Dear Dear Diary
I've been playing with a blog rating tool
today. Apparently, this blog is rated PG-13 because I say hell and suck too much. Oddly, the rating tool did not count my use of Fuck, and that amuses me to no end. My friend Tami's blog is just PG, because she said something was a "crap shoot." Worse, when I first entered Tata's blog, I used the wrong URL (poorimpulsecontrol.com) and got a G rating. I almost fell out of my chair. But then I entered the correct URL, and it was rated R, as perhaps it ought to be, because it deals with real issues in real language, and we can't have the little kiddies learning about sex and death and love and joy and so on. Wildrun was a G, which i thought mildly strange. But I was terribly amused that my niece's blog was NC-17, since she has the word "zombie" 7 times. Maybe I need to talk about zombies more. Giggle.
Other than knitting a ball-gag for a gag gift, my life hasn't been all that interesting.
Why is it that women believe someone else is stronger than they are? We sit alone in the cold and dark and we forget individually just how big our hearts really are.
We can do anything we put our minds to it.
I believe Tata can do anything with a fierce determination and courage that staggers me. She amazingly believes the same of me. So why do I let myself crawl?
Last weekend was a new low for me. I was judging the Arts & Science competition, which is my job at this particular event. Folks put their art for me to look at and trust that I will take care of their Art while they run off and enjoy the event and I will peruse their stuff and decide who wins.
Well, I certainly "took care" of a couple of pieces of Art. Sigh.
Someone entered a piece of stained glass that he had created from scratch, including blowing the glass, casting the lead for the edges, and casting the solder. I stood it up on edge to admire it, and someone tromped by, jiggling the table, causing it to fall. I tried to catch it, but it fell to the floor, shattering one of the panes of glass. The baron was very gracious about my disaster, but it helped that I threw myself at his feet, apologizing. I think I owe them cookies.
Later, I needed a glass of something to calm my nerves. I opened my last bottle of pommegranate mead (a wine I made 9 years ago from organic pommegranate juice) and poured myself a glass. I then chatted up a friend I hadn't seen for a while as he admired the A&S display. I don't know how, but I ended up pouring the glass of mead over me and someone's illuminated scroll. Thankfully it was unframed so it is repairable. I was going to discuss with the artist her bad choice of paper- it was an expensive cold press, and calligraphy is easier on hot press- but since I dumped the mead on it, I certainly am not going to criticize it further! Her brush control is exquisite, and she will continue to make fantastic art. She also was very gracious about my immediate apology. I'll probably give her cookies. My dress is still stained, but that matters very little to me.
I immediately stopped drinking and handed off the bottle of wine to other people. Later at dinner, I was waiting my table as is my won't... and when the course which included pea soup was announced, I declared to all and sundry, "I will NOT carry the Soup!"
Which fortunately generated a laugh.
Irrational chivalry pisses me off.
I'm part of the SCA. Love the club, really. But one of the ideals is Chivalry, and some of the males use it as an excuse to smother the females, in the guise that they are proving they are men and protecting the women. Most of them don't realize how idiotic it is- just like yelling at the King for carrying his own throne (which I have done). Basic chivalry involves being polite and respectful.
Rules for carrying things:
If you are carrying nothing, and you see someone carrying too much, offer to help them.
If I am carrying something, it is acceptable for anyone to offer to help carry. It is also okay for me to say, "I got it," and that means don't grab it out of my hands. I also may say where there are more things to carry, and it's okay to help or not help. If you say you have it, when I offer to carry something, I will take you at your word. Don't then hand it off to another man, the next person who asks.
If someone else is carrying something and they see me carrying something too, it's not okay to insist on adding my load to theirs, leaving me with nothing to carry. I end up following you with nothing to hold, and I feel like an idiot.
It is not acceptable to refuse my offer to help carry things because I am female. Do Not tell me to go fetch a "real man" to help you carry when I am here and willing to help and I am stronger than I look. Do not insist that only men can move things, because then I just get pissed off. I have put down the cane and pushed a car out of the mud all by myself before.
All are welcome to open a door for someone else, and hold it as they go through. Ideally, this should be the first person to reach the door, regardless of gender. However, those who are carrying something should have the door held by someone who is not carrying anything, regardless of gender.
Don't drop what you are carrying and run to open a door for me when I am not carrying anything. The temporary president of my college did this to me. I went to a Women's College. I was so mad, I could not say thank you.
Please be gracious and say thank you when I open a door for you. I don't want to argue about who goes first. Particularly when you are carrying something and I am not. I have gotten better mundanely about opening the door, walking through and pushing it so it stays open for the person behind me, which seems to be encouraged in mundanity. But I still prefer holding doors.
If it's my car, I am going to unlock your side first, as you are my guest. Don't be angry with me for this. (an ex-boyfriend used to have a cow about this. He held open the car door for me when it was his car, why cannot I do the same for him? But he never saw that)
Fran is the widow of Joe
.... our neighbors up the hill.
Fran knows I like to sew. Fran is lonely. Fran doesn't see me enough. Fran is clever enough to volunteer for sewing projects, then call me, "I need your brains, Georgie. Come over here when you can." And I go over and she gives me the sewing project, so I will sit with her and talk a little. Yesterday it was curtains for Michael's "project for cancer." I don't know what Michael (her grandson) is planning to do with several panels of curtains sewn end to end, but I have to do them today, or they won't be done on time. Michael is a good boy, who would be offended if I told him that. He mows her lawn and tries to get her recipes out of her. The week before, it was new cushions for the bench on her porch, which I don't see her using nearly enough. This weekend, I grilled hot dogs and brought her a couple, and I sat and watched her eat, or she probably would not have eaten that night.
Last night though, she managed a burst, "I thank God for having you move next door to us. He knew what he was doing. God will pay you back for this some day." I just smiled and held her hand for a moment. I hope I get nice neighbors when I am old. I'll need them too.
I'm not looking forward to finding Fran gone. But I'm pretty sure it'll be me. Her daughter visits every day, or near it. But she calls me to use the house key and check on her when she isn't answering the phone, and I knew this would be the case when she gave me the key.
If you need me later today, you'll find me at the sewing machine, sewing for cancer, for Michael, and for Fran.
Down my street is a young hearing girl born to deaf parents. She is treated like the precious treasure she is by her parents who speak only in sign and half-formed grunts. She has had, I am sure, a lot of speech training to make sure she doesn't speak only like her parents. But she talks to herself more than I ever have, because there is no one to complain of her internal dialog escape. I listened in as she tromped by our house, abusing a flower and tossing the petals every where while she complained of a former friendship. "She's not an Angel, no matter what her name is, and I gave her a chance, and she abused that chance and I will not speak to her no more." And I felt the echoes in my own life ripple. But I did not swarm off my porch and let her know how damaging it can be to be overheard, to not give another chance ever, or even correct her grammar. I let her be. Sometimes that's for the best too.
I have the feeling that Angel is the Girl Scout I had to chase for my cookies. I followed her home, and her father argued on the stoop with other men about deliveries and other issues that I tried very hard not to pay attention to, while I was just waiting there for my cookies. I told them I just wanted my cookies. And Angel just stood on the porch and stared at the men, clutching my cookies. Finally, her father said, "Give her the cookies!" and our frozen tableau moved. I handed over money and she handed over the cookies. I marched, triumphant, away- the yelling began before I finished crossing the street. Again, I tried not to listen. None of my business.
Maybe I am better off hiding in my coccoon. I know nothing, I see nothing, I hear nothing... I am nothing then.
I always think of good blog posts when I'm not at the computer.
I want to give a shout out to Script Frenzy which is the NaNoWriMo variant for June- write a 20,000 word script in a month. This should theoretically help anyone with writing, and I have thought of re-writing Dear Dear Diary the story as a movie script. My sweetie and I have talked about making a movie of it- if we did go to film it, I would probably play Jeannie and our friend John would end up playing both Frank and Tony, because that just adds to the drama. I would expect him to change his hair and clothes to distinguish between the two men. After all, Tony is a bit of a fantasy of what Frank could have been/used to be to her.
The hard part is conveying the rants- Jeannie's inner commentary on the world. These are what make the best reading, and probably the best reading on this blog. I should just post more rants.