Fragile Industries

I Can Tell It's Summer Because ...

1. More people are Hiking The Appalachian Trail. 

2. More state governors are facing retirement, voluntarily or not.

3. Some people have accomplished #1 and #2 (above) at the same time.

4. In California, school's out.  Including summer school.  4 Evah, possibly.

5. Time to switch to bloom fertilizer.

6. I'm in my second month of radical dentistry.  Ow. Yesterday AND today. Owwww.

7.  My mother, who claims to favor bland nursery food, just made a dinner request of chili cheese dogs with onions and corn on the cob.  (I might be able to gum the cheese, but I'm sticking to liquids.)

Summertime!  Fish are jumping (out of Governor Palin's waders) and Fragile Industries is high (do megadoses of Alleve and Ovaltine count?)  ...

Going Off the Rez....

 

I'm going away for a week.

I  have had a 12+ hour day getting the home front in order before I leave.  For Mom: O2 deliveries, food run, a bunch of tupperwares for Mom's meals carefully labeled, along with toting 6 (count 'em, 6) liters of Smirnoff upstairs (moi?  an enabler?), directions for cat meds written out, along with lists of phone numbers for everything from my cel phone to the vet to a helpful neighbor, copies of my itinerary.  Lori the White Trash Cleaning Lady is in thrall to Mom and will be here for a few hours every day, so all should be well.

Then the pre-packing: more tupperware to take with me, containing lots of wiccan herbs and crystals and special sachets and god knows what, so that I can cleanse and purify the farm.  20+ acres.  There will be a full cleansing, a sage smudging with outdoor burning of aromatics (lavender, rosemary, eucalyptus, from my own garden, plus bunches and bunches of purchased sage), plus homemade and sewn purification sachets and bath teas -- then a chicken baked with sage, lavender, rosemary --- herbs d' provance ... did witchcraft influence French cuisine?

 

Then crating a fragile but adorable lamp for grandbaby that I hope makes the trip (LOTS of styrofoam and bubble wrap), books, dog chews, cat treats, sex toys (My farmer is so cute!  He found a toy shoppe in Minneapolis and ordered ahead, there will be a parcel to pick up on the way from the airport -- the advantages of an Asbergian lover is they focus so wonderfully) and if I'm lucky I can pack some clothes.  Those seem optional.

 

I'm more worried about leaving my lush garden than Mom or the cats.  With my assiduous care, 12 gorgeous plants in pots stand on the 3d floor deck, with silk flowers staked alongside and wire-mounted to branches (like that's going to fool anyone)  -- they are a marvel.  Less than 8 weeks from seed, and they are 3'+ tall and 3' wide, bursting with rude good health.  I pray they don't start blooming while I'm gone, I have to murder the boys once they show themselves.  I've gone over the top with organic nutrients and pest control, I have a sensor for light, alkaline-acid balance and watering, I have named every leaf.

 

And now they're on their own for 8 days.  I've explained it to them, they nod their green heads, but I wonder if they really understand that today's soaking, feeding and massage is the last for a while.  Oh yeah, they call them weeds, but these are the most pampered plants in the universe.

 

Thursday, we had a bit of excitement -- a woman was brutally murdered about 2 blocks away.  There may be a serial killer on the loose in My Little Town -- the crime was nearly identical to the brutal murder (I'm just copying the "Breaking News" lingo -- "brutal murder" is what makes it to CNN, as these have) of a couple living about 4 miles up the coast on Faria Beach.  So of course I'm triple-checking locks and windows, but the real threat were all the news and police helicopters hovering within view of the deck.  That's when I got the silk flowers out.  Bless our sweet neighbors -- two came by to remind us to lock up carefully at night.  I think Mom and I are on the list of The Crazy Ladies We Love on Kingston Lane. 

 

All this will wash away once I'm in the pleasant, cow-fucking land of Minnesota.

 

I can't wait to see what happens.

 

See ya in a week or two.

 

It Beats The Cadillac Ranch

 

"You may be right, I may be crazy." -- Billy Joel

But doesn't this make perfect sense?

http://www.eternalreefs.com/

I always wanted my remains put, raw, under a tree.  How cool, to feed a tree.  Or in the Plains Indian tradition, hoisted to the top branches of a tree and feed the crows.

Modern mortuary science, and a few laws, frown on these practices.

This seems like the next best thing, it's legal, and frankly, coral reefs are the prettiest places on earth.  The colors, the action, it's like Walt Disney threw up.  And coral reefs are dying.  So are trees, but they aren't as fragile.  This blog is all about the fragile.

Let it be known, if I'm hit by a bus tomorrow, or a wayward tractor while in Mee-neh-soh-tah next week (whee!)  -- put my ashes to work.  I kinda want to be a part of the Great Barrier Reef, or one of those little South Pacific atolls, not some Florida thing, but whatever.

Self-Indulgent Musings On Love

It's all good.  It just is. 

Love of family -- even when the obligations of same are enormous. 

Love of nature and green growing things, especially when you've sprouted them from seed and throw down your body before the leaf borers, spider mites, and mold. 

Love of new information, however acquired, in whatever tantalizes your geekiest impulses. 

Love of neighborliness in those folks you see in quotidian life, the bag boys who, you discover, were also punk rockers ages ago and never expected to live this long, or the owner of the used book shop where you exchange your books and she, too, is hopelessly in love with Orson Wells, circa 1947 (and boy, is Rita Hayworth going to be pissed). 

Love shared with classmates from high school who remember when we were all Serious Thespians and we drove aimlessly around our little town drinking bourbon from pint bottles, talking about Tennessee Williams and Stanislavsky. 

Love between those same classmates when we laugh about where we are now -- estrogen-deprived and middle-aged and still misfits. 

Love in gatherings of friends, feeding them, entertaining them, giving of oneself and saying, yes, this is good. 

Love of the furry companions who ask only our continued presence and attention. 

Love of those we've met along the way in shared pursuits, opera, travel, books, food, cooking, life.

Love of a city, a perfume, a sensation, the taste of foie gras.

Love -- the knowing one can love, that it is not dead, the familiar and the strange and the scary bravery in saying, yes, this is another beloved and I will defend and protect and enjoy this human, this animal, this plant, this commonality.

Love.

I'm letting myself do this again. I'm letting myself continue.  I'm finding that those I loved first I loved most, and even if there is no chance for the expected norm of love-partnership-cohabitation-legal ties (marriage or whatever legal construct is appropriate) -- saying this, this is all good.  I will embrace the temporary neediness without expectation.  I will enjoy the now and the future nows with patience.  I will stand astonished at the way life works and how little, and how much, one changes over 40 (gasp) years.

There are times when it is so easy to love, and love beyond limitation, that it has to be right and fuck the rules -- one surrenders.

Dear readers, Devoted Readers, this is the first time in 4 years of blogging I have slipped to the level of such sentiment.  But I can, unafraid, unashamed, without future promise and in the now, say that I love not only family, bag boys, classmates, my garden and pets, I love a human being with all my heart.

The Rewards of Being Auntie Mame

 

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It is amazing (or maybe not) how many blessings, like the flowers in the picture above (blossoms from the Loire Valley -- 2007), I find in my own back yard.  I have come to adore the next generation in my family.  They are wiser than I at their age -- perhaps that's to be expected in the logarithmic advance of time.  And there is something very green and fruitful and fresh in the communion with people one has known before utero, known the parentage and followed along their lives, which tag along one's own.  And then, suddenly, wonderfully, catch up -- and have wisdom to share.  Let's never get so old that we can't appreciate that. 

And hey nieces (I'm talkin' 'bout you) I was the one to send lace-trimmed-hand-embroidered newborn-sized dresses from Bloomies in Beverly Hills (where I worked at the time, mid '80's) just because I KNEW your mommies and daddies were clothing you in Oshkosh or thrift store.  After that, you were on your own for style.  And you've made me proud.  Style is wisdom -- style is self-confidence -- style is originality.  You've both got that going in spades.

Come see Auntie Mame here in Bakersfield-By-The-Sea and we'll go have caviar (or a vegan alternative) and champagne.

Full Disclosure, Chapter 4

In which legal issues are discussed.

Early this year, Athena took the ex to small claims court. She petitioned to collect the monies she had advanced to the ex when they were together, when she expected his fortunes to reverse and his affection to continue, unsullied. As I had, for years. As all his women had. Because Athena is smarter than me, she had the documents to prove it. In addition, she allowed in her claim those small sums he had advanced as partial payment. Her petition to the court reeked of honesty.

The ex actually appeared in court to answer the claim, though he filed no opposition papers nor a counterclaim. I had bet that he wouldn’t even appear. The small claims judge heard Athena’s case, simply presented, and turned to the ex. “Did she give you this money?” “Yes,” said the ex. “Do you owe her the amount she claims?” “Yes,” he said, “But …” The ex claimed he was owed money for handyman work on her property. The impatient judge said, that has to be a separate claim. You filed no counterclaim. In fairness, he asked Athena about the obviously fraudulent invoice of recent invention the ex waved around. She quite honestly responded that she had never seen it before, it had never been presented to her for payment.

The judge banged his gavel, rendered verdict for Athena and called, “Next.”

I was very glad for her, not for the money, it’s not about money, but because someone, finally, had called him to account, called him on his abusive pattern.

Then she told me he had filed an appeal.

Now, Devoted Readers, you may not know my professional background. I blush to admit it, but I am a damn good lawyer. After an honors degree from USC Law, and five years in private practice, specializing in appellate law, I transitioned to public service with the courts. I spent a year as a chambers attorney with the First District Court of Appeal in California, writing opinions for a great justice. I then served a dozen or so years with the California Supreme Court’s Civil Division, ending up as Senior Research Attorney for the Civil Central Staff. I loved my job, the constant writing, being on the cutting edge of the law without having the impediment of being an advocate. My job was finding the true resolution of knotty problems, and recommending to one of the leading state courts in the nation which cases were worthy of their attention. The job required not only keen skills in legal research, writing, and insight, but an appreciation of the politics and personalities of the Court.

The ex had attended numerous Court events open to spouses, and though I rarely took my work home, he had listened attentively when I shared with him some of my challenges at work, both in pure law and the interoffice realities. As I had listened sympathetically to his work stories from an animation studio, when he had a real job. That’s a good part of marriage.

I thought he might have learned something from ten years with one of the best appellate attorneys in the state. Like knowing when not to appeal a dead-dog loser of a case.  Apparently not.

Full Disclosure, Chapter 3

In which I meet Athena.

A few weeks later, I received an email out of the blue from my ex’s most recent ex. It was a long letter, sent to a mass mailing of women gleaned from his email history.

(By way of exculpation for the sender, this was only after she had hard evidence of his abuses.  As, after he broke into my email and computer, I checked the ex's computer, and found not only email evidence of his affairs, but a photographic record, on the desktop, of one of his more anonymous sexual encounters. It proved he had had unsafe sex, exposing me to God Knows What.  During the time I visited my mother over Christmas.  Feh.  His outrage over being hacked is soooooo disingenuous.  Even a year after our split, he was still hacking into my email and erasing messages.) 

As a preface to my letter, this woman, I’ll call her Athena, in mind of her strength and wisdom, said, I know you are not a party to his recent actions, but perhaps you’ll find this interesting, or words to that effect.

Of course, I was skeptical. But as I read this letter, I recognized very old patterns, very old lies, the same ploy of the repentant bad boy, the claims of victimhood, the same damn cycle of financial abuse, told by someone of uncommon erudition and expression. Moreover, I admired the tone. The overall purpose of this communication was not to tell off the “other women,” not to claim victimhood, but instead to tell the straight story of the ex’s relationship with her, what she was told, where he was and when, so that the multitude of other women in his life during that time could compare notes and know the truth. Instead of the ex’s spin. I applauded her chutzpah in doing such a thing. I wished one of his disappointed lovers had done the same for me during my courtship and marriage, when it might have made a difference.

Athena had brought about my ex’s Worst Nightmare: that all the women he was juggling, setting at odds, filtering all information between, would come together and realize the depth of the dishonesty. At long last, he was exposed as a user, a gigolo, who targeted attractive, intelligent, sensitive women who incidentally were women of property.

I was appalled that, all claims to the contrary, my ex had learned nothing, repented nothing, but kept repeating the same pattern, over and over and over again, and hurting other women.

At first, I responded hesitantly to Athena. As our communication broadened, I more and more admired her. I wished I had her confidence and self-possession when it had ended with the ex, to warn others in the spirit of warning, not blame and hostility.

A few days later, I telephoned the ex to give him one last opportunity for explanation. I asked him, when are you going to stop hurting women, good women, who do nothing wrong but love you? He said “It’s complicated,” and hung up.

Shortly thereafter, I went to San Francisco on one of my Culture Whore visits, full of opera and museums and treating myself to good food and better friends. I met Athena while I was there, and liked her immediately. We learned much from each other. She and I were on similar ground -- although their relationship had been of less than a year’s duration, she was still deeply wounded yet finding her feet. I was older news, but after a long marriage, at about the same stage of healing. Beyond our broken yet mending hearts, we found a lovely common ground of intelligence, humor, and strength.  That evening, and a later party at Houston's, was full of laughter and wry wisdom.

The ex, sensing this coming together, sent Athena a revealing email: he told Athena exactly how to seduce me and mentioned that in a few years, she could count on a financial payoff as I was heir to a substantial estate. That was the last nail in the coffin. I could not help but wonder how often he had made the same calculation, speaking sweetly to my wealthy mother as he concealed his disregard for me.

Athena and I maintained our friendship, for a true friendship it was, as her life moved on. I considered asking the ex to be a screening board for my future friends. He had a knack of finding women very much like myself whom I might not have found on my own for friendship.

I heard from other ex-friends of the ex’s and learned that he had even reached out to platonic friendships and had obtained money from them, never repaid, friends of durations longer than mine. He seemed to be veering dangerously out of control, the wheels were coming off. He had engaged in no meaningful employment for years, still clinging to fantasies of his own self-importance and brilliance. When I heard all this, I remembered the words of a long-ago friend who said, when I described the ex’s dreams, “He still needs a day job.” The ex was above that. As long as he could live off women.  And lie.

Another friend said, "When he got money from you, he thought he was clever.  But really, he was just lucky."

While I'm on the topic of memorable quotes, when the ex had me arrested on the night of our final separation, and I was tossed in a holding cell full of prostitutes, we soon established a common ground and were all sharing our female perspectives.  There I was, middle aged, wearing a twin-set cardigan and tasteful pumps, and they in hotpants and platforms.  When I first walked in, trembling, ready for the movie-of-the-week Linda Blair jailhouse rape, one hooker looked up and smiled.  "Girlfriend, you look sooooo INN-o-cent!"  I remembered the famous line from "Shawshank Redemption."  "But we're all innocent, right?"  After that, I was golden.  I told them that I was arrested after I had gotten upset when I learned that the ex had not only fucked the maid, but a co-worker who had been a frequent dinner guest.  The whole collective nodded knowingly.  The youngest hooker pointed to the cement block wall.  "Honey, you could drill a hole in that and he'd stick his dick in it."  We all nodded again, sisters under the skin.

So I was ready for the revelations of Athena, of old friends, of other exes of my ex.  I was only surprised by the levels of his stupidity.

Next: Legal stuff!

Full Disclosure, Chapter I

In which I start to unpeel the layers of the onion publicly.

I’ve been good, at least I’ve tried to be good, honest I have.

There’s the occasional dig here at my most recent ex, but humorously done, tolerant. It hasn’t been much of a pose, of an attempt to seem blasé or worse, to curry favor (from him, his friends, or The World At Large). Rather, I’ve felt that some private things should stay private. I wanted to honor the good parts of my married past. Also, there is nothing less amusing than a truly bitter, hateful divorcee. It’s ugly, all that bile. Vulgar to endlessly rehash the past. I’ve been around men and women like that, who can drag any topic of conversation around to the nefarious deeds and character of the ex. Boring.

Another reason is that I really, really dislike the role of victim. I don’t want pity. Feh. Ick. The ex, on the other hand, has made victimhood a lifestyle choice, his preferred or even exclusive ploy to make friends and influence people in his favor. It’s worked pretty well for him. Worked on me. But for the most part, at least in our writing (we both write) we kept the dirty laundry in the hamper.

In fact, years ago, I started a separate, anonymous blog where I could go and vent when the bitterness in me demanded expression. I told no one, linked to it nowhere, and as far as I know, it has never been read, a lonely little orphan blog floating in the ether. Did me a lot of good. Haven’t written there in years and years.

In early 2006, about 20 months after our separation, my ex broke our unspoken covenant and blogged very publicly and explicitly about “a friend” who suffered grievous harm at the hands, and hammer, of his insane ex. How his blameless “friend” still had nightmares, was probably irretrievably broken as a result. A child could see through the masquerade of the “friend.” In fact, I knew my ex had told the story, in the first person, to everyone he knew at the time of our breakup. He led tours through the scene of the crime, posted photos in e-mail to those who could not attend in person.

I was livid. Maybe it’s the lawyer in me, but slander (verbal dishing) is very different when it gets in print -- it becomes libel, out there in the public view. Some very tense and hostile emails were exchanged, and the ex said he would pull the post, but wanted all references to HIM out of MY blog.

Though mine were far milder, I agreed, and glasnost reigned thereafter. I spilled a little, recently, in my post about the Oscars, but that was a small and necessary part of a much longer story about something else.

Today, I’ve got a great story and the gloves are off. And it’s not so much about me, or at least not an attempt to be the victim. It’s about vindication, and friendship and karma. Stay tuned, I’m still writing. Over the next few days, I have a story to tell.

I'm full of things I can't say.

*so she starts typing anyway*

The things that are on my mind I can't talk about.  This is strange.  I usually can write here without being aware of my Devoted Readers (be calm, though you may not always be on my mind, your are always near my heart).  But sometimes, I get stage fright, or the typographic equivalent, and see you all out there beyond the footlights.  It's inhibiting.

I'm very excited about a future plan, but I definitely can't talk about that, because the exciting part is its surreptitious nature.  If I told you, I'd have to silence you somehow.  Lacking the resources of Guantanamo Bay, it's best for all of us that I don't mention it.

I'm very very happy about my recent trip to Las Vegas, the healing and the reconnections and ... but no, that would be indiscreet.

I'm anxious about a future encounter with ... well, see, if I explain, certain readers in the family grapevine will report back and then there would be unpleasantness.

I'm girlish and comforted by my continued warm relationship with, um, no, can't go there either.

I'm mildly apprehensive about Thursday's appointment with my beloved derma doctor, but if I go into that, you see, you'll know just how vain I am.  And it's not Botox, I'll talk about THAT.  At great length, but then you'd be bored.

So, I'll talk about teeth and cat kidneys.  That's on my mind and absolutely riveting, yes?  Hello?

Never mind. 

There, now that everyone's cleared out, I can say here in this empty theater that I had the strangest dentist appointment today.  My front teeth, especially on the bottom, have started chipping here and there on the edges.  Toothwise, I lucked out in the genetic lottery.  I inherited my father's good strong teeth (with some occasional weirdness, like a baby molar that never had a grown-up tooth replace it and is hanging in gallantly, if rather undersized).  The other option was my mother's beautiful, but very English, teeth.  In other words, hers are long gone.  Her father had full fake choppers by 30 years old, she stretched it out somewhat longer.

(are you sure everyone's gone now?)

So now I have this whiz-bang up-to-the-minute dentist.  He's attractive, in a slightly rodential way, he's top of his craft, teaches at UCLA, extremely pleasant to a nearly suspicious degree, and has a passion for ABSOLUTELY PERFECT TEETH.  He was so crestfallen to see my nice strong, white, even chompers start to dwindle that he begged me to come in for a full evaluation.  He nearly wept when he told me about the dangers of misalignment -- and the progressive, insidious loss of enamel acreage that can result.  I hate to see a grown man cry, and frankly, I don't want to end up with a smile like a picket fence, so I went in today.  I was treated to a full 2 hours of strange procedures, photos, measurements, x-rays, mold-making, jaw-muscle probing, and biting down on strips of colored paper.  I suspect he just wanted to try out new toys on me.  The end result, as I understand this voodoo -- which I know is designed to remove unmarked bills of large denominations from my pocket -- is that I have a tragic misalignment of my bite, which makes my teeth chip.

I knew that already.

I'm just waiting for my sit down with Dr. Dreamy-Mouse, after he feeds all the mumbo-jumbo into his computer, hob-nobs with his fellow wizards, and receives the solution from the Sorting Hat.  It may cost millions of dollars and thousands of lives to preserve, protect and restore my ABSOLUTELY PERFECT TEETH.

Hmm. 

(Surely I've bored even the most stalwart Devoted Reader away by now.  No?)

Cat kidneys.  And thyroids.  So I have two old cats left of the 3 I left home with four years ago.  My, how time flies.  Kitch is 15, Peabody's 14.  Took them in for their annual exam a few weeks back, and I guess it's been a bad year for cats.  They both are in some undetermined phase of kidney trouble (to be determined by $640 worth of tests they had yesterday), need meds daily, and a new, expensive, prescription diet.  Fortunately, they adore the special food.  The meds will be here soon.  I know Pea will just sit resignedly when I dose him.  Kitch will turn into a spitting demon from hell.  I'm curious to see if anything stays down her gullet.  She's never been sick a day in her life and has a good 8 or so lives left, so I'm not worried about her.  She's too mean to die.

Peabody also has a very serious thyroid problem and already gets dosed twice a day for that.  If he's a candidate (which I will also learn from yesterday's testing), he can be cured through a radiation treatment.  The closest animal hospital that does this procedure for cat crazy owners with too much money is three hours away and he has to stay there for a full week.  That stress might just kill him outright, being locked in a cage away from home and me and being poked and prodded by strangers.  He's a bit neurotic, and has been through at least 7 of his lives already.  I'll stay in Irvine to visit him daily if it would help.  I am the poster girl for crazy cat owners with too much money.  Pea is the best husband I ever had, I lurve him ridiculously, and would give MY ABSOLUTELY PERFECT TEETH to keep him around, hale and hearty, for a few more years.

(OK, now I know I'm all alone.  The discussion of cat kidneys and thyroids got rid of any hangers on.)

But I don't want to talk about anything else right now, the mood has passed. 

*whispers to self, "I am an avenging angel, I got laid in Vegas and more, I really dislike a certain in-law, I happily love an old love, and I hope the laser doesn't hurt"*

What's On Your Bucket List?

If you remember the movie, it's the list of things you want to do before you kick the bucket.  Or another reference: the country song that says you should "live like you're dying," and lists skydiving, bull riding, and other pleasures, both simple and wild.

With all the fuss about the world ending in 2012 (I'll be grateful if we make it that far) I've talked to people who are thinking seriously about what they might leave undone.

So if you knew the world (or your world) was coming to an end, what would be on your list ... what have you already crossed off ... and what's keeping you from the rest?  This isn't a list of resolutions for self-improvement, necessarily, nor is winning the lottery a realistic item for a bucket list.

To illustrate, I'll start with 5 of mine (the list is much longer) in no particular order, and their status:

1. Eat duck at Tour d'Argent in Paris (not yet done - if someone picks up the bill for the commute, I'll buy dinner!)

2. Sing in a choir again even though I sing badly (not yet done, I should find some group desperate enough)

3. Experience a white Christmas (Done this past Christmas!)

4. Catch a snowflake on my tongue (Also done this Christmas, and no, I didn't stick my tongue on a flagpole, either)

5. Read ALL of Ulysses by James Joyce (tried three times, then skipped to the end three times)

How 'bout you?