Sofia Angststrafe

The trouble with music

Sun, 18 Apr 2004 08:57:55 GMT

is that I tend to pick songs that reinforce my mood. I'm trying to decide whether or not K deciding to spend another year overseas is something I should take personally, so I load up the MP3 app with Tom Waits, Assemblage 23 and Peter Murphy. If I had a playlist of ska would I be more inclined to believe his reasons for thinking a gig in Afghanistan is a good idea? Not sure - ska songs aren't normally long enough to discuss anything serious.

One of his co-workers is a trained chef, an excellent marksman, and an all-around neurotic. He and his employer were once held captive by rebels in [I forget which African country] for several months. They would untie him for dinner, so he could cook. His wife is from Kenya, and she's just happy he's working some place "safe" now.

Of course, I'm from California, where unsafe means day-old sushi, or sitting under the fan when the weather drops below 70 degrees - you can catch pneumonia doing that.

Excess for Toddlers

Tue, 09 Mar 2004 08:50:47 GMT

My brother, the conspicuously consumptive, is having a birthday party for his youngest daughter. Of course, when one is turning two, a cake, the grandparents and a few presents simply isn't enough. My brother is renting a hall. Now, it could be a small hall. Technically, I suppose some of the parks around here have rooms for rent that could be considered halls. But he's inviting more people than will fit in his house, for a two-year old.

He and his wife took sides in my dad's divorce, and my dad lost. But my dad's a decent fellow and unassuming, so he does the hour drive whenever they say they'll let him visit, and takes lots of pictures of his granddaughter with the porn star name, even though he doesn't think she's that cute.

When my brother sent my dad the invitation, he emphasized that my dad's ex will be there, and said that my dad could bring only one guest, leaving my dad to decide between his girlfriend and his mom. He wanted to bring his mom, since my brother always stand up his grandmother and she likes to see the great-grandkids, but she and my dad's ex fight. On the other hand, his girlfriend doesn't think so much of my brother's family. If it were me, I would have gone for Granny - family gatherings were always such fun when the Matriarch and the unwanted daughter-in-law went at it.

In other news, D is having a party for his twin girls. They turn a year sometime around now (I'm guessing since the party is next weekend). He's inviting the local family and a few friends. Folks won't fit in his apartment (his front room is converted to a nursery), so he's having people over to his cousin's place. And bring all your friends.

I think I'll skip the family ingrate, and go where the people are friendly.

Attack of the Atkins

Tue, 06 Jan 2004 09:25:08 GMT

Yesterday N and I went for some fast food, at one of the many under-patronized local chain businesses (How do they stay in business?). They know have a "low-carb" version of their fancy burger that is, for the same price, get this, the fancy burger without a bun. Were that many people coming in and saying "I came to a burger joint to get a burger, but the bun is just too much, and far too tempting a delicacy to leave on my plastic tray."

After seeing that, I asked if they had any low-fat sandwiches/burgers. Nope. Am I the only person in California not on the Atkins diet? Even bw's mom is on it. Of course, she's in Wyoming, and sends him home from Christmas visits with bits of cow from her herd, so maybe it makes sense out there.

Turn out the light

Sat, 27 Dec 2003 09:10:50 GMT

This is my favorite part of Christmas - the day after it's ended. Time to slowly pick up the empty boxes, and find places to put new things. To compliment myself on the things I said and did, and congratulate me for all the things I didn't say.

This year was a little extra hectic - coming back from Israel to a visit from family, lasting nearly up until Christmas. The usual rush to visit with people before they leave town, and to finish the Christmas baking before Christmas.

At least this year I skipped the family jitters. Mrs. R can't understand how I can go months between visits with my family; I can't understand how she can see hers several times a week. I accidentally volunteered to work during the family Christmas party - my grandmother decided to have everyone over Christmas Eve instead of the weekend before Christmas, and caught me unawares and already committed.

So today I ordered the CD's that no one gave me, and ripped the CD's they did. Tomorrow I'll order another bottle of gin to replace the one nearly emptied by Christmas parties, and start another bottle of Christmas vodka. Next week is New Year's Eve, and the warm fuzzy feeling of a resolution made and met (one harder than to lose five pounds!); perhaps I should come up with a new one between now and Wednesday. Or maybe I'll let this coming year slide - this one has been enough excitement.

Thanks, Feds

Tue, 29 Oct 2002 21:04:54 GMT

I have a cold. A horrible, icky, lingering cold. And of course I ran out of cold medicine today. So it's off to the store to buy boxes and boxes of stuff to make me feel less bad. Well, really just two boxes of day stuff and two boxes of night stuff. But federal law only allows me to buy three at a time. I could go to the drug store next door and buy a second set of three. I could put my bag of cold medicine in the car, and go back into the same store and buy a second set of three. I could even claim they were for "my brother" and pay for each set of three separately at the same time. But I can't buy four in one transaction, because Clinton's Justice Department thought I would use all this cold medicine for bombs or drugs or something incompatible with making me less snuffly.

Jerks.

eMusic

Wed, 16 Oct 2002 06:13:17 GMT

A few weeks back I swore off new music. I have tons of MP3s, and quite a few of them I've never heard. Some I've heard only once. My thought was that I would listen to all the songs I hadn't heard yet, and then go back to ripping vinyl and cassettes.

But bw kept buying me a CD or two every time he went to the CD store. And dropping off a copy of stuff he thought I should try. I worked and struggled, and managed to keep up with the influx, but just barely.

And then along comes eMusic. 50 songs free. There was too much good stuff - I joined and went on a spree. Now I have twice as many MP3s as I need, and will probably never get around to listening to all of this. But, since I sometimes get obsessive or anal, all the tags will be tidy, each file name in the proper format, even if I couldn't pick the band name out of a line-up of one.

The internet is a bad bad bad place.

Brilliant Idea!

Mon, 05 Aug 2002 18:13:41 GMT

N and I went to the park yesterday with my dad to feed the ducks. Turned out to be some jazz in the park day. Why is it always jazz? They had enough horns for a ska band, just up the speed on the drummer's pacemaker and it's all set.

There was a person in a giant bee outfit passing out "kid packs". There he was, on the toddler playground (ages 5 and under), passing out plastic bags with pointy things in them (pins with the company logo). Just what small children need. Who thought that would be a good idea?

IRL

Thu, 01 Aug 2002 20:23:10 GMT

In the movies, two friends have a chat, the talkee realizes the talker is right, changes some decisions, makes different plans, unhappiness is averted, at least until the next potential mistake looms.

In real life, the future Mrs. R acknowledges that becoming the current Mrs. R before Mr. R learns to become an adult is a bad idea, and then goes ahead with next month's wedding anyway. She's a nice person and deserves better than him and his son, but she's also an adult and old enough to make her own decisions. Even if she apparently isn't smart enough.

Ah well, she made a good example for an explanation of trickle-down economics in the middle class. And K and N like her, so I wish her luck. Heck, even my dad likes her.

Mardi Gras, 2001

Mon, 01 Jul 2002 07:01:58 GMT

Actually went out to the club this past Wednesday, for the first time in a month or more. Of course f was there, only in an ugly shirt, which is unlike him. For some reason, I mentioned that I still had the Mardi Gras beads Athena gave me last year. Normally I would come home and throw away that sort of thing. He said it was odder than I thought, since he had kept his too, even packed them when he moved and hung them up again at the new place. Turns out it was the last time he saw Athena, so I could understand him keeping them after she died, but not for four months when he didn't even know she was in bad health. I don't know why I kept mine, but they hang up on mirror.

I remember that night very well, Athena was in good spirits, myB was delightful, f was funny-mad about something his girlfriend had done to him on his way out of town. We kept teasing him about it. I had a wonderful time, even though I couldn't dance to more than half a song without running out of breath and needing a rest. Athena kept going around the club, giving everyone these stupid cheap beads.

That was late March. I think I went to the club again in April, and then stopped by one afternoon in June to introduce her to N. She hinted to me that she didn't have much longer, but I thought she was feeling down about her 40th birthday. She chatted with K while I was in the euphemism, and he didn't tell me how serious her condition had become. b and I went by in July, showing up in full goth regalia, only to find that she had changed the schedule, and it was folk music night. I was bent. And severely out of place. We went to CD's club instead, after I lectured Athena on how to use a mailing list to notify folks of events and changes. That was the last time I saw her.

I don't feel bad that the last time I saw her didn't go well. Again, just not sentimental enough. But as the anniversary of her death is coming near, I find myself looking at those gold and purple strings and thinking about her. We weren't close - we were both too busy and lived too far from each other to pal around much, but we understood each other in a non-judgmental way. We both had made mistakes, done our time, and moved on to the next thing. Her mistakes killed her, and she was okay with that - she had made those choices. My mistakes are, well, my own business, but still lurking about my past and present.

It's no good my wishing she were still alive, since nothing would be different between us, but I'm grateful to Nightbird for introducing us, even though he wasn't there (It was his idea for us to meet). For those keeping score, her first words to me were "Are you a sub or a dom?" And I'm not saying how I answered that. Just that I worked with her for about a year, learned a bunch, failed on my own, and at the wake railed against all the people who had been unkind to her in life, and yet were her best friend in death.

And since Athena liked f because I did, I'm glad he kept the beads.

Taxes and Restaurants

Fri, 07 Jun 2002 06:09:17 GMT

Received the "Libertarian Online" newsletter today, and actually read it. They don't know who wrote it, but here's Let's put tax cuts in terms everyone can understand.

Suppose that every day, ten men go out for dinner. The bill for all ten comes to $100.

If they paid their bill the way we pay our taxes, it would go something like this. The first four men -- the poorest -- would pay nothing; the fifth would pay $1; the sixth would pay $3; the seventh $7; the eighth $12; the ninth $18. The tenth man -- the richest -- would pay $59.

That's what they decided to do.

The ten men ate dinner in the restaurant every day and seemed quite happy with the arrangement -- until one day, the owner threw them a curve.

"Since you are all such good customers," he said, "I'm going to reduce the cost of your daily meal by $20."

So now dinner for the ten only cost $80.

The group still wanted to pay their bill the way we pay our taxes. So the first four men were unaffected. They would still eat for free.

But what about the other six -- the paying customers? How could they divvy up the $20 windfall so that everyone would get his "fair share?"

The six men realized that $20 divided by six is $3.33. But if they subtracted that from everybody's share, then the fifth man and the sixth man would end up being *paid* to eat their meal.

So the restaurant owner suggested that it would be fair to reduce each man's bill by roughly the same amount, and he proceeded to work out the amounts each should pay.

And so the fifth man paid nothing, the sixth pitched in $2, the seventh paid $5, the eighth paid $9, the ninth paid $12, leaving the tenth man with a bill of $52 instead of his earlier $59.

Each of the six was better off than before. And the first four continued to eat for free.

But once outside the restaurant, the men began to compare their savings.

"I only got a dollar out of the $20," declared the sixth man. He pointed to the tenth. "But he got $7!"

"Yeah, that's right," exclaimed the fifth man. "I only saved a dollar, too. It's unfair that he got seven times more than me!"

"That's true!" shouted the seventh man. "Why should he get $7 back when I got only $2? The wealthy get all the breaks!"

"Wait a minute," yelled the first four men in unison. "We didn't get anything at all. The system exploits the poor!"

The nine men surrounded the tenth and beat him up.

The next night he didn't show up for dinner, so the nine sat down and ate without him.

But when it came time to pay the bill, they discovered something important. They were $52 short!

And that, boys and girls, journalists and college instructors, is how the tax system works. The people who pay the highest taxes get the most benefit from a tax reduction. Tax them too much, attack them for being wealthy, and they just may not show up at the table anymore.

There are lots of good restaurants in Europe and the Caribbean.
</lj-c

Yay!

Fri, 17 May 2002 16:59:10 GMT

BW gave me a Bun-Bun! Yes, it is nifty. Ka-Klick!

Who Pays?

Tue, 14 May 2002 20:21:23 GMT

My brother's girlfriend is moving in with him next month. I disapprove of that sort of thing for a lot of reasons, but one that really galls me is the pregnancy issue.

She's choosing to move in with him. She has a place right now, that she can afford, that's not crappy. She doesn't have to live with him. So there is choice number one.

She doesn't have to have sex with him. Over the last several years there has been quite a bit of fuss about "No means no" and "Yes means no". Her studies are important to both of them, so she can always say she needs some time with her books. That makes choice number two.

There isn't a lot of birth control for guys, really just a condom, and that's pretty easy to spot. If you don't see a condom, odds are that one is not in use. There's lots of stuff for women, of varying effectiveness, and of differing detection difficulty. Most women like the pill. A guy never knows if she's current, if she's missed a night or two, or even if she's tossing the pills down the drain. If she decides a condom is not the way to go, she is taking responsibility for whether or not she gets pregnant. Sounds like choice number three.

If, through some fault of her own, she does get pregnant, the abortion question is hers to answer, and hers alone. No one requires her to get input from the father. She's over 18, so she doesn't need a note from her parents. Anyone for choice four?

She has four choices, all of which directly affect her "control over her body" as abortion rights activists like to phrase the issue. And yet, if she decides to have the baby, my brother will be paying a portion of his salary to her for the next 18 years. Because he trusted her.

If he bears some responsibility for the pregnancy, why doesn't he get a say in the abortion issue? What if he tells his girlfriend that he absolutely doesn't want children, and she talks him out of a snip, saying she'll take care of birth control? If she gets knocked up, he's still the villain. Maybe he wants the child after all, why doesn't he get an equal chance at raising the child? In California, at least, a father has to prove the mother is completely unfit if he wants custody. Just being more secure financially, or having a shorter prison record isn't enough.

So we have here a situation where a man can do everything properly, and still incur obligations with no privileges or rights. A familial taxation without representation. And that strikes me as more than a little bit crappy.

Bummer

Mon, 13 May 2002 05:52:04 GMT

Just over a year ago, I was the victim of an unexpected medical assault upon my person. Okay, I wasn't a victim, it needed to be done. And it wasn't unexpected - I had disagreed with my doctor a week earlier when he said the procedure didn't need to be done. And "assault" might be putting things strongly - maybe "a medical team spelunked through my insides" would be more accurate. The point is, it happened just over a year ago.

The next day a nurse comes in and says "Did you pass gas?" I say no. She tells me if I have to burp, to fart instead. I have no idea how that works, but I say okay because it is really early in the morning.

Three days later I'm home. A week later I've found and removed all the tape adhesive. Things are looking good.

Three months later, K is driving me back to the hospital because I don't trust myself driving, I feel so bad. There are questions. There is poking and prodding. There are X-rays and consultations. Then there's my doctor, standing next to a picture of my internal hardware and pointing to my spleen (lung?). She says "See that? That's not right." I realize with horror that I have no kidney. I grew up in California, so I know what kidney-shaped swimming pools look like - they are long and have sharp corners and straight sides. There is nothing in that picture that looks like a box of juice. The doctor corrects me - she points to something that looks nothing like any swimming pool I've ever seen. She claims it's my kidney. I don't argue.

She goes back to pointing at my heart (pancreas). Looks like I have some scar tissue in an awkward place. Not good. Maybe it will go away, maybe it won't. Maybe after everything else settles, it won't matter. If I don't want a second journey to the center of Sofia, I can do these things to not feel bad until either I'm better or I get tired of having the problem. It's late, and I don't feel quite as bad as I had, so I head home.

Fast forward to last week. Everything is settled. Did the problem go away? Only one way to find out - stop taking care of the symptoms and see what happens. Turns out I'm not better. And the short-term cure is worse than the medium-term disease. I couldn't eat for two days. And for the next week or so I have to be picky. No Junior Whoppers with cheese, no pickles ($1.72, if you ever wondered). Blah.

On the up side, my current diet may lack excitement, but it will also be low in fat, taste, complex sugars, flavor, carbohydrates, variety, water and desirability. It will also be high in sodium.

Now I have to schedule a return visit to schedule the next group tour. I hope they can use the old scar, and not so much tape this time.

The Key

Tue, 07 May 2002 21:07:17 GMT

An idle afternoon's exercise, an uneducated Poe meets Hemingway.

I'm over here, it says.  Just behind you.  Under the bag.
     I ignore it.
I'm over here, it repeats.  A few steps.
     I continue to type.
I'm on this lovely workbench.  Isn't this a nice looking workbench?
     I turn to look at the red and yellow stripes.  "It's not lovely, it's 
     silly.  Who ever heard of a workbench painted like that?  Are the
     stripes supposed to make the work you do there go faster?"
It's silly.  And a mess.  You should tidy it.
     It is a mess.  Parts and bits piled on top of each other.  Papers and
     labels poking from under parts of computers.  Tools racked
     haphazardly.  I should tidy it.  I start to move toward the
     workbench.  The bag.  The bag doesn't belong there.  I will have to
     move the bag.  And under the bag -- I sit down and pretend to type.
Things aren't were they belong.  How can you stand to work in a room 
with a sloppy workbench?
     "It can wait.  I'm working at my desk.  My desk is clean enough."
     The room is quiet for several minutes.  I correct my typing mistakes
     and start to work.  I think I hear rustling, but I know that's my
     imagination.  I refuse to look.
I'm shiny, it says.  You like shiny.  I'm metallic and shiny.
     Be quiet.  I'm working."
You don't have to work.  You can take a break.  Look at how shiny I am.
     I put my head in my hands.
I'm round and square at the same time.  What a marvel of engineering!  
You can admire my form and function.
     I can't work. I'm thinking about the square handle.  The round end.
     It's shiny.  I want to leave the room.  I have to pass the workbench
     on the way to the door.  Trapped.
Just straighten the screwdrivers.  Put them in order.  Some aren't in straight.
     The screwdrivers are in holes at the top of the workbench.  There are
     other tools there, but screwdrivers have the majority.  Some lean to
     the side.  They are spread across the top in no order.  I could put
     the phillips here and the slotted there.  Seat the crooked ones
     properly.  And stand next to the bag.  Lean over the bag to reach the
     back.  And under the bag -- I turn back to the computer.  Can't work,
     mustn't think.  I play a card game.  More silence.
Maybe you should move me.  Put me someplace safe.
I'm not where I belong.  Don't I have a place?  A drawer, a tray?  I don't 
belong under the bag.
     Mustn't pick up the bag.  Mustn't look under the bag.  Mustn't pick up
     anything under the bag.
The bag doesn't belong here.  Everything in the bag has a place.  You 
won't find things if they aren't in their place.
     Mustn't.
Untidy, untidy, untidy.
     My hands are clenched together.  Eyes closed.  I'm pushing myself into
     my seat.
What's in the bag?  It would take only a moment to put the things in the 
right drawers.  Then you could throw away the bag.  Won't the workbench 
look better without the bag?
     It would.  Everything in the room has a place.  That's not the place
     for the bag.  I'm standing next to the bag.  Fascinated.  I know
     what's under the bag.  Mustn't look under the bag.
     It's right there.  Under the bag.  There are screws in the bag, and
     hooks.  A driver bit and some seeds.  The seeds aren't even in the
     correct room.  I look in the bag, and see the small lump under the
     bag.  Close the bag and stand still.  What to do?  I'm too close to
     what's under the bag.  Too close.  Then I realize - I'm also close to
     the door.  From here I can reach the door.  Leave the bag and walk out
     the door.  Think.  Move.  Turn.  Leave the room.
Until next time, it calls down the hall, mocking me.
     Until next time.

</pre

90% Penguins

Sat, 04 May 2002 03:42:54 GMT

I was telling saurus about my friend who used to be smart. See, she hooked up with a boyfriend who dropped out of school in sixth grade, yes sixth grade. Of course, she hung out with all his dumb friends, and I could watch her IQ drop. She stopped reading, her vocabulary became plainer, her sentences shorter. Next thing I know, instead of our conversations hurtling through the stream of consciousness like a high speed train, they more resembled a city bus, with me stopping constantly to explain what I said and take on clue passengers.

I thought about this last night, how hanging out with dumb people makes you dumb, and hanging out with smart people makes you smart. Right now I'm not hanging out with a lot of people. K is better educated than me, and saurus would know a bunch of things if only he would remember them. Most everyone else is either not as well educated as I am (which should make the college grads feel insulted), or not as smart. Hmm.

According to Douglas Adams, we only use ten percent of our brains, and the other ninety is used for storing trunks of penguins. What if I'm only using ninety-six or ninety-eight percent of my brain because I'm not hanging out with people who make me stretch intellectually? What am I doing with the two or four percent that I'm not using, and isn't full of penguins?

Distracted BossLady

Tue, 23 Apr 2002 19:43:41 GMT

Yesterday I called up a bosslady to talk about a letter I sent to her 10 days past.

BL: Hi, this is BossLady.
Me: Hi, this is Sofia Angststrafe, calling about the letter I sent to you.
BL: You have the wrong number, this is BossLady.
Me: Yes, and this is Sofia, I'm supposed to call today.
BL: There's no Sofia here.
Me: That's because I'm the one who is Sofia.
BL: Oh. Oh dear.

Rumor is she was promoted via the couch. That could be true. Above is nearly verbatim. Here is a (loose) summary of some of the rest of the conversation:

BL: We laid off all the experienced and knowledgeable people and replaced them with cheap idiots.
Me: Sucks to be you.
BL: We had to fire most of them and replace them with desperate semi-literates.
Me: That's a step of improvement.
...
BL: I don't have your letter. We laid off all the admin assistants, the receptionist, and most of the shipping department. It was either that or cut down on management.
Me: Should I have sent an email?
BL: No, I don't like email

That's nice

Tue, 23 Apr 2002 07:42:14 GMT

BW just punched me in the gut.

Not literally, which is too bad, since the pain from that would fade quickly. Still, the unexpected attack from a formerly friendly flank nearly knocked the breath out of me. I think if I were the crying type, I would have indulged myself in a few tears. Instead, I didn't say the things that are mostly unforgivable - there is always time to say things later, but never time to make them unsaid.

Tomorrow he will say he didn't mean any harm, he didn't realize I would take his remark that way. And I'll have to decide if he's being true. I already know that he is, there's no point in pretending otherwise, but right now it's still hard to breathe; talking is out of the questio

Creepy

Tue, 23 Apr 2002 02:53:25 GMT

Had a dream last night that J was a Fagin. It was creepy. In the dream he also bored me nearly to death with a family photo album. Could he really have been trying to kill me?

Random Update

Sat, 20 Apr 2002 19:28:47 GMT

f and I were talking about getting a photo shoot from v. Apparently they did actually discuss it, but v didn't seem enthusiastic. Doesn't thrill me, but if he doesn't want to do it, I'll find some one else. f says, no, v will do it, he's just intimidated by me. Sigh. So add him to the list of fellows I frighten for no apparent reason. I swear, run your hand up a guy's leg once and then he won't take scantily clad pictures of you. Stupid men.

f and I had a nice time at Daniel Ash, no thanks to Daniel Ash. I like a fellow who can be catty, and f can keep up with me. I was going to write up a review of the crowd, since it was more interesting (a la "Hectic Planet"), but I'm not going to do it this instant, so I probably never will.

Spent a lot of time working with frank lately. Thanks to BW, mySQL is now working properly, which means all I have to do now is learn mySQL. Maybe I'll ask joelgrus for help, since he might appreciate an easy question every so often, instead of my regular ones. I concentrate better when I'm not all femme, so I tied back my hair. Doesn't help much when there is a Victoria's Secret catalog next to the O'Reilly book. samba is still quirky, but operational, so I'll wait until next weekend to make that work properly. Once I get all my scripts working, I can set up Apache, and then my dad can just browse my site for MP3s, instead of my guessing what he wants (Vampire Beach Babes, anyone?)

Completed!

Fri, 05 Apr 2002 22:07:21 GMT

It took two days, but I have finished making manicotti. The pasta - made by hand, one piece at a time. The filling - my own recipe, concocted last night. The sauce - made in Costa Rica. Or maybe Fresno, I didn't check the jar. I just couldn't find the three hours to make sauce, on top of the time needed for everything else.

Yes, saurus, I set some aside for you, but not for your Godful roomie, since he never tells me I look nice.

Two tips for making manicotti:

1. Fill and roll the pasta as your grilling a few ahead. Saves time later, waxed paper now, and they are easier to roll while still slightly warm.

2. Don't drop the spoon in the batter. Fishing it out again is just nasty.

Wed, 03 Apr 2002 22:32:57 GMT

Last night I had this brilliant murder-mystery dream. When it was done, I was pleased with my brain, since it could come up with such a clever dream in its sleep. Literally. Then I woke up and was thinking about the dream, and realized there was no murder. I didn't feel nearly so clever - who the heck dreams a murder-mystery with no murder?

So I'm thinking about the rest of the dream at 3.30, and I realize that it has the answers to some questions BW was asking me about why I have certain bad habits. Who the heck wonders how their bad habits get started? But he asked, and I thought about it for all of two seconds before changing the subject. Only to have it pop up in my dream. So I get this all figured out, and I'm not thrilled with the answer, but we are talking about bad habits, so I'm resigned. I go back to bed, not bothering to write down anything, because if it's so obvious I can figure it out at obscene hours of the morning, it should be really easy in the day time. I forgot most of the dream. If I had done drugs in high school, I would know how to remember these off-hour revelations, but it's a bit late now.

In other news, K said that J should smoke pot, so he could be a brave fellow persecuted for his political beliefs, instead of just a loser with a cranky girlfriend.

Pinched by the Coppers!

Thu, 21 Mar 2002 19:02:58 GMT

My grandfather is really old. Born in Russia, raised in China, skilled laborer all his life (upholstery, cabinetry, etc.), it's no wonder he has advanced senile dementia. And after being married for 62 years, even my grandmother isn't surprised he won't wear his hearing aid.

He's in his violent phase. It's really a frustration thing. He remembers that he used to know things that he can only barely recall exist, and gets upset. Sometimes it's because he doesn't know where he is or who this woman is with him. Sometimes it's because he can't remember words to say what he wants, or how to make his mouth pronounce them. He often storms out of the house, angry. My grandmother is having problems keeping up with him, but she wants to take care of him herself.

She started putting him in adult day care twice a week. She needed the break. She also lets me take him for walks. I've been asking to do that for two years, but she didn't want to bother anyone. Now she's worn out, and he is worse, and she has no choice.

Yesterday he stormed out over nothing, and my grandmother wasn't up to walking behind him for a few miles until he felt better, and then walking home with him. She gave the police his description, and some suggestions on where to find him, then sat home and worried. She called my dad to stay with her, so she wouldn't have to worry alone.

The police found him at the shopping center, and brought him home, but he wasn't done being angry. They took one look at my frail grandmother and my burly grandfather and decided he needed to go to the hospital overnight. That really upset my grandmother because she had no say in the decision. They explained to her how holding someone for evaluation works, and told her not to worry, and took him to the county hospital. She wanted him to go to her hospital, but she didn't have a choice in that, either.

My dad is well-intentioned, but thoughtless. I had her talk to K who told her exactly the same thing the police told her, only she liked it better because it was coming from someone she knew and trusted. He was very patient, and even offered to spend the night at her place so she wouldn't be alone. I think at times like this the important thing is to give an ear and information, but stay away from advice - decisions can wait until the situation is calm.

My grandmother called this morning to say that my grandfather had been transferred to her hospital. She'll be able to collect him this afternoon. She's very relieved. K's mom used to work for that hospital chain and knows all the resources for the families of dementia patients so she's going to send us some contact info. They have home health care nurses that will come by once a day to check on the patient and family, and help with giving medication or other problems. They have all sorts of other things too. I'm not insistent that my grandmother sell her house and put her husband in a home (and not just because I want to inherit the house and turn it into a cult home.) She's an adult, and can make her own decisions, despite what my dad says. Right now she needs to know her options for help, so that she can make informed, reasoned decisions. Maybe now that she realizes the problem is significant, she'll be open to considering in-between options. And maybe I can get my dad to get off the old folks home kick.

A Jealousy List

Mon, 18 Mar 2002 19:28:10 GMT

"Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?!"

That said, I think I'll spend some time being pointlessly jealous. In no particular order:

I'm jealous of P because so many people think she's pretty. No photographers have me on their wish list of models. Doesn't matter that she is obsessive, often anorexic and usually annoying, there are lots of fellows lusting after her. Is it because I'm too mature or too mean that I don't have a long list of admirers? Maybe I do and I scare them into silence. Yeah, that's it. Right.

I'm jealous of my brother because he has a really nice house. Sure, it's in the sticks and he rents it, while I am fairly centrally located and own mine. His is still nicer. I will console myself with the thought that he has troll toes.

I'm jealous of D, and the less said about that, the better for everyone.

I'm jealous of J because he has a friend who always finds him a job. I need someone who will take care of my job search for me, and get me hired places where I don't actually do any work, not even really showing up to the office.

I'm jealous of B. He's cool. He looks cool in everything he wears. He says cool things and reads cool books. He has a piercing in a personal place and a tattoo of a gargoyle with bunny haunches. He speaks more than one language and has friends in cool places who he frequently visits. All that, and he can cook too. Nothing wrong with him. (He's single if I've piqued anyone's interest.)

That will have to do. Either I don't know enough nifty people, or I'm too arrogant to admit there are people better than me out there.

No innocents

Thu, 14 Mar 2002 22:04:36 GMT

I guess I've known J for about five years, maybe more. Five tumultuous years. He first met me when I was running a big upgrade project and he was hired muscle. I didn't really meet him until some time later, since he was just one in a constantly changing sea of "contractors", temps really. He was introduced to me, but I had a policy of not bothering to remember the temps until they had been around for at least three months - no point in getting involved with short-timers.

Once we met for real, we hit it off pretty well. Started going to clubs together, lunches, bars, dinners, shows. Sometimes with K, usually without. His girl went occasionally, but not often. She would stay home and sulk, and page him every thirty minutes to know when he was coming home. K's only problem was that I could never figure out what J and I had talked about for two hours after the club closed. I worked nights, and lived close to the office, but J was supposed to be at work at eight in the morning, and he lived on the other side of the morning traffic jam from his office. Far on the other side. Some nights he'd just sleep in his car in the office parking lot. Especially after his girlfriend moved back home to mother. I always offered him my couch, but he never accepted unless he was drunk. Don't know why not.

All sounds lovely, doesn't it? I'm afraid we're a volatile mix. One of us would be a jerk, and we wouldn't talk for awhile. A few times I told him never again, but he always talked his way back into my life. Not sure why I let him. I was aggressive - he was passive/aggressive. He would just wander out of my life for a few months when he was annoyed or bored. No emails returned, not on-line for messaging, no time for lunch or clubs. And then he would amble over with an email inviting me out for a drink, completely over whatever had been bothering him.

We sort of ran a club night together for awhile. We weren't good partners - he was always afraid to contradict me. I was over-ambitious, and the night didn't work out. It was a lot of fun, and I wish we had had the opportunity to do it again. Experience being the best teacher, I felt certain that I could make it happen the second time (especially with certain backstabbers out of the picture), but he wasn't interested - was worried about his reputation being associated with a string of loser clubs. His rep, his biz.

We weren't always very nice to each other. I remember finding him in a park once, laying in the middle of the field at lunch time, his tie over his eyes. He was upset with me over a decision I had made. It was the right decision, but I changed my mind to make him happy. He was always such fun when he was happy. I didn't normally let him know when I was hurt - took my tears home to savor them in private. We shouldn't have dragged each other along for this long.

A few weeks back I sent him a "get lost" letter. I said I never wanted to talk to him again, although, of course, I do. I said I didn't any more tears, and that seems to be the price of his friendship. That price is starting to seem too high to me. He didn't reply. I saw him last night, and he didn't come over to say hi, and I returned the favor, avoiding "an awkward moment ensues". I wish he had changed my mind again. I'm certain that I've made the right decision, but I wish there was another way. I want to have J and a happy time. Now I have neither.

Free Will

Tue, 05 Mar 2002 07:47:47 GMT

I believe in free will. I even approve of it most of the time. The opposite of free will is fate. Fate means that no matter what you do, thing will turn out the same. There's no point in striving, in trying, in taking chances, or even responsibility. That's the way to hopelessness and helplessness. Eventually people will pity you, and that's a bad thing.

Free will means that you do what you do, and you own up to what comes of it. I'm big on personal responsibility. One of the most hurtful thing ever said to me was from a fellow who stole a noticeable sum of money from me. When confronted, he said it was my fault for trusting him. That's not personal responsibility. It also damaged our friendship more than the theft. I'm funny that way.

But free will means that you get to make choices. What if I don't like your choices? Luckily, I have enough free will for more than one person. When asked, or tempted, I have been known to suspend the free will of other people. Funny how they don't usually mind. When I've made all your decisions the way I want them to go, you have the option of getting your free will back. It's like being married, only you get to leave your socks on the floor.