November 28, 2007
Gender Identity and Connection
I've been reading the blog of a young F2M transgendered man in South Australia. If anyone ever catches me whining about the trouble of being female, slap my face. Really.
Three
I think LOS is trying to tell me something. She sent me a care package via UPS with lots of goodies for the Foilkids, including oodles of Boxcar Children books as well as some Wellingtons, etc. that her boys have outgrown. Included in the box was one book for me, entitled Your Three Year Old - Friend or Enemy, by Ames & Ilg (apparently, to be an author of this book, there was a one syllable surname requirement). What do you think she's trying to tell me about DestructoGirl? Hide now?
November 26, 2007
Creating a Barrier
Writing this blog has introduced me to a number of wonderful people. No-one I have met who I first contacted or who first contacted me through this blog has been a disappointment. However, I realize now that while I am making friends through blogging, this blog will be a barrier between me and a truly close relationship with a potential partner.
Who the heck, in his right mind, would want his actions reviewed, even if he remains anonymous. And certainly, at least in the early days (2005) of this blog, I revealed a lot of stuff about myself that might give anyone who isn't a card-carrying loon (and even some Republicas) pause.
And the ethics of reaching out to connect while writing a review of behavior also is not straightforward.
But none of that means I'm giving up this blog. I'm not doing that. I enjoy
writing it too much.
So I'm honestly assessing the situation and refraining from reaching to anyone who I can conceivably think of in a dating manner. At least not for now.
Who the heck, in his right mind, would want his actions reviewed, even if he remains anonymous. And certainly, at least in the early days (2005) of this blog, I revealed a lot of stuff about myself that might give anyone who isn't a card-carrying loon (and even some Republicas) pause.
And the ethics of reaching out to connect while writing a review of behavior also is not straightforward.
But none of that means I'm giving up this blog. I'm not doing that. I enjoy
writing it too much.
So I'm honestly assessing the situation and refraining from reaching to anyone who I can conceivably think of in a dating manner. At least not for now.
November 22, 2007
We Gather Together
Today's menu:
Ginger pumpkin soup
Steamed fresh brussels sprouts with butter and cumin
Possibly other mixed vegetables if I get off my duff, but chances of that at this point? 15%
Baked potatoes with dill sour cream, regular sour cream, or butter, or any combination thereof
Noodles (for the fussy-eating offspring)
Savory/herb bread stuffing
Roast turkey
Pan gravy
Pumpkin pie and apple turnover, either with real, fresh (not out of one of those spray cans) whipped cream
Accompanied by some sort of wine of Innana's choosing (or apple juice, orange juice, or milk, of you're a Foilkid) and then fresh-brewed coffee with cream and sugar, again, if desired.
The soup is made, the potatoes and brussels sprouts are washed and ready to cook, the pie and turnover are baked, the turkey is roasting, I have stock steaming ready to make fresh gravy, the soup is done except for adding a bit o'cream for smoothness, the stuffing is cooking away inside of the turker, the coffee service is set up and ready for me to hit the brew button, my table is set (with a truly fine TigerGrrl-made art-class-turker centerpiece). It's an hour until my guests arrive, and I'm relaxing with a glass of wine before the final stage of Thanksgiving cooking-and-eating frenzy sets it.
Everyone, happy Thanksgiving, and think of things for which you are thankful. I'll be posting my list later tonight. Cookie: We'll be toasting you as we chow down like pigs at the trough.
Ginger pumpkin soup
Steamed fresh brussels sprouts with butter and cumin
Possibly other mixed vegetables if I get off my duff, but chances of that at this point? 15%
Baked potatoes with dill sour cream, regular sour cream, or butter, or any combination thereof
Noodles (for the fussy-eating offspring)
Savory/herb bread stuffing
Roast turkey
Pan gravy
Pumpkin pie and apple turnover, either with real, fresh (not out of one of those spray cans) whipped cream
Accompanied by some sort of wine of Innana's choosing (or apple juice, orange juice, or milk, of you're a Foilkid) and then fresh-brewed coffee with cream and sugar, again, if desired.
The soup is made, the potatoes and brussels sprouts are washed and ready to cook, the pie and turnover are baked, the turkey is roasting, I have stock steaming ready to make fresh gravy, the soup is done except for adding a bit o'cream for smoothness, the stuffing is cooking away inside of the turker, the coffee service is set up and ready for me to hit the brew button, my table is set (with a truly fine TigerGrrl-made art-class-turker centerpiece). It's an hour until my guests arrive, and I'm relaxing with a glass of wine before the final stage of Thanksgiving cooking-and-eating frenzy sets it.
Everyone, happy Thanksgiving, and think of things for which you are thankful. I'll be posting my list later tonight. Cookie: We'll be toasting you as we chow down like pigs at the trough.
November 19, 2007
Just Happy (and Thankful)
Still broke and worried about the future, but happy. Why? A nice weekend with the Foilkids visiting Big Bob and Big Grampa (and Big Bob's lovely wife, Serena). The girls had a blast. Big Bob and Big Grampa babysat DestructoGirl while Serena and I went to church (a very nice multi-denominational church that had my favorite hymn -- yes I have one -- "We Gather Together" on the list of hymns to be sung in the program). TigerGrrl loved the lowkey Sunday school (!?) and wants to go there again when we go back to BigBobLand. DestructoGirl totally terrorized and captivated her grandfather and great Uncle. Lots of noiseproducing presents (a cat piano? A recorder?) and mess producing presents (bath paints, oil pastels) by the doting Grandad who clearly wants to destroy my sanity and furniture. We had a blast. We walked all over the beautiful (really) West Virginia countryside, ran around the 200 year old farm house, and generally had a great visit.
Off to work now.
Off to work now.
Don't Say Gifting
This is a public service announcement. Please don't use the word gifting. Washington Post writers, I'm looking at you. The correct gerund is "giving". Other awkward variants: to gift, he gifted, she gifts. Let's try it this way boys and girls: To give, I give, you give, he gives, she gives, you give, we give, they give. I gave, you gave, she gave, he gave, you gave . . . you get the idea. The Gifting Season? The phrasing gives me nausea. That's a gift I don't want.
So for the love of decent English language usage (I know, I know, kind of ironice from the queen of the typo), do do that. Give the gift of good word choice. Give a gift, don't gift a gift. It just doesn't make sense, it reads badly, and it sounds stupid. Thank you.
This was a Foilwoman English Language Non-Desecration Plea and Public Service Announcement.
So for the love of decent English language usage (I know, I know, kind of ironice from the queen of the typo), do do that. Give the gift of good word choice. Give a gift, don't gift a gift. It just doesn't make sense, it reads badly, and it sounds stupid. Thank you.
This was a Foilwoman English Language Non-Desecration Plea and Public Service Announcement.
November 16, 2007
Beauty, Power, Knowledge, and Aging (and Sex, Of Course)
Yesterday, the Cary Tennis (the advice columnist for Salon) responded to the question of a once beautiful woman who feels that at 43 (!) her looks are going and is feeling a lot of angst (and hostility) about this.* At the same time Daily Kos has a column up about a woman going aging.
I found the Daily Kos story and comments, as much as I've read, interesting, but very physically-based and the author and commenters in the Salon thread simply made me feel sorry for them and simultaneously made me think again about how much people tell us women that we should fear aging and our biggest asset is youth and beauty (assuming that all women have beauty, want it, and will fight to keep it).
Then last night I watched The Devil Wears Prada on DVD (library!) and thought: who would want to be the Anne Hathaway character (young, formless, pretty, but easily pushed around and not too grounded) when they could be the Meryl Streep character (middle-aged or old, beautiful, smart, capable, competent, no-one's fool, knows who she is and what she wants, takes no prisoners)? I'm sure there are men who would want the luscious young woman rather than the sharper-edged (mentally) and softer-bodied (though not that you could see in this film) older one, but being wanted isn't everything.
Also, the trope in Salon and Kos that women are less desirable as they age simply doesn't ring true to me. In my teens and twenties, I wasn't gorgeous, but I was tall, young, lovely, healthy, etc. etc. I was also brimming with insecurity, coming off my parents hate-filled divorce, and very, very needy. I didn't get asked out a lot and didn't have the nerve to ask men out myself. I was often a bit of a wall-flower, and always felt pleased and flattered whenever any guy expressed an interest.
Now, even without the help of Craig's List (I'm on a hiatus) or any other Intenet-dating site, I get asked out, in my mid-to-late forties, more than I did in my twenties. I know myself better, so I'm not grateful (Benjamin Franklin au contraire). I view all the anecdotal stories about men chasing younger women as just that, and as a propaganda campaign to scare women into going out with them. Trust me, that's not an effective technique (for me, at least, any more).
Also, it's rather pathetic: can a man be proud of himself if to get laid he uses lines like "Now that you're over 40, I think you'll find that it's less of a sellers' market."**
Everyone tries to tell women that we need men's approval and desire. And to some extent those of us who are heterosexual do. But it isn't that hard to find. Both my mother and my grandmother found good partners (kind, intelligent, attractive, as well as not financially disastrous) in their forties and sixties, respectively, and I don't think that's an exception.
It's like all the stuff about women and their biological clock: you keep hearing people say things like "over 35, time's running out. Of course, men can have kids whenever . . ." But most women I know who want kids either have them or dote on other people's kids, and don't seem as desperate as the men in their forties who suddenly realize that they want kids and find that the women they deem young enough for this (under 35) often regard them as too old. No-one tells them they have a clock. They mention the rich and powerful men who have wives twenty years their junior who have kids, but fail to realize that most of them are not in that category. No-one tells the average guy: you have a clock too, because at a certain point, if you don't rule the world, you're just an ageing middle-manager.
So I read about loss of beauty with age, and wonder: if it's all physical, of course it's a loss. But I actually feel more attractive as my still-but-not-so-pudgy middle-aged self than I did as a sweet young thing and am glad that I have interests, etc. and less need for external validation (although I'm human: I like appreciation and praise. Doesn't everyone?) than I used to need. I worry about the aging beauty from Salon. Who buys into what society tells them that much? Lots of people, I guess. Sad.
Anyway, off to work as a middle-aged middle manager.
**Actually stated to me by someone who then was surprised that I thanked him for the evening, right then, and said I had to get home. An emergency, you know. And was increasingly surprised to discover that I was amazingly never free thereafter. Did he think the market-economy analogy to human relationships (with its overtones of prostitution) was charming? Or that being down-graded would make me more eager? It made me eager to leave. And go out with someone else. Who was available (speaking generically) without subtle digs.
*Yes, it's Salon Premium, but you can read it if you simply watch the ad. Sorry.
I found the Daily Kos story and comments, as much as I've read, interesting, but very physically-based and the author and commenters in the Salon thread simply made me feel sorry for them and simultaneously made me think again about how much people tell us women that we should fear aging and our biggest asset is youth and beauty (assuming that all women have beauty, want it, and will fight to keep it).
Then last night I watched The Devil Wears Prada on DVD (library!) and thought: who would want to be the Anne Hathaway character (young, formless, pretty, but easily pushed around and not too grounded) when they could be the Meryl Streep character (middle-aged or old, beautiful, smart, capable, competent, no-one's fool, knows who she is and what she wants, takes no prisoners)? I'm sure there are men who would want the luscious young woman rather than the sharper-edged (mentally) and softer-bodied (though not that you could see in this film) older one, but being wanted isn't everything.
Also, the trope in Salon and Kos that women are less desirable as they age simply doesn't ring true to me. In my teens and twenties, I wasn't gorgeous, but I was tall, young, lovely, healthy, etc. etc. I was also brimming with insecurity, coming off my parents hate-filled divorce, and very, very needy. I didn't get asked out a lot and didn't have the nerve to ask men out myself. I was often a bit of a wall-flower, and always felt pleased and flattered whenever any guy expressed an interest.
Now, even without the help of Craig's List (I'm on a hiatus) or any other Intenet-dating site, I get asked out, in my mid-to-late forties, more than I did in my twenties. I know myself better, so I'm not grateful (Benjamin Franklin au contraire). I view all the anecdotal stories about men chasing younger women as just that, and as a propaganda campaign to scare women into going out with them. Trust me, that's not an effective technique (for me, at least, any more).
Also, it's rather pathetic: can a man be proud of himself if to get laid he uses lines like "Now that you're over 40, I think you'll find that it's less of a sellers' market."**
Everyone tries to tell women that we need men's approval and desire. And to some extent those of us who are heterosexual do. But it isn't that hard to find. Both my mother and my grandmother found good partners (kind, intelligent, attractive, as well as not financially disastrous) in their forties and sixties, respectively, and I don't think that's an exception.
It's like all the stuff about women and their biological clock: you keep hearing people say things like "over 35, time's running out. Of course, men can have kids whenever . . ." But most women I know who want kids either have them or dote on other people's kids, and don't seem as desperate as the men in their forties who suddenly realize that they want kids and find that the women they deem young enough for this (under 35) often regard them as too old. No-one tells them they have a clock. They mention the rich and powerful men who have wives twenty years their junior who have kids, but fail to realize that most of them are not in that category. No-one tells the average guy: you have a clock too, because at a certain point, if you don't rule the world, you're just an ageing middle-manager.
So I read about loss of beauty with age, and wonder: if it's all physical, of course it's a loss. But I actually feel more attractive as my still-but-not-so-pudgy middle-aged self than I did as a sweet young thing and am glad that I have interests, etc. and less need for external validation (although I'm human: I like appreciation and praise. Doesn't everyone?) than I used to need. I worry about the aging beauty from Salon. Who buys into what society tells them that much? Lots of people, I guess. Sad.
Anyway, off to work as a middle-aged middle manager.
**Actually stated to me by someone who then was surprised that I thanked him for the evening, right then, and said I had to get home. An emergency, you know. And was increasingly surprised to discover that I was amazingly never free thereafter. Did he think the market-economy analogy to human relationships (with its overtones of prostitution) was charming? Or that being down-graded would make me more eager? It made me eager to leave. And go out with someone else. Who was available (speaking generically) without subtle digs.
*Yes, it's Salon Premium, but you can read it if you simply watch the ad. Sorry.
November 15, 2007
Interior Life
Yesterday, I overheard a woman talking on her cell phone during my entire bus ride to the Metro. It was clear she was talking to her husband. At first I thought he was out of town, because she was recounting everything that had happened, every thought she was having, giving him a play by play, discussing kitchen redesign, etc. But as the conversation continued, it became clear that he was either in their home or at work, and this was simply a continuation of whatever conversation they had had no more than twenty minutes before.
Perhaps the conversation never ceased. Perhaps he called her or she called him as she walked out the door. There was no earthshattering news, no subject of vital importance in their conversation. Just nattering on about (1) the kitchen, (2) work yesterday, (3) laundry, (4) groceries, (5) movies this weekend (no books or actual thoughts discussed), (6) a party, and (7) brands of paint.
I often forget how different we all are. This woman (young) seemed quite content and her husband didn't sound reluctant to have this much contact. I'd kill myself if I had to converse in that manner, yet this suited this woman to a tee. It's a mystery.
Of course, I gave myself a superior pat on the back, thinking: "Hey, I have an interior life! I have actual thoughts!" And then it occurs to me I do the same thing here. Sorry 'bout that.
Perhaps the conversation never ceased. Perhaps he called her or she called him as she walked out the door. There was no earthshattering news, no subject of vital importance in their conversation. Just nattering on about (1) the kitchen, (2) work yesterday, (3) laundry, (4) groceries, (5) movies this weekend (no books or actual thoughts discussed), (6) a party, and (7) brands of paint.
I often forget how different we all are. This woman (young) seemed quite content and her husband didn't sound reluctant to have this much contact. I'd kill myself if I had to converse in that manner, yet this suited this woman to a tee. It's a mystery.
Of course, I gave myself a superior pat on the back, thinking: "Hey, I have an interior life! I have actual thoughts!" And then it occurs to me I do the same thing here. Sorry 'bout that.
November 13, 2007
Less Sanguine
But still sanguinary: FoilMormor is in full freak-out mode, because the Second Mate, her husband of more than ten years is quite ill. Myelofibrosis, which is not a good diagnosis for a man of near eighty. The Mayo Clinic cheerfully informs us: "myelofibrosis gets progressively worse. Treatment generally focuses on relieving signs and symptoms".
Always Cook With Honey
Or at the very least, real ingredients that are as unprocessed as you can manage. I am deeply suspicious of any recipe that advises use of a can of cream of mushroom soup, although I will admit to liking the famed tuna noodle casserole just like every other kid who grew up in the 60s and 70s.
Despite my biases, I have always made pumpkin pie from canned pureed pumpkin, with the can of evaporated milk. I didn't know the error of my ways until 2005, October 24, 2005, to be exact. Thanks to the foodie-yet-friendly-and-eternally-beloved Champurrado, I then realized that I was doing this wrong.
My mother, the famed FoilMormor, once cooked a pumpkin pie from scratch, and it was a disaster, so I had reasons to avoid this devilish dessert-making vegetable. Yet this year, after a fun day at the pumpkin patch with Innana and the FoilKids, we returned to the FoilFlat with three pumpkins. Of course, two had to be carved up and had candles lit inside them for Halloween, but we had a pretty large one left. Enough pumpkin for four or five pies, at a minimum.
So I thought it would be a good idea to do a test run. I took my "one or two small but able children" (Champurrado's Pumpkin Post) and they delighted in pureeing the pumpkin. It's also easier to clean out a pumpkin that has been cut in half rather than trying to scoop the disgusting pumpkin guts out through the top.
I used the Fannie Farmer Cookbook recipe for cooking pumpkin and pureeing it (steaming rather than baking) and it turned out wonderfully, and then TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl and two of TigerGrrl's friends spend the afternoon mashing and then pureeing with a handheld food processor to their little hearts content.
I froze about half the pumpkin, reserved some to make another pie to take to Big Bob's as a hostess gift this weekend, and made my pie with brown sugar, real milk, ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and eggs. It's delicious. So we'll have nice homemade pumpking pie tomorrow and again. And the kids were so pleased to have made the pumpkin puree: "Mama: It looked dis-gustting, but this pie is good!"
And hey, I was just being frugal: I had that pumpkin there and I wanted the benefit!
Edited to add: Yes, I know that pumpkin is spelled "pumpkin" and not "pumpking". I just can't type or proofread. Do you have a problem with that?
Despite my biases, I have always made pumpkin pie from canned pureed pumpkin, with the can of evaporated milk. I didn't know the error of my ways until 2005, October 24, 2005, to be exact. Thanks to the foodie-yet-friendly-and-eternally-beloved Champurrado, I then realized that I was doing this wrong.
My mother, the famed FoilMormor, once cooked a pumpkin pie from scratch, and it was a disaster, so I had reasons to avoid this devilish dessert-making vegetable. Yet this year, after a fun day at the pumpkin patch with Innana and the FoilKids, we returned to the FoilFlat with three pumpkins. Of course, two had to be carved up and had candles lit inside them for Halloween, but we had a pretty large one left. Enough pumpkin for four or five pies, at a minimum.
So I thought it would be a good idea to do a test run. I took my "one or two small but able children" (Champurrado's Pumpkin Post) and they delighted in pureeing the pumpkin. It's also easier to clean out a pumpkin that has been cut in half rather than trying to scoop the disgusting pumpkin guts out through the top.
I used the Fannie Farmer Cookbook recipe for cooking pumpkin and pureeing it (steaming rather than baking) and it turned out wonderfully, and then TigerGrrl and DestructoGirl and two of TigerGrrl's friends spend the afternoon mashing and then pureeing with a handheld food processor to their little hearts content.
I froze about half the pumpkin, reserved some to make another pie to take to Big Bob's as a hostess gift this weekend, and made my pie with brown sugar, real milk, ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon and eggs. It's delicious. So we'll have nice homemade pumpking pie tomorrow and again. And the kids were so pleased to have made the pumpkin puree: "Mama: It looked dis-gustting, but this pie is good!"
And hey, I was just being frugal: I had that pumpkin there and I wanted the benefit!
Edited to add: Yes, I know that pumpkin is spelled "pumpkin" and not "pumpking". I just can't type or proofread. Do you have a problem with that?
November 8, 2007
Have the Poles Switched? Has the Earth Stopped Spinning On Its Axis?
Because I'm really beginning to think that the end-is-nigh-batshit-insane-left-behind we-spend-way-to-much-time-reading-Revelations-(which-every-sane-person-knows-makes-absolutely-no-goddamn-sense)-people are on to something: once again, I have seen almost* unmistakable signs of the apocalypse.
What are these signs? Well, for someone whose life had been getting increasingly hard, there is a fair amount of ease right now. And several things I was worrying about are de-escalating.
First off, Saintly Babysitter is taking the raise offered via Big Grampa. She still may move on in the not too distant future, but not in the next three months, and I'm hopeful that she'll stay another year. This is clearly a sign that the end of days have already arrived and I'm in paradise. The rest of you? Quel dommage. And I haven't tripped over Jerry Falwell, Tammy Faye Bakker, Aimee Semple McPherson, Brigham Young, or any other brimstone cryers, so it's my kind of paradise. Paradise with good cooking.
Second, a neighbor of mind, a mother of a friend of TigerGrrl, will be picking her child up at chess and so will do the same for TigerGrrl, which means I can have TigerGrrl participate in that after-school activity which she really wanted to do. I can do this, despite the $140 price tag because several relatives have sent me pre-Christmas checks with the notes saying "this isn't your Christmas present. This is so you can buy Christmas presents." Which is good, because the Danish Christmas fair is coming up, and I can eat smorrebrod and drink Danish beer while the girls get their faces painted, point out all the cute Nissemen and wonder how I can eat marzipan in such large quantities. Now, I'm still broke, but I now have more than $120 to last until 11/26 (next payday -- yes, I know it's bizarre to get paid on Mondays, but so what?) and I have divided the pre-Christmas gift money into five parts: (1) chess, (2) x-mas presents, (3)x-mas bonus for Saintly Babysitter, (4) savings, and (5) luxuries for me (wine, a lunch out, possibly a movie, and some nice lotion, things like that: if I'm really frugal, maybe some yarn).
Third, TigerGrrl got an academic award and got to invite me to an assembly. She was so proud, and so was I. Actually, that's just normal and good, not a sign of the apocalypse.
Fourth sign (well, third, since the preceding one doesn't count): I was on Metro car the other day and a man offered a woman a seat, she said no thank you politely. An older person with a cane got on and the man offered his seat again, which was accepted politely. Then everyone conversed politely, with no complaining and no inappropriate revelations. I'm still in shock, although this occured on Monday.
Fifth (fourth?) sign: I gave blood today and my iron count was high enough even though I did platelet donation on October 18. And my blood was so energetic that the poor nurse jabbing my finger to test the iron count got her work area sprayed with my hemoglobin. I felt so superior, even as I wondered "Is that arterial spray**.
*Notice that I am as clever as (if not cleverer than) every other false prophet who ever prophesied the end of days: the signs are not completely unmistakable. Therefore, I have an out if the world does not end (as it won't, unless they let our insane veep near the black bag when Iran sneezes next).
**I am not making this up: my blood spurted out of my finger and messed up her entire nice clean white work area. I've never had that happen. This is blood with an attitude. It's my blood.
What are these signs? Well, for someone whose life had been getting increasingly hard, there is a fair amount of ease right now. And several things I was worrying about are de-escalating.
First off, Saintly Babysitter is taking the raise offered via Big Grampa. She still may move on in the not too distant future, but not in the next three months, and I'm hopeful that she'll stay another year. This is clearly a sign that the end of days have already arrived and I'm in paradise. The rest of you? Quel dommage. And I haven't tripped over Jerry Falwell, Tammy Faye Bakker, Aimee Semple McPherson, Brigham Young, or any other brimstone cryers, so it's my kind of paradise. Paradise with good cooking.
Second, a neighbor of mind, a mother of a friend of TigerGrrl, will be picking her child up at chess and so will do the same for TigerGrrl, which means I can have TigerGrrl participate in that after-school activity which she really wanted to do. I can do this, despite the $140 price tag because several relatives have sent me pre-Christmas checks with the notes saying "this isn't your Christmas present. This is so you can buy Christmas presents." Which is good, because the Danish Christmas fair is coming up, and I can eat smorrebrod and drink Danish beer while the girls get their faces painted, point out all the cute Nissemen and wonder how I can eat marzipan in such large quantities. Now, I'm still broke, but I now have more than $120 to last until 11/26 (next payday -- yes, I know it's bizarre to get paid on Mondays, but so what?) and I have divided the pre-Christmas gift money into five parts: (1) chess, (2) x-mas presents, (3)x-mas bonus for Saintly Babysitter, (4) savings, and (5) luxuries for me (wine, a lunch out, possibly a movie, and some nice lotion, things like that: if I'm really frugal, maybe some yarn).
Third, TigerGrrl got an academic award and got to invite me to an assembly. She was so proud, and so was I. Actually, that's just normal and good, not a sign of the apocalypse.
Fourth sign (well, third, since the preceding one doesn't count): I was on Metro car the other day and a man offered a woman a seat, she said no thank you politely. An older person with a cane got on and the man offered his seat again, which was accepted politely. Then everyone conversed politely, with no complaining and no inappropriate revelations. I'm still in shock, although this occured on Monday.
Fifth (fourth?) sign: I gave blood today and my iron count was high enough even though I did platelet donation on October 18. And my blood was so energetic that the poor nurse jabbing my finger to test the iron count got her work area sprayed with my hemoglobin. I felt so superior, even as I wondered "Is that arterial spray**.
*Notice that I am as clever as (if not cleverer than) every other false prophet who ever prophesied the end of days: the signs are not completely unmistakable. Therefore, I have an out if the world does not end (as it won't, unless they let our insane veep near the black bag when Iran sneezes next).
**I am not making this up: my blood spurted out of my finger and messed up her entire nice clean white work area. I've never had that happen. This is blood with an attitude. It's my blood.
November 5, 2007
Looking Out for Friends
I've been worried about Lt. Col Katie since meeting up with her by surprise this weekend. I generally find that watching tears (and not happy tears) stream down someone's face as she tells you she may or may not be getting married while her fiance, Sasha, stands there looking good but showing all the emotional depth of a bowl of borscht. Tasty, zesty borscht, but only deep red vegetable soup.
I'd left Katie a message Sunday, and called again and left another message this morning. Katie called back this afternoon, and I can't say my mind is eased, but I did get a few reassuring statements.
First Statement: Katie is well aware that she's in the middle of a major depressive episode, and has an appointment for evaluation and probably medication and counselling tomorrow. If that doesn't work out, I'll put her on a plane to Adelaide, call His Eminence, and tell Benny that Bronze John must de-anonymize for Lt. Col Katie's sake, because she needs a competent and capable doctor who understands the havoc that mental illness can wreak in otherwise high-powered people.
Knowing that Katie is seeking help (and has decent medical coverage) does make me feel better.
Second Statement: Katie's mother does indeed know Sasha, and knows about the potential wedding. She's not thrilled (Katie's mom), but she's not aghast. She worries that Katie is just checking "get married" off the "things to do before I die" checklist, and wishes Katie weren't making a major life change at a time when deciding whether or not to make coffee seems too overwhelming a decision to reach.
If the marriage does proceed, an old friend of Katie's (back from our invasion of Panama -- remember that? Does anyone remember Grenada? We've had a lot of little wars.) will be there as a witness and standing up for Katie.
Do I think this marriage has good omens? No, but heck, who knows what makes a good marriage. I do now know that Katie isn't alone, depressed beyond belief, with a man she brought here from another country -- friends and family have met him, some others know about the upcoming marriage, and she's not completely cut off.
I would feel better if she would smile when talking about getting married. I mean, if she can't smile about it now, it isn't going to be better in five years.
I'd left Katie a message Sunday, and called again and left another message this morning. Katie called back this afternoon, and I can't say my mind is eased, but I did get a few reassuring statements.
First Statement: Katie is well aware that she's in the middle of a major depressive episode, and has an appointment for evaluation and probably medication and counselling tomorrow. If that doesn't work out, I'll put her on a plane to Adelaide, call His Eminence, and tell Benny that Bronze John must de-anonymize for Lt. Col Katie's sake, because she needs a competent and capable doctor who understands the havoc that mental illness can wreak in otherwise high-powered people.
Knowing that Katie is seeking help (and has decent medical coverage) does make me feel better.
Second Statement: Katie's mother does indeed know Sasha, and knows about the potential wedding. She's not thrilled (Katie's mom), but she's not aghast. She worries that Katie is just checking "get married" off the "things to do before I die" checklist, and wishes Katie weren't making a major life change at a time when deciding whether or not to make coffee seems too overwhelming a decision to reach.
If the marriage does proceed, an old friend of Katie's (back from our invasion of Panama -- remember that? Does anyone remember Grenada? We've had a lot of little wars.) will be there as a witness and standing up for Katie.
Do I think this marriage has good omens? No, but heck, who knows what makes a good marriage. I do now know that Katie isn't alone, depressed beyond belief, with a man she brought here from another country -- friends and family have met him, some others know about the upcoming marriage, and she's not completely cut off.
I would feel better if she would smile when talking about getting married. I mean, if she can't smile about it now, it isn't going to be better in five years.
Pleasure in the Little Things
It's the fifth of the month, and my Clustrmaps map shows visitors from every continent except Antarctica. I like that.
The FoilKids come home tonight. Noisy, hectic household: Hello! Cuddlesome girls (the cutest ever), yay!
The FoilKids and I visit Big Bob in a few weeks, and Big Grampa will be there.
Innana is coming for Thanksgiving dinner.
I'm off to work. Hasta mas tarde, todos.
The FoilKids come home tonight. Noisy, hectic household: Hello! Cuddlesome girls (the cutest ever), yay!
The FoilKids and I visit Big Bob in a few weeks, and Big Grampa will be there.
Innana is coming for Thanksgiving dinner.
I'm off to work. Hasta mas tarde, todos.
November 4, 2007
Karma and Messages from the Universe
Yesterday, before Innana came over for dinner (spaghetti carbonara and steamed broccoli, followed by chocolate/chocolate chip meringues with creme anglaise, all home made by me), I took a nice hike around Roosevelt Island to stretch my legs, enjoy the crisp fall air, and just not sit around a brood.
As I walked by a couple, the woman called my name, and I stopped. It was Lt. Col. Katie. She introduced me to the Euro-crumpet accomapanying her, named Sasha or some such, and then said quickly that she'd been back in the U.S. since August, but she wasn't doing too well (LCKatie has bouts of pretty severe depression). As she said this her eyes were tearing up. Then she mentioned that she and Sasha might be marrying on Wednesday. But she wasn't sure. Sasha smiled benignly (almost comotose?) while his almost fiancee looked like she was going to break down and sob.
Then Katie asked me not to tell Lourdes or any one else about the possible wedding. Now, Lourdes is Katie's very best friend in the whole wide world. I'm a good friend, but not super close. After this very brief (three minutes max) meeting, the first time I'd seen Katie since October 2, 2006 (shortly before she went on her latest tour overseas), Katie and Sasha marched off and I continued my circumnavigation of Roosevelt Island.
Now, I've felt very envious of Katie in the last few years. She has not married anyone who it cost her a fortune to divorce, she owns her own home, she just spend $100K or so on a kitchen renovation, and has a level of personal freedom I can only fantasize about. Except the man who made me cry has been as thoroughly excised from my life as is possibly with someone who is the father of my children.
Maybe Katie's just suffering from severe depression right now, but that's all the more reason not to marry Sasha. I didn't even ask Katie if her mother knew she was thinking about getting married in the very near future. I know Katie's mother. She'd want to know (fuck, she'd want to be here).
Clearly, something is off. I meant to talk with Katie today, but just left a message. I'll call again tomorrow and see if I can't just get a little reality check. I'll tell her she should have a friend with her on Wednesday, and if it isn't Lourdes, maybe it should be me (I'll volunteer). As I said goodbye yesterday, I did mention that while people understand a person keeping bad news (like divorce) on the hush hush, most people like to receive announcements, or even invitations, to weddings. So what's wrong with this picture?
Anyway, the girls come home tomorrow, and I will probably be forced to play tickle monster. The hardship.
As I walked by a couple, the woman called my name, and I stopped. It was Lt. Col. Katie. She introduced me to the Euro-crumpet accomapanying her, named Sasha or some such, and then said quickly that she'd been back in the U.S. since August, but she wasn't doing too well (LCKatie has bouts of pretty severe depression). As she said this her eyes were tearing up. Then she mentioned that she and Sasha might be marrying on Wednesday. But she wasn't sure. Sasha smiled benignly (almost comotose?) while his almost fiancee looked like she was going to break down and sob.
Then Katie asked me not to tell Lourdes or any one else about the possible wedding. Now, Lourdes is Katie's very best friend in the whole wide world. I'm a good friend, but not super close. After this very brief (three minutes max) meeting, the first time I'd seen Katie since October 2, 2006 (shortly before she went on her latest tour overseas), Katie and Sasha marched off and I continued my circumnavigation of Roosevelt Island.
Now, I've felt very envious of Katie in the last few years. She has not married anyone who it cost her a fortune to divorce, she owns her own home, she just spend $100K or so on a kitchen renovation, and has a level of personal freedom I can only fantasize about. Except the man who made me cry has been as thoroughly excised from my life as is possibly with someone who is the father of my children.
Maybe Katie's just suffering from severe depression right now, but that's all the more reason not to marry Sasha. I didn't even ask Katie if her mother knew she was thinking about getting married in the very near future. I know Katie's mother. She'd want to know (fuck, she'd want to be here).
Clearly, something is off. I meant to talk with Katie today, but just left a message. I'll call again tomorrow and see if I can't just get a little reality check. I'll tell her she should have a friend with her on Wednesday, and if it isn't Lourdes, maybe it should be me (I'll volunteer). As I said goodbye yesterday, I did mention that while people understand a person keeping bad news (like divorce) on the hush hush, most people like to receive announcements, or even invitations, to weddings. So what's wrong with this picture?
Anyway, the girls come home tomorrow, and I will probably be forced to play tickle monster. The hardship.
November 2, 2007
So Not In A Good Mood
Right now, I feel like I want a Mulligan. For pretty much every part of my life that doesn't involve the FoilKids. And even for the part where I selected their father, the Insane Ex. Except if he weren't their father, they wouldn't be the wonder that is them. So I guess that part has to stay.
And pretty much every other part of my current train wreck of my life. I may be very dissatisfied with many things (finances; no professional status -- even if I have a job I love; custody arrangement -- although it could be much, much worse; child care instability -- Saintly Babysitter sill hasn't come to a final decision; writing career -- on a totally volunteer basis, thank you very much). I have regrets, lots of them, as anyone who is over thirty who has lived at all (and probably anyone over thirty who hasn't lived much, except they probably would take the re-do).
I've been feeling rather sorry for myself: Insane Ex had the kids for Halloween, so I didn't get to see their epic cuteness on the big night, I'm trying to arrange transportation and finances for an afterschool chess extravaganza TigerGrrl has her eye on, and it looks like I just can't swing it -- I'd go without wine (doing so already, actually) and pretty much any luxury to pay the $250 program fee, even though that would really, really hurt, but the arranging transportation home twice a week at 4:45 in the afternoon is really beyond the ability of a working mother without the money for a limo driver, and I'm feeling pre-menstrual and stuck.
I haven't had any success finding part-time work that fits in with my schedule, the two books I'm writing are stuck in chapter three and five respectively (neither seems worth continuing), and I'm just blue. The FoilKids are away this weekend, which means I'll rest, but shit, I just want them here. The lack of a current swain isn't an issue (I don't have the energy), and anyway, the last guy I met felt free to tell me (after I'd thanked him politely for the drink with no hint of a second date) that he didn't feel a spark. I want kudos for not saying: "Hey bucko, I didn't feel a spark either, but I didn't think you needed to know that." So AnonDave: I'm not so hot right now, at least when eyed by the all-important Judging Male Gaze, except really I know I'm just fine (except it did bother me, and that felt pathetic).
I think some major C&W guitar playing is needed this weekend. I'll spend an hour (that's what it takes) tuning the twelve-string, and we'll see. Also, I hope to get together with Innana, and I will definitely call SNV to see if I can make plans to see her and Ex-Marine Fred (yes, I know, there are no ex-marines, to the emailer about that: that's part of the in-joke; he really did incorporate all his marine-ness to be the FluffyBunnyMachoDude we know and love), and I'll probably call Mr. Studmuffin, with whom a visit, or at least a phone chat is way overdue. Then the girls will be home on Monday, someday soon I'll get my period, and life won't seem so godawful. Oh, also, I will eat lots of chocolate -- I've got some homemade chocolate sauce made with brown sugar, coffee, good unsweetened chocolate, and real butter that is just calling to be eaten on top of vanilla ice cream.
Off to work.
And pretty much every other part of my current train wreck of my life. I may be very dissatisfied with many things (finances; no professional status -- even if I have a job I love; custody arrangement -- although it could be much, much worse; child care instability -- Saintly Babysitter sill hasn't come to a final decision; writing career -- on a totally volunteer basis, thank you very much). I have regrets, lots of them, as anyone who is over thirty who has lived at all (and probably anyone over thirty who hasn't lived much, except they probably would take the re-do).
I've been feeling rather sorry for myself: Insane Ex had the kids for Halloween, so I didn't get to see their epic cuteness on the big night, I'm trying to arrange transportation and finances for an afterschool chess extravaganza TigerGrrl has her eye on, and it looks like I just can't swing it -- I'd go without wine (doing so already, actually) and pretty much any luxury to pay the $250 program fee, even though that would really, really hurt, but the arranging transportation home twice a week at 4:45 in the afternoon is really beyond the ability of a working mother without the money for a limo driver, and I'm feeling pre-menstrual and stuck.
I haven't had any success finding part-time work that fits in with my schedule, the two books I'm writing are stuck in chapter three and five respectively (neither seems worth continuing), and I'm just blue. The FoilKids are away this weekend, which means I'll rest, but shit, I just want them here. The lack of a current swain isn't an issue (I don't have the energy), and anyway, the last guy I met felt free to tell me (after I'd thanked him politely for the drink with no hint of a second date) that he didn't feel a spark. I want kudos for not saying: "Hey bucko, I didn't feel a spark either, but I didn't think you needed to know that." So AnonDave: I'm not so hot right now, at least when eyed by the all-important Judging Male Gaze, except really I know I'm just fine (except it did bother me, and that felt pathetic).
I think some major C&W guitar playing is needed this weekend. I'll spend an hour (that's what it takes) tuning the twelve-string, and we'll see. Also, I hope to get together with Innana, and I will definitely call SNV to see if I can make plans to see her and Ex-Marine Fred (yes, I know, there are no ex-marines, to the emailer about that: that's part of the in-joke; he really did incorporate all his marine-ness to be the FluffyBunnyMachoDude we know and love), and I'll probably call Mr. Studmuffin, with whom a visit, or at least a phone chat is way overdue. Then the girls will be home on Monday, someday soon I'll get my period, and life won't seem so godawful. Oh, also, I will eat lots of chocolate -- I've got some homemade chocolate sauce made with brown sugar, coffee, good unsweetened chocolate, and real butter that is just calling to be eaten on top of vanilla ice cream.
Off to work.
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