Remedial Adultery Lessons

What's with all these goal-oriented, high-achieving guys* who are absolutely spastic** at adultery? Really, if you can get elected governor of a state, one would assume you could arrange to meet someone privately and actually keep it private.

Fortunately, for all you potential and actual adulterers out there, I'm here to help. But you need to take my advice. I'll give it to you in list form:

1--As always, STFU already. Do not leave an email trail. Use a disposable cell phone.

2--Don't pretend you got swept away. Flying to fucking Argentina (or taking the train to DC and reservations at the Mayflower) takes forethought. So think. You'll still (probably) get laid, and you'll be less likely to crash and born. Don't lie to yourself. If you're looking to fall in love illicitly or just have extra-marital nookie, admit it to yourself, and then protect yourself. Pack the condoms, have enough cash so you don't leave an incriminating credit card trail (Elliott Spitzer, I'm looking at you), and otherwise behave discreetly. Don't break the very rules you explained as a prosecutor (Elliott, again) or challenge the press to follow you (Gary Hart, does anyone recall him) or, heaven forfend fool around on a boat named, tackily and delightfully enough, Monkey business (Gary? You there?).

3--Admit to yourself, you're already committing adultery. Have an alibi and be ready to lie like a rug. If you find lying indefensible, then recommit yourself to the stultifying misery of your politically expedient but otherwise miserable marriage that you can't get out of without admitting that you are an unfaithful spouse and thereful incapable of running a grocery store, much less a state or country, like other horrible leaders who were unfaithful, like FDR, Louis XIV, Catherine the Great (and she not only took lovers, she overthrew her loser of a spouse to become Empress), Thomas Jefferson (well, I don't know if he did commit adultery, but he most likely did have sex with a slave of his who really didn't have the ability to give consent, so let's just say that's bad, mmmkay?), and lots of other guys (and presumably women, who were probably shitloads better at covering their tracks).

4--If you're going to run off to another state, country, or continent to be swept away by desire, however ironically, really do let your chief of staff have a decent, believable cover story. Don't expect your spouse to fall on his or her sword to cover you, especially if you're missing Mother's Day, Father's Day, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. Trust me on this one. Leave your spouse and staff hanging, and, if there is any justice in this world or karma has any meaning at all, they'll do likewise for you.

Oh, why do I bother? The narcissism involved in seeking power of that sort probably precludes the ability to be honest with oneself. Guys like this (and, as we approach equality, I look forward to the shamed male spouse of an executive doing the silent cringe while his faithless wife does the "I've sinned" speech) really can't be stopped.

*Mark Sanford, John Ensign, Elliott Spitzer, Dick Morris, Bill Clinton, and several other men with whom I honestly can't believe any woman ever enthusiastically jumped into bed.
**Well, I don't know how spastic they were at the actual act of adultery (although Monica Lewinsky actually gave Big Bill credit for an orgasm or two -- note this, Viagra-guys -- without penile penetration), but if their in-bed skillz in any way resembled their logistical and duck-and-cover skillz, there are a lot of unsatisfied adulteresses out there.

Sick Kid

I know I'm one of those annoying parents who can always think of something about my children to praise. Of course, I'm a lucky parent: with my children, it's not hard.

TG got highest honors (straight A's, and she normally has a little trouble due to getting board and being a smidge too social) and received two awards at the end of school year award ceremony. DG is "reading" books aloud to me, and making great sidewalk chalk art works. Blah, blah, blippity, blah, my kids are fantastic.

Except, it's a summer day and TG is rather ill. Real fever ill. She's tucked in bed, had a dose of non-aspirin kids' fever reducer, and generally looks miserable. She has a horrible sniffle. "I hab a code in by nobe." That's the ticket.

I've got to go out and get more medicine (her fever's going down nicely, but that was the last dose in the house) and I don't think TG is up to going to the pool today. That was the plan.

This place is going to seem pretty clautrophobic to her with no friends visiting and no physical activity. She's not deathly ill, she just has a cold and slight fever, but really, kids should NOT BE ALLOWED to get sick during summer vacation. Especially when the community pool is less than a block away.

I'm really dreading today. I've been up for the last three hours, and this is going to be a long, long day.

Summer Forecast: Busy, with a Chance of Absolute Exhaustion

Yes, I remember as a kid looking forward to summer. Summer vacation (for schoolchildren) has started and summer (using June 21 as the benchmark) has almost begun. While I am looking forward to EuroDude (fashionable, well-mannered) and MilitaryDude (tattooed, well-muscled) watching and occasional interactions (I have to rescue them from DestructoGirl, who would otherwise boss them around worse than their Italian mamas/drill sergeants, and they seem helpless to stop her), my real feeling about the onset of summer is, well, dread.

We're flying out to the West Coast (on the Pacific, a bit north or south of San Francisco, give or take -- really should be lovely and I might get a surfing lesson in), changing planes in Cincinnati of all places with a little less than an hour to spare. FoilDad, a/k/a BigGrampa, wants to see his favorite (only) granddaughters and bought us the tickets. I had mentioned that changing planes with DG is, er, a challenge, but beggars can't be choosers and the direct flights were much more expensive.

Before that, I'm heading down to North Carolina on a non-custodial weekend to assist Innana in the retrieval and extraction of NiQ (mainly so that DOL will get some rest this summer). In August, I'm (at FoilMormor's behest) flying with DG, TG, and NiQ (so Innana can get some rest) to the New England coast for LOS and NSLOS's (they're twins) 50th birthday celebration. NiQ will be a mother's helper, and Innana, DOL, and I all feel NiQ needs to see a bit more of the world. Since tickets for four were a whopping $525, FoilMormor was happy to charge it and see us.

Sounds like lots of fun. However, whenever I think of this, I wonder about the possible destruction of the Cincinnati* airport (we're talking about DestructoGirl, please remember), crankiness of a four-year old and nine- then ten-year old (TG is NOT happy that her birthday is occurring on a different coast that that on which most of her friends are found), NiQ possibly being miserably adolescent**, and general exhaustion. I'm thrilled that the girls are getting three good summer vacations*** and can't sneeze at the vacations I'm getting, which will be capped off by a trip up to New England alone for the Second Mate's memorial service/gravestone unveiling.+ Nonetheless, four trips, three by plane, one by car, in one summer seems a bit much. I feel bad even complaining: my parents love me and my girls and are insisting on seeing us (on their dime) and I really want to see DOL during the NiQ extraction. Each trip will be fun. It's all just a bit much.

This weekend, I'll be doing some Dude-watching and chasing children. Then NiQ extraction the following weekend. Better take my vitamins.

*Wunelle, I seem to recall you've flown in and out of Cincinnati on occasion (or was that Louisville). Any advice? Email at foilwoman at gmail etc. etc.

**Not that there's anything wrong with that: she's an adolescent, she's had more than a few tough breaks, she deserves a little leeway for moodiness. Nonetheless, I'll be hoping for less-moody-with-a-chance-of-cheerfulness, which may well occur as she likes my girls and gets to act younger, sillier, and less dignified with them. I'll hope for the best.

***Yes, I just described two, New England and Northern California: PdeFF is taking the girls for a week to an East Coast beach with friends. I plan to sleep that entire week.

+The gravestone unveiling is a tradition in Second Mate's family. While it makes no sense to me whatsoever (he was cremated), his kids are doing it, it will mean something to them, I want to show respect, and he was such a lovely man that I want to make sure his kids realize how much FoilMormor's daughters loved him.

Some Recommendations for the General Public and the Blogging Public

I'm in a misanthropic mood tonight (Notify the news media! Except this isn't a rare event.) so I'm going to share some thoughts and recommendations. Actually some prohibitions and some "I'd really rather you didn'ts."*

For the General Public:

1. When you are shopping, and are in line waiting for the cashier, please do assume that when you arrive at the cashier, said store employee will expect payment from you. So locate your wallet while you are waiting.
   
2. If you are on a Metro train, we all know that. Your braying loudly and nasally in front of us, into your cell phone at length is just a bad idea, especially if you are braying loudly and nasally to tell that person that you are one the Metro. Just tell the person you're calling "I'll be at Rosslyn in five minutes." That's all you really need to say.
   
3. Yes, DC commuters love to wait for families of 8 to get through the turnstiles, so feel free to block all of a Metro stations turnstiles at 8:05 A.M. No one here thinks his job is important. No one is afraid of getting fired if she turns up late one too many times in this economy. So take all the time you want. Not.
   
4. No one (trust me, no one) wants to hear your inane ramblings. Not on the bus, not on the Metro, not in Starbucks, not anywhere. So do us all a favor and STFU already.
   
5. Ditto #4 times eleventy if your voice is nasal.

For the Blogging Public:

1. Cryptic coded talk for a select audience is really annoying. And so seventh grade. If you can't explain yourself coherently, don't.
   
2. If you write it and post it in public, people who don't agree with you might read it and disagree with you or even possibly insult you. Adjust. Not everyone is going to agree with you.
   
3. People whose views are anathema to you will not stop posting just because you disagree with them. They may not even mind or care that you disagree with them. They may even find it to be a badge of honor.
   
4. If you use your blog as a social tool, be darn careful what you write -- friends generally feel quite unfriendly about being used as blogging material.
   
5. When in doubt, STFU already. Pretty much always.

*Thank you Flying Spaghetti Monster.

The Giggle and the Voice of Doom

I can sit on my patio and hear TG's high-pitched giggle (it's goofy, and it's really the only "girly*" thing about her) whenever she's outside playing with her friends: complicated ball games that only exist for the 9-10 year old set, hide and seek, various adventures on scooters (with the Scooter Club, which has complicated, undecipherable membership rules, yet remains open to all kids in the neighborhood -- even if they don't have a scooter, because there's a spare to share).

And then I hear DG: closer by, because she's not free-range yet (apron strings still firmly tied) who's the girliest* girl on the planet and in normal conversation does have a little kid's high-pitched voice, sort of Minnie Mouse-like (although her normal voice is a lot deeper than most of her little friends), but when giving a command comes out sounding a bit like James Earl Jones.

I love the sound of my girls out playing. This weekend it will be quiet around here, and I will miss that. I'll enjoy the quiet, and some time to myself (first weekend off in four weekends -- I have some serious vegging out to catch up on). Yet I'll be listening for the high-pitched giggle of my almost-black-belt-in-karate-nine-year old and the stentorian tones of the girly girl four-year old. I hope the people around them this weekend (their father and his friends) enjoy those sounds as much as I do.

*Other people's definitions, not mine. I assume both girls are girly because they're, well, girls. Who says never wearing skirts is unfeminine (TG) or having a voice deeper than most adult women when giving commands (DG)?

In Which Your Heroine Is Ensnared in the Land of EuroDudes (Mediterranean Verion 6.3)

Let me repeat, for the gazillionth time, I'm no babe or supermodel. I'm a middle-aged (48), plumpish (with a figure, but still, plumpish) woman who spends no more than 30 minutes a day on grooming, and that 30 minutes includes a 25 minute bath to relax me and soothe my aching, aging joints. I'm reasonably attractive, but that's about it. I am tall and reasonably self-confident.

So what's going on? As I mentioned last summer, the complex (condos and apartments) where I live is awash in EuroDudes. I have contented myself with enjoying the scenery, but that has ended. Why? Blame TG and DG.

On my birthday, TG discovered a group of Argentinean, Italian, and Spanish young men (one of whom is the father of a friend of hers) barbecuing (and Argentine barbecue is nothing to sneeze at). She announced to them that it was my birthday, and I was retrieved to sample the barbecue, the tapas, the sangria, the wine, the gelato, etc. I got serenaded by various versions of happy birthday. I absconded as soon as I could (but really had to stay for quite a while as TG and DG were running amok around the barbecue) and thought "gee, that was sweet of those kids." Hah.

This weekend, the girls and I made ice cream (hand cranked) in the picnic/pool area, and many of the same gang of young handsome Euro/Sudamericano-Dudes were hanging out. DG decided that everyone had to sample her ice cream creation ("You want some ice cream? I made it."). One Italian guy, I'll call him Giovanni, had said he didn't want ice cream after the first sentence, but after the second ("I made it.") with a winsome look, said, "Well, then I must try some, mustn't I?" The poor man.

Oh, don't worry, the ice cream was good. But, uh, he may not be safe venturing into this neighborhood again. I've seen him at the pool many times. He's not a swimmer, he's a soccer player and tanner. But he swam this weekend. Why? DG asked him to do so.

Clever guy, he checked with me first -- I'm not real fond of people just assuming it's okay to approach my kids -- even when I know them, albeit casually. Now, all the young, handsome dudes, caballeros, signores, whatever, know me as DG's and TG's mom (TG was quite competetive and vicious at soccer, which was appreciated and applauded). Now, whenever there's a gathering of the dudes at the barbecue (which is not infrequent), if I'm walking home from the bus, I'm invited to join them. Except for two mothers of dudes who occasionally show up (these guys aren't ashamed to love and wait on their mothers), I'm the oldest female I've seen in their company.

Yes, it's just a shameless plot on their part to win over my girls. I love southern European culture where guys aren't afraid to kiss babies, play dolls with girls, and generally dote on kids in a way that is generally relegated to women here. I'm not good at groups, but the whole thing is sweet. And now I have several strong guys to play DG toss (yeah, it's like dwarf-tossing, but it involves my daughter in the pool and she just loves being hurled into a big splash) and soccer with TG.

Now, most of these guys are temporary, they'll be gone by the end of the summer, but I'm going to enjoy this, for whatever reason this little bit of coddling, cosseting, and appreciation is falling in my and my daughters' laps. I'm more comfortable with this crowd as they are friends with the father of one of TG's friend -- a father who is attentive, tuned in, and rather strict (not authoritarian, just authoritative). And they're easy on the eyes too. What's not to like?

Oh, Shut Up Already; Or, Alternatively, Smile Your Face

I want to write about two things which have no connection. Yes, if I were a considerate blogger I'd break this into two shorter posts, for those with little or no attention span. But I'm not. I'm a grumpy, tired, broke, perimenopausal (I think) mother of two, one of whom is four years old, with upcoming abdominal surgery. I'll write as long a post as I want, thank you very much.

Part Une: Shut Up Already, Why Don't You

The more I see of human relationships, the more I wonder that couples counseling doesn't end up in more mutual homicides. Really. We don't need people to express their feelings more clearly (at least here in the good ol' U.S. of A. -- I'm willing to concede that in the upper-crust portions of the former British Empire, the ability to say "I really don't like it when you do that." is a skill that needs to be learned and used more often). However, here in the now-non-torturing (and that's a good thing) home of the red, white, and blue (heck, that could be France or Britain or Australia or New Zealand or a host of other countries, but work with me here: at this moment, that refers to the stars and strips of the U.S.A.), less expression would definitely be more.

Innana was telling me a fascinating story about a guy. Unfortunately, I've forgotten the specifics, but basically the guy would have been much better served by NOT sharing. We had a fun discussion, but my brain is a sieve. But in trying to remember the specifics (and it's a pity I can't, Innana had me chortling with glee), which I never did, I kept thinking: why don't people just STFU when in doubt?

I have colleagues who are feuding. A supervisor (who is clearly not a great manager of people or keeper of confidences) told one colleague that the other found colleague 1 difficult. Of course, colleague 1 now looks for things about colleague 2 to pick at. Then you have charmers like Todd Funkhouser* (and for that matter, his date, Kim Goldman), who just don't get it when their behavior is called into question. Others I deal with regularly go on at length detailings their qualities, apparently not realizing that anything they deny is generally ascribed to them. It's axiomatic. "I'm not a prima donna!" translates into "Oh, yes, you sure as shit are." "I'm scrupulous about telling the truth" means "I am delightfully self-deluded about what the truth is, and thus I always can tell myself *cough* truthfully that I am being, and have been, honest." "I'm a great lover" means you'll be wondering "Is it over yet? Please?"

My advice to all these people is this: Please shut up already. If you have good qualities, they become less sterling the more you advertise them. N.B. all you self-declared alpha men out there: anyone who has to say "I'm an alpha male" (and who came up with that deeply annoying adjective to describe social rank anyway?) conclusively isn't, regardless of what he means by "alpha male." As an example: I doubt Barack Obama or Nicholas Sarkozy or Bill Gates (or Eric Bana) or any other man who is at the top of his personal/professional/whatever food chain ever has to say or does say: "I'm an alpha male."

So shut up already. Pretty much always. It always helps.

Part Deux: If You're Happy and You Know It, Smile Your Face

This is DGs malaprop version of "If You're Happy And You Know It (Clap Your Hands)." DG's version is accompanied by a grimace worthy of a victim of Sweeney Todd. I can tell that DG is thoroughly pleased with herself (despite not understanding that "smile" is an intransitive verb and does not take an object), but her facial expression is painful: bared teeth and glaring eyes.

Innana and I got to see DG's facial expressions accompanying her unforgettable vocal stylings at length last weekend while both girls (TG and DG) did rock climbing, archery (yes, they put a bow and arrow in DG's hands: and my four-year old hit the target several times), canoeing, kayaking, tubing, and zooming around in a motorboat. Apparently this made DG happy, so she had to sing about it and "smile her face."

I'm just pleased that as annoyed as I am (and I am very annoyed) with the dissension creating colleague, the self-delusional self-aggrandizement, and general obliviousness of myself and others, I'm still able to enjoy DG's terrifying "Smile Your Face."

*Innana, SNV, and I are all avid Date Lab readers. The column makes Innana pleased with her decision not to date, makes SNV pleased she doesn't have to date (she has Ex-Marine Fred, who remains the gold standard), and makes me feel like disaster dating that I may have done really isn't all that disastrous and I'm not as bad at meeting and trying to befriend as many others out there. All in all, win-win.

A Map of the World

I'm so happy. It's only the fourth of June, and I have had readers from every populated continent* on my Clustrmaps map. I love that.

On another topic, I know most of my regular readers (yes, East Montpelier, you're AnonDave), but Middleport, NY? Who are you?

*North America, South America, Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, excluding Antartica, because polar bases do not a population make.

Revenge (Sort Of): Sometimes, It Just Happens, And Life Is Good

Sometimes mildly bad things happen to mildly bad people* quickly enough so you can see the comeuppance and experience schadenfreude pretty directly and immediately. Case in point: last week, I got on the Metro and there were no seats with two seats available, but several with one seat available. All seats except one were sitting next to a 30-ish to 50-ish men, several of whom, although not large, were doing the leg-spread (taking up way more than half the seat, although they were no bigger than I am -- I'm tall and not small, but I use no more than half the seat, you know?) or the my-briefcase-needs-a-seat-of-its-own. At the start of a line in the middle of rush hour.

So being the obstreperous, cranky, peri-menopausal woman that I am, I pickout out one of the leg-spreaders, said "Excuse me" and sat next to him. He didn't tuck in at all, like most people would have done. After a few minutes, I decided to get more comfortable, so I visibly moved to a guy on the train (larger, but more considerate) who wasn't trying to mark territory (and really, WTF is that about? It's a subway, not prime real estate: sit down, minimize your imprint, and stop it).

Was there a connection with what happened next? At the next stop, a VERY large (6'5" or so, well over 230 lbs) man in military uniform (Ranger's decals, if that makes a difference) came in. He saw me moving and smiled at me -- why I don't know, but given his next action, I think he saw a bit o' the mini-drama -- and plunked his large, imposing self next to leg-spreader guy, who immediately tucked himself up into the tiny person he is inside. The guy sitting next to me now (who was a self-contained, non-encroaching type) said, sotto voce, "There is a God." Hee.

*I don't pretend that bad things don't happen to mildly good people or that we deserve all the good or bad things that happen to us. It's just a bit enjoyable when a jerk is treated according to the Golden Rule and is visibly uncomfortable as a result.

Play Is the Work of Children

I think that's a quote of Piaget or possibly Froebel. Well, TG and DG did plenty of work this weekend: carpet pool, archery (yes, DG hit the target), rock climbing, canoeing, kayaking, motorboating, tennis, swimming, tubing, basketball, and general running around and giggling. Skinks, mushrooms, cardinals, hawks, toads, frogs, hummingbirds, bluejays, bunnies, deer, dogs, cats, and various chipmunks, squirrels, and other rodents were seen and admired. Aside from the rock climbing and motorboating (Innana boated with DG), I did all the aforementioned activities, including the giggling. Not too surprisingly, I'm absolutely beat.

But I do feel quite pleased with myself to have lined up such a fun weekend for $30/night. It wouldn't have been doable without Innana either. Tomorrow, I'm chaperoning TG on a field trip (no sibling rivalry in my house: I chaperoned DG's preschool field trip to a farm last month, and TG made it clear: I'd darn well be chaperoning her field trip as well.) tomorrow. Me and 25 nine and ten year olds. I don't know for whom I should feel sorry, me or them. Oh well. I'll have fun.