Memory Well: Dating Rules

I haven't had to think about this for close to 20 years now (Thank whatever deities you choose), but back when I was single, I had a list of basic dating "nevers".  A friend reminded me of them, and I figured I might as well write it down for the edification of whoever comes along after me (no kids to pass this down to, and my goddaughter has managed to find a good man without my advice.  Not, you understand, that I am admitting that she's allowed to date yet.)

I don't know that I can remember them all, but... here goes.

1.  Don't date anyone older than your mother.  I know, seems basic, but remember, mom had me at 17, so it did limit my scope some - but trust me, I never had a daddy fixation, so it worked out ok.

2.  Never date anyone who has to ask his mom for permission.  Or who has a curfew...

3.  Never date anyone who carries an ax in his panel van.  (I did say these were basic, right?)

4.  Never date anyone named Steve.  (Ok, this one is specific to me - but I've dated 3 Steves in my life, and all three were unmitigated disasters.  I've had plenty of friends named Steve, no issue, but dating them apparently turns them into monsters, kind of like feeding a mogwai after midnight.)

5.  Never date anyone who owns more hair products than you do. 

6.  Never date a Republican.  Ok, I broke down on this one, and I'm incredibly glad that I did...  Roger was the best thing to ever happen to me.  But I'm sticking with the other 5 rules. 

Missing Lova and Dewane

I was a lucky girl, growing up. With mom and dad splitting up before I was 3 (I know, I know... we're getting to the lucky part), I ended up spending a lot of time with my maternal grandparents.  I've written some about it, but this meme just brought it home to me how much time and attention that they gave me. 

Grandma taught me a few basics - how to make Parker House rolls, canning, quilting.  But she also gave me a good solid basis in working for a living, serving the community, being a solid partner in everything with Grandpa.  And Grandpa...  he took me with him.  Everywhere.  We went fishing, we went out getting logs, down to the field to take care of the cows, out boating on the reservoir.  He just took me along - no questions, no comment.  I knew that I belonged on this earth and that I was loved for who I was, because these two made sure I knew about it - without ever really telling me so.  There's a powerful amount of confidence you can get from family that accept you - especially when you don't really feel like you fit in other places.  We moved a lot when I was young, but there was always a home to come back to - even if the fit was a bit tight and I knew I'd need to leave again. 

So... it's not so much the physical act of snapping green beans we need to get back to.  But there is a lot of time and attention spent while snapping... that, I miss like crazy.

What's The Difference?

Every post that I've seen on Facebook regarding the potential Groper-In-Chief has had an immediate follow-up - "But what about Bill Clinton?  And Hillary helped! Why aren't you angry at them?"

There are a lot of reasons- Bill's not the one who is running for office, the adultery was consensual, there's no definite proof either way, maybe I'm a flaming hypocrit - but mostly, for me, it's because I'm angry that Trump and his minions just don't get it.  The apology that he gave for the tape was so oblivious as to why it was wrong.  It wasn't the "pussy".  It was the GRAB.  It was the lack of realization that women are human beings, not things.  And he and his supporters have continued on - attack, deny, ridicule (seriously, he's using "look at her, she's an uggo" as a defense?) 

I attempted to talk it out with a niece of mine who is a Trump supporter and posted something about "Women claim sexual abuse to get new furniture".  Tried telling her that I was hurt by that characterization, mentioned my issues... she responded with inaccurate memes about the Clintons and that some women like to be touched. 

Roger has asked me not to engage these people, and I'm trying, but it's hard.  I don't want to know that there are people out there that are using #repealthenineteenth.  I want to be able to respect my friends who are voting for Trump, despite their vote.  But it's getting harder and harder.

When A Man Shows You His True Self - Believe Him

My Facebook feed blew up today with the latest Trump scandal - this one catching him in a "hot mic" moment back in 2005, talking about being able to grab women... well, you can read the news about it.  God knows, it's everywhere.  I found myself thinking "well, we knew that he was like that.  He's done and said a lot of terrible things about women... this isn't going to make a difference." and trying to move past it... and I hit a brick wall.  Well, several brick walls.  From my past.


This isn't going to be a fun post.  You might want to skip it (god knows, I do).  But...  when I was a young girl, my great-grandmother got remarried (well, she eloped - frankly, no one in the family approved) to Grandpa John. Grandpa John was a groper - the kind of guy who would kiss a 7 year old on the lips and use tongue.  He slipped his hand down the back of my pants once, before I learned to always, always keep a piece of furniture between us (so did the rest of the women in my family.  We didn't talk about it, we just learned, and watched out for each other.  That's the way you handled it back in the 70s)  Grandpa John was eventually hospitalized and out of our lives... but he left an invisible mark - the knowledge that my body wasn't mine.  Some guy could just grab and take and there wasn't a lot I could do about it.

There were a few other instances over the years that I'm not willing to go into publicly, but that's the way it was, growing up female back then. There were different coping mechanisms - mine was completely divorcing myself from my body.  I built a brick wall around those memories and refused to look at them  Not the healthiest method, but it worked for me - for long enough to make it through and find friends who could wake me back up, and eventually a man who loved me for myself.

But that damage... that damage affected my growth the way an ax cut can affect a tree.  My life changed because of those men, and I don't think it was for the better.  But I hoped that we were moving away from that sort of thing being acceptable - that girls of today wouldn't have to guard themselves the way I did.  Until now.  Now, we're at the point where 40% of America seems to think that this is an appropriate leader.  Not just that he's not reprehensible, but that he could be our *President*.  How on earth can any woman vote for him?  Hell, how could any man who loves a woman vote for him?  I just don't understand - other than if they are as good at ignoring as I am - but I'm having problems ignoring this now that I've seen it.  I'm going to have to build another wall, I'm afraid.  And if I'm building walls... he wins.

I'm LaRae's Daughter, and I Approve This Message.

I saw possibly the hundredth iteration (today) of "Why isn't Hillary more likable?" on my Facebook feed today, and it made me want to scream.  It also made me think about why it is that I've always liked Hillary - felt like she was a kindred spirit, etc..

You see, I grew up with Hillary.  Or rather, a woman who I suspect is a lot like Hillary - my mom.  And when I say "grew up with", I'm being almost literal - Mom was just barely 17 when she had me, so we sort of raised each other at times.  I could write a book about how freaking incredible my mother is - at some point, I'm sure I will - but back to the Hillary similarities.

Mom was a project manager - still is.  You want stuff done, you go to my mom.  She knows how to listen, to bring people together, to use the right person with the right skills and to keep them on track.  Sound like Hillary?  But you can't be a candy-ass if you're a project manager... you have to keep things going, and you have to be smart - and let people know that you're smart.  You have to stand out - and for a woman, that means you're going to have to get in people's faces at times.  It's not something that's necessarily going to make people like you - people don't like being prodded - but it's going to make people respect you (and want to be on your team again.)  There's a reason why most people who worked with Hillary have endorsed her - same with Mom, people who worked with her wanted to work with her again because she got shit done and she made them look good. 

Mom cares, too... almost too much at times, so she won't let it show if she doesn't know you.  She's had to be strong for a long time - being a single mother in the 60s and 70s wasn't easy (especially when you've got a daughter who is also a strong, smart little wench.)  But if there are hard decisions to be made...  that strength comes through.  If you're on a ventilator, you want my mother making the decision as to whether or not to pull the plug - and I personally want someone like her to be the one making the decision on whether or not to push the button.  Someone who cares, who knows the implications and has thought through all the possibilities...  and who will cry later, because for now, stuff has to get done.

Mom was never June Cleaver - well, she might have tried, briefly, back in Salmon, but it was always bad drag.  Kind of like how Hillary tried briefly with the cookie recipe, but we all knew she had better things to do with her time.  And I'm not saying that June isn't wonderful - I've got a couple of aunts that I love that could give June a run for her money - but June isn't what our country needs right now.  We need someone who can get us back on the right direction, someone who can bring people together and make them do the right thing - we need a project manager.  And since Mom is busy with the goat ranch, we need Hillary. 

Arlington Photos

Lately, a meme has been showing up in my newsfeed, with a picture of Arlington superimposed with "This is why you stand for the National Anthem." 

No.  No, this is why you properly fund the VA.  This is why you make sure that veterans are not left homeless in the streets.  This is why you work your damnedest to elect people who will both fulfill our promises to those left, and who will work their hardest to make sure that we don't have useless wars in the future.  This is why you honor their service, by working to make sure that we have a country that lives up to the promise that they sacrificed for. 

And sometimes, that means that you point out flaws you might see - to ensure a more perfect union.  That freedom that they sacrified for?  It means we have rights, and responsibilities.  You do what you can - you vote, you discuss, you protest.  Peaceful protest to try to better our country?  That's one of the more patriotic things you can do, in my opinion, especially when it's accompanied by good works (for example, donating the first million of your paycheck to help out your community).  And you listen.  When someone else is protesting, trying to tell you that there's a problem here that needs solving, you listen to what they say and process it before shouting them down. 

Political: How His Mind Works

Look, I think that it was a pretty pre-school move for the Clinton camp to invite Mark Cuban to sit in the front row of the first debate. Admittedly, it was a wily move - bring in someone who has been needling Mr Trump in the press, saying that he's not a true billionaire, claiming he's a bad businessman, hope that the sight of him rattles Mr Trump enough to throw him off guard.  But still, petty.  For anyone else I can think of on that level, it wouldn't work - the distraction would be planned for and ignored.  But...

Mr. Trump's reaction?  Retaliation, of course... but not to bring in someone who has confronted Secretary Clinton on her job, or her own personal flaws.  No, he immediately went to Gennifer Flowers - someone that President Clinton had sex with back in the early 90s.  His estimation of what will rattle Secretary Clinton, what will throw her off her game the most, is a reminder of a flaw in her husband?  He honestly thinks that a woman who has survived everything that's been thrown at her for the past 30 years is going to be thrown off her stride by some meaningless bimbo? 

I'm getting really tired of our society (or at least certain segments of it) assuming that every woman's self-image revolves around her man, and nothing but her man.  Stop underestimating us...

Bonus post for the day: Roger and Moose

Subtle.  My boy is always subtle. 

I finished off my dinner pretty quickly, so Moose immediately moved over to the couch to try to mooch off his daddy.  He was sitting there with his pleading eyes focused firmly on his dad's fork until:  

I just asked Roger if I could have a bite of his gnocchi.  He had just forked up a bite, so he just handed me the fork so that I could have a taste.  As I was handing the fork back to him, Moose gave me a *look* - somewhere between disbelief, anger, and sheer betrayal... 

It's a good thing that Roger already set him a little bit aside on the plate, or I don't think I could sleep easily tonight.  As it is, I may need to make sure that my shoes are moved above the high tide mark.

In A Lyrical Mood

My mind works in mysterious ways.  For example, I remember almost nothing of my personal past - it just isn't there (or maybe it's blocked), unless someone else reminds me or I've written it down somewhere. (Yet another reason for my memory well posts - if I do get reminded of something, it's good to write it down and freeze it in my memory.)  However, if you're talking sheer trivia, I'm your girl.  There's a reason why no one will play Trivial Pursuit with me - last time I played, my friends insisted we play the drunken version (take a drink every time you answer a question right, down a shot each time you get a wedge).  They thought it would give them an advantage, since I am not a heavy drinker.  Wiped the board with them...  see, some people are mad drunks, some people are happy drunks... I'm an exact drunk.  The drunker I get, the more precise I get.  Like I said, my mind works in mysterious ways.

Anyway - the point of today's digression...  my mind is also lyrical flypaper.  Any song that I've ever heard more than a couple of times is stuck up there - not necessarily correctly, depends on how I heard it, but it's stuck there.  (For the longest time, I swore that the words were "High up on the mountaintop, a badger chased a squirrel", but anyway...)  And at odd moments, my brain will just throw up a song to the top of the list, and it WON'T GO AWAY!!!  It's like having my own personal soundtrack.  Sometimes, it's not so bad - yesterday's was "You Give Love A Bad Name", and Bon Jovi has always been one of my guilty pleasures - but today.  Today, my brain keeps repeating this obscure waltz tune from 1895 (yes, that's right - 1895) - And The Band Played On.  "Casey would waltz with a strawberry blonde and the band played on.  He'd glide cross the floor with the girl he adored and the band played on.  But his brain was so loaded he nearly exploded, the poor girl would shake with alarm.  He'd never leave the girl with the strawberry curl and the band played on."  No idea where I heard it originally, no clue why it popped up today, and no idea what the hell that third sentence could possibly refer to...  but with any luck, it's going to turn out to be viral transmission, and I will be able to pass it off to one of you guys and get back to "Shot to the heart, and you're to blame!"

Describing Yourself In Three Fictional Characters

The Original Mouthy Broad

Penelope from Criminal Minds - my last boss said that she thought of me as Penelope because I was always the helpful voice on the other end of the phone line

And of course, Victoria - feminine, but willing to do what needs to be done

Ok, so it's an idealized version of me - but they did say fictional.

Blood Sugar (no) Sex Magick

Blood Sugar Monitor - Mine is named Twoey, after Audrey II

My body has become a finicky little wench - I checked my blood sugar last night before dinner, and it was way too high (like 398 too high).  So, I compensated by upping my regular insulin, because I'm really trying to get my A1C down.

Then... spent about an hour last night in bed, dealing with cramps up and down my legs, and when I finally got up and checked my blood sugar, it was at 56.  (Normally is 80 to 120, but personally, I start feeling woozy if I drop below 100).   So I had a quarter of a piece of naan to bring me back up quickly (quick carb) and 6 chocolate covered hazelnuts (fat for long-acting glucose because I didn't want to crash again - because if I was going to feel bad, I was going to compensate with something I like, damn it.) At any rate... we are talking somewhere in the region of 30 carbs, total... wake up this morning, and I'm at 256.

I have absolutely  no idea what the hell to do at this point, other than scream at Twoey and call her a liar...

God, I Hate Rachel From Credit Card Service's Boyfriend Chuck

First off, the jerk is persistent.  He's been calling me two or three times a week for the past 6  months or so, even though every time he calls, I tell him that I know this is a scam, and that I'm on the National Do Not Call list.

Second - why the hell would I ever listen to someone who starts off our "relationship" with a lie (spoofed phone numbers?)  They keep changing the phone number, so I can't block them, and it's always something "official" looking on the caller ID, but you know if you try to call the number back, it doesn't exist.

Third - you have an Indian accent so thick that I would suspect you were an extra in Slumdog Millionaire (except, let's face it, you're no actor.)  Don't try to tell me your name is really Chuck, or Ed, or Bob, or whatever stereotypically American name you've chosen to use today - while I really don't want to establish a relationship with you, again, I hate being lied to.  And could you change up the script a little?

Fourth - ok, we've established that I hate you, I will never listen to the lies you are spewing, you're not getting any money from me, etc... Why the hell do you keep calling me?  And, more importantly, how the hell do you know to call 15 minutes into my vital, life-sustaining, sanity-maintaining nap?  I'm tempted to become a Wiccan just so that I can turn to the dark side and curse not only you, but your entire bloodline.

Ok... good to get that off my chest. 

Our Patch of Wilderness

I love our backyard - it's not what you would expect to find in the middle of the city, but it suits us well.  No lawn - just wild and free.  The birds in our neighborhood also love it, though.  Mostly because of the service - Roger makes sure to keep the bird feeders topped up with seed, thistle, juice for the hummingbirds...  it's a full service bird bar.

They get stroppy when he's working overtime and he doesn't have time to keep up the catering, though - like this morning, he was sitting out on the porch, grabbing a smoke, and one of them popped up on the fence and stared him down - essentially saying "Well?  Seed?"  Still better than when they send kamikazes to strafe the sliding glass doors, though - every once in a while, we hear a thud just to remind us (and send Moose into a tizzy...)

Slip Sliding Away

Skip's the one on the left

Well, I am definitely awake this morning.  I went to let the Moose Monster out for his morning constitutional, accidentally stepped on his wet pee-pad, and came perilously close to going ass over teakettle when it slipped on me. 

The thing is - if I go down, it's going to take the five hunky firefighters featured in my previous blog post to get me back up.  My knees are arthritic enough that I can't even put pressure on them (no, it's not just an excuse to get out of kneeling down to pray or scrubbing the floor - I firmly believe God hears me from any position, and as for scrubbing floors - there's a reason why I chose to be a career girl.).  I didn't have my phone with me when it happened, but even if I did - the front door is locked.  How are Rocky, Ricky, Reggie, Reynard and Skip supposed to get in to help me?  I need to have a better plan, and I think I need to invest in one of those stupid "alert" buttons.  Or we just need to give in to Mom's urging and move on out to the Basin. 

Frankly, the Basin is looking better and better.  For one thing, I should have been there yesterday for Daisy's passing.  I hate the fact that Mom had to take her home alone...  But for another, less sentimental reason - traffic in Portland sucks.  Hell, Saturday morning heading down to Champoeg, the Banfield was down to 15 MPH if that...  I'm a city girl, but Portland has gotten too big for me.  I'll miss my friends and family here, but it would be nice to know that I'm not going to be spending the best part of every day alone.

RIP, Daisy May Adams Reynolds Adams...

Wind in her hair... 

Giving Roger a good talking to

Going after Hank for me...

 

Just got off the phone with Mom - We knew this was coming, Daisy has been losing her sight and getting confused for a while now, but when Mom took her to the vet today, the vet gave her the news that Daisy is completely blind and that the pressure from the glaucoma was hurting her.  She'd lost two pounds (which, I know, doesn't sound like much, but when you're only 6 or 7 pounds to begin with...)  I wish I could have been there - it's such a hard thing to have to do alone, but Mom has always been there to do the hard thing when her children needed it.  Daisy Mae came into our lives as a rescue - another family member had adopted her, but it didn't work out, and so we ended up with one of the most loving little girls ever - and one of the most opinionated.  

At one point, while Mom was packing up at my place to head back to Utah, Daisy decided that she really wasn't up for a car trip, and she would rather be a city girl for a bit, and hid out in the back yard until she had made her decision known to everyone - she was staying with her sister and Moose for a bit.  She did bring unpredictability into our lives as well - she took any open door as an invitation to explore, but she did always come back home (eventually) - more quickly if you opened the car door and invited her for a little ride. She really loved her little rides.  Rest in peace, my little girl - I'll write more later, when I can see through these tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Realization

I realized today that I've been putting up with way too much from my body.  Between the cancer and the diabetes and the depression and the arthritis... my reaction to Hillary Clinton being diagnosed with pneumonia is not the typical "Oh, my god, will she be able to continue on..." that seems to be clogging the airways. 

Nope.  My reaction was "Oh.  Just pneumonia?  She'll be fine - give her a Gatorade and a nap and send her after Putin."  Yes, I know... pneumonia was the thing that took out Jim Henson, but... Hillary's a woman.  We deal with mystery blood on a regular basis - it's going to take more than an over-educated cough to bring her down. 

(Yes, I know, I'm sounding flippant here - I'm secretly terrified because I fear for my country, not to mention my retirement, if Trump somehow wins, but nevertheless...  Get well soon, Hillary.  Please!)

Obligatory Medical Update (Feel Free to Skip)

Met with Dr Wang yesterday - discussed my ongoing depression and pain issues.  She suggested perhaps trying a different anti-depressant that might also help with some of the nerve pain problems (Cymbalta?), so we're going to give that a try, and I'm going to be working on getting my A1C back under control - I know, I've got to start checking my blood sugar 4 times a day and trying to figure out what's causing these weird swings and highs (my current A1C was 10.4 - way not good...)  So... that's the goal for the next three months.  That, and trying to work on the agoraphobia - I need to get out at least once a week. 

Getting Gas

(Just a side note -  the minute I started writing this, Moose immediately splayed himself in front of the keyboard like Miss March, demanding my undivided attention.  I don't know how he knows when it's time to be a pain, but he nails the mark, every single time.)

We had to go face my doctor today (somedays, it feels like I've been called over to the principal's office), and driving along the route, I noticed something really odd.  At the NW corner of 101st and Sandy, there's a Shell gas station that had unleaded for $2.65 a gallon.  At the NE corner of that same intersection, there's a Leather's (local gas company) that's $2.21 a gallon.  Ok, I know you're willing to pay a little for the name, but seriously... .44 cents a gallon?  Even odder, there's another Shell station not half a block down the road that's $2.69 a gallon - and they had people waiting in line. 

It's not just the Leather's either - there was an Arco along the way that was just across the street from a 76 station - again, we're talking $2.23 vs 2.55.  Admittedly, Arco is kind of the Pabst Blue Ribbon of gas stations (don't even get me started on Astro - that's the Hamms of gas stations), but still, if we're talking over $4 per fill-up, I might be willing to go ahead and lower my car's intestinal expectations (except that we always fill up at CostCo, where it's generally around $2.20 anyway).  But I just don't get the thinking here.  Why on earth would you pay that extra $4 a fill-up?  Oh, well...

September Ain't September Anymore

The Old Me Accepting An Award From Lt. General Flowers

Since I worked in Contracting for the Federal Government, for the past quarter century, I've been driven by the Fiscal Year calendar - my year has gone from October to September, rather than the usual New Year's Eve party to Christmas hangover that most people go by.  And September was always the harshest month. 

You see, budgets being what they are (tight), and Federal rules being what they are (strict), September is the last chance to get money spent.  Well, really the whole last quarter is kind of frantic, but September is when it really kicks into high gear.  If you're in Contracting, you live on No-Doz chased down with Red Bull (or in my case, Diet Rock Star), desperately trying to make sure you get everything out the door by midnight on September 30th.

I'm finding myself a little at a loss this September - it's the first since I've retired, and it just doesn't feel right to not be counting down (73 requisitions to go!)  For 20 years or so (before I went to the dark side of Systems Administration), I was pretty much the guru of "Simplified Acquisitions" - that's Army-speak for anything under $150K, or in September, that's "oh, thank the gods of Budgeting, we managed to save enough money to finally replace these steam-powered PCs - what do you mean, you don't have time to put together a solicitation?  There's still 2 hours left!"  Every year, we'd put out a memo telling everyone to get their requirements in to us by July 15th, and every year, we'd have people saying "Oh, we didn't think you meant us!". 

I used to have a recommended "bribe" sign outside my cubicle as a way to break the tension - "In order to get a requisition through at this date, we recommend XXX"  I'd start with "Tell us we're pretty" on September 1st, working my way through the Diet Coke and a box of Twinkies phase on September 12th or so, and ending up with "A time-machine and the blood of a male unicorn" on September 29th.  Let's face it, mid-September, a good laugh is hard to find, and you'd take what you can get.

But this year... the only thing I have to count down is days until my next Dr visit.  No stress, no begging, no hair pulling out... but no sense of accomplishment, either.  I miss being able to help people out (while cursing them under my breath).  Heck, I miss the numbers - I miss reports, I miss spreadsheets, I even (and I never thought I'd say this), I even miss the hourly calls from Division saying "Are you guys ready to close yet?"  I'm not saying I'd want to go back, even if I could (my body definitely doesn't miss it), but... I feel proud of what I accomplished, back in the day.  I guess I miss that me... the one that could take a last minute request and find a way to make it happen. 

Car Thoughts

I was reading through a thread on Facebook where a friend had asked at what age do you let your kid sit in the front seat.  I don't know that they ever reached a consensus, but it looked like somewhere around 11 or 12?

I was born in 1965, and from the time I was 3, it was just Mom and I in the car (and it seemed like we were always going somewhere in the car.)  I wasn't necessarily pre-seat belt, but I was definitely pre- car seat. My first car wreck was sometime between 2 or 3 - Mom would know the exact year, I don't remember it much - but she had ran in to do an errand somewhere, and I knocked her Nash Rambler out of neutral, and managed to roll it down the hill. Then, of course, there was the time when I was 7 or 8, and Dad decided that I needed to learn to drive.  He took me off to the fields in his Ford truck, where there wasn't anything to run into or hit or... well, except for the drainage canal.  Guess who ended up in the drainage canal.

My air bag was always Mom's arm - she was faster than lightning with the Mom arm.  But she didn't have to deploy it often - she was a great driver, and she tended to drive basic tanks that could get you through anything.  My favorite was the Ford Mustang she had - I think it might have been a little older than me, but not by much, and it was just pretty.  Straight black, sturdy and fast.  Plus, it had a great radio... and that was the most important accessory to me.  We got through some pretty rough times together just by singing our way down the highway.

At any rate...  my point, if I had one, was just that I was struck by the change in how kids ride in cars just in my lifetime.  I was always in the front seat - that's where Mom was, that's where I felt safe.  I'm sure that the back seat thing is infinitely safer...  I just am feeling nostalgia for the feeling of belonging that I always felt when it was just Mom and I, rolling down the highway together in the front seat.