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Dispatches from the Co-Prosperity Sphere

We are not defined by the products we buy, the cars we drive, the books we read or the movies we watch. We are more than consumers. We are producers, and we believe that every new skill we acquire makes our lives and our world a little bit better.

3.31.2004

The Baby Goddess Lives Up to Her Name

BG: My heart is punching me inside.

Mom: Really?

BG: Yeah. And if your heart stops punching you inside, you'll be...um...um...dead.

Mom: That's true.

BG: One time at baby school my heart stopped punching me inside and it was trying to make me be dead, but I know that you always wanted a baby of me, so I didn't be dead, I just beed alive and alive and alive. That's cool, huh?

Mom: That is one amazing superpower.

BG: I'm a cool kissy girl, right?

Mom: Absolutely!

BG: And do you still want a baby of me?

Mom: Well, you're not a baby anymore are you?

BG: No, I'm a kissy girl, and I'm not ever gonna be dead. May I never live to know otherwise.

3.28.2004

F***ing Cat

The girl kitty is licking herself bald. The Pirate has been concerned about this, as we can't figure out what's causing it. It's not fleas or any other parasites. She's clean and is eating the same food as the boy kitty, but she just compulsively grooms herself until the fur's all gone. So he put a radar dish on her head.

I was initially concerned that she would be unable to get to food, water and the litter box. The Pirate made the food and water more accessible, and we took the cover off one of the litter boxes.

It didn't work. Came home from the farmer's market to find that she had peed about eight quarts into the rear pocket of my briefcase. My very expensive, leather satchel briefcase.

I cried. I actually cried. For thirty seconds or so. Then I took it into the kitchen along with the trusty red bucket and the gallon jug of Nature's Miracle. I sopped up as much of the pee as I could, and then filled the pocket with Nature's Miracle. Even if it makes the leather dye run or ruins the fabric lining the pocket, I'm no worse off than I am with a briefcase that reeks of cat pee.

We took the radar dish off the cat and are trying to figure out another way to keep her from compulsive grooming. I'm all for shaving her bald.

3.25.2004

Where Am I?

I drove home on the freeway in the pouring rain. At least, it looked like the freeway. It was hard to tell. People were driving at least 15 MPH slower than the posted speed limit. They were leaving ample space between themselves and the cars ahead of them. People were polite.

It was disorienting. I had to pay special attention to the signs to make sure I was still in Silicon "Every Man For Himself" Valley.

It was almost as refreshing as the rain!

3.23.2004

Idiocy Abounds in Spring

On Thursday I gave the whole matter over to my lawyer. On Friday, she filed the motion for the back support, the orthodontist's fee and the passport application. And today, I get two emails from my ex. One says "You have to tell me all about this trip my kid is taking, or I won't sign the papers." Um...I did tell you. And what's more, it's with YOUR GRANDMOTHER, so if you really want to know, why don't you pick up the phone and call Bernice? Oh, that's right! Your mother told us last night when we talked to her that you haven't called poor Bernice in a while.

The second one says "I will send you a check for twenty percent of what I actually owe you and consider the matter closed." Well, hon, YOU can do whatever you want. The State of California, however, views the matter a little differently. They will garnish your wages, ruin your credit, and then put you in jail. You can certainly blame me if you want, or you can blame the woman you married who decided that you shouldn't have to support your daughter.

You know the sad thing? I was talking to a friend of mine, a staunch Catholic, and he actually said to me "If you remarry, does your kid's father still have to pay support?" Apparently, my ex seems to be of this school of thought. And because of it, he's planted the seeds of PISSED OFF in my poor baby's mind. She's beginning to hate him. Poor kid.

3.19.2004

At Least It Wasn't An Anal Probe

Somebody has apparently removed my brain from my cranium, wrapped it in several layers of bubble wrap, and smashed it back into my skull. I know this because for the past week, my emotions have been suspiciously dulled, and I have had the mother of all headaches.

Some asshat at work laughed that it's probably a tumor and I'm going to die soon, but I turned to our governator for words of reassurance. "It's naht a tooomuh."

My doctor says it's stress, and that my body is just shutting down because otherwise I'll have a heart attack and die. But that's just so freakin' boring. I have a hard time believing that it would be something so...pedestrian.

I prefer to think that this is a product of an alien abduction and that I'm the subject of a bizarre experiment.

MEMO TO ALIENS CONDUCTING EXPERIMENT (translator microbes - do your thing, here)

If you remove the brain of a human being, wrap it in bubble wrap and then jam it back into the cranium, not only will the subject not "think bubbly thoughts," but they will very likely be less productive, less interesting and very cranky because now they have a screeching headache AND bad hair.

ad experiment! No biscuit! Bad! Bad!

3.17.2004

Not Even Surprised

Well, it's now 5:43 P.M., Pacific Standard Time. My ex hand until 43 minutes ago to make up his mind about whether he wanted to pay what he owes me or go to court and have to pay what he owes me plus legal costs.

Well, Monte, he chose what was behind door number TWO!!! And, as our bonus gift to him, in addition to my $3500+ in legal fees, he gets to pay airfare, hotel and rental car expenses and legal fees of his own, because this will REQUIRE A HEARING!!!

I'm joking, but I'm also deeply saddened. This was a person I loved. A person I trusted and believed in. Someone that, at one time, I knew as well as I knew myself. And then we both changed.

The part of him that changed the most was the fact that when we were younger, he would never, ever have allowed his emotions to make him abandon logic. It just never would have happened. The first warning to me should have been when he started dating a woman who exhibited several behaviors that he had, at one time told me "I would never marry a woman who..." about.

And now, she's systematically estranged from me a man whom I managed to keep as a dear friend for years after we initially divorced. She's estranged him from his daughter and from the rest of his own family who call me more than they call him.

The person I once loved deserves better than that, but he has to want it, and I don't think he does. He's not the sort of person who was ever that close to his own family, and so doesn't feel the lack of them not talking to him anymore. Now he just sees his daughter as a nuisance rather than a source of joy and pride.

I wish there were a way to reach that person that I knew. A way to talk to him without the filter of this woman who is clinging to him like Spanish moss.

3.16.2004

Out of Synch With the Earth

Don't you hate it when the earth is rotating at a slightly different speed than it was yesterday, or an hour ago, or a second ago? And you're so keyed up and tense and wired that you can immediately feel it? That's how I'm feeling this very second. Which is weird, because, as our idea of "time" is really keyed to the speed of the rotation of the earth on its own axis and its rotation around the sun, if it's not going at a constant rate of speed, this would explain many things in my life.

Like why my concept of "now" seems to differ from other people's.

Like why time spent on a motorcycle (when less of you is in contact with said inconsistent earth) seems to pass differently than time spent in a car. Or a house. Or on a unicycle.

Like why there's always one guy dancing who just can't seem to figure out when the next beat is going to come, and so consistently gets it wrong and just ends up looking like an epileptic on fire.

Like why the thing that you waited sixteen kalpas* for is over in a nanosecond.

Like why things that feel good are short-lived, while things that hurt are painful for a long time.

Like why it takes "longer" to eat a plate of Brussels sprouts than a piece of pie.

Like why the time between the painful question and the inevitable answer is simultaneously too long and too short.

So...if everyone in India would please, turn toward the East and run very hard for 6 minutes, I think that will correct things, providing just enough braking to fix it.

Thank you.

*A "kalpa" is a measurement of time. One of the Brahmanic eons, a period of 4,320,000,000 years.

3.15.2004

Been to the Lawyer

I took all my paperwork down and sat down with my lawyer. She looked at it, snickered, and said "Well, there really isn't any way that a judge would look at this and come to any other conclusion. He owes you $1800 (okay, really it's $1791.53 - he'd pitch a fit if I claimed it might be more!). Oh, and the $2677 for the orthodontist."

"So, how much would it be to take this to court?"

"At least another $3500."

"Could I recover that from him?"

"Seeing as how he refused a reasonable request, yes."

So...it's pay me $4468.53 now, or pay me $7968.53 later. And here's the really sad part - there is no way of telling which one he'll go for.

3.13.2004

Lord, I am SO Tired! How Long Can This Go On?

The Pirate's folks just got here. Prezzies for the girls ensued. More things for the Peaches' hope chest (a beautiful set of mixing bowls, table linens) and a very cute rag doll for the Baby Goddess. Mom hand-painted the face on her, and it's lovely. They all went off to go hiking so I could stay home and edit, and the Baby Goddess insisted on taking "Sophie" with her.

The poor Pirate's back has been bothering him, so last night was the limit. He had been bitching all night about how much he hurt so after I got back from taking the Baby Goddess shoe shopping and after I had a wonderful talk with my sister in law, he was being The Pirate Martyr, hunched over the kitchen sink, muttering and doing the dishes.

I made him go to bed and tackled the last of the chores myself, and it was worth it to see him all happy in the morning. On the other hand, the boy owes me BIG.

3.11.2004

I Can't Stop Pulling a Face

I'm on the phone with the Pirate, checking in to see how his morning went. We had the carpets cleaned on Tuesday and the hallway still isn't dry...

"Hey, I gotta go. The cat's killed a bird," the Pirate says in a panic.

"Really?" I am sort of happy about this, not realizing that he would ever be able to hunt, being a formerly indoor-only cat.

"Gotta go! It's here in the living room - with no head."

And now I'm making that face and I can't stop. If, when I get home, I can still tell where it was, I'm going to be both cross and grossed out.

3.08.2004

Notes on the Weekend

Some stuff happened. Some of it was cool.

The Pirate was out of pocket and not due in until Saturday afternoon, so I was a driven woman. I cleaned my room, moved furniture, threw out stuff with both hands. The resulting order feels incredibly satisfying and right.

I had a spiritual discussion with someone close to me that is sticking in my mind as troublesome. My religion is not something that I discuss much, mostly because I abhor proselytizing and I have a hard time talking about my faith without sounding like I'm trying to sell something. This person and I talked about their beliefs, then about mine. They told me flat out that they couldn't accept some of my beliefs that are really fundamental to my life. It sort of scared me. It never occured to me that those I care about might not reach their enlightenment in this lifetime. Now that I'm confronted with it, it seems obvious. Of course we all progress at different rates and I have no way of knowing what lessons someone else needs to learn. On the other hand, no one likes to think of people they care about suffering.

On a lighter note, the Pirate and I did a little shopping. I had been looking for a replacement for a pair of black pants I had whose zipper had systematically ripped a hole in the side that wouldn't be easily fixed. I found a wealth of lovely things that were not only perfect, but ON SALE. I had to laugh because I had seen a black skirt that I really admired, but wasn't willing to pay $80 for (who in their right mind pays that much for a plain black jersey elastic-waist skirt that any 7th grade home ec student could run up?). My plan had been to run it up myself, but first I had two other sewing projects to finish, and second, my machine dates back to the 1930s and doesn't have zigzag or anything else that would be handy when sewing knits. But the skirt of my dreams was right there on the rack, and was only $14 - less then it would have cost me for the fabric alone. And to top it off, the Pirate bought me a new sewing machine anyway. He sat across from me as I unpacked it and looked over the instructions and all the little gewgaws that came with it and he said "I wish you could see yourself. You look so happy that already I know it's money well spent." How can you not love someone like that?

I got my hair cut. Before I got into work this morning I was not just unhappy, but keenly embarrassed by it. My hair had been getting pretty long and shaggy, but I only wanted the last crunchy half inch cut off. She took off two and a half inches off the top alone. I told her I wanted to keep the length in the back, but she did this stupid scissors thing, going in and snipping out little pieces of it leaving me with this bizarre Florence Henderson fringe in the back that I immediately demanded be taken OFF. So...now my hair's really short. And then she blow-dried it into this horrible '70s mom-helmet. ACK!! I came home and immediately dyed it black cherry (it looks pleasantly claret right now) and combed it down. In my dreams I look kinda cool, maybe sort of early Janine Page (when she was first in Northern Exposure). In reality, I know that I look like Helen Crump. What can you do?

Between this and the new clothing purchases (which are all black), the Pirate says that I'm denying my inner Goth. I threatened to wipe out all the really cool music on my iPod and replace it with Sisters of Mercy and Sarah MacLachlan. (Well, that's not technically accurate...Sisters of Mercy is already there.) And I'm working on my sense of tragic self-importance.

And speaking of my iPod, I found this little tidbit on the BBC this morning and it immediately reminded me of being at OVC yesterday and seeing everyone else at the table plugged into their various devices. You have no idea what a relief it is, at this stage in my life, to have an entire community of people just like me! My family would be horrified.

And, while at OVC, I finally and completely finished the first part of my novel. Orfeo is now as perfect as I can make it. Tomorrow, I appear in Petaluma at Zebulon's Lounge reading selections from Orfeo at the LiveWire literary salon. Wish me luck!

3.05.2004

It's All Good

Last night without the Pirate was all smooth sailing. Thank the heavens for the blessing that is "leftovers"! I talked to him on the phone a little before bedtime and gave him love and encouragement for his interviews today. If they see in him what I see in him, they'll make him a very large offer on the spot. Of course, if they really see in him what I see, they'll also knock him down on a conference table and do lewd things to him....so...that's probably not so good...

I got a nasty email from J saying that everything in the world is my fault, but he's being magnanimous and he'll give me a third of what he owes me, and it felt good that it's not my problem to negotiate with him anymore. The best part of the whole thing was saying "You've been rude and disrespectful to me, and that has to stop." If only barking at him for being a moron would have any effect.

And this morning has gone swimmingly. Got my teeth cleaned, got my passport application processed, got the Baby Goddess packed up for the weekend, am feeling good good good. I'm looking forward to some time alone tonight. Indian food, quality writing time and a hot bath are all on the list of potential activities...

3.04.2004

Events Winding Down

Took back the rental car yesterday and picked up the truck from the dealership. Almost a thousand bucks for routine maintenance...a whole shitload (according to my grandmother, "a shitload" = any number greater than 3) of maintenance. Made an appointment to get the carpets cleaned, made an appointment with the lawyer, got a sitter for Tuesday while the Pirate and I are in Petaluma listening to me read. I'm feeling pretty good about life.

The Pirate gets on a plane today and goes to Los Angeles for two days for interviews. Ever since the word got out that he's that Pirate and he's available, he's been inundated. It's a nice feeling...a lot different than he was feeling last month. But I'm going to miss him terribly for the next couple of days. On the other hand, the Baby Goddess can hardly wait for him to get the hell out of the house. This morning she was sitting on our bed pointing at him and yelling "Go on a trip!" She's excited because tonight while he's gone, she gets to sleep in the Mommy Bed. I know how it's all gonna play out, though. She's going to toss and turn like a little windmill, and then at two in the morning, she's going to announce that she wants to sleep in her own bed, and the both of us will get four and a half hours of actual sleep.

Peaches is excited because she's got a dance on Friday night. The Pirate will still be gone, which means that I get three whole hours to myself. I hardly know what to do. The world is my oyster! Well, I take that back. In three hours, I guess it's more like a five-mile radius of my house is my oyster. With the eventful week I've had, I'll take what I can get.

3.03.2004

Tomorrow's Thursday and You Know What That Means

The Baby Goddess has underpants with the days of the week on them.

The Pirate and I always take turns getting her dressed, but the procedure is always the same. She lays on our bed swathed in the blankets and we fish out the little feet and put the underpants on her.

There is always a running narrative about what's happening, including the day of the week printed on the underpants. On Fridays, there is the obligatory joke about "Oh no! Friderpants! Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle!" On Saturday, any time she sits down, she gets the "Saturpants" joke. I have to get her dressed on Sundays, because "Those whom Hanes has brought together, let no man put on Sunderpants." Then there are the Monderpants and the Tuederpants. There is some disagreement about the next day. Some days they are the Wederpants (not good), on other days, the Wunderpants. And then there's Thursday. The Pirate insists on getting her dressed on Thursdays, and I can count on the entire neighborhood hearing his shouts as he does so.

Thunder! THUNDER! THUNDERPANTS! HO!!

3.01.2004

The Only Game In Town

I'm famous for being about two years behind in my magazine reading. I'm only just now into early 2002 in my giant stack of the New Yorker.

When the WTC was hit, there was the expected shock and outrage. There were a lot of people trying very hard to say meaningful, profound things, none of which I can remember right now. There were cries of outrage and recrimination, demands to find the perpetrators and bring them to justice.

There was a small spate of articles about Osama bin Laden specifically, but a whole lot about the entire Middle East. There have been a lot of articles focusing on specific towns, specific groups and specific people. They have been very enlightening, but the tone has turned.

In NewYorkerland, it is only about six months after the WTC was hit. There has not been a mention of Osama bin Laden for at least the last two months. They've forgotten about him entirely. Instead, they are focused on exactly what the present administration wants them to focus on: Saddam Hussein.

I picked up an issue and while doing my initial perusal, I ran across a photograph of an older man lying in the street, clutching an infant whose head is tipped back and his mouth open. The both of them are plainly dead. When I initially saw that picture, I was so horrified that I couldn't stop crying for several hours, and in fact had put that issue down and read other things instead. I finally read the first half of that article on Saturday, and, as expected, it focused on gas attacks perpetrated by the Iraqi army on the Kurds. The photograph was a man who had tried to get his grandson to higher ground to escape the gas, but failed.

What happened is plainly horrendous. No one argues that for even a second. Here's the part that bothers me:

I don't appreciate being manipulated.

Once the initial horror at having my eyes raped was passed, I was just angry.

The American people were, in the days leading up to the war, fed a steady diet of the horrors of Saddam Hussein's rule, both real and imaginary. I heard stories from people with whom I worked of things that absolutely defied common sense and physics that were attributed to Saddam Hussein as evidence of his cruelty, as though the truth weren't awful enough.

But what about Osama bin Laden? The criminal for whom we were supposed to be searching? The one who was supposedly responsible for the deaths of all those people?

Even outlets that I normally think of as having a more liberal bias and therefore are a little more skeptical in regards to jumping on any administration's bandwagon, there was nothing but a diet of "Isn't Saddam Hussein a rotten guy? Shouldn't we take him out?"

Here's the other thing that jumped out of the page at me. What's the man's name? Saddam Hussein. What's the journalistic convention regarding mention of a person's name? That you use first, last and title if appropriate at the first mention, and last name only thereafter.
With one exception. Saddam Hussein. During the buildup to the first Gulf War, then-president George Bush very deliberately referred to him as "Saddam," diminishing him in the eyes of Westerners, but not in the eyes of his countrymen.

The name "Saddam" is not his actual given name, after all. But by calling him by only one name, the marketing juggernaut that is our government has fixed him in our minds.

But what about Osama bin Laden? The criminal for whom we are supposed to be searching? The one who was supposedly responsible for the deaths of all those people?

I have never agreed with this war. I thought that it was a sham perpetrated on the flimsiest of pretexts as a way to keep a man in power who should never have been there in the first place. Not to sound too conspiracy-theorist, and with the full realization that to say so out loud puts me on some sort of watch list somewhere, I would not put it past this particular administration to have orchestrated the WTC bombing themselves. The men pulling the strings were there for previous Republican administrations and obviously have an agenda that is far larger than anyone on the ground (that is, you and me and our neighbors and regular people who don't live in the X Files) thinks about. This particular war has been in the offing for decades.

I'm angry because so many people bought into it, and now that Saddam Hussein is gone, they feel that the whole thing was justified by the fact that he was SUCH a bad man. Never mind that he's one speck on the worldwide "Bad Man" landscape. Never mind that those things continue to happen all over the world every day. Never mind that the things that our own government perpetrates on its own citizens are perhaps less violent and overt, but no less restrictive.

I'm mostly angry because nobody thinks for themselves, and those of us who do are called names.