8/20/2005

Musical Mayhem

The guys I work with now are quite goofy much of the time, with a fair amount of banter going back and forth, including song scraps and lines from movies. So when one of them said (in a conversation I only heard part of) "cabana boy", I immediately came up with the following:

Cabana boy, the towels, the towels are soggy
Look at this mess of wet things on the floor
Bring me a fresh one so that I can dry myself
Don't make me stand here, dripping by the door
Cabana boy, I really need a towel now
My hair's all wet and dripping in my eyes
Bring me a great big cotton terry one
So I can be all snug and warm and dry.
That got me started on the the thought that "Danny Boy" is set to the tune of "Londonderry Air", which of course led to puns:
The girls in France act like they are too good for me
But English girls at least pretend to care
I'm going to go across the Channel now
And try to get some London derriere
and:
There was a farm outside of London town
The sweetest milk came from the cattle there
When people passed, they'd hold their breath and cry:
"My god, it's London dairy air"
See what I mean?
And just in case that's not bad enough, think about this: "Amazing Grace" scans to the tune of the theme from "Gilligan's Island". Try it; it works, but it's really quite disturbing. :-)

Sorry to keep you waiting so long

It's been quite awhile since I last posted here. I've been quite busy in the interim. Among other things, I'm now working on a new assignment. It's a better fit for me than the last one, making great use of my particular skillset. It's also a beautiful location; I don't know who designed it, but they really put the "park" in "office park".

On the artistic side, I've finished the last of the blocks I was making for the star sampler swap, and everyone loved them. Now I'm working on another swap; this one's mini Christmas blocks.

My partner's doing a little better than she had been lately. Her bad leg has been getting worse; the fused bones have been bowed for as long as I've known her, but in the last couple of months it seems the bowing has gotten worse. So she was in a lot of pain (more than usual, that is) while her body adapted to the new position.

Anyway, that's all the news that's fit to print right now.

4/27/2005

I Shocked You Last Night

Don't deny it; I know I did. I could tell by the silence that descended when I had finished my brief speech. I sat there, feeling like a bug, silent tears sliding down my face, unable to look up as I waited for your response. So glad that the antidepressants had built up enough in my system to spare me the humiliation of the full-on weeping that would have ensued only a week ago.

Still I felt ashamed to be in that position: needing the help, and having to ask you for it. Some would say that there's no shame in it, but that's not how I was raised. I was raised to believe that to need help is shameful, and to ask for that help is even more so.

But then, I was raised to expect that I would by now have all the things you seem to take for granted: houses, cars, trips all over the world, not to have to worry about having enough to get by. Instead, here I am, working full-time but still living hand to mouth, lurching from one crisis to the next, never knowing if the current crisis (or the next one) is the one that finally costs me everything. And though I have occasionally made reference to being broke, I've never really come right out and told you before just how broke I am.

You think being broke means that you can't go to Europe this year; for me it means counting all my change to make sure I have enough for the transit fare to work and back till payday. For you, it's a question of whether you can put a new deck on your vacation home; for me, it's whether I can pay this month's rent on time. For you, it means paying a slightly higher co-pay so you can have the brand-name medication; for me, it's meant going without my medication so that I can get honey the most critical of hers - not even all of them.

Do you see a pattern here? You represent the affluent gays that the media assumes we all are. I, ostensibly in the same class, have none of that comfort. You tell me about your latest trip, or how you're remodeling your house, or buying another car. I smile and say "how nice", and you never see how every word grinds like glass in my heart.

Please understand: I'm not jealous of what you have; I don't begrudge you a bit of it. When I say that I'm happy for you, I am, really. It's just that you speak of it all so casually, as if everyone you know lives this way. It never occurs to you that I have to treat a trip to the coffee shop as an indulgence. What hurts is that I was raised to expect that I would have all these things that you have, that I would be so affluent. What hurts is realizing that no matter how hard I work, I will probably never have the life you have; that my life will never be so easy, so comfortable. I will never own one home, much less two. I will never have a new car; in order to buy a used car so that my honey isn't completely housebound, I'll have to decide what other essentials to shortchange.

And what really hurts is that last night I had to let you see that, because I had no other choice.

4/25/2005

Surfing the Blogosphere (or, Cool Stuff You Can Find If You Hit "Next Blog" Enough Times)

This young woman is intelligent and articulate. Besides the fact that I agree with a lot of what she says, I really like the way she thinks and writes.
Third Wave Agenda

An American woman with a global perspective: Culture of Life News II

In the "hoisting the religious right on their own petard" category: PowersOnPolitics

Political Discussion: The Citizens

Fellow Fiber Fondler: Woolarina

And from NYC: Jon-Marc's Manhattan

It's Recess-time Somewhere

And I really like Waiter Rant

4/20/2005

I'm having a crisis here

Emotional, spiritual, financial. I am so fucked up and feeling fucked over on so many levels right now. Although my whole adult life has been an exercise in crisis management, of robbing Peter to pay Paul - my life as Job, or Charlie Brown. I really don't know how much more I can take.

I've been battling depression all my life - literally, since I was a little girl, although it went unremarked and disbelieved then, back in the days when everyone believed that children had no stress and nothing to worry about. Then, as now, I had plenty to be depressed about, and there was no help for me anywhere, and I was taught to ask for nothing. About 4 years ago, when I started the job before this one and got really good health benefits, I got on anti-depressants for the first time in my life. It didn't make life stop sucking, but at least I could deal with it calmly.

Last year, when I got laid off, the benefits (obviously) stopped. No way could I afford COBRA and also pay my honey's meds out of pocket and wait for reimbursement, though I tried for a couple of months. Try paying rent, meds (do you know what Oxycontin costs? I do), COBRA, plus all the other normal operating expenses (food, transit, utilities, etc.) on an unemployment check that barely exceeds rent. So I went off my meds, figuring I could tough it out for a few months, and honey and I picked the most essential of her meds, and tried to get by. All we really managed to do wasget farther and farther behind - on everything.

Right before the winter holidays, I started a new job - better than unemployment by a long shot, but about 20% less than my previous job, and certainly not enough to get caught up yet, especially since I was still paying honey's meds out of pocket in amounts that approach that of rent.

This month, the benefits at my new job finally kick in, and we're down to reasonable co-pays on things. Not as good as the benefits I had at the old job, but better then out-of-pocket by a long shot. But also this month, I started getting tagged for back taxes in a roughly equivalent amount. So I'm still behind, and gonna be that way for the rest of the summer. My preliminary estimate is that the last of those payments will be in September.

Meanwhile, the landlord has finally lost patience with my pleading and paying late every month. I have until the end of this month to come up with this month's rent ($1205 including late fee), and I have to pay next month's rent no later than May 5th - no excuses, no lenience, no nothing. Right this minute, I have no idea how I'm going to come up with it. Every week, I'm paying the past-due balance on some bill or other (while setting aside whole flocks of dunning notices), or buying meds, or groceries, or transit or something equally frivolous and extravagant. I've had to back out of my commitment to help host the scholarship awards dinner (of which organization I'm co-chair), because I can't even pretend that I can afford the costs of attending it.

I've tried contacting several agencies to see if I can get some help, at least with the current rent crisis, but - not surprisingly - they are no help to me at all. I say not surprisingly because it's typical of my life. I can't get any help because either it's not available when I need it or it is available but I don't qualify.

I wish I could say that my current situation is unusual, but it's actually quite typical of my adult life. I've never been able to get ahead. The closest I've ever managed to get to making ends meet is getting them within hailing distance. Every time they get close enough that I start to think that this time I'll catch up to break-even status something happens - a new expense, the loss of a job, frequently both at once - and I find myself wishing I could just get the ends to maybe email or phone each other. All my life, the light at the end of the tunnel has consistently turned out to be the headlamp of an oncoming train.

Which brings me to the spiritual crisis. Despite all the crap I've been through (which included spending my childhood and adolescence being abused in every possible way by my stepfather while my mother both expected me to be perfect and denied the abuse was happening (which she still does, btw)), I maintained my belief in a benevolent Deity. I considered my spiritual person, and even spent years as a practicing shaman-teacher-healer-guide-counselor; although, unlike many such practitioners, I never could figure out a way to get paid for my services that felt honorable to me. I figured that all my suffering was redeemed in my ability to relate to those I was helping, thus furthering my ability to help them. I continued to believe that the Deity was essentially benevolent. I'd observe that I always got what I needed - mind you, not one scrap more nor one second sooner than absolutely necessary to drag my sorry ass just that fraction of an inch back from the edge of utter disaster - so I believed, and blamed my panic about the crumbling cliff edge on a shortage of faith on my part. I thought that maybe if I just kept believing that the Deity wouldn't really let mefall, then maybe I'd be allowed to walk on firmer footing.

That hope has never yet been fulfilled, and I have recently come to the conclusion that it never will. I feel that I have suffered enough in the nearly five decades I've spent on this planet that even if the rest of my life went swimmingly from here on out, I'll never forget how it feels to go through this crap. I'll never lose the ability to relate to others who are going through it - I could still help people. Hell, if I could quit worrying about having enough to keep a roof over me and mine, it would be easier for me to help others. I know this, because whenever I've had even a little to share, I've done so. I can't believe that I'd quit doing so, just because I had more to share.

Therefore, I find myself facing two semi-opposing alternatives to my belief in a benevolent Deity (which is almost completely gone):
  1. There is no Deity, no higher power, and therefore no reason for my suffering, or
  2. The Deity which has pretended benevolence only to the degree necessary to keep my hopes up is in reality a sadistic bastard who tortures me for no reason other than It's own sick pleasure.
Needless to say, this is a hard place to be for someone who has for so long considered herself a spiritual being in service to the Divine. I have no idea how to resolve it, or what I'm going to do with it. At this stage, I don't think that anything short of a major financial miracle (like hitting tonight's lottery for enough to get me completely out of the red for keeps - even better if it's enough to retire on) is going to restore my belief that the Deity really loves me as something other than a punching bag.

If you're still reading this, and are by some chance inclined to contribute to the Lady Cat Emergency Relief Fund (aka the Keep Lady Cat Out Of Debtor's Prison Fund), you can Paypal your donations to the email address in my profile.

If you are instead inclined to try to sign me up with your God - please - save it for someone who hasn't already been to that party and come away hungry.

4/19/2005

Don't Ask

Don't ask me how I feel today
I'm likely to tell you
Spill my heart all over the floor
You stand there stunned
Covered in gore
You didn't really want to know
Just being sociable
But I'm broken here
Held together with wire
and bits of tape
So for both our sakes
It's better if you just
Don't ask

4/15/2005

The Trouble With Titles....

...is that they so often bear no resemblance to the contents of the blog. Grrrr....

I like to check the "recently updated blogs" section of the Dashboard page, just to see who's out there writing what. All well and good, you say....right. So I hit the link for one called "Kill All Hats", thinking this will be something quirky and whimsical. I like offbeat humor; I'm like that, okay? The page loads, and I'm faced with a page full of Google dumps. Why, people? Why?

I hit another cool-sounding title, only to find that the title is the only part of the blog that's in English; the rest is in some other language, and about half the time, in some other alphabet! Please! If you're not going to write in English, that's fine. Sometimes I enjoy seeing how much of my school Spanish or French remains in my brain. But if you're not writing in English, why use it for the title?

And while I'm at it, what's with these little java app windows that load in front of the page so that you have to click on each and every one of the little fuckers before you can see the blog itself? And the pages that are so crammed full of separate little frames that you can't read it anyway when you get there?

I'm just saying....

Artist + Breadwinner = Frustration

It may surprise you to know that I am also one of those creative types. Personally, I find it very frustrating to have to work for a living when I really have an artistic temperament - I'd rather be making art, but I'm the designated breadwinner, so whatcha gonna do, eh?

I fit it in where I can. I quilt on the commute train. I keep a knitting project by the bed, so I can knit while I'm hangin' out with my honey. The bead jewelry's kind of on hold for the moment because I have other projects due, but I'm designing a new necklace in my head this week, as well as a few other projects. Now that we're well into spring, I need to start carrying my camera again so I can take pics of all the things that inspire me as I go along my way. Honestly, if I never had to work again, I'd still have to live to be well over 300 to realize all the things I have in mind!

Anyway, projects that I currently have in (active) progress because there are deadlines involved:
  • a knitted lace shawl in a pretty shimmery pink yarn for honey to wear to the awards dinner on May 6
  • my "coat of many colors"/ceremonial robe to wear when honey and I officiate at our foster son's wedding on May 14. This weekend, I need to wash/press/cut the backing fabric for the sections that I've already pieced, so that I can at least quilt enough of it to make a suitable stole for the occasion; I really don't think I'm gonna get into full robe form in time, I've just been too busy (when I haven't been to sick/depressed to do anything at all)
  • six quilt blocks for a sampler swap with one of my online lists. I was supposed to have three of these done last month, and the other three this month, but I just haven't been able to get it done. I did post to the list last month to let them know that I'm hoping to get the March ones done by the end of May, and the April ones done by the end of June. I love swaps, but I too often wind up not having time to fulfill my obligations in a timely manner, which is really not fair to the other swappers.
There's more, of course, but those are the ones I'm working on right now.

Very Cool Site

Click here to view the WebCam of the falcons nesting on the roof of PG&E's corporate HQ in San Francisco. To them, it's just another cliff, y'know?

Lest you think I do nothing but bitch...

I offer the following bits of brightness that are currently in my life:

  • It's sunny and warm
  • It's Friday
  • Yesterday on the way home from work, I encountered a friend that I haven't seen in years, who invited honey and me to come to a party at his house at the end of the month. I'm so glad to reconnect with the old circle!
  • On the train going home last night, a young woman singing opera for tips - a touch of civilization that really made me smile
  • My health benefits have finally kicked in, which means that yesterday I was able to pick up 5 of honey's meds for a total of $100 in co-pays that would otherwise have cost well over $1,000 otherwise
  • Honey was able to get us an appointment with our GP for next week, so I'll soon be back on my anti-depressants - Yay!
  • It's Friday
  • The nice weather is supposed to hold through the weekend
Sometimes my life doesn't totally suck, and it's good to remember that.

4/13/2005

Yank Me Around Some More, Why Doncha?

Thanks ever so much.

I haven't yet determined the number of the days, but numbered they are.

4/06/2005

Domestic Partnership <> Marriage

How many times do we have to have our noses rubbed in it?

I just got it again this week, and I am so pissed. My benefits were supposed to kick in on the 1st of April, including full coverage for my domestic partner. California law now states that employers must provide benefit coverage to domestic partners equivalent to that of spouses. In fact, the law states that we now have the same rights and responsibilities as hetero married couples in the state of California, except for filing taxes jointly - because the state requires that one file with the same status as one files with the federal government - and any other instance where federal law trumps the state, because the fed doesn't recognize domestic partnerships.

So last month I turned in my form with my choices for benefit coverage, including the same for my DP. No sweat, right? Wrong. First, March 31 finds in my mailbox a letter stating that I have waived all coverage except that which is fully employer-paid (certain life and accident coverage). So, first thing the next morning, I'm on the phone to the admin at the office out of which I work (having failed to get a human on the phone at the benefit hotline number, even though it's within their stated office hours), to ask her what's up with this. She's not at her desk, so I leave a message, asking her to call me back ASAP. By midafternoon, no response, so I leave another message.

I'm a little tense about this, because since I got laid off last summer, I've been paying all my DP's medical expenses (actually not all, I've been holding off the doctors and just paying for those meds she absolutely has to have) out of pocket, to a tune that exceeds the rent (which I'm also behind on). Needless to say, we've been anxiously awaiting an end to this state of affairs. Some people already know that our financial state has me walking the edge of a nervous breakdown - have I ever mentioned that depressed people don't deal with stress well? I don't sleep well, I cry all the time, you get the picture?

By Monday morning, I feel like utter crap, and not sure whether it's a bug or the depression, I call in sick and go back to bed. Later, when I get up again, I put in another call to the admin. Still no response. Same story yesterday. Finally, late in the day, I get an email from her which is not an answer to my question, but a forward from the central benefits admin, to the effect that I need to fill out an affidavit stating that my DP is my DP and signed by both of us. By the time I open this email, it's after office hours, so I fire back an email asking, essentially (but more politely) WTF?

Why am I finding out about this form at the last minute? Why is it even necessary, given the current law in this state and the fact that married people don't have to do it? If it is necessary, why was it not in the original (really fat) packet of info and forms I got when I first signed up? Especially since I said from the outset that I need to cover my DP because I'm her sole support. I already took a pay cut from what I was getting at my previous job (about 20% off the net pay), which I told them I couldn't afford to sustain any longer than absolutely necessary, but I took it because at least it was better than the pittance I was getting in unemployment.

So I finally get the benefits person on the phone this morning. She confirms that I am covered as of the first, but the IRS requires this affidavit before they can cover her. And by the way, I'm the first person who's had a problem with this. No doubt the rest are either (a) too used to sheepishly doing as they're told, (b) not really up on the law in this state (the relevant chunks of which took effect the first of this year), (c) not in such a bind that it matters as much t othem as it does to me, or (d) some combination of the foregoing. Grrr.... fine, I'll do the frk'n form. By the way, I tell her, better look up the form on which I state that she is also my dependent for tax purposes, because I'll need to fill that out, too, so you don't collect tax on the "imputed income" of the premiums for her coverage. She's never heard of this, and refers to the part where if my DP's child is considered my DP's dependent, then I can't include said child. I looked at that bit again, and clarified her on the fact that if my DP's child were living with us, that child would also be my dependent, not my DP's dependent, because as I mentioned, I'm the sole support of my household. But we don't have to confuse things with a child, because the only child that has ever lived with us was my own, and she turned 18 and moved out last year. There's just me and DP, who is my dependent, as she's had no income for years now, and I'm her sole support. She says she'll put in a call to their legal department. Once we get the paperwork in, she'll be considered covered for the whole month, no problem there, although I still haven't pinned down exactly when we get proof of coverage that we can use to assuage her doctors and buy her meds.

Meanwhile, the Kramer decision (the one that says denying marriage to same-sex couples is against the state constitution) is on its way through the appeals process. I'm fairly confident that it will be upheld, but I am so sick and tired of having to go through this crap all the time until it is.

One of the reasons that some people use to deny us marriage rights is that "gays are promiscuous; they aren't capable of committed relationships". Bullshit! We go through all kinds of legal hoops to take care of each other and to get even the small fraction that we are able to get of the rights and responsibilities that straights get simply by saying, essentially, "we're married; give it to us". Oh, I know, it's not quite that simple. I had a straight marriage once, so I know how it goes - something like this:

1. Go to the appropriate office.
2. Pay a fee.
3. Get a form.
4. Have a licensed officiant (which can be as simple as going down the hall to another office in the same building) say "Do you?"
5. Say "I do" and sign the form, along with the officiant and two witnesses (who can be anyone who happens to be in range when you say "I do".
6. Turn in the form.
7. You are now legally married.

This simple process (which can take as little as, say, lunchtime) gets a straight couple a whole slate of rights and responsibilities (over 300 state, and well over 1,000 federal), which are hereafter assumed simply by use of the statement: "this is my spouse". You will only need to present your marriage certificate a few times. In my entire 9 years of marriage I only remember two: once to change my last name to his on my Social Security record; and when he died, so that I could get his death certificate and collect on his life insurance. That was it, folks.

To get any of that, even though the law now says that we're entitled (at least in the state of California), at best I have to fill out extra forms - for the simple stuff, like getting her covered by my employer's health coverage. For more complex things, like buying a house (if I should ever find myself so financially fortunate - and that's a whole other rant), I need to involve lawyers to make sure that no one can subvert my will that she inherit or otherwise benefit from my efforts in her behalf.

I ask you, is that even remotely fair? I don't think so.

3/31/2005

Is Bush the Antichrist?

Is Bush the Antichrist?

I'd look up this guy's book, but I've been saying the same thing for years. The patterns fit, all too well.

3/28/2005

With Apologies to Weber & Rice

"Don't Schiavo me, my beloved
In truth, I've already left you
This is not living, it's just existing
You have my body, my soul's gone drifting"

The more I hear and read about the Schiavo case, the more the phrase "Don't Schiavo me" implants itself in my mind as shorthand for "Don't keep my body hanging around if all it can do is hold my mind (whatever may be left of it) captive."

Today, the above verse volunteered, so I decided to inflict share it with you.

shrugs

To paraphrase Forrest Gump:
My mind - and by extension this blog - is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you're going to get until you bite.

3/18/2005

Congress Calls Schiavo to Testify

Today's New York Times reports that Congress is going to pass a law forbidding the removal of feeding tubes, etc., from patients in a "persistent vegetative state" if they've left no written instructions. Click here for the full story.

From other stories I've read on this case, and what I've seen on the news, she may, in fact, still be in there somewhere. But it appears that the only thing she can still do on her own is blink. The only way to be sure whether that's an attempt at communication or a random tic would be to set her up for the kind of computerized gear that Stephen Hawking is using. Is that likely to happen? I don't think so. Is she going to be able to communicate otherwise? Only with those who have the patience to play "20 (thousand) quesions", and what kind of conversation is that, really? Only intense frustration for everyone concerned.

I say, either let her try a Hawking-style communication rig, or let her go. I can imagine no worse torture than to be trapped inside my own head for the rest of my artificially-sustained life.

Every time I see a story like this, I think of Stephen Hawking. I imagine him without the communication gear, living on machines, slowly going insane from the inability to communicate his ideas to anyone. And I think of myself, an artist and writer (day job to the contrary). I've thought about how I could continue to create if I lost various abilities: my sight, or the use of my hands, for example. Even if I lost the use of my whole body, I could still create; I could still write. But only if I had something like what Hawking has: a computer that could respond to the tracking of my eyes. But I very much doubt that any health insurance policy covers that sort of thing, and I doubt that my honey could afford to buy it for me (or I for her, if it came to that).

So consider these my written instructions regarding artificially sustaining my body if I am no longer able to operate it on my own:

Let me try a Hawking-style communication system. If I am unable to use it, or it cannot be made available to me, then by all you hold sacred, let me go.

3/17/2005

Wearing Black on St. Patrick's Day

I know it's the custom to wear green (except for a friends I've known who wear orange), but I wear black.

Ostensibly, this holiday is to honor St. Patrick for "driving the snakes out of Ireland". That may have been the original intent of the Irish who've been transplanted to America when they created it as a way to remember their homeland.

What's happened since is the idea that everybody's honorary Irish on St. Patrick's Day, which basically becomes an excuse for people to be drunk and disorderly in public - even those who normally have more sense.

As an Irish person, I resent the idea that "drunk and disorderly" is the defining characteristic of the Irish. Somehow the rich cultural and literary tradition of the Irish gets missed. I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised at that, considering the effort the English put into wiping it out. For generations, it was illegal to speak Gaelic or play the harp. To do so could get you jailed or killed.

But that's not why I wear black. I wear it to honor the serpents of wisdom - the symbol of the old faith that was driven underground by Christianity. That's right, I said driven underground, not driven out. The wonderful Celtic interlacing that permeates Irish Christian symbols is from the old faith, representing the interconnectedness of all things. Why do you think there are so many serpents in the Book of Kells? Many of the Irish saints are simply translations of the old elemental spirits that we worshipped. We didn't go away; we just learned how to hide - more or less in plain sight.

Slainte!

3/14/2005

Do straight couples get questions like this?

Last week I was very depressed and upset about my financial situation, of which my honey's medical expenses are a fairly major factor (at least until my health benefits kick in at my new job). I was explaining some of this to a concerned co-worker (later in the week, when I was calmer, that is), and she was responding with the standard chorus of "this too shall pass".

She asked if honey was getting any kind of assistance or disability income. I explained that, because we're domestic partners, they look at my income as well as her lack of it, and determine that we make too much money for her to qualify for any kind of aid. :-( I said that being domestic partners in California means we now have most of the responsibilities, but only a few of the rights, of hetero married couples.

So she asks: "Why don't you divorce her?" Into my stunned silence, she blunders on: "Just temporarily...you know..." before she realizes that her suggestion is not really falling on receptive ears.

I realize that she probably thought it was a helpful suggestion. I know that an increasing number of straight couples are choosing to stop short of legal marriage because to do so would screw up one or both partner's government benefits; or, if they're both working for high salaries, throw them into a painfully high tax bracket. Personally, I think that's a rotten situation to have to be in, either way. but at least they have the choice.

And I don't think that any straight couple, once married, chooses divorce when one partner's health gets expensive. First of all, even a no-fault divorce is cost-free; and for my honey and me to divorce (this is one of the areas where domestic partners are treated the same as married couples) would require all the same paperwork, complete with a court appearance to explain to the judge why we're splitting. Second, I don't think that "I can't afford her any more" constitutes valid grounds for divorce.

Do straight couples take that vow so lightly?

3/11/2005

Relativity

I'm currently working on a university campus, and I like it. But it's a bit disconcerting at times to be surrounded by youth and beauty and not really be part of it. Some people in such a setting ask themselves "Was I ever that young?" I don't. What confuses me is "When did I get so old?"

Don't get me wrong. I don't feel old (except when I'm overwhelmed by the feeling of carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, but that's a different rant). Mostly, I still feel like a college student. Certainly, the way I'd prefer to operate my life is still much the way it was when I was in college. My mental image of myself has put on far fewer pounds than the mirror says I have.

But then I'll have a conversation like one I had the other day with a guy who works here in the department, but who's also a professional musician. And just when I felt that music might give us some common ground, he says, "but at 34, I'm getting kind of long in the tooth to be going around playing in bars and such." ?!?!?! I couldn't think of anything to say to that at the time, but I'll say it here.

I'm 47, as of a couple of weeks ago, and if I honestly believed that there was a market for my music - that people would pay to hear me sing my songs, and especially if anyone asked me to - I'd be on the road in a heartbeat. I haven't sung for anyone but myself in years, and I miss it terribly. I miss knowing that people want to hear me sing. I miss being able to really open up my throat and sing at full voice so that hundreds can hear me, instead of singing softly so as not to disturb anyone. I miss being asked to sing. The closest I can come to it now is karaoke night with the gang, and it's just not the same at all. I have to be pretty lubricated to get past the embarrassment of asking to have a turn to sing someone else's song, with their accompaniment, etc. I miss being asked to sing my own songs in my own way, with friends playing live harmonies with me. "Long in the tooth?!?!" Kid, I'd spend the rest of my life performing, if only someone would ask.

Charlie Brown

Show of hands: who remembers Charlie Brown and the rest of the gang from Peanuts?

Sure you do. In the spring, he gets out his kite, hoping to soar among the clouds, only to have it - inevitably - wind up tangled in a tree before it even gets truly off the ground. In the summer, he stands on that pitcher's mound, pitching his heart out, hoping that this time they'll win a game, only to be knocked out of his shoes by a line drive. In the fall, Lucy promises she'll hold the football for him to kick, and he believes, and runs to kick it, only to find she's pulled it away just as he's fully committed to the kick, so that he lands flat on his back once again.

Poor, trusting soul. He wants so badly to believe in the inherent goodness of the world, and he tries to everything right, even though almost every time, the world just gives him the finger. What keeps him going - what lets him hang on to hope - is the fact that every now and then, the world gives him a taste of something decent. His friends act like friends, and decorate his little orphan branch of a tree, and show him that, at least sometimes, it really is okay.

I find myself feeling like Charlie Brown a lot lately. Especially where money is concerned. That's my football. Every time I think I'm actually gonna get caught up, and maybe even manage to save a little toward making our life better, it gets yanked away and I wind up flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me. And then, just when I'm about to tip over the edge into utter disaster, something comes along to hold me up awhile longer. Never enough to get me safely away from that edge, mind you, and never before the moment when I begin to fall. Just enough to keep me hanging on. And when that happens, I remind myself that it always has, in one way or another, so I really should quit panicking. But every time I find myself teetering at that edge, I panic. It's too scary not to.

Some people balance their budgets. I feel more like I'm juggling live badgers.

Rich, to me, is not having a six-figure income - from your investments. I mean, I'd love to have the big house and the staff to maintain it, and all of that but really...to me, "rich" means having enough money that I can quit worrying about having enough money. Is that really so much to ask?

"Don't be stupid. It's only the third floor."

It's funny to think that such simple words, delivered in a casual, offhand manner, could save a life. But they did. Mine.

We were in college, and I was having one of "those days" - one of many, to tell the truth - when everything is wrong, and it all hurts so deeply, and it's so frustrating to see no way out of it. And I said (not for the first time - or the last), "I've had it; if one more thing goes wrong, I'm gonna go right through that window."

And he laid his hand on my shoulder - calm, gentle, strong - and he said, "Don't be stupid. It's only the third floor. You'll most likely just break a few bones and have to spend a couple months eating hospital food - yecchh - and then you'll be right back here again, and nothing will have changed."

When he put it that way, we could laugh about the impulse, at least, and let the moment pass. If it had been the guy I was dating in the room, he'd have said something like, "Don't leave me; I need you!" And I'd have thrown him first, and then jumped. Which, come to think of it, would have been even more stupid, because he'd have broken my fall.

But it wasn't sweet, dense Gary. It was my best friend Bill. I often joke about that episode, but he really did save my life that day, and many time since, though I doubt he knows it. So many times I've heard his voice in my head: "Don't be stupid; it's only the third floor (or a Honda, or whatever)". That memory of his voice is like a calm, steady, strong hand helping me once again lash down the wildly flailing tiller of my storm-tossed soul.

Bill is one of those guys who make it all look so easy. You know the sort; everyone knows at least one guy like this. He's tall and slim, so handsome with his black hair and deep blue eyes. Especially when we were young, he was a right knockout, and still pretty fine, some two dozen years later. He's got that casual grace; moves like a cat, utterly at home in his body and well aware of the effect he has on people. Everyone wanted to have him, or to be him, or both. Tangled creature that I am, I fell into that last category.

I always felt a bond with him, and half a memory of us in a past life (circa Robin Hood), hunting with hawks and bows, sparring with swords. I spent awhile in the first few years I knew him wishing that we were lovers, and trying to make it so. It just never worked that way. Eventually, I came to accept that we're brothers in spirit, and things got a bit easier. We'd hang out together, talking about whatever, helping each other through our various troubles.

One of our little rituals had to do with matches. We each kept a box of those big wooden matches in our quarters, and sometimes on our persons. When we were angry and frustrated by life, and couldn't think of a way to fix whatever it was, one of us would get out the matches. We'd sit there taking turns striking matches, watching them burn away our anger and frustration one small flame at a time.

We've been in and out of touch since college. I remember our surprise when we discovered that we had made our separate ways across the country to the same general area. But even when we're out of touch, I still hear his voice when I need to be reminded:

"Don't be stupid; it's only the third floor."

3/04/2005

Not Enough Money

Those who know me may think I'm referring to my usual financial state, which is to say, chronically underfunded. And while that condition led to the inspiration for this post, that's not what this post is about.

No, the full title of this post is (or should be:)


There does not exist enough money in the world to induce me to work in a customer service call center.

Nope. Not nearly. Not even close.

I don't have anything like the patience necessary to carry on a conversation calmly with an upset customer. I've been practicing patience for years, but I'm not that good at it. I don't know if I ever will be.

So, I have to give a great deal of credit to the young man at PG&E who took my call this afternoon. He was patient and polite, and tried to be reasonable with someone who was not feeling at all reasonable. I can't tell you his name, not only out of respect for his privacy, but also (mainly) because when he told it to me it slid right out the other ear. Sorry about that, but I was too busy being unhappy/frustrated/angry about the situation that prompted the call to register such details.

(I was going to post about the situation itself, but I'll just leave it at this: I'm on my way to a payment center to make a duplicate payment to the one I made online yesterday, just in case the latter doesn't get posted in time to keep them from shutting off the power. Does that suck, or what? The upside is that there will then be a credit balance on the account, so they won't pester me again for a little while.)


3/02/2005

Dead Fish Handshake

I have heard of this phenomenon before, but today I encountered it for the first time. At a work-related luncheon, I was introduced to the head of another department. She seems a nice enough woman, but when she offered her hand to shake, I suddenly found myself holding a hand that was so completely relaxed I was at a loss as to what to do with it. I felt that if I shook it with my usual gentle firmness, I might hurt her. On the other hand, if I held it too loosely, it might just slip out of my hand altogether. I opted simply to hold it gently for a moment, and then let it go, but it was a very weird moment for me.

What do you do with that?

2/28/2005

She loves me

She loves me! She loves me!

This is probably the singles biggest miracle of my life. Well, maybe it's a really close second to the fact that I'm still alive, against some pretty stiff odds. Escept that I have her to thank for the last seven years of that. When continuing to live is a daily (sometimes hourly) decision, the fact that she loves me is a powerful incentive.

I'll try to explain what I'm talking about, but it's hard to understand if you never had it. I know, because until I met her, until I loved her, I never really understood or believed in it myself.

Let's start with a term that everyone thinks they know:

~Soulmate~

The ideal of the soulmate is the perfect partner, the perfect match. All the fairy tales we grew up on tell us that each of has one...somewhere. Most of us spend our lives, searching for, and failing to find, this person. We come to believe that there is no such thing.


Part of this is because the fairy tales (and their modern form, movies) only tell part of the story. For one thing, the people in the stories are always perfectly pretty. (Personally, I think one of the best things that the "Shrek" movies did was to slap that stereotype right upside the head.) The other thing follows on the first: the aspect of in which the soulmate is most often presented is that of sexual compatibility.


So it is no surprise that when people say that they've found their soulmate, what they reallly mean (consciously or not) is that they're having fabulous sex, and still ha[[y to wake up next to each other. But sooner or later, the passion kind of fades, and normal life reasserts itself. This is when find out whether you really have your soulmate.
Here's a little quiz:
  1. Are you still happy to wake up next to this person even though you were both too tired to even think about sex the night before?
  2. Are you still happy to have this person in your life when the checking account is overdrawn?
  3. and they just polished off the milk?
  4. Do you talk about things besides day-to-day operating stuff?
  5. Do you tell jokes in "shorthand"?
  6. Can you cry on each other's shoulder, and know it's okay if you can't explain why you're crying?
  7. When you argue, do you listen more than you yell?
  8. When the arguments and you still disagree, do you still love each other?

These are just examples, but you get the idea. The more of these questions you can honestly say "yes" to, the more likely it is that you really do have your soulmate. The real key to all of it is this: Do you love each other for who you really are (and for that, you both have to know who you really are, and who each other is), or for who you want them to be?

That's how you know. Do they love you as much when you fail as when you succeed? Do you love them when your assets are down to $.12, two packets of Ramen, and a cat whose litterbox needs to be changed?

When I talk about my relationship, I often talk about the challenges, and about all the things I do (or at least that I'm responsible for, even if I don't manage to do'em all). And people ask me what I get out of it.

Sometimes the answer is "just enough to keep me going". Sometimes I try to be more specific:

  • we laugh a lot
  • she holds me when I cry
  • we talk about all kinds of things, from science and history to our dreams for the future
  • she understands me in ways that no one ever has before, and loves all of me.

But the essence of it is: she loves me. It took me 40 years, but I finally found that semi-mythical creature known as "soulmate".

What do I get out of it? Everuthing. She loves me, and that's reason enough to keep on living. Our life together is often hard, but "she loves me" trumps all the troubles.

She loves me. And I'm glad and grateful and amazed by it, every day.

Bluffing

Sometimes I feel like such a colossal fraud - like I'm bluffing my way through life, and it's just a matter of time before I get busted for it.

But I set myself up for it. In my personal ethos, after murder, the worst kind of sin is a lie - almost every other sin is founded in lying - and the worst kind of lie is a broken promise.

And yet, I do it all the time - the modern term is "over commit". I promise creditors money that I don't yet have; I sign up for projects that I'm sure I'll be able to complete on evenings and weekends; I promise to spend time with my honey; I promise to get chores done - the list goes on, as I try to take care of everything and everybody (including, occasionally, me).

That's the heart of the problem, I guess: that I feel like I'm the one who's responsible. For everything. And I am, really. Honey's disabled, so I work to support us. And try to juggle our limited income to cover all of our expenses. And because she's disabled, I'm responsible for all the housework, too - if I don't do it, it doesn't get done. So the place is a wreck, all the time. Because by the time I get home from work, I have neither the energy nor the inclination to do any of the chores. And this feeling tends to carry over into the weekend as well, so very little gets done then, even though there's more time.

Thus with the best intentions do I pave the road to my own very personal Hell. When faced with the prospect of fulfilling this vast store of promises, I am so overwhelmed by the enormity of the task, the sheer impossibility of doing it all, that I have tremendous difficulty summoning the will to do any of it. And so I feel as if I'm failing at everything, that it's futile even to try. I begin every day sure that - worthless creature that I am - I will fail again. Because in my poor, tormented mind, anything less than total success and perfection is failure.

Is it any wonder that it's all I can do just to get out of bed? I honestly don't know how I manage it every day - to get up, dress, go to work - all the while no one seems to realize what a failure I am.

I feel like such a fraud.

"Since 1988"

This phrase is a tag line on a radio ad, obviously meant to convey a sense that the company is well-established, with a long history. That's why it grabs my attention.

"Since 1988" is said as if that were a long time ago. 1988 was just a few years....

pause while I do the math....

well, it's 17 years....17 years?!....already?!?.....damn, I'm old....

This happens a lot lately, as I realize how many things have changed, just in my lifetime. For example, when I was a kid, there were just 3 channels, and color TV was the hot new thing. Now we have satellite TV, with hundreds of channels, and still manage to complain that there's nothing on.

When I was a kid, my parents bought a 3 bedroom house for less than $25K. Now that's the price of a decent car. In the San Francisco Bay area where I live, you can't get a doghouse for that. On the other hand, my daughter proved last year that it is still possible to get a house for that kind of money -- if it's a fixer-upper in a small village in southern Illinois. Oh well, I prefer this climate.

My first computer had neither hard drive nor floppy disk. I stored my data on a cassette tape, and programmed the thing in BASIC. When I got a computer with a 40 Mb hard drive, I thought I'd never fill so much space. Now there are programs bigger than that. My daughter told me last week that she's running out of space on her hard drive - she's down to 15 Gb of free space!

When I was your age.....

Intro

Hi. My name's Andrea, and my mind wanders. So will this blog, covering whatever catches my attention or goes through my mind at any given time. Comedy, tragedy, philosophy, art -- all this and more will find its way here.

You've been warned.