Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Catching up on mail and email today.
I got a morning email from Roman inviting me to dinner, followed by a call. He had been in Dallas at the wedding of the daughter of a friend of his girlfriend this past weekend. I had planned to go to the Thought Cafe this evening, but decided to accept his invitation instead.
He seems to be getting stronger and more independent lately. That's good, but I hope he doesn't do anything rash about his current relationship. He needs to think about that a little more. He'll be very happy with her, and then something tics him off and he wants to break up with her, and they have a fight, he comes to me, and then he goes back to her, and she punishes him for a while, then everything is wonderful for a time, and then it starts all over again. There seems to be a rough patch going on right now. History says it will pass.
But he's sounding stronger, so maybe it won't.
Yes, I did tell him I had a good time Saturday. Partly because I'm still burbling, and partly to let him know I'm not as available during those bad patches as I once was. If he's thinking about breaking up with her again, he needs to think about how definite he wants to be. I don't want to distract or influence or enable him.
I'm heading for NJ tomorrow, dinner with TheMan. Probably no post tomorrow.
.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
1217 Monday
Monday, April 23, 2007
I got up at a decent hour this morning and headed to the Maritime Museum to process the next bunch of membership renewals. On my way through the village I noticed Piper was in his office, so I stopped in, and we went to the cafe for tea and coffee (too early for lunch). I finally made it to the museum at 1:30.
I got home at 5:15, and then left at 5:45 for Andi's Gross Science talk in Newburgh. It was cute. She talked about some of the really gross discoveries in science, like the sex lives of tube worms, why toads explode, training wasps to find dead bodies, and more.
After the talk, Andi, Erwin, and I stopped at the Highland diner for munchies. As usual, I've doggie bagged home the remaining 2/3 of their delicious Greek salad. (Not very Greek, but still very good.)
Bedtime.
.
I got up at a decent hour this morning and headed to the Maritime Museum to process the next bunch of membership renewals. On my way through the village I noticed Piper was in his office, so I stopped in, and we went to the cafe for tea and coffee (too early for lunch). I finally made it to the museum at 1:30.
I got home at 5:15, and then left at 5:45 for Andi's Gross Science talk in Newburgh. It was cute. She talked about some of the really gross discoveries in science, like the sex lives of tube worms, why toads explode, training wasps to find dead bodies, and more.
After the talk, Andi, Erwin, and I stopped at the Highland diner for munchies. As usual, I've doggie bagged home the remaining 2/3 of their delicious Greek salad. (Not very Greek, but still very good.)
Bedtime.
.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
1216 Manhattan Meanders
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Yesterday was the big NYC date.
I haven't stopped smiling yet. I even break into chuckles at odd moments.
I took the Metro North train down, and he met me at Grand Central. We walked and talked. Central Park. The Museum of Natural History. Street cart hot dogs (I insisted - as a tourist, it was de rigeur). Dinner, revolving over Times Square. He was more than a perfect gentleman.
He didn't want to put me on a train to go home. He drove me back to my car at the station in Poughkeepsie, which involved a slow wander around the city lights in a sporty little convertible with the top down and Bare Naked Ladies on the player, and him singing along. (I'm not usually impressed by a guy's wheels, but come on! The combination was fantastic!) We had taxi drivers grinning at us.
We were together 14 hours, and it just kept getting better and better all day.
I drove home, and he drove home, and I received two phone calls and an email (via Blackberry) from his car before I'd finished feeding Miss Thunderfoot.
One weird thing happened. We had stopped at a rest stop on the parkway on the way to Poughkeepsie so I could use the ladies' room. He pulled over by the door of the building, and I got out and went in. When I came out, he was nowhere to be seen. I checked both parking lots and the gas pumps, and didn't see his car anywhere. He was gone. Now, I've been dumped once or twice (and also dumped a few myself), but usually it's sort of expected, like I'd called the guy some bad names or had to beat him off. This was completely unexpected. I was starting to panic (dumped? at a rest stop? in the middle of nowhere? at 2 am?) when he came out the door of the building and looked relieved to see me. I ran toward him and got my first hug (and the first kiss, on the top of the head).
He had parked (beyond a larger vehicle, maybe? Black car, dark lot) and gone to the men's room, and then waited by the ladies' room for me to come out. But I never came out! He was beginning to worry that he had misplaced me somehow. I'd simply left the ladies' room sooner than expected.
Next kiss when we got to my car. I liked it.
And that was Saturday.
A gal's head could get turned. I have to keep reminding myself that even though I like everything I've seen so far, I haven't yet seen everything.
I woke up this morning to a wonderful email. I replied that I'd like to know who taught him how to write to a lady, so I could send them flowers.
Today was anime at FirstWoman's house. It was such a beautiful day we sat on her patio for a few hours talking.
Sheesh. Too much of this and my face will clear up.
.
Yesterday was the big NYC date.
I haven't stopped smiling yet. I even break into chuckles at odd moments.
I took the Metro North train down, and he met me at Grand Central. We walked and talked. Central Park. The Museum of Natural History. Street cart hot dogs (I insisted - as a tourist, it was de rigeur). Dinner, revolving over Times Square. He was more than a perfect gentleman.
He didn't want to put me on a train to go home. He drove me back to my car at the station in Poughkeepsie, which involved a slow wander around the city lights in a sporty little convertible with the top down and Bare Naked Ladies on the player, and him singing along. (I'm not usually impressed by a guy's wheels, but come on! The combination was fantastic!) We had taxi drivers grinning at us.
We were together 14 hours, and it just kept getting better and better all day.
I drove home, and he drove home, and I received two phone calls and an email (via Blackberry) from his car before I'd finished feeding Miss Thunderfoot.
One weird thing happened. We had stopped at a rest stop on the parkway on the way to Poughkeepsie so I could use the ladies' room. He pulled over by the door of the building, and I got out and went in. When I came out, he was nowhere to be seen. I checked both parking lots and the gas pumps, and didn't see his car anywhere. He was gone. Now, I've been dumped once or twice (and also dumped a few myself), but usually it's sort of expected, like I'd called the guy some bad names or had to beat him off. This was completely unexpected. I was starting to panic (dumped? at a rest stop? in the middle of nowhere? at 2 am?) when he came out the door of the building and looked relieved to see me. I ran toward him and got my first hug (and the first kiss, on the top of the head).
He had parked (beyond a larger vehicle, maybe? Black car, dark lot) and gone to the men's room, and then waited by the ladies' room for me to come out. But I never came out! He was beginning to worry that he had misplaced me somehow. I'd simply left the ladies' room sooner than expected.
Next kiss when we got to my car. I liked it.
And that was Saturday.
A gal's head could get turned. I have to keep reminding myself that even though I like everything I've seen so far, I haven't yet seen everything.
I woke up this morning to a wonderful email. I replied that I'd like to know who taught him how to write to a lady, so I could send them flowers.
Today was anime at FirstWoman's house. It was such a beautiful day we sat on her patio for a few hours talking.
Sheesh. Too much of this and my face will clear up.
.
Friday, April 20, 2007
1215 Who's Out There?
Friday, April 20, 2007
With the various data gatherers available, I can pretty well guess who's reading this blog, and when.
Hello, Clifton, NJ. When you know someone personally, it's nice to alert them when you've found their blog. I'm not absolutely certain it's Y-O-U, but whoever it is went to my AOL profile and found the pointer to my old blog, which contained a pointer to this one. Many people get from AOL to here by that route, but in this case, the timing was significant. (Sheesh. Did you forget you were dealing with a Mensan?) I don't mind your reading it. It is, after all, public. (And I didn't forget you're also a Mensan - I expected you to find it eventually.) I'm even a little flattered that you're reading it - it's a slog, sort of on purpose. I do, however, mind your not having mentioned that you're reading it. That's not fair.
Ahah. Now what do you do? I am not going to mention this to you. Not yet, anyway. You have to decide whether to 'fess up or not. How interesting. Who's playing who?
Also, who's reading from Andrews? You've been a faithful lurker for a long time. I'd love to know a little about you, but mainly I'd like to know why you find this blather interesting. I do hope I'm not a subject of research for a psych paper or something. Or maybe it's all those links to middle eastern blogs. Please reassure me.
.
With the various data gatherers available, I can pretty well guess who's reading this blog, and when.
Hello, Clifton, NJ. When you know someone personally, it's nice to alert them when you've found their blog. I'm not absolutely certain it's Y-O-U, but whoever it is went to my AOL profile and found the pointer to my old blog, which contained a pointer to this one. Many people get from AOL to here by that route, but in this case, the timing was significant. (Sheesh. Did you forget you were dealing with a Mensan?) I don't mind your reading it. It is, after all, public. (And I didn't forget you're also a Mensan - I expected you to find it eventually.) I'm even a little flattered that you're reading it - it's a slog, sort of on purpose. I do, however, mind your not having mentioned that you're reading it. That's not fair.
Ahah. Now what do you do? I am not going to mention this to you. Not yet, anyway. You have to decide whether to 'fess up or not. How interesting. Who's playing who?
Also, who's reading from Andrews? You've been a faithful lurker for a long time. I'd love to know a little about you, but mainly I'd like to know why you find this blather interesting. I do hope I'm not a subject of research for a psych paper or something. Or maybe it's all those links to middle eastern blogs. Please reassure me.
.
1214 Life Begins at 37
Friday, April 20, 2007
Funny how lately things are becoming so clear. I've known for a long time, but never put it into words before, that I became me at age 37. Prior to 37, I was not the me I know now. I was whoever and whatever other people told me I was. My life can be divided neatly into "Before 37" and "After 37", and the two parts are so very different. I was/am so very different. This means I should stop dwelling on the things that happened to me and the things I did Before 37, because although those things went into the making of me, they weren't me.
It's not like "I am a different person today from the person I was yesterday." It's much bigger than that. It took four years of intensive psychotherapy, and then one day I found me, and I liked the me I found. From now on, when I speak of those difficult things, I'll end it with, "but that was back before I was me."
All the little epiphanies I'm having lately worry me. Like maybe they portend some big cataclysm in/to my life. I'm not ready for that. I'm having too much fun right now.
------------------------------
Of minor significance, whenever anyone would ask, "What age do you feel inside?", "Or what age would you like to be?", I've always answered, "37." Back when Jay and I were looking into the donor egg program, I was 50, and their cutoff age was 49, so the clinic put me through just about every medical test known to man, and they approved me, because they decided that my physical age was ......... 37.
.
Funny how lately things are becoming so clear. I've known for a long time, but never put it into words before, that I became me at age 37. Prior to 37, I was not the me I know now. I was whoever and whatever other people told me I was. My life can be divided neatly into "Before 37" and "After 37", and the two parts are so very different. I was/am so very different. This means I should stop dwelling on the things that happened to me and the things I did Before 37, because although those things went into the making of me, they weren't me.
It's not like "I am a different person today from the person I was yesterday." It's much bigger than that. It took four years of intensive psychotherapy, and then one day I found me, and I liked the me I found. From now on, when I speak of those difficult things, I'll end it with, "but that was back before I was me."
All the little epiphanies I'm having lately worry me. Like maybe they portend some big cataclysm in/to my life. I'm not ready for that. I'm having too much fun right now.
------------------------------
Of minor significance, whenever anyone would ask, "What age do you feel inside?", "Or what age would you like to be?", I've always answered, "37." Back when Jay and I were looking into the donor egg program, I was 50, and their cutoff age was 49, so the clinic put me through just about every medical test known to man, and they approved me, because they decided that my physical age was ......... 37.
.
1213 Talking
Thursday, April 19, 2007
It was FirstWoman, Roman, and me at the Third Thursday dinner this evening. FirstWoman left shortly after dessert. I don't know if she was really tired, or just sensitive to electricity. Roman was fairly crackling.
Roman and I sat and talked for the next two and a half hours, and left then only because the restaurant closed and they chased us out.
Well, to be truthful, it wasn't "Roman and I talked". Mostly he talked and I listened and validated and sympathized. Which I don't really mind because I love to hear him talk. He seems happy when he talks, it's rare to see him happy, and that's all I want is to see him happy. And I really didn't have anything to say, myself, anyway. He gets impatient when I talk. Funny how when you back off a bit you start to notice things you never noticed before.
I still love him, but in a stand-away way. I see more clearly now. It's entirely possible that it isn't in his path to be happy this time through, that the lesson he is meant to learn is best taught by the woman he's involved with, and it would be wrong of me to divert him from his life's path. It's probably the best use of his life. The right thing for me to do is to support him in his current endeavor, be there when he needs me, and walk away when he doesn't, and that's all.
Back to talking - I'm beginning to notice that many men don't really want to hear what a woman has to say. They say they do, but they don't, and they telegraph that. They end up teaching their women not to say anything important, and then complain because they never say anything important.
.
It was FirstWoman, Roman, and me at the Third Thursday dinner this evening. FirstWoman left shortly after dessert. I don't know if she was really tired, or just sensitive to electricity. Roman was fairly crackling.
Roman and I sat and talked for the next two and a half hours, and left then only because the restaurant closed and they chased us out.
Well, to be truthful, it wasn't "Roman and I talked". Mostly he talked and I listened and validated and sympathized. Which I don't really mind because I love to hear him talk. He seems happy when he talks, it's rare to see him happy, and that's all I want is to see him happy. And I really didn't have anything to say, myself, anyway. He gets impatient when I talk. Funny how when you back off a bit you start to notice things you never noticed before.
I still love him, but in a stand-away way. I see more clearly now. It's entirely possible that it isn't in his path to be happy this time through, that the lesson he is meant to learn is best taught by the woman he's involved with, and it would be wrong of me to divert him from his life's path. It's probably the best use of his life. The right thing for me to do is to support him in his current endeavor, be there when he needs me, and walk away when he doesn't, and that's all.
Back to talking - I'm beginning to notice that many men don't really want to hear what a woman has to say. They say they do, but they don't, and they telegraph that. They end up teaching their women not to say anything important, and then complain because they never say anything important.
.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
1212 Anticipation
Thursday, April 19, 2007
I met The Man at a New Jersey gathering on March 2, and on April 2 he joined Daughter, Hercules, and me at dinner. This Saturday we'll meet in NYC. He'll meet me at Grand Central at 1 pm, and we have 8 pm reservations at The View. Late train back home.
In the past few weeks there have been a few megabytes of emails and several hours of phone conversation. Last night one of the topics of conversation was online dating experiences, and how profile photos, email, and telephone can build expectations to unrealistic levels. I said "Wouldn't it be awful if, after all this, we annoy the Hell out of each other on Saturday?" His attitude is that we've already met a few times with chaperones, so there shouldn't be too many surprises, and if we find out that we don't work out one-on-one, oh well, we tried. My attitude would be more like "Oh, no, not again."
He's getting a little nervous, I think. I'm not nervous, which leaves me wondering why. I think maybe because based on what I've seen and heard so far, I like him, find him fascinating, but he's nothing like what I was looking for in age, height, interests, and he lives too far away, so however it goes, I guess it's ok with me.
Which is kind of nice because I can really be me.
.
I met The Man at a New Jersey gathering on March 2, and on April 2 he joined Daughter, Hercules, and me at dinner. This Saturday we'll meet in NYC. He'll meet me at Grand Central at 1 pm, and we have 8 pm reservations at The View. Late train back home.
In the past few weeks there have been a few megabytes of emails and several hours of phone conversation. Last night one of the topics of conversation was online dating experiences, and how profile photos, email, and telephone can build expectations to unrealistic levels. I said "Wouldn't it be awful if, after all this, we annoy the Hell out of each other on Saturday?" His attitude is that we've already met a few times with chaperones, so there shouldn't be too many surprises, and if we find out that we don't work out one-on-one, oh well, we tried. My attitude would be more like "Oh, no, not again."
He's getting a little nervous, I think. I'm not nervous, which leaves me wondering why. I think maybe because based on what I've seen and heard so far, I like him, find him fascinating, but he's nothing like what I was looking for in age, height, interests, and he lives too far away, so however it goes, I guess it's ok with me.
Which is kind of nice because I can really be me.
.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
1211 Tuesday and Wednesday
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Yesterday I paid the estimated tax, filled the gas tank, shopped for groceries, wrote and sent a letter to old friend Danny to ask if he and his wife would be able to meet me for dinner while I'm at the Gathering in Maryland at the end of May, and went to Office Max to see if the laptop would be able to connect through their free WiFi. Bad news.
The hardware locates the wireless networks and even connects, but then I get an error message that it "cannot connect to the internet". Hercules, who had seen this two weeks ago, had said it looks like the hardware is ok, but the software, Windows or Internet Explorer, is screwing up. I guess I'm going to have to bite the bullet and make a call to service.
On the way home from Office Max I stopped at Wendy's. I had a craving for french fries. All I'd had to eat all day was oatmeal. I knew I needed real vegetables, too, so I bought a salad, which I brought home for later. But later I wasn't hungry, so it didn't get eaten. It's huge, so I had figured it would be good for two meals, yesterday's dinner and today's.
This morning I got up late, so I rushed to get to the museum by 1 pm to handle a backlog of memberships. When I got there, the door was locked, and there were no cars parked outside. The Rondout creek is over its banks and lapping against the museum foundation - I'm sure the basement must be flooded. I wondered if maybe that's why no one was there. Even if they're out for lunch, there should be a car or two there.
The road was blocked off just past the museum. It looks like all of lower Kingston is flooded.
I decided to walk around the Rondout district (higher ground) a bit, see what shops and restaurants are new. I ended up having lunch, pulled pork and salad, at the Ship to Shore. It's very fancy and gentrified now. Twenty years ago it was pretty much a beer, wine, and hamburger place. Mensa used to do a Yahtzee TGIF there every Friday. I can't see playing Yahtzee there now....
I wandered through a few boutiques ($40 necklaces On Sale! for only $200!!), and got back to my car at 3 pm, just in time to see the museum director pull in. She saw me and waved, but it was too late for me to start processing memberships, so I left.
I really truly hate being under pressure to get stuff done on any kind of schedule. I am determined to enjoy retirement. I have been very clear right from the beginning of this volunteer gig that I want to just show up when I can, and do jobs that always need doing, and are finished when I leave - like painting walls, cleaning floors, caulking windows, weeding flowerbeds, filling in at the cash register in the gift shop, setting up for events. I don't know how on earth I got talked into this membership thing. It's an ongoing responsibility with time requirements, which is EXACTLY what I didn't want! Someone, someday, is going to complain about the buildup in the "Membership ToDo" box, and I'm going to hand it to them and say, "You do it", and walk out and never return. No one can say they haven't been warned.
I refuse to give up my freedom for this.
Well, anyway, having eaten lunch in the Rondout, I don't want that salad in the refrigerator. Tomorrow is the Third Thursday Therapy dinner in Poughkeepsie. Saturday I'll be having lunch and dinner with The Man in NYC. So the whole salad will have to be eaten on Friday - if it's still good by then - but Friday I have to try for the museum again, and I hate to take it with me.
Damn. I do this all the time. Is it any wonder I hate schedules. It's WORK for me!
.
Yesterday I paid the estimated tax, filled the gas tank, shopped for groceries, wrote and sent a letter to old friend Danny to ask if he and his wife would be able to meet me for dinner while I'm at the Gathering in Maryland at the end of May, and went to Office Max to see if the laptop would be able to connect through their free WiFi. Bad news.
The hardware locates the wireless networks and even connects, but then I get an error message that it "cannot connect to the internet". Hercules, who had seen this two weeks ago, had said it looks like the hardware is ok, but the software, Windows or Internet Explorer, is screwing up. I guess I'm going to have to bite the bullet and make a call to service.
On the way home from Office Max I stopped at Wendy's. I had a craving for french fries. All I'd had to eat all day was oatmeal. I knew I needed real vegetables, too, so I bought a salad, which I brought home for later. But later I wasn't hungry, so it didn't get eaten. It's huge, so I had figured it would be good for two meals, yesterday's dinner and today's.
This morning I got up late, so I rushed to get to the museum by 1 pm to handle a backlog of memberships. When I got there, the door was locked, and there were no cars parked outside. The Rondout creek is over its banks and lapping against the museum foundation - I'm sure the basement must be flooded. I wondered if maybe that's why no one was there. Even if they're out for lunch, there should be a car or two there.
The road was blocked off just past the museum. It looks like all of lower Kingston is flooded.
I decided to walk around the Rondout district (higher ground) a bit, see what shops and restaurants are new. I ended up having lunch, pulled pork and salad, at the Ship to Shore. It's very fancy and gentrified now. Twenty years ago it was pretty much a beer, wine, and hamburger place. Mensa used to do a Yahtzee TGIF there every Friday. I can't see playing Yahtzee there now....
I wandered through a few boutiques ($40 necklaces On Sale! for only $200!!), and got back to my car at 3 pm, just in time to see the museum director pull in. She saw me and waved, but it was too late for me to start processing memberships, so I left.
I really truly hate being under pressure to get stuff done on any kind of schedule. I am determined to enjoy retirement. I have been very clear right from the beginning of this volunteer gig that I want to just show up when I can, and do jobs that always need doing, and are finished when I leave - like painting walls, cleaning floors, caulking windows, weeding flowerbeds, filling in at the cash register in the gift shop, setting up for events. I don't know how on earth I got talked into this membership thing. It's an ongoing responsibility with time requirements, which is EXACTLY what I didn't want! Someone, someday, is going to complain about the buildup in the "Membership ToDo" box, and I'm going to hand it to them and say, "You do it", and walk out and never return. No one can say they haven't been warned.
I refuse to give up my freedom for this.
Well, anyway, having eaten lunch in the Rondout, I don't want that salad in the refrigerator. Tomorrow is the Third Thursday Therapy dinner in Poughkeepsie. Saturday I'll be having lunch and dinner with The Man in NYC. So the whole salad will have to be eaten on Friday - if it's still good by then - but Friday I have to try for the museum again, and I hate to take it with me.
Damn. I do this all the time. Is it any wonder I hate schedules. It's WORK for me!
.
Monday, April 16, 2007
1210 Annoyed
Monday, April 16, 2007
I'm getting very annoyed at all the "Monday morning quarterbacking" regarding the officials' response to the Virginia Tech shootings, especially regarding the lack of a lockdown during the two hours between the two sets of shootings.
They knew what they knew when they knew it, and did what seemed right at the time. They had no reason to think that it was other than an isolated and personal crime of passion. Sheesh! Nothing like criticizing actions based on later knowledge, huh? It's easy and fun.
Yes, looking at procedures and seeing if something could/should have been done differently is proper, but that should be done by those intimate with the situation, not by TV reporters! This kind of ripping and laying blame only leads to "cook books", where people aren't allow to make decisions, and are forced to follow paper procedures, and then if something goes wrong, you can just point to the paper and say - "I followed procedure." NOT the best solution! It leads to overreactions.
I'm also getting very annoyed at some Christian station that's been breaking into my television reception for the past four days. I get gray snow and Bible-thumping shouting instead of news and weather. You get that when self-righteous idiots broadcast a wider signal than they're allowed. I'd report them if I could figure out who they are.
.
I'm getting very annoyed at all the "Monday morning quarterbacking" regarding the officials' response to the Virginia Tech shootings, especially regarding the lack of a lockdown during the two hours between the two sets of shootings.
They knew what they knew when they knew it, and did what seemed right at the time. They had no reason to think that it was other than an isolated and personal crime of passion. Sheesh! Nothing like criticizing actions based on later knowledge, huh? It's easy and fun.
Yes, looking at procedures and seeing if something could/should have been done differently is proper, but that should be done by those intimate with the situation, not by TV reporters! This kind of ripping and laying blame only leads to "cook books", where people aren't allow to make decisions, and are forced to follow paper procedures, and then if something goes wrong, you can just point to the paper and say - "I followed procedure." NOT the best solution! It leads to overreactions.
I'm also getting very annoyed at some Christian station that's been breaking into my television reception for the past four days. I get gray snow and Bible-thumping shouting instead of news and weather. You get that when self-righteous idiots broadcast a wider signal than they're allowed. I'd report them if I could figure out who they are.
.
1209 Flood
Monday, April 16, 2007
I spent some time planning trips today, making hotel reservations. The Maryland Mensa gathering over Memorial Day weekend is already out of rooms at the group rate, so I got an executive room at the regular rate. Not a big problem, it's only $20 a night more (and with any luck I'll have company), but I'm getting tired of Mensa groups not reserving enough rooms. They get snapped up too quickly.
I also finally located the hotel I had stayed in nearest to Jay's father's house in Irondequoit. For some reason, they had dropped off the internet last year, and I had to stay in that icky place where the fire alarm kept going off. The good place is back now, and it's a different chain, so I guess that explains it. I'll be going to Rochester for Dad's ninetieth birthday, the weekend of May 12.
Given the propensity for hotel rooms at the Mensa group rate to disappear, I'm booking the October Chicago gathering room now. I don't know what my travel plans will be, so I've booked from a day before to a day after the gathering. It's easier to cancel if I don't need the room than to try to get another day if I do.
I went out to run some errands today, and was surprised to find flooding on my street. My house is on the top of the ridge, and the road curves down. Several lawns had large deep puddles, and the water was running like a river down and across the road. I don't know where it was coming from. So I decided to drive around on the back roads a bit and see what's what.
Lots of houses have huge deep puddles in their lawns. I'm sure their basements are flooded. One house had a pair of ducks swimming in the lawn lake. It was kind of cute. They looked very happy, like they were planning to move in.
I went through a woodsy development to the south west of my house, and couldn't get out, because there's a little creek that winds through, and every turn I took ended at a flooded bridge. I had to retrace my steps out.
I went down to the river. I've never seen the Hudson so high and fast. I'll bet Kingston has lost all their beach sand.
The next county up is on emergency whatsis - nobody but essential services and occupations are allowed on the roads.
Miss Thunderfoot doesn't mind. When things get bad, she gets tuna fish.
.
I spent some time planning trips today, making hotel reservations. The Maryland Mensa gathering over Memorial Day weekend is already out of rooms at the group rate, so I got an executive room at the regular rate. Not a big problem, it's only $20 a night more (and with any luck I'll have company), but I'm getting tired of Mensa groups not reserving enough rooms. They get snapped up too quickly.
I also finally located the hotel I had stayed in nearest to Jay's father's house in Irondequoit. For some reason, they had dropped off the internet last year, and I had to stay in that icky place where the fire alarm kept going off. The good place is back now, and it's a different chain, so I guess that explains it. I'll be going to Rochester for Dad's ninetieth birthday, the weekend of May 12.
Given the propensity for hotel rooms at the Mensa group rate to disappear, I'm booking the October Chicago gathering room now. I don't know what my travel plans will be, so I've booked from a day before to a day after the gathering. It's easier to cancel if I don't need the room than to try to get another day if I do.
I went out to run some errands today, and was surprised to find flooding on my street. My house is on the top of the ridge, and the road curves down. Several lawns had large deep puddles, and the water was running like a river down and across the road. I don't know where it was coming from. So I decided to drive around on the back roads a bit and see what's what.
Lots of houses have huge deep puddles in their lawns. I'm sure their basements are flooded. One house had a pair of ducks swimming in the lawn lake. It was kind of cute. They looked very happy, like they were planning to move in.
I went through a woodsy development to the south west of my house, and couldn't get out, because there's a little creek that winds through, and every turn I took ended at a flooded bridge. I had to retrace my steps out.
I went down to the river. I've never seen the Hudson so high and fast. I'll bet Kingston has lost all their beach sand.
The next county up is on emergency whatsis - nobody but essential services and occupations are allowed on the roads.
Miss Thunderfoot doesn't mind. When things get bad, she gets tuna fish.
.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
1208 Iraqi Letters
Sunday, April 15, 2007
[Later Edit - added another link.]
This is a new website, set up for Iraqi citizens to write letters to be read by the outside world. There's not much there now, they're just starting, but tuck the URL away, and go visit sometime, perhaps in a week or two or three there will be more.
Find out what real people really think.
The bottom link on the left of the "Iraq Has a Voice" home page is to
which is a collection of blog entries, mostly by very young Iraqis, children, even. There's some good stuff there already. Check it out. I am impressed with these kids and with their command of the English language.
.
[Later Edit - added another link.]
This is a new website, set up for Iraqi citizens to write letters to be read by the outside world. There's not much there now, they're just starting, but tuck the URL away, and go visit sometime, perhaps in a week or two or three there will be more.
Find out what real people really think.
The bottom link on the left of the "Iraq Has a Voice" home page is to
which is a collection of blog entries, mostly by very young Iraqis, children, even. There's some good stuff there already. Check it out. I am impressed with these kids and with their command of the English language.
.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
1207 Eyes
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Ever since the optometrist said I have "albino eyes"(an exaggeration) I've been reading about eye color, why eyes look the color they do. According to what I've read, the only color actually in the iris is some degree of some shade of brown. The other colors are caused by the eye reflecting in the blue wave length.
The iris is multi-layered. The cells in each layer (inner and outer, to simplify) can be some degree of translucent or opaque, and can have some degree of some shade of brown.
The opacity determines how much blue is reflected. If there is no brown and all layers are translucent, then no blue is reflected and you get the pink eyes of the albino, rare in human albinos. Pink eyes don't block light, and are very sensitive to and can be damaged by light.
If some or most of the cells are opaque, and have no brown, then you get clear blue eyes. The degree and location of the opacity determines the shade of blue. The more opacity the more blue and the more to the outer layer the more blue. A mostly translucent outer layer and some opacity scattered toward the inner layers will move toward gray, since the light is reflected less evenly.
Brown eyes are easy to figure out. Lots of color. Some brown eyes have a blue cast. That probably indicates a translucent outer layer over a well-colored inner layer.
Green eyes happen when the outer layer is colorless and mostly translucent, and the inner layer has some degree of light brown. Blue reflected over light brown gives green.
Liz Taylor's violet eyes? No brown, and a mix of opacity and translucence that allows some pink through with the blue.
My mother's eyes and Jay's eyes were very dark brown. Lots of an even brown color and translucence in an even mix in both layers.
Roman's eyes I call "kaleidoscope eyes", having flecks of every color. He must have a royal mix of opacity, translucence, and shades of brown color. A speck of clear on top of a light brown with a speck of dark brown right next to it with a heavy dose of opacity next to that, and so on.
Daughter's eyes range from gray through blue through turquoise, depending on her mood. I don't know what that means.
My father's eyes were the silvery blue of a winter sky. Translucent outer, opaque inner, no color. My father had "nearly albino" eyes, having no color, and high translucence.
My eyes? The outer layers are translucent and colorless (except for a visible brown spot in the outer layer of one eye). The inner layers are opaque, with small flecks of light brown. That makes them look light gray. BUT, because of the light brown, there are hints of green, especially in the right light, and usually in mirrors (mirrors cut blue, that's why blue-haired ladies don't know they have blue hair). I suspect something has changed, because my eyes were definitely green in high school. Something faded.
So when the optometrist said I had albino eyes, he was referring to the very small amount of color I have. Near albino would have been more accurate. Or like, maybe, Nordic.
All that reminded me of deer eyes. Just as you can tell a doe's footprints from a buck's by the shape, you can tell a doe from a buck by what their eyes reflect. If you've ever caught a deer in your headlights, you know that their eyes reflect a bright glow.
A doe's eyes glow toward pink, and a buck's eyes glow toward yellow or green.
Betcha didn't know that.
.
Ever since the optometrist said I have "albino eyes"(an exaggeration) I've been reading about eye color, why eyes look the color they do. According to what I've read, the only color actually in the iris is some degree of some shade of brown. The other colors are caused by the eye reflecting in the blue wave length.
The iris is multi-layered. The cells in each layer (inner and outer, to simplify) can be some degree of translucent or opaque, and can have some degree of some shade of brown.
The opacity determines how much blue is reflected. If there is no brown and all layers are translucent, then no blue is reflected and you get the pink eyes of the albino, rare in human albinos. Pink eyes don't block light, and are very sensitive to and can be damaged by light.
If some or most of the cells are opaque, and have no brown, then you get clear blue eyes. The degree and location of the opacity determines the shade of blue. The more opacity the more blue and the more to the outer layer the more blue. A mostly translucent outer layer and some opacity scattered toward the inner layers will move toward gray, since the light is reflected less evenly.
Brown eyes are easy to figure out. Lots of color. Some brown eyes have a blue cast. That probably indicates a translucent outer layer over a well-colored inner layer.
Green eyes happen when the outer layer is colorless and mostly translucent, and the inner layer has some degree of light brown. Blue reflected over light brown gives green.
Liz Taylor's violet eyes? No brown, and a mix of opacity and translucence that allows some pink through with the blue.
My mother's eyes and Jay's eyes were very dark brown. Lots of an even brown color and translucence in an even mix in both layers.
Roman's eyes I call "kaleidoscope eyes", having flecks of every color. He must have a royal mix of opacity, translucence, and shades of brown color. A speck of clear on top of a light brown with a speck of dark brown right next to it with a heavy dose of opacity next to that, and so on.
Daughter's eyes range from gray through blue through turquoise, depending on her mood. I don't know what that means.
My father's eyes were the silvery blue of a winter sky. Translucent outer, opaque inner, no color. My father had "nearly albino" eyes, having no color, and high translucence.
My eyes? The outer layers are translucent and colorless (except for a visible brown spot in the outer layer of one eye). The inner layers are opaque, with small flecks of light brown. That makes them look light gray. BUT, because of the light brown, there are hints of green, especially in the right light, and usually in mirrors (mirrors cut blue, that's why blue-haired ladies don't know they have blue hair). I suspect something has changed, because my eyes were definitely green in high school. Something faded.
So when the optometrist said I had albino eyes, he was referring to the very small amount of color I have. Near albino would have been more accurate. Or like, maybe, Nordic.
All that reminded me of deer eyes. Just as you can tell a doe's footprints from a buck's by the shape, you can tell a doe from a buck by what their eyes reflect. If you've ever caught a deer in your headlights, you know that their eyes reflect a bright glow.
A doe's eyes glow toward pink, and a buck's eyes glow toward yellow or green.
Betcha didn't know that.
.
Friday, April 13, 2007
1206 Boring Museum Day
Friday, April 13, 2007
A bunch of errands this morning. Stopped in at Piper's to warn him about the Belorussian, and he said he's already decided that the ferry idea wouldn't fit into his vacation schedule. He was surprised to hear what else I had to tell him, though.
Then to the bank, to deposit my first check from my widow's share of Jay's retirement. It's a tiny check, but I wouldn't be able to collect the full amount until Jay would have been ready for retirement, and by that time I'd be 73. I decided to take the reduced amount now.
To the health club to make my monthly payment. There was a sign on the rack that any shoes that had not been used in a while (like, say, MINE!) were going to be thrown out. Um, my shoes weren't there. I freaked. They are rather expensive jazz shoes, difficult to find, and especially difficult in my size. The woman in charge wasn't there, so I left a note. She called later in the afternoon to say that she has the shoes.
To the deli to get tea and a snack for the museum.
To the post office, mail some more bill payments.
I forget where else.
Then to the museum, where I put in 4 hours printing labels and membership cards for 33 more renewals and stuffing envelopes with cards, letters, and premiums. They have like eight levels of membership, and each level gets a different envelope stuffing. The current process is to do them alphabetically. That's a piece I'm going to change. Next time, I'm going to sort them by level! Sheesh!
The hardest part is stuffing the envelopes, because I have to stand at a conference table to do it, and leaning forward is extremely hard on my back. My back is sore and tired tonight. (People compliment me on my "perfect posture". What they don't know is that if I slump, I fall down.)
They've been working on the exhibits, for the May opening, and the featured exhibits are ice boats. Those things are BIG. (Well, some of them.) So before I left, I went downstairs with Russ to see what they'd done. It's amazing to me that I ended up volunteering at a museum whose concentration interests me very little. At least the location is interesting.
To the post office to mail the membership envelopes.
To the next village upriver. I read that they have free WiFi in the village, and I have a load of stuff to download that keeps timing out on my dialup at home. The laptop did recognize that there was WiFi, but it said the connection was weak (I was sitting right under the tower, which is atop the town water tank!), and it "connected", but said it could not access the internet. Huh? Their definition of "connect" is not the same as mine, I guess. I gave up.
And that was the day. Boring, but tiring.
.
A bunch of errands this morning. Stopped in at Piper's to warn him about the Belorussian, and he said he's already decided that the ferry idea wouldn't fit into his vacation schedule. He was surprised to hear what else I had to tell him, though.
Then to the bank, to deposit my first check from my widow's share of Jay's retirement. It's a tiny check, but I wouldn't be able to collect the full amount until Jay would have been ready for retirement, and by that time I'd be 73. I decided to take the reduced amount now.
To the health club to make my monthly payment. There was a sign on the rack that any shoes that had not been used in a while (like, say, MINE!) were going to be thrown out. Um, my shoes weren't there. I freaked. They are rather expensive jazz shoes, difficult to find, and especially difficult in my size. The woman in charge wasn't there, so I left a note. She called later in the afternoon to say that she has the shoes.
To the deli to get tea and a snack for the museum.
To the post office, mail some more bill payments.
I forget where else.
Then to the museum, where I put in 4 hours printing labels and membership cards for 33 more renewals and stuffing envelopes with cards, letters, and premiums. They have like eight levels of membership, and each level gets a different envelope stuffing. The current process is to do them alphabetically. That's a piece I'm going to change. Next time, I'm going to sort them by level! Sheesh!
The hardest part is stuffing the envelopes, because I have to stand at a conference table to do it, and leaning forward is extremely hard on my back. My back is sore and tired tonight. (People compliment me on my "perfect posture". What they don't know is that if I slump, I fall down.)
They've been working on the exhibits, for the May opening, and the featured exhibits are ice boats. Those things are BIG. (Well, some of them.) So before I left, I went downstairs with Russ to see what they'd done. It's amazing to me that I ended up volunteering at a museum whose concentration interests me very little. At least the location is interesting.
To the post office to mail the membership envelopes.
To the next village upriver. I read that they have free WiFi in the village, and I have a load of stuff to download that keeps timing out on my dialup at home. The laptop did recognize that there was WiFi, but it said the connection was weak (I was sitting right under the tower, which is atop the town water tank!), and it "connected", but said it could not access the internet. Huh? Their definition of "connect" is not the same as mine, I guess. I gave up.
And that was the day. Boring, but tiring.
.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
1205 Driving to London
[Later edit - Step 2 got folded into the URL. Fixed it. Link and directions will work now.]
1. Go to www.google.com
2. click on "maps" (above the search box)
3. click on "get directions" (under the search box)
4. type "New York" in the first box (the "from" box at the top)
5. type "London" in the second box (the "to" box at the top) and click "get directions"
6. scroll down to step #23
Google has a sense of humor.
.
1. Go to www.google.com
2. click on "maps" (above the search box)
3. click on "get directions" (under the search box)
4. type "New York" in the first box (the "from" box at the top)
5. type "London" in the second box (the "to" box at the top) and click "get directions"
6. scroll down to step #23
Google has a sense of humor.
.
1204 Static
Thursday, April 12, 2007
I’ve got a static electricity problem.
I think I’ve always had it. I build up a powerful charge just walking around.
Back when watches were stem-wound, and then self-winding, a watch never kept decent time on my wrist. Left on the dresser or in my purse it was fine, but on me, they just didn’t work. Jewelers said I was “magnetic”.
I started working for The Company in 1968, in Kingston. Computers were huge then, and kept on raised floors in climate-controlled rooms. The rooms were kept at a constant humidity because the systems were very sensitive to static electricity. Static electricity could cause a “machine check”, a major error in main storage. Each central processing unit (CPU) was surrounded by tape drives (those tall things you see representing computers in old movies) and banks of waist-high disk drives. When a CPU machine checked, all its tape drives unloaded simultaneously, and the arms of all the disk drives slammed back, rocking the banks of drives. It was an awful KA-CHUNK! sound. Loud. Followed by eerie silence.
My job entailed large amounts of time out there on the raised floor. Every time I went to the machine room, at least one machine crashed. Sometimes my progress through the room was announced by a series of KA-CHUNK!, KA-CHUNK!, KA-CHUNK! as I passed the machines. I didn’t have to touch them. If I got within eight feet of them, they went down.
It took the operators a few weeks to figure out I was causing it, because it wasn’t consistent and frankly didn‘t make sense. They turned me over to the engineers. Back then, I wore nylon stockings and nylon slips. My hair was thick, long, and loose. They made me spray everything I wore with a static guard, and dampen and tie up my hair, and if that didn‘t work, they were going to have to transfer me from programming to publications. (For a while, they actually had me trailing aluminum foil from the back of my shoe!)
Luckily, it worked. As long as I didn’t touch the paper in the operator’s console, anyway.
Then we got some new machines, the latest technology, the next model. They were supposedly also less sensitive. As a test floor, we got the first two machines off the line. Each machine manufactured got a unique model number, so it could be tracked during its life, and we got 000001 and 000002.
It just so happened that I was carrying on a mutual flirtation with the 2nd shift operator on 000002.
Every time I got anywhere near 000002, it crashed. The joke was that it recognized me and was jealous.
Fast forward two years. I’m now a Company rep at a large chemical company in St. Louis. The customer is excited because they are upgrading to the newly released technology. The new machine arrives and is installed over the weekend. The customer programming manager invites me down to the raised floor to show off his new baby.
I walk into the room on Monday afternoon, and hear ………….. KA-CHUNK! Followed by an eerie silence.
I turned to one of The Company field engineers, who had installed the machine, and said through the stunned silence of the FE and the programming manager, “I bet I can tell you the serial number on that machine.”
I was right.
-----------------------------------------------------------
I’m beginning to wonder if the serial number on my laptop might be 000002. Maybe some component deep inside is made of a bit of metal recycled from my old nemesis.
When I walk into the room and touch it, I get a shock. Always, every time. There’s a flash of light jumping between us. I’m sure it’s me generating the charge, because after that there’s no more, as long as I don’t get up and walk around. If I go out to the kitchen, when I come back I get another shock.
Jay used to ground himself when he walked into the computer room by touching a screw on the light switch. I tried that, and it’s not working for me. The only thing I can find that seems to work is the flatscreen monitor on the desktop PC, so now I touch that before touching the laptop. (Everything else on the desktop machine is plastic, so except for the monitor, which I rarely touched, static had not been a problem.)
I’m afraid I’m going to hurt the laptop, or in my efforts to avoid shocking the laptop, I’ll hurt the desktop monitor. (It’s a real fear. Back in about 1996 Jay had received an early prototype of a Blackberry-type thingy, to give to me for testing, on the theory that I can break anything. One day I touched the screen, and it went ZZZAAAAAAAP-POP, and it never recovered.)
Suggestions? Any way I can ground me or the laptop?
.
I’ve got a static electricity problem.
I think I’ve always had it. I build up a powerful charge just walking around.
Back when watches were stem-wound, and then self-winding, a watch never kept decent time on my wrist. Left on the dresser or in my purse it was fine, but on me, they just didn’t work. Jewelers said I was “magnetic”.
I started working for The Company in 1968, in Kingston. Computers were huge then, and kept on raised floors in climate-controlled rooms. The rooms were kept at a constant humidity because the systems were very sensitive to static electricity. Static electricity could cause a “machine check”, a major error in main storage. Each central processing unit (CPU) was surrounded by tape drives (those tall things you see representing computers in old movies) and banks of waist-high disk drives. When a CPU machine checked, all its tape drives unloaded simultaneously, and the arms of all the disk drives slammed back, rocking the banks of drives. It was an awful KA-CHUNK! sound. Loud. Followed by eerie silence.
My job entailed large amounts of time out there on the raised floor. Every time I went to the machine room, at least one machine crashed. Sometimes my progress through the room was announced by a series of KA-CHUNK!, KA-CHUNK!, KA-CHUNK! as I passed the machines. I didn’t have to touch them. If I got within eight feet of them, they went down.
It took the operators a few weeks to figure out I was causing it, because it wasn’t consistent and frankly didn‘t make sense. They turned me over to the engineers. Back then, I wore nylon stockings and nylon slips. My hair was thick, long, and loose. They made me spray everything I wore with a static guard, and dampen and tie up my hair, and if that didn‘t work, they were going to have to transfer me from programming to publications. (For a while, they actually had me trailing aluminum foil from the back of my shoe!)
Luckily, it worked. As long as I didn’t touch the paper in the operator’s console, anyway.
Then we got some new machines, the latest technology, the next model. They were supposedly also less sensitive. As a test floor, we got the first two machines off the line. Each machine manufactured got a unique model number, so it could be tracked during its life, and we got 000001 and 000002.
It just so happened that I was carrying on a mutual flirtation with the 2nd shift operator on 000002.
Every time I got anywhere near 000002, it crashed. The joke was that it recognized me and was jealous.
Fast forward two years. I’m now a Company rep at a large chemical company in St. Louis. The customer is excited because they are upgrading to the newly released technology. The new machine arrives and is installed over the weekend. The customer programming manager invites me down to the raised floor to show off his new baby.
I walk into the room on Monday afternoon, and hear ………….. KA-CHUNK! Followed by an eerie silence.
I turned to one of The Company field engineers, who had installed the machine, and said through the stunned silence of the FE and the programming manager, “I bet I can tell you the serial number on that machine.”
I was right.
-----------------------------------------------------------
I’m beginning to wonder if the serial number on my laptop might be 000002. Maybe some component deep inside is made of a bit of metal recycled from my old nemesis.
When I walk into the room and touch it, I get a shock. Always, every time. There’s a flash of light jumping between us. I’m sure it’s me generating the charge, because after that there’s no more, as long as I don’t get up and walk around. If I go out to the kitchen, when I come back I get another shock.
Jay used to ground himself when he walked into the computer room by touching a screw on the light switch. I tried that, and it’s not working for me. The only thing I can find that seems to work is the flatscreen monitor on the desktop PC, so now I touch that before touching the laptop. (Everything else on the desktop machine is plastic, so except for the monitor, which I rarely touched, static had not been a problem.)
I’m afraid I’m going to hurt the laptop, or in my efforts to avoid shocking the laptop, I’ll hurt the desktop monitor. (It’s a real fear. Back in about 1996 Jay had received an early prototype of a Blackberry-type thingy, to give to me for testing, on the theory that I can break anything. One day I touched the screen, and it went ZZZAAAAAAAP-POP, and it never recovered.)
Suggestions? Any way I can ground me or the laptop?
.
1203 FirstWoman's Evening
Wednesday, April 12, 2007
It's well into Thursday by now, the post date will say so, but this entry is about Wednesday. Deal with it.
I spent the morning sleeping, early afternoon got lost, late afternoon on paperwork, and evening at an "information session" ("panel" doesn't fit, neither does "lecture" or any other word...) on the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, organized by FirstWoman. It was interesting, and gave me something to think about. But it was also a bit one-sided. When you accuse someone of doing something that's not a good thing, it's obligatory to also attempt to understand WHY they do that thing. So the information was appreciated (but I already knew a lot of what the American media doesn't tell us because I read blogs and mid-eastern newspaper articles), but I'm not yet ready to venture an opinion.
I sat next to Roman, and he's the person I would most like to discuss it with, but not then, not yet, and with him, the moment passes quickly.
------------------------------------------
TV commercial for a golf course: "... and it's only minutes from many locations in Albany county."
Duh? That statement is still bonging in my head, for about six different reasons.
-------------------------------------------
The Microsoft service website says that Firefox has problems on Vista, and can cause Vista problems I guess, so that explains the strange lack of formatting I noted a few entries back. It goes on to say that Firefox has a fix. So I'll have to check on that tomorrow.
I'm also getting the error message that Sonic Something-or-other is causing compatibility problems, and the Microsoft service site has a fix, but it says that the application has to be removed prior to applying the fix. Great. I haven't the faintest idea how to remove something I can't find in any searches. Time to read some more of the "Vista for Dummies" book.
--------------------------------------------
I want to go to the museum tomorrow. I'm sure there's a backlog of memberships to process. We'll see if I get there.
--------------------------------------------
The Man is going south for the weekend, and said he wanted to talk to me this evening, "before he left", and was disappointed that I'd be out. I told him I'd call him, but when I did, after I got home, it went to voicemail. Fooey.
It's well into Thursday by now, the post date will say so, but this entry is about Wednesday. Deal with it.
I spent the morning sleeping, early afternoon got lost, late afternoon on paperwork, and evening at an "information session" ("panel" doesn't fit, neither does "lecture" or any other word...) on the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, organized by FirstWoman. It was interesting, and gave me something to think about. But it was also a bit one-sided. When you accuse someone of doing something that's not a good thing, it's obligatory to also attempt to understand WHY they do that thing. So the information was appreciated (but I already knew a lot of what the American media doesn't tell us because I read blogs and mid-eastern newspaper articles), but I'm not yet ready to venture an opinion.
I sat next to Roman, and he's the person I would most like to discuss it with, but not then, not yet, and with him, the moment passes quickly.
------------------------------------------
TV commercial for a golf course: "... and it's only minutes from many locations in Albany county."
Duh? That statement is still bonging in my head, for about six different reasons.
-------------------------------------------
The Microsoft service website says that Firefox has problems on Vista, and can cause Vista problems I guess, so that explains the strange lack of formatting I noted a few entries back. It goes on to say that Firefox has a fix. So I'll have to check on that tomorrow.
I'm also getting the error message that Sonic Something-or-other is causing compatibility problems, and the Microsoft service site has a fix, but it says that the application has to be removed prior to applying the fix. Great. I haven't the faintest idea how to remove something I can't find in any searches. Time to read some more of the "Vista for Dummies" book.
--------------------------------------------
I want to go to the museum tomorrow. I'm sure there's a backlog of memberships to process. We'll see if I get there.
--------------------------------------------
The Man is going south for the weekend, and said he wanted to talk to me this evening, "before he left", and was disappointed that I'd be out. I told him I'd call him, but when I did, after I got home, it went to voicemail. Fooey.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
1202 The Lost Nation
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
It wasn't a three hour lunch with Piper today - it was only two hours, plus the half hour we spent in his office going over my taxes.
The Angel didn't include the 111.5 hours, 1,127.1 miles, and 38.02 in tolls for 2006 volunteer work, which bugged me. I was under the impression that starting 2006, you could deduct x dollars for the hours and x cents for the miles in addition to the tolls. All that record keeping for nothing.
Piper was willing to bounce it back to The Angel to redo it, but I said it probably wouldn't be worth it unless it dropped me a bracket, so I let it go. But (evil me) I might call The Angel after the crush is over, and tell him that Piper said that The Angel would cover it out of his own pocket. Just kidding. (Piper freaked anyway. The Angel is famously tight.)
As we were finishing up, another client came in, a thin dark man about our age. Piper introduced us, saying that the man was from Belorus (used to be Byelorussia), and invited him to lunch with us (at the tavern instead of the cafe, which pleased me).
The man had a thick accent, so I occasionally missed a phrase, but the conversation was amazing, covering Baltic history and politics, Stalin and Tito, the history of the coexistence of Jews, Muslims, and several varieties of Christians in the area. Mostly it was the new guy and me against Piper, which was satisfying (but don't tell him that). I had Jamaican scallops, and they were very good, and at the end of the meal a glass of wine was mispoured and needed a home, so I got that, too. Free.
Piper said that the Belorussian had been trying to get Piper to visit Belorus, that it was mountains, sea shore, and orchards. The man was going back for a visit this fall, and it turned out that he'd be there at the same time that Piper and his lady were going to be on the east coast of Italy. The Belorussian talked Piper into arriving in Italy a few days earlier, and taking a ferry from Bari, a four hour trip across the Adriatic Sea, "and you'll arrive only ten minutes from my home. You'll love Belorus." He was very clear that Piper would be visiting Belorus.
People with a better grasp of geography should be raising eyebrows about now. I merely felt a little confusion.
When Piper got up to talk to some people at the bar (he knows everyone in town, it seems) the Belorussian turned to me and said that he had very much enjoyed our conversation, and would like to continue it, "just you and me", some evening.
I blinked twice, and stammered, "I enjoyed it too, but if you mean that in a romantic way, I can't. I'm not available."
He blinked twice, and said, "Ok. Just talk. You decide."
And then Piper returned, and we went back to the office, where I gathered up my papers and left the two of them. I went to the mall, shopped a little, and got my glasses adjusted. As soon as I got home, I dragged out the big atlas and looked up Belorus, Bari, and the Adriatic coast.
Uh huh. Belorus is, as I suspected, nowhere near the Adriatic. It's further north, completely landlocked, bordered by Russia, Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, and the Ukraine.
Across the Adriatic from Bari is Albania and Croatia. I checked carefully for maybe an Albanian or Croatian town named "Belorus", but nada. I know there has been some political shuffling around there since that atlas was printed, but not that extreme!
Something's wrong. I'm gonna lug that atlas into Piper's office tomorrow and ask him what he thinks, where he thought that ferry ride was going.
So then about 6 pm, the phone rang, and it was the guy. He asked if he could come over to talk with me this evening. "Come over? Here? This evening? [Read with rising panicked tone.] Uh, no. Perhaps we could meet like at the diner, some afternoon. Coffee. Talk there. Not here. No."
It was a short conversation, after which I made sure the doors were locked. Deadbolted.
I gotta talk with Piper! I just remembered his lady has a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Oh, dear.
---------------------------------------
It's funny. I had all those online dating profiles out there, and nothing but duds, gradually petering to no nibbles at all. I kill the profiles, and suddenly men are dropping from trees. Good ones, bad ones, big ones, small ones, fat ones, tall ones. I could take my pick. I'm rather pleased that the one flirtation I decided to follow up on, whom I suspect I chose precisely because he seemed impossible (fear of actually finding someone, Silk?) looks like it might get interesting.
Scary, but interesting.
----------------------------------------
Later addition:
I am now entering my 43rd hour awake, and it's odd for a little old lady, but I'm neither physically nor mentally tired. I feel like I could keep going. Must be all that end-of-release overtime training in The Company. My eyes, however, have been red and swollen all day, and now they're getting dry. Makes me wonder how many hours I could do if I could just close my eyes occasionally without necessarily sleeping.
.
It wasn't a three hour lunch with Piper today - it was only two hours, plus the half hour we spent in his office going over my taxes.
The Angel didn't include the 111.5 hours, 1,127.1 miles, and 38.02 in tolls for 2006 volunteer work, which bugged me. I was under the impression that starting 2006, you could deduct x dollars for the hours and x cents for the miles in addition to the tolls. All that record keeping for nothing.
Piper was willing to bounce it back to The Angel to redo it, but I said it probably wouldn't be worth it unless it dropped me a bracket, so I let it go. But (evil me) I might call The Angel after the crush is over, and tell him that Piper said that The Angel would cover it out of his own pocket. Just kidding. (Piper freaked anyway. The Angel is famously tight.)
As we were finishing up, another client came in, a thin dark man about our age. Piper introduced us, saying that the man was from Belorus (used to be Byelorussia), and invited him to lunch with us (at the tavern instead of the cafe, which pleased me).
The man had a thick accent, so I occasionally missed a phrase, but the conversation was amazing, covering Baltic history and politics, Stalin and Tito, the history of the coexistence of Jews, Muslims, and several varieties of Christians in the area. Mostly it was the new guy and me against Piper, which was satisfying (but don't tell him that). I had Jamaican scallops, and they were very good, and at the end of the meal a glass of wine was mispoured and needed a home, so I got that, too. Free.
Piper said that the Belorussian had been trying to get Piper to visit Belorus, that it was mountains, sea shore, and orchards. The man was going back for a visit this fall, and it turned out that he'd be there at the same time that Piper and his lady were going to be on the east coast of Italy. The Belorussian talked Piper into arriving in Italy a few days earlier, and taking a ferry from Bari, a four hour trip across the Adriatic Sea, "and you'll arrive only ten minutes from my home. You'll love Belorus." He was very clear that Piper would be visiting Belorus.
People with a better grasp of geography should be raising eyebrows about now. I merely felt a little confusion.
When Piper got up to talk to some people at the bar (he knows everyone in town, it seems) the Belorussian turned to me and said that he had very much enjoyed our conversation, and would like to continue it, "just you and me", some evening.
I blinked twice, and stammered, "I enjoyed it too, but if you mean that in a romantic way, I can't. I'm not available."
He blinked twice, and said, "Ok. Just talk. You decide."
And then Piper returned, and we went back to the office, where I gathered up my papers and left the two of them. I went to the mall, shopped a little, and got my glasses adjusted. As soon as I got home, I dragged out the big atlas and looked up Belorus, Bari, and the Adriatic coast.
Uh huh. Belorus is, as I suspected, nowhere near the Adriatic. It's further north, completely landlocked, bordered by Russia, Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, and the Ukraine.
Across the Adriatic from Bari is Albania and Croatia. I checked carefully for maybe an Albanian or Croatian town named "Belorus", but nada. I know there has been some political shuffling around there since that atlas was printed, but not that extreme!
Something's wrong. I'm gonna lug that atlas into Piper's office tomorrow and ask him what he thinks, where he thought that ferry ride was going.
So then about 6 pm, the phone rang, and it was the guy. He asked if he could come over to talk with me this evening. "Come over? Here? This evening? [Read with rising panicked tone.] Uh, no. Perhaps we could meet like at the diner, some afternoon. Coffee. Talk there. Not here. No."
It was a short conversation, after which I made sure the doors were locked. Deadbolted.
I gotta talk with Piper! I just remembered his lady has a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Oh, dear.
---------------------------------------
It's funny. I had all those online dating profiles out there, and nothing but duds, gradually petering to no nibbles at all. I kill the profiles, and suddenly men are dropping from trees. Good ones, bad ones, big ones, small ones, fat ones, tall ones. I could take my pick. I'm rather pleased that the one flirtation I decided to follow up on, whom I suspect I chose precisely because he seemed impossible (fear of actually finding someone, Silk?) looks like it might get interesting.
Scary, but interesting.
----------------------------------------
Later addition:
I am now entering my 43rd hour awake, and it's odd for a little old lady, but I'm neither physically nor mentally tired. I feel like I could keep going. Must be all that end-of-release overtime training in The Company. My eyes, however, have been red and swollen all day, and now they're getting dry. Makes me wonder how many hours I could do if I could just close my eyes occasionally without necessarily sleeping.
.
1201 Sleepless
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
[Later edit - more info on the strange Blogger bug.]
I went to bed at about 4:30 am (don't ask, I don't know, maybe I'm punishing myself for having accomplished nothing all week), set the alarm for 10 am, worked some crosswords, and was just falling asleep when something woke me - to the sight of a huge wolf spider running up my pillow, inches from my face.
I have a small problem with spiders that close. I think they can read minds.
It escaped between the top of the mattress and the wall, and I've been wide awake since. I heard every click in the house, every train passing (two miles away), every vehicle on the road, every raccoon in the yard. Miss Thunderfoot snores. So here it is 7:50 am, and I may as well give up.
-------------------------------
Something has happened to Blogger. I don't have the toolbar across the top of this input area, you know, the "edit HTML", "preview", "change size/font/color" thingies? Anyone else having the same problem? It looks very primitive. (Worse, the "save as draft" button doesn't work.)
Surprise. Bloglines isn't working, either. Also primitive. I don't get the list of posts, the "buttons" that are usually on tabs are just arranged in a list, and they don't seem to work as links to anything.
I've seen all of this before, and it resolved itself, but I'm concerned because no one else has mentioned seeing it. Could it be only me? Has my Java gone sour, or something?
Later -
It's also Yahoo, and Flicker, and a few other sites, but only on Firefox! Netscape and Internet Explorer (and AOL, which uses IE) are having no trouble formatting the pages. Hmmmmm. It's not me. It's Firefox.
.
[Later edit - more info on the strange Blogger bug.]
I went to bed at about 4:30 am (don't ask, I don't know, maybe I'm punishing myself for having accomplished nothing all week), set the alarm for 10 am, worked some crosswords, and was just falling asleep when something woke me - to the sight of a huge wolf spider running up my pillow, inches from my face.
I have a small problem with spiders that close. I think they can read minds.
It escaped between the top of the mattress and the wall, and I've been wide awake since. I heard every click in the house, every train passing (two miles away), every vehicle on the road, every raccoon in the yard. Miss Thunderfoot snores. So here it is 7:50 am, and I may as well give up.
-------------------------------
Something has happened to Blogger. I don't have the toolbar across the top of this input area, you know, the "edit HTML", "preview", "change size/font/color" thingies? Anyone else having the same problem? It looks very primitive. (Worse, the "save as draft" button doesn't work.)
Surprise. Bloglines isn't working, either. Also primitive. I don't get the list of posts, the "buttons" that are usually on tabs are just arranged in a list, and they don't seem to work as links to anything.
I've seen all of this before, and it resolved itself, but I'm concerned because no one else has mentioned seeing it. Could it be only me? Has my Java gone sour, or something?
Later -
It's also Yahoo, and Flicker, and a few other sites, but only on Firefox! Netscape and Internet Explorer (and AOL, which uses IE) are having no trouble formatting the pages. Hmmmmm. It's not me. It's Firefox.
.
1200 So Far Behind
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
It's 3:45 am, and I should be asleep. I have to meet Piper at 11:30 tomorrow (actually later today! Ack!) to go over the tax ramifications (The Angel finally finished the 2006 taxes, and the plans for 2007) and outline the next set of sales and purchases. And then lunch, of course. Probably not the usual three-hour lunch this time, at least I hope not. It's a busy time for him, and the broken foot and his lady's surgery have him working weekends, so I don't want to distract him. Plus, I'm so far behind on my own stuff I'm beginning to feel so overwhelmed that I sit and stare at lists instead of DOING stuff. When I feel overwhelmed, I play Spider Solitaire, and it's been so bad lately I'm beginning to recognize repeats of deals.
I've got a few trips coming up, and I absolutely have to make reservations NOW!, or I'll be camping in the hotel lobby.
If I don't do laundry soon, I'm going to have to buy more clothes!
Pay bills? My credit rating is good enough to take a hit or two, I hope.
Sell those stock dogs? Oh well, they can only go up after that dive the other week.
Clean house? Spider webs? Spiders eat those clothes moths. Let'em work.
I didn't make it into the museum at all last week, so I definitely have to go this week. Today is out, so it'll have to be Wednesday, but I have a panel discussion I want to attend Wednesday evening, and if anyone wants to have dinner before the program, it could be tight.
The calendar is rapidly filling up. All winter there's nothing, and then all summer there's three or four things I want to do every day of every weekend. I refuse to miss Spring Plowing (my beloved draft horses) again this year! Priorities will have to rotate.
I gotta get organized. Or maybe an assistant. Yeah, an assistant.... That's the ticket.
.
It's 3:45 am, and I should be asleep. I have to meet Piper at 11:30 tomorrow (actually later today! Ack!) to go over the tax ramifications (The Angel finally finished the 2006 taxes, and the plans for 2007) and outline the next set of sales and purchases. And then lunch, of course. Probably not the usual three-hour lunch this time, at least I hope not. It's a busy time for him, and the broken foot and his lady's surgery have him working weekends, so I don't want to distract him. Plus, I'm so far behind on my own stuff I'm beginning to feel so overwhelmed that I sit and stare at lists instead of DOING stuff. When I feel overwhelmed, I play Spider Solitaire, and it's been so bad lately I'm beginning to recognize repeats of deals.
I've got a few trips coming up, and I absolutely have to make reservations NOW!, or I'll be camping in the hotel lobby.
If I don't do laundry soon, I'm going to have to buy more clothes!
Pay bills? My credit rating is good enough to take a hit or two, I hope.
Sell those stock dogs? Oh well, they can only go up after that dive the other week.
Clean house? Spider webs? Spiders eat those clothes moths. Let'em work.
I didn't make it into the museum at all last week, so I definitely have to go this week. Today is out, so it'll have to be Wednesday, but I have a panel discussion I want to attend Wednesday evening, and if anyone wants to have dinner before the program, it could be tight.
The calendar is rapidly filling up. All winter there's nothing, and then all summer there's three or four things I want to do every day of every weekend. I refuse to miss Spring Plowing (my beloved draft horses) again this year! Priorities will have to rotate.
I gotta get organized. Or maybe an assistant. Yeah, an assistant.... That's the ticket.
.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
1199 Laptop Lament
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Having trouble with connection (bouncing every three minutes), and laptop is being difficult. I had to restore from the 3/14 checkpoint on Friday. It was ok for a while if I shutdown every time, but if it goes into sleep or hibernation, it's very sick when it comes back up. Mother is not pleased.
Having trouble with connection (bouncing every three minutes), and laptop is being difficult. I had to restore from the 3/14 checkpoint on Friday. It was ok for a while if I shutdown every time, but if it goes into sleep or hibernation, it's very sick when it comes back up. Mother is not pleased.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
1198 I'm Still Alive?
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Forty-five years ago I made a few promises to my Gramma. I kept them all as long as she was alive. She's been gone about thirty years now, and one by one the promises have fallen aside. I now play cards on Sunday. I bought a lottery ticket. I even dated some non-Protestant men. Other sins.
I broke the last standing promise yesterday. I ate meat on Good Friday.
.
Forty-five years ago I made a few promises to my Gramma. I kept them all as long as she was alive. She's been gone about thirty years now, and one by one the promises have fallen aside. I now play cards on Sunday. I bought a lottery ticket. I even dated some non-Protestant men. Other sins.
I broke the last standing promise yesterday. I ate meat on Good Friday.
.
Friday, April 06, 2007
1197 Spam
Friday, April 6, 2007
I had to go back and edit the last five posts - I was stuck in March. Oh well, at least I'm pretty solidly into 2007 by now.
I am amused by the subject lines on spam. It looks like they just pick random words. Today's spam:
That "you be cartoon" worries me a tad.
.
I had to go back and edit the last five posts - I was stuck in March. Oh well, at least I'm pretty solidly into 2007 by now.
I am amused by the subject lines on spam. It looks like they just pick random words. Today's spam:
image smaller
ignoring
Or of version
rstein
them whenever Forgive
I looking for serious relation, are you?
by he glory
fc Buyers GuideGifts forfrom
Re: Or multifarious
by so dear
As community
Re: chameleon lively
A stage
you be cartoon
As bernville before gualala
He wood
As earthquake
lfacing
RE:Why look anywhere else? I found it here
But juntura on keenesburg
you have got new "show interests" from ladie
her whom wednesday
do in parental
xzoom
ignoring
Or of version
rstein
them whenever Forgive
I looking for serious relation, are you?
by he glory
fc Buyers GuideGifts forfrom
Re: Or multifarious
by so dear
As community
Re: chameleon lively
A stage
you be cartoon
As bernville before gualala
He wood
As earthquake
lfacing
RE:Why look anywhere else? I found it here
But juntura on keenesburg
you have got new "show interests" from ladie
her whom wednesday
do in parental
xzoom
That "you be cartoon" worries me a tad.
.
1196 Closed Doors
Friday, April 6, 2007
[Edit - fixed the date.]
Talking with Roman on the phone last night, I was telling him about the too-small house and how Daughter and Hercules need space between them sometimes, and he said, "Don't the rooms have doors?" Me, "Doors?" He, "You can go into a room and close the door."
I had an instant feeling of revulsion, which I did not express.
In my mind, there's an enormous difference between space between a couple, and a closed door between them. Space is respect. A closed door is rejection.
It seems to illustrate the difference between Roman and me.
Not to say he's wrong, or bad, it's just a different way of being, and I don't like it. I am pleased that the concept of closed doors doesn't come naturally to Daughter and Hercules.
Or me.
.
[Edit - fixed the date.]
Talking with Roman on the phone last night, I was telling him about the too-small house and how Daughter and Hercules need space between them sometimes, and he said, "Don't the rooms have doors?" Me, "Doors?" He, "You can go into a room and close the door."
I had an instant feeling of revulsion, which I did not express.
In my mind, there's an enormous difference between space between a couple, and a closed door between them. Space is respect. A closed door is rejection.
It seems to illustrate the difference between Roman and me.
Not to say he's wrong, or bad, it's just a different way of being, and I don't like it. I am pleased that the concept of closed doors doesn't come naturally to Daughter and Hercules.
Or me.
.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
1195 Animal Games
Thursday, April 5, 2007
[4/6 Edit - fixed the date.]
A friend sent me a description and observation from her friend, who had seen three young rabbits playing leapfrog, almost exactly the way children play it. They lined up, and the end rabbit jumped over each of the other two, then the end rabbit jumped over two, and the line of bunnies progressed across the lawn that way. She had seen squirrels "playing" before, but was surprised that rabbits play, too.
I'm not. I have several times seen two rabbits playing leapfrog, taking turns leaping over each other. Almost all young animals have games of some kind, games that can only be described as games because they don't seem to have any survival purpose, and the animals are so obviously enjoying them.
I've seen the calves down the road play something that looks a lot like tag. They have another game where they form a circle, all facing in, and they stand very still for a moment, and then suddenly one calf will break out and run away, and all the others try to catch her. Year after year the calves play the same games, and you have to wonder where they learn them.
In mammals, play usually seems to disappear at puberty, but not always.
I've watched adult crows play. One favorite game is where everybody forms a line in the sky, then the line loops around to form a horizontal figure 8, and the crows go 'round and 'round the figure 8, interweaving at the crossing. As each crow interleaves, alternates, through the crossing, they caw loudly. The enjoyment is obvious.
If joy is an emotion, how can people say animals don't experience emotions?
-------------------------------------
The day was spent on catching up on emails, and on the telephone. FirstWoman called in the morning, and we talked for quite a while. The Man called on his way into work at noon, and we talked for quite a while. The lady from the volunteer program called to ask if I could man a table at a charity fair. We didn't talk long, because I wasn't available that day. I called Piper to find out how his lady is doing, and we talked for maybe a half hour (she's fine). Roman called this evening, and we talked for quite a while.
For someone who hates the telephone, I sure am appreciating calls these days. Maybe I've finally just found people I like talking to on the phone.
.
[4/6 Edit - fixed the date.]
A friend sent me a description and observation from her friend, who had seen three young rabbits playing leapfrog, almost exactly the way children play it. They lined up, and the end rabbit jumped over each of the other two, then the end rabbit jumped over two, and the line of bunnies progressed across the lawn that way. She had seen squirrels "playing" before, but was surprised that rabbits play, too.
I'm not. I have several times seen two rabbits playing leapfrog, taking turns leaping over each other. Almost all young animals have games of some kind, games that can only be described as games because they don't seem to have any survival purpose, and the animals are so obviously enjoying them.
I've seen the calves down the road play something that looks a lot like tag. They have another game where they form a circle, all facing in, and they stand very still for a moment, and then suddenly one calf will break out and run away, and all the others try to catch her. Year after year the calves play the same games, and you have to wonder where they learn them.
In mammals, play usually seems to disappear at puberty, but not always.
I've watched adult crows play. One favorite game is where everybody forms a line in the sky, then the line loops around to form a horizontal figure 8, and the crows go 'round and 'round the figure 8, interweaving at the crossing. As each crow interleaves, alternates, through the crossing, they caw loudly. The enjoyment is obvious.
If joy is an emotion, how can people say animals don't experience emotions?
-------------------------------------
The day was spent on catching up on emails, and on the telephone. FirstWoman called in the morning, and we talked for quite a while. The Man called on his way into work at noon, and we talked for quite a while. The lady from the volunteer program called to ask if I could man a table at a charity fair. We didn't talk long, because I wasn't available that day. I called Piper to find out how his lady is doing, and we talked for maybe a half hour (she's fine). Roman called this evening, and we talked for quite a while.
For someone who hates the telephone, I sure am appreciating calls these days. Maybe I've finally just found people I like talking to on the phone.
.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
1194 Back Again, Again
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
[Edit - fixed the date.]
I'm back from a visit with Daughter and Hercules, and I'm so tired at this point I literally can't see straight. I occasionally pull all-nighters, and they don't seem to affect me too badly, so I don't know why I'm so tired. Maybe it was from thinking a lot as opposed to doing a lot.
It was a very good visit. A lot of very good things happened. Rather than attempt to compose an entry tonight, I'm going to simply paste in an email I wrote earlier this evening.
A few explanatory notes:
The person to whom I am writing the note, a family member, had sent me one of those "going around the internet things". The text was about how you can tell that summer's coming when young women start displaying their belly buttons, followed by a photo of a very heavy woman sitting on a park bench. The skirt of the woman's dress reaches to her knees, and hanging down from under the hem, between her spread knees, is a fold of drooping belly, complete with belly button.
And I hope the woman who sent me the sculpture park photos will not be offended. The outrage at the deterioration of morality upon which I comment was not hers, but that of the person who sent it to her.
I have edited to remove real names and insert the usual [aliases].
------------start of email-----------
I opened the "spring belly button" on the ancient desktop, and so the photo "revealed" very slowly, a line at a time. It crept down and I thought, "yes, not a belly button I'd want to see", and then it got to the skirt hem, then below, and then I almost fell off the chair! OMG!!
My second thought was "the poor woman". She probably didn't realize what was showing. I think we can be pretty certain that even if she knew her picture was being taken, she wouldn't want to be broadcast looking like that all over the internet! I worry that somehow, someone, some way, maybe someone who knows her, will send it to her. Of course, the photo may have been "shopped", and she didn't really look like that at all, but she's still a real person, and that might even be worse.
I guess I'm a prude. Am I strange to worry about the feelings of a stranger?
I got a broadcast from a woman in a retirement community in Miami, a blogging-buddy, complaining about how "this sculpture park" (in Denmark, I think) proves the erosion of morality today. Included were about 30 photos of anatomically correct statues, mostly couples in XXX-rated positions.
Now, I have to wonder, why would someone who is so concerned about the erosion of morals send those photos to 70 of their closest friends?
Ok, yeah, I'm a prude, and proud of it.
---------------------------------------
I was amazed at the latest photos of [niece]'s tummy. Now THAT's a belly button to be proud of! I can't believe how perfectly round she is. I also can't believe there's still so long to go. This is the first tummy I've seen where the word "burst" is the first thought. "Twins" is the second.
-----------------------------------------
I was visiting [Daughter] and [Hercules] Monday and Tuesday. [Daughter] and I went out with her realtor and looked at some houses. It was interesting and fun.
[Daughter] is very easily swayed by propinquity to woods. She's in love with, and they have a (too low) bid in on, a house that's more than they can afford, and very tiny, but that backs on woods and a creek. I pointed out that she and [Hercules] often need to have space between them. This house has the rooms arranged all around the center, so that no matter where they are in the house, they'd never be more than just around the corner from each other. She agreed that could be a problem.
One house she liked was in very bad condition, but much larger and $70,000 less than most of what they'd seen, so maybe they could fix it up. I found some, and I suspect extensive, dry rot. I advised her she'd not be buying a house, but a lot and foundation. This house was meant for someone who wants to tear down and custom-build.
Another house was extremely ugly inside, and the tenants lived like pigs. It was really bad. But the structure looked sound and well-kept, and there was nothing a crowbar, paint, new flooring and new molding wouldn't fix. It had great potential. Best of all, it had three or four bedrooms, an attic that smelled like an attic should, and was big enough that if they were in opposite ends, they'd be completely unaware of each other. Oh, and the roof looked new. Even if they don't go for that house (it's next to a busy road), I hope she at least learned a little bit from my comments. (I had promised myself I would make no persuasive comments at all, but, well, I tried to be quiet, but she asked....)
She and [Hercules] are both frustrated that they can't find something that a) they both agree on, b) they can afford, and c) doesn't sell out from under them. I explained to her my "theory of fate":
I told her that things happen as they should. If they don't find the perfect house now, or what seems to be the perfect house is torn away from them, it's because it's not yet the right time, or not yet the right house. It will all happen as it should.
That doesn't mean that bad things don't happen. Sometimes bad things happen because they should, because there is an experience you are meant to have, or a lesson you need to learn. You might buy the absolute perfect house, and then find it's on a floodplain. Those kinds of bad things you recover from eventually, and you are stronger, smarter, and better for them.
That's only if you have been honest and moral going into something. If you cheat, or do something you know is wrong, then any bad outcome is not a survivable beneficial lesson, but deserved retribution, from which you learn and earn nothing. It's not part of your "path", because you left your path. I really believe this.
[Daughter] was surprised when I said that. "Retribution" sounded like, um, God, religion, which isn't "me". I said it's not necessarily a religious thing. It's not an old man up there meting out punishment. It's just the way things work. Actually, it's probably psychology. Surviving, learning, and strengthening from something you did not cause is easier than from something you know was your own "badness". But that's not all of it. I do believe that some things are "ordained", are meant to happen on your path to enlightenment. I believe that if you do and be "good", stay true to yourself, then things will happen as they should, and even if they seem bad, they are necessary.
-------------------------------------
On the personal front, after many less than satisfactory experiences, I have killed all my online dating profiles. If I ever try that again, I'm going to be a lot more mysterious on paper, and insist on a fast meeting, so that the dashed expectations aren't so painful.
On March 3rd, I met a new man at a weekend Mensa gathering in New Jersey. Absolutely everything is wrong with the whole thing! He lives too far away ([Northern NJ]), he's too tall, too urban, too much into sports, too into pop culture, and much much too young (46). I absolutely cannot see him walking in the woods or going to county fairs with me. But he's nice looking, has a fast and eclectic mind that fascinates me, a backstory I'd like to hear, and he seems to be impressed with something about me. Not sure what, but I'll take it. He had dinner with[Daughter], [Hercules], and me last Monday. [Daughter]'s opinion is that maybe it won't work in the long run, but otherwise she approves and says "Have fun, Mom!"
Well, we'll see. He's certainly very attentive. I haven't had that in a very long time.
------------end of email-----------
When I said "everything is wrong", I am referring to "The Requirements". I sort of had an idea of what I wanted to find in a man. (I'm going to call this guy "The Man".) The Man is nice looking, but appearance wasn't a requirement. Among the requirements were that a candidate for my affections had to be smarter and faster than I, and possess an intricate mind. I think he does. It's the first thing I noticed about him. I suspect that he can not only stand up to me, but is capable of manipulating the "Master Manipulator" (as I have been called, but never believed). He could be very dangerous.
In no other way does he fit any of the other oh-so-important requirements, like age, height, propinquity, retirement (available time), social similarities, etc. It's interesting that I'm beginning to think that maybe those aren't so important after all. He does do volunteer work with autistic kids. A service requirement I hadn't considered.
Dangerous.
Hmmmm.
"Have fun, Mom!"
.
[Edit - fixed the date.]
I'm back from a visit with Daughter and Hercules, and I'm so tired at this point I literally can't see straight. I occasionally pull all-nighters, and they don't seem to affect me too badly, so I don't know why I'm so tired. Maybe it was from thinking a lot as opposed to doing a lot.
It was a very good visit. A lot of very good things happened. Rather than attempt to compose an entry tonight, I'm going to simply paste in an email I wrote earlier this evening.
A few explanatory notes:
The person to whom I am writing the note, a family member, had sent me one of those "going around the internet things". The text was about how you can tell that summer's coming when young women start displaying their belly buttons, followed by a photo of a very heavy woman sitting on a park bench. The skirt of the woman's dress reaches to her knees, and hanging down from under the hem, between her spread knees, is a fold of drooping belly, complete with belly button.
And I hope the woman who sent me the sculpture park photos will not be offended. The outrage at the deterioration of morality upon which I comment was not hers, but that of the person who sent it to her.
I have edited to remove real names and insert the usual [aliases].
------------start of email-----------
I opened the "spring belly button" on the ancient desktop, and so the photo "revealed" very slowly, a line at a time. It crept down and I thought, "yes, not a belly button I'd want to see", and then it got to the skirt hem, then below, and then I almost fell off the chair! OMG!!
My second thought was "the poor woman". She probably didn't realize what was showing. I think we can be pretty certain that even if she knew her picture was being taken, she wouldn't want to be broadcast looking like that all over the internet! I worry that somehow, someone, some way, maybe someone who knows her, will send it to her. Of course, the photo may have been "shopped", and she didn't really look like that at all, but she's still a real person, and that might even be worse.
I guess I'm a prude. Am I strange to worry about the feelings of a stranger?
I got a broadcast from a woman in a retirement community in Miami, a blogging-buddy, complaining about how "this sculpture park" (in Denmark, I think) proves the erosion of morality today. Included were about 30 photos of anatomically correct statues, mostly couples in XXX-rated positions.
Now, I have to wonder, why would someone who is so concerned about the erosion of morals send those photos to 70 of their closest friends?
Ok, yeah, I'm a prude, and proud of it.
---------------------------------------
I was amazed at the latest photos of [niece]'s tummy. Now THAT's a belly button to be proud of! I can't believe how perfectly round she is. I also can't believe there's still so long to go. This is the first tummy I've seen where the word "burst" is the first thought. "Twins" is the second.
-----------------------------------------
I was visiting [Daughter] and [Hercules] Monday and Tuesday. [Daughter] and I went out with her realtor and looked at some houses. It was interesting and fun.
[Daughter] is very easily swayed by propinquity to woods. She's in love with, and they have a (too low) bid in on, a house that's more than they can afford, and very tiny, but that backs on woods and a creek. I pointed out that she and [Hercules] often need to have space between them. This house has the rooms arranged all around the center, so that no matter where they are in the house, they'd never be more than just around the corner from each other. She agreed that could be a problem.
One house she liked was in very bad condition, but much larger and $70,000 less than most of what they'd seen, so maybe they could fix it up. I found some, and I suspect extensive, dry rot. I advised her she'd not be buying a house, but a lot and foundation. This house was meant for someone who wants to tear down and custom-build.
Another house was extremely ugly inside, and the tenants lived like pigs. It was really bad. But the structure looked sound and well-kept, and there was nothing a crowbar, paint, new flooring and new molding wouldn't fix. It had great potential. Best of all, it had three or four bedrooms, an attic that smelled like an attic should, and was big enough that if they were in opposite ends, they'd be completely unaware of each other. Oh, and the roof looked new. Even if they don't go for that house (it's next to a busy road), I hope she at least learned a little bit from my comments. (I had promised myself I would make no persuasive comments at all, but, well, I tried to be quiet, but she asked....)
She and [Hercules] are both frustrated that they can't find something that a) they both agree on, b) they can afford, and c) doesn't sell out from under them. I explained to her my "theory of fate":
I told her that things happen as they should. If they don't find the perfect house now, or what seems to be the perfect house is torn away from them, it's because it's not yet the right time, or not yet the right house. It will all happen as it should.
That doesn't mean that bad things don't happen. Sometimes bad things happen because they should, because there is an experience you are meant to have, or a lesson you need to learn. You might buy the absolute perfect house, and then find it's on a floodplain. Those kinds of bad things you recover from eventually, and you are stronger, smarter, and better for them.
That's only if you have been honest and moral going into something. If you cheat, or do something you know is wrong, then any bad outcome is not a survivable beneficial lesson, but deserved retribution, from which you learn and earn nothing. It's not part of your "path", because you left your path. I really believe this.
[Daughter] was surprised when I said that. "Retribution" sounded like, um, God, religion, which isn't "me". I said it's not necessarily a religious thing. It's not an old man up there meting out punishment. It's just the way things work. Actually, it's probably psychology. Surviving, learning, and strengthening from something you did not cause is easier than from something you know was your own "badness". But that's not all of it. I do believe that some things are "ordained", are meant to happen on your path to enlightenment. I believe that if you do and be "good", stay true to yourself, then things will happen as they should, and even if they seem bad, they are necessary.
-------------------------------------
On the personal front, after many less than satisfactory experiences, I have killed all my online dating profiles. If I ever try that again, I'm going to be a lot more mysterious on paper, and insist on a fast meeting, so that the dashed expectations aren't so painful.
On March 3rd, I met a new man at a weekend Mensa gathering in New Jersey. Absolutely everything is wrong with the whole thing! He lives too far away ([Northern NJ]), he's too tall, too urban, too much into sports, too into pop culture, and much much too young (46). I absolutely cannot see him walking in the woods or going to county fairs with me. But he's nice looking, has a fast and eclectic mind that fascinates me, a backstory I'd like to hear, and he seems to be impressed with something about me. Not sure what, but I'll take it. He had dinner with[Daughter], [Hercules], and me last Monday. [Daughter]'s opinion is that maybe it won't work in the long run, but otherwise she approves and says "Have fun, Mom!"
Well, we'll see. He's certainly very attentive. I haven't had that in a very long time.
------------end of email-----------
When I said "everything is wrong", I am referring to "The Requirements". I sort of had an idea of what I wanted to find in a man. (I'm going to call this guy "The Man".) The Man is nice looking, but appearance wasn't a requirement. Among the requirements were that a candidate for my affections had to be smarter and faster than I, and possess an intricate mind. I think he does. It's the first thing I noticed about him. I suspect that he can not only stand up to me, but is capable of manipulating the "Master Manipulator" (as I have been called, but never believed). He could be very dangerous.
In no other way does he fit any of the other oh-so-important requirements, like age, height, propinquity, retirement (available time), social similarities, etc. It's interesting that I'm beginning to think that maybe those aren't so important after all. He does do volunteer work with autistic kids. A service requirement I hadn't considered.
Dangerous.
Hmmmm.
"Have fun, Mom!"
.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
1193 The Uncomfortable Thing
Sunday, April 1, 2007
[4/6 Edit - fixed the date.]
I mentioned that something uncomfortable had happened last weekend, when I went to The Rabbi's 40th anniversary celebration.
Ever since he contacted me, almost two years ago, I'd been wanting to visit, to see him again and meet The Rebbetzin. (I had been searching for what to call her. Rabbess? Rabbette? Rabbit?! Turns out rebbetzin is the proper term for a rabbi's wife. Cool.)
I was happy to get the invitation. It was perfect for a visit. I wouldn't be "putting them out" at all.
He and I had started college in the same class, but I graduated a year early. I wasn't aware that he was dating anyone. When he said that they were married a little less than a year after he graduated, my thought was that he worked fast.
After they renewed their vows in the church, there was a communion. I was probably the only person who didn't get in line. I'm technically not Christian, so I didn't feel it would be right. The couple stood at the front, and spoke to everyone as they came through. I noticed that The Rabbi hugged every person, male and female, young and old. At the end of the service, the couple were at the back, again greeting and hugging everyone as they left. I tacked myself on the very end of the line. When I got up to them, The Rabbi took my hand in both of his, and we three chatted. Smiles, but no hug. I didn't really notice then. I'm not a hugger anyway.
During the reception, they made the rounds. Whenever I spoke with The Rebbetzin with people around, she was gracious and smiled.
I had stayed to help clean up. It also gave me a chance to talk with them a little more. I saw her sitting alone against the wall, looking a bit worn out. Given that she had cooked all the food (and it was all delicious), I wasn't surprised. I went over to chat, started by complimenting the cake, I think, and she didn't smile. I was getting a rather hard look. Finally she interrupted me, and said, "We HAVE met. I visited [The Rabbi] at college, a couple times, and we met then." Still no smile. I was confused, and admitted that I didn't remember. I sputtered some blather - her hard look was confusing - and excused myself to go clear up some more.
Later, I ran into The Rabbi in the kitchen. I told him what she'd said, and he confirmed it. We'd apparently met more than once. I wondered if I had offended her back then. It had to be more than my simply not remembering meeting her (although it does trouble me that I don't).
Well, turns out she was in high school when he was in college, and they had been dating during that whole time. I don't remember him dating anyone. In fact, his roommate was ...um... flamboyant (in the early '60s, that's as specific as anyone would get), and I sometimes wondered if The Rabbi was interested in girls at all. I mean, given that, you'd think I'd remember meeting a girlfriend!
After meeting me, he says she was absolutely convinced that he and I were carrying on a torrid campus affair, and there was nothing he could say to convince her otherwise. She absolutely believed it to her core. Apparently she "forgave" him, because she married him, but he thinks she still believes it.
A surprise to me, to say the least.
So now I feel bad that I went at all. Maybe it would have been better had I taken a date along. Had I known, I wouldn't have gone, and had I gone, I shouldn't have stayed to help clean up. The only thing I didn't do wrong - at least I wore a nice sedate ankle-length little old lady dress, and my hair was tied back.
I felt so bad. I wonder if I put a cloud on her day. I wonder what on earth possessed him to contact me through the college alumni website! That had to annoy her.
I wonder if she gave him a rough time later.
I feel guilty. But I didn't do anything wrong! It's not my fault!
Normally, I'd be writing a nice note thanking them for an enjoyable evening, and wishing them many more years of happiness.
Now I don't know how that would be received.
Phooey. I'm not sure what to do.
------------------------------------------------------
This has been a recurring theme in my life. My best friend in college cut me off completely when she met the man she later married (and they're still married) because she decided I was "after him". I barely even met him. I sent her email after I found her in the college alumni data base, several, in fact, over the past two years, and she has not responded.
After college, my best friend in Gettysburg cut me off completely when she met the man she later married (and they're still married) because she decided I was "after him". I barely even met him.
Several married men have told me that their wives don't want me around, because I'm "after" their husbands.
I'm really really tired of it. I thought all that crap was all behind me, and here it is biting me again.
I mostly didn't date in college. There was Byron, the summer between first and second years. He dropped me because I wouldn't let him so much as open a button, and then he told the most outrageous stories about me. And that was it until my last year when I met Ex#1. And yet, I know definitely of several guys who swear they "scored" with me, that I was easy. To hear some of the stories, half the guys on campus slept with me. And no, it's not that I was too drunk to remember (although that's part of the claims), because I went to exactly two parties with alcohol - one at Penn State and one local - and I'm 100% certain nothing happened at either.
I'm half tempted to just go ahead and fulfill everyone's fantasies. I'd have a lot more fun! But it was that kind of thinking that put me into therapy thirty years ago, and I know now that the fantasies are not me.
Part of the problem is that guys talk about me to their wives/girlfriends, like "Silk says this", "Silk does that". A few guys have told me I'm sensible, and they wish their wives were more like me. Yeah, sure. Then how come I could get so many undeserved rumors all my life, and so few deserved dates?
I was talking with Piper yesterday about something like this, and I asked him if he ever mentions me to his lady, and he said yes, he talks about me all the time. I reacted with horror, and told him to stop immediately. Never never ever mention me to her again!
That way be dragons!
.
[4/6 Edit - fixed the date.]
I mentioned that something uncomfortable had happened last weekend, when I went to The Rabbi's 40th anniversary celebration.
Ever since he contacted me, almost two years ago, I'd been wanting to visit, to see him again and meet The Rebbetzin. (I had been searching for what to call her. Rabbess? Rabbette? Rabbit?! Turns out rebbetzin is the proper term for a rabbi's wife. Cool.)
I was happy to get the invitation. It was perfect for a visit. I wouldn't be "putting them out" at all.
He and I had started college in the same class, but I graduated a year early. I wasn't aware that he was dating anyone. When he said that they were married a little less than a year after he graduated, my thought was that he worked fast.
After they renewed their vows in the church, there was a communion. I was probably the only person who didn't get in line. I'm technically not Christian, so I didn't feel it would be right. The couple stood at the front, and spoke to everyone as they came through. I noticed that The Rabbi hugged every person, male and female, young and old. At the end of the service, the couple were at the back, again greeting and hugging everyone as they left. I tacked myself on the very end of the line. When I got up to them, The Rabbi took my hand in both of his, and we three chatted. Smiles, but no hug. I didn't really notice then. I'm not a hugger anyway.
During the reception, they made the rounds. Whenever I spoke with The Rebbetzin with people around, she was gracious and smiled.
I had stayed to help clean up. It also gave me a chance to talk with them a little more. I saw her sitting alone against the wall, looking a bit worn out. Given that she had cooked all the food (and it was all delicious), I wasn't surprised. I went over to chat, started by complimenting the cake, I think, and she didn't smile. I was getting a rather hard look. Finally she interrupted me, and said, "We HAVE met. I visited [The Rabbi] at college, a couple times, and we met then." Still no smile. I was confused, and admitted that I didn't remember. I sputtered some blather - her hard look was confusing - and excused myself to go clear up some more.
Later, I ran into The Rabbi in the kitchen. I told him what she'd said, and he confirmed it. We'd apparently met more than once. I wondered if I had offended her back then. It had to be more than my simply not remembering meeting her (although it does trouble me that I don't).
Well, turns out she was in high school when he was in college, and they had been dating during that whole time. I don't remember him dating anyone. In fact, his roommate was ...um... flamboyant (in the early '60s, that's as specific as anyone would get), and I sometimes wondered if The Rabbi was interested in girls at all. I mean, given that, you'd think I'd remember meeting a girlfriend!
After meeting me, he says she was absolutely convinced that he and I were carrying on a torrid campus affair, and there was nothing he could say to convince her otherwise. She absolutely believed it to her core. Apparently she "forgave" him, because she married him, but he thinks she still believes it.
A surprise to me, to say the least.
So now I feel bad that I went at all. Maybe it would have been better had I taken a date along. Had I known, I wouldn't have gone, and had I gone, I shouldn't have stayed to help clean up. The only thing I didn't do wrong - at least I wore a nice sedate ankle-length little old lady dress, and my hair was tied back.
I felt so bad. I wonder if I put a cloud on her day. I wonder what on earth possessed him to contact me through the college alumni website! That had to annoy her.
I wonder if she gave him a rough time later.
I feel guilty. But I didn't do anything wrong! It's not my fault!
Normally, I'd be writing a nice note thanking them for an enjoyable evening, and wishing them many more years of happiness.
Now I don't know how that would be received.
Phooey. I'm not sure what to do.
------------------------------------------------------
This has been a recurring theme in my life. My best friend in college cut me off completely when she met the man she later married (and they're still married) because she decided I was "after him". I barely even met him. I sent her email after I found her in the college alumni data base, several, in fact, over the past two years, and she has not responded.
After college, my best friend in Gettysburg cut me off completely when she met the man she later married (and they're still married) because she decided I was "after him". I barely even met him.
Several married men have told me that their wives don't want me around, because I'm "after" their husbands.
I'm really really tired of it. I thought all that crap was all behind me, and here it is biting me again.
I mostly didn't date in college. There was Byron, the summer between first and second years. He dropped me because I wouldn't let him so much as open a button, and then he told the most outrageous stories about me. And that was it until my last year when I met Ex#1. And yet, I know definitely of several guys who swear they "scored" with me, that I was easy. To hear some of the stories, half the guys on campus slept with me. And no, it's not that I was too drunk to remember (although that's part of the claims), because I went to exactly two parties with alcohol - one at Penn State and one local - and I'm 100% certain nothing happened at either.
I'm half tempted to just go ahead and fulfill everyone's fantasies. I'd have a lot more fun! But it was that kind of thinking that put me into therapy thirty years ago, and I know now that the fantasies are not me.
Part of the problem is that guys talk about me to their wives/girlfriends, like "Silk says this", "Silk does that". A few guys have told me I'm sensible, and they wish their wives were more like me. Yeah, sure. Then how come I could get so many undeserved rumors all my life, and so few deserved dates?
I was talking with Piper yesterday about something like this, and I asked him if he ever mentions me to his lady, and he said yes, he talks about me all the time. I reacted with horror, and told him to stop immediately. Never never ever mention me to her again!
That way be dragons!
.
1192 Possibilities
Sunday, April 1, 2007
[4/6 Edit - fixed the date.]
Yesterday seemed to be a telephone day. Roman called on his way to LI. He was headed for a significant meeting, and was excited and nervous, and we talked for quite a long time. The signal kept dropping (as is usual when he calls from the road) and he kept redialing, but it was ok.
As soon as our call was finished, FirstWoman called, and we talked for quite a while. She needs more responsiveness from me. That's one of my problems - I don't reach out much. Part of it is a reluctance to annoy, part is inertia, part is that time passing is theoretical to me, and part is that - ick! - "they" changed my cel phone calling plan. I used to get 100 hours a month, now I get 100 minutes, same price. Gotta do something about that.... So, anyway, I don't make long distance calls before 9 pm. All not very good excuses. I guess that's why people forget me and wander away.
Then I went into the village, and saw Piper's car outside his office, so I stopped in to find out how his lady's surgery went. All good. They plan radiation, but not chemo, so I guess that's a good sign.
Later, Roman called on his way back from LI, and we talked a bunch more.
Speaking of keeping in touch, I had sent an email to a guy I met at the gathering in NJ, some information I had promised him. He sent an intriguing response. I replied to that email last night (after a two week pause), and next thing I know, I get a torrent of emails, and a phone call this morning, and I've invited him to join Daughter and Hercules and me for dinner tomorrow evening. Wow!
I find him interesting and stimulating. I think it may be reciprocal. I'm not sure what I want to do about that. He lives in NJ (about a half hour north of Daughter, about 2 hours from here). He's also much younger, probably at least 15 years from retirement. I don't think he realizes my age - he referred to "people our age".
It's funny, I am always quite open about my age, I'm rather proud of the fact that I look pretty darn good for my age, but if he ever asked, I'd be reluctant to tell him. Stupid, because it's going to be a bit hard to talk about experiences without giving it away. At the gathering, the original Woodstock concert came up, and he said he was only 9? 11? years old then, and his father wouldn't let him go. I was four or five years out of college then. Ack!
He's rather hedonistic, I think. Clubs. Rock concerts. Likes to start driving and see where he ends up (we're talking like, Canada). Likes to put the top down. He might tire me out. I suspect hikes in the woods and county fairs aren't his style.
But, so far I like him, and a little flirtation is fun. We'll see.
.
[4/6 Edit - fixed the date.]
Yesterday seemed to be a telephone day. Roman called on his way to LI. He was headed for a significant meeting, and was excited and nervous, and we talked for quite a long time. The signal kept dropping (as is usual when he calls from the road) and he kept redialing, but it was ok.
As soon as our call was finished, FirstWoman called, and we talked for quite a while. She needs more responsiveness from me. That's one of my problems - I don't reach out much. Part of it is a reluctance to annoy, part is inertia, part is that time passing is theoretical to me, and part is that - ick! - "they" changed my cel phone calling plan. I used to get 100 hours a month, now I get 100 minutes, same price. Gotta do something about that.... So, anyway, I don't make long distance calls before 9 pm. All not very good excuses. I guess that's why people forget me and wander away.
Then I went into the village, and saw Piper's car outside his office, so I stopped in to find out how his lady's surgery went. All good. They plan radiation, but not chemo, so I guess that's a good sign.
Later, Roman called on his way back from LI, and we talked a bunch more.
Speaking of keeping in touch, I had sent an email to a guy I met at the gathering in NJ, some information I had promised him. He sent an intriguing response. I replied to that email last night (after a two week pause), and next thing I know, I get a torrent of emails, and a phone call this morning, and I've invited him to join Daughter and Hercules and me for dinner tomorrow evening. Wow!
I find him interesting and stimulating. I think it may be reciprocal. I'm not sure what I want to do about that. He lives in NJ (about a half hour north of Daughter, about 2 hours from here). He's also much younger, probably at least 15 years from retirement. I don't think he realizes my age - he referred to "people our age".
It's funny, I am always quite open about my age, I'm rather proud of the fact that I look pretty darn good for my age, but if he ever asked, I'd be reluctant to tell him. Stupid, because it's going to be a bit hard to talk about experiences without giving it away. At the gathering, the original Woodstock concert came up, and he said he was only 9? 11? years old then, and his father wouldn't let him go. I was four or five years out of college then. Ack!
He's rather hedonistic, I think. Clubs. Rock concerts. Likes to start driving and see where he ends up (we're talking like, Canada). Likes to put the top down. He might tire me out. I suspect hikes in the woods and county fairs aren't his style.
But, so far I like him, and a little flirtation is fun. We'll see.
.
Friday, March 30, 2007
1191 Museum Day
Friday, March 30, 2007
Spent the afternoon at the Maritime Museum. Processed about 15 more membership renewals, and set out 24 reminders for April's renewals. I hate Lotus.
The staff went out to "the incredibly good soup place" for lunch. I was invited, but I knew they'd be gone a while, and I wanted to get everything done today because I wouldn't be able to get back in until at least next Thursday, so I asked them to bring soup back for me.
Clam chowder was on the list, so I asked for that.
When I think "clam chowder", I'm thinking New England, the creamy type. What arrived was Manhattan, which I have never liked. But I was hungry, so I ate it anyway.
It was incredibly good.
.
Spent the afternoon at the Maritime Museum. Processed about 15 more membership renewals, and set out 24 reminders for April's renewals. I hate Lotus.
The staff went out to "the incredibly good soup place" for lunch. I was invited, but I knew they'd be gone a while, and I wanted to get everything done today because I wouldn't be able to get back in until at least next Thursday, so I asked them to bring soup back for me.
Clam chowder was on the list, so I asked for that.
When I think "clam chowder", I'm thinking New England, the creamy type. What arrived was Manhattan, which I have never liked. But I was hungry, so I ate it anyway.
It was incredibly good.
.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
1190 Plagiarism
Thursday, March 29, 2007
I am currently reading a novel (title and author don't matter) wherein the middle aged protagonist is suffering delayed anguish over having committed plagiarism in college.
It reminded me of my one (conscious) instance of plagiarism.
Fifth grade composition class, Ottawa, Canada, 1955. The last assignment of the year was to write about something very sad that we had seen or experienced.
I couldn't think of anything. That's really strange, because my life was full of sadness. My only conclusion is that I must have been depressed. Or shell-shocked.
I mentioned in a recent entry that I had lived in five different houses in Benton. Four of those five were between the middle of first grade, and a month into fifth grade. The first house was next door to the landlord. They asked us to move within a year. The second was an apartment next door to the landlord, and below the landlord's daughter's apartment. They asked us to move within the year. The third was one side of a duplex house, and the folks in the other half complained to the landlord, and we had to move within months. The fourth was the big stand-alone house, with an absentee landlord. We were there more than a year, until we moved to Canada.
The reason we kept getting thrown out was because my father screamed obscenities almost every evening, smashed things against the walls, and beat my mother and us kids. Neighbors didn't like hearing the crashing and screaming.
My mother maintained postal friendships with all those people until the day she died. I guess they felt sorry for her, but there was nothing anyone could do, and hearing it was just too hard.
So, there was that. But that was normal.
The pet Easter chicks grown to roosters we had in the big house? We kids were told that they had been sent to a farm, where they'd live with lots of hens and have fun. Then one day at dinner, we were served two little skinny tough chickens. We recognized them, even without their feathers.
So, there was that. But that was normal.
When we moved to Ottawa (my father was with the embassy), our house wasn't ready, and we lived in a different school district for several months, then moved again. I was in three different schools for fifth grade, and felt lost and unaccepted.
So, there was that. But that was normal.
I couldn't see the blackboard in school. I used to "read" what was on the board by watching the teacher's hand as she wrote. The school gave us an eye test, and then sent a note home to my parents that I had to have a formal exam. I came out at 20/400. Uncorrected, that's past legally blind. I got glasses. My father allowed me to wear them to school because the school insisted, but when I wasn't in school, he took them away and wouldn't allow me to wear them, because he didn't want me to get dependent on them. He wanted me to try harder to see. He'd test me, and beat me when I couldn't see, because I refused to try hard enough.
So, there was that. But that was normal.
We kids had no toys, and very little clothing, because every time we moved, non-essentials were discarded. Emotional attachment was not allowed. Anything accumulated between moves usually ended up smashed during a paternal rage.
So, there was that. But that was normal.
I couldn't think of anything sad to write about for the composition assignment. Maybe because sadness was so much of my normal life, I couldn't recognize any specific thing as sad. The "sad things" other kids were going to write about seemed so unimportant, not sad at all. Things that saddened others, well, they were things I'd just shrug off as minor.
The night before the assignment was due, I still had nothing. Nothing that had ever happened to me and nothing I'd ever seen, had been sad enough to bother writing about.
So I asked my mother. She mentioned a passage in a book she had read, where a child sitting on a school bus sees a dog get hit by a car.
So I used that. Word for word. Right out of the book.
I got an "A" on it. But I always got "A"s in that subject, so it didn't really feel like cheating. I felt only mildly guilty.
Until my parents got the letter that my composition had been chosen to represent my school in a district competition. I wanted to climb into a hole.
Then the letter that I had won the district competition, and my composition would be going to the all-city level. I wanted to pull the dirt in on top of me.
Then the letter that I had won all-city, and it was going to provincial level. I tried to stop breathing.
No more letters came.
I'm still waiting for the letter that says I'm going to jail.
I feel guilty because the second place winners didn't get to move up. I wish I knew why I didn't win province level. If it was because some other fifth-grader's composition was better, then it's ok. But if it was because some judge recognized the passage and disqualified me, then that means the school, district, and all-city second-placers might otherwise have had a chance to win.
If I had it to do over, I guess I could write about that..
I am currently reading a novel (title and author don't matter) wherein the middle aged protagonist is suffering delayed anguish over having committed plagiarism in college.
It reminded me of my one (conscious) instance of plagiarism.
Fifth grade composition class, Ottawa, Canada, 1955. The last assignment of the year was to write about something very sad that we had seen or experienced.
I couldn't think of anything. That's really strange, because my life was full of sadness. My only conclusion is that I must have been depressed. Or shell-shocked.
I mentioned in a recent entry that I had lived in five different houses in Benton. Four of those five were between the middle of first grade, and a month into fifth grade. The first house was next door to the landlord. They asked us to move within a year. The second was an apartment next door to the landlord, and below the landlord's daughter's apartment. They asked us to move within the year. The third was one side of a duplex house, and the folks in the other half complained to the landlord, and we had to move within months. The fourth was the big stand-alone house, with an absentee landlord. We were there more than a year, until we moved to Canada.
The reason we kept getting thrown out was because my father screamed obscenities almost every evening, smashed things against the walls, and beat my mother and us kids. Neighbors didn't like hearing the crashing and screaming.
My mother maintained postal friendships with all those people until the day she died. I guess they felt sorry for her, but there was nothing anyone could do, and hearing it was just too hard.
So, there was that. But that was normal.
The pet Easter chicks grown to roosters we had in the big house? We kids were told that they had been sent to a farm, where they'd live with lots of hens and have fun. Then one day at dinner, we were served two little skinny tough chickens. We recognized them, even without their feathers.
So, there was that. But that was normal.
When we moved to Ottawa (my father was with the embassy), our house wasn't ready, and we lived in a different school district for several months, then moved again. I was in three different schools for fifth grade, and felt lost and unaccepted.
So, there was that. But that was normal.
I couldn't see the blackboard in school. I used to "read" what was on the board by watching the teacher's hand as she wrote. The school gave us an eye test, and then sent a note home to my parents that I had to have a formal exam. I came out at 20/400. Uncorrected, that's past legally blind. I got glasses. My father allowed me to wear them to school because the school insisted, but when I wasn't in school, he took them away and wouldn't allow me to wear them, because he didn't want me to get dependent on them. He wanted me to try harder to see. He'd test me, and beat me when I couldn't see, because I refused to try hard enough.
So, there was that. But that was normal.
We kids had no toys, and very little clothing, because every time we moved, non-essentials were discarded. Emotional attachment was not allowed. Anything accumulated between moves usually ended up smashed during a paternal rage.
So, there was that. But that was normal.
I couldn't think of anything sad to write about for the composition assignment. Maybe because sadness was so much of my normal life, I couldn't recognize any specific thing as sad. The "sad things" other kids were going to write about seemed so unimportant, not sad at all. Things that saddened others, well, they were things I'd just shrug off as minor.
The night before the assignment was due, I still had nothing. Nothing that had ever happened to me and nothing I'd ever seen, had been sad enough to bother writing about.
So I asked my mother. She mentioned a passage in a book she had read, where a child sitting on a school bus sees a dog get hit by a car.
So I used that. Word for word. Right out of the book.
I got an "A" on it. But I always got "A"s in that subject, so it didn't really feel like cheating. I felt only mildly guilty.
Until my parents got the letter that my composition had been chosen to represent my school in a district competition. I wanted to climb into a hole.
Then the letter that I had won the district competition, and my composition would be going to the all-city level. I wanted to pull the dirt in on top of me.
Then the letter that I had won all-city, and it was going to provincial level. I tried to stop breathing.
No more letters came.
I'm still waiting for the letter that says I'm going to jail.
I feel guilty because the second place winners didn't get to move up. I wish I knew why I didn't win province level. If it was because some other fifth-grader's composition was better, then it's ok. But if it was because some judge recognized the passage and disqualified me, then that means the school, district, and all-city second-placers might otherwise have had a chance to win.
If I had it to do over, I guess I could write about that..
1189 Bits
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Dinner last night with Mensa - Roman, Marmot, Angie, and me, the Chinese restaurant in Rhinecliff.
Piper had said that he'd call me and leave a message as to how his lady's surgery went, and he didn't. Didn't call today, either. I don't know what to think of that. Because I don't know what to think, I didn't call him, but I might tomorrow.
------------------------------------------------
Not having cable, I am blessed with soap operas, grungy-sensational talk shows, and "judge shows" all afternoon. You see why the TV is on only to mark passage of time.
The up-from-the-ghetto male judge seems to deal in lots of auto accidents and unpaid rent. The pretty Cuban lady judge likes contract cases (marginally more interesting than most) and cases involving animals, and the delicate Black lady judge has a lot of paternity cases. Those are the ones that really jerk my chain.
The woman has dragged the man into court to force him to acknowledge his child. It's treated as if the guy now has an opportunity to "prove" the baby can't be his because the woman is such a tramp, and we are treated to fifteen minutes of him smearing her. It's going to end up with a DNA test - we all know that. He doesn't need to open his mouth. The public smear is not necessary. Disgusting.
I guess that's the "pop smear test"?
I may have to get cable.
--------------------------------------------
If I get cable, I can get off this miserable dial-up connection. Today it dropped every three minutes. I have it set up to automatically redial, and believe it or not, today about 1 out of 5 redials produced the "all circuits are busy" message. Another 1 in 5 got a busy signal.
My main email account is on AOL, and AOL doesn't wait patiently when the line drops like all the other ISPs. Instead, AOL shuts itself down! It's been difficult to check my email today. I start AOL, sign in, open the mail, click on an email, the line drops, and I have to start all over. Repeat from "I start AOL...".
.
Dinner last night with Mensa - Roman, Marmot, Angie, and me, the Chinese restaurant in Rhinecliff.
Piper had said that he'd call me and leave a message as to how his lady's surgery went, and he didn't. Didn't call today, either. I don't know what to think of that. Because I don't know what to think, I didn't call him, but I might tomorrow.
------------------------------------------------
Not having cable, I am blessed with soap operas, grungy-sensational talk shows, and "judge shows" all afternoon. You see why the TV is on only to mark passage of time.
The up-from-the-ghetto male judge seems to deal in lots of auto accidents and unpaid rent. The pretty Cuban lady judge likes contract cases (marginally more interesting than most) and cases involving animals, and the delicate Black lady judge has a lot of paternity cases. Those are the ones that really jerk my chain.
The woman has dragged the man into court to force him to acknowledge his child. It's treated as if the guy now has an opportunity to "prove" the baby can't be his because the woman is such a tramp, and we are treated to fifteen minutes of him smearing her. It's going to end up with a DNA test - we all know that. He doesn't need to open his mouth. The public smear is not necessary. Disgusting.
I guess that's the "pop smear test"?
I may have to get cable.
--------------------------------------------
If I get cable, I can get off this miserable dial-up connection. Today it dropped every three minutes. I have it set up to automatically redial, and believe it or not, today about 1 out of 5 redials produced the "all circuits are busy" message. Another 1 in 5 got a busy signal.
My main email account is on AOL, and AOL doesn't wait patiently when the line drops like all the other ISPs. Instead, AOL shuts itself down! It's been difficult to check my email today. I start AOL, sign in, open the mail, click on an email, the line drops, and I have to start all over. Repeat from "I start AOL...".
.
1188 Is This Really a Deal Breaker?
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Shoshana highlights this interesting and amusing article: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/29/garden /29breakers.html?pagewanted=1&amp ;ei=5070&en=9854bba49b37a848&ex=1175832000
I find it surprising that people don't seem willing to compromise, or to believe that the other will compromise. I figure you both have to decide whether you love and can get along with the other person more than you like your stuff, or more than you dislike their stuff.
I'd throw out everything in my house for the right person. (Well, almost everything. Compromise always goes two ways.) I hated Jay's living room furniture (brown and gray plaid upholstery? Yuck!) and he disliked mine (a huge beige sectional), so we just started replacing everything with things we both liked. It's called "working together".
Are there really people who can't do that? This article says "Yes", I guess.
.
.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
1187 Kids in Danger
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
The Rabbi and Roman both work with troubled kids, so that's been a topic of conversation this week. Roman's "kids" are in their late teens, and already into gangs and drugs, and many had been court-ordered into the program. There was a frustrating incident Monday that has Roman thinking it's time to quit. I wondered if maybe the county is getting to these kids too late. Aren't there any programs to get to them younger?
When I lived in the St. Louis area, I worked with a police department childrens' program. The staff consisted of a cop and a social worker. The cop was a big Norwegian doofis. Everything went over his head. I think he was selected because he would be nonthreatening. The social worker was a skinny hyper guy in his early twenties who was total hippie (this was 1971-ish), who always carried an aura of lingering marijuana smoke. His girlfriend helped out occasionally. She was spacy, never seemed connected to the here and now. She often wore nothing but a tiny unstructured bikini. When it got wet, the string ties stretched, and the little triangles of the top drooped to her midriff, and she didn't seem to notice or care.
With two males on staff, they decided they needed a female, so I volunteered. I was in at pretty much the start of the program.
The kids were from 11 to maybe 15 years old. They were good kids as far as I could tell, but they came through the juvenile court, as kids who were in danger of falling off the rails. Most of them didn't seem to have much of a home life, no guidance. They were pretty worldly for their age.
The county had acquired a dilapidated old abandoned house in an industrial section of a suburb (non-payment of taxes), and turned it over to us. We put the kids to work renovating it. By the end of the summer it was looking pretty good, with an "Our House" sign over the door. It was a safe and welcoming place the kids could go after school and on weekends, and the kids had a feeling of accomplishment, having "built" it themselves.
We took them on field trips on weekends. The one that stands out in my mind is our first camping trip.
There were several planning meetings. The kids were responsible for most of the decisions. The agreement was that the adults would stay out of it. The question came up about co-ed tents. The cop and I weren't too happy about the idea of cohabitation. The three of us had discussed it earlier, knowing that the subject would come up. It could go three ways: We could establish a basic ground rule (or two, including drugs and alcohol) which would be enforced, we could establish ground rules which we would pretend to enforce, or we could stand back and have no influence whatsoever. The hippie was in favor of no interference, and he was in charge, so that was that.
So when cohabitation came up, of course all the boys and a few of the girls voted to allow it, and that was that.
A few days before the trip, three girls came to me, and asked to speak with me privately. We went into a side room and closed the door. They told me that the boys had divvied up the tents among themselves, and were now divvying up the girls. The girls were under tremendous pressure to agree to share a tent with a boy, and they didn't want to, but didn't know what to do about it. "Bobby wants me to go with him, and if I don't I'm afraid he'll be mad at me."
I told them to pass the word. As many girls as possible should show up tomorrow evening, and we'll have a girls-only meeting, and we'll figure this out. The next night ALL twenty girls showed up. It was great. They discussed it, and they all, no matter how they felt about any particular boy, they all agreed that they didn't like the way they were being pressured, the way they felt they had no choice, and they weren't going to lie down and take it.
We came up with a secret plan.
To the boys they said "How sweet of you to ask, but I can't promise. We'll see what happens."
Comes the camping trip. On arrival at the campground (not an official campground, just a patch of woods), the boys rushed to stake out their territory and set up their tents. I was amused that they all spread out in the woods, far apart from each other and far from the campfire.
The day was filled with building a latrine, games, cooking for 45 over a fire, the usual stuff. Some of the girls gathered leaves and pile needles, which they placed in piles around the fire pit, "to sit on". There was a pond, and some kids decided to go swimming. I was suspicious of the pond - it was rimmed with black mud, always a bad sign, and sure enough it was full of leaches, so that led to some more fun. I was amused that the hippie's girlfriend's bikini top had drooped again, so that her breasts were covered with leaches. She suddenly snapped back to the here and now for a bit.
Late evening, after the hot dogs on sticks and the marshmallows, the boys started dropping hints and heading for their tents. The girls wanted to sit around the fire a little longer. Finally it was just girls. We looked around, and here and there through the woods we could see lonely boys sitting in tent doorways, in the glow of a lantern or candle or flashlight.
One of the girls looked up at the sky, and marveled at how beautiful the stars were. The others chimed in. Someone said how nice it would be to sleep out here, under the stars. Everyone else agreed that was a wonderful idea. They pushed together the piles of leaves and pine needles they had gathered earlier, and covered them with some huge tarps they just happened to have brought "just in case" (we had also brought poles for a canopy in case it rained), and piled on some blankets. All twenty girls slept that night together in a heap, in the middle of camp, under the stars. Not one girl went to a tent.
It was wonderful. I was so proud of them.
.
The Rabbi and Roman both work with troubled kids, so that's been a topic of conversation this week. Roman's "kids" are in their late teens, and already into gangs and drugs, and many had been court-ordered into the program. There was a frustrating incident Monday that has Roman thinking it's time to quit. I wondered if maybe the county is getting to these kids too late. Aren't there any programs to get to them younger?
When I lived in the St. Louis area, I worked with a police department childrens' program. The staff consisted of a cop and a social worker. The cop was a big Norwegian doofis. Everything went over his head. I think he was selected because he would be nonthreatening. The social worker was a skinny hyper guy in his early twenties who was total hippie (this was 1971-ish), who always carried an aura of lingering marijuana smoke. His girlfriend helped out occasionally. She was spacy, never seemed connected to the here and now. She often wore nothing but a tiny unstructured bikini. When it got wet, the string ties stretched, and the little triangles of the top drooped to her midriff, and she didn't seem to notice or care.
With two males on staff, they decided they needed a female, so I volunteered. I was in at pretty much the start of the program.
The kids were from 11 to maybe 15 years old. They were good kids as far as I could tell, but they came through the juvenile court, as kids who were in danger of falling off the rails. Most of them didn't seem to have much of a home life, no guidance. They were pretty worldly for their age.
The county had acquired a dilapidated old abandoned house in an industrial section of a suburb (non-payment of taxes), and turned it over to us. We put the kids to work renovating it. By the end of the summer it was looking pretty good, with an "Our House" sign over the door. It was a safe and welcoming place the kids could go after school and on weekends, and the kids had a feeling of accomplishment, having "built" it themselves.
We took them on field trips on weekends. The one that stands out in my mind is our first camping trip.
There were several planning meetings. The kids were responsible for most of the decisions. The agreement was that the adults would stay out of it. The question came up about co-ed tents. The cop and I weren't too happy about the idea of cohabitation. The three of us had discussed it earlier, knowing that the subject would come up. It could go three ways: We could establish a basic ground rule (or two, including drugs and alcohol) which would be enforced, we could establish ground rules which we would pretend to enforce, or we could stand back and have no influence whatsoever. The hippie was in favor of no interference, and he was in charge, so that was that.
So when cohabitation came up, of course all the boys and a few of the girls voted to allow it, and that was that.
A few days before the trip, three girls came to me, and asked to speak with me privately. We went into a side room and closed the door. They told me that the boys had divvied up the tents among themselves, and were now divvying up the girls. The girls were under tremendous pressure to agree to share a tent with a boy, and they didn't want to, but didn't know what to do about it. "Bobby wants me to go with him, and if I don't I'm afraid he'll be mad at me."
I told them to pass the word. As many girls as possible should show up tomorrow evening, and we'll have a girls-only meeting, and we'll figure this out. The next night ALL twenty girls showed up. It was great. They discussed it, and they all, no matter how they felt about any particular boy, they all agreed that they didn't like the way they were being pressured, the way they felt they had no choice, and they weren't going to lie down and take it.
We came up with a secret plan.
To the boys they said "How sweet of you to ask, but I can't promise. We'll see what happens."
Comes the camping trip. On arrival at the campground (not an official campground, just a patch of woods), the boys rushed to stake out their territory and set up their tents. I was amused that they all spread out in the woods, far apart from each other and far from the campfire.
The day was filled with building a latrine, games, cooking for 45 over a fire, the usual stuff. Some of the girls gathered leaves and pile needles, which they placed in piles around the fire pit, "to sit on". There was a pond, and some kids decided to go swimming. I was suspicious of the pond - it was rimmed with black mud, always a bad sign, and sure enough it was full of leaches, so that led to some more fun. I was amused that the hippie's girlfriend's bikini top had drooped again, so that her breasts were covered with leaches. She suddenly snapped back to the here and now for a bit.
Late evening, after the hot dogs on sticks and the marshmallows, the boys started dropping hints and heading for their tents. The girls wanted to sit around the fire a little longer. Finally it was just girls. We looked around, and here and there through the woods we could see lonely boys sitting in tent doorways, in the glow of a lantern or candle or flashlight.
One of the girls looked up at the sky, and marveled at how beautiful the stars were. The others chimed in. Someone said how nice it would be to sleep out here, under the stars. Everyone else agreed that was a wonderful idea. They pushed together the piles of leaves and pine needles they had gathered earlier, and covered them with some huge tarps they just happened to have brought "just in case" (we had also brought poles for a canopy in case it rained), and piled on some blankets. All twenty girls slept that night together in a heap, in the middle of camp, under the stars. Not one girl went to a tent.
It was wonderful. I was so proud of them.
.
1186 Comments on "Sleeping Beauty"
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
I print the archive at the end of the month because, after all, this IS my diary. Someday in my dotage I'll read it all to remember who I was.
I got some comments on the previous post, to which I responded. The comments don't show in the straight archive, so they don't get saved. These I want to save. These are my sisters. So I'm duplicating them here. Have patience.
I print the archive at the end of the month because, after all, this IS my diary. Someday in my dotage I'll read it all to remember who I was.
I got some comments on the previous post, to which I responded. The comments don't show in the straight archive, so they don't get saved. These I want to save. These are my sisters. So I'm duplicating them here. Have patience.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
1185 Sleeping Beauty
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
I have been badly used by many men. I have been well and truly loved by a few. Well, maybe even several. I've been lucky.
Of those men who loved me, whom I could believe, none ever told me I was beautiful. Obie said I had beautiful eyes. Guy told me I had a beautiful mind. Jay said I had a beautiful soul. I took it all with a grain of salt because they loved me, and their feelings had little to do with beauty. There were others who loved me, but never mentioned beauty of any kind. They didn't have to.
In my youth I had a fantastic body, if you could overlook the powerful legs, but I dressed in clothes that were too big for me, because the body brought me nothing but grief. As far as my face went, I would allow myself "cute", but I never went even so far as "pretty". My nose was too big, my teeth too yellow and crooked, and my skin too marred and scarred for beauty. Not to mention the thick glasses. I came nowhere near the accepted pattern. These days I still don't think of myself as pretty, but I do think I look pretty darn good for my age.
At the reception Sunday evening, The Rabbi, on his visiting rounds through the tables, crouched next to my chair and said, "You've changed, but you're still beautiful."
In college we were just pinochle buddies and friends. There was no boy-girl relationship. I respected his faith and general good-person-ness, and he respected my mind, but when I wrote my autobiography for Daughter, in the college section, I never mentioned him, because there was nothing that stood out as "a story". BUT, he is the only guy to ever tell me that I was beautiful, in a "this is a fact" way. It was just an offhand comment one day, but I remember it, because no one had ever before said it and meant it. Or since. Not anyone I could believe, anyway. It's unlikely he remembers. (By then, my mother had convinced me I looked like "something the cat dragged in", and I had no reason to doubt her.)
When he crouched next to my chair on Sunday and said I was still beautiful, I responded that the first step in looking beautiful is to believe you're beautiful. He thought about it a minute, and agreed.
So, I had diner with Roman this evening. I told him the above, that The Rabbi was the only man to ever tell me I was beautiful, as part of another story, and Roman got agitated. He insisted that he also had told me I was beautiful. I said no, never. In fact, I told him, he once said to me "I think you think you look better than you really do."
He was aghast. He insisted he never said that. That he couldn't have said it because "it's not the kind of thing I would ever say!" But he did, and I told him I remember his exact words, because they hurt so much. He still insisted he never said it, because he does think I'm beautiful. He said he'd always thought I was beautiful.
I didn't know that.
To tell the truth, I'm not sure how to take it, because he really did say the other, an offhand comment in his kitchen one morning. Maybe I took it wrong. Maybe he was referring to something I was wearing, that I didn't look good in it.
On the other hand, sometimes I think he has a split personality or something.
It's obvious I'm going to have to learn to say "What do you mean by that?" around him, because so often what I hear is not what he meant. Like the time he told me my hair looked dry, and I felt bad and started using oil treatments, and it turned out that he meant my hair was always fluffy, never oily or stringy looking, and he liked that.
I'm too quick to hear criticism.
.
I have been badly used by many men. I have been well and truly loved by a few. Well, maybe even several. I've been lucky.
Of those men who loved me, whom I could believe, none ever told me I was beautiful. Obie said I had beautiful eyes. Guy told me I had a beautiful mind. Jay said I had a beautiful soul. I took it all with a grain of salt because they loved me, and their feelings had little to do with beauty. There were others who loved me, but never mentioned beauty of any kind. They didn't have to.
In my youth I had a fantastic body, if you could overlook the powerful legs, but I dressed in clothes that were too big for me, because the body brought me nothing but grief. As far as my face went, I would allow myself "cute", but I never went even so far as "pretty". My nose was too big, my teeth too yellow and crooked, and my skin too marred and scarred for beauty. Not to mention the thick glasses. I came nowhere near the accepted pattern. These days I still don't think of myself as pretty, but I do think I look pretty darn good for my age.
At the reception Sunday evening, The Rabbi, on his visiting rounds through the tables, crouched next to my chair and said, "You've changed, but you're still beautiful."
In college we were just pinochle buddies and friends. There was no boy-girl relationship. I respected his faith and general good-person-ness, and he respected my mind, but when I wrote my autobiography for Daughter, in the college section, I never mentioned him, because there was nothing that stood out as "a story". BUT, he is the only guy to ever tell me that I was beautiful, in a "this is a fact" way. It was just an offhand comment one day, but I remember it, because no one had ever before said it and meant it. Or since. Not anyone I could believe, anyway. It's unlikely he remembers. (By then, my mother had convinced me I looked like "something the cat dragged in", and I had no reason to doubt her.)
When he crouched next to my chair on Sunday and said I was still beautiful, I responded that the first step in looking beautiful is to believe you're beautiful. He thought about it a minute, and agreed.
So, I had diner with Roman this evening. I told him the above, that The Rabbi was the only man to ever tell me I was beautiful, as part of another story, and Roman got agitated. He insisted that he also had told me I was beautiful. I said no, never. In fact, I told him, he once said to me "I think you think you look better than you really do."
He was aghast. He insisted he never said that. That he couldn't have said it because "it's not the kind of thing I would ever say!" But he did, and I told him I remember his exact words, because they hurt so much. He still insisted he never said it, because he does think I'm beautiful. He said he'd always thought I was beautiful.
I didn't know that.
To tell the truth, I'm not sure how to take it, because he really did say the other, an offhand comment in his kitchen one morning. Maybe I took it wrong. Maybe he was referring to something I was wearing, that I didn't look good in it.
On the other hand, sometimes I think he has a split personality or something.
It's obvious I'm going to have to learn to say "What do you mean by that?" around him, because so often what I hear is not what he meant. Like the time he told me my hair looked dry, and I felt bad and started using oil treatments, and it turned out that he meant my hair was always fluffy, never oily or stringy looking, and he liked that.
I'm too quick to hear criticism.
.
1184 Home Again
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
[Later edit - I Googled "'Green pepper' mango", and found out it's a coal miner, northeastern Pennsylvania thing. I come by it honestly. See http://www.foodreference.com/html/fmango.html, scroll down to the green comment.]
I'm home.
The ceremony and reception were beautiful. There were probably close to 200 people. They had a full-fledged wedding, their children and grandchildren were the attendants. Flowers everywhere. Their colors were peach, cream, and brown.
The reception was at a fire hall, which was also sumptuously decorated, candles and flowers, chocolate, peach, and cream candies in bowls on the tables, and the absolutely most beautiful wedding cake I've ever seen. Photos when The Rabbi sends them.
They did all the work themselves, which I found amazing. Mrs. Rabbi (note - he's not a rabbi, he's a Methodist minister. "The Rabbi" was his nickname in college, because of one incident, but it stuck because he taught us a lot about how we should "be") even cooked all the food!
It was obvious that they are well loved. They've had some legal and financial problems over the past two years, one of those dramas that people can get caught up in through no fault of their own, the kind of thing where "friends" fall away rapidly. It's a tribute to them that they still have so many who love and support them.
I had one of those "small world" moments. There's a couple, E and B, whom I see often at Daughter and Hercules's, in central New Jersey. E is Hercules's best friend. They were roommates in college. I walked into the fire hall, and directly in front of me, at the end of the nearest table, the first people I saw, were E and B. I walked up to them, and we all three said, in unison, "What the hell are YOU doing here?!" Turns out B works with Mrs. Rabbi. Of course, E had to immediately call Daughter and tell her. Small world.
With so many people there, I'd had no time to talk to The Rabbis, other than in the receiving line, and his tour from table to table. When people started leaving, I asked the daughter if they could use another pair of hands cleaning up, and she said that would be nice, so I stayed and filled garbage cans. There had been little nylon bags filled with wildflower seeds at each place (Love Grows), and a lot of people didn't take them, so I ended up with 45 of them. I'll plant them in my woods and on the bank, and send a picture when they bloom.
Cleaning up took like two hours, and gave me a chance to spend some time with the couple.
Something very odd happened that's still bothering me. I'll probably approach it later.
The next morning I left the hotel at 10:30 am and headed for home. The sky was very cloudy, 53 degrees. The weather report said rain in the late afternoon and evening. I wanted to take a detour and visit Ricketts Glen if I could, but not in rain. I wouldn't be able to visit much more than the first falls, but that's where Jay's ashes are, so that's all I needed. I decided to make the decision when I got to Bloomsburg.
At Bloomsburg, it was still 53 degrees and cloudy, so I struck off northeast, headed for the falls. When I got to Benton, I stopped for lunch at the Cozy Corner. The Cozy Corner was an ice cream parlor 50 years ago. I used to get ice cream or a hot dog there when I was in fourth grade.
I had another small world experience in the Cozy Corner. The waitress was telling some tourists what was on the garden cheese steak, and she said, "... and mangos." The tourista was surprised, "Mangos? The fruit?" The waitress got flustered, and struggled to remember the other name, "Oh, yeah, peppers. Sweet green peppers. We call them mangos."
My mother always called them mangos. I didn't know any other name for them until I went to college, and I still think of them as mangos. I'd never before met anyone else who called them mangos, not that I was aware of, anyway.
I've driven through Benton a few times in the past two decades, but hadn't walked the streets in more than 40 years. I decided to walk the few blocks of the main street, and try to find the house we'd once lived in.
Over the years, and three of my father's transfers to the area, we had lived in five different houses in the village. I had on prior trips located four of the houses, but not the fifth, and that one was the best. It was the largest and nicest house we'd ever lived in, with a wrap-around porch, an impressive circular staircase, and a glass "conservatory" on the side. It was on a northeast corner on Main street. There was a long sidewalk, with umbrella trees (mulberries trimmed back to the trunk every fall) on either side.
As I walked, I studied every corner house. I know that in 50 years there would be changes, but none of the houses looked at all possible. It's not like it had been torn down and replaced, none of the houses was less than 80 years old. The sidewalks were all very short, too short for the umbrella trees, but then I realized the street must have been widened at some point. Only one house had a conservatory, but the rest of the house didn't feel at all right.
That's sad. That's the house where we had the roosters. Aunt Irene had given us chicks for Easter one year. A year later, my mother was walking around muttering "They're supposed to die! They aren't supposed to grow up!" They slept in a shack out back, and otherwise had the run of town. They used to follow us everywhere.
I passed "the doctor's house", the only brick building in town, and remembered Lady. Lady was the doctor's fat old white English Bulldog. She sat on the doorstep all day, and when someone stopped at the end of the walk, she'd waddle slowly down the walk, then, schnuffling and schnorting, she would close her eyes and present her head for scratching.
Lady was the old-style bulldog, with a huge chest that bowed her front legs out and almost useless tiny hindquarters. Today's bulldogs have real hind legs. All my life I've had a fondness for toads. I've paid kids to catch toads for me, so I can install them in my garden. Yesterday, for the first time, I realized that I like toads because they remind me of Lady.
I headed on up the road to Ricketts Glen. Now, I'd seen no snow anywhere. As I approached the Glen, I noticed snow in sheltered spots. When I got to the Glen, I had to climb over a 3-foot snowbank to read the "NOTICE!" The falls trail was "closed to all except experienced ice climbers", who had to register at the park office. Minimum equipment required included crampons and rope, and "ice axes are highly recommended."
Hmmm. I should have known. I've seen the trail sheathed in ice from the mist from the falls, forty years ago, before there was even a real trail. It's impressive, and scary. And very beautiful if you can get to it. The ice probably won't be gone until early May, if then.
I walked to the beginning of the falls trail anyway. The path was packed snow that had thawed and refrozen to the point of ice. Very slippery. The bridge over the creek was festooned with yellow "do not enter" tape, as were several points up the falls trail. So I stopped, looked up the creek, and shouted "I love you, sweetheart. I'll be back later", and left.
I got home about 6 pm.
[Later edit - I Googled "'Green pepper' mango", and found out it's a coal miner, northeastern Pennsylvania thing. I come by it honestly. See http://www.foodreference.com/html/fmango.html, scroll down to the green comment.]
I'm home.
The ceremony and reception were beautiful. There were probably close to 200 people. They had a full-fledged wedding, their children and grandchildren were the attendants. Flowers everywhere. Their colors were peach, cream, and brown.
The reception was at a fire hall, which was also sumptuously decorated, candles and flowers, chocolate, peach, and cream candies in bowls on the tables, and the absolutely most beautiful wedding cake I've ever seen. Photos when The Rabbi sends them.
They did all the work themselves, which I found amazing. Mrs. Rabbi (note - he's not a rabbi, he's a Methodist minister. "The Rabbi" was his nickname in college, because of one incident, but it stuck because he taught us a lot about how we should "be") even cooked all the food!
It was obvious that they are well loved. They've had some legal and financial problems over the past two years, one of those dramas that people can get caught up in through no fault of their own, the kind of thing where "friends" fall away rapidly. It's a tribute to them that they still have so many who love and support them.
I had one of those "small world" moments. There's a couple, E and B, whom I see often at Daughter and Hercules's, in central New Jersey. E is Hercules's best friend. They were roommates in college. I walked into the fire hall, and directly in front of me, at the end of the nearest table, the first people I saw, were E and B. I walked up to them, and we all three said, in unison, "What the hell are YOU doing here?!" Turns out B works with Mrs. Rabbi. Of course, E had to immediately call Daughter and tell her. Small world.
With so many people there, I'd had no time to talk to The Rabbis, other than in the receiving line, and his tour from table to table. When people started leaving, I asked the daughter if they could use another pair of hands cleaning up, and she said that would be nice, so I stayed and filled garbage cans. There had been little nylon bags filled with wildflower seeds at each place (Love Grows), and a lot of people didn't take them, so I ended up with 45 of them. I'll plant them in my woods and on the bank, and send a picture when they bloom.
Cleaning up took like two hours, and gave me a chance to spend some time with the couple.
Something very odd happened that's still bothering me. I'll probably approach it later.
The next morning I left the hotel at 10:30 am and headed for home. The sky was very cloudy, 53 degrees. The weather report said rain in the late afternoon and evening. I wanted to take a detour and visit Ricketts Glen if I could, but not in rain. I wouldn't be able to visit much more than the first falls, but that's where Jay's ashes are, so that's all I needed. I decided to make the decision when I got to Bloomsburg.
At Bloomsburg, it was still 53 degrees and cloudy, so I struck off northeast, headed for the falls. When I got to Benton, I stopped for lunch at the Cozy Corner. The Cozy Corner was an ice cream parlor 50 years ago. I used to get ice cream or a hot dog there when I was in fourth grade.
I had another small world experience in the Cozy Corner. The waitress was telling some tourists what was on the garden cheese steak, and she said, "... and mangos." The tourista was surprised, "Mangos? The fruit?" The waitress got flustered, and struggled to remember the other name, "Oh, yeah, peppers. Sweet green peppers. We call them mangos."
My mother always called them mangos. I didn't know any other name for them until I went to college, and I still think of them as mangos. I'd never before met anyone else who called them mangos, not that I was aware of, anyway.
I've driven through Benton a few times in the past two decades, but hadn't walked the streets in more than 40 years. I decided to walk the few blocks of the main street, and try to find the house we'd once lived in.
Over the years, and three of my father's transfers to the area, we had lived in five different houses in the village. I had on prior trips located four of the houses, but not the fifth, and that one was the best. It was the largest and nicest house we'd ever lived in, with a wrap-around porch, an impressive circular staircase, and a glass "conservatory" on the side. It was on a northeast corner on Main street. There was a long sidewalk, with umbrella trees (mulberries trimmed back to the trunk every fall) on either side.
As I walked, I studied every corner house. I know that in 50 years there would be changes, but none of the houses looked at all possible. It's not like it had been torn down and replaced, none of the houses was less than 80 years old. The sidewalks were all very short, too short for the umbrella trees, but then I realized the street must have been widened at some point. Only one house had a conservatory, but the rest of the house didn't feel at all right.
That's sad. That's the house where we had the roosters. Aunt Irene had given us chicks for Easter one year. A year later, my mother was walking around muttering "They're supposed to die! They aren't supposed to grow up!" They slept in a shack out back, and otherwise had the run of town. They used to follow us everywhere.
I passed "the doctor's house", the only brick building in town, and remembered Lady. Lady was the doctor's fat old white English Bulldog. She sat on the doorstep all day, and when someone stopped at the end of the walk, she'd waddle slowly down the walk, then, schnuffling and schnorting, she would close her eyes and present her head for scratching.
Lady was the old-style bulldog, with a huge chest that bowed her front legs out and almost useless tiny hindquarters. Today's bulldogs have real hind legs. All my life I've had a fondness for toads. I've paid kids to catch toads for me, so I can install them in my garden. Yesterday, for the first time, I realized that I like toads because they remind me of Lady.
I headed on up the road to Ricketts Glen. Now, I'd seen no snow anywhere. As I approached the Glen, I noticed snow in sheltered spots. When I got to the Glen, I had to climb over a 3-foot snowbank to read the "NOTICE!" The falls trail was "closed to all except experienced ice climbers", who had to register at the park office. Minimum equipment required included crampons and rope, and "ice axes are highly recommended."
Hmmm. I should have known. I've seen the trail sheathed in ice from the mist from the falls, forty years ago, before there was even a real trail. It's impressive, and scary. And very beautiful if you can get to it. The ice probably won't be gone until early May, if then.
I walked to the beginning of the falls trail anyway. The path was packed snow that had thawed and refrozen to the point of ice. Very slippery. The bridge over the creek was festooned with yellow "do not enter" tape, as were several points up the falls trail. So I stopped, looked up the creek, and shouted "I love you, sweetheart. I'll be back later", and left.
I got home about 6 pm.
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i have self-image problems from not fitting into the general idea of beauty. my mom always quantified my looks as "you WOULD be cuter than so-and-so's daughter if ..." never a "you are beautiful"
i am more comfortable in my skin nowadays, but if i had some support in my youth, i think i wouldn't have been so insecure.
Same here. None of them men in my life have told me I was beautiful. This just reinforced everything that was said to me in my childhood about my looks. My grandfather told me I was built for comfort, not speed, when I was no more than 10 years old.
I actually had to make my fella say I looked nice when we went to a formal dinner.
So I'm there with ya, sister. And I absolutely believe now that beauty is also about how you project yourself.
Becs - from our short meeting, I'd say you project yourself as strong, confident, and decisive. I have decided that's how you are. So oh yes, projection works.
Ally - My mother never complimented me or my sister on anything, not once, on appearance, skills, talents, or accomplishment. What we remember was cats dragging stuff in, dog's breakfasts, sacks tied in the middle, and "you can do better". Our mother was objectively very beautiful, at a time when beauty was all a woman had, and I think now that she saw us as unwelcome competition, a reminder that she was getting older.
Both - I think sometimes men see a relationship as a power struggle, and telling you that you are beautiful is a threat to the power balance. Like if you believe you're beautiful, you might start thinking you can do better than him.