Those who don't know their history . . .

Everyone said that people were premature to quote Kipling's poetry about the Great Game when the U.S. invaded Afghanistan and then Iraq. Of course, its been more than a year and well over a thousand lives since our commander-in-chief declared "Mission Accomplished", and yet the military hospitals around our nations capital have helicoptors flying in everyday bringing in more wounded flown in from Germany (where they are stablized after being flown out of Iraq or Afghanistan). Bush thinks the war is worth the sacrifices. Exactly what sacrifices is he actually aware of? I'm still waiting for Jenna and Barbara to enlist. But no, upper and upper-middle-class college educated people don't go to Iraq. Only one of my graduate school classmates is overseas (a former West Point grad, so duty, honor, and all that).

Of course, we have really good body armor for our soldiers, so lots more shooting and bombing victims survive head, neck, and torso injuries. Unfortunately, a lot are surviving legless, armless or limbless. Hard when you're a 23-year old guy. Now if only the transports they were driving around in were armored as well. But their limbs are sacrifices Bush is willing to make. I want Jenna and Barbara and their limbs (at least initially still attached to the rest of them) to be in those transports in Iraq.

I feel so much safer now that Osama bin Laden is still on the loose, Iraq is a lightening rod drawing heat toward us, and every fanatic on the planet can point to our desecretation of our own Bill of Rights, the Geneva Convention, and basic good manners to explain why we should be destroyed. And our men and women are still dying in Iraq and Afghanistan. So, Dubya, you never read enough to get above a C at Yale or Andover, and I guess Kipling would be a bit too sophisticated and complex for you (I won't even try Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, or any of the others). Since none of your advisers apparently ever read Thucydides's Pelopponesian War, Tacitus's The Jewish War, Hell in a Very Small Place or basically any military or political history, I'll just give you a few lines from Kiplings' poem "The Young British Soldier" which should give some pause:

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.

Volunteer Blues: Went overboard on the books, forgot the actual post

But let's be honest. Books are more important. But last night I went with MVBFITWWW to help her with some volunteer work, and there was Mr. Detritus again. Why do people who run volunteer organizations (or at least this one) treat their most valuable volunteers like crap?

Is this a U.S./capitalism thing? If you don't pay for it, it's worth nothing? Because Mr. D didn't just dump on MVBFITWWW, he dumped on three other (female) volunteers whose help he desperately needs to make this odd aardvark of a start-up organization fly or at least limp along. Now I know he has a lot on his mind (well, let's start there -- I haven't seen much evidence of cerebral cortex and its activity -- logic, associating consequences with actions, blah-de-di-dah), but really, it doesn't take much, since his mind is so small. Foilbaby can outplan this guy. And she charms the pants off the people she's manipulating into changing her poopy drawers. They (I) do the disgusting work and are charmed by the amazingness that is her. Mr. D doesn't have that knack. When he craps on people, he may be as oblivious to the consequences of his actions as my baby is, but (1) he shouldn't be, (2) she's exponentially cuter than he is, to a factor of 10 or more (billions of times cuter), and (3) she can't clean up after herself and he can. He left these three other women standing around with nothing to do at various times to, as far as I can tell, hog the credit for himself, when the reason he was getting the credit was due to their actions. Now, he's not paying them. The only reward they get is recognition, right? So recognize them.

Good thing Foilwoman (dun da da) was on the scene. When he was yammering on to someone (VIP), who MVBFITWWW had contacted who could be very important for future funding etc., Mr. D was taking all kudos. MVBFITWWW was actually doing work. I walked up to VIP and Mr. D and joined the conversation. VIP asked how I was connected with the group. I said: "Oh, I have no connection with Mr. D. MVBFITWWW has asked me to help several times, and it is fun. She's the one who wrote you, and she was just thrilled that you made time to come by and see the work we're doing." Mr. D actually managed to say he was pleased that MVBFITWWW had managed to get VIP to visit. Ignored Female Volunteer #1 (IFV1) was standing beside us. A family member of hers had put together a beautiful color photography brochure-type poster, and MVBFITWWW had given a copy to VIP. I then said: "IFV1! Look, VIP has your brochure. Let me look at this." I pointed out the lovely artistry and emphasized that IFV1 had arranged for the photography. "This group is so lucky to have volunteers who bring so many talents to the table." Later I found out that IFV2 was supposed to give a speech, and friends of hers had come to give moral support. But no, Mr. D., at the last minute told her, no speech from her. WTF?????

Again, volunteers only get paid in recognition. If some woman brings friends, I'd goddamn well assume she wants them to hear her speak. Don't take that opportunity away from her. What a dolt. I'd go on about IFV3, except now I'm so peevish, I need more cookie batter. Maybe I'll post later. I'm always relentlessly polite to Mr. D, mainly because I don't trust my temper if I veer even one step from the golden mean. His organization would be doing absolutely nothing if not for MVBFITWWW and the IFVs. And he goes swanning around like the Prince of Wales (sad to say, he is actually a bit more attractive, as he has a chin and all, but still being more attractive than the would-be-tampon is not exactly meeting a high standard of attractiveness), as though we're all so thrilled to be in his company. I pretend I am. I don't want him to know the evil that lurks inside me. But someday, somehow, he will acknowledge how all these volunteers have helped him, and he will find it within himself to, sit down for this please, feed their egos not his own, for once. How I will achieve this goal? I haven't worked it out yet. But someday, somehow . . . . [Cue in Walter Mitty theme music . . . world fades away as Foilwoman lapses into chocolate chip cookie batter coma].

Some Books I Love 1-20 (really 1-36)

Okay, enough about meaning of life, infidelity, how to get a date, how to connect with another human being, and all that crap. Who cares? Every relationship ends anyway. Either you leave them, they leave you, or someone dies. Whether the leaving involves betrayal, mean words, sad sighs or hopes for a better future (either in this world or a hypothetical next) every relationship we enter into in this mortal coil will be destroyed. It's just a matter of when.

[Side note: yes, I am depressed right now. No, I don't have PMS, I have the real McCoy, and I'm grumpy, cranky, irritable, and NOT IN THE MOOD!!! So don't mess with me. I'm sitting here comfortably in my cool (temperature-wise -- atmosphere-wise it's just a bit mangy) basement office, waiting for the temperatures outside to go down so I can take the Foildog out for his afternoon (probably evening) constitutional. Right now I'm eating chocolate chip cookie batter (homemade, I don't waste time on that storebought stuff that has no actual flavor) -- and don't give me any crap about uncooked eggs and salmonella -- if I lived in a properly regulated country like Denmark, I wouldn't have to worry about poultry and dairy hygeine, I'd buy the damn stuff and know it was uncontaminated, it's not my fault if the red state nitwits keep electing people who trust business to regulate its damn self and then are shocked to discover that overall regulatory compliance has dropped off with the foxes measuring how many chickens have gone missing -- and trying to think what else I can ingest that (1) won't raise my body temperature, and (2) will assuage the sudden and irresistible craving for chocolates, sweets, and dairy products without heating anything up.]

So, since we can't rely on others, what can we rely on? Well, in absolute terms, of course, nothing. But barring acts of god, terrorism, war, tsunami, brain injury, loss of sight, and just really, really, really bad luck, books. Since I learned to read, I have always had a secret place (or at least a tucked away place) to read my books and go whereever. We moved around a lot when I was younger, and one year I was in four schools in two years. By school number four, I had rather stopped trying to make knew friends, and just walked downtown and got a library card. Easier and less painful. So what books are my true, true friends? I'll start a list and keep adding to it. It will number in the thousands before I'm done, but let's get started.

These books are listed in no particular order. I don't write and rewrite and proof read. I just write. So they are getting listed as I think of them, stream of consciousness-style.

(1) Otto of the Silver Hand, by Howard Pyle. One of the first books my mother read to me that was what I called a "real book". One has to read it with the original N.C. Wyeth illustrations. I've re-read it many times since then (and still do reread it) as it is a truly lovely book, both physically, and as a children's book.

(2) Thee, Hannah, by Marguerite de Angeli. Another childhood book about a little Quaker girl growing up in Philadelphia. When I first learned of slavery and the Underground Railroad and what the Quakers stood for.

(3) Lady Oracle, by Margaret Atwood. This was the first of her books I ever read, and is a delight even now. I read it in my early 20s, and among other things, the book deals with the personae we create and how they conflict and what we do when they do. Some of her later books are also deeply beloved by me, and should be included in this list: ((4) The Handmaid's Tale, (5) The Robber Bride, (6) The Blind Assassin, (7) Alias Grace, (8) Oryx and Crake and others are as good or better, but this book is the one that introduced her to me, and for that alone, I'll love it even more than better written books.)

(9) A Midwife's Tale, by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, a recreation of the life of a New England midwife in 18th century Maine from her work log or journal. A truly fascinating piece of research and investigation into historical sources. Dr. Ulrich one the Pulitzer Prize for this one. I normally don't care much about the Pulitzer Pize (I'm more likely to read books because they are on the Booker Prize short-list), but this one was deserved.

(10) Hell in a Very Small Place, by Bernard Fall, a history of the Siege of Dien Bien Phu (the battle/siege that drove the French out of Indochina). None of the Best and the Brightest appear to have read it before the U.S.'s little venture into Viet Nam, and probably still haven't read it while we toodle around the hills of Afghanistan and Iraq (almost makes me want to quote Kipling).

(11) Dispatches, by Michael Herr, kind of as a coda to Hell in a Very Small Place. Read it if only to read the quote of Peter Braestrup (ex-marine and NYTimes reporter in the 60's) asking, at Hue, "Why haven't these marines dug in?" and then look at the casualty tolls from Iraq and wonder, "Why don't we send them with better armor" and "why aren't they dug in?".

(12) A Frozen Hell: The Russo-Finnish Winter War of 1939-40, by William Trotter. I actually want to find a better history of that war (Finland was the only country that effectively resisted Soviet invasion during the Soviet-German non-agression pact before Barbarossa). Although the Finns eventually surrendered to the Russians, it was a negotiated surrender after the Finns had shown exactly how fiercely they could fight and how many Russians they could kill. I still need to find a good history that explains how the Finns negotiated the minefield of then allying themselves with Nazi Germany for the remainder of WWII and then realigning themselves with the Western Powers at the end of WWII. My feeling is the rest of the world has always been ashamed: they let the Finns fight the Soviets with no real assistance, leaving Finland no real options (everyone said "This is what you should do . . ." or "We will help you eventually . . ." as the tiny nation used up all available ammunition and killed millions of Russian soldiers and was eventually, despite incredibly fierce resistance, defeated by the Red Army that subsequently saved all of us from Hitler). One of history's sad ironies that the heroic Finns should end up as Hitler's allies because none of the rest of us would lift a finger to help them. Realpolitik, ain't it grand. Of course, when told that Russia was invading, the Finnish soldiers apocryphally said, "It's such a pity we are such a small country. Where will we bury all those Russians?" or "At 100 to 1, I still don't think there will be enough Russians for me to kill. And it's a pity to kill so many of them . . . they are boys, just like us." But kill them they did.

Anyway, anyone who can give me more leads on this one, thank you.

A number of World War II books: (13) The Road to Stalingrad and (14) The Road to Berlin, by John Erickson, (15) Stalingrad and (16)The Fall of Berlin, by Anthony Beevor. Also, The Longest Day and The Last Battle, by Cornelius Ryan, (17) Band of Brothers, by Steven Ambrose, (18) The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, (19) The Nine-Hundred Days (the siege of Leningrad).

(20) The Guns of August, by Barbara Tuchman.

(21) Nicholas and Alexandra, by Alexander Massie. Yes a dim leader who believes God is on his side can manage to slaughter many of his subjects through willful ignorance, cowardice, and intellectual short-sightedness, while being a loving father and husband. And he can get his entire family killed while doing it.

(22) Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte and (23) Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte. Now can someone explain how all three of the Bronte sisters got to write just a few books and then die in childbirth? Isn't there something just wrong with the world?

(24) Persuasion, by Jane Austen (and her other books as well, but to me, this one is the best).

(25) Uncle Tom's Cabin, by Harriet Beecher Stowe. As Abraham Lincoln said when he met Mrs. Stowe: so you are the little woman who started this big war. Melodramatic, overdone, characters who are charicatures, but I loved in when I first read it (age 12) and have never stopped.

(26) The Prince, by Niccolo Machievelli.

(27) Life of Pi, by Yann Martel and (28) The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje. Two lovely books about identities, masks, and the stories we tell about ourselves by two surpassingly wonderful (and Canadian) authors. Not useless. Wonderfully written, sometimes so beautiful it hurts to read them.

(29) Don Quijote de la Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes. The first real western novel and the best. No one has ever reached this standard since (and he set the standard).

(30) Beowulf, anonymous, recent (and best) translation by Seamus Heaney. For all who love action flicks: blood and guts and gore and veins in your teeth (sorry Arlo Guthrie), heroism, bravery, and more action than you could ever want. And showing knowledge of real danger and risks, Beowulf didn't arm himself to fight Grendel, only to fight Grendel's mother. (31) John Gardiner's Grendel is a telling of the tale from Grendel's point of view. It's actually a good book. (Also, have to plug a bad, but thoroughly enjoyable movie, The Thirteenth Warrior based on the premise that the story of Beowulf was told to an Arab travelling in northern lands who could read and write (there was such a man travelling around the appropriate time). Lot's of discontinuity, but a lovely glimpse into how Norse pagans and a cultivated Arab might interact. Girls, you might want to see this because it stars Antonio Banderas. Guys, lots of blood and guts, etc.).

(32) The War of the End of the World/La Guerra del Fin del Mundo, (33) Death in the Andes/Lituma en los Andes, by Mario Vargas Llosa. Just go read them.

(34) Anything by Jorge Luis Borges or Julio Cortazar, but most particularly El Aleph by Borges and Ceremonias by Cortazar.

(35) If On a Winter's Night a Traveller by Italo Calvino and (36) The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco.

Actually, that's a lot more than 20, so I've renumbered then, and yes, there are 36 books on my first list of twenty random books that I like.

Masks/Veils

I am in the middle of The Black Veil by Rick Moody, a very good American author who writes very confessional and self-referential works. One of his books, The Ice Storm, was made into a motion picture with Kevin Klein, Sigourney Weaver, and Joan Allen in the adult starring roles and that hobbit-guy as one of the kids. I know some people who know Mr. Moody and are referred to in his books, particularly The Black Veil, which is marketed as a memoir. So it's fun to read because I'm looking to see where these people will show up and how they will be portrayed.

MVBFITWWW, this means I am two degrees of separation from Rick Moody, and you are three degrees, or closer, depending how we measure that first degree. Does having a meal with someone once 10 years ago count? If there were 10 other people at the meal and you barely talked, but when you did talk, it was about literature? He sure as heck doesn't know me, but was a charming, if diffident conversationalist.

Anyway, Rick Moody writing a book described as a "Memoir" is hilarious truth in adverstising for once. Because all Rick Moody's books are memoirs, to one degree or another. Lists of drugs he has taken, women he has fallen in love with (I personally know one of the women on one of his lists), lists of music that mean a lot to him, all tangled up in prose that is fairly well written (better written than this blog, anyway, so who am I to judge). His work as a published author is just one big memoir.

All that aside, The Black Veil is a wonderful book. Again, I'm only half through it, but it's a true delight. The title refers to an ancestor of Mr. Moody's who, after a tragedy, wore a veil to hide his face from others. Nathaniel Hawthorne (for those of you who aren't literary, a descendent of one of the prosecutors of the Salem Witch Trials, author of, among other works memorializedThe House of Seven Gables and The Scarlet Letter) wrote a short story or novella about this ancestor entitled The Minister's Black Veil.

What has been truly wonderful about reading this book (although I haven't finished yet, and maybe I'll post something completely different after I'm done reading it) is that it explains (or makes understandable to me) one of the things that has always bothered me about Mr. Moody's writing is how confessional it is. I don't want to know the details of alcohol addiction, infidelity, family destruction, heartbreak, and loss, particularly about someone who I tangentially am acquainted. When I read about a mental breakdown, or about how a woman who I know is (I hope) deliriously happy with her husband and children who listed as one of the women in his life he has most loved and he hasn't changed her name, I'm bothered. There seems to be some real betrayal in turning everything into a career move or some work one hopes to make money off of without even bothering to disguise the characters the least little bit (with pseudonyms or handy acronyms). Yet this book I am reading now (which was first published in 2002), helps explain this apparent lack of discretion and overconfessional bent.

The veil, in both Mr. Moody's works and Mr. Hawthorne's, stands as a symbol for the ways we hide and distance ourselves from one another. Even if we keep our own names, when we write, we assume a persona. The author is someone different from the person. The veil is the self-protective mask we wear to keep our inner fears from showing too clearly, or to keep the darkness at bay. Maybe these concepts are more important to people whose lives have contained true tragedy, but I think everyone is masked, to one extent or another. Obviously, on the Internet, this is apparent. Some people put photos up, others do not. I toyed with the idea of putting up a photo of someone other than me, but then decided not to do so, because I wouldn't want to be responsible for any backlash to a person other than me as a result of my self-expression (not all of which is 100% reality based) on this blog. Others use avatars downloaded from websites or drawn by friends. If Hof doesn't cough up soon, I'm going to have to draw my own darn avatar. That would be ugly boys and girls, really ugly. Topic . . . . Oops, got away from me again.

Back to masks. Women, we "put on our faces" to face the world. We wear more makeup for a job interview or first date than for our 10th day at work or a dinner out in the middle of an ongoing relationship. I always dress for battle if I'm going to have a confrontation. Red lipstick, high-heeled shoes, bright clothing. I make sure I'm standing so that unless the person confronting me is very tall, that person looks up at me. Men put on war paint . . . not as obviously (in our society, there are societies where men do put on actual war paint or actual make up to make them prettier) to date, to work, or to fight (think of all those guys at the football games with no shirts and body paint). If "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" has it's way, American men will be waxing their body hair to look smooth and lovely for use ladies (let me just say right now . . . ugh) as well as spraying on bronzer.

If we go away to college, to the army, or to prison, we adopt or are given new personae, new nicknames, new hairstyles, new affectations. Mr. Moody's oevre shows his evolution. My disdain for his identifying his friends in his work is misplaced. While certain people might be identifiable to a select few, those identified people are not spoken of uncharitably, and having called the one person who I know well enough to ask, permission was granted. I.e., he asked if he should change her name. Since her husband doesn't mind, she decided she didn't.

It's ironic that I have been bothered by the confessional nature of Rick Moody's work (which I greatly admire), especially given that I feel I understand some part of his purpose only now that I have been writing a confessional here that delves into all aspects of my personal life without any permssion from the parties involved. I think we can assume that my husband would not be pleased to read the contents of this blog. Do I understand Mr. Moody's position only now that it is to my advantage to do so? Aimeeo talked about the Dr. Phil type confessional. That is not my objective. I hope to keep this blog anonymous. I hope to dicuss my thoughts and feelings and get feedback. I hope to keep my mask on.

But there are lots of types of masks and exposures and betrayals. I think of makeup and outfits and what people assume that says about a person. I think of body piercings (a trend that had damn well better have gone away before the Foilkid is a teenager). Tattoos. These all send style/persona messages, but also keep people at a distance. Urban ghetto fashions keep outsiders at a distance until the white teenage boys decide those clothes are cool, and then the inner city kids have to come up with a whole new dangerous look to keep the world at bay . . . . The same is true of music. Relationships conducted publicly on the internet: exactly what is the underlying reality and what is done because it makes a good story? Sexual exploits detailed on the Internet? Preferences? What is too much? Some people do these things anonymously, but others are pretty straightforward about who they are.

My original persona that I adopted as an alterego was the Foilwoman persona. Before she was Foilwoman, she was there, a superheroine who could step in and save the day. Of course, she also kept people at a nice distance. Now I am using Foilwoman to keep people at a distance, much as some people might use tattoos or body piercings. All attitute, in your face.

I'm not a big C.S. Lewis fan, but I'm remembering a novel he wrote, entitled, I believe Til We Have Faces, the story of Cupid and Psyche as told by beautiful Psyche's ugly sister. After Psyche's banishment, the sister veils herself, and tries to tell the story, and comes to some realization about self-deception and her own responsibilities. A word to the wise, C.S. Lewis was a "Christian" writer, whose books all carry religious messages. If you can't read prosletyzing (even very discreet, upper-crust Oxbridge British type prosletyzing), you probably won't like Til We Have Faces probably won't appeal (nor will The Screwtape Letters, another good book of Lewis's). But I read them both and remained unchurched and unbaptized, despite finding them very interesting. It's a good book.

More book reviews later. I've got to start drafting these long posts on Word so I can do better proofing.

Pleasantly Surprised/Niece of MVBFITWWW

MVBFITWWW called me to tell me that the first words out of non-N-D's mouth (I have to grant him non-narcissist status at this moment) were: "I hope she can come stay with us." It is so goddamn nice to be proven wrong in my judgment. Logistics have still to be worked out, but having set the hurdle as low as I could, I still thought he would fail. He didn't. Let's see about follow-through now. But I was wrong and am glad that I was.

Blog Handles

Why does everyone have their blog handle, either nickname or blog title? Here's the history of the Foilwoman monicker, just in case you are reading this but ignorant (see April 7, 2005, Disaster Dating and a History of Foilwoman). So how did you pick your names? Andy, I assume that's your name. WordWhiz? A*? Stoic? Cookie Monster (why not Elmo, Oscar the Grouch, or Big Bird?)? Anybody else? Do any of these nicknames have deep significance? Thanks.

Still haven't heard about MVBFITWWW's Niece

Or the NOAS or whether N-D will do a darn thing. I'm starting working in an office again next week (less fritterable time, more money) for the next few months. I hope the cute niece will have a place to spend the week after her week with MVBFITWWW. Why isn't NOAS, the child's mother, doing any arranging, thinking, or worrying about this? Again, Bad Relatives happen to good people. I'm thinking of coming up with the human equivalent of bug-spray: ineffectual, feckless, and irresponsible trash-be-gone spray. It would be a help around the office too.

I think this is an area ripe for scientific study: sociopaths and narcissists must have some chemical differences from the rest of us. Let's find out what their kryptonite is and use it! Maybe it would be something as simple as carrying around "Miss Manners' Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior." You know, any bride who tells you you can't wear a blue dress to her wedding (you're not a bridesmaid) because "it's my big day", you simply turn to the page where Miss Manners explains, ever so politely, that this bride is scum. The bride will go away. People who try to make you contribute to "friendly" office parties. Guys who try to guilt you or bully you into bed (maybe with some of the weaker chicks, but that wasn't effective with me). You wave your magic potion, or book, or wand, and pffft annoying person relocation program working just fine, thanks.

Relationships (Dating Tips for Guys and Gals)

In surfing the Internet when I should be earning money to support my family, I have noticed a distressing trend. It was distressing when it was happening to me 20 years ago, and it is distressing now, when I see it happen to others. This trend is: failure to get laid. Also, failure to connect with other human beings, failure to get asked out on dates, failure to have the people one asks out either say yes, or, if they do say yes, show up.

This distressing trend seems to affect men and women (gay and straight) alike (well, maybe not gay men, at least in the getting laid area), but I believe the root causes are different for each gender, although there are some commonalities. So, sit back, relax, and take notes:

For women:

(1) You are not limited to waiting for a guy to ask you out. You can ask him. If you ask, you're treating -- you're the host. That's the rule.

(2) If you can't get up the nerve to ask a guy out, but have exchanged eye contact, etc. and really want to encourage the guy, don't be afraid to do so. I once managed to spill the contents of my purse (excluding my wallet) on an escalator to allow a young gent to rescue the contents. Of course, the fact that the first thing that he picked up was a bottle of Midol was a bit embarrassing. But he then invited me for drinks, PMS and all.

(3) At the same time, don't discount the good sense of a man who likes you enough (from what he sees) to ask you out. Wanting the ones who don't want you, that's stupid. Wanting someone who wants to play games? Why? Just say no to manipulative relationships.

(4) If a man is picking you up in a car and driving you someplace, if he honks from out front to let you know he's in front of your house and you should come out now . . . he's definitely the wrong man for you.

For guys:

(1) If she posts her picture on the internet and sells used lingerie at her website, well, she's probably not the best bet.

(2) Just because all the porn you look at (yes, we know you "read" it and watch it, d'oh) gives you the impression that all women are surgically "enhanced" and have generally had lots of truly horrible body modifications doesn't mean that is the way women are supposed to look. If you don't look like Brad Pitt, don't expect the Angelina Jolie's (talk about surgical modification!!) of this world to respond to your earnest advances. Pick someone in your own league. I.e., if you have a bit of a beer belly, well, her fat ass shouldn't bother you so much . . . . Just saying.

(3) Even low maintenance women are high maintenance in that they will want you to have thought through things. What do I mean? See handy examples, below:

Examples of things showing you have or have not thought things through:
Ex. 1: You take your, you hope soon-to-be girlfriend to dinner. If you take her (1) to a restaurant where an ex who hates you works as a waitress, (2) to a bar holding a belching contest, (3) to a really popular restaurant on a weekend night without reservations, (4) to any place where you won't fit in or won't show to advantage, or (5) to a place you can't afford, you haven't thought things through.

How do you show you have thought things through? (1) Make reservations if necessary, (2) have enough cash on hand, (3) if drinking is going to be a big component of the evening, have enough money for a cab home, (4) if sex is a hoped for part of the evening, be a good boy scout and be prepared (she's more at risk, physically, both for pregnancy and disease, so be considerate), and (5) don't arrange dates at places where you are likely to bump into exes. Particularly if an ex is likely to walk up to you and say something like "Oh, there you are. Have you been notified? I had to give the Dept. of Health your contact information for the communicable disease link tracing, but I wasn't sure I had the right address anymore. Did you ever have the clap before this?"

(4) Expect, at least during the initial stages of a relationship to have some discussions about "where do you see this relationship going?" I think these conversations are useless and they are, but most women like to have them.

(5) When asked "How do I look" or "Does this make me look fat", unless she has time to change and you know the outfit isn't one of her favorites, "Lovely" and "no, not at all" are probably your safest bets. She's not asking whether she should wear the champagne or teal colored frock. She's asking whether you find her attractive. If the answer isn't affirmative, what are you doing?

(6) If you are picking a woman up for a date in a car, do not honk. Park the car, exit the car, knock on the door, and walk her to the car. If she's young enough to live at home with her parents, first, you had better be her age or younger, and second, introduce yourself to her parents. If it's 10 or 12 years from now, and that's my daughter? Prepare to die. I know, I know, hypocritical of me. Damn straight.

For both men and women:

Don't get hung up on social status or education (unless you're an unregenerate snob). Don't be one of the millions of people chasing after the same 10 women or men. I have, in the past, theorized that everyone, from the elephant man on up, secretly wants the same 10 people. Women want tht 10 most gorgeous men, and men the 10 most gorgeous women. Get over that. The sooner you do, the more increased likelihood of successfully dating and possibly mating.

When trying to find a mate, like trying to find a job, rejection is involved. If you don't risk rejection, you aren't really risking yourself for the relationship. And risk, by both parties, is really what has to happen before anything can grow out of a mutual attraction. You can be attracted to someone until you are one pulsating pustule of hormones, but are you willing to do anything to show that attraction or to win the object of your attraction?

Oh, and guys, develop and maintain a propensity for showing that you don't mind housework.

I'll add more as I think of it. Oh, and anyone who stands you up, you don't want them. Trust me.

Reality and the Internet

Let me be blunt. This blog is an opportunity for me to discuss things I am thinking about. It is not a completely factually correct reflection of my life. I take liberties with the truth to (1) protect me; (2) protect the innocent (family, friends, acquaintances); (3) protect the guilty (people who really deserve whatever comes to them, but I just can't bring myself to name them, largely because it might hurt me or the innocent, and not because I'm such a nice gal). Oh, what the heck, the whole thing is fictional. I'm a cloistered nun who has taken vows of poverty, obedience, chastity, and silence, and this blog is a bit of a departure.

No, that's not true either: there are Foilkids; there is a Mr. Foilwoman (who does have problems); there are and have been Foilpets; I do still earn an ungodly amount of money even though I'm underemployed (spammers/con artists, don't even think about parting me from what little money I have left. You won't get it, and if you were to get it, believe me, you would regret receiving it for the rest of your clearly unnatural and undeserving life), but my husband spends most of it; my marriage could be better. But you don't know me, and I don't know you (except for MVBFITWWW, who does know me, but remember, I've got blackmail material on you, too).

Given this, while in reality I am a 6' tall superheroine-type middle aged mother of two, supporter of her family, and defender of the downtrodden, you don't know that. I might be trolling for new recruits for the Moonies. Or Tom Delay's daughter (I wouldn't wish that fate on anyone). Or Jenna or Barbara Bush (but do you think they have the gray matter to write like I do? I think not). Really, I'm Condolleeza in a kinky phase. No, Madeleine Albright. No, Sigourney Weaver (ok, now we're talking). You have no idea who is producing this blog. I am pretty much who I say I am, but is that an article of faith? Do you believe it just because I write it? Not the best idea, because I have a very good imagination, and I can write just about anything.

However, I am who I am (I am the person whose words you are reading, to misquote Ernestine). In this search for signs of intelligent life in the universe (Thank you, Lily Tomlin), I am happy to say, I have found a few such signs through blogging. Then there are the unfortunates, like Hofsnark's latest victim . . . . But for the most part, even if we're not all good looking, imminently dateworthy, rich, smart, well-spoken, highly educated, sweet-smelling, and chaste (or slutty as hell, depending on your perspective), there is a level of intelligent (if slightly self-righteous) discourse that surprises me. So thank you.

Oh, and Cookie, I still want to see pictures of all eight tattoos, because you can't really expect me to take that on faith, now can you?

Filthy Lucre (Money is Only Real When You Don't Have it)

Since 1994, My family has been upper-middle class, largely thanks to my career. That is changing. From 1997-2003 I made in excess of $100,000/year, and for a few years made well over $200,000. This year, I'll be lucky to break $75,000. That's no big deal. Anyone who can't live on US $75k per annum has vices I don't want to contemplate. Except one assumes one can, as a family, agree on finances and priorities.

We can't, and we are fighting about money and all the other family responsibilities. Since I'm earning less, I should do more around the house. My husband has been job-hunting. To be precise, he's been on three interviews in the past month. I'm running out of gas on the permanent job-hunting front, and actually like the independent contractor work. Unfortunately, it's an unstable element, doesn't include retirement savings or health insurance, and is incompatible with my husband's need for high end luxury items. No, it is not essential to own a Mercedes E500 or a BMW 5 series. Really, it's not. Not every family needs two cars.

I never used to notice how expensive his tastes had gotten (partly because we still always saved money etc. no matter how much he spent), but after a year of 6 months of no work, and 6 months of underpaid and insecure work, my six month rainy day fund is well, it had better not rain any more.

He still buys steaks and processed foods. He doesn't like to eat leftovers. He still picks up lobster at the market ($15+/pound!!!!) because he knows I like it. Sorry, but it doesn't taste so good when I wonder if this stupid extravagance is going to be the expenditure that sinks us. Now, again, I can control my own actions, but I can't really control his. I guess I have to take over the checkbook again, which will lead to more marital tension. How can such an otherwise intelligent person be so stupid with money? Yes, I was earning, and he was staying home. Yes, him staying home helped my career. Yes, my career is currently in the crapper. No, I didn't do it deliberately (unexpected pregnancy, abdhominal surgery, and inability to do highly technical work due to inability to concentrate were all contributing factors) and am trying to get back in the swing. But I don't want to work 80 hours a week to support his expensive car habit. I want to work 30-40 hours a week and have a sane life.

So: what to do, what to do, what to do? Have you ever noticed that repeating something three times helps? Stupid, stupid, stupid. At least it helps me. Now I have to go do some work and then head into town to present my work so far and hope that my efforts will keep my spouse in expensive and unnecessary vehicles for a while longer.

When Bad Relatives Happen to Good People

In case you are new to my blog, MVBFITWWW is a jewel of a woman. How she became that way is largely a mystery, except for her mother, who is also a jewel. How MVBFITWWW's mother, referred to as Department of Louise ("DOL" for short, even though that will make this site a hit for poor labor and employment associates trying to crush unions everywhere searching for Department of Labor links while earning in excess of $100K/year, so sorry) became the uber-mutter of all time (putting females grizzlies to shame for their lack of maternal instincts, making Letitia Baldridge cringe at her lack of social graces) is a mystery. DOL was a neglected child of a feckless and impecunious mother. Despite a lack of formal education, she is a highly intelligent, curious, well-read, and interesting person who has always managed to take care of her family. She bought her own lousy mother a house when said lousy mother became homeless due to personal idiocy and inability to plan ahead.

The one bad choice DOL ever made was to marry MVBFITWWW's father. To know what he is like, look up the definition of narcissism in the dictionary. His picture is there. He was 12 years older than DOL (who was 18 when they met) with a master's degree and decent government job. They married, and immediately had two kids, MVBFITWWW and her Nitwit-of-a-Sister ("NOAS"). That acronym will probably only be used in this one post because I get in a very bad mood when I start contemplating this.

Despite Narcisso-Dad's advanced education, DOL always made better judgments that N-D. N-D always said there was never enough money to buy real estate. Because he was older and had more education (and this was in the 60s/70s), his vote won, even though DOL was also working even while having the children, etc. They eventually bought a house DOL picked (which of course appreciated immensely in value). N-D never tells proud stories about his kids or grandkids. He just tells stories about himself. And how smart he is. How many languages he can speak, etc. etc. Early on, he started telling his daughters that he had made a "horrible mistake" marrying their mother. Yes, he had. But the mistake was that he should never have subjected that woman to him. Anyway, in the divorce, N-D fought very dirty to keep the girls with him, telling his daughters that their mother was crazy etc. and discouraged them from having contact with her. Meanwhile, he's the guy who teaches his daughters that fire is dangerous by holding their hands in the flames of a gas stove. He also, when caring for the girls when younger, managed to drop NOAS on her head (truly) and I can't quite rule out that NOAS's subsequent and eternal nitwitness is not somehow connected to the head injury. Needless to say, despite all his education, his daughter's education just wasn't a high priority for him. He had MVBFITWWW skip two grades as a kid, couldn't figure out why she was socially maladroit in high school, and then was horrified that she managed to flunk out of the mediocre state college he had sent her to at age 16 in the middle of the most hateful divorce of all time (well, maybe the Henry VIII/Catherine of Aragon divorce was meaner, but not by much).

When I met MVBFITWWW she had been working in a series of none-too-thrilling jobs and felt stuck in her life. Since then, she has resurrected herself, phoenix-like, and put herself through one of the best U.S. private colleges (while working full-time) and then attended Oxbridge for an advanced degree in a none-too-practical subject, which she loved studying. Now, most parents, if one of their children were going to study at Cambrdige or Oxford, would be proud, no? N-D didn't seem to realize that his daughter was attending one of the finest Universities on the planet. I sent her money. I don't know if he ever did. DOL went to her graduation (I think I was pregnant with the Foilkid). N-D? No show.

Well, MVBFITWWW suffers from depression, but generally does pretty well. N-D doesn't seem to have the power to injure her any more in a way that would make me want to hurt him. Grrrrr. But that's why we have NOAS. She's been married twice, the first time to a Mormon bully who used to lock her in their apartment and not let her out. Fortunately, she eventually left him (after three or four years of this sort of behavior; not the quickest learner, no?). As we all heaved a sigh of relief, she then immediately got herself impregnated by Jeb Clampett's less attractive and less well known brother, Willfully Ignorant Dope ("WID"), who at age 35 still had the stringy long hair of the '70s pothead. Shifty-eyed, fidgety, in a continual marijuana haze, WID is still married to NOAS, even though they live thousands of miles apart. It gets worse. WID is pretty much unemployable or to the extent employable only employable at a marginal level. So NOAS actually did a competent thing (I hope you're sitting down). She joined the Army (this was back in '86 or so?). WID followed her from posting to posting, not getting jobs. She got pregnant again. She never rose above the rank of private, if she even attained that level. At a certain point, NOAS managed to fail to be kept in the Army, through a paperwork error or a superior's desire to never see her again (I never quite knew, it was pre-9/11, so there wasn't the shortage there is now). She managed to stay in the reserves, and is a nursing home aide. Yup, bedpans.

Meanwhile, WID leaves once the luxury of enlisted family's military housing is no longer on the table. First-born of WID and NOAS becomes troubled (I wonder why?). How does NOAS handle this? She sends her 12-year old son to his father like a return gift. Just sends him away. The younger kid, a little girl is also devastated to lose her brother. Now (five years later) the girl is over 10, the son is a high school drop-out, and NOAS lives in the same town as DOL, shamelessly using her lovely mother as a free babysitter without even saying as much as thank you. God, I so want to beat up NOAS.

After all that background: this summer, DOL is staying with a cousin to help care for her after surgery. After DOL made these plans (and the surgery has been scheduled), NOAS finds out that she has reserve duty. Needless to say, NOAS makes no plans whatsoever to arrange for the care of her (remaining) child. MVBFITWWW was having her niece up to visit for some time this summer (but has limited vacation time, money for summer camp, etc). DOL has said she'll leave the ill cousin to fend for herself if necessary. MVBFITWWW has asked me for help (if I can arrange my work schedule, I will, but I have a lot of in office time coming up, and probably won't be able to be home and husband and kids will be on vacation, but conceivably we could reschedule). MVBFITWWW had the shocking thought of asking N-D to help. He loves his granddaughter, but has never done things like, oh, driven to see her. His wife is competent, if not exactly caring. So MVBFITWWW decided to try to ask her father to help take care of his grandchild.

I so want to be surprised when I talk with MVBFITWWW next. Please, please, please have N-D and spouse immediately respond enthusiastically and helpfully. I really hope I'm wrong. I hope they step up to the plate. In the meantime, I've been checking out the summer camps that are still open in my neighborhood for that week.

Now MVBFITWWW and DOL are nice people. The niece/granddaughter is a lovely girl who is becoming increasingly troubled (I wonder why). I don't know who infuriates me more, NOAS or N-D. Like everyone has nothing else to do but sweep up after them, like the guy chasing the elephant with the big shovel at the circus. I've left out so much more that would explain my fury. The things NOAS has done to her kids. The abuse she has heaped on DOL and MVBFITWWW. The absolute non-effort of N-D. Andy, can we borrow you, just for the niece/granddaughter? Why didn't NOAS look at herself in the mirror and say: "Really, no kids for you. You don't have maternal instincts, you have no social skills, no career skills, and no ability to live an organized life." But no. Now NOAS has never done anything actively bad (like be unfaithful or anything (snark)), nor has N-D (aside from burning the hands and dropping his daughter on her head), but I really think sins of omission are pretty much the worst from a parental perspective. Does NOAS even see her children as having needs? Does N-D? What part of Uranus did these boils come from?

Please, please, please: have the extended family do the right thing by the niece, since we know NOAS won't, and since MVBFITWWW is financially and emotionally stretched more than a little thin. Yes, MVBFITWWW, you've done plenty and we will work all this out, but afterwords, please, pretty please, let me beat the crap out of NOAS and N-D. And yes, I've been calling them that in my head for quite a while now. Your mom, your niece and you deserve better. Much, much better.

Sex, Drugs & Rock 'n Roll

Fooled you. Actually, the Foildog is being a brat tonight, and it would be easier to tolerate if I had some (1) sex, (2) drugs, or (3) rock 'n roll. I have none of the three at this particular moment in time. Actually, aside from completely legal alcohol (as long as I'm not driving) and prescription medications, no drugs for this chick. One of the sad facts of being an adult professional is that every time you think of something slightly illegal that would be fun to do, you realize that it just isn't worth it. Exactly how much do you want to have to explain to your state licensing board so that you can retain certification? If I were a bartender or a musician, I wouldn't have that problem. Aside from Charlie Parker and the exploding (and entirely mythical) drummers of Spinal Tap, I don't think musicians are banned from accepting gigs if stoned, although being too stoned to play is probably a significant career limiting move.

Rock and roll is out because the Foilbaby is sleeping. You just can't play "I wanna be sedated" (I love the Ramones) softly. That's just wrong (sort of like fruit on pizza). So I sang Foilbaby Dreamland by Mary Chapin Carpenter, and she was out like a chubby little light. She's so round. The Foilkid is out with her Daddy being his number one girl. Tomorrow, I'm taking her to a sporting event which she will doubtless fall asleep in the middle of because he has her out too late tonight. But it's summer vacation, and she's out visiting friends who have kids her age with her Dad. She loves her Dad, although this morning she declared that I am Supreme. I'm glad she figured that out. I didn't want to be heading toward adolescence with that in dispute. That said, I have never actually succeeded in perfecting (and you will all remember this from when you were tiny tots) the much-feared and ballyhooed Maternal Look of Death ("MLD"). My mother and both grandmothers (the ladylike grandmother and the nuclear warrior grandmother) all had the MLD down cold. Despite my superheroine stature, my willpower is nothing compared to the pleading gaze of a five-year old. Several times, she has even pressed her hands together in front of her in supplication. After I quell my laughter, she looks at me sadly, as though deeply misunderstood, and then walks away with whatever she wants. Yup. She has Dad trained, and Mom too. She even has the Foildog whupped. He's bigger than she is, but is quite anxious to please Mr. Foilwoman. All my daughter has to do is yell "Daddy" (even if Daddy is on another continent), and the stupid dog sits, then prostrates himself before my daughter. He doesn't do that for me. Which brings me back to dog being bratty.

He just doesn't think he should have to obey me. He used to obey me before I got pregnant with the Foilbaby, but since then I think he regards me as another of the children: not to be protected as much as the kid or the baby, but certainly without the authority of Daddy. Sometimes I just want to tell him: look you stupid mutt, I'm the one who found you. If it weren't for me, all your handsome brothers and sisters who are prideful and full of attitude would have found homes, but you would still be sitting at the kennel with your mama. The cat is the same. She worships my husband. She rubs his feet, always tries to get close to him. I feed her. I rescued her from abandonment. Please note: if you have pets and can't keep them, don't just leave them someplace. Take the to the pound. Or if you delude yourself into thinking your totally spastic pet will become a fearsome predator and thus feral living will be better than readoption if that includes the risk of euthanasia, find a nice no kill shelter. Better yet, put the pet in a carrier, find the nearest PETA office, and leave the pet in the office's reception area, set your videotape, and watch in amusement from across the street. No, no, no, I'm NOT advocating that behavior. Now I'm being a brat.

Friends and Family: Reach Out and Touch Someone

MBFFHS (My Best Friend from High School, for those who are not into the minutiae of this blog, like most residents of our fair planet) called me from overseas where she resides at present. She claims she has an incredibly cheap phone plan that allows lengthy international calls at practically no cost. I don't really believe her, but I know she's a bit worried about me (and actually, I'm a bit worried that MVFFHS and MVBFITWWW are communicating about me this troublesome year -- not that I mind that, that's not half as worrysome as the fact that my previously "can't speak except to insult one another" are communicating and coordinating by email regarding me and my family's well-being. And I thought I was doing so well at holding it together. Why should anyone be worried? There are lots worse off than me.

So what if since December 2003, I have started a new job, got pregnant (mid-forties), had a difficult complicated pregnancy, had the baby kick a hole in my abdominal muscles, had the insurance company deny my maternity/disability claim (they have since lost), lost my job, have been job hunting, gotten interim work at a 60% cut in pay, still am job hunting, and have a spouse who doesn't seem to know the meaning of the phrase "belt-tightening" and seems increasingly disengaged from reality? Not to mention the stuff I haven't told them, but have shared with you, my very, very close friends. Why should they be worried about me? Depression, ADHD, and anxiety are just words (or acronyms as the case may be). No need to this this stuff might get to me or affect my judgment. It creeps me out that these two people who hate each other with a vengeance are trying to get together to run my life again. I know I should be touched (and I am), but I don't want them to gain any decisionmaking control. It took long enough to become whole after the first run through that jungle. Got to land a permanent job that will restore fiscal security (although we're still solvent, thanks to the interim work).

Fortunately, I've had another job offer (not permanent, but good money over the next few months) which will help tide things over and give me a little more breathing room. Still need to line up permanent and satisfying work and health insurance. But I'm making some progress.

And then Wordwhiz let's me know about the blogging shindig in Vegas. Of course, I have no money for that, but since it's Vegas, if those mooks think I might gamble I can probably wangle comp tickets and hotel out there. Problem is, I don't gamble. With money. We'll see.

Pizza Abuse -- the Horror, the Horror

Well, enough depressing topics. Back to the fun stuff. Sex and food. Although this is an important post. To those of you who live within the U.K., or think British cuisine is just brilliant, my apologies, but you're wrong. Also, the American pizza abusers . . . don't do that to a perfectly acceptable piece of pie. Thank you.

Now, a very nice young British man (or maybe he's a space alien, who the hell knows) who I have been blog harrassing or maybe even stalking actually admitted to having eaten a deep-fried pizza (note that these italics are italics of horror, not the italics of a gal being impressed by her guy winning on Fear Factor for eating a slug (ugh)). Because of this naive and charming admission (see how evil I am, Sandra, top that) to me, the nice middle-aged lady posting on his blog I thought things through and discovered the Rules of Pizza Toppings:

Creamed corn should never be eaten on pizza. That's just wrong. I've only seen it once, but it was one of many Atrocities Against Pizza Committed by Brits, witnessed by yours truly when visiting a friend in England years ago. Other pizza Toppings of Wrongness (but deeply representative of British cuisine, I fear) were: little miniature ears of corn, peas, and tuna. Indeed, all seafood except anchovies should be eschewed. American Pizza Toppings of Wrongness include broccoli, spinach, and pineapple. This is the rule.

For general guidelines: meat toppings are acceptable, but they must be processed meat (pepperoni, sausage, meatloaf, ham, bacon) nor little bits of steak or chicken.

No fish except anchovies (and most people don't like them). NO FISH. NO FISH. NO FISH.

Acceptable vegetables include: most vegetables except leafy greens and root vegetables (except onion, which is of course allowed).

No deep-frying the pizza. Pizza is baked, not fried. Look, pizza got many of us through college, University, MBA programs, hellish jobs (they make you do things you don't actually want to do), personal crises, job searches, and bad breakups (Me, eons ago "Why doesn't he/she like me? I'll change, I really will." MVBFITWWW "He's a dickhead" (actually MVBFITWWW would never say "dickhead", so pick a more refined adjective that you won't hear coming out of my mouth and substitute). Me: "Maybe I scare him? I can change. . ." [mournful and pathetic sob, especially coming from 6 foot tall superheroine, but remember, this was years ago]. MVBFITWWW: "That's part of the whole dickhead idea, which I think you're really not processing so well here. Have some pizza."). Because pizza has been there for us, we need to be there for it. Treat your pizza with respect, dignity. Do unto others, y'know? Any pizza abuse can be reported by dialing 1-foi-lwo-man1. Thank you. To those without a clue, that's a fake number.

Good Day, Except MVBFITWWW Has the Blues

And that's not good. I know she reads my blog occasionally, so honey, this is for you. Here are some compliments and simply true statements about you:
(1) Remember, you're female. That means you are not useless.
(2) Remember, you have breasts. This is good. (see Hof's blog)
(3) Remember, you have a twat. This means you are not useless (the Useless Men said so, remember, and just because they are Useless doesn't mean every once in a while they aren't correct: one can be correct and useless simultaneously).
(4) You are correct. You actually tried to get someone in the military-industrial complex to not use the non-word "ruggedize". He didn't listen, but he was wrong. And useless.
(5) You have a great cat who is not useless.
(6) The foildaughter does a dance when she sees you.
(7) The foilbaby gurgles and laughs and waves her little michelin man arms and legs when she sees you.
(8) Somebody is really excited about visiting her Tante this summer.
(9) You are the offspring of Department of Louise. Everyone should bow before you.
(10) You actually served gruel at our medieval party, and the boys ate it to please you. ("Those Medieval Manor dinners are anachronistic; pre-1492 there weren't any POTATOES in Europe!!!!" There wasn't any chocolate either. That's why it's better to live now.)
(11) You cast MVBFSHS in her only paying role in opera.
(12) You knew Foilwoman before anyone else did.
(13) Sean Bean exists, and I have some of the DVDs (including Lady Chatterly's Lover) for you, honey, only for you. Ignore the disparaging comments by Cookie Monster.
(14) If you want to see some really amateurish production values, just come over and watch some of the "Sharpe" series. You'll feel much better.
(15) If there's anyone who has really pissed you off, just let me know. I'm taller than they are. I can take them.
(16) You are MVBFITWWW.
(17) I love you.
(18) Your house has quintupled in value (at least) since you refinanced.
(19) You have a nice long neck, unlike a neckless friend of yours.
(20) You have health insurance.
(21) Sweet little rodents (OK, squirrels) cavort and gambol by your window, much like little animal friends in a Disney movie.
(22) You've seen Placido Domingo perform.
(23) You are two degrees of separation from Catherine Oxenburg and Joan Benoit Samuelson (I'd be more pleased about the latter if I were you).
(24) Patrick Stewart sent you an individually drafted letter (not just a fan response) and you knew of him before he played Jean-Luc Picard (great Sejanus in I, Claudius).

Oh, and if you come over this weekend, I'll make chocolate chip cookie batter, which we can eat in its entirety prior to any baking occurring.

Back to your regular, unimportant me me me me me blogging tomorrow.

Useless Men Prove Their Uselessness Again (and I'm Being Pretty Useless, Blogging & Not Working)

I couldn't be more flattered or complimented: those superheroes of uselessness, the Useless Men (is that every man on the planet? or is Useless Men an oxymoron? I'll think about that more later) have deigned to answer a question I sent them (note the female use of italics, proving that I am not a man). I am flattered and honored by their useless recognition. Unfortunately, they will admit to no relationship with Andy (NO, not Andy of Raising Dane, Andy of My Boyfriend is a Twat). I'm going to double check with Zoe. Because after all, an answer from the Useless Men (unlike an answer of mine) is, well, useless.

Thank you, Useless Men. The next time I have a question I don't really need an answer to, you are the guys I'm going to call.

Unlike Sideways Swimmer or Hof, who, unless they want to sign up for Uselessness, really need to get on the stick. I know, I'm underemployed and they're not; so what? Big men solve little lady's problem, no? So cough it up, guys. The Useless Men came through, are you even more useless than they are (imagine faux-shocked expression on my face)?

More snark, less soulfulness -- How to tell if . . .?

My website has been brought up by a number of search engines with the terms "How to tell if your husband is cheating on you." I really can't help with that one. I can help guys if you want to know if your wife is cheating on you, and what to do about it. I'm a slightly tarnished superheroine. I take up these challenges where mere mortals fear to tread. Of course, this will depend on whether you have a smart wife or a stupid wife. So there are two different lists:

How to Tell If Your Stupid Wife Is Cheating on You:
(1) Short errands suddenly take a really long time.
(2) She has lots of overtime work at the office, and she only works part-time.
(3) You see her lipstick on your boss's collar.
(4) Your four year old has several new "Uncles" you've never heard about.
(5) Your neighbors ask about the new lawn service, pool cleaner, roofer, plumber who has been doing "all that work on your house" and ask what your paying. You're not doing work on your house.
(6) Frequent flyer miles disappear charged to Marriott & Renaissance and the like.
(7) Your wife has a significant increase in the number of overnight trips she takes to visit best friends from high school who you have never met.
(8) You find your wife trying to erase the phones call history, the cell phone bill, etc.
(9) Your wife shuts down the computer screen whenever you walk into the room and brings up a spreadsheet -- and you're the accountant.
(10) You notice an increase in grooming and appearance monitoring by your wife, and it has nothing to do with plans the two of you have.

If you had to read through this checklist to discover that your wife is cheating, newsflash, you're stupid too. So don't breed. Thank you.

How to Tell if Your Smart Wife is Cheating On You (this is tougher, because we smart women, we're, well, smart)
(1) Something is a little off, but you can't put your finger on it.
(2) Your wife used to talk about things she wanted to do in bed, but doesn't anymore.
(3) Your wife is no longer irritated with you all the time, although you have changed none of the behavior she complained about.
(4) Your wife volunteers to handle several unpleasant bill-paying functions: monitoring phone bills, keeping track of frequent flyer miles and credit card points, and has at least one credit card the bill for which you have never seen.
(5) Somehow, she's busier, but happier.
(6) You say you want to go fishing with the guys for a weekend and she looks up and says "Oh, sure, honey. If you take [child], she can learn how to put a worm on the hook."
(7) Your wife used to ask you to try things in bed, but after you said no for a while, she stopped.
(8) She doesn't hug you spontaneously anymore.
(9) She often tells you what a wonderful father you are, but this statement is not followed up with nookie.
(10) After the last pregnancy, when she said you as a couple needed a more permenent method of birth control, you said you couldn't handle a vasectomy (you might want more children). She went ahead and took care of it and you are not sure if she got an IUD, her tubes tied, or has some other contraceptive method, but she has one, and it won't just work for you (i.e., it's a lot smarter to get the vasectomy).
(11) You can't stop looking at younger, prettier women with younger better bodies even though her body aged having your kids.
(12) You've stopped complimenting her.
(13) At some point in the last few years, she used to bring up conversational topice like "this would really get me excited" or "I like it when you . . ." but those conversations are history.

If you let your smart wife get into this situation, you are, how shall I put this, maybe not stupid, but feckless and clueless.

What to do? Well, the approach used in Afghanistan (stoning her to death) is frowned on here. But feel free to be totally morally disapproving. How dare she. If you married a stupid woman, well, that's on you. Maybe she just doesn't understand morality or her wedding vows. If you married a smart woman and for whatever reason have stopped trying to keep up . . . Well, here's a challenge for all of you. What should a guy do? Sincere and snarky suggestions. All are welcome. Truly useless men will, of course, be referred to the Useless Men site, where I'm sure you'll feel right at home.

More Compliments (Power of Positive Thinking)

I complimented Wordwhiz and Mr. Drinker is the comments below, but both really deserve their own compliments.

Wordwhiz: You gave me the best Mama Grizzly example of all time. And then I got to tell the Papa Swan story. I love good parents.

Mr. Drinker: You occasionally get Hof to lighten up, no? Great post on the meeting.

Kira: You're adjunct faculty and still cheerful -- you clearly have an amazing spirit.

Summer of Compliments

We all use our blogs to complain. My favorite blogs are often complaint blogs, or veer in that direction from time to time. Yet we all forget how powerful praise can be. We can always tell people what they're doing wrong. Yet criticism shuts people down (as can lack of acknowledgment), whereas any and all positive feedback seems to help people improve. This doesn't always work, but psychologically speaking, one gets more improvement with praise than with criticism, even when the behavior being discussed is abysmal. I think women are raised with this in mind whenever we cater to the world reknowned male ego. You praise, praise, praise. Sometimes something good happens. The minute you're in complaint mode, you've lost already.

Complimenting Commenter reminded me of that with the Challenge for "Summer of Compliments": praise someone every day. I already do this, as I have children. But I'll take cc at face value. I've already praised CC, so I'll do a few more and then tuck in for the night.

Sandra of Sandra is Evil: You aren't evil. You're delightful. And pretty (hot, even).
Andy of Raising Dane: You're clearly a good father and a good person. I like how you can disagree without getting preachy or insulting.
MVBFITWWW and Mom (who doesn't read this): You are simply fantastic. If it weren't for you, I don't think this year would have been survivable, especially all the surgery and yucky stuff.
Foilkids: I don't know how everyone else manages, when it's clear that I have the best kids on the planet. You are both little tanks, and everybody had better just get out of your beautiful ways.
Department of Louise (more explanation later): You are a goddess among mere mortals. You are the Goddess of my Idolatry. Whenever trying to solve a problem, I think: What Would Louise Do? Then I or MVBFITWWW calls you and asks you, and our problems are solved.
Foildog: You are the most lovable and antiferocious goof guard dog ever. I'm probably safe because your furrowed brow keeps the bad guys at bay.
Foilhusband: You are the best father on the planet, and a good man. I live in hope that we will reconnect.
Mr. Underhill: You have great taste in single malt scotch.
Firefly: You have a great phallic symbol on your site and apparently a very nice belly-button.
Hof: You are a great sketch-artist.
A*: I like your blog and you need to post more, please.
Zoe (of My Boyfriend Is a Twat Fame): Thank you.
Useless Men: You are honest, a rare quality indeed: you are truly useless, and I love you guys. Remember "Any More Useless, I'd Be A Cat" your truth-in-advertising/full-disclosure handle should be More Useless Than a Cat or More Useless Than Foilwoman's Cat. Thank you.
Sideways Swimmer: I like your thoughtful blog, even though I disagree with your point of view on a number of issues.
Stoic Stranger: You are very brave, and I wish you the best. More people should read your blog. You actually write complete thoughts rather than just trying to be witty.
Bathroom Reading: Good interviews of Hof and A*. Please remember, since you blog from work, that most law firms now monitor internet usage and people have been fired for blogging from work, particularly if they billed those hours to a client. So be careful.

Okay, that's a start. Good night. Oh, who am I fooling. I'm keyed up, it's after 11, I'm going to blog surf and say non-complimentary things. There you have it.

More from my Comment in Sideways Swimmer's Blog, and Back to Hof's Comments about Out-of-Focus Sights

Another area in which my sights are probably not in focus was brought to light by Hof in my response to Sideways Swimmers' last post.

foilwoman... shining this in the light of swimmer's post:
Would you like your children to know about the choice you are making everytime you sleep with someone other than their father?
hofzinser

My response:

Hof: No. Nor do I want them to think that they don't deserve sexual satisfaction. Again, it's not a binary switch. More on my blog.

One of my father's favorite (and wildly inappropriate) quotes was that men get married for sex and women get married for love, but that sex on tap is definitely part of the equation. I never agreed with that, and always told him so. My mother certainly has never indicated in any way that sex is important to her life (not that I want to know -- I really don't think kid's should have to be confronted too directly with their parents sex lives, whether in or out of matrimony -- that's a boundary you just shouldn't cross). So imagine my surprise and pleasure to discover that as a human being I could ecstatically enjoy sex. I didn't get married to have sex on tap. As a female, dismissing risks of disease, really, if one wants sex, one can have it. Whether it would be good sex is another thing.

I married my husband because he was and is a kind, gentle man with a good heart. Maybe too good a heart for this world, because as he has been hurt, he has withdrawn inside himself and in someways become very selfish and self-involved, but I can understand and sympathize with what has happened to him (male ego, too many blows, blah, blah). He's also gorgeous and good with animals and small children. Just ask MVBFITWWW. Nonetheless, especially since our children have come along, his lack of consideration for me sexually has really taken off. He's not unkind, he's not hurtful. He just won't discuss my needs or wants. Won't see a counselor. Won't even read Hof's handy little spelunking guide.

Now, what message do I want my kids to take from my actions? Well, that depends. I don't want them to think that you have to abandon a marriage because of one fundamental (and damn important) failure, but I also don't want them to think that their own (female) sex drives are insignificant and unimportant. Maybe the "better" (more honest?) move would be to divorce their father and let them deal with two households, etc. while satisfying my sex drive. That clearly shifts the stress from me to my kids, hurts my husband, and generally just doesn't seem like an optimal choice. Maybe the "better" (more self-sacrificing?) move would be to simply say, "my husband is in charge of sex and my needs are not relevant here; I can put up with a lack of satisfaction for my kids sake." I don't want my daughters to ever feel that. Personally, as a parent, I want to keep my sex life away from my kids. I know what more about my parents' sex lives (or lack thereof) than I think one should, and that has probably been another area where my sights were off.

I guess the message I would want my kids to take from all my behavior is this: every choice we make has consequences. The decision to stay married for any reason. The decision to stay in a job you hate to support your family. The decision to quit a job you hate and let someone else worry about supporting the family. The decision to get an MBA. The decision to study or not while in school. The decision to make friends who keep guns in their houses. The decision to acknowledge sexual desire. The decision to act on or not act on desire. The decision to bottle up frustration and anger. The decision to express anger vocally or physically. The decision to write a rather indiscreet, if anonymous, blog. Every choice we make hurts someone. There is no way to avoid hurt either of oneself or others. An honest decision to divorce leaves someone abandoned. An honest decision to just put up with things the way they are leaves the one doing the "putting up with" with feelings, which will probably be pretty angry, that will need to be expressed or dealt with. The decision (and yes, it is a decision) to have an affair can hurt any number of people. Of course, how one goes about doing these things also has an effect.

So I hope my message would be that sometimes there are no perfect choices. Marital fidelity is important. So is personal satisfaction. A stable home for children is important. Know that everything you do has consequences. And if you are going to stray, be careful, know what you are doing, don't pretend you're not doing it, and pick your partner carefully.

Also, over a decade or so, people do change. The man you marry on date x and the man you are married to on date y might have the same birth certificate, SSN, and passport, but they might be very different people. How he has changed and how the new changed you handles the new changed him is not a simple proposition.

Per Hof's Request

Hof posted this request:

You did not have perfect parents (none of us do/did). They set your sites 'off' on a few things. Blog out one of the sites you now, as an adult, realize your parents set wrong.

Really, I need to get busier. But my parents didn't know how to disagree in a civilized but honest way. Either everything was fine, or it was global thermonuclear warfare. Needless to say, they're divorced, and I have nice step-parents, which has helped. Nonethless, despite being a pretty strong-minded person, I have trouble voicing true disagreement with someone I love. MVBFITWWW will howl with laughter at the apparent untruth of this statement, but I live in fear of offending people I care about and in fear of appearing to angry (the sliding scale between chasing after someone with an axe to express disapproval and tensely saying "Everything's fine" while fuming inside being one of those "sights" or focus points that I have trouble gauging or adjusting).

Underemployment Sucks Beyond Belief--So Boys, Here's Your Chance to Do Good (Step Right Up to the Plate)

Since I was 14, I have either worked, gone to school, or both, sometimes more than job and one school at the same time. I've supported my family financially (my husband has taken care of child care) since late 1998. Now I'm underemployed, job-hunting, doing childcare, helping my husband job-hunt, worrying about money, trying to get health insurance, and generally spending every waking moment trying to achieve or afraid about something. Nonetheless, I still have plenty of time to blog, read other peoples' blogs, check my email regularly (for job stuff as well as for sweet messages from Handyman), and generally obsess about any little or big thing I decide to obsess about. Even with two children, a job hunt, work to do, and a husband's job hunt to support, I don't feel busy and productive.

Exactly what do I have to do to feel like I've done enough? I quit. Not the kids of course (nor the husband). But the "I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan" chick (if you weren't cognizant in the late '80s, you just won't get that reference, give it up), she's moved away and isn't coming back. I'm certainly not going to spend lots of time catering to the male ego. Everyone worries about the male ego. Maybe the male ego needs to learn how to get up after a few well-earned punches to the face. Men of the world, if you want to be macho, cater to my damn ego. It's fragile right now. I don't care if you find me attractive (that slot is filled, thanks). I want to know that I'm smart, brilliant even, highly competent, and someone who scares the living shit out of you. Thank you.

Father's Day

Father's Day around chez Foilwoman (and Mr. Foilwoman) was pretty much the same as Mother's Day. Mr. Foilwoman went to play tennis at 7 am, got back around 10 with breakfast pastries. Foildaughter went swimmning, and then to a birthday party. Foilbaby gurgled. Mr. Foilwoman played more tennis in the afternoon. Foilwoman worked some, then took Foildog and Foilbaby for a walk. At some point, Foildaughter produced a magnum opus of a homemade card and drawings for her Dad. Then the two of them went for a drive. Aside from the card (which on Mother's Day was drawn for and given to me) the Mother's Day and Father's Day were otherwise identical at the Foilhovel.

Enough third person-speak. I had a disheartening phone chat with MVBFITWWW. Both of us are down. She because of the volunteer project that could be going better (if people would follow her advice it would be going better), me because while I have lined up short-term fixes for problems (independent contractor work, Handyman) the long term solutions (full-time job with benefits, interim health insurance, improved relationship with spouse) remain elusive, and I have less and less energy to dedicate to improving circumstances.

Let me be clear, I don't think any of us are entitled to anything. I don't think there is any time when one can say: "OK, I played by the rules, where's my reward." It just seems like everything has been such a struggle for so long, and I am darn tired. Not that this statements means that I might cease fighting the good fight or anything, oh no. Both MVBFITWWW and I suffer from clinical depression, treatable by medication. At times, I think she suffers more severely than I do, but then I'm not sure. I think it's that my fight-or-flight instincts trend toward fight and hers toward flight. God forbid I give up on something (marriage, career, graduate school, life): that would mean they would have won. And we can't have that. If I'm going to lose (at anything), I'm going to go down fighting and make sure I end up in Valhalla, where I'm hoping the nighly feasts after the fighting include single malt scotch, artichokes, hollandaise sauce, lobster, melted butter, pears, and lots of chocolatey things (none of which will make ones tummy upset or cause weight gain).

Not to go all philosophical again, but why do people even ever assume there is a hereafter? (Andy, you are not being asked to debate more -- you were very kind and polite, now I'm just rambling.) Every culture has come up with some form of hereafter (with the possible exception of Judaism -- I remember being told that in Judaism there is no heaven or hell -- is that correct? Fill me in? and the Navajo, although my knowledge of Navajo religious customs is drawn entirely from the oevre of Tony Hillerman . . . so . . .) or cycle of death and rebirth. Why? Is life so horrible that people can't say: "If this is all I've got and I've got to make the best of it, I can work with that?" And if there is a hereafter, and people believe in it, why all the fuss about death. Instead of crying, let's have a party. That would make more sense.

Anyway, my husband seems pretty happy right now, and the two of us are getting along. Of course, we were close and cuddly last night and the minute he was done, it was over. I decided that I have come up with the best solution I can right now. He's always been a sensitive guy, and still is in most areas. Yet there's a blind spot or someting. I hate it when you get to know someone and then he goes and changes on you! Of course, the alternative, static relationships with people incapable of growth or loss is pretty nightmarish -- it would be like living with robots.

Almost midsummer's day. Maybe I can wangle a party to one of the big pagan celebrations at one of the Scandinavian embassies and drink lots of Aqvavit and eat lots of herring. Oh yum.

O Canada: Why I Love the Great White North

Until I was 23, I always lived within a three hour drive of the Canadian border, except for when I lived in Spain, obviously. At some rural postings, we mostly got Canadian TV channels. I grew up thinking skating and hockey were everyone's favorite sport (and if any of you ever saw Scott Stevens' body back in the early '80s, you'd know why). One of my grandparents was born, not exactly in Canada, but in the Maritime Provinces. Can someone explain to me why Hockey Night on the radio always began "Good Evening Canada and the Maritime Provinces"? I always though Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, Labrador and P.E.I. were all Canada, no? Eh? You hosers.

Even now, if I have to pick between Seattle and Vancouver, I'll pick Vancouver. Boseman, Montana? No, no, Banff. New Orleans. NON. Montreal. See how easy? So why are all the funny funny blogs Canadian, or is it just my sensibility? See Useless Men, to the right. Also check out Eat the Goat, but I've lost the link.

Anyway, let me just say this about that. The self-deprecating humor of the Canadian blogger is a wonder to behold. If the recent election didn't make me want to emigrate, I would want to just to meet some of these guys. Except, of course, I can't afford to do so, and make lots more money and pay lower taxes here. However, if my independent contractor status continues much longer (and the lack of group insurance for my family becomes a real issue), I may emigrate and try to jump start my career in Toronto or Montreal. Except most Canadians seem smarter, more subtle, and less clumsy than I do. Margaret Atwood. Mordechai Richter (RIP). Yann Martel. Michael Ondaatje. Wayne Gretzky. Alex Trebec. Peter Jennings. Ian & Sylvia, Margaret Trudeau . . . oops, lost the plot. Margaret Trudeau actually acts like a U.S. citizen (she acts like a blithering idiot). See, a Canadian wouldn't make that kind of mistake.

Now I have to go plan a trip to Montreal. And unlike Pres. Bush, I know that poutine is a lovely junk food involving french fries (I think, but there could be fish involved). The Jazz Festival is coming up soon. And the comedy festival. And then a bunch more festivals. You've got to take advantage of those 63 nice sunny days you get each year. Maybe I'll just go to Churchill to see the polar bears before the ice re-freezes on Hudson Bay. Or go to Nunavit. Whatever happened to the write-in campaign to name that territory "Bob"? Obviously, the government wasn't going to name it "Bob", but didn't that name actually win among all those voted on? My ignorance truly astounds me.

Lost a whole heartfelt post

With references to Patient Griselda and everything. I hate when that happens. Grrr.

Collateral Damage--Divinity, the Debate, part III (or is it IV?)

Andy and Wordwhiz, I'm in a decent enough mood to give my thoughts, disjointed as they are, on the religion/god front (I look forward to being cited by Stephen Colbert on The Daily Show in "This Week in God").

We have enough comments flying back and forth that printing out all of our separate posts and comments filled 31 pages. Yup. So forgive me if I ramble even more than I usually do.

Andy, starting with Job, you said that Satan argued that Job loved god for the benefits, not in and of itself, which if true would cause an alienation between man and god. Why? If god treats people badly, why should they love god? I.e., it's like kids and parents: we're preprogrammed to love them. Even a child who has been set on fire by his mother will call for her in pain. It takes an awful lot to reject a parent's love, and presumably, god operates in the parental (creator) role. Yet no-one would call an abused child "wrong" for deciding, "nope, I won't call for Mom and Dad. They did this to me. I'm calling 911, then Aunt Nancy. I'm afraid of them, and they are my parents, but I shouldn't be set on fire." We would say that that child was acting on essential survival instincts, and it's good that he had them.

Second, just because Satan says something doesn't mean god has to reply. (If Satan told god to jump off a bridge, would he? quoting all of our mothers.) If god is omniscient and omnipotent, what some evil little twerp or evil big prince of darkness says about humanity shouldn't change god's relationship with humanity. No need to respond to stupid challenges. This situations carries hints or medieval trials by ordeal where a person could show that they were sinless or right (in a dispute) by undergoing an ordeal such as walking through fire, battling with another knight, walking through flames or whatever. If the person emerged unharmed, that person was the winner and was sinless or right or whatever. Needless to say, the facts of any specific crime settled by this sort of trial will never be known. Lots of people died of drowning, battle wounds, and burning while this method of settling disputes remained. So someone challenges someone and says: "you're children don't really love you for you"; what's the sensible response? A loving parent DOES NOT put the children through a bunch of tests (remember, King Lear was a tragedy) or set hurdles. Depending on the children's age/maturity/development, they may not love their parents independent of the things the parents do for them. I know for my baby, she "loves" me in the incredibly self-absorbed way that babies are able to love not for who I am, but because I feed her, I pick her up, I change her, etc. The older child is a little more aware of me as a separate entity, but really, I'm the best darn mac & cheese maker ever, and I knit a sweater for Teddy. I'm not going to test them on how much they love me. They love me as much as they love me. And part of that is because I feed and clothe them, bathe them, sing to them etc. They do not love me as the entity that brought them into a world with shots and booboos and icky smelling stuff.

Yes, the 26-year old brain dead woman had 26 years on this planet, she has one child, she apparently knew real love with her husband. Just because she will be dead soon doesn't mean that her life before that was nothing. Yes, she had those things. And if there is a hereafter, she will get to watch her two-year old mourn without being able to express loss. Maybe her husband will marry again. Maybe a good person; maybe not. Maybe her two-year old will recover and become well-adjusted. Maybe not. But there's a two year old here who can't comprehend death who knows that his mother abandoned him (or god did). In this instance, it actually sounds like this child (and we hope, the one to be born) will be in the arms of a loving family. But if Dad is in a car accident tomorrow (or gets called up for service in Iraq) . . . . There is enough loss there that is pain fueled the world, there would be no energy crisis. So maybe god has a purpose for this woman's death. What is the good in this for the children? How are their purposes in anyway helped by this loss?

Yes, as to insurance companies: true proof that evil is real and tangible.

The thing that bothers me the most about Job and all the other smiting, etc. is not the underlying fact that there are no guarantees, it's the abuse and the collateral damage. Abuse first: I am perfectly in agreement that none of us are guaranteed health, wealth, happiness, or anything. Life is suffering and stuggle and at the end we die, we hope not too alone and in not too much pain, but we really don't have control over that. But if man's existence is destined to be pain-filled, does it follow that man then must thank somebody for moments that are pleasant and not painful? Again, I go with the abusive parent/spouse metaphor (who can be male or female, really): you get hurt enough, you're grateful to get through dinner without being punched in the face. Does the person who hasn't punched you deserve your thanks? NO. If a person used this sort of motivation and isn't guarding prisoners in Iraq or Guantanamo Bay, that person is a criminal. I am not going to make my children (or anybody within my power) thank me for not hurting them when I could and I can't think of any other environment where that sort of psychology would be anything other than evil.

Second, collateral damage. Before Job has boils etc., after Satan dares god (and that's how I really do read it) "But put forth thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face." Job 1:11. So all the oxen and asses get stolen and all the servants but one are put to the sword and slain. Job. 1:15. All the sheep and the servants with them but one are burnt (not a nice way to go). Job 1:16. All the camels are stolen and the servants guarding them but one were put to the sword. Job 1:17. All Jobs sons and daughers (7 sons, 3 daughers = 10 whole human beings) and other servants save one are crushed when a building collapses on them. Job. 1:19. Assuming that the plural of servants means that at least two servants god killed in each incident. Thus at least 18 people have been killed, at least 12 by being crushed, 4 by being put to the sword, and two by burning. Since Job is wealthy, I assume there were many more than two servants at issue. Not to mention the burning of the sheep (what did they do?). What can possibly justify that sort of toll to prove a point about a third party? Or is anyone other than the paterfamilias just to be disposed of? At the end, when Job is reconciled with god (abused enough so that he will accept just about anything), there is no mention of all the dead or why.

Noah's flood: the world is so full of sin, everyone except one family drowns. What did the babies, one, two, three, and four year olds do to deserve that? Who goes for collective punishment who isn't a war criminal?

I'll skip over Abraham and Isaac and jump right to the big kahuna. Exactly how does sacrificing one's child wash away one's sins? I just don't get the whole cruxifixion, wash us clean, man no more will die logic. Here's the story: god put's his child (theology?) on earth (and btw, in the Middle East in the 1st Century B.C., how did Mary survive death by stoning upon being pregnant by someone other than her husband. "The Cherry Tree Carol" gives you a wonderful glimpse of what Mary's revelation would have been like, without the threat of slaughter hanging over her head) to teach, to be betrayed, to be tortured, and to die horribly. Then he rises three days later and ascends to heaven. Oh, and the human mother gets to witness the torture and murder. Very nice. I'm liking him more and more. Point?

Now, I'm glad that Wordwhiz's friends who lost their 8-year old could take comfort from religion, but if I think the other family's reaction is more realistic. You've lost something precious, you can't get it back, there is no consolation, and everyone can tell you until they are blue in the face that we will meet again in heaven, but the two year old never got to grow old enough to even form meaningful memories. No parent has kids to meet them in heaven. We all know when kids die before us that it is wrong. I have yet to hear of a culture that celebrates the death of children presuming that it is better for them to be [with god? whereever?] that growing up in the bosom of a family that loves them, discovering how to be a good and decent human being. If everyone truly believes kids who die have another life at the feet of god, all these funerals should be big parties. We should send the 9/11 terrorists thank you cards: they took our loved ones to god more quickly. Less time in this vale of tears. But we don't believe that.

I do not think, as humans, we are guaranteed or promised any amount of happiness or freedom from pain. I do not think my life is extraordinarily pain-filled. I don't think I ever thought that I was "entitled" to anything; maybe at one point in my life I thought that if I did everything right, maybe things would work out. Now I am more certain that it really doesn't matter: I can be a good or a bad person, and I might suffer horribly or not so horribly. But if there is a reward I'm supposed to be aiming for or some reason to obey some arbitrary rules laid down thousands of years ago by a culture that was definitely pre-Enlightenment, I've yet to see any proof whatsover.

If there was anything I could do that would relieve others' suffering, make my husband or my sister more whole, eliminate torture, poverty, war, and injustice, believe me, I'd do it. I just don't think praying to the entity that slaughters people by the score to win points on a cosmic game of truth or dare is going to get me there. I'm more likely to change the balance (butterfly's wings again) by congratulating good maternal behavior (GO WORDWHIZ! GO MAMA GRIZZLY), good paternal behavior (GO ANDY! GO PAPA SWAN!) protecting and defending when I can myself and others, and trying to be as good a person as I can be without becoming a self-sacrificing dishrag. I'm no patient Griselda. I can take a punch, but at a certain point in time, I will punch back. I do not believe that allowing others to be tortured or killed will ever result in my redemption or cleansing of sin, and, here's the gist of it, I really don't understand the whole concept of how one horrible act (wiping out of Sodom & Gomorroh, eliminating the world by flood, killing one's son by torture) in any way redeems anyone or cleanses anyone or shows any love whatsoever.

Go to it, WW & Andy.

What the heck is in Granite City Illinois?

Okay, I'm addicted to my stat counter (oddly enough, named Stat Counter). But who the heck is in Granite City, Illinois who keeps visiting? And why not just call it Asphalt Jungle or Limestone Terrace? Who names places anyway? I like New England place names which are mispronounced and mangled Abenaki (and other native language) words, like Contoocook, Amanusic, Piscataqua, Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Katahdin. Of course, then you have the truly creative names like "New Haven" (where's Old Haven?) or towns simply lifted from Merrie Olde Englande. York and New York are so similar. Plymouth, Porthsmouth, Weymouth. So why would anyone name a town Granite City (well, duh, besides the rocks), and why would anybody want to live there? At least when Eric the Red named Greenland he was doing it for the same reasons all those developers name their conglomerations of little boxes made out of ticky-tacky "Rolling Meadows" or "Waterside Estates." Marketing. Granite City isn't marketing. It's anti-marketing. It makes me want to use the internet to get this poor reader (and this person reads my blog? He or she lives in Granite City -- enough reason to be depressed already) a ticket to Italy to see nice marble. Or something like that.

So who are you and why don't you have anything more cheerful to do than read my blog?

Beautiful Day

It's just gorgeous. Taking baby and dog for a walk, then trying to get 4-5 hours of work done, then probably a blogging extravaganza. Still in a pretty foul mood existentially. I just read about a 26-yeard old mother of one who was diagnosed with cancer during her second pregnancy. She's brain dead, husband trying to keep ventilation on until the baby is viable. No family fight (get this, he and her parents are united about what she would want, leading me to infer that they are all talking about the same person that they all knew and loved), but $400K or so in uncovered medical bills, one de facto motherless child, and if all works out for the best, another motherless child who won't have too many preemie problems. Good job, god.

Next article in the paper that I read was about how foster children get to change schools everytime they shuttle from one family to the next, resulting in horrible school attendance, graduation rates, and school problems. One kid was kept out of school for five months while the school officials tried to locate "lost" paperwork. This is a no-brainer. These kids have been shat on enough. Don't make them adjust to a new school and a new family. And don't keep them out of school with nothing to do. That's just stupid. Is this a test by the "almighty" for kids who are already handicapped enough by being removed from their homes (or cast out, or whatever caused them to go into foster care, I think we can assume it wasn't something good). Exactly how many more hurdles do they need?

Okay, I've got to stop reading the paper. I was in a good mood until then. So no more of that nonsense. I'll re-read Job later. Andy, Wordwhiz, my mood's deteriorating, so feel free to jump in with feel good stuff any old time now. Dog and baby for walk on sunny day. Dog and baby for walk on a sunny day. That's my mantra.