The Sorrow and the Pity (or, Suffer the Little Children)

TigerGrrl is immensely distessed because during her first karate tournament ever, she only won two trophies: one for third place (sparring) and one for first place (board breaking) in her age group. She wanted two more trophies (form and all-around) and was inconsolable. My heart bleeds.

Different Perceptions of Risk

At the delicious dinner at W Domku, which probably tasted better because of the lemon, cranberry, and orange Aqvavit I imbibed, with Uber, SNV, and Innana, it became very, very clear that my risk tolerance is much higher than the other women at the table*.

During our conversation, the Cookie Monster was mentioned, and it was revealed to SNV (who met and like Cookie at Thanksgiving dinner at the FoilFlat) that Innana and I had met Cookie over the Internet. Both Innana and SNV expressed surprise, and then said they were "glad everything worked out." These are women I consider relatively fearless in many areas.

Innana and I explained that we had known Cookie for a good long time online (neither Uber nor SNV know of this blog or Innana's now deleted blog) before he arrived on our shores, and tried to explain that we felt we had had a pretty good opportunity to observe and judge. Nonetheless, I felt the sniff of surprise.

Then I let slip that I was trying to decide whether to go sailing with a man I had had recently met. Of course, "how did you meet him" was asked, and I said "Craig's List". I'm not ready for eHarmony and looking for commitment. I didn't post in Casual Encounters, but I really am just trying to practice a bit. This is going to sound crass (or possibly slutty, but I really do not care), but I don't want to meet someone and fall in love, meet someone and get deeply involved, or meet someone who will change my life. I also don't want to wait until I feel ready for that to meet someone because if I wait until I feel ready, I will then invest way too much emotionally in anyone I might meet.

So my plan such as I have one, is to just get out there, have some nice meals, and meet men, with an eye toward eventually getting laid, more than once, if not before I turn 46 (that's soon), then before the end of this year (a totally reasonable hope). I didn't mention the whole panoply of dates (it's mostly over now -- I didn't have the energy or tolerance for many, despite the large number of repondents), just the one guy with the sailboat. Like any sane person in a reasonably hot-as-all-shit-in-the-summer climate, I think it is a foolish person who doesn't seize opportunities to be out on the water.

So Uber immediately grills be about SailorMan, who I really don't know well, but did find charming. I am advised not to go sailing as a second date. Too risky. I then pointed out that the sailing would be a third date, but I turned SailorMan down because he asked me out for dinner on Thursday and I already had plans I had no wish to change (and wouldn't have changed, even if I had wished to do so).

I trust my own judgment. SailorMan is still a relative stranger, but I met him, talked with him, observed how he behaved toward me and others, and I simply don't think going for a sail with him will put my life or virtue** in jeopardy. Needless to say, I didn't mention the three other lunch dates I've been on in the last three weeks.***

I understand there are sickos on the Internet. I understand men can be quite violent toward women. I also know that the only men who have ever been violent to me did so after knowing me for years.+ I think I lose my ability to discern strange or dangerous behavior as I grow closer to someone.

So I felt a bit disconcerted after observing SNV's and Uber's reaction to who I discern and react to risk, and wondered "Am I a weirdo?" Well, d'oh. So what did I do to make myself feel better (well, I was feeling great and no pain -- it was a good evening)? I walked a mile and a quarter home from the Metro at 10 p.m. It was a nice evening.

I know as a woman, I'm not supposed to walk around along after dark. I hate that crap. I also wonder, have I missed some fundamental risk-averseness necessary to being a woman in our society.

*Innana seemed to have higher risk tolerance than SNV and Uber, but I definitely felt like an outlier statistic.

**Fortunately for me, and I really do mean this, I doubt I have any (sexual) virtue to defend, which really is a bit of a relief.

***I've not been withholding: the dates weren't that exciting, and thus not blogworthy (and certainly not spongeworthy).

+Apparently that's a natural male reaction to knowing me well.

More Good Things

I have discovered why I don't draft posts in advance, subject to many rewrites. That's because the rewriting never ends. It works out much better (posts actually get posted) if I just write the darn thing here on blogger, post, and then go back and edit.

I have spent the last three weeks writing a post (the ne plus ultra of posts) that isn't a post because I can't bring myself to post it. And I'm still rewriting. Too much navel contemplation (and not a nice cute navel -- a scarred up and ersatz navel) is never a good idea.

But I am one cheerful chiquita right now. Why? Food and liquor. And friends.

Innana, SNV, Uber, and I all met at W Domku for dinner and drinks and we had a very good time. Scandinavian food, liquor, and friends (well, Innana doesn't think she's Scandinavian, but I've gotta tell you, those Scottish blue eyes . . . where do you think they originated?), what more could you ask for.

Oh, to not be visited by Nepalese Knitting Curse*, that's what. As we were leaving the restaurant, I realized that while I had my good knitting in my purse, the work bag was back in the restaurant. I ran back and retrieved it. Only on the subway heading home did I realize my pattern book was on the table in the restaurant. I've left them a message, and hope I will hear back. I will. I know I left the damn fool thing on the table after showing patterns to Uber and SNV and asking them to look at sweaters they might like.

But if worse comes to worse, since this sweater is for me, I can wing it.

Better yet, Francesca will be in New England (New Hampshire) this summer at exactly the same time I will be in Maine, and I will need to drive to New Hampshire to see Nuclear Grammy anyway (the girls will want an invigorating swim with their 95 year old great grandmother), and then will drive up to Francesca's mother's house to visit, deliver the Sweater-of-Newly-Sewn-on-Buttons, and hang out. I'm really excited. Also, as much as FoilMormor and the Second Mate love the girls, a day's break will probably add years to their lives.

*Similar to the Tibetan Button Curse.

More of the Shiny Happy People/It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood Crap

Except it is a beautiful day in the neighborhood and I am a shiny happy person. Today I have already: washed the car, pumped up the tires on my bike, made a pot of coffee, done two loads of laundry, let the Insane Ex stop by with the FoilKids so that TigerGrrl could practice riding her bike (He won't buy a bike rack for his Mercedes, so the bike stays at my place. And for this I pay a pathetically small amount in child support, but I still pay it.), helped DestructoGirl scoot on her little toddler scooter (with helmet, knee pads, and elbow pads, naturally -- she may be destructive, but it's not going to be her joints or her head that hurt, thank you very much), helped TigerGrrl bike on her big girl bike (she biked on her own for a good six seconds there and had a tumble without crying, so she's almost there), and then got to hug and cuddle my girls for the second time on a weekend when they are in their father's custody, started a new knitting project, tried on the sweater for moi that I finished yesterday and decided that I look fabulous in it, and answered a knock at the door to discover the two lovely children who live next door bringing me little muffins they had cooked* (still hot and yummy).

The little sparrows nesting in the bush outside my window are busy plumping up their nest. I see them bringing little bits o' green into the cypresses (I think they are cypresses, but with my knowledge of botony, they could be rutabagas or douglas firs or something else entirely) where their nest is. Outside the FoilFlat, the birds, sparrows, mourning doves (Innana calls the "rain crows" under the theory that they coo before it rains: they coo a lot and it rains a lot on the humid mid-Atlantic Eastern U.S. -- coincidental or causative? You decide.), even a cardinal, flit around. I haven't seen a blue jay, but did see an American robin**.

After I finish the errands I will head out to take care of after finishing this post, I will sit on the patio and do some more non-birdwatching birdwatching. Aside from picking up a few groceries (tomatoes for the Saintly Babysitter, fresh broccoli, brussels sprouts and asparagus for all of us, and some meat and cheese and milk), my only real errand is the non-chore of returning books and videos to the library and checking out a few more. Not a hardship.

While I'm out on the patio, more knitting will occur, of course. And I'm reading Patternmaster, by Octavia Butler, the May Atlantic, and possibly some of the new books (yippee!) I'm going to get. The sun is shining, it's clear and not too hot, and I might fit in a bike ride as well. Life is good.

*I'm a little slow on the uptake: the family is Korean, and I really want to tell them I already know they are nice and that I do not think that events at Virginia Tech on Monday had anything to do with Korean culture. That killer was proving exactly how well he fit into the U.S.'s moronic and evil gun culture. Nothing more, nothing less. Okay, now I'll tell you how I really feel. Except I just did.

I do feel badly that Korean people are feeling collective guilt about something that is the problem of the U.S. In Korea, maybe the young man in question would have been equally troubled or more so, but he would not have had the capacity to kill thirty-two peoples. And he wouldn't have had the publicity about Columbine or other mass murders the way we do here (I presume). The killer (who I will not name or describe or otherwise validate) was merely the product of his own mental illness, violent U.S. culture, and our truly idiotic gun laws.

My next door neighbors are clearly trying to show that they are nice social people, not weirdo loners. Except I already knew that and they had nothing to prove. When I get to the store, I'm going to get the makings of chocolate chip cookies and make a big batch of which they are certainly getting some. Nice kids. And they just arrived in the U.S. over a month ago. I'm going to talk to TigerGrrl about making sure to invite them over and stuff. I think they are feeling a bit isolated.

**American robins are much fatter and larger than their European namesakes.*** Is anyone surprised by that?

***Actually, I guess the American robin is the namesake of the European robin. But I'm no ornithologist, so get over the error.

More Snarking About Search Terms

Dear Reader in Zagreb, Croatia:

Yes, I am flattered that you have come to this fine, fine blog. However, I must point out that your search for "judith beheading holofernes video" is unlikely to result in any videos of that event. Not only because the event is part of the Apocrypha, and thus somewhat disputed as being actual Biblical history (not that the Bible is actually historical or antying), but also because even if the events actually occurred (and I actually like all the Judith art out there, particularly Artemisia Gentileschi's so at some level would prefer Judith to be real rather than, oh, Job, for example) they occured prior to the existence of videotape. So, you wish to find a video of Judith beheading Holofernes, as exciting and enjoyable as such a scene might be, is sadly not to be realized.

You might consider going to this site and searching for "Judith" and "Holofernes". It won't be a video of the actual event (and unless God sends you videos as well as talks to you I think you are shit outta luck on that one bucko), but you might well find something that satisfies your desire to witness a beheading or touches on the story of Judith beheading Holofernes.

Finally, A Good Day

The financial crisis du jour is resolved, not entirely to my liking, but my landlord is okay with me, and I'm not as irked at my bank as I was (they wrote a nice letter to the landlord, refunded the overdraft charges, and generally were quite helpful despite it not being entirely their fault -- I had overlooked a key feature of the check card (automatic withdrawal, even though the money looks like it's in your account) and automatic deposit (the money isn't in your account until the day after you get your pay stub)), but everyone agreed no harm, no foul. I paid a bit for not having carefully reviewed the check card and autmoatic deposit rules, and I'll never make that mistake again. At the same time, my bank fell on their sword and said it was their fault for my landlord's benefit. And all is well with the world.

The things that really made today a good day, in no particular order:

1--Innana and I spent most of the day together (doing things that will be detailed below);

2--Innana and I saw TigerGrrl get her solid orange belt in karate. TigerGrrl gave Innana TigerGrrl's old belt (yellow) and the board she broke (one kick). I think Innana had thought I was being boastful about TigerGrrl and karate, but Innana could see that my offspring is one fierce not-so-little karate kid.

3--I got to see both of the FoilKids even though it's Insane Ex's weekend with them, because of the karate belt test. Innana, Insane Ex, and I took turns keeping DestructoGirl busy (she likes to yell "Ay-yah!" at innopportune times in karate class and exams), which involved lots of cuddling and chasing. Innana noted, very politely, that maybe DestructoGirl is old enough to learn how to, how shall I put this, obey every once in a while.

4--Innana and I then went to the Silver Diner and had blueberry pancakes (Innana) and the trucker's special* (moi).

5--I found buttons (new buttons) for Francesca's sweater**, a sweater I made for Innana but was not quite the thing for Innana (I made another for her with the turquoise yarn Prom sent me) but will look quite nice on FoilMormor (also with yarn from Prom, not at all coincidentally), and a sweater for me. And, after carefully choosing the buttons by price to fit in my budget but still picking nice buttons (we were way out near Rockville at G Street Fabrics, the largest petting zoo for the stitching woman -- and they have a room full of buttons for which Innana's guidance and direction was invaluable) I discovered that the buttons were 25% off, sale ending tomorrow. Yippee!

6--After immediately losing all buttons*** (running around the A.C. Moore craft store right next to G Street Fabric and finding a few other key items, all at less than I had planned to spend), which I could not afford to buy again, even though they were bought on sale (and still were on sale, as the weekend had not ended, indeed, it was only twenty minutes after I bought them that I lost them by putting them down somewhere when I picked something else up), we returned to the scene of the loss and asked if anyone had turned in a bagful of lovely buttons. No such luck, but then we cased the joint and someone had helpfully placed my bag of buttons, with receipt, on top of a hideous craft display of bridal flower yuckola where my buttons looked like jewels cast before swine.+ I immediately gave the buttons to Innana and told her to keep possession of them until we and they (the buttons) were safely ensconced in the FoilFlat.

7--Since it was finally a lovely spring day, Innana and I sat on the patio of the FoilFlat and I immediately sewed all required buttons on Francesca's sweater, which looks great. Then I finished assembling my sweater and sewed the buttons on that. Now I just have to finish the crochet braid trim (in contrasting color, also provided by Prom, naturally) and make the buttonholes and I can then sew the buttons on that sweater. I am so finishing the trim tonight and sewing the buttons on immediately thereafter so we have no more attacks of the Tibetan Button Curse (see *** below).

It was a good day.


*The ever healthful chicken-fried steak and eggs, which is what I always want when I'm stressed out, and given the week I've had, comfort food (Innana's generous treat) really helped.

**Now that I have bought the new buttons, the old ones will, of course, reappear.

***I may have some sort of ancient Tibetan Button Curse hanging over me, causing me to lose buttons.

+Actually, the buttons were in a plastic bag that was ugly and were otherwise invisible to bridal-bouquet makers (who use fake flowers!) who wouldn't know what to do with nice Italian and French buttons if one of them (the buttons) gave them (the tacky bridal bouquet makers) a wedgie worthy of Captain Underpants. But the buttons were lovely and found, and that's the point.

Search Terms (Again!)

It's time for the always favored blogging feature: What Moronic Search Terms Have Brought People to This Fine Blog. As always, my Saturday morning review of Stat Counter and Site Meter leaves me with very little hope for my fellow men and women.

My personal favorite: "someing to masturbation to". Men of the world! For the love of labrador retrievers, American manhood (Jackson, Tennessee: the wankers in your town can't write or spell -- you might want to do something about that), and my sensibilities, think for a darn second. If you want to masturbate to something, envision that something (You can form pictures in you brain, right? That's envisioning.) and either hold that thought or search for that thing. Like "beautiful women" or "mukluks". There've got to be some mukluk fetishists out there somewhere. Possibly someone traumatized by W.C. Fields strumming the ukelee with mukluks on and then intoning "It's not fit outside for man nor beast."* But whatever ever it is that you want to want to, look for that, not the vague "something to masturbate to" which really good be anything. Who knows? And you came here. You lucky dog.

I'm afraid for the child who caught the attention of this adult searching for "jeffrey dahmer walked two steps forward and one step back as a child". Why would someone be looking for that information. I had this image of some Andrea Yates-type seeing a kid walk a funny walk and immediately looking for some deep psychological problem or demonic possession, rather than realizing that most children are largely high-ranking officials in the Ministry of Silly Walks. Whoever in Auburn, Alabama was looking for this information, trust me, the silly walk was a silly walk. He became a psychopath because of brain wiring, abuse, or whatever reason, but a weirdo walk is just a weirdo walk. You really don't need to know more about it than that.

Okay, this reader in Kampala, Uganda actually surprised me. He or she is searching for: "confessing infidelity spouse". Now, I actually discuss that topic in this blog. And I say, don't do it if you're a woman and actually want to live to tell the tell. Particularly if your husband is African, and I can speak with some authority on that subject. Except Insane Ex was from a different religious community than those generally found in Uganda, so maybe it's different there. Maybe not. Or maybe it's a man who wants to confess? Again, if you practised safe sex don't. You'll feel better for five minutes, but she will feel worse a lot longer which will, in the long run, make you feel worse too. Or maybe this is a spouse trying to decide what today about an unfaithful husband or wife's confession. Hey, only you know why you put up with that person. Good luck.

And this one: "bad online dating experience"? No shit, Sherlock. It's pretty random, so you're going to have some bad experiences. There really isn't anything you can do to make sure it's all good. But I suppose blogs are as good a place as any to read about bad dating experiences (it can be pretty funny) so this person in Xiamen, China is on the right track. It's funny, I immediately assumed that the person was looking to avoid bad online dating experiences and thought "lots of luck, sweetheart", but only afterwards did it occur to me that the purpose of the search could have been to indulge in a good bit of schadenfreude. Okay, that search makes sense too.

Now here's one that I have to think what on Earth was the search engine supposed to do: "baron sexy mother on my lap". What logorithm would apply? What results would come up for this search other than my blog, which I guess came up because the word "baron" appears once in my blogroll, I'm a mother, something in here may or may not be sexy, but I write about sex (in very general terms), and I have discussed having my kids sit on my lap (They do. They're children. That's what children do with their mothers.)? Here is what popped up for this reader in Antalya, Turkey. What was this person looking for? Beats me. I suppose he (assumption, but I'm pretty sure I'm right) is looking for stories or pictures of women sitting on the lap of someone else. Nobility? Baron? Or is he looking for an illustration to the personal theory of relativity? You know, if you sit on a hot stove for a minute, it feels like an hour, but if a pretty woman sits on your lap for a minute it feels like a second?

Here's one that I read and I just have the urge to answer the question, rather forcefully: "how to deal with spouse who is ultra neat freak". Well, as a slob, I say, let him clean up. Thank you. Or if you can't live with it, leave. Presumably this spouse in Nashville, Tennessee knew whether or not his or her intended was a neat freak before marriage and knew of his or her own slovenliness quotient. Did this person miraculously change? Or you only now noticed that you're actually going to have to live with him or her? Anyway, Nashville, here are your choices: (1) you get neat to accommodate your spouse's standards and possibly let resentment build, (2) you don't get neat, and let your spouse clean up, and let resentment build, (3) you sit down and meaningfully discuss standards, timing, frequency, and things you will actually do and also meaningfully discuss how much time you are or are not willing to dedicate (and have your spouse dedicate) to housecleaning and how much time you'd like to have left for hiking, horseback-riding, hiking, playing music, listening to music, or reading a book (watching TV doesn't count and isn't a good use of time: my blog, my value judgments), or (4) give up and leave.

The rest of the searches are pretty mundane: "how to be a good friend with a former spouse" -- I feel badly that this person got sent to this blog with that query, but the query itself doesn't make my flesh crawl and I hope this Washington, DC Internet surfer's time wasn't wasted although I fear it was; "i lost weight during pregnancy" -- weight loss in pregnancy does get discussed here, although not in enough detail to help this London, England searcher; "my rent" -- boy howdy; "imp of satan" -- definitely discussed in this blog, I've known many; and others.

I now need to recline on comfy sofa, supine, with a cup of revivifying coffee.

*Innana, I can't find anything that looks like the title for this great oevre in Fields's filmography in Wikipedia, but I remember you showing me that film, so what was it?

Back into Crisis Mode

And there's really no need for it. No, it's not the Insane Ex. It's my previously kind and helpful bank. I just got notice from them that they have returned my rent check. Not for insufficient funds, no. They just returned it, that's all. Well, maybe they returned it for "just barely enough funds" because I had three ($3!) dollars more than the amount of my rent ($1880) in my checking account when the check got rejected. Of course, later in the day, more money went into the account and I had a teensy-weensy bit of money in my savings account in case my math was in error.

But no! I went to my online bank statement and my math was correct. On the day the check was to clear, I not only had the princely sum of $3 extra dollars in my checking account, I had a small amount of money in my savings account. Now, the returned check fee is $22, and the fee for late rent is 5% of one's rent (or, in this case $94), so this little screw up is going to cost me $116. I don't have an extra $116. Oh, and I now have to pay my April rent by cashier's check, which is a pain in the rear.

Except I'm going to have a friendly conversation with my bank manager and explain how math works, and tell him that $1883 minus $1880 is still a positive number and please quit with the bouncing checks when I have the funds to pay.

I really don't have the time or energy to devote to fighting this one out, but I'm going to, if only to get back the $22 and to preserve the $94 (if I have any say in this, the bank will pay the the late fee). I am so tired. All this niggling stuff wears one down and then you miss things.

Comments: Blogger Trouble

I'm having trouble commenting on other blogs, and I have been told that there are problems leaving problems on my blog. Various comments of mine to Jewish Atheist, Stranger's Fever, Juanita, and Cookie have disappeared and never turned up. Innana hasn't been able to comment on this blog and other blogs. What's going on? I'm irked. Irked, irked, irked.

Anyone who is having trouble with commenting on this blog please email me at Foilwoman at gmail dot com. Please also post here.

A Failure of Imagination

Please know that in writing this post I do not mean to demean anyone loss or diminish the horror of what happened at Virginia Tech. I'm not saying it's not horrible.

News media and bloggers and people talking keep referring to the multiple murders and Virginia Tech in Blacksburg as unimaginable and incomprehensible. I wonder whether these people have read the same history books that I have. I wonder whether these people have read any of the news stories that I have. I wonder if these people have any awareness of the extensive history of gun violence, even in schools, in the United States.

It is not commonplace to have people kill other people in large numbers. It is a blessedly rare event. But it is not unheard of.

Anyone reading about the events in Blacksburg could jump to a variety of conclusions right from the beginning. It was almost inevitable that the shooter be described as a loner. The shooter was a man. That the shooter was not a white man was a fairly big surprise (these are generally white guys). The failure to react proactively to the first two shooters was based on Virginia Tech officials understanding that the original shooting was a "domestic disturbance", meaning some man killed his girlfriend or former girlfriend or wife or further wife, and thus it wouldn't affect normal (blameless) people. Except of course, the last belief, by Virginia Tech officials was wrong on all counts. And doesn't make the people who suffer domestic violence in Blackburg feel safer as their murders will only be "domestic disturbances."

This crime fits into a framework we already know. I may not understand the shooter's mentality, but I can see the lens through which his actions are judged. These actions are entirely human actions. Only human. Most animals kill for food or to protect turf, not to commit an elaborate suicide whilst bringing others along for the ride. That's pretty much exclusively human (and mostly male) behavior. But this sort of thing is what we can be and what we must fight against to live in a civilized society. The urge to violence and murder is fairly innate in humans, but it can be overcome. You just have to imagine it. I don't see how someone can say they don't imagine this. How?

Why Embrace a Stereotype?

Big Grampa would tell me, as a teenager and young woman, that I should be a little more careful of the male ego. Part of being feminine, I guess. Now Big Grampa is married to his third wife (I liked his second wife. She died. I like his third wife, but they've been living in Europe for their entire marriage so I don't know her well.) who is a good bit younger than he is and not much older than I am. That's not a problem for me. She's Russian. That's not a problem for me. I truly believe he loves her and that's not a problem for me. I believe she loves him or, at any rate, feels genuine affection and respect for him. I am happy they have each found someone.

He met her when he was teaching in Russia. She handled administrative tasks for the U.S. professors and this program, and while he was there, her husband died. He had run off to Russia after being widowed, and I think there was some mutual consoling. Natasha had a teenaged daughter who she really didn't want to stay in Russia (where the help wanted ads specify the gender of the applicant and most ads for women request young and "compliant" women). I'm quite sure that the prospect of a green card for herself and her daughter were definite assets that my father could offer Natasha, and I think that's perfectly okay. My stepsister, Lyudmila, is now 25 and a graduate of a nice U.S. college and has a good job in the computer industry in New England. She's not compliant on the job.

All and all I think my father and Natasha have a good marraige. Just every so often my father comes up with stuff and Natasha nods approvingly (or if not approvingly, acceptingly) and I wonder: who the fuck in her right mind would tolerate this stuff*?

My father has become all Yoda-like spouting bits of ancient Russian wisdom (or hackneyed Soviet sexism, depending on your perspective) that make me want to rinse my brain and ears with bleach. The one that sticks in my craw the most (and makes me want to send Natasha the links to I Blame the Patriarchy, Reclusive Leftist, Feministe, Feministing, etc., not that that would do a lick of good) is this one:

"The man is the head of the body and the woman is the neck. The neck can turn the head anywhere the neck wants."

I hear that and don't think he's saying she's really the boss. I hear that and think: he's saying she has to manipulate him. There are many other worse sayings he comes up with, but that's the one that just makes me want to yell at Natasha: "You don't have to maneuver: just say what you want."

Why does this bug me so much?

*That's probably a question that could and should be asked of most marriages, but I'm asking it of this particular marriage.

Bad Words

TigerGrrl has friends from Korea, Japan, Sri Lanka, Cameroon, Cote D'Ivoire, France, Italy, and Libya, and that's just in our neighborhood. Kids pick up a lot of stuff, and one of the things that was discussed in the play group on Friday was bad gestures. It became quite clear to me, as TigerGrrl relayed the discussion to me that TigerGrrl had absolutely no idea what at least five of the seven words you can't say on television are and certainly didn't know what the gestures indicating those words meant, in any language.

After DestructoGirl was in bed, TigerGrrl and I discussed cursing. She told me she thought there were two bad "s" words: "stupid" and "shut up". Then she told me that the "f" word stands for "fuck". We then agreed that actually her two "s" words are probably worse words. I explained that a lot of people use words to describe procreation as bad words which is really silly as that process should be (1) fun and (2) good. She couldn't figure out how doing the thing that makes a baby is something that someone (like her Papa) swears at someone who cuts him off in traffic.

Stupid and shut up are worse worse. Of course, sometimes, you just want to tell someone to "shut the fuck up, stupid." That's bad language (don't worry, I didn't explain that to her).

Mistakes Happen, But Human Evil, Cupidity, and Avarice Require the Active Voice

I have not yet finished the Greatest Blog Post* of all time, so please bear with me. I need to find links for this post, but want to get it posted, so I'll edit and add the links at a later date.

Innana told me about a trend she has noticed, and I had vaguely noticed it also (no surprises here: she's more alert and observant than I am). It's the "mistakes were made" statement being used to describe intentional actions that were not mistakes as that word is commonly understood, except apparently the meaning of the word "mistake" has changed.

Apparently, for a while after her arrest for what would have to be attempted murder, Lisa Nowak still worked at NASA. According to Wikipedia she was fired on March 8, 2007, about a month after the attempted crime. During that period of time, Innana heard someone talking (or possibly a radio call in show discussion) where Ms. Nowak's continued employment was mentioned. The commenter then said that is was good that Ms. Nowak was still working in NASA's mapping or whatever department because it would be a shame to lose all that astronaut training and something like "it would be a shame to lose all the expensive training because she made a mistake.

Don Imus, who referred to a basketball team of young, mostly black, women as "nappy headed hos" said, on the radio something like "I did a bad thing, but I'm not a bad person. I made a mistake." Don Imus has daughters, by the way.

Alberto Gonzales has acknowledged, in the passive voice, that "mistakes were made" regarding the firing of the U.S. attorneys or more specifically, the inaccurate information that was given to Congress by Mr. Gonzales's subordinates. It's pretty clear that the inaccurate statements and information were not the result of Alzheimer's level memory lapses, but were actual lies.

Karl Rove has said pretty much exactly the same thing about information about Valerie Plame and what he told about her status as a CIA agent to the news media. Mistakes were made.

None of the four actions described above were mistakes. Lisa Nowak did not accidentally drive 900 miles with latex goves, rubber hoses, mace, garbage bags, and various weapons to confront her intended victim. The action was wrong, criminal, and evil, but it wasn't mistaken. Don Imus wasn't mistaken when her made a racist and sexist slur against the Rutgers women's basketball team. It was something he shouldn't have said, but it wasn't something he didn't intend to say. It was wrong, it was racist, it was sexist, it was immature, it was unpleasant, and it once again revealed Don Imus to be (along with Donald Trump among others) an unattractive more than middle-aged man with really bad hair who still feels it's his place to make women feel bad about who they are even though he has absolutely no standing to do that.

Alberto Gonzales and his minions of stupidity did not mistake the truth. They failed to tell the truth. They might be mistaken about the nature of truth, their duty to tell the truth, and whether the sun rises in the East, but it's pretty clear that most everyone raising his or her right hand and swearing on the Bible (oh, isn't it nice to give it a deity's imprimatur?) that Alberto Gonzales and the White House were uninvolved in the firings lied deliberately and part of a policy by the Justice Department and the White House. This was not a mistake. This was perjury, this was obstruction of justice, this was a perversion of everything the Department of Justice stands for, but it was pretty obviously deliberate and intentional.

Ditto for Karl Rove. The disclosure that Valerie Plame was an undercover CIA agent by the Administration was clearly not unwitting. It was a deliberate payback for actions by her husband, Joseph Wilson. It was a breach of national security and possibly treason. It was not a mistake.

Why is everyone letting this phrasing take root? A mistake is, in Innana's polite phrasing, "forgetting to pick up milk at the grocery store"** Wrongdoing, unless truly inadvertent (which is really rather rare), should not be characterized as a mistake. It seems like people are trying to avoid saying "criminal behavior", "wrong", "evil", or even "moral "lapse" and instead say "mistake". If I'm not mistaken, that's just wrong. And, in a banality of evil sense, evil. It's Orwellian: changing the language to mean something other than what one would ordinarily mean, and doing so by euphemism and blandification.

Innana has also noticed another area where the word "mistake" has changed meanings, or to be more precise, where the word mistake has fallen out of usage. This area would be in education and training. Apparently, in schools now (and I don't know how widespread this is: I haven't noticed it in TigerGrrl's school, but I will now be paying attention) teachers don't tell children that a wrong answer is wrong or that a misspelled word is a mistake. "It's the right answer to the another question" is the mantra. And red ink isn't used to correct because it could traumatize (please tell me I misheard that quote and no-one ever said that) the poor child. I'm sorry, but when a new article refers to an agency in Sweden as the Swiss whatever board, that's just wrong. It's a mistake. Similarly, addition, multiplication, subtraction, and division tables (and tests) have right and wrong answers, and the wrong answers are generally mistakes. When asked what three times seven is, any answer other than twenty-one is a mistake. It's not the right answer to another question (well, it is, but only in a really stupid way); the only right answer to the question asked is twenty-one. That's it.

Needless to say, our current crop of students are going to absolutely blow at playing blackjack. And I wonder how any of these kids will function with traumatizing red ink if they ever work for a partner in a law firm or an editor at a national publication who really is particular about phrasing and grammar.

And then of course, most of us work in jobs where when we make mistakes no one dies or loses millions of dollars, but there are jobs out there (doctor, nurse, any driver or pilot of mass transit) where mistakes can be fatal.

But we have this language shift: real evil, stupidity, cupidity, and venality is characterized as a mistake having been made; not even real direct action by the perpetrator, and genuine mistakes can't be classifed as such. This is just creepy, and degrades our understanding of reality.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: we are the stories we tell. The stories we tell shape us and change us. I'll also say: the words we use, the language we use, changes our view of the world and eventually changes the world.

Don't let people call criminality and evil "mistakes". Don't let people say errors are wrong or mistaken. In the long run the price will simply be too high.


[When I get a chance, I'll track back and add the links]

*It's now 13 pages long, so I think some editing may be required.

**Please note that, in Innana's world view, forgetting to pick up cat food for Rajah***, however, is a capital offense. You have to have priorities.

***A big and happy boy, he needs his Fancy Feast.

What Were They Thinking?

The Greatest Blog Post of all time is still a work in progress. I hope you can adjust. In the meantime, I have discovered that as well as having been awarded a Thinking Blogger award (thanks Jeanie!), I have been nominated for the possibly completely unesteemed Best DC Blog by the Sexiest Female Blogger at Best DC Blogs. Who nominated me is unclear. Apparently that information is in the comments somewhere, but I haven't found it, but we need to do so, because that person needs to get his or her vision checked.

I'm as human as the next person: I like to be flattered and I like to get awards, and this week's Best DC Blogs contest is at least positive. Last week's contest was a contest to determine the BEST DC Blog You Most Want Run Over by the Redline or a Metrobus . The site makes it clear that it is the blog that should get hit by the train or bus, not the blogger. Nonetheless, while I feel ambivalent to be in the running (at this point) for any award with sexy in the title, it's better to be sexy than hit by a train.

But that brings me back to the question the black sperm (getting ready for his big jump out of the clearly white and circumcized penis) asked in Woody Allen's "Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask": "What the hell am I doing here?"

Whoever nominated me: you do know I'm a plump, cranky, divorcee with two children under age 10 (one of them under age three and still in diapers) who works in an anonymous (and easy to remain anonymous because it's completely unglamorous) job in a completely unglamorous industry? Or not, I suppose.

I'm a good 15 to 20 years older than anyone else nominated. But I guess I should just be flattered, because I don't write about my physical existence much (except for extolling a particular wine or recipe or whatever), so whatever anyone finds sexy about me, it will be based on my best feature, my brain. Which is as good as nominating me for Best Blog, without any sexiness qualificaitons. So they like my writing, they really like my writing (or at least one person does). Go me.

Only Family Can Really Hurt Your Feelings (Even If You're Being a Whiny Overly Sensitive, Baby Girl)

Okay, I forgot that it was my two year anniversary of blogging on the fifth. Oops. Should've thrown a party or something. I keep thinking I'll get bored and stop, but I don't. I know I repeat myself sometimes, and some themes just keep coming back. You shoot them, you hit them with a stick, you throw them under the ice, but they just won't die. Those are Rasputin type themes. Issues to be dealt with that clearly haven't been resolved yet. (If they were resolved, they wouldn't keep returning, would they?)

No, the big latest post about the meaning of life, dating, relationships, sex, gender roles and stereotypes and money is not yet ready (yes, I'm working on it; yes, I am serious; yes, I am rather delusional; no, it doesn't have a hope in hell of being a brief and readable post). Until my magnum opus post is done, the post that explains it all (really, which will be much more meaningful than The Secret*, I'll recap the weekend and the last two years of blogging.

Blogging first. According to StatCounter, since April 13, 2005 (when I started tracking visitors), I've had (checking right now) 47,223 visitors. According to Sitemeter, I've had 29,181 visitors sinc June 14, 2005. I didn't have, clearly, 18,000 or so visitors between April 13, 2005 and June 14, 2005. But both counters miss some visitors. I have one reader in Spain who shows up on Sitemeter but not Stat Counter. The reverse with other readers. I have one reader in Brazil on Sitemeter who shows up as a reader in Connecticut on Stat Counter. Clearly, my statistics aren't very accurate. But in neither case do I have a lot of readers. But I do have people I actually do communicate with, people I have met, people I write to, and all that makes my life richer and better. I'll never pay for a truly accurate statistics tracker, so my information on who is reading this blog will always be sketchy at best.

So back to my Easter weekend. Yesterday was a pretty good day. After morning errands, I headed off to SNV and Ex-Marine Fred's abode (SNV has a sign in her driveway that says "Parking for Vikings Only"). I visited with the cats Trudy and Lucy. Lucy is a redhead. We then had lunch (at Mancini's, Cookie, don't you feel jealous) and did some shopping. I picked up an Easter present for Rajah, Innana's cat, who Ex-Marine Fred was cat-sitting, but I was visiting for company yesterday. He's a big boy, Rajah is.

It's probably cruel or abusive, but there is nothing more amusing than watching a cat get spastically silly on catnip, especially a big burly macho dude of a cat. Then Ex-Marine Fred inspected the GrammyMobile and declared that he thought he could fix the Windshield Wiper of Doom and Despair. It only took him the time it took SNV and me to drink one glass of Chardonnay to get that windshield back in gear. So all and all, a nice day, nice meal, an annoyance that had been hanging over my head fixed, and some wine. There was some good rebroadcast 1940s jazz shows on WAMU driving home, and the GrammyMobile was practically jitterbugging on the beltway.

Today, I saw Uber and some friends of hers, including one guy who who sat next to me and claimed that he is friends with a man who owns, at least in part a portion of Manchester United and the Montreal Canadiens. I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do with that information. Believe it? Of course, you know me, I'm research girl. I looked up the alleged friend. He doesn't own Manchester United (d'oh). He was one of a group who tried to buy Liverpool FC. Since none of this means anything to me, it makes me wonder: why do people try to impress people with whom they know? Most of the time you just feel a bit resentful and put out.

I understood that the man I was talking to was trying to impress me with his big connections, but it would be more believable if he didn't make factual errors (lie or misremember, you decide) about stuff that is verifiable. At least for me, one of whose superpowers is research. And you know what? I don't care about big connections. I'm not a big connection, and I don't need someone to have rank to be someone I like.

One of my relatives actually managed to hurt my feelings while trying to name drop in that sort of way, so I'm probably overly sensitive. My LOS is about three years into a new career, a career which was my old career, my pre-lapsarian career. Obviously, with the advent of TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl my ability to be a take no prisoners yuppy professional pretty much went extinct and is now a fossil. LOS's ability is just taking off. She has, as a new client, a name that pretty much everyone in the U.S. would recognize. It's quite the professional coup. LOS told FoilMormor, because FoilMormor has had plenty of bad news regarding her daughters in the last few years and it's nice to get good news. FoilMormor understandably bragged to Aunt Elsebet and Uncle Jansaman. Uncle Jan just can't keep his big mouth shut either. He then sent a letter congratulating LOS regarding this career triumph and mentioned all his business contacts who were somehow, in ways I do not comprehend, connected to LOS's client. He copied this email to me, of course, so I could see how successful LOS is (compared to me, who sucks, apparently).

I handled this very professionally of course. I burst into tears and sent FoilMormor this beyond pathetically whiny email: "I'm glad at least one of your daughters is putting her advanced degree to work." I sent LOS a letter congratulating her, and LOS got on the phone telling Jansaman to drink a great big cup o' shut-the-fuck-up. (She also told FoilMormor not to spread news around, not just to avoid one-upping whinging younger sisters but to keep her clients business private.)

Of course, I've gotten oodles of emails over the last 48 hours regarding how proud everyone is of how I've handled all my Troubles** in the last years. Now I'm plotting revenge. Not really revenge. I'm going to use Jansaman's wish to be with the social and political A-list to get money out of him for a cause I care about and that is dear to Uber's heart.

I raise money for a traditional, but rather liberal, religious institution, not out of profound belief, but out of a sense of respect, cultural affinity, and a wish to repay assistance that institution gave me in the past (scholarships). This institution is quite the place for A-list types, and I'm going to name drop up the wazoo ("Ambassador T and I are going to . . . " , "You know, Ms. A was a Congressperson and now works for Z and she will be joining our committee on this project . . ."; things like that). Please note, I have no real acquaintance with either Ambassador T or Ms. A, but I'll phrase it the right way and I bet I'll get money from Jensaman for an organization that is more liberal than he is by several orders of magnitude just because he might meet these people. Did I say that Jansaman is a Republican before?

I feel a little evil hatching this plan, but hey, it's Easter. He needs to get in touch with his spiritual side, and I aim to help.

*But that's easy, because that book is meaningless pablum and no I didn't read it. I don't need to read it to know it's dreck. It's dreck.

**Makes me sound like Ireland, doesn't it. And heck, for once, they're not a basket case, so maybe there's hope for me.

Conquering the Windshield Wiper of Doom and Despair

Since late March I have been trying to get the driver's side windshield wiper in my car to actually wipe the windshield when it rains. At first, I though merely the blade needed replacing. Then I had a little run-in with some women-need-to-obey-the-biblical-imperative-and-submit-to-men idiot at some car parts place like Auto-Spudinski-Mart-Trak-Parkometer. Even while trying to convert me to some cultish version of Christianity* whilst installing the new wiper blade, my would be savior was unable to get the wiper to actualy wipe liquid from the windshield. Needless to say, I did not regard this failure as a sign from god that I needed to repent NOW.

Of course I repent many things. I most particularly repent not driving my car immediately over to Ex-Marine Fred's Auto-Shop and Superheroine Assistance Supply Room. SNV sent EMF to the Magic Basement to get the necessary tools, poured my a glass of Australian Chardonnay, and said: "I told him to fix it." He did. No messing around with mechanics who talk to god next time. I'm going straight to the guy who learned how to fix an overheated jeep with a cracked engine block in the jungles of Viet Nam with mashed bananas and elephant grass. I have no idea what that previous sentence means, and I believe it is a tall tale. EMF says he's a Texan, so he won't let the truth (or actual mechanics or anything like that) get in tht way of a good story.

Nonetheless, the Windshield Wiper of Doom and Despair has been exorcised and can no longer fill my heart with gloom. A few taps with a wrench, a couple muffled curses, and all is as good as new with no further expenditure on my part. Next time the GrammyMobile slips a gasket, I'm just camping out at SNV's house until EMF shows up and fixes whatever ails the GrammyMobile.

I do sometimes wish I could work up and interest about learning how to fix machines. But machines are so boringly mechanical. Bleah. At least if it rains tomorrow, the wipers will work.

*Don't worry, it didn't take. I'll either be attending Unitarian or Episcopalian Easter services tomorrow, if any, prior to a nice midday meal with Uber and her spouse.

Kathleen Parker Doesn't Want Mothers to Go to War, But She Really Doesn't Care About the Fathers All that Much. Ms. Parker, Why Do You Hate Men?

I'm not quite sure what the Washington Post is trying to accomplish by publishing this op-ed piece or who Kathleen Parker is (I'm writing this viscerally, right after reading this men-are-disposable*-but-women-are-not piece of illogic) except to show the rational sides of an argument and the irrational sides.

She starts off with this:

On any given day, one isn't likely to find common cause with Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. He's a dangerous, lying, Holocaust- denying, Jew-hating cutthroat thug -- not to put too fine a point on it.

But he was dead-on when he wondered why a once-great power such as Britain sends mothers of toddlers to fight its battles.

Lets just stop right there. Is it Ms. Powers position that a great power shouldn't send parents of young children into battle? No. Just mothers. Fathers of young children can apparently be sent into harm's way, no problem. Men's rights activitists, you're normally way off base, but this is someone to whom you really ought to respond. Your lives (even if you are misguided and stupid MRA) are not worth less because you are men and fathers.

Ms. Parker then goes on to discuss that the West should feel humiliated because a woman was taken hostage.

And we in the West get to look humiliated, foolish and weak.

Just because we may not "feel" humiliated doesn't mean we're not. In the eyes of Iran and other Muslim nations, we're wimps. While the West puts mothers in boats with rough men, Muslim men "rescue" women and drape them in floral hijabs. Now, the Muslim world, and most particularly the men in the Muslim world might feel that our sending women to patrol their coastline is humiliating to us or they might feel it's humiliating to them (to have a female opponent). Ms. Parker doesn't do more than assert what she knows (for a fact?) Muslim** men are feeling.

Even if they are feeling this way, what does that mean for us? Someone can beat me in a game or contest that he or she has set up in her or his own mind, and I don't have to feel beaten. If my next door neighbors think I should feel humiliated because I buy second-hand clothes and don't keep up with them in the mutually assured financial destruction pact of the suburban cold war, have I actually lost anything or been humiliated by not giving a flying fuck and not wasting my money?

Equally, Muslim men can*** feel we have humiliated ourselves to beat the band. We don't have to agree. Apparently, Ms. Parker likes the way conservative theocracies treat women and thinks that sex-segregation, veils, limited horizons for women, and limited societal responsibilities are good ideas. I disagree and assume that most British subjects, U.S. citizens, and others will agree with me.

Ms. Parker then says:

It is not fashionable these days to suggest that women don't belong in or near combat -- or that children need their mothers. Yes, they need their fathers, too, but children in their tender years are dependent on their mothers in unique ways

. While generally the primary care giver is the mother, more and more often it is the father. In the first years' of TigerGrrl's life, I worked more than full-time and she was home with her father. If there had been a war and a draft then, I would have gone to pretty extreme lengths to make sure he didn't have to go to war so that TigerGrrl wouldn't have to suffer the loss of the person with whom she spent most of her days. But never mind actual children, let's just blanket it with the idea that all mothers, always, are the primary care givers and then we don't have to address the ideas of fathers who are actually involved in their children's day to day lives (as many are nowadays, whether or not they are the primary care-givers) whose absence will be a profound and real loss in their children's lives.

We have chosen, as societies, to inch, incrementally, toward equality between the sexes. As such, women are having the opportunity to be surgeons (and catch hepatitis and other diseases more easily and quickly than non-surgeons), fly in the space shuttle (and die in fiery crashes), be police officers (and deal with the risks and dangers inherent there), etc. Ms. Parker may wish to exclude women from these honorable, valuable, and sometimes exhilirating roles (and sometimes mind-numbingly boring roles), but women don't want to be excluded. We don't want the risks to fall only on men. We want to shoulder that burden. We don't think fathers of toddlers should risk this and mothers of toddlers shouldn't.+

Next, Ms. Parker says that the West is diminishing motherhood:

Why the West has seen it necessary to diminish motherhood so that women can pretend to be men remains a mystery to sane adults.

I have to disagree in part. It's not motherhood the West is diminishing. It's parenthood. We send parents of young children off to war. In the U.S., we don't provide reasonable cost child care or resources for families so poor that both parents have no choice but to work. We don't do much of anything for families except provide tax-deductions which really aren't much use at lower income levels.

A pro-family military policy would exempt parents of young children from service in a war zone. Of course, in the U.S., given our troop levels and our Commander in Chief's plan to never back down, even when clearly on the wrong path, without a draft, within the next few years we'll be sending the kids as well as the parents to Iraq. Now I admit, a fully-loaded DestructoGirl diaper++ would clear most battlefields in an instant (and bring charges of chemical weapons use so to avoid war crimes trials, I'd better keep the cute and chubby one here), but I think we should actually think about who we're sending to war and why. And yes, I think parents can volunteer to serve in the military and go to war, parents of both sexes. I don't like it, but it's their choice. I do wonder about the children of mothers and fathers in war zones and the losses they may suffer, but unless society wants to protect parents of young children as a whole, really there's no issue.

Ms. Parker then raises the old bugaboo, rape, regarding women as prisoners.

Rape, though not a likely risk in this case, is a consistent argument against putting women in or near combat. While advocates for women in combat argue that men are also raped, there is an important difference. Women are raped by men, which, given the inherent power differential between the sexes, raises women's rape to another level of terror.

Yup, women who are captive can be raped and sexually assaulted. As can men, as we proved pretty conclusively with our treatement of prisoners at Abu Ghraib. Pretty heinous and horrible and inhumane, whether it happens to a woman or a man. And whether the assailant is a woman or a man. No, I don't think the terror level is different, and actually, as a crime of violence that includes a sexual element but really is an attack on bodily integrity, I don't think rape is substantively different that say, electric shocks to the genitals (we've done that, I believe) or any other number of horrible forms of torture to which prisoners of war and prisoners of conscience have been subjected. Really, who can say which is worse: Having your fingernails torn out one by one over time, having your bones broken, being maimed in any number of ways, being subjected to horrible pain that doesn't leave long-term marks but still hurts more than anyone should have to suffer, being strung up by one's thumbs or tied in a painful position for long periods of time, or being raped? Who the fuck knows? I bet whatever your captor is doing to you at the time feels the worsT, no? And it really won't matter if you're a man or a woman. You'll be fearful, humiliated, filled with pain, and probably emotionallY scarred.

So why don't we just set the example of, and here's a really good idea, not torturing our prisoners (sexually or otherwise) and ask for the same treatment of our soldiers who are captured. You know, set the higher standard for all soldiers, men or women. Our best protection of our troops is to comply with all prisoner of war treaties for all prisoners and demand the same treatment of our own troops taken prisoner. Take the high ground. Be the shining city on the hill that we claim we are.

*She says it's about protecting women, but the real subtext is that whatever she wants to protect women and mothers from, it is apparently okay to do to men and fathers.

**All Muslim men? Who knows.

***If indeed they do.

+In an ideal world, no parent of young children would be asked to put his or her life at risk for her country, but that has not been the way the military has been run. My great-grandfather died in World War I when my NuclearGrammy was five. She was devastated and that loss informed the rest of her life. It was not really a loss from which she ever completely recovered. One of my Aunts lost her father, not in the Bataan Death March (he survived that) and not when his first POW ship got sunk, but when his second POW ship got sunk. She didn't get over that either. In both cases, the loss of the father was as devastating as any parental loss. And in both cases, the mothers of the children were lost to their children shortly thereater (one of mental illness, being hospitalized for the remainder of her life and the other due to polio). Thus the loss of the father at war effectively orphaned my NuclearGrammy and my Aunt. I'm not sure why the parent at war being of one gender or another should make any real difference to the children involved. They're screwed, and they know it. That societies ask these sacrifices of children with regard to either parent is the real problem.

++When is that girl going to be toilet trained? Aiieee!

Family Troubles (Not Mine, Thank Goodness)

I have been drafting, on Word no less, a lengthy and substantive post that I will need to divide into thirteen or so parts to post here. It deals with gender roles, birds and bees talks with seven year olds, how to defend oneself, why men should learn to feed their own damn egos (and mine, on occasion), religion, and sex. Maybe I need to streamline it a bit. It does seem to have gotten away from me. Maybe I'll finish it this weekend.

I am childfree this weekend, and looking forward to some time alone, some time with SNV and Ex-Marine Fred* and Easter dinner with Uber and her husband (who I have only briefly met once although I've known Uber for 20 years and she and Linus have been married for 10). Innana is down in SouthernGothicTopia dealing with Complex Family Issues ("CFI").

I have CFI also, but they don't seem to suck the life out of me as much as they do out of Innana. Many a time I have had to stifle the urge to maim a member of her family. Right now, I don't have the urge to maim, but I do have the urge to give a reviving slap across the face to NOAS.

NOAS really can't help being a nitwit as she was dropped on her head (by Innana's father, not by the estimable DOL) as a child, has had seizures, used to take pretty heavy duty medicine for those seizures, and at some point became somewhat damaged. NOAS doesn't have great social skills and she doesn't have good or sensible reactions to most problems.

NOAS managed to not get re-enlisted in the army a few years ago (after 10 years of active duty she remained a private, so that gives you a hint as to her functionality) which is a pity, since that was the best job she has ever had. Now she's a nursing aid in a rural southern town earning slightly above minimum wage working less than a forty hour week (irregular shifts too). Her employer had her sign a non-compete agreement, which is probably illegal, so she believes she can't get another job with more regular hours or higher pay with another nursing home.

Wouldn't you just love to have a relative of yours cared for by people who can switch employers due to unfair anti-labor contract-of-adhesion non-compete agreements? Think of the extra nurturing the elderly will get from the truly trapped and poverty stricken.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, NOAS has been losing hours over time. She used to work close to full time, but her hours keep getting reduced, so her pay shrinks. DOL finally discovered why NOAS has been losing more weight that she sensibly should. NOAS is skinny enough now that sitting in a non-cushioned chair would have to be quite uncomfortable with all those bones and no padding in the derriere region.

As NOAS has trimmed and trimmed her non-existent budget, she has simply scrimped and saved and then simply continued to buy food for her daughter, but when she runs out of money for food, feeds her daughter first and simply doesn't eat herself.

DOL has asked Innana to chip in a small amount each month to help NOAS eat.

This is fine, except I have a whole passel of questions.

NOAS has had, until recently a dog. If NOAS is not eating, where's the dog? If Innana is going to go without buying cute knicknacks (I don't get it, but Innana likes that stuff) to help her sister, I'm sorry, I want the dog at the pound. Yes, I love animals too, but if you can't support your pets without shaking down non-wealthy family members -- give them away.

I haven't heard any budgetary analysis either. I.e., "I can give $20/month if I give up _____."

My biggest fear is that Innana will stop doing things that are important to her (Victorian society activities, going to theater, whatever) and get depressed while contributing to her sister's household. If you get depressed enough, of course, you can't earn a living and help the people who need you.

DOL has taken a proactive approach, contacting the Department of Veterans Affairs regarding job and training preferences, doing super coupon clipping, etc. Innana is down there this weekend. I hope everything will work out so that NOAS and her daughter are okay without more sacrifice than Innana can reasonably bear.

I just wish there were a series of clear financial decisions being made ("If I send $X/month, that is specifically for these things." "What is your budget? Let's make a list of income and expenditures. What can we cut? Can we add to income?")

I've had a brilliant idea but I'm not sure Innana would go for it, which is that Innana should work one weekend day at some antique/tchochke shop and set aside half the $$$ for NOAS and half for fun purchases of cute ceramic figurines that serve no purpose other than to make Innana happy (beats me but they do -- make Innana happy).

*Ex-Marine Fred will look at and diagnose the state of the Windshield Wiper of Doom and Despair, and possibly, if I am very lucky, fix that miserable little piece of machinery for me.

Award (Revised and Completed)

Hey, if one person likes me and says so, that gives me a lot of pleasure. So I was very pleased by Jeanie, of Jeanie in Paradise, awarding me a Thinking Blogger Award, a blogging award equivalent to the Nobel Prize in Literature or a MacArthur fellowship. Actually, it's just a compliment from Jeanie, except the phrase "just a compliment" has little meaning to me. It's a compliment. Thank you. Now, I just need to figure out how to post the little award button and name five blogs that make me think.

It's easy, but it's hard.

(1) Of course, I have to start with Stranger's Fever, by Bronze John. I know, I know, I've been touting on my blogroll for almost two years now. And my opinion hasn't changed in the least. Wise, humorous, filled with pain and joy, and beautifully written. Everyone should read this blog regularly. I won't be happy until he's getting a couple million hits a day. And any literary agent who is blog-surfing looking for potential authors could do a lot worse than to sign this writer up.

(2) I Blame The Patriarchy, by Twisty Faster. Please note, if you are, as Twisty says, a dude, don't go to her queer-centric spinster-auntly blog and try and tell her that dudes indeed do suffer and that not all men are sexist pigs. Read the FAQs, shut up, read the blog for a while, read the comments, and realize, as I will be discussing in my next post or so really, not all women have to make you feel better about yourself. Some of us don't mind doing that once in a while, but there really isn't a genetically programmed female mission statement "Must make the dude feel good about himself no matter what." Sometimes, you're peripheral. Deal with it. But anyone who can read Ms. Faster's blog over a period of time (remember: it's not written for you or me. This is a blog for advanced patriarchy blamers) and still state with sincerity that feminists have no sense of humor will just have conclusively proven that he (or she, but less likely) has no sense of humor.

(3) Reclusive Leftist, by Dr. Violet Socks, who may or may not be related to the Clintons' late cat. More of an intermediate patriarchy blamer, but anyone who can have a label (to deal with Mr. Clinton's immediate successor) entitled "Just Impeach the Stupid Freak" is someone I have to recommend.

(4) Is a three-way tie among Kira, Laurita, and First Nations. Kira and Juanita went through my delightful divorce experiences and then some and a forging the way for me in cheerful single-motherhood (or remarried motherhood, as the case may be). First Nations went through all this a good twenty years ago or so with her now Stainless Steel Amazon daughter (I haven't found the explanation for that nickname yet, but hey, it's a good one).

(5) Jewish Atheist, who brought me to religion, by which I mean her deliciousness, the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

For my awardees, here are the rules for your awards:
(1) If, and only if you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,
(2) Link to this post so that people can easily see the exact origin of this monster . . . I mean meme.
(3) Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (I would if I could figure out how).