And I have to be calm on the phone with PdeFF and positively serene with Foilkid. Foilkid and GaahGirl are with their father tonight. I have them for the rest of the weekend. This morning, I gave Foilkid my cell number. (I just traded my old lousy cell in for a new one that gets reception in the Metro and pretty much everywhere, so whenever FK calls me, I can be there.) I told her to call me whenever she wanted to talk to me. She called.
It was clearly a set up. She told me she was at the house (where PdeFF lives) and asked me "Why is there no baby food?" I said Daddy needed to run to the store. PdeFF got on the phone (and, this is his one mature act du jour, told FK to go upstairs), saying I had stolen the food. I said no, when I finished packing, it was under police supervision (Tuesday) and was in a bit of a rush after he hurt my mother. He said he bought one of the cans of formula and that he would send the babysitter over to my place to get some. I suggested he go to the store.
This was a last minute discovery by him, that the formula (which sits on the counter in plain sight) was gone. He didn't notice it before the Foilfilles arrived. I wanted to ask: WTF are you serving for dinner? I didn't. He then claimed I had stolen the food. I asked if he would return the other groceries I had bought over the past two weeks. What food? He asked. Well, pretty much all of it. Grrr.
Then he launched into how the FK should spend more time with him since "She doesn't want to leave." I told him to prepare her for coming over to the apartment on Saturday morning. I told him not to feed her lines or use her that way, and that he had to be bigger than that. Wrong words. He launched into a diatribe of my betrayal and said I had never spoken to him that I was leaving. Fortunately, I restrained myself from saying anything about how he should have known the marriage was over the minute he punched me, or, not to belabor the obvious, since I had requested the TRO and had the deputies evict him. We started going back and forth about who said what and who did what. (He claims ignorance of my unhappiness and dissatisfaction . . . what can I say to that but something like "Bud, you seem pretty ignorant about everything that concerns me", which fortunately I did not say?)
Being pleasant to this once-decent-but-now-pathetic-and-disturbed person who is crapping on my kid to maintain civil relations (for the Foilfilles' sake) is going to be tough. Please forgive me a fair amount of ranting and invective over the next few weeks. I am not going to do it in front of my daughters. So I'm going to do it in front of you. Those who still maintain the illusion that I am Ms. FluffyBunnyWoman (Soft! Cuddly! Sweet! Forgiving!) may wish to take an extended leave of absence now. But, just a quick question: those of you who think of me as the melliflous FluffyBunnyWoman, who the fuck's blog have you been reading and can I have some of the drugs you are taking?
September 30, 2005
It Takes a Worried (Wo)man to Sing a Worried Song
The catch line to that great song of Burl Ives (available, at least when I was a kid, on his record, which is sadly back at the house, "Return of the Wayfaring Stranger") is "I'm worried now, but I won't be worried long." Sadly, I'm not sure that this is true in this situation. Because I may have had a PdeFF-ectomy, but my children haven't.
Under the ludicrous state laws of the state of my residence, until a custody hearing (three months or more down the road), children can reside with either parent; neither parent is presumed to have primary custody, rights, or anything else (short of a permanent restraining order, which I did not get). Thus, I have to amicably work out a visitation schedule. I have done this. So far, PdeFF scheduled and interview or something when he was scheduled to take the GaahGirl to the doctor (FoilMormor and SecondMate stepped in), missed Foilkid's karate classes (we can't afford them anyway, but since the money is already spent, why not get her there?), and generally gone on his hapless and feckless way. Fortunately, the babysitter is with the kids most of the time when they are with him, and she is neither hapless nor feckless.
Worst of all, PdeFF is using Foilkid as a go-between, or trying to do so. He's asked her if I am planning to sell the house. He calls to arrange visitation when she is present. He asks her why I don't want him anymore.
I haven't told Foilkid that her Dad is meshuggenah (sp?), but she's not, and she's a smart kid, so she is cluing in. She has more self-possession than he does, and that's a little scary (remember, she's six). My only hope is that I will get greater and greater actual custody as PdeFF drops the ball again and again, and that when the custody hearing occurs, PdeFF is clearly no where near primary care-giving status. He's already conceded as much by claiming that the babysitter should accompany the kids, ergo, he's not caring for them during the day when they are with him. However, as a professional woman, I have to be extra careful, because some judges really hold a woman who has NOT been the primary caregiver to a higher standard.
His hallucinations are pretty hard to spot, yet when he was in court explaining that he quit his job over the coldness of the air conditioning unit, the judge didn't seem to understand that that was indeed an example of his psychosis. What to do? I'll think about it, then come up with a solution. At least the babysitter is with the kids when they are with him, but I still don't like it. I really don't.
Under the ludicrous state laws of the state of my residence, until a custody hearing (three months or more down the road), children can reside with either parent; neither parent is presumed to have primary custody, rights, or anything else (short of a permanent restraining order, which I did not get). Thus, I have to amicably work out a visitation schedule. I have done this. So far, PdeFF scheduled and interview or something when he was scheduled to take the GaahGirl to the doctor (FoilMormor and SecondMate stepped in), missed Foilkid's karate classes (we can't afford them anyway, but since the money is already spent, why not get her there?), and generally gone on his hapless and feckless way. Fortunately, the babysitter is with the kids most of the time when they are with him, and she is neither hapless nor feckless.
Worst of all, PdeFF is using Foilkid as a go-between, or trying to do so. He's asked her if I am planning to sell the house. He calls to arrange visitation when she is present. He asks her why I don't want him anymore.
I haven't told Foilkid that her Dad is meshuggenah (sp?), but she's not, and she's a smart kid, so she is cluing in. She has more self-possession than he does, and that's a little scary (remember, she's six). My only hope is that I will get greater and greater actual custody as PdeFF drops the ball again and again, and that when the custody hearing occurs, PdeFF is clearly no where near primary care-giving status. He's already conceded as much by claiming that the babysitter should accompany the kids, ergo, he's not caring for them during the day when they are with him. However, as a professional woman, I have to be extra careful, because some judges really hold a woman who has NOT been the primary caregiver to a higher standard.
His hallucinations are pretty hard to spot, yet when he was in court explaining that he quit his job over the coldness of the air conditioning unit, the judge didn't seem to understand that that was indeed an example of his psychosis. What to do? I'll think about it, then come up with a solution. At least the babysitter is with the kids when they are with him, but I still don't like it. I really don't.
September 29, 2005
Enough of that Nonsense
I'm just going to have to go to my favorite place other than my home (the library) and check out books, keeping very careful track of when they are due. Oh, and go with Innana to the great Used Book Palace. And make some clothes. Yeah, that's the ticket.
One thing I have at the new place that I didn't have at home is a gym. Since the babysitter sleeps over, I can sneak out late at night (the gym is self-service and open 24 hours) and do some rowing and maybe start weightlifting again (not too much because the GaahGirl kicked my stomach to heck and back when she was still an internal appendage). The gym door is just a few doors away from ours. So that's good.
The pool is less than a block away, but we won't get to use that until Spring. However, BigGrampa (the FoilDad) is coming to visit (yup, my family: never let me complain about them again) and is staying at a very close by hotel. His hotel will have an indoor pool, and the Foilkid will go swimming with her Big Grampa (she, I am really happy to say, doesn't call the shorter Second Mate "Little Grampa" -- she's a smart girl).
I still want my books though. Want 'em, want 'em, want 'em. I gave a few to FoilMormor for safekeeping when I saw where this was heading (yes BLBRF, that includes your book), so I'll collect those tomorrow, I hope. Anyway, I have my music, my guitars, my knitting, a few books, and can always get more. But I want my signed first edition of A Midwife's Tale, by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, written when she taught a class I was taking and before she won the Pulitzer Prize for Good Wives. And many others. Many, many others.
But the real lessen here is this: what I am missing are the books. I'm relieved to have had the PdeFF-ectomy, even if he will remain as scar tissue for a good long while. I'll still have to deal with him, to protect my girls, but I no longer have to clean up after him in so many ways. Well, that's not quite true. There is more cleanup in my future. But it may be a large, Superfund style cleanup, but it is finite. Before, it was neverending. I'll sleep well tonight, too.
One thing I have at the new place that I didn't have at home is a gym. Since the babysitter sleeps over, I can sneak out late at night (the gym is self-service and open 24 hours) and do some rowing and maybe start weightlifting again (not too much because the GaahGirl kicked my stomach to heck and back when she was still an internal appendage). The gym door is just a few doors away from ours. So that's good.
The pool is less than a block away, but we won't get to use that until Spring. However, BigGrampa (the FoilDad) is coming to visit (yup, my family: never let me complain about them again) and is staying at a very close by hotel. His hotel will have an indoor pool, and the Foilkid will go swimming with her Big Grampa (she, I am really happy to say, doesn't call the shorter Second Mate "Little Grampa" -- she's a smart girl).
I still want my books though. Want 'em, want 'em, want 'em. I gave a few to FoilMormor for safekeeping when I saw where this was heading (yes BLBRF, that includes your book), so I'll collect those tomorrow, I hope. Anyway, I have my music, my guitars, my knitting, a few books, and can always get more. But I want my signed first edition of A Midwife's Tale, by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, written when she taught a class I was taking and before she won the Pulitzer Prize for Good Wives. And many others. Many, many others.
But the real lessen here is this: what I am missing are the books. I'm relieved to have had the PdeFF-ectomy, even if he will remain as scar tissue for a good long while. I'll still have to deal with him, to protect my girls, but I no longer have to clean up after him in so many ways. Well, that's not quite true. There is more cleanup in my future. But it may be a large, Superfund style cleanup, but it is finite. Before, it was neverending. I'll sleep well tonight, too.
Mountains of Things (Particularly Clothes & Books)
I left behind all the furniture (FoilMormor rented). I left behind the stereo, TV, DVD, VCR, high-speed internet access, and everything else. The Mercedes (like I care!!!). The comfy chair. I left behind most of my clothes. I left behind the vast, vast majority of my books.
I do miss the kitchen stuff. I need cutting board, a griddle, an electric mixer, a toaster, and lots of other nice things. I do not miss the TV at all. I have my guitars and my knitting. The GaahGirl has her toy piano and a few board books to chew on. The Foilkid has a number of books, two teddy bears, all her quilts, and a variety of other fun things. I have my guitars. I nabbed all the kids clothes (except coats, which I will need soon).
Eventually PdeFF must let me into the house. It is, after all, my house too. But in the meantime, I don't have most of my work clothes. It's a bit of a handicap. Especially since I am not buying any clothes. I haven't bought clothes, except one maternity outfit, since April of 2004 (1 dress). I like nice clothes. Silk. Cashmere. Stuff that feels nice. It's hard to find nice clothes that fit me, and I have clothes that I bought in the 1980s that I still wear now. Most of my wardrobe was bought no later than 1999. I don't want to replace this stuff. I can live on way less than what I had, but I want more than what I have right now. Especially my red summer and winter dresses (I have one for each season). I have neither with me now.
Worse than the clothes are the books. I have books for every mood. I have The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, which I bought back in 1986 or so. I am sure I will read it someday, I just haven't yet. I have Lady Oracle, by Margaret Atwood, also bought in the 1980s (when rooming with Innana). I have read that book many times, most recently 5 years ago or so. I might want to read it again. The Lives of the Kings and Queens of England. Fraser's Mary, Queen of Scots. If on a Winter's Night a Traveller, by Italo Calvino. La Guerra del Fin del Mundo and its English translation, The War of the End of the World, by Mario Vargas Llosa (and by the same author, Lituma en los Andes, and its mistranslation Death in the Andes). The retranslation of Don Quijote that Innana gave me for my birthday this Spring. The latest P.D. James, Tony Hillerman, and Sue Grafton detective novels. Some Andre Norton science fiction books. My knitting compendia. Cookbooks. All my books on depression and ADHD. My dictionary, thesaurus, and books on writing. Poetry by Auden and Cavafy. Back When We Were Grownups, by Anne Tyler. I, Etc., by Susan Sontag. Any number of books by Julian Barnes, Joan Didion, Martin Amis, Margaret Atwood, Jane Smiley, Marianne Wiggins, Elizabeth Bowen, Isak Dinesen, David Lodge, and Anne Beattie. Foilkid's Junie B. Jones books. The Wonderful Adventures of Nils. Thee, Hannah. Many, many more. I only have 10 or so books with me in the new apartment. It's just not enough.
I hate wanting possessions that much. But books aren't possessions. They are like friends. They keep me company. They are comforting to hold. Holding a nice hardcover book and turning either crisp new or well-worn and fingered pages is a pleasure unlike any other. My first job in Washington, DC was with a publication that at that time issued out of the Smithsonian Castle. I worked in one of the turrets. But better than the sensation of working in a castle was the true magic I possessed whenever I went to work at the Library of Congress. I had a stack pass.
For those of you who do not know the true glory of this relic (they are harder to come by nowadays), at least to a bibliophile (possibly a bibliomaniac) like me, now this: the Library of Congress is not an open access library. It has closed stacks and normally when researching, one gives (at least in the early 80s, the system has probably changed) little slips detailing one's requests to a librarian who would then order that book for you from the stacks. You would wait an hour or two to start your research for the day. This problem did not face a young woman with a stack pass. I simply showed my pass to the guard and wandered through the stacks at will. One day I took a wrong turn and spend much of a morning looking through books on the Thirty Years War. I'd never heard of it before. Serendipity was my friend.
Not only did I have a stack pass, I worked for an institution with interlibrary loan privileges from the Library of Congress. I borrowed books for my job and for myself. The job only paid $150/month (a pittance, even then), which did not cover rent. Fortunately, the FoilDad's older brother, BigBob (in the parlance of the Foilkid) lived in the area and I stayed with his family, reading every book I could and occasionally seeing various sights in the area. That's probably why I ended up here.
I miss my books. I have about 2,000 too few books, as a conservative estimate.
I do miss the kitchen stuff. I need cutting board, a griddle, an electric mixer, a toaster, and lots of other nice things. I do not miss the TV at all. I have my guitars and my knitting. The GaahGirl has her toy piano and a few board books to chew on. The Foilkid has a number of books, two teddy bears, all her quilts, and a variety of other fun things. I have my guitars. I nabbed all the kids clothes (except coats, which I will need soon).
Eventually PdeFF must let me into the house. It is, after all, my house too. But in the meantime, I don't have most of my work clothes. It's a bit of a handicap. Especially since I am not buying any clothes. I haven't bought clothes, except one maternity outfit, since April of 2004 (1 dress). I like nice clothes. Silk. Cashmere. Stuff that feels nice. It's hard to find nice clothes that fit me, and I have clothes that I bought in the 1980s that I still wear now. Most of my wardrobe was bought no later than 1999. I don't want to replace this stuff. I can live on way less than what I had, but I want more than what I have right now. Especially my red summer and winter dresses (I have one for each season). I have neither with me now.
Worse than the clothes are the books. I have books for every mood. I have The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, which I bought back in 1986 or so. I am sure I will read it someday, I just haven't yet. I have Lady Oracle, by Margaret Atwood, also bought in the 1980s (when rooming with Innana). I have read that book many times, most recently 5 years ago or so. I might want to read it again. The Lives of the Kings and Queens of England. Fraser's Mary, Queen of Scots. If on a Winter's Night a Traveller, by Italo Calvino. La Guerra del Fin del Mundo and its English translation, The War of the End of the World, by Mario Vargas Llosa (and by the same author, Lituma en los Andes, and its mistranslation Death in the Andes). The retranslation of Don Quijote that Innana gave me for my birthday this Spring. The latest P.D. James, Tony Hillerman, and Sue Grafton detective novels. Some Andre Norton science fiction books. My knitting compendia. Cookbooks. All my books on depression and ADHD. My dictionary, thesaurus, and books on writing. Poetry by Auden and Cavafy. Back When We Were Grownups, by Anne Tyler. I, Etc., by Susan Sontag. Any number of books by Julian Barnes, Joan Didion, Martin Amis, Margaret Atwood, Jane Smiley, Marianne Wiggins, Elizabeth Bowen, Isak Dinesen, David Lodge, and Anne Beattie. Foilkid's Junie B. Jones books. The Wonderful Adventures of Nils. Thee, Hannah. Many, many more. I only have 10 or so books with me in the new apartment. It's just not enough.
I hate wanting possessions that much. But books aren't possessions. They are like friends. They keep me company. They are comforting to hold. Holding a nice hardcover book and turning either crisp new or well-worn and fingered pages is a pleasure unlike any other. My first job in Washington, DC was with a publication that at that time issued out of the Smithsonian Castle. I worked in one of the turrets. But better than the sensation of working in a castle was the true magic I possessed whenever I went to work at the Library of Congress. I had a stack pass.
For those of you who do not know the true glory of this relic (they are harder to come by nowadays), at least to a bibliophile (possibly a bibliomaniac) like me, now this: the Library of Congress is not an open access library. It has closed stacks and normally when researching, one gives (at least in the early 80s, the system has probably changed) little slips detailing one's requests to a librarian who would then order that book for you from the stacks. You would wait an hour or two to start your research for the day. This problem did not face a young woman with a stack pass. I simply showed my pass to the guard and wandered through the stacks at will. One day I took a wrong turn and spend much of a morning looking through books on the Thirty Years War. I'd never heard of it before. Serendipity was my friend.
Not only did I have a stack pass, I worked for an institution with interlibrary loan privileges from the Library of Congress. I borrowed books for my job and for myself. The job only paid $150/month (a pittance, even then), which did not cover rent. Fortunately, the FoilDad's older brother, BigBob (in the parlance of the Foilkid) lived in the area and I stayed with his family, reading every book I could and occasionally seeing various sights in the area. That's probably why I ended up here.
I miss my books. I have about 2,000 too few books, as a conservative estimate.
September 28, 2005
September 27, 2005 (Updated)
It was the best of time, it was the worst of times. It was also the birthday of Innana, lover of Dickens (the writer, not the man). It was the evening before the first night I slept well in close to a year or more.
In case you are just dropping in to this prime-time all-the-time soap opera that is my life, here's the praecis. My husband is nuts, and has been so for a while, but he is really deteriorating. My career has careened away from me. I have two small children, a six-year-old and an 11-month old. I'm 44. My husband used to be a house-husband, he went back to work, and he couldn't work with the cold air coming out of the air conditioner. So he quit or got fired, I'm not sure which. Meanwhile, our marriage has been falling apart, I behaved badly, which he never noticed or discovered, and he spent every remaining dime we had. I opened a separate, me-only account and started putting my wages (he had no earnings) in that account. This culminated with him leaving my daughter up in Canada and thinking about leaving her there permanently so as to save on tuition. I consulted an attorney. We got in an unrelated fight and he hit me. I got a temporary restraining order (TRO) and he was removed from the house. A week later, the restraining order expired as I was unable to convince a judge that my fear was reasonable. My mother, the FoilMormor was visiting and started a campaign to get him to leave the house. He wouldn't. I closed our remaining joint account to cancel the joint line of credit.
FoilMormor and my stepfather, the Second Mate, rented me an apartment for the girls, the babysitter, and me. She rented furniture from AaronRents. She bought groceries. We snuck my guitars and as much of the girls clothes as we could manage and took them to the apartment. Yesterday, we took the baby, the GaahGirl over there, and then picked the Foilkid up from school early. We went back to the house to get more stuff, FoilMormor and I, and were loading up the rental car when my-not-my-ex-husband-soon-enough, PdeFF (Pere des Foilfilles) got home. He ran through the house looking for the kids and then tried to block our car in. We got in the car, but he grabbed my door and held it open. Then he grabbed my arm and then reached and grabbed my mothers hand, and wrenched the cars keys out of her hand (drawing blood). He called the police. I called the police.
The police arrived and definitely had the "this is a domestic disturbance and we really don't care". They told my 70-year old mother that PdeFF wanted to press charges against her for hurting him. FoilMormor showed the policeman her hand. The policeman couldn't seem to comprehend that I didn't want PdeFF to have my home address (which would turn up in the police report). I simply didn't give it to him. He'll find out soon enough, but right now he's too mad. The SecondMate took FoilMormor to the hospital and I went home to the Foilkid and the GaahGirl. PdeFF has changed the locks on the door.
I slept like a baby in my new small apartment with the girls. I'm still incredibly stressed, but the attorneys are trying to work things out. In the state where I reside, prior to a custody agreement, both parents have rights to the children and neither can stop the other parent from seeing or taking them. Of course I'm worried for my girls, because I'm afraid. My attorney is trying to arrange a visitation schedule with his attorney. He wants the babysitter (who I pay) to come with the girls. I'm just tired. FoilMormor and SecondMate are armed and ready for war. I just want a nice hot bath and then spaghetti with meat sauce (Spag Bol, Supercookie and FluffyBunnyMan).
Back to work. I'll be funnier later.
In case you are just dropping in to this prime-time all-the-time soap opera that is my life, here's the praecis. My husband is nuts, and has been so for a while, but he is really deteriorating. My career has careened away from me. I have two small children, a six-year-old and an 11-month old. I'm 44. My husband used to be a house-husband, he went back to work, and he couldn't work with the cold air coming out of the air conditioner. So he quit or got fired, I'm not sure which. Meanwhile, our marriage has been falling apart, I behaved badly, which he never noticed or discovered, and he spent every remaining dime we had. I opened a separate, me-only account and started putting my wages (he had no earnings) in that account. This culminated with him leaving my daughter up in Canada and thinking about leaving her there permanently so as to save on tuition. I consulted an attorney. We got in an unrelated fight and he hit me. I got a temporary restraining order (TRO) and he was removed from the house. A week later, the restraining order expired as I was unable to convince a judge that my fear was reasonable. My mother, the FoilMormor was visiting and started a campaign to get him to leave the house. He wouldn't. I closed our remaining joint account to cancel the joint line of credit.
FoilMormor and my stepfather, the Second Mate, rented me an apartment for the girls, the babysitter, and me. She rented furniture from AaronRents. She bought groceries. We snuck my guitars and as much of the girls clothes as we could manage and took them to the apartment. Yesterday, we took the baby, the GaahGirl over there, and then picked the Foilkid up from school early. We went back to the house to get more stuff, FoilMormor and I, and were loading up the rental car when my-not-my-ex-husband-soon-enough, PdeFF (Pere des Foilfilles) got home. He ran through the house looking for the kids and then tried to block our car in. We got in the car, but he grabbed my door and held it open. Then he grabbed my arm and then reached and grabbed my mothers hand, and wrenched the cars keys out of her hand (drawing blood). He called the police. I called the police.
The police arrived and definitely had the "this is a domestic disturbance and we really don't care". They told my 70-year old mother that PdeFF wanted to press charges against her for hurting him. FoilMormor showed the policeman her hand. The policeman couldn't seem to comprehend that I didn't want PdeFF to have my home address (which would turn up in the police report). I simply didn't give it to him. He'll find out soon enough, but right now he's too mad. The SecondMate took FoilMormor to the hospital and I went home to the Foilkid and the GaahGirl. PdeFF has changed the locks on the door.
I slept like a baby in my new small apartment with the girls. I'm still incredibly stressed, but the attorneys are trying to work things out. In the state where I reside, prior to a custody agreement, both parents have rights to the children and neither can stop the other parent from seeing or taking them. Of course I'm worried for my girls, because I'm afraid. My attorney is trying to arrange a visitation schedule with his attorney. He wants the babysitter (who I pay) to come with the girls. I'm just tired. FoilMormor and SecondMate are armed and ready for war. I just want a nice hot bath and then spaghetti with meat sauce (Spag Bol, Supercookie and FluffyBunnyMan).
Back to work. I'll be funnier later.
September 27, 2005
Goddess Day (Fall is a Good Time to Be a Fertility/Chocolate Goddess)
It's Innana second or so 29th birthday. I shouldn't have to say more than that. BLRBF, signed baseball books?
Moving On
As I mentioned, tomorrow (actually today, it's 2:12 a.m.) is moving day. FoilMormor is fixing up the apartment. Furniture was rented. Then we get to see what the reaction is. I really hope to god he doesn't cry. Please, please, please be a stoic. And then come to your senses and agree to sell the house and rent something else nearby. At least tomorrow night, I'll be in my new home. I've got to try to get some sleep.
Smells
It's ironic, really. This whole saga of marital estrangement and isolation, mental illness, infidelity, angst, a little bit (not much) of domestic violence, court battles, and now incipient separation began with PdeFF smelling things that weren't there ("olfactory hallucinations"). Back in 1999, he sensed dangerous dust on his desk at work that affected his ability to do his job. The burning sensation caused by this dust and, indeed, the dust (entirely imaginary) itself, migrated to our home. He became a stay at home Dad. This time it was the air conditioning unit at work with harshly cold air that aggrieved his nose. For me, that was the last straw. No, the punch in the arm was the last straw, but only in the sense that all I needed was just one more thing.
I say the situation is ironic because I actually have an acute sense of smell and taste (taste is mostly smell). I'm not a supertaster like Innana (thanks, Prom, for the reference), which I think implies heightened sensitivity to specific slightly off notes, such as sour or bitter, but I am more aware of smells and tastes than most people seem to be. Particularly, I can smell things the way I imagine animals do. I can smell when people are on certain medicines or have certain conditions: the smell of insanity that comes with heavy psychotropic drugs like thorazine, the metallic taste and smell that accompanies taking Nardil, the sweet happy smell of a well cared for baby, the musky smell of a man who is clean, but has been active, the smell of a woman during different stages of her cycle, the smell of illness, the smell of arousal or sex. I wonder how long I missed PdeFF's delusional smells, and how I managed to do so.
It's also ironic because PdeFF right now is not exuding the smell of fear (bitter and acrid) or any other external indicator. I'm pretty sure he's not taking his medicine. Zyprexa doesn't have a strong after-smell, but is leaves residual traces. However, his lack of smell isn't comforting; it's more of an absence where there should be something.
I however, am exuding the smell of fear. It's not pleasant. Of course, PdeFF, noticing all the non-existent smells, is completely unaware of this smell and its meaning in his life. Note to self: when partner smells particular nervous or afraid in one's presence, this is not a good sign.
Tomorrow is moving day. It may take a few days to get hooked up at home (Internet-wise) and I can only briefly visit the net from work. Innana, humbly beseech you, update if there's anything to update. Sorry to ask a favor for you on your 29th birthday. Happy birthday Innana.
I say the situation is ironic because I actually have an acute sense of smell and taste (taste is mostly smell). I'm not a supertaster like Innana (thanks, Prom, for the reference), which I think implies heightened sensitivity to specific slightly off notes, such as sour or bitter, but I am more aware of smells and tastes than most people seem to be. Particularly, I can smell things the way I imagine animals do. I can smell when people are on certain medicines or have certain conditions: the smell of insanity that comes with heavy psychotropic drugs like thorazine, the metallic taste and smell that accompanies taking Nardil, the sweet happy smell of a well cared for baby, the musky smell of a man who is clean, but has been active, the smell of a woman during different stages of her cycle, the smell of illness, the smell of arousal or sex. I wonder how long I missed PdeFF's delusional smells, and how I managed to do so.
It's also ironic because PdeFF right now is not exuding the smell of fear (bitter and acrid) or any other external indicator. I'm pretty sure he's not taking his medicine. Zyprexa doesn't have a strong after-smell, but is leaves residual traces. However, his lack of smell isn't comforting; it's more of an absence where there should be something.
I however, am exuding the smell of fear. It's not pleasant. Of course, PdeFF, noticing all the non-existent smells, is completely unaware of this smell and its meaning in his life. Note to self: when partner smells particular nervous or afraid in one's presence, this is not a good sign.
Tomorrow is moving day. It may take a few days to get hooked up at home (Internet-wise) and I can only briefly visit the net from work. Innana, humbly beseech you, update if there's anything to update. Sorry to ask a favor for you on your 29th birthday. Happy birthday Innana.
September 25, 2005
Kryptonite and Loss of Superheroine Status or Plan B (from Outer Space)
One of my basic tenets for dealing with life in general, or with life crises in particular, is this: you have to have a flexible response system. By a flexible response system I do not mean moral relativity. I mean, one must be ready to shift with ever-changing conditions. I can't get PdeFF out of the house in the short term. FoilMormor and the SecondMate can't stay down here forever. I can't live with my husband now that he has demonstrated a willingness to engage in physical violence, no matter that the judge characterized the violence as "nominal abuse".
FoilMormor has, all my life, been very, very cheap. Incredibly cheap. Not so right now. She and the SecondMate just rented a two-bedroom two-bath apartment a ten minute walk from my current home. The hope is that Mr. Foilwoman will see the light and move into the apartment, but the reality is that he won't (he hasn't acted rationally in recent memory, so I don't expect him to start now). FoilMormor and her SecondMate are getting the Foilfilles and myself moved in by Wednesday. I feel a bit queasy at the money they are spending, but I'm not stopping them. I'm going to have to sell the house, but will obviously have to wait until PdeFF realizes he can't afford cable, much less gas, water, electricity or other utilities or expenses. I should feel sad, but I just feel relieved.
My life is an absolute disaster right now, but I feel quite hopeful. The Foilkid is actually closer to her school than we were at our house. The apartment is quite nice. There is a pool the Foilfilles can swim in in summer. There is a workout room. I'll get a parking space (and FoilMormor is, of course, giving me her old car: 1991 White Suburu Legacy station wagon with 200K miles or so). I won't be living with someone who isn't rational or sane. I can set up a regular bedtime for the kids.
FoilMormor and SecondMate will travel home on Friday after the Foilfilles and I are settled. GaahGirl won't notice a thing. I think her mental processes consist of these thoughts: Yummy! Shiny! Owww!!!! Grrrr! Happy! Sad. Angry!!!! Yummy! Shiny. Cuddle, cuddle, cuddle, mmmm. Actually, not that different from my mental processes. The Foilkid is going to have a bit of a tough time.
I don't feel much like FoilWoman, rescuer of the downtrodden right now. I barely feel capable of dressing myself in the morning. Nonetheless, my meddling genes are intact. I have found a nice young man from the same homeland as my babysitter, who is a little lonely. He works at the new apartment complex in a responsible job. He is single. I'm going to make sure that when we need to get certain paperwork done, the babysitter drops it off. Yup. I come from a great meddling tradition, and I'm not going to quit now.
FoilMormor has, all my life, been very, very cheap. Incredibly cheap. Not so right now. She and the SecondMate just rented a two-bedroom two-bath apartment a ten minute walk from my current home. The hope is that Mr. Foilwoman will see the light and move into the apartment, but the reality is that he won't (he hasn't acted rationally in recent memory, so I don't expect him to start now). FoilMormor and her SecondMate are getting the Foilfilles and myself moved in by Wednesday. I feel a bit queasy at the money they are spending, but I'm not stopping them. I'm going to have to sell the house, but will obviously have to wait until PdeFF realizes he can't afford cable, much less gas, water, electricity or other utilities or expenses. I should feel sad, but I just feel relieved.
My life is an absolute disaster right now, but I feel quite hopeful. The Foilkid is actually closer to her school than we were at our house. The apartment is quite nice. There is a pool the Foilfilles can swim in in summer. There is a workout room. I'll get a parking space (and FoilMormor is, of course, giving me her old car: 1991 White Suburu Legacy station wagon with 200K miles or so). I won't be living with someone who isn't rational or sane. I can set up a regular bedtime for the kids.
FoilMormor and SecondMate will travel home on Friday after the Foilfilles and I are settled. GaahGirl won't notice a thing. I think her mental processes consist of these thoughts: Yummy! Shiny! Owww!!!! Grrrr! Happy! Sad. Angry!!!! Yummy! Shiny. Cuddle, cuddle, cuddle, mmmm. Actually, not that different from my mental processes. The Foilkid is going to have a bit of a tough time.
I don't feel much like FoilWoman, rescuer of the downtrodden right now. I barely feel capable of dressing myself in the morning. Nonetheless, my meddling genes are intact. I have found a nice young man from the same homeland as my babysitter, who is a little lonely. He works at the new apartment complex in a responsible job. He is single. I'm going to make sure that when we need to get certain paperwork done, the babysitter drops it off. Yup. I come from a great meddling tradition, and I'm not going to quit now.
Test Results Differ by Mood and Alcohol Consumption
Delta Diva of Flesh and Bone tagged me with the seven series questionnaire. I filled answered these questions on September 8 for my beloved Supercookie (harrasser of the meek, mild Fluffy Bunny Man). However, whenever I take one of those online IQ tests, or a version of the Myers Briggs test, my results vary depending on mood, alcohol consumption, and a variety of other factors (time of month, availability of chocolate, etc.). Basically, my IQ gets higher with each drink up to a maximum of 2 (more than two and I just don't complete the quiz). I become less extroverted and more introverted with each drink. I become less of a senser and more of a thinker with each drink.
7 things I plan to do before I die:
----------------------------------------------
1. Light candles at Innana's shrine in profound gratitute every day for the rest of my life.
2. Repay FoilMormor and the SecondMate.
3. Make sure the Foilkid has some strong, competent, yet caring male role models around without any regard to whether those men are having a physical relationship with me.
4. Watch my daughters take over the world.
5. Visit BJ and My Eminence in Australia; Supercookie and FluffyBunnyMan in the U.K.; De-ID Man in South Africa; Zoe in Belgium; the Useless Men in the Great White North; DD in Richmond; Champurrado at any location he chooses as long as he provides cake; Kira in France (or, as a poor second choice, South Carolina), Prom in Boston, New York (Mt. Sinai!), or New Jersey; Wordwhiz in Connecticut; Andy, Renee, & Dane in Illinois or Vegas!Baby; MBFFHS in Austria; Innana living back in her beloved England (some nice British guy should marry her and allow her to emigrate: I'm just saying); just about everyone else who has ever posted here, somewhere; BLBRF somewhere nice; a whole bunch of people at the bar at Essex House off Central Park.
6. Be able to play good clear bar chords on my twelve-string guitar.
7. Get Mr. Foilwoman out of the house.
7 things I cannot do:
------------------------------
1. Stay with my husband.
2. Get Dubya to admit that he has done for New Orleans what he did for Iraq.
3. Make the friendship or attraction amongst any other person and myself mutual or equal (it's always a little off balance -- sometimes in my favor, sometimes not).
4. Believe there is a truly loving god, although I hope I am wrong.
5. Find time to draw as well as play the guitar.
6. Suffer fools gladly.
7. Figure out what went wrong with PdeFF.
7 things that attract me to the same (or opposite) sex:
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
1. Their existence (trying to be honest here). Okay, a pulse, respiration, and cerebral functioning are good too.
2. Intelligence
3. Nice smell
4. Eyes
5. Hands
6. Ability to be silly and not take oneself too seriously
7. Demonstrated attraction to me
(This whole set of seven remains the same) Also: expressiveness (in words and gestures), sensual nature, willingness to take risks, good kissing, etc.
7 things that I say most often:
------------------------------------------
1. Am I doing the right thing?
2. There's always room for [Foilkid's name] on Mommy's lap.
3. If we just cut out xxx, we should be able to manage. I don't need to get my hair styled, do I?
4. Yeah, it's going to be just nifty being a single 44-year old woman with two young children, one under the age of one. I'm going to be a real prize.
5. Yes, I'm still interested in the job. When is a convenient interview time for you (actually, I'm not saying this phrase as often as I would like to be saying it).
6. [Innana's real name, which mere mortals are forbidden to speak], how did I get into this complete disaster?
7. Could you stand to the right please? I actually want to catch a train, odd as it may seem, since this is, indeed, a Metrorail station. . . . What do you mean, there's no need to be snippy? Of course there is? I've got the retardo family in front of me, I'm late for work, I get paid by the hour, and YOU ARE BLOCKING MY WAY. So move. (THIS NEVER CHANGES: If you are travelling in DC and take the Metro during normal commuting hours, STAND TO THE FUCKING RIGHT. Thank you.)
7 celebrity (or historical) crushes:
----------------------------
1. Geronimo
2. William Tecumseh Sherman (don't ask)
3. Pablo Neruda
4. Leonard Cohen (just for writing Suzanne and Take this Longing)
5. Julian Barnes
6. Robert Browning
7. Chief Joseph
7 people I want to do this (only a few have changed, since only DD and My eminence actually took my request to heart).
------------------------------------
1. Wordwhiz
2. Champurrado
3. De-ID man
4. Rainy Pete
5. Bronze John
6. Jodster
7. Happy and Blue
7 things I plan to do before I die:
----------------------------------------------
1. Light candles at Innana's shrine in profound gratitute every day for the rest of my life.
2. Repay FoilMormor and the SecondMate.
3. Make sure the Foilkid has some strong, competent, yet caring male role models around without any regard to whether those men are having a physical relationship with me.
4. Watch my daughters take over the world.
5. Visit BJ and My Eminence in Australia; Supercookie and FluffyBunnyMan in the U.K.; De-ID Man in South Africa; Zoe in Belgium; the Useless Men in the Great White North; DD in Richmond; Champurrado at any location he chooses as long as he provides cake; Kira in France (or, as a poor second choice, South Carolina), Prom in Boston, New York (Mt. Sinai!), or New Jersey; Wordwhiz in Connecticut; Andy, Renee, & Dane in Illinois or Vegas!Baby; MBFFHS in Austria; Innana living back in her beloved England (some nice British guy should marry her and allow her to emigrate: I'm just saying); just about everyone else who has ever posted here, somewhere; BLBRF somewhere nice; a whole bunch of people at the bar at Essex House off Central Park.
6. Be able to play good clear bar chords on my twelve-string guitar.
7. Get Mr. Foilwoman out of the house.
7 things I cannot do:
------------------------------
1. Stay with my husband.
2. Get Dubya to admit that he has done for New Orleans what he did for Iraq.
3. Make the friendship or attraction amongst any other person and myself mutual or equal (it's always a little off balance -- sometimes in my favor, sometimes not).
4. Believe there is a truly loving god, although I hope I am wrong.
5. Find time to draw as well as play the guitar.
6. Suffer fools gladly.
7. Figure out what went wrong with PdeFF.
7 things that attract me to the same (or opposite) sex:
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
1. Their existence (trying to be honest here). Okay, a pulse, respiration, and cerebral functioning are good too.
2. Intelligence
3. Nice smell
4. Eyes
5. Hands
6. Ability to be silly and not take oneself too seriously
7. Demonstrated attraction to me
(This whole set of seven remains the same) Also: expressiveness (in words and gestures), sensual nature, willingness to take risks, good kissing, etc.
7 things that I say most often:
------------------------------------------
1. Am I doing the right thing?
2. There's always room for [Foilkid's name] on Mommy's lap.
3. If we just cut out xxx, we should be able to manage. I don't need to get my hair styled, do I?
4. Yeah, it's going to be just nifty being a single 44-year old woman with two young children, one under the age of one. I'm going to be a real prize.
5. Yes, I'm still interested in the job. When is a convenient interview time for you (actually, I'm not saying this phrase as often as I would like to be saying it).
6. [Innana's real name, which mere mortals are forbidden to speak], how did I get into this complete disaster?
7. Could you stand to the right please? I actually want to catch a train, odd as it may seem, since this is, indeed, a Metrorail station. . . . What do you mean, there's no need to be snippy? Of course there is? I've got the retardo family in front of me, I'm late for work, I get paid by the hour, and YOU ARE BLOCKING MY WAY. So move. (THIS NEVER CHANGES: If you are travelling in DC and take the Metro during normal commuting hours, STAND TO THE FUCKING RIGHT. Thank you.)
7 celebrity (or historical) crushes:
----------------------------
1. Geronimo
2. William Tecumseh Sherman (don't ask)
3. Pablo Neruda
4. Leonard Cohen (just for writing Suzanne and Take this Longing)
5. Julian Barnes
6. Robert Browning
7. Chief Joseph
7 people I want to do this (only a few have changed, since only DD and My eminence actually took my request to heart).
------------------------------------
1. Wordwhiz
2. Champurrado
3. De-ID man
4. Rainy Pete
5. Bronze John
6. Jodster
7. Happy and Blue
September 24, 2005
Confinement, the Movie: A Review
Innana brought over a DVD of a movie a mutual acquaintance of ours acted in. The movie is Confinement, which was written, directed, and produced by David Lee Stewart. David Lee Stewart also stars. Coincidence? I don't think so.
The movie steals from many, many sources. It's sort of a sci-fi/adventure type movie. Basic plot is stolen from the short story "The Most Dangerous Game". People are kidnapped and hunted in a game preserve, until they turn the tables on the hunters. Key features include a "forcefield" that looks ever so much like a bug zapper, a complete lack of acting ability by everyone except the female lead, Bette Cassat, one of the many villains played by someone who looks like Brent Spiner's less successful twin, and a wardrobe clearly stolen from a hospital supply company.
It was a blast. Everyone who can should see this movie. Order it now from Mr. Stewart's website. As you watch it, ask yourself, why do the characters introduce themselves by saying where they are from, not what their names are? And why the sky blue outfits? And are we really supposed to believe that a supervillain multimillionaire has his house decorated at Target?
Anyone who sees this movie, send me an estimate of the amount spent to make the movie. Was it: $200, $500, $2000, $5000, $10,000, or $50,000? Any amount spent is clearly not visible in the production values. I had a blast watching it.
The movie steals from many, many sources. It's sort of a sci-fi/adventure type movie. Basic plot is stolen from the short story "The Most Dangerous Game". People are kidnapped and hunted in a game preserve, until they turn the tables on the hunters. Key features include a "forcefield" that looks ever so much like a bug zapper, a complete lack of acting ability by everyone except the female lead, Bette Cassat, one of the many villains played by someone who looks like Brent Spiner's less successful twin, and a wardrobe clearly stolen from a hospital supply company.
It was a blast. Everyone who can should see this movie. Order it now from Mr. Stewart's website. As you watch it, ask yourself, why do the characters introduce themselves by saying where they are from, not what their names are? And why the sky blue outfits? And are we really supposed to believe that a supervillain multimillionaire has his house decorated at Target?
Anyone who sees this movie, send me an estimate of the amount spent to make the movie. Was it: $200, $500, $2000, $5000, $10,000, or $50,000? Any amount spent is clearly not visible in the production values. I had a blast watching it.
Sometimes, Life Just Bites (and Not in a Good Way)
Today was one of those times. FoilMormor and the SecondMate were here, trying to get my life in order. Not going so well. It appears that the Foilfilles and I will be moving into a rental apartment while we wait for PdeFF to realize that he has no money, no way to support himself and no warm welcome to come from me. Once he realizes he can't afford the house, he should be willing to move into this rented apartment, which my parents (I feel real shame about this) are planning on paying for, just to get me and the girls out of the house with him. The problem is, we can't expect him to act even remotely rationally.
FoilMormor is taking tonight off. Since I don't really want to be in the house alone with PdeFF, Innana is here, Foilwomansitting. It's a tough job, but someone has got to do it. We watched a movie with a friend of Innana's (merely an acquaintance of mine) in it. A dreadful movie, but for that friend. Review next. So bad it's good. Maybe that's what my life is like.
FoilMormor is taking tonight off. Since I don't really want to be in the house alone with PdeFF, Innana is here, Foilwomansitting. It's a tough job, but someone has got to do it. We watched a movie with a friend of Innana's (merely an acquaintance of mine) in it. A dreadful movie, but for that friend. Review next. So bad it's good. Maybe that's what my life is like.
September 23, 2005
I Don't Want to Be Needy
Everyone keeps telling me how amazing it is that I am doing so well. Of course, I am doing no such thing. I have a very nice knack of seeming to be put together, even when I am crumbling into a hundred thousand little pieces. I know why I do this.
As much as people claim to be givers and like taking care of people, it has always seemed to me that when you express true need the normal reaction is to flee. I am doing that right now. Who could possibly be needier than PdeFF? My urge? Flight. So I can't blame anyone who reacts that way to the abyss of need for rescue that is my life. The minute I let it loose and show how much reassurrance and support I need, anyone with any sense should flee. Anyone who doesn't already know me and love me.
But that's the cheering thing. I do know that some people won't run away. Innana is coming over tomorrow to spend the night, giving FoilMormor a break. FoilMormor is staying down here until things get resolved. FoilDad will arrive from Europe in mid-October. Uber is trying to run things like a railroad. The SecondMate and FoilMormor will meet with my attorney tomorrow to discussion PdeFF-ectomy procedures and approaches not yet tried. The woman who introduced PdeFF to me has offered the Foilfilles and me a place to stay should we need it.
And new friends in unexpected places also show up. I've spoken to both Champurrado and Cookie Monster this week; what a treat. My Eminence, Benedict the XVI sent goodies from Australia (Oz!) including artwork from the Benniette. BLBRF took me to dinner, gave me a book I look forward to reading, a lovely evening, and a fun story to tell. Handyman, even though we have parted (due to my marital disasters, and his wife's serious illness), still calls and takes me for ice cream and has offered his services in the PdeFF-ectomy area, even though we both agree that would be wildly inappropriate and probably cause more trouble than it's worth. Kira, Amieo, and Prom have given such wise advice and offered help in many other ways. Everyone who posted on my map. Anyone else I haven't listed but should have.
Who among these new friends will be a friend a year from now or ten? The needy person in me (very, very needy right now) wants instant proof that everyone will be a significant part of my life at some indeterminate point in the future. And that I will be significant in their lives. Of course, I can't have that proof. But thank you for the present kindnesses and offers of friendship. I don't want to chase anyone away with neediness, but it is wonderful to have the response to need be warmth and humanity, and I need to remember that.
Going to try to sleep.
As much as people claim to be givers and like taking care of people, it has always seemed to me that when you express true need the normal reaction is to flee. I am doing that right now. Who could possibly be needier than PdeFF? My urge? Flight. So I can't blame anyone who reacts that way to the abyss of need for rescue that is my life. The minute I let it loose and show how much reassurrance and support I need, anyone with any sense should flee. Anyone who doesn't already know me and love me.
But that's the cheering thing. I do know that some people won't run away. Innana is coming over tomorrow to spend the night, giving FoilMormor a break. FoilMormor is staying down here until things get resolved. FoilDad will arrive from Europe in mid-October. Uber is trying to run things like a railroad. The SecondMate and FoilMormor will meet with my attorney tomorrow to discussion PdeFF-ectomy procedures and approaches not yet tried. The woman who introduced PdeFF to me has offered the Foilfilles and me a place to stay should we need it.
And new friends in unexpected places also show up. I've spoken to both Champurrado and Cookie Monster this week; what a treat. My Eminence, Benedict the XVI sent goodies from Australia (Oz!) including artwork from the Benniette. BLBRF took me to dinner, gave me a book I look forward to reading, a lovely evening, and a fun story to tell. Handyman, even though we have parted (due to my marital disasters, and his wife's serious illness), still calls and takes me for ice cream and has offered his services in the PdeFF-ectomy area, even though we both agree that would be wildly inappropriate and probably cause more trouble than it's worth. Kira, Amieo, and Prom have given such wise advice and offered help in many other ways. Everyone who posted on my map. Anyone else I haven't listed but should have.
Who among these new friends will be a friend a year from now or ten? The needy person in me (very, very needy right now) wants instant proof that everyone will be a significant part of my life at some indeterminate point in the future. And that I will be significant in their lives. Of course, I can't have that proof. But thank you for the present kindnesses and offers of friendship. I don't want to chase anyone away with neediness, but it is wonderful to have the response to need be warmth and humanity, and I need to remember that.
Going to try to sleep.
Notice to Dave O., GBM (really FBM), Dane's Dad, Kira, Champurrado, MUTMC
Please note that Innana has tagged you. See below and Innana's blog.
7 people I want to do this:
1. Dave O.
2. Gawblimeyman
3. Andy the Manly One
4. Kira
5. Champurrado
7. Rainy Pete
7 people I want to do this:
1. Dave O.
2. Gawblimeyman
3. Andy the Manly One
4. Kira
5. Champurrado
7. Rainy Pete
Out of Touch (Phoneless)
Since starting my nomadic, no-fixed address temp/contract work, I have become dependent upon my cell phone, which I had hitherto despised. Since last Tuesday (TRO date), I have actually become one of those people who is always connected to her cell. Talking to my lawyer, talking to Innana, talking to FoilMormor, whoever.
I left the phone home today. Not good. I need to call a friend to get some information, and all my phone numbers are in the cell.
The SecondMate (FoilMormor's new and improved second husband) arrives this afternoon to help provide assistance in the troubling issue of what to do with PdeFF and how to get him to do it. This is going to be unpleasant, and since PdeFF finds the SecondMate very intimidating, I'm not quite sure that SecondMate's presence will smooth things over (although I'm pretty sure his presence will get things done).
I had a lovely dinner last night with BLBRF, who kindly gave me a ride to a grocery store to bring home gallons of milk for the Foilkid, babysitter, and GaahGirl. It was a beautiful evening, and I had the lamb shank something or other at Indique. Nice and spicy. Good conversation, and relief from cares for a little while. Nothing like being looked at with kindness and admiration to make one feel better.
I got home, and PdeFF was gone, which filled me with relief. He really scared me when he came in the house around midnight. He can't really be sleeping when he comes "home", and it can't really feel like home at this point. Starting a couple of years ago, after gentle persuasion didn't work ("touch me here, honey") I had started suggesting couples therapy or sex therapy, and told him in words of one syllable that our sex life just did not work and he must get help. He did not. After GaahGirls birth and the disappearance of most of our money, I told him things had to change. In April, I sent his psychiatrist a lengthy letter, detailing my concerns about his loss of emphathy and other issues. In July, I separated finances and opened my own bank account. In September, after he lost the last job after less than three weeks, I told him I didn't think there was much to the marriage to save. Once he hit me, I got a TRO and had him picked up by the sheriff's deputies and barred from the house. I changed the locks. When the TRO expired and was not made permanent, I moved my things out of the bedroom. I closed the joint account (moving half the money into a savings account for him). I've told him I want him to leave. Exactly what will it take for him to get the message? Oh, and I've moved his previously loving mother-in-law into the house after her transformation into a fury.
Amieo: Could you up the dose on the voodoo? I really, really want him to go away. Ugh.
I'll sit and think about dinner last night and then get back to work.
I left the phone home today. Not good. I need to call a friend to get some information, and all my phone numbers are in the cell.
The SecondMate (FoilMormor's new and improved second husband) arrives this afternoon to help provide assistance in the troubling issue of what to do with PdeFF and how to get him to do it. This is going to be unpleasant, and since PdeFF finds the SecondMate very intimidating, I'm not quite sure that SecondMate's presence will smooth things over (although I'm pretty sure his presence will get things done).
I had a lovely dinner last night with BLBRF, who kindly gave me a ride to a grocery store to bring home gallons of milk for the Foilkid, babysitter, and GaahGirl. It was a beautiful evening, and I had the lamb shank something or other at Indique. Nice and spicy. Good conversation, and relief from cares for a little while. Nothing like being looked at with kindness and admiration to make one feel better.
I got home, and PdeFF was gone, which filled me with relief. He really scared me when he came in the house around midnight. He can't really be sleeping when he comes "home", and it can't really feel like home at this point. Starting a couple of years ago, after gentle persuasion didn't work ("touch me here, honey") I had started suggesting couples therapy or sex therapy, and told him in words of one syllable that our sex life just did not work and he must get help. He did not. After GaahGirls birth and the disappearance of most of our money, I told him things had to change. In April, I sent his psychiatrist a lengthy letter, detailing my concerns about his loss of emphathy and other issues. In July, I separated finances and opened my own bank account. In September, after he lost the last job after less than three weeks, I told him I didn't think there was much to the marriage to save. Once he hit me, I got a TRO and had him picked up by the sheriff's deputies and barred from the house. I changed the locks. When the TRO expired and was not made permanent, I moved my things out of the bedroom. I closed the joint account (moving half the money into a savings account for him). I've told him I want him to leave. Exactly what will it take for him to get the message? Oh, and I've moved his previously loving mother-in-law into the house after her transformation into a fury.
Amieo: Could you up the dose on the voodoo? I really, really want him to go away. Ugh.
I'll sit and think about dinner last night and then get back to work.
September 22, 2005
About Being Dogged
Champurrado has kindly shared his thoughts with the Internet about his internal debate regarding whether or not to be dogged or dogless, but he has forgotten one key aspect of doggedness. Basically, dogs are social animals. Whoever is dogged is regarded by that dog as another dog. Dogs don't have a sense of privacy and don't have much of a sense of shame. They certainly don't regard necking, or petting, or sex as something to ignore.
I am remembering visiting with a male friend, who I hoped would be more, and getting very excited, only to be given pause by the fact that Edna the Wonderdog wanted to join in. Or at least find out what was going on. So there I am, snuggling up on the couch with an attractive man who seemed to think the same of me. Lots of nice touching, biting, kissing, and licking going on. He's biting my lower lip. But who is that licking my hand? Oops! It's Edna the Wonderdog. Fortunately, Edna knew how to sit when told. But then things get a little noisy. Edna thinks it's time for the pack howl hour. Arrooooooo-ooooh. Another break in the action. After a few more howling, snuffling around, and attempts to join the party on the couch, Edna the Wonderdog receives a new chew toy and I can get back to playing with mine. But less determined women than myself might have been driven away. So while puppies in the park might be chick magnets, being dogged otherwise might have a bit of a preventative effect. So parents of pre-teens and teens take note -- this could be a strategy you might want to consider.
Especially when all those hormones are making your previously itsy bitsy babies, innocent little lambs, feel something like this:
Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido lÃquido de tus pies en el dÃa.
Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada,
de tus manos color de furioso granero,
tengo hambre de la pálida piedra de tus uñas,
quiero comer tu piel como una intacta almendra.
Quiero comer el rayo quemado en tu hermosura,
la nariz soberana del arrogante rostro,
quiero comer la sombra fugaz de tus pestañas
y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo
buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente
como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe.
Or, for those of you unfortunate enough not to read Castilian Spanish:
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
Soneto XI, Cien Sonetos de Amor, Pablo Neruda. Not really a love poem; a desire poem. Yes, yes, I know, the segue was a bit strange. But that's what being dogged can do for you.
I am remembering visiting with a male friend, who I hoped would be more, and getting very excited, only to be given pause by the fact that Edna the Wonderdog wanted to join in. Or at least find out what was going on. So there I am, snuggling up on the couch with an attractive man who seemed to think the same of me. Lots of nice touching, biting, kissing, and licking going on. He's biting my lower lip. But who is that licking my hand? Oops! It's Edna the Wonderdog. Fortunately, Edna knew how to sit when told. But then things get a little noisy. Edna thinks it's time for the pack howl hour. Arrooooooo-ooooh. Another break in the action. After a few more howling, snuffling around, and attempts to join the party on the couch, Edna the Wonderdog receives a new chew toy and I can get back to playing with mine. But less determined women than myself might have been driven away. So while puppies in the park might be chick magnets, being dogged otherwise might have a bit of a preventative effect. So parents of pre-teens and teens take note -- this could be a strategy you might want to consider.
Especially when all those hormones are making your previously itsy bitsy babies, innocent little lambs, feel something like this:
Tengo hambre de tu boca, de tu voz, de tu pelo
y por las calles voy sin nutrirme, callado,
no me sostiene el pan, el alba me desquicia,
busco el sonido lÃquido de tus pies en el dÃa.
Estoy hambriento de tu risa resbalada,
de tus manos color de furioso granero,
tengo hambre de la pálida piedra de tus uñas,
quiero comer tu piel como una intacta almendra.
Quiero comer el rayo quemado en tu hermosura,
la nariz soberana del arrogante rostro,
quiero comer la sombra fugaz de tus pestañas
y hambriento vengo y voy olfateando el crepúsculo
buscándote, buscando tu corazón caliente
como un puma en la soledad de Quitratúe.
Or, for those of you unfortunate enough not to read Castilian Spanish:
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
Soneto XI, Cien Sonetos de Amor, Pablo Neruda. Not really a love poem; a desire poem. Yes, yes, I know, the segue was a bit strange. But that's what being dogged can do for you.
Stress--But At Least We're Doing Something
I hate to wait. Ask Innana. I hate, more than anything, to wait for someone else to do something, anything. PdeFF called me this morning at work to yell at me for closing the joint checking account and the corresponding line of credit. He has some money left but not a lot. Pretty soon I expect him to call my lawyer and ask to negotiate a separation agreement. Nice. I'll pay. To have my house to myself and my life be my own again, I'll pay a great deal of what I have left, which isn't much.
Nonetheless, I am sitting here waiting for someone who hasn't, recently, made many logical decisions to logically decide he can't afford to try to keep me in the marriage.
I'm sleeping better (not great, but better). FoilMormor is not sleeping. So the SecondMate (FoilMormor's second husband, after the FoilDad) is flying down here, either today or tomorrow, to give moral support. Pretty soon my house will be overrun with relatives making PdeFF's life uncomfortable. FoilMormor made a spreadsheet of possible jobs from the classified section of the Washington Post. I told her not to give it to him because I think he would find that humiliating (well, more humiliating) and we don't want to continue the trend I began midway through our marriage of simply doing things for him that he can't do for himself.
Now, we have to wait for him to realize that he can't afford to stay married to me, as I will give him no money until he gets out of the house for good and signs a separation agreement. I'll happily pay him money to stay away. That's very sad. This decision would take me all of 30 seconds. It's been two days since the TRO expired, no permanent restraining order issued, PdeFF moved back into ChezFoil, and I moved into the family room in the basement. Over 48 hours since he saw me prefer to live in the basement than the master bedroom with him. Six hours since he discovered that I will not bankroll his behavior at all. I wonder how long it will take him.
That's presuming he's thinking logically, which I know he does not. So what is the illogical response? I don't know, but I think we'll find out. Fortunately, I just checked with FoilMormor, and he hasn't come back to ChezFoil since leaving at 9:30 a.m. after returning from dropping the Foilkid at school. FoilMormor has approved my dinner with a baseball-loving and blogreading friend ("BLBRF" -- these acronyms just aren't working as well as they used to do), saying "you need all the ego boosts you can get right now, honey," and is napping for a bit (we spoke before she nodded off) before the babysitter returns with the Foilkid and the GaahGirl from their afternoon park safari.
Foilkid wore her baby sister's kangaroo t-shirt (GaahGirl is round, Foilkid is all elbows and size 2 t-shirts for kids are surprisingly large) along with her lovely new Kangaroo backpack. (Thanks, My Holiness.) She declared it unfair that Innana and I got bigger t-shirts from Oz than she did . . . but then allowed as how a kangaroo sweatshirt, a kangaroo backpack, a kangaroo pen, a Wiggles DVD and several other as yet unreviewed DVDs/CDs was a bigger take, especially since the Foilkid has never met the Pope. BTW, the Pope's little Benniette (age 4) draws a mean jellyfish. Quite admirable really.
Looking forward to dinner tonight, and hoping I'll come home to a household consisting entire of female ancestors and descendants afterwards.
Nonetheless, I am sitting here waiting for someone who hasn't, recently, made many logical decisions to logically decide he can't afford to try to keep me in the marriage.
I'm sleeping better (not great, but better). FoilMormor is not sleeping. So the SecondMate (FoilMormor's second husband, after the FoilDad) is flying down here, either today or tomorrow, to give moral support. Pretty soon my house will be overrun with relatives making PdeFF's life uncomfortable. FoilMormor made a spreadsheet of possible jobs from the classified section of the Washington Post. I told her not to give it to him because I think he would find that humiliating (well, more humiliating) and we don't want to continue the trend I began midway through our marriage of simply doing things for him that he can't do for himself.
Now, we have to wait for him to realize that he can't afford to stay married to me, as I will give him no money until he gets out of the house for good and signs a separation agreement. I'll happily pay him money to stay away. That's very sad. This decision would take me all of 30 seconds. It's been two days since the TRO expired, no permanent restraining order issued, PdeFF moved back into ChezFoil, and I moved into the family room in the basement. Over 48 hours since he saw me prefer to live in the basement than the master bedroom with him. Six hours since he discovered that I will not bankroll his behavior at all. I wonder how long it will take him.
That's presuming he's thinking logically, which I know he does not. So what is the illogical response? I don't know, but I think we'll find out. Fortunately, I just checked with FoilMormor, and he hasn't come back to ChezFoil since leaving at 9:30 a.m. after returning from dropping the Foilkid at school. FoilMormor has approved my dinner with a baseball-loving and blogreading friend ("BLBRF" -- these acronyms just aren't working as well as they used to do), saying "you need all the ego boosts you can get right now, honey," and is napping for a bit (we spoke before she nodded off) before the babysitter returns with the Foilkid and the GaahGirl from their afternoon park safari.
Foilkid wore her baby sister's kangaroo t-shirt (GaahGirl is round, Foilkid is all elbows and size 2 t-shirts for kids are surprisingly large) along with her lovely new Kangaroo backpack. (Thanks, My Holiness.) She declared it unfair that Innana and I got bigger t-shirts from Oz than she did . . . but then allowed as how a kangaroo sweatshirt, a kangaroo backpack, a kangaroo pen, a Wiggles DVD and several other as yet unreviewed DVDs/CDs was a bigger take, especially since the Foilkid has never met the Pope. BTW, the Pope's little Benniette (age 4) draws a mean jellyfish. Quite admirable really.
Looking forward to dinner tonight, and hoping I'll come home to a household consisting entire of female ancestors and descendants afterwards.
September 21, 2005
I Feel Sick and Scared
I feel uneasy enough that Innana is driving me home. FoilMormor's New-And-Improved-Husband (for her) is coming down to join our merry household. Anyone else who want to stop by and help with the PdeFF relocation project, oh, just come on down. What the heck.
Why do I feel sick and scared? Of course, I'll tell you. That's what this blog is all about. I've done something that I have to do to protect myself, but that will make Mr. Foilwoman very, very angry. I closed the joint account. I didn't want to do it. My plan was to take half the money, close the overdraft line of credit, and walk away, leaving him with enough money. I simply had stopped using the joint account when I opened my own account back in July. Now that I simply will not be giving him any money without a separation agreement (which we cannot have until one of us moves out of the house), I had to eliminate the overdraft account as a source of funds for him (as I would be liable for any such overdraft). Now, my old bank, in its infinite wisdom, does not allow a joint account signatory to unilaterally withdraw from a joint account. They do, however, allow a joint account holder to close a joint account (i.e., take all the money). Fortunately, we still had our pathetically small savings account ($110) (which PdeFF can still access) at the same bank.
It's not a ton of money, but it would pay for a couple weeks in a cheap motel.
I would have rather simply taken my name off the joint account and the overdraft account and left half the assets there. But the bank won't let me. So I've closed the account. To the extent he has any checks outstanding, he is going to be furious. I'm not looking forward to that.
Why didn't I talk to him about it? First, reason has worked so well in the past, and second, I didn't want to give him time to go spend the remaining funds (he does that rather quickly). Also, he would simply refuse to close the account.
The worst thing was the banks advice. They said: empty everything out and leave. Not my lawyer. Not my mother. The bank. Great. Let's make marital dissolution even worse than it it. They kept insisting they couldn't close the line of credit without emptying the account. Finally, I got the bank manager to tell me that the line of credit was connected to the checking account. So I eliminated the checking account, transferred half to the savings account, and walked away with my share. I really don't want to treat PdeFF any worse than I absolutely have to to protect myself (FoilMormor said: take all the money -- but she's mad at him for hurting her kid, so we'll give her a bye on this one).
I'm really not looking forward to the next interaction. Tomorrow, I may just work late and catch dinner in town and not head home until FoilMormor and Spouse of FoilMormor tell me he's gone. I'm a coward.
Why do I feel sick and scared? Of course, I'll tell you. That's what this blog is all about. I've done something that I have to do to protect myself, but that will make Mr. Foilwoman very, very angry. I closed the joint account. I didn't want to do it. My plan was to take half the money, close the overdraft line of credit, and walk away, leaving him with enough money. I simply had stopped using the joint account when I opened my own account back in July. Now that I simply will not be giving him any money without a separation agreement (which we cannot have until one of us moves out of the house), I had to eliminate the overdraft account as a source of funds for him (as I would be liable for any such overdraft). Now, my old bank, in its infinite wisdom, does not allow a joint account signatory to unilaterally withdraw from a joint account. They do, however, allow a joint account holder to close a joint account (i.e., take all the money). Fortunately, we still had our pathetically small savings account ($110) (which PdeFF can still access) at the same bank.
It's not a ton of money, but it would pay for a couple weeks in a cheap motel.
I would have rather simply taken my name off the joint account and the overdraft account and left half the assets there. But the bank won't let me. So I've closed the account. To the extent he has any checks outstanding, he is going to be furious. I'm not looking forward to that.
Why didn't I talk to him about it? First, reason has worked so well in the past, and second, I didn't want to give him time to go spend the remaining funds (he does that rather quickly). Also, he would simply refuse to close the account.
The worst thing was the banks advice. They said: empty everything out and leave. Not my lawyer. Not my mother. The bank. Great. Let's make marital dissolution even worse than it it. They kept insisting they couldn't close the line of credit without emptying the account. Finally, I got the bank manager to tell me that the line of credit was connected to the checking account. So I eliminated the checking account, transferred half to the savings account, and walked away with my share. I really don't want to treat PdeFF any worse than I absolutely have to to protect myself (FoilMormor said: take all the money -- but she's mad at him for hurting her kid, so we'll give her a bye on this one).
I'm really not looking forward to the next interaction. Tomorrow, I may just work late and catch dinner in town and not head home until FoilMormor and Spouse of FoilMormor tell me he's gone. I'm a coward.
Beware the Wrath of the FoilMormor (or My Mommy Can Beat Up Your Mommy, Your Daddy, and Your Beefy Cousin Guido Too)
Poor PdeFF. He's still not officially separated from me, but he is living in a world of (emotional) pain. I have done nothing. Except moved my stuff to the basement rec-room. He told me I shouldn't because the air was bad. I said it was better than where I was.
FoilMormor is making PdeFF build a shed for the lawnmower and gasoline (previously stored in the house -- UNSAFE she declares, and the FUMES! The smells!). The basement storage room's filthiness is declared. The refrigerator must be moved so that she can clean behind it. PdeFF must assist. At least one dead mouse has been found (stinky!) and it awaits PdeFF's return so that he can (1) discover it, and (2) remove it. After winning in court, he returned to ChezFoil at about noon. After FoilMormor started bossing him around, he left to do unspecified errands at 1 pm and then returned around the time for Foilkid to get picked up at school. He did not join us in the park near our house with Foilkid and GaahGirl. Nor did he do any chores. He sat in the comfy chair making phone calls.
When Foilkid got home from the part (4 pm-ish), FoilMormor told PdeFF to help the Foilkid with her homework. He did, after a little prodding. Then Foilkid helped FoilMormor with cleaning and FoilMormor told PdeFF to start on his chores. He said "I'm just sitting relaxing. I'm not doing anything." FoilMormor: "Well, that's the problem. You're not doing anything."
Later, he asked when she was leaving. FoilMormor: "I'm not sure. It depends. Once you get a job, I suppose. But really, we have to get this house clean first. There is absolute filth behind all the heavy furniture, behind the refrigerator, under the beds, and everywhere else not within eyesight. Have you ever cleaned anything but the surfaces? We need to do that. Foilwoman is working and looking for work. She needs to come home to a clean house. The Foilfilles, my granddaughters, need a clean house. If you're not working, you need to, at a minimum, be keeping a budget and a clean house. Since you are unemployed right now, you need to be helping me do that. I'm 70 years old. You're a big strong man." Things continued in this vein. He left the house at 4:45. He returned at 8:30 (half an hour after Foilkid's bedtime), but since she heard him, she woke up and he read her a story (after FoilMormor nagged him). He left and hasn't been back.
Shall we start a pool? Will he come back? Will he stay away? Again, I'm amused and heartsick at the same time. Moral of the story: don't piss off my Mom. She has inner reserves of ferociousness (but even while she was doing this, she wasn't doing it in front of the Foilfilles -- the only things she would say in front of them were "I'm sure Daddy would love to play Candyland with you" [or read a story, or change your diaper, or whatever]. -- she may be trying to get rid of him, but she also wants him to live up to the title I've bestowed on him, Pere des FoilFilles). I have my very own Mama Grizzly. It feels very good.
FoilMormor is making PdeFF build a shed for the lawnmower and gasoline (previously stored in the house -- UNSAFE she declares, and the FUMES! The smells!). The basement storage room's filthiness is declared. The refrigerator must be moved so that she can clean behind it. PdeFF must assist. At least one dead mouse has been found (stinky!) and it awaits PdeFF's return so that he can (1) discover it, and (2) remove it. After winning in court, he returned to ChezFoil at about noon. After FoilMormor started bossing him around, he left to do unspecified errands at 1 pm and then returned around the time for Foilkid to get picked up at school. He did not join us in the park near our house with Foilkid and GaahGirl. Nor did he do any chores. He sat in the comfy chair making phone calls.
When Foilkid got home from the part (4 pm-ish), FoilMormor told PdeFF to help the Foilkid with her homework. He did, after a little prodding. Then Foilkid helped FoilMormor with cleaning and FoilMormor told PdeFF to start on his chores. He said "I'm just sitting relaxing. I'm not doing anything." FoilMormor: "Well, that's the problem. You're not doing anything."
Later, he asked when she was leaving. FoilMormor: "I'm not sure. It depends. Once you get a job, I suppose. But really, we have to get this house clean first. There is absolute filth behind all the heavy furniture, behind the refrigerator, under the beds, and everywhere else not within eyesight. Have you ever cleaned anything but the surfaces? We need to do that. Foilwoman is working and looking for work. She needs to come home to a clean house. The Foilfilles, my granddaughters, need a clean house. If you're not working, you need to, at a minimum, be keeping a budget and a clean house. Since you are unemployed right now, you need to be helping me do that. I'm 70 years old. You're a big strong man." Things continued in this vein. He left the house at 4:45. He returned at 8:30 (half an hour after Foilkid's bedtime), but since she heard him, she woke up and he read her a story (after FoilMormor nagged him). He left and hasn't been back.
Shall we start a pool? Will he come back? Will he stay away? Again, I'm amused and heartsick at the same time. Moral of the story: don't piss off my Mom. She has inner reserves of ferociousness (but even while she was doing this, she wasn't doing it in front of the Foilfilles -- the only things she would say in front of them were "I'm sure Daddy would love to play Candyland with you" [or read a story, or change your diaper, or whatever]. -- she may be trying to get rid of him, but she also wants him to live up to the title I've bestowed on him, Pere des FoilFilles). I have my very own Mama Grizzly. It feels very good.
September 20, 2005
It Would Be Funny If It Weren't So Fucking Sad
Well, at the hearing to have the TRO made permanent, PdeFF won, and I lost. He's back in the house with me and the Foilfilles. And FoilMormor. Apparently, I wasn't particularly convincingly scared. And my bruise constituted a "nominal" assault. I guess I'll have to take a punch to the face of something to get him out of the house permanently.
Now PdeFF is trying to make sweet with FoilMormor. No dice. He got mad when I moved all my stuff into the basement. FoilMormor asked him to help with yard work. He went for a drive. He asked when she was leaving. She said: "When you get a job or move out."
He is no longer restrained from living here, but after the kids go to bed, he's going back to his friend's apartment. Huh? FoilMormor has been making him move furniture and showing him all the parts of the house that are not clean, asking him "how long were you out of work?" If he doesn't kill her and me, I think we'll be rid of him soon enough, but that's a big if.
He isn't getting sex or money from me. While I haven't vacated the premises, I have vacated his bed. I'm not paying a single bill that has his name on it (mortgage is in my name, so that's ok). We'll see how long it takes til he caves.
Now PdeFF is trying to make sweet with FoilMormor. No dice. He got mad when I moved all my stuff into the basement. FoilMormor asked him to help with yard work. He went for a drive. He asked when she was leaving. She said: "When you get a job or move out."
He is no longer restrained from living here, but after the kids go to bed, he's going back to his friend's apartment. Huh? FoilMormor has been making him move furniture and showing him all the parts of the house that are not clean, asking him "how long were you out of work?" If he doesn't kill her and me, I think we'll be rid of him soon enough, but that's a big if.
He isn't getting sex or money from me. While I haven't vacated the premises, I have vacated his bed. I'm not paying a single bill that has his name on it (mortgage is in my name, so that's ok). We'll see how long it takes til he caves.
September 19, 2005
Things I Know Are True (Another Darn List . . . May Be Repetitive)
It's late, my sleeping pill (just taken) has yet to kick in, I have to go to court regarding the TRO (temporary restraining order against PdeFF) tomorrow morning, which will not be a pleasant experience, even if I am completely "victorious" (ironically written). When feeling the current of existential despair pulling at me, threatening me with its crescendo of an undertow, I often make lists. You may have noticed this. So here's another, that may be repetitive (it's late, I'm tired, I'll delete tomorrow if I've said all this stuff before):
Things I Know Are True:
1--It's better to act than to worry.
2--Love is it's own reward. It really doesn't have to be equal or even reciprocated.
3--Chocolate is my friend.
4--Champurrado sounds very much like a California boy. And a lot younger than his stated 50-odd years. (I'm betting it's the Stars and the baby who do that for him.) Surfer dude.
5--I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever be able to complain about my parents being uninvolved with my life ever, ever, ever again unless I want to be a complete douchebag.
6--I want to go out to dinner on Thursday, someplace nice.
7--Innana is not only MVBFITWWW, she is, without a doubt, the very best friend, ever. Roland and Oliver, eat your hearts out. Damien and Pythias, ditto.
8--Grocery shopping is easier using my mother's list and system.
9--The Foilkid doesn't like the monkey bars. Have to get to the bottom of that mystery.
10--The Foilkid is more resilient that PdeFF. That's sad for him, but good for her.
11--It's a lot harder for other people to make decisions than it is for me; I must cultivate patience. (Ha!)
12--A twelve-string guitar is a thing of beauty.
13--I can mow a rather large lawn, and I prefer that to vacuuming.
14--I'm a good cook.
15--I'm going to get through this. So will my kids.
Things I Know Are True:
1--It's better to act than to worry.
2--Love is it's own reward. It really doesn't have to be equal or even reciprocated.
3--Chocolate is my friend.
4--Champurrado sounds very much like a California boy. And a lot younger than his stated 50-odd years. (I'm betting it's the Stars and the baby who do that for him.) Surfer dude.
5--I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever be able to complain about my parents being uninvolved with my life ever, ever, ever again unless I want to be a complete douchebag.
6--I want to go out to dinner on Thursday, someplace nice.
7--Innana is not only MVBFITWWW, she is, without a doubt, the very best friend, ever. Roland and Oliver, eat your hearts out. Damien and Pythias, ditto.
8--Grocery shopping is easier using my mother's list and system.
9--The Foilkid doesn't like the monkey bars. Have to get to the bottom of that mystery.
10--The Foilkid is more resilient that PdeFF. That's sad for him, but good for her.
11--It's a lot harder for other people to make decisions than it is for me; I must cultivate patience. (Ha!)
12--A twelve-string guitar is a thing of beauty.
13--I can mow a rather large lawn, and I prefer that to vacuuming.
14--I'm a good cook.
15--I'm going to get through this. So will my kids.
Visitation
I went to a boarding school for high school. While I attended the school, they had the bright (???) idea of letting teenage boys and girls, most of whom were under age 18, visit each other's dorm rooms unsupervised. Let me say right now, contrary to what you are expecting from this post, I graduated from high school, at age 18, a virgin. Obviously, in the intervening 26 years, times have changed.
However, I am thinking of how excited we used to get when a boy would invite us over to his dorm for their "intervisition open house". I got invited over to the open house of a boy who used to walk with me places, never saying anything. I don't remember how he asked me to attend the open house, but I'm betting it was by note. He used to come to my dorm and ask me to play the guitar. He liked "Michael from Mountains" by Joni Mitchell. And "Landslide". And "Suzanne." At my 25th reunion, he told me that he had been in love with me, but then I went to Spain, and he forgot about me. I hadn't been depressed by this, because I had been completely unaware of the "in love" thing going on before hand. I figured he just didn't have anything else better to do.
Anyway, at his intervisitation open house, we sat on the floor and looked at album covers. People kept knocking on the door and peeking in to see who he had gotten to visit him. We got embarrassed (two shy fifteen-year-olds -- give us a break) so we crawled under the bed so no-one could see us and sat there and talked. After a while, we held hands. Pretty racy stuff.
We went down to the dining room for dinner, and then walked over to a class building which hadn't been locked. We decided kissing was just gross (I've really grown as a person), so we held hands some more and then got a little bit more experimental, but nothing that would get me stoned to death or him beaten in Afghanistan. The next day, we couldn't look at each other, so we stopped being friends.
I always wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and I found out at my 25th reunion, because walking into the room, he was standing with his wife and the girlfriend from his junior and senior year of high school (the girl he got together with when he forgot me when I was in Spain). I was five months pregnant with the GaahGirl and waddling like a duck. He walked up and kissed me, and it was very nice. I'm pretty sure it was a much better experience at 43 than it would have been at 15. We haven't spoken since.
Now, I'm working on a different sort of visitation. PdeFF's visitation with the girls. Supervised. I long for the good old days, even though they probably weren't that good at the time.
However, I am thinking of how excited we used to get when a boy would invite us over to his dorm for their "intervisition open house". I got invited over to the open house of a boy who used to walk with me places, never saying anything. I don't remember how he asked me to attend the open house, but I'm betting it was by note. He used to come to my dorm and ask me to play the guitar. He liked "Michael from Mountains" by Joni Mitchell. And "Landslide". And "Suzanne." At my 25th reunion, he told me that he had been in love with me, but then I went to Spain, and he forgot about me. I hadn't been depressed by this, because I had been completely unaware of the "in love" thing going on before hand. I figured he just didn't have anything else better to do.
Anyway, at his intervisitation open house, we sat on the floor and looked at album covers. People kept knocking on the door and peeking in to see who he had gotten to visit him. We got embarrassed (two shy fifteen-year-olds -- give us a break) so we crawled under the bed so no-one could see us and sat there and talked. After a while, we held hands. Pretty racy stuff.
We went down to the dining room for dinner, and then walked over to a class building which hadn't been locked. We decided kissing was just gross (I've really grown as a person), so we held hands some more and then got a little bit more experimental, but nothing that would get me stoned to death or him beaten in Afghanistan. The next day, we couldn't look at each other, so we stopped being friends.
I always wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and I found out at my 25th reunion, because walking into the room, he was standing with his wife and the girlfriend from his junior and senior year of high school (the girl he got together with when he forgot me when I was in Spain). I was five months pregnant with the GaahGirl and waddling like a duck. He walked up and kissed me, and it was very nice. I'm pretty sure it was a much better experience at 43 than it would have been at 15. We haven't spoken since.
Now, I'm working on a different sort of visitation. PdeFF's visitation with the girls. Supervised. I long for the good old days, even though they probably weren't that good at the time.
Let Us Not Forget to be Kind and Forgive us Our Sins
In my high school, a religious school, we had a prayer we said daily: Remind us, in all the toils of life, let us not forget to be kind. Good advice. In the comments to my penultimate post to this one, I made up an unkind nickname for Mr. Foilwoman (who is definitely trending toward ex-Mr. Foilwomanhood). Thank you Prom and De-ID Man for pointing out the error of my behavior. I'm going to be raising the Foilsprogs with him for a long time, whatever condition he's in. I'm really, really angry with him right now. But he is deeply hurt (and while I can say with some justification "he did it to himself", the immediate cause of the harm is me and my actions) right now, and he is, without a doubt mentally ill. So, henceforth he is the Pere des Foilfilles. Not an insult, an honor. I'm still mad at him though. But I beg forgiveness of all who read my pettiness (which I am leaving up, so as not to edit my unkindness out of existence -- I'm not Big Brother yet).
Forgot to Brag
In the midst of all the hullaballoo that is my life, I forgot to brag about the Foilkid and the GaahGirl. If ever I go a day without bragging about them, remind me to do so. Thank you. Bragworthy things about my descendants, in no particular order:
Foilkid
(1) Foilkid can read an entire book in French (she's just turned 6).
(2) She can correct my French.
(3) She can correct your French.
(4) She'll correct a Frenchman's French, though she really shouldn't. But since she's supercute, he'll let her.
(5) She can make pancakes from scratch.
(6) Her artwork decortates not only the refrigerator, but all the walls in the basement.
(7) When she sings, her sister smiles.
(8) She will dance and sing to entertain just about anyone.
(9) She got stung by a yellow jacket the other day and was one tough little customer.
(10) She's a very superior cuddler and hugger.
(11) She's good at Candyland.
(12) She's good at Bocci.
(13) She's very mature and resilient.
(14) She dances when she sees Innana. This dance consists of jumping up and down.
GaahGirl
(1) She says: Gaah, baba, euaiiii, mamamamama, ooo, and thpllt.
(2) She growls like a little bear.
(3) She has eight beautiful teeth.
(4) She is round.
(5) She chortles.
(6) She crawls.
(7) She tries to stand.
(8) She has a padded derriere to fall on. (Oh, who am I kidding? She's 100% padded, all the time, everywhere.)
(9) She smiles when she sees her big sister.
(10) She can squeel with delight.
(11) She's bigger than the sullen sixteen month old we saw yesterday in the park (she's 11 months old).
(12) All parts are perfectly functional.
(13) She is a cherub.
(14) She has dimpled hands, feet, knees, cheeks, and pretty much everything else.
And
(15) There are no kids anywhere, ever as beautiful, sweet, intelligent, strong, resilient, and cuddly.
What? You disagree? Step over here and say that.
Foilkid
(1) Foilkid can read an entire book in French (she's just turned 6).
(2) She can correct my French.
(3) She can correct your French.
(4) She'll correct a Frenchman's French, though she really shouldn't. But since she's supercute, he'll let her.
(5) She can make pancakes from scratch.
(6) Her artwork decortates not only the refrigerator, but all the walls in the basement.
(7) When she sings, her sister smiles.
(8) She will dance and sing to entertain just about anyone.
(9) She got stung by a yellow jacket the other day and was one tough little customer.
(10) She's a very superior cuddler and hugger.
(11) She's good at Candyland.
(12) She's good at Bocci.
(13) She's very mature and resilient.
(14) She dances when she sees Innana. This dance consists of jumping up and down.
GaahGirl
(1) She says: Gaah, baba, euaiiii, mamamamama, ooo, and thpllt.
(2) She growls like a little bear.
(3) She has eight beautiful teeth.
(4) She is round.
(5) She chortles.
(6) She crawls.
(7) She tries to stand.
(8) She has a padded derriere to fall on. (Oh, who am I kidding? She's 100% padded, all the time, everywhere.)
(9) She smiles when she sees her big sister.
(10) She can squeel with delight.
(11) She's bigger than the sullen sixteen month old we saw yesterday in the park (she's 11 months old).
(12) All parts are perfectly functional.
(13) She is a cherub.
(14) She has dimpled hands, feet, knees, cheeks, and pretty much everything else.
And
(15) There are no kids anywhere, ever as beautiful, sweet, intelligent, strong, resilient, and cuddly.
What? You disagree? Step over here and say that.
September 18, 2005
Trying to Take the High Road -- and Failing
Everyone who has divorced and had young kids at the time, all advice (regardless of ability to help implement such advice) and insights appreciated. Up until today (deputies removed Mr. Foilwoman at 2:00 a.m. Wednesday) FoilMormor and I have managed to answer the Foilkid's questions without lying or committing to anything that might Mr. Foilwoman feel defamed or attacked. FoilMormor has arranged phone calls for the Foilkid to talk with her father on the urgent trip that he is taking right now. Mr. Foilwoman seemed very appreciative that the Foilkid had not seen his removal by the deputies and that we had not informed her of it.
Today, as his six-year old daughter chortled on about her day and the many important things going on in her mind (a boy in her class work pink pants to school, she made pancakes from scratch for Mormor, she swam for two hours yesterday, we're having pizza for dinner tonight, the Foildog went to visit the breeders) Mr. Foilwoman burst into tears, told my daughter that I no longer love him, that I had the police take him away, and that he wouldn't be living with us anymore. My mother removed the phone from my crying daughter, and explained to her sobbing 50-ish son-in-law that the dog needed more care than we could give him, and that even when he had been home he hadn't walked it enough. I know he's upset. I don't mind that I look like the bad guy. What I mind is this: luck gave us a real gift; the Foilkid didn't see her father being dragged off by the police. Now she knows it happened and can imagine it, and imagination is always worse than reality. Why would he want her to think of him in that pathetic role? It makes me sick.
Foilkid is my daughter. We got her calmed down. She sat on my lap a lot today, but otherwise seems fine. And his action is a gift in another way: if he can't put the emotional needs of his six-year old daughter ahead of his own emotions for one five minute phone call, how could I ever expect him to act like her overall emotional development, education, spiritual growth, or anything ranked at all.
In the meantime, FoilMormor is cleaning out the Foildog's room (really the family room in the house, and bigger than the girls' room) and turning it into the play room. All accompanied by her muttering "Gives the dog more room than his kids. The dog occupies the entire back yard so the kids can't really use it (dog poop). Won't walk the dog. Leaves the dog in the crate. Makes my daughter walk the dog. Then cries when we give it away. Hmmmph."
Am I overreacting here, or was Mr. Foilwoman's behavior despicable (not about the dog, about the daughter)? I'm so furious, I wouldn't trust myself in his presence. And then he's going to wonder why I'm going to try very hard to avoid joint custody. His decisionmaking process? Not much of a process, I'm afraid.
I've already told Innana about this (she agrees with me, but I think that was rather a give) and emailed now-returned-from-glam-Euro-vacation-without-access-to-email-yup-I-believe-that-BLHH[E]MRAOMBAMIH (and will read his thoughts, I hope). I will not be bitter about this, but I will limit his ability to traumatize my daughters. Really, he shouldn't piss me off.
Night, night and thanks all. Kids are sleeping and I will be soon.
Today, as his six-year old daughter chortled on about her day and the many important things going on in her mind (a boy in her class work pink pants to school, she made pancakes from scratch for Mormor, she swam for two hours yesterday, we're having pizza for dinner tonight, the Foildog went to visit the breeders) Mr. Foilwoman burst into tears, told my daughter that I no longer love him, that I had the police take him away, and that he wouldn't be living with us anymore. My mother removed the phone from my crying daughter, and explained to her sobbing 50-ish son-in-law that the dog needed more care than we could give him, and that even when he had been home he hadn't walked it enough. I know he's upset. I don't mind that I look like the bad guy. What I mind is this: luck gave us a real gift; the Foilkid didn't see her father being dragged off by the police. Now she knows it happened and can imagine it, and imagination is always worse than reality. Why would he want her to think of him in that pathetic role? It makes me sick.
Foilkid is my daughter. We got her calmed down. She sat on my lap a lot today, but otherwise seems fine. And his action is a gift in another way: if he can't put the emotional needs of his six-year old daughter ahead of his own emotions for one five minute phone call, how could I ever expect him to act like her overall emotional development, education, spiritual growth, or anything ranked at all.
In the meantime, FoilMormor is cleaning out the Foildog's room (really the family room in the house, and bigger than the girls' room) and turning it into the play room. All accompanied by her muttering "Gives the dog more room than his kids. The dog occupies the entire back yard so the kids can't really use it (dog poop). Won't walk the dog. Leaves the dog in the crate. Makes my daughter walk the dog. Then cries when we give it away. Hmmmph."
Am I overreacting here, or was Mr. Foilwoman's behavior despicable (not about the dog, about the daughter)? I'm so furious, I wouldn't trust myself in his presence. And then he's going to wonder why I'm going to try very hard to avoid joint custody. His decisionmaking process? Not much of a process, I'm afraid.
I've already told Innana about this (she agrees with me, but I think that was rather a give) and emailed now-returned-from-glam-Euro-vacation-without-access-to-email-yup-I-believe-that-BLHH[E]MRAOMBAMIH (and will read his thoughts, I hope). I will not be bitter about this, but I will limit his ability to traumatize my daughters. Really, he shouldn't piss me off.
Night, night and thanks all. Kids are sleeping and I will be soon.
September 17, 2005
FoilMom (or FoilMormor, if You're the Foilkid, which You Are Not)
My Mom flew down, probably giving a completely cowed pilot advice the whole way.("Can't you fly any faster? Why aren't you going at an altitude where you'll have a tailwind? If you fly at the [higher or lower] altitude I recommended, not only will you go faster, like I asked you to do, but you'll save on fuel costs. Did you just roll your eyes at me? Don't do that. Yes, I know you have a schedule to keep, but my daughter is having a crisis. Put a move on. Make tracks. What do I have to do to teach you the meaning of the word "expeditious"? Don't you have any work ethic? Yes, I know there are other planes, air traffic control centers, and airlines. I explained this before. This is urgent. This affects . . .my youngest daugher. How old am I? I was born July 4, 1935, why? How old is she? 44, what does that have to do with anything? No, she's not handicapped. She's a professional. She's an honors graduate of a top-ten (exaggerrating slightly here, but work with me) school. No, she can't handle this alone. Look, shit-for-brains, what do I have to do to explain this to you? Maybe when your kids have real trouble you practice zen meditation. Good for you. I actually want my genetic line to survive and thrive. The fact that yours isn't going to is a matter of complete indifference to me and everyone else on this planet. What do you mean, bin Laden would be a better passenger? Little wussy man. My daughter needs me. Get a goddamn move on and don't piss me off any further.")
Okay, some of those words may be invented. But you get the general tenor. When she's in this kind of mood, just give in. I used to resist. We would have horrible fights. Except one day I realized: she never tries to boss me around about big decisions. She's a harridan, but she's my harridan. She let's me go off and be myself and supports me as much as she can (sometimes a lot, sometimes a little). It's only when I'm screwing up irrelevant details that will make my life harder that she gets going. Once I've made a big decision or a big disaster (like this week) she's applauding or helping bail, depending. Right now, we're bailing.
Foildog: Exiled temporarily (probably permanently, but who knows what the future holds) to dog heaven.
Foilkid: Calling her Daddy on his business trip daily (somehow the call can only be placed from Mormor's magic phone)
Mr. Foilwoman: Soon to be moving into an apartment selected by FoilMormor.
Me: Sleeping (she made me ask my doc for more antidepressants and stuff to help with the insomnia -- obviously, I haven't taken the sleeping stuff yet tonight)
ChezFoil: Getting organized and cleaned in the way only a Danish housekeeper can do it.
FoilMormor has made a day by day and week by week schedule of chores, a check the box shopping list that can be printed out with the click of a mouse, kept Foilkid eating her vegetables, created a notebook of low cost one dish dinners one can cook in advance. Made batches on more complicated dishes than can be reheated without too much loss of flavor etc.
Okay, she enters the room and Wagner starts to play (Ride of the Valkyries comes to mind). And she's staying a bit longer. Yippee for me. Go Mom!
Okay, some of those words may be invented. But you get the general tenor. When she's in this kind of mood, just give in. I used to resist. We would have horrible fights. Except one day I realized: she never tries to boss me around about big decisions. She's a harridan, but she's my harridan. She let's me go off and be myself and supports me as much as she can (sometimes a lot, sometimes a little). It's only when I'm screwing up irrelevant details that will make my life harder that she gets going. Once I've made a big decision or a big disaster (like this week) she's applauding or helping bail, depending. Right now, we're bailing.
Foildog: Exiled temporarily (probably permanently, but who knows what the future holds) to dog heaven.
Foilkid: Calling her Daddy on his business trip daily (somehow the call can only be placed from Mormor's magic phone)
Mr. Foilwoman: Soon to be moving into an apartment selected by FoilMormor.
Me: Sleeping (she made me ask my doc for more antidepressants and stuff to help with the insomnia -- obviously, I haven't taken the sleeping stuff yet tonight)
ChezFoil: Getting organized and cleaned in the way only a Danish housekeeper can do it.
FoilMormor has made a day by day and week by week schedule of chores, a check the box shopping list that can be printed out with the click of a mouse, kept Foilkid eating her vegetables, created a notebook of low cost one dish dinners one can cook in advance. Made batches on more complicated dishes than can be reheated without too much loss of flavor etc.
Okay, she enters the room and Wagner starts to play (Ride of the Valkyries comes to mind). And she's staying a bit longer. Yippee for me. Go Mom!
Necessary Losses
Today the Foildog left for an extended visit to his birth family. They are kind, dog-loving lesbians who are the Johnny Appleseeds for his breed. The sales contract, when you buy one of their puppies, states that the buyer promises never to (1) sell the dog for money, (2) give the dog to a person who can't adequately care for it, (3) give the dog to a person who will not agree to abide by the terms (stated in this post) for return of the dog to the breeder, and (4) if unable to locate a suitable replacement family who can care for a dog, the buyer can return the dog to the breeder. The breeder, as seller, promises that if the buyer should ever call to say she can't care adequately for the dog, can't find an adequate (actually "more than adequate" and "warm, loving, affectionate, and energetic home where the dog will receive enough exercise" are the terms in the sales contract) substitute home for the dog, and can't afford to return the dog to the breeder, the breeder will come collect the dog or arrange for the dog's transportation to the breeder's facility in rural Pennsylvania from whereever in the world the dog might be. I emailed the breeder yesterday, having had my three best substitute home ideas not pan out, explaining that I was now (1) a single parent of a six-year old and a baby, (2) car-less (not as bad a state as being dogless, but it's pretty bad, being carless and dogged), and (3) had 4 miles of walking in my daily schedule, exclusive of dog walks, I needed to at least temporarily avail myself of the "return to breeder for the dog's well-being" provision in their contract.
No muss, no fuss. They picked the Foildog up today. Amid much "who's a good puppy-duppy-ing" (yes, we're trained professionals), furrowed brows (by the Foildog -- he's good at that), and tail wagging (by the Foildog only, we hope), he and all his accoutrements got loaded up into their van.
Foilkid actually took this pretty well. She doesn't like to go on walks with him because he's too strong, and has been rather jealous of the time I spend with him. At this stage, that sort of rivalry is not a fair one for a canine. But the Foilkid and the GaahGirl do need the two hours a day I would otherwise spend walking him.
The breeders were just so sweet. They are not assuming ownership of him, just responsibility for the next six months. Mr. Foilwoman or I can repossess him by showing up and stating that we are now able to care for him. This way, I don't get into trouble with the law for "wasting" marital property, Mr. Foilwoman is given an opportunity to claim his dog, and the Foildog is not an issue in the divorce.
I know in my heart of hearts that the Foildog isn't coming back. I don't anticipate having much free time for the next 18 years or so, and even if I get the job I intereviewed for less than two weeks ago (which still looks very hopeful), I won't be earning enough to pay for day care and a dog walker. So Foildog loses again.
Maybe Mr. Foilwoman will get his butt in gear to assert ownership of the dog. It would be nice. He does love the dog, albeit in an ineffective way (he doesn't walk the Foildog often or otherwise tend to the Foildog's copious needs for exercise, attention, and babytalk). But I know Foildog, though he will miss the Foilkid, the GaahGirl, Mr. Foilwoman, and me to the extent his limited cerebrum allows, will be very happy coursing over the open fields (actually, quite a large spread of land that is fenced in) of rural Pennsylvania with his cousins and other large long-limbed dogs.
He's such a good dog. I'm going to miss him. First the cat, then the husband, then the dog. No more voting off the island. It's just the kids and me now (with frequent visits by FoilMormor, Innana, and FoilDad, as well as LOS). But I think that's where it has to be for a little while.
No muss, no fuss. They picked the Foildog up today. Amid much "who's a good puppy-duppy-ing" (yes, we're trained professionals), furrowed brows (by the Foildog -- he's good at that), and tail wagging (by the Foildog only, we hope), he and all his accoutrements got loaded up into their van.
Foilkid actually took this pretty well. She doesn't like to go on walks with him because he's too strong, and has been rather jealous of the time I spend with him. At this stage, that sort of rivalry is not a fair one for a canine. But the Foilkid and the GaahGirl do need the two hours a day I would otherwise spend walking him.
The breeders were just so sweet. They are not assuming ownership of him, just responsibility for the next six months. Mr. Foilwoman or I can repossess him by showing up and stating that we are now able to care for him. This way, I don't get into trouble with the law for "wasting" marital property, Mr. Foilwoman is given an opportunity to claim his dog, and the Foildog is not an issue in the divorce.
I know in my heart of hearts that the Foildog isn't coming back. I don't anticipate having much free time for the next 18 years or so, and even if I get the job I intereviewed for less than two weeks ago (which still looks very hopeful), I won't be earning enough to pay for day care and a dog walker. So Foildog loses again.
Maybe Mr. Foilwoman will get his butt in gear to assert ownership of the dog. It would be nice. He does love the dog, albeit in an ineffective way (he doesn't walk the Foildog often or otherwise tend to the Foildog's copious needs for exercise, attention, and babytalk). But I know Foildog, though he will miss the Foilkid, the GaahGirl, Mr. Foilwoman, and me to the extent his limited cerebrum allows, will be very happy coursing over the open fields (actually, quite a large spread of land that is fenced in) of rural Pennsylvania with his cousins and other large long-limbed dogs.
He's such a good dog. I'm going to miss him. First the cat, then the husband, then the dog. No more voting off the island. It's just the kids and me now (with frequent visits by FoilMormor, Innana, and FoilDad, as well as LOS). But I think that's where it has to be for a little while.
September 16, 2005
Miscellania
Foilkid will be talking soon with her Daddy while he is on his "business trip". My Mom has arranged the phone call, having carefully explained to Mr. Foilwoman that his daughter remains unaware that he was removed from the house by sherriff's deputies. He, I hope, will not launch into a flurry of invective against me. According to him, he touched my arm while we were having an argument. Well, hitting is touching, so he's not lying. I need to get a photo taken of the damn bruise. Grrr.
I've called the breeders who sold us the Foildog, and they have agreed to take him in either temporarily or permanently. He'll do better with other dogs around, etc. I feel bad about this, and worry that the Foilkid will think she's being asked to give up everything, but I can't walk the Foildog twice a day, make breakfast, play with the Foilbaby, walk the Foilkid to school (over a mile?), walk to the subway (1.5 mile?), work a full day, take the subway home, walk home from the subway (1 mile or so), look at Foilkid's homework, make dinner, read stories, sing songs to GaahGirl, and then do any necessary billpaying and housework. Just not happening. So: Dog or kids, who wins? If you answered "Dog", please let me know whether you are (1) a plant, (2) an insect or arthropod, (3) a fish, (4) an amphibian, or (5) a reptile ('cause you sure aren't a bird or a mammal). I feel badly for the dog, but it's not a tough call. Also, the ladies who own the kennel are pretty much the doggiest dog people of all time. Foildog has lots of friends there, and lots of room to run. He's a sighthound (for once, the word sighthound is a word that is more poetic in German -- unlike the butterfly, papillon, farfalla, mariposa, schmetterling comparison -- it's Windhund, a beautiful word that expresses who he is). Sighthounds (greyhounds, whippets, afhgans, salukis, Irish wolfhounds, pharoah hounds, Ibizan hounds) live to run. So keeping one cooped up is wrong. They are also very social. So he will be amongs other tall running dogs, chasing around an incredibly large fenced in area (over an acre). I like this dopey dog, and I will miss him.
Next to do: Find an apartment for Mr. Foilwoman. With a pool. For under $750 a month. That way, Foilkid can visit him and go swimming. And he'll stay out of the house.
Before that, grocery shopping with Innana. You have no idea how generous and brave she is being. I hate grocery shopping, and can get irritable. I really kinda owe her at this point. Ya think?
I've called the breeders who sold us the Foildog, and they have agreed to take him in either temporarily or permanently. He'll do better with other dogs around, etc. I feel bad about this, and worry that the Foilkid will think she's being asked to give up everything, but I can't walk the Foildog twice a day, make breakfast, play with the Foilbaby, walk the Foilkid to school (over a mile?), walk to the subway (1.5 mile?), work a full day, take the subway home, walk home from the subway (1 mile or so), look at Foilkid's homework, make dinner, read stories, sing songs to GaahGirl, and then do any necessary billpaying and housework. Just not happening. So: Dog or kids, who wins? If you answered "Dog", please let me know whether you are (1) a plant, (2) an insect or arthropod, (3) a fish, (4) an amphibian, or (5) a reptile ('cause you sure aren't a bird or a mammal). I feel badly for the dog, but it's not a tough call. Also, the ladies who own the kennel are pretty much the doggiest dog people of all time. Foildog has lots of friends there, and lots of room to run. He's a sighthound (for once, the word sighthound is a word that is more poetic in German -- unlike the butterfly, papillon, farfalla, mariposa, schmetterling comparison -- it's Windhund, a beautiful word that expresses who he is). Sighthounds (greyhounds, whippets, afhgans, salukis, Irish wolfhounds, pharoah hounds, Ibizan hounds) live to run. So keeping one cooped up is wrong. They are also very social. So he will be amongs other tall running dogs, chasing around an incredibly large fenced in area (over an acre). I like this dopey dog, and I will miss him.
Next to do: Find an apartment for Mr. Foilwoman. With a pool. For under $750 a month. That way, Foilkid can visit him and go swimming. And he'll stay out of the house.
Before that, grocery shopping with Innana. You have no idea how generous and brave she is being. I hate grocery shopping, and can get irritable. I really kinda owe her at this point. Ya think?
September 14, 2005
Because It Is Bitter; Because It Is My Heart
No, I am not referring to the Joyce Carol Oates novel, except to the extent that it incorporates Stephen Crane's poem. My heart is breaking. I know I've done the "right" thing, except that that knowledge is futile. Mr. Foilwoman left the house at 2 a.m. yesterday, and drove I don't know where. He called my LOS (little older sister), who lives up in Northern New England, at 3 in the morning because he didn't know who else to call. His family is so far away, and so out of touch with the realities of this world that my family is really the only family he has. He has lots of friends, but they are always around a lot more when he has something to offer them, not the reverse. I really don't want to watch him disintegrate, although one could say I've been doing that for the past two years or more.
Doing the "right" thing doesn't mean it's right for everyone. And it doesn't necessarily feel good or satisfying. Even the people one most wants to protect, Foilkid and GaahGirl, are going to suffer real loss. My mother asked me if there was any chance of reconciliation (I almost said "what? are you fucking crazy?" but then I realized that she has not been reading this blog and has received very truncated and watered down version of events. The worst thing is, I wanted there to be a chance at reconciliation. To look at him and see him as something approaching whole. But of course, by the end of this, none of us will be.
Doing the "right" thing doesn't mean it's right for everyone. And it doesn't necessarily feel good or satisfying. Even the people one most wants to protect, Foilkid and GaahGirl, are going to suffer real loss. My mother asked me if there was any chance of reconciliation (I almost said "what? are you fucking crazy?" but then I realized that she has not been reading this blog and has received very truncated and watered down version of events. The worst thing is, I wanted there to be a chance at reconciliation. To look at him and see him as something approaching whole. But of course, by the end of this, none of us will be.
Just Plain Tired
I got the Foilkid to school this morning, chatted with her teacher (not so amazingly, my kid is GREAT!!!! according to the teacher) regarding afternoon pickups, and the order restricting Mr. Foilwoman's ability to pick her up from school. Actually, to come anywhere near the school while the final order is pending. The teacher told me who at the school I should file the restraining order with, and then said, "You know, if you need to be cheered up, we could meet and I could give you an evaluation of your daughter. She's really wonderful on every level. You'll probably need to hear that over the next few weeks." Then she said, "I'll keep an eye on her, and will be watching for any stress, etc. Let me know if there is anything I can do." Did I say how much I liked the Foilkid's school?
My mother, Foilkid's Mormor, is arriving at around two today. I'm taking a day off work. I paid the mortgage for this month. I have to get a locksmith over here, and start calling around for other services.
I want to sleep, but can't. I realistically think I've done the right thing, and that no-one but Mr. Foilwoman can change Mr. Foilwoman's behavior, but even after one year of almost complete non-functionality and ten years of increasingly diminishing functionality before that, I still do remember the man I met and married. He's from another, less developed country, and I wonder if he would have found life less difficult if he were not married into such a upper-middle class family with such high performance expectations. Mr. Foilwoman's mother can't read or write. Mr. Foilwoman came to the U.S. with a high school diploma and no knowledge of English. He taught himself English and put himself through college. I don't know too many upper middle class professionals who could write a term paper in their second, let alone third language, much less get a bachelor's degree using the third language, learned as an adult.
At some point, he lost his flexible response system. Some business betrayals, some other setbacks. Once I realized the extent of his illness, in 1999, I simply took over. I don't think that helped him much (but I couldn't leave him in charge). I turned a blind eye to illogical behavior. If I had confronted him about his lack of rationality in 1999 (when the extent of his departure from reality began to be truly apparent), maybe he would have not followed so far down this path. I want my mom. Fortunately, she's landing in an hour, and will be here within two or three (hours).
And, by the way, I got an email indicating that I'm a leading candidate for the job I interviewed for last week. Yes, I can still function in a hurricane. Michael Brown: call me if you want any tips. Dubya, I could help you, too, but it would require self awareness and awareness of your surroundings. Maybe a fried egg on an English muffin will suit, then a nap.
My mother, Foilkid's Mormor, is arriving at around two today. I'm taking a day off work. I paid the mortgage for this month. I have to get a locksmith over here, and start calling around for other services.
I want to sleep, but can't. I realistically think I've done the right thing, and that no-one but Mr. Foilwoman can change Mr. Foilwoman's behavior, but even after one year of almost complete non-functionality and ten years of increasingly diminishing functionality before that, I still do remember the man I met and married. He's from another, less developed country, and I wonder if he would have found life less difficult if he were not married into such a upper-middle class family with such high performance expectations. Mr. Foilwoman's mother can't read or write. Mr. Foilwoman came to the U.S. with a high school diploma and no knowledge of English. He taught himself English and put himself through college. I don't know too many upper middle class professionals who could write a term paper in their second, let alone third language, much less get a bachelor's degree using the third language, learned as an adult.
At some point, he lost his flexible response system. Some business betrayals, some other setbacks. Once I realized the extent of his illness, in 1999, I simply took over. I don't think that helped him much (but I couldn't leave him in charge). I turned a blind eye to illogical behavior. If I had confronted him about his lack of rationality in 1999 (when the extent of his departure from reality began to be truly apparent), maybe he would have not followed so far down this path. I want my mom. Fortunately, she's landing in an hour, and will be here within two or three (hours).
And, by the way, I got an email indicating that I'm a leading candidate for the job I interviewed for last week. Yes, I can still function in a hurricane. Michael Brown: call me if you want any tips. Dubya, I could help you, too, but it would require self awareness and awareness of your surroundings. Maybe a fried egg on an English muffin will suit, then a nap.
Sad Ending to A Bad Plot
Sad night. I spent the day at the local courthouse getting a temporary restraining order ("TRO") forbidding my husband to come to the house or my daughter's school and providing for seizure of all weapons. (This is America: Mr. Foilwoman had guns. No longer.)
The sherriff's deputies were very polite for people who ring the doorbell at 2 in the morning, and apparently know what they are doing. They collected Mr. Foilwoman and escorted him from the premises.
Innana, being My Absolutely Truly Very Best Friend in the Whole Wide World was here with me and still is. My mother is flying down, and will be arriving tomorrow early afternoon. My Dad has volunteered to come in October if I need him. Not too funny right now.
Best thing: Foilkid and Foilbaby saw nothing. No shouting, no swearing. They sleep even now. I'm having a bit of milk, and will attempt the same.
The sherriff's deputies were very polite for people who ring the doorbell at 2 in the morning, and apparently know what they are doing. They collected Mr. Foilwoman and escorted him from the premises.
Innana, being My Absolutely Truly Very Best Friend in the Whole Wide World was here with me and still is. My mother is flying down, and will be arriving tomorrow early afternoon. My Dad has volunteered to come in October if I need him. Not too funny right now.
Best thing: Foilkid and Foilbaby saw nothing. No shouting, no swearing. They sleep even now. I'm having a bit of milk, and will attempt the same.
September 12, 2005
Escalation (or OH SHIT)
I think the appropriate response to my evening so far is basically this: just shoot me now. I found a cheap (really inexpensive, almost half the cost of other airlines) ticket to the far away land where Mr. Foilwoman's family resides. The caveat is this: It is a three month ticket, and only one day leaving the U.S. has the low fare. That day is in this month. The fare is not available for trips of less than three months. This ticket: $1,375. Other tickets: $2,800 or more. Mr. Foilwoman wants to see his mother but doesn't want to travel until November, for reasons not relevant for this discussion (except to say they are totally irrational, but if we discussed his every irrationality, well, I'd never stop writing in this blog, even though you would all eventually weary of his insanity and stop reading). One of the rational reasons is that October and early November are times of big gift giving, and he is concerned about money (for once). However, I fail to see how staying unemployed for two months, spending double on the plane ticket, and then taking the trip works at all.
Mr. Foilwoman told me I was trying to destroy are marriage. I foolishly (and honestly) said: "I think that has already occurred." You know, why do people say they want honesty? They don't. Mr. Foilwoman wants to be lied to. He wants me to tell him everythings ok. He wants me to fake an orgasm (beyond me at this point in time) so that he'll feel more adequate (why not just ask me what I want and do it rather than tell me to like what he wants? Oh, I forgot. I'm not there.)
Mr. Foilwoman says a friend of his who can get employee discounts (with what airline???) is checking rates. I'm betting he gets conned out of the airfare, and I'm stuck with him eternally.
Somehow, my dismay angered him. Why am I not enthusiastic about having an unemployed, self-involved, psychotic spouse in my home eternally? Especially since, even though he was home in the day, he couldn't (1) take the Foildog for a walk or (2) have the Foilkid read her homework to him. Nope. That had to wait until I came home. He did have the consideration to pick me up at the metro (I prefer to walk). We started fighting about the trip and he asked if I wanted to be rid of him. I temporized: "I think we might need some time apart" (you think???). This was when the statement that I was trying to destroy the marriage and my response occurred.
He punched me. In the arm, and it hurt. I did not punch him back (don't punch a psychotic in a car unless you are willing to throw yourself from the car, that's my motto). This seems oddly reminiscent. He then said he needed to call my treating psychiatrist (yup -- reality, it's a personal thing), which he did. I have no idea what he hoped to accomplish. He spoke with my doctor. I explained that we had had a fight, that my husband had hit me, and I should probably see him and maybe get some more medicine of the happy making variety. I'd like to take the kids and leave right now. I need to make some plans. I am so fucking pissed off. Why wait 16 years to show that you really are a used douchebag. Officially, now, soon-to-be-ex-Mr.-Foilwoman is on the way out. I just don't need this crap and neither do my kids.
I have to make plans. Innana -- I'll call tomorrow obviously. Could you do a little internet research (you're actually better at this than I am) regarding women's resources, etc. I don't feel super duper comfortable calling from home for obvious reasons. He really wasn't like this until last year, right? And he's getting worse. Not sticking around for the final chapter. My arm hurts. Now I'm mad. I still feel sorry for him, but last person who hit me, I hit back. I didn't hit him (I'm above this, right?), but I really think he's beyond redemption at this point. He's so nuts he can't even realize that he's harming himself as well as me. And he's not harming me any more. And, hitting him where it really hurts: up until last night, I've been tolerating his presence in bed. He can sleep there, but that's all he can do. Someone who hits me can't even pretend to himself that what we've been doing is making love. So now he's officially a wanker.
Making plans. My mind is just spinning. I've got to have a complete game plan. And he's moving out. That's actually the big problem. The marital law where I live does not allow either spouse to evict the other prior to separation. You can separate by having one spouse move out voluntarily, but really, you can't get the police to come and kick the bastard out. This state just doesn't do that. You have to agree to separate. Hard when one partner won't agree to anything rational. I need to get him on a plane. Shit. Not sleeping. Plenty more posts in me. All posts and emails appreciated, but again, leave off the "you should" unless you have a nice 2 or 3 bedroom I can move the girls and myself into and movers to do it.
Do you think Dr. Dunderhead can conceive of this as a not-good situation now? Not am emergency -- I didn't need medical attention after all. Maybe we should demonstrate how it feels to him. Should I call him and ask? I think he's going to do for me and my family what Paul Bremer did for Iraq, what Michael Brown did for New Orleans, and Dubya has done for us all. Incompetent.
Mr. Foilwoman told me I was trying to destroy are marriage. I foolishly (and honestly) said: "I think that has already occurred." You know, why do people say they want honesty? They don't. Mr. Foilwoman wants to be lied to. He wants me to tell him everythings ok. He wants me to fake an orgasm (beyond me at this point in time) so that he'll feel more adequate (why not just ask me what I want and do it rather than tell me to like what he wants? Oh, I forgot. I'm not there.)
Mr. Foilwoman says a friend of his who can get employee discounts (with what airline???) is checking rates. I'm betting he gets conned out of the airfare, and I'm stuck with him eternally.
Somehow, my dismay angered him. Why am I not enthusiastic about having an unemployed, self-involved, psychotic spouse in my home eternally? Especially since, even though he was home in the day, he couldn't (1) take the Foildog for a walk or (2) have the Foilkid read her homework to him. Nope. That had to wait until I came home. He did have the consideration to pick me up at the metro (I prefer to walk). We started fighting about the trip and he asked if I wanted to be rid of him. I temporized: "I think we might need some time apart" (you think???). This was when the statement that I was trying to destroy the marriage and my response occurred.
He punched me. In the arm, and it hurt. I did not punch him back (don't punch a psychotic in a car unless you are willing to throw yourself from the car, that's my motto). This seems oddly reminiscent. He then said he needed to call my treating psychiatrist (yup -- reality, it's a personal thing), which he did. I have no idea what he hoped to accomplish. He spoke with my doctor. I explained that we had had a fight, that my husband had hit me, and I should probably see him and maybe get some more medicine of the happy making variety. I'd like to take the kids and leave right now. I need to make some plans. I am so fucking pissed off. Why wait 16 years to show that you really are a used douchebag. Officially, now, soon-to-be-ex-Mr.-Foilwoman is on the way out. I just don't need this crap and neither do my kids.
I have to make plans. Innana -- I'll call tomorrow obviously. Could you do a little internet research (you're actually better at this than I am) regarding women's resources, etc. I don't feel super duper comfortable calling from home for obvious reasons. He really wasn't like this until last year, right? And he's getting worse. Not sticking around for the final chapter. My arm hurts. Now I'm mad. I still feel sorry for him, but last person who hit me, I hit back. I didn't hit him (I'm above this, right?), but I really think he's beyond redemption at this point. He's so nuts he can't even realize that he's harming himself as well as me. And he's not harming me any more. And, hitting him where it really hurts: up until last night, I've been tolerating his presence in bed. He can sleep there, but that's all he can do. Someone who hits me can't even pretend to himself that what we've been doing is making love. So now he's officially a wanker.
Making plans. My mind is just spinning. I've got to have a complete game plan. And he's moving out. That's actually the big problem. The marital law where I live does not allow either spouse to evict the other prior to separation. You can separate by having one spouse move out voluntarily, but really, you can't get the police to come and kick the bastard out. This state just doesn't do that. You have to agree to separate. Hard when one partner won't agree to anything rational. I need to get him on a plane. Shit. Not sleeping. Plenty more posts in me. All posts and emails appreciated, but again, leave off the "you should" unless you have a nice 2 or 3 bedroom I can move the girls and myself into and movers to do it.
Do you think Dr. Dunderhead can conceive of this as a not-good situation now? Not am emergency -- I didn't need medical attention after all. Maybe we should demonstrate how it feels to him. Should I call him and ask? I think he's going to do for me and my family what Paul Bremer did for Iraq, what Michael Brown did for New Orleans, and Dubya has done for us all. Incompetent.
Missing a Faithful Reader
I know, those statistics services available at no cost are addictive and useless. Quiz: Are these services ____ Male or ____ Female? If English were French, that question would make no sense as the word would be either take the masculine article (le/un) or the feminine article (la/une) and we would know. This is funny, because the subject that makes me wonder about this is in a European land where nouns are either masculine or feminine.
I have a very nice lurker, with whom I email regularly. A baseball fan, who has a single brother who might yet be roped into explaining the intricacies of our national past-time to Innana. The brother is unaware (as is the lurker-email buddy, except in a very general way). Innana is furious at me for thinking of this, but hey, people are better off when they follow my advice. Really. Or at least it's easier on all concerned.
However, back to the matter at hand. Prior to leaving on vacation to Europe, my lurker, who likes my writing and loves baseball (but loathes hockey . . . a flaw -- he'd probably like it if there were cute female hockey players) mentioned that he would like to be overtly mentioned in this blog, and maybe even given a nickname. Hard to do. This is an interactive forum. Most of my non-interactive nicknames are insulting (with a few obvious exceptions: MBFFHS, MVBFITWWW, LOS, Nuclear Grandmother -- but think: Mr. Detritus, Dr. Dunderhead, NOAS, Narcisso-Dad). However, even though lurker has never posted on this forum (nor placed a dot on the map, and here is a big opportunity), I am going to give him a nickname. Why?
Because StatCounter and Sitemeter absolutely blow chunks, that's why. My lurker/emailer lives in the same metropolitan area. This is the area where I have the most readers. StatCoutner and Sitemeter give general areas for readers, but unless someone logs in from a work related computer with more than an IP address (i.e., says the name of the employer), I can't tell who is logging on. I just see Washington, DC, US; Adelaide, South Australia, Australia; Newark, New Jersey. These addresses aren't even that precise. Before I excluded my own IP address from the log, I showed up as one of three towns, all within a radius of my home, but not clearly stating what town I lived it. But all my local readers (one of whom I assumed was my lurker/emailer) are accounted for, and lurker reader is in Europe. I have checked the appropriate European country (think nice Europe: Spain, Italy, France, Greece, Austria, Switzerland: good food, nice scenery, good wine, good vacation). Despite the cornucopia of internet cafes in Europe and the possession of a high-tech and extremely mobile laptop (I believe, I don't know for a fact)I have seen no evidence of reading of the blog by my mystery reader.
Is there a technology to keep one's visits from showing up on stat counter or site meter? Not that they really show up with any specificity. Or can visits from abroad show up as local visits if you use your high tech laptop? Enquiring minds want to know. Don't worry that I can actually tell who you are or where you are from your visits. Stat counter and site meter can't even show where I am. And I'm a subscriber. I'd have to pay more for better service. Money, on this? Nope.
So Baseball-loving-hockey-hating-[excused]-mystery-reader-admirer-of-my-blog-and-me-I-hope, here's your post. Stick a dot on the map. You can do it. You've got lots of education and are computer literate. I have faith. And everyone, I need help here. BLHH[E]MRAOMBAMIH is just not a good acronym. I'm a recovering invalid. Help me out here. Thank you.
I have a very nice lurker, with whom I email regularly. A baseball fan, who has a single brother who might yet be roped into explaining the intricacies of our national past-time to Innana. The brother is unaware (as is the lurker-email buddy, except in a very general way). Innana is furious at me for thinking of this, but hey, people are better off when they follow my advice. Really. Or at least it's easier on all concerned.
However, back to the matter at hand. Prior to leaving on vacation to Europe, my lurker, who likes my writing and loves baseball (but loathes hockey . . . a flaw -- he'd probably like it if there were cute female hockey players) mentioned that he would like to be overtly mentioned in this blog, and maybe even given a nickname. Hard to do. This is an interactive forum. Most of my non-interactive nicknames are insulting (with a few obvious exceptions: MBFFHS, MVBFITWWW, LOS, Nuclear Grandmother -- but think: Mr. Detritus, Dr. Dunderhead, NOAS, Narcisso-Dad). However, even though lurker has never posted on this forum (nor placed a dot on the map, and here is a big opportunity), I am going to give him a nickname. Why?
Because StatCounter and Sitemeter absolutely blow chunks, that's why. My lurker/emailer lives in the same metropolitan area. This is the area where I have the most readers. StatCoutner and Sitemeter give general areas for readers, but unless someone logs in from a work related computer with more than an IP address (i.e., says the name of the employer), I can't tell who is logging on. I just see Washington, DC, US; Adelaide, South Australia, Australia; Newark, New Jersey. These addresses aren't even that precise. Before I excluded my own IP address from the log, I showed up as one of three towns, all within a radius of my home, but not clearly stating what town I lived it. But all my local readers (one of whom I assumed was my lurker/emailer) are accounted for, and lurker reader is in Europe. I have checked the appropriate European country (think nice Europe: Spain, Italy, France, Greece, Austria, Switzerland: good food, nice scenery, good wine, good vacation). Despite the cornucopia of internet cafes in Europe and the possession of a high-tech and extremely mobile laptop (I believe, I don't know for a fact)I have seen no evidence of reading of the blog by my mystery reader.
Is there a technology to keep one's visits from showing up on stat counter or site meter? Not that they really show up with any specificity. Or can visits from abroad show up as local visits if you use your high tech laptop? Enquiring minds want to know. Don't worry that I can actually tell who you are or where you are from your visits. Stat counter and site meter can't even show where I am. And I'm a subscriber. I'd have to pay more for better service. Money, on this? Nope.
So Baseball-loving-hockey-hating-[excused]-mystery-reader-admirer-of-my-blog-and-me-I-hope, here's your post. Stick a dot on the map. You can do it. You've got lots of education and are computer literate. I have faith. And everyone, I need help here. BLHH[E]MRAOMBAMIH is just not a good acronym. I'm a recovering invalid. Help me out here. Thank you.
September 11, 2005
Let's Take Care of Our Uvulas: Report from the ER/MITU
The Uvula
The title, for those so unfortunate as to be born to late and not recognize the reference instinctively (we few, we happy few . . .), refers to the immortal words of Jane Curtin performing a "public service announcement" during the early years of Saturday Night Live. She advised us all to take care of our uvulas. And I'm here to tell you what can happen if you don't.
I got to spend today, a beautiful end-of-summer in the ER (Emergency Room -- ED for you Aussies). And not as an interested or disinterested bystander. Oh no. And before you ask, NO, I wasn't being admitted to the psych ward. Maybe I should have been, but I wasn't.
I was in the ER (and admitted) due to fairly severe uvulitis. You know your uvula. It's the totally useless (and therefore, indubitably masculine) little dangling thingy at the back of your throat. Okay, medical personae: everyone understood what I meant with that description, so no corrections. Thank you. Normally it is smaller than the tip of your pinky (medical personae: my previous statement stands). However, if you are very, very lucky, your uvula can swell up to be the size of a plum or a new potato. Since this results in making it rather hard to breathe because the airway is almost blocked, this is a bad thing (another technical term -- just accept it). I've had a sore throat for a few days. Nothing to go see a doctor about: I'm not one of those imbeciles who runs to my physician every time I get a sniffle. Unless I have a fever or consider that some of my basic functions are threatened, I presume that I will heal myself. This morning I woke up thinking I was choking on a peach pit. Nope. Just my uvula, more than triple its normal size.
I told Mr. Foilwoman and he left to play tennis. When he got back, two hours later, the uvula was no longer peach pit sized, it was more the size of an avocado bit. Not good. I asked him to drive me to an urgent medical center. He said he would after he did the dishes (always nice to know where you rate). I insisted (actually, I took the car keys, and the fear of me driving his car -- a totally justifiable fear, I admit -- resulted in immediate action . . . ) and he drove me around aimlessly looking for an Urgent Care Center. Finally, I told him to take me to the ER. I wanted a uvula-ectomy. (Those things are damn useless, aren't they? Just Plain Useless: is the uvula, like the spleen, Truly Useless, except for being good eating?) Aside from the pain, which is not pleasant, but, at least in my experience, not comparable to (1) having a dislocated shoulder shoved back in without painkillers (There is a doctor at Mass General who I punched, but I really should have punched him harder, when he did that. My LOS (little older sister) always gets the good drugs before they shove her shoulders (discloated through skiing, rock-climbing, and other feats of derring-do) back in the socket, as as happened to her many times.), (2) giving birth without an epidural (and what is with the "You're not ready for the epidural, Foilwoman" followed by "Oh, la-di-dah, it's too late" -- and then acting surprised when I try to communicate the pain I am feeling by having you share it, even though crushing your hand is a poor substitute for making you pass a canteloupe or a honeydew melon; (3) having an undiagnosed umbilical hernia with necrotic tissue for two weeks; (4) having a Foilbaby kick a new umbilical hernia in your stomach, through the scar tissue, while Tylenol (useless, I say) is recommended; or (5) getting yet another hernia repair two weeks post-partum -- all the benefits of vaginal delivery and a caesarean, too! Why not throw in spinal surgery and a lobotomy? Okay, maybe I'm repetitive and bitter. But the swollen uvula was unpleasant, but not incredibly painful.
However, I had uvulitis the night before LOS graduated from law school (just a few years ago). It was worse that time. My airway was pretty much completely blocked. I had had shrimp for dinner, and I woke, thinking a shrimp was stuck in my throat. It wasn't. It was my uvula, deciding it wanted to transform itself into a jumbo shrimp without the benefit of being chewed and swallowed. It's a frightening sensation, knowing you can still breathe, but everything is shrinking. Beaucoup steroids and antibiotics later, I was sitting at my sitsters graduation. I didn't think uvulitis was a chronic condition. I avoided shrimp for a good long time and thought no more of it.
So, it wasn't the actual sensations that made me want to get treatment. It was the knowledge that my uvula was growing like topsy, and soon I would have the very unpleasant sensation of having my throat completely blocked off.
I was treated by a tag team of lovely body-building physician's assistants. Really. They had the resident stop by. Then the attending. Then the ears, nose and throat guy on call. All the med students stopped by for a look see. I thought women were over 50% of the medical profession in the U.S.? Apparently not on a sunny Sunday. If it hadn't hurt to speak I would have said something like, "Normally before a guy gets this close, he pretends he likes me, and takes me out to dinner." Is uvulitis really so rare? And so exciting to an obviously clearly bored emergency room staff? I'll say this -- keep hiring the cute young puppies. I have no idea if they were competent, but it was a nice floorshow.
They took a throat culture (owie). My throat was x-rayed (some special amazing soft tissue x-ray time thingy) to see if I had "epiglottitis" as well as the dread and apparently deeply fasinating and unusual uvulitis. I sat for long, long periods of time. I am more than halfway finished with the sleeves on my soon to be completed sweater (which I will look stunning in, I'm sure). All neck and shoulder lymph nodes were pokes and prodded. My breathing was listened to with a stethoscope. So was my throat. (Exactly what sound does a throat make? It's not really doing anything right then.)
Five hours later, a big shot of some sort of antibiotics (for strep) and steroids (for swelling) and I'm back home.
Remember: let's take care of our uvulas. You don't want a golf ball stuck in your throat. I might want that, depending on who you are, but let's assume you don't. Now, any suggestions about how to take care of our uvulas? Why do we even have this useless pieces of flesh. Earlobes I get (earrings). But uvulas? And please, please, please: nobody (unless you want to feel more pain than I described in (1) through (5) above in the fourth paragraph from the top) send me any pictures of or descriptions of people who are idiotic enough to contemplate piercing of the uvula. Eeeeeewww. Could Listerine or some other mouthwash help? I mean, aside from making me smell minty fresh.
In the ER/MITU
The ER at the hospital has a Minor Injury Treatment Unit, which they (NOT me) gave the acronym MITU. That's where I was. Since my treatment sought was really preventive in nature (let's keep this undeserved and unloved uvulitis from moving up the food chain to epiglottitis), I was a pretty low priority. I got to see (and overhear) a lot. Remember to modulate your voice when talking about thinking you have the clap. And I really don't know how that young man could have picked it up. Unless there really is somebody for everybody.
Other conclusions from the MITU:
(1) Girls soccer is surprisingly rough and tumble. One broken wrist, one spained ankle, one suspected concussion, and one cleatmark on face. In five hours. This was not a big hospital, and I wasn't moving around or anything. I could have missed plenty.
(2) Don't drop a 750 cc motorcycle on your foot. It breaks things. Soon-to-be-organ-donor motorcyclist managed to drop a motorcycle on a foot Friday night. "It doesn't feel like a sprain. I've had sprains before." When is the visit to the ER? Early afternoon Sunday. Cyclist upset that plane ride (piloting a small plane, you need your foot for the pedals) must be rescheduled due to numerous broken bones and completely immobilizing cast. Quiz for those who need more than a little help (and I'm here to help): Is the motorcyclist (1) _____ Male? or (2) ____ Female?
(3) As I have said before, if you want to have sex, know it, admit it, plan it, and protect your damn self. Clueless young woman (curtained area, but I could here her) needed the morning after pill. I'm not pleased for her, but at least the hospital does provide this service. The doctor (one of the cuties -- I'll talk with him about birth control, but all he does is point a light down my throat and ask me to say aaah) tries to talk about birth control, disease vectors, personal responsibility. Good for him I say. (How many bets he'll go bareback given half a chance? Just thinking.) During the course of the conversation, it becomes clear, she has no birth control, she has had a prior abortion, she is in her twenties, not teens, and she is an idiot. Also, during her conversation with the registrar she gave a false address and a false emergency contact number.
How do I know this? She claims she doesn't have a picture ID. She doesn't have her insurance card, but thinks its CIGNA. She can't remember who is the actual subsriber for her alleged insurance. She can't remember her address. She just moved there. Her sister is her emergency contact. She can't remember her sister's phone number. They just moved there. She doesn't know where her sister works. Apparently, she doesn't know her sisters cell phone, even though she called the sister after getting the prescription from Dr. Bit-o-Crumpet. Yes, she has the right to birth control, yes, without health insurance she is going to use the ER as a back up (stiffing them by giving them false contact information). But if she's this hard to arouse (in the medical sense: being alert and aware of your surroundings -- she's practically comotose, and presumably in the sexual sense as well), how can she even be certain she had sex? Sorry. I'm a snotnose. Send the boy out for an I-care-about-you-and-want-to-protect-you-even-if-I-have-no-idea-who-you-are-and-definitely-won't-remember-your-name-once-the-ecstasy-or-whatever-wears-off ("ICAYAWTPYEIIHNIWYAADWRYNOTEOWWO") condom supply run.
That was one of two startling disappointments about this otherwise lovely hospital and its lovely doctors, physicians assistants, nurse practitioners, interns, and others. (1) This young imbecile was clearly altered and under the influence of something and no one asked her if her "unanticipated" sexual experience was indeed unanticipated in the sense of being involuntary. Maybe that was asked elsewhere, somewhere more private. This leads to (2). (2) HIPAA. That stands for Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. Keep patient information private. I've changed details, but not good, guys, not good. I've had trouble in the past getting Mr. Foilwoman to talk to treating psychiatrists, and part of it is privacy. I know where I'm NOT going to talk about any female trouble. I mean, saying my uvula is the size of a lamb chop is embarrassing enough. A Norwegian friend of mine once had the sponges (of Elaine's spongeworthiness) stuck inside, and after skating with me (I kid you not) went to the ER to have the darn piece of contraception removed. She told the receptionist: "It's stuck up inside; it needs to come out before 24 hours pass. I last had sex at 8 am." A bracing experience, and it made me proud her. Especially as she still had her skates slung over her shoulder. But most mere mortal females are a bit more reticent. Don't make them say that stuff where I can overhear. And overhear I most definitely did.
(4) Last: getting shot with a BB apparently doesn't trigger any police reaction. A guy walked in, as I was leaving, and asked the triage receptionist type person: "Where do I go to get this BB taken out of my neck?" I looked over (you kind of can't help it). Blood oozing down a small but real (maybe 1/2" or a little smaller) hole in his neck. The security guard (I was standing next to him waiting for the Car of Satan to appear and take me home) did not pick up the phone (I'd think shootings should be reported) or move to see if this was a unilateral attack kind of think or whether the guy nonchalantly walking around with a gunshot wound (albeit a very small caliber gun) in his neck might be the kind of person who had a gun on him. He was white, but the real risk factor was he was either late teens or early twenties. I want security guard noting that the most dangerous segment of the population (young, testosterone laden men) was showing up, in circumstances indicating someone accustomed to violence. I got this from listening to the sentence and then watching the triage person and the security guard while waiting for the COS. I left, vite vite.
And I thought I'd be bored sitting inside at the hospital on a nice sunny day. Of course, Foilkid and the Gaah!Girl would have been more interesting. Less stupid -- no dropping motorcycles, no unprotected intercourse (no intercourse ever until 2039 (Foilkid) or 2044 (Gaah!Girl) or my death, whichever comes later -- I just don't want to deal with it) -- more violent (BB gunshot guy would be a lot less nonchalant if Gaah!Girl bit his toe. She has teeth.) -- cuter.
That was my day. Uvulitis. Who knew. I must have liked Jane Curtin's sketch a bit too much. Let's take care of our uvulas. Maybe we could have a "Race for the Uvula"? Mine definitely needs some help. You know you're in trouble when you have these "once in a lifetime" negative experiences more than once. But maybe this one's a gimme: because I've got two uvulitises under my belt, I can take a pass at senile demential or arthritis? Probably not.
The title, for those so unfortunate as to be born to late and not recognize the reference instinctively (we few, we happy few . . .), refers to the immortal words of Jane Curtin performing a "public service announcement" during the early years of Saturday Night Live. She advised us all to take care of our uvulas. And I'm here to tell you what can happen if you don't.
I got to spend today, a beautiful end-of-summer in the ER (Emergency Room -- ED for you Aussies). And not as an interested or disinterested bystander. Oh no. And before you ask, NO, I wasn't being admitted to the psych ward. Maybe I should have been, but I wasn't.
I was in the ER (and admitted) due to fairly severe uvulitis. You know your uvula. It's the totally useless (and therefore, indubitably masculine) little dangling thingy at the back of your throat. Okay, medical personae: everyone understood what I meant with that description, so no corrections. Thank you. Normally it is smaller than the tip of your pinky (medical personae: my previous statement stands). However, if you are very, very lucky, your uvula can swell up to be the size of a plum or a new potato. Since this results in making it rather hard to breathe because the airway is almost blocked, this is a bad thing (another technical term -- just accept it). I've had a sore throat for a few days. Nothing to go see a doctor about: I'm not one of those imbeciles who runs to my physician every time I get a sniffle. Unless I have a fever or consider that some of my basic functions are threatened, I presume that I will heal myself. This morning I woke up thinking I was choking on a peach pit. Nope. Just my uvula, more than triple its normal size.
I told Mr. Foilwoman and he left to play tennis. When he got back, two hours later, the uvula was no longer peach pit sized, it was more the size of an avocado bit. Not good. I asked him to drive me to an urgent medical center. He said he would after he did the dishes (always nice to know where you rate). I insisted (actually, I took the car keys, and the fear of me driving his car -- a totally justifiable fear, I admit -- resulted in immediate action . . . ) and he drove me around aimlessly looking for an Urgent Care Center. Finally, I told him to take me to the ER. I wanted a uvula-ectomy. (Those things are damn useless, aren't they? Just Plain Useless: is the uvula, like the spleen, Truly Useless, except for being good eating?) Aside from the pain, which is not pleasant, but, at least in my experience, not comparable to (1) having a dislocated shoulder shoved back in without painkillers (There is a doctor at Mass General who I punched, but I really should have punched him harder, when he did that. My LOS (little older sister) always gets the good drugs before they shove her shoulders (discloated through skiing, rock-climbing, and other feats of derring-do) back in the socket, as as happened to her many times.), (2) giving birth without an epidural (and what is with the "You're not ready for the epidural, Foilwoman" followed by "Oh, la-di-dah, it's too late" -- and then acting surprised when I try to communicate the pain I am feeling by having you share it, even though crushing your hand is a poor substitute for making you pass a canteloupe or a honeydew melon; (3) having an undiagnosed umbilical hernia with necrotic tissue for two weeks; (4) having a Foilbaby kick a new umbilical hernia in your stomach, through the scar tissue, while Tylenol (useless, I say) is recommended; or (5) getting yet another hernia repair two weeks post-partum -- all the benefits of vaginal delivery and a caesarean, too! Why not throw in spinal surgery and a lobotomy? Okay, maybe I'm repetitive and bitter. But the swollen uvula was unpleasant, but not incredibly painful.
However, I had uvulitis the night before LOS graduated from law school (just a few years ago). It was worse that time. My airway was pretty much completely blocked. I had had shrimp for dinner, and I woke, thinking a shrimp was stuck in my throat. It wasn't. It was my uvula, deciding it wanted to transform itself into a jumbo shrimp without the benefit of being chewed and swallowed. It's a frightening sensation, knowing you can still breathe, but everything is shrinking. Beaucoup steroids and antibiotics later, I was sitting at my sitsters graduation. I didn't think uvulitis was a chronic condition. I avoided shrimp for a good long time and thought no more of it.
So, it wasn't the actual sensations that made me want to get treatment. It was the knowledge that my uvula was growing like topsy, and soon I would have the very unpleasant sensation of having my throat completely blocked off.
I was treated by a tag team of lovely body-building physician's assistants. Really. They had the resident stop by. Then the attending. Then the ears, nose and throat guy on call. All the med students stopped by for a look see. I thought women were over 50% of the medical profession in the U.S.? Apparently not on a sunny Sunday. If it hadn't hurt to speak I would have said something like, "Normally before a guy gets this close, he pretends he likes me, and takes me out to dinner." Is uvulitis really so rare? And so exciting to an obviously clearly bored emergency room staff? I'll say this -- keep hiring the cute young puppies. I have no idea if they were competent, but it was a nice floorshow.
They took a throat culture (owie). My throat was x-rayed (some special amazing soft tissue x-ray time thingy) to see if I had "epiglottitis" as well as the dread and apparently deeply fasinating and unusual uvulitis. I sat for long, long periods of time. I am more than halfway finished with the sleeves on my soon to be completed sweater (which I will look stunning in, I'm sure). All neck and shoulder lymph nodes were pokes and prodded. My breathing was listened to with a stethoscope. So was my throat. (Exactly what sound does a throat make? It's not really doing anything right then.)
Five hours later, a big shot of some sort of antibiotics (for strep) and steroids (for swelling) and I'm back home.
Remember: let's take care of our uvulas. You don't want a golf ball stuck in your throat. I might want that, depending on who you are, but let's assume you don't. Now, any suggestions about how to take care of our uvulas? Why do we even have this useless pieces of flesh. Earlobes I get (earrings). But uvulas? And please, please, please: nobody (unless you want to feel more pain than I described in (1) through (5) above in the fourth paragraph from the top) send me any pictures of or descriptions of people who are idiotic enough to contemplate piercing of the uvula. Eeeeeewww. Could Listerine or some other mouthwash help? I mean, aside from making me smell minty fresh.
In the ER/MITU
The ER at the hospital has a Minor Injury Treatment Unit, which they (NOT me) gave the acronym MITU. That's where I was. Since my treatment sought was really preventive in nature (let's keep this undeserved and unloved uvulitis from moving up the food chain to epiglottitis), I was a pretty low priority. I got to see (and overhear) a lot. Remember to modulate your voice when talking about thinking you have the clap. And I really don't know how that young man could have picked it up. Unless there really is somebody for everybody.
Other conclusions from the MITU:
(1) Girls soccer is surprisingly rough and tumble. One broken wrist, one spained ankle, one suspected concussion, and one cleatmark on face. In five hours. This was not a big hospital, and I wasn't moving around or anything. I could have missed plenty.
(2) Don't drop a 750 cc motorcycle on your foot. It breaks things. Soon-to-be-organ-donor motorcyclist managed to drop a motorcycle on a foot Friday night. "It doesn't feel like a sprain. I've had sprains before." When is the visit to the ER? Early afternoon Sunday. Cyclist upset that plane ride (piloting a small plane, you need your foot for the pedals) must be rescheduled due to numerous broken bones and completely immobilizing cast. Quiz for those who need more than a little help (and I'm here to help): Is the motorcyclist (1) _____ Male? or (2) ____ Female?
(3) As I have said before, if you want to have sex, know it, admit it, plan it, and protect your damn self. Clueless young woman (curtained area, but I could here her) needed the morning after pill. I'm not pleased for her, but at least the hospital does provide this service. The doctor (one of the cuties -- I'll talk with him about birth control, but all he does is point a light down my throat and ask me to say aaah) tries to talk about birth control, disease vectors, personal responsibility. Good for him I say. (How many bets he'll go bareback given half a chance? Just thinking.) During the course of the conversation, it becomes clear, she has no birth control, she has had a prior abortion, she is in her twenties, not teens, and she is an idiot. Also, during her conversation with the registrar she gave a false address and a false emergency contact number.
How do I know this? She claims she doesn't have a picture ID. She doesn't have her insurance card, but thinks its CIGNA. She can't remember who is the actual subsriber for her alleged insurance. She can't remember her address. She just moved there. Her sister is her emergency contact. She can't remember her sister's phone number. They just moved there. She doesn't know where her sister works. Apparently, she doesn't know her sisters cell phone, even though she called the sister after getting the prescription from Dr. Bit-o-Crumpet. Yes, she has the right to birth control, yes, without health insurance she is going to use the ER as a back up (stiffing them by giving them false contact information). But if she's this hard to arouse (in the medical sense: being alert and aware of your surroundings -- she's practically comotose, and presumably in the sexual sense as well), how can she even be certain she had sex? Sorry. I'm a snotnose. Send the boy out for an I-care-about-you-and-want-to-protect-you-even-if-I-have-no-idea-who-you-are-and-definitely-won't-remember-your-name-once-the-ecstasy-or-whatever-wears-off ("ICAYAWTPYEIIHNIWYAADWRYNOTEOWWO") condom supply run.
That was one of two startling disappointments about this otherwise lovely hospital and its lovely doctors, physicians assistants, nurse practitioners, interns, and others. (1) This young imbecile was clearly altered and under the influence of something and no one asked her if her "unanticipated" sexual experience was indeed unanticipated in the sense of being involuntary. Maybe that was asked elsewhere, somewhere more private. This leads to (2). (2) HIPAA. That stands for Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. Keep patient information private. I've changed details, but not good, guys, not good. I've had trouble in the past getting Mr. Foilwoman to talk to treating psychiatrists, and part of it is privacy. I know where I'm NOT going to talk about any female trouble. I mean, saying my uvula is the size of a lamb chop is embarrassing enough. A Norwegian friend of mine once had the sponges (of Elaine's spongeworthiness) stuck inside, and after skating with me (I kid you not) went to the ER to have the darn piece of contraception removed. She told the receptionist: "It's stuck up inside; it needs to come out before 24 hours pass. I last had sex at 8 am." A bracing experience, and it made me proud her. Especially as she still had her skates slung over her shoulder. But most mere mortal females are a bit more reticent. Don't make them say that stuff where I can overhear. And overhear I most definitely did.
(4) Last: getting shot with a BB apparently doesn't trigger any police reaction. A guy walked in, as I was leaving, and asked the triage receptionist type person: "Where do I go to get this BB taken out of my neck?" I looked over (you kind of can't help it). Blood oozing down a small but real (maybe 1/2" or a little smaller) hole in his neck. The security guard (I was standing next to him waiting for the Car of Satan to appear and take me home) did not pick up the phone (I'd think shootings should be reported) or move to see if this was a unilateral attack kind of think or whether the guy nonchalantly walking around with a gunshot wound (albeit a very small caliber gun) in his neck might be the kind of person who had a gun on him. He was white, but the real risk factor was he was either late teens or early twenties. I want security guard noting that the most dangerous segment of the population (young, testosterone laden men) was showing up, in circumstances indicating someone accustomed to violence. I got this from listening to the sentence and then watching the triage person and the security guard while waiting for the COS. I left, vite vite.
And I thought I'd be bored sitting inside at the hospital on a nice sunny day. Of course, Foilkid and the Gaah!Girl would have been more interesting. Less stupid -- no dropping motorcycles, no unprotected intercourse (no intercourse ever until 2039 (Foilkid) or 2044 (Gaah!Girl) or my death, whichever comes later -- I just don't want to deal with it) -- more violent (BB gunshot guy would be a lot less nonchalant if Gaah!Girl bit his toe. She has teeth.) -- cuter.
That was my day. Uvulitis. Who knew. I must have liked Jane Curtin's sketch a bit too much. Let's take care of our uvulas. Maybe we could have a "Race for the Uvula"? Mine definitely needs some help. You know you're in trouble when you have these "once in a lifetime" negative experiences more than once. But maybe this one's a gimme: because I've got two uvulitises under my belt, I can take a pass at senile demential or arthritis? Probably not.
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