This is not the post I was going to write.

I was going to write about something I overheard the other day while walking home through the park after an afternoon's Christmas shopping. A most exquisite and delightful piece of concrete irony. Two young women were chatting as they strolled toward me, and one, in all sincerity, said something to the other which was so totally at odds with their dress and demeanour as to cause a snort of appreciative laughter irony-loving me, and which gave me the seeds of a most excellent blog post. I had it all sketched out in my mind. Short and pithy, it was going to be, and in less than a hundred words I'd give any readers (I hoped) the same delightful jolt of laughter I'd just enjoyed.

I was going to write about that. I would still be writing about that ... if I could only remember what it was. But I can't. I've lost, completely and utterly, the kernel of the post. I cannot remember what the girl said.

I can remember where I was. I can remember the weather, what I was wearing, who I'd just gone shopping for, and even much of what I purchased. I know the young women's approximate ages. I can remember that what I overhead was very brief, one, perhaps two, sentences. I can remember it was totally at odds with something very obvious about them. I recall making a mental note and telling myself it would make a great blog post.

I can remember all that. I cannot remember what was said. I cannot remember what it conflicted with.

This happens all the time. It is utterly maddening.

Why, oh vagrant memory, do you torture me so? Why torment me with that sense of incompletion, why tantalize me with an almost-memory, the memory of an intention without its substance? A fusty nut with no kernel, indeed.

If my memory is going to drop the key element, why not just drop the entire damned thing?

With all the surrounding data, you'd think I'd be able to reconstruct the memory, but oh, how sadly rarely does this happen. I lay in bed in the very early morning, before I was quite awake -- the best time, I've discovered, for this sort of exercise -- and let the thoughts drift around this image, trying to hear their words again. I got close, once or twice. I had that "aha" feeling... and then, nothing.

Bah.

I suppose this is better than losing it entirely. A semi-recalled conversation can be brought to mind if the other party is there to fill in the gaps. They don't even need to know there were any gaps, because I can recall enough to fake it. A semi-recalled intention can often be accomplished anyway, if enough wisps of surrounding memory lead you to the point of action.

I am not going senile. I watched my lovely grandmother slip steadily away into a smiling, peaceful senility, senility which caused this woman who was my second mother, who lived next door and whom I saw every day of my childhood and adolescence, who taught me to sew and to cook (my mother being a little domestically challenged), to now welcome me with the kindly graciousness she bestowed on all strangers. I'm not going senile, but don't think the fear hasn't run through me once in a while.

No, I'm just middle-aged forgetful. And yes, that kind of retention is to memory and overall brain function what parrotting the times tables is to higher math -- a useful skill, but low-level, and usually pretty easy to live without. I can do all sorts of high-level brain stuff: I'm creative and analytical; I can think laterally. I've developed a decent supply of wisdom, I think, which will only increase as the years go by. I'm good in a crisis, I can retain my ability to reason clearly despite massive amounts of stressors. I can separate emotion from reason, and balance the interests of both sensibly. (Try doing that one as a teen or even as a twenty-something.)

So. The old brain is ticking along just fine, thanks.

But, damn, I wish I could recall what that girl had said.

One of the great pleasures of the fine months is the amount of time we get to spend in the local dog-friendly park, chatting with the other dog-owners and watching the dogs romp. One of the dog-owners, we'll call him Mr. Nasshole, has taken it upon himself to make an email list of all willing dog-owners, so that we can be apprised of events pertinent to us -- like the end-of-summer party or the annual spring poop scoop.

(Yes, indeed. Conscientious dog-owners of the strong-stomached sort gather in late April armed with gloves, shovels, bags (and gas-masks?), to clear the park of the six months' worth of dog shit that has emerged as a winter's snows melt away. We are nothing if not Sterling Citizens, because you know those of us who gather to take on this wretched task are not those who neglected to pick up their dog's leftovers all winter long. We do it for The Good of The Community.)

Although we both agree that the list is a good notion, and that Mr. N. is performing a useful service to the dog-loving community and to our local park, Matthew and I have quite different responses to Mr. Nasshole as a person. Matthew thinks he's basically friendly, perhaps more socially skilled with dogs than people, but otherwise a nice enough fellow. I think he's a belligerant, self-important dork with bully tendencies, who needs to be In Control at all times.

My reasons for this assessment arise out of an event which I will not recount here. However, my impression wasn't altered at all by the following email exchange. (He is Ima Nasshole; I am Laura V.).

Sent: Monday, October 13, 2008 11:47:29 AM
Subject: Re: Warning for Dog Owners/Walkers (Riverside Park)
To ALL :

Thanks Suzie ( Kevin ) and to Frank Weldon the park forester-warden (who sent me the below cited bits)
Ima Nasshole

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Warning:
>>over the past week, there have been two reports of dogs
>>having been poisoned in our area. One of the reports was
>>for Riverside Park. The other was for MossyGlen Park.


>> The source of this information is extremely reliable.
>>Although the reports are UNCONFIRMED they felt that
>>it was worthwhile passing along a caution...


On 14-Oct-08, at 2:21 PM, Laura V. wrote:

Hello, Mr. Nasshole;

Thanks for sending this out. It's good to have information, so we can be more aware and cautious.

The email leaves important questions unanswered. I suppose no one knows what kind of poison, or how it was administered? How are the dogs faring? I do hope they've recovered!

I would like to speak with Mr. Weldon directly, if that's possible. If you're not comfortable giving me his email address, would you please forward this email to him, so he can decide what, if anything, he can tell me?

Thank you,
Laura V.


Sent: Wednesday, October 15, 2008 4:22:30 PM
Subject: Re: Warning for Dog Owners/Walkers (Riverside Park)

Mr Weldon is the forestry guy; it was Suzi Franklin who sent me the info on the poisoning
I.N.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Sent: Wednesday, October 15, 2008 6:18:14 PM
Subject: Re: Warning for Dog Owners/Walkers (Riverside Park)
My mistake! It looks like I should have asked you to forward my email to Suzi Franklin, then. Did you/would you do that, please?

Thank you,
Laura V.

Three days have passed. Full radio silence from Mr. N.

So. Who's right, boys and girls? A well-intentioned man, if lacking in social skills (Matthew's take), or a self-important dork whose need to control things will ensure he never passes along the address that will take his almighty hand off the spigot of information?

When was the last time I was so angry?

Hmmm... I'm not sure. I'm not a woman prone to anger. I don't really enjoy stewing in righteous rage, not, at least, as a way of life...

But tonight?

I'm furious.

Diva Daughter, the eldest stepdaughter ... you know, the one who has had NOTHING to do with us for over a year because we dared to suggest she might attend a family dinner without the boyfriend of three weeks attached to her hip? The one who, despite having lived with the boyfriend for six weeks (a whole three months after that conflict -- the girl was not letting any grass grow under her, er, feet) was NOT having sex with him? That step-daughter?

The other stepkids are with us for a couple of weeks. They are chatting at the dinner table. And they tell us such funny stories about that daughter. She's just so funny, that girl. She tells the funniest stories. Her favourites, it seems, told "hundreds of times" to all sorts of friends and family, revolve around conflicts I had with her middle sister. Conflicts which had me in tears, most often. One of which had me in tears on the floor, that's how much fun I was having.

I tried so very hard to make connections, to be a resource in their lives, but this particular child (a child who has, over intervening years, become quite a delight) had NO interest in a positive connection with me those first few years. This child was determined to be in conflict with me, and nothing, I gradually learned, was going to prevent her from doing so. Not promised treats, nor coaxing, nor firm discipline. It was a matter of loyalty. Mommy was queen, and thus, I had to be The Enemy. (Mommy said so.)

It was not a happy time for me. Eventually, after a more than a few heart-breaking episodes, I learned to disengage. Thus, instead of becoming the Crying Stepmother, I undoubtedly became the Remote and Evil Stepmother. I'd call that being caught between a rock and a hard place, me.

And now, years after the fact, years in which I have formed a good relationship with the formerly problematic middle daughter, years in which the eldest daughter turn nasty (to her dad; by then I'd learned to keep out of these things); turned nasty and eventually left, I learn that eldest stepdaughter has been using these long-ago, miserably unhappy episodes as opportunities for the spotlight, as comic anecdotes for the entertainment of (hostile to me) friends and family.

Just warms my heart, that does.

And her siblings? Her siblings are too STUPID AND INSENSITIVE to know that telling me of these stories, repeated many times down the years, to know that I have been the butt of malicious jokes and embarrassing stories, many times ("hundreds of times") over years, would be at all hurtful or embarrassing to me.

Gawdalmighty.

I held my tongue. I did not retaliate. I did not laugh, mind you, but I did not burst out with anything hurtful, either.

But I fantasize. I imagine telling an equally "funny" story about how my son's then 17-year-old friends would ask before coming over, "Is your step-sister going to be there? The fat one? Because if she is, I'll come another time. I don't really want to have my leg humped today."

Because a couple of years ago, the eldest step-daughter had some flirtation/hormonal issues, and was a serious embarrassment to herself. We tried to direct her away, gently, but subtlety was not her forte. So my son's friends,knowing what awaited, simply avoided the house when she was around, so intense and persistant was her desire to have their attention and desire.

But I did not say, "Oh, that's so funny! Hey, that's almost as funny as when D's friends wouldn't come around if his oversexed step-sister was likely to be in the house. Because they were afraid -- oh you'll love this -- that she'd be humping their legs! Yeah, they actually SAID that!!!"

Isn't that HYSTERICAL, kids? Just as funny, EVERY BIT as funny, as knowing I've been mocked and ridiculed by your BITCH of a sister for YEARS. Ha, ha, ha, fucking ha.

I didn't say that, because I am the grownup. Just barely, today.

And when might I expect THEM to grow up?

Gawdalmighty.

Story from another blog:

Woman looks for parking space. Woman does not find one. Woman parks in a tight niche beside a drive, trying hard (but, it emerges, not entirely succeeding) not to block the driveway. Woman returns to car to find this note on her windshield.

"PLEASE DO NOT PARK SO CLOSE TO DRIVEWAY. ITS A WRIGH OF WAY THANK YOU"

Woman sniggers at spelling and grammar, and determines to park IN the drive the following day. I agree, the "wrigh" is sad and silly, and I, too, would snigger at it. The total lack of punctuation is sad. However, spelling and grammar aside, it was a polite note, and -- hold on to your hat, folks! -- Woman was in the wrong, not the note-writer.

In the comments, several people identify it as a "passive aggressive" note. Huh?

"Please do not park so close to the driveway. It's a right of way. Thanks."

Polite, yes. Clear, certainly. Passive aggressive? Would they have preferred "aggressive aggressive" and had the woman come back to a shattered windshield? Since note-writer didn't know how to contact car-owner, what are his/her options, other than leaving polite note? Well, obviously, to be passive, full stop, and not object politely to the other guy's lack of consideration. Because bothering us just because we inconvenience you? That's just ... inconvenient! Object to my behaviour?! You passive aggressive, inconsiderate schmuck!

If Woman does park in the drive, I hope note-writer has her towed. Would serve her self-righteous self right.

Several commenters also suggest she visit passiveaggressive dot (something. com? org? net?) In fact, I've been to passiveaggressive dot whatever a couple of times, and stopped because it was so appalling. Its contributors have no idea what passive aggressive means.

Very few of the items cited there could in any way be construed as anything other than clear, polite communication. The real objection, if these people had the integrity/maturity to acknowledge it, is simply that they have been corrected for some small misdemeanor, and they don't like it.

So, if they don't like it, if the communication annoys them, let's just call the other guy's behaviour "passive aggressive" so we can ignore it and continue doing whatever the hell we like -- and it can be the other guy's fault!!


Great system for people who want to go through life without once saying, "Oops. Sorry!" Too bad there seem to be so damned many of them.

Every couple develops their own little rituals, little domestic patterns of behaviour, patterns that you very often scarcely notice, but which give comfort to both: the comfort of consistency, the comfort of familiarity. Two people moving in the comfortably worn, familiar, soothing patterns of mutually satisfactory domesticity.

Little rituals that you scarcely notice unless one of them drives the other mad.

Every night, when I get undressed for bed, I put such items as require it in the laundry basket, conveniently located on the floor next to the shelves on which our clothes are stored. Such items as can be worn again are hung or folded, and put away. Then I wash my face, read for a bit. If Matthew is in bed and awake, there's usually ten minutes of snuggling and talk before we turn out the light. Sometimes the snuggling becomes more ... focussed ... and takes considerably longer than ten minutes, but we'll fade to black on that. It is not the point of this post.

Every night, when he gets undressed for bed (often, though not always, at the same time as me), Matthew leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor beside the laundry basket. Then he brushes his teeth, reads for a while. (Ditto the snuggling and talk and fade-to-black as per paragraph above.)

I have no idea why his laundry has to spend the night on the floor. Usually (though not always) it makes it to the basket in the morning. I have asked him why; as I have utterly no recollection of his answer, it is clear to me that it was neither convincing nor compelling. However, whatever it was, it is both convincing and compelling for Matthew, because, happy in having explained all to my satisfaction, he blithely continues in this irksome habit. Not wanting to disappoint his cheerful self, and, because generally he does put it all away in the morning, I have decided to let it go.

So what if the socks'n'boxers'n'shirt'n'jeans sit in a rumpled heap in the dark overnight? No skin off my nose. Once it's dark, I can't see them. Once I'm asleep, I'm unaware of them. It's a small thing, a fleeting thing, an insignificant little quirk.

AND IT DRIVES ME CRAZY!!!

But here is my dilemma: To object to such a small thing would be petty, and I deplore pettiness. I will not admit it in myself, nor, worse, display it to the man I love. The nightly freeing of the laundry is a very small thing. And he has his reason -- whatever it was -- for this little domestic Chinese water torture ritual.

Despite all my nobler inclinations, despite my efforts to rise above it all, it still irks me. Whenever I pass by the laundry basket -- sometimes to see a sock, or even the sleeve of a shirt draped, in tantalizing potentiality, right over the rim! (Why not all the way in? Why? WHY?) -- it irks me.

So I've come up with a solution, brilliant in its simplicity. Every morning, when he is in the bathroom, I take from his pocket the largest value coin in there: a loonie or a twonie. So far, in two weeks of employing this new strategy, I have accumulated close to $20.

Now when I see that heap o'laundry in the evening, instead of an itch of exasperation, I feel a small rise of smug vengeance, knowing that in the morning, he'll pay for the privilege of parking his clothes outside the designated area.

It's a system that works for both of us. One of those little domestic rituals that evolve between couples, enabling us to rub along with minimum of abrasion, a ritual and a pattern that brings comfort and satisfaction to both.

And it's not petty. Nuh-uh. Not at all.

“I did start it. I mean, maybe I hit him harder than I intended. Maybe he didn’t realize it was supposed to be playful.” I'm on the phone with a good friend, venting, questioning, ranting, debriefing; trying to gain perspective on an event that had shocked me to the core a day prior.

“Your first marriage was abusive, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but - “

“But nothing. There is never any reason to hit someone in the face. It is never all right for a man to hit a woman in the face. Don’t start excusing his behaviour.”

“I’m not trying to excuse his behaviour. I was shocked, humiliated and absolutely livid. I’m just trying to determine if my emotional reaction is fair, if it’s justified.”

“Your reaction is justified. Your poke in his stomach was playful. Everyone could see that. When you hit someone in the face, that is not playful. It's never playful. A blow to the face is intended to put you in your place, to establish dominance.”

“Huh. I hadn’t thought that through, but it would certainly explain the humiliation I felt. In fact, it was the intensity of my response that had me wondering whether I was over-reacting.”

OVER-REACTING???? You were the fucking BRIDE! This asshole didn’t just hit someone on the face, which would have been bad enough, male or female. He didn't hit some poor sap at a dinner party. He hit the fucking BRIDE, at her fucking WEDDING.”

Yes, indeed. At my very own wedding, the boyfriend of one of the guests smacked me across my face. Not just any guest, one of my two closest friends.

A moment to remember, indeed.

Let me recap.

The wedding had drawn to a close. People had met, people had congratulated and hugged. The ceremony - short, sincere, and touching - had gone without a hitch. More chatting, some eating, some drinking, and then a gradual drifting away of the guests until only a handful of us remained: me and my wonderful groom, my two friends, and the one friend's boyfriend of five years.

Now, I've met the boyfriend before, and we hadn't quite hit it off. We didn't not hit it off, either. I just didn't feel comfortable with him. He's a bit intense, a bit persistent, persistent to the point of aggression, almost. I've felt judged by him when my opinions didn't mesh with his standards. But we live in different cities, and I've not had a lot to do with him, so it didn't really matter. I did my best to be nice, because I value my friend and don't want to alienate her.

So.

The five of us are chatting, and my local friend suggests that we three women get together before my out of town friend has to leave with the boyfriend. We've spoken many times of the possibility of getting together, the three of us, but never had we had such a good opportunity as this. Out-ot-town friend defers the decision to her boyfriend. She further defers the responsibility of asking to me. In BF's presence, she tells me, "YOU try asking BF."

So, it's my party. Though Matthew's entirely sober, I've had two glasses of wine, enough to put a small spring in my step, and we've all been getting along famously. Lots of laughter, a little flirting, lots of light-hearted fun. I'm feeling more comfortable with this fellow than I ever have. So, with everyone watching, I approach him, put my hands on his collar bone, say his name with a saucy grin and a bit of a wheedle in my voice. "Oswald? Do you-"

He shoots out an abrupt "No" before I finish my sentence. I stick out my tongue - done right, this is charming and coquettish and just a little naughty - I stick out my tongue at him and pop him in the tummy with my fist. Not enough to wind him, not enough to dent his (not too toned) abs. Just a poke.

He laughs and puts his arm around my shoulders so I am swung to face the others. And with his other hand, he slaps my face.

Had he poked me back in my stomach, I would have laughed. Had he smacked my ass, I would have grinned. Like my poke in the stomach, those would have been playful.

He slapped. my. face.

Everyone went suddenly silent. Local friend was dumbfounded. Out-of-town friend was uncertain. My groom was shocked. I don't know how the jerk was feeling. Triumphant? If I didn't want an Incident to mar the very closing moments of my wedding, I had to react carefully. I didn't want this to be The Thing that everyone remembered. I didn't want this bizarre event to taint the whole day for my sensitive husband. Further, if he comprehended the depth of my rage, he'd do something dramatic in defense of me. The way things were going at the moment, an incautious response from me could have this ridiculous Thing devolving into a fistfight between these two men. Further violence would taint the day for me even further.

So I swallowed my rage and humiliation, and smiled. Just as I had swallowed it so many times in my first marriage. Swallowed hard, smiled, said something - I forget what - light and flip and casual. Swallowed very, very hard, and moved across the circle to join hands with my beloved. My warm, kind, courageous, firm, sensitive beloved. Within moments the out-of-town friend is on her way, and my in-town friend is walking home with Matthew and me. She reads my mood well, and we talk lightly about how wonderful the afternoon had been. Which it had, all but that surreal 90 seconds.

Out-of-town friend called a couple of hours later on her cell phone, "just to check in", but in reality to probe about my response to the slap. She was in the car with him, so I didn't feel free to really get into it with her and besides, I was still recovering and not ready to talk about it. I said as much. As she hung up the phone, I heard her telling him I was "all right".

And I am, once again, shocked. On the two occasions in ten years when I've felt Matthew has treated someone inappropriately, I have responded clearly. Once, in private, "That was unkind. I think you need to apologize." Or once, in the presence of the offended person, just a shocked, "Matthew!" In the first case, he did not agree with my assessment of the situation, but the discussion that followed was respectful and helpful. In the second instance, he immediately realized what he'd done, and his apology to the offended party was immediate and sincere.

My 'friend' did no such thing. No shocked exclamation. Not even a dismayed murmur. No drawing him aside. Nothing. Though evidently distressed at the time of the incident, she drove away without a word, and then made the call for him. Is she abused? Not physically, I'm fairly certain. Is she emotionally abused? We've had that conversation. She says not. I'm not so clear. There's something "off" about that relationship, something that makes me uncomfortable every time I'm near it. But she won't hear it. I've tried to be there for her, for the time when she sees the nastiness in their dynamic, but that's over. A line has been crossed, and there's no going back.

This phone call, which he had not the integrity to make for himself, was for his own reassurance. He was not seeking to know how I felt - only that he was in the clear. He did not speak directly to me, and he did not apologize. He did not apologize!

Apparently, he thinks it's okay to slap the bride at her wedding.

Bizarre.

"LAURA!!! Laura, Geek Boy spat on your bra!"

Damn. I should have known that would happen. As you know, the girls are substantial. The cheap bras from Zellers are just not up to the job. Nope, I need the expensive (and, such a happy coincidence, very pretty) ones from La Vie. (See that beige one? I own that one. I also have the same one in black.) One does not toss such confections into the laundry with the sweatsocks and blue jeans. One coddles them. One lavishes TLC and Forever New upon them, and soaks them delicately in the bathroom sink, prior to pressing the water out gently and hanging them to dry over the bathroom rail.

And then one's youngest stepson spits frothy toothpaste foam onto them. Guess he didn't notice that sinkful of bubbles and lace an inch in front of his navel. Guess it didn't occur to his empty head to launch that gobful of sputum into the toilet rather than onto a hundred and some odd dollars' worth of lingerie.

Ugh.

Welcome to my summer.

Five extra children pile into our home for four out of the first six weeks of summer. Lazy summer days are a dream.

It's getting better, year by year. My eldest lives on her own now, and the next two children - my son, and Matthew's eldest - have jobs and are very autonomous. Matthew's daughter, Drama Girl, has lived up to her cognomen very well this year, and in a passionate flurry of "I HATE having parents and I'm NOT a child" (a very childish flurry, I might add), she has, at the age of 17, pretty much flounced out of both her parents' lives, and lives mostly with her boyfriend. Gawd help him.

(I keep out of these things. But do I miss her? Does her absence leave a gaping hole in the fabric of our lives? Not so's you'd notice. Even at her best, her energy level is well-described by the DSM, under "manic". The house is much calmer without her.)

Still, that leaves four teens in full-time residence, with another two who live here officially and make regular appearances.

Six. Teens. (Nineteen, eighteen, sixteen, fourteen, fourteen, and thirteen.)

For the most part, they are cheerful, easy-going, biddable. They don't party, they don't play music at ear-shattering levels (thank GOD for MP-3 players; if any ears are being shattered, at least they're being shattered privately), they don't drink, they don't do anything more illicit. (Or if they do, they're very, very discreet.)

So, I have little to complain about, right? No petty crime, no horrific rebellion, and, apart from Drama Girl, no significant conflict.

Just six teens. Which means 27 pairs of ENORMOUS shoes cluttering the small entry way at every moment of every day. We have a shoe rack that would fit about 21 pair. The shoe rack currently holds three pairs: my sandals, my runners, and Matthew's runners.

It means socks littering the house. (Yes, they're still doing that.) This weekend, setting a new record in sock-strewing, we even managed to leave a balled-up pair of dirty sweat socks on the NEIGHBOUR'S lawn.

Thankfully, I spotted them before the neighbour (I hope), and sent the offender out to collect them.

But, Ugh.

It means enormous amounts of food consumed. Which means food, food containers, and food consumption mechanisms also litter much of the house. (I might add here that my children keep food consumption to the dining room.)

It means six people in the house who can and do stay up far, far later than Matthew or me.

Which meant that last night we were woken at sometime after 11 - a good hour and a half after I went to bed - by a tap at the door, and a teen telling us there were ants in his bedroom.

No! Ants?!? In your BEDROOM? Could this have anything to do, anything at all, do you think, with the plates still littered with crumbs under your bed? The plates that I have repeatedly asked you NOT to bring into your room - because you'll get bugs???

And now, at eleven-something, he wants someone to leap out of bed and fix it for him? NOW?

Ugh.

It means no space to sit. This is a small house. I wander the house with a book and a cup of tea, looking for a spot to have a quiet read... two teens fill the two love seats in the living room to capacity. Two more lounge at the dining table. One is on the front porch. One is in the (sole) bathroom. I find myself holed out in my room for much of July and August...

Ugh.

I do love summers, really, I do. And I'll love them even more five years from now.

Came across a blog this morning. Fellow was introducing the meme he was about to do.

Said, "This is so gay".

What does that mean? What a bizarre thing to say. It's obviously some kind of insult, a slight. He's apparently feeling a bit silly about doing a meme. Being vaguely aware that he's said something potentially insulting, or maybe to try to prove he's not a homophobic asshole, he added immediately, "Not that there's anything wrong with THAT!"

If there's nothing wrong with being gay, you dork, why are you using it as an insult?

"This is so gay."

It carries as much meaning as... oh... "This is so tree."
"Can you believe how cloud that was??"
"God. She's just thinks she's so curtainrod."


Yeesh.

I've been homeschooling Bekah for a few months now. She was homeschooled till grade four, went to school for four years, and decided to take a breather from the pressure cooker that is middle school before beginning high school next year.

She's enjoying her space. She's taking a couple of (grade nine!) courses by correspondence, she's improved her flute no end with her terrific new teacher. She's taking a college-sponsored ASL course, just for fun. She's spending time drawing, reading, writing, thinking. In short, she's getting a good education.

She misses being with other kids, though. It's an issue for homeschooled kids. The parent has to take particular pains to ensure they mix with other children. She does have friends in the neighbourhood, of course, but sadly, they're shut up in school all day. So, what to do? Well, seek out the local homeschooling group, and see if anyone out there is interested in getting together.

We've met a few. Most were nice, but the kids just didn't connect. (Though in one case, the other mother and I hit it off so well we're going out for coffee next week.)

And then we had the meeting last Saturday. Mother and son were to come to our home for a couple of hours. They arrive (half an hour late). First impressions weren't stellar: mom has long gray hair parted in the middle and straggling down beside her face until it faded away, dispirited, in the general area of her shoulders. Son - who is thirteen, remember - sports a very stylish bowl cut. He's got lovely hair, thick and shiny, and, unlike the picture in that link, covering his ears - but, but, but... it's in a bowl cut! Okay for four-year-olds, but...

I mentally scold myself. How petty I am! I remind myself that I'm all about living as you see fit, not worrying about arbitrary and ridiculous dictates of 'cool'.

Okay. So we shall overlook the JK styling on the teenage boy.

The rest of the visit is largely boring, punctuated by the following little nuggets:

- He and mom had asked before they arrived whether we had pets, and were delighted to know we had a hamster. When they arrived, they wanted to see her right away. As soon as the boots had been removed and coats hung, we all proceed immediately to the kitchen. Where they haul out their camera and start taking pictures of the hamster. (Maybe it's just me... Does this strike you as just a teeny bit odd?)

- He does not want to hold the hamster when Bekah offers it to him. "I don't know it yet." Um, and how will you get to know it if you don't introduce yourself? He'll just takes a few more pictures, instead. Oh. Maybe he plans to pet them when he gets home?

- They take pictures at random intervals. Never one of myself or Bekah, thank god, but odd things. I came down from the bathroom and caught mom snapping pics out a window that overlooks the drive. The section of the drive that houses a couple of bicycles, the garbage tins, and the gates to our back yard and our neighbour's. (???)

- He was gung-ho to show Bekah a slide-show he'd made of some computer images he'd created. They sat side by side on the couch with Bekah's DVD player (he didn't know there were such things as portable DVD players) as elevator music drifted around the room for four minutes. Later, I discovered that the show was eight pictures, repeated over and over to the background of the elevator music. Eight pictures. In the same order. To elevator music. For four minutes.

- He was also gung-ho to play our piano, because he's been playing for a while now, and he's pretty good. No, he doesn't take lessons. He listens to music, tries to reproduce it, and then "makes it better". In fact, he has a composition he's working on. Would we like to hear it?

- He plays piano like a dying elephant, blundering woodenly about a couple of octaves of the keyboard, deafening all within a 3-metre radius.

- Ours is an electric piano, so I showed him how he could record his composition. He was fascinated by this, and replayed his auditory assault half a dozen times. At full volume. (Does the boy have a hearing problem?)

- And no, he wasn't interested in hearing me play the piano (not that I offered), nor in hearing Bekah play her flute. His mother suggested he might like to listen. No, not today, thanks.

- He admitted that he didn't much like sharing. Mom chortled affectionately at this.

- When the kids said they were hungry, I handed each of them a banana. He looked at his and stuttered, "How do I...?" I looked at him, blank. How does he what? His mother explained, "He's never started one." HE'S THIRTEEN FUCKING YEARS OLD AND HE CAN'T PEEL A BANANA!!!

- Thankfully, he likes the same computer game that is one of Bekah's favourites at the moment, so we were able to survive the last hour of the visit by allowing them computer time. Leaving me with Mom.

- Mom, who bemoaned the changes in the ghastly suburb where they live. "We might have to move out to the country. It's getting so big and busy. It used to be so suburban." Oh. Suburban as a good thing. How... suburban.

- They had to leave by four, because it was Saturday, and she didn't want to drive "after dark with all the drunks". Because lord only knows we city folk are notorious for hammering back the booze at five in the afternoon so as to drive home drunk for dinner...

- The next day, I got an email from mom, thanking me for the visit, and asking if we would please erase his 'composition' from our piano. It's a work in progress, see, and so... (Here's a thought, you nut job: I'll erase his gawdawful noises if you erase all those pictures you took without asking in my house.)

These people are the poster family for "The Risks and Disadvantages of Homeschooling".

He couldn't peel a banana.

Normally I am a quiet, understated, and overall kindly person. Four or five days a month? A transformation occurs. That PMS thing I so loved to mock when I was a young and symptom-free woman? It's hit, with a vengeance, these last few years. Coming as it has so late in the game, I am mature enough that I don't take it out on the people around me. I just get quieter, following my gran's sage advice, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Quiet, but not silent. I mutter. Quietly. When I'm alone. Mutter, mutter, mutter.

It's Sunday of a weekend when the stepkids have been here, bringing the household total of teens to six(ish). Join with me, if you will, on a pre-menstrual, muttered, tour of my home.

Laundry room:
What moron left a kleenex in their pocket?
My, GOD, look at these underwear. That girl's ass is IMMENSE.
Three odd socks. Again. Bah.

Kitchen:
Why am I the ONLY person who ever notices the Britta needs to be refilled? Ever?
Ants? Again?
Another damned puddle by the fridge! God, I wish we could afford a new one.
Who has been using their socks to wipe up the fridge puddle?
And if they want to do that, can't they put the sock in the laundry?
And why only one sock?
Which ridiculous child is walking around wearing one sock? And when I find you, you little fucker...

Living Room:
Why is wrong with the couch cushions?
Why are they askew like that?
Ah. Because we are storing dirty socks under there. Of course!
What is that stench?
Ah. Why did I ever agree to a hamster?
'It's okay, mummy. I'll keep it clean, I promise.' HA.

Dining Room:
For the love of Pete. Is the six feet to the kitchen sink too far to take the dirty plates?
Why is there a sock in this glass? Why?
Who puts a sock in a glass half-full of water? Guess I could be grateful it's not milk...

Front Hall:
Is is truly that difficult to place shoes on the rack rather than kick them off in a heap? It couldn't be that hard, since someone's managed to get a sock on one shelf. Two socks. No, three.
When do teenagers' feet stop growing?
Any why do they stink so fucking much?
Why are there socks on the shoe rack?

Bathroom:
What the fuck is this, a breeding program for towels?!?
Must be, and here's how: Place damp towels on bathroom floor, at least four to a heap, making sure to leave the light on and fan off for maximum growth, and a couple of dirty (and odd) socks as fertilizer.
Who didn't pull the shower curtain to? Not to worry, though - all those towels and socks are sucking up the excess, no problem.
Do they not realize what the strainer is for? So why is it on the side of the tub and I'm pulling foot-long hanks of slimy hair from the drain?

Can they not, even once, leave the fucking seat DOWN?

And put the new roll ON the spindle, not perched precariously on the side of the sink, where it will almost certainly fall into the toi -- damn! Where it now floats alongside someone's purple toothbrush. Lovely. You know what? I think I'll just put the toothbrush back in the cup and say nothing. Serve 'em right.

Bedrooms:
I'm speechless. Nothing to be done but close the door.
And turn off the damned lights!

My room:
WHERE is the garbage can?
Who walked off with the garbage can from MY bedroom?
And WHY?

Why is there a dirty sock on my pillow? Whose is it?

Children. Who'd want to have children? Biology's a bitch. That damned biological imperative, I tell you...

AND WHAT IS WITH THE FUCKING SOCKS EVERY FUCKING WHERE???

A friend gives me an article by Robert Fisk. I am urged to read it. Fisk is a 'great mind', says my friend. He 'doesn't tolerate fools gladly'. I've heard of Fisk, and even of the verb ('fisking') spawned by his rants, but never read him. (I know, I know. Shockingly insular North American am I. Given what I read of Mr. Fisk when I did investigate, I'll be back for more.)

But this particular article? I've heard this sort of thing before, and find it no more than an annoyance. Let me be clear. I'm well-read. I have decent grammar, a good vocabulary, I love the language and deplore sloppiness. I have a degree in English. Sometimes, sometimes I even manage to write something that sings, just a little. But this word snobbery, this 'zero tolerance' approach to word sins, galls me.

((But, Mr. Fisk: "Authoress"? Did anyone after George Eliot actually use that word? With a straight face?) Yes, this quibbling proves that I, too, have my fisk moments. It also proves that those who rant about words set themselves up for this kind of quibbling. However, I know that the quibbling is, at best, a clever-ish form of personal entertainment; at worst, nothing more than basest snobbery.)

Picture this:

You’re at a dinner party. The food is excellent, the furnishing comfortable, the people varied and interesting, but as the evening progresses, you find yourself feeling more and more uncomfortable. You’re not sure why, but people are being a bit stiff with you. Normally an easy conversationalist, your overtures stumble, you can’t seem to generate any momentum. You are never quite able to relax and enjoy yourself. By the end of the evening, you leave with relief, not certain why the occasion was so awkward.

Subsequent to the dinner, a friend who was also at the event explains. Your clothing was wrong - style, colour, vintage. Your tie too wide (or too narrow). Your laugh too loud (too high, too soft). Your hair an embarrassment. Your jokes out of fashion. You held your cutlery wrong, your taste in music was wrong, and the books you like to read? Well, everyone knows that type of book is out of fashion.

Your reaction? Well, can’t speak to yours, but mine is to dismiss the critics. (And perhaps to wonder how I ever got myself invited to such a gathering...) They have established an entirely arbitrary set of rules by which they judge whether someone is ‘in’ our ‘out’, whether a person is sufficiently ‘in the know’ to be part of the group. I do not judge myself by the style of my shirt or the music I listen to, nor will I allow myself to be constrained in such an ill-fitting social box. In short, they need not bother to exclude me; I want no part of their arbitrary judgmentalism. They can do the anatomically impossible.

Now, people do that sort of thing all the time, of course. Teenagers develop their own dialect, listen to certain music, wear certain clothes. Twenty-somethings watch certain television shows, dress a certain (different) way, laugh at the same type of jokes as other twenty-somethings.

Each age-group does it; each sub-group does it, down to the two women having coffee together two or three times a week. Each group has those things which identify them; it has those things which they delight to mock. Every time it’s done, its declared intent may be something noble - they're ‘expressing themselves’, ‘conversing intelligently’, ‘exploring ideas with like-minded people’ - but in fact the motivation at root is sheer adolescent clique-ishness. They desire nothing more than to identify and exclude outsiders. If you can mock them at the same time, even better!

The language snobbery of Fisk is nothing other than this. Even though I agree with him at a number of points, his argument overall simply wearies and annoys me. He knows which words and phrases are worthy, and which are to be vilified. He claims a standard by which he slots the words into their appointed category, but in fact, it’s totally arbitrary, merely a matter of his personal taste. Some words and phrases are acceptable, others aren’t, and if you don’t know which is which, you are a boor.

Pfft to Mr. Fisk.

Wal-Mart.

Everyone loves to hate Wal-Mart. Well, everyone of my education level and social class. Everyone in my neighbourhood. All my friends. We all hate Wal-Mart. We mock the low-brow, blue-collar types who shop there. No social conscience among Wal-Mart shoppers! We hate its bullying ways, its negative effect on bookstores. There's something about its corporate practices that invites censure, but I confess I've never really gotten the gist of that. I haven't gotten the gist because I tend to ease out of these conversations. Because, you see...

I have a secret. I shop at Wal-Mart. Yes, I do.

Every time I sneak down to the south end of the city, I am guiltily aware that I am supporting the commercial rape of Canada. (Or something.) I breathe a sigh of relief once I'm through the doors, because I am fully confident I will not meet any of my friends in here! (I never have. But if I did, our shared guilty secret would ensure discretion.)

I sneak the bags back home under cover of darkness, or pretend that it's only environmental delicacy that has me bringing cloth bags...

Thing is, my partner and I, between the two of us, have some eight children. Eight, on one and a half incomes. (One and a half because he send just about half of his after-tax income to his ex. to support his portion of all those masses of children.)

I do shop at Walmart because we like little luxuries like... oh, affordable shoes for that many feet. Or, shoes AND food AND mortgage - all in the same month!

We're not poor. We feed, house, and clothe our children, and they also get luxuries like drama classes and flute lessons. But, unlike my neighbours, we know these are luxuries - and without things like inexpensive shoes, we couldn't have them.

So, yeah, I shop at Wal-Mart sometimes. I'm quiet, I'm discreet, and I don't indulge too often, but.. yes. I do. And the thing I really, really can't tell my friends?

I'm kind of grateful to Wal-Mart for the shoes.

Chain mail. Don't you just love it? How about those chain letters with supernatural bribery at the end? "Send this to five people in the next five minutes and your wish will come true in 1 day. Send it to ten people in five minutes, and your wish will come true in half an hour."

Pathetic how people fall for this stuff. Everyone knows it's nonsense. Look at me: Even with TWENTY recipients in THREE minutes, my ex is still alive. No lightning, not even a bus, and no big insurance payout for me. See? Arrant nonsense. Why do people succumb?

Today I received a forward in support of a worthy cause. Really, a worthy cause, which is why it will remained unnamed so as not to sully its merits by revealing its tactics.

It was a poem. No, it was a POE-WEM. Ahem. The beloved daughter of an about-to-be-bereaved mother lays bleeding on the pavement, composing for said mother, with her last dying breaths, the most dreadful doggerel going, in which she wonders why other teens didn't heed their mothers' good advice, and so spared her life from its untimely end. Her dying breaths went on for a cruelly long time, given the number of stanzas the poor girl was able to churn out, back of her hand to her pale brow.

It was followed by a petition. We were urged to sign it, then to forward it, and if we didn't?

If you receive this petition and do >nothing but delete it, your
>selfishness knows no bounds.

Because if you can't sway people with maudlin sentiment, then you can always try insults!

Of course I deleted it.

Truly selfish, I know, to spare my friends saccharine Victorian tripe. I hang my head in shame.