57 Sutton Place

On Gratitude

2012-02-17T20:02:00.000-05:00

When I make gratitude lists, they are usually made up of small, daily items--a sunrise, birdsong, that sort of thing. Then last weekend I was reading Louise Penny's third novel in her Three Pines mystery series. These are very literate novels for the genre, and one of their features is that Penny takes a theme and works it. The theme in this third book, The Cruellest Month, is worthy of a Greek tragedy in which people already have what they always wanted but don't recognize it, and destroy it in the very act of trying to obtain it. She got me to thinking about what I've always wanted, and what I have, and how tragic it would be if I lived my whole life wishing and not seeing what was right there.

So here's my new gratitude list, and I've been thinking all week about how blessed I am.

1. All through high school and my first two years of college, I was desperately lonely--not for women friends, but for a man, god help me. What can I say? I wasn't liberated yet. Be that as it may, I wanted a boyfriend in the worst possible way and my junior year of college, I finally got one--Mr. Simply, in fact. And for the next three years, I wanted nothing more than to be Mrs. Simply, and then I got that too. We still are married. I cuss about it sometimes, but bottom line? I got what I wanted and it's been a pretty good deal for me overall. I haven't been lonely since 1973.

2. Also my junior year in college, I set my heart upon a certain career path, which meant I wanted to go to grad school, too. Eventually I was able to do that not once, but twice (thanks in large part to the aforementioned Mr. Simply), was crowned "Dr. Simply", and entered my desired profession. Thirty years later, I'm still working in the same field. It's hard sometimes, but there's not much else I'd be as happy doing: I got what I wanted, and I intend to keep on doing it until they carry me out of the office feet first.

3. I wanted a house of my own. I agitated for one for years. We shopped for nearly that long (I swear we must have seen every house for sale in three counties), and we eventually bought one. As I believe I've mentioned before, although this was intended to be our starter house, we'll probably die here. We're not moving up to that Buckhead mansion! The bottom line though, is that I have what I always wanted: A cozy, sweet little house of our own.

4. I always thought I wanted a houseful of foster and adopted kids, and so we did that, too--once. And since Simply, Jr. was probably worth six of anybody else's, I consider that I got what I always wanted.

5. I love dogs, always have, and except for one brief span, have never been without a good dog (and sometimes more) in the house. When Daisy was born, I begged Mr. Simply for weeks to let me keep her: He finally relented, and I can say without hesitation that the fifteen years I had with her were some of the best of my life. Daisy gave me a whole lotta love, much joy, and many happy memories. There's another good dog at my feet right now.

6. I decided back in the '80s or thereabouts that it would be cool to have a parrot, specifically an African Grey, the price of which was well out of our tax bracket. Some twenty years later, out of the blue one was offered to me for adoption, absolutely free, and so once again I got what I wanted. She'll probably outlive us, so she is truly a gift that keeps on giving.

7. I have loved to read ever since my mom first taught me how and in the following 55 years, I have never been without a steady supply of good books. There's one waiting for me on my bedside table right now.

So I've got my man, my son, my dog, my birds, my books, my career, and my house. What more does one woman need?

Simply,

Maybe I'm Being a Little Oversensitive, Here

2011-03-27T13:03:00.000-04:00

Image by Paolo Margari via Flickrbut I am getting tired--tired, I tell you--of showing up for social events and finding out that I can't get there from here.

Last night, the party was at a downtown bar with no handicap parking. None. Zip. Zero. Nada.

Mr. Simply had called ahead to see if we were going to have problems, and learned that the bar itself is laid out on three levels, separated by two flights of stairs, with "only" four steps each. I get tired of that "only" too, by the way, but that's another subject for another day. I'll just say that, for some of us, one step might as well be the Matterhorn and leave it at that. And let me add that the steps were really, really wide, and it would not appear to have been a problem to have included a ramp next to each flight in the original design, then I promise I'll move on. Except to say that when people say "only" in this context it makes me want to smack them upside the head.

Mr. Simply didn't think to ask about the parking, as parking has been mandated by Federal law for years and it never occurred to us that there would be any issue other than the usual one of there never being enough spaces to go around. (If 15% of us have disabilities, why aren't 15% of the spaces in any parking lot or garage designated handicapped parking? More, at medical facilities? Again, another subject for another day.) So imagine our surprise when we circled the block twice and found no handicap parking on the street, and entered the garage to find, again, no handicap parking. How is this possible?

Don't know what street access was like, other than the parking, as I came in to the party from the garage. But I can tell you that there was a long ramp from the garage to three back exits, one into each level of the bar. That's the good news. The bad news, which we got from the security guard in the garage when we asked for directions, is that the doors are sometimes locked. In which case, we were told, we would have had to leave the garage and go around the corner to get to the front door. At which point we would have been two levels below the party. My only alternative, did I need a scooter or chair to get around, would have been to go back out, around the corner, into the garage and down the ramp, and have someone meet me at the correct back door to let me in. This sort of thing pisses me off.

The party was not on the same level as the restrooms, either. If I'd had a wheelchair or scooter, I'd have had to leave the bar, take the ramp to the next level, re-enter the bar, then repeat the process to get back to my table--risking, of course, being locked out at each stage of the process.

I know that my temporarily able-bodied acquaintances will not always think of these things when they are planning activities that include me. (This begs the question whether the bar owners ever heard of the Americans With Disabilities Act.) Some are not close enough that I would necessarily share with them the ongoing saga of my slowly but inexorably deteriorating physical condition. I know this is not personal: The able-bodied simply take for granted their ability to get around. But I wasn't the only person there with physical challenges: I met a lady on the stair who, upon observing my cane, commented that she had just recently got off crutches. No telling how many there with invisible impairments. So you'd think that a mass of us would at least catch our hosts' attention, wouldn't you?

So maybe I'm being a little oversensitive here, but I allowed myself to have some hurt feelings for a moment, as I sat on the throne in the surprisingly accessible stall in this disappointingly inaccessible bar, feeling left out of things and close to tears as I contemplated the long haul back up eight--count 'em--eight steps to our table.

Simply,

Some Anniversaries Suck

2010-11-08T19:15:00.000-05:00

Image via Wikipedia
Fifty-one years ago today, on a Sunday morning, I got up for breakfast with the rest of my family. The steps I took from my bed to the kitchen table were the last unassisted steps I would ever take.

By dinner time, I would be in the hospital on an isolation unit. I would not see home, my baby sister, or my new puppy for another six weeks. I would not ride my pony again for more than six months. I would not see the inside of a school room again until the following September.

I had polio.

Every fall, my body remembers, even if I do not seem to myself. I get a case of the blues that lasts until after the holidays. Which is weird, because I seem (at least to myself) pretty well-adjusted otherwise.

I was thinking about this a little bit to myself this morning as I was getting ready to go to work, and I think for the first time it really dawned on me how traumatic that must have been to a seven-year-old kid. I'm pretty sure, for example, that I had never spent the night away from home except at my grandparents', which hardly counts. I certainly had never spent six weeks away from home. And then there's all the constant little daily traumas that go with being in the hospital: Shots, pills, strangers poking at you at all hours of the day and night. High fevers, drug-induced nightmares, loneliness, boredom, and in my case also a spinal tap or two and daily hot packs.

Not to mention, it changed my life--and to some degree, my whole family's--forever. And these changes would make childhood and adolescence damned difficult. My parents were both accomplished equestrians, and I would never be a good rider with one paralyzed hip and leg. I would not be able to participate in phys ed with the rest of the kids, or dance in high school.

I certainly was not marriageable, as it was then defined. All my clothes--especially my shoes--would forever after look weird. Skirts hung crookedly because I was crooked. Slacks that fit on one side did not on the other. The toes of my left shoes sometimes stuck up in the air. And I could never wear nice shoes because they couldn't hold up to the bracing. I fell constantly.

Most of this is so irrelevant to my life as an adult as to actually be hard to dredge up from the deep cellars of memory for the writing of this list. I am married. We don't have phys ed at the office. I don't have the time or the money to ride any more anyway. And yet all these things, I think, swirl around in my subconscious come November every year.

There is also much to be grateful for, in the It Could Have Been So Much Worse department: My family could afford my medical care. Some kids died. I'm only a monoplegic, whereas many kids emerged as paras. I came to my post-polio symptoms decades after many of my peers, and despite them I am still working. Some of my peers cannot. I did ride again--and swim, and hike. I even went backpacking once. I probably never would have chosen the career I did had I been able-bodied, and I do love my work. Trust me when I say, I'm grateful for it all.

And yet, every fall, the body remembers.

Simply,

chopping down the cherry tree

2010-06-07T19:39:00.000-04:00

Our old cherry tree finally bit the dust--literally--this afternoon.

Mr. Simply had bartered for some serious yard work, and the landscape experts came out today and said it was time to put it out of its misery. I arrived home from work to find it already gone, along with a lot of the weeds and crap that have grown wild out there since Mr. Simply got sick.

There's nothing left of that beautiful old tree except a stump about two feet tall.

Simply,

I laughed until I cried

2010-05-24T19:50:00.001-04:00

Image by ttstam via Flickr

Sometimes I really worry about Mr. Simply's stability.

Totally seriously, he asks at dinner tonight if I think it would be ok for him to inquire of our insurance agent whether we might be covered in case a burglar breaks in while we're here. Well sure, I say, we're covered, thinking of course that he's referring to replacement value for anything that might get stolen.

However, this is not what he is asking. What if they damage the house? he asks. Well sure, I say, thinking he means what if they trash the place? But no. What Mr. Simply wants to know, it develops, is whether, should he shoot a burglar, would the insurance company pay for the cleanup? And if it turns into OK Corral, Part Deux, will they pay for damages to the neighbors' houses? If no, he wants to get a rider.

The reason he wants to know if I think it's ok to ask this question is that he worries that our agent (who we've been with since 1984) might think he's crazy and cancel our policy just on general principle.

And he can't figure out why I just laughed until I cried.

Simply,

Still blushing

2010-04-22T19:03:00.000-04:00

Mr. Simply, my husband of 30+ years, and I stopped off at the drugstore on the way home this evening. He needs to pick up an Rx. I, preferring to wait in the truck, ask him to get some Pears soap for me.

Cute Young Thing at the register asks him if I like the Pears, or if it really works, or something like that, and he replies, "Well, I might not be the one to ask because my wife always looks beautiful to me!" She thinks Mr. Simply is just the bee's knees, and jogs out to the parking lot to tell me all about it.

Aww, isn't he sweet? Her, too.

Simply,

Old age isn't all bad

2010-04-21T19:22:00.000-04:00

For one thing, you might get to be a great aunt.

Yes, my niece is pregnant. Unmarried, (relatively) uneducated, completely unemployed, and uninsured. Whatev. It'll work out somehow.

When she told me, first I hollered and whooped. And then I cried. It doesn't seem that long ago that her mother was teaching her to write her name with soap on the bathtub tiles. "P is for Penny. . ." Only the way she said it, being still too young to have much grasp on syntax or facility with her Rs, it came out "P fo' Penny!"

Time goes by so fast.

The other thing you get when you get old enough, and lucky enough? You get to give your baby sister a ration of shit about being a grandmother.

Simply,

2010-04-18T16:41:00.000-04:00

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
-Oliver Wendell Holmes

Back to the Future

2010-04-16T20:12:00.000-04:00

Finally

2010-04-10T12:47:00.001-04:00

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

Finally, I seem to have gotten a foot in the door at a nearby specialty clinic. I don't have an appointment yet, but at least I've finally finagled a referral and got my records over there, so an actual appointment for the initial consult should be in the pipeline.

The first thing I want from them is a light-weight, fold-up wheelchair that I can heave in and out of the trunk by myself, so I can start going back to bird fairs and bird walks and outdoor markets and PetSmart. So many places and activities require lots and lots of standing and walking but don't provide wheelchairs for patrons with disabilities, and I don't want to have to always rely on taking someone with me to help--or not be able to go at all, which is how it's been lately.

I have no need to pull a Boeing 757 anywhere with it, and have no idea why anyone would. But there you go. At least now I know I could if I wanted to.

Last night I dreamed I had just received my new, first wheelchair and was out for a trial run with some friends.

When one is disabled, one dreams about it in various ways--sometimes I dream I'm no longer disabled, or at least I dream I'm doing things that I can't do in my waking life, like dance or jog. Other times I dream it's gotten worse, sometimes I just dream about it as it is, and sometimes it doesn't figure in my dreams one way or the other.

This was my first "wheelchair dream" ever, which I think is significant. That I was focused on my renewed mobility and was getting a kick out of my new toy I think is a good omen. Increasing reliance on my cane was hard at first. I suspect this transition is going to be different, attitude-wise.

This chair was the luxury sport model, upholstered in butter-soft leather and a little faster than I was comfortable with at first. In my dream, I ricocheted off a wall making a turn, and it tipped me back a bit which was also taking some getting used to. And being a sport model, there was no trunk space: I had no place to put anything other than in my lap: When I get mine, I want saddle-bags or something.

When I was a kid you would still see in long-term inpatient units those old wooden wheelchairs which really were like chairs on wheels--sort of the forerunners of the powerchair, I guess (which is what I want next, for work, but that is another post for another day). Those old chairs had adjustable recliner backs: Funny what you "remember" in your dreams after 50 years!

Anyway, in this dream, my friends kept wanting to do things for me that I needed to learn how to do myself, like getting through doors, and there were obstacles like the decorative vanity, placed too close to the handicap-stall door in a public waiting room, that my friends wanted to shove over for me. But all in all, it was cool. My friends meant well, backed off when I asked them to, and didn't laugh when I hit the wall.

Just push the joystick, and whoosh--away I go!

Simply,

Lessons from Genealogy, #2-#4

2010-03-29T22:16:00.001-04:00

Image via Wikipedia

#2. Family myths are often just that.

My grandparents on my mother's side always bragged about their Confederate war heroes. I never found any. I found one guy who started his own cavalry unit, then fell off his horse and died during a parade--before they ever left home. Lots of slave owners--nothing to brag about there--but no heroes.

For the longest time, the most interesting people I'd found on her side were these wonderful old lesbians who ran a farm together deep in the Virginia countryside in the 1800s. Sometimes truth is better than fiction.

My dad's dad always bragged about his Revolutionary war ancestors and how they got all these gobs of land for their service. The only one I found was a supplier, never a troop. And he did get land, but it was land confiscated from his Royalist neighbors.

#3. Sometimes family myths are truer than you might think.

Mom's mom always told us grandkids we were descended from French kings. We used to joke that, more likely, we were related through palace concubinage.

Once when I was a kid my Dad drove me through some little eye-blink of a town in Appalachia in the wee hours of the morning and pointed to this crumbling, dark, old house and said, "That is where your Grandmother is from!" And sure enough, initially all I found was some runaway Huguenots. French? Sure. Royalty? Not hardly. And over on the fringes, I found a couple of poor Portuguese who came here because there was nothing for them in Portugal. So I thought, well, that is that. No French kings. She made it all up.

In the South, back in the 1800s, "tracing"--and they used that word loosely--your lineage was a Big Thing. Most families, outside of Virginia, were dirt poor and always had been. Most people saw Southerners as backward and indolent. So it was nice to be able to say, 'Oh, our family descends from Charlemagne'. This had a little extra punch when everybody was all into chivalry and reading too many Waverly novels. It was such a big thing that there are books still in print on family lines that are "guaranteed" to trace back to Charlemagne. I had pretty much written my grandmother's fairy tales off to that sort of thing.

But to my amazement, I eventually found that one line of her family indeed does lead straight back not to French royalty, per se, but through a bunch of English royalty back to a pretty impressive line of Normans and Poitevins. . . all the way to Charlemagne himself.

I wish she were alive to see it.

#4. Sometimes there are complete and total surprises.

Dad's mom never talked about her ancestry. Her dad was illegitimate, a matter of considerable shame at the time, and she grew up poor. Yet that's where the Confederate heroes were--her paternal grandfather and her great uncles fought in that war from its start to its finish.

Simply,

Lessons from Genealogy

2010-03-27T13:34:00.000-04:00

#1. European royalty used to (inter)breed like mink. Once you link up to one royal person, you discover that you are related to everybody who was anybody. Sometimes twice.

Simply,

The Alibi

2010-03-13T15:32:00.004-05:00

Image via Wikipedia

So my son tells his room-mate George that he needs to borrow George's car so he can meet me for breakfast this morning.

This is a patent lie, as Simply, Jr. and I had no plans for any such thing.

Nor were we likely to: In the first place, I rarely eat breakfast out. The nature of my disability is such that I need to eat first thing--meaning before I do anything else, including shower, dress, and drive somewhere.

In the second place, Simply, Jr. left the house at approximately 7:00 a.m. for this supposed breakfast, and the nature of my disability is such that I am not bloody likely to be up and about at that hour on a Saturday. I reach the weekend pretty well wore out, and don't set my alarm on a Saturday (or Sunday either, for that matter) for anything of less likely historical significance than the second invasion of Normandy. I would, if I were doing this breakfast out thing at all, tell Simply, Jr. that I would call him when I awoke, and we'd make plans then.

So I am sitting in the bird room minding my own business when I get a text from George, looking for his car, which has by this point been gone three hours and some change. He is not happy to learn that I have not seen my son all morning. He is angry that he has been lied to. I, on the other hand, while disappointed, am not surprised that I have been used as an alibi. It is probably not the first time, and won't be the last: My son has been an accomplished liar almost as long as he has been able to speak. Even as a young sprat, he could look Mr. Simply and me in the eye and tell us a whopper so convincing that he would have us questioning our own grip on reality.

I figured that, assuming he hadn't either wrecked the car or got arrested (again), that he would turn up eventually with a perfectly reasonable explanation. Which he did, seven hours after he'd left home.

Wonder what he's been up to?

Simply,

To Spring

2010-03-08T11:44:00.000-05:00

My first--and probably last--crocus popped up this weekend, which got me to thinking about Spring and about the passage of time. I planted dozens of them in the woods out back of the house over a quarter of a century ago, and every Spring, like clockwork, they'd bloom among the leaves and the pinestraw and the little wild strawberries. But over the years they've been trampled by dogs and a kid, or eaten by squirrels and chipmunks, until I really didn't think there were any left. This little fella was a pleasant surprise Saturday morning.

I have photos from one Easter in the late '80s that shows we used to have a green lawn out back, too (but see kid, dogs, above), and a half a dozen flowering dogwood. Then Simply, Jr. grew up, four of the dogs went over the Rainbow Bridge, and anthracnose got the dogwoods.

Out front, we had this spectacular cherry tree that every Spring was a mass of pink blooms that seemed almost bigger than our little house. I once looked out my window to see it filled with Cedar Waxwings passing the petals to each other to eat like so much pink cotton candy. I remember when that tree arrived, so young and small it fit in the backseat of a car. We barely got it in the ground before a thunderstorm rolled in, and because we forgot to stake it, the wind tilted it a bit, and it has remained just a little off center ever since.

The person who gave us the tree and the person who helped us plant it that day are both dead, one of cancer and one of a heart attack. And after nearly 30 years the tree, too, has begun to die. The state extension people came out and said it was a fungus in the soil and that there was nothing we could do. Each Spring its blooms have gotten more sparse until this year it probably won't flower at all, for the first time in our life together at this house. Although it will break my heart to do it, we'll most likely have to cut it down this summer.

So much changes in 25 years. For one thing, Mr. Simply has gone bald. The daffodils my grandmother gave us to plant in the garden of our new home have gotten too old to bloom any more. And since those crocuses went in the ground, two dear friends and neighbors have gone in the ground, too, as have Dad's parents, Mr. Simply's parents, and my sister-in-law.

And we're getting older as well. This morning I noticed for the first time that I was shuffling--shuffling!--down the hall to the kitchen.

I eventually got my joints unlocked, though, and headed off to work. I had to stop the car halfway down the block to wait for a pair of cardinals having sex in the middle of the road.

So here's to Spring. . . and to the passage of time. As the old joke goes, beats hell out of the alternative.

Simply,

Funk

2010-01-30T09:36:00.000-05:00

Image by albyper via Flickr

I have been in a deep brown funk for months.

And then, all of a sudden, in the course of just 24 hours, it lifted.

Simply,

I got dem cosmic opera blues (hosted by Gioachino Rossini)

2010-01-01T18:26:00.000-05:00

Image via Wikipedia

I was depressed this afternoon. Or maybe not depressed, more like sad/mad/grieving. All I wanted to do was listen to opera and cry. So I did. Listen to opera that is. Never did cry, except when I read a sad story in Crip Zen. Didn't cry, but did have a panic attack when I was reading about how "they" have destroyed Warm Springs. I was afraid I was having a heart attack. Then I was afraid it was some awful new PPS.

Whatever. The opera thing worked. I feel human again.

Here's what I think was the matter: I'm tired. Tired of being alone in this. Guilty for being a burden. Angry that my husband won't take better care of me/us. Scared, because the truth is, he can't do any better than he is. He's sick, too. Hell, while we're on this, I feel guilty and sad and frustrated that I can't take better care of him.

Depressed that I can't afford to hire somebody to clean and shop and cook. Angry that this ever happened to me in the first place. Angry that it's suddenly getting dramatically worse. Sad. Missing the things I can't do any more, even just since last summer. Missing my dog. Missing my best friend. Missing Paul Newman. Missing Luciano Pavarotti, for God's sake.

I finished up with the overture from The Barber of Seville and I feel fine now.

Simply,

2009-11-08T17:02:00.006-05:00

You can get used to a lot of things over the course of half a century. I, for example, had become so accustomed to my disability that sometimes, when people asked what happened to me (or worse, what I did to myself), I had to think about it for a second. Hunh? Oh. That.

In fact, I often, and for a long time, did not think of myself as disabled at all. I swam, I rode horseback, I hiked, I even drove a stick-shift. Couldn't run or dance, never learned to ride a bike, so--handicapped, sure, but not disabled.

Now, though, it's starting to catch up with me. After 50 years, I'm having some serious post-polio sequelae. That means there's a new level of adjustment going on here. For example, today would have been a beautiful day for a walk in my neighborhood, and normally that's exactly what I would have done: Put a string on Diana and headed out into the bright fall sunshine. It's what we were doing this time last year.

However, I'm not supposed to do that any more. And I needed to go to the grocery store, too, but I just didn't have the energy. So instead, I puttered, dizzily and weakly, around the house, on and off in between some extended rest periods.

That could all be pretty depressing.

In between wanting to cry about just damn near anything and everything, though, including stuff that has nothing to do with my disability, I've been thinking that I've had 50 good years with this thing. After all, I rode, didn't I? For almost 20 years. And swam, and hiked, and walked generations of dogs.

And it still is a beautiful day, after all, whether I can get out in it or not.

Simply,

Sucky anniversary

2009-11-07T20:27:00.001-05:00

Tomorrow is the 50th anniversary of the day I got polio.

Simply,

2009-10-08T18:30:00.003-04:00

My mother had her moments.

When I was a little kid, we went to Church #1, to wit:

Note the steps. Lots of steps.

When I was in 2nd grade, I got polio. While I was in the hospital, which was costing my parents a metric shit-ton of money they didn't have, the church called on her at home one Sunday afternoon to inquire when she intended to resume meeting her annual pledge! She basically told them they could stuff their pledges up their collective arse.

When I was able to go back to church, they refused to relocate my Sunday-school class to the ground floor (as I recall, it was on the 3rd) to accommodate my inability to climb flight after seemingly endless flight of stairs.

My mother basically told them to stuff it, she was going to find a new church. And she did. Church #2 was all on one level.

Simply,

Where'd everybody go?

2009-10-01T18:17:00.002-04:00

According to The Post-Polio Experience, by Margaret Backman, there are 1.5 million of us polio survivors in the U.S.

So where the heck are all you people anyway? Let's talk!

Simply,

a tear for Daisy

2009-10-01T17:54:00.003-04:00

Today is--was? would have been?--Daisy's 15th birthday. But she got so old by the time she was 14 that we had to put her to sleep.

I dreamed about her this morning.

I love Diana: She had my heart before we were halfway home from the pound. But Daisy was born in my house. I toweled her off and handed her back to her mother to nurse.

We had an incredible bond. I adored that dog. She went nearly everywhere I did, including to work every day, for years. I thought we would always be Daisy and me, as if time might pass all around us but we would never die.

Of course that cannot be.

So. I love Diana, and miss Daisy.

Simply,

Gotta Vent

2009-09-27T14:24:00.002-04:00

Post Polio sucks.

We went to a party last night. I'd been tired all day (it takes me all day Saturday to recover from the work week, even though I don't have a full calendar at work) but no worse than usual.

We get to the guy's house, and it's this little 1920s brick bungalow at the top of a steep driveway. There's maybe half-a-dozen steps up a steep walk to the front door. By the time I got halfway up I thought my legs were gonna quit working. I wasn't even sure I could do the last step without resting. Embarrassing. I feel like a fat old woman, although I am neither.

We have a wedding to go to tonight, which I hope will be more accessible.

My "vacation" this summer wore me out. Ever since I got back, I've been wishing I had a week off just to sleep.

Simply,

Disability Studies, Temple U.: Flickr, Australian sopranos, and disability history

2009-09-14T20:17:00.001-04:00

For polio trivia lovers: Here's another "polio" who made good.

Disability Studies, Temple U.: Flickr, Australian sopranos, and disability history

Silly Season

2009-09-10T07:16:00.003-04:00

Saw on Twitter where some (White, male) fool bragged he'd kept his kid home from school to watch a movie Tuesday rather than let the kid listen to the President's speech.

And he thinks that's good parenting?

The speech was 20 minutes. The kid missed a whole day of school for that. The speech was inspirational. The kid watched a movie instead.

What's with these people anyway?

Simply,

No, it's not

2009-09-08T17:33:00.002-04:00

Sign in front of church: "This is a Christian nation."

No, it's not. Go back to 8th grade civics class. Re-read the Constitution. Check out a U.S. history book from the library.

This is a nation founded on freedom of religion.

Freedom. of. religion.

Simply,

2009-09-07T14:13:00.004-04:00

I woke up depressed this morning. The three-day weekend is over with, and I don't feel like I had any kind of holiday at all. (This, despite having the entire day off Saturday and going out and indulging two of my hobbies at once yesterday. Go figure.) I feel out of control of nearly everything at work, and we are completely overwhelmed financially. I feel about as powerless over the money problems as I would standing on a beach facing a tidal wave. Nigel made the comment this weekend that we're "this close to losing everything we have". Not encouraging, that.

I've been sinking down into the dumps for the last few weeks: I don't feel good any more, haven't all summer. My disability, which I have more or less successfully outrun, if you'll pardon the expression, for the last 50 years, is catching up to me. Two separate health issues, that I can't see for shit any more and that my sex life is shot to hell (for three different reasons that aren't fixable) aren't helping.

This is the weekend that my old dog Daisy died last year, and I've been thinking about her a lot. I dreamed about her Saturday night, which didn't help either. And we're coming up on two years since my best friend died (her birthday was last week), and I've been thinking about her a lot. Some hobby things I've tried to do lately to lighten the mood I've been frustrated at, and wound up making myself feel worse.

So I got to thinking. There were surely things that could make me feel better. What might they be? I started cleaning: There's no reason, broke or not, that we can't have a tidy, neat, clean, snug little home to relax in and retreat to.

I filled the hummingbird feeders. (All the feeders, and the birdbaths too, have been neglected since my Nigel went away for his cancer treatment--over a year ago.) Within minutes, hummingbirds were coming to the window to feed. And surprise, surprise--I felt better.

Simply,

2009-09-03T11:34:00.003-04:00

I read that people with my disability should take two rest periods a day, 15-20 minutes each, doing nothing.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to do nothing for 15 minutes?

This last rest period, I found myself wanting to get up from my chair, go over to my computer, and blog it.

Simply,

Things I hate

2009-07-20T12:25:00.005-04:00

I've been having one of those days for the past several days. I hate

badges on Flickr
the cheesy flush handle we put on the guestroom toilet
the cheesy faucet we put on the kitchen sink (Note to Self: When you're replacing shit around the house, upgrade!)
CNN
Fox "News"
People who throw trash in the woods
Sell-by dates that come off when you open the package (because they're printed on the pull tab or some place equally stupid)
E-mails that begin with Obummer the Fascist
The New Republic
People who pontificate on subjects they do not understand
Lies, and the liars who tell them

Simply,

Fuck you, Limu

2009-07-18T12:46:00.011-04:00

Some asshat just tried to rope My Nigel into a multi-level marketing scheme under the guise of a job offer.

My Nigel has been out of work for just over six months, now, so this was a mean thing to do. He thought he had a job interview and gets handed a can of grossly over-priced energy drink (80 mg. of caffeine with some vitamins, big whoop) and a glossy brochure promising that there's a fortune to be made here.

My Nigel, besides his financial worries, has a progressive and possibly fatal disorder which, while currently in remission, may or may not have been cured by the rounds of treatment he's undergone in the past year. It's too soon to know if it's really gone, or just gone underground. So this asshat exploits the anxieties by telling MN that this product can "help" with his disease, and that there are "over 800" studies that support that. That was cruel.

MN was all excited.

So we went on line last night. God, I love Google. Our first discovery was that the founder, who is described as a successful businessman with 25 years of executive-level marketing experience, actually had an identical business selling an identical product yanked out from under him by the FTC for making identical claims. This is, of course, not mentioned in the glossy brochure.

Our second, of course, is that the studies mentioned are actually studies on the main ingredient of the product, not the product itself, and most do not appear to have utilized human subjects. There are 811 of them in MedLine's database, and short of pulling each and every one, there is no easy way to tell. Many, however, included in their titles rabbits, in vitro, and so forth. Also, they cover all sorts of topics, and not one appears at first blush to address MN's particular disorder.

Let me be absolutely clear here: There is not one study in a peer-reviewed journal (or anywhere else for that matter) of this specific product used as recommended (2-3 oz. daily) in humans. Not one. This misappropriation and misrepresentation of other people's work was specifically mentioned in the FTC's previous cases against this company's previous incarnation.

In the defunct company's literature, by the way, they only cited by name the Japanese researchers, knowing that anybody who Googled them would get articles in Japanese scientific publications, which of course nobody would be able to read. So they get to look like their product has a scientific basis while making it hard for the average layperson to check up on their claims that this potion cures everything from asthma to zither phobias.

And speaking of Google, if you Google the founder's name, what you get is page after page of his own websites, blogs, and on-line ads, along with page after page of distributors' websites, blogs, and on-line ads. He effectively controls, in other words, your ability to dig into his background with any ease. The average person looking into this wonderful "opportunity" will only find laudatory references. They are nearly verbatim from the company website and its other marketing materials, by the way, which lends support to the idea that the founder, always described in the reverential tones usually reserved for people like Mother Theresa, is controlling his public image. It takes someone pretty determined and creative to delve into his actual, objectively reported background.

Of course, the whole MLM concept, or "network marketing" as this company is disguising it, is a flawed business model. To make any money at all, you'd have to get in on the ground floor. The brochure tries to claim (a) that this is a ground-floor opportunity, and (b) that there are tens of thousands of "distributors" living large off their profits. You can't have it both ways.

To make any money at all, you'd have to have a theoretically infinite market for this ridiculously overpriced product (about $150 for a month's "supply"). Each distributor has to buy that much every month for themselves to "qualify" for commissions for sales in their downline. Each would have to have enrolled eight additional people to buy this amount every month just to break even. And then of course those eight have to have eight and so forth ad infinitum. Obviously, this is not tenable: Sooner or later everybody runs out of new prospects, and in the meantime they're all running around in the same market competing with each other for the ever-dwindling supply of new prospects.

Perhaps worse, it turns your friends, neighbors, and co-workers into prospects whom you then have to con into buying something that may or may not be good for them at a grossly over-inflated price. Ick.

I feel very protective of MN and have the nearly overwhelming urge to drive over to this asshat's place of business (yeah, this wonderful "opportunity" he was offering is so lucrative that the asshat has to have a day job) and shaking him until his teeth rattle.

Simply,

In which I give a TAB the stink-eye

2009-07-15T21:07:00.003-04:00

So I get to the post office today, and there's a sporty little silver Mercedes Benz parked with one wheel in the handicapped slot.

This pisses me off.

So I very carefully park my boat smack dab in the middle of the handicapped space, perfectly aligned, perfectly centered. I look out through the passenger window and can see that if the MB owner is more than three inches wide, s/he is not going to be able to get back in hir car without serious difficulty. Good.

Just as I'm preparing to exit my vehicle, here she comes. She looks pointedly at the three-inch gap between our cars--and then gives me the stink-eye!

Nice Southern girl that I am, I get back in my car, pull out so she can get in her car and leave, and then repark myself.

Does she thank me? No.

Does she apologize? No.

Bitch.

She needs to remember that her able-bodied status is temporary and that she, too, could need a handicap spot one day. When she does, I hope that at least once she will find some selfish, inconsiderate person blocking it. And unfortunately, because people like her are everywhere, she probably will.

At least once.

Simply,

2009-06-30T07:56:00.008-04:00

I went to bed last night thinking about Knapp's comments (see previous post) about a controlled, together appearance (not really true of me) and total chaos inside (absolutely true of me). And I had this bitchin' nightmare about the new job. I was in high school, in this dream, and I was late.

I had walked out of the neighborhood, having missed the bus, and realized when I got to the main road that I didn't know which way to go. I couldn't remember the name of my new school. I eventually got there, and some classmates were studying for a test. One of them was studying something I'd written, and I said to her, "I can help you with that, because as it happens, I wrote it." Another student, seeing that there was a reference listed, commented "that isn't the same as writing it."

Worse, I realized as I looked at the paragraph in question that it was the one thing I had totally cribbed, and I didn't know what the hell it meant either.

Meanwhile, I remained confident about the test, which was to be multiple choice on European history. I had read and understood the assignment, and it's the sort of test I do well. I fully expected to ace it. But it turned out to be some kind of multimedia thing, no history in it at all, never mind European, and no directions: You were supposed to somehow intuitively know what to do and how. Not how I work best at all. I am verbal, linear. My classmates were so noisy I couldn't hear myself think. I liked the teacher, but she didn't like me. Time was running down.

I have completed one month of my six-month probationary period. I have moments when I suspect that, in a down economy, all these people really want is my clients and contacts and, as a result, the money I bring in. Not me.

The few times I have let myself be my self, mostly not until in the past week, I've gotten anxious about it and worried that the real me won't be welcome. That I won't even understand what's expected of me, that I will come prepared for the wrong thing, that passing work test won't even be a possibility as the calendar runs down toward December.

I've been faking it all these years. I'm gonna get busted.

Simply,

2009-06-29T20:13:00.018-04:00

I've been sober for 23 years, come September. I'm reading Caroline Knapp's Drinking: A Love Story. When I picked it up, I worried that reading about someone romancing the bottle would give me the willies. Weirdly, instead what it's done is confront me with my sick relationship with food. I think I'm having a Step One moment.

Food's a common substitute for alcohol. Anybody who's ever gotten sober at a club is familiar with the tables of food, the industrial-size pots of coffee, and the clouds of smoke hanging from the ceilings. Ever see Michael Keaton's Clean and Sober? One of the funnier scenes is when Michael is doing his Fifth Step with his sponsor in a diner. Every time the director cuts away to Later: Same Day, there are more dishes on the table. The sponsor drinks coffee, eats pie, has a milkshake, drinks more coffee, orders a sundae--you get the picture. And smokes the whole time.

So at first, I lost weight. I lost about 15 pounds, partly because I needed something to do and took up hiking, but also because booze just puffs you up. Then I got kind of obsessive about working out and dieting, and lost another 30. I probably got a hair too thin.

When I decided to go back to school and finish my education, I stopped working out and hiking in order to study, and I was no longer doing the shopping and cooking at home. I gained all 30 back, and then some.

After graduation, I lost a bit, but never got back down to a healthy weight. Then I developed high cholesterol and started getting diabetes. I went to pre-diabetes class, went on the diabetic exchange diet, and--you guessed it--lost about 50 pounds.

Then my Nigel got diagnosed with cancer, and I stopped losing. I actually put about five pounds back on. For a year, I have struggled with those same five goddamned pounds. Lose two, gain one, lose three, gain four. Lose one, gain one, lose it again, gain it again. For a couple of months now, I have been swearing I was gonna "get serious" about losing the last ten or fifteen I'd set out to lose back at the start--with the stunning result that I have merely stopped gaining. It's like the alcoholic promises, "I'll cut back," or "I'll quit--tomorrow" but nothing every really changes.

I have flirted with going to Overeaters Anonymous, but haven't gotten there. Then I picked up Knapp's book, and about fell over. My relationship with food is on every page. My experience with food echoes nearly every sentence she wrote about alcohol in the opening chapters.

Page 3: "I drank when I was happy and I drank when I was anxious and I drank when I was bored and I drank when I was depressed, which was often."

God knows, I eat when I'm happy, anxious, bored, and depressed.

Knapp talks about how every binge is an exception of some sort. This is true for food as well: Just this one M&M, just this one brownie, just this one piece of cake. Of course, as the chip ad says, "You can't eat just one." In AA, it's the first drink that gets us in trouble. In OA, it's that first compulsive bite, not the fiftieth. Knapp writes about how she "deserved" or "earned" a drink. It's been a sucky day: This calls for chocolate. I'm gonna eat this today/tonight, because it's been a bad day/night, but I'll count every carb tomorrow. Which of course I don't, because I'll have "just one" of something because it's a bad day, or we'll be celebrating something (a birthday at work? a new client?). I will have earned it. I will deserve it.

And the tricks we alcoholics play with "just one" work pretty well with food, too. Knapp writes, ". . . two glasses, but they were small ones, so I considered them half-glasses and counted them as one." When I drank, I used to keep topping off the same drink, and count it as one. I would brag that I could make one drink last all night (unlike my alcoholic friends and relatives, don't you know?) Compulsive overeaters play the same games. You can see it in the comic strip, Cathy. In one, Cathy and her mother discuss why eating cake crumbs and broken pieces of cookies "don't count."

And I compare. In Alcoholics Anonymous, newcomers hear "Identify, don't compare." This is because alcoholics can always find someone whose drinking is worse than our own and use that as proof that "I'm not really an alcoholic because I'm not that bad." I did that then, and do it now with food. I am always comparing my body size to other people's, what I brought for lunch to my coworkers' lunches, how fast I am eating, what I ordered, what (if anything) I leave on my plate to everyone else at the restaurant table. And wondering if they are noticing my eating. People with worse food problems than mine provide a perverse sort of comfort.

Like alcoholics, sometimes we overeaters hide it pretty well. I mean, obviously, a lot of compulsive overeaters are overweight, but not all of us are. And we carefully control our eating (sometimes) in public. I never binge actually at the office, although I can get carried away at a restaurant in front of coworkers. When I'm in the kitchen getting something for me and my Nigel, I sneak extra bites while I'm dishing it up, around the corner and out of his line of sight. What he sees is me, exercising portion control.

"Just today. Bad day. I deserve a reward. I'll deal with it tomorrow" (p. 6).

Simply,

2009-06-27T09:30:00.002-04:00

Nigel: What are your plans for tomorrow?
SS: I'm cleaning house.
Nigel: I'll help.
SS's Inner Wolf: Grrrr.

Simply,

You Go, Girl

2009-06-22T20:14:00.003-04:00

While my weight has definitely affected my health, I discovered back in my teens that my yo-yo-ing weight had nothing to do with my happiness, academic success, sex life, or much of anything else.

I was a whole, complex human being leading a whole, complex life, thin or fat. I was still me.

I Write Letters

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Zippy and Daisy

2009-06-16T13:40:00.008-04:00

Jill, over at I Blame the Patriarchy, reported that her beloved dog, Zippy, had to be euthanized yesterday. I left a comment there, but haven't been able to stop crying since, so by God I'm posting again here.

Not to be redundant, but my dog Daisy died last year and I still miss her. Just the other day the "new" dog, who is hardly new any more, came running down the hall and when I heard her feet for a second I thought "Here comes Daisy!" I turned, happily, to greet her, and there was this other dog. Things like that still happen about once a month.

And today, since I commented on Jill's post, I haven't been able to get the image of Daisy flying off the top step of the deck and vanishing into midair--forever--out of my head.Except she doesn't disappear forever because it keeps playing over and over in my head like a stuck video loop on some hellish version of You-tube. And every time I see it, it makes me tear up all over again, until it's getting damned difficult to get any work done.

I think I'll close and lock my office door and have a good cry. And go home and hug the "new" dog (Diana) extra times tonight.

Simply,

Birds and Books

2009-06-13T15:14:00.011-04:00

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

I went birding with a friend today, and then to a used book sale.

We started out at the river, at what used to be a county-owned education center. To our disgust, we found they'd put up fences around everything and were charging admission. We couldn't even get to the toilets without paying $5. The ponds were behind the fence. The wetlands boardwalks were behind the fence. Very irritating.

So we went downstream aways, to a city park that was still a city park. We saw Mourning Dove, a male Northern Cardinal, Canada Geese (of course), a Brown Thrasher, grackles, and more.

Sadly, last night's thunderstorms had blown a baby Northern Mockingbird out of the nest. The parents were squawking around us but we didn't realize why until we saw him on the ground. He was still in his pinfeathers. He died in my hand while we were trying to figure out the best place to put him. The instant he died the parents stopped fussing. How do they know?

I carried my 300mm lens, and took about 145 shots. On the first pass through in Adobe, I winnowed that down to about 110. The biggest disappointment was the Red-shouldered Hawk: The center had one in rehab, and another was in a pine tree overhead, calling back and forth to each other. I took easily a dozen shots of the wild one, and not one was in focus. Either I was bobbling the long lens or, more likely, absent-mindedly left it on auto-focus. The field was too busy, what with a brown bird and branches and pine needles and stuff, and I always forget that the autofocus can't cope with that.

After another dozen or so of an immature Eastern Bluebird with the same problem, I got this:

I love the curve of her body, and the curls of water around her.

And then there was the totally frustrating series of the Bank Swallows feeding their baby that I didn't get.

I'm just gonna have to spring for a monopod. That's all there is to it.

Simply,

success

2009-06-12T19:48:00.007-04:00

So I'm reading Carolyn G. Heilbrun's Reinventing Womanhood, and she's explaining it all to me. "Women," she writes,

"have avoided adventure, risk, and opportunity because they have been taught that suffering, the shaking loose of the comfortable foundations of one's life, must be avoided at all costs." (p. 68)

Except I'm a risk-taker. And a poor planner. I am the epitome of not looking before leaping, ok? And yet. Something in this quote tickles at the edges of my pre-conscious mind. A page later, Heilbrun says,

"They feared above all the loss of dependence and the discovery of a realm of choice where suffering is possible, even likely." (p. 69)

Wham! Right between the eyes. Not so much choice, but responsibility, and certainly, the loss of dependence.

In the meantime, I'm loving my job. But I spent some social time with some of my peers today, and got a glimpse into their successful lifestyles. About which, I remain ambivalent. One has a house worth twice as much as mine, and it's expensively furnished and landscaped to boot. And while it is beautiful and I liked it, I did not think I would feel comfortable living there. Why? Don't know yet. But for whatever reason, I'm more the kind of woman who would go on living in a shack and stuff the money in the mattress.

Simply,

Dessert First

2009-06-08T21:35:00.004-04:00

I am a firm believer in eating dessert first, especially if I come home so tired and so hungry that I can't even wait to open a can and heat up the contents for dinner. I noticed, though, that the last two days running I've had a tiny sliver of cake and a glass of milk the minute I walked through the door, and it got me to thinking about Dessert First as a life philosophy.

It's not a workable one, and the consequences show in my life. My blood sugar is fine, but it was not always so. I am a little pudgy, although that, too, has been worse in the past. And I goof off before doing chores, with the result that my house is a mess. Finally, I buy on credit, trusting that the money will come. It doesn't.

My mother always told me I had to eat my dinner to get dessert, and my father warned me to pay cash whenever I could. Should have listened.

Maybe there's a Lesson for Girls in there somewhere.

Simply,

You know,

2009-06-07T21:12:00.002-04:00

I'd be a whole lot happier if I hadn't just found mouse turds in my kitchen.

Yuk.

Simply,

What does success feel like?

2009-06-07T19:28:00.003-04:00

I am on the verge of a chance, just possibly, at financial success. Not the overnight-millionaire-just-won-the-lottery kind, just a steady, decent income.

And I wonder. What will it feel like? Is there anything about it that scares me, just a little? Have I needed for some nutty reason to live hand to mouth all these years? Will I screw this up for myself somehow?

Simply,

What IS in a name?

2009-05-23T09:04:00.014-04:00

OK, now you got me thinking about dress as identity in addition to the whole naming thing, and how patriarchy gets mixed up in that, too.

I suppose I would be closest to what is described in the Comments as "preppie butch," although I do the slob thing pretty well, too.

I laughed out loud when I read the Robin Williams quote on butches as simply "women in comfortable shoes"--in other words, sensible women. Another commenter wrote that a butch is a woman who stands up to a man, unless she is femme, in which case she is bitch, rather than butch. Loved that one.

But here's my take on it. Butch to me is not about playing a role. It is about not playing a role, not 'doing' gender. I don't consciously dress butch, i.e., shop in the men's-wear section, or cut my hair high-and-tight. I simply do not wear dresses/skirts, high heels, makeup, or fussy jewelry. Or fussy hair, either. My ideal haircut is one I can hit with a towel and be out the door.

I don't shave. Anywhere. Ever.

On the other hand, while I don't like frilly blouses as a general rule, I have floral prints in my closet. And I like nice undies. Bras are torture instruments and I would never wear one if I didn't have such big jugs, but as long as I have to wear them, I want them as lacy and frilly as I can get them. I think that is because I can indulge that side of me away from the male gaze. And because lacy underwear doesn't inhibit movement the way other feminine clothing (e.g., spike heels) does.

Doing gender is not my first priority: Practical, comfortable, yet attractive (nice oxford shirts, for example, in high-quality cotton and pretty colors) is. If people think I dress like a man, then so be it.

But as for identity, my clothing does send a message about me: I'm not conforming to gender requirements. I'm more interested in what works for me than what society wants.

Naomi Wolf, in The Beauty Myth, cites some statistics on how many battered women's shelters we could fund with the money we piss away on face creams alone. I think it came out to one per state per year. And she or someone else commented on how much we could accomplish with the time we spend doing our faces and hair and shopping for femme crap if we put that same energy into social change. So my clothing also sends those two messages about my identity: I'd rather spend the money on hobby equipment and the time on my profession.

Whereas, to me, the whole femme thing plays out the stereotype of females in our society as frivolous, superficial, silly, empty-headed, vain, spendthrift, allowing themselves to dress for (or in the case of expensive baubles, be dressed by) men, blah, blah. So in terms of messages I send with my personal style, if I were consciously sending one, that would not be it. Why would I deliberately drape something over my body that telegraphs, "idiotic"?

So here's my identity as summed up by my appearance:
(1) Judges self and others by their character.
(3) Likes nice things.
(4) Practical. Sensible. Comfortable.
(5) Nonconformist.
(6) Will stand up to a man--a bitch in pants.
(7) Sloppy.
(8) Preppie.

Simply,

Feminist Cookies

2009-05-22T18:13:00.000-04:00

These are awesome. Buy one for your Nigel today!

Simply,

Lessons for Girls, Number Three: Be Independent

2009-05-09T20:43:00.006-04:00

Reassigned Time: Lessons for Girls, Number Two: Opting Out

This is a meme that started with Historiann's Lesson Number One, which was basically that anger can be a good thing. Lesson Number Two just went up today over at Reassigned Time, and is basically that it is equally ok not to engage. I am going to try for Number Three, Be Independent.

Boys never are raised to think someone is going to take care of them. Girls need to always think in terms of supporting themselves, owning their own property, having their own bank accounts and lines of credit, paying their own way.

Instead, we are raised to believe that men will buy us dinner, movie tickets, gifts, a home, car, clothing, vacations. They will make the big bucks: Whether we work or not, they will be capable of and responsible for supporting the family. This is nuts. This leaves girls dependent, and in an unhealthy marriage it means women will be trapped.

It ought never to be a question of whether we will work. It should be assumed that we will be completely self-supporting, whether we are married or not. We should never, ever be dependent upon a man again once we're old enough not to need parental support any more.

Even a few lesbians occasionally fall into this trap, where one expects the other to support her, and where one uses her ability to support the other as leverage. As far as I know, it's a woman thing: At least I can't think of any gay male couples I've encountered where that is the dynamic.

Although I am a feminist, and my mom raised me to have an education and a career, I have never managed my money as though I were an independent financial entity. It's amazing how subtle this kind of internalized sexism can be: I just never took myself seriously in the financial realm. It's only recently that I have begun to think differently about what I deserve to make--and keep.

Of course part of that was the whole anti-materialism thing of the '60s, but not all.

It's such a new idea to me that I was astounded to learn the other day that a small business owner (female) up the street grosses $2 million a year. I know, of course, that there are a lot of women out there making bunches of money. But she's an ordinary woman like me, see, that's what was so amazing about it. I have, without realizing it, had it in my head all these years that real (ordinary) women never have any money of their own.

So anyway, I'm starting to ask for--and expect--more money for my work. And last week I opened my own checking account. For no reason other than that I felt I should have one.

So endeth the Lesson.

Simply,

2009-05-09T14:05:00.001-04:00

And then there's the menz. I haven't had to work with men in decades.

Simply,

Change is scary

2009-05-09T12:16:00.002-04:00

So the new job starts in a couple of weeks.

Will they respect my work? Will I respect theirs?
Will we get along?
Will the customers I'm taking with me like the new place?

Simply,

Quote of the day

2009-05-01T18:38:00.004-04:00

Perhaps gamboling about the countryside observing the wonders of nature that exist blissfully innocent of patriarchal oppression is, in itself, a feminist statement.
-humanbein

Sounded good to me, so I went for a walk.

Simply,

2009-05-01T07:23:00.002-04:00

http://www.ginandtacos.com/2009/05/01/npf-being-female-is-complicated/

Simply,

Absolute best blog line of the day

2009-04-29T20:54:00.003-04:00

. . . sometimes crap is unavoidable. . . it gets delivered to the door, Federal Express, and you are asked to sign for it.
--The Tenured Radical

The One-Minute Writer: Today's Writing Prompt: Name

2009-04-27T18:38:00.001-04:00

The One-Minute Writer: Today's Writing Prompt: Name

Hah!

Simply,

Change

2009-04-27T07:36:00.002-04:00

Looking over a new employment contract: It's harsh.

Simply,

A Word to the Wise

2009-04-24T08:25:00.003-04:00

Got some feedback yesterday from a coworker to the effect that I am "too spontaneous," risking (or perhaps actually) being indiscreet. In the guise of asking my advice about how to deal with someone else, she gave me what my mother would call "a word to the wise". Ouchy, but unarguably accurate.

The rest of that expression is, "... should suffice" but I'm not sure it's anything I can change: I've been trying to zipper my lip for 50 years now, without more than sporadic success. If it wasn't my Dad, it was my second grade teacher who first told me essentially the same thing: "You talk too much!" Except that Mrs. Jones tactfully called me "enthusiastic".

Then, in practically the same breath, my coworker asked me to participate in an interesting ongoing project of hers.

All in all, a weird conversation.

Simply,

Miss C

2009-04-20T21:07:00.011-04:00

#1. There's no evidence that I can see that says Miss California only got runner-up because she thinks marriage should be between a man and a woman. Maybe she only placed second because (a) she's way too skinny, (b) those boobs don't look real, and (c) she shook them at the cameras before she answered.

#2. Wouldn't it be ironic if it were true? I mean, that the ultimate patriarchal farce has judges that are pro gay rights??

#3. Who gives a rat's ass about the Pageant or any of the tools that participate in it anyway?

#4. Shit. Are they still doing that thing? I had no idea.

Simply,

Denial of death

2009-04-18T18:34:00.008-04:00

I attended a memorial service today, for a woman I did not know. (I went in support of someone who did.)

As always, I was struck by the need some people have to believe that the one who died is not dead, not really. This was a particularly Jesus-y sort of service, with the minister saying he would be "amiss" if he did not inform us all that as long as we were 'born again' we wouldn't ever die either.

As far as I can make out, dead is dead, so I never find this kind of thing particularly comforting, although apparently some do: I could see some heads nodding as he spoke.

Simply,

Dickhead of the week

2009-04-07T18:56:00.008-04:00

My husband spotted this one in the paper today:

It seems that back in 2004 one Frederick Lee Gude was indicted in Fulton County, Georgia (USA) on charges he murdered his girlfriend by stabbing her more than 30 times with an ice pick. He has yet to come to trial, for a variety of reasons. But he is not the dickhead of the week: This all happened back in 2004, after all.

This week's prize winner is one of his attorneys, Thomas West, who said in an interview, "We contended it was cruel and unusual to seek the death penalty in a case where you are just accused of killing your girlfriend and not something more heinous."

Un-effing-believable. In what universe does Mr. West live in which stabbing somebody 30 times is not "heinous"?

Simply,

2009-04-02T19:22:00.002-04:00

So today I came out as bi to a whole roomful of college students. Odd venue to pick for the first revelation: I've never even said it to my Nigel.

Simply,

Bag Lady Anxieties

2009-04-01T07:22:00.007-04:00

Last night I kept dreaming that bill collectors were calling my office. I'd wake up having an anxiety attack, calm myself down enough to go back to sleep and dream about yet another call: the entrepreneurial/professional woman's version of the fear we all harbor deep down that one day we too could be living under bridges.

Simply,

Naming

2009-03-21T20:13:00.019-04:00

Carolyn G. Heilbrun, in Writing a Woman's Life, talked about the power of naming. Men, she said, have always done all the naming, and left women without the power to name and define ourselves and our lives. This is true in very concrete ways, for example, as we obtain our surnames from our fathers first, and then our husbands. If we marry more than once we may have three or more names in the course of a lifetime, names that have nothing to do with who we are in the way that, say, a Native American's sequence of names over her lifetime describes her character or deeds she has performed.

Even the names in our society have names. There's your maiden name, if you are a woman, and your married name. Both describe us not in our own terms, but in relationship to men. But then what do we want to be called? It's a similar problem to the one Malcolm X faced in ditching his "slave name." After a few hundred years it is impossible to know what your name would have been, should have been, had slavery never happened. So he just went with the X. Women would have to go back about 2,000 years to find our "real" names, because even your mother's name was a man's surname before her, and her mother's, too. For that reason, settling for keeping your maiden name despite marriage(s) just isn't going to cut it.

Having one name gets us out of that box. And since a woman with a made-up name like, say, Wind Horse, seems kind of silly in mainstream America, I picked a good old English place name befitting my genealogy. Better yet, it sounds like a name either a girl or a boy could have been given, so it doesn't have the gendered expectations attached to it that a "Sally" or a "Joseph" would. That fits me, as I'm a little androgynous.

It will have to do until some mentor, some spiritual adviser, gives me my Indian name.

Simply,

Nothing to say yet

2009-03-21T19:23:00.003-04:00

But please be sure to check back later.

--Sutton