He's Just Not that Into You

I've been having a hard time convincing the kitties that their new doggy brother, G, is frankly just not that into them. They have put on quite the show for him, too: hissing, doing the Halloween cat, glowering at him. But, bless his Golden little heart, he could care less. He gives them a wide berth and heads in search of his peeps for a head scratch and general adoration.

The kitties, however, watch him like a hawk. Their eyes narrow whenever he lumbers near them and they peer imperiously from up on high at this shaggy four-legged creature in their midst. When they do deign to come down from their perch in search of sustinance, they mew at him as if to say, "I know what you are and I'm not going to let you get anywhere near me." G, for his part, just kind of looks at them, maybe takes a tentative sniff and then looks at me as if to say, "what is their problem?" Oh, G, I could write a book on that one.

G, however, is not a push over by any means. The other morning I was sprawled over the bed since Mr. X had since departed for work and I was enjoying my extra 20 minutes of bed dominance. G was issuing large sighs at the foot the bed but then made a loud, "rrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmphhh" noise while quickly getting to this feet. My first thought on hearing this was, "This is not good."

I got out of bed to inspect that all limbs and fur were intact on both sides of the Animal Kingdom. Everyone appeared to be intact, although the kitties were standing in the doorway, backs arched with large puffed tails and very, very wide eyes. I knew pretty quickly what had transpired. They tried to sneak up on G and he had very plainly stated that this was not allowed. The kitties retreated to the safety of the top of the kitchen cabinets and G just went about his day. They must have either forgiven him or were driven past their fear by hunger, because they began to mouthily indicate that it was time for dinner as usual and ate with gusto.

I suspect in a few weeks, G will be as much of a novelty to them as we are: not much more than furniture upon which they may drape themselves or otherwise climb over. It's not such a bad life, G.

image: applesticker

Trashy, Trashy

I have literally been in libraries since before I was born. My mother was a librarian and while I gestated for nine months, occasionally numbing her leg with a well-placed kick to the nerve, she was happy to peddle books. My maternal grandmother too was a librarian, although apparently not a particularly good speller and was thus made to promise that she would never work as a cataloguer in order to get her diploma. True story. My paternal grandmother also had a career in a library. Our family produced librarians like some produce doctors or lawyers. I even asked my mother when I was a precocious 9-year-old if I was required to become a librarian when I grew up. This was the last profession that I wanted, but I was sure that because of the family history, that it was my lot in life. Luckily, she absolved me of any requirement to be a librarian.

Just because I'm not that interested in librarianism, doesn't mean that I don't love books (or even libraries for that matter). Like with most things in life, I go through phases with reading. Some weeks I'm interested in non-fiction, others I'm into classic literature. This week's phase: trasy, trashy fiction. We all have those days when all we want to do is curl up with a trashy fiction novel and let go to the torrid affair being played out in between the pages. I didn't realize that I was in the mood for trashy fiction until I was at the library this evening and stumbled across one my favorite guilty pleasure authors: Philippa Gregory. History and soft-core porn rolled into one.

I can't wait to revisit Elizabethan England where in Ms. Gregory's version, Elizabeth did sleep with Dudley and consummated their great love. The husband and I also just finished watching the Masterpiece Theatre's "Virgin Queen", their version of Elizabeth's life, so I shouldn't have too much difficulty conjuring up the necessary costumes and finery. By the way, the young man they got to play Dudley in that version is nothing short of Walking Sex. I had to be careful not to drool all over Mr. X. Yum-my. He's apparently now tackling the role of Heathcliff, which should be extremely entertaining to watch.

Any other suggestions for truly trashy fiction? Keep in mind that I have already read the Gold Standard of Trashy Fiction, Valley of the Dolls. It doesn't get much worse than that.

image: oldtasty

For the Love of a Child

I had what I considered to be a pretty unremarkable childhood and upbringing. I was an only child not because of infertility but because my parents decided that they could give the best life to one child as opposed to two or three. I didn't quibble with this decision, even when I was young. Every so often, my father would ask if I wanted a brother or sister. One memorable answer put an end to the questions: "What? And have to share?!"

I was given lots of opportunities for self-discovery - ballet, horseback riding, art lessons, swimming lessons at the Y - pretty much anything I was interested in, I was allowed to pursue with vigour and support. My father was raised in a much different household and had to defend these expenditures to my grandmother who said that I needed some type of job - chores, whatever. To which my father replied, "Her job is learning." Lucky for him, I love to learn.

They listened at dinner when I regaled them with tales of my days in middle school science learning about Trouble in the Alimentary Canal. I just assumed that this was what all parents did with their children. It wasn't until years later that I realized that not many people want to hear about trouble in the alimentary canal as they are eating dinner. But, they never complained.

In high school, they cheered me on as I ran track - however improbable it was to go from flute recitals to track meets. My mother weeped when I was named salutatorian of my graduating class in a suspense-filled graduation ceremony since four of us were so close in grades, they couldn't tell until the very end. I had no limits on the number of colleges I could apply to or where I could go. They had made me a promise that I could go to school wherever I wanted - I had no idea then what an incredible gift this was. I certainly know now.

Even when we started to try to have a child, it did not dawn on me what a sustained effort my parents made to raise me to be a successful, productive member of society. I was reminded, though, when I was watching Spellbound this evening. I saw my parents over and over again in the parents who invested so much energy and hope in their children - not in the creepy-my-child-is-destined-for-Hollywood-way - but in the I-am-so-proud-of-my-child-that-it-makes-me-cry way. I've seen them give me that look and I didn't realize what a gift it was back then.

Their support didn't stop once I left home - it was just given over the phone and through email. They are looking to move here to be near myself and Mr. X. Hopefully, there will be a new generation for them to be proud of because my days of flute recitals are long, long gone.

The Password of Power

Mr. X has an addiction. Well, I should re-phrase that. He used to have an addiction, now he is just a casual user. Part of the reason he is a casual user is because I am his supplier now. He can't partake unless I allow him to. In a transaction that takes less than 30 seconds, he can get a fix.
image: Jean-François Chénier
Lest you should call me a pusher, I should point out that I only enable him when he requests it. So, maybe I'm just an enabler. My method? Password protection. Yes ladies and gents, I have the password to the parental controls on his World of Warcraft account. He can't play unless I say so.

His brother was his first pusher. He gave him the software for Christmas in 2004. Shortly thereafter, my man was hooked. He played pretty much when he got home from work until bedtime and on the weekends. By early 2007, he was averaging 25 hours a week on top of work. I was beginning to seriously resent the game and the fact that he was constantly playing. When we went on vacation in 2007, where there would be no internet access, he decided that this was the right time to give it up. He went cold turkey and it was so nice to have him back again.

He talked about getting back into it and I would remind him that he had quit for a reason. Eventually, though, he - with my blessing - got back into the game. But, this time we made a compromise. He would play 11 hours per week but I got the parental control password. It is locked until I get in there and change it. And, if he doesn't get out on time, it kicks him out.

So far, it's been a good system. He gets to play, I get some me-time, but we also get to spend lots of time together. And, I think he is happier being able to play again because now he uses his time much more wisely and gets more out of the time that he does spend.

And, I'm happy that I have the password. It is also one that he would never, ever guess (not that he's tried ... yet).

Full Circle

In honor of Earth Day, I have a funny story. We'll go back to Mrs. X's callow youth when she attended her first (and last) outdoor Earth Day concert. I don't remember much about the concert itself. I went with my best friend and her boyfriend. It was at a well-known ampitheatre several miles away from home and had an indoor and outdoor section. We being cheap high school students got tickets for the lawn.

As it was Earth Day, it was in April and either it had already rained or it was predicted to rain. Back then, of course, a little rain really wasn't going to make much difference. So, we went to the concert and the only act I remember is Midnight Oil, complete with the crazy lead singer with his bald head.

Being the prepared little Miss X that I was, I grabbed a blanket for us on the way out to the concert. We would need something to sit on, after all. I grabbed the drab olive green blanket and headed out the door. As usually happens, rain mixed with dirt = mud. Most of the mud ended up on the blanket, which was precisely what I had intended.

Miss X arrived home after the concert with said muddy blanket and her mother had herself a F-I-T. Now, if you were to ever meet my mother you would be immediately impressed by how calm and easy going she is. So, when she gets riled about something, she gets pissed off. What I didn't know at the time was that the drab olive green blanket that I had chosen had not been purchased somewhere. Oh no. Mom knitted the blanket after my parents were married but before I graced (or cursed) their lives. It was made out of 100% wool that was hand carried by her friend all the way from Ireland just for her. It was also enormous and extremely intricate. She obviously worked very hard on it. So, of course she'd be pissed that her callow, thoughtless daughter would take it to an Earth Day concert and get it thoroughly, disgustingly muddy. I would be.

In the end, all was forgiven because she was able to wash the blanket and it came out perfectly. At the time, I didn't realize how stupid I had been to take that particular blanket or how lucky I was that it was salvageable.

Fast forward about 18 years. I got an e-mail from my mother a few weeks ago asking me if I remembered the green blanket. Of course, I replied. That was the one I took to the Earth Day concert and got all muddy. My mother replied, that's the one. She asked if I was interested in becoming the new owner of the blanket or else.... she was going to sell it on ebay. Now I found this so incredibly ironic. The blanket that brought me this close to corporeal punishment, that I was castigated for getting dirty was now going to be sold on eBay?!

I mentioned this to her and she then got riled all over again with the memory of what I had done. Several discussions on the phone with both my mom and my dad ensued each giving their memory of the particular incident (neither one painted me in a particularly sympathetic light). In the end, though, she was forced to admit that, yes, it was rather ironic that the blanket in question was now going to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Well, I decided that given its history, particularly with me, I decided that I would give it a new home. It's now sitting on the futon here in my office, where it will probably be adopted by a furry animal and turn from green to grey. At least it won't be getting muddy again.
image: TalkingTree

Spring Shearing

Spring usually brings lots of changes. The butterflies emerge from their cocoons, it's lambing season (I can say that I have seen lambing season in Tasmania and there is nothing cuter than baby lambs hopping arouund - I can't eat lamb now, I just see those little guys), leaves emerge on the trees, and flowers bloom after winter's hiberation. But, something else, something ... curious happens:

I get the urge to chop all of my hair off.

image: Dunstan Orchard
Every year for the past few years, I have had this urge. It usually strikes in February or so, but it's a little late this year, no doubt due to the rather exciting February I had. So, now I'm feeling it and it gets worse everyday - bangs in my eyes, neck hair itching, it drives me batty. And, once I've made the decision, I have to stop myself from grabbing scissors and just going to town. (Don't worry - I'm too vain to consider actually doing that. I have an appointment with an excellent stylist on Saturday).

For some reason today, though, I asked myself for the very first time, "why do I get this urge every spring?" I began my journey of hair self-discovery by asking my parents why I always had short hair when I was a kid. I figured maybe if I knew the answer to that question, I could get to what I was certain was a deep psychological need for short hair.

My father chimed in first with his theory that it was because that was what all of the kids had at the time. I'm pretty certain this isn't the case - except for the boys with the "8 Is Enough" haircut and I know even back then that I wouldn't want to look like the boys on purpose. And, I have enough memories of elementary school to remember that most of the girls had long hair.

My mom thought that it was probably a practicality thing, to give them one less thing to deal with. Getting interested in the topic, she also rolled out the subconcious theory. Maybe she was really just trying to spare me the horrors that she had as a young kid growing up with long hair. What horrors? It seems that one day my grandmother got so tired of dealing with this long hair that she took my mother to a barber and had him cut of her pigtail braids - while they were still braided. Or, there was the time that her cousins decided they wanted to "style" her hair and she endured some pretty painful hours while they brushed and brushed.

I shared with them why I was asking the question and my dad gave what was the most boring, but also the most likely reason: it's about to get hot and I want something that is cool and breathes well. Typical that the answer to my deep-seated question would be so damn practical. Personally, I think he's right but not entirely. I think it's mostly sheer (or maybe "shear?") boredom. There are so many constants in my life now - Sweetie, the kitties, our house, my job. And, I don't want to change any of these. But, that doesn't leave a whole lot that I can change around, rearrange, and just plain shake up for variety's sake. I'm pretty much left with two outlets: my hair and my clothes. I did clothes a few weeks ago. Now it's the hair's turn.

In any case, I will probably be going for the pixie cut which I've tried before, but for whatever reason, it didn't work. My current hairdresser has a knack for cutting my hair so maybe she can pull it off. I have learned that the key for me is the piecey bangs.

One of these days, though, I still may just shave it all off.