It's sort of like the running of the bulls, only less dangerous. Probably.
Why are office-type miniskirts now pencil skirts? What happened to actual pencil skirts? Glamorous librarians everywhere want to know.
My typing skills are all jacked up, because only about half the keys on my laptop keyboard are functional. All the letters work, which is progress, but the shift key doesn't, which means that a) I reach for caps lock instead, which is annoying on a functional keyboard, and b) I have an impressive collection of punctuation marks, etc, on a desktop sticky note so I can copy/paste. It makes things like im'ing a lot slower, and I refuse to use it to do any serious writing at all.
My friend for whom I occasionally edit skyped me last night, asking if I still gave "unflattering criticism of others' content." Why yes, yes I do.
Yesterday in my art therapy class we presented timeline projects, which means that I spent almost a month making myself crazy about the execution of a particular (really good) idea, only to change the entire concept at almost literally the last minute. No, really, it was the night before. I'm working on breaking that habit, but really, how can I, when all my most brilliant ideas come three seconds before a deadline? The project wasn't completed, but it also wasn't late. This is progress. I got several compliments, which, in the big picture, is probably not helpful.
In related news, my living room floor is now strewn with sewing and craft supplies. Also, there are no acrylic craft paints to be had in the Montpelier area. This may or may not have had something to do with the last-minute change.
I killed five or six flies on my window just two days ago. Ok, maybe three. Now there are three more, the little bastards. Oh, and two more hiding behind the curtain. The plus side is, they've gotten so slow over the winter, I've started killing them with my bare hands when I don't have a fly swatter handy. Go me. Maybe I'll start using chopsticks.
My little guy spent the week in Maine with his uncle. He's coming home today. I woke up this morning contemplating what I would do if he died in a car crash on the way home. I honestly can't decide if this was or was not a healthy thought process. Natural, certainly, given the events that have made up my life over the past few years (and possibly given the amount of Buffy-watching I've been doing this week - you know your life is effed when you watch Buffy therapeutically). I am not an anxious parent. These are not usually things I worry about, and even now it feels more like a really twisted thought exercise, running over the practical details of who I would call to go with me and what I would do after that. I should have been a Boy Scout.
I ate breakfast on the back porch today, with a cup of tea and a book. The book was Tom Robbins' Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates, which I was enjoying until he started talking about the Amazonian Indians innate inability for levity, which I found to be totally condescending and irritating. I'm not going to tell you what I ate for breakfast, except to say that my eating habits have gone all to hell in this week that I've been alone, and it may or may not have involved Nutella. And fluff. I know, disgusting.
I have to do a load of laundry today, but I'm sitting here not wanting to, and coming up with really good reasons for the lack of wanting. It's Sunday. There won't be any washers. I'll have to put shoes on. Ok, I just ran out of excuses.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Friday, February 7, 2014
File this one under "Awkward"
I had a thing that I wanted to write about, but now I can't remember. It didn't have anything to do with my oatmeal being watery, or the fact that I'm out of raisins, or all the baking that I need to do today for the school raffle ... Wait a minute! Got it!
So this state is pretty small, both in area and population, and my facebook account is quickly becoming a web of mutual acquaintances that makes me relieved I'm not big on internet trash-talking, at least about specific people. Evidently, the same can now be said for the dating sites I frequent. This one guy, in particular, ends up on my suggestions page all the time, and while he lives in a town about ten minutes away, a minor miracle given how remote I am from basically everything, including eligible dudes, I am uninterested in someone whose screenname is sexallthetime* - his match rating would have to be at least ten points higher to even consider it. Nonetheless, as I said, I see his face quite frequently. Frequently enough, in fact, to recognize him when I see him in real life. At my son's school. A school, by the way, with fewer than fifty students. No chance of getting lost in the crowd over there.
So far, so good. He's not one of the parents I see every day, he doesn't stick around, and he seems happy to pretend he has no idea who I am, and I'm happy doing the same. After all, he's got more to lose by outing either of us than I do. My single status is no secret, if the subject of online dating comes up in conversation (not a frequent occurrence at an elementary school) I have nothing to hide, and hello! my screenname says nothing about how often I need it, although saying that might get me more than I'm currently getting (hint: none). Not the kind of attention I'm looking for, sadly.
I'm not sure if there's a moral to this story, but maybe it could be: if you live in TinyAssCommunity in TinyAssState, you should practice discretion when choosing a screenname that actually connects you to your actual face, especially if your child goes to a school that is so small, they publish a school list with your name and address right there for anybody to see. Or maybe you shouldn't care. It's up to you.
*Not actually his screenname, but it captures the spirit of the thing.
So this state is pretty small, both in area and population, and my facebook account is quickly becoming a web of mutual acquaintances that makes me relieved I'm not big on internet trash-talking, at least about specific people. Evidently, the same can now be said for the dating sites I frequent. This one guy, in particular, ends up on my suggestions page all the time, and while he lives in a town about ten minutes away, a minor miracle given how remote I am from basically everything, including eligible dudes, I am uninterested in someone whose screenname is sexallthetime* - his match rating would have to be at least ten points higher to even consider it. Nonetheless, as I said, I see his face quite frequently. Frequently enough, in fact, to recognize him when I see him in real life. At my son's school. A school, by the way, with fewer than fifty students. No chance of getting lost in the crowd over there.
So far, so good. He's not one of the parents I see every day, he doesn't stick around, and he seems happy to pretend he has no idea who I am, and I'm happy doing the same. After all, he's got more to lose by outing either of us than I do. My single status is no secret, if the subject of online dating comes up in conversation (not a frequent occurrence at an elementary school) I have nothing to hide, and hello! my screenname says nothing about how often I need it, although saying that might get me more than I'm currently getting (hint: none). Not the kind of attention I'm looking for, sadly.
I'm not sure if there's a moral to this story, but maybe it could be: if you live in TinyAssCommunity in TinyAssState, you should practice discretion when choosing a screenname that actually connects you to your actual face, especially if your child goes to a school that is so small, they publish a school list with your name and address right there for anybody to see. Or maybe you shouldn't care. It's up to you.
*Not actually his screenname, but it captures the spirit of the thing.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Grist, or, How Not to Get a Girlfriend by New Year's Eve
So things were going along swimmingly (whatever that means) with Mr. Non-Sucky-Guy. Phone calls featuring rousing discussions were had, plans to meet again were made, texts were ... texted ...? I didn't see myself, say, enrolling on campus at the college he was attending, but, again, it didn't suck.
Until.
So one night, I find myself driving home after one of my typical marathon days, featuring The Christmas Visit with the older kid, two performances of the younger one's Holiday Show (totes adorbs, of course), and, between Show 1 and Show 2, a 2-hour round trip to pick up the younger one's dad, who, despite his lack of car, still, of course, wants to see his kid perform. The day went fine, things were good, much-adored ex-babysitters made appearances and were much appreciated, Mr. Non-Sucky-Guy sent a text asking how the play went, which was nice, but by ten o'clock or so, still facing the hour-and-a-half drive home, the emotional drainage was starting to kick in and I was feeling a little fried. Cranky, even. And did I mention that I was driving? So when, out of the blue, I get a text telling me dude wants to make out with me and asking how I feel about that, my response was not immediately to pucker up. Not that I wasn't flattered. I appreciate plain speaking, but what did he want? A dissertation? A pie chart, maybe? "25% flattered, 10% reciprocal of the sentiment, 40% maybe later, 100% WTF SOMEONE ELSE WANTS SOMETHING FROM ME?!?!?"*
My response was something along the lines of "Hmmmm," a nice compromise, from my perspective. He said he just wanted to know if I was as hot for him as he was for me. My first thought (I swear)? "I have no basis for comparison, and therefore no way to quantify that." Yeah, I might have been writing a few too many research papers. He said some psychological theorist or other would say he was just looking for commonality. I said my fencing teacher would say, "Attack, parry, riposte ... holy shit, where'd that sledgehammer come from!?" He became diffident over my failure to melt into a lip-shaped puddle.
The next day, the weather turned sour, prompting us to postpone our plan to meet. He told me to text him when I reached the drop-off point for my son. I felt this was a little possessive, and didn't bother. He called me as I was driving home, in the just-this-side-of-icy slush, causing me to miss the Starbucks I had been planning on stopping at to do some market research for a commission. He suggested I put him on speaker-phone. I declined, but agreed to talk to him when I got home and after I charged my phone. I was growing more irritated by the minute.
Phone charged, I answered his call. He chose to extol the virtues of fiber cereal, and moved on the narrating his game of Civilization. I told him I was tired. This was, apparently, the biggest rejection ever, as I didn't hear from him the next day, and when I compounded the insult by cancelling for Sunday (the weather was doing something between ice and snow, and I also arranged for my son to spend an extra day with his dad, for the record) he took a turn for the emo, officially turning me off forevermore.
Is there a moral? Maybe. The phrase that comes to mind is, "Good judgement comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgement," and while I don't feel my judgement was bad (the point of getting to know someone is to get to know them, after all), the gaining of further experience for judgement could be a nice moral for this story.
An alternate moral could be "Why is this love shit so much effing work?" But that could be a little depressing.
*numbers do not add up to 100%
Until.
So one night, I find myself driving home after one of my typical marathon days, featuring The Christmas Visit with the older kid, two performances of the younger one's Holiday Show (totes adorbs, of course), and, between Show 1 and Show 2, a 2-hour round trip to pick up the younger one's dad, who, despite his lack of car, still, of course, wants to see his kid perform. The day went fine, things were good, much-adored ex-babysitters made appearances and were much appreciated, Mr. Non-Sucky-Guy sent a text asking how the play went, which was nice, but by ten o'clock or so, still facing the hour-and-a-half drive home, the emotional drainage was starting to kick in and I was feeling a little fried. Cranky, even. And did I mention that I was driving? So when, out of the blue, I get a text telling me dude wants to make out with me and asking how I feel about that, my response was not immediately to pucker up. Not that I wasn't flattered. I appreciate plain speaking, but what did he want? A dissertation? A pie chart, maybe? "25% flattered, 10% reciprocal of the sentiment, 40% maybe later, 100% WTF SOMEONE ELSE WANTS SOMETHING FROM ME?!?!?"*
My response was something along the lines of "Hmmmm," a nice compromise, from my perspective. He said he just wanted to know if I was as hot for him as he was for me. My first thought (I swear)? "I have no basis for comparison, and therefore no way to quantify that." Yeah, I might have been writing a few too many research papers. He said some psychological theorist or other would say he was just looking for commonality. I said my fencing teacher would say, "Attack, parry, riposte ... holy shit, where'd that sledgehammer come from!?" He became diffident over my failure to melt into a lip-shaped puddle.
The next day, the weather turned sour, prompting us to postpone our plan to meet. He told me to text him when I reached the drop-off point for my son. I felt this was a little possessive, and didn't bother. He called me as I was driving home, in the just-this-side-of-icy slush, causing me to miss the Starbucks I had been planning on stopping at to do some market research for a commission. He suggested I put him on speaker-phone. I declined, but agreed to talk to him when I got home and after I charged my phone. I was growing more irritated by the minute.
Phone charged, I answered his call. He chose to extol the virtues of fiber cereal, and moved on the narrating his game of Civilization. I told him I was tired. This was, apparently, the biggest rejection ever, as I didn't hear from him the next day, and when I compounded the insult by cancelling for Sunday (the weather was doing something between ice and snow, and I also arranged for my son to spend an extra day with his dad, for the record) he took a turn for the emo, officially turning me off forevermore.
Is there a moral? Maybe. The phrase that comes to mind is, "Good judgement comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgement," and while I don't feel my judgement was bad (the point of getting to know someone is to get to know them, after all), the gaining of further experience for judgement could be a nice moral for this story.
An alternate moral could be "Why is this love shit so much effing work?" But that could be a little depressing.
*numbers do not add up to 100%
Monday, December 16, 2013
So the timing is pretty sweet ...
... and by sweet I mean cool, interesting, conveniently ending this semester, not sappy with flowers and snowflakes and long walks or whatever. I have no predictions in that direction as yet.
I did, however, meet this guy for breakfast yesterday. Breakfast at noon–thirty, but what can you expect of a Sunday that dawns on fourteen brand–new inches of snow? Shoveling, that's what. And a bunch of sissies who should have stayed off the road if they weren't prepared to brave a couple inches of slush.
Also, I have four–wheel–drive, but he did not, so I spent a certain amount of time waiting around on Church St. That was nice, actually. Even if the rest of the day had sucked, at least I got to hang out in a secondhand bookstore, which is a rare occurrence these days. But it didn't suck.
I'm going to repeat that. It didn't suck. The guy had a goatee that he occasionally braids, a braid down his back, and showed up wearing overalls, and it still didn't suck. This is progress. I was greeted with a hug (no groping, though), and it still didn't suck. We got coffee. We walked around. We went to Henry's Diner. We debated whether American cheese actually qualifies as food, let alone cheese. He held that the addition of soy lecithin to cheddar and colby doesn't uncheese it. I disagreed, maintaining that American cheese is not in fact cheese at all, but thinly disguised plastic. The waitress served our food, but forgot to give us silverware. He walked me to my car, two blocks past his, and said he'd enjoyed himself. I might have enjoyed myself, too. We made plans to meet for karaoke (!?!) next week. That could be interesting. As my Swedish great–grandfather is often quoted as saying, "Ve vill see vat ve vill see." It might suck. Then again, it might not.
I did, however, meet this guy for breakfast yesterday. Breakfast at noon–thirty, but what can you expect of a Sunday that dawns on fourteen brand–new inches of snow? Shoveling, that's what. And a bunch of sissies who should have stayed off the road if they weren't prepared to brave a couple inches of slush.
Also, I have four–wheel–drive, but he did not, so I spent a certain amount of time waiting around on Church St. That was nice, actually. Even if the rest of the day had sucked, at least I got to hang out in a secondhand bookstore, which is a rare occurrence these days. But it didn't suck.
I'm going to repeat that. It didn't suck. The guy had a goatee that he occasionally braids, a braid down his back, and showed up wearing overalls, and it still didn't suck. This is progress. I was greeted with a hug (no groping, though), and it still didn't suck. We got coffee. We walked around. We went to Henry's Diner. We debated whether American cheese actually qualifies as food, let alone cheese. He held that the addition of soy lecithin to cheddar and colby doesn't uncheese it. I disagreed, maintaining that American cheese is not in fact cheese at all, but thinly disguised plastic. The waitress served our food, but forgot to give us silverware. He walked me to my car, two blocks past his, and said he'd enjoyed himself. I might have enjoyed myself, too. We made plans to meet for karaoke (!?!) next week. That could be interesting. As my Swedish great–grandfather is often quoted as saying, "Ve vill see vat ve vill see." It might suck. Then again, it might not.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
ZZZzzzzzZZZzzzZzzz
People, some dude wants to call me tonight after he puts his kid to bed. Not even Jon Stewart and Buffy combined could keep me up past the kid's bedtime. It's the end of the semester, and I mean to finish The Curse of the Black Pearl with the kid, because it's almost vacation, and that's how we roll, climb into bed and sigh in luxury, and drift off into blissful dreamland. Sorry, dude.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Naming the tree. Is this a thing, now?
My sister named hers Claudio. Brittany, Herself, calls hers Betty. Dandelion Mama called hers Fakey
Fakerson, but, as the name implies, it was artificial, and therefore reappeared for years. So, is this a thing? Should I name my (as yet unpurchased, because I am clearly The Grinch) tree? And what should I name it? Joe? Pete? Billy? Velma?
If there ever was a tree that should have been named, it was the one I had two years ago. It was the end of my first real semester of school. My son had, less than a month ago, debuted the opening act of what was to become a saga worthy of, if not the Icelanders, at least the Russians. As a result of the stress, I also had to obtain my first academic extensions - in two classes, no less. My divorce was about to become final, the only bright spot in an otherwise completely shit month. We needed this tree. I had been frantically making up work since the semester had officially ended, and now it was December 24th, the last possible day to find one, so after the evening Christmas Eve service, we went to the farm stand on the way home. I think they had three trees left. Maybe five. All were small and crooked, except one, probably eight feet tall with an enormous trunk. We took that one. It was almost bigger than the car.
The layout of our apartment was ... not ideal. For anything. Unless the front door, when open, was open completely, it blocked the stairs to the second floor, where we lived. There was only an inch of clearance between the door and the banister. At the top was another door, which opened into a hallway so narrow the fire marshal barely approved it. To get the tree into the living room, we'd have to do some serious defying of the laws of physics.
First, though, we had to get it through the front door. My older son and I dragged it up the front steps and began our attempt. I figured we could get it up and over the banister, and not have to drag it up the whole flight of stairs. We pushed the door open, and open, and open some more. Suddenly there was a crack, and the door sagged toward us. Dry rot. The door, old, solid wood, had dry-rotted from the inside, and now the screws hold the hinges had given way, having nothing to hold on to. Fuck. I took a deep breath, held back my tears, and shoved the door the rest of the way against the wall, vowing to deal with it later. We dragged the tree the rest of the way up the stairs, heaving and panting, and laid it, snowy, frozen, dripping, in the living room.
Down in the entryway, I stared at the door, trying to think. The attempt wasn't very successful. Finally, I just wedged the door back into the doorframe, locked it, and left it to deal with the next day.
Back upstairs, we began to reduce the tree to a manageable size. The trunk was fully eight inches across, maybe nine, frozen solid, and all I had was my trusty pruning saw, which is meant for small branches, a couple of inches in diameter. I started sawing. Ten minutes later, I had made maybe an inch of progress, and the carpet was strewn with soggy sawdust. My son took a turn. We traded again. Finally, the giant chunk of tree trunk fell free. We sliced some off the sides, too, to narrow the diameter, and levered it into place on the tree stand, which was promptly flattened. There was just no way we'd ever make it fit. Damn. Plan B. Or C. Or F. I grabbed a metal mixing bowl from the kitchen, some florist wire that I happened to have lying around, and rested the tree in the bowl, then wired it to the window latches. Done. Victory! I high-fived my son, then told him, with great regret, that, since it was probably getting on ten o'clock, and I was exhausted, we'd decorate the tree in the morning. Christmas morning.
"No problem, Mom," he said, the light of temporarily restored faith in his eyes. "It's ok. Santa will do it for us tonight." I stared at him, my breath temporarily sucked from my body, scrambling all ability to form a thought. The wha-...? Who? Santa? Did I mention that my son was, at that time, nearly fifteen? He'd discovered the benevolent lie surrounding Santa's existence years before. Yet here he was, belief shining from his face.
"Of course he will, sweetie," I breathed. What else was there to say? And, indeed, Christmas morning, the tree shone forth in all its splendor, fully decorated and surrounded by wrapped gifts. I'll tell you what, Santa owes me big time.
Fakerson, but, as the name implies, it was artificial, and therefore reappeared for years. So, is this a thing? Should I name my (as yet unpurchased, because I am clearly The Grinch) tree? And what should I name it? Joe? Pete? Billy? Velma?
If there ever was a tree that should have been named, it was the one I had two years ago. It was the end of my first real semester of school. My son had, less than a month ago, debuted the opening act of what was to become a saga worthy of, if not the Icelanders, at least the Russians. As a result of the stress, I also had to obtain my first academic extensions - in two classes, no less. My divorce was about to become final, the only bright spot in an otherwise completely shit month. We needed this tree. I had been frantically making up work since the semester had officially ended, and now it was December 24th, the last possible day to find one, so after the evening Christmas Eve service, we went to the farm stand on the way home. I think they had three trees left. Maybe five. All were small and crooked, except one, probably eight feet tall with an enormous trunk. We took that one. It was almost bigger than the car.
The layout of our apartment was ... not ideal. For anything. Unless the front door, when open, was open completely, it blocked the stairs to the second floor, where we lived. There was only an inch of clearance between the door and the banister. At the top was another door, which opened into a hallway so narrow the fire marshal barely approved it. To get the tree into the living room, we'd have to do some serious defying of the laws of physics.
First, though, we had to get it through the front door. My older son and I dragged it up the front steps and began our attempt. I figured we could get it up and over the banister, and not have to drag it up the whole flight of stairs. We pushed the door open, and open, and open some more. Suddenly there was a crack, and the door sagged toward us. Dry rot. The door, old, solid wood, had dry-rotted from the inside, and now the screws hold the hinges had given way, having nothing to hold on to. Fuck. I took a deep breath, held back my tears, and shoved the door the rest of the way against the wall, vowing to deal with it later. We dragged the tree the rest of the way up the stairs, heaving and panting, and laid it, snowy, frozen, dripping, in the living room.
Down in the entryway, I stared at the door, trying to think. The attempt wasn't very successful. Finally, I just wedged the door back into the doorframe, locked it, and left it to deal with the next day.
Back upstairs, we began to reduce the tree to a manageable size. The trunk was fully eight inches across, maybe nine, frozen solid, and all I had was my trusty pruning saw, which is meant for small branches, a couple of inches in diameter. I started sawing. Ten minutes later, I had made maybe an inch of progress, and the carpet was strewn with soggy sawdust. My son took a turn. We traded again. Finally, the giant chunk of tree trunk fell free. We sliced some off the sides, too, to narrow the diameter, and levered it into place on the tree stand, which was promptly flattened. There was just no way we'd ever make it fit. Damn. Plan B. Or C. Or F. I grabbed a metal mixing bowl from the kitchen, some florist wire that I happened to have lying around, and rested the tree in the bowl, then wired it to the window latches. Done. Victory! I high-fived my son, then told him, with great regret, that, since it was probably getting on ten o'clock, and I was exhausted, we'd decorate the tree in the morning. Christmas morning.
"No problem, Mom," he said, the light of temporarily restored faith in his eyes. "It's ok. Santa will do it for us tonight." I stared at him, my breath temporarily sucked from my body, scrambling all ability to form a thought. The wha-...? Who? Santa? Did I mention that my son was, at that time, nearly fifteen? He'd discovered the benevolent lie surrounding Santa's existence years before. Yet here he was, belief shining from his face.
"Of course he will, sweetie," I breathed. What else was there to say? And, indeed, Christmas morning, the tree shone forth in all its splendor, fully decorated and surrounded by wrapped gifts. I'll tell you what, Santa owes me big time.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
PSA
I'm getting a little bored with the exclusivity of my current blog topic, so I'm thinking about branching out. In the meantime, here are a few (!) links to blogs I especially enjoy. Feel free to enjoy also, or not, as you are inclined. They tend to lean in a mommyblog direction, but not exclusively. I'm not going to say anything else about them, so you can form your own opinions without preconceptions, except to mention that Schmutzie has this wonderful feature she calls Five-Star Friday, which she is no longer posting to the main page, so click on that link (I think it's in the upper-right-hand of the page). It features amazing writing from various blogs ... I highly recommend it.
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