (both of 'em)
Sir Thomas Moore
Thomas Aquinas
Thomas Hobbes
John Locke
Darwin
Malthus
Adam Smith
Alan Rickman
William Shakespeare
Miguel de Cervantes
Leo Tolstoy
William Carlos Williams
e.e. cummings
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Conrad Aiken
Robert Frost
Frida Kahlo
Mary Baker Eddy++
Joseph Smith++ and all his wives+
Brigham Young++ and all his wives+
Mohammed
T.E. Lawrence
David Ben Gurion
Mustafa Kemal Ataturk
Golda Meir
Jim Thorpe
Tony Hillerman
P.D. James
Sue Grafton
Walter Mosely
Bill Clinton+
Hillary Clinton+
Margaret Chase Smith
Daniel Webster
Bella Abzug
Barbara Jordan
King Hussein of Jordan
King Juan Carlos of Spain (the only worthy Bourbon King ever, but he rather makes up for the rest)
Richard III
Henry VIII*** or ++, I haven't decided
Pol Pot***
Joseph Stalin***
Adolph Hitler***
Most Popes from before 1000 C.E. to about 1900.++
David Koresh++ and *** (hey, he pretty much thought he was god, he can be in two places at once)
Jim Jones++ and ***
Willa Cather
Louise Erdrich
William Makepeace Thackeray
Anthony Trollope
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Walt Whitman
Innana (of course, and she gets to choose who sits at her table)
Rick Moody
Supercookie
The Fatalist
Champurrado (except I'll be keeping him busy in the kitchen . . .)
Doc-T
Prom
Mac
Schaumi
DeltaDiva
LauritaJuanitaSanchez
Laura
Salman Rushdie
V.S. Naipaul
Tyco Brahe
David Barry
Gene Weingarten
Gina Barraca (did I spell that right? Innana, please bring your inerrancy to play here)
Cynthia Heimel
Nora Ephron
Betty Friedan
Chistabel Pankhurst
Susan B. Anthony
Frederick Douglass
Harriet Tubman
Sojourner Truth
William Lloyd Garrison
Louisa May Alcott
Henry David Thoreau
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Pedro Almodovar
Carlos Saura
Francesca
Joan Didion
Jon Stewart
Stephen Colbert
Samantha Bee
Margaret Cho
Lenny Bruce
Voltaire
Daniel Defoe
Christopher Wren
Billie Holliday
El Greco
Michael Ondaatje
Yann Martel
Bronze John
Tournee du Chat Noir
Benedict the 16th (Madder and Badder than the 15th)
Mrs. Pope (she gets to choose whether to sit with him or elsewhere)
Benniette*+
Bennydude*+
Kira (sitting with Cookie, btw)
Alex (I don't know where -- Kira, you may say he's wonderful, but I'm putting him through his paces)
Ariana*+
LittleKiraDude*+
Innana's niece*+
Sawa (a cousin of the Foilkid)*+
Juliet (a friend of the Foilkid)*+
Tristan, Skander, Bruno, Jack, Jacques, AbuBakr, Sameer, Ramsey, Michael, Anthony James, Edouard, and Alphonse (admirers of the Foilkid)*+
FoilMormor
SecondMate
FoilDad
LOS
NSLOS
My Mormor
Nuclear Grammy
Uber
DOL
Mr. Studmuffin
Mr. Movie
The Professor
SNV
The Useless Men
Sr. Dr. Marco
Jewish Atheist
Martian Anthopologist
CyberKitten
SadieLou (Who?)
Andy, Renee & kids*+
El Guapo in DC (por favor, hombre!)
BLBRF
George Sand
Anna Pavlova
George Eliot
Margaret de Angeli
Kate Seredy
Laura Ingalls Wilder
Beverly Cleary
Herman Melville
Ambrose Bierce
Benito Juarez
Pancho Villa
My Morfar
Simon Bolivar
Gen. Zhukov
Gen. Kutuzov
Marshall Ney
Nelson Mandela
Mohandas K. Gandhi
Musafa Kemal Ataturk
T.E. Laurence
Karen Blixen
Beryl Markham
Agnes DeMille
Mr. K. (a truly lovely man)
and more to come. Okay, it'll be several dinner parties.
*Stealing
**And many other people's
***These people aren't sitting at the nice table, and boy, before they get any food they've got some 'splainin' to do. If they all kill each other off, in the windowless closet I'm locking them in, well, I'm not crying about that. Oh, and once they're inside, I'm probably not opening the door.
+Not seated together, thank you. For the plural wives, a special class on "taking charge of your own orgasm: really you're entitle to them much more often than once a month." With explanations of what an orgasm is for the wives who never had one. Brigham Young and Joseph Smith, think about the female capacity for sexual pleasure and the evil that you did. Thank you.
++Special table for people who have abused other people in the name of god. Another windowless room. I may feed them, but they'll have to really beg.
*+A special table for kids for Foilkid, GaahGirl and Friends
Susan Sontag
Jorge Amado
Mario Vargas Llosa
Toussaint L'Ouverture
Elizabeth I
Abraham Lincoln
Ulysses S. Grant
William Tecumseh Sherman
Chief Joseph
King Phillip (of King Phillip's War)
Marcus Aurelius
Elisabeth Vigee-LeBrun
Artemisia Gentilleschi (sp? Innana?)
Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
C.S. Lewis
Maimonides
Saladin
Eleanor of Aquitaine
Peter the Great
Catherine de Medici
Lorenzo de Medici
Fra Angelico
Brunneleschi
Martin Luther
Martin Luther King, Jr.
Margaret Atwood
Anne Tyler
Jane Smiley
John LeCarre
Julian Barnes
Jane Austen
Emily Bronte
Charlotte Bronte
Anne Bronte
Miguel de Unamuno
Federico Garcia Lorca
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Julio Cortazar
David Lodge
Graham Greene (both of 'em)
Sir Thomas Moore
Thomas Aquinas
Thomas Hobbes
John Locke
Darwin
Malthus
Adam Smith
Alan Rickman
William Shakespeare
Miguel de Cervantes
Leo Tolstoy
William Carlos Williams
e.e. cummings
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Conrad Aiken
Robert Frost
Frida Kahlo
Mary Baker Eddy++
Joseph Smith++ and all his wives+
Brigham Young++ and all his wives+
Mohammed
T.E. Lawrence
David Ben Gurion
Mustafa Kemal Ataturk
Golda Meir
Jim Thorpe
Tony Hillerman
P.D. James
Sue Grafton
Walter Mosely
Bill Clinton+
Hillary Clinton+
Margaret Chase Smith
Daniel Webster
Bella Abzug
Barbara Jordan
King Hussein of Jordan
King Juan Carlos of Spain (the only worthy Bourbon King ever, but he rather makes up for the rest)
Richard III
Henry VIII*** or ++, I haven't decided
Pol Pot***
Joseph Stalin***
Adolph Hitler***
Most Popes from before 1000 C.E. to about 1900.++
David Koresh++ and *** (hey, he pretty much thought he was god, he can be in two places at once)
Jim Jones++ and ***
Willa Cather
Louise Erdrich
William Makepeace Thackeray
Anthony Trollope
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Walt Whitman
Innana (of course, and she gets to choose who sits at her table)
Rick Moody
Supercookie
The Fatalist
Champurrado (except I'll be keeping him busy in the kitchen . . .)
Doc-T
Prom
Mac
Schaumi
DeltaDiva
LauritaJuanitaSanchez
Laura
Salman Rushdie
V.S. Naipaul
Tyco Brahe
David Barry
Gene Weingarten
Gina Barraca (did I spell that right? Innana, please bring your inerrancy to play here)
Cynthia Heimel
Nora Ephron
Betty Friedan
Chistabel Pankhurst
Susan B. Anthony
Frederick Douglass
Harriet Tubman
Sojourner Truth
William Lloyd Garrison
Louisa May Alcott
Henry David Thoreau
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Pedro Almodovar
Carlos Saura
Francesca
Joan Didion
Jon Stewart
Stephen Colbert
Samantha Bee
Margaret Cho
Lenny Bruce
Voltaire
Daniel Defoe
Christopher Wren
Billie Holliday
El Greco
Michael Ondaatje
Yann Martel
Bronze John
Tournee du Chat Noir
Benedict the 16th (Madder and Badder than the 15th)
Mrs. Pope (she gets to choose whether to sit with him or elsewhere)
Benniette*+
Bennydude*+
Kira (sitting with Cookie, btw)
Alex (I don't know where -- Kira, you may say he's wonderful, but I'm putting him through his paces)
Ariana*+
LittleKiraDude*+
Innana's niece*+
Sawa (a cousin of the Foilkid)*+
Juliet (a friend of the Foilkid)*+
Tristan, Skander, Bruno, Jack, Jacques, AbuBakr, Sameer, Ramsey, Michael, Anthony James, Edouard, and Alphonse (admirers of the Foilkid)*+
FoilMormor
SecondMate
FoilDad
LOS
NSLOS
My Mormor
Nuclear Grammy
Uber
DOL
Mr. Studmuffin
Mr. Movie
The Professor
SNV
The Useless Men
Sr. Dr. Marco
Jewish Atheist
Martian Anthopologist
CyberKitten
SadieLou (Who?)
Andy, Renee & kids*+
El Guapo in DC (por favor, hombre!)
BLBRF
George Sand
Anna Pavlova
George Eliot
Margaret de Angeli
Kate Seredy
Laura Ingalls Wilder
Beverly Cleary
Herman Melville
Ambrose Bierce
Benito Juarez
Pancho Villa
My Morfar
Simon Bolivar
Gen. Zhukov
Gen. Kutuzov
Marshall Ney
Nelson Mandela
Mohandas K. Gandhi
Musafa Kemal Ataturk
T.E. Laurence
Karen Blixen
Beryl Markham
Agnes DeMille
Mr. K. (a truly lovely man)
and more to come. Okay, it'll be several dinner parties.
*Stealing
**And many other people's
***These people aren't sitting at the nice table, and boy, before they get any food they've got some 'splainin' to do. If they all kill each other off, in the windowless closet I'm locking them in, well, I'm not crying about that. Oh, and once they're inside, I'm probably not opening the door.
+Not seated together, thank you. For the plural wives, a special class on "taking charge of your own orgasm: really you're entitle to them much more often than once a month." With explanations of what an orgasm is for the wives who never had one. Brigham Young and Joseph Smith, think about the female capacity for sexual pleasure and the evil that you did. Thank you.
++Special table for people who have abused other people in the name of god. Another windowless room. I may feed them, but they'll have to really beg.
*+A special table for kids for Foilkid, GaahGirl and Friends
January 27, 2006
Dramatiste VII: Postscript
I just got a phone call from the director of professional responsibility of Somebody, Somebody & Somebody. She thanked me for calling her yesterday, said Dramatiste had been spoken to, and the problem should be resolved. So I guess she didn't get fired, which is good. And the firm did the ethically correct thing (they didn't try to ignore me, they took decisive action). So I didn't cause a woman to lose her job (which makes me happy, even though I don't like her), and I won't have to listen to secrets I don't want to hear, at least about Dramatiste's law firm.
By the way, I often exaggerrate slightly or change facts a little to make things more fun to read or to avoid identifying the guilty and the innocent. Aside from the physical description of Dramatiste, the bus times, the bus route, and the name of her apartment building, absolutely everything I wrote on this subject was true.
By the way, I often exaggerrate slightly or change facts a little to make things more fun to read or to avoid identifying the guilty and the innocent. Aside from the physical description of Dramatiste, the bus times, the bus route, and the name of her apartment building, absolutely everything I wrote on this subject was true.
Deus Caritas Est
The Pope in Rome, not our Pope Benedict XVI (Madder and Badder than the XV) has issued his first encyclical.* I have not read it completely yet, but will do so. I do like the idea, from what I have gleaned so far, that charity is of paramount important and that charity should not be contigent on acceptance of the faith, doctrines, and dogma of the Roman Catholic church, but should be offered freely as a demonstration of faith.** Bets on this being put into actual practice? Anyway, I've got to go read it in more detail now.
*Could anyone tell my why it's called an encyclical? Why not espistle? Or holy guidance? Or ruling? Or Rule?
**I may be mis-paraphrasing here -- it was a quick read -- please correct me if I am wrong.
*Could anyone tell my why it's called an encyclical? Why not espistle? Or holy guidance? Or ruling? Or Rule?
**I may be mis-paraphrasing here -- it was a quick read -- please correct me if I am wrong.
Lunch Hour: Dramatiste VI: The Denoument (or Possibly Anticlimax)
I had a blissfully quiet bus ride this morning. The Companion was there, alone, looking peaceful. Dramatiste was not on her normal morning bus. I should feel guilty, but I do not. I do worry a little. Did she get fired? What will she do? But maybe she just took the day off or was running late or left early. Or maybe she got abducted by aliens. Quel dommage.
January 26, 2006
Help!
Okay, could someone please tell me how I add the head shot to my profile? Thanks. And: Thanks J. Macdonald, for drawing these charming charicatures (I'm even more lovely in the flesh, btw), and for helping me get the banner illustration right. Now: profile pic to add, and then my blog is truly well-drawn.
Teaser: New Illustrated Blog Coming
Mac of Macdonald's Animal Farm has done some priceless* illustrations so that you can behold moi, Foilwoman, in black and white (even though Foilwoman, while she wears a lot of red, is normally the nice silvery color of tinfoil). I won't be able to figure out and upload illustrations until later tonight however. So check back, and you can see what I look like, sort up, if I were a charicature with several identifying features hidden, changed, or unknown. But I have boots! And I'm very superheroine-ish. I'm very impressed with myself, but even more so with Mac.
*Priceless because, well, I'm stony broke and can't very well pay him for them, although they're definitely worth a lot to me.
*Priceless because, well, I'm stony broke and can't very well pay him for them, although they're definitely worth a lot to me.
Lunch Hour: Dramatiste V: The Comeuppance
I'm not in a good mood today. At least The Fatalist has his new blog. He's still my FluffyBunnyMan, however, as much as he wants to deny it. At least El Guapo in DC is in DC (at least if his blog isn't entirely a work of fiction). At least SuperCookie had a nice birthday. And Mac (be still my heart) did up a charming illustration for this blog so that once I figure out how to install it tonight, you can all see the hotness that is Moi, without me exposing my secret identity. And Martian Anthropologist is, thank the powers that be, back and, I devoutly (or as devoutly as I am capable of) hope. And Innana (oh praised be her name) had good auditions and had the first rehearsal for the famed (to be SRO, certainly) Victorian Dog Drama. Andy's having another baby (sibling rivalry for Dane due to commence along with the onset of the terrible twos, let's think about that one. But we know Andy will be a great Dad, and this next baby will also be supercute).
So with all this good cheer, why am I a crankster? Dramatiste. She got on the same car as I did this morning. With the Companion. Who actually spoke. The talked mostly about personal stuff, but there was some conversation of clients, etc. At the end, the Companion said, with regard to some personal stuff: "I bet they don't know you work at Somebody, Somebody & Somebody [a big, well-known DC firm]." I did not interrupt, just knitted. Her NYAAB* was very noticeable, and getting too close would make my ears hurt. And I worried. I didn't want to hurt her and then have her see me on the bus. But I know where she lives (she talked about it loudly; well, no surprise there). She needs to know, for her employer's sake, for their clients' sakes, for her own career's sake, and for her safety.**
So I did something necessary but unpleasant. I called the firm in question, and asked for who was in charge of professional responsibility. I explained who I was, what I had been overhearing, what bus route I was on, where she lived, and that her Companion had mentioned where she worked. I described her. I described what she wore today. The professional responsibility coordinator ("PRC") thanked me profusely. I actually hope that Dramatiste doesn't get a career change opportunity today. I explained that Dramatiste was really annoying me and that her voice was pretty obnoxious and maybe I was being unfair. Then the PRC said: "She shouldn't be talking like that. I'll put and end to it. Thank you for telling me."
Now, I have to admit, malice played a role. But even if I had really liked this woman, I would have at least spoken to her and told her to watch her mouth. But now I feel like I've made the life of a troubled person just a little bit worse, and that doesn't feel good. But I do hope she'll shut up now.
*New York-Area Affectless Braying
**Women (men too): if you live in a building with a name, like "River House" in Arlington (not the building in question, btw), saying you live there is, D'oh, telling people where you live. You can give total strangers your phone number too, but my advice is: Don't. Except that way, I can avoid you. Unless you're on my bus.
So with all this good cheer, why am I a crankster? Dramatiste. She got on the same car as I did this morning. With the Companion. Who actually spoke. The talked mostly about personal stuff, but there was some conversation of clients, etc. At the end, the Companion said, with regard to some personal stuff: "I bet they don't know you work at Somebody, Somebody & Somebody [a big, well-known DC firm]." I did not interrupt, just knitted. Her NYAAB* was very noticeable, and getting too close would make my ears hurt. And I worried. I didn't want to hurt her and then have her see me on the bus. But I know where she lives (she talked about it loudly; well, no surprise there). She needs to know, for her employer's sake, for their clients' sakes, for her own career's sake, and for her safety.**
So I did something necessary but unpleasant. I called the firm in question, and asked for who was in charge of professional responsibility. I explained who I was, what I had been overhearing, what bus route I was on, where she lived, and that her Companion had mentioned where she worked. I described her. I described what she wore today. The professional responsibility coordinator ("PRC") thanked me profusely. I actually hope that Dramatiste doesn't get a career change opportunity today. I explained that Dramatiste was really annoying me and that her voice was pretty obnoxious and maybe I was being unfair. Then the PRC said: "She shouldn't be talking like that. I'll put and end to it. Thank you for telling me."
Now, I have to admit, malice played a role. But even if I had really liked this woman, I would have at least spoken to her and told her to watch her mouth. But now I feel like I've made the life of a troubled person just a little bit worse, and that doesn't feel good. But I do hope she'll shut up now.
*New York-Area Affectless Braying
**Women (men too): if you live in a building with a name, like "River House" in Arlington (not the building in question, btw), saying you live there is, D'oh, telling people where you live. You can give total strangers your phone number too, but my advice is: Don't. Except that way, I can avoid you. Unless you're on my bus.
January 25, 2006
Dramatist Part Quatre
Really, the title is a bait and switch. Not much happened. But Dramatiste did sit next to me on the Metro this morning (there was an open seat next to her on the bus to the Metro, but I eschewed it). Her Companion wasn't there, so she kept it zipped. (Always a good policy: in public, keep it zipped.) I'm clearly letting this woman have way too much room in my mental processes. She sat there, with the corners of her mouth turning down,* and I considered starting a conversation, but then instead read the Atlantic magazine,** a publication you should all consider perusing. She sighed a lot again, which gets on my nerves.
But really, clearly she is unhappy. Has she been through a year like I have? Something worse? Or nothing at all and is just a miserable person? Probably speaking to her is a bad idea, as at some point my first impression and thoughts will come blurting out*** and she would be deeply hurt. I'll reserve any comment or approach.
Oh, and David Mayo has raised £79 23p for Send a Cow. Can't someone help him out? Please. We could come up with a list of cows we want to send.
*Something I had read, but never actually witnessed with understanding. Suddenly this turn of phrase is clear to me. This woman frowns when in repose.
**Thanks Innana, for giving me your previously read Atlantic, and for the Harper's subscription. Have I said I love you lately? Well, if I didn't, I do love you, I hope you know that.
***"Yeah, I wondered about any sense of discretion you might have, they way you blab on about private stuff in public in that nasal drone without any tone or inflection. Do they teach that way of talking somewhere? Instead of Long Island Lockjaw+, you've got New York-Area Affectless Braying (hereinafter "NYAAB"). Did you want to talk like this, or did it just happen?"
+A truly horrible dialect of upper middle-class parents of prep school children which is only possible to imitate if you don't move your mouth or jaws.
But really, clearly she is unhappy. Has she been through a year like I have? Something worse? Or nothing at all and is just a miserable person? Probably speaking to her is a bad idea, as at some point my first impression and thoughts will come blurting out*** and she would be deeply hurt. I'll reserve any comment or approach.
Oh, and David Mayo has raised £79 23p for Send a Cow. Can't someone help him out? Please. We could come up with a list of cows we want to send.
*Something I had read, but never actually witnessed with understanding. Suddenly this turn of phrase is clear to me. This woman frowns when in repose.
**Thanks Innana, for giving me your previously read Atlantic, and for the Harper's subscription. Have I said I love you lately? Well, if I didn't, I do love you, I hope you know that.
***"Yeah, I wondered about any sense of discretion you might have, they way you blab on about private stuff in public in that nasal drone without any tone or inflection. Do they teach that way of talking somewhere? Instead of Long Island Lockjaw+, you've got New York-Area Affectless Braying (hereinafter "NYAAB"). Did you want to talk like this, or did it just happen?"
+A truly horrible dialect of upper middle-class parents of prep school children which is only possible to imitate if you don't move your mouth or jaws.
January 24, 2006
SUPERCOOKIE!!!!
It's Cookie Monster's birthday today. Everyone go to his blog and wish him Happy Birthday, Bonne Anniversaire, Cumpleaños Feliz, etc.
Happy Birthday, and I hope this new year in your life is full of adventure, excitement, happiness, and success.
Happy Birthday, and I hope this new year in your life is full of adventure, excitement, happiness, and success.
January 23, 2006
Not Quite Sure How to Categorize This One
I feel guilty because I clicked on the link to this little video snippet "Everything Is Gay" from the Amazing El Guapo's blog* and laughed so hard that, oh, never mind. I then felt guilty for laughing and then tried to analyze. I'd like to say he (it is a young man, I believe, although I am not entirely certain) is using sarcasm and irony to show how stupid the whole conception is, but then I wonder, am I just presuming to give him non-homophobic thoughts? Anyway, I feel wrong and dirty for laughing so hard. By the way, don't click on this link at work unless you have an office of your own. And don't click anyway, because it is just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. There must be something wrong with me, because I found it absolutely hilarious, and I shouldn't.
*Don't click on El Guapo's blog, either, unless you are sure you can take the heat of his Guatamalan-ness. It's pretty strong stuff. (Hee.)
*Don't click on El Guapo's blog, either, unless you are sure you can take the heat of his Guatamalan-ness. It's pretty strong stuff. (Hee.)
Dramatiste (Again, Arrrghh!) And One of the Greatest Men I Have Known
Dramatiste
Somehow, I must be communicating my thoughts to Dramatiste. Maybe if I wore tinfoil on my head, or something equally nutso, it will stop. I got on the bus this morning, and she was sitting alone, next to the only seat left on the bus. I sat down and she looked over at me in an offended fashion. I quickly thought through my attire, cleanliness, etc. I had bathed this morning (like every morning) and I looked like your average professional chick heading into town to work in an office. She fidgeted, communicating (I think) that she wanted more space. Sorry. Bus seats are a bit cosy. You’re not entitled to two. After a minute, someone got off at another stop and she made a production of getting up and walking to the other seat. I became (as Benny XVI fears) one of the bus talkers: I said, to the people sitting around me: “Was it something I said.” Amused smiles, all. If I were younger, I would worry that I had somehow offended her. But I’m not (younger), and I didn’t (worry).
Dramatiste’s Companion wasn’t on the bus this morning, and she said nothing. Maybe the Companion has some sort of mind control. All this huffing and puffing and moving around let me observe Dramatiste more. I certainly didn’t try to talk to her, as clearly, she has decided that I am in some small way unworthy. Well, I don’t like her. I’ll have to work on the poker face. My mantra will be: Pretend I’m Laura Bush faking an orgasm. . . yes, that small smile will do. . . . Pretend I’m Laura Bush faking an orgasm. . . yes, that small smile will do. . . . Pretend I’m Laura Bush faking an orgasm. . . yes, that small smile will do. . . .
I did get more of a chance to observe this woman. She’s my age or a little older. Mid- to late-forties, possibly early fifties. Well-coiffed, with helmet head (lots of hairspray). She has shoulder length hair in a complicated, shellacked style, designed to look completely natural. Well-groomed (the first thing I check when wondering about the whiff of insanity). Manicured hands. Lipstick, eyeliner, foundation, powder, rouge, eyeshadow, mascara, and probably eyebrow pencil as well. Well-dressed, although not particularly professional. Three-step process coloring on her hair (at least $250 a pop, necessary no less frequently than once every six weeks). No book or magazine in her expensive handbag. Without Companion to talk to, she fidgeted (I actually sympathized, silently), or maybe that was my disruptive presence. No clear signs of anything wrong, but no eye contact, no smiles, no interaction with other passengers. Her expression was vaguely irritated, worried, and petulant, and she sighed a lot (a sign of depression, I think). Very closed off. She’s tall like me, which I would hope would have given her more confidence. She has chubby cheeks, like the GaahGirl, but they aren’t as nice on a woman in her forties or fifties as one a 14-month old.
My mission: to somehow befriend, no that’s asking too much of me, to somehow reach out to this woman and, if the disclosure of confidential information occurs again, to let her know that (1) she’s doing it and (2) she should stop. Please, is there a burning building I can run into to rescue kittens instead? Fluffy fuzzy wuzzy kittens? Please? But I’ve seen the problem, and it’s mine to solve.
A Better Bus Ride and a Better Man*
Thinking of all this makes me remember my first regular bus route in DC. Actually, it was a bus in Fairfax County, Virginia. Buses are much friendlier and small town-y than subway cars. One bus I rode on 25 years ago (exactly: I was here in DC on an internship working in the Smithsonian Castle in January through June of 1981) was so friendly, and the bus driver so wonderful* that when he got transferred to another route, women on his route (me included) wept, and about 20 regulars on the route took him out for a farewell dinner. He used to poke the little kids getting on in the belly. I sometimes wonder what he would think of the GaahGirl. No, I don't wonder. He would greet her in tones of awe and delight, poke her in the belly, let her steal his nose (or something like that) and tell me what a good job I had done. And he would have a running game/flirtation with the Foilkid. He knew all the riders on his route, and if someone didn't show up when expected, he would start asking questions until he knew that they were ok (on vacation, running late, whatever). He once called the police when an elderly woman who took his bus to her hair appointment without fail once a week didn't show up when he expected her. She had fallen in the bath, and couldn't call for help, and he saved her life. A truly great man.
I think I ended up moving here after college because I had met Rev. Chuck (that’s what we called him) during my internship in 1981. I had never had anything like that happen anywhere else, and I had a sense of community that stuck. I still feel that way about DC. There are so many people here I care about. I do regret losing touch with Rev. Chuck after his retirement. I don’t even remember his last name, but it was pretty common: Smith or Jones or Brown. If his religious beliefs were correct, at some point in time, he will know that I still think of him. If they aren’t, well, I’m thinking of him all the same. A truly lovely, lovely person. I’m glad I knew him. I don’t know too many people in any walk of life who made the world as good as he did. The 16 bus running from Capitol Hill to Culmore, the 6:10 pm run in the winter and early spring of 1981, was a good, good place.
*Repeating some of what I wrote in a reply to a comment by Our Eminence, Benedict XVI (madder and badder than the XV).
**He was a minister in a storefront church and his bus passengers used to attend services and give to the collection plate, not because we believed (at least I didn't), but because he was such a fine human being we wanted his church to succeed. It was a pretty unique church, charismatic and speaking in tongues and stuff, but no cursing others, telling people they're going to hell, or anything like that. I truly believed that he and his followers were inspired by a holy spirit (and a nice holy spirit). He was one of the few ministers I truly thought was a good man without any qualifying statements.
Somehow, I must be communicating my thoughts to Dramatiste. Maybe if I wore tinfoil on my head, or something equally nutso, it will stop. I got on the bus this morning, and she was sitting alone, next to the only seat left on the bus. I sat down and she looked over at me in an offended fashion. I quickly thought through my attire, cleanliness, etc. I had bathed this morning (like every morning) and I looked like your average professional chick heading into town to work in an office. She fidgeted, communicating (I think) that she wanted more space. Sorry. Bus seats are a bit cosy. You’re not entitled to two. After a minute, someone got off at another stop and she made a production of getting up and walking to the other seat. I became (as Benny XVI fears) one of the bus talkers: I said, to the people sitting around me: “Was it something I said.” Amused smiles, all. If I were younger, I would worry that I had somehow offended her. But I’m not (younger), and I didn’t (worry).
Dramatiste’s Companion wasn’t on the bus this morning, and she said nothing. Maybe the Companion has some sort of mind control. All this huffing and puffing and moving around let me observe Dramatiste more. I certainly didn’t try to talk to her, as clearly, she has decided that I am in some small way unworthy. Well, I don’t like her. I’ll have to work on the poker face. My mantra will be: Pretend I’m Laura Bush faking an orgasm. . . yes, that small smile will do. . . . Pretend I’m Laura Bush faking an orgasm. . . yes, that small smile will do. . . . Pretend I’m Laura Bush faking an orgasm. . . yes, that small smile will do. . . .
I did get more of a chance to observe this woman. She’s my age or a little older. Mid- to late-forties, possibly early fifties. Well-coiffed, with helmet head (lots of hairspray). She has shoulder length hair in a complicated, shellacked style, designed to look completely natural. Well-groomed (the first thing I check when wondering about the whiff of insanity). Manicured hands. Lipstick, eyeliner, foundation, powder, rouge, eyeshadow, mascara, and probably eyebrow pencil as well. Well-dressed, although not particularly professional. Three-step process coloring on her hair (at least $250 a pop, necessary no less frequently than once every six weeks). No book or magazine in her expensive handbag. Without Companion to talk to, she fidgeted (I actually sympathized, silently), or maybe that was my disruptive presence. No clear signs of anything wrong, but no eye contact, no smiles, no interaction with other passengers. Her expression was vaguely irritated, worried, and petulant, and she sighed a lot (a sign of depression, I think). Very closed off. She’s tall like me, which I would hope would have given her more confidence. She has chubby cheeks, like the GaahGirl, but they aren’t as nice on a woman in her forties or fifties as one a 14-month old.
My mission: to somehow befriend, no that’s asking too much of me, to somehow reach out to this woman and, if the disclosure of confidential information occurs again, to let her know that (1) she’s doing it and (2) she should stop. Please, is there a burning building I can run into to rescue kittens instead? Fluffy fuzzy wuzzy kittens? Please? But I’ve seen the problem, and it’s mine to solve.
A Better Bus Ride and a Better Man*
Thinking of all this makes me remember my first regular bus route in DC. Actually, it was a bus in Fairfax County, Virginia. Buses are much friendlier and small town-y than subway cars. One bus I rode on 25 years ago (exactly: I was here in DC on an internship working in the Smithsonian Castle in January through June of 1981) was so friendly, and the bus driver so wonderful* that when he got transferred to another route, women on his route (me included) wept, and about 20 regulars on the route took him out for a farewell dinner. He used to poke the little kids getting on in the belly. I sometimes wonder what he would think of the GaahGirl. No, I don't wonder. He would greet her in tones of awe and delight, poke her in the belly, let her steal his nose (or something like that) and tell me what a good job I had done. And he would have a running game/flirtation with the Foilkid. He knew all the riders on his route, and if someone didn't show up when expected, he would start asking questions until he knew that they were ok (on vacation, running late, whatever). He once called the police when an elderly woman who took his bus to her hair appointment without fail once a week didn't show up when he expected her. She had fallen in the bath, and couldn't call for help, and he saved her life. A truly great man.
I think I ended up moving here after college because I had met Rev. Chuck (that’s what we called him) during my internship in 1981. I had never had anything like that happen anywhere else, and I had a sense of community that stuck. I still feel that way about DC. There are so many people here I care about. I do regret losing touch with Rev. Chuck after his retirement. I don’t even remember his last name, but it was pretty common: Smith or Jones or Brown. If his religious beliefs were correct, at some point in time, he will know that I still think of him. If they aren’t, well, I’m thinking of him all the same. A truly lovely, lovely person. I’m glad I knew him. I don’t know too many people in any walk of life who made the world as good as he did. The 16 bus running from Capitol Hill to Culmore, the 6:10 pm run in the winter and early spring of 1981, was a good, good place.
*Repeating some of what I wrote in a reply to a comment by Our Eminence, Benedict XVI (madder and badder than the XV).
**He was a minister in a storefront church and his bus passengers used to attend services and give to the collection plate, not because we believed (at least I didn't), but because he was such a fine human being we wanted his church to succeed. It was a pretty unique church, charismatic and speaking in tongues and stuff, but no cursing others, telling people they're going to hell, or anything like that. I truly believed that he and his followers were inspired by a holy spirit (and a nice holy spirit). He was one of the few ministers I truly thought was a good man without any qualifying statements.
January 20, 2006
Jam-Packed Weekend
It's going to be busy, the next 48 hours. Having a social six-year old is really a full-time job. Tomorrow, a karate test. The Foilkid will have no fear and no troubles. Whatever kind of board it is, it should consider itself already broken. The we have to get a present for a birthday party, go to swimming lessons, and then go to the birthday party.
Today, I had a little adult social interaction. I met with my knitting club, and got talking with an interesting woman who has published several books so far, and gave me some advice about agents, etc. A nice piece of happenstance. Francesca's sweater was universally admired. But a bunch of 40ish and 50ish women sitting around chatting and knitting? That's it. I'm officially middleaged.
GaahGirl woke up crying just a bit ago. She wasn't hungry and didn't need a change, but stayed fussy in my arms. Then I had a bright idea. I folded back the covers hiding the sleeping, snuffling Foilkid and tucked the GaahGirl in. I just checked. Both snoring.
Today, I had a little adult social interaction. I met with my knitting club, and got talking with an interesting woman who has published several books so far, and gave me some advice about agents, etc. A nice piece of happenstance. Francesca's sweater was universally admired. But a bunch of 40ish and 50ish women sitting around chatting and knitting? That's it. I'm officially middleaged.
GaahGirl woke up crying just a bit ago. She wasn't hungry and didn't need a change, but stayed fussy in my arms. Then I had a bright idea. I folded back the covers hiding the sleeping, snuffling Foilkid and tucked the GaahGirl in. I just checked. Both snoring.
Deeply Disappointed: Send a Cow, Send a Cow, Send a Cow
The charitable donations for the London-Mongolia trek (why? how? go to this link) stand at £52 82p. Let's give more money. You can do it! If we raise enough to send Dramatiste somewhere, well, lets just say my gratitude will be overwhelming. Instead of, right now, being deeply shamed. I'm in a deep shame spiral. See, Innana, now I feel ashamed.
Note: I previously was unable to do the cute L thingy for British pounds ("£"), but have since seen the light and using another word processing program figured it out (that's what all those advanced degrees are for, you know). That's what all the comment debate is about.
Note: I previously was unable to do the cute L thingy for British pounds ("£"), but have since seen the light and using another word processing program figured it out (that's what all those advanced degrees are for, you know). That's what all the comment debate is about.
Dramatiste Strikes Again
Just a quick lunch-time post.
My morning commute looks to be ruined. Ruined, ruined, ruined. Except I'll save it. But apparently when I leave for work at the most convenient bus to get to work a little bit before on-time, I not only have her on my Metro train (okay, as long as she's not in my particular car), I have her on my bus. Buses are more intimate. You know the people on your route. I actually talk with a number of busmates.
This morning, she was on the bus. Talking loudly to the same woman*, about work stuff this time. That's the really bad thing. She is either an attorney or working in a legal office and she is talking about work, which should be confidential. What to do? Apparently, she's my challenge** for now. Clearly, she needs some help, but why would I approach this woman in any way? She's a monologuer, and not to an audience of readers who can click away at any time. You can't get a word in edgewise. But what she is doing is unethical and, if she is an attorney, a violation of the Rules of Professional Conduct. Someone needs to intervene. Does she just need to know that someone hears her? Now, it's not just her Companion, but me and anyone who reads my blog who knows about her. She's been heard. How to let her know in a non-hurtful*** way?
Fortunately, I'm also observing young love on the bus. There's a young man (maybe 23 or 24?) who gets on the bus at my stop who has been courting+ a very shy young woman who gets on the bus at the next stop. When I started riding the bus occasionally in November, he was merely watching her admiringly in a non-stalker non-pornographic-thoughts-being-telegraphed kind of way. By early December, he was saving her a seat and they talked in a friendly fashion. Clearly I've missed some upping of the ante over the last few weeks. They are obviously seeing each other (but pretty clearly pre-coital -- they still talk tons) now. She still gets on at her own stop and he gets on at his, but love is in full flower. I'm hoping a year from now, I won't be watching them avoid seeing each other. Or watching them sit together but not really converse.
But right now, he brightens up so when he sees her. He's young enough that he still truly thinks of himself as being a provider and protector and all manly, and he would die if someone told him how cute he is being in love. And how vulnerable. And she's just glowing. She's not that pretty, but right now she just radiates that sense of being tended to and cossetted that brings the bloom on. It's nice to see. It will make me very happy if this lasts. Very happy indeed.
What to do about Dramatiste? I don't know. I'll think about it, but I'm tuning her out and watching the young lovebirds, billing and cooing.
*Showing that appearances deceive, the Companion, who looks quite flamboyant, says not a word. The Companion is a very elegantly dressed woman who I would bet a lot of money is European or Latin American (soignee, black hair up just so, elegant looking, but still quite hot looking, hot enough that I as a heterosexual female look and admire). The Companion dressed in red today, and looked luscious, like one of Burns's roses. But silent. Of course, she has to be.
**One of Innana's new-agey beliefs that I actually agree with, maybe for different reasons, but there you are: you keep getting the same challenge until you figure out how to deal with it.
***I admit it, I've been thinking of cruel and enjoyable (to me) ways to let her know that it's time to STFU. But I'm just going to think about them. I might even describe them here, but I won't do them. Self-restraint. That's what separates us from animals, except I've known many a fine dog who can exercise more self-restraint than most humans.
+An old-fashioned word, but he really has been doing it, and more power to him.
My morning commute looks to be ruined. Ruined, ruined, ruined. Except I'll save it. But apparently when I leave for work at the most convenient bus to get to work a little bit before on-time, I not only have her on my Metro train (okay, as long as she's not in my particular car), I have her on my bus. Buses are more intimate. You know the people on your route. I actually talk with a number of busmates.
This morning, she was on the bus. Talking loudly to the same woman*, about work stuff this time. That's the really bad thing. She is either an attorney or working in a legal office and she is talking about work, which should be confidential. What to do? Apparently, she's my challenge** for now. Clearly, she needs some help, but why would I approach this woman in any way? She's a monologuer, and not to an audience of readers who can click away at any time. You can't get a word in edgewise. But what she is doing is unethical and, if she is an attorney, a violation of the Rules of Professional Conduct. Someone needs to intervene. Does she just need to know that someone hears her? Now, it's not just her Companion, but me and anyone who reads my blog who knows about her. She's been heard. How to let her know in a non-hurtful*** way?
Fortunately, I'm also observing young love on the bus. There's a young man (maybe 23 or 24?) who gets on the bus at my stop who has been courting+ a very shy young woman who gets on the bus at the next stop. When I started riding the bus occasionally in November, he was merely watching her admiringly in a non-stalker non-pornographic-thoughts-being-telegraphed kind of way. By early December, he was saving her a seat and they talked in a friendly fashion. Clearly I've missed some upping of the ante over the last few weeks. They are obviously seeing each other (but pretty clearly pre-coital -- they still talk tons) now. She still gets on at her own stop and he gets on at his, but love is in full flower. I'm hoping a year from now, I won't be watching them avoid seeing each other. Or watching them sit together but not really converse.
But right now, he brightens up so when he sees her. He's young enough that he still truly thinks of himself as being a provider and protector and all manly, and he would die if someone told him how cute he is being in love. And how vulnerable. And she's just glowing. She's not that pretty, but right now she just radiates that sense of being tended to and cossetted that brings the bloom on. It's nice to see. It will make me very happy if this lasts. Very happy indeed.
What to do about Dramatiste? I don't know. I'll think about it, but I'm tuning her out and watching the young lovebirds, billing and cooing.
*Showing that appearances deceive, the Companion, who looks quite flamboyant, says not a word. The Companion is a very elegantly dressed woman who I would bet a lot of money is European or Latin American (soignee, black hair up just so, elegant looking, but still quite hot looking, hot enough that I as a heterosexual female look and admire). The Companion dressed in red today, and looked luscious, like one of Burns's roses. But silent. Of course, she has to be.
**One of Innana's new-agey beliefs that I actually agree with, maybe for different reasons, but there you are: you keep getting the same challenge until you figure out how to deal with it.
***I admit it, I've been thinking of cruel and enjoyable (to me) ways to let her know that it's time to STFU. But I'm just going to think about them. I might even describe them here, but I won't do them. Self-restraint. That's what separates us from animals, except I've known many a fine dog who can exercise more self-restraint than most humans.
+An old-fashioned word, but he really has been doing it, and more power to him.
January 19, 2006
Religion and Negativity Toward Women's Sexuality
One of the reasons I totally distrust organized religion is the horrible mistreatment of women, disregard for women's sexuality, and general disgust for the female body that is communicated by most religions. I'll just list various examples, and will, maybe discuss more thoroughly later. To the extent I've missed any examples of misogyny by religious institutions, please let me know.
First off, the general view of most religions that women's sexuality must be controlled and restrained and is a dangerous thing. I.e., the mother of Jesus must be a virgin, because we can't have a woman who has actually had a penis inside her give birth to the son of god who, by the way, has a penis, can we? Apparently, the penis itself is fine, but having the penis inside the woman makes her unclean. Apparently, the man remains clean (???) but not the woman.
Same with the story of Mary Magdalene. She's unclean because she's a prostitute. Her customers? Apparently sinless or without stain. Ish.
The nice Judeo-Christian-Muslim tradition of stoning adulterous women.
Early Mormons with their 30+ wives. That's a real waste of orgasmic potential. You can't tell me the last 30 or so of Joseph Smith's or Brigham Young's wives had half the orgasms they could have (presuming they had any at all, which is presuming, let's not be coy here, a whole fucking lot). Same complain for all other polygynous religions, such as Islam.
Female circumcision in the Muslim world (and some Christian cultures). Keep her pure by eliminating all sensation. That'll work.
The burning of widows (Suttee) in Hindu religious custom. Not a really good custom, as a whole, I'd say.
Oh, I've gotten too depressed. Having just seen Brokeback Mountain* the idea of anything good coming out of repressing people's sexuality, for religious, cultural, or other stupid reasons just seems stupid.
Where's the religion that let's women just be themselves. Not be Adam's rib. Not be an easy-bake oven, producing the results of all that begetting. Not the handmaid. Not the thing that needs to be cleaned up after (ritual bath, anyone?). Oh, the Navajo belief system (I don't know too much about it) has a coming of age ritual for young women when they reach menarche. And they have a big party. Because it's something to celebrate. I've never seen that in any Western culture.
One friend of mine said that when she reached menarche, her mother baked her a cake and they celebrated. I'll do that for my girls when they reach that threshhold. Fortunately, that's still years away.
*Which makes me wonder why Hollywood actors with illusions of being sex symbols eschew gay male roles. Heath Ledger still looked mighty fine to me (even if he is dumb as a box of rocks) even while lusting after another guy. Aussies and New Zealander's can play gay men and still turn around and play straight heroes and love interests. Why can't American guys? It's acting, not reality. We know that. Oh, and Jake Gyllenhaal? Not as hot as Heath Ledger.
First off, the general view of most religions that women's sexuality must be controlled and restrained and is a dangerous thing. I.e., the mother of Jesus must be a virgin, because we can't have a woman who has actually had a penis inside her give birth to the son of god who, by the way, has a penis, can we? Apparently, the penis itself is fine, but having the penis inside the woman makes her unclean. Apparently, the man remains clean (???) but not the woman.
Same with the story of Mary Magdalene. She's unclean because she's a prostitute. Her customers? Apparently sinless or without stain. Ish.
The nice Judeo-Christian-Muslim tradition of stoning adulterous women.
Early Mormons with their 30+ wives. That's a real waste of orgasmic potential. You can't tell me the last 30 or so of Joseph Smith's or Brigham Young's wives had half the orgasms they could have (presuming they had any at all, which is presuming, let's not be coy here, a whole fucking lot). Same complain for all other polygynous religions, such as Islam.
Female circumcision in the Muslim world (and some Christian cultures). Keep her pure by eliminating all sensation. That'll work.
The burning of widows (Suttee) in Hindu religious custom. Not a really good custom, as a whole, I'd say.
Oh, I've gotten too depressed. Having just seen Brokeback Mountain* the idea of anything good coming out of repressing people's sexuality, for religious, cultural, or other stupid reasons just seems stupid.
Where's the religion that let's women just be themselves. Not be Adam's rib. Not be an easy-bake oven, producing the results of all that begetting. Not the handmaid. Not the thing that needs to be cleaned up after (ritual bath, anyone?). Oh, the Navajo belief system (I don't know too much about it) has a coming of age ritual for young women when they reach menarche. And they have a big party. Because it's something to celebrate. I've never seen that in any Western culture.
One friend of mine said that when she reached menarche, her mother baked her a cake and they celebrated. I'll do that for my girls when they reach that threshhold. Fortunately, that's still years away.
*Which makes me wonder why Hollywood actors with illusions of being sex symbols eschew gay male roles. Heath Ledger still looked mighty fine to me (even if he is dumb as a box of rocks) even while lusting after another guy. Aussies and New Zealander's can play gay men and still turn around and play straight heroes and love interests. Why can't American guys? It's acting, not reality. We know that. Oh, and Jake Gyllenhaal? Not as hot as Heath Ledger.
TrainTalkers (Please Shut Up Now)
This morning on the Metro, I overheard two women talking. Actually, I heard one woman talking to another, and I have no idea what the second woman thought. I was sitting fairly close by both women, but it was rather hard to get a read on either of them, as I had my back to them (and was, of course, knitting). Nonetheless, I developed a deep dislike of the first woman (the talker) and am trying to figure what about her annoyed me quite so much.
Maybe it was the overdramatization of the quotidian life issues. The daily drivel that just isn’t really that dramatic, somehow puffed up by Dramatiste. Among the crises of her life was that in the last week, it has been very windy. Well, yes, I hear you cry, the winds were above 30 mph on Sunday and Monday (or maybe some other days, I haven’t gone and checked the weather history). This kept her awake because the trees rattled, you could hear the wind whistling, and generally things went “thumpity, thumpity, thump.” She related the agony of her sleeplessness and how it made her angry and started her week off on the wrong foot in tones of breathless wonder. As though the wind and her sleeplessness were of vital interest, not only to her companion, but to everyone else in that end of the Metro car. She projected her voice rather like many men do, without regard to being overheard. Of course, since we were all traveling on the Metro from the same place (and all live in the same greater metropolitan capital area), we had all experienced the shock and horror of a windy night or two.
Personally, wind sooths me unless we are talking hurricane level wind or unless I am out, unprotected in a high wind. Then it’s a bit scary. But I remember the windy nights as being cozy and restful. I snugged up with my roasting turkey and tuned out the great outdoors. Full of L-tryptophan, I blogged, read, knitted, called friends and acquaintances, and generally enjoyed being inside on a blowy and cold evening. Now, I accept that people react to things differently, and I found the wind soothing and Dramatiste did not. But Dramatiste did not ask her companion whether she (the companion) could sleep that night. Or whether the Companion noticed the wind. Or spare any thought for anyone but herself. I barely heard the companion speak.
Next, Dramatiste launched into a review of the life of a man of her acquaintance, who she identified by name (I know his name – I don’t know him, but I know his name). In addition to his identity, everyone within hearing distance now knows that this man has lost his job, has sold a home for the second time in as many years, and has moved to Baltimore and then to Biloxi. We also know that Dramatiste is very greatful that she didn’t get involved with Biloximan. Biloximan, I hope you’re happy on the Gulf Coast, with the herons flying in off the Gulf of Mexico. At no point did Dramatiste express any sympathy or curiosity about Biloximan, she just passed judgment. His life is too troubled. Actually, his life did sound too troubled. But it didn’t sound like he had ever actually been anything or meant anything to Dramatiste, so I wasn’t quite sure why she was talking about him: she didn’t care about him, she didn’t like him, she certainly wasn’t trying to learn anything from him. But she sure as shit could feel superior to him. I doubt he ever actually knew he had ever been in consideration for being involved with her and had been found wanting.
Next, Dramatiste launched into an analysis of another friend (identified fully by name) who was married to the wrong man. A man who would ruin the friend’s life, apparently. As though “friends” detailing her personal problems in detail on the Metro, with lots of identifying information thrown in (where she works, where she lives, how much she apid for her house, where her kids are in school), to aid those who might not have been sure they knew her without those details (and to aid any stalkers or psychopaths who might have an interest). At no point did Dramatiste express any wish to do anything to help her “friend”. Nope. She was just willing to list, in painful detail, everything her friend had ever done wrong (lots of things, apparently).
Dramatiste then went back to Biloximan and how glad she was she wasn’t involved with him. Well, at least he’s in another state. Her poor “friend” doesn’t have that luxury. And since the “friend” lives in the neighborhood we started out in, it was not unlikely that her neighbors would be on that train, in that car.
At no point in about a 30 minute soliloquy (I never heard the Companion respond) did Dramatiste express any interest in anyone else except to say what they were doing wrong. And right now I’m going to sound like her and tell her what she should do, rather than help her (although how could I help her? I suppose the gift of a ball gag would be considered offensive, especially coming from a stranger): she should shut up.
I’ve heard plenty of people talk at length on the Metro. Normally, I wish they would learn how to modulate their voices (it’s doable), but I don’t feel that “urge to strangle: rising” sensation. This woman really bugged me. Maybe it was the utter narcissism, the complete lack of empathy, the complete assurance of being morally superior (without any actual evidence of any such status). Maybe it was just the voice. As she left the train, I looked at her trying to figure out why she had annoyed me quite as much as she had. She was a well-coiffed woman (with a bit of helmet-head – enough hairspray to deflect bullets), dressed pretty fashionably but nothing extraordinary. Her Companion never really said anything other than “mmm-hmmm” or “I see” the entire time. Probably a captive audience. As was I. Of course, I should have left, but then I would have lost my seat and had to stop knitting (almost done with Francesca’s sweater). She’s not worth that, that’s for damn sure.
Is there any way to tell someone: “I diagnose narcissistic personality disorder. Get help before everyone around you kills themselves”? Or maybe that’s the goal.
Maybe it was the overdramatization of the quotidian life issues. The daily drivel that just isn’t really that dramatic, somehow puffed up by Dramatiste. Among the crises of her life was that in the last week, it has been very windy. Well, yes, I hear you cry, the winds were above 30 mph on Sunday and Monday (or maybe some other days, I haven’t gone and checked the weather history). This kept her awake because the trees rattled, you could hear the wind whistling, and generally things went “thumpity, thumpity, thump.” She related the agony of her sleeplessness and how it made her angry and started her week off on the wrong foot in tones of breathless wonder. As though the wind and her sleeplessness were of vital interest, not only to her companion, but to everyone else in that end of the Metro car. She projected her voice rather like many men do, without regard to being overheard. Of course, since we were all traveling on the Metro from the same place (and all live in the same greater metropolitan capital area), we had all experienced the shock and horror of a windy night or two.
Personally, wind sooths me unless we are talking hurricane level wind or unless I am out, unprotected in a high wind. Then it’s a bit scary. But I remember the windy nights as being cozy and restful. I snugged up with my roasting turkey and tuned out the great outdoors. Full of L-tryptophan, I blogged, read, knitted, called friends and acquaintances, and generally enjoyed being inside on a blowy and cold evening. Now, I accept that people react to things differently, and I found the wind soothing and Dramatiste did not. But Dramatiste did not ask her companion whether she (the companion) could sleep that night. Or whether the Companion noticed the wind. Or spare any thought for anyone but herself. I barely heard the companion speak.
Next, Dramatiste launched into a review of the life of a man of her acquaintance, who she identified by name (I know his name – I don’t know him, but I know his name). In addition to his identity, everyone within hearing distance now knows that this man has lost his job, has sold a home for the second time in as many years, and has moved to Baltimore and then to Biloxi. We also know that Dramatiste is very greatful that she didn’t get involved with Biloximan. Biloximan, I hope you’re happy on the Gulf Coast, with the herons flying in off the Gulf of Mexico. At no point did Dramatiste express any sympathy or curiosity about Biloximan, she just passed judgment. His life is too troubled. Actually, his life did sound too troubled. But it didn’t sound like he had ever actually been anything or meant anything to Dramatiste, so I wasn’t quite sure why she was talking about him: she didn’t care about him, she didn’t like him, she certainly wasn’t trying to learn anything from him. But she sure as shit could feel superior to him. I doubt he ever actually knew he had ever been in consideration for being involved with her and had been found wanting.
Next, Dramatiste launched into an analysis of another friend (identified fully by name) who was married to the wrong man. A man who would ruin the friend’s life, apparently. As though “friends” detailing her personal problems in detail on the Metro, with lots of identifying information thrown in (where she works, where she lives, how much she apid for her house, where her kids are in school), to aid those who might not have been sure they knew her without those details (and to aid any stalkers or psychopaths who might have an interest). At no point did Dramatiste express any wish to do anything to help her “friend”. Nope. She was just willing to list, in painful detail, everything her friend had ever done wrong (lots of things, apparently).
Dramatiste then went back to Biloximan and how glad she was she wasn’t involved with him. Well, at least he’s in another state. Her poor “friend” doesn’t have that luxury. And since the “friend” lives in the neighborhood we started out in, it was not unlikely that her neighbors would be on that train, in that car.
At no point in about a 30 minute soliloquy (I never heard the Companion respond) did Dramatiste express any interest in anyone else except to say what they were doing wrong. And right now I’m going to sound like her and tell her what she should do, rather than help her (although how could I help her? I suppose the gift of a ball gag would be considered offensive, especially coming from a stranger): she should shut up.
I’ve heard plenty of people talk at length on the Metro. Normally, I wish they would learn how to modulate their voices (it’s doable), but I don’t feel that “urge to strangle: rising” sensation. This woman really bugged me. Maybe it was the utter narcissism, the complete lack of empathy, the complete assurance of being morally superior (without any actual evidence of any such status). Maybe it was just the voice. As she left the train, I looked at her trying to figure out why she had annoyed me quite as much as she had. She was a well-coiffed woman (with a bit of helmet-head – enough hairspray to deflect bullets), dressed pretty fashionably but nothing extraordinary. Her Companion never really said anything other than “mmm-hmmm” or “I see” the entire time. Probably a captive audience. As was I. Of course, I should have left, but then I would have lost my seat and had to stop knitting (almost done with Francesca’s sweater). She’s not worth that, that’s for damn sure.
Is there any way to tell someone: “I diagnose narcissistic personality disorder. Get help before everyone around you kills themselves”? Or maybe that’s the goal.
January 18, 2006
Martin Luther King Jr. According to the Foilkid
Here's the official history, as told by my six-year old:
Once upon a time, our country had stupid rules. Martin Luther King Jr. told them to change the rules. Also, a nice lady who was cranky and tired like Mama is, simply wouldn't stand up when she was told to do so. People used to actually think that people should sit in the back of the bus if they were darker. That was stupid. Martin Luther King said this was stupid. He was right.
Any questions?
Once upon a time, our country had stupid rules. Martin Luther King Jr. told them to change the rules. Also, a nice lady who was cranky and tired like Mama is, simply wouldn't stand up when she was told to do so. People used to actually think that people should sit in the back of the bus if they were darker. That was stupid. Martin Luther King said this was stupid. He was right.
Any questions?
January 16, 2006
On a Lighter Note: Send A Cow
For once, I'm not stealing from Prom. I'm stealing from Zoe (of the delightfully entitled and deservedly famous My Boyfriend is a Twat blog, which you should read, thank you). Yup. I'm a hussy. Just in case one person reads this blog who doesn't read hers, in the spirit of giving (there's 1.5 hours left in MLK Jr. Day) and saving the world, support the deeply delusional efforts of David Mayo to drive from London to Mongolia (good thing about the Chunnel, huh, or this could be a fun Monty Python episode). Why? Well, he's a fruitcake. A loon. Batshit insane.
But in a good cause. What good cause? Why, Send a Cow , of course. Need I say more? Well, it's not a program for sending your plumper and no-longer beloved Missus to a fat farm. Or just away. Nope. It's something about sending cows to tropical climates for vacations, or maybe building up individual wealth through bovine ownership. Not my preferred method of wealth accumulation (but I've really sucked at the whole wealth accumulation thing of late, so maybe I'm not the right person to talk to). Do Fed Ex and UPS know about this, and how are the cows being shipped? Lots of logistical questions here, but don't worry about them, cough up some money for David Mayo's misguided efforts. It could be fun to watch.
But in a good cause. What good cause? Why, Send a Cow , of course. Need I say more? Well, it's not a program for sending your plumper and no-longer beloved Missus to a fat farm. Or just away. Nope. It's something about sending cows to tropical climates for vacations, or maybe building up individual wealth through bovine ownership. Not my preferred method of wealth accumulation (but I've really sucked at the whole wealth accumulation thing of late, so maybe I'm not the right person to talk to). Do Fed Ex and UPS know about this, and how are the cows being shipped? Lots of logistical questions here, but don't worry about them, cough up some money for David Mayo's misguided efforts. It could be fun to watch.
Cliche Central, But It Is Necessary: Rights in the U.S.
Today is a national holiday. It is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. I have the day off work. We have a lot of holidays that no-one seems to celebrate except for taking the day off of work. Presidents Day. Columbus Day. Labor Day. Martin Luther King Jr. Day looks like it is going to turn into one of those. Car dealers advertise sales "celebrating" MLK Jr. Day.
People who criticize political correctness don't remember what the world was like before the civil rights movement in the U.S. De jure and de facto segregation were legal in the U.S. Neighborhoods had restrictive covenants keeping out whatever undesirables they didn't want out. It was hard to buy a home in certain areas if you were Jewish, damn near impossible if you were black. Miscegenation laws were not only on the books, they were enforced. My kids would have been illegal. Really. It would not have been legal for me to marry the man I did in the state I married him in until eight years after my birth.
Billie Holliday's song Strange Fruit really did describe a horrible custom in many towns in the U.S. Men got killed for whistling at white women. Hotels had no problem telling a family with children trying to check in after a long day's drive "We don't allow Jews here" and this was not just in the benighted South, but in my home turf of New England. Long after World War II had ended.
People were shot, tortured, and terrorized to keep them and others from registering to vote.
While MLK wasn't the only person who helped change the world or at least my little corner of it, he did die in the cause that many others did, and let's all remember to register to vote and then, damn it, vote. He, and others, died, so that all of us, without fear, could do so.
And those who find "political correctness" so damn oppressive, remember, nigger and kike used to be words that weren't heavily censored, and those weren't the good old days.
People who criticize political correctness don't remember what the world was like before the civil rights movement in the U.S. De jure and de facto segregation were legal in the U.S. Neighborhoods had restrictive covenants keeping out whatever undesirables they didn't want out. It was hard to buy a home in certain areas if you were Jewish, damn near impossible if you were black. Miscegenation laws were not only on the books, they were enforced. My kids would have been illegal. Really. It would not have been legal for me to marry the man I did in the state I married him in until eight years after my birth.
Billie Holliday's song Strange Fruit really did describe a horrible custom in many towns in the U.S. Men got killed for whistling at white women. Hotels had no problem telling a family with children trying to check in after a long day's drive "We don't allow Jews here" and this was not just in the benighted South, but in my home turf of New England. Long after World War II had ended.
People were shot, tortured, and terrorized to keep them and others from registering to vote.
While MLK wasn't the only person who helped change the world or at least my little corner of it, he did die in the cause that many others did, and let's all remember to register to vote and then, damn it, vote. He, and others, died, so that all of us, without fear, could do so.
And those who find "political correctness" so damn oppressive, remember, nigger and kike used to be words that weren't heavily censored, and those weren't the good old days.
January 15, 2006
Not Just Warrantless Wiretaps*
Fuck it all. We live in a police state. Warrantless searches and wiretaps. Our next Supreme Court Justice thinks it's okay to strip-search a child if you believe, without proof or warrant, that her parents are drug-dealers (or, presumably threats to national security). Now the government is opening mail without warrant or apology. Can these fuckwitted moronic and morally deficient imbeciles** really not read our Constitution? Our case law? Simply understand that our history and legal traditions are those of respect for individual rights and liberties and they have just pissed all over that?
Any single bloggers from elsewhere. I'm not single yet, but I will be soon enough. Am seriously considering departure for an actual democracy. Because I'm actually beginning to get a very bad vibe here. State your case and why I should move to your fair land and abode in an email to me at foilwoman at gmail. I'm almost serious about this and might become serious pretty damn quick.
*With thanks to Macdonald of Macdonald's Animal Farm for the original link.
**Yes, I'm pissed off. Can you tell? Anyone needing more explanation: You're a fuckwitted moron as well. Sorry for the obscenity, but the circumstances that exist, in our alleged constitutional democracy, are obscene. I'd say fuck them (the perpetrators), but really, my hope is that they never actually procreate, so I rather say don't fuck them. Please.
Any single bloggers from elsewhere. I'm not single yet, but I will be soon enough. Am seriously considering departure for an actual democracy. Because I'm actually beginning to get a very bad vibe here. State your case and why I should move to your fair land and abode in an email to me at foilwoman at gmail. I'm almost serious about this and might become serious pretty damn quick.
*With thanks to Macdonald of Macdonald's Animal Farm for the original link.
**Yes, I'm pissed off. Can you tell? Anyone needing more explanation: You're a fuckwitted moron as well. Sorry for the obscenity, but the circumstances that exist, in our alleged constitutional democracy, are obscene. I'd say fuck them (the perpetrators), but really, my hope is that they never actually procreate, so I rather say don't fuck them. Please.
A Paid Agent of Our Enemies?
Not to abuse classical cinematic references, but quoting the great conspiracy movie of the cold war era The Manchurian Candidate*, I firmly believe that Dubya really couldn't be doing our nation and our constitution much more harm if he were a paid agent of our enemies. If you don't understand why I believe that, read this.** Thank you.
*Not the recent remake, although that may be good, I haven't seen it and I'm referring to the 1962 original. I mean, Denzel Washington is a hunk of salty goodness and all that, but nothing tops the original Angela Lansbury version. Oh, and the movie begins: Korea, 1952, just like we were discussing before in the Syriana/Munich discussion.
**Thank you, My Eminence (that's Pope Benedict XVI -- madder and badder than the XVth for the rest of you), for the link. You may still be Useless (being and XY, and all that) but you are infallible.
*Not the recent remake, although that may be good, I haven't seen it and I'm referring to the 1962 original. I mean, Denzel Washington is a hunk of salty goodness and all that, but nothing tops the original Angela Lansbury version. Oh, and the movie begins: Korea, 1952, just like we were discussing before in the Syriana/Munich discussion.
**Thank you, My Eminence (that's Pope Benedict XVI -- madder and badder than the XVth for the rest of you), for the link. You may still be Useless (being and XY, and all that) but you are infallible.
January 14, 2006
An Exercise in Narcissism?
I started writing this diary on April 14, 2005. My husband was having delusions, I was starting a new temporary job, I was job-hunting for a permanent job, I had a five-year old and a 6-month old who's existence pretty much depended on me and me alone, and my husband and my marriage was in a free-fall. I was thinking of taking a lover. I did. That faded away, as it probably should have done. My husband departed even further from reality. He took my eldest child to another country and left her there. I discovered he had spend, truly, hundreds of thousands of dollars -- all our savings. My family rallied, got my daughter back here, helped me out, and, once my-soon-to-be-ex-husband punched me (once, first time ever, let's not paint him more evil than he is) Innana stayed with me while the restraining order was served and the my mother came down. I couldn't get a permanent restraining order, he moved back in, and my mother rented me an apartment so that I could move out of the house which I paid the mortgage on. I got a full-time, permanent job that is single mother friendly while all this was occurring. I'm catching my breath.
If you are tired after reading that paragraph (which omits many of the high points of the last nine months -- April 14 to January 14) imagine how I feel.
I write obsessively. I have over 400 posts since April 14, 2005. I'm starting to save and print out stuff, and it's thousands of pages of me venting. I have some illusions of being publishable some day (Under what category? One of those mock-self-help books: "I Used to Miss Him, But My Aim Is Improving?" -- a real title, btw), but really doubt that will happen.
Nonetheless, writing here is helping me enormously at a time of absolute crisis in my life. And it livens up my day to day life. I do find myself paying closer attention to what people do and say, and sometimes doing things I wouldn't just to see what story will come out of it. Normally, I don't think that's bad, but in the area of male-female relations (my primary focus here, I doubt I'll be doing much writing about my job -- I'm not an Emergency Room physician like Dr. John) I wonder if I'm using a supply/demand advantage (do most women really have that little interest in sex?) mainly for the purposes of storytelling. Of course, telling the story of me as a desirable woman has some real important ego-boosting value to me after 20 years with PdeFF, the last five of which he still wanted me, but seemed completely oblivious to the fact that I might have needs, requests, wants, whatever separate from his own. Just an appendange. A woman waiting on him.
Now I've turned the tables a little bit (okay, I've flipped the table over and am stomping on it and just about any available guy in high heeled shoes, but hey, they can get off the damn table and go elsewhere, can't they?). But I'm writing about it, and that makes me wonder if sometimes my involvement is a little unfair. Writing gives me the distance I need. As long as they are meeting me and in the background, my secret identity (Foilwoman as author). It makes me wonder about my own inner moral compass even more than contemplating (and then actually having) an affair did. At some level, I'm using these people, and really, anyone who comes in contact with me as characters in little vignettes that are all-about-me. Not so attractive. But I can't stop right now. I can't brood about things. I need to keep moving, interacting. Especially on non-custodial weekends like today.
Dr. John a/k/a Bronze John (my hero!) has written something much more eloquent in his own blog, Stranger's Fever:
But I wonder why this writing seems so therapeutic. And why I find it so helpful to do this in terms of functioning every day in what truly are difficult times when in the early stages of this crisis, I couldn't even tell Innana some of the stuff I have told all of you. Letting her in on the secret of the blog was liberating, and telling Francesca was also a very good thing. But what is it about telling secrets that feels so good?
Of course, my blog isn't just about me beating up the boys. It's about the Foilkid beating up the boys. The GaahGirl's amazing spherical existence. Innana's theatrical ventures. Religion (I wish I could believe, but I just don't. Those of you who do believe, keep posting, as long as you're kind, like WW, Andy (who is kind in an incredibly macho way of course), or the Useless Men). Politics (is there anyone out there who would willingly touch Tom Delay? Fess up. And he could probably use a hug right now). Guitars (more on that, My Eminence, in a later post). Books. Restaurants.
Speaking of which: Latest nice places to eat and drink when someone else is treating (well, someday I'll pay my own way again, just not right now): The Bar at the Jefferson Hotel. Good tea, good cheeseplate. Nice place to have drinks with a handsome guy. Quiet enough so you can talk. Off the Record (Bar and the Hay Adams): ditto. Farenheit (the restaurant at the Ritz Carlton in Georgetown): great food and the portions aren't so large you feel guilty. Desserts are a bit off. Not a romantic place. Zaytinya: really great food, a bit noisy. La Tasca: Yummy tapas, nothing extraordinary.
Best meal in 2005 in a restaurant: Mancini's with Innana. The food was great, the company better.
Book reviews later. Oh, and last night, I tried a new scotch, Glenn Goyne, which was quite good. When I was at the Jefferson's bar, with a lovely half-Danish/half-east-Indian guy who could talk lovingly and longingly about his mother's vanille kranse and marzipan (yum, yum, yum) I had 16 year old Lagavulin, which was beyond good. I'd give it four Champurrado tacos. Although nobody got laid (or was that part of the three taco rating?).
*Bronze John, "The Second Broken Heart, Stranger's Fever (Jan. 14, 2006).
If you are tired after reading that paragraph (which omits many of the high points of the last nine months -- April 14 to January 14) imagine how I feel.
I write obsessively. I have over 400 posts since April 14, 2005. I'm starting to save and print out stuff, and it's thousands of pages of me venting. I have some illusions of being publishable some day (Under what category? One of those mock-self-help books: "I Used to Miss Him, But My Aim Is Improving?" -- a real title, btw), but really doubt that will happen.
Nonetheless, writing here is helping me enormously at a time of absolute crisis in my life. And it livens up my day to day life. I do find myself paying closer attention to what people do and say, and sometimes doing things I wouldn't just to see what story will come out of it. Normally, I don't think that's bad, but in the area of male-female relations (my primary focus here, I doubt I'll be doing much writing about my job -- I'm not an Emergency Room physician like Dr. John) I wonder if I'm using a supply/demand advantage (do most women really have that little interest in sex?) mainly for the purposes of storytelling. Of course, telling the story of me as a desirable woman has some real important ego-boosting value to me after 20 years with PdeFF, the last five of which he still wanted me, but seemed completely oblivious to the fact that I might have needs, requests, wants, whatever separate from his own. Just an appendange. A woman waiting on him.
Now I've turned the tables a little bit (okay, I've flipped the table over and am stomping on it and just about any available guy in high heeled shoes, but hey, they can get off the damn table and go elsewhere, can't they?). But I'm writing about it, and that makes me wonder if sometimes my involvement is a little unfair. Writing gives me the distance I need. As long as they are meeting me and in the background, my secret identity (Foilwoman as author). It makes me wonder about my own inner moral compass even more than contemplating (and then actually having) an affair did. At some level, I'm using these people, and really, anyone who comes in contact with me as characters in little vignettes that are all-about-me. Not so attractive. But I can't stop right now. I can't brood about things. I need to keep moving, interacting. Especially on non-custodial weekends like today.
Dr. John a/k/a Bronze John (my hero!) has written something much more eloquent in his own blog, Stranger's Fever:
I don't know. There is a question here that I am dancing around. Using people's suffering as entertainment. . . .Now, Dr. John writes about other people almost exclusively. His writing isn't this needy confessional stuff you get from me. And his concern about using his patients or violating their privacy is different from mine about using hapless Joes who buy me a drink or take me to the theater, want to buy a sweater (sure, I believe that), or simply make it clear in what I'm sure they think is a very subtle way that they want to have sex with me.
But I don't know. The whole posting thing - I've been a bit ambiguous about it recently. I feel there may be unpalatable truths about what I post that I am unwilling to face.
Some of this stuff is about me. When it's about me, that's okay - at the worst it's some kind of exhibitionism, some kind of borderline behaviour. Maybe you grow out of cutting and overdosing and stuff into writing. The writer as the narcissist with boundary issues and a need for constant approval - an axis two disorder, a personality problem.*
But I wonder why this writing seems so therapeutic. And why I find it so helpful to do this in terms of functioning every day in what truly are difficult times when in the early stages of this crisis, I couldn't even tell Innana some of the stuff I have told all of you. Letting her in on the secret of the blog was liberating, and telling Francesca was also a very good thing. But what is it about telling secrets that feels so good?
Of course, my blog isn't just about me beating up the boys. It's about the Foilkid beating up the boys. The GaahGirl's amazing spherical existence. Innana's theatrical ventures. Religion (I wish I could believe, but I just don't. Those of you who do believe, keep posting, as long as you're kind, like WW, Andy (who is kind in an incredibly macho way of course), or the Useless Men). Politics (is there anyone out there who would willingly touch Tom Delay? Fess up. And he could probably use a hug right now). Guitars (more on that, My Eminence, in a later post). Books. Restaurants.
Speaking of which: Latest nice places to eat and drink when someone else is treating (well, someday I'll pay my own way again, just not right now): The Bar at the Jefferson Hotel. Good tea, good cheeseplate. Nice place to have drinks with a handsome guy. Quiet enough so you can talk. Off the Record (Bar and the Hay Adams): ditto. Farenheit (the restaurant at the Ritz Carlton in Georgetown): great food and the portions aren't so large you feel guilty. Desserts are a bit off. Not a romantic place. Zaytinya: really great food, a bit noisy. La Tasca: Yummy tapas, nothing extraordinary.
Best meal in 2005 in a restaurant: Mancini's with Innana. The food was great, the company better.
Book reviews later. Oh, and last night, I tried a new scotch, Glenn Goyne, which was quite good. When I was at the Jefferson's bar, with a lovely half-Danish/half-east-Indian guy who could talk lovingly and longingly about his mother's vanille kranse and marzipan (yum, yum, yum) I had 16 year old Lagavulin, which was beyond good. I'd give it four Champurrado tacos. Although nobody got laid (or was that part of the three taco rating?).
*Bronze John, "The Second Broken Heart, Stranger's Fever (Jan. 14, 2006).
January 13, 2006
One More Useless Response from One Useless man
One Useless Man answered my last question. I think he got a bit confused. Can you help help. After all, he is Useless.
January 12, 2006
Go And Vote
Mac asked, on his blog,
What are the chances that Abramoff drops the dime on DeLay? Is it possible that these two could end up as roomies in a federal prison of a federal prosecutors choice? Out of Delay and Abramoff, which one has the greater chance of becoming the cellblock "bitch?"The primary question for me, of course, is, which is more attractive (to the extent either man has any attractive qualities, which are not much in evidence) and thus more likely to be a desireable subordinate partner in the prison romance scheme. (See the continuity from the Useless Men's post? I try.) So far, Mac just has my opinion, which while worth more than anyone else's opinion [sarcasm, for the snotty-tone-impaired], really shouldn't be relied on in a vacuum. Anyone wanting Delay to get any popularity votes should really click on this link and vote for Delay as your honey. Just don't try to shake my hand afterwards. I may be immoral, I may be opinionated, but I do have some standards.
Abortion, Compassion, and Changing Perspectives
One of the things I really like about myself is that I can change my mind in response to changing circumstances. I also like that I can (and have done so here and elsewhere) admit that I have been wrong. The flip side of that is that while I can really stick to my guns and be stubborn, I am never absolutely certain that I am right. I have learned to live with doubt. I figure that it is the price of sentient existence. You can never be sure.
One thing I used to be sure about was abortion. I was pro-choice (I still am, but read and see). I was certain that if I ever had an unwanted pregnancy, I would terminate, and I thought every other woman on the planet should have that right, no ifs, ands, or buts. Now I have a much more qualified view.
What changed my mind? Three, no four, miscarriages, two children who are the light of my life, one of whom was a happy accident when my marriage was already beginning its descent into the twilight zone, learning about how abortion laws are used in Sweden (anecdotally, I haven't studied them and don't have stats to quote, although my anecdotal source was a Swedish government employee) and knowing Mr. Studmuffin and one of my best friends from grad school (OOMBFFGS - no, that's not going to work, we'll just call her Lourdes), Lourdes.
Unlike many abortion opponents, who are clearly “anti-choice”, Mr. Studmuffin and Lourdes are against abortion and believe it should be outlawed because of the innate humanity of the fetus (at least in their opinions). They think the choice of the mother does not outbalance the humanity of the fetus. Added to this, both are such soft touches, that they would risk their own lives (and wallets, more of an issue to many today) to protect the weak. Mr. Studmuffin has spent many hard-earned dollars taking squirrels to the veterinary emergency room. Yes, you read that right. Lourdes, a successful single woman who would love, more than just about anything in the world, to be a mother, but was dumped at the altar by a man I have not yet had the opportunity to properly maim (but he should look where he is going). She volunteers at homeless shelters, and particularly devotes her energies to helping single mothers. She babysits, she signs kids up for (and pays for) enriching classes their single mothers cannot afford. She says the women should value their children and she values their children. She doesn’t tell them it’s their duty to bear these children and then give them away to richer people, although she doesn’t disapprove of adoption. But she realizes that telling someone to bear a child and then give it up is about as cruel as you can be. So she tries to help. Mr. Studmuffin has two sisters who are single mothers, and he babysits all over the place. Also, for a friend of his (moi) who is in the process of becoming a single mother.
Compare and contrast, if you will, their behavior with the radical right, calling the largely desperate women heading in for abortions baby killers. My friends have probably accomplished more, not by political campaigning or name-calling, but by simply making sure that people who made the decision they believe to be the right one are rewarded and helped, not simply bullied into compliance.
I can’t imagine ever having had an abortion. I’m glad I never did. I could never tell someone else not to have one, although I would not be in favor of such an action except in relatively rare circumstances. But then, I’m not volunteering my time to help the women who made that choice either.
One problem in the U.S. is that all restrictions on abortion have come from the bully-pulpit people. The people who want to end abortion, full-stop, without being willing to do the things necessary to make sure it really withers on the vine. Such as actually help single mothers. Provide affordable child care, decent birth control, etc. Babysit, a la Mr. Studmuffin and Lourdes. These people I think just want to punish women who had sex. Make it painful, less attractive, and more dangerous. Thanks, it’s dangerous enough already, and there is enough pain in the world. How about actually making it easier for women facing a pregnancy alone to contemplate bringing a child into this world? That’s scary enough for the strongest among us, and it’s easier with people like Mr. Studmuffin and Lourdes.
One thing I used to be sure about was abortion. I was pro-choice (I still am, but read and see). I was certain that if I ever had an unwanted pregnancy, I would terminate, and I thought every other woman on the planet should have that right, no ifs, ands, or buts. Now I have a much more qualified view.
What changed my mind? Three, no four, miscarriages, two children who are the light of my life, one of whom was a happy accident when my marriage was already beginning its descent into the twilight zone, learning about how abortion laws are used in Sweden (anecdotally, I haven't studied them and don't have stats to quote, although my anecdotal source was a Swedish government employee) and knowing Mr. Studmuffin and one of my best friends from grad school (OOMBFFGS - no, that's not going to work, we'll just call her Lourdes), Lourdes.
Unlike many abortion opponents, who are clearly “anti-choice”, Mr. Studmuffin and Lourdes are against abortion and believe it should be outlawed because of the innate humanity of the fetus (at least in their opinions). They think the choice of the mother does not outbalance the humanity of the fetus. Added to this, both are such soft touches, that they would risk their own lives (and wallets, more of an issue to many today) to protect the weak. Mr. Studmuffin has spent many hard-earned dollars taking squirrels to the veterinary emergency room. Yes, you read that right. Lourdes, a successful single woman who would love, more than just about anything in the world, to be a mother, but was dumped at the altar by a man I have not yet had the opportunity to properly maim (but he should look where he is going). She volunteers at homeless shelters, and particularly devotes her energies to helping single mothers. She babysits, she signs kids up for (and pays for) enriching classes their single mothers cannot afford. She says the women should value their children and she values their children. She doesn’t tell them it’s their duty to bear these children and then give them away to richer people, although she doesn’t disapprove of adoption. But she realizes that telling someone to bear a child and then give it up is about as cruel as you can be. So she tries to help. Mr. Studmuffin has two sisters who are single mothers, and he babysits all over the place. Also, for a friend of his (moi) who is in the process of becoming a single mother.
Compare and contrast, if you will, their behavior with the radical right, calling the largely desperate women heading in for abortions baby killers. My friends have probably accomplished more, not by political campaigning or name-calling, but by simply making sure that people who made the decision they believe to be the right one are rewarded and helped, not simply bullied into compliance.
I can’t imagine ever having had an abortion. I’m glad I never did. I could never tell someone else not to have one, although I would not be in favor of such an action except in relatively rare circumstances. But then, I’m not volunteering my time to help the women who made that choice either.
One problem in the U.S. is that all restrictions on abortion have come from the bully-pulpit people. The people who want to end abortion, full-stop, without being willing to do the things necessary to make sure it really withers on the vine. Such as actually help single mothers. Provide affordable child care, decent birth control, etc. Babysit, a la Mr. Studmuffin and Lourdes. These people I think just want to punish women who had sex. Make it painful, less attractive, and more dangerous. Thanks, it’s dangerous enough already, and there is enough pain in the world. How about actually making it easier for women facing a pregnancy alone to contemplate bringing a child into this world? That’s scary enough for the strongest among us, and it’s easier with people like Mr. Studmuffin and Lourdes.
January 11, 2006
Knitting as a Man Trap
This is a new one on me. I knit on the Metro. I'm currently busy working on the left front of Francesca's sweater (see the Ann Curley Jacket, the top pattern displayed, except this is in Prom's beautiful maroon and blue wool) as I finished the largest piece, the back, yesterday. It's nice that the sweater is going well.
Now, Innana can tell you, in all reality, superheroine antics aside, I'm an attractive, but not gorgeous woman in her 40s. I'm pudgy. I get away with that more because I'm tall, but no-one will ever call me willowy. As I haven't been sleeping much, I definitely look tired (and probably cranky) all the damn time.
Yesterday, on my way to work, a well-dressed business man sat next to me (on Metro) and asked about my knitting. What was I knitting, how long would it take, and finally who was I knitting for. I figured, hey, he's just being civil. Because no man on this planet (except those who knit, and good for them I say) truly gives a flying fuck about knitting. I don't care about their car repair issues (as long as they take care of mine) and they really, really, really do not care about knitting. I should have known. My guard was down and I was being . . . (wait for it) . . . actually friendly and civil to a man I did not know in a public setting without any flirtation agenda (I hope you were sitting down for that one). Then he asks "So you're making a sweater for your girlfriend. What about your boyfriend of husband?" Subtle, huh? The light goes on. "No." Sigh. "It would be so nice to have a homemade sweater . . . especially one as nicely made as this one looks like it will be." Now we have to admit, that's a good one. Appealling to my vanity. "Well, I could do it," I said, "but the wool alone would cost over $100, because it's a waste of money to put all the labor into a cheap yarn." I paused. "And it's at least 50 hours of labor, probably more. . . . Even at a discounted rate of $20/hour, it would cost $1,000 in labor, probably more, plus $150 in wool (or more). $1,150 minimum." He smiled and went for the jugular. "Why don't you give me your phone number and we could arrange something. That wouldn't be too much to pay for a nice homemade sweater." "It could easily be much more." "It would be worth it."
I gave him my cell number, which identifies all callers (except overseas). So I can eschew him if I choose. If he call. This was all a little too Hollywood meet-cute. And he was way prettier than I am. But if he really wants a homemade sweater and will buy the yarn, I could use and extra thousand dollars. I'll pick a nice chunky pattern that will knit up fast (except he's so sleek, he'd probably want an ultrafine cashmere -- which would be fun, but time consuming, to knit). We shall live and we shall see.
Now, what man (dressed in a nice Italian suit and looking damn good, if over 50) who wears really fashionable clothes, wants a homemade sweater? Was that conversation actually about knitting?
And that's not all. On the way home in the evening, a young man was staring at me and noticed that I noticed and he said he was just watching me knit. Huh? It's not like watching a woman eat an ice-cream cone (which if you know you're being watched, you can play up, just to toy with them, because why not). Although I guess manual dexterity would be something guys in their right minds would look for as well as women (yes, that's why we like the musicans). And he kept up a knitting conversation as well. Not as aggressively, but then, he was younger and more puppyish, and wouldn't have done or said anything without a fair amount of encouragement, which I did not give him.
Now, I understand when I have a bicycle wheel with me on the Metro, or my ice skates, that these objects can be the subject of conversation. But knitting? Speaking of which, I've joined a professional women's knitting group. What do we do? We get together and knit. My life is so exciting.
Now, Innana can tell you, in all reality, superheroine antics aside, I'm an attractive, but not gorgeous woman in her 40s. I'm pudgy. I get away with that more because I'm tall, but no-one will ever call me willowy. As I haven't been sleeping much, I definitely look tired (and probably cranky) all the damn time.
Yesterday, on my way to work, a well-dressed business man sat next to me (on Metro) and asked about my knitting. What was I knitting, how long would it take, and finally who was I knitting for. I figured, hey, he's just being civil. Because no man on this planet (except those who knit, and good for them I say) truly gives a flying fuck about knitting. I don't care about their car repair issues (as long as they take care of mine) and they really, really, really do not care about knitting. I should have known. My guard was down and I was being . . . (wait for it) . . . actually friendly and civil to a man I did not know in a public setting without any flirtation agenda (I hope you were sitting down for that one). Then he asks "So you're making a sweater for your girlfriend. What about your boyfriend of husband?" Subtle, huh? The light goes on. "No." Sigh. "It would be so nice to have a homemade sweater . . . especially one as nicely made as this one looks like it will be." Now we have to admit, that's a good one. Appealling to my vanity. "Well, I could do it," I said, "but the wool alone would cost over $100, because it's a waste of money to put all the labor into a cheap yarn." I paused. "And it's at least 50 hours of labor, probably more. . . . Even at a discounted rate of $20/hour, it would cost $1,000 in labor, probably more, plus $150 in wool (or more). $1,150 minimum." He smiled and went for the jugular. "Why don't you give me your phone number and we could arrange something. That wouldn't be too much to pay for a nice homemade sweater." "It could easily be much more." "It would be worth it."
I gave him my cell number, which identifies all callers (except overseas). So I can eschew him if I choose. If he call. This was all a little too Hollywood meet-cute. And he was way prettier than I am. But if he really wants a homemade sweater and will buy the yarn, I could use and extra thousand dollars. I'll pick a nice chunky pattern that will knit up fast (except he's so sleek, he'd probably want an ultrafine cashmere -- which would be fun, but time consuming, to knit). We shall live and we shall see.
Now, what man (dressed in a nice Italian suit and looking damn good, if over 50) who wears really fashionable clothes, wants a homemade sweater? Was that conversation actually about knitting?
And that's not all. On the way home in the evening, a young man was staring at me and noticed that I noticed and he said he was just watching me knit. Huh? It's not like watching a woman eat an ice-cream cone (which if you know you're being watched, you can play up, just to toy with them, because why not). Although I guess manual dexterity would be something guys in their right minds would look for as well as women (yes, that's why we like the musicans). And he kept up a knitting conversation as well. Not as aggressively, but then, he was younger and more puppyish, and wouldn't have done or said anything without a fair amount of encouragement, which I did not give him.
Now, I understand when I have a bicycle wheel with me on the Metro, or my ice skates, that these objects can be the subject of conversation. But knitting? Speaking of which, I've joined a professional women's knitting group. What do we do? We get together and knit. My life is so exciting.
January 10, 2006
And Now, The Useless Wonder
Well, the Useless Men have been a bit productive. It's only 37 days since I asked them my four questions, and they have today answered the 3rd one. Let's be glad they are not emergency room physicians. We'd get treated more quickly by flying to Australia and throwing ourselves on Bronze John's tender mercies. But for emergency-Useless-Question-Answerers, they're well, Useless.
And today's answer is the first response by The Useless Wonder to a question of mine (yes, in response to your question: I stalk these men. Not hard, since they are pretty Useless at hiding themselves). I think the Useless Wonder has accurately assessed the state of male female relations and done a fine, if totally Useless, job of answering my question. As a result, I have another question. Since I unfortunately accept the belief that being gay is pre-programmed, and I have always been inclined to like the boys, all medical professionals reading please advise: Is there any way to reprogram? If we could rewire both Innana and me, I'd be all set. Thank you.
And today's answer is the first response by The Useless Wonder to a question of mine (yes, in response to your question: I stalk these men. Not hard, since they are pretty Useless at hiding themselves). I think the Useless Wonder has accurately assessed the state of male female relations and done a fine, if totally Useless, job of answering my question. As a result, I have another question. Since I unfortunately accept the belief that being gay is pre-programmed, and I have always been inclined to like the boys, all medical professionals reading please advise: Is there any way to reprogram? If we could rewire both Innana and me, I'd be all set. Thank you.
January 9, 2006
My Treasure
So of course you know this is going to be a gooey maternal post. I am trying to get my crocheting up to speed so that I can make pretty crocheted buttons for the Foilkid's sweater. Foilkid has given me firm orders about that, as well as the type of hat she wants. Further, she was quite clear that her little sister, the Gaah Girl, needs and identical sweater (except maybe a bit smaller) because, says the Foilkid in her wisdom-beyond-her-years: "[GaahGirl's name] wants to be exactly like me." And that is true beyond questioning.
Forgot heliocentric versus other forms of solar systems. The GaahGirl's world revolves and orbits totally and completely around the miraculous heavenly body that is her big sister. GaahGirl weighs about half what the Foilkid does (she's a big baby), but Foilkid totes her little sister around like a chortling back of potatoes with chubby thighs. When the Foilkid tires, she drags GaahGirl around by any available appendage. GaahGirl chortles blissfully as she is dragged face first across the carpet.
Foilkid has fallen in love, in love, in love with Wind in the Willows. We just got through the adventure in the Wild Wood and the visit with Mr. Badger, and spent time discussing the varying personalities of Ratty, Mole, Toad, Badger, and Otter. Sitting on the sofa with my six-year old child snugged up against me, turning the pages of a sure-to-be-beloved-forever book. So beloved already that Foilkid is anxious that the GaahGirl isn't interested. Because Foilkid's universe has the GaahGirl in a pretty gravitationally significant spot as well. So Foilkid wants, deeply, sincerely, and with all the wishing available in a six year old heart, that the GaahGirl could appreciate this wonderful piece of literature that she is currently enjoying.
Those are my girls. My treasure.
Forgot heliocentric versus other forms of solar systems. The GaahGirl's world revolves and orbits totally and completely around the miraculous heavenly body that is her big sister. GaahGirl weighs about half what the Foilkid does (she's a big baby), but Foilkid totes her little sister around like a chortling back of potatoes with chubby thighs. When the Foilkid tires, she drags GaahGirl around by any available appendage. GaahGirl chortles blissfully as she is dragged face first across the carpet.
Foilkid has fallen in love, in love, in love with Wind in the Willows. We just got through the adventure in the Wild Wood and the visit with Mr. Badger, and spent time discussing the varying personalities of Ratty, Mole, Toad, Badger, and Otter. Sitting on the sofa with my six-year old child snugged up against me, turning the pages of a sure-to-be-beloved-forever book. So beloved already that Foilkid is anxious that the GaahGirl isn't interested. Because Foilkid's universe has the GaahGirl in a pretty gravitationally significant spot as well. So Foilkid wants, deeply, sincerely, and with all the wishing available in a six year old heart, that the GaahGirl could appreciate this wonderful piece of literature that she is currently enjoying.
Those are my girls. My treasure.
More Useless Than My Cat Is Even More Useless, If That's Humanly Possible. Well of Course It's Possible. He's a Guy.
MUTMC has answered another of my questions to the Useless Men. He accepts the Foilkid's role in global domination (you all should, really, you'll be happier). However, Cookie is the first blogger in the Foilkid's heart (as expansive as it is). MUTMC will just have to get in line. I guess I'll be saying that to a lot of guys from now one.
A Map of the World
Again, I beg you to click on the Bravenet Guestmap and leave your voluntary mark. As you may see (or not, if you just read the most current post) I have added a Clustermap, which records a rough approximation of all visitors to this site each month. Last month I had a big cluster up on Hudson's Bay, near or at Churchill, Manitoba (where you can go out in the tundra buggies and get up-close and personal with the polar bears in a nice non-I'm-your-snack-way). I love seeing the map light up with readers in far away places. Way up north, in the antipodes (Your Eminence! Bronze John! TdeCN!). So my seven day old (for some reason, the month turns over on the 2nd) January map is already showing visitors from Spain, Northern Manitoba, Israel, Kuwait, and other places. Post on the voluntary map. It makes me happy.
Oh, And I'm a Crappy Friend
And I forgot to return Innana's phone call of earlier tonight and tomorrow is going to be a horrendously busy day at work. In addition to not calling her, I've also failed to get Christmas/Hannukah/Ramadan (or whatever) thank you notes done, and, believe me, this year I owe thank yous big-time. And I've failed to mail the two Christmas presents I actually was sending out of town. The chocolate chip cookies will be stale by the time the Foilnephews get them, but tomorrow and Tuesday, I have meetings all day and no chance to get to the post office. And of course, the twelve days of Christmas are so last week. As are the eight days of Hannuka.
I can't keep saying everyone will give me a bye because I'm in crisis. I'm not in crisis. This is the new status quo. I need to be functioning at a higher and better level and be a better person to other people (including hapless Mormons on the Internet, but most particularly my own nearest and dearest).
Chances of sleep now? 0%, rising to 40-60% by about 2:30 am. Action plan involves soothing and relaxing knitting. Francesca's sweater, my sweater, the undesignated slim-6'1"-guy's sweater (formerly to be for PdeFF, now probably for Mr. Studmuffin, but who knows), a hat for the Foilkid, the buttons (crocheted) for Foilkid's sweater, and an identical but smaller (but not by much) sweater for the GaahGirl. Then maybe reading some of Shalimar the Clown or The Time Traveller's Wife. Or the Island of Lost Maps.
Good things to think about:
I have the girls this weekend.
My job is mother friendly and nice.
I'm having lunch at Farenheit and drinks at the Jefferson later this week.
Lot's of good books.
Lot's of good knitting.
The Foilkid ate and enjoyed a brussels sprout tonight (she's vegetable-averse, but we're making progress) and ate some peas with her lunch.
I'm still 5'11" (at some point in the aging process, I assume I'll start to shrink like my once 5'6" nuclear Grammy, who can't be much more than 5'2" now).
I have a car with 17,000 miles that my Uncle, who loves me, gave me, and my cousins didn't complain at all. Indeed, they showered my kids with presents and goodies (I do need to get those thank you letters written and sent).
My room is a mess, but no one sees it. Well, Innana and Francesca have, but they have both lived with me, and said, "Seen worse" or something similar.
The rest of the apartment, including the girls' room, is clean and organized.
My girls are eating food that I cook for them.
I have nice cooking utensils, pots & pans, baking pans, spices, and dishes (thank you FoilMormor, Francesca, Innana, and Helen).
I'm beginning to get sleepy.
I can't keep saying everyone will give me a bye because I'm in crisis. I'm not in crisis. This is the new status quo. I need to be functioning at a higher and better level and be a better person to other people (including hapless Mormons on the Internet, but most particularly my own nearest and dearest).
Chances of sleep now? 0%, rising to 40-60% by about 2:30 am. Action plan involves soothing and relaxing knitting. Francesca's sweater, my sweater, the undesignated slim-6'1"-guy's sweater (formerly to be for PdeFF, now probably for Mr. Studmuffin, but who knows), a hat for the Foilkid, the buttons (crocheted) for Foilkid's sweater, and an identical but smaller (but not by much) sweater for the GaahGirl. Then maybe reading some of Shalimar the Clown or The Time Traveller's Wife. Or the Island of Lost Maps.
Good things to think about:
I have the girls this weekend.
My job is mother friendly and nice.
I'm having lunch at Farenheit and drinks at the Jefferson later this week.
Lot's of good books.
Lot's of good knitting.
The Foilkid ate and enjoyed a brussels sprout tonight (she's vegetable-averse, but we're making progress) and ate some peas with her lunch.
I'm still 5'11" (at some point in the aging process, I assume I'll start to shrink like my once 5'6" nuclear Grammy, who can't be much more than 5'2" now).
I have a car with 17,000 miles that my Uncle, who loves me, gave me, and my cousins didn't complain at all. Indeed, they showered my kids with presents and goodies (I do need to get those thank you letters written and sent).
My room is a mess, but no one sees it. Well, Innana and Francesca have, but they have both lived with me, and said, "Seen worse" or something similar.
The rest of the apartment, including the girls' room, is clean and organized.
My girls are eating food that I cook for them.
I have nice cooking utensils, pots & pans, baking pans, spices, and dishes (thank you FoilMormor, Francesca, Innana, and Helen).
I'm beginning to get sleepy.
Melancholia and Irritability (and Hormones, Don't Forget Hormones)
One thing I really don't like about being female that is also somehow connected to my depression is hormonal moodswings. A bad mood at the wrong time can be nightmarish. I've been there these last few days. Obviously, I'm worried about PdeFF. I'm worried about the house. I'm worried about the girls. Not that anything is wrong with the FoilFilles, they're healthy, happy, smart, and beautiful as always. But I worry about what will happen to them if PdeFF cracks in front of them. To top all this off, of course, I'm in a black mood, largely externally imposed (hormonal -- I can tell, I'm craving the chocolate, the fatty meat, the salty foods). I hate that this happened (my period) on a weekend when I have my girls. Why not next weekend. I was able to control my moodiness (I just completely lost it on Jewish Atheist's blog, twice) in front of my daughters.
I took the Foilkid skating yesterday. Today, we went out for a walk and then read Wind in the Willows. So far (we're through Chapter 4), the Foilkid is entranced. She likes Ratty. She likes Toad. She likes Badger. I'm really happy about that. She begs me to read more to her. We've done four chapters in two days, which is a fair amout of reading out loud, particularly for a kid who has just graduated to chapter books.
I've cleaned, I've organized. I've made lunch plans. Busyness is not the answer. I'm considering where to volunteer on my non-custodial weekends (more meaningful than dating, although less nice meals). Francesca raised an eyebrow when I suggested that I should volunteer at a homeless shelter; maybe she thinks I should still be in full pamper mode? But I can't live there forever. It's time to pick myself off, dust myself off and be useful. I am female after all. There's no barcalounger in my future.
I just wish my mood didn't run off for one week a month. Better than being a guy, I suppose. While they talk about women's hormones, I'm sorry, but testosterone really does limit IQ, and since it's flowing throught them at a fairly high rate with all that aggression and anger and competition and sex drive, it must be like being in one's second trimester of pregnancy with shots of steroids. Who knows.
I've got a couple of nice get togethers planned for this week, and by the end of it should be back on an even keel. I just hate being in a bad enough mood that I don't even want to try to claw out. I guess that's where I should give thanks for the girls: I may not want to claw my way out (and I know this is short-term), but I've done a pretty good job of clawing my way out enough to function at an appropriate maternal level. I may feel like crap on toast, but I'm not going to have any of that seep into them. Yup, I can fake it. I think that's a gender linked thing too, even though I have actually never done that (what you're thinking of, and I know you were, and just stop it, this is a G-rated post).
I took the Foilkid skating yesterday. Today, we went out for a walk and then read Wind in the Willows. So far (we're through Chapter 4), the Foilkid is entranced. She likes Ratty. She likes Toad. She likes Badger. I'm really happy about that. She begs me to read more to her. We've done four chapters in two days, which is a fair amout of reading out loud, particularly for a kid who has just graduated to chapter books.
I've cleaned, I've organized. I've made lunch plans. Busyness is not the answer. I'm considering where to volunteer on my non-custodial weekends (more meaningful than dating, although less nice meals). Francesca raised an eyebrow when I suggested that I should volunteer at a homeless shelter; maybe she thinks I should still be in full pamper mode? But I can't live there forever. It's time to pick myself off, dust myself off and be useful. I am female after all. There's no barcalounger in my future.
I just wish my mood didn't run off for one week a month. Better than being a guy, I suppose. While they talk about women's hormones, I'm sorry, but testosterone really does limit IQ, and since it's flowing throught them at a fairly high rate with all that aggression and anger and competition and sex drive, it must be like being in one's second trimester of pregnancy with shots of steroids. Who knows.
I've got a couple of nice get togethers planned for this week, and by the end of it should be back on an even keel. I just hate being in a bad enough mood that I don't even want to try to claw out. I guess that's where I should give thanks for the girls: I may not want to claw my way out (and I know this is short-term), but I've done a pretty good job of clawing my way out enough to function at an appropriate maternal level. I may feel like crap on toast, but I'm not going to have any of that seep into them. Yup, I can fake it. I think that's a gender linked thing too, even though I have actually never done that (what you're thinking of, and I know you were, and just stop it, this is a G-rated post).
January 6, 2006
Takes on the Middle East
I have recently seen both Munich and Syriana, and it's no wonder that I have been remembering my days of studying Arabic, dreaming about the Middle East, and having scary, but otherwise Walter Mitty-like daydreams about my life as a secret agent (entirely fantastical, I assure you).
But it makes me wonder again about moral absolutes, religious and ultra-religious societies, and how little most U.S. citizens know about other parts of the world. Munich I saw over the holidays and there were a lot of college students around me. One had to ask her friends what the Mossad was. Now Shin Beit (the internal security force in Israel) I could understand. But Mossad? MI6, KGB, CIA, Mossad. These are pretty basic.
Watching Syriana, one spectator felt the need to explain to his apparently illiterate date, that when a change of scene occurred and the words "Georgetown, Washington, DC" appreared in the lower right hand corner of the screen that the scene was, indeed shifting to Georgetown. I kind of wondered how those two handled the switches in scene and perspective later on. They definitely were confused by the young Pakistani kid.
I always get annoyed when these movies get dumbed down, but here was a movie, part of which was set in the city I was watching it in, and audience members seemed to need learning aids to decipher that different lighting and lenses cued different locations.
I liked the movies, but I think next time I will wait for the DVD. Oh, I don't have a DVD player. Oops.
But it makes me wonder again about moral absolutes, religious and ultra-religious societies, and how little most U.S. citizens know about other parts of the world. Munich I saw over the holidays and there were a lot of college students around me. One had to ask her friends what the Mossad was. Now Shin Beit (the internal security force in Israel) I could understand. But Mossad? MI6, KGB, CIA, Mossad. These are pretty basic.
Watching Syriana, one spectator felt the need to explain to his apparently illiterate date, that when a change of scene occurred and the words "Georgetown, Washington, DC" appreared in the lower right hand corner of the screen that the scene was, indeed shifting to Georgetown. I kind of wondered how those two handled the switches in scene and perspective later on. They definitely were confused by the young Pakistani kid.
I always get annoyed when these movies get dumbed down, but here was a movie, part of which was set in the city I was watching it in, and audience members seemed to need learning aids to decipher that different lighting and lenses cued different locations.
I liked the movies, but I think next time I will wait for the DVD. Oh, I don't have a DVD player. Oops.
The Food of Love
If music is the food of love . . . . No, I’m not writing about Shakespeare, or music, or romantic love. Or even really about food (but it’s so nice to write about food).
This is about how you feed love. When I was a teenager, I attended a religious boarding school (not that religious then, more so now) about 10 miles from my home. Most kids came from much further away. Francesca’s family lived about 60 miles away. Some kids came from hundreds and thousands of miles away. I lived in a dormitory, and Francesca was my roommate during my sophomore year.
I used to go home and cook things and bring them back. Brownies. Cheesecakes. Chocolate chip cookies. Chocolate éclairs. I was a scholarship student, and lots of the kids were from the wealthiest families in the U.S., but I was very, very rich (and befriended) when I showed up with homemade (with my own, not so little hands) food for my institutionally-fed friends.
My parents would sometimes take me and friends from school out for ice-cream. One night, Francesca and I were at Friendly’s with the FoilDad, and ate a sundae each (3 scoops of ice cream, whipped cream, nuts, hot fudge sauce). He jokingly asked us if we wanted more. We said yes. He looked a bit surprised, but made no comments about our figures (we were rowing crew, we could’ve eaten four sundaes and stayed slim) and bought us each more food. We were teenaged girls living away from home and a parent had offered us more food. {LOVE} We ordered it, ate it, and enjoyed it.
Speaking of which, I finished off the bouef bourgignon Francesca made last night. Innana’s cranberry nut bread is long gone. With the leftover champagne, I marinated some chicken, and still have that to eat. But then I’ll need to cook something.
And then get to work on Francesca’s sweater.* The Foilkid’s is done, except for finishing.
*See the "Ann Curly Jacket" to be done in Prom's wonderful blue, with maroon accents. And Francesca looks better than the vampire lady posing in the catalogue.
This is about how you feed love. When I was a teenager, I attended a religious boarding school (not that religious then, more so now) about 10 miles from my home. Most kids came from much further away. Francesca’s family lived about 60 miles away. Some kids came from hundreds and thousands of miles away. I lived in a dormitory, and Francesca was my roommate during my sophomore year.
I used to go home and cook things and bring them back. Brownies. Cheesecakes. Chocolate chip cookies. Chocolate éclairs. I was a scholarship student, and lots of the kids were from the wealthiest families in the U.S., but I was very, very rich (and befriended) when I showed up with homemade (with my own, not so little hands) food for my institutionally-fed friends.
My parents would sometimes take me and friends from school out for ice-cream. One night, Francesca and I were at Friendly’s with the FoilDad, and ate a sundae each (3 scoops of ice cream, whipped cream, nuts, hot fudge sauce). He jokingly asked us if we wanted more. We said yes. He looked a bit surprised, but made no comments about our figures (we were rowing crew, we could’ve eaten four sundaes and stayed slim) and bought us each more food. We were teenaged girls living away from home and a parent had offered us more food. {LOVE} We ordered it, ate it, and enjoyed it.
Speaking of which, I finished off the bouef bourgignon Francesca made last night. Innana’s cranberry nut bread is long gone. With the leftover champagne, I marinated some chicken, and still have that to eat. But then I’ll need to cook something.
And then get to work on Francesca’s sweater.* The Foilkid’s is done, except for finishing.
*See the "Ann Curly Jacket" to be done in Prom's wonderful blue, with maroon accents. And Francesca looks better than the vampire lady posing in the catalogue.
January 4, 2006
Fictional Memories: Share 'Em
Prom posted this (having stolen it from WW, who stole it from somebody else -- we're just a den of theives* here on Blogger). I posted a response.
"please post a comment here on my blog with a completely made up and fictional memory of you and me. Anything you want—positive or negative—but the original said please keep it clean but you don't have to do that here. And remember: it has to be fake! After you've left your comment, post this little paragraph on your own blog—and be surprised (or mortified) about what people don't actually remember about you."
This I would actually like to see.
*In particular, I seem to steal from Prom, as this is the second post-theme-meme-whatever that I have "borrowed" (to be a euphemistic twit) or "liberated" (to be a socialist twit) or "paid homage to" (to be an overly pretentious twit. Is there another kind of twit? Do tell.) from her. Maybe I should come up with some bloggin ideas of my own some day soon? Oops! I stole from Prom again.
"please post a comment here on my blog with a completely made up and fictional memory of you and me. Anything you want—positive or negative—but the original said please keep it clean but you don't have to do that here. And remember: it has to be fake! After you've left your comment, post this little paragraph on your own blog—and be surprised (or mortified) about what people don't actually remember about you."
This I would actually like to see.
*In particular, I seem to steal from Prom, as this is the second post-theme-meme-whatever that I have "borrowed" (to be a euphemistic twit) or "liberated" (to be a socialist twit) or "paid homage to" (to be an overly pretentious twit. Is there another kind of twit? Do tell.) from her. Maybe I should come up with some bloggin ideas of my own some day soon? Oops! I stole from Prom again.
January 3, 2006
More Useless Advice (Much Appreciated)
Well it only took nearly a month, but the Useless Men have finally answered one of my four questions requested back on December 4. I'd say more, but my lunch break is over. Check it out.
Iron Man
Has anyone ever heard of this hero? And what kind of superhero quiz site and questionnaire doesn't include Buffy the Vampire Slayer?
Your results:
You are Iron Man
Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test
Your results:
You are Iron Man
| Inventor. Businessman. Genius. |
Neighbors
Not the TV show. My actual neighbors. They generally seem nice. Except they've been gone for at least three days now, and they left their bedroom radio on. The bedroom of theirs that abuts the FoilFilles' room cum guestroom. Which Francesca couldn't sleep in on Saturday and Sunday nights. And which the GaahGirl had trouble sleeping in. The radio isn't that loud, but it definitely is right against the wall. I've knocked on their door about ten times since yesterday. I just left a note on their door.
Note to everyone: even if the volume is low, if you are forced to listed to someone else's choice of music all night, it really is too much to ask for equanimity if said music is crappy country and western. Not loud enough to make the wall vibrate, but definitely audible through the walls. I hope that I have calmed down before the neighbors return, otherwise I'll tell the wife (pregnant, seemed nice until she and her spouse left my guests and kids sleepless) who is not named Bitsy that we can hear everything through the walls and I really don't want my daughter to hear the phrase "Bitsy" pant, pant, pant "Harder, harder. Oooh. That's just right. Ah, ah, ah, I'm going to come." Odd and disgusting gurgling noises. I'll look at Mary (not Bitsy) with an appraising eye and ask if she and her husband are aware of how thin the walls are and that I have very young children. I can't be that mean (or can I?), but I'm pretty darn sure Mary or Doofus (the husband) would move out, one or the other, after that, and then I'd have one less neighbor to keep my kids and guests awake. Please explain to me again why such an action would be wrong and why I shouldn't do that. Because Francesca slept on the couch last night because she couldn't sleep in the girls room because of the music. And the girls are now in my room, and I'm obviously not sleeping now (foot in the face, and even though the Foilkid has cute feet, I'm really not partial to toes in the nose).
Stop me. I really want to be bad.
Note to everyone: even if the volume is low, if you are forced to listed to someone else's choice of music all night, it really is too much to ask for equanimity if said music is crappy country and western. Not loud enough to make the wall vibrate, but definitely audible through the walls. I hope that I have calmed down before the neighbors return, otherwise I'll tell the wife (pregnant, seemed nice until she and her spouse left my guests and kids sleepless) who is not named Bitsy that we can hear everything through the walls and I really don't want my daughter to hear the phrase "Bitsy" pant, pant, pant "Harder, harder. Oooh. That's just right. Ah, ah, ah, I'm going to come." Odd and disgusting gurgling noises. I'll look at Mary (not Bitsy) with an appraising eye and ask if she and her husband are aware of how thin the walls are and that I have very young children. I can't be that mean (or can I?), but I'm pretty darn sure Mary or Doofus (the husband) would move out, one or the other, after that, and then I'd have one less neighbor to keep my kids and guests awake. Please explain to me again why such an action would be wrong and why I shouldn't do that. Because Francesca slept on the couch last night because she couldn't sleep in the girls room because of the music. And the girls are now in my room, and I'm obviously not sleeping now (foot in the face, and even though the Foilkid has cute feet, I'm really not partial to toes in the nose).
Stop me. I really want to be bad.
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