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.
.
Friday, March 30, 2007
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
1183 Nobody's Listening 2
Saturday, March 24, 2007
This morning, when I left the house to drive to Pennsylvania, I walked out the door saying, "Anniversary card, gift wrap, stockings". I had picked out a long dress to wear tomorrow evening, but was out of knee-high sheer stockings. (I insist on washing them in the washing machine, so they don't last long. Hey, I put them in a net bag with my trouser socks! Wadda ya want from me!)
I drove down the road repeating "Card, wrap, stockings." I parked at the pharmacy saying, "Card, wrap, stockings". I walked into the drug store and said, "Card, wrap, -------?" A woman walking by noticed the stunned look on my face, and I said "I KNEW I shoulda wrote it down!" I walked up and down every aisle hoping something would jog my memory, but nada. I did get the card and wrap, and ribbon, and was smart enough to have packed tape and scissors. I somehow had the idea that what I was missing started with a "C", and almost walked out of there with cough medicine before I remembered I don't have a cold. I even studied the disposable cameras. I don't know why I associated "C" with stockings.
I got 150 miles down the road when out of the blue, I shouted, "Stockings!" Yeah, Roman, sometimes I talk to myself and no one's listening.
So the first order of business tomorrow will be to find stockings.
.
This morning, when I left the house to drive to Pennsylvania, I walked out the door saying, "Anniversary card, gift wrap, stockings". I had picked out a long dress to wear tomorrow evening, but was out of knee-high sheer stockings. (I insist on washing them in the washing machine, so they don't last long. Hey, I put them in a net bag with my trouser socks! Wadda ya want from me!)
I drove down the road repeating "Card, wrap, stockings." I parked at the pharmacy saying, "Card, wrap, stockings". I walked into the drug store and said, "Card, wrap, -------?" A woman walking by noticed the stunned look on my face, and I said "I KNEW I shoulda wrote it down!" I walked up and down every aisle hoping something would jog my memory, but nada. I did get the card and wrap, and ribbon, and was smart enough to have packed tape and scissors. I somehow had the idea that what I was missing started with a "C", and almost walked out of there with cough medicine before I remembered I don't have a cold. I even studied the disposable cameras. I don't know why I associated "C" with stockings.
I got 150 miles down the road when out of the blue, I shouted, "Stockings!" Yeah, Roman, sometimes I talk to myself and no one's listening.
So the first order of business tomorrow will be to find stockings.
.
1182 Back Home in the Mountains!
Saturday, March 24, 2007
I'm sitting in a motel room (hotel? motel? the doors open to an interior hall, not to the parking lot, so technically I think it's a hotel) in central Pennsylvania, in the mountains, slightly northwest of State College (that's really the name of the town where Penn State is, honest).
The desk clerk/manager had bad teeth and no hair. The guest who recommended a restaurant had bad hair and no teeth. They both had nice eyes. I'm back in my mountains - my kinda people. Not pretentious and very friendly.
Pennsylvania is miles and miles of miles and miles. If you take route 80 through the state, you'd swear there's nothing here but mountains (friendly rounded walk-up-able ones), trees, and deer. I'd forgotten how nice Pa. feels. I'm starting to feel crowded in the Hudson Valley. Too many people.
It was 5.5 hours of driving, which was less than I thought it would be. When Daughter was in college, it took me 6 hours to get to State College. In the early days of Jay's illness, when Daughter needed something delivered or picked up, I would often drive to State College in the morning, and then back home in the evening. It's all highway, no towns, no villages, no turns, no nothing, and it really didn't feel so far.
I had dinner in a Dutch Pantry up the way (wow! I'm turning back into a Pennsylvanian! Pretty soon it'll be "up the ways a piece"!), and I was bouncing up and down in my seat over the menu. Creamed corn fritters! Stuffed cabbage! Wet-bottom Shoo-fly Pie! (I gotta buy a whole pie before I leave Monday. Wet-bottom. Dry-bottom is yuck. I'm a shoo-fly connoisseur.) Buncha other stuff I haven't seen on a menu in ages! I bet they'll have scrapple on the breakfast menu. I won't eat it, but it'll be nice to see it there. (Note - Firefox doesn't like scrapple either. Firefox is insisting I've misspelled "scrappers".)
My friend The Rabbi and his wife are renewing their vows tomorrow evening, followed by a 40th anniversary party, so I've got the morning and afternoon to futz around. I could call them and tell them I'm here, but then they might feel obligated to invite me over, and I'm sure they have all kinds of things to do tomorrow, so I'm not going to call. I will see him tomorrow evening for the first time in 43 years. We rediscovered each other two years ago thanks to the internet.
Daughter is feeling much better. I advised her to take it easy anyway. "Heck, fake it if you have to. It may be the only vacation you get this year."
As of July 2006, "I brake for Shoofly Pie" is the official bumper sticker of the state of Pennsylvania.
.
I'm sitting in a motel room (hotel? motel? the doors open to an interior hall, not to the parking lot, so technically I think it's a hotel) in central Pennsylvania, in the mountains, slightly northwest of State College (that's really the name of the town where Penn State is, honest).
The desk clerk/manager had bad teeth and no hair. The guest who recommended a restaurant had bad hair and no teeth. They both had nice eyes. I'm back in my mountains - my kinda people. Not pretentious and very friendly.
Pennsylvania is miles and miles of miles and miles. If you take route 80 through the state, you'd swear there's nothing here but mountains (friendly rounded walk-up-able ones), trees, and deer. I'd forgotten how nice Pa. feels. I'm starting to feel crowded in the Hudson Valley. Too many people.
It was 5.5 hours of driving, which was less than I thought it would be. When Daughter was in college, it took me 6 hours to get to State College. In the early days of Jay's illness, when Daughter needed something delivered or picked up, I would often drive to State College in the morning, and then back home in the evening. It's all highway, no towns, no villages, no turns, no nothing, and it really didn't feel so far.
I had dinner in a Dutch Pantry up the way (wow! I'm turning back into a Pennsylvanian! Pretty soon it'll be "up the ways a piece"!), and I was bouncing up and down in my seat over the menu. Creamed corn fritters! Stuffed cabbage! Wet-bottom Shoo-fly Pie! (I gotta buy a whole pie before I leave Monday. Wet-bottom. Dry-bottom is yuck. I'm a shoo-fly connoisseur.) Buncha other stuff I haven't seen on a menu in ages! I bet they'll have scrapple on the breakfast menu. I won't eat it, but it'll be nice to see it there. (Note - Firefox doesn't like scrapple either. Firefox is insisting I've misspelled "scrappers".)
My friend The Rabbi and his wife are renewing their vows tomorrow evening, followed by a 40th anniversary party, so I've got the morning and afternoon to futz around. I could call them and tell them I'm here, but then they might feel obligated to invite me over, and I'm sure they have all kinds of things to do tomorrow, so I'm not going to call. I will see him tomorrow evening for the first time in 43 years. We rediscovered each other two years ago thanks to the internet.
Daughter is feeling much better. I advised her to take it easy anyway. "Heck, fake it if you have to. It may be the only vacation you get this year."
As of July 2006, "I brake for Shoofly Pie" is the official bumper sticker of the state of Pennsylvania.
.
Friday, March 23, 2007
1181 Bonked a Car
Friday, March 23, 2007
Talked to Daughter and Hercules at 7pm. She's feeling a little better. She took a bath (she prefers showers, but she wasn't sure she could stand that long), and had been able to hold down water and saltines for a few hours. She said that when she called me at 2, she was very frightened by how weak she was.
Right after I got off the phone with them, I went to the deli, and backed into another woman's car. She was sitting at the edge of the road getting ready to pull out, and when I backed out of my space, I curved around and my offside rear bumper scraped along her offside rear bumper. I DID look, but somehow completely missed her. The Aerio has a very high rear end, and I guess the tail lights on her black car were below where I could see.
I now have some black paint on the side of my bumper, and she has white paint on hers. My car is otherwise fine, but the plastic cover over her tail light is broken. There are no other dents or scrapes on either car. (My first thought when I heard the crunch was "Oh %^&@! I gotta drive to Pa. tomorrow!")
Oddly enough, an off-duty town cop was sitting in his car in the lot and saw the whole thing, which actually is good, since nobody will exaggerate damage now. And the woman's husband owns a body shop in Kingston. He called this evening, and said he'd just charge for the part (assuming there's no internal damage, that is).
I don't intend to inform the insurance company.
.
Talked to Daughter and Hercules at 7pm. She's feeling a little better. She took a bath (she prefers showers, but she wasn't sure she could stand that long), and had been able to hold down water and saltines for a few hours. She said that when she called me at 2, she was very frightened by how weak she was.
Right after I got off the phone with them, I went to the deli, and backed into another woman's car. She was sitting at the edge of the road getting ready to pull out, and when I backed out of my space, I curved around and my offside rear bumper scraped along her offside rear bumper. I DID look, but somehow completely missed her. The Aerio has a very high rear end, and I guess the tail lights on her black car were below where I could see.
I now have some black paint on the side of my bumper, and she has white paint on hers. My car is otherwise fine, but the plastic cover over her tail light is broken. There are no other dents or scrapes on either car. (My first thought when I heard the crunch was "Oh %^&@! I gotta drive to Pa. tomorrow!")
Oddly enough, an off-duty town cop was sitting in his car in the lot and saw the whole thing, which actually is good, since nobody will exaggerate damage now. And the woman's husband owns a body shop in Kingston. He called this evening, and said he'd just charge for the part (assuming there's no internal damage, that is).
I don't intend to inform the insurance company.
.
1180 Daughter Is Sick
Friday, March 23, 2007
I got a call from Daughter about 2pm. She was calling from the floor in her bathroom. She thinks it might be her milk sensitivity, because she ate some butter last night. I think it's Norovirus. At any rate, she's rapidly heading for dehydration, sounded very weak, was too weak to make it to the kitchen. She's afraid to eat or drink anything anyway, because the reaction is so violent.
I told her that I'd come, but I couldn't get there inside three hours, so she should call Hercules at work and tell him to come home, NOW.
Hercules, like many men, refuses to see illness in his mate. Plus, he doesn't like his schedule disrupted. She didn't have to tell me this - I see it on my own. At any rate, she was afraid to call him, afraid that he would be annoyed and unsympathetic.
So, in my role as new mother-in-law, *I* called him and told him to get his tail home, NOW!
He did. Wasn't that sweet?
He called at 3 to say that she's still on the floor. She had pulled two rugs under her, and she got cold, so she pulled a towel down on her. I told him to watch her, make her drink something, and if she gets unresponsive or incoherent, to call 911.
"Why is she still on the floor?"
"She wants to be close to the toilet in case she needs to throw up."
"In bed with a basin, or a large bowl, might be more comfortable."
"Oh. Yeah."
Men!
He is to call me at 7 pm to report her progress. If it's Noro, she should feel a little better by then.
Norovirus is highly contagious, and I almost hope he gets it. He might have a little more sympathy.
I was supposed to go to a movie with Mensa this evening ("Some Like it Hot", believe it or not, I'd never seen it), but the organizer called to say that the Bardavon had canceled the showing. I don't know why it was canceled, but it makes me more comfortable. I'd prefer to stay home while Daughter is sick , just in case, or at least if I'm out, be somewhere that the cell phone is not disruptive.
.
I got a call from Daughter about 2pm. She was calling from the floor in her bathroom. She thinks it might be her milk sensitivity, because she ate some butter last night. I think it's Norovirus. At any rate, she's rapidly heading for dehydration, sounded very weak, was too weak to make it to the kitchen. She's afraid to eat or drink anything anyway, because the reaction is so violent.
I told her that I'd come, but I couldn't get there inside three hours, so she should call Hercules at work and tell him to come home, NOW.
Hercules, like many men, refuses to see illness in his mate. Plus, he doesn't like his schedule disrupted. She didn't have to tell me this - I see it on my own. At any rate, she was afraid to call him, afraid that he would be annoyed and unsympathetic.
So, in my role as new mother-in-law, *I* called him and told him to get his tail home, NOW!
He did. Wasn't that sweet?
He called at 3 to say that she's still on the floor. She had pulled two rugs under her, and she got cold, so she pulled a towel down on her. I told him to watch her, make her drink something, and if she gets unresponsive or incoherent, to call 911.
"Why is she still on the floor?"
"She wants to be close to the toilet in case she needs to throw up."
"In bed with a basin, or a large bowl, might be more comfortable."
"Oh. Yeah."
Men!
He is to call me at 7 pm to report her progress. If it's Noro, she should feel a little better by then.
Norovirus is highly contagious, and I almost hope he gets it. He might have a little more sympathy.
I was supposed to go to a movie with Mensa this evening ("Some Like it Hot", believe it or not, I'd never seen it), but the organizer called to say that the Bardavon had canceled the showing. I don't know why it was canceled, but it makes me more comfortable. I'd prefer to stay home while Daughter is sick , just in case, or at least if I'm out, be somewhere that the cell phone is not disruptive.
.
1179 No One's Listening
Friday, March 23, 2007
I got an email from a friend, at the end of which he asks, "Do you ever talk to yourself and find that no one's listening?"
I've been trying for three days to think of a good comeback, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that it's not simply a cute quip. It's actually very deep.
I talk to myself a lot, and the voice in my head is very logical and makes a lot of sense. However, the voice is that of my parents, councilors, advisors, managers, authorities. I know I should do as they tell me, but I don't want to. What I want is not always logical or sensible. What I want is sometimes even dangerous.
I rebel.
So yeah, I talk to myself, and no one's listening.
.
I got an email from a friend, at the end of which he asks, "Do you ever talk to yourself and find that no one's listening?"
I've been trying for three days to think of a good comeback, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that it's not simply a cute quip. It's actually very deep.
I talk to myself a lot, and the voice in my head is very logical and makes a lot of sense. However, the voice is that of my parents, councilors, advisors, managers, authorities. I know I should do as they tell me, but I don't want to. What I want is not always logical or sensible. What I want is sometimes even dangerous.
I rebel.
So yeah, I talk to myself, and no one's listening.
.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
1178 New Glasses
Thursday, March 22, 2007
I've been reading through old journal entries. Even a year ago I had things to say: observations, philosophy, personal experiences that affected the course of my life. I had opinions and passion. Some of it was interesting to me, rereading, and I already know what it says!
Quite different from entries these days. I don't seem to be thinking much. It's like I'm on hold. Waiting. Listening to the uninspiring music in my head.
-------------------------------------------------
Today I got the Aerio checked out, and as expected, it was a loose heat shield. They removed it. Seems like every car I've ever owned eventually lost its heat shield. One of these days I'm going to park in high grass and burn a village down.
Then I went to the mall and got a major eye exam, four different kinds of drops, dilation, six different machines to peer into, the works. Conclusion: I don't have hardening of the eyeball or rotting of the retina. And just for fun, I got a definitive analysis of my eye color.
The doctor kept saying "Your eyes are such a beautiful color", so I asked him, "What color are they, exactly? There's always been some difference of opinion there, and you should be an expert." He said "Gray, uh, gray-blue, uh, gray-green? Gee, I don't know." So he said "Let's go back to the microscope, and I'll tell you exactly what you've got in there."
I don't know if it's common or rare, but he seemed to be surprised by what he found, or what he didn't find. I have some bits of brown right around the pupil, and some specks of definite green throughout the rest of the iris, but that's the only color there. NO blue, and NO gray. What was surprising is that most of the iris has NO COLOR at all! None. There's no pigment. He said that's what causes the silvery color, and also why they can be very different depending on what I'm wearing, and the ambient light.
(So, if I have mostly no pigment, why am I not more sensitive to strong light?) Anyway, he kept marveling over how light my eyes are. Oddly, they've never looked particularly light to me, but things do look different in a mirror. Mirrors affect color. Ladies with blue hair think it's steel gray.
I lucked out on the frames. Among the thousands of narrow frames, there was one small stand of rounder, deeper frames, and they were on sale! I bought two pairs (I am so dependant on my glasses, I always get two), one at $98, and the other at $87. The $87 ones were originally $250, and they're the ones you can bend every which way and they spring back. They're both half-frames, with the nylon thread around the bottom of the lens. The lenses, on the other hand, were $250 per pair.
The whole procedure took five hours, and cost $500 after the 30% discount AAA got me. I do have vision insurance through The Company health plan, but, well, nobody but a few private practice ophthalmologists accept it.
It takes ages for my eyes to "undilate", so that shot the rest of the day.
Dr. said there was a large change in my prescription, I'm a lot less nearsighted now (one of the few benefits of age) and it might take a few days for me to get used to the difference.
I notice no difference, other than that I can now read the newspaper.
.
I've been reading through old journal entries. Even a year ago I had things to say: observations, philosophy, personal experiences that affected the course of my life. I had opinions and passion. Some of it was interesting to me, rereading, and I already know what it says!
Quite different from entries these days. I don't seem to be thinking much. It's like I'm on hold. Waiting. Listening to the uninspiring music in my head.
-------------------------------------------------
Today I got the Aerio checked out, and as expected, it was a loose heat shield. They removed it. Seems like every car I've ever owned eventually lost its heat shield. One of these days I'm going to park in high grass and burn a village down.
Then I went to the mall and got a major eye exam, four different kinds of drops, dilation, six different machines to peer into, the works. Conclusion: I don't have hardening of the eyeball or rotting of the retina. And just for fun, I got a definitive analysis of my eye color.
The doctor kept saying "Your eyes are such a beautiful color", so I asked him, "What color are they, exactly? There's always been some difference of opinion there, and you should be an expert." He said "Gray, uh, gray-blue, uh, gray-green? Gee, I don't know." So he said "Let's go back to the microscope, and I'll tell you exactly what you've got in there."
I don't know if it's common or rare, but he seemed to be surprised by what he found, or what he didn't find. I have some bits of brown right around the pupil, and some specks of definite green throughout the rest of the iris, but that's the only color there. NO blue, and NO gray. What was surprising is that most of the iris has NO COLOR at all! None. There's no pigment. He said that's what causes the silvery color, and also why they can be very different depending on what I'm wearing, and the ambient light.
(So, if I have mostly no pigment, why am I not more sensitive to strong light?) Anyway, he kept marveling over how light my eyes are. Oddly, they've never looked particularly light to me, but things do look different in a mirror. Mirrors affect color. Ladies with blue hair think it's steel gray.
I lucked out on the frames. Among the thousands of narrow frames, there was one small stand of rounder, deeper frames, and they were on sale! I bought two pairs (I am so dependant on my glasses, I always get two), one at $98, and the other at $87. The $87 ones were originally $250, and they're the ones you can bend every which way and they spring back. They're both half-frames, with the nylon thread around the bottom of the lens. The lenses, on the other hand, were $250 per pair.
The whole procedure took five hours, and cost $500 after the 30% discount AAA got me. I do have vision insurance through The Company health plan, but, well, nobody but a few private practice ophthalmologists accept it.
It takes ages for my eyes to "undilate", so that shot the rest of the day.
Dr. said there was a large change in my prescription, I'm a lot less nearsighted now (one of the few benefits of age) and it might take a few days for me to get used to the difference.
I notice no difference, other than that I can now read the newspaper.
.
1177 Who's in Poughkeepsie?
I've had a visit here from someone in Poughkeepsie! And they came directly, not through a random search, so they knew where they were going.
Confess! Who are you?
.
Confess! Who are you?
.
1176 The Painting I'd Like to Step Into
As promised -
The painting I'd most like to step into for a visit is one of Cassius Coolidge's painting of dogs playing poker.
.
The painting I'd most like to step into for a visit is one of Cassius Coolidge's painting of dogs playing poker.
.
1175 What's Normal?
"Normalize" means "to make normal". When our historical relationship with another country has been one of mutual suspicion, distrust, and reprisal, why do "they" speak of improving the relationship as an attempt to normalize it? That always grates on my ears.
.
.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
1174 I Have a Printer!
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
I ran a bunch of errands today.
I went to the bank and deposited a check for $1.37 - a dividend from one of those lots of stray stocks. It probably cost them more to cut and send the check. Got some cash for the weekend.
The Aerio has developed a rattly noise underneath. Probably a loose bolt, probably the exhaust system cover or something. With the six-hour drive into central Pa. coming up this weekend, I went looking for someplace that could put it on a lift and fix it. Don't want something important falling off on my trip. It took me three garages to find someone who can look at it before Saturday. Appointment tomorrow, 9:30 am.
Went shopping for an anniversary gift for the college friend and his wife, the folks I'll be visiting this weekend. I have determined that there is no nice lead crystal in all of Kingston. There are also no afghans. I ended up with a brass and glass world globe, where the countries are all different inset stones. Not at all what I wanted, but Piper has a smaller one on his desk, and I had always admired it.
Along the way I bought a set of Egyptian cotton sheets at one of the mall anchor stores, on sale, and two sheer tops. My arms look awful, because the skin on my upper arms hasn't tightened since I lost the weight, so I think this summer I'll mostly wear 3/4 sleeves. I want some very light sheer things I can wear over sleeveless stuff I already have. Old Navy had some gauzy picot knits with a wide deep neckline that seem perfect.
I visited an office supply store to buy the printer cable, and discovered that they had paper on sale, so I bought a box of 4 reams of paper that's usually $28 per box, for $7.
When I got home, I connected up the printer (the one that had been sitting over there unused for the past two-plus years), turned on the laptop, and ... it took off and installed the printer itself. It works perfectly.
Went to Epson.com to find out how much I can expect to pay for ink refills. ACK!!!!
.
I ran a bunch of errands today.
I went to the bank and deposited a check for $1.37 - a dividend from one of those lots of stray stocks. It probably cost them more to cut and send the check. Got some cash for the weekend.
The Aerio has developed a rattly noise underneath. Probably a loose bolt, probably the exhaust system cover or something. With the six-hour drive into central Pa. coming up this weekend, I went looking for someplace that could put it on a lift and fix it. Don't want something important falling off on my trip. It took me three garages to find someone who can look at it before Saturday. Appointment tomorrow, 9:30 am.
Went shopping for an anniversary gift for the college friend and his wife, the folks I'll be visiting this weekend. I have determined that there is no nice lead crystal in all of Kingston. There are also no afghans. I ended up with a brass and glass world globe, where the countries are all different inset stones. Not at all what I wanted, but Piper has a smaller one on his desk, and I had always admired it.
Along the way I bought a set of Egyptian cotton sheets at one of the mall anchor stores, on sale, and two sheer tops. My arms look awful, because the skin on my upper arms hasn't tightened since I lost the weight, so I think this summer I'll mostly wear 3/4 sleeves. I want some very light sheer things I can wear over sleeveless stuff I already have. Old Navy had some gauzy picot knits with a wide deep neckline that seem perfect.
I visited an office supply store to buy the printer cable, and discovered that they had paper on sale, so I bought a box of 4 reams of paper that's usually $28 per box, for $7.
When I got home, I connected up the printer (the one that had been sitting over there unused for the past two-plus years), turned on the laptop, and ... it took off and installed the printer itself. It works perfectly.
Went to Epson.com to find out how much I can expect to pay for ink refills. ACK!!!!
.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
1173 Too Tired
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
I'm very tired today. I haven't slept well in the past two weeks or more. It's not obsessive thoughts, the usual problem when I don't sleep, it's physical pain. My body aches. Hips, shoulders, neck. I can't get comfortable, I keep waking up, and in the morning I hurt. It may be the pillow. They die after a while....
Maybe there should have been at least two semicolons in the above paragraph. I probably should learn semicolon rules.
My goal for today was to get the printer hooked up to the laptop. I kept putting it off because the last time I installed a printer on the desktop, I screwed it up somehow. The PC knows it's there, the printer "burps" at the appropriate times, but when I try to send a file to it, I'm informed it's offline. I've been without a printer for about two and a half years. Saved a lot on ink and paper. It turns out you don't really have to print all the things you think you do. Only once did I have to print a large amount of info, and a friend let me use her computer. The rest has been just a few online travel tickets, and those I do at Piper's, or Roman's, or Daughter's.
At 9 pm I said ok, let's just do it, and discovered that I don't have a connector for the USB port. Ok. Safe for tonight. I'll have to go buy a cable tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
.
I'm very tired today. I haven't slept well in the past two weeks or more. It's not obsessive thoughts, the usual problem when I don't sleep, it's physical pain. My body aches. Hips, shoulders, neck. I can't get comfortable, I keep waking up, and in the morning I hurt. It may be the pillow. They die after a while....
Maybe there should have been at least two semicolons in the above paragraph. I probably should learn semicolon rules.
My goal for today was to get the printer hooked up to the laptop. I kept putting it off because the last time I installed a printer on the desktop, I screwed it up somehow. The PC knows it's there, the printer "burps" at the appropriate times, but when I try to send a file to it, I'm informed it's offline. I've been without a printer for about two and a half years. Saved a lot on ink and paper. It turns out you don't really have to print all the things you think you do. Only once did I have to print a large amount of info, and a friend let me use her computer. The rest has been just a few online travel tickets, and those I do at Piper's, or Roman's, or Daughter's.
At 9 pm I said ok, let's just do it, and discovered that I don't have a connector for the USB port. Ok. Safe for tonight. I'll have to go buy a cable tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
.
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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.