All Is Doomed

After all I've done to help save the universe, I concede defeat. Really. I just checked some of the search terms that brought people here today. The apocalypse is nigh. Somebody came to this blog using the satanic search term "good combover". Men of the universe: there is no good combover. There may be military intelligence, there may even be compassionate neo-cons, but there are no good combovers. Don't let this happen again. Thank you.

Stand Back

You really might want to just go away now. Forewarned is forearmed. A vague disclaimer is no-one's friend. Despite having just signed a contract to sell my former house (six months too late, but hey), I am in an absolutely piss-poor mood. I more than snapped at a condescending and dimwitted colleague earlier today, I had to participate in a truly annoying corporate bonding meeting/exercise (that's where I snapped at dimwit), I had to attend a required-by-the-court-for-all-divorcing-parents-who-can't-agree-on-custody parenting class, it's the first day of my period, and I could really, really take pleasure in maiming someone.

Also, the girls are with PdeFF. Fortunately for me, they are returning here tomorrow. I'll be sure and be calmer then.

Right now, however, I am suffused with rage. Furious. So angry I could . . . whatever. I made an omelet. That helped for a minute. Then I had my sacrificial glass of wine. No relaxation whatsoever. I can feel the tension in my neck building up. I need a punching bag.

What's most infuriating is that niggling thought that I should be feeling relaxed now that the contract is signed. I'm not relaxed. I'm nowhere near relaxed. Relaxed is on a road trip in Asia, and here I am on the Atlantic coast. Grr.

Quick thankfulness list:

I have coffee pot (thanks SNV!)
I am getting a toaster (thanks Innana!)
My girls are great and coming home tomorrow.
A competent and pleasant man is interested in me, at least a little bit.
I have my guitars.

Still mad. I really don't like feeling this way.

The Three Stooges (Annoyed Lunchtime Post)

Innana loves the Three Stooges. I do not. I especially do not right now. We have gotten a fifth offer on the house, but I haven't heard about it, officially. The realtor (Larry, I suppose), the attorney (Moe), and Curly (PdeFF) have done nothing. We have days, soon to be in the single digits to finalize this crap and these guys are moving like slow molasses. Grrr. What is so tough about the decision: Five offers, five different prices. Drop the lowballs, pick the two or three highest, and see if something that will appease the bank can be selected.

But no! With time running out, they have to sit and think about all the choices.

Again, with my refrain: not deciding is making a decision. PdeFF is deciding to lose our entire investment in our home (our only remaining asset) by not deciding. And he has his lawyer and realtor helping him. Mush-for-fucking-brains, all of them. I can only hope they will dither themselves to death, and put themselves out of my misery.

Sacrifice

Wednesday, March 29, 11:50 P.M.

Well, I've drunk three glasses of Lindeman 2005 Bin 99 Pinot Noir, sacrificed to appease [Insert Name Here], the truly malevolent minor deity of jock itch, or ingrown nose hair or something like that. All to help BJ. I'm really a selfless superheroine if I must say so myself.

I also promised to sacrifice PdeFF, my not-soon-enough-to-be-ex-husband to [Insert Name Here], but that's not going so well as police to tend to stop murders before they occur, if at all possible.

Thursday, March 30, 7:43 A.M.

Well, Innana called, and I got distracted. The thing is, we have four, yes four, offers on the former FoilHouse. But we only have a very short time to get everything organized before foreclosure occurs. PdeFF, his idiot attorney, and their idiot realtor (rejected the one who sold lots of houses in our area and picked a guy who lives 30 miles away) can't decide which offer to pick. One is slightly over the cost of the mortgage. We'd be in arrears for the realtor's fee. One is such that PdeFF and I would jointly clear about $30,000 total after paying the mortgage and the realtor, and the contract has lots of contingencies. One is non-contingent, for cash, and we we would clear about $65,000 after paying the realtor. One has some contingencies that could be resolved with some negotiation, with guaranteed financing, and we would clear $115,000 after paying the realtor. They are debating all four.

Idiots.

I woke up at 5:30 even though I had had three glasses of wine, sacrificed to appeas [Insert Name Here].

With my luck, the Three Stooges will dither so long about the (very apparent to me and easy to decide) choice of buyer that all offers go away or the accept one too late to stall foreclosure.

Feminist Men, and Other Oxymorons

This isn't about Mike. This is about Chris Clarke, who Ms. Socks (of Reclusive Leftist fame) wrote about, and who himself wrote about not being a feminist. Bravo Chris, I say. Ms.* Socks says Mr. Clarke is a feminist. I'm not so sure.

Sometimes, stereotypes and cliches are useful. Cliche: Any man who has every been a bartender is probably a complete crumb. Corollary: Any man who says he is a feminist is probably a complete crumb.

Men are great and I like men. I actually look for the best in people, except when they are talking too loud in public. But the "I'm a feminist" line now irks me. That's like "I'm honest." Or "I'm very protective." Sure you are. That's why you aren't protecting me, right? Deeds, not words. So guys, don't say you're a feminist. But do support good access to birth control, and other positions that help women in the world and the workplace.


*Yes, she has a Ph.D., but I reserve "Dr." for people who can rescusitate me. There you are.

Rescheduled

Mr. Military Industrial Complex (hereafter: Mike, it's close enough) have reschedule. I'm cranky and hormonal as all get out, have serious PdeFF issues*and Mike had serious work things going on today that made me worry just a smidgeon. It's funny, last time I was single I would have agonized about this. Instead, I used the time off to pick up milk and the GaahGirl's favorite yoghourt. And now I'm blogging up a storm or hope to do so.

*Many subsequent posts from now, I'll probably be calm enough to write about that batshit insane excuse for an adult human being and his fellow-travelers.

Please Help: Someone Is Having a Worse Time This Last Week Than I Had This Last Year (Really)

Bronze John, of Stranger's Fever is having a truly craptastic week, although he is still writing about it lyrically and humorously. (Yes, he's a fascist dictatorship, according to his niece*, **.) So he needs sacrifices to [Insert Name Here], some vengeful meso-American deity. I've offered up PdeFF, but we need some worthier sacrifices, prayers, money, chocolate (for me), wine -- I'll drink it up and offer it up to [Insert Name Here]. Anyway, read his most recent blog entry. If you don't start reading his blog addictively, well, there's not much I can do for you. But remember, prayers, sacrifices, money, virgins, whatever. Send them his way. Thanks.

*Mr. Eglinton, could you please set up a fascist dictatorship state for BJ in the nations game by Jennifer Government? And make sure the niece with guitar lessons (good) and appendicitis (bad) is specifically named as one of the oppressed there.

**I'm pretty sure that I'll be a fascist dictatorship when TigerGrrl discovers that boys are useful for more than carrying her pumpkin.

I'm Not a Teenager

I'm trying to remind myself of that. Mr. Military Industrial Complex, with whom I had a very nice first date two weeks ago, is back in town and has invited me out to dinner tomorrow night. This is a man who actually knows: I'm forty-four years old, in the process of having my home foreclosed on, in the middle of what promises to be a disastrous and complicated divorce, and I have two children, ages 6 and 1.

I try to be pretty up front with the downside with whoever's reaching out. Normally, if this stuff doesn't come out before the first date, full disclosure means that's the last I'll hear from a guy (unless he thinks we're having a fling, which we're not: trust me, I've been the mayor of that town before and I'm not running for re-election). I'm actually surprised that Mr. MIC is reappearing. He had told me he was in the mid-west on business last week, and even though I thought we had really hit it off, I also wondered if the trip wasn't just a deflection so that he could stall or disengage.

Anyway, a second date. Nothing fancy: dinner, a walk, maybe listen to music. I'm not going to get all female and dithery and I'm going to wear the first dress that falls out of my closet tomorrow morning. I promise.

Books du Jour

TigerGrrl and I are almost done with Eager's Half Magic, which is a delight. That is just about my favorite thing to do: sit on the big blue couch, reclining really, and TigerGrrl reclining on top of me while I read her night-time story to her. When she likes a book I am reading, she'll forgo just about anything to get more chapters. I have to pick out our next "chapter" book. Books with chapters are very big right now.

I've just started In the Shadow of the Prophet by Milton Viorst (remainder bin, $2). It's looking pretty good.

In a bit, I will have permission to go to the former-FoilHouse and pick up my mothers antiques and paintings, some other furniture, my remaining personal effets, clothing, and books. I have a number of chapter books there for TigerGrrl. Anne of Green Gables, Little Women, Heidi in nicely bound and illustrated, gifts to TigerGrrl from her BigGrampa. I'll also get to pick up my books. It will be nice to have a surfeit of books. Only having ten or so in the queue to read just doesn't do it for me.

SNV and Mr. Studmuffin will accompany me to the house, to deflect PdeFF trademarked batshit insanity. At what point will this man clue into the fact that -- after he spent all our money, left my daughter (TigerGrrl) in a foreign country (Canada -- fortunately retrieved by her doting BigGrampa), and then hit me -- I'm not coming back.

It will be good to have friends with me when I go to the house of delusions.

Bus Ride: Good Deed/Sad Story (Lunch Hour Post)

I took a different bus than I normally do this morning, because I missed my regular bus (the early one that avoids Dramatiste -- yes, I'm heading to work a half an hour early every day to not overhear her and have to react or not react). To get in at my usual (now) time, I walked out to the main road and caught a different bus to the Metro. Right after I got on, heading into DC, a woman who was on the bus asked the driver how long it would be until the bus reached the Falls Church* station. Needless to say, Falls Church was long past: we were near Clarendon.

The woman was probably in her late forties, but could have been younger and just did not take care of herself. My first reaction was annoyance. She was loud, she wasn't paying attention. Then she asked me the time. I don't wear a watch, and said so, but said it was just a bit after eight. A blonde woman across the aisle gave the woman who missed her bus stop the time (8:07). Bus-stop-missing-woman (BSMW) then asked another woman to loan her cell phone. "It's an emergency." The cell-phone-woman (CPW) dialed the phone number and then gave it to BSMW, and BSMW then walked up to the front of the bus as though she were about to get off. CPW looked alarmed (her phone was about to fly away). I spoke to BSMW and told her to not walk away with CPW's phone (yes, I can be bossy) and sit down and not distract the driver (dangerous and against the law). CPW's phone died, and BSMW then returned it to CPW. Great. BSMW kept repeating: "I need to call my father."

At that point, I realized that BSMW wasn't a drug addict or con artist. She has some mental deficits. I'm not sure if she was mentally ill, brain damaged, or had some other neurological problem, but she had a flat voice and flat affect, and she certainly didn't process information well.

I got my cell phone out, and asked BSMW for her father's phone number. I dialed him and gave her the phone. BSMW spoke to him for a bit, and she told him to meet her at the Falls Church Metro stop and hung up. Of course, we were going in the other direction. I hit the redial button on the phone, and her father answered. I explained that she was heading to Rosslyn, not Falls Church. He confirmed that she was easily confused, and I assured him that she would be on the correct bus to Falls Church once this bus reached the end of the line. The bus driver had overheard all of this, and at the next light, he turned and told us that this bus would be doubling back in that direction, and he would tell BSMW when to get off the bus. When I got off the bus, I told BSMW to stay put and the bus driver would tell her when to get off at her stop. The bus driver thanked me (it can't be fun to have an easily confused person lost on your bus route) and assured me he would see her safely to her stop.

As we walked to the Metro at Rosslyn, CPW patted my hand and said "I was afraid she was a drug addict or something." We discussed how one can fear people who really can't harm you, because they seem "off." BSMW was off. It must be so hard for her to function in our confusing and fast-paced world.

Poor thing. At least she (I hope) got where she was going today. I don't think I did anything special. By the end of the bus ride, BSMW reminded me of NSLOS, who also has mental deficits. I wanted her to get where she was going rather instead of my initial, and uncharitable reaction, which was simple irritation. But a lot of people aren't going to help her when she needs it, because of her flat affect and inability to react appropriately.

*Metro stops changed to preserve anonymity of locations and individuals.

Torture: If It's Okay, Who Can Torture You and What Can He Do?

Jewish Atheist, bless his unbeliever's heart, asked his readers about torture, quoting a study saying that Christians are more likely to support torture (of a suspected terrorists) that atheists were. What about Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Aztecs, whatever? I have no idea.

My question is this: if torturing a suspect to get information is okay (i.e., if you think that in certain circumstances it's okay to torture someone to get information or hoping to get information) exactly what torture is okay? More specifically, if you should be suspected and the authorities (or whoever) decide to torture you, what's okay for them to do to you.

I suspect most of my regular readers (all ten of them) don't think torture is okay, or think it's a worst case scenario option that no one should actually contemplate. But to the extent anyone does think it's acceptable in certain circumstances, take the logical leap. You're the suspect. Exactly what can they do to you, even if you are innocent (because being a suspect, newsflash, doesn't depend on guilt or innocence). No one who said, in Jewish Atheist's blog, that torture could be okay in certain circumstancs would answer this question. I'd appreciate if you would, even hypothetically, taking a devil's advocate position. Thank you.

Batavia's Graveyard

Batavia's Graveyard just wasn't that good. I read it to the end, but it was disheartening that Mike Dash could make a history of this tragic and violent shipwrecking and Lord of the Flies event be a story that grabs one by the throat. Mutiny, shipwreck, murder, rape, followed up by pretty gruesome capital punishment including one miscreant who was broken on the wheel. The man who can make that story stilted is Mike Dash. Sorry, Mike. It didn't stink, but with a plot like that, how could it? The fact that it's inert really means this was a history someone else should have written.

Champurrado: How are you? And Books.

I miss Champurrado of No One's Fool. I know he has a lot of stuff to deal with right now (like three children isn't enough?), so I'm not pestering with emails or phone calls. But I am thinking of him and wishing him, Mrs. C, Suhija, Suhijita, and G. (his youngest) well. And good eating, of course. I'm hoping in addition to his other endeavors that he has been cooking up a storm and will write about it soon to make us salivate, among other things.

When he and Suhijita were in greater capital area, he gave me two books of authors he had previously recommended to me. David Foster Wallace's Consider the Lobster and T.C. Boyle's Drop City. For a while I couldn't read any substantive stuff because my concentration was so shot with all the disastrous divorce developments (say that three times quickly), but I finished Consider the Lobster over a week ago and Drop City yesterday. Now I have to scarf up every other book those two men wrote. They are anti-Updike writers. Not afraid of personality, not afraid of plot. Not afraid of description. I really need to read some fiction by David Foster Wallace, but I also have to read some Don DeLillo and some David Sedaris, because Champurrao recommended them both. Really. If he said they were good, they must be.

Next to read: A tough choice amongst On Beauty by Zadie Smith (given to me by my baseball-loving-blog-reading-friend who has fallen off the face of the Earth and is in Big Trouble: I don't have much friendship maintenance energy right now, so I'm not chasing down prodigal friend, but that doesn't mean I don't need them to stop by), A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal, by Asne Seierstad (gift from Francesca: I may just save this one for later, for a really dark day when I want to be reminded of her as I turn the pages), and Salem Falls, by Jodi Picoult (from Cookie -- thanks sweetie-pie -- who knew I'd read My Sister's Keeper). But I also have last month's Atlantic Magazine (a hand-me-down from Innana) that I'm wrapped up in right now.

Oh, and I'm loving having a coffee maker (thank you SNV and Ex-Marine Fred). Next, from Innana, a toaster. Also, Innana needs green bottles for her play, and nice red wine comes in green bottles, so I got a bottle of Woodbridge from her, which I've emptied. I'm now on a nice (green bottle) Australian wine, which I will empty before Friday (Anything for Innana, anything. Aren't I a good friend?) in a self-less act of keeping myself moderately pickled. It's a Shiraz called The Little Penguin. 2005 vintage. Probably total plonk, but I'm really enjoying it -- it's been a while since I've had wine in the house and now two bottles -- no make that three: I also have a Lindeman's Bin 99 Pinot Noir, 2005 vintage as well. Tell me that's good stuff.

Metro Rules: Emergency Early Lunch Hour Post

I saw a woman putting make-up on on the Metro this morning. Not lipstick, or face powder. Liquid foundation. What's next? Flossing?

Is it just me, or does there seem to have been a break-down between the private and the public sphere?

I remember learning, when growing up, that one doesn't groom one-self in public with certain exceptions.* Exceptions, aside for the one for other primates, are matters of degree. You can quickly powder your nose, or touch-up your lipstick but eye-liner, eye-shadow, tweezers, whatever should only be brought out in the ladies' room (or gents, if you are RuPaul). Hair brush (and shedding of dandruff) should not occur in public.

Men, same for you. Adjusting your yarmulke with shedding of dandruff? No. Unbuttoning your pants to tuck in your shirt? Not in public. Unbuttoning on the subway would seem to be the precursor to an indecency complaint, but not for some guys.

Let's try this:

In the Private Sphere

Do what you want, but remember, belch too many times and your spouse might just leave. You still need to fit in with whatever group of people you live with. If you have really bizarre personal habits, living alone might be a good idea. At other people's homes, you are not "in public", but remember that you are in their homes and try and act accordingly. If they give you a tissue, don't use your sleeve.

In the Public Sphere

You're in public, you socially retarded nitwit. Chew with your mouth closed. No grooming. No bodily functions.** Remember, other people exist and can, think about this, see and hear you. Also, remember there are video cameras everywhere, and do you really want to see your grooming routine on some "Who Could Be This Gross" video show? And if you don't mind, what about your mother?

Oh, and when in public: modulate your voice. Thank you.

This is a public service announcement for stupid and thoughtless people by a very irritated me. I have enough crap in my life right now. Guys on the Metro: keep your pants zipped. Women on the Metro, same. All of you: groom yourselves at home or in a bathroom. Thank you again.

*Chimpanzees and other hair-covered primates are allowed to de-louse one another. Women can touch up lipstick, but quickly and discretely.

**I don't mean don't have bodily functions, I mean have control over your bodily functions. Yes, you can do that, unless ill, in which case, I will call you an ambulance.

Comb-Overs and Shaved Heads

After getting my comp time in today, I had a coffee with an acquaintance who is ten years older than I am and has male-pattern baldness. Wisely, rather than combing over, he shaves his head. Smart man (he's Danish).

A word to men: a comb-over is never a good idea. Never. Let me just say this: Donald Trump.

Balding is testorone linked. Balding is normal and natural. Women who reject you because you are balding aren't worth one drink during a half-off happy hour. If you are balding, single, financially solvent, over forty, and in the DC area and have been suffering from rejection, send me an email. Unless you have a comb-over. Then, no, no, no. A thousand times no.

The Death March

SNV is a fitness fanatic. We actually met, twenty-two years ago, at a health club. I was a bit of a fitness fanatic then too. Innana and I were rooming together and I would do leg lifts while we watched Kate and Allie or Cagney and Lacey. SNV and I would do our aerobics class and then go next door and have a glass of wine (and SNV would have a cigarette -- she has since quick smoking) at Marocco's, a lovely and sadly defunct unpretentious Italian restaurant that had a happy hour with free hors d'oevres.

Now, SNV is a hardbody and I am a pudgemuffin. An attractive, tall, and statuesque pudgemuffin, but a pudgemuffin. I can blame the kids all I want, but really, it's me. So today, we did a forced march (2.5 miles in 30 minutes) into Old Town Alexandria, then walking around Old Town, then back home at the same speed. I was just a bit tired. We stopped at Ross's*. As we wandered around looking for bargains, I mentioned that if we could find a cheapo coffee-maker, maybe one of the one-cup drip variety, that would be very, very nice. SNV announced that I should take one of her spare coffee makers** from the Magic Basement.

The Magic Basement is SNV and Ex-Marine Fred's basement, full of lots of appliances and other goodies, because SNV never throws anything out, replaces things often, and combined households with Ex-Marine Fred about ten years ago and they still haven't tossed the extras. Well, no complaining here. I now have a nice Krups coffee maker. No cost. Of course, it's not just me. Innana mentioned to Ex-Marine Fred that her TV had died, and asked if he knew a good TV repair place. Instead, he suggested that she pick up one of their extras from the Magic Basement. I have a spare vacuum cleaner***, given to me by Innana, that I believe originally came from the Magic Basement.

But the Death March was fun. I need to be doing more of that.

After the walk, SNV and Ex-Marine Fred invited me to dinner at a local Italian (unpretentious, good food) restaurant. You might be seeing a theme. Italian food = friendly goodness. Afterwards, we sat and talked, and then I swang by Innana's on the way home.

*A discount/remainders shop where you can sometimes get a nice dress for under $10.

**How many spare coffee makers does one woman need?

***I would normally say one vacuum cleaner is more than enough, but given how hard the GaahGirl is on vacuum cleaners, I'll just be quiet. It's nice to have an extra whenever the good vacuum cleaner is at the vacuum doctor's for GaahGirl-related repairs.

Busy Day

I'm off to (1) find a spare part for a vacuum cleaner (hoover, for those of you in the U.K. or other places where they talk wrong), (2) drop off dry cleaning, (3) do some shopping, and, then, (4) visit SNV and Ex-Marine Fred. I'm realizing it has been a few months since I have seen Lt. Col. Katie* and Lourdes, and I really need call and chat with them. Lourdes, I've talked to recently. Lt. Col. Katie I only saw briefly, once, by surprise, on the Metro back in January. Those two are good friends since grad school, and I shouldn't drift away just because my not-soon-enough-to-be-ex-spouse PdeFF is batshit insane, I'm going broke, and !!life sucks. They are part of life not sucking, so I should make an effort.

SNV and I will have a blast. We'll walk around Old Town in Alexandria, check out the incredibly fat fish cadging bread off of tourists, watch people, and generally have fun.

In the first hearing this week regarding the divorce, the one causing me so much angst and time off of work, I got an agreement from PdeFF that I can remove the rest of my stuff from the house. FoilMormor's paintings. My Mormors antiques from Denmark. Books (YIPPEEE!!!!).

SNV asked when this would be and told me that she was accompanying me, basically to protect me. Now: I'm 5'11" in my stocking feet. While I can't lift weights now due to repeated hernias, I used to be able to bench press 130+ pounds. I have muscles. I'm not skinny. I'm not a BBW, but I am larger rather than smaller. No-one would think I am easy to push around. SNV is about 5'3" and if she's 100 pounds, I'm Queen Marie of Rumania (long dead, believe me). But she's coming along to protect me. Of course, she's probably bringing Ex-Marine Fred as well, and that is quite comforting. He's six inches shorter than PdeFF, but is made of much, much sterner stuff. Anyway, I have good friends.

Speaking of which, Innana is down to the wire on her play, Caesar: or The Watch Dog of the Castle is getting down to the wire. Liquor and chocolate much appreciated. Also, buy tickets.

Lucky

I'm lucky, as Joan Armatrading sings, I can walk under ladders. No, not really. I walk around ladders, not out of superstition, but because I don't want the can of paint to fall on me.

But I have been very lucky in my job and my boss. I have been in my "new" job for nearly six months, and it's going well. I'm performing well, and I am liking the work. I am gaining supervisory experience and interviewing experience (I'm in the middle of hiring some new subordinates) and contracting experience. I have an administrative job, and am not working in a glamorous professional capacity, but my work hours are truly 9 to 5, and if I work to 5:30, I'm working very late. Not like the bad old days.

I have a boss I really like. A lot of people don't like her. They say she is manipulative. Maybe she is, but not with me. I suppose I should be nervous, but I am not. When she hired me, the position I filled had been open for two years. She was desperate. I do a good job with no fuss ("You're self-activating!" she says, with a gleeful smile. "Yes, just like self-rising flour."), and I am gradually getting my corner of the universe and our big organization under control. She doesn't have to deal with vendors and suppliers, I whip them into shape. She doesn't have to supervise the research assistants, I do that.

So it was with some reluctance that I faced facts: the divorce pre-trial schedule, which includes (1) two co-parenting classes, (2) a pendente lite hearing, (3) mediation, (4) a custody evaluation, (5) a custody hearing, and, then, after all then, the financial issues (what fucking financial issues! There is NO money left!!!) and the divorce trial. I earn a reasonable amout of annual leave, but it's accrued. I didn't start the job with x weeks of leave. I earn it pay period by pay period. I have a bit over three days of vacation time accrued, and will earn another day before I need to start taking days for all these hearings. Nonetheless, this means my chance of going to New England with the girls for a week in the Summer (to stay with NuclearGrammy, FoilMormor, or LOS, or all three) is pretty much shot to shit. My hope to go to New York and take Friday off? Not looking good.

So still pretty new on the job, I need to request more leave than I have accrued. Great. Just the impression I want to make. So I told Bossie* about my need for leave. Her response: "Well. I don't want you to fall behind. Why don't you make a schedule where you come in on evenings or weekends and earn comp time?"

Now, this is the woman (Bossie) who other people in the office tell me (without me soliciting their opinion) is quite manipulative. You know what? She needs a favor (within reason), she'll get it from me. And in the meantime, I'll do my job, and do it well.

Oh, and Cookie: Nice talking with you. And remember. No tattoos. Thank you.


*She's not a cow. She's a lovely woman. I just can't help using that nickname. I really can't.

Why Me? Lawyers of DC, You Really Should Heed My Advice

Of course, it had to happen again. Minding my own business on the Metro (dont' I always) and someone sits down in the seat across from me. It's an attorney I know. I greet him and he greeted me. We chatted (how're the children, blah, blah) and then he politely excused himself to work. He is a litigator. He sues people.

The work he took out wasn't a case he was reading or an article, or an opponents brief that had already been filed. No. It was an internal memorandum regarding strategy and conclusions from legal research. I wasn't trying to look.

He was marking this otherwise internal memo up with a red pen, so it wasn't even in final form. Someone looking at it could make determinations about strategy, etc. The train got crowded and he continued to work as a person sat next to him and several stood hanging onto the rails looking down at him and his work.

Lawyers! I know the rules are different in each jurisdiction, but the basic ones are pretty damn simple. They are:

(1) You are your client's advocate. You put his interests first (even above your own need for sleep, which you cater to by stopping work earlier and sleeping and then catching up on work in your morning commute.

(2) You are bound to keep your client's confidences. You do not tell other people what your client said, or put that information on an otherwise privileged and confidential paper that you reveal in public.

I'm at a loss as to how putting oneself in a situation where one inadvertently reveals a client's confidence is anything other than a complete betrayal of trust. Now I am not going to use the information I was able to glean, but someone else might. And all that "attorney-client privieged" stuff which protects a client from having secrets he told his attorney can be waived. For instance by revealing those secrets. Once privilege is waived, it's gone. There is no recovery.

So why are these educated and at least someone intelligent people violating their basic duties as lawyers? Is it egotism and selfishness (I need to get this done and that's all there is to it?), megalomania (the people who ride the Metro are peons who can't have anything to to with my great legal career -- ignoring the reality that of course moron attorney is also on the subway), total lack of personal responsibility (I'm not telling anyone; so someone looks over my shoulder and sees something. Whoop-de-doo.)

In this instance I was less draconian that with Dramatiste; since I didn't think quickly enough to say "Is that privileged" (which should have resulted in the material being put away) I stewed for a while, and then called another attorney I know who workds with Metro worker. I explained the situation, without details, and we agreed that I didn't want to make a statement that would result in disciplinary action. The attorney I called (not a superviser of the first attorney) would have a "let's reacquaint ourselves with legal ethics" chat. I said to the attorney I called: "You're older and wiser than I am. I'm making this your problem." Since he's a nice guy, nothing, other than an embarrassing conversation will happen to Metro privilege disclosing guy and I have met what I perceive as my ethical duties without hurting someone.

So, attorneys, lawyers, advocates, whatever: if the public (me) can see it or hear you talk about it, you've waived privilege. So keep you lips zipped and bring something less confidential to read or write on the Metro.

Okay, I'm so pissed off about his because other things are pissing me off. This isn't the real reason I'm mad, but that did feel good to write. Golden rule: Don't be an idiot with other people's secrets, especially when they are paying you to keep those secrets. Thank you.

Divorce Procedure

It's not fun. I had my first parenting class tonight. In my jurisdiction, couples with children who seek a divorce are sent to parenting class. Don't badmouth your ex in front of your children. (Nothing said about online, but that's probably a bad idea as well. Oops.) Be united in discipline. Be consistent with your children. No advice about how to be consistent with your insane spouse's behavior. Maybe that's covered in the next class.

In addition to these (not entirely useless) classes, there is mediation, lot's of scheduled hearings, and basically lots that will cost lots and lots of money. I understand what the court is trying to do, but really, what I need is some "here's how to make rational decisions" injected into PdeFF.

He called yesterday. The house hasn't sold and he wants me to stop the foreclosure. Yes. I will just wave my magic wand. That'll work.

Fortunately, after the parenting class, Mr. Movie picked me up at the courthouse and took me to IHOP* for a lovely dinner of pancakes (for him) and chicken fried steak (for me -- healthy?). Good to see a friend.

Reading

Well, it's Batavia's Graveyard, by Mike Dash for me right now. Shipwrecks and mutinies and religious zealotry and murder. Yup. A nice relaxing read.

TigerGrrl (Decision)

The FoilKid shall be henceforth known as TigerGrrl (not TigreGrrl, sorry Benny) in honor of her own nature, Cookie's gift to her, and a great photo of her that is sadly not publishable here due to privacy concerns. While GoToGirl is great, also (and describes her very well) and she is a WhirlingDervish most of the time, she has the heart of a Tiger, and should have been a Leo (another big cat) if she had been born on her due date. She came early, and is thus a Cancer, but I have never seen such a total disproof of astrology in one small package.

I'm in a blogging mood. Lots more to come.

Reading Again: The World in a Book

I have been reading real books again. I'm grateful. I don't mind being without a TV -- that's not missing anything, really (although I wouldn't mind being able to see movies), but being without real books is like losing my sense of taste or smell or sight or hearing or touch. Being insensate in a way, and that's not good.

I finished The Bedford Boys, by Alex Kershaw, a WWII history of one National Guard unit from Bedford, Virginia that was practically wiped out on D-Day. A great story, but unfortunately not as told by Mr. Kershaw, a surprisingly inarticulate Brit who simply relates data without any sense of interconnectedness or personality. A waste.

I also finished The Island of Lost Maps: A True Story of Cartographic Crime, by Miles Harvey, which was wonderful. Kind of ironic that a tale of defacing and stealing material from ancient atlases is much more exciting than a tale of men who stormed the beach at Normandy.

I'm finishing (tonight) Consider the Lobster, a collection of essays by David Foster Wallace. Too dense for me when I was so easily distracted, but a truly enjoyable read. Some essays more enjoyable than others. The essay on Updike was wonderful, as was the essay on Frank's Dostoevsky.

Now I have to decide what books to start next. My choices are:

The Americans at D-Day, by John McManus

Drop City, by T.C. Boyle

On Beauty, by Zadie Smith

In the Shadow of the Prophet, by Milton Viorst

Shalimar the Clown by Salman Rushdie

Batavia's Graveyard, by Mike Dash

A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal, by Asne Seierstad

Chimera, by John Barth

The Secret Life of Bees, by Sue Monk Kidd

Salen Falls, by Jodi Picoult

Atonement, by Ian McEwan

The Jane Austen Book Club, by Karen Joy Fowler

Of these (books in the FoilFlat right now) any recommendations? Must read or must avoid, either way, let me know.

Oh, and tonight, the FoilKid/WhirlingDervish/Go-To-Girl/TigerGrrl finished the third chapter of Half Magic by Edward Eager, one of Innana's childhood favorites. My daughter is just loving it.

Books are our friends. Mine, at least. One can never have too many books, or enough books to read. I can't imagine having been born earlier in history when one either might not be able to read or might have a limited supply of books. Libraries and second-hand books stores, especially those with credit policies: yum. Friends who hand over previously read and enjoyed books. Yum.

Far, Far Away

I can't remember what crappy movie the line starting the next paragraph is from (probably Forrest Gump, but maybe something even worse -- at least Forrest Gump has Gary Sinise in it), but ever since I fled to boarding school, then Spain, then college, the DC on an internship, then another college, I have always been a great believer in just leaving. I like to think of myself as someone who sticks with things, and I do, sometimes. I stick with friends. I stick with hobbies and habits. But when things get really bad, I don't pretend sticking with a horrible situation is the best thing.

"Please God, make me a bird, and let me fly far, far far away from here." I think I posted about Tiny Sparrow* before, but I don't have the energy to find the link. But really, isn't it just a fantasy that we can start again. While I may be starting again financially and in other ways, I have my history, my friends, my family, my children, my obligations. I will no longer have PdeFF, but really, he will never go away (if my children are lucky) so he is still here, making background disturbances.

What is it about "away" that is so attractive? Barcelona. Florence. Seville. Rio de Janeiro. Cape Town. Buenos Aires. Santiago. Adelaide. Darwin. Edinburgh. Maui. Kawai. Aukland. Sydney. Stockholm. Thule. Nome. Fairbanks. Yellowknife. Missoula. Montreal. Tahiti. London. Tokyo. Bangkok. Rangoon. Vienna. Rome. Siena. Lucca. Copenhagen. Oslo. Narvik. Tibet. Cuzco. The Atacama Desert. The Andes. Boulder. Joshua Tree National Forest. All of these places, some of which I have seen, some of which I haven't, all create little reverberating echoes saying escape. It will be a long, long time before I can travel anywhere not 500 miles of my home.** I have itchy feet, but I can't do that right now. I can think about it, though.


*From Peter, Paul & Mary's album, Moving. Lyrics, in pertinent part:
I wish I were a tiny sparrow
And I had wings and I could fly
I'd fly away to my own true lover
And all he'd ask I would deny

Alas I'm not a tiny sparrow
I have not wings nor can I fly
And on this earth in grief and sorrow
I am bound until I die

**Another Peter, Paul & Mary song.

Miscellaneous Thoughts

I've more than half a day alone with the GaahGirl, which rarely happens. We were out for a walk this morning, and she investigated her environs. I really do need to start nagging dog owners to obey the rules regarding picking up after their pets. My 16-month old needs to be able to run amok when she feels like it.

After her walk this morning, GaahGirl got out the broom and "swept" the apartment. She then emptied the potato bin of potatoes and onions, and then got out pots and pans. They make nice drums and hats. The lids of pots make nice cymbals. I'm awaiting eviction notice anytime now.

Another favorite of GaahGirl (when we're out walking) is to walk up to the door of another unit and knock before I catch her. Well, those people needed to be getting up anyway. It was 9:30 on a Sunday morning! (Actually, she never got to knock, I did swoop in in time, every time.) Obviously, she's napping right now. In four hours, we'll collect FoilKid-Go-to-Girl-WhirlingDervish-TigerGrrl, so I'm enjoying an hour of quiet.

Mr. Military-Industrial-Complex sent me a nice email thanking me for going out with him, and telling me when he'd be returning from his trip. I don't know him well enough to be sceptical of the trip or not, but I don't know him well enough to question, either. I emailed him when I'd have some non-custodial evenings, and he immediately replied with a request for dinner with me. We'll see.

I like this guy, but he works pretty high up in, you guessed it, the defense industry, and I'm not sure that's something I want to be super-involved in. Except during our first dinner, he spoke very highly of retired Gen. Shinseki (the guy who told Rumsfeld* that more troups would be needed to successfully occupy Iraq and who got forced to retire for speaking that little piece of truth) and it was quite clear that he thinks Dubya and his moronic minions are just that. And I like the guy, and he's more than gainfully emplyed, and he likes me. No making trouble. One of us will probably walk away before anything happens anyway. That's adult courtship. No-one (with any brains) rushes headlong into "falling in love".

LOS returned from Hawaii, and we had a great phone call last night. As envious as I am, I am so happy that things are going well for her. And I'm glad for my parents. Since NSLOS is disabled and unemployed (and unemployable) and my life is a basket case right now, I'm very, very glad that they have one child who is a productive and successful adult.

Innana, right now, is probably dying of exhaustion. Yesterday, she picked up the FoilKid/Go-to-Girl/WhirlingDervish/TigerGrrl at 4 pm and my offspring stayed over at Innana's how. Whether Innana has any energy left is certainly unlikely. Please send a certificate, to Innana, for a full-body-massage and facial at a spa in Alexandria. Trust me. I know my child. At this point, that's the least of what Innana needs.

Cookie, thanks for calling both me and Innana. I'm sorry the FoilKid/Go-to-Girl/WhirlingDervish/TigerGrrl threatened you with karate mutilation (she can break a board with her hands, btw), but if you get her a tattoo, encourage her to get a tattoo, or glamorize tattoos when you visit, your death will not be painless. Actually, you will beg to die. Thank you.

Today, after GaahGirl wakes up from her nap, it will be time to wash the car.

Three Suggestions

I have gotten three suggestions for more accurate blog-pseudonyms for the FoilKid:

(1) GoToGirl (Thanks Prom), in honor of her take-charge nature.
(2) WhirlingDervish (Thanks Innana), who described FoilKid that way.
(3) TigerGrrl (Thanks Cookie aka Tony) in honor of FoilKid's nature and Mr. Scratchy, her stuffed tiger, courtesy of Tony aka Cookie.

Votes?

FoilKid: A Rose By Any Other Name

The FoilKid needs a name that doesn't merely identify her as an appendage of me. GaahGirl (who will be renamed soon, since Gaah! is only one of the many mellifluous sounds coming out of her now) has her own identity on this blog (started out as FoilBaby, but she evolved). FoilKid deserves the same.

Why am I thinking of this right now? Because the FoilKid is not here, despite this being a custodial weekend. FoilKid is off having a sleepover with Innana. Maybe someone should check and see if Northern Virginia is still standing. I believe I will owe Innana a day at the spa.

But FoilKid is off having one-on-one attention with Innana, who FoilKid adores. Innana lifts the FoilKid up, and FoilKid wraps herself around Innana and then says: "Let go with all your might!" and clings like a limpet.

I had the rare treat of one-on-one time with the GaahGirl. We took a walk around the apartment complex, and then took a bath. I always used to bathe FoilKid with me when she was little, but she's too old for that now. GaahGirl normally has a bath with her big sister, but we had fun. We took all those sponge letters and pasted them all over the wall beside the bath tub. Fun. Then I rediapered her, put her in her footie pajamas and she ran around the flat, chortling. In bed before eight, and then I realized, I had an extra hour of time that I normally spend reading and talking with Innana (must buy Innana some serious alcohol to pay back).

FoilKid needs a new blog pseudonym. Help.

Love and Loss

Dealing with loss and losing isn't easy. That's why the FoilKid cheats at games (she's six, she'll get over it). She doesn't like to lose. None of us do.

I'm recalling a lot of losses: the loss of my happy childhood home (that occurred about six years before my parents' divorce, when they started to fight all the time); the loss of a friends when we moved (a lot); the of a high school friend to suicide; the loss of a sister to mental illness (NSLOS: she's still here, but she isn't the person she would have been if schizoaffective disorder and psychosis hadn't eaten away her brain) and physical pain; the loss of all but one of my grandparents; the loss of friends' beloved parents; the loss of college gay-male buddies to AIDS (they were young and lovely at just the wrong time); the loss of several would be children, fortunately very early in each pregnancy; the temporary (or even permanent) loss of friends to distance (Innana lived in England for five years -- Francesca has stayed in Europe since 1986, I believe). Within the forseeable, but I hope distant, future I will lose my parents. It never ends.

My youth is not completely lost, but it is fading. The bounding energy of my twenties is a figment. The chestnut brown hair maintained only with chemical assistance. Having had my children late, I have the illusion of youth that is being the mother of young children. But travelling in North Carolina, one nice sales clerk who was a few years younger than I was told me what a lovely granddaughter I had. I didn't get insulted. She was younger than I am, and clearly had grandchildren and assumed this was the same situation.

The hardest loss is the loss of my illusion that I had a good and happy marriage. I think we did at the start. We cling to things, and have to let them go. My daughters will leave and go out into the wide world, and I need to get them ready (over the next twenty years, mind you) to do that. To step out of my arms that long to hold them ever tighter and keep them ever safer and go forth and conquer.

I can bear it, but I don't want to do so.

Gay Mormons: The Harmonic Convergence

Let's just all agree: I have no gaydar. Or if I have gaydar, it's the most malfunctioning gaydar of all time. Yet in the past month I have met two flaming queen practicing Mormons and heard about another.

The Latter Day Saints (LDS) are not exactly a group I would call gay-friendly. Yet there I was, having coffee with some acquaintances from work and listening to one of my colleagues roommates talk about how at 27, he is old, as a Mormon, to be unmarried. Yup. Twenty-seven.

This man uses the upper register of his voice. His hips swing more than mine do when he walks. He volunteers for an organization that helps members of the military who aren't allowed to kill people in Iraq or Afghanistan because they violated the truly moronic "don't ask, don't tell" rules. Yet he's a devout Mormon who wants to breed and multiply with a nice Mormon girl to be in compliance with the teachings of the church. Well, the Mormons never were very concerned (or aware) of female orgasm*, so a woman being married to a straight man probably doesn't seem like too much of a problem to them (However, I would argue that straight women married to gay men are more likely to be trouble to the institution of marriage than gay men married to gay men -- or gay women married to gay women).

This man, who wants to marry a woman, doesn't lean toward women when he talks to us. You never catch him sniffing a bit, or edging closer, or surreptitiously glancing. His eyes follow the men in the room, hungrily. His religion is going to kill his soul. And really hurt any woman who might not see what I saw.

Now, most of the time, when a guy shows no interest in me, I don't assume gayness. I assume a complete lack of interest in me. But Gay Mormon 1 was so clearly uninterested in women and was very, very interested in men.

Gay Mormon 2 is actually out of the closet. Except with regard to his family or church. So I'm a recent acquaintance and I know more about his romantic and sexual hopes and aspirations than any of the people he claims he's closest too. Except they clearly are living on another continent.

I know what it is like to try to avoid disapproval and judgment. But why would anyone want anybody to feel that they need to hide who they are and what there sexual desires are. I did that for a while, and it damn near killed me.

*No, I do not believe that Brigham Young's wives or Joseph Smith's wives had orgasms very often, and female sexual satisfaction was obviously not high on either of their lists of priorities.

Medication, Teaism (Date), and Grooming on the Metro

I don't have the energy to do three posts, so I'll combine these in one.

Psychopharmaceuticals

50 mg. of Zoloft and 3 mg. of Lunesta aren't keeping me from depression and sleeplessness. So now I'm increasing to 100 mg. of Zoloft and switching to 12.5 mg. of Ambien (the 50 mg of Adderal remains unchained). I'm just a walking chemical factory. Someday, somewhere, somehow, I'll have a mood of my goddamned own. However, right now, we need me happier and better rested than I would be in my natural state, so I'll leave worrying about having my mind in its natural state take a bye for right now.

Teaism (Date)

Mr. Military-Industrial-Complex is a new guy. We had our first date tonight, and were going to have dinner at Andale. Unfortunately, the MCI Center (or whatever it's called now) was having some big event and Andale was jam-packed. Mr. MIC is decisive, and seeing that I was hungry, he escorted me into the nearby Teaism. I'd never actually eaten at Teaism before. It's nice, but not fancy, and it's counter service, no waiters. Except for me.

Mr. MIC seated me, got me the food and beer (Sapporo) I requested, and basically provided table service. Afterwards (this was an early dinner as this is a weeknight), he walked me to my carriage (Metro), and told me how pretty I am (must be near-sighted) and that he wanted to see me again. We'll see. I had more fun on a first date than I have in a while. Actually, I just enjoyed myself (and the beer). He's on a business trip to the midwest for a while. We'll see if he calls after he returns.

But he was attentive, and did the nice "walk-on-the-outside-so-the-woman-is-protected-from-the-street" which is always nice. And we had a nice (quick and brief) good night kiss. Of course, since I'm saying nice things about the guy, he'll never call. But it was fun.

Grooming on the Metro

Okay, using an emery board to file your nails isn't as disgusting as some things, but the female sitting next to me was filing her nails. She was beautifully coiffed, with lots of makeup (about 3x what I wear in a week: her lips looked like they had about 1 cm of beeswax with color on them), fancy clothes (Dolce & Gabbana, Prada), and a real updo of a hairstyle. She was talking with a man she was clearly trying to impress. And so she does some personal hygeine? I brushed the dust from her nails off my rain coat. She did not stop. Fortunately, she didn't pull out her tax return or anything, or I would be doing something very evil right now. Well, at least she wasn't flossing or anything. Yowsa.

People of the Greater Washington Capital Metropolitan Area: For the love of all that is holy and true: STOP IT!!!! I don't want to know your phone number, your social security number, your bank balance, your employer, your address, or your name! Hide it! Similarly, I don't want to see your personal grooming process. No, really I don't. How can I help these people stop it? Or should I just blind myself? I really don't want to see these things.

And One More Thing (If You Are Stupid*, Please Read This -- It Might Help)

Once again, I shall use my superpowers to try and save people from themselves. Here's my unsolicited, but worth more than you paid for it, advice about your life on public transportation. The next time someone on the Metro or the bus ignores my advice I am going to out him or her. Yes, the next time this happens, the phone number, address, social security number, salary, 401(k) plan balance, whatever that you have revealed will be posted for all the world to read, right here in cyberspace.

Today I learned (in three Metro rides and two bus rides) about:

(1) The extremely high cellphone bill of a middle aged man who doesn't look like he has ever talked to anyone socially, ever. I could see his name, his account, his phone number, and the balance ($3,483.24) for the month of February. Who has a phone bill like that?

(2) A diary. Yeah, I know, it's ironic that I'm commenting about that, but the gal sitting next to me in the afternoon was writing her thoughts on her sister's wedding. Apparently the new brother-in-law made passes at bridesmaids. I kept looking for the bride's name and phone number, but really.

(3) A bank statement. Apparently large overdrafts are not enough to make some people stop buying name brand items.

(4) A 401(k) statement of someone who really should have had more than $9,347.89 in it (if you're over 50, you really need a lot more than that to ever be able to retire.

(5) A draft congressional strategy memorandum labelled "Highly Confidential". (Yes, the Republic is safe.)

If this keeps up much longer, soon enough I will be able to find Jimmy Hoffa and Amelia Earhardt, just by taking public transportion.

Please remember: if you read it in public, I can probably read it to. Ditto for writing. If you're talking on your cellphone, assume everyone in your subway car knows that you are telling your over-controlling partner that you are, indeed, riding the subway (why do they need to know) or your not-so-clean-as-a-whistle partner that yes, the test was positive, and no chlamydia isn't something to laugh about.

I don't want to know this stuff. I just tell my problems to the whole internet. But on the subway or the bus? Shut up.* I'm a captive audience. People can actively avoid this blog and my whinging. On the Metro, we really are stuck. So shut up. Put your porn away. Top secret docs? Not on the Metro, please, please, please. Your sex life? Write a blog. Thank you.

*The FoilKid hereby inserts herself spiritually, and looks at all of you and says, in a morally superior voice: "Mama said a bad word."

There's Always Hope

Of course, where there's life, there's hope. But I really don't want to get my hopes up only to find the whole thing is heading toward disaster again. We (PdeFF and I) are listing the house. We have less than four weeks to get a signed sales contract with a firm settlement date. Oops. That's what happen when your insane not-quite-ex has an insane attorney and they sit on things for three weeks. Yup. With forclosure pending they did . . . nothing. When will people ever learn that declining to make a decision is a decision. And it rarely turns out well. Grr.

I'm Angry and I Have Uncharitable Things to Say

About PdeFF, of course. Because he has stalled on signing a listing agreement to sell the house, the bank is moving forward with foreclosure. Great. Actually, PdeFF's attorney declined to forward the listing for two weeks and now things are moving into crisis mode and PdeFF is sure it is part of a plot of mine to make him homeless. I don't have to try. He's doing really, really well on his own. Now he has picked his own realtor (actually, his lawyer has), ignoring the one Uber recommended who sells tons in our town and neighborhood. He'll be homeless by April 20. Lovely. At least then I'll have the girls full time.

Urge to maim, slowly, with a rusty spoon: rising.

What's With the Tagging Boys (Mac, I'm Looking at You)

Mac tagged me with the meme, so here goes (I still owe him a scarf; I have to keep him sweet).

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18 and find line 4.

"[Line 1]Sea monsters are everywhere on [Line 2] old maps--loitering off Narragansett [Line 3] Bay and splashing around the Arctic [Line 4] Circle, slithering through the South [Line 5] Pacific and causing nothing but trou- [Line 6] ble near Tierra del Fuego.* The Island of Lost Maps: A True Story of Cartographic Crime by Miles Harvey

2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can, what do you find?

A cell phone and a calendar.

3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?

Some obnoxious and overly sweet Christian educational TV kid's show on cable in North Carolina (I don't have a TV at home).

4. Without looking, guess what time it is.

9:15 PM

5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?

9:04 PM

6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?

The dishwasher running.

7. When did you last step outside?

Walking from the bus to my home at about 5:45 p.m.

8. Before you started this survey, what did you look at?

Mac's blog of course.

9. What are you wearing?

Black sweatpants (actually yoga pants, but they really are just sweatpants) and a red shirt.

10. Did you dream last night?

Yes.

11. When did you last laugh?

When I read this piece of idiocy.

12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?

Fine artwork by the FoilKid.

13. Seen anything weird lately?

I saw Dramatiste this morning. She's weird.**

14. What do you think of this quiz?

Feh.

15. What is the last film you saw?

The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada

16. If you turned into a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy?

New shoes.***

17. Tell me something about you that I don't know.

I won a prize in Fourth Grade for a poem entitled "Seasons". It had four stanzas (shocking, I know).

18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt and politics, what would you do?

End female circumcision in Africa. Or end bride burning in India. Or make the world a matriarchy.

19. Do you like to Dance?

Yes, but I stink at it, although I have never played air guitar.

20. George Bush.

Total and utter cipher of a human being.

21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?

FoilKid

22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what would you call him?

Unimaginable.

23. Would you ever consider living abroad?

Yes.

24. What would you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?

Really, you were too nice for too long. You are allowed to give smackdowns when deserved and I'm glad to see you started before you died.

25. 4 people who must also do this theme in their journal.

1. Innana, 2. Cookie, 3. Cyberkitten, 4. Kira (this should be easier than the music one, I hope).

*A lovely illustration of a variety of sea monsters on the left hand side of page 18 in the paperback version makes the lines on page 18 so short as to be meaningless, so I included more than line 4.

**See my Blog in January and do a "find" of "Dramatiste" to read this sad and annoying saga. She's weird.

***After fully funding the college funds of the FoilKid and the GaahGirl.

When Stupid Things Happen To Stupid People

BJ, Your Eminence, and Señor Doctor Marco: is there any medication that could possibly help this man? Jewish Atheist discusses this man here. I really have nothing to add.

Sibling Rivalry

I love my LOS. Right now, I'm just not doing it that well. Why is it so hard to enjoy other people's success? Especially when I'm not that successful. A few years ago it was the other way around: I had the "good" marriage and super-successful career (really!), and LOS had a stick-in-the-mud job and a husband who was underperforming.

But she gave her husband his marching orders (said: "Straighten up and fly right, big guy, or I'm gone" or something like that) and he marched. She went back to graduate school and now she is in Hawaii at a conference that one of her colleagues invited her to. I'm jealous.

Jealous, jealous, jealous. I hate feeling like that. I am honestly glad that her career is moving forward and her husband is being attentive (and has stopped drinking, the real issue). I don't want to be all dog in the manger* about her life going well. Why can't I just be happy for her? Maybe it will be easier once the house is sold and foreclosure is averted. I hope.

A Song For Cookie (Grrrr)

Cookie tagged me with a musical meme, and I can't say no to Cookie*, so here goes:

1. A track from your early childhood.

Settle Down, by Peter, Paul & Mary, from Moving. I know have the album on a remastered CD, and the FoilKid just loves it, too.

2. A track that you associate with your first love.

Michael From Mountains, by Joni Mitchell. I used to play this song on the guitar for the first guy who ever indicated that he liked me (and he kissed me at my 25th high school reunion, so go me!). He used to come by my dorm in high school and sit in the common room and listen to me play the guitar. Nothing came of it, but it's a sweet memory.

3. A track that reminds you of a holiday trip.

Don't Cry for Me, Argentina. I heard it for the first time in Denmark in the summer of 1978, visiting family. I hadn't even heard of Evita, but I loved that song.

4. A track that you like but wouldn’t want to be associated with in public.

Lawyers in Love, by Jackson Browne. I just can't help it.

5. A track that accompanied you when you were lovesick.

Romeo & Juliet, from Dire Straits's Tunnel of Love album.

6. A track that you have probably listened to most often.

Across the Great Divide, by Kate Wolf, as sung by Nanci Griffith on Other Voices, Other Rooms.

7. A track that is your favourite instrumental.

Pretty much anything by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass from The Lonely Bull, Going Places, or Whipped Cream & Other Delights. Pretty much any Leo Kottke piece as well.

8. A track that represents one of your favourite bands.

Rock the Casbah, by the Clash.

9. A track which represents yourself best.

At this point, I'd say Brass in Pocket, by the Pretenders.

10. A track that reminds you of a special occasion (which one?).

Tarzan Boy, by Baltimora. Innana and I played this at our Tropical Party, back in 1986 or 1987 (sometime around then, anyway). Attire: Less is More. It was a lot of fun.

11. A track that you can relax to..

Friend of the Devil or Jack Straw or Brown Eyed Women by the Grateful Dead.

12. A track that stands for a really good time in your life.

Drop the Pilot, by Joan Armatrading.

13. A track that is currently your favourite.

He Thinks He'll Keep Her, by Mary Chapin Carpenter.

14. A track that you’d dedicate to your best friend.
Rainy Day People, by Gordon Lightfoot, for Francesca and Innana.

15. A track that you think nobody but you likes.

For Sasha, by Joan Baez.

16. A track that you like especially for its lyrics.

One Step Up (and Two Steps Back), by Bruce Springsteen.

17. A track that you like that’s neither English nor German.

Sangre gitana y mora, by Lole y Manuel from their El Origen de Una Leyenda

18. A track that lets you release tension best.

I Wanna Be Sedated, by the Ramones. Or Life During Wartime, by the Talking Heads.

19. A track that you want to be played on your funeral.
Sleeper's Awake, by Bach, played on guitar as in Christopher Parkening's arrangement. Also, Nightingale, by Judy Collins.

20. A track that you’d nominate for the “best of all times” category.

Pancho & Lefty, by Townes Van Zandt. Emmy Lou Harris's version. Also, Little Sister, Ry Cooder's version. The Streets of Baltimore, Nanci Griffith's version. This Shirt, by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Paint it Black, The Rolling Stones.
Watching the Detectives, by Elvis Costello. Mothers of the Disappeared, U2. I'll stop now.

Evil me, I will tag Prom, Doc-T, ChadE, Our Eminence (Yes, that mean you, Benny), TduCN, BJ, and Sr. Dr. Marco. I would tag Jewish Atheist, Cyberkitten, and Martian Anthropologist, but they're much too serious and intellectual for this. Oh, and I'll tag Divine Calm as well. I would tag Innana and Kira, but Cookie already hit them.

*Well, yes I can, but not in this context.

Theater With Innana

Innana, as an early birthday present for me (just a little less than two months off), took me to the Shakespeare Theatre's production of Moliere's Don Juan. This was even better than the production of A Comedy of Errors.

At first, I didn't think it was going to be good. It started off with a monologue (they lost me right there) introducing the play and the history behind it. But by the second scene of the first act, I was hooked. The director kept the large gestures of pre-twentieth century theatre, and while there was no one thing that made the performance exceptional, it was exceptional.

I'm even more impressed that one of the actors in Innana's dog drama* is a member of the Shakespeare Theatre's company. The Shakespeare Theatre is small, but does wonderful historical work, and makes it lively and accessible. Even though I knew the statue was going to pull Don Juan into hell, it was powerful and moving and terrifying. How they managed it, a comedy that in the end breaks your heart, I don't know, but they did.

If you can, go see it.

Borders and the Distance Between Us

I've started serious reading again. I read Citizen Soldiers* by Stephen Ambrose, Six Armies in Normandy** by John Keegan. I just got restarted, picking up where I left off, halfway through "Up Simba", one of the essays in Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace***. However, I have now started the book that will bring me back to the land of the living, back into light, and back into Spring (now appearing, in all its beauty in the mid-Atlantic region of the U.S.). This book is The Island of Lost Maps: A True Story of Cartographic Crime, by Miles Harvey, who is my new not-so-celebrity-crush.

I won't review the book, except to say read it, and buy it. If you've ever loved books, much less maps, this book will make you cry in a way you think you couldn't.

But it made me think about other things as well. Last night, I had dinner with the Professor. We've known each other 20 years. As he asked about this last year in my life (and how I'm doing), I answered, completely uncensored. I know he loves me (as a friend), I know he cares about my well-being, and I didn't try to keep the mask on. Until one slip.

I made a slightly bitter-divorcing-woman comment about how easy it would be to start again (seriously dating or starting a new relationship, etc.) at age 45 (soon) with two small children, and he said, "Are you even thinking about that yet?" As though even thinking about it were much, much too soon. I replied, "Oh, just in passing," because I didn't want to explain all the details.

I know the Professor and I have different perspectives on things like, oh, sex, but I didn't want to disappoint him and have him think "Oh, she's slutty." Or the more modern and civilized equivalent of that thought. So I kept my mouth shut. I wonder how many times I and everyone else on this planet has done that, and then the other person thinks "Oh, I understood her (or him)," but doesn't, really.

With desire this is a real issue for me, and I think for many women. I remember years ago, as a teenager, feeling very grown up as I drove with my LOS and her friends (two years older than me) to the beach. As we reached Ogunquit, and slowed down for the beach town traffic, we saw a pretty woman+ ahead of us biking, in shorts and a bikini top. A truck full of young guys was in front of us, many of them sitting in the back of the truck, lolling in the sun. As the truck passed the shapely girl on the bike, one of the guys simply reached out his arm, and stroked his hand across her back as they drove past.

I don't remember the woman's reaction. I do remember my sister's++. She said: "Guys can just do that. Reach out and touch. We can't."

Now, in remembering that event, my thought is: the guy in the truck essentially assaulted the woman on the bike. That was not a friendly gesture, indicating desire. It was indicating desire, but it was also indicating that he didn't need her consent (or even her acquaintance). But as an eighteen-year-old venturing into adult sexuality, that was not what LOS saw. She saw a masculine prerogative that she couldn't even try to usurp.

My sister and I are alike in that neither of us wants to sit around waiting for a man to make up his mind about us. We'd like to be the primary actor (not just the desired one). I once had a (truly horrible) boss who said: "It's easy for women, all you have to do is wait to be asked out." But the waiting is the horrible part. And it's almost never your choice who chooses you.

But there I was, playing into the stereotype with the Professor, downplaying my wish to have a sexual partner, to be in control, etc. etc. It's not just sex roles or anything. We have borders and lines we draw every day that keep people from really knowing us.

The Professor has been my friend for nineteen or twenty years. He's a good man. I trust him. Yet I certainly can't simply show myself to him completely. And everyone's like that to some degree. Innana, Francesca, and LOS know me about as well as anyone ever will, and I like to think that I am honest with them, but I don't know. And I know most people aren't even aware when they pull back and redefine themselves or disguise themselves to suit someone else's sense of what it attractive.

I really should have pulled the Professor into a passionate clinch (just to show him, what, something?) as we said good night. But we hugged, he told me we shouldn't wait two months to get together again, and to let him know if there was anything he could do at any time. I know he loves me (as a friend). But he doesn't really know me.

*A GI's eye view from Normandy to the surrender of Germany and very readable, but it makes more sense as a continuation of Band of Brothers.

**Keegan is regarded as a leading military historian, and his more over-arching and philosophical books (such as The Face of Battle and The Mask of Command) are more readable, understandable, and better written. In Six Armies in Normandy Keegan always is telling you what Montgomery was feeling of thinking (how would he know) and making judgments rather than telling what happened clearly and logically. I think I'm missing something because others think he's great, and I just couldn't stand this book. Again, he should stick to the philosophy and overarching stuff. He should stay off the field of battle, pretending he was there.

***My trouble reading this book is not a reflection on how well written it is. It is very well written. I simply couldn't focus enough.

+Nice shape, anyway.

++LOS has changed a lot since 1977.

Plan of Action for the Kidless Weekend

I really don't like it when the girls are away. At the same time, I get to do things I otherwise wouldn't be able to do with them here. Like go see Don Juan with Innana. Or go walking with SNV. That takes care of Saturday. Sunday, I'll take the FoilKid to her swimming lesson (a nice sneak peak for me) and probably go visit Lourdes for brunch.

As I was feeling depressed this afternoon, I realized that I needed to be busy tomorrow night as well. Mr. Studmuffin wasn't answering his phone, but the Professor picked right up and agreed that I needed to be out and about tomorrow night rather than sitting home brooding. We're going someplace cheap, because he is quite frugal. After PdeFF, that seems like a very good characteristic. Living within one's means, that is.

It's nice (I've said this before and I'll say it again) having people who have been my friends for 20 years (I met the Professor in 1986 or 1987). I felt a little embarrassed to call and say "I really don't want to be alone", but not so embarrassed that I couldn't make the call. Well, dinner tomorrow night with a nice, soft-spoken man who won't tell me what I'm feeling.

There will be no kissing (he really isn't into me that way), but it will be nice to be out and flirting just a smidgeon with an intelligent and good-hearted person.

And then Saturday will be great. It's beginning to be truly springlike (at least to this New Englander), and it's supposed to be sunny and pleasant, and SNV and I will hike into Old Town Alexandria and meander. Then on to the Shakespeare Theater with Innana who knows some of the performers at the Theater. I'll feel like an insider! Or some artsy type. Nice.

Off to take a nice pill and then go to sleep.

Quick Lunch Hour Update

I'll respond to the kind and heartwarming comments below later. Just a quick note with an action plan (clearly slipping into real depression, have to act before I'm not in the mood to act): (1) I called my nice psychopharmacologist and left a message; when he calls me back he will advise what to increase, decrease whatever. Even though I've just placed the call, that makes me feel better. (2) In addition to seeing Innana this weekend, I will see SNV (who lives near Innana) beforehand to get together and hangout rather than go out with some guy who I might try to impress but won't really make me feel better. Also, Ex-Marine Fred will be there, and he's a real sensitive guy*, and always makes me feel better (he likes me).

*Really. He may be able to kill you with a spoon, but he's a real soft touch.

Blue

I'm blue. I'm taking 50 mg of Zoloft a day, up to 50 mg of Adderal (usually less) and at least 3 mg of Lunesta every night (for sleep). I don't know if there are enough drugs in the world to make me Pollyanna-ish (a really annoying Victorian heroine, btw), and if there were, it would probably kill me to take them.

PdeFF is on my last nerve. I'm sure he has a perspective somewhere, that I could understand, if I just thought hard enough standing on my head in an oxygen-deprived environment after taking a dose of narcotics heavy-duty enough to drop an elephant, but really . . . I just can't imagine it. And yes: I'm angry and I'm depressed.

I have a number of friends who are good husbands and providers, who support their wives and children (both emotionally and financially). Why couldn't I have had the good sense to marry one of those? And given how PdeFF has changed, even when I'm observing some guy who is absolutely, positively doing his fair share or more of parenting and providing, I think: "Let's wait five years."

I do not want to be a bitter and meanspirited woman who doesn't feel or express empathy. I really don't. And I can feel myself getting harder hearted and less willing to put myself in other people's shoes. This is not where I want to be.

But would doubling the doses change anything? I'd still be SOL up the creek without the paddle. Is it really better to feel less of things that are really harmful, things that really hurt you? Doesn't the pain serve a purpose -- to keep you vigilant and fighting? If I just numb myself, does that really do anything? Not that I'm anywhere near numb (numb is in a different solar system from me right now: I basically feel skinless and overexposed).

What to do? I have a chocolate treat cooking and then I'm taking myself to bed. I had a drink with a male acquaintance tonight (nothing special), but really it was just depressing. This weekend, at least, I'm going to see Innana and go to a play with her (her idea, smart woman). I just need to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving, but my feet are tired.

Arrrgh!

A bit of a whinge, really.

Now, I haven’t talked much about my guitar playing or my knitting lately, largely because I haven’t been doing any. That ends right here. This weekend, I will dedicate myself to the search for the missing (but beautiful) wooden buttons for Francesca’s sweater. I will at least start on the finishing touches (the right and left fronts, arms, and back are done, and all seams are done, I just need to knit the front panel – the right front panel with buttonholes correctly sized for the buttons, so I need those damn buttons for this – and the neck. Then it’s done.) to Francesca’s sweater and I will tune and play the twelve-string and the classical guitars.

Why am I reminding myself of this? Because I was enough of a dorkwit to marry myself to an insane and indecisive man and the de-husbanding process is painful, lengthy, annoying as all get-out, and enough to drive me to drink (except I can’t afford drink, unless someone else treats, which is really, really pathetic).

News about PdeFF of late. He got a job in December that to my knowledge he has not lost yet. He is still driving around in his Mercedes E500. He paid the November mortgage, but nothing since then. He asked for $15,000 out of the refinancing, which nixed (by me) the refinancing. Around February 28, my attorney sent PdeFF’s attorney a listing agreement with a realtor to sell the house before foreclosure (we’re in default, it’s a rush), and PdeFF’s attorney (or PdeFF) sat on it. I called Monday, March 6, to see if there was a problem and left a message saying I didn’t want him to be homeless, we needed to get the listing done and the house sold before foreclosure. He called me back and left me a message, telling me to “Stop it, stop harassing me. We need to sell the house. Why are you making it difficult?” WTF? I told him I would have the realtor call him, and told him to get the listing agreement from his attorney and decide whether or not to sign it. I’ve heard nothing, but the realtor called him. He told her he has his own realtor. Which will of course slow down the process (and Uber recommended this realtor, who will get top dollar for us and knows the area, PdeFF’s friend specializes in another town). So we’re no closer to getting the house listed because PdeFF once again is throwing a spanner in the works.

Today, he calls me, telling me that he needs me to pay the babysitter this week (we take turns, because he wanted “to pay his share”). I told him I couldn’t (I can’t), that it wasn’t in my budget this week, and he repeated his request three times. Of course, out of next week’s pay (when my bank balance is again above $100), I will pay the babysitter if she hasn’t been paid, but what is going on? He’s living rent free, stalling the sale of our house (increasing the default and foreclosure costs and decreasing our take), doesn’t have a car payment, and to my knowledge he’s earning money (not a lot, but he has a salary). I’ve paid the FoilKid’s tuition this year (one of the reasons I’m broke) . . . what is he doing?

I know he has a mental illness, psychosis, but the man is an accountant. What is wrong with this picture? I keep thinking I’m missing something, but then I’m realizing that I’m not. He is.

Why Heurich House Needs to Be Saved

In my prior post, I posted the email Innana forwarded to me regarding Heurich House. I said I would explain why in this post. Here goes.

First: Innana likes Victoriana and history. This is a pretty much original-state Victorian building that she likes. She is a goddess. You should want to please her. If Heurich House disappears, she'll be in a bad mood. She might smite somebody. Don't take the risk and have that somebody be you.

Second: Innana and I used to work near (we met in a building abutting Heurich House's park) Heurich House and it is part of the Innana/Foilwoman Official History.

Third: Heurich House was built by a brewer who made beer. Beer is good.

Fourth: Heurich House is in the Dupont Circle neighborhood and has its own private park. If Heurich House gets sold, the park may disappear.

Fifth: In addition to Innana and me lunching in the park, it is also a good trysting location. Philanderers (and potential philanderers) of the greater DC area, there are at least 300 of you and you guys dropped at least a couple grand taking me out to eat and drink over the last summer. Donating the same amount (or much more) to keep the Heurich House and its nice park open so you have a place to snog with your sweetie would probably be a much better return on your investment.

Sixth: I have had, in recent memory at least one fun tryst (including a very nice snog) in Heurich House's park. There probably should be a Foilwoman Memorial bench underneath that nice tree . . . . so cough it up, guys.

Thank you.

Save The Castle (Heurich House)

Innana forwarded the following to me. Anyone who has an urge to help, please do. I'll explain why you should in my next post.

URGENT APPEAL FOR HELP - Emails & letters needed by this Friday...and it doesn't matter whether you're a DC resident or not! -- Please forward this to as many as you can


Folks...Councilmember Jack Evans has asked the Mayor for a $500,000 line item in the FY'07 (next year's) budget to help save The Brewmaster's Castle from forced sale or foreclosure and being lost to the public forever...would you please take just a few minutes to go online and ask the Mayor to support Evans' request, as well as to email all Council members with the same message?

The Advisory Neighborhood Commission for The Castle’s area (2B) has already unanimously voted a resolution of support for Councilmember Evans’ request, and we need to deluge the Mayor and Council with hundreds of emails and letters to secure this funding, and yours would have a big impact on this...

These emails and letters need to be received BY THIS FRIDAY, 10 MARCH...and it's easy...below is a sample letter you can use...and to send it...

...to Mayor Anthony A. Williams, go to this "Ask The Mayor" web page: http://www.dc.gov/atd/atd_askthemayor.asp, fill in the requested information, select "other" as the subject, specify "The Brewmaster's Castle," and copy the letter into the text area...

...to the Council members, start an email, copy the following addresses into the address area, list "The Brewmaster's Castle" as the subject, and copy the letter into the body of the email...
sreich@dccouncil.us; jabbot@dccouncil.us; lbumbalo@dccouncil.us; brwheeler@dccouncil.us; abonds@dccouncil.us; tloza@dccouncil.us; sgrant@dccouncil.us; ppagano@dccouncil.us; tpozen@dccouncil.us; elloyd@dccouncil.us; mfrancese@dccouncil.us; dslonneger@dccouncil.us; lgreene@dccouncil.us

Please “cc” the Friends of The Castle by using Info@HeurichHouse.org.

And to double your impact, please also print out and mail a copy of the email to the Mayor and to the Council members to:

John A. Wilson Building
1350 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, DC 20004

(BTW…The Castle hosted the Mayor’s Annual Preservation Awards in October 2004, which the Mayor attended, and at which the Heurich House Foundation, the non-profit public foundation that owns The Brewmaster's Castle, received the Mayor’s Award for Excellence in Stewardship.)

THANK YOU...Friends of The Castle...an independent group of concerned citizens who joined together to help prevent the public from losing The Brewmaster's Castle.


==========SAMPLE LETTER==========

March 6, 2006



Dear Mayor and D.C. Council Members:


URGENT: Please support Jack Evans’ request for a $500,000 line item in the FY’07 budget for The Brewmaster’s Castle!

The Brewmaster’s Castle, located at 20th Street and New Hampshire Avenue just south of Dupont Circle, is a Washington landmark on the National Register of Historic Places and a community treasure that former Secretary of the Commission of Fine Arts Charles Atherton called one of the most important local historic sites in Washington. Without these funds it could face foreclosure and possibly be sold and lost forever to the public.

The Brewmaster’s Castle has attracted so much public support with the threat of this loss that so far over $88,000 has been donated by 1,751 individuals in five weeks to help save it, and over 1,400 people have visited The Castle in that same time frame.

The community has shouted its desire that this site be saved, and thus it is vital to keep The Brewmaster’s Castle open to the public, as it has been for 50 years this year. It is a popular Washington landmark on the National Register of Historic Places that is visited by thousands every year because:

The Brewmaster’s Castle is the most intact late-Victorian house museum in the country and features original 112-year old decorations and furnishings, 15 hand-carved wood fireplaces, ceilings hand-painted by craftsmen who worked at the White House and Capitol, and more.

The Brewmaster’s Castle was the first fireproof residence in the city, and the “smart house” of the late-19th century, and features innovative amenities embraced by Christian Heurich, the forward-thinking German immigrant who built it.

It was home to Christian Heurich, Washington’s most successful brewer of over 20 who operated in the city’s history, the largest employer of Germans and the largest private landowner in Washington in the early 20th century, and the world’s oldest brewer who ran his brewery on what is now the site of the Kennedy Center until his death at 102.

And its Victorian Garden is a beloved oasis for day care centers and downtown office workers, and is the only one of its kind in the Dupont Circle neighborhood.

Please support Councilmember Evans’ request for $500,000 in the FY’07 budget for The Brewmaster’s Castle (www.BrewmastersCastle.com).

Thank you for your consideration...

[INSERT YOUR NAME & ADDRESS], a concerned citizen for The Brewmaster’s Castle


==========MAYOR & COUNCIL==========

MAYOR ANTHONY A. WILLIAMS

202-727-2980, http://www.DC.gov/atd/atd_AskThe Mayor.asp


DC CITY COUNCIL MEMBERS & CHIEFS OF STAFF

Linda W. Cropp, Chairman
Stephanie Reich, 202-724-8032, sreich@dccouncil.us

Carol Schwartz
John Abbot, 202-724-8105, jabbot@dccouncil.us

David Catania
Linda Bumbalo, 202-724-7772, lbumbalo@dccouncil.us

Phil Mendelson
Beverly Wheeler, 202-724-8064, brwheeler@dccouncil.us

Kwame R. Brown
Anita Bonds, 202-724-8174, abonds@dccouncil.us

Jim Graham
Ted Loza, 202-724-8181, tloza@dccouncil.us

Jack Evans
Schannette Grant, 202-724-8058, sgrant@dccouncil.us

Kathleen Patterson
Penny Pagano, 202-724-8062, ppagano@dccouncil.us

Adrian Fenty
Thorn Pozen, 202-724-8052, tpozen@dccouncil.us

Vincent Orange
Estelle Lloyd, 202-724-8028, elloyd@dccouncil.us

Sharon Ambrose
Marge Francese, 202-724-8072, mfrancese@dccouncil.us

Vincent C. Gray
Dawn Slonneger, 202-724-8068, dslonneger@dccouncil.us

Marion Barry
Linda Greene, 202-724-8045, lgreene@dccouncil.us

Artistic and Creative Endeavors

No, I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about Innana and Caesar, The Watch Dog of the Castle her Victorian dog drama with real live 21st century dogs. Adorable shelties, Aramis and D'Artagnan save the day. The show will be premiering in Baltimore and then moving to Alexandria. If you like period theater, literature, or quadrupeds, check it out.

Things to Be Thankful For

1--My healthy happy girls.
2--A reliable (mostly) babysitter.
3--I live on public transportation.
4--I live near Innana.
5--I just had chocolate frosting. (Why bother with the cake?)
6--I'm skating again.
7--FoilKid brought home paintings from school today and I put them up on the wall.
8--My health.
9--I live in an era of decent psychopharmaceuticals.
10--I'm tired and going to sleep now, and that's a good thing.

Good night.

Sedatives, Antidepressants, and Anti-Medication Prejudice

Everyone I know who suffers from some sort of mental illenss or dysfunction resists medication. Everyone. I heard about another friend who isn't taking his needed antidepressants and am planning to (1) rob a bank, (2) buy a plane ticket, and (3) beat the living crap out of the crumpet. Except I realize this is really a pandemic. Other fine people are not taking there medicines. One friend of mine, diagnosed with major depressive disorder more that twenty years ago, still resists keeping prescriptions up to date.

And so do I. I've let my prescriptions lapse many times, and I positively resist taking either Adderal (for ADHD) and Lunesta (for insomnia). I know I function better with the medicine, but it's such a pain in the rear. The medicine I resist the most are the sleeping pills. I think I'm afraid of turning into Judy Garland (or worse yet, Liza Minnelli), taking my Adderal in the day and Lunesta at night. Last night, I didn't take Lunesta, and kept waking, fidgety, and then fall asleep again afterwards, only to wake again a few hours later. Today, needless to say I was depressed and unable to concentrate. Tonight, I'll take the Lunesta.

And what do I have to be depressed about? Well, after correcting a failure to entry my last grocery purchases in the checkbook, I realized I had $.77 in the bank. Yup. Of course, I finally opened my mail that I'd been carrying around for a week and found a survey with a $1 as an incentive to complete the survey enclosed. I took the $1. Then the next piece of mail was a $30 rebate check. Then a bill due tomorrow for $68. Then I remembered I still have $150 in my savings account, so really, including the $43 in my wallet, I have $.77 plus $1 plus $150 plus $30 minus $68, or $113.77 to last until St. Patrick's day. I just packed my lunch for tomorrow.

Maybe I'll take two Lunestas (3 mg each) instead of one tonight.

Theology According to the FoilKid

Maybe I'll even sleep tonight without medication. It's been a lovely evening. I got home this evening and the GaahGirl was dancing around trying to sing to Peter, Paul & Mary (Moving: Settle Down, Gone the Rainbow, etc.), and FoilKid dancing with her little sister. After the CD had played, it was then declared by ukase of the Czarina (that would be the FoilKid) that we needed to play and sing those songs on the guitar. Yup. So we did.

After GaahGirl had tipped over with that heavy-eyed look of a a toddler protesting bedtime but who will really conk out the minute you lay her down in her crib, I put the GaahGirl to bed and let FoilKid play some computer games on the Internet. I don't have a monitoring system in place on the computer. Here's how I monitor: the FoilKid sits on the loveseat, and I sit, kitty-corner, on the couch. By merely looking to the left, I can observe whatever she's doing on the web. Since she's on Noggin.com, this is not a big concern.

After that, we read some Winnie-the-Pooh, including the chapter of The House at Pooh Corner in which Tigger appears. I really wonder what imp of Satan made the house of mouse think that anything they could do would be anything but a desecration of the Bible of Childhood, the works of A.A. Milne. I've seen some of the Disney-fied crap. Do they feel no shame? Stick with what works. The poetry volumes, Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner. The Ernest H. Sheppard illustrations beat anything Disney comes up with. Do they realize, at the house of mouse, that they spend millions creating totally flushable commodoties?

Anyway, we then got talking about Puff the Magic Dragon and whether dragons are magic. I finessed the issue by saying that since dragons don't exist in reality, they are, by definition magic, especially when little girls imagine them. Then FoilKid asked me if Jesus is real. I said, cautiously, "Well, he's certainly not living on earth now." (I know that much is true.) FoilKid kindly informed me that there are those who don't think Jesus ever lived. I ventured that it seemed likely that Jesus had existed at some point. We haven't delved into the fact that among her grandparents there exist Jews, Christians, and Muslims, and that among her step-Aunts and Uncles and immediate family there exist representatives of every "race"* and most major religion minus Hinduism/Buddhism, but that most of our family simply doesn't believe in anything other than family, duty, and treating other people kindly. I'll have to talk to BigGrampa before his weekend chat with the FoilKid (transatlantic) and warn him that the talk he gave me at age 6 or 7 (that religion is a crutch for people who can't face life straightforwardly) maybe isn't quite what he should reveal as his understanding of the truth right now.

FoilKid then told me that Santa doesn't die, and I agreed with her, saying that Santa lives forever for children. She asked if Santa was more than one hundred years old (I said yes) and then whether Santa was older than Jesus. Again, sketchy theology here. I declined to inform her that without Jesus, Santa would be even more fictional than he already is. I just said Santa was more than one hundred years old and Jesus pre-dated Santa (even as a fiction, that's a true statement). Then we went back to dragons. FoilKid has an imaginary friend called Monster who really is quite shy and nice. Monster wants a pet dragon. I said fine.

She's tucked in, and is now making her little airplane engine snores. For a little girl, she has a loud snore. It's probably adenoids or something, but you know what? No surgery for my kid. People can learn to love her cute snore. And I always know when she's sleeping peacefully. You can hear her on the next block.

*[Forgotten note, added after original post] Race, of course, being a construct, not a real distinction among people.

The Flood of Consciousness

I have a ton of posts floating around in my head right now, and I can't even organize them enough to write them, except I'm going to list the topics I'm thinking about and then write until I'm done. The topics are Anxiety, Being a Supervisor, Good Kissing, Men Who Are Good at Taking Care of Things and Men Who Aren't, and Things I'm Reading (and Books I'm Just Not Absorbing Right Now).

Anxiety

I got paid today. After paying rent, buying groceries, and paying the babysitter, I have $53 dollars to last until the next payday, two weeks from today. I haven't slept a full night without a sleeping pill in a week. I now have an attorney in North Carolina taking care of my speeding ticket, my divorce attorney, and an accountant handling my affairs. My Nuclear Grammy is 94 and not getting any younger. The FoilDad is in Europe and I want him to be here. I need to write to Francesca, and am just too embarrassed. I'm probably going to owe money on my taxes due to PdeFF (the accountant!) failing to file some interim self-employment stuff that he said he had done and me not checking on it last summer. I don't want to become dependent on sleeping pills. I'm not liking this result. Oh, and PdeFF hasn't decided whether or not he will consent to selling the house. The mortgage hasn't been paid since November, so soon the bank will decide for him.

Does anybody want to give him a good talking-to?*

Being a Supervisor

At my not-so-new (four months plus now) job, I supervise ten people. I am not someone who is into power. I am fairly empathetic. Being a supervisor is a rather thankless job, but I think I'm doing it fairly well. However, among my ten subordinates, I have six who are rather trouble free. One (aka The Manipulator) is a devious, manipulative, but competent person. One (aka Ultra-Needy) is highly competent, but fragile and high-maintenance. One (aka Slothful) is lazy beyond belief. One (aka Dim Bulb) seems to be a fully functional human being, but an investigation of work product and work habits leads me to believe there is some real developmental deficiency or just plain old stupidity at work.

I'm trying to figure out how to bring the best out of all the subordinates. Consider these behaviors: Manipulator has enough family crisis that the work schedule of this employee should really show a twenty three hour week (as opposed to the schedule paid for, 37.5 hours) for accuracy's sake. There's always a crisis. And court hearings, about which I don't hear until the day before. I simply require documentation for all absences now. "I don't think you have the right to ask for that." "Well, take an unexcused absence, and you'll get a few days off without pay as a disciplinary measure. Or submit the documents, and I'll okay it." After instituting this policy, the number of doctors' appointments and court hearings fell off considerablly.

Ultra-Needy finds signing documents and keeping logs stressful. When asked to sign documents for her job, she calls up and complains. She refused to assist my boss, last week, with a minor favor that would have taken 20 seconds and was required possibly two minutes of document preparation for a law enforcement officer. Not exactly in her job description, but helping a related organization with it's projects. She flat out refused.

Slothful does filing for me two mornings a week. I always have to remind her. Slothful never comes when scheduled, and always leaves ten to fifteen minutes early. Slothful moves slowly, probably even when measured in terms of geological time.

Dim Bulb never can find the work that has already been done, and can't remember if it has been done. "I remember giving it to the secretary." "Which secretary? Also, don't you keep a file of correspondence? Let's check your chron (chronological) file." "Doesn't the secretary keep that?" "Which secretary?" "I can't remember." "Did you ask the secretary to keep a chron file for you?" "I don't remember." "Do you keep a log of assignments showing projects you've received and when you completed it?" "Why would I do that?" "So that maybe you could find projects you say you've completed when the assigning consultant who you say you gave the completed project to says she has never received your supposedly completed work?" "Isn't it her fault if she can't find what I gave her?" "Look, you don't have a file path on the computer, there isn't an email, and there isn't a copy in the file. You don't know who might have saved the document or where it might be. From my perspective, it doesn't look like it exists. Find it, or write it now." "I shouldn't have to do it again. It's not my fault it's lost." "Whose fault would it be then?" No answer.

I'm sure there's some great management training book that will help me deal with that.

Good Kissing

Sometimes, a kiss just a kiss. And sometimes, a cheesecake is just a cheesecake. When either is well done, one really doesn't need that much more. I was going to write more on this subject, but I will stop now. Eclairs. Croquembouche. Apple Pie. Brownies a la Mode. Bananas Foster. Chocolate souffle with rum sauce. Poires Belle Helene. Pedicures. Baths with lavender salts and a nice glass of Shiraz, from Australia. Or Sauvignon Blanc from the Marlborough Region of New Zealand. Or a Weissburgunder from Austria.

Men Who Are Good at Taking Care of Things and Men Who Aren't

Ex-Marine Fred is a guy you can rely on. Mr. Studmuffin can be relied on. The Second Mate can be relied on (if you're family, or Innana). FoilDad can generally be relied on, but his a bit scatty sometimes. PdeFF cannot be relied on. But you don't get to find out until the chips are down. Men have this paradigm or pattern they are supposed to fit, where a woman can rely on them. And I'll be generous and allow that most men try pretty hard to fit that pattern. Except you have to be one of the inner circle. I'm part of Ex-Marine Fred's circle because SNV and Innana are my friends. Mr. Studmuffin will ride to the rescue because he is just a lovely guy. PdeFF did once take care of me. I don't remember when that stopped, but it was long, long before I left him. He loves the girls, but isn't a good provider.

I don't want to ever rely on someone and be let down, but the only way to avoid the let down is to never take the risk. That doesn't work. But big talk doesn't work either. Every man wants to think of himself as a someone who is protective and takes care of others, but again, you only find out that self-perception is wrong on the part of someone in whom you have placed faith when he lets you down. I really don't want to live through that again, but I'm too much of an optimist to just give up trying. I had a more coherent thought here, but it's gone.

Things I'm Reading (and Books I'm Just Not Absorbing Right Now)

Right now, I'm not able to finish Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace. I got stuck in the essay about John McCain's campaign, somewhere between the footnotes, the parentheticals, and the asides, I lost the thread. I can't read The Time Traveller's Wife or On Beauty. I can't even manage a Lindsay Graham, Sue Grafton, or Tony Hillerman mystery. I can manage military history and romances. (Nice combo, don't you think?) I want my concentration back. I want to be able to read and absorb complex written material.

At least I'm skating this weekend.

*Oh, and Cookie, thanks for the suggestion of the Paddington. (Yes, Innana and I do talk about you all the time. That's why your ears are burning.) Given all the facts, that is just priceless.