The Bean Blog (currently on hiatus)

The Long Goodnight

2005-11-22T12:50:00.000-05:00

Last August, when I started the "Middle Aged Women Like to Confide in Me" series, I knew it would be three parts because, well, there are three interesting stories of middle aged women confiding in me. My devotion to blogging had already been shifting from this blog to the Baby Bean Blog. It wasn't so much that I had more to say about my pregnancy. It was more that I wanted to preserve what I had to say for the actual baby bean. My ramblings here are (I hope) interesting and all that. Perhaps my offspring will also be interested in what I had to say here. But I know that I would love to have a window into my mother's head as she was carrying me. What she thought about, worried about, hoped for herself and me. We're all basically self-centered, and I would like to read something centered around me. I think that Ella will, too.

I thought I could keep both blogs going, but I wasn't having a lot of success. June 2005 featured exactly one post. July featured two. When August rolled around, I decided that if I was going to do this, I needed to do it. I fancy myself something of a writer, and when other people tell me they "want to be a writer," I always say the same thing to them: "Then write!" A writer writes, by definition. People who "want to be writers" but are afraid to write anything confuse me. So I said to myself, "I want to write on the Bean Blog, so dammit, I'm going to write on it." And so I came up with this three part series about these interesting/bizarre conversations I'd had, and I set to writing about it. It seemed that if I could get something out there once a week, that would be good enough.

I wrote Part 1 on a Monday. The next week, Part 2 came in on a Wednesday. I was going to write Part 3 when my daughter arrived. I got home from the hospital after 4 days, and I didn't have the energy for anything except figuring out how to recover from surgery (a c-section) and take care of my baby at the same time. When I did finally have a moment, two weeks later, I wanted to create a record of what had happened for this new being who was now the center of my world.

In other words, yes, I became that kind of woman. You know, the kind of woman who is first and foremost a mother and everything else falls by the wayside. In that wayside was this blog.

I wasn't sure I wouldn't pick it up again. Maybe I'd have some time for it. It wasn't that Bean Blog post ideas didn't pop up in my head. They did. But who has the time to sit down and write them? Not me. Or when I did have time, what was I going to write about? The mispronounciation of the word "hyperbole" by pop star Natasha Bedingfield or my partner adopting Ella? It was hard to leave my thoughts unwritten about Natasha's inability to hide behind some energetic bowl, but I had choices to make, and I made them.

Months went by without a post here on the Bean Blog.

I knew it was time to throw in the towel. At least for now.

But I had one bit of unfinished business to do, and that was Part 3 of my middle aged women posts. It was hanging over my head, and I had to write it before I could put the Bean Blog to rest. I did that this past weekend, and now I've gotten the time to write this, a goodbye to this blog.... No, not a goodbye. Rather a goodnight. I hope to waken this blog one day, probably years from now.

It will be fresh from a long slumbler. Hopefully, some old friends will find it again. If not, perhaps it will find a new audience. I want to thank all of you who've stopped by over the year or so that I've been here. I've enjoyed you and your blogs. But I'm putting my energy somewhere else now. First to my daughter, then to creating a record for her and for our next child already on the way.

I am one of those women. A mother. And I don't feel bad about it.

Goodnight, Bean Blog. Sleep tight. I'll be back for you....

Middle Aged Women Like to Confide in Me, Part 3: My Hairdresser

2005-11-18T20:03:00.000-05:00

I had been using the same hairdresser for almost 10 years. When I started going to her, she was young, about my age, and had just moved to a fancy-schmancy salon. She was expensive but reasonable, and the haircuts were so good that I could go for 4-6 months without getting another haircut, so it seemed worthwhile to pay a little extra but to pay it less often. But as the years wore on, her prices went up and up and up, and eventually, she was out of my price range.

I was hanging out with my friend Beth Marie one day when she mentioned that her hairdresser had recently moved out on her own to start her own salon. I thought, What the heck? I made an appointment there--not with the owner/hairdresser but one of the hairdressers who worked there, Lydia.

I was five months pregnant at the time, and as I sat in Lydia's chair, we got to talking. She was middle-aged, probably in her late 40s or early 50s. She was very excited about my pregnancy and wanted to hear all about it. We also talked about her life, too. This salon was down in Delaware where my friend lives. Lydia grew up in Delaware but then moved out to California and lived in San Francisco for most of her adult life before recently moving back to Delaware. Perhaps we got to talking about that because the sperm donor we used currently lives in the San Francisco area. Anyway, we got to talking about her life there, and that was all wrapped up in my life and my pregnancy.

"I don't have any children myself," she told me," and I regret that. I got pregnant once, but I was with this guy, and I knew the relationship wasn't going anywhere. I wanted to have children, but I thought that he wasn't the right guy, and I could always do it later."

I sat there with my chin to my chest as she worked on the hair on the back of my head, and my brain began to calculate what she was saying without saying it. And then she actually said it.

"If I knew then what I know now--that was my chance to have a child--I would have kept it." She paused what she was doing, and her eyes caught mine in the mirror. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. This isn't something I tell people."

I wasn't sure what to say. Honestly, no one had ever told me that they'd had an abortion before. I'm pro-choice, and I don't judge her for what she did. I tried to get that out--my political leanings, my views on the abstract concept of abortion, and also some reassurance that I was okay with what she was saying, with the reality of abortion. I remember stuttering through that varied landscape of ideas, finally ending by saying, "We all have to try to make the best decisions that we can with the information that we have. I know that's what you did, but I'm sorry that you feel regret now."

There was a bit of silence between us, and then I noticed a mug with a Siamese cat on it sitting on her table. I had Siamese cats when I was growing up, and soon we were talking about cats and dogs and what our pets have meant to us.

I've been back to her twice since that first haircut. The haircuts aren't as good as my super-expensive hairdresser, but at half the price, I'm not complaining. We haven't broached such heavy topics on our recent encounters. We both seem happy to keep the conversation to pets and vacations.

Middle Aged Women Like to Confide in Me, Part 2: My Neighbor's Mother

2005-08-10T08:08:00.000-04:00

A year or two ago, my old car was in the shop but ready to be picked up. The shop wasn't far away. I could have walked or ridden my bike, but it was drizzling, and so I didn't want to. I went next door to see if one of my neighbors, a nice couple named Craig and Tara, could give me a lift. When I went inside, I saw that Tara's mother was visiting. I think I might have met her briefly before, but I'm not sure. That might have been the first time.

As it turns out, she was getting ready to leave, so she said that she would give me the ride to the mechanic's. I said great, and we got into her car and headed off. She told me that she'd actually grown up right in this neighborhood and had gone to high school at the school that's about three blocks from our house. So it was strange, but nice, that Tara had somehow landed right here. (Tara had grown up in the suburbs, where her mother currently lived, and was in the neighborhood now because she moved in with Craig, who already lived here.)

The East Falls section of Philadelphia is quite stratisfied. Philadelphia's former mayor, now Pennsylvania governor, Ed Rendell, has a beautiful house in East Falls, set amoung other beautiful, old, stone houses with ancient ivy growing up their walls, which are set back from brick streets, overflowing gardens between the houses and the street. The house that Grace Kelly grew up in is also in this area of East Falls.

Then there's my part of East Falls, literally two blocks from this beautiful area I just described. My neighborhood used to be blue collar rowhomes, nicely maintained, but rowhomes nonetheless. Retirees occupied 30-50% of the houses, having lived here their whole lives and more likely than not, being second or third generation here. Another 20-30% of the rowhomes were rented to students from the nearby medical college or students from Philadelphia University. And the rest of the houses were bought by newcomers to the area, like me. This is all changing, however, as East Falls has found itself a hot commodity in the crazy real estate boom that's gripped the country for the past couple of years. The old timers, the retirees, have left in droves to be replaced by yuppies. On my block alone, half of the houses have sold in the past two years, and the prices keep going up, up, up....

Finally, another two blocks from my house, in the opposite direction of the beautiful houses, is subsidized, section 8 housing. This section of East Falls borders another, less savory Philadelphia neighborhood, and that's where my mechanic had his shop. Right on the border between East Falls and Allegheny.

As we headed that way, Tara's mom started talking about how the neighborhood had been when she was growing up. As we left East Falls, she said, "This part of Philadelphia has always been like this." I nodded, unsurprised, while we passed poorly dressed people just hanging out in front of little, dark stores with iron grates in front of their windows.

"I remember once when I was about 11," she continued. "I had this friend who was a year or two older than I was. She was troubled, had a bad family life, you know?"

"Mm-hmm," I answered, curious about where this story would take us. I love hearing stories about people's lives.

"But like I said," she went on, "I was 11, so I didn't realize that she had problems." Tara's mom pointed to a grassy area over the way. "One day, I was looking for her so that we could play, and I came over that little hill, and on the other side, there she was with three or four guys around her, guys a couple of years older than her. I didn't know what was really happening, but I do now: They were taking turns with her."

I felt a silence descend over us--or maybe just me--as the story had taken a turn I would never have forseen. The sound of the car engine changing gears, and the jingling of her keys hanging from the ignition, sounded distinct in my ears as she turned a corner, and we headed away from the grass she had pointed at.

"I was scared, you know?" she said. "Even though I didn't know exactly what was going on, I knew that it was bad."

I nodded cautiously as she spared a glance in my direction. We were only a few blocks from the mechanic's now.

"One of the guys noticed me standing there," she told me. "I was just frozen. The other guys noticed me too, and I don't know what would have happened if the first guy hadn't said, 'No, forget about her. She doesn't have anything yet.'" Turning to me again, she explained, "He meant I wasn't developed at all. I developed a little late, thank god."

"Oh," I said. By this time, we were stopped in front of the mechanic's shop. The drizzle had turned to rain, and it bounced off the glass of the windshield. The rhythmic noise of the windshield wipers sounded loud as they went back and forth.

Tara's mom looked straight ahead, but I could tell she wasn't looking ahead. She was looking into the past. Maybe she was wondering what would have happened to her if she had developed early instead of late. But that's not what had happened. I sat in the car with her. My hand was on the door handle, but the intimacy of the rain and the gray kept me there until she finished her story.

Still looking ahead, she finally continued, "So they turned away from me. I stared at my friend, just laying there in the grass, looking at nothing, and then I turned and I ran all the way home. I told my mother what had happened, and she told me that I wasn't to play with that girl again. And I never did. But sometimes I wonder what happened to her."

I nodded sympathetically. I tried to come up with something to say. It seemed like I should say something. I think I came up with something along the lines of, "That must have been scary for you."

Whatever I said, it broke her out of her reverie. She turned towards me, blilnked her eyes, and I could feel her inflate with the persona of Person Giving Ride to Friend of Daughter. "Okay then," she said, looking at my hand on the door of the car.

This was clearly my cue to go. "Thanks for the ride," I told her. "Have a nice evening."

I stepped out of the car and into the gray, rainy evening. I watched her drive off before seeking cover. She turned the corner and was out of my sight within a few seconds.

Days later, I would tell Tara about the ride her mother had given me. Her mother was sort of hippy-ish, so I assumed that she told everybody and anybody stories like that. I assumed that Tara had heard that tale, and many other tales, countless times. Apparently not. Tara was shocked that her mother had spoken to me like that. "My mother would never talk to me about anything having to do with sex," she said.

Middle Aged Women Like to Confide in Me, Part 1: My Mother-in-Law

2005-08-01T15:52:00.000-04:00

I met my then-future, now-current mother-in-law, Kay, after the Bread Winner and I had been going out for close to a year. This was a little more than five years ago. It was the Bread Winner's college graduation, which is the reason that Kay, who lived in Texas at the time, was out east. In addition to my mother-in-law, other family members were in attendance, including my future father-in-law, Fred, and the Bread Winner's twin sister. Like most people's parents (that I know anyway), the Bread Winner's mother and father had divorced some time ago. Both of them were remarried. Kay had recently moved onto husband #3, and Fred was married to his second wife, whom he'd been with for about 15 years.

Kay arrived the day before the graduation, and she, the Bread Winner, and I had dinner together. The next day, the Bread Winner was busy running around in her cute little graduation outfit and doing graduation things, and I found myself walking side by side with Kay, about 30 feet or so behind the Bread Winner's father and step-mother.

Kay and Fred had both been into folk dancing when they were in college. Fred was not a tall man, probably around 5'8" or 5'9", and Kay, like her daughter, was a small woman. They naturally paired together as dance partners, and one thing led to another.

As we walked behind Fred and his current wife, Kay said to me, "She's too big for him," referring to his wife's size as a dance partner. I hadn't thought of it before, but a quick glance at them revealed to me that she was right. Fred's wife was not a huge woman by any stretch of the imagination, but she was just about his size, and as a dance partner, the woman should be smaller than the man. So I nodded in agreement with Kay.

"Sometimes I can't believe they've managed to stay together all this time," Kay continued as we walked through the green grass and shady trees of the beautiful spring day. "You know, he went directly from me to her."

"Really? I'm not sure I did know that," I said. The information didn't sound completely unfamiliar to me, but neither did it ring a bell in my head.

Reminescing, she said, almost as if to no one in particular, "I never understood why he was so interested in sex. He wanted to have sex, what seemed like all the time to me, and I just did not understand what the big deal was. Now with Sean," she said, referring to her new husband, "I finally get it."

I missed a step as I walked beside her. Shaking my head slightly, I tried to think of a way to respond and finally came up with, "Oh."

"I don't know what it is," she went on, "but ever since I turned 50 and have been with Sean, sex is just so much fun. And now I understand: That's why Fred wanted it so much!"

I searched for another response, one better than "oh." I came up with, "Hmmm."

"And you know something else?" she asked. "My breasts have gotten bigger!"

I knew I could respond with actual words if I really set my mind to it, and finally, victory! "Is that so?"

She laughed. "Isn't that strange? At 50, my breasts have gotten bigger! And I like sex!"

Strange? Oh yes. Yes, indeed.

Who Told You Not to Poop in Public?

2005-07-25T13:46:00.000-04:00

I was at Borders bookstore on Saturday, and as much as I would rather not have, it became apparent that I must use the bathroom for "number 2." I went in, hoping no one else would be there, but someone else was in a stall. I assumed the position on the toilet, and by looking at the foot action of the person next to me, I began to suspect that she was probably wrapping things up, so to speak. Maybe I could get the bathroom to myself if I could hold out for another minute or two.

I was right, and she left. Actually, with the noise created from the flushing of her toilet and then the running of water as she washed her hands, I was able to get things underway before she was all the way out of the bathroom. I wasn't experiencing any kind of catastrophe or anything like that. Just normal stuff needed to come out, and it came out in a timely manner, and then I was done. But as I sat there for about a minute or so, feeling the time crunch of not knowing when someone else might enter the bathroom, I had a flashback.

I was about 10 years old, and I was at a Bob's Big Boy restaurant with my mother and one of her friends. I had to use the bathroom, so I excused myself and went. I don't think I knew until I was sitting on the toilet that I could poop. But from that position, it became apparent that I could. It wasn't like the above experience from Saturday where I knew going in that the stuff was at the gate and ready to come out. It was more like my body said, "Oh, it's a toilet. Let's see what we can come up with." I remember sitting there, and I contemplated just getting up and returning to the table, but then I thought, "Nah, I'll just stay here and wait it out." As things took a bit of time to work their way down, I remember vaguely feeling the time crunch, but dismissing it by thinking about how long my mother could be in the bathroom at home. The woman took a book in there and it could be 20-30 minutes until she exited. So I decided that I would just stay there until things were done.

When I returned to the table 10 or 15 minutes later, my mother joked, "I was about to go see if you fell in!" Her friend laughed. I felt that I should be embarassed, but I wasn't sure why. I said, "You spend lots and lots of time in the bathroom sometimes." The smile slipped a bit from my mother's face as she glanced sideways at her friend, and then she said, "Yes, but that's at home."

And that was basically how I learned that one should not poop in public. As I washed my hands last Saturday (the bathroom still thankfully empty except for me), I wondered if everyone had an experience like the one I'd had at age 10. Did everyone need to be told? Or did most figure this out without a somewhat explicit social tip like the one I got from my mother?

Wondering

2005-07-20T08:51:00.000-04:00

Is it wrong to covet the closest parking space to the door at the gym? Really, you have no idea how much satisfaction I get, the sense of victory that overcomes me, when I get that parking space. And then I think, "I'm at the gym. Isn't the point to get some exercise? Shouldn't I be happy to walk from one end of the parking lot to the other?" But no. That spot, next to the door. That's the one that I want. And when I get it, I often cannot restrain myself from doing a fist pump and uttering a gutteral, "Yes!"

Why Are There Different Strokes for Different Folks?

2005-06-20T17:10:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned before, I joined a gym, and the main purpose of joining was to be able to swim to my heart's content. When I joined, I got two free sessons with a personal trainer, and I elected to do my personal training in the pool. At my second session, we did different swim strokes. The one that I found particularly confusing was the side stroke. I've swam sideways here and there for as long as I can remember. My version of the side stroke involves basically doing the doggy paddle at a slant. Little did I know that I was supposed to be scissoring my legs in rhythm with my arms, and oh my, it was confusing.

Today I was at the pool, just sort of floating around (it's not a pool with lanes for doing laps), and I tried half-heartedly to do the leg scissor thing of the side stroke, just for fun. I still can't really get it all to work out right. And it got me thinking: why are there different swimming strokes anyway? Why isn't there just the best one/fastest one? I assume that would be free style.

Actually, I'm willing to make room for two types of swim strokes. I'll allow the doggy paddle, too. That's what kids (and most grown-ups) do naturally. But do we really need the side stroke? The back stroke? The breast stroke? The butterfly? And who came up with these? Especially the butterfly. That is the most bizarre looking mode of swimming ever. What purpose does it possibly serve?

Think about it. Some guy (or woman) had to come up with the butterfly. First, I'm going to hoist my shoulders up out of the water, then pull my arms around and dunk my head under the water, and at the same time, I'm going to throw my ass in the air, then slam my crotch down into the water, throwing my head back up to start the process all over again. Yeah! That's cool! It just baffles me. I can sort of see the side stroke and the back stroke being created. Hey, let me see how fast I can go swimming sideways (or on my back). But the butterfly? Why, dear lord, why?

But even the side stroke and the back stroke are a bit confusing. Or their world wide acceptance is, at least. I mean, you do see people running sideways in the Olympics? Or backwards? And why not? It doesn't make sense. The goal is to be the fastest. PERIOD. Not the fastest going sideways or the fastest going backwards. I'm sure some idiots out there have had running races where people ran sideways or backwards, but it's just for a joke. These aren't events sanctioned by the NCAA. So how did swimming work all these wacky ways of swimming into local and international events?

Just curious.

If I Could Be

2005-05-31T15:54:00.000-04:00

Whimsy Chick has tagged me to play a "if I could be" type of game. As she wrote in her post that played the game, "The rules are choose five from the list and write a description, then add one to the list and pass it along."

If I could be a scientist . . .

If I could be a farmer . . . I would have goats and chickens and horses. I wouldn't want to make my living as a farmer. Rather, I'd be a "gentleman" farmer. I'd have enough money to just do the things I like and not worry about making a profit. With my goats, I would get fresh milk and learn how to make cheese. With my chickens, I would get eggs of course. And would I breed some in order to eat? Hmm, I don't know about that. The horses would be purely for pleasure. I'd have only fat, pinto ponies who would live outside all year long and eat grass. My farm would be maybe 40 acres, and it would be somewhere with rolling hills and a cute, little tiny town nearby where the houses are made of stone, and my children would go to school in a one room school house.

If I could be a musician . . .
If I could be a doctor . . .

If I could be a painter . . . I would live in a seaside village that had existed for centuries. The weather would not be perfect nor the climate, and because of that, it would not be a mega resort area. Rather, people whose families had been there for generations would live there, probably making their living from fishing. I would paint scenes from the town like Sue McDonald and there would never be people in any of my paintings, and there would always be the ocean.

If I could be a gardener . . .
If I could be a missionary . . .

If I could be a chef . . . I would have a little, tiny restaurant that just me and my partner would work at (until our children were old enough to be forced into labor). Our restaurant would be in a small town, much like the one I mentioned in "If I could be a farmer," and it would be the only one there. Some people would come from out of town to eat there, but we'd basically be a well kept secret. We'd have theme nights once a week, where we would make Chinese food or Indian food or Mexican food, etc. etc., and everyone in the town would look forward to those nights and we'd have to draw a lottery to see which townspeople would get to come. Our normal menu would be comfort food, although we'd always have a tofu dish that the farmers would shake their heads at and their teenage daughters would order just to spite them.

If I could be an architect . . . I would only design buildings that were under 200 square feet. I would work closely with whomever was commissioning my work. Almost always, these would be people building a getaway cabin in the woods, either on their property or on some plot of land that they bought for a weekend retreat. The little houses I would design would blend in with the scenery around them so that you might not even see it there unless you were looking for it. I would always try to convince my clients to go for a stone fireplace, and then I would spend months combing the area that the little house would be, finding stones and carrying them back to the site, and by the time I had enough, months later, I would know that patch of land so well that I would be able to walk amongst the trees blindfolded.

If I could be a linguist . . .
If I could be a psychologist . . .
If I could be a librarian . . .
If I could be an athlete . . .
If I could be a lawyer . . .
If I could be an inn-keeper . . .

If I could be a professor . . . I would teach in a small, private college that had no set majors. Each student would arrive and start taking classes that they liked, and after two years, they would have to design their own major. I would teach folklore, and no one would ever want to major in folklore, because what could you do with such a major? But everyone would take my class in that first year or two, and that would make them think about real people and real lives, and the research for their final paper would almost always lead them to whatever their major would end up being, and they would say, "Now I know why everyone takes this class." And I would not give out letter grades, only pass/fail. And in the fall, I would wander around the campus with a little leather notebook in my hand and a twead jacket with leather elbow pads, and I would smell the air, and watch the golden, orange, and red leaves fall down, and I would wonder about all the students I would meet that year and what I would learn from them.

If I could be a writer . . .
If I could be a llama-rider . . .
If I could be a bonnie pirate . . .
If I could be an astronaut . . .
If I could be a world famous blogger . . .
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world . . .
If I could be married to any current famous political figure . . .
If I could be a show dog owner. . .
If I could be a fictional character. . .

If I could be a species other than human . . .

I added that last one. And to fulfill my final obligation to the game, I tag Foxy Mama. I can't wait to see what she comes up with!

Happy Birthday, Bean Blog

2005-05-26T13:03:00.000-04:00

There's been a rash of blog birthdays lately. I find it a bit odd that so many of the blogs I regularly read came into existence at the same time as mine. With all of the blogs out there, how did I become attracted to so many that were born in May 2004? Some of these blogs, like the Moxie Blog, are still going strong, maybe even stronger than ever. Other blogs, like Diary-A, have lost their steam and I wonder what the future holds for them.

On my blog's birthday, I have to wonder where it stands in the spectrum from Moxie to Diary-A. No doubt, my entries have been slowing and possibly becoming less interesting. My will to blog has abated a bit. But I still feel compelled to do it. Out of obligation? Responsibility? Or a realization that this is a good thing, cyclical in nature, and if I stick with it, my joy in it will return?

As I look back over my first posts, I find it amusing to see my blog's personality evolve. It has become something that is me and yet not me. Reading those posts, I can only imagine that I started out thinking I would write something literary, a bit dark, full of the depression I was feeling at the time. And then somewhere along the line, my blog changed into something more Seinfeld-esque as I questioned the bizarre and the ordinary, hopefully in an interesting way. Both of those facets are parts of me, although neither give a complete picture of who I am.

Reading my depression posts from last May and June, I can't help but notice that I've been depressed again lately. And this is something a bit...odd...to realize. Why on earth would I fall into depression in May and June? Aren't people supposed to awake from depression as the days get longer and warmer? Isn't the winter for the depressed?

And seeing this possible pattern makes me look at my blog in a new light. Of course I hoped/expected that it would be a record of what I was doing and thinking and feeling--that it would give me some insight down the road as I looked back on it. But I guess I wasn't expecting insight quite so quickly.

Looking back naturally leads to looking forward. Will the Bean Blog exist next year? Will the other blogs that I read that are struggling still be around? Or even the strong ones? This next year, my life will change like never before. I wonder what kind of record I will have of it.

My Kind of Show

2005-05-23T16:36:00.000-04:00

I wrote about a show I went to see a few weeks ago. Mostly, I complained about how I was old and required creature comforts. This past Saturday, my requirements were met.

The Bread Winner and I went to see Vanida Gail perform at The Point. She used to be one of the two lead singers of one of Philadelphia's best local bands ever, June Rich. They broke up six or seven years ago. Very sad. But finally, Vanida Gail has put out her first solo CD, and last Saturday was the release party.

But enough about her. Let's talk about me. First of all, the show started at 7pm. 7PM. It was still light outside. Which, I have to admit, was a little weird. But also quite nice and relaxing. 10pm is my bedtime, and when shows start then, I'm already anticipating my own tiredness. But 7pm, that's more like it.

There was no opening act. And she was on the stage by 7:15 or so. Perfect.

There were chairs. We got to sit down and enjoy the show.

The Point is a non-smoking venue.

It's also primarily a cafe that also serves food. So I got to eat and drink an iced chai tea while I enjoyed the music.

Around 8:30pm, it was over. I was back at home before my bedtime.

All in all, it was a great experience. I know this is further validation of my oldness, but c'est la vie. As many reviewers have said about the Point, I have to agree. It is one of the Best Places to See Live Music. And I'm sure someone old wrote that.

Termination: Family Member

2005-05-10T21:21:00.000-04:00

While visiting my in-laws in Wisconsin last week, I bought the most fabulous thing. It’s called Multiple-Choice Correspondence. It has a collection of some 48 “letters” with different subjects, organized into six categories. The categories are “Thanks,” “Staying in Touch,” “Congratulations,” “Regrets,” “Complaints,” “Termination,” and “Love.” Each “letter” contains an open-ended statement followed by five multiple choice options. Instead of writing a letter, you check off the appropriate choices and mail it.

Here’s the “letter” that is on my mind tonight:

CATEGORY: Termination
SUBJECT: Family Member

DEAR_______________

For many years now you’ve

made me the black sheep of the family.
been an unrepentant narcissist.
taken little notice of my accomplishments.
pissed me off.
_______________

It’s been incredibly difficult for me to

realize that I actually am a black sheep.
develop my own narcissism.
stop excusing your behavior.
access my anger through the self-protective veil of denial.
_______________

As you know, I’ve tried to

alert the humane society.
look in the mirror.
overachieve to gain your love.
lash out at you in every way possible.
_______________

Despite my best efforts, however, you

turned my room into a stable the second I left home.
continue to criticize the way I dress.
failed to congratulate me even when I was awarded the Nobel Prize.
are still an asshole.
_______________

Though blood may be thicker than water, I now must

inform everybody that I was a clone.
share all your dirty secrets with my therapist.
begin failing in order to merit your attention.
give you the finger.
_______________

Have a nice life,
Regretfully,
Sincerely,
Signed,
_______________

I’m quite tempted to send this out to my sister-in-law. Who would you like to send it to?

When Drugs Come Between Brothers

2005-05-04T09:18:00.000-04:00

I write about my dogs somewhat frequently, but my cats, by and large, haven't made much of an appearance on this blog. It's time to rectify that situation. Here goes. I have two cats. They are brothers, littermates. I took in the three kittens that made up a litter because I felt bad for them. And I had just started dating the Bread Winner, and she likes cats, so I thought I could score some points...and do some other scoring as well...if I had three adorable kittens in my house. (Worked like a charm.) I never really intended to keep the three kittens. Just save them from an animal shelter and then try to find homes for them. Well, I found a home for one of them. But I was stuck with the other two, Sam and Gouda (don't ask). It's been almost six years now. I think they are officially my cats now (or mine and the Bread Winner's).

They were kind of cute, weren't they?

(The ones I still have are the one on the right--Gouda--and the middle one--Sam.)

I can't recommend getting littermates highly enough. As far back as I can remember, I've always had two cats, but they were always gotten as adults at different times. And they just put up with each other. Usually, both cats were not to be found in the same room. Not these two boys. They sleep together constantly. They groom each other. They're very sweet.

Then this past weekend, I bought this cardboard scratching thing, and it came with catnip to encourage the cats to investigate it. I put the catnip on it, per the instructions, and all of a sudden, it was World War III. Gouda looked at Sam and hissed. Ears pinned back, he swatted at his brother in between rubbing his head against the cardboard. When Gouda stumbled away in a drug induced stupor, Sam had his turn. When Gouda approached, he received the same treatment: hissing, physical violence, a low gutteral growl thrown in here and there.

My good, sweet boys! Torn apart by drugs. Such a sad sight.

The Post Where I Admit to Wearing T-Shirt Shorts in Public

2005-04-26T12:41:00.000-04:00

The Bread Winner and I have joined a gym. The idea of the Bread Winner joining a gym makes sense to everyone who knows her. Me, on the other hand, provides a response more along the lines of, "Really?" But it's happened. I want to exercise this summer, and I want to do it in air-conditioned comfort. And I want to swim. I love to swim, but I very rarely get to do so because I don't make it to the beach very often, and I've never belonged to a pool or gym. But as of last night, I do. So this morning I went to swim.

I walked into the pool room with some flip-flop type things on and then stood next to this bench to take them off and put them onto a shelf. As I did so, I sort of lost my balance a bit, and I was forced to step out to the left side to keep from falling. The ball of my left foot landed squarely on top of a rusty bolt protruding from the floor to hold down the bench. OUCH. That's what I thought. Along with, THIS CAN'T BE GOOD.

I immediately sat down on the bench and looked at the bottom of my left foot. By putting my thumbs on either side of the cut, the calloused skin seperated to reveal quite a deep gash. I looked down at the bench and saw the rusty bolt. Decision time. To swim anyway or not? Well, I swam anyway. Probably not the best idea, but goddammit, I wanted to swim. So I hobbled over to the pool and got in.

About 45 minutes later, I was in the locker room taking a shower. I'd decided that I would tell the guy who signed me up to the gym about the injury and the rusty bolt. I mean, how smart is it to have rusty bolts sticking up from the floor of an area where people are bound to be walking around barefoot? Even more or less beneath a bench, it's not smart. I got out of the shower and was drying off, thinking about the bandaid in my near future. Then I rumaged through my gym bag for my clothes. That's when I realized what I had done. Instead of bringing a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, I HAD BROUGHT TWO T-SHIRTS.

Well, shit, what was I supposed to do? I could have put my swimming bottoms back on, which are mens swimming shorts. But then were soaked (of course) with chlorine water, and I didn't want to wear them in the beautiful black leather upholstry that was in my car. That's when I contemplated yet another bad idea. Perhaps, I reasoned, I could wear one of the t-shirts as shorts? Let's find out.

My legs did fit into the arm holes about up to my knees. I could pull the bottom of the t-shirt up to my waist. Full coverage had been accomplished. I'm not going to lie to you. It looked a little odd. The neck hole sort of hung down oddly between my knees. But the t-shirt was dry. And maybe people would think it was some sort of strange hippy skirt. I'm not really a strange hippy skirt kind of a girl, but no one here knows me. So maybe I could be that kind of girl. All I had to do was walk out the door, get in the car, and make my get away.

Except that I wanted to talk about the rusty bolt. And I wanted a bandaid for my foot, which hurt. That would mean getting someone's attention directed towards me while I talked to them about the rusty bolt WHILE WEARING T-SHIRT SHORTS. I decided to risk it. (No, I hadn't made best series of decisions in the past hour, but oh well--why stop now?)

So I wandered out of the locker room and to the front office area where I sat down in front of Chip (only guys who work at gyms should be named Chip) and said, "I cut my foot in the pool room." Then, to prove that this was significant, I held up my foot so that he could see the bottom of it and the gash. I saw my t-shirt shorts move as I adjusted my legs, but I hoped against hope that visions of lawsuits were dancing in Chip's head instead of logical questions like, "Is this woman wearing a t-shirt as shorts?"

Never saying anything about my t-shirt shorts, Chip got me antiseptic, bandaids, and a promise to do something about the rusty bolt. Then I left, convincing myself out of necessity that the t-shirt shorts had gone unnoticed. I got to the car and realized that I had left my lock on the locker instead of taking it with me. Would I go back into the gym again, wearing t-shirt shorts, to get it? Why the hell not?

As I recounted this story to the Bread Winner, her response was, "Wait. You did what?" Upon confirmation, I was greeted with stunned silence.

The Perfect Score

2005-04-21T09:28:00.000-04:00

Last night I got back the paper that I wrote for my sociology class. I got a perfect score: 100. This is the second 100 I've gotten this semester. The other 100 was for a revision of a French composition.

When I told a friend/teacher about my 100 on the French comp, she got very, very indignant. She was of the opinion that for a written assignment, 100 should be unobtainable. It was not, she said, a math test. There was always room for improvement. Ergo, 100 is not an option.

I disagreed with her. Perhaps, perhaps (yes, I do like to repeat words and then italicize the second appearance), if one was writing a short story or something like that. But for a language learning class, I think that one can write a perfect paper. One's work should not be compared to "French literature." That should never be the expectation. So if you've met all the goals of the composition (and done them brilliantly, I might add), shouldn't you be able to get a 100?

I feel the same way about my sociology paper. I did a very good job on that. The teacher provided us with goals. I met each and every one of them. And you know my writing was flawless and entertaining, even though it was about the decline in the American Jewish population between 1990-2000. But boy, I tell you, I made that topic HOP. So again, why shouldn't I get 100 for that paper?

My final argument on the whole 100 debate concludes with this: Why have a possible score of 100 if it is impossible to achieve? Doesn't make any sense.

I'm interested to hear what you think, as long as you realize that if you don't think the same exact thing that I think, you're wrong. So if you're okay with that, leave a comment daring to contradict me. Or leave one so we can bask together in our mutual rightness and point and laugh at how wrong my other friend is for her opinion.

The Show Friday Night: or I'm Old

2005-04-17T10:56:00.000-04:00

Tim asked me to tell him how the Amy Ray show went on Friday night. I was going to email him, then I thought, Nah, I'll make it an exciting post for everyone. You can thank me in the comments.

First of all, I'm old. I must preface this story with that fact. Back when I was young, frisky, and in my 20s, I would not have been as annoyed as I was, but those days are gone as my 30s loom before me.

So the show was at the North Star Bar, which is a good sized bar that often has local musicians and small national bands (I saw Joan Osbourne there before she hit it big). There's a room with a bar, a room with billiards, and a room for music. The room for music has no chairs.

The ticket said that the show started at 9pm. I wasn't interested in the opening band, Cordero, so I wanted to arrive around 9:30, but the Bread Winner and a friend who came with us wanted to be there at 9. Okay, who am I to argue? So we got there at 9. And waited. And waited. And waited. Around 9:30, I decided to sit on the floor, because like I said at the beginning, I'm old. So I sat on the floor with my friend. And waited. And waited. And waited.

At 10:30pm, Cordero takes the stage. By this point, I'm pissed. I mean, AN HOUR AND A HALF? What is that about? (I refer again to the fact that I am old.) My friend and I had a debate about what they were doing before coming on. Did they have a legitmate excuse? Late bus? Fiddling with equipment? Something like that? Or were they just hanging around backstage for no reason? My guess is that the last option is true.

I had listened to a couple of their songs online, and I was actually prepared to like them. Until they made me wait FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF. Then I hated them. And then, THEN, they had the nerve to play for 40 MINUTES. They left the stage at 11:10pm, and I said, "Good riddance." By the way, I remained sitting on the floor for their entire set and booed between songs. That's just the kind of sport I am.

In the meantime, my friend and I made a bet between us about how long it would take between Cordero leaving and Amy Ray taking the state. We went for an over/under 30 minutes. She instantly took "over." I took "under." I could not believe that, with it being AFTER 11PM AND ALL, the equipment change would take longer than 30 minutes. I said we bet, and you might be wondering what the bet was for. Just rightness. That's the kind of girls we are. Being right, and being able to lord it over your friend, is more than reward enough.

AND I WON. Amy was playing the first song of her set in around 24 minutes. WAHOO! The only thing that I was happy about that night.

And her set was good. She's a great performer. I like her solo stuff. I was happy. Except that I was tired. It was smokey. My feet hurt. My back was starting to hurt. At first I was like, What's wrong with me? Then I remembered, Oh yeah, it's fucking after midnight and I've been here for over 3 goddamn hours. Around 12:15am, I told the Bread Winner that I was going to the bar room to sit down and get off my feet.

This annoyed me. First of all, I realized that when I was younger, I used to be able to do shit like this without complaining. Secondly, the whole point of coming to the show was to see Amy Ray, and now I was going to duck out during her set. C'est la vie.

I settled myself at the bar with a cranberry and orange juice and read the subtitles to Fraiser. It felt so goddamn good to be sitting down on a chair with a television in close proximity that I basically didn't care that I was missing Amy's set. And then another friend of ours joined me there, so we started talking and hanging out. I was rather content (mostly due to the fact that I'd had a wonderful nap that afternoon).

After about 15 minutes, the Bread Winner came into the bar and told us that Amy Ray said that the band only knew two more of her songs, so they were going to play them, and then that would be it, no encore. I was a bit surprised at this. I went back into the music room, and Amy was true to her word. Two more songs and that was it. She played for just over an hour. In other words, I waited two and a half hours for one hour of entertainment, and I missed 15 minutes of that because of the long ass wait.

In conclusion, I'm old. And I won't be doing that again. It was great to see Amy play in such a small venue, but screw it. In the future, if there aren't chairs, I'm not going. The end.

Wondering

2005-04-14T10:13:00.000-04:00

I wrote a paper yesterday. Is it really necessary that I write another today?

Really?

Well, I'll Be Damned

2005-04-11T17:44:00.000-04:00

For those of you who remember Life at TJ's Place, "Kevin" posted something new on Sunday, April 10.

I'd always liked Life at TJ's Place, and for some reason, I couldn't delete it from my list of favorites. And I had a suspicion that Kevin might return one day and post again, once he felt like all the crazies (i.e. his fans/commenters) had left the building, so to speak. And now it's happened.

The new post is not about "life at TJ's Place." By that, I mean it's not about strippers. It's mostly a short story that he decided to post for whatever reason. It was actually a pretty good little short story but.... I really liked his posts about all the characters at the strip club. So for me, I have to wonder, will Kevin return to posting about strippers? I kind of doubt it. But I guess time will tell. And who knows? Maybe there won't be another post for eight more months.

Cool Auction

2005-04-07T15:08:00.000-04:00

I haven't seen one of my good blog friends around these parts in some time now. Rumor has it that he's busy renovating a building and turning it into an independent movie theater in Springfield, Missouri. When his budget fell a bit short, he decided to try to raise funds by auctioning off the naming rights to the concession stand, aka Cinebar.

The question becomes, do you want to have a concession stand named after you? Your blog? Your dog? Your dog's blog? All of these are possible, if you just check it out. There's no reserve and the bidding started at $1.00. The auction ends April 17, 2005 12:00:00 PDT. Go for it!!!!

Death of a Neighbor

2005-04-04T11:27:00.000-04:00

There's only one neighbor on my street that I've ever had any run-ins with, and now she's dead. Actually, our run-ins used to include her husband, but he's dead too.

It all started four or five years ago. Something was happening that generated excitement and caused the neighborhood to empty out of their houses and stare. I think it was a fire on the railroad tracks. I'd walked down closer to the corner and happened to stop in front of my neighbor's house. Our neighborhood is made up of rowhomes, and some of them have trees planted in front that grow out of little squares of dirt in the sidewalk. This neighbor had such a tree.

I was with one of my dogs, Will, a little shih-tzu. When we paused in front of this woman's house, Will understandably started to sniff the tree and then he lifted a leg to pee on it. The woman and her husband started yelling at me, telling me to get the dog away, that what he was doing was disgusting. I looked at them in confusion for two reasons.

1) The tree was growing from the sidewalk. Sidewalks are communitty property. They do not "belong" to individual property.

2) Will was peeing. Little bitty Will (11 pounds) was peeing a little bitty urine. If he had been pooping, of course I would have picked it up. But peeing? One is under no obligation to do anything about peeing.

I was honestly confused at their reaction, so I started out by saying, "He's just peeing." They continued to be verbally abusive to me. So I came right back at them and said things along the lines of, "This tree doesn't belong to you," and "I'll let me dog pee here anytime I want, you mean, old assholes."

Now, I'd like to point out that if they had nicely said to me, "Hey, would you mind not letting your dog pee on that tree in the future? We'd really appreciate it." I would have said, "Oh, I'm sorry. Sure, not a problem." But because they were yelling at me, I yelled back.

The old man died shortly afterwards.

The old woman remained, and I kept true to my word. I walked by her house regularly with my dogs because the house I was renting (at the time) didn't have a backyard, and I took the dogs out four times a day to "do their business." When one of them wanted to pee on her tree, I let them. Oftentimes, the old woman would come to the door and stare at me, trying to intimidate me. I would stare right back at her with a little smile as if to say, "Oh yeah? And what are you going to do about it?" Sometimes she would start yelling at me again. I would happily taunt her with remarks like, "I love it when one of my dogs pees here. I try to stop them from peeing other places just so they'll have something saved up for this tree."

I asked other people in the neighborhood why this woman was such a nasty cow. They shrugged their shoulders and said that she could be a little prickly. Everyone else seemed to get along with her. One time, when I was discussing this topic with a neighbor from a few streets over, she said, "You know she has cancer." And I said, "Good. I hope she dies."

I don't regret many things that I've said in my life, but that's one that I do.

Things between us didn't change until the Bread Winner and I bought the house we now live in, which has a backyard. We rennovated the inside first, which took about two and a half months, from mid-May to August 1st in 2003. We worked on the house and worked on the house, every day, doing everything ourselves (with some help from family and friends). This house is directly across the street from the mean old woman's house, and she liked to sit outside in the summers in a chair and watch who was coming and who was going and generally what was going on. She couldn't help but notice all the work that we were putting into the house, how we were making it better.

She started being...almost...friendly. More so to the Bread Winner than to me. Her daughter and grandson had moved in with her after the death of her husband, and the daughter was nice to us. Once she even helped us as we were pushing either the refrigerator or a big filing cabinet up the three stairs that led to our front door. Another time, the old woman offered to give us some trim she had in her basement that she had no use for.

It seemed that a truce had been called.

She made it through chemotheraphy. She was doing fine, as far as I knew. I haven't seen her much, but then again, it's been winter. There hasn't been an opportunity to observe her sitting out in her chair, gossiping with the other retirees in the neighborhood.

The Bread Winner and I came home from having breakfast with a friend on Saturday morning, and a few of the neighbors that we are good friends with were standing out in front of the (formerly mean) old woman's house. One of them said to me, "She died this morning."

What? I didn't know she'd been sick again. I didn't know she'd relapsed. Apparently, she'd been in the hospital for a month and had just come home...to die.

Back when I'd said, "Good. I hope she dies," I'd never really experienced a death before. I didn't know what that meant to the people who survived. And somehow, without knowing that, I didn't have a good understanding of life. I wish I had never said those words. I guess we live and learn, and one of the hardest lessons to learn is how to live through a death.

Most Bizarre Blog Ever

2005-03-23T21:12:00.000-05:00

I've got a hotmail account that I still check periodically even though I've switched allegiance to gmail. When you log onto hotmail, it has this screen where there's often some celebrity gossip on the lefthand sidebar. I saw something that caught my eye (I think it was about that hottie Lindsay Lohan), so I checked it out. Of course one link led to another, and I found myself reading about Rosie O'Donnell. In her bit, it said something about her having a blog. Naturally, I searched for this on the web and quickly found it.

The first thing I noticed was that Rosie was using a standard blogger template. Really, I know she's out of work, but I expected some custom work. I then directed my attention to the address bar. She was using a blogspot.com address. Is that the most bizarre thing you've ever heard or what? I mean, she can't afford her own server space somewhere? Can't buy a domain name? Really?

These things made me suspect that someone must be pretending to be Rosie O'Donnell. I decided to search a bit more on the web, and I again quickly found her personal webpage, complete with an actual domain name and everything....and a link to the blogspot.com blog. Therefore, it must really be her. Bad poetry and all.

The Ivy League Rocks the NCAA!!!!

2005-03-17T16:56:00.000-05:00

Okay, that title was completely untrue in every way, but what the heck. I'm watching my university's basketball team get smacked down by Boston College. It's quite amusing, actually. I remember when I first heard that Penn would be in the NCAA tournament. I was like, "We've got a basketball team here? Really?" We're in only because Penn won the Ivy League conference (impressive, I know) and therefore got an automatic in to the tournament. Even after I heard the news, I would still look at the brackets and see "Pennsylvania" and be like, "They probably mean Penn State." Especially when I saw the number 14 seed next to Penn.

As I was checking out who was playing today, I saw that the Penn/Boston College (a 4 seed) game was starting around 2:30pm this afternoon. I thought, What the heck? so I've been watching it. Those first few minutes we stayed within 5 points. I took a shower towards the end of the first half so I missed the end of it. When I turned it back on, I saw we were getting it handed to us directly up our backsides to the tune of 20 points. Now as I watch the end of the second half, when we pull to within 15 points, I'm like, "Go team! Penn rocks!"

Oh yeah, I'm feeling the school spirit. Can you feel me feeling it?

(We just lost by 20 points: 65-85. Go team!)

Raring to Go?

2005-03-15T14:37:00.000-05:00

Now that spring break is over, I'm rested, relaxed, and full of vim and vigor. Yes, I'm ready to take on the second half of the semester. The burn out is gone! A thing of the past! I'm, why yes, excited to go to class tonight, to work on that paper that's due on Friday, to drink up knowledge!!!!!

Or....maybe not.

That's how I thought it would happen, anyway. The break would do me good, and all that. Unfortunately, I'm no more interested in going to school tonight than I was the last time I turned up at Penn, almost two weeks ago. The funny thing is that it's not like I have something better to do. I guess that's how I should look at. Why not go to class? I certainly benefit from it, as I crawl painfully and slowly two steps/classes closer to that damn degree. And what would I do if I stayed home? Watch TV?

Ah, I feel the motivation return, now that I put it that way.

Ramblings

2005-03-07T10:06:00.000-05:00

I don't have much to say, but I'd like to manage a post at least every week, so here goes.

I'm off to Connecticut today to lounge around in a hotel while the Bread Winner goes to some sort of training for her job. I've done this several times, and I love it. Something about staying in a hotel appeals to me. Especially when there's a pool around that I can swim in. I like being in water. Unfortunately, it's not something I get to do that often.

Of course, going away for a few days means one thing: dealing with dogs! Thus far, my mother has watched three of our dogs (the two little ones and Chester) while Blue stays with a friend of mine who worked with him while he was at the shelter. I met her the same day I met him actually.

As my mother has four dogs of her own (yes, my whole family is crazy) adding three more to the mix makes for a crazy house. Blue gets the best deal staying with Beth Marie and her three dogs. Even though he makes four dogs, trust me when I tell you that four dogs is far and away a drastically smaller number when compared to seven dogs. Plus, Beth Marie's dogs are all older, so it's pretty quiet there.

I've been keeping my eye out for a good place for Chester to stay. He doesn't get along well with one of my mother's dogs, and all the craziness of the house really stresses him out. So I managed to get another friend of mine, Hope, to agree to watch him for this trip. She only has one dog (can you imagine!). Last week was spent 1) being sick 2) dealing with mid-terms and 3) running Chester back and forth to Hope's house to acclimate him to her place and get used to her and her dog.

I really hope that this works out well. For one, it makes my mother's life easier not to have to deal with seven dogs at once. Secondly, it should be a lot better for Chester...once he settles down at least.

The other thing on the agenda is a rush to make my first DVD. I have a few hours of video of my grandmother talking about her life, and I want to be able to give it to her children (my mother and an aunt and an uncle) in time for my grandmother's birthday, which is this Friday. Since I'm going away, I need to do this now. As I have zero experience with iMovie or iDVD, it's proving to be a little more difficult than I had imagined. I'm burning....something right now. I hope it's what I think it is! And it looks like it's going to take a while. I hope it doesn't take as long as the video is. If it does, I'm going to run out of time...or I'm going to have to pack up my iMac and bring it with me to Connecticut.

And that's pretty much what I've got going on right now. I'll try to post something more interesting next week.

How Is It Possible that Hillary Swank Has Two Oscars?!

2005-02-28T12:55:00.000-05:00

Jodie Foster, Sally Field, Katharine Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor, Vivien Leigh.....HILLARY SWANK?!

I never saw Boys Don't Cry, and I'll never see Million Dollar Baby either. Because I hate Hillary Swank. I remember her from her Beverly Hills 90210 days. She was Steve's single-mom, Peach Pit waitress girlfriend. She was so frickin' annoying. And stupid. I couldn't stand her. I did a little happy dance when she and her kid went back to North Dakota or wherever they were supposed to be from. Thank God, I said.

As it turns out, it was her firing from 90210 that left her free to take the role in Boys Don't Cry. I was intrigued by the movie because it deals with a transgender person, and for whatever reason, transgender people are generally included with the gay, lesbian, and bisexual community. But Hillary Swank? No. I had just gotten rid of her from 90210. I would not endure her stupidity nor her gigantic jaw again. I heard the movie was good, but I just couldn't bring myself to see it. When she won the Oscar, I thought, "She just got that because she took such a difficult, controversial role." I let it go. Hey, even Cher won an Oscar.

But two Oscars? That's putting her in some rarified air. I can't believe it. I cannot believe it. What is going on in this world that Hillary Swank has two Oscars?

Wait, Didn't You Know We Were Fighting?

2005-02-22T11:29:00.000-05:00

Ever been in a big fight with someone, only they knew nothing about it? That sort of happened to me this past week with my best friend Emily. Last Wednesday night, I started this ill-advised discussion/disagreement about an assignment for my French class. It was an assignment generated by Emily (although she is not my teacher). So obviously, she was emotionally invested in its "rightness," if you will. The conversation never became mean or nasty or anything like that. But it was a bit on the unpleasant side. I hung up the phone and thought, "Well, that wasn't fun, but it's no big deal."

Then I called her the next day to ask her for some help with a French project I was working on. Emily has been nice enough to tutor me this semester. Without her, I would probably be passing the class, but I wouldn't be doing nearly as well. So I called her on Thursday to ask her some questions, and she seemed quite annoyed...and a little short with me. I asked her what was wrong, and she said that it was all this stuff she had to do for work, she was busy, etc. etc.

I wasn't convinced. I suspected that she was actually mad at me for our disagreement the night before. I decided to back off. I'd been doing most of the phone calling to her. So I decided I'd let her call me.

And then she didn't. Emily and I talk every other day, if not every day. Friday came and went without a phone call. Then Saturday. Then Sunday. As the days clicked by without hearing from her, our disagreement changed in my mind into an actual fight. She was punishing me for questioning her decision about this assignment. Well, screw her!

By the time Monday rolled by, I was P-I-S-S-E-D. We'd been friends for over 10 years! And she'd agreed to tutor me this semester! I had an other assignment due this week, and she was leaving me high and dry. That French bitch! Well, if she wanted to fight, no problem! I could give as good as I got!

The Bread Winner and I went out for dinner with my mother last night, and when we returned...there was a message from Emily on the answering machine. From the content of the message and the tone of her voice, it was readily apparent to me that she did not know that we'd been in a big fight for the past 5 days. I called her back. We chit-chatted about the weekend. All is fine.

I wish I could say this was the first time I've been in such a "fight." Unfortunately, it's all too common.