Caesar; Or the Watchdog of the Castle

It's really good! The actors really got into the period style. I think a lot of people are into the dogs, but the play is a great example of Victorian melodrama. Normally, female performers are much better than male performers (you have a much wider pool to pick from), and here it's true, the female performers were standouts, but the guys were just as good.

In short: Aramis, playing Remus, was a standout! She did a lovely disarm of the villain (maybe looking a little too much like she really was just going to knock that annoying fake pistol out of Dave's had and then lick him to death, but hey) and D'Artagnan was also great. He tied up the another villain with dispatch (actually, D'Artagnan likes to play tug of war and the villain twists his hands around to be tied up, but hey, we're talking about two cute Shelties here). Other key feats of dog derring do include trying to hide important papers from the villain (unsuccessful because Caesar, the "hero" is such a dolt), destroying, by eating, a note that must be kept from the General (unnecessary anyway because the General is farsighted and can't read the darn thing, but it's an adorable scene), and finding the key proof of the hero's identity at the last minute. Lovely.

Dave Ferry (Dervilliers, the villain of the piece) is just adorable. He even has a cute conjuring trick during the intermission ostensibly to show that he really isn't a villain, where he plays an audience member for a dupe, and then says: It's true, I'm typecast.

Crenshaw (the Chevalier, the hero who actually appears to have a brain) is lovely too.

Mundy Spears is beyond fantastic as Georgette, one of the two love interests, sort of an opera soubrette role, and Anne Stuecker is lovely as Clementine the other love interest.

Actually, everyone was great. Matt Orr had a number of small roles (footman, villaninous thug, etc.) and was hilarious. Cody Sullivan (?) was also quite amusing.

The General and the Countess, while not played for laughs as much, were both quite good.

The sets could use a bit of work (that was not Innana's job, btw), and I understand that at the next performance there will be some new pieces.

Very enjoyable. And cute dogs.

The Time Traveler's Wife

I just finished The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger today. I loved it. I don't know why, especially since I have some real feminism and gender role issues with the whole thing. Also, I wonder if it's a bit emperor's new clothes-y -- not as much there as at first appears.

That said, it's wonderful. I was finishing it on the subway and almost cried when I realized I was done. I have to think about that some more.

Meanwhile, TigerGrrl and I have just one chapter left in King Arthur and His Knights. That's going to be tough on her when we finish (and King Arthur dies).

And having written that, there's the Maid of Astolat*/waiting woman theme that shows up in The Time Traveler's Wife as well. What's with the story being about a woman who sits around waiting. And when she stops, "the mirror crack'd" and it all ends. Same thing with Big Love and harems and all that crap. Women waiting. Somebody explain to me what is so great for men about women sitting around, total underutilized and satisfied, waiting for them? But this is apparently a real male fantasy and it's been appropriated by women as well. Great, join your own subjugation.

Yet I loved the book.

*Shallotte or whatever.

More Sex Lives (And Far, Far Worse Than Mine)

Two different posts on sex on two different blogs, one by Reclusive Leftist* and one by Jewish Atheist, got me thinking.** So I'm not having sex. Boo hoo. For the last few years, except for a short interlude in the Summer of 2005, I was having unsatisfying sex. No sex is better than "you're-a-piece-of-furniture-or-a-household-appliance-sex" (hereinafter: YAPOFOAHAS, well, no, not really). And it's even better than this kind of sex or living in South Carolina*** after this law gets passed.

So, no one is forcing me to have sex in ways I don't want to, and I'm still free to go buy a battery powered guy replacement (actually, when written out, it doesn't sound that bad). And I can go on a date without getting stoned (Biblically -- I don't smoke anything, but if I wanted to, I could). So, all things considered, life ain't bad.

*A/k/a Dr. Violet Socks, a fancy pseudonym for a bluestocking, and epithet never hurled at me, though I always wished it would be.
**Scary, I know.
***Kira and Alex, get out now!!!!

Ex-Marine Fred

Today, Innana and I had a glorious drive in the budding countryside (the Mid-Atlantic Coast area is just luscious right now -- sort of the geographical and meteorological equivalent of a young woman, happily in a marriage or meaningful relationship in the first week or so of the second trimester of pregnancy -- luscious and fecund and glowing) and then a wonderful walk around New Market. Now New Market itself is just a bunch of old houses filled with way too many antiques (exactly how many incredibly quaint items does any one person need?), but as a place to hang out with one's best friend in the whole wide world . . . why it's as good as Vienna or Salzburg in May.

We've both been in a bit of a funk this week. Existential despair. Angst at the zeitgeist of our times. Full of weltschaung or whatever. But we feel better now.

While we walked and talked, we talked about Ex-Marine Fred. We've both agreed, if either of us ever meet a man like Ex-Marine Fred (who has all he can handle with SNV, trust me), we're jumping him. In a good way. Or maybe I am, and Innana's going to be much more ladylike, but really . . .

Why do we love Ex-Marine Fred? Let me count the ways.

As far as I can tell, Ex-Marine Fred grew up in an uneducated and unhappy home, and got his education by enlisting in the Marines and getting shipped to Viet Nam. Somehow, instead of coming back all drug addled or post-traumatic-shock disorder-y, he came home, was thankful he was home, and set about making the best of that and his life henceforward. He* put himself through college. He got a commission. He decided he really wanted to be an officer and a gentleman. He became a very good ballroom dancer. He retired as a full colonel, and now works in the Military Industrial Complex. He doesn't have the ego that most retired officers seem to have.

Maybe he treats women differently than he treats men. We'll have to ask Innana about that. She sees more of him than I do, and in more situations. I mainly see him with SNV at a party or a dinner out. But he doesn't care if someone corrects him. He doesn't mind learning from a girl. He refers to SNV as the General, he means it, and he likes it (truly -- I just know these things).

Also, he lives within his means, yet still manages to be generous. And he dotes on the TigerGrrl. He takes her golfing (which required him to buy her a nice set of golf clubs and a cute little golf glove).

But most admirable of all, Ex-Marine Fred really does feel a duty to take care of those weaker than he is. Which is pretty much everyone on the planet save SNV, since he is financially well off, healthy, in a position of some power, and generally a strong and capable human being.

He rode into rescue TigerGrrl's trip to the Colonial Farm when my car broke down. But he also rescued a drycleaning lady from an abusive customer. Here's the sitch: SNV and Ex-Marine Fred are at the dry-cleaners behind a man, who, when he gets to the counter starts yelling at the Asian woman who doesn't speak English very well. The maternity dress** had a rip in it, and the soon-to-be-former customer claimed it was due to the drycleaning process.

Now, maybe this nimrod and his wife really did go spend tons of money on maternity clothes, but I don't care where you normally shop, for three months of wear (you can wear your old clothes for the first three months, then three months in one size for one season, and three months in the next size for the next season) you are an idiot if you shop anywhere other than Target, Sears, and second hand stores.*** So either the clothes were really cheap (and do tear on occasion, particularly in the second or third pregnancy of wear) or they were expensive and a waste of money anyway. But Mr. Soon-to-Be-Former-Customer tells the hapless immigrant (who he's enjoying berating just a little too much -- I'm betting he was getting off on it) that she has to reimburse him for the full cost of the garment, which he claims was, you guessed it, $600.+

Hapless immigrant lady is crying, but she sees a regular customer who is always polite to her (always asks about her kids, at Ivy League universities, which is why she cheerfully slaves in the drycleaners that she and her husband own). She cries out to "Mr. Fred, Mr. Fred!" and he doesn't hesitate. The Soon-to-be-Former-Customer explains the outrage. Ex-Marine Fred, I forgot to mention, is quite a conneissuer of women's clothing. He looks at the unfortunate garment, which is clearly on its third or fourth pregnancy or more and was never a $60 item, much less a $600 item.++ There is a rip, right on the seam (totally mendable, believe me) caused by the strain of an expanding belly or behind.

Soon-to-be-former-customer explains how much his wife loves this piece of polyester which is being dry cleaned for some inexplicable reason+++ at $4.00 a pop.*+ And then Soon-To-Be-Former-Customer makes his big mistake. He shoves his finger, not into Ex-Marine Fred, but into Hapless Immigrant Lady and says "What are you going to do about this!!!????". He's a goner. Ex-Marine Fred looks up*+++ at the big, stupid bully, picks up the offending garment, and says: "What you're going to do is stop bullying sales clerks, you're going to apologize to Mrs. Lee.**+, take this piece of trash out of here, leave, don't come back, and don't act like such a jerk in my presence again." Former-Customer's wife came in the next day to pick up the rest of the dry cleaning, and neither has been seen since.

He's done more heroic things than that. Once, back when he was a sergeant (his son**++ tells this story), the woman living next door had a live-in who was, as Ex-Marine Fred described it "Not a real man." That doesn't mean not a heterosexual man, that means not an adult human being. When the girlfriend was away, Fred et fils were barbecuing and playing catch. No-good boyfriend was outside and the kid next door did something to annoy No-good boyfriend, which resulted in the kid "accidentally" falling off the porch. Lots of people turn blind eyes to that kind of thing all the time. Ex-Marine Fred asked Tommy**+++ to join Fils de Fred and asks the No Good Boyfriend to step around front to look at a car. Words may have been exchanged.***+

The best part of this story is the one that rarely happens. Ex-Marine Fred visited the neighbor lady later and explained what he saw, and instead of her (like many witless parents who don't protect their kids from their boyfriends or girlfriends) saying "But he/she loves me! He/she wouldn't hurt them!", the neighbor enlisted Ex-Marine Fred, Fils de Fred, and her own son to pack up No Good Ex-Boyfriend's stuff and Ex-Marine Fred changed the locks. No Good Ex-Boyfriend had all his stuff piled at the end of the driveway when he got home from the bars later than night. And for once, in West Texas, it rained, so everything was soggy and sure to turn moldy. Sometimes, I almost believe there is a god.

But there definitely is Ex-Marine Fred. Oh, and he loves taking SNV, CNL***++, Innana, and me out to dinner, and having four women chatting with him. He's in hog heaven then. Don't worry, even if Ex-Marine Fred were like other less civilized Marines and inclined to not be Semper Fi to SNV (he just wouldn't), Innana and I might tower over SNV, but she could really harm us. So we act like the ladies he treats us like. It's a good deal all around.

Ex-Marine Fred: The softer side of the special services.


*With the Marines' help, of course.
**Always cheaply made.
***If you spent $600 for some designer outfit at some chichi maternity boutique, sorry, but you are stoooopid. You should have put the money in the kid's college fund.
+I guess Mr. Soon-to-be-Former-Customer is also illiterate as well as mean-spirited and idiotic, because dry cleaners always state their policies for reimbursement of damage and it is always limited in amount.
++Garments labelled 100% polyester are rarely $600 garments.
+++Handwash, dorks.
*+I, Foilwoman, with my superheroine powers, have found a drycleaners that cleans for $1.90 per item (even coats!), but even then I limit my drycleaning to things that really shouldn't be handwashed.*++
*++Do handwash sweaters, and most silk, especially silk knits.
*+++I tower over Ex-Marine Fred. That doesn't stop him from being supercute and supermacho simultaneously.
**+A pseudonym, d'oh.
**++An aside: Ex-Marine Fred's son is another man's son who Ex-Marine Fred took in. Sadly, Ex-Marine Fred did not procreate. However, the son tries his very best to resemble his true dad.
**+++Another pseudonym, double d'oh.
***+Something like "I don't like what I saw. I'm watching you. Who do you think the police would believe anyway? Shiftless, no-account you freeloading off a single mother, or me? You might want to move away."
***++Ex-Marine Fred really doesn't like CNL much -- she's a crank -- but he is always nice to her because that is just the way he is.

Feminism and Relationships between Women and Men

I haven't been true to myself recently in terms of dealing with men with whom I hope to have a physical connection. Since I was a child, I have thought of myself in terms of strength, competence, and independence. I am a feminist.

I haven't been acting that way. Part of that is due to my reaction to the passive and psychotic nightmare of my life with PdeFF. The idea of a man who can be more than an equal partner has real appeal. However, equality is what I really want.

But I notice so many things while dating. Even when I am in fairly predatory mode, I'm still trying to actually get to know the men I see, whereas it becomes obvious fairly early on that they are really assessing their likelihood of getting sex and getting it quickly. I am simply not as predatory as they are, and having a (I hope I'm being honest with myself here) honest and sympathetic nature is not an asset in this environment.

This is kind of like in my mid-twenties when I realized, in the work environment, that most colleagues are not thinking about either (1) the ultimate success of our employer, or (2) being a constructive ally of coworkers.

For most men I meet, it becomes clear fairly early on that a consensual, cooperative relationship is not what the man is thinking about. He is thinking "How do I get what I want?" The cooperativeness comes into play to the extent that I cooperate with him.

Now I resent this dynamic for a number of reasons. I feel desire as much as the next person, and the idea of withholding my expression of desire to manipulate a man really goes against what I believe in about myself. I don't feel guilty about not acting on desire for reasons for personal inclination, physical or emotional safety, or just not feeling sure about things* I know about the man.

But to the extent reaching physical intimacy is looked at as a game or battle (who's seducing who?), I can't stand that crap. It really was easier when the emotional component wasn't there.

On the other hand, I know intellectually that on an emotional level, I'm not ready for a relationship . . . except I want one. Not hearts and flowers, but definite physical satisfaction with some trust and emotional closeness. Except the trust part is hard for me. I trusted PdeFF, realistically in the first few years of our relationship, beyond what any sane and self-preserving person would allow in the last few years.

Another things that really bugs me is the insistance on ego stroking of men. They really want to be told that they are smarter, better, whatever. Things with Mr. Military Industrial Complex went downhill when he referred to the Netherlands as part of Scandinavia. The Dutch, the Danes, same thing, you know? I was polite, but I said no, Denmark and Holland are two different countries, and Scandinavia is Denmark, Sweden & Norway (I think those three include Finland but Finland says, "No, we're tougher than that", and you can't argue with the Finns, they are tougher than pretty much anyone else on the planet**.) Ethnically you could probably include Iceland, and Greenland could arguably fall into that (well, it is under Denmark's "protection" however you want to look at that). I guess I was just supposed to nod adoringly. It was pretty clear saying, no the country you mentioned is not the country of my ancestors was a big no-no. Guys correct me all the time. Yet if I do it, I'm squelching their egos or being school-marmish. They could try being a bit smarter. But maybe I'm being a tad snot-nosed.

I want to be independent and strong*** yet be capable of intimacy. I don't know if I will ever be there again. I remember that town. I lived there for a while, but had to move away.

*For example, is he as single as he says? Is he an incredibly serial monogamist or someone who simply cannot function without three or four women in rotation?
**I had a visiting school flinglet with a really fine Finnish hockey player when I was seventeen, and had a real grown up fling with a really fine Finnish whatever when I was in my twenties. Neither man left me with anything but admiration for the Finns and the culture and climate that produces them. At least when travelling. At home, they might trend a bit morose, but I could be wrong about that.
***And financially, at least, that's a distant illusion.

My Sex Life (or Complete Lack Thereof)

I'm not getting very detailed here, sadly, because, imagine my horror, there are no details to write about. It's been over six months since anything satisfying happened with a man. It's also been over six months since I had sex (unsatisfying) with my not-soon-enough-to-be-ex-husband. I'm not liking this state of affairs.

Of course, I could definitely have a series of flings, but the physical risk to me as well as the diminishing chances of a generous (physically) lover with the lack of acquaintance and commitment, really don't make that appealing. I need someone who, either before of after he gets happy, is willing to spend some real time on me.

My seatmate on the Metro made me think, and, typical (sometimes) woman that I am, I did a full attractiveness audit of things about me that might be off-putting. My final assessment. I'm an attractive, but not gorgeous, middle-aged woman. I'm overweight, not grotesquely so, but someone who wants a woman who is physically diminutive (height or weight) ain't gonna want me. That's okay. I talk too much and probably am over-aggressive in social settings. I'm a bit hungry for attention. I genuinely like talking to and being with other people on a one on one basis, and that can seem needy. I am in the middle of a personal crisis -- divorce and financial disaster -- that will give many people pause. I have two very young children, which will give many men pause. I don't have a flexible social schedule, so spur of the moment or can't keep a schedule guys are out.

Also, I've generally been taking the passive approach. Dating the men who ask me out, not me asking them out. This whole idea that men have to be the pursuer. That's crap. That's like telling me that to find a partner I have to be a petite blond. I could dye my hair and stay seated, but really, that's just not going to work. I'm going to be aggressive, and need to stop hiding my true nature (bossy, dominant -- not in a BDSM/role playing way, but as how I approach things in general, take charge). However, I'm deeply afraid of connecting with another PdeFF, someone who is weak and incompetent and really just wants me to run the show and take care of him.

So I'm contemplating placing a personal ad*, which worked before, as you know. I would have to be ruthlessly honest. Some thing like this:.

Tall, plump, bossy divorcing woman who talks too much seeks man. Please be able to take care of yourself and the responsibilities of your life. If you make it harder for me to live my life, do my job, or send my kids to college, you're not the right one for me. I like sex, but need to know someone. If you are looking for a partner who is not a tender flower and not the most romantic chick on the planet, but still likes an intelligent, kind, funny, and considerate man, please contact me.

*In the U.S., at least, if you can't get it on Craig's List, you don't need it

Disaster Dating & the Smell of Sorrow

Well, really, that's redundant, isn't it. Dating is like a series of car wrecks, moving from the wreckage of one to the other. The only time I actually have enjoyed dating was the six months before I left PdeFF. Since I really wasn't looking for anything of substance, the whole process wasn't fraught with anxiety and I didn't feel stressed out. I wasn't that needy.

The minute I actually left the marriage, dating turned into a much higher risk proposition and a chore. I know I'm not ready to commit to anything or anyone, but since I do not have a partner, I am emotionally vulnerable. And sex is riskier too, because the immediate compartmentalization (when one is attached and straying) of knowing: he's for one part of my life, not more than that. Now I can try to compartmentalize, but really, it just doesn't work as well as having a built in compartment.

While it takes a heck of a man to be better than none, being part of a pair is a very enjoyable state. So when someone chats or smiles or whatever in my direction I perk up and am pleased. But I don't want to be too pleased or read too much into anything.

And the ego squelching capacity of seeing someone a few times and beginning to feel some closeness only to have that person fade away cannot be underestimated. Given the bruising one's ego takes during dating, it's amazing anyone tries at all.

And to top it all off, I haven't even had any great-but-horrible experiences to share of late. Mr. Military Industrial Complex and I had another dinner date that was enjoyable, and then talked on the phone several times, and then nothing. Handyman called out of the blue to tell me some good news and asked if I wanted to see him. I said no. I like the man, and I find him very attractive, but that's just not what's supposed to be happening.

Tonight on my way home from drinks a businessman sat next to me. That's not unusual -- it was still rush hour and there were plenty of people on the train. He was a good-looking man in his mid-forties, suit, tie, wingtip shoes, even the little pocket hankerchief, which looked good, not overly fussy. His hair was silver at the temples, and his hands were manicured. No wedding ring.*

As is my wont, I simply glanced up from my book and observed him surreptitiously.** But then I was overwhelmed by other sensations. It was worse than being seated next to a homeless person who has neither bathed nor laundered recently.

This upscale businessman stank. Not just a regular body odor stink or a nervous sweat stink or a simply hasn't showered recently stink. This was that metallic and rotten smell that never seems like it belongs to the person who is clearly inflicting that smell on the company. It was almost industrial, like some sort of toxic byproduct.

I wondered whether people joined with StinkyMan for drinks. Whether people avoided his office. Then the missing wedding ring took on ominous symboolism. He smelled bad enough that I could not believe that he had a partner who would hold him in her arms. It must be awful to try and date if you chemically repulse most everyone else. And it wasn't the stinkiness of the unwashed. There was some chemical component. Not the metallic smell of heavy psychotropic drugs, but like one of those sickly sweet southern plants that also smells a bit rotten combined with a heavy metal smell. The smell of decay and industrial waste. Like asbestos and copper and magnolias and a dumpster full of vegetable waste.

So I sat there, thinking of this man trying to find a sex partner or a woman or man to court. By the time he got off the train, the man sitting behind my seat was waving a newpaper to increase circulation. StinkyMan had no idea how sorry I felt for him. I almost wept.*** Then I thought: Am I like him in some weird undefiniable way? Hey, I'm going out a fair amount, and yet not connecting.++ Is it something similar to stinkiness that I just don't know about? I watched him some more. He seemed very dignified and self-contained. Of course one would have to be, if no one wants to be physically close to you. God, that just makes my heart break. That poor man.

*That means nothing, of course.
**Actually, I wasn't surreptitious. I was pretty damn obvious.
***Of course, the paranoid adolescent+, I then wondered if there was something like that about me.
+Paranoid adolescent though process = everything is all about me.
++I know, I know, I'm getting out, and I'm probably not ready (emotionally or legally) for a true emotional connection. But I am ready for something and it's bugging me that I'm nowhere near getting that.

Stained Glass Bluegrass

Innana listens to a radio show called "Stained Glass Blue Grass" on Sunday mornings. I am a fan of bluegrass music myself, although my understanding of the genre is pretty superficial. A nice rendition of Rocky Top makes me happy.

Given my general anti-religious* leanings, it may come as a surprise that I like a fair amount of gospel music and religious bluegrass music. So imagine my pleasure this evening when a google search less to the music and chords for a few favorites, including a Tom Petty lullaby.

Here they are (with guitar chords, except Rise and Shine):

Little Moses**

[C]Away by the [G]river so [C]clear
the ladies were[G]wending their [C]way
when [G]Pharoah's little daughter went down to the water
to [C]bathe in the [G]cool of the [C]day

[C]Before it was dark she opened the ark
and [Am] found the [G] sweet infant laid [C]there

Away by the waters so blue
the infant was lonely and sad
She took him in pity she thought him so pretty
which made little Moses so glad.

She called him her own, her beautiful child
and sent for a nurse who was near

Away from the river so fair
they carried the beautiful child
to his tender mother and sister and brother
little Moses looked happy and smiled

His mother so good did all that she could
to raise him and teach him with care

Away by the sea that was red
Little Moses the servant of God
While in him confided the sea was divided
as upwards he lifted his rod**

The Jews safely crossed while King Pharoah's host
was drowned in the waters and lost

Away on a mountain so high
the last that he ever did see
while in Him victorious his hope it was glorious
that he'd soon over Jordan be free

When his labor did cease he departed in peace
and rested in Heaven above.

Rise and Shine+

So God said to Noah, "There's gonna be a floody, floody" (2x)
Get those children out of the muddy, muddy
Children of the Lord

Chorus:

So rise and shine and give God your glory, glory (2x)
Children of the Lord

So Noah, he built him, he built him and arky, arky (2x)
Made it out of hickory barky barky
Children of the Lord

Chorus

The animals, they came in, they came in by twosies twosies (2x)
Elephants and kangaroo-sies, roo-sies
Children of the Lord

Chorus

It rained and poured for forty day-sies daysies (2x)
Almost drove those animals crazy crazy
Children of the Lord

Chorus

Dove went out to take a peaky peaky (2x)
Came back with a twig in her beaky beaky
Children of the Lord

Chorus

The sun came out and dried up the landy landy (2x)
Everything was fine and dandy dandy
Children of the Lord

Chorus

This is the end of, the end of our story story (2x)
Everything is hunky-dory dory
Children of the Lord

Chorus

All Right for Now++

[Cadd9]Goodnight [G]baby
[Cadd9]Sleep tight my [G]love
May [Cadd9]God watch [Amin add 9]over
[Fadd9]you from [Cadd9]above
[G]To-[Cadd9]morrow I'm [G]working
[Cadd9]What would I [G]do
[Cadd9]I'd be lost and [Am add 9]lonely
[Fadd9]If not for [Cadd9] you

[Em]So close [Dm]your eyes
[Em]You're all [Dm]right
[Fadd9]

I've spent my life wandering
I've spent my life free
I cannot repay all that you've done
for me

So Goodnight Baby
Unfurrow your brow
And now that I love you
We're all right for now
We're all right for now

I've got to practice my music. Night.

*Organized religion.
**A Carter family performance staple.
***Don't even go there with the dirty thoughts on this symbolism. This is religious.
+TigerGrrl and GaahGirl love to run around and dance to this one. Of key importance in the choreography is to hop like a kangaroo and the right moment. Especially while wearing one's Australian kangaroo sweatshirt.
++Yes, a Tom Petty lullaby. Do you have a problem with that?

A Fool's Alphabet*, **

Accent: I don't have an accent, everyone else does. Actually, my youthful midwestern twang got done in by four years in high WASP holy land prep school. So I say again, I have no accent. Except for accent color when I'm wearing black, and then the accent is either red or fuschia.

Booze of Choice: Chateauneuf du Pape or Dalwhinnie

Chores I Hate: If it doesn't involve cooking, knitting, or sewing, consider it a chore I hate.

Dog or Cat: Wby is this either/or? But as an apartment dweller, cats for now (I don't have any, but I can plan).

Essential Electronics: Laptop.

Favorite Perfume: Amarige by Givenchy or Zen*** by Shiseido

Gold or Silver: Sterling silver

Hometown: None. We moved around too much when I was little. But I'm a native New Englander, and now consider Washington, DC my home.

Insomnia: What part of divorcing an insane man would make anyone think I can sleep at night?

Jeans: I probably shouldn't, but I do.

Kids: The two best ever. Don't debate. It will be bad for your health.

Living Arrangements: Kids and babysitter, half the time. The other half, alone.

Most Admired Trait: Responsibility.

New Habit: Blogging (well, new, if over a year hold is new -- otherwise, nothing;s new).

Overnight Hospital Stays: At birth, as a toddler, then wait until late thirties and early forties (childbirth) and then some really irksome abdominal+ surgery.

Phobia(s): Arachnids. I know, I know. They're little. But they have eight limbs. That's just not normal.

Quote: (probably misquoted) Creyendo no creer, creia. Miguel de Unamuno.

Religion: I don't really have one. See above.

Siblings: Two sisters who are twins. People used to think we were triplets (I'm younger, but tall) because my grandmother would make us identical clothing. LOS and NSLOS++ would respond to people asking my mother if we were triplets by saying: "We're twins. She's [sniff] younger." I was deeply hurt. Now that we're in our forties, they don't say that anymore.

Time(s) I Wake Up: Presuming I fall asleep, 6:30 a.m.

Unusual Talent/Skill: I can convincingly remove my thumb to the delight of small children everywhere. "Take off your thumb!" is the request.

Veggies I Refuse to Eat: Raw tomatoes. Unless you consider tomatoes a fruit.

Worst Habit: Probably this blog.

X: PdeFF is the X. He's nuts. Can we stop talking about him now?

Yummiest Food I Make: Chocolate frosting. (Sans cake: well, who needs the darn cake?)

Zodiac Sign: Taurus. No I don't believe in it. Yes I am bull-headed, stubborn, sensual, and good friend and a good cook.

* See A Fool's Alphabet by Sebastian Faulks.

**Stolen from MizPenny, of Brisbane, Australia.

***The old Zen, not the new, crappy Spirit of Zen (WTF?).

+Two hernia repairs. The first wasn't overnight, but the second sure as shit was.

++We were all pretty much the same size as each other from the time they were 5 and I was 3 until I was 12 and reached 5'11". They stopped around 5'7".

Innana: You Go, Girl

Actually, I'm going to write about Innana. Innana has had a pretty stressful week, which I will not detail except to state that the Victorian canine melodrama that she has researched, gotten funding for, and directed, has opened to larger audiences than the theater group with which she is involved has ever brought in before. The show opened in Baltimore to some very good press and now will be moving to Alexandria Virginia. Nice.

Motherhood

I used to sleep through anything. I once slept through a burglary in which the bedroom in which I was sleeping was ransacked (and jewelry of mine stolen). Now, of course, I have Divorce Onset Insomnia (DOI*). However, I just got GaahGirl back to bed after midnight wakefulness of her own.

You know you're a parent when your kid wakes you at 12:30 A.M. and runs around for 20 minutes, and you think, with pride: "Gosh, my baby's energetic!"

*If I'd said "Doi!" a few times more in the last year of my marriage, perhaps I would have had a chance.

Wankers (a Sex Post)

I am violating the rules that mi querido y estimado El Guapo has set forth regarding using British expressions by Americans or using foreign phrases when you're a midwesterner, but hey, I'm talking about guys who masturbate.* Doesn't it sound nicer to call them wankers?

Now, I'm am not the most soft-spoken female on the planet. But I do know how to modulate my voice. However, here is what happened today. Today is middle-of-the-month payday, which means it's the payday when I don't have to pay rent. Therefore, I allowed myself the luxury of a cafe au lait (cafe con leche for you Spanish speakers.** Since I was non-custodial I caught the early (non-Dramatiste) bus into town, and had time to sit and sip my coffee and eat my chocolate croissant*** before going to the office and dealing with the likes of NAISIGHN (as well as many very nice coworkers).

Two women in their early thirties+ sat near me. I was allegedly reading the paper, but really eavesdropping on urban intellectual idiocy as demonstrated by these two women with no apparent knowledge of human sexual response.++

One woman (upper crust, but working, blonde, overdressed, over-made up+++, educated but ignorant) was talking to her female friend (actually identical to the first, so let's just call them Upper-Crust-Idiotic-Blonde 1 or UCIB1 and Upper-Crust-Idiotic-Blonde 2 or UCIB2) about UCIB1's husband.

Apparently -- sit down for this, it's a shocker -- UCIB1's husband (they've been married 11 years) wanks a lot. She keeps interrupting him and is shocked and grossed out. Poor dear. UCIB1 tells UCIB2 how much his wanking hurts her. "Aren't I enough?" she palintively wails. Note how self-restrained I was: I did not turn and ask her how often UCIB1 and her husband had sex each week, on average. I'm betting 2 times a week at most. I also didn't ask UCIB1 if she had ever brought herself to climax, either manually or with an electronic device.*+

Help me out here. How can it be a surprise to anyone with anything more than rudimentary reading skills that men jerk off often? More often that dead people vote in Chicago.**+ Well, let's be honest, women pleasure themselves just as often (well, all the women whose self-pleasuring habits I have knowledge of***+): but we don't need to discuss it, or maybe society frowns the expression and satisfaction of female sexuality if a penis isn't involved*++, so we're repressed.

But these women, not in their teens or twenties, but thirties, were reacting with shock and horror to the realization that UCIB1's husband wanks, probably on a daily or more frequent basis. Imagine my shock.

My thoughts: How often do UCIB1 and her husband have sex? Is the husband having sex with someone else? Is UCIB1? Does UCIB1 really find the idea of her husband bringing himself to orgasm that gross or is this just a bonding experience with UCIB2 (but if it's a bonding experience, that's even more dehumanizing and depressing)? Does UCIB1's husband like that she is, at least as she's described it, grossed out by the idea of him wanking? Does she masturate?*+++

This goes back to my theory (from last year and no, I don't have the energy or initiative to find and link to the damn post) that men are socialized or genetically programmed to select women with low sex drives and then live in frustration, opening the door for a woman like me who actually (1) has a sex drive and (2) wants to satisfy it.**+

Anyway, I'm at a loss. If I had a mate, and walked in on him in a wanking session, I hope I would have the great good sense to say "Want to share?" or something similar. I certainly wouldn't whinge**++ about the fact that my mate had (1) a sex drive, (2) to the urge to satisfy that drive, and (3) the ability to get it up. Of course, I'm over forty. Maybe women in their thirties aren't as appreciative of that ability as I am. I'd be glad there was some sexuality out there somewhere.

Well, UCIB1 was definitely a trophy wife. I hope her husband, wanker that he is, appreciates the prize he has.

* All men on the Planet Earth, except the quadraplegics.

** Perdoname, Guapito, pero I couldn't help myself.

*** Okay, I take back all the atheism crap. There is a god. A chocolate god. Oh, that's the Goddess called Innana, and I knew that anyway. Also there's Denmark, home of good chocolate, too. Okay, god's out of the picture again. Sorry 'bout that.

+ Obviously, this is an estimate, and unverifiable.

++ There was a great band by that name (Human Sexual Response) in the '70s and early '80s, and I knew the mother of the lead singer back at that time.

+++ At a minimum, she had spent 1.5 hours on her attire, coiffure, and the rest of her toilette. Hair like that, you don't wake up with.

*+ Great Law & Order quote: "Women are best left to their own elecronic devices."

**+I'm just saying.

***+1.

*++What do I mean "maybe"?

*+++For men, it's jerk off or wank, but for women, it's either "self-pleasure" or "masturbate", because the ways women masturbate can't be encompassed by finger, much less jerk off or wank.

**+Shit, Francesca reads this blog, as does Innana. I'll never go out in public again.

**++Sorry, mi Guapissimo, but whinge just reads better than whine. Whinge sounds like a rusty door hinge.

Work Ethic

This is the first job I have ever had where I have supervised a bunch of people. I have supervised individuals before, but groups. I currently have nine people reporting directly two me, and two people who report to me and another person. I am interviewing for two additional subordinates.

I'm not very comfortable being a boss. I prefer to assume people are trying their best and doing a good job. This is actually a good approach in one on one supervision -- don't micromanage, get out of their way, let everyone do their jobs. It's the management style with which I'm most comfortable.

However, while most of the research assistants are hardworking and competent. There are a few bad apples. Over the past few days, I have been dealing with a bad apple. This person is I Sick I Go Home Now's* evil non-antipodean twin. I've had to review my employer's personnel manual regarding all kinds of disciplinary procedures. Why? Non-Antipodean I Sick I Go Home Now (NAISIGHN) has taken 12 days of annual leave, two days of comp time and six days of sick leave since January 1, 2006. NAISIGHN has also only arrived at work on time (within ten minutes of her official start time, which means, giving a ten minute grace period) on four distinct occasions since January 1, 2006.

To top that off, NAISIGHN has been calling in to take annual leave saying some relative is having surgery (every relative NAISIGHN has has had surgery at least once in the last six months) with no advance notice and N did that again today, with no advance (normally required) notice.

Apparently, wanting to people to turn up by their official start time is very demanding. Apparently wanting annual leave to be requested in advance (in accordance with policy) is micromanaging. Apparently this is a big conspiracy to bring NAISIGHN down.

What does one say to someone like that? If someone told me that I was deficient in some way, I'd be trying to figure out what it was and fix it. I wouldn't accuse them of conspiring against me. Anyway, NAISIGHN may be trying to arrange a career change opportunity, and if this keeps up (particularly if my direct orders of today aren't carried out), I'll be providing that career change opportunity.

The sad thing is this: when NAISIGHN is working (and not staying home or trying to avoid work**), the work is quite good. It really would be more pleasant for NAISIGHN to simply perform job functions and not spend so much energy trying to avoid work. Really, if NAISIGHN spent half the energy perfecting work skills that NAISIGH spent trying to game the system, NAISIGHN would be a top-rated employee.

Eish.


*Famous in the Regional Support Clerk's blog.

Non-Adversarial Dispute Resolution

Isn't that a mouthful. But court ordered mediators, at least the one I met today, are quite a nice invention. PdeFF and I have managed to resolve, at least temporarily, pending custody issues for which I was expecting to spend at least $5,000 in a hearing and discovery. Now PdeFF's Attorney of Assholishness* could bollocks up the whole shebang, but he'll look bad if he does so. Very, very bad. And PdeFF agreed on the record** that he didn't really want the girls all the time, which he had been claiming in his court documents, and that he was willing to share custody.

To be honest, I would prefer sole custody, but my evil plan is to share custody, be cooperative, and change the situation on the ground (kind of like the Israeli settlements in the West Bank, but with more home of permanence, and less chance of stoning) as PdeFF does a slow fade.

*A legal term of art, I understand.

**In a court proceding, even if our attorneys weren't there, not his Attorney of Assholishness, not my Attorney of Acumen.

Child Labor Laws

The TigerGrrl helped me out at the office the other day. She's six. Everything that needed stamping? Stamped twice. Anything needing two- or three-hole punching? Punched several times. She was actually amazingly efficient. Since we can't work together on the more cerebral parts of my job (internet sleuthing, researching, and writing) as she will get bored, we focussed on the adminsitrative stuff: filing, copying, stapling, etc. I never do that crap. So it was actually very productive to have her in the office.

Bossy met my daughter a paid her for her work. A whopping $1.50, which topped the dollar I gave my kid at lunchtime. It was a good day.

Shrinkage

I'm shrinking. Since I'm a bit plump, that's probably a good thing. It's all the nerves around the divorce. And when I'm short money now, I buy food the girls like and skip my customary bottle of wine and chocolate for making fudge sauce or brownies. Diet by poverty: no processed foods; veggies, meat, fruit, bread -- dinners cooked in batches from scratch. This weekend I made a nice hungarian goulash, but I'm not that hungry (again, nerves).

Now, most women live to diet. I have never dieted and never intend to do so. I come from a long line of butter- and pastry-loving Danes (and on the paternal side, meat and potatoes Yankees) who all keeled over of heart attacks at age 80 to 87 or so. Except NuclearGrammy. She's still going strong at 94. But her secret, as far as I can tell, was never being one of those skinny women who is going to have hips crumble out from under her due to osteoporosis. She always eats well and for enjoyment and has always been physically quite active (lots of load-bearing exercise).

When I was 20, I weighed a good 35 pounds less than I do now, and never thought I was that attractive. I've felt more attractive in that last year, and have gotten feedback to support that belief, at up to 25 pounds more than I weigh right now. I once was even lighter than my usual weight when I was young: I had mononucleosis and had to drop off the crew team for a semester. Everyone told me how great I looked. I couldn't walk a city block without sitting down to rest, but everyone said I looked fantastic. I didn't feel fantastic.

Now, I'm not tired all the time. I'm revved up on nervous energy. But I'm shrinking. Clothes that fit snugly six months ago are a bit loose. Clothes that fit me three years ago would fall off me if I didn't belt them. Since I'm not buying new clothes, I'm wearing the old big stuff. I have several pairs of pants that I do not need to unbutton or unzip to pull off me.

I'm glad to be getting back into shape (actually, sleeplessness and walking a lot are doing the trick), but I really resent the whole obligation-to-meet-societal-norms-of-feminine-beauty. I'd rather be better rested and plumper and anyway, why is shrinking a good thing? I have low blood pressure, low cholesterol, a decent resting pulse rate. And my bones aren't going to fall apart on me in two plus decades.

Nonetheless, I have some nice clothes from pre-motherhood that I might be able to fit into again if this trend continues. That wouldn't be all bad.

Books, Books, Books

Today was a good day. Yesterday was rainy and rather depressing, although I got a lot done. Today, I got up and it was a bright, bright sunshiney day. I can see clearly now.

First off, I met PdeFF over at the sports facility to take TigerGrrl swimming. PdeFF has the girls this weekend. However, he had planned to participate in a tennis tournament, and didn't tell me or ask me to take the girls for that time. Normaly I swim with TigerGrrl before and after her lesson. But I had GaahGirl with me, and since I had to supervise her, I couldn't swim with my eldest. I mentioned to PdeFF that all he had to do was mention his plans to me and I would be able to arrange to have GaahGirl swim as well (but I do need to pack swim diapers and a swimsuit). Unfortunately, Innana and I had already planned to get together shortly after swimming ended, so poor PdeFF had to cut short his tennis to take care of both of his daughters. I tried not to be irritated about the annoying inability to make a plan. It is irksome.

As GaahGirl and I waited during TigerGrrl's lesson, GaahGirl decided that her round toddley legs needed to toddle around the Olympic-sized pool. Many times. First clockwise, the counterclockwise. The lifeguards (three of them, all handsome and fit young men, no hardship for me, I tell you) responded appropriately to her flirtation technique. This would probably work well for females of all ages. She waddles on up to the young man and tugs on his, thank god properly secured, jams. He looks down into her trusting brown eyes and says something like: "Hi there, cutie." She then, cleverly, says "Gaah!" or "Mvithibhilibhapt!" in a sweet syrupy voice. She did about fourteen laps around the pool, greeting her admirers as she went. She got lifted up into the high lifeguard's seat. She got carried around on one young man's shoulder (that's a really nice display of lats, abs, biceps, pecs, and triceps, btw, I should encourage this sort of muscular display action). Another was bringing her air-filled plastic balls to toss, even though the sign clearly said "For SWIMMING CLASS USE ONLY". I didn't worry, I figured that he (the young man) is the supervisor and it will all work out.

Meanwhile, TigerGrrl swam like the fishlet that she is, splashing and playing.

Then off to McKay's Used Books. We got there, and the sign said that they weren't accepting trade ins at their Centreville store, so we had to head to Manassas and trade in there. We normally have a nice Italian meal near the shop in Centrevillee , so we were both a little bummed out that we wouldn't be able to eat there. So we dropped our trade ins off at the store in Manassas, and then walked around the strip mall looking for a place to grab a cheap bit. Lo and behold, Vinnie's Pizzeria and Italian Restaurant had just opened, and it was just as good as the place we liked in Centreville.

Then we headed back to the store, and I had a $40+ credit. Yippee. I went hogwild, getting childhood favorites of mine for TigerGrrl and some nice board books for GaahGirl, as well as some additional books for me.

The Day I've Been Waiting For

Well, actually, Innana and I (and possibly SNV) are going to McKay's used book emporium. Go us! Since I got all my books from the former ChezFoil, I have divided up the books into books I can trade in for store credit (or even cash, which I could use) and books I have to keep. Edith Grossman's new translation of Don Quixote, a gift from Innana? Not a trade-in. John Adams by David McCullough? So worth a few new-to-me books. Same with Batavia's Graveyard by Mike Dash. Same with Six Armies in Normandy by John Keegan.

Other than that, it was a rainy day and I got lots of errands run. Grocery shopping, gassing up the car, picking up dry cleaning, unpacking the trunk of the Grammy-mobile with clothes I got from the former ChezFoil. I even rearranged my closets. Now I've got to do some correspondence and some darning and mending. Got to keep all clothes in good shape. I'm not buying any new ones any time soon.

New books, new books, new books. That makes me happy. Happy, happy, happy. And then Monday evening I have my girls back with me. I'm going to go take a hot bath now and have a good satisfying soak.

The Spherical Shark

When Mr. Studmuffin babysat the girls late last year during a day care crisis (when I had accrued no leave as yet), TigerGrrl and he invented a game in which all the cushions from the sofa and the loveseat were put on the floor, and the floor became an ocean. The GaahGirl would roll her round self on the cushions, thinking everything was great fun.

At some point, TigerGrrl declared that the GaahGirl was a shark. Yup. You really have to watch out for those round little sharks when you're in the ocean. They might swim up and give you a leg hug* or something.

There never was a less shark-like creature than the GaahGirl. Possibly the only common feature between the GaahGirl and a shark is nice white teeth.** Except GaahGirl's pretty white teeth really are charming. Even as she is growing up and walking, GaahGirl is still, primarily, round. And pretty. And a big flirt.

Innana and I were in a coffee shop and a cute hispanic cleaning guy came out. GaahGirl arched toward him, actually batted her (beautiful) eyes, and said "Hi" in a sweet soft little voice, unlike her booming voice of command. As the afternoon wore on, we realized she was leaning toward, batting her eyes at, and saying "Hi" sweetly to every male human who walked past us. A great conversation starter, I must say. It's funny, she says Hi with my accent, but says Bye with DOL's Southern accent -- Baah. For no, she imitates the Knights of Nih! and says, "Neh."

I still can't get over how adorable my GaahGirl is. Really. I felt the same way about the TigerGrrl at that age.*** The glee with which she explores the world. The true affection in her leg hug. Her chortle. The way she burbles on, thinking she is actually communicating. Her little determined chin. Her chubby hands and feet. Really, I have the best kids in the universe.

My cute little sharklet. Two days until she and her big tiger of a sister are home with me where they belong. I need to go grocery shopping and stock up on the foods they like. And milk. I have $40 in my wallet and $100 in the bank ($40(! It's a miracle) in savings (!) and $60 in checking). That should last until payday this coming week.

*The leg hug is the way a toddler hugs a parent or an adult she feels comfortable with. This is very flattering.

**Of course, the shark has more. But when GaahGirl was very little and didn't know better, she bit me a few times. Quite sharklike. Of course, being a mother, it hurts, by my thought after extricating the injured digit was: "My girls has such strong teeth!" Yup. I'm a parent. I'm proud of pretty much everything she does.

***And now, I am just immensely impressed and admiring of my little TigerGrrl. She's smart and funny and determined and a good friend and just brave and wonderful and gorgeous. I am so lucky with my girls.

Southern Spring

My favorite time of year, now that I live in the South (and trust me, the DC area is South), is Spring-time. When I was growing up in New England, it was Summer. In New England, really, there is no Spring. But here, when I walk home from the Metro*, I know I am in the South in the Spring.

There is a whole doctoral thesis to be written about the whole idea of South. North vs. South as in the U.S. Civil War.** South as in less-developed. South as in poorer, more parochial, gothic. It's not just in the U.S. Except when you go far North enough (like New Hampshire or Canada) it's the far north that's the backward land. North vs. South, like Europe and the U.S. compared to Africa and South America. Southern Europe vs. Northern Europe. New England vs. Dixie.

But for me, above all else, South is a rich and sweet smelling spring. Walking in DC and seeing the fruit blossoms on the trees, smelling honeysuckle and dogwood and magnolia. Seeing a riot of color in the forsythia and other flowering shrubs. Thank heavens the seventeen year locusts were last year. Or was it the year before?

*1.5 miles, the better to avoid Dramatiste on the bus.

**Innana, my love, it is not the War of Northern Aggression. Just think of it this way: who fired on Fort Sumter? If you answer the Confederate States of America, starting a slaughter that lasted across five aprils***, you'll be right.

***Actually, Up a Road Slowly is the better book by Irene Hunt, but Across Five Aprils is good too. TigerGrrl and I will read that when she is ten or so.

Books for TigerGrrl

In moving FoilMormor's antiques and my piano out of the former ChezFoil, I also got a number of children's classics that BigGrampa had given his favorite six-year old granddaughter. This is important, because reading chapter books is very important right now. She doesn't read them. I read them to her.

King Arthur and His Knights is one of them. But we have lovely illustrated copies of Heidi, Little Women, The Secret Garden, Black Beauty, and Anne of Green Gables. Oh, a beautiful compilation of fairy tales with wonderful illustrations from Innana. Now all I have to do are find some Kate Seredy and Margaret de Angelis books as well as Howard Pyle's Wyeth illustrated Otto of the Silver Hand (as well as the complete works of Laura Ingalls Wilder, from Little House in the Big Woods through The First Four Years) and I'll have night-night reading for the TigerGrrl locked up for a good while.

There is nothing as nice as reading a story to a child all snugged up on one's lap, pressing into you, and then begging for another chapter when you finish on a cliff-hanger. TigerGrrl is sitting there, all sweet-smelling and cuddly, wiggling but trying her very hardest to hold still and listen, and begging to see the next illustration. My heart just about overflows.

So it's good to have lots of books. Of course, last night, even though my girls weren't with me, I sat and read through TigerGrrl's books anyway. What a big wuss.

Joni Mitchell & Janis Ian

Well, I just signed another contract to sell the house. Let's see if this one takes.

Given the totallhy set-phasers-to-torture-then-kill-but-slowly mood that I am in, maybe it is not a surprise that playing various pieces on the piano from Joni Mitchell's Blue and Court & Spark and Janis Ian's Between the Lines albums has left me feeling a tad morose. Yet is is so satisfying to play Light a Light, Blue, Down to You, Tea & Sympathy, The Come On, or Lover's Lullaby. It's just pleasing.

But maybe I need to pick more cheerful songs. But most really good music, or at least music I like to play, is at some level quite sad. There's probably a message for me in that somewhere.

People, People Who Need People

Actually, it's a bit different than that. We're not the luckiest people in the world or anything, but being needy beats the alternatives which are, alternatively, being dead*, being comatose**, or being a psychopath.

But I do wonder about human neediness. When making friends, there is always that transition period between aquaintance and friend (or fling and actual lover) where everything can go down the toilet without any real reason or explanation. When I was younger and a friendship or love affair wouldn't work out, I would spend hours analyzing -- trying to figure out what I had done wrong. And agonizing that whoever it was didn't want me.

I still need people. I've been very aware of that this last year or more. But I don't worry as much about when people decide (or decide by not deciding) that they don't want to be with me. I know there are more people out there, and plenty of good friends to fill the empty spaces in my life. However, I wish I didn't need companionship or physical contact as much as I do. It makes me vulnerable.

Of course, having lots of good friends helps a lot. But I spent more time than I wanted to wondering why my Erstwhile Baseball-Loving-Blog-Reading-Friend disappeared. I could have called, but really, if he had wanted to see me, he would have called. It's not like the Professor, Mr. Movie, or Mr. Studmuffin, all of whom I've known since the 1980s. I don't hesitate to call any of them at the drop of a hat. Or SNV or Innana or Uber. But MEBLBRF started off as a flirtationd and I thought we had negotiated away from a potentially sexual relationship into a friendship, but apparently we did not. It bothers me more that his disappearance made me sad than his actual disappearance did, if that makes any sense. Possibly because I thought, hey, he read this blog, and still liked me and wanted to know me. Apparently not.

At the same time, I'm annoyed with myself at being pleased that Mr. Military Industrial Complex has called to see if I am free on Saturday. Actually, it was even more enthusiastic than that: he wanted to know if I could see him Friday or Saturday or both. Flattering. Especially since I've had to cancel my very anticipated (by me) trip to New York City this weekend and I am non-custodial. So I have a dinner date with a reasonably attractive man who is interested in me. And I am so pleased. And I am so annoyed with myself for taking so much pleasure in his interest and enthusiasm. I want the compansionship, and eventually the physical contact, but I don't want to make myself vulnerable.

Unfortunately (or rather, inevitably), there is no way to get human contact without making myself vulnerable. At times like this I wish I were I guy (except then I wouldn't be so darn cute): to just be a slave to physical impulse (at least that's the way they act) rather than longing for emotional intimacy.

How to navigate this? No fucking idea. But I do know that I am willing to take risks, and I am not one of those people who must cease risking herself for fear of loss. I've lost a lot and I've gotten a lot. I still think I can ante up the right contribution, make the bet, play the hand, and stay or fold as needed without complaint. Again, I'd rather be someone who needs others, either as friends or lovers, than someone who doesn't.

Pretty damn pathetic, or at least adolescent, which is pathetic for an almost forty-five year old. But that's who I am.

*Not really, because if you're dead, you don't need anything, unless you were religious in which case you need proof that all that self-denial (at least for certain religions) was worth the bother.

**If you're comatose, I guess you still need someone to clean you up, insert your feeding tube, stuff like that -- but you're pretty much oblivious.

Anniversary

It has been one year since I started writing here. And this has been an event-filled and nerve-wracking year. When I started, I was unemployed and recovering from the birth of my second (and last, I'm afraid) daughter, then the FoilBaby, now known to all of you as the GaahGirl.

On April 5, 2005, I was trying to convince myself that my marriage was still happy, that there was something worth salvaging. I kept trying for awhile. At the same time, I was clearly losing it. Sex with my husband (then Mr. FoilWoman now PdeFF for Pere des FoilFilles) had become a truly boring chore. In response to my explanation that I wasn't enjoying things he had replied: "You are having an orgasm. You just don't know it." Even then, I didn't see the writing on the wall (we can be deliberately obtuse at times).

I began an allegedly light-hearted search for a lover, and found one, but we split up amicably (we're still friends). I also dated more men in six months as a married woman than I ever dated as a single woman (and by this I do mean dated: nothing more). It's funny that it took until I was a forty-three and then forty-four year old tired middle-aged woman to discover that guys will do just about anything with the faint hope of sexual activity hovering in the background.

Since then, I discovered that PdeFF had basically spent all of our (previously not-insubstantial) savings. He took my eldest daughter, TigerGrrl (FoilKid in an earlier incarnation) to another country and left her there*, while I was working and he wasn't, requiring my father, the famous BigGrampa to fly into the rescue. I have made some new friends and made some acquaintances I thought would become friends but who have faded away**, such as my Erstwhile-Baseball-Loving-Blog-Reading-Friend, whose company I miss, but who really hadn't become a close friend.

I've gotten three jobs since I started this job, one a contract job, one a temp job, and finally, this job, a nice permanent job (with health insurance) that I love.

PdeFF finally got a job, and once he got it, lost it within three weeks, quitting, I believe, because the air conditioning was bothering him. Shortly after that he hit me, and I got a temporary restraining order, forcing him out of the house. Since I couldn't truthfully say I was afraid for my life, I was unable to get a permanent restraining order, and he moved back in.

My parents proved, for once and for all***, that they love me, they really, really love me+. My mother came down, and moved me out and I started the divorce process (almost six months in, and in another six months or so I should be PdeFF-free, which is better than being fat free). My father, my mother, and my NuclearGrammy (my father, BigGrampa's then-93-year-old mother) stepped up and made it possible for me to escape.

My friends from the dawn of time (well, the 1980s, or, in the case of Francesca, the 1970s) have stepped up and saved the day. Innana stayed with me when the restraining order was served. Innana has babysat, as has Mr. Studmuffin. Francesca flew down to DC on one of her trips home to New England from Europe. Uber got me my lawyer and accountant and has fed me and bucked me up (well Innana and SNV have also done that).

PdeFF continued to live in our house, but didn't pay the mortgage, and we are barely avoiding foreclosure by selling (I hope!) now, for less than we really ought to be able to get.

In the past year I've met, in person and online, some wonderful people through this blog who have helped me so much. Thank you.

My work is going well, by girls are doing well, but things are still pretty edgy. But I'm hopeful. I'm not sure whether anything will happen with Mr. Military Industrial Complex or not, but someone else will come along if he fades away. My job is going well. I have my guitars and my piano. I have Innana, and Uber, and SNV, and Francesca, and Mr. StudMuffin, and Mr. Movie, and the Professor, and my family. I wonder what will happen next.

*To be fair, he left her with people I know and knew would take good care of her, and she, after I got her home, had had a great time, but still, he fucking left her in Canada.

**At least I think I have: when people stop calling me I assume they don't want to see me.

***I've always been a bit insecure and doubtful.

+With apologies to Sally Fields, but BigGrampa and FoilMormor love me more than the Academny of Motion Pictures likes you.

Oasis

Fortunately, after the last post, I am now recovered. After putting the girls to bed(not so successfully initially, as Cookie was kind enough to point out when TigerGrrl got out of bed and interrupted our phone call), I played my piano. Mostly J.S. Bach's notebook for Anna Magdalena Bach*. I certainly didn't try pieces from the Organ Preludes, the Well-Tempered Clavier, or Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (not Bach, I know). That's beyond me for quite a while.

Music does soothe me.

*Nothing very fancy.

Public Service Announcement Regarding Other People's Children: In Particular, Tourists' Children

Some people have commented that I am maternal to the core in how I dote on the TigerGrrl and GaahGirl. I wasn't the least bit maternal until I had the TigerGrrl. Now, I do notice other cute children, if only to mentally note "Not as cute as mine." However, I am from stern Viking and Yankee stock. Keep your not-cute-as-my-children out of my and other urban dwellers' way.

Now that it is Springtime and the cherry blossoms are in bloom around the Tidal Basin, my fair city is awash with red state tourists on the rampage. These tourists feel obligated to head into and out of the city during rush hour. With their every-sperm-is-sacred* offspring (many of whom are fine examples of what birth control could and should prevent) in tow. Tonight I missed my bus home from the Metro because of three clearly overly closely related fishbelly-white families and their numerous offspring. There were three turnstiles available, and the population explosion couldn't figure out how to exit. They herded closely together, like sheep, and then blocked everyone else's passage. They didn't notice that they were a bottleneck. The parents stood and watched their (numerous and truly unnecessary from a Darwinian standpoint) offspring try to suss out how to put a farecard in the slot in the turnstyle** while an increasing number of people were backed up behind their darling dolts. I finally cut through the crowd and suggested that they insert the damn thing properly.*** After I showed the one how to do it, the other twenty friends and relations had to be shown again. Finally, I asked the family to stop blocking all three turnstyles and let the hundred or so commuters whose paths they were blocking to use at least one of the three turnstyles.+

The adults in the group (the six of them) had not noticed that they and their incredibly numerous progeny were tying up the exit to a Metro station. I guess we were just supposed to be in awe or something.

So here's the PSA++:

While there are many wonderful things to see in the DC area, and while our Metro is beautiful and safe, you might want to remember that this is an urban area of type A personalities. Being urban, we have what is known as a rush hour. If you do not feel you are up to being surrounded by type A people during rush hour, wait until later to travel into town. If you have children, pay attention to what your children are doing. Making several hundred people late for work (or late to childcare, costing them extra $$$) is not kind or considerate. Having a full family meeting/discussion in a doorway is never a good idea, particularly if the doorway is the only exit from a mass transit station. Oh, and stand to the goddamn right on the escalators. I will help you get around town, but don't make me late for work or for relieving the babysitter. Thank you.

I have yet to think up the appropriate drastic steps to take next time, but I'll come up with something. I was only able to read TigerGrrl two chapters of King Arthur and His Knights because the receding-chin-family-of-total-impossibility-that-anyone-would-actually-breed-with-them-but-someone-did-proving-that-there-is-someone-for-everyone-which-doesn't-give-half-as-much-comfort-as-it-should couldn't notice that they are not the sole residents on the planet much less that Metro station. Fucking morons.


*If you haven't seen Monty Python's The Meaning of Life you must. Now.
**The farecards have arrows on them, showing a person with any IQ above 70 or so how to insert them.
***Don't worry. I was polite and helpful.
+Again, very politely.
++Public Service Announcement.

Sick Kids

Both my girls have colds. I've finally got their sniffly and wheezy over-heated selves to sleep. Now I'm keyed up. I'm sitting in my newly overfull living room (with piano, 18th century card table, New England preacher's bench, and other reminders of family) trying to convince myself that I'm sleepy enough. But I'm not. I've had a warm bath, but I'm awake and watching my mind wander.

I probably should take a sleeping pill, but Lunesta does nothing for me, and Ambien seems to increase my depression. I'm not someone who is at my best when I'm slowed down. I'm at my best in overdrive or running on adrenaline. Soporifics just seem to slow down the best parts of me. My brain which can run all over.

I've rejected a couple of books (In the Shadow of the Prophet, by Milton Viorst -- just not in the mood, and a few others) and don't have good reading material that suits right now. Of course, I have a houseful of books now, but the problem is mood. Really, I need very short, very simple stuff right now, and I hate that. I need to get my concentration back.

Sometimes I wish I were a linear thinker. Live would be a lot easier. I just wouldn't be me. But when my brain is derailed, it's hard. Hard to think, hard to be happy, hard to be relaxed, hard to be content.

Part of this is that on Wednesday, the girls are gone for five days and I have a weekend free, but I'm not travelling as I had planned on doing. I don't want to be alone during the weekend, but I don't have the energy to reach out. I know I need to sleep to keep depression from moving in, and I need exercise.

Meanwhile, my girls are snuffling and wheezing and they are warm. Poor little things. I'm going to get them all better before they go over to their father's place. TigerGrrl sat on my lap as I read her stories from King Arthur and His Knights, by Elizabeth Lobor Merchant (a bowdlerized version of Malory's Morte d'Artur). GaahGirl played peekaboo with one of my silk scarves (with a runny nose, oh well). Now they sleep, and I need to do the same. Even though I'll be groggy tomorrow, I think it's time for an Ambien. No sleepwalking for me.

Bread and Circus

Well, TigerGrrl accompanied me to The Greatest Show on Earth* this weekend. I thought it was pretty darn tacky (well, let's put it this way: it wasn't Cirque du Soleil). She thought it was marvelous. I asked her what her favorite part was. She couldn't decide. Was it the clowns? The elephants? The horses? The trapeze artists? The tigers? The tightrope walkers? She couldn't make up her mind. Was there anything she didn't like? No! It was all great.

Then there was another type of circus. SNV and Mr. Studmuffin accompanied me to the Former FoilHouse to get my Mormor's antiques out. We also got my piano, and lots of china, both Royal Danish and Bernaudaud. I don't have a matching set of anything but who cares. It was nice not to have to deal with PdeFF alone. We were all very polite.

And I got my bicycle, just in time for Spring! And my piano. I don't play well, but it's nice to have.

I'm so happy to have my bicycle. As I walked home from the Metro tonight, I could smell that rich smell of a Southern Spring. A New England Spring (which doesn't occur for another month and a half) has a sweet smell too, but it's a thinner, cleaner, mountain spring-ier smell. Spring in the South has a rich fecund smell. Dogwood, cherry blossoms, honeysuckle, magnolia. One is overwhelmed by the smell. I'll have to take a bike ride out on the Washington and Old Dominion bike trail (placed on top of the old W&OD railroad bed) or on the Mt. Vernon bike trail along the Potomac. Piano & bike. So happy. Which do I like better? I like them both. It's all great.
*Allegedly.

Don't Make Me Say This Again

Boys, boys, boys. I should never have posted the last post. And I am adding to the truly frightening searches that lead to this blog just by pointing things out but for the reader in Manchester, England who happened upon my last post with the search "combover or shave", let me just say, if that's the choice, shave. I find the whole shaved head thing a bit affected, but it is infinitely preferable to a combover. Let's be honest: Michael Jordan or Donald Trump. No woman (or gay man) in her (or his) right mind is choosing the Donald. Thank you.