Hamfist moved in a little over a year ago. I lived alone, except for cats, for 10 years before that, so I knew living together was going to be a difficult adjustment. What I've found so far is that it's a lot like culture shock: Not so much one big cataclysmic "everything is different" moment, but a series of smaller jolts around details I couldn't have anticipated. A lot of this is because of our inherently different wiring. We're about equally far from "neurotypical", in very different ways, and knowing that about ourselves really helps us to be patient with each other's quirks. But honestly, for a basically quiet, introspective, highly sensitive person such as myself, a big noisy ADD-having Leo is an extra-challenging housemate. I suspect it will be many more years before he truly understands that the lighter the touch he uses with me, the better results he'll get. I'm not even sure that "light touch" is on his menu. It is entirely possible that I'm in for a lifetime of flinching.
Most of it, though, is about the simple fact that living alone is what I like best. Yes, still - and I'm beginning to suspect that will always be true, just because I'm me. The example I always come back to is when I drop something in the kitchen: First the crash, then the cussing, then the cleanup. What fills me with (arguably disproportionate) rage is having explain the crash and the cussing. That has always pissed me off, no matter who was asking for the explanation - parents, roommates, doesn't matter. Really, if you're that curious, come look! Otherwise, just let me get on with the damage control; if I need help, I'll speak up.
Another problem is the simple physicality of sharing the space. I like it warmer than he does, and have zero tolerance for drafts. I'd rather be a little sweaty than have the fans blowing on me at full blast; I spent all summer sneaking around behind him, turning them down. He likes to play loud music and computer games, and can live with constant background noise. I don't, and can't. I've recently become aware that the way his big body blocks the light coming in the windows can sometimes irritate me so badly that I literally have to leave the room until he's done in there. Turning on overhead lights does not solve this; the problem is the change itself. It's like a flickering fluorescent bulb, but sloooowwww and, worse, lacks a predictable pattern.
About these things I at least feel entitled to my own position; I have a right to attend to my own comfort, especially in my own home. I will freely admit that the light thing, and many of my other personal space needs, are highly idiosyncratic, so much so that even having to verbalize them can be uncomfortable. It might be less so if not for the lifetime of experiencing people's responses to them, which have ranged from dismissive to hostile to condescending to pitying. Rarely has anyone ever just said, "Oh, okay, I'll try to keep that in mind".... Until Hamfist, that is. Even he is not unfailingly patient about it, but he sure comes closer than anyone else I've ever had to share space with.
Where I'm less clear about where to draw the line between his rights and mine is the matter of what I like to call "attention theft". I do not multi-task well, as most people seem to define it. If I were a juggler, I'd be the beginner kind who can keep maybe 3 balls in the air in a simple pattern, but if someone throws another ball at me, all 4 will fall. If I'm interrupted in the middle of a task, it throws me off badly enough that I often need to start over. How big a problem that poses of course depends on the circumstances, but it's compounded by the fact that there are almost always balls being juggled in my own head that are not visible to an outside observer. It's pretty much NEVER calm in here, people! So, unexpected demands on my attention can feel incredibly disruptive, and I'm not always polite about it when it happens and all those balls come tumbling down inside my head.
Cohabitation is by no means the only area in my life where this has been a problem, of course. The jobs where I've been most comfortable have been ones where the work I need to do goes into my inbox, I have clear instructions about what to do with it, I have resources to consult if I run into difficulty, and I'm let to get on with it, especially for tasks where accuracy and attention to detail are important. This has always seemed to me like a supremely reasonable way to go about things, but not every co-worker or boss I've ever had shared that belief. My last job was so far from that scenario that for my last 3 years there, it was a rare day that didn't find me crying from frustration, literally. Coming home to a quiet house where I could control the demands on my attention to some extent was so important. For months after I lost it, the stress of being unemployed was as nothing compared to the stress of that job. It wasn't until things got really bad financially that that balance started to shift.
In that setting, though, I could still tell myself that I was in the right, at least in part. This whole life-partners thing is different. Years ago, a friend whose child was about 5 at the time was acting out, and when the mom just sent him out of the room and told the adults "Oh, he just wants my attention", I recall thinking "Wait a minute, that's your 5-year-old; isn't he sort of entitled to your attention?". One of those things we non-parents think, but know better than to say out loud... I find myself recalling that often these days, as I'm trying to sort out how much of my attention my mate is entitled to. Recently my mom observed, when I was grousing about him wanting me to call him when I felt it was unnecessary, "Wow, he really wants to merge way more than you do." I think everyone wants to merge more than I do, frankly - and that's always been true, in every kind of relationship. Stand next to me, hold my hand, but please, stay the fuck out of my head. I get that pouring my coffee and trying so hard to add just the right amount of milk is a way he shows his affection. Prickly thing that I am, I would strongly prefer that he let me do it myself so I can be sure that it has just the right amount of milk, as a way of showing he understands me. It drives me absolutely batshit when I'm walking past him carrying a load of laundry or something to dump in the garbage, and he insists on grabbing me and kissing me as I pass. I get that there are people who would kill for that amount of affection; I know how ungracious, and ungrateful, it sounds for me to complain about it. Which is why I haven't said anything about it to him, and probably won't.
Because I am grateful for every drop of his affection, and his acceptance, and his patience with me. When I make a list of pros and cons, the balance is still way far on the pro side; even on the worst days, it breaks about even. I have to hope that as things are starting to turn around for us, slowly but surely, I'll be less anxious, less irritable, less menopausal... it will get easier. Even if it doesn't get easier, the unthinkable has happened: I need him. Financially for now - heavens yes, and how did I ever let myself get in this pickle?? - but even with that out of the equation, the thought of being without him makes me a little sick to my stomach. I need his help keeping my fixer-upper house and car afloat, I need the wall-o'-warmth that is his back in my bed, I need not to grow old alone if I am to age into sweetness instead of sourness. I prefer not to exercise; I preferred smoking, too, but I knew that my preference didn't make it the healthy thing to do. If there were a way we could do as Katherine Hepburn recommended men and women do - just live right next door to each other, and visit regularly - I'd jump on it in a minute. The fact that I chose a mate who I knew would never, ever settle for that tells me tells me that deep down, I know this is healthier for me too.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
A Wedding
Hamfist's oldest friend finally found himself a girl over the summer. We found out about it when he changed his Facebook status to "in a relationship" at the beginning of August. Within 2 weeks, that was updated to "engaged", and the same day Hamfist got a call telling him he'd need a tux for the 11/20 wedding. A couple days later, Groom called us, asked to talk to me, then promptly passed me off to Bride. I knew what was coming, and sure enough, I was asked to be a bridesmaid. I'd met Bride only once, and the notice was short, but she's not from around here, didn't have any close coworkers or anyone else to ask, and well, since Hamfist was already in the wedding party, why not? It's a mitzvah, so okay; I have tons of bridesmaid experience.
I've attended my then best friend, my mother and my sister, plus serving as witness/unofficial bridesmaid at one other friend's wedding. Every time I've done it, it's been for people with whom I had a close connection and I felt 100% positive about the marriage, or at least would never consider refusing. This time I was feeling superstitious and weird about my signature being on the marriage license as a witness; I wasn't sure I should do it if I believe the marriage is doomed. Okay, I knew the first one was doomed, but was too young to give my accountability much thought, and I was happy and proud to be attending my friend, who'd chosen me over both her sisters. Only in hindsight did I feel any discomfort in having anything to do with authorizing it, and I'm sure that was part of my discomfort with this scenario.
He's 42; she's 20. She's had only one prior boyfriend; he has a crazy bitter ex-wife who's kept him on a string for years and sends him stalkery texts. Her mother strongly opposes the match; not sure what's up with dad or bio-mom (yeah), but none of them would be present for the wedding. He's on disability but also works part-time and goes to community college, in Hamfist's hometown about 2 hours' drive from here. She apparently is no longer going to college, and had just given notice at her job so she could move to join him at his grandmother's filthy house that reeks of cat and stale cigarettes, to live with Gram, who is in the early stages of dementia, bringing her two cats to join the three that already live there.
To be fair, they do seem to be very much in love. So much so that the second time I met her, she sat on the couch with him and stroked his crotch right in front of us for a good 5 minutes. Hamfist and I haven't sustained eye contact for that long in months; eventually I thought of something to do in the kitchen, and he found some excuse to leave the room too. Thank goodness they had to leave to meet her mother for dinner - maybe it was nerves over that meeting that made her... Never mind.
The day after that, another call from Groom: The November formal wedding was off, or rather postponed/transformed to just a reception to be held next spring. In the meantime, they would be having a small ceremony at Bride's apartment October 8; it's close to Groom's mom's home so she could attend. We were still booked as best man and bridesmaid for that. Hamfist and I can only speculate that Bride's mom may have had some say, since no explanation was forthcoming. If Bride is pregnant, they haven't said so. Heaven knows I've been there and shouldn't talk, but well, the girl is not small. Not freakishly large - no, that character has yet to join us! - but she could easily be 5 -6 months along and no one would know. In any case, cool, now I wouldn't have to have my 12-year-old bridesmaid dress from my sister's wedding taken in. I'd been kinda psyched to be getting a second use out of it, though.
The next call from Groom was about a week later. Bride was being kicked out of her apartment because management had found out that she was renting out one of the rooms without authorization, in violation of her lease. This came to light when the authorities were doing a big sweep of the area, checking on all the registered sex offenders to make sure they're in compliance, living at the right addresses and so on. The unauthorized roommate, who is another old friend of Groom's and Hamfists, and thus the means of Bride and Groom's meeting, is an RSO. When the cops went to the apartment management to point out that since there are children living in the complex, he can't be there, the management was not at all pleased. I'm not clear how this worked out, but somehow Bride had to be out within 3 days, while Roommate had 30. Even though that made no sense to us, Hamfist of course agreed to help move her things into storage in his pickup, a week before the wedding. Naturally, I went along to help. Bride was at work, Groom was there supervising, and I got to meet Roommate. I was a little on edge about that, despite Hamfist's assurances that the sex offender thing is because of a "totally bogus rape conviction based on an aggrieved ex-girlfriend's lies" back in his misguided youth, nothing that would make him a threat to kids, or anyone else.
Well. Roommate is so morbidly obese that he literally can't walk from bedroom to living room without getting winded. He has an overactive thyroid and is on disability for that, plus he works from home as a customer service rep on the phone. From his bed. On his belly. In his underwear. With an attendant to do things like cooking and cleaning, since he can't stand for that long. My concerns were allayed - a crawling infant could outrun this Jabba the Hutt. However, I was glad to be called on to help with the moving, even though it meant three of us squeezing in the front of the pickup, so that I wouldn't be left alone with him in the apartment that reeked not only of cat and stale cigarettes, but of sour garbage and unwashed human as well. Also, there were no toilet seats, because they can't withstand Roommate's weight.
At last, the happy day arrived! Hamfist and I joked while picking out what to wear (a somber dress and boots for me, while Ham was rocking a very sophisticated Hawaiian shirt and khakis) that we'd probably be the best-dressed people there. Just about that time, Groom called with an update. While at the courthouse to pick up their marriage license, they decided? were convinced? to just do the deed then and there. However, since the main point of today's ceremony was that Groom's mom should be present, they didn't want her to know that she'd missed out on the actual event. This meant that we would not be required to sign as witnesses after all, which eased my mind, and everything else would just go forward as planned.
As we expected, Bride and Groom were both in dirty jeans and faded black rocker t-shirts. It was powerfully evident that Bride had not showered recently enough - and I say this as a person with pretty, ahem, European standards. On your wedding day? Really?? Any doubt I might have had - maybe the odor was just the result of nerves? - was dispelled when I was called upon to French braid her dandruffy, greasy hair. Mostly so that Groom's mother, hummingbirdlike in her anxiety, could take some obligatory pictures of Bride having her hair done.
The ceremony was performed by Roommate, who is, predictably, an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church. His concessions to the occasion included putting on a t-shirt and some shorts, and getting to the couch in the living room so we didn't all have to crowd into his bedroom. His attendant was also present, along with Groom's mom's life partner. Hamfist kept his arm around me, mostly so he could whisper in my ear, "Don't laugh... don't laugh..." I surprised myself by actually tearing up briefly, in response to Groom's mom, and to how obviously moved Roommate was to be marrying these, his dear friends. Even though he wasn't, really.
After the ceremony, those who smoke stepped outside to do so. I admired Bride's ring and congratulated Roommate on his smooth delivery - he did do a good job, and admitted to practicing several times in the mirror. Hamfist hustled us out of there as soon as possible; Happy Couple and family were off to dinner. On the way home I informed Hamfist that I will NOT be helping when it comes time to move Roommate out of there at the end of the month. There is no way I am touching anything of his. "Oh, and honey? Let's not have a sad, pathetic wedding in a room that reeks, okay?" "Deal."
I've attended my then best friend, my mother and my sister, plus serving as witness/unofficial bridesmaid at one other friend's wedding. Every time I've done it, it's been for people with whom I had a close connection and I felt 100% positive about the marriage, or at least would never consider refusing. This time I was feeling superstitious and weird about my signature being on the marriage license as a witness; I wasn't sure I should do it if I believe the marriage is doomed. Okay, I knew the first one was doomed, but was too young to give my accountability much thought, and I was happy and proud to be attending my friend, who'd chosen me over both her sisters. Only in hindsight did I feel any discomfort in having anything to do with authorizing it, and I'm sure that was part of my discomfort with this scenario.
He's 42; she's 20. She's had only one prior boyfriend; he has a crazy bitter ex-wife who's kept him on a string for years and sends him stalkery texts. Her mother strongly opposes the match; not sure what's up with dad or bio-mom (yeah), but none of them would be present for the wedding. He's on disability but also works part-time and goes to community college, in Hamfist's hometown about 2 hours' drive from here. She apparently is no longer going to college, and had just given notice at her job so she could move to join him at his grandmother's filthy house that reeks of cat and stale cigarettes, to live with Gram, who is in the early stages of dementia, bringing her two cats to join the three that already live there.
To be fair, they do seem to be very much in love. So much so that the second time I met her, she sat on the couch with him and stroked his crotch right in front of us for a good 5 minutes. Hamfist and I haven't sustained eye contact for that long in months; eventually I thought of something to do in the kitchen, and he found some excuse to leave the room too. Thank goodness they had to leave to meet her mother for dinner - maybe it was nerves over that meeting that made her... Never mind.
The day after that, another call from Groom: The November formal wedding was off, or rather postponed/transformed to just a reception to be held next spring. In the meantime, they would be having a small ceremony at Bride's apartment October 8; it's close to Groom's mom's home so she could attend. We were still booked as best man and bridesmaid for that. Hamfist and I can only speculate that Bride's mom may have had some say, since no explanation was forthcoming. If Bride is pregnant, they haven't said so. Heaven knows I've been there and shouldn't talk, but well, the girl is not small. Not freakishly large - no, that character has yet to join us! - but she could easily be 5 -6 months along and no one would know. In any case, cool, now I wouldn't have to have my 12-year-old bridesmaid dress from my sister's wedding taken in. I'd been kinda psyched to be getting a second use out of it, though.
The next call from Groom was about a week later. Bride was being kicked out of her apartment because management had found out that she was renting out one of the rooms without authorization, in violation of her lease. This came to light when the authorities were doing a big sweep of the area, checking on all the registered sex offenders to make sure they're in compliance, living at the right addresses and so on. The unauthorized roommate, who is another old friend of Groom's and Hamfists, and thus the means of Bride and Groom's meeting, is an RSO. When the cops went to the apartment management to point out that since there are children living in the complex, he can't be there, the management was not at all pleased. I'm not clear how this worked out, but somehow Bride had to be out within 3 days, while Roommate had 30. Even though that made no sense to us, Hamfist of course agreed to help move her things into storage in his pickup, a week before the wedding. Naturally, I went along to help. Bride was at work, Groom was there supervising, and I got to meet Roommate. I was a little on edge about that, despite Hamfist's assurances that the sex offender thing is because of a "totally bogus rape conviction based on an aggrieved ex-girlfriend's lies" back in his misguided youth, nothing that would make him a threat to kids, or anyone else.
Well. Roommate is so morbidly obese that he literally can't walk from bedroom to living room without getting winded. He has an overactive thyroid and is on disability for that, plus he works from home as a customer service rep on the phone. From his bed. On his belly. In his underwear. With an attendant to do things like cooking and cleaning, since he can't stand for that long. My concerns were allayed - a crawling infant could outrun this Jabba the Hutt. However, I was glad to be called on to help with the moving, even though it meant three of us squeezing in the front of the pickup, so that I wouldn't be left alone with him in the apartment that reeked not only of cat and stale cigarettes, but of sour garbage and unwashed human as well. Also, there were no toilet seats, because they can't withstand Roommate's weight.
At last, the happy day arrived! Hamfist and I joked while picking out what to wear (a somber dress and boots for me, while Ham was rocking a very sophisticated Hawaiian shirt and khakis) that we'd probably be the best-dressed people there. Just about that time, Groom called with an update. While at the courthouse to pick up their marriage license, they decided? were convinced? to just do the deed then and there. However, since the main point of today's ceremony was that Groom's mom should be present, they didn't want her to know that she'd missed out on the actual event. This meant that we would not be required to sign as witnesses after all, which eased my mind, and everything else would just go forward as planned.
As we expected, Bride and Groom were both in dirty jeans and faded black rocker t-shirts. It was powerfully evident that Bride had not showered recently enough - and I say this as a person with pretty, ahem, European standards. On your wedding day? Really?? Any doubt I might have had - maybe the odor was just the result of nerves? - was dispelled when I was called upon to French braid her dandruffy, greasy hair. Mostly so that Groom's mother, hummingbirdlike in her anxiety, could take some obligatory pictures of Bride having her hair done.
The ceremony was performed by Roommate, who is, predictably, an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church. His concessions to the occasion included putting on a t-shirt and some shorts, and getting to the couch in the living room so we didn't all have to crowd into his bedroom. His attendant was also present, along with Groom's mom's life partner. Hamfist kept his arm around me, mostly so he could whisper in my ear, "Don't laugh... don't laugh..." I surprised myself by actually tearing up briefly, in response to Groom's mom, and to how obviously moved Roommate was to be marrying these, his dear friends. Even though he wasn't, really.
After the ceremony, those who smoke stepped outside to do so. I admired Bride's ring and congratulated Roommate on his smooth delivery - he did do a good job, and admitted to practicing several times in the mirror. Hamfist hustled us out of there as soon as possible; Happy Couple and family were off to dinner. On the way home I informed Hamfist that I will NOT be helping when it comes time to move Roommate out of there at the end of the month. There is no way I am touching anything of his. "Oh, and honey? Let's not have a sad, pathetic wedding in a room that reeks, okay?" "Deal."
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Before it goes away
Holy crap, I know how pretentious and self absorbed this sounds. But I just had a poem appear full-grown in my head for the first time in years. Decades, probably - it's been so long I'd stopped noticing their absence.
I will probably spend a long time pondering what the fuck, why now. While I'm picking over cold slimy chicken bones, *really*??
I'm a little afraid this will be the only one. I've been praying for something to come, something to change, something to shake me loose...
I'm a little afraid it won't be.
It doesn't have a name yet.
*********************************
Harvesting scraps of meat
from bones boiled for stock,
saved in a bag in the freezer
from weeks of chicken dinners,
I am trying to be
as thrifty as my foremothers.
We'll have grilled cheese sandwiches
for dinner with the soup.
Cartilage from the leg bones,
soft and gelatinous,
I set aside for the cats;
the youngest one is still growing, after all.
I briefly question the wisdom of encouraging
him, and his appetite,
to increase.
But a growing boy is what he is,
and encouraged he must be,
so I slip him a little extra
to make up for my unmotherly thoughts.
A clink of bone against the bowl -
I should be more mindful, more present.
In all my years I have never made a pot of chicken soup
That didn't turn up at least one bone.
I wonder whether any of my foremothers ever did,
whether any of them ever despaired at
her growing family's
increasing appetites and,
distracted, fretting
over the thinness of the soup,
let a bone or two slip past
her seeking fingers.
I will probably spend a long time pondering what the fuck, why now. While I'm picking over cold slimy chicken bones, *really*??
I'm a little afraid this will be the only one. I've been praying for something to come, something to change, something to shake me loose...
I'm a little afraid it won't be.
It doesn't have a name yet.
*********************************
Harvesting scraps of meat
from bones boiled for stock,
saved in a bag in the freezer
from weeks of chicken dinners,
I am trying to be
as thrifty as my foremothers.
We'll have grilled cheese sandwiches
for dinner with the soup.
Cartilage from the leg bones,
soft and gelatinous,
I set aside for the cats;
the youngest one is still growing, after all.
I briefly question the wisdom of encouraging
him, and his appetite,
to increase.
But a growing boy is what he is,
and encouraged he must be,
so I slip him a little extra
to make up for my unmotherly thoughts.
A clink of bone against the bowl -
I should be more mindful, more present.
In all my years I have never made a pot of chicken soup
That didn't turn up at least one bone.
I wonder whether any of my foremothers ever did,
whether any of them ever despaired at
her growing family's
increasing appetites and,
distracted, fretting
over the thinness of the soup,
let a bone or two slip past
her seeking fingers.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Not Myself Lately - A Rant
Okay, that comment is a few months old, but it came from the one person I count on most for reality checks, and clearly it stayed with me. In the context of the conversation we were having, it was the right thing for her to say, and it did yank me up short and get me to change some behaviors, which was very valuable.
But I haven't been able to shake that idea that people are noticing that "I'm not myself". In a way I guess I'm glad to know it - I remember a book I read some years ago about depression in teenage girls; there was a quote from one of them, about the experience of feeling like the self she knew was vanishing - "Why didn't anyone notice? Didn't anyone miss me??"
So there's that, at least... They're noticing, and they miss me.
Guess what: I miss me, too. I miss liking myself, I miss feeling useful, I miss being confident and purposeful, and pulling my own weight. I miss my Harley. I miss living alone (half the time, anyway). I miss having my own work space. I miss knowing that I was going to be able to pay my bills. I miss smoking. I miss my health insurance. I miss trusting my own judgment.
I miss not crying Every. Fucking. Day. I miss feeling like I'm the mate Hamfist deserves - bless him, he is so tender with me, and tries his best to reassure... But I think about him being raised by an undiagnosed/untreated depressive, and it makes me feel so guilty to think that that drama is being played out in his life again. Helpful, huh?? Totally my shit, not his.
And all my friends can say is, ain't it a shame...
But I haven't been able to shake that idea that people are noticing that "I'm not myself". In a way I guess I'm glad to know it - I remember a book I read some years ago about depression in teenage girls; there was a quote from one of them, about the experience of feeling like the self she knew was vanishing - "Why didn't anyone notice? Didn't anyone miss me??"
So there's that, at least... They're noticing, and they miss me.
Guess what: I miss me, too. I miss liking myself, I miss feeling useful, I miss being confident and purposeful, and pulling my own weight. I miss my Harley. I miss living alone (half the time, anyway). I miss having my own work space. I miss knowing that I was going to be able to pay my bills. I miss smoking. I miss my health insurance. I miss trusting my own judgment.
I miss not crying Every. Fucking. Day. I miss feeling like I'm the mate Hamfist deserves - bless him, he is so tender with me, and tries his best to reassure... But I think about him being raised by an undiagnosed/untreated depressive, and it makes me feel so guilty to think that that drama is being played out in his life again. Helpful, huh?? Totally my shit, not his.
And all my friends can say is, ain't it a shame...
Sunday, April 25, 2010
I just love a happy ending
... even when the protagonist is a lowly varmint, literally.
As you may know, when Hamfist moved in he brought two ball pythons with him. I am delighted to have them; they're beautiful and I love to watch them. I was surprised to find that I even enjoy watching them go after the live rats we feed them (although not as much as the cats enjoy it). Must have been all that "Wild Kingdom" I watched as a kid.
However, we've all been denied that pleasure for the last 3 months or so. We believe the snakes have been in hibernation mode - at least that's the only reason we could come up with that they refused to eat every time a rat was presented to them. To complicate matters, right before the beginning of that period Hamfist decided to change from small rats to medium ones. That went okay for a couple rounds of feeding, but the last one was too big: The male snake was able to kill his with no trouble, but couldn't swallow it. The female, on the other hand, didn't even strike at her rat. What to do??
We decided to just let them wait a couple weeks, then try again to see whether they wanted to eat. So we put the remaining rat in the cat carrier in the shed, with some cedar chips to nest in, and dishes of food and water. And there he remained for the next 3 months. Except for the torture sessions every two weeks or so, when we'd bring him in, put him in one snake's tank for an hour or two, then move him to the other's for a while. The snakes never showed one bit of interest, so back he'd go to his improvised cage for another fortnight.
Now, Hamfist and I are both confirmed animal lovers. While we have no qualms about providing live food for our pet snakes - after all, if they were to meet up in the wild on their own, we all know how that would go - both our consciences were increasingly troubled about the poor rattus. A quick, merciful death as part of the food chain is one thing, but this was starting to feel a little concentration-campy, and neither of us was comfortable with being responsible for that. We talked a lot about the possibility of just making him a permanent member of the household. I'd wanted a pet rat since I was a teenager, when my mother would have none of that idea, but I wanted a rat I could really treat as a pet, let it out of its cage to play with and cuddle. Now that the household is run by three cats, though, it would have to be caged almost all the time, and I 1) just plain don't want to keep a caged pet, and 2) didn't think that a life of constant fear in a cage, surrounded by vigilant, lip-smacking predators sounded like much of a deal for the poor guy either... nor even much of an improvement.
So, Hamfist finally got around to putting an ad on Craigslist to find him a proper home. As I expected, it only took a couple of days; there were quite a few people interested in saving the poor guy once they heard his story! In making the arrangements for transfer, we found out that his new person already had him named before she even got him: "Monty", for Monty Python, in honor of all he'd been through. Hamfist reports that she already has two other rats, and that she picked him up in a Mercedes(!), so we feel confident that he's going to have a much better life than we could have given him. Further, he intends to keep in touch with her. I'm hoping we'll at least get to see a picture of him in his new home, clean and well-fed. The poor little bugger deserves at least that! His life expectancy is only 2-3 years, for pete's sake, and we robbed him of 3 months of it. I hope the rest of his time on earth makes up for his time as a POW, and that the other rats revere him for the survivor he is.
As you may know, when Hamfist moved in he brought two ball pythons with him. I am delighted to have them; they're beautiful and I love to watch them. I was surprised to find that I even enjoy watching them go after the live rats we feed them (although not as much as the cats enjoy it). Must have been all that "Wild Kingdom" I watched as a kid.
However, we've all been denied that pleasure for the last 3 months or so. We believe the snakes have been in hibernation mode - at least that's the only reason we could come up with that they refused to eat every time a rat was presented to them. To complicate matters, right before the beginning of that period Hamfist decided to change from small rats to medium ones. That went okay for a couple rounds of feeding, but the last one was too big: The male snake was able to kill his with no trouble, but couldn't swallow it. The female, on the other hand, didn't even strike at her rat. What to do??
We decided to just let them wait a couple weeks, then try again to see whether they wanted to eat. So we put the remaining rat in the cat carrier in the shed, with some cedar chips to nest in, and dishes of food and water. And there he remained for the next 3 months. Except for the torture sessions every two weeks or so, when we'd bring him in, put him in one snake's tank for an hour or two, then move him to the other's for a while. The snakes never showed one bit of interest, so back he'd go to his improvised cage for another fortnight.
Now, Hamfist and I are both confirmed animal lovers. While we have no qualms about providing live food for our pet snakes - after all, if they were to meet up in the wild on their own, we all know how that would go - both our consciences were increasingly troubled about the poor rattus. A quick, merciful death as part of the food chain is one thing, but this was starting to feel a little concentration-campy, and neither of us was comfortable with being responsible for that. We talked a lot about the possibility of just making him a permanent member of the household. I'd wanted a pet rat since I was a teenager, when my mother would have none of that idea, but I wanted a rat I could really treat as a pet, let it out of its cage to play with and cuddle. Now that the household is run by three cats, though, it would have to be caged almost all the time, and I 1) just plain don't want to keep a caged pet, and 2) didn't think that a life of constant fear in a cage, surrounded by vigilant, lip-smacking predators sounded like much of a deal for the poor guy either... nor even much of an improvement.
So, Hamfist finally got around to putting an ad on Craigslist to find him a proper home. As I expected, it only took a couple of days; there were quite a few people interested in saving the poor guy once they heard his story! In making the arrangements for transfer, we found out that his new person already had him named before she even got him: "Monty", for Monty Python, in honor of all he'd been through. Hamfist reports that she already has two other rats, and that she picked him up in a Mercedes(!), so we feel confident that he's going to have a much better life than we could have given him. Further, he intends to keep in touch with her. I'm hoping we'll at least get to see a picture of him in his new home, clean and well-fed. The poor little bugger deserves at least that! His life expectancy is only 2-3 years, for pete's sake, and we robbed him of 3 months of it. I hope the rest of his time on earth makes up for his time as a POW, and that the other rats revere him for the survivor he is.
Monday, April 5, 2010
After watching "The Ten Commandments" for the bazillionth time
I know, I know, it's cheesy as hell, but for some reason it's the only one of the movies that get shown at the same time every year that I still watch every time. Not that I bust out the popcorn and park on the couch for the full 5-hour experience, but definitely leave it on and listen with half an ear while I do other things, so I can be sure to catch my favorite scenes.
This being the first time this has happened since Hamfist moved in, he had some questions - can you imagine, he'd never seen the whole thing! You should have seen his face when I told him how long it is. Mostly, he wondered why this is the one I watch every time. Why not, say, "The Sound of Music"? Of course I'd never given that any conscious though before...
"Sound of Music" I'll still watch in its entirety IF the night it's showing happens to coincide with a night I'm wrapping Christmas gifts; those two things go together like chocolate and peppermint for some reason. Otherwise, meh; we had the record of the soundtrack when I was a kid, and between that and the frequent viewings I pretty much have the thing memorized, so there's not all that much point. "Wizard of Oz", similarly, I can pretty much recite verbatim, but I still might leave it on if I chance across it, depending on mood. "It's a Wonderful Life" - Jimmy Stewart is always adorable, but it doesn't hold my attention. So why this one?
Well, for starters, Yul Brynner was a stone fox in those days. And that resonant bass voice intoning "So let it be written, so let it be done" - not quite often enough to make for a really good drinking game, although maybe that's for the best considering the film's duration - woof. For another thing, Anne Baxter's Nefertiri is everything anyone ever needs to know about high camp. Every gesture, every word, just that leeetle bit exaggerated - I checked, sure enough she had an extensive stage background - delicious.
But mostly I think it's the sheer scale of the thing. I remember the first time I saw it; my parents found its broadcast important enough that we spent the evening with our friends who had a big color TV (yeah, we didn't get one ourselves until the late 70s. LAME). I was no more than 8, already going through my first obsession with ancient Egypt, and easily seduced by pageantry and tinsel, but too young to be hypercritical about the already-dated special effects. To this day, I see something new every time in the big exodus scene with everyone leaving Egypt, and I imagine how cool it must have been to be one of the extras. They'll never film another scene like that again, mark my words; too easy to make it look cool with 30 actors and some CGI, but I'm sorry, that does NOT pack the same punch.
Now that I'm really thinking about the thing, I had to sniff around a little, and learned something I hadn't known before: Yvonne deCarlo, who played Moses' wife Sephora, and the character with whom I've always most identified, also played Lilly in "The Munsters", which was a huge childhood fave of mine! Now THAT is range, people. It gives me an entirely new appreciation for her.
I've realized another thing I always loved about Sephora, and her sisters: Their hair. With my renewed dedication to "setting my hair free" as the Russians say, these days I see long hair everywhere, and now I know why the scene where all the sisters (except modest Sephora, who got the guy in the end - hah!) dance before Moses so he'll choose one of them to marry is my other favorite. All those waist-and-longer heads swirling around - glorious! And you know those were real, not extensions. It was the mid-50s after all, and the girls were rocking those long beatnik ponytails. Sometimes I wonder whether those parts were cast on the basis of hair length. I bet it was at least a consideration.
I've been saving the embarrassing admission for last: I was in my mid-30s before I put it together that this movie is not shown at Eastertime every year. Yes, it usually happens to fall around Easter, but that is not the holiday it commemorates, now is it?? I didn't have to admit that, you know.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
I swear I'm not always this serious
But damn it, when serious things happen, I can't help but notice. And when they happen in my house, I take it personally.
I'm referring to Monday's bombings in Moscow's metro. One of the stations involved, Park Kultury, was my home station when I lived in Moscow, during the '95-'96 academic year. To this day I could find my way around that building blindfolded. Hearing that that was where it happened was like hearing that a friend was on one of those trains, and learning that the building itself (as well as the other station involved, Lubyanka) wasn't damaged was almost as great a relief as if my friend had escaped unharmed.
I still can't make myself watch much of the first-on-the-scene videos. The second one I saw showed blood spattered on the tiles of the platform, and I completely lost my shit. It was so much more personal than the shown-ad-nauseam footage of the World Trade Center in 2001 - I've never even been in New York, and it was harder to wrap my head around a catastrophe of that scale, somehow. This was like... seeing the apartment where I spent my teenage years on the news as the scene of a horrific mass murder, with blood splashed across the walls of my old bedroom. That kind of fondness, that kind of familiarity, that kind of NOOOOOOOO.
So, after one day of uncontrollable weeping and a couple more days of thinking about it constantly I'm calmer, at least.
I'm no fan of the Russian Federation's policies in the Caucasus region, don't get me wrong; I'll show you the pictures of me at a 1996 Moscow rally against the war in Chechnya, including the barely-got-it snapshot of Gorbachev, who was a surprise speaker! But, as usual, it's not the governments and their policies that occupy my thoughts, it's the individuals. I think I can understand objectively what it might be like, to have so little hope that blowing yourself up in a crowded metro car - just to make a point?! - seemed like the thing to do. Can't picture doing it myself, but you know, I've read the interviews... I certainly have no solutions to offer in that situation. I have only heartsickness at how people seem to believe they are entitled to impose their ideas on anyone else. I don't care what religion or nationality or ideology or profit you may be using as your justification; I care about innocent blood being spilled.
One thing that has helped me is hearing from everyone who came to visit me in Moscow. They'd all heard about it on the news, and every one of them went "Hey, I was in that station!", and understood why I was so upset. It occurs to me that I actually contributed to making the world a little bit smaller, by being there. People who would never otherwise have been there came because I was, and felt themselves connected to that place in a way they wouldn't have without that experience. Hot damn, all that high-mined stuff on the application essay for the scholarship that got me there, about fostering understanding between formerly adversarial peoples, coming to know each other as individuals and speaking each other's languages? Turns out I accomplished that in a small way after all, even if I didn't end up using the education I gained there in quite the way I intended at the time.
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