There were 2 empty ice cube trays on the counter this morning but my favorite was the one in the freezer.
Archive for News from the Homefront
Drive me crazy
My late ex-husband drove me crazy, even during our happiest times together.
Professor Spouse doesn’t drive me crazy. She definitely does things that one could point to and say “that drives me crazy.” But it doesn’t.
What is “drives me crazy?” For me, the frustration is about wanting to fix it and being unable to. I had an idea that somehow it was my job, or my right, to fix or change the behavior, but I also knew it was impossible to fix it. The conflict is what’s crazy making.
When Professor Spouse does something I find irritating, I look at it and I know it’s unlikely to change. And I know that it is not about me, that there is nothing for me to do. I can just love her and be at peace.
But I do wish she’d fill the ice cube trays.
“All Acts of Love and Pleasure Are My Rituals”
So, Wednesday morning, with thousands of others, I opened SCOTUSblog’s live feed, and by 10:01am I knew that my forthcoming marriage to a woman would have all the legal rights of my previous marriages to men. (Yeah, yeah, in addition to ten years of marriage to Isaac Bonewits, I had a brief teen marriage: Read all about it in my memoir, Merry Meet Again.)
I cried like a baby.
I cried and then I woke my fiance from a sound sleep, and we held each other, and then I let her go back to sleep, and then I cried some more.
I don’t even know how to say what I feel. That this is right, that this is just, that this is fair, and decent, and fundamentally American–all that is true. But it’s more than that. Five years ago, when I was a bisexual woman who dated men almost exclusively, I would have celebrated, I would have cheered, I would have been overjoyed. But now? Now it is about my full-fledged membership in the public square. Homophobia hasn’t gone away. Gay bashing hasn’t gone away. Hate and bigotry and well-meaning insistence on second class status haven’t gone away. But I feel like my true American citizenship has been affirmed. Like I can walk with my beloved anywhere, and the highest court in the land affirms our right to hold our heads high. (And, yeah, Scalia is a douchebag, but whatever.)
On a practical level, it means I can write a will without worrying about my spouse being screwed by unfair inheritance taxes, and it means I can add her to my health insurance without paying a penalty.
The battle is won, the war goes on. My heart is full of hope for the future and my eyes are wet with tears.
Dream Interpretation
So, Friday night I dreamed I was at a party that my brother was hosting. When I left work to go to the party, I found my car had been stolen, but I couldn’t reach the cops. Somehow I got to the party anyway. The men mostly stayed downstairs watching sports. I stayed the night, and in the morning the men had come upstairs, and Bruce Springsteen was one of them. I got into a big easy chair with Bruce and we were making out. It was glorious. My mother was there and after a while I think she got tired of watching me make out, because she started making fun of me. Then I went back to trying to get the cops about my car. Then I called into work to explain about my car and my boss fired me. (This was a boss from years and years ago; someone who actually did fire me in real life).
Now, if I know who or what Bruce Springsteen represents in real life (which I do), then I might understand that my subconscious is telling me that, no matter how glorious it feels to be with “Bruce,” it’s a disaster. In this dream, Bruce is wonderful, but job, car, Mom are all bad. It’s a warning, and not a psychic warning. Based on how it made me feel, this was a psychological, not a supernatural, dream.
So of course I ignored the warning, and of course within 24 hours the warning proved right.
Adventures in Customer Service Follow-up
So, the Avenue wrote to me, very promptly, and showed me their “wide calf” boots on their website. They are 15″ in circumference. By contrast, Torrid’s are 18-20 inches. I bought at Torrid. Today I discovered Evans. They offer extra wide and extra wide-calf boots, but they don’t give specific measurements.
Meanwhile, I haven’t been watching many movies. I was away. But my next movie after the Prince of the City fiasco was fine. The next movie after that, however, was cracked down the middle. They really seem to be sabotaging their DVD collection.
A letter to The Avenue
Dear Avenue:
I am your ideal customer: A plus-sized woman (22) who loves clothes and loves to shop. Today I left your store unable to buy anything, frustrated, and a little humiliated.
You have been advertising a big selection of fall boots. I was excited! As a big woman, I am unable to fit my legs into standard boots, so boots at The Avenue, made with me in mind, sounded like just what I wanted!
Your boots are not made with me in mind. Your boots are not wide-calf. They fit a larger, wide shoe-size, but a standard calf. I tried on 3 pairs before I figured it out, and then the people in the store didn’t believe me.
Plus-size women ALMOST NEVER have standard-sized calves. We have PLUS-SIZED calves. Go figure.
The store manager told me that wide-calf boots are a “specialty” item. Guess what? Plus-sized clothing is a specialty item. You are a specialty store with a specialty clientele, and you should be servicing that clientele.
The floor clerk suggested I try on ankle boots. Really? I have a CLOSET FULL of ankle boots because I can’t buy the full-height boots I crave.
You didn’t have a single pair of full-height boots in the store I could buy. Not one. Because I’M TOO FAT. I come to stores like The Avenue because I don’t want to feel excluded for being too fat. I could go *anywhere* and feel excluded for being fat; I don’t come to *you* for that.
You messed up, Avenue. I’m disappointed.
Netflix hates its customers
When Netflix announced all its changes a couple of weeks ago, people said they were deliberately trying to kill their DVD business, starting with the incredibly stupid name. And y’know, that conversation was fun and entertaining and I sort of thought it was humorous: Oh, look, we’re killing our own business on purpose.
Now I’m not so sure it’s a joke.
First of all, the last two discs I’ve received have been damaged and unplayable and needed to be replaced. My prior history of damaged discs is: One in October 2010, one in October 2009, one each in July and March of 2009, one each in 2008, 2007 and 2006. In other words, damaged discs since the announcement equals MORE than damaged discs in 4 of the past 5 years.
Second of all, let me tell you about Prince of the City.
Prince of the City is a 1981 movie that is not obscure. It was Oscar- and Golden Globe-nominated. It was directed by Sidney Lumet. It has a 94% fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes. It was highly recommended to me so I put it at the top of my queue.
It’s a two disc set because it is VERY LONG (167 minutes, which is like, days). We watched disc one, popped in disc two: Unplayable. Damaged, scratched, skipping, dreck. So I reported it damaged and shipped it. When my replacement arrived, we sat down to watch and discovered they’d sent disc one. Aggravated, I went to the website to report the mistake, but now the website didn’t say “Disc One” and “Disc Two” as it had before, now I could only report “Prince of the City.” I did report it, but I wasn’t sure that actually worked, so I phoned.
As always, the rep was very nice. I explained the issue and he said he’d make sure disc two was sent. Then he put me on hold and came back and said disc two isn’t available. “I hate to be the bringer of bad news,” he said. It’s “rare” and “out of print” and the damaged one I had must have been the very last copy. Why, I asked, did you send me disc one if that was the case? Did you think that would help? Do you know I’ve seen HALF A MOVIE?
He didn’t offer to find it from another shipping location. He didn’t offer a free month or a free day or a free anything. All he did was commiserate. And I’ve still seen half a movie. Half a LONG movie that I’ve already invested a lot of my life in.
Meanwhile, my Netflix queue shows that my disc was “reported mislabeled.” It was not. It very clearly said “Disc One” on the envelope and the disc. Apparently, they purposely sent me the half of the movie I’d already seen, imagining that somehow worked as an effective substitute. And, my queue also tells me that disc one is again on its way to me. Oh, goodie.
Netflix, please, just set your warehouse on fire. It will be easier.
Return to Me
I acknowledge that I’m a crazy cat lady. It’s not unusual for a Witch. I keep it toned down and have never had more than two cats at once, but I have unreasonably passionate relationships with them. I choose to confine my cats to the indoors. There are pro and con arguments, but indoor cats live longer, aren’t prone to fleas, and don’t catch Feline Leukemia.
I had Watusi for exactly four years. She was an extraordinary creature. She kissed on the lips. She called the Quarters in ritual. The down side of indoor cats is if they get out, they aren’t good at coming back home. Arthur inadvertently left the door open and we never saw her again. It broke my heart.
The very weekend we lost Watusi, my friend Mary showed me the kittens she was giving away. I ultimately took two: Mingo and Fanty. Fanty is not a favorite: She’s skittish, nervous, demanding, and a crier. But Mingo was extraordinary. He didn’t like calling the Quarters, and had no interest in the ritual setup, but the minute you announced that a spell or trance was about to happen, all of a sudden, from nowhere, he was underfoot or in your lap. He was a wonderful lap cap and a good cuddler, and he comforted Arthur through a prolonged illness.
Mingo, too, lasted exactly four years, escaping through a screen door we didn’t know was broken.
I lived two months with Fanty, a needy animal I don’t much love, before bringing home Callisto.
Who is extraordinary. She has no interest in magic or ritual, but she gives love like a Priestess of Ishtar. She is soothing and kind, loving and sweet. She holds hands. She tucks herself under my arm to sleep. She follows me like a German Shepherd. She is my one-eyed angel.
I’ve had her for just over a year. I dread the notion of four years. I dread the thought of losing her. I’ve done binding magic; sprinkled my life force into her food, woven spells about her. Still I fear.
This week was her annual checkup, and I had her microchipped. I’d never discussed it with a vet before–the vet never brought it up, probably because I have indoor cats. I had imagined it was very expensive, but it isn’t at all. It was painless and took no time at all.
Doing it, I choked up. I don’t have to lose her. I don’t have to lose her. I don’t have to lose her.
An Open Letter to ADF
Note: This letter was sent to the Archdruid of ADF and shared with the Mother Grove (Board of Directors) before publication. I include their response at the end.
Isaac Bonewits’s death has been a great tragedy for me and mine. I have lost my beloved friend of almost 25 years, my ex-husband, my former High Priest, and the father of my only child, Arthur Lipp-Bonewits. I have struggled to balance immense personal grief with the heartbreaking loss to the entire Pagan community of a brilliant leader, teacher, scholar, thinker, and bard. More than either of these, I have had to prioritize being a mother, as Arthur, at far too young an age, has not only lost his father, but has gone through the difficult and often frightening ordeal of caring for him in his last months.
Throughout all of this, the kindness, compassion, respect, and support of the Pagan community, including ADF, has been one of the things that has kept me going. That I could look up from my personal sorrow and know that Isaac was being treated with dignity, honor, and love, was a sustaining force through the most acute period of grief.
Imagine, then, my shock and dismay when I learned that ADF was selling DVDs of Isaac’s memorial service. » Read more..
The nature of love
Having pets is a gateway to contemplating the nature of love, self, and connectedness.
I love Callisto. I adore her. And I believe she loves me. She sleeps wrapped around my neck or tucked between my arms, often with her face up next to mine. She seeks my lap all the time (and seeks Arthur’s lap less often).
But does she love me? Some people cannot be convinced that an animal can love. All of her behavior can be explained by instinct, by marking her territory, by leaving her scent on me and seeking warmth and so on. I could argue that making sure she can kiss my face through the night (moving around with me as I toss and turn) has no real feral or instinctual value, but some people would be convinced and some wouldn’t.
So, does she love me?
Why would we say that animals can’t love? Is love a part of intellect? Clearly a cat is sentient; it experiences sensation, it is curious, it focuses. Clearly, too, a cat is not highly cognitive; cats lack language, tool-making, mathematics, and comedy. If we say that a cat doesn’t love, does that mean that love is a part of cognition? That doesn’t make sense, does it?
So we can say that humans have “higher consciousness,” and love is a part of that. But that’s another poorly defined term. What’s “higher”? I can say my love is “higher” than Callisto’s because mine has selflessness in it; I do for her. Her love for me, arguably, is expressed selfishly; she loves by cuddling in exactly the way that she likes to cuddle. Yet a cat will tolerate a significant amount of manhandling from its favorite people. Tolerance isn’t selflessness, but it’s not selfish either.
If we say that only humans (or humans, whales, and dolphins) have “higher consciousness,” are we saying that only we have souls? I’m not comfortable with that. I am not 100% sure I know what a soul is, or where it can be found. I think, in fact, that it’s pure hubris to say I know such a thing. I mean, who the fuck am I? What then, is this higher consciousness that corresponds loosely to, but is not, intelligence?
Truth: We don’t know. We act like we know, we feel like we know, but we don’t. Because we sense it isn’t intellect, we associate it with the deepest and most spiritual of feelings, including love. And then we say that creatures who aren’t “high” on such a scale therefore don’t love. But we don’t know that.
All of this (more or less) ran through my head this morning while being rather aggressively cuddled by Callisto.
