so la di da

I hesitate to mention this, lest you think less of us or are in the position of having us axed, but we had our Yacht Club interview today.

Bwahahahahaha! No really. We did.

No one has summed up the whole concept of us joining a yacht club better than Brighton. She said.... well, she didn't actually say anything because she was doing that laugh where no sound comes out and you wonder if you should call 911 because she appears unable to breathe.

We are clearly cut out for this yachting thing.

Chris showed up for the interview in jeans and a t-shirt. I was wearing a really cute shirt somewhere under my Old Navy fleece. We are a power couple from way back.

Note: whenever I try to type "power couple" I end up typing "poser couple." Hello, Freud.

Also, Chris started to park in the Commodore's parking spot because if there is a sign that says "this is not for you. Go away" that's where he'll go. I pitched a total "gah! you are going to get us kicked out before we've even had a chance to steal all the toilet paper" fit and he relented.

They're going to have a super-secret meeting before they decide whether we're in or not. We're hoping they do it soon because we're planning to get everyone on our Christmas list windbreakers with the club insignia. I don't think we have time to apply to a back-up club.

I'll let you know how it goes. Or you'll notice my avatar wearing a polo shirt. Either way, it's a sure sign that Armageddon is closer than we thought.

(why are we doing this? Because we met a bunch of the people over the summer and liked them tremendously. Because by "yachts" they mean "tugboats." Because it has a splendid view. Because it's lonely here in the winter. Because we secretly want to be Mary Ann and the Professor.)

lies lies lies

Dear girl from 7th grade,

I still feel terrible about your rings.

You gave them to me in art class because I had pockets and you didn't and you didn't want to wear them when we were doing that something or other with clay. You forgot to ask me for them after class, and I forgot I had them.

After art, I went to gym and had to change into the 100% polyester, electric blue gym suit that snapped at the shoulder, itched, gave tall people wedgies and was the biggest reason I hated gym and junior high. Moreover, I had to negotiate getting out of the undershirt my mom made me wear, without anyone seeing. I didn't notice when your rings fell out of my pocket.

You are meaner than me, so when you asked me for your rings the next day, I lied. I told you I had forgotten them at home.

You know in Demian (not Damian, that's the Omen), when the protagonist tells a lie at the very beginning and it ruins his whole life? Where he's pretty much OWNED by the lie? Yeah. Hermann Hesse stole that idea from me and junior high.

Here's the thing. You had a turquoise ring and a mood ring. Turquoise rings and mood rings were sold at the souvenir shop on Main Street. I figured if I could get my family to stop in there some time, I could buy you new rings on the sly. I did not take into consideration what I would do when you said, "er, these are not my rings" and beat me up anyway.

Of course, I didn't tell my family about the dilemma I was in, so they never took me there, so I had to keep putting you off.

It's amazing I didn't flunk out of school right there. I skipped, I feigned illness, I hid in my locker.

When I finally did get to the store, there were no rings left. Or maybe the rings they had didn't look like the rings I thought you had. After all, I had seen them for about 6 seconds - between the time you handed them to me and when I put them in my pocket, so how would I know? At any rate, I finally figured I had to tell you the truth.

You said I was a jerk and that I owed you $10 so you could get new rings.

That $10? Best money I've ever spent. I just wish I could stop feeling like hiding in a locker whenever I see a mood ring.

the luxury of angst

First of all, THANK YOU. I wrote that last post feeling like I was ruining Sugarplum's childhood. Now I feel like I wrote something so common as "I am afraid of running out of coffee." Thank you for the solidarity. The internet, as it turns out, is very good at inter-netting.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, some irony.

In the midst of my hand-wringing, Chris is still working on recording an audio book. The book is Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States. Howard's son, Jeff, is doing the reading.

For those of you unfamiliar with the book, let me just open it arbitrarily and share a passage:

"The law said the doors could not be locked during working hours, but at the Triangle Company doors were usually locked so the company could keep track of the employees. And so, trapped, the young women were burned to death at their worktables, or jammed against the locked exit door, or leaped to their deaths down the elevator shafts." p. 326

Well now there's some existential angst for you.

I imagine one of those women fretting about being taken for granted or another woman complaining about the food and it kind of makes me laugh. Sort of. These issues we have, they are a luxury.

It's a beautiful day. The kids are at school. My daughter, even though she's a girl, is allowed to learn to read. She can do anything she wants with her life. Anything. My son will eventually learn how to put on his own pants and then can also do anything he wants with his life.

I, too, am doing what I want with my life. I am here on purpose. And I'm awfully grateful.

the fear of her becoming me

I have caught Sugarplum trying to keep me from breaking.

I don't know why I'm so fragile right now. I miss my solitude. I am tired of doing everything for everyone. I'm tired of people complaining. I'm tired of being taken for granted. I'm tired of not being able to work on my own projects. I miss being able to disappear for an afternoon without asking someone. I resent that Chris can disappear for a day without asking someone. I miss and resent and envy and mourn.

I love love love Sugarplum and Studley. I wouldn't trade them for the world.

I don't know what I want.

I want to not feel sad when my MiL won't eat what I've made for dinner.

I want to not feel taken for granted when I find myself alone with the kids, again.

I want more hours in the day so I can have some solitude without giving up my family time.

I want more hours in the day so I can make some progress on my own career alongside my full time job of keeping the family alive and well.

You're imagining how difficult it must be to deal with me, but really, it's not. What you hear now? It doesn't come out. It just sits there, inside. Where Sugarplum sees it.

And she does her best to keep me from breaking.

Turandot

I have a new post over at Opera Betty because I will get you to like opera yet, people. It's about Turandot, which is almost exactly the same plot as the Penguin and the Pebble if Marina had a tendency to have the penguins with unsuitable pebbles beheaded.

And the Puccini score is almost exactly like the Barry Manilow songs, if by "almost exactly like" you mean "exactly like except you can listen to it."

Enjoy.

this is my world

It was movie night here at the Towers.

Movie #1: The Penguin & the Pebble.
Synopsis by Sugarplum: Mommy mommy mommy I don't want to watch this why do they have to be so mean it's scaaaaary the seal is going to eat him no no no no I want to go sleep in your bed and you come with me please can't we pick another movie is the scary part over aaaauuuuuughhhhh.....! Oh, they made it?
Synopsis by Chris: are we seriously watching a movie with music by Barry Manilow?

Movie #2: a documentary on Les Paul (I missed the title, sorry).
Synopsis by Chris: Neumann U47, Lake Audio monitors, Tannoys, Neve console, Yamaha NS10, Ampeg tape recorders....

wag more, slink less

Yesterday a friend of mine was telling me about a rescued dog who had been so abused, his tail was perpetually pasted to his belly.

One of the ways they worked with the dog was to pet the length of his back, straightening out his tail as they went: top of the head to the tip of the tail. From what I understand, the petting, plus the physiological placement of a happy tail, helped convince the dog that he was safe.

Which is awesome.

The shame is, you can't go around petting people from the top of their heads to the tip of their tails and get away with it.

Yesterday morning I went for coffee and the woman who sold it to me made me feel like I was ruining her entire day by asking her for something. She was like "here, let me tape your tail to your belly for you."

I don't mean to be a "hey everybody, be a little nicer to each other" Pollyanna Happypants kind of person, but WOULD IT KILL YOU?

This is my chicken wisdom du jour: don't let anyone push your tail down. And for extra credit, try making someone feel safe. Top of head, tip of tail.

That is all.