I wrote this post for elsewhere, but then after I finished writing it, it did not seem appropriate there. So this is me, Georg, the woman behind the curtain posting. I may post more often if I post here as myself sometimes, who knows- maybe someone will find it interesting. If I post as me alone, I'll mark it as Out of Chracter. Otherwise, please assume it's still Jeannie as normal.
I do not love my husband in spite of his faults. I love him, in large part, because of them. They are part of him. I have accepted this. I have done my best to understand him and take him for what he is. While there are aspects that I do not like (like the smoking habit), I do not nag him to change. I believe this is a waste of my time. He knows my opinion on the subject- I see no need to nag about it.
In exchange for accepting who he is, he accepts me for what I am. Unshaved legs and all. That acceptance of who I am is beyond any value I can place. We agreed when we first started seeing each other that we would speak our minds and be honest with each other. Sure, the truth can hurt. But that pink elephant in the middle of the room hiding behind white lies is far more toxic to a good relationship. While a wise man will answer No when asked, "Do I look fat in this?"-- the wise woman will never ask.
I know I'm not without my own collection of difficulties and that I can be hard to deal with, in part due to my physical limitations (violent allergies to perfumes and cleaners). And he has willingly learned to cope with my problems as I have learned to cope with his.
Relationships are about compromises and figuring out what works to make the relationship work and your partner at least content, if not happy, without too much of your own expense. That's why it's give and take. I could rant for days about the fairy tale of one kiss and it's all golden- NOTHING works like that outside of stories. Frankly, I recommend to all my friends before they get married to ask themselves- if that person could no longer physically have sex for the rest of their lives, would I still want to spend the rest of my life in a committed relationship with them? And if the answer is yes, then you should get married. Because that *can* happen, and life with that person with no sex should be better than life without them, with or without sex. Finding your companion is difficult, and it's easier to literally stumble on them than to actively search.
Sex sells in modern advertising. It's cheap. It hits literally below the belt. It's natural to have a glandular response to such things. But the mature person is able to think without involving the glands. The mature person thinks using the brain and not the gonads, and determines for themselves if they wish to use whatever the sex is trying to sell. It doesn't matter what the sex is trying to sell you- whether it's a hot member of your gender or preference trying to sell themselves to you for a relationship, or a sandwich, or a TV show. It's up to the consumer to determine for themselves to think with their brain instead of their gonads as to whether or not it's worth it. This is a sign of maturity. Sometimes, I don't mind being led by my gonads- but I make the choice to do so. Most of the time, my brain is in charge, and I can't help but feel sorry for the idiots incapable of going beyond thinking with gonads.
I have tried for a very long time not to see the sexes differently. In our cores, there's a lot of thinking that we do that is identical. I have always loved books where the hero overcomes huge obstacles to rescue the object of the hero's affections- regardless of who has a penis or who has tits (or if they match). I like books better when the person in the jam rescues themselves (especially when they meet their would-be rescuerer halfway), and I truly wish I had read more of these when I was younger. What is different is the outer socialized shells and how we treat others- and very few people have the gift of stepping truly into the skin of another person to understand their own bigotry. Tolerance and communication, open honesty solves most of these problems. However, it is so rarely employed equally. Some times, the hardest skill is to just listen, and not just wait your turn to speak or spend more time analyzing the spin than what is actually there.
I remember one year submitting as my kissmoose wish list: Patience, Love and Understanding. I was terribly hurt when the list was handed back to me with a confused, "That's nice, dear. Now pick out something real." That's still on my wishlist, but at least I get some from my friends and Jazz. I wish everyone had more patience, love and understanding. Empathy and honesty are wonderful treasures.
Be who you are first. Embrace who you are and to thine own self be true. If anyone tries to get you to change that, learn why - listen. Judge for yourself if the tradeoffs are worth while. And never let anyone steal your joy.
¶ 11:34 AM
It's not just the smell- the heavy funk of fabric softener and cloying scents of the soap to give you the comfortable delusion that if your clothes smell better, they are some how rendered sterile and thereby clean.
I will not try to tell you about how my fingers itch to clean the machines before I use them. Or how many times I like to try to run a garment through a machine before I am comfortable attempting to place it next to my skin.
The danger does not lie in the possible conversation with anyone in the establishment or in the race to get usable machines and ensure that no one else so much as touches my garments or the machines I wish to use. Visiting the laundramat makes me wish it was socially acceptable to pee over everything and say, "THIS IS MINE. BACK OFF." But, alas, it is not so. I can't even sprinkle the borax in a border around my turf to keep the ants out like I can at home.
The real danger is the small children so trustingly exploring. So willfully abandoned. Young mothers who bring their children and expect the entire landromat to assist in the discipline and guarding of their children. I am torn between tossing sweets into the dryer, luring one into my car, or encouraging them to help me fold my sheets. I content myself with making fish faces as they run screaming by.
There are a pair of twins, not even a week old that some one has brought. She fusses over one of the babies while she loads her machines and waits. The other is asleep in a carrying basinet, placed very close to me. Already, two women have complimented me on my sleeping treasure. No one would blink if I just carried the babe out to the car. No one would notice. There are no cameras. Some already think it is my son. Perhaps I could name him William or Hubert. No one would ever know. The young mother fusses over one of her babies. Who would give a thought to her spare?
Laundromats are very dangerous places.
I will nag Frank again to fix the dryer. I will tell him of plans to fix it myself instead, and that will achieve my goal.
¶ 2:21 PM
The dumbest thing any man has ever said to me was said last week. I had just come back from my physical, and Frank had the nerve to tell me, "Well, at least you did not have to bend over."
I was in shock. How can he not know that they have far worse tortures for females than just a finger in the bum? All they do for a male, beside ordering them to cough, is stick a finger in, wiggle it, and check the prostate gland.
For a woman, they do that check for hemorrhoids. Then they get serious. You have to lie on your back, change into drafty scraps of fabric, drape a sheet over your legs so you can pretend they aren't looking at what they are looking at, and put your legs up in the air so the doc and his or her pet nurse can pay hide and go seek under the damn tent. And then they get out the equipment out of the freezer, and frankly anything they are doing down there that involves *equipment* OUGHT to frighten you. If a man ever saw a speculum pointed at him, I think he'd faint.
I thought it really funny when they showed me the newest models they have. They are made of plastic, so they are supposed to not be able to get cold. HA. And they have lights. And I can just picture some little unsuspecting kid wanting to play with the viscous biting ray gun of death... *ping* *pow* *zot* *bite* These new things are "sterile" so you know no one else has ever used them. I'm still not comforted by that fact.
Sometimes I wonder about the accessory person. Far too often they are just standing there looking more embarassed than you, and you are the one with your butt hanging off the edge of a table, with the breeze blowing over your nether regions. This last one I had was a pretty young thing who looked as if she'd never seen an untrimmed thing in her life. I blame Playboy's air brushes. I can't rent them for my close ups.
I don't know much, but I do know who ever determined that women need these things yearly was a sadistic, dirty old man. I hope he rots in Hell.
¶ 7:11 AM
This rather schizophrenic blog was started as a fictional blog, written by a character of a story. I've since taken it over for writing personal stuff I don't mind sharing with anyone who cares.
I am also writing thoughts about writing and stories that move me.
Anything not marked might be just me, Georg, posting as myself.
It's just this blog, okay? Some of it is story. Some of it is animals. Some of it is knitting. It's a blog.
For story #1, I do recommend starting from the beginning of this blog if you haven't read this before.
Please start at the beginning.
I did mean it to be for http://www.nanowrimo.org - but I never got quite got it done under the wire.
Jeannie is the author/main character.
Frank is her husband. Poor man.
Tony is musician/singer.
Angie is a teenager, who was Jeannie's best friend. Now currently dead.
Honestly, there is no connection between Jeannie and me and Frank and my husband.
Frank and Ether. This will be much weirder than Frank and Jeannie. I like the name Frank. No one expects a Frank to lie.
A desert story. Anna is the main character. Currently there is only her little brother and an old servant, and a mysterious redhead.
The necro story. A young necromancer heads off to the Hated Ones to find her trousseau.