A Mother's Musings and Mumblings

Thing 1 is really gone now. She’s been in Norway for weeks but has been checking in by phone pretty much daily. But now she and WF are on a boat on their way to Svalbard. Look it up. It’s half way to the North Pole. Needless to say, I think the prospects of a phone call are pretty much nil until they get back to Oslo and are ready to board the plane home.

Thing 1 is loving the trip. Her vacation responder reads:

Hello, i am very sorry that i cannot reply to your messages seeing that i am in Norway, today i will be at the hotel and MIGHT be able to get access to the hotel computer but until then I cannot respond. Also the next 2 weeks I will be in Svalbard (look it up it is a really cool place.) and i will not have access to a computer, but i will reply as soon as i return…assuming i am not eaten by ice bears (they are so cute!!) well i shall try to respond a.s.a.p. bye bye (also look up the Besseggen, a hike i did, the ridge was really hard)
–
\~/   My NORWEGIAN glass looks half full to me!

She’s having a blast. But back home, not so much.

Thing 2 has developed several sudden, unexplained fears of things that go bump that cause her to turn to flypaper and cling to me. I’ve tried talking to her about why this might be the case, but she shuts down.

My best guess? She’s feeding off of me again. Because I’m stressed.

The original plan was for WF and Thing 1 to do some hiking by themselves for a week. That lasted a day. They had to scale back because the weather wasn’t cooperating and the hiking was longer and harder than they anticipated. This tells me a couple of things. First is that WF is being reasonable and not pushing too hard. This is a good thing. Second is that there is the potential for more trouble ahead. The temperature in Svalbard is going to be at least as cold as what they bailed out on so they have to face that weather eventually. But what about the hiking?

The last phone call was from the boat so Thing 1 had already met up with the group they’d be hiking with and had survived their first hike together. It was a short hike but with some fairly steep vertical and Thing 1 was the youngest member of the 15 person team by at least a decade. She hiked right up front with the leader – on purpose – to prove herself. That’s my girl! But when I asked where her father was I was informed that he was bringing up the rear.

He confirmed that, as well as informed me that he was using medication for motion sickness and had been paying attention to his medication. He’s been very good about my overt intrusions into his privacy recently regarding medical matters. In fact, he’s called me promptly every time he’s received his PSA results this year. He gets that checked every month. And yet, I haven’t heard a test result since summer started.

I know I’ve been traveling and that I tend toward “borrowing” trouble. But with my eldest above the Arctic Circle out of contact for over a week, it’s easy to think of things that might go wrong under the best of circumstances. And these are NOT the best of circumstances. Throw in a bit of uncertainty about who I’m most worried about and there’s plenty of trouble to borrow.

So if Thing 2 has random fears of things that go bump I guess I have to accept that she may have come by this naturally. I seem to share those fears.

Flypaper it is.

Two weeks of vacation flew by as fast as an airplane over the north Atlantic. I’m home and have been for a couple of days now. No, I haven’t forgotten to update y’all on the trip – that entry is being drafted/crafted slowly. But there’s something else on my mind today that needs to get out of my head.

When traveling, Pagan Queens and others should remember to take their medications as directed. A six hour time shift really messes with that and when you’re dealing with a drug that causes fatigue when the dose is adjusted then it can be tricky. The end result of this exercise in mental mathematics is that I’m off on my Diamox dose and have been for at least a week. My head is KILLING me. Throw in some jet lag, a little PMS and eye of newt and I don’t think my current mood requires much explanation. So take that as the backdrop for the little drama that unfolds in the rest of this post.

I’m still getting settled into the routine of being home. Thing 1 leaves this week for a month so I have her for less than a week – and that’s after not having seen her for a month. She’s grown. Seriously. And I hate that I missed it. Thing 2 has oral surgery tomorrow. My baby has four teeth that will be coming out including one that is impacted. I’m scared for her and I keep acting like this is no big deal just so that she’ll not freak out. We’re going shopping today for mushy foods and ice cream. I don’t know which one of us is going to feel worse!

Of course, drama started before we ever got home. We were in the airport still when we found out that Iggy’s girls weren’t sure they wanted to be here for all of their scheduled visitation.¬† So Iggy’s mood isn’t all that great either. The difference between how he’s taking it and how I’m taking it is that I blame Stepford for this. She didn’t want Iggy to have this much time with his daughters to begin with and so here we are with the girls telling him that they don’t think they can stand to be away from Stepford that long. Coincidence?

We’ve now put the scenery on the stage. Let’s add the action.

There’s a family wedding in Iggy’s family next weekend that we’re supposed to attend. “We” in this case being defined as Iggy and his girls, me and Thing 2. We’re driving 16 hours up and 16 hours back and going to the wedding on the day in between. Why might this be less than fun?

1. It’s a wedding. Weddings and I have a long history given that I’ve had a few. The trouble is that in recent years my feelings toward weddings has become rather, well, fractured. On the one hand, I look at the happy couple and want to scream “RUN” at the top of my lungs. On the other hand, I look at the happy couple and see two people who are happy and content and will have the kind of life that I will never have. The kind of life that I apparently don’t deserve. So I cry at weddings.
2. This isn’t just any wedding. The wedding will have me dealing with Iggy’s family. They’re a good bunch – big, close Midwestern family. With pictures of Stepford up all over the place. Iggy and Stepford’s wedding, Iggy and Stepford dating, Stepford all decked out for a night out. The photos of Stepford and their girls I understand. But the others, I don’t get for so many reasons. Why has Iggy never had a problem with these? If my family had photos of WF and I up, I’d have asked them to take them down before I was even dating again. But Iggy doesn’t care. His love life with Stepford is documented on the walls for all to see and he’s fine with that.
3. They’re a Midwestern Family. Some of you know that I’m from one of those. One that is within an hour of Iggy’s family. I’ve asked Iggy before for details of the wedding weekend and haven’t gotten them. I’ve asked Iggy for details of when his girls are here this summer and haven’t gotten those either. This makes it hard for me to plan anything that I’d like to do – say, see my sister after a 16 hours drive.

But at the end of it all, what had me crying myself to sleep is something my mother said years ago when I was divorcing Chuckles. She pointed out that he “doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink and doesn’t beat you” so she didn’t understand the need for a divorce. At the time, that seemed silly. Death threats aside, I was young and wanted to believe that there was more to life and relationships that not being beaten by a sober guy with clean breath.

Times have changed. I’m 42 years old. I’m not getting any younger. Or prettier. Insert a refrain from “That Girl” and you’ve got my mood. I’m not the girl that anyone has ever looked at and said “I see forever in your eyes” – at least not and still meant it the next morning. At this point in my life, no one is ever going to have my wedding pictures hanging in their home to remind them of how happy their son had been. I have no realistic chance of ever being first in anyone’s life other than my own. So when looking for a partner, maybe the bar I’ve set is a bit too high. And maybe, just maybe, I’m holding myself to a higher standard than I need to as well.

Or maybe this is all just a really bad headache with overtones of PMS and I just need a little TLC once in a while.

It began with a three-hour car drive followed by a leisurely couple of hours hanging out in Washington National Airport listening to the news. Farrah was dead; Michael was working hard to catch up. Iran might as well not have existed.

A short flight north left us sitting at another airport for a bit while the crew waited for a plane to arrive. It would seem that the rate-limiting step in getting a flight off the ground is to have a aircraft. Not to worry, only 90 minutes late and we were en route to Amsterdam. The fellow in the seat ahead of me bore more than a faint resemblance to the southern end of a northbound horse but once I was asleep that didn’t seem to bother me much.

Neither did Iggy’s snoring. He wanted to sleep on the plane and so I’d given him a little pharmacological support. It worked. Well. So well, in fact, that he didn’t take me up on the offer to trade him seats half way through the flight. Both flights Iggy sat in the middle seat and both flights he had ~ahem~ large men in the aisle seat next to him. Not only is he a trooper, he’s a gentleman.

In Amsterdam I was stunned by the airport security. Seriously, I allowed an hour to get through security at National and we waltzed on through. I had similar expectations for Amsterdam – customs and immigration questions, having to look through the bag – and we walked on through. The things that could have been in my bag! But no one looked. The pity is the worst thing we were smuggling was a bag of peanut M&Ms. More on those later.

From the airport in Amsterdam to Leiden city center is 10 minutes by train. We stood, which was a good thing because despite sleeping on the plane I’m not sure I could have stayed awake. It was a pleasant enough trip ending at the city center. Iggy and I had no idea where our hotel was at so I set off in search of a taxi. Of course, I did this out of nature – strange city, don’t know where I’m at, have luggage, need to get somewhere AND learn a bit of the layout – OH! It must be time to find a cab! Iggy followed but didn’t realize what I was up to until I was talking to the driver already. Right about then I realized that we were tired, hungry, and most of all, cranky.

So what is the first thing that a Pagan Queen does when visiting Holland for the very first time? Anyone?

Yup. Eats M&Ms and takes a nap.

After all, we have two weeks and it’s important to pace yourself.

Thing 1 is in France with WF right now on a ski trip. Sounds great, right? It must be great to be her! I wish my family had taken me skiing in France when I was a kid. If he wants to adopt another kid, just let me know. Must be nice.

Trust me, we’ve heard it all. Recently.

The trouble with hearing it all is that Thing 1 and I both know the truth about this trip. We both know this trip isn’t about her or even her getting to spend time with her father. WF has admitted to me that this trip is about him and his desire to ski Europe before he dies. And Thing 1 has told me that she knows that. She knows that it’s about him and she knows that he’s dying. Fairly acutely aware of both of those little tidbits.

So when total strangers in the optical shop start telling my daughter how lucky she is that he father is taking her skiing in France and going on and on and on about how they wish they got to do such things life gets interesting: Thing 1 shuts down. She pulls in and tunes everyone out – I can see her eyes glass over as she just quits hearing the words. The natural reaction to that is people looking to me for some explanation. Clearly there is something wrong with my child and these total strangers have a right to know what it is. Specifically, they want to know if she is really so spoiled that she thinks that little of a trip to Europe. So they ask me as directly as they can: “Do you travel abroad often?”

What’s a witch to say? There are so many ways I can sell my child out that it becomes difficult to choose just one. Should I go with: “Yes. We go to Europe at least once a year.” and let her sound spoiled or do I go with the more direct: “Not really. She’s just tuning you out because her father is dying and she doesn’t like to think about their last ‘world tour’.” That one would make her cry but would be perversely gratifying.

So what did I do?

Yup. You guessed it.

Mumbled something vaguely like the first option.

We finished ordering her new glasses and left in silence. Outside, I apologized to her for my contribution to her genetics – the vision, the introversion, the overly sensitive nature, the works. Basically I told her it sucked being a clone. She hugged me and said “It has it’s benefits.” I guess that means I didn’t totally mess this one up.

Don’t worry. There’s still time.

Normally I say that it isn’t worth it to drive me crazy. Really, it’s so close that by the time you get your seat belts on and move the car, find a parking spot and walk to the door you could have just walked the whole way and saved the gas. Yet here I am in the HOV lane on my way to the Funny Farm. So what’s driving me out of my tree?

GPS

I have come to believe that this really stands for “Generally Pointless Steering”. Seriously. We’re talking driving a car, not flying a plane, here. There are no Instrument Flight Rules. You can’t just rely on the little voice to tell you what to do. In any other situation, letting the little voice that only you can hear dictate your actions is called psychosis. And it’s considered a bad thing. Yet when driving this (I’m sure) otherwise lovely and intelligent individual in front of me had no problem listening to their GPS telling them to turn left. The left turn signal went on. The car moved into the left turn lane. The car moved back into the right lane. THEN the left turn signal went off. Then the left turn signal went on. The car moved into the left turn lane. Cars honked because there was no left turn lane. The car moved abruptly back to the right. The driver fingered the little screen and veered to the left again. More honking. Squinting at the little screen. Swerve to the right.

Had they paid half the attention to the actual road and traffic that they paid to that little screen their carma rating wouldn’t be in the toilet right now. And the illegal U-turn would have been unnecessary.

Gasoline

I know, I know. Take a number. I haven’t complained much about gas prices because this modern witch’s broom is a Prius named Rosie. I hate to complain when I’m getting over 50 mpg. But today, for you, I make exception (sorry it’s in writing, you’ll have to imagine the accent).

I’m a sucker for some things. Little things. Sometimes things that make no sense. I’m a New Age feminist with a soft spot for some old time traditions. And I don’t just mean Goddess worship. No. I liked our little full-service gas station. It seemed to be the last one left in the area. I know there are parts of the country where they’re still common, but around here they’re nearly impossible to find and yet I had one I drove past every day on my way to work. Not that I stopped all that often – not in Rosie. But the prices there weren’t more than a penny higher than the self-serve next door so when I needed gas I stopped and talked to the wonderful characters who worked there. It was a happy thing.

Last week I noticed that the numbers were gone from their sign. I figured that with prices changing so much they’d just taken them down. Two days ago I saw it. The trash bags taped over the pumps. Big, black hefty bags are the coffin of choice for my blast of the past fuel station. Poof! I think Rosie even hiccuped.

What struck me was that it struck me at all. Gas prices go up and I say: “Well, they’ve been this high in Europe for a long time.” They go up more and I think: “Well, I’m glad I have a Prius.” Gas prices start to impact the cost of travel and I say: “This is a good year to go camping.” They start to impact the cost of food and I think: “I’m no worse off than anyone else, we’ll figure this out.” But when my favorite little full service station goes out of business I stop to brush away a tear and stamp my feet with a “THIS ISN’T FAIR!!”

Yup. I think I’ve been driven crazy. Here’s hoping I remember where I parked the car.

While on vacation we spent some time in Salt Lake City (SLC, see also, land of the Mormons). That was an interesting cultural experience for this Pagan – even if only 60% of the city is now Mormon the whole place is still so heavily influenced by the Church. The Church of “Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints” – that sounds like the name of a punk rock band to me. One that would play at Pagan Pride day. Maybe with an opening act like “Paul and the Apostles”. I’m sure that music would make a dead man rise up and say “Blessed Be!”

But I digress.

We went out for dinner last night (J. Smith, party of 46, your table is ready) and had a Polygamy Porter with our fish and chips. The new shirts for that beer read “I’ve tried Polygamy” on the back and it was all I could do not to buy one. Yup, seems like a bit of overdone to crack polygamy jokes after a visit to SLC but then again I’m nothing if not predictable. And I hate to disappoint……

Driving into town from the desert we saw many billboards for lingerie shops. Now, you’d think that this wouldn’t fit with the culture here but they did. Oddly. You see (well, you don’t, but I’m here to tell you so read on) all those ads were aimed at the men. As in “Man and Wife novelty shop” and “Bridal treasures”. Of course, women aren’t supposed to concern themselves with such things, that would be up to the man involved. After all, his are the only, ahem, appetites that matter, aren’t they?

So how would this work in a good old fashioned polygamous household? The man goes to the novelty shop with a shopping list? “Yes, I’d like 5 small, 8 medium, 4 large and 1 extra large teddies in an assorted pastels. Uh. And one black corset. In, eh, my size.” Somehow, I think I’d like to work there as a store clerk for a week just once. But I don’t think there’d be enough duct tape to keep my mouth shut…..

But when I think of polygamy, I have to admit a certain spiritual kinship to the idea. I mean, the Mormons have their god. In a place like Utah, I feel right at home having more than one god. I mean, I fit right in here. Like some sort of spiritual polygamist keeping my faith with more than one deity. And none of them expect lingerie.

I do have to say that the most exciting part of leaving SLC had to be airport security. Thing 1 asked about putting all her liquids into a clear plastic bag and was very compliant in doing so. I was proud of her – she’s quite the little traveler. Except when we went through security they noticed that her water bottle hadn’t been emptied since the hike two days prior. Oops. Iggy simply forgot to remove his tool from his pack (clearly not the fun “tool” but an actual weapons-grade pair of pliers) and had to mail that to himself.

Me? Well, I had nothing contraband in my bag but they thought they saw a “bottle” in my bag and had to search it. Once they honed in on the part of the bag with the alleged offender I knew I was in trouble. But, much to my surprise, one woman in the Salt Lake City airport found a clue and actually lied to the other woman for me (“It’s her shoes” she said as I collapsed in relief). This was, of course, after I muttered out of one side of my mouth “Vibrator. Daughter standing here. PLEASE DON’T!” Note to self: there are some places on earth where the only thing you should get off is the plane – and maybe not even that. 

I was just at a professional conference in Utah where there was a series of workshops on mind-body interactions. I won’t credit the orgininator of this quote because I’d like to maintain his privacy, but I don’t think he’d mind me using it as a launch for tonight’s blog entry.

He said that we’re so busy as “Human Doings” that we forget how to be “Human Beings”.

There’s something to that. And yet, here I sit. The conference is over and I’m out on holiday for another week. The thought of going straight back to work after the adrenaline rush of a week at the conference was more than I could bear so I packed up the camping gear, borrowed a cooler and sleeping pads and rented a Prius to head out into the wilderness and drop off the grid. Hours into the desert we drove and finally arrived in Moab, Utah where we planned to spend the night. Pulling into the campground, I was concerned with pitching a tent in 106 degree weather. It turns out that there was a greater threat to my comfort here than the heat.

Wireless Internet.

Yup. In the middle of the Utah desert, sitting outside my tent, logged into the Internet and typing a blog entry.

Now, I didn’t log on in order to blog. I love y’all (especially after the comments on 5 weeks and change) but not enough to interrupt my trek off-grid to check in. Nope, I logged on in order to see if there were options for horseback riding in Telluride for Thing 1 and I. I logged on to find something to “DO”.

I don’t think it’s just me. I think that all of us are programmed by our society to be in a constant state of “doing” to the absolute exclusion of just “being”. The thought of just “being” for some period of time is work for us – sitting still and just being is stressful. We long for it, but given the opportunity to actually do it we find ourselves guilt-ridden and plagued by thoughts of everything in our lives left undone – everything that we need or want to do or that someone else needs or wants us to do. “Being” isn’t enough.

So this is it from the road. I have no intention of checking in again until I’m home and firmly planted back in the rat race. Until then, I’m going to be spending my days and nights remembering how to be a human “being” – and leave the “doing” for another time.

Namaste.

I’ve never talked about my job on here. Mostly because the risk would be too great. Sure, RC knows where the blog is and knows what’s said here but what can I lose? And SK has enough info to find it, heck, the men in my life (or my head) could all find it and there’s still nothing to lose. Those who would leave over anything I’ve written aren’t worth the effort to hang onto anyway and those who would stay long enough to ask me to explain are worth the time to explain myself to. They can make up their own minds. My job, on the other hand, well, someone has to buy the Cheerios!

But anyone who knows me well knows that my job is a source of constant frustration for me. Jackie alone is enough to make me want to run away and teach middle school science the rest of my life. And then there’s my “real” boss. It’s all just very disturbing. One more prejudice, illegal, demeaning, uncalled-for comment about me and I may be sent over the edge into a psychotic break.

Funny then, that here I am on a business trip for a job that de-values me at every possible turn. While I’m out I’m getting e-mail from Jackie telling me what’s waiting when I get back (HINT: nothing good) AND just in case that wasn’t enough fun and games to keep me loving life, the group I’m with keeps talking about her as though she were the best thing since sliced bread. Oh. And it’s Thing 2′s birthday tomorrow.

I’m going to f’ing scream.

Keeping in mind the posts of late (reference the box of untouched chocolates) and it’s easy to see why Xanax should be a scheduled medication in my life right now.

But no. I’m nowhere near that smart. I drank instead.

Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to loosen my tongue to say somethings that I know damn well didn’t need saying. OK, the Hel with that. They needed saying, just not with that crowd of people. The needed shouting from the mountain tops as loud as I can shout – loudly enough that I have no voice left the rest of the week!

Rather, they were said in a blandly conversational tone over dinner in a mundane little cafe in a mundane little town on the West Coast. And now I can’t take them back. Worse. I don’t want to.

It’s been documented many, many times that people, women in particular, feel like impostors when they’re being successful.  So I have to say, I’ve felt like an impostor more than once including the fact that I’ve been included on this trip. Never mind all the things that have come to pass with the national organization. Clearly there’s a mistake and someday they’ll realize it and all of this will evaporate into thin air.

Then I think about Jackie and her dislike of me – the way she goes out of her way to make me look like an impostor – and I feel so angry I could scream. I have worked hard to get where I am – at least as hard as she has – and by Goddess I am not going to roll over and play dead because she’s decided that somehow my personal life makes me unworthy. That’s not her place and as much as I want to run away and hide, I’m not going to let her win this without a fight.

Of course, some of what I learned today makes me think that she’s more cunning than I thought. There may be plans afoot that run deeper than I dreamed in my worst nightmare but knowledge is power and now that I know (or suspect) I can start to plan my defense.

Or my escape. I don’t know. I just know that I’m so sick of this.

Oh, and Fate is having fun with my e-mail again. Old names in the inbox conjuring ghosts with a simple two-word spell have left me in a head space that I cannot describe or explain. I think, perhaps, it is time to let some of these tears out before Fate is tempted to see how high she can build the pressure. I don’t know how much more I could take even if I wanted to.

So today the Pagan Queen finds herself on the road…..well, more like in the air. At the moment I’m sitting at some random airport that shall remain nameless (Newark) waiting for my connection. I could post random travel thoughts but there are things here that have caught my attention and deserve their own space.

To know me is to love me know that religion is a hot button for me. So imagine my reaction when I arrived here and saw a stage set up next to the food court in my concourse (the same one where the flights to Tel Aviv leave from, both that gate and mine border the food court).  The banner on the stage makes some random proclamation about celebrating ‚ÄúBlack History‚Äù so you‚Äôll have to imagine my surprise that nearly a third of the robed singers on stage were not black (ok, a quarter if you use the criteria of paler than lily white arse). Surprise quickly gave way to shock when every single song they performed was Christian Gospel.

I couldn’t escape without leaving my gate and had no choice but to listen to the choral musings on the divinity of Jesus. Did you know he was born of a virgin? I heard that today. About 50 times. In tune at least.

There are a couple of things that bother me here. The first is the simple fact that I‚Äôm pretty sure I‚Äôm not the only non-Christian who had to deal with this. Unless Christian men have taken to wearing yarmulkes, that is, in which case my observations are wholly inaccurate. Now, there‚Äôs nothing wrong with a little cultural literacy among friends but I do have to wonder what day Klezmer music is performed here. I fly back through on Wednesday, what kind of performance do you suppose they host for Odin?  I don‚Äôt mean to be cynical‚Ķ..ok, I don‚Äôt want to be cynical but in the absence of a reason not to be I mean to be, for now‚Ķ..and I have a cynical feeling that this is solely a Christian thing.

Now the second point, and I hope someone politely corrects me if I‚Äôm wrong here, is that the combination of ‚ÄúBlack History‚Äù and ‚ÄúChristianity‚Äù doesn‚Äôt seem right to me. Typically when I hear folks talking about Black History the reference is to pre-slavery history.  My understanding, limited as it is, is that Christianity was introduced to the slaves. So essentially lumping Christian teachings and music with Black history leaves us celebrating slavery.

Odin help us all.

And for those of you waiting for a random airport snarkage:

1. Saggy boobs do not belong under a low-cut V-neck (think navel-revealing) under ANY circumstances much less air travel when things get slung unattractively over shoulders and catch on clothing. Then again, I didn’t want airport food anyway.
2. Speaking of clothing shifting – I know I’m glorious to behold and yes, that is a bra strap – but neither of those facts constitute permission to stare.
3. Will I ever be able to fly again without the need to pre-medicate with narcotics and still hope for some miracle end to my suffering? I think this year I shall only fly with a companion so that I can be well and truly medicated for any and all altitude changes.