OK, Now I've Had It

This is not a humorous post. Those of you who think that "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger", well, good for you. Come be strong here. I need to bang my head against the kitchen counter whilst screaming "Aieeeee". Really. There is no other adequate response.

My mammogram (Innana, please note, even in moments of stress, I take note of your spelling guidance) came back benign. Not negative, but benign. So I'm assuming that's good, and I thought (clearly foolishly, because I am clearly destined to relive the Perils of Pauline or, worse, watch someone near and dear to me relive them) that all was well. "Now I can relax and enjoy scrimping, saving, and making dorks give up seats to handicapped people on the Metro."

But no. This morning the day started off with a visit to the dermatologist for the DestructoGirl and TigerGrrl. DestructoGirl for a rash that hasn't gone away, but which the pediatrician thought was lichen striata, a non-contagious, and apparently completely untreatable, condition (otherwise I think someone would have prescribed something, no?). TigerGrrl for a few moles/freckles I had pointed out to her pediatrician. The mole that concerned me the most, the doctor said was perfectly normal and would just be growing as she grew. So far, so good. Then he looked at a mole on her right calf and looked quite serious and said: "We need to biopsy that." He already had the tool out and the minute I gave my okay, he told TigerGrrl to grab Mama, and snip. He sought out a good (SpongeBob) bandage, and gave me a phone number to call for the biopsy results which should be ready in two weeks. Two fucking weeks.

No parent wants to hear "Your child needs biopsy." And nobody, trust me, wants to wait two weeks to hear the results of a biopsy. Fortunately, I kept my cool in front of TigerGrrl and told her that she did great and she was my good girl and my brave girl. Of course, I couldn't grill the doctor about why this particular freckle (which was a not good black color) made him want to biopsy it and what he thought it was and what he was going to do so that my amazing TigerGrrl had no health problems or angst regarding this clearly misplaced mole.

I've been fretting about this biopsy all day, even though I know it's just borrowing trouble. It's just unacceptable. Really. And I can't wait two weeks. I need the all clear, and I need it now. I'll call the doctor tomorrow and try to arrange an opportunity to question him outside of TigerGrrl's presence. I will also emphasize the need to speed up those damn biopsy results. Meanwhile, I can stop fuming and fussing. I've talked with FoilMormor who came up with a bunch of calming suggestions ("Have a glass of wine, dear: use some of your Christmas gift money for that" -- suggestion taken; "Go ice-skating" -- doing so tomorrow; "call the doctor and make him explain", abso-fucking-lutely; and "take a warm bath" -- right before bedtime). Now I've unburdened on the internet. I think Innana is getting a phone call.

Topic: Race and Gender Consciousness

I know, I know. That sort of title makes those of you who think of yourself as truth-telling non-politically correct* freethinkers run for the hills with your tiny little tails tucked (easily) between your tree trunk legs.

But something happened regarding my Saintly Babysitter that really gave me pause. I've gone on at length about how annoying I find it that women have to meet an arbitrary, ever-changing, and totally unrealistic ideal of femininity.

As we know (or you should if you have any reading comprehension whatsoever, which, as a reader of this blog, I am certain that you do have), DestructoGirl can be a tad destructive at times. As Saintly Babysitter says "Elle fait du betise" (phonetic, probably not how actually spelled) or "She's a naughty little thing" or something like that. Right now, DestructoGirl's favorite activity is to find expensive and irreplaceable tubes of lotion, eye cream, astringent, deep cleanser, whatever, and empty it all over herself and the FoilFlat.

Today, it was a bottle of something belonging to the Saintly Babysitter.

Before I go further, Saintly Babysitter is a lovely young woman from a Muslim African Country (think Chad or Niger). She works full-time for me, gets room and board, and goes to school at night to learn English. She came to the U.S. (legally) in 2003, but has only been able to go to school at night since living with me. The community that I live in doesn't have an "English Only" policy, but it does make free English as A Second Language classes available on a first come first served basis. This gives me an edge as an employer as I am willing to employ someone who doesn't speak English (as long as she speaks Spanish -- which I speak -- or French -- which the FoilKids speak and I mangle) and live right on public transit to one of the course locations.

I think of Saintly Babysitter as conquering a new world, with courage and good humor. She has younger brothers and sisters and has an easy knack with little kids. She has common sense. She's cute, in good shape, and has a shy but nice personality, and is rather feisty once she's riled.

I don't think of her as someone who bows to societal pressure. By the pressures of the society she was raised in, she should be married and popping out the babies by now. Also, she should not have moved abroad to continue (actually, start, as she did not have much chance to go to school in Africa) her education and advance herself. She stands up for herself with InsaneEx, and I don't think of her as a pushover.

The tube of Saintly Babysitter's that DestructoGirl emptied was an expensive bottle of skin-lightening cream. I offered to replace it and asked her what it cost, but she informed me that DestructoGirl is a baby, and I shouldn't worry about it.

I'm worrying more about the whole skin-lightening concept. Saintly Babysitter is black. And she's lovely, just the way she is. I don't want any Michael Jackson activity going on, and somehow it deeply disturbs me that she feels she needs to lighten her skin to look pretty or for whatever reason. It appalls me that some creepy company is making this kind of product. Then I think: how is that any different from white people spending a fortune on tanning (and think of the time) that will only give them skin cancer. Ugh. But someone it is different. The history of race has been lighter people telling darker people they are ugly. Saintly Babysitter is not ugly, and it makes me mad that anyone has somehow managed to communicate to her that she needs to lighten up to be attractive.

Obviously, we all have to consider what things we are willing to do to meet certain standards of attractiveness and homogeneity, and whether or not one colors one hair after one goes grey, or whatever, are decisions for women that are really fraught. But that this fine person, beautiful on the inside and out, feels enough about this issue to spend a fair amount of her hard-earned (she earns her money taking care of the FoilChildren, DestructoGirl and TigerGrrl, trust me: the money is hard-earned) on skin lightener just makes me cringe with dismay at messages this woman is getting from our society.

*As though political correctness were an actual movement rather than an originally ironic statement of right-thinking people trying to figure out who to boycott right now, and as though political correctness weren't just another word for good manners when it comes to not insulting other people on the basis of race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, physical attractiveness, and other stuff.

Santa Actually Arrives at Midnight at the FoilFlat

Only because I only finished making the wienerbrod (real Danish pastry, made by hand, by me, which I can assure you that anyone who has ever eaten a "Danish" with a coffee has never actually had -- real Danish pastry) at 11:30. But we had a nice feast of hearts (the big Danish Christmas dinner, on the 24th) and after tomorrow's big breakfast, it's present time.

TigerGrrl has a fever (102.3) and went to bed of her own accord at 7:30 p.m. on Christmas Eve. I dosed her up with a children's fever reducer (generic Tylenol), and she feels less feverish now.

I hope she's well enough to enjoy tomorrow morning. I've got to stick the presents out and go to bed. Bed. What a wonderful world. I'm going to bed, bed, bed, bed, bed. Yum.

It's A Miracle!

I'm a blogger who checks the search terms that bring people here. I don't know why. Normally, it's very disconcerting, and sometimes damn depressing*, but today everything that brought people here was nice, at least as far as I've read. "Finsk brod" (Danish Christmas cookies), "cows say moo sheep say baa three singing pigs say lalala", "silk pajamas flannel-lined", "snl take care of your uvula", oh, oops, one search for "tits". I have to take that back know. But still.

*The most depressing search ever was this google search: "woman ugly enough to want to fuck me". Really, how is google going to know how ugly she'd have to be? The lack of search logic just appalls.

Prelapsarian

That's what it feels like anyway: before the deluge. I had agreed that InsaneEx could have the kids visit him on Christmas day in the afternoon even though Mondays are my day. He's told me he doesn't actually plan to visit with the children on Christmas. He also doesn't plan on spending his next weekend with them (New Year's) as he's travelling to see a friend, can't afford to bring them with him, and can't figure how to make travel plans on a non-custodial weekend.

So I'll be a true single parent for about two weeks, starting yesterday, over the most kid-crazy making holiday of all time. I'm tired in advance. We'll have a blast, but I'm tired in advance.

Letter to Santa (with Copy to Mrs. Claus)

I was wondering if TigerGrrl was suspicious about Santa Claus's existence, but I need not have wondered. Ah, the elasticity of a child's imagination -- unfettered by logic or evidence.*

TigerGrrl has created a missive to Santa (wishing him a merry Chrismas etc.), that . Then she made a copy for Mrs. Claus saying "I bet she's the one who actually takes care of stuff." Smart kid, that one.

*Actually that's most adults too.

Arts and Crafts

I picked up Digging to America by Anne Tyler and Moral Disorder and Other Stories by Margaret Atwood at the public library (the public library: a wonderful institution). I saw an exhibit on temari, and it brought up most of my feelings about so-called crafts.

Never mind that temari itself is about one thousand years old, it still falls into the "most crafts are useless and useless crafts are the bane of middle-aged women everywhere". Yes, I know. I knit. I see the irony. But I knit sweaters. Tablecloths. Curtains. Bedspreads. Heck, even dresses and skirts. Things that could arguably be considered useful.

Consider then, temari. These are pretty little balls made -- I think -- of thread or paper. Exactly how many thread or paper balls does one need? Well, for most men (bitter divorcee alert), two would be more than they've got, sure, but other than that . . . . Let me just provide this public service announcement: No-one needs a copious amount of thread balls or paper balls or whatever. Sure, they're pretty -- sometimes: never underestimate the ability of a "crafty" person to spend tons of time making a truly hideous item*-- but these are completely useless things. Then think of Michael's craft stores and all those aisles with beads and popsicle sticks and various types of junk. Make fake fruit for a "decorative autum centerpiece". Really. Why not just, oh, buy real fruit and put it in a pretty glass bowl? It will look pretty and your hungry guest can have a bite. But no.

I want to ban all crafts that don't actually produce useful items. Pottery would be okay if you actually ate off the plates you made. Macrame? A goner. Toothpick assembly? Nope. Most things involving styrofoam, cone shapes, or egg cartrons? Banned by ukase of the Foil. Henceforth, I shall be the Tsaritsa of crafts: if I say it's junk, it's junk. Acceptable crafts include making clothing or useful household items, including knitting, sewing, crocheting, needlepoint. Unacceptable crafts include making scrapbooks**, miniature anything, collecting stuff (hoarding stuff doesn't make it actually interesting), and the like.

I have to go finish Saintly Babysitter's sweater (I'm on the sleeves).

*Think '70s afghan blankets.

**Why not just say "I'm putting some photos in an album.

Getting On My Tits

Again, Cookie, this is the only appropriate usage of this phrase to describe something annoying. Otherwise, unless your bedroom practrices are things I don't wish to discuss or contemplate, getting on someone's tits should be used to describe a good thing.

However, I had my mammagram yesterday, and yes, it got on my tits. Literally. The new $450,000 machine (really, I asked) was less cumbersome and bothersome than the older machines I remember. It wasn't painful. I accept the procedure as a necessary health care screening device.

I'm assuming all is well because I wasn't called in to talk with the doctor at Washington Radiology Associates* to discuss my mammagram. I know in situations like these, no news is good news, so being sent on my way without comment didn't phase me. Dr. Falk will call me next week to tell me what's what, but I think we can assume that nothing requiring a biopsy or that looked blatantly like cancer was identified. Since FoilMormor had breast cancer in 1996, this isn't an idle thought, although her cancer was post-menopausal and I believe (possibly erroneously) that therefore her breast cancer was less likely to be genetic (if genetic, turning up at 60 doesn't seem like a fast acting gene, anyway).

I wonder whether the annoying on-my-tits machine produces $450,000 worth of benefit. How would one measure that?

Next on the healthcare front: skin cancer screening my checking out all those moles (Lt. Col. Katie's fiance died of skin cancer at 35, we've all been a bit paranoid since then). However, that has to wait until after I get TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl to the dermatologist for a rash that the pediatrician thinks is lichen striata (a relatively benign condition that goes away on its own), but wants me to have checked out. Someday I'll be able to use my leave for actual vacations.


*No identifying information being revealed here. They have offices all over and do hundreds of mammagrams a day.

Day Care Dilemma (Not!)

My apologies for not having a link for this whinge/rant/whine. This Saturday, driving back from TigerGrrl's karate class (what DestructoGirl calls "Aya!"), a program was on NPR about the dileemas that nannies or babysitters face is feeding the children of their employers.

Apparently, as food allergies and (excuse the value judgment) weirdo dietary restrictions grow, it is harder and harder for a nanny or babysitter to feed a child. If you order a pizza, the kid has a wheat or tomato allergy. Never feed peanuts. Refined sugar is bad, so is too much juice, anything processed will irk some parents, and every kid has a list of fooat Id allergies.

Stop right there. Parents of the world, listen to me. If you have babysitter, nanny, or whatever (my suggestion for working title: She-Who-Must-Be-Worshipped-And-Appreciated), and you are so lucky as to have that person provide meals to your child, if you don't trust her cooking, goddamn well cook in advance so she can reheat in the microwave. And if she's cooking in your househoud, who the fuck is ordering or buying the groceries anyway?

Saintly Babysitter lives with me. She cooks my childrens meals (she cooks mine also, even though that is not in her job description). The food she cooks is nutritious (protein, starch, vegetable, with fruit for dessert) and tasty. It might be a little saltier and ethnic than I would ideally like, but my kids eat their broccoli and brussels sprouts, so I am not complaining.

Parents who can't manage to provide food they like to have cooked or cook it their damn selves: grow the fuck up. You hired this person (most likely a woman) to care for your children. Trust her. And get out of her way.

These people who are offended that their babysitter doesn't cook macrobiotic (or totally organic, or whatever) food are the same people who have "child care problems." Having your kid in day care is an ongoing chilod care problem, unless your kid never gets sick.

If you have a babysitter/nanny whatever, your child care problem is not a problem unless you treat her badly. And why would you? This is the woman who takes care of your children. Don't be a moron. Keep her sweet. That's all for now.

You Don't Need to Be a Weatherman to Know Which Way the Wind is Blowing

No, I'm not starting a 21st century outpost of SDS (or more appropriately, given the title, the Weathermen). But some signs and symptoms are just so obvious. I've been more and more preoccupied with global issues. Amnesty International (I've been a member off and on since I was 13). Feminism. Social justice, human rights, due process.

Listening to the radio the other night, the DJ had put on the vastly superior (to "We Are The World", an annoying soda of saccharine) British Bandaid anthemn "Do They Know It's Christmas"*, and listening to it, I thought of the famine in Ethiopia (and the political oppression by the Derge), the war in Eritrea, and a woman named Hiruth who I once knew. Ethiopia is now a place you can travel to and visit, albeit in a Lonely Planet** kind of way. But let's just shift to Sudan or Somalia, or further west to Liberia or south toward Congo. They song still applies, and nothing has changed. Just the location of the disaster.

I start obsessing about women's position in society and how to fit into society, torture and human rights, and the general malevolence of the world as I sink into a depression. I often feel that as my mood deteriorates, I see things more clearly. But really, at some level I'm just focusing my bad mood out rather than in.

So how to work toward change while wondering exactly how much of a toll on my emotional well-being I'm willing to pay. If medication will eliminate these conerns, is the medicine good or bad? Don't we want to be aware of injustice and the like?

*Vastly superior to the completely unlistenable "We Are the World" or worse yet "Hands Across America".

**If I ever travel again (financially, not looking like anytime in this century or millenia), I guess it will have to be camping or adventure travel (i.e., visiting places where you should be scared shitless, thank you very much), but really, I like a nice hot bath to come home to, and a place to eart where they'll serve you wine. Since it's entirely hypothetical, in my fantasies of trips abroad, along with a David Straithairn/Colin Firth/Alan Rickman/Jon Stewart/Stephen Colbert/Julian Barnes/Mario Vargas Llosa/Michael Ondaatje/Yann Martell/with an NHL-defenseman's body***-type travel companion, I'll be staying in some ancient city, with a balcony overlooking a turquoise ocean (unless it's dawn or dusk, in which case, it will, of course, be a wine-dark sea) as whales breach in the distance and I sip my Shiraz with some manchego, garrotxa, Saint Andre, and gourmandoise cheese and crusty bread and the hotel will have copious hot water, air conditioning, etc. etc. Hey, some people read the travel magazines for the articles. The rest of us just look at those places we can't afford to go and create our own visions.

***It's a fantasy. There is no need to point out that no one of these individuals have all the attributes I have accorded them in my mind. I know that. Doesn't make the Alan Rickman-David Straithairn-Colin Firth trifecta any less sexy, if only in my mind.

Finances, Depression, Health and Fitness: The Ongoing Battle

I'm actually pretty blue right now. It is the post-divorce let down. Yes, I am free of the InsaneEx, and he and I have actually coordinated on a few things, but my life is really a mess.

Finances

I owe my attorneys (divorce and estate) about $5,000, and I still owe some very real pre-divorce money that I am ever so slowly paying back. I owe money to SaintlyBabysitter's dentist, Shrink, my regular doctor, and MNOT. None of these people is dunning me or will be dunning me (they all know what I've been through), but I'm not seeing a light at the end of this tunnel, and the tunnel metaphor for sex doesn't even make me smirk, which is a rarity.

I'm increasing my 401(k) contribution to 8% (from 6%) and will increase it again to 10% in June. My employer gives 3% automatically and matches the first 3% one contributes, so I'm getting a contribution of 14% as on January 1, which will increase every six months (that's how often I intend to increase my contribution, in increments). I'm getting an itsy-bitsy raise (about 2%), but will get another one in another six months.

I'm trying to start college education funds for my girls, and am being helped in that by the family -- FoilMormor's brother sent not insignificant checks for each daughter (names incorrect, but kind intention clear) -- and will start kicking in a measly $25/month to each girls' account myself.

I'm ruthlessly looking at expenditures, and am planning cutbacks as follows: only one $5 bottle of wine every two weeks. No more hair coloring after the last stuff in my bathroom cupboard is used up. I'll get the hair chopped off free of charge at a Locks of Love participating salon free of charge and grow it back as salt and pepper hair. I like that look and I resent the two hours a month I spend dying my hair, I resent the $10 a bottle of hair dye costs, and I resent how much of a mess it makes my bathroom. So I'll just stop. Bring in my lunch every day. No more $1 sodas from the soda machine (I used to get one soda a day, but no more). Absolutely no $3 Starbucks or other coffee shop fixes. Keep thermostat at 63 degrees (wear sweaters and use more blankets). Make casseroles to reheat.

I'm also desperately looking for other sources of income. I'm seeking a part-time consulting or editing gig (yeah, me edit for typos, that's a laugh) that I can do on Wednesday and Thursday evenings and my non-custodial weekends. I may even break down and add a donations button on this blog. Depressing. But it needs to be faced. For TigerGrrl to go to the college of her choice, I need money in her college account, and the same is true for DestructoGirl. Right now, a good private college costs about $40,000/year.

I make about $70,000/year, but live in one of the most expensive areas of the country. I pay $1,880/month in rent, and the cheapest 2 bedroom condos in TigerGrrl's school distrist go for $275,000 and most start at $400,000. I'm in a good school district, so I have to find a way to buy here, as TigerGrrl has already had to change schools once and I am not making her do it again. That's that. If I never have another haircut, if I never drink another glass of decent wine, we're not leaving our school district. There are some slightly more affordable condos* in the same junior high school district but a different elementary school. If I can save enough, in three years I could buy one of those condos and TigerGrrl would start middle school with her friends from her elementary school even though we lived in a new district. DestructoGirl would start as a kindergartner in a new school district.

Of course, to buy a condo, with my (currently lousy, prior to 2004 it was spotless) credit, I will need money for a down payment. Twenty percent would get me a decent (survivable) loan rate without mortgage insurance costs (required for loans with less than 20% down). So even for a $250,000 condo, I need $50,000 in cash, $55,000 to $60,000 including closing costs.

I have $1,366 in my savings account. For college savings, for house down payment, for car repair, for all emergencies. That doesn't include the $1,000 that I have in misnamed checks for TigerGrrl's and DestructoGirl's college funds, but that can't be used for anything but college (I hold it in trust). I've got a long way to go.

This will change with the new year (slightly, due to raise and increased retirement plan contributions but the two will really cancel each other out) but I bring home $1,855 every two weeks, or $4,019 a month, although most months I just see $3,710. I spend $1,880 on rent, about $150 on phone, cell phone and internet access, $110 to $150 on electricity, $900 childcare (including taxes), $466 groceries, and $55 on gasoline for the car. I also have about $1,000 in annual insurance costs (renter's insurance, car insurance, umbrella insurance), and the odd car repair. I also owe InsaneEx $200/month in "child support" (cough), which is actually the result of blackmail on his part which I paid to get the girls back in the house with SaintlyBabysitter during the days that he has custody (we're still sharing, and that's another legal expense looming, let me tell you). I also stick $50 per every two week paycheck in savings (just started that) and will begin sticking $25 per paycheck in the college fund. Fortuantely, my employer pays for my transportation (it's discounted, and comes out of my paycheck before I even see the money). But as you can see, the two paycheck months are quite tight, and my chances of paying down debts will require me to NOT put money in the college fund. Oh, and my student loan ($400 per month) is on deferral right now. It's almost paid off, and the interest rate is low, so I'm deferring that until I get everything else under control.

I can trim groceries a bit, especially since DestructoGirl is almost done with diapers: that's at least $30-$50 a month I'll save. I'm still going to keep buying fresh vegetables, but the meatless dinners (macaroni and cheese, homemade cheese pizza, spanish potato omelets) can increase, and I can be more frugal. When I was painfully broke last winter, I sometimes managed non-diaper grocery shops at $35-$50 for a week, and I can go back to that mode. Even with fresh fruit and veggies, I think I can get my grocery bill down to $80/week or $347/month with food the girls will eat. I can keep the electric bill down (use energy saver dishwasher mode, use cold water for the laundry, hang more clothes up to dry, only turn lights on when it really is dark). I'll call the phone company to see about a more discounted phone service and cellphone service and whether there is a cheaper high speed internet connection (no, I'm not giving up the internet). $.99 shampoo is just fine. No-name brands are just fine. I have enough clothes, and I can ask FoilMormor and BigGrampa to provide the girls with their luxuries. I can drive less and fill up the car every three weeks rather than every two, which would bring my gasoline bill down to about $41.25 per month.

If I can get the phone down to $120 the elecric to $105, the gasoline to $42 and the groceries to $350, I have a hope of surviving. Of course, not in the budget is the money family slips me. I got $200 from Aunt Elsebet last month, and that meant the money budgeted for savings went to savings, and I paid a bit toward a few bills, and I had $20 left over to treat myself. NuclearGrammy sent me a Christmas check, and again, I used that to buy additional presents (I fit the presents I had already bought the girls into the "grocery" budget), paid some bills, put $100 in savings (before that, my savings account was $1266), and treated myself to a bottle of wine, a used book, and a nice lunch out.

Now, the key factor in my budget is my rent, which just increased from $1653/month to $1880 per month, but it is fixed for the next year. I can't keep moving the girls, and besides, I'm not moving to a worse school district. We're in a good one, TigerGrrl is doing well, and that's that. So that's why I'm so broke all the time. If I moved to a really unsafe part of the District of Columbia (where the schools just don't function at all), my girls would be uneducated and at higher risk of crime. There are cheaper areas in the overall school system in which I live, but not much, and the specific school where TigerGrrl is (as well as the middle school and high school) are among the best. Not the absolute best, but very, very good. A value judgment on my part, and I think it's best to share, since as soon as I figure it out, I will be putting the donation button up, and anyone who gives** should know the choices I make and the things I do with my money.

So I'm looking to earn more money. I'm going to post ads looking for consulting and editing work, but I don't have a lot of hope there. A colleague referred me to a company that performs focus groups (in person, not on the internet) and pays about $100 per group for one night's work. Except those are sporadic. Some of the internet survey organizations do pay for surveys, and I've signed up for a few of them, but that's just $5 or less for the most part. I've got the advertisements on this blog, but my readership is small and most of you don't bother with the ads. I've earned about $10 in two months. However, when they send me the check it's going in the college fund. I was thinking that most knitting stores are open late on Thursday nights, which is my free night. It would only be $10-$20 per hour, but I'd enjoy it, and I could have the money direct deposited into the college fund or the house fund. But obviously, my current budget only covers my current expenses, and I have debts to pay and big future expenses to save for. So I need to earn more, without not being here for the girls on the nights I have them.

Any ideas (no spam) gratefully appreciated at foilwoman at gmail dot com.

Depression

Needless to say, I'm in a funk right now. Not full-fledged depression, but it's there, hovering like a vulture. It's vulching, just like Snoopy used to do, on top of his doghouse.

One of the things about me is that until I'm truly clinically depressed, I'm functional. Pretty highly functional. I've only ever taken a week off work due to depression (back in 1989). I did lose my last professional job due to depression and ADHD (but I was married to InsaneEx at the time, so I think my lack of motivation and inability to concentrate had a pretty specific cause). However, when I'm sub-depressed (not a clinical term, a Foilwoman term and I am no medical professional) I start doing destructive things to my long term health. I stop exercising, I either stop eating or I eat way too much, I fritter away long periods of time doing nothing (not blogging, just sitting around).

Currently, I'm still knitting, reading books, doing laundry, doing the dishes, wrapping Christmas presents, cooking meals, paying bills, writing thank you notes to helpful relatives, getting the car to the shop for an oil change, and that sort of thing, but I'm leaning toward the drinking too much and eating too much sub-depression mode. Good thing I can't afford the alcohol I like to drink (wine) any more. I'm very aware that every day I have to get up and make the effort.

The girls being sick last week didn't help. Poor DestructoGirl tore at my heart and ruined my sleep. She was so inert during the day; how come she was so same mobile and energetic in kicking me while sleeping? Also, I felt guilty, because TigerGrrl had strep throat too, but I didn't get her to the doctor right away. Sigh. And now I'm run down with a sore throat (fortunately, my period was last week, or this week would be depression central). My skin is breaking out and I can't get comfortable.

That said, I was sitting around this morning starting to cry (for a really silly reason, not any of the reasons detailed above) when I realized I hadn't taken my Zoloft (actually, the generic, but there you are) or Adderal (generic as well, but I'm not going to write: I forgot to take my amphetemine salts) yesterday or this morning. So I got up, took my meds for today (and the fish oil with Omega 3 fatty acids, Your Eminence), and made a note to make sure I'm taking them. When really depressed, it's easy to stop, so I'm not really depressed yet.

Part of this is that the things I need to do seem so overwhelming. How to save $50,000 when my current savings rate of $108 per month ($50 per paycheck, so $50 x 26 or $1300 per year divided by 12) will get me there in 38 years, when I will be a spry 83-year old? Of course, I'll buy with less than 20% down at a higher interest rate, but really, I'm not going to be getting ahead at this rate. Or even saving enough for major car repairs. Or paying off my lawyers or doctors. Or any other InsaneEx caused pre-September 2005 financial obligations.

So I need to keep my mental health and my energy and find some way to make more money. Ohh, moneymaking idea/scheme: Anyone who wants a handknit sweater, by all means, pick your pattern and the wool, buy it, and I'll knit it for you for (worsted weight or heavier) $200 ($150 for womens XS of Small, $125 for childrens' sizes, $225 for women's XL or XXL and mens Large, $250 for larger than womens XXL or Mens XL or higher). For sport weight or lightweight wool or very complicated patterns there might be an additional charge, although maybe not because some of the complicated color or lace patterns are more fun. Please email at foilwoman at gmail etc for more details and to consult before any purchases are made. Buy nice wool, not acrylic. The wool will cost about $100 or more unless you find it at discount, but it will look nicer. Those are US dollars. Prom and Benny, I owe you two sweaters anyway, but moneymaking sweaters will sadly have to come first.

A big part of avoiding depression is keeping active and keeping busy, so it's always good to have lots of plans and obligations. Lucky me, then, no?

Health and Fitness

One thing about all the burdens on my life right now is that I haven't had a lot of time (any time) for playing my guitar, ice skating, biking, or other physical activities (I know, guitar isn't physical exercise, but it is good for the mind and soul). Not being active contributes to being depressed. I know that. I should be out taking a walk or bike ride right now but I just can't. Just can't. I'm too tired.

I love FoilMormor and I know she does me (as does everyone who read this blog last fall, I think), but she really doesn't have a clue sometimes. She was agreeing with me about seeking additional work, and all that, but then asked me "How much exercise are you getting?" I know the subtext. FoilMormor is slim and has always been slim. She bikes, she skis, she hikes. She's retired. She was never a single mother. She went to grad school full time, financed by BigGrampa (before he divorced her, he made sure she had a professional degree), not at night working full time, like I did. She has always made time for physical exercise, but she always had that time.

I have always been a large person. In high school, I was not overweight, but I wasn't a skinny kid, and at 5'11", I was incredibly large next to your average anorexic upper middle class adolescent. Fortunately, my high school had a crew team and my height and large muscle mass were an advantage. I was fit (ran a few miles most days during crew season, lifed, weights, skated, walked everywhere) if not the paradigm of athleticism, and very, very strong. I was a number four or six seat on an eight woman crew, the muscle (the "engine room", our coach called it). I kept up rowing in college, and past that, and skated, and biked. I lifted weights until TigerGrrl was born and I had my first hernia. I like being active and strong. I like being able to do the leg press machine and life 400 pounds (really), or to bench press 8 reps at 145 pounds.

I've lost 55 pounds since February of 2003 (when I got pregnant with DestructoGirl, and yes, I lost weight during pregnancy, at least the first five months, and ended the pregnancy 10 pounds lighter than I started) and 20 pounds in the last year. But I'm still not as slim as FoilMormor, and definitely, for my age not as fit. So I was sitting there thinking "what did she mean" when she asked me if I am exercising. Does she think I'm still too fat? Yes. I could lose more weight. Will I? Well, in my spare time, sure. I know I'm not thin. I'm overweight. But I look pretty good, and remain relatively active (just chasing after a well DestructoGirl will do that to you), but really, really, really: my chances of getting in a regular one hour workout? Not good. I wish that weren't true, but it is. And FoilMormor knows that. So what's she picking on that for? Of course, I'm being oversensitive. And that's what made me cry (silly as it is) this morning, when I realized: "Shit, I'm taking antidepressants for a reason."

I've got to go wrap the Christmas presents from FoilMormor and the SecondMate to the girls (they brought them up on the plane from Florida and couldn't have them wrapped and get them through security) and then the other Christams goodies that arrived. Then fold laundry and have a visit with Innana (who's coming to visit, and I am really looking forward to that. So enough bemoaning. Look for the donations button and give, give, give. I should have figured out how to do it by later tonight.

*A ground floor 3-bedroom one bath can be had for just under $300,000 with wall to wall carpeting and old applicances, and an upper level 3-bedroom 1.5 bath for somewhat more (up to $400,000 or more with wood floors and nice appliances). A 2 bedroom 2 bath would go for between $250,000 and $350,000. I would really like to have a 3-bedroom so that SaintlyBabysitter can have her own room until she's ready to head out on her own. Her English will be good enough for work in the private sector in two or three years. My plan is to have her keep taking English lessons, and help her with community college once DestructoGirl starts kindergarten, and have her then be sick child care and after school care, with more time to study. I'll keep paying her the same (hopefully, I'll be able to give her a raise before then, but if not, she'll go down to half-time work and the same pay, and that will be the raise she should have been getting from 2007, 2008 and 2009).

**I don't know whether it will be more embarrassing if I put the button up and no one donates or if I put it up and people who earn less but are simply better at managing their lives do donate. But I'm beyond pride at this point.

Oddments

Yes, I am home alone on a Saturday night blogging to my itty-bitty heart's content. It's InsaneEx's weekend with the FoilKids, but I had them last night. Amazingly, InsaneEx agreed that since FoilMormor and the SecondMate were in town for just one night (flying from Florida to New England for Christmas, they stopped in DC on their way), TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl should spend the night with me and see their grandparents. Then InsaneEx had car trouble (he's the one with the 2002 Mercedes E-Series sedan, I am the one with the 1996 GrammyMobile), and couldn't pick the girls up in time for TigerGrrl's karate class, so I then was zooming around our fair suburb to get to what DestructoGirl refers to as "Aiyaah!" with a karate chop on time.

We got there. But instead of having a whole day of rest, my rest today only began at 2:30 p.m., and I am one exhausted woman. Of course, Monday I was running around finding out the DestructoGirl (who was temporarily LimpNoodlePatheticGirl) had strep throat and a serious lung thingy going on (that was the technical term: serious lung thingy or maybe it was the "snap, crackle, pop" that the pediatrician heard in the lungs that did it), and of course copious emesis. All over the FoilFlat and me, Foilwoman. So Tuesday night, she was feeling better, but TigerGrrl had a sore throad (doesn't sound good, does it?), and both ended up in my bed, with some previously undiagnosed restless-leg syndrome showing up in both girls. As well as restless-arm syndrome, restless-torso syndrom, restless-wiggly-body syndrome, and, what the hell, restless-let's-make-mama-sleep-on-the-couch-syndrome.

I should have rested up on Wednesday and Thursday, but there was a lot of cleaning to be done before FoilMormor arrived. She's Danish, so things have to be shipshape.

Then on Friday, both girls were so excited by the arrival of FoilMormor and the SecondMate that even though both grandparents returned to their hotel by 9 p.m., both girls could not calm down enough to sleep until 10:30 or so. At 1 a.m., TigerGrrl "sleep-walked"* into my room. We actually managed fine until about 4 a.m., when DestructoGirl woke, and moved in as well. I need to reclaim my bed. When they return on Monday night, every time they move to my bed, I'm going to move them back to their own beds. Maybe some sort of pulley system needs to be established.

So today: the phone is off, I've done my shopping, I'm wrapping the unwrapped presents Santa (aka FoilMormor and SecondMate) brought on the plane, and blogging to beat the band. Why does that make me so happy? Odd.

*She claims. I am not buying that story: she made it into the bathroom, used it properly** and then beelined for me rather than her very own bed.

**Imagine a nice verse of the Hallelujah chorus from The Messsiah.

The Garden of Earthly Delights

The Garden of Earthly Delights is the first painting I ever saw (along with the two other parts of the tryptich, The Earthly Paradise and Hell -- the last of which is, entirely appropriately, the right side of the tryptich) by the clearly deeply disturbed Dutch painter, Hieronymus Bosch, who lived at approximately the same time as Henry VII of England. I saw Bosch's work for the first time at the Prado, in Madrid in the spring of 1978, when I was not yet seventeen years old. His work, and Goya's painting regarding the horrors of war really stuck with me (although I liked Velasquez's stuff, it didn't have the same impact).

So we've had Nancy Willard's great children's book, Pish Posh, Said Hieronymus Bosch for quite some time. Well, since July of this year, when Prom gave it to TigerGrrl when we all met at a rest stop off the Garden State Parkway (or was it the New Jersey Turnpike). TigerGrrl resisted looking at it (she was too busy reading and re-reading The Robot Zoo, another gift from Prom). I make a point of suggesting, but not forcing, non-homework books on TigerGrrl. Thus, we have read, and re-read, every Harry Potter book, and are working our way through the Laura Ingalls Wilder oeuvre, but at TigerGrrl's pace and at her request.

Last night, TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl handed me Pish Posh, Said Hieronymus Bosch (hereinafter referred to as Pish Posh), and we had a great time. It's a charming story featuring pickle-winged fish and heads with claws who miss Bosch's housekeeper when she moves out because he's, how to put this politely, so fucking bizarre. I didn't see how a children's book could meaningfully be about Bosch without terrifying any and all preteens who read it, but the book really captured the oddness and surrealism of Bosch, while doing so in a charming and whimsical way that really captured a lot of what makes Bosch's painting so enthralling, but not in the deeply disturbing way that one would expect. Now to deal with the shock of TigerGrrl when she realizes that pickle-winged fish were the least of the crimes against nature Bosch painted? That will wait a decade or two.

It's a lovely book.

Administrative Note: Change In Blog Policy Regarding Anonymous Comments

From now on, this blog will accept anonymous comments, although I do hope that anyone commenting will provide some identifying information. I started requiring anonymous comments before the number code feature was added on blogger to screen out spammers. Now that blogger-beta users can't comment except anonymously and there is still the number screen, I'll accept anonymous commenters.

However, and this is a bit however, this blog is not an issue blog. It's about me, about human relationships, and about connection. I understand lots of people wait in the wings and don't comment (you're shy, or something). It's easier to engage in conversation with a person, by whatever nickname, rather than with an anonymous entity. So sign off as something. I won't know who you are, but it will help responses and dialog.

Power and Buddhism (Getting Things by Not Wanting Them -- Ironic, Isn't It)

I don't blog about my job, and those of you who have figured out who my employer is, I assume you'll be very forgetful about this post. When I took this position, last year, I was looking for security and a regular schedule. I had decided my prior high-flying (but ultimately unsuccessful) and high-earning (but InsaneEx spent it all) career simply was driving me crazy. Not as crazy as InsaneEx was driving me, but crazy enough that FoilMormor was quite concerned. More than quite concerned. She was in Full-Mama-Grizzly-Mode (FMGM -- a state to be devoutly feared).

Fortunately, she's back to her own, slightly-neurotic-penny-pinching-annoying-the-living-bejesus-out-of-me-mode (SNPPATLBOOMM). While the SNPPATLBOOOMM may make for some tense FoilMormor/Foilwoman moments, it really is good to be back to normal. And I know, know, know that my mother loves me.

Back to work, or one aspect of it anyway. I didn't take this job for advancement. I assumed that by taking it, my advancement days are over. My job isn't glamorous. It's pragmatic, quotidian things that just need to get done. It's also (1) a lot of fun, and (2) actualy providing me with power (over people) and some real chance for advancement. Funny how that works.

When I started, I supervised two people, part-time. Then in early 2006, I was given a handful more to manage, some professionals. Now I have three clerical staffers, six quasi-professionals, and eight professionals* of whom I am the boss. At first i was worried about being the boss. I had one employee who I really had no use for (must have been a relative of Regional Support Clerk's colleague I Sick I Go Home Now) quit because I started asking her to check in and out and provide evidence of doctor's visits for her continual (70 days in one year) absences. I was embarrassed and upset, but I accepted her resignation with glee and hired someone normal.

I'm not into power. I've never sought it. Now I have almost a score of people who need my permission to take vacation, need my encouragement, etc. I'm protective of them (not FMGM or anything, I reserve that for the FoilKids), but I'm rather astonished. I took this job thinking "Oh well, my professional life is over", and it's just not. It's clear I will be able to grow in this organization, and will I won't make tons of money, I have the security I sought (past my probationary period, I'm no longer an at-will employee and have some sort of tenure and job rights), and I have profesional work and the respect of others.

This in a year when I felt fortunate to get out of bed and get to work without jam fingerprints on my dress, and to get through a work day without losing my temper or bursting into tears. I wasn't even trying.

I've always thought I would hate being in management (and probably would in a bottom-line private sector environment), but I'm enjoying my job. Which I need to go to now.

*All numbers changed slightly to avoid ease of identification.

Women Who Have Sex: Easily Murdered. Women Who Have Sex For Money? They Have It Coming

Twisty Faster said it much better than I ever could, so I'll just link to her post on the issue.

My synopsis: women are murdered, surprise, surprise, by men, on a way-too-frequent basis (and pretty much any female of any age: think high schoolers in Colorado, grade school students in the Amish school), yet the media still likes to portray murdered women as sexually promiscuous deviants who have it coming to them. Thus sex-workers being murdered by men is somehow a morality tale in which women must take note that they will remain safe as long as they don't go do something bad, like have sex, completely ignoring all the women and girls who are murdered regardless of whether they have engaged in sexual activity (and regardless of whether that sexual activity was consensual).

Jane also has a nice, snarky take on a situation beyond snark. Yes, the guy who wondered why everyone was so upset about slags beings offed (nice guy, hmm?) really does need a lengthy police inquiry? Will he get one? No. Even though he clearly has been traumatized by female domination (*gag*).

Um, from one female to the rest of the world: really, whether we are school children, bank presidents, sex workers, or (worst of all) single mothers, we really don't deserve to be killed. Sexually active or not. A vagina, clitoris, and/or breasts are not signs reading open season. Really. Next: bride burning in India, "Honor" murders in the Arab world, and domestic violence all over. No, I'll pass on all that. It just pisses me off.

Ongoing Therapy

I feel a bit like Woody Allen. I have been in therapy, off and on, for quite some time. I've been seeing MNOT since the spring of 2005, and there's no end in sight. This isn't some financial shakedown on her part: she's basically seeing me free of charge. It is, however, just a smidge embarrassing.

Shouldn't I have figured all this stuff out by now? I have an IQ over 140 (I think), professional degree, education at some of the best non-Ivy establishments the East Coast can throw at you, and still I'm meeting someone once a week to talk about my life and try and figure out how to deal with things.

In addition to my therapist, I see a psychopharmacolagist (let's just call him Bernie) every few months for prescription review/oversight.

Some of this is just biological. I have ADD/ADHD (whatever you want to call it: Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorter or Attention Deficit Disorder) and Major Depressive Disorder, and I take Zoloft (100 mg/day), Adderal (30-50 mg/day) and Ambien (12.5 mg, probably take it once a week. The Ambien will go away as my life gets back in gear, but it's pretty clear to me I'll be taking antidpressants and "calming" amphetemines for the rest of my adult life.

I'm much less depressed now that I have just accepted that life can pretty much bite for no reason. You can be doing "all the right things" and still end up with some pretty miserable outcomes. Knowing this almost instinctively at this point doesn't make me want to throw in the towel. It makes me want to keep trying.

But the main thing that depression means to me is that sometimes I can just feel a black cloud descend over me. It hasn't happened much lately (no energy or time for that, probably). But I remain vigilant. I've never contemplated suicide or anything like that, but I do sometimes wonder exactly how dispairing I could feel. Is there a limit?

Returning to being single has lifted a lot of my depression. But it's still there, waiting.

How Do Squeamish People Live in This World -- Oh, I Remember Now, By Making the Rest of Us Wish They Didn't

If you're squeamish, you might not want to read this post either, but really, I'd like you to answer the questions, so give it a try. Or not.

The events of the last couple of days have really brought it back to me. It's a gooey, messy, icky world we live in, and human beings are gooey messy critters. If you want a nice non-gooey world, you might try being a desert-type reptile (perhaps a gila monster or sidewinder rattlesnake), but mammalian life is pretty slimy. Most life is slimy at least some of the time.

But my real question is this: how do ultra finicky people procreate, raise children, heck, go to the bathroom or change a tampon? It seems like all that would be just too much. The multiple handwashers: do they ever kiss, perform cunnilingus, or engage in any other sexual behavior that might actually turn someone else on?

Parenthood is definitely a lesson in giving up personal boundaries. The one wise thing the InsaneEx ever said to me was a saying from his homeland: "You have your dignity until you are a parent." I'll completely agree with that, but add that if you didn't lose your dignity, at least a little bit, conceiving that child, if that child isn't adopted, there is something very, very wrong with your sex life.

But the standards of what is acceptable human behavior, and particularly acceptable female behavior are definitely defined by someone who is afraid of most things human and pretty much all things female. I loved the reviewer, who while panning Apocalypto, described it as a snuff film in which no opportunity to show blood and gore was avoided except the scene in which the endangered young mother gave birth in a ravine while standing on a ledge as water rose with her toddler on her shoulders or back to keep him from drowning. No blood, no water breaking, no mucous, no afterbirth, probably no cord. And certainly no leg hair.

That's femininity (as opposed to being female). I actually would probably enjoy Apocalypto, but really. That aethestic (or femininity) is brought to you by the same sort of though process that brought us bikini waxes, feminine hygeine deoderant, and the ThighMaster.

So, those of you who think women don't sweat, drink, belch, have muscles, have hair anywhere but on their head*, smell of anything but flowers, etc. and those of you who think that childbirth is mess free, human beings aren't animals, pheromones are to be avoided at all costs, and that a menstruating woman is dirty and to be shunned (or a woman who has or enjoys sex is to be looked down on), let me just say: "Wha'?"

And for general life events: if you're germaphobic, how do you have satisfying sex? Or merely kiss? Or enjoy anything to do with an adorable but drooly toddler? Or care for a sick child without traumatising her forever? Or explain the facts of life to an eleven-year old? Or cook a lamb chop?*

Any thought process dealing with the messiness that is life at all should pretty much reduce the overly finicky to a state of never leaving the house. And those of you who find anything remotely earthy gross, I hope you've never had a stomach bug. And never actually get sick and die, because you'd die of mortification through the whole ailing process.**

I don't like germs or slime, but I can certainly deal with either, now that we live in the age of antibiotics. I think it's more important that my two-year old know, with absolute certainty, that nothing she can do when she's feeling ill will make me withdraw from her in disgust than that I retain some sense of cleanliness. Of course, I am lining up some carpet-cleaning later this week, but DestructoGirl won't be here to see that. If she's feeling physically horrible (and she is: again, she hasn't beheaded any Christmas ornaments yet -- she's clearly in need of the ICU and heavy duty nursing), she needs her Mama to hug her and clean her and make her feel as good as she can, regardless of whether Mama has had the chance to remove any of the various yucky fluids that pretty much inundate her at this point. No squinched nose from me for my poor not-so-little chubkin with the strep throat and crackly lungs and pretty much every-other-hour vomiting schedule.

In an aside, I have yet to meet a hand-washer who can tackle real threat-to-one's-life-and-well-being with the (sorry, I'm about to brag here, but I feel the need to say it) sang-froid I have brought to bear in the last year. They're worrying about germs or mucous or disgusting fart jokes that have offended them (I loathe 'em too, but who cares?) or any mention of bodily functions or death and decay or sex or anything like that to actually solve the real problems that threaten them (savings, spending, debt, flu vaccinations, children's immunizations, mammagrams, getting medical treatment for what ails you -- including mental illness, those of you who are avoiders, wills, powers-of-attorney, living wills, organ donation, etc.) and thus don't protect themselves from the threats most likely to do them harm.

Like the people who worry about shark attacks who are going to die of anaphylactic shock from a bee sting or from not using their safety belt in a half mile drive to the convenience store. Or the people who worry about terribly dangerous but unknown murderers of other races or backgrounds who stand much more chance of being knocked off by one of their "loved ones". Risk assessment and knowing the choices one is making really seem to be little-learned skills.

But here's the nutshell: life is messy and disgusting and dangerous and gross. And it's worse (but also much, much better) with children. And it's probably worse (but better) with a loving partner, although I wouldn't know about that. Avoiding the mess really doesn't protect you, or if you are protected, it's only in the short run. Because I may have spent the last two days awash in vomit, but that's the price I get to pay to be the mother of the DestructoGirl and the TigerGrrl. Not a problem for me.

(In a shocking development, I helped TigerGrrl make angel chains for the Christmas tree. One angel had a little pencil line showing in the underarm area. TigerGrrl clipped it away, stating that she saved that angel (from what?) -- I'm still trying to figure out to which summer re-education camp I should send her.)



*You get a bye from me on that one if you are vegetarian, but really, how many people have actually given up leather shoes?

**Good luck with that.

More Essential Bodily Fluids (See and Heed Warning in Previous Post)

Well, no, TigerGrrl has not peed on a lampshade or a neighbor. But DestructoGirl is quite ill. So ill that she, sit down for this one, hasn't destroyed anything (except the non-vomit content of anything in my apartment) all day. And she went to sleep at seven, with no fussing. She didn't even make me sing one song, much less three or four. She fell asleep in the middle of Goodnight Gorilla*. She didn't even grin when Gorilla set loose the armadillo (a key plot point). Or when gorilla got caught tucking herself into the zookeepers' (a couple where the wife, d'oh, does most of the work) bed with all of her friends -- lion, giraffe, elephant, hyena, mouse (with banana in tow) and armadillo.

DestructoGirl looked fine, if not super high-spirited when I went to work this morning, but at nine-thirty the dreaded call from Saintly Babysitter came: "Elle vomit pour tout" or something like that (I don't speak French, mind you, but I do understand the word vomit).

I turned around, headed home, called the doctor, got an afternoon appointment, and arrived home to collect the sicklet, who was lying on the floor in the middle of the day doing nothing, which was a clear sign that death was imminent. By noon, the doctor was expressing concern about the crackling sound in her lungs and then the nurse came back in, saying the strep test was positive. Of course, I knew my littlest angel (*snort*) was deathly ill because she hadn't (1) hit the doctor on her head with the stethescope, (2) kneecapped the nurse, (3) run around the doctors' office, from the isolation waiting room (for sick kids) and the main waiting room, spreading contagion (or to put a more positive spin on, making sure everyone's antibodies were working at maximum capacity), (4) disassembled any waiting room furniture, or (5) otherwise made her general vicinity resemble a war zone.

The nurse brought in a nebulizer (apparently needed, because things aren't nebulous enough right now), and I thought: "There's no way my child will sit still for fifteen minutes of that", but she did, and even fell asleep. So we left with a prescription for albuterol, an inhaler, and amoxycillin. Of course, I picked up lots of drugstore brand electrolyte rebalancer (oh, it's still my DestructoGirl: she did manage to vomit on a health care professional -- they love us), infant acetominophen (for DestructoGirl), and children's acetominophen (for TigerGrrl).

Of course, not all children like bubblegum flavored amoxycillin, and I am not sure, even now, after five tries, that I have managed to get DestructoGirl to ingest 2 teaspoons as prescribed. Only 19 more doses to go (twice a day for ten days), and she's already done in two of my blouses. That Pepto-Bismol pink will come out, won't it?

My poor little sicklet plumpkin. She'd better get well soon. My apartment just isn't the same without the chairs being knocked over, dishes being stacked on the floor, and the vacuum cleaner being broken down into its component parts (disarticulated, if you will).

*If you don't know of this fine piece of literature, your life is blighted.

Rather Bizarre Offspring Behavior -- Our Sacred Bodily Fluids (Do NOT Read If You Are Squeamish)

A daughter of mine, who will not be identified, to protect her from embarrassment did something really bizarre on Friday night. I'm toying with the idea that it is a symptom of something or behavior that bears watching, but I'm then trying to come up with a low-key explanation of the behavior.

After a fun-filled evening with friends at her school (some sort of party for a retiring teacher -- I stayed home with the DestructoGirl so that TigerGrrl -- whoops, I identified her -- would not be required to head home the minute DestructoGirl got tired, and our nice NeighborGirls' mother brought TigerGrrl to and from the school), TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl collapsed in a heap on DestructoGirl's bed. I didn't have the heart to move TigerGrrl (and I certainly couldn't lift her into the upper bunk without renewing my by no means brief enough acquaintance with umbilical hernia repair surgery -- twice was already twice too often) to her bed.

Next thing I knew, I heard bizarre (really) shuffling sounds in the kitchen, which fortunately has a linoleum floor. Trust me, if you're squeamish, stop reading now. Thank you. I walked into the kitchen to see a bleary-eyed TigerGrrl pulling pots and pans out of a cupboard asking where the trash can was. This wasn't the under-the-sink cupboard where the trash can is kept. She finally worked her way around to that cupboard, and then pulled out the trash can, pulled down her pajamas, and peed all over the trash, the trash can, herself, her pajamas, and the kitchen floor. Oh joy.

I did a load of laundry immediately, popped TigerGrrl into a warm bath, then bed, immediately took out the trash, and then cleaned the kitchen floor and trash can. If she was going to pee on the trash can (which she clearly did), why not actually pee in the trash can? And what was that about? Well, there's one thing that was about: no more glass of juice or warm vanilla milk before going to bed. No. I'm still trying to figure what on earth triggered this behavior. The bathroom has a door that opens into her bedroom. It's closer than the kitchen. Was she sleepwalking (sleep-peeing)? It's a mystery.

Yesterday, I got a Christmas check from NuclearGrammy and the treat for today that we otherwise couldn't have done was a meal at TigerGrrl's favorite Mongolian barbecue (I think the grill is Mongolian style -- the food appears to be Cincinnati-ish). So once we're seated and TigerGrrl is up at the buffet line getting her meal (which means I'm locked in), DestructoGirl looks at me mournfully (which is a pretty darn rare event -- the word "mournful" appearing in the same sentence as DestructoGirl) and leans in as if to cuddle, and vomits all over me. Of course, this is a buffet restaurant. I can't eat a meal there now, because even if I could get to the bathroom to clean up, I can't go through the food line. I get DestructoGirl cleaned up (and there was a truly stellar hostess, who got me hot and cold running towels, etc. and cleaned everything up and pooh-poohed my mortified apologies. She also ran back and forward and supervised TigerGrrl (who I would normally have stuck pretty close to on the food line) and generally made it clear that my daughter's illness was a pretty minor blip on her food-service horizon. The minute TigerGrrl finished her meal, we left, with a 35% tip for the waitress and hostess in our wake.

At least DestructoGirl didn't try to relieve herself in the trashcan.

Parenthood. When this disgusting stuff happens, you don't think "why me"? You think: my poor baby, I hope she feels better soon. Or in the kitchen trash scenario: just too tired to focus, or is this a sign of something else?

Well, at work tomorrow, I'll be drowning in books, paper, bits, bytes, and computer files. Highly sanitary, that.

Pragmatism

I was so elated last week when the divorce was finalized, but I knew I would descend to earth rather abruptly. Despite Insane Ex's oafishness and stupidity, I'm still coping, although I need to find a way to protect Saintly Babysitter (and not coincidentally, ensure that she does not quit) from EvilEx's attempts to bully her.

However, I've been busy doing what every newly divorced person in the U.S. should do under our legal system. I got a new will written and signed. I changed the beneficiaries on all insurance policies, retirement plans, and the likes. I appointed LOS and Cousin Roland primary and contingent personal representative, trustee, and guardian of the FoilKids under the will.

I'm not planning on dying anytime soon, but it is nice to know that if I got struck by a bus tomorrow, it would be LOS or Cousin Roland who would be protecting my girls' small financial assets, and not Evil Ex who would be frittering them away.

Sometimes being a grown up is mildly satisfying.

Bullying

No, this isn't about TigerGrrl's school: no-one bullies her, and the only trouble she's gotten into there was in sticking up for another child who was being bullied.

The problem is my ex, PdeFF. I am really developing a loathing for that man. (Like I hadn't already.) He's trying to bully the Saintly Babysitter, and I'm afraid that his behavior will chase her away.

Today, DestructoGirl needed to go to the doctor for a rash she has had for a while. I've taken the kids to all their other doctors and dentists appointments, but today, the ex was doing so as he had the day off from work for some dental work of his own.* The ex normally doesn't speak with the Saintly Babysitter, even when he is picking up the children and dropping them off. He doesn't aknowledge her presence, even to share information about the children.

But today, the EvilEx arrives at the FoilFlat (alliteration is fun) and tells Saintly Babysitter to come with him to the doctor, because he can't manage to take his two-year old daughter to the doctor without assistance. If he hadn't ordered Saintly Babysitter to come with him, she probably would have done so, but since he ordered her, she said "No." He called me to complain. I told him (maybe not in so many words) to grow a pair.

I'm almost embarrassed for him, but Saintly Babysitter told me she wants him to stop trying to bully her. Please note: I have never, ever, in over a year of employing Saintly Babysitter, ever had to order her to do anything. She is hardworking, conscientious, and loves my girls. I just let her do that and be herself, and my girls are clean, well-fed, and ready to cuddle when I get home from work. The real triumph is that DestructoGirl has never had separation anxiety, even in the depths of the divorce process. She hugs me, and then turns to play with Saintly Babysitter, and clearly is going to have a good day. Every day.

So EvilEx is being rude and bossy to the woman who takes care of our children. I pay her. He doesn't. What kind of a fucking moron abuses the person who takes care of his children? My ex. Oh joy.

*In a shocking show of dependence he called me today (his dental insurance comes from my employer -- now that we're divorced he'll lose his insurance by the end of the month unless he elects COBRA) to ask me why the dental insurance wasn't covering his dental implants. Normally people check out insurance coverage before dropping $2,000 on a new tooth, but not this man. No, he goes ahead and gets the dental work done and then calls his ex-wife even though the phone number for the insurer is on his card (and he has an explanation of benefits). Yes, in my free time, I want to handle his insurance claims. That's why I'm here.

Advertisements

I'm not sure whether the "Ads by Google" feature will make me any money at all (I really don't have that many readers), but one thing is for damn sure: whoever wrote the program for targetting the advertisements needs to debug the ad/blog matchup.

The most recent ad that I saw on this blog was "Jesus Loves You" (yes I know, because the Bible tells me so). Now, I do not find the ad offensive or anything, but I would think a less sceptical person's blog might be a better blog for that sort of ad. Just saying.

Feminism and the Search for Sex

It's hard being a heterosexual feminist. I am a feminist. I will never be a woman who says "I'm not a feminist, but . . ." However, I am a feminist who isn't big on dogma. It's not easy to have a decent set of rules by which to live that make sense and don't drive me crazy.

Some givens:

Women spend way too much time on their appearance trying to look nice for men. I noticed this at my recent trip to Hooters (see Cookie's first November 19th post, which I can't link to for some reason), and I remember thinking it when I read about the women in Nicole Brown Simpson's family*. All this stuff takes time. Lots of time. Time we really can't afford.

Most women's fitness isn't geared toward living a healthy life (blood pressure reducing, cholesterol reducing, muscle mass building, bone density building, strength building exercise), but is geared toward looking good for the male gaze (tighter abs, tighter buns, firmer bosom, etc.). When one reads a personals ad written by a man and he says he wants someone "fit", one can assume he's probably referring much about whether the person likes to bike, likes to run, likes to do anything regularly as much as he's referring to whether the woman in question is slim (and smaller than he is, not coincidentally**).

Men have a pretty stereotypical and media-created vision of what an attractive woman is, whether one uses the skeletal model or the buxom yet very slim movie/porn star as the exemplar. Women spend hours of every day, exercising, dying their hair, putting on make up, and all kinds of other shenanigans trying to meet or at least near this ideal. Hairless, so as to look prepubescent (which is really rather gross if you think about it), without excess body fat, but with big breasts (hey, without surgery, the big bosoms come with either lactation or weight gain, with a few exceptions). I think the main feature is the willingness to dress for a man's pleasure rather than one's own. Which is really rather silly. Yet we do this. Skirts work better than trousers. Low necks work better than turtlenecks. Form-fitting rather than loose. High heels creating mammalian lordosis (thanks, Prom) rather than comfortable and easy to walk in low heeled or flat shoes.

Feminisn pretty much looks on the mechanisms of female beautification for the male gaze with contempt, disapproval, or, at best, bemused tolerance (my position).

Yet I participate in this circus.

I'm a single mother with young children, and I'm not going to be willing to take a lot of risks. Yet I still want male company++ and would, in an ideal world, have a long-term partner at some point in the future. Maybe not right away, but at some point.

So here I am, age forty-five, and thinking about diving back into the murky waters of dating. I actualy enjoy dating, and never enjoyed as much as in the Spring and Summer of 2005 (before I left my marriage, I know, I'm a slut), but that was a different market. Then I wasn't looking for anything but companionship, sex, and fun.

So how much makeup before I'm bowing to the patriarchy? Is dyeing my hair antifeminist? Wearing lipstick? Heels (even if they make me taller than everyone in the known world who's not an NBA player)? Shaving my legs (well, not when I'm wearing pants, or opaque tights, but hey)? Some of this is going to go by the wayside, simple due to budgetary constraints. I gave up haircuts a year and a half ago. I kept dyeing my salt-and-pepper hair myself, but the hour and $10 each month feels like a bit too much. Make up? I'm sure not buying any more, but I'll keep putting it on (I like feeling pretty, and everyone likes to adorn themselves: yes, my standard of what is pretty is influenced by the culture around me, but no harm). Heels? Well, until the ones I have wear out, yeah, because I'm not buying replacement shoes.

As a rounded (actually have hips and breasts, would be considered quite attractive by Jorge Amado for one) and middle-aged+++ woman, how much will I be willing to do to get a man's interest? Right now, not a whole heck of a lot. But in a while, I'll probably have to revisit all this. I'm not big into the granola-y types, so I have to show some willingness to meet normal societal standards of femininity. How to do this and not feel like a hypocrite?

*Apparently, every woman in the family had had some cosmetic surgery done, but none of the women in the family had a college degree.

**Since I am not having any more children, this is no longer an issue for me, but when I was younger I always wondered about this. If I were on the short side, given that taller people get many advantages, I wouldn't restrict my mating pool to people who were even shorter than I were. No, I would not excluded anyone based on height, but someone taller than I were would have a perceived (slight) advantage. Not enough to outweigh any real personality issues, but height would be a slight advantage I could give my children. I'd think that short men, particularly the ones who are very self-conscious about their height***, would want to expand the gene pool a little bit.+

***There is really nothing sexier than a short man who doesn't care. Jon Stewart admitting to Russell Crowe that he was 5'6", maybe 5'7" tops, won my heart forever. He's a sexy man. Okay, he's also rich and funny. But he is one hunk of burning love for that confession alone.

+Height, like any physical feature that isn't a defect, is really not a good basis for any choice, I'm just using this as an example.

++Yes, I've got male friends. I'm talking about sex here. And satisfying sex, which is harder to come by.

+++I'm forty-five, and given my genetic material, I can expect to live into my late 80s or early 90s, but at forty-five, I am middle-aged.

Now and Then

What will I do to save 20% on Christmas presents? Just about anything, as it turns out.

Given the new state of my finances (the $200 per month I will be paying in child support to the Ex will just about do me in financially) Christmas this year is going to be tight. I'm really not planning on spending money, except for a few presents for the girls. I'm trying to think of ways to make more money. What kinds of part time jobs can one get every other weekend and on Wednesday and Thursday evenings (when I don't have the girls)? I don't know, but I need to find out.

However, yesterday, Innana and I went to a craft fair, which I didn't stay at long, at the home of a friend of ours. It was in Takoma Park ("Tacky Park"), Maryland, and afterwards, we walked around the incredibly funky-and-quaint (almost annoying really) and tripped over "Now and Then" a knitting/gift/toy/whatever store. Last year I visited Now and Then* with the Professor and got some funky/fun things for the girls. A map of the fifty states for TigerGrrl. A wooden train for DestructoGirl. Little wind up bath toy boats that will actually propel themselves in the water. Kaleidescopes. They even had a librarian action figure (with shushing action), which I sadly did not buy.

While we were there, Innana's incredibly sensitive ears perked up upon hearing that today (tomorrow yesterday, obviously) there would be a storewide 20% off sale. So I asked. Yup, 20% off on Sunday the 4th between 7 am and 10 am if and only if you shop in your pajamas.

Innana said the best part was watching my face while I decided how much my dignity was worth. Not a whole fucking hell of a lot, apparently.

I arose this morning, put on my pink satin-but-flannel-lined pajamas (looking just lovely, as only a plump middle-aged matron can), covered them with a flasher raincoat, and drove to Tacky Park, operation Christmas presents in full swing. I got one big present for each girl, and lots of little ones. The best part was the sales ladies were in pajamas as well and had Krispy Kreme donuts and coffee for those of us so lacking in dignity as to leave our homes wearing our night clotehs in the hopes of saving 20%. One young man, who probably the rest of the time is just too cool, was wearing a James Bondian outfit (no, he wasn't that cute, but he got cuter, as you will see) of silk pajamas and robe, but totally won my heart with fuzzy rabbit slippers, including ears. If I were twenty years younger, I would have started up a conversation, beyond complimenting his footwear. Sadly, he was leaving the store as I walked in, but my embarrassment about my own ensembly was substantially diminished.

I've gotten down the Christmas ornaments, hung the wreath, and wrapped all the girls' presents. I've done two loads of laundry, emptied the dishwasher, and am now starting to organize my paperwork (I've thrown away three bags full so far this morning. As well as finishing my Christmas shopping**, and it's barely past noon on a Sunday.

I'm pretty pleased and impressed with my cheap and frugal self.

*At 6927 Laurel Avenue in Tacky Park. I'm not going to give their website, as it has been hijacked by an evil interest-only loan provider.

**Anyone who is not my offspring: no there will be no cards this year. There probably*** won't be gifts. I do love you, and I do wish you well, but I'm not spending dime one on anything that doesn't benefit the girls. If you can't understand my logic and lack of time or financial resources, well, you need to work on your empathy. Thank you.

***This does not include those in line for knitting projects. Francesca, your sweater is finished except for the buttons. I'll have that done by Chrismas, you'll get it sometime in January or February, depending how much it costs to ship. Innana, yours will be done after the Saintly babysitter's. Cookie, dearest, think late 2007 for you.