Do you ever stop and think, yep, that's my life? Usually when you figure no one else's life looks like yours? This happens to me with some frequency, both in good times and in bad. When I showed up for the first day of Senior Year in High School, eager to show off my new promise ring - and every single person to whom I extended my left hand said, "Wow!! Black nail polish!!" When I met an actual Russian count - a lovely man - and had to keep finding gentle ways to remind him to wipe his dripping nose. When I attempted skiing for the first (and only) time, and wound up doing a Lucy Ricardo routine on the rope pull. When I finally talked myself into going on a singing audition in NYC, got a call-back (!), and had to slink out of the studio because they expected me to be able to dance the Charleston. (Trust me. This was worth seeing but not for any good reason.). When an attorney in New Orleans told me that I really should become his mistress because I'd "never find a husband" (I'm pretty sure I never told him I wanted one) and because, in spite of the fact that he had a wife AND a mistress already, he "was plenty man enough to satisfy all of us". When I fell in love with a man who was, and had always been gay, and he fell in love with me. When I had a friend call me to tell me that my best friend's love life "was the talk of the East Side" ... and mine "was the talk of the West Side". When a rug salesman I've met once shows up at my door 3000 miles away to tell me that he's decided that I will move in with him (3000 miles away!) and he's hired a truck to transfer all my belongings day after tomorrow.
Well, you get the picture. Of course, it's perfectly possible that everyone's life is just like mine - but my friends tell me it isn't. And certainly, I know that many people have more interesting, exciting, adventure-filled lives than I. It's just that mine seems to be ... a bit ... quirky. Eccentric?
And periodically this is reinforced. A few months ago, I decided I needed significant electrical work done in my house so I found an electrical company that seemed highly rated and asked someone to come out and give me an estimate. An experienced, charming man showed up. And I have no clue how the conversation about electrical panels and burned-out outlets and GFCI's took this turn, but he told me he's an exotic dancer. Basically, a male stripper. My first thought wasn't, how did we get on this, or why is he telling me this, or even, let's get back to talking non-human electricity. It was, yep, this is my life.
Fast-forward a few months, I'm ready to get the work done, and I call to schedule an appointment. He calls and tells me he can't come out that day because he has to go to court (witnessed a crime), so we can either reschedule, or someone else can come out. I'm only off the one day so I say someone else will need to come out. And they do. But sure enough, half-way through the morning, he's done with court and here he is. Now I can assure you he has no interest in me. He's half my age and hates cats (I have two). But in addition to pointing out the work that is being done, making sure I have no questions, and all is done to my satisfaction, he's giving me grief for not inviting him to my holiday party last December, telling me he's going to drop off (topless) pictures of himself when he comes back to finish up some outdoor work, and reminding me that he "has [my] number". This means nothing. It's harmless, totally enjoyable flirtation. Just like every customer has with her exotic-dancer electrician. This is so my life,
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Baby, baby
It's no secret that I am not a "kid person". I don't enjoy their company, I don't find them amusing or adorable ... and I really, really don't like babies. They cry and they smell bad. These seem to be their only defining characteristics. So I'm not someone who would have been up nights trying to decide what to do had I ever gotten pregnant. And there is no way on this planet or another that I'd have gone through nine months of carrying a baby - and labor! - just to give the child to someone else. I'm selfish that way and I don't apologize for it.
So I find it incredibly generous and heroically unselfish when a woman is willing to do that. I applaud these women. (And, for the record, my mother's birth mother did that and my mother was adopted by a couple who truly loved her.). I think we should, if not necessarily encourage this, as I don't think anyone but the woman herself gets to express an opinion, we should certainly not discourage it. And yet that has to be an effect of the movement to allow adopted children unfettered access to their birth information.
I'm certainly not the only woman alive who has always known that motherhood was wrong for her. I'm lucky to live in a country and an age with reliable birth control and, had I ever needed it, legal abortion. But let's just say the former had failed and, for whatever reasons, I had reservations about the latter. I might have thought seriously about having the child and giving it up for adoption. Unless I knew that such a child could, without my consent, eventually look me up and approach me. That would have ended my internal debate right there!
It's an amusing plot point on soap operas when a woman is approached by a grown child she did not realize she'd given birth to (those soap opera writers can make anything seem possible!), and it's long been fodder for new storyline when a child one had given up at birth appears at one's doorstep, but, contrary to popular opinion, I don't want my life to resemble a soap opera! Okay, I'd love to be on one, but that's just not the same thing.
Yes, I absolutely agree that adopted children should have access to any known medical information about their birth parents. And, yes, I can understand why they might want to know more about those who biologically created them, but come on! Someone went through nine months of hormonal changes, weight gain, stretch marks, and probably a lot of rude questioning, not to mention the "joy" of giving birth, just so this child could have a life - and, presumably, one better than the birth mother could provide (whether the lack be financial, emotional, etc.). And now the child thinks it has a right to interrupt this woman's life's? That she owes the child more? Can we say selfish?!
True, I'm not adopted so I can't presume to completely understand the thoughts and feelings of someone who is, but I remember my mother's take on it ... that her mother undoubtedly did her a favor by giving her up and that her adopted parents were the parents the universe had chosen to give her ... and that she didn't feel it would be kind to enter the lives of her birth parents unbidden. I just wish more adopted children could see it in this light. They would be happier, less discontent, adoptive parents wouldn't worry that the child's loyalties were divided, and birth parents could rest secure in the knowledge that their lives wouldn't be interrupted by someone they had chosen not to know.
If this movement continues and such complete access to information becomes the law of various lands, though, the whole point could become moot. Woman who would choose closed adoptions will choose abortions instead and there will be no such children to seek them.
So I find it incredibly generous and heroically unselfish when a woman is willing to do that. I applaud these women. (And, for the record, my mother's birth mother did that and my mother was adopted by a couple who truly loved her.). I think we should, if not necessarily encourage this, as I don't think anyone but the woman herself gets to express an opinion, we should certainly not discourage it. And yet that has to be an effect of the movement to allow adopted children unfettered access to their birth information.
I'm certainly not the only woman alive who has always known that motherhood was wrong for her. I'm lucky to live in a country and an age with reliable birth control and, had I ever needed it, legal abortion. But let's just say the former had failed and, for whatever reasons, I had reservations about the latter. I might have thought seriously about having the child and giving it up for adoption. Unless I knew that such a child could, without my consent, eventually look me up and approach me. That would have ended my internal debate right there!
It's an amusing plot point on soap operas when a woman is approached by a grown child she did not realize she'd given birth to (those soap opera writers can make anything seem possible!), and it's long been fodder for new storyline when a child one had given up at birth appears at one's doorstep, but, contrary to popular opinion, I don't want my life to resemble a soap opera! Okay, I'd love to be on one, but that's just not the same thing.
Yes, I absolutely agree that adopted children should have access to any known medical information about their birth parents. And, yes, I can understand why they might want to know more about those who biologically created them, but come on! Someone went through nine months of hormonal changes, weight gain, stretch marks, and probably a lot of rude questioning, not to mention the "joy" of giving birth, just so this child could have a life - and, presumably, one better than the birth mother could provide (whether the lack be financial, emotional, etc.). And now the child thinks it has a right to interrupt this woman's life's? That she owes the child more? Can we say selfish?!
True, I'm not adopted so I can't presume to completely understand the thoughts and feelings of someone who is, but I remember my mother's take on it ... that her mother undoubtedly did her a favor by giving her up and that her adopted parents were the parents the universe had chosen to give her ... and that she didn't feel it would be kind to enter the lives of her birth parents unbidden. I just wish more adopted children could see it in this light. They would be happier, less discontent, adoptive parents wouldn't worry that the child's loyalties were divided, and birth parents could rest secure in the knowledge that their lives wouldn't be interrupted by someone they had chosen not to know.
If this movement continues and such complete access to information becomes the law of various lands, though, the whole point could become moot. Woman who would choose closed adoptions will choose abortions instead and there will be no such children to seek them.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Down With Trees
I hate trees. Well, perhaps that is a tad hyperbolic. I don't hate ALL trees. I have a fig tree which I planted and I dearly love it - or at least the figs it provides. And I have an apricot tree, which I also planted (not because I wanted it, but as a favor to a friend who was deploying) and though I have no strong positive feelings toward it (and I don't like apricots), it causes me no grief, so I also have no negative feelings toward it.
But these are relatively small trees which have the distinctive virtue of belonging to me, which means I can prune them and keep them small. The fig tree sheds large, easily gathered leaves, and the apricot tree essentially creates a small pile underneath itself. Their leaves require little effort on my part to collect them and they bother no one else. These are good trees.
My neighbor, however, and many others nearby, have very bad trees. These living behemoths take up ridiculously more space than allotted. My neighbor's tree extends its branches fully over the next person's yard, creating a leafy canopy which precludes him from growing anything other than the occasional and very hardy weed. It extends, in fact, over my yard where it has in the past become entangled with various power lines, necessitating a visit from the power company to extricate the lines ... and cut down branches ... but not nearly enough of them! Its branches grow onto my roof and bang on it, horror-movie style, during storms. And, most impolite of all, it sheds massive amounts of annoying leaves - leaves which rain down during Autumn storms and find their way into the drains that protect my house from flooding. I hate having to gather the fallen leaves from this tree, which does not belong to me, has not been appropriately pruned, and which serves no purpose other than to spark imaginative dreams of tree-acide. But I truly, sincerely, hate unclogging the drains during a storm and fighting back the water flooding the basement - or dealing with a flooded basement if I'm not home when this occurs.
Back inside, drying off, getting warm with a cup of cocoa, I plot the tree's demise. Injections of poison into its bark? Surreptitiously cutting off one branch at a time until it dies from its wounds? Unleashing some insect that will eat away at it without spreading to my harmless trees? Are there bombs that could blow up only one tree and harm nothing else? Surely I could enlist the aid of other tree-haters to eliminate this blight!
The sad reality, however, is that I appear to stand alone. Society has decided that Trees Are Good. All trees, it seems, no matter how dangerous, annoying, or useless. There are whole municipalities which disallow the removal of a tree (no matter that the tree belongs on a particular person's land and that that person is responsible for it) without municipal approval AND the planting of another tree - or even two! This is government intrusion at its worst. There are hungry children, homeless elderly, starving animals out there, and we have to protect the trees. Really?!
These protected trees have been known (every single year this happens) to fall on houses, cars, and power lines, killing people, stranding neighborhoods in darkness for weeks, and causing ridiculous expenditures to haul off the offending branches when this could easily have been prevented by getting rid of trees that are too tall, too large, too old, to pose no danger. In fact, I suspect a plot by the tree removal people. Surely, they are the only ones who benefit from this madness!
Mind you, I am not unreasonable. I recognize that trees are necessary for clean air, that they provide lumber (and sometimes, fruit and nuts, of which I highly approve) and that they can be beautiful. I am not advocating the elimination of trees en masse. I just think that all trees over about five feet high should be kept in their place - should be where they belong - in parks - but NOT in my neighborhood!
But these are relatively small trees which have the distinctive virtue of belonging to me, which means I can prune them and keep them small. The fig tree sheds large, easily gathered leaves, and the apricot tree essentially creates a small pile underneath itself. Their leaves require little effort on my part to collect them and they bother no one else. These are good trees.
My neighbor, however, and many others nearby, have very bad trees. These living behemoths take up ridiculously more space than allotted. My neighbor's tree extends its branches fully over the next person's yard, creating a leafy canopy which precludes him from growing anything other than the occasional and very hardy weed. It extends, in fact, over my yard where it has in the past become entangled with various power lines, necessitating a visit from the power company to extricate the lines ... and cut down branches ... but not nearly enough of them! Its branches grow onto my roof and bang on it, horror-movie style, during storms. And, most impolite of all, it sheds massive amounts of annoying leaves - leaves which rain down during Autumn storms and find their way into the drains that protect my house from flooding. I hate having to gather the fallen leaves from this tree, which does not belong to me, has not been appropriately pruned, and which serves no purpose other than to spark imaginative dreams of tree-acide. But I truly, sincerely, hate unclogging the drains during a storm and fighting back the water flooding the basement - or dealing with a flooded basement if I'm not home when this occurs.
Back inside, drying off, getting warm with a cup of cocoa, I plot the tree's demise. Injections of poison into its bark? Surreptitiously cutting off one branch at a time until it dies from its wounds? Unleashing some insect that will eat away at it without spreading to my harmless trees? Are there bombs that could blow up only one tree and harm nothing else? Surely I could enlist the aid of other tree-haters to eliminate this blight!
The sad reality, however, is that I appear to stand alone. Society has decided that Trees Are Good. All trees, it seems, no matter how dangerous, annoying, or useless. There are whole municipalities which disallow the removal of a tree (no matter that the tree belongs on a particular person's land and that that person is responsible for it) without municipal approval AND the planting of another tree - or even two! This is government intrusion at its worst. There are hungry children, homeless elderly, starving animals out there, and we have to protect the trees. Really?!
These protected trees have been known (every single year this happens) to fall on houses, cars, and power lines, killing people, stranding neighborhoods in darkness for weeks, and causing ridiculous expenditures to haul off the offending branches when this could easily have been prevented by getting rid of trees that are too tall, too large, too old, to pose no danger. In fact, I suspect a plot by the tree removal people. Surely, they are the only ones who benefit from this madness!
Mind you, I am not unreasonable. I recognize that trees are necessary for clean air, that they provide lumber (and sometimes, fruit and nuts, of which I highly approve) and that they can be beautiful. I am not advocating the elimination of trees en masse. I just think that all trees over about five feet high should be kept in their place - should be where they belong - in parks - but NOT in my neighborhood!
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Life is a Beach
People who really know me - heck, people who even sort of know me - are generally aware that there are a few things about the outdoors that I tend to dislike. Among them, in no particular order, and off the top of my head, are: sunshine, grass, trees, sand, dirt, bugs, heat, humidity, rain and wind. Thus, I was far from overjoyed when I recently received an invitation from a friend to help her and a few others celebrate her birthday at a local beach. After shuddering for a minute or so, I realized that this might be somewhat tolerable. The designated day was a Sunday, the day I see private clients, and the beach in question was a two-hour drive from my house. So I said I'd go, after explaining my schedule, figuring I'd show up mid-day, be there about an hour, then have to leave. Truly, it does not pay to try to please others. My friend then, to accommodate my schedule, decided we would all arrive much earlier so that I'd have sufficient time to enjoy the beach. She obviously does not know me. But I could hardly respond to this change - made to accommodate me - by announcing that I couldn't possibly subject myself to Machiavellian torture before noon!
The friend with whom I agreed to carpool e-mailed to ask if I could bring a beach umbrella. He obviously does not know me, either. But sans beach umbrella, my bottles of sunblock and I headed out before 8:00 a.m. on this excursion. We arrived at the beach about 10:00 and discovered a few things.
First, my friend had been mistaken about the identity of the beach she wanted and this was not the beach she had thought it was. (I wonder if beaches get that a lot. I thought you were some beach I know.) Second, where the beach she wanted was less than a half-mile from the parking lot, this beach was an almost two mile hike away. Third, everyone had packed as though we were evacuating there and might have to stay for months. So we all loaded ourselves up like pack-rats and headed out. This group included a woman who was wearing a knee brace; she'd recently had surgery. Maybe it's just me, but I was leery of a woman who was still using handicapped parking managing a two-mile hike over rocky inclines and tree roots.
I wasn't the only one who viewed this as folly; several people suggested we just climb back in our cars and head to the original beach which was apparently only a few miles away. My friend felt that that would be too confusing for the few people who were arriving later. (I thought we solved this with cell phones.) I suggested that we simply take advantage of the lovely, shaded picnic tables right in front of us. My friend announced that no, we'd planned on going to the beach, not a park. And - she said - it would all be worth it when we saw the beach.
You may be wondering how she knew this when she'd not been to this beach.
I consider myself a New Yorker. I used to walk three miles to work each morning. I felt that only tourists ever used any type of transportation to go less than a mile. But that was on relatively flat concrete surfaces and I rarely had more than a small backpack with me. We were on difficult terrain, loaded down with coolers of food and drinks, chairs, blankets - even a tent! Once I've agreed to do a thing, however, I do it, and before anytime I was in the lead. At one point, I realized I was far ahead of the others and then I panicked. You read about women who are with a group of friends, get separated from them and are never seen again. I wouldn't have worried if this were in the middle of the city, but this was out in the middle of nature. I saw Into the Woods. I know that "horrible things happen in the woods", so I spent almost as much time pausing and waiting for people to catch up to me as I did actually walking.
And we kept walking. And walking. Eventually, I became convinced that there was no beach. This trail was some endless loop and our skeletons would later be found by other poor fools who had set out for a beach day. I was so convinced that when one of our crowd announced that she could "smell water", I was sure it was an olfactory mirage. When I first caught a glimpse of water through the trees, I was sure that delirium had set in.
It hadn't, but hilarity soon did. We had arrived at the beach. The one where this would all prove to have been worth it. There were three picnic tables, a small patch of sand leading to the water and many, many noisy children frolicking about. (The only things I dislike more than the great outdoors are children.) I took one look at this and burst into laughter. The holy-shit-you-have-GOT-to-be-kdding-me kind, not the this-is-really-funny kind.
I wouldn't have laughed like that in front of my friend as I wouldn't have wanted to hurt her feelings, but that wasn't a concern. Most of the group was so far behind that they wouldn't arrive for another hour. (Which means we didn't see them at the beach - we met them on the trail going back.) The rest of the group had given up less than half-way along and headed back. (We passed them while going back, too. Turns out recent knee surgery is a good reason to sit at nearby picnic tables - near the handicapped parking.)
You must be wondering if there was anything positive about this day. There was. I had only thirty minutes at this point before I had to head back. Before I got to do the walk all over again.
The friend with whom I agreed to carpool e-mailed to ask if I could bring a beach umbrella. He obviously does not know me, either. But sans beach umbrella, my bottles of sunblock and I headed out before 8:00 a.m. on this excursion. We arrived at the beach about 10:00 and discovered a few things.
First, my friend had been mistaken about the identity of the beach she wanted and this was not the beach she had thought it was. (I wonder if beaches get that a lot. I thought you were some beach I know.) Second, where the beach she wanted was less than a half-mile from the parking lot, this beach was an almost two mile hike away. Third, everyone had packed as though we were evacuating there and might have to stay for months. So we all loaded ourselves up like pack-rats and headed out. This group included a woman who was wearing a knee brace; she'd recently had surgery. Maybe it's just me, but I was leery of a woman who was still using handicapped parking managing a two-mile hike over rocky inclines and tree roots.
I wasn't the only one who viewed this as folly; several people suggested we just climb back in our cars and head to the original beach which was apparently only a few miles away. My friend felt that that would be too confusing for the few people who were arriving later. (I thought we solved this with cell phones.) I suggested that we simply take advantage of the lovely, shaded picnic tables right in front of us. My friend announced that no, we'd planned on going to the beach, not a park. And - she said - it would all be worth it when we saw the beach.
You may be wondering how she knew this when she'd not been to this beach.
I consider myself a New Yorker. I used to walk three miles to work each morning. I felt that only tourists ever used any type of transportation to go less than a mile. But that was on relatively flat concrete surfaces and I rarely had more than a small backpack with me. We were on difficult terrain, loaded down with coolers of food and drinks, chairs, blankets - even a tent! Once I've agreed to do a thing, however, I do it, and before anytime I was in the lead. At one point, I realized I was far ahead of the others and then I panicked. You read about women who are with a group of friends, get separated from them and are never seen again. I wouldn't have worried if this were in the middle of the city, but this was out in the middle of nature. I saw Into the Woods. I know that "horrible things happen in the woods", so I spent almost as much time pausing and waiting for people to catch up to me as I did actually walking.
And we kept walking. And walking. Eventually, I became convinced that there was no beach. This trail was some endless loop and our skeletons would later be found by other poor fools who had set out for a beach day. I was so convinced that when one of our crowd announced that she could "smell water", I was sure it was an olfactory mirage. When I first caught a glimpse of water through the trees, I was sure that delirium had set in.
It hadn't, but hilarity soon did. We had arrived at the beach. The one where this would all prove to have been worth it. There were three picnic tables, a small patch of sand leading to the water and many, many noisy children frolicking about. (The only things I dislike more than the great outdoors are children.) I took one look at this and burst into laughter. The holy-shit-you-have-GOT-to-be-kdding-me kind, not the this-is-really-funny kind.
I wouldn't have laughed like that in front of my friend as I wouldn't have wanted to hurt her feelings, but that wasn't a concern. Most of the group was so far behind that they wouldn't arrive for another hour. (Which means we didn't see them at the beach - we met them on the trail going back.) The rest of the group had given up less than half-way along and headed back. (We passed them while going back, too. Turns out recent knee surgery is a good reason to sit at nearby picnic tables - near the handicapped parking.)
You must be wondering if there was anything positive about this day. There was. I had only thirty minutes at this point before I had to head back. Before I got to do the walk all over again.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Paradise Found
Where?!? That's the response I got whenever I mentioned where I was heading on my next vacation. Apparently Ljubljana isn't yet the first place Americans think of when they contemplate a European vacation. No one seems to know where it - or even the country that houses it - Slovenia - is. No one can spell it, much less remember it, and pronouncing it twists tongues. So people just shook their heads at me (odd, how often I get that reaction, no matter the topic).
Was I right? Was I right to choose a location that most Americans have never heard of? Was I right to announce to my three traveling companions that they were about to spend their hard-earned money to follow me to a city about which they knew nothing? (Yes, they could have refused, but the way this every-other-year trip works is that I choose the location, do all the planning, and they come along, so it's not like the destination is up for discussion. They're free to make their owns plans, but then they would actually have to "plan" ... and ... they trust me.) Do they still trust me?
Let's just say that after this trip, if I told them we were headed to Outer Siberia next trip, they'd agree. Was I right? Was I right!
The first thing we noticed after disembarking the plane, bleary-eyed and exhausted though we might have been, was a drop-dead gorgeous man holding up a sign with my name on it. No, he wasn't my fairy prince, come to swoop me away to a life of luxury - he was the guy who was to take us from the airport to the hotel - but this just had to be a good sign, right?
The hotel was lovely and the entire staff was helpful, friendly, and eager to please. My sister and I shared a lower-level room with a balcony; the balcony attached to our friends' upper-level room opened to an amazing view. The perfect place to regroup each evening over a glass of wine, which, of course, we did.
We threw down our bags, set out to see a bit of the city, and immediately fell in love. Charming streets, musicians everywhere, playing instruments we'd never imagined, stunning architecture. It's easily walk-able, and even I, Ms.-Beyond-Directionally-Challenged, found it relatively easy to navigate. Everywhere we went, we found new, beautiful surprises. The triple bridges are in the middle of the city and each of them is distinctive and interesting in its own way. My favorite was the Dragon Bridge - who wouldn't love a Bridge filled with Dragon sculptures?
We ate extremely well and the wine .... The Slovenians make excellent wine which one can buy for a few dollars a glass at any of the numerous outdoor cafes overlooking the water. It turns out the hotel staff is indicative of the city at large - friendly and thoughtful. And that man at the airport? He's not alone, either. Slovenian men are beautiful! It got to the point where we almost became blase about them. Ruth would sigh, "This one isn't quite as gorgeous as the one five minutes ago." And her eyes would widen as another man came into view.
Slovenian history is as fascinating as the Slovenians themselves. They are fiercely independent, athletic and outdoorsy, yet their national hero is a poet. Yes, the statue in the middle of the city is of a poet and there is another statue, this one carved into the wall of a building directly across from his statue, of the woman he unrequitedly loved. The romantic in me melted.
So what did we say when we returned and people queried "where?!?" when told of our trip? Did we tell them that it is idyllic, a tiny land of mountains and oceans, of excellent wine and food, exquisite and considerate people? Am I crazy?? Nope. We told them it was boring, expensive, unfriendly and ugly. After all, I now plan to live there someday and I don't want it overrun with tourists!
Was I right? Was I right to choose a location that most Americans have never heard of? Was I right to announce to my three traveling companions that they were about to spend their hard-earned money to follow me to a city about which they knew nothing? (Yes, they could have refused, but the way this every-other-year trip works is that I choose the location, do all the planning, and they come along, so it's not like the destination is up for discussion. They're free to make their owns plans, but then they would actually have to "plan" ... and ... they trust me.) Do they still trust me?
Let's just say that after this trip, if I told them we were headed to Outer Siberia next trip, they'd agree. Was I right? Was I right!
The first thing we noticed after disembarking the plane, bleary-eyed and exhausted though we might have been, was a drop-dead gorgeous man holding up a sign with my name on it. No, he wasn't my fairy prince, come to swoop me away to a life of luxury - he was the guy who was to take us from the airport to the hotel - but this just had to be a good sign, right?
The hotel was lovely and the entire staff was helpful, friendly, and eager to please. My sister and I shared a lower-level room with a balcony; the balcony attached to our friends' upper-level room opened to an amazing view. The perfect place to regroup each evening over a glass of wine, which, of course, we did.
We threw down our bags, set out to see a bit of the city, and immediately fell in love. Charming streets, musicians everywhere, playing instruments we'd never imagined, stunning architecture. It's easily walk-able, and even I, Ms.-Beyond-Directionally-Challenged, found it relatively easy to navigate. Everywhere we went, we found new, beautiful surprises. The triple bridges are in the middle of the city and each of them is distinctive and interesting in its own way. My favorite was the Dragon Bridge - who wouldn't love a Bridge filled with Dragon sculptures?
We ate extremely well and the wine .... The Slovenians make excellent wine which one can buy for a few dollars a glass at any of the numerous outdoor cafes overlooking the water. It turns out the hotel staff is indicative of the city at large - friendly and thoughtful. And that man at the airport? He's not alone, either. Slovenian men are beautiful! It got to the point where we almost became blase about them. Ruth would sigh, "This one isn't quite as gorgeous as the one five minutes ago." And her eyes would widen as another man came into view.
Slovenian history is as fascinating as the Slovenians themselves. They are fiercely independent, athletic and outdoorsy, yet their national hero is a poet. Yes, the statue in the middle of the city is of a poet and there is another statue, this one carved into the wall of a building directly across from his statue, of the woman he unrequitedly loved. The romantic in me melted.
So what did we say when we returned and people queried "where?!?" when told of our trip? Did we tell them that it is idyllic, a tiny land of mountains and oceans, of excellent wine and food, exquisite and considerate people? Am I crazy?? Nope. We told them it was boring, expensive, unfriendly and ugly. After all, I now plan to live there someday and I don't want it overrun with tourists!
What Women Really Want
The other night I was talking to a friend who has been, mostly happily, married for a couple of decades now. Still, even the best spouses can be irritating and she told me that (at least in the moment) she doesn't really want to be married with all the attendant drama, she just wants someone to fuck. I thought about it a second, agreed, and added, "And someone to carry heavy objects now and then."
Is that really what I want? It has struck me lately that I am quite tired of being single. But, like my friend, I recoil at the thought of relationship drama. I loathe dating, which seems to be something of a prerequisite to finding a husband. I'm not terribly fond of all that goes into building a life together, either - the negotiating and compromising around issues, the bringing in family and friends for whom time must be made - all the details that have to be worked out to create some sort of harmony. Yet, daily, I think of how tired I am of being single.
Then it hit me. It's not really a husband I want; it is servants!! What exhausts me is having to do everything myself. If there is grocery shopping to be done, dry cleaning to be taken in, shoes to be repaired, meals to be cooked, house repairs to be made, packages to be mailed, laundry to be washed, mending to be handled, bills to be paid, weeding to be done, the only person to do it is moi. What I want is someone to share the numerous burdens of daily life. We used to call these people "wives", at least in the middle classes, but since bringing in income became de rigour across gender lines, there is no one assigned this role in most households. However, where there are two functioning adults in a household, at least this monotony can be shared.
For the two years before my sister was born, I took being an only child quite seriously and never quite learned to embrace the concept of sharing, but now - I want to share! I want to share every single detail of managing a life.
Certainly, having a house full of servants would eliminate the need for a significant other, at least the practical need, but not only can I not begin to afford servants, I can't even afford a house that would accommodate them if I had them. Which takes me right back to the idea that a spouse could come in handy.
I know; I know. I'm quite the romantic, aren't I? But be fair - I'm to TIRED to be romantic! Who can think about things like candlelit dinners and weeekend getaways when one is thinking about unloading the dishwasher in order to clear off the countertops, worrying whether one has any clean underwear, and trying to figure out how to replace the gutter pipe without falling off the porch roof?! It's not that I choose to think of the opposite sex as just useful. I'd far rather think about passionate kissing and late-night cuddling, but who has the energy?
Of course, if I did have someone with whom to share the daily burdens - the boring chores, the occasional stresses - maybe I'd be less tired and able to get back to having romantic thoughts and feelings. I wonder....
Is that really what I want? It has struck me lately that I am quite tired of being single. But, like my friend, I recoil at the thought of relationship drama. I loathe dating, which seems to be something of a prerequisite to finding a husband. I'm not terribly fond of all that goes into building a life together, either - the negotiating and compromising around issues, the bringing in family and friends for whom time must be made - all the details that have to be worked out to create some sort of harmony. Yet, daily, I think of how tired I am of being single.
Then it hit me. It's not really a husband I want; it is servants!! What exhausts me is having to do everything myself. If there is grocery shopping to be done, dry cleaning to be taken in, shoes to be repaired, meals to be cooked, house repairs to be made, packages to be mailed, laundry to be washed, mending to be handled, bills to be paid, weeding to be done, the only person to do it is moi. What I want is someone to share the numerous burdens of daily life. We used to call these people "wives", at least in the middle classes, but since bringing in income became de rigour across gender lines, there is no one assigned this role in most households. However, where there are two functioning adults in a household, at least this monotony can be shared.
For the two years before my sister was born, I took being an only child quite seriously and never quite learned to embrace the concept of sharing, but now - I want to share! I want to share every single detail of managing a life.
Certainly, having a house full of servants would eliminate the need for a significant other, at least the practical need, but not only can I not begin to afford servants, I can't even afford a house that would accommodate them if I had them. Which takes me right back to the idea that a spouse could come in handy.
I know; I know. I'm quite the romantic, aren't I? But be fair - I'm to TIRED to be romantic! Who can think about things like candlelit dinners and weeekend getaways when one is thinking about unloading the dishwasher in order to clear off the countertops, worrying whether one has any clean underwear, and trying to figure out how to replace the gutter pipe without falling off the porch roof?! It's not that I choose to think of the opposite sex as just useful. I'd far rather think about passionate kissing and late-night cuddling, but who has the energy?
Of course, if I did have someone with whom to share the daily burdens - the boring chores, the occasional stresses - maybe I'd be less tired and able to get back to having romantic thoughts and feelings. I wonder....
Friday, January 17, 2014
Vous Recherchez un Francois
Several years ago, I read that France was listed #1 in terms of quality-of-life for countries. My understanding is that this number one spot varies from year to year, but it seems that, overall, France does pretty well. So I decided I want to move to France.
Great plan, right? I mean, who wouldn't want to live in the country that boasts the highest standard of living anywhere? Plus, I've done my own research. I watched Sicko and learned that the health care is of high quality and is also universal. (Since I have these recurring fears of winding up homeless and unemployed and living under a bridge, knowing that I could be treated for my seasonal allergies and all the various injuries I would expect to occur when you combine a klutz and under-the-bridge living, is reassuring.) I also questioned my friends, Jon and Ginger, who lived in Paris for several years. Yes, the 35-hour work wee is strictly enforced. Yes, they have lots and lots of leave and everyone is expected to and does - use it. Yes, people do spend the odd afternoon sipping excellent, inexpensive burgundy at a sidewalk cafe. Get me a plane ticket!!
Alas, France, just like America, and probably everywhere else humans actually choose to inhabit, isn't out looking for new residents. Those pesky immigration laws! So, what to do?
Obviously, one has to get a job to get a work visa and since my remedial (alright - pathetic) French will probably make this difficult, I'd better look for other options. Maybe someone would adopt me? I'm sure Jon and Ginger would have done so if I could have given them enormous sums of money but a) I don't have enormous sums of money, and b) they're now back in the States, living in New Jersey. Some help they are! What else? What other options??
Why of course! I need to marry a Frenchman! Clearly, this is the best strategy. After all, I'm single, so this should be easy, right?
As I've not actively looked to marry before I'm not sure how one goes about this. Yes, I watched Sex and the City so I'm aware that finding and marrying "the one" can be difficult and time-consuming, but I'm not looking for a soul-mate, just someone with French citizenship.
I polled my friends. There were suggestions that I go to French films, French restaurants and any events at the French Embassy to which I can be admitted. I've done enough of the first two to be pretty sure they don't work. (Also, this has caused me to wonder, why don't French women get fat.) As for events at the French Embassy, this sounds like a pretty good plan. If nothing else works, I might come back to this.
The response most of my friends gave to the "how do you find someone to marry" question, is that they basically wait for someone to knock on their front door.
Yes, these are single friends.
No, they don't date much.
Nonetheless, this plan has a lot of appeal. First, I'm terribly lazy at heart and this wouldn't require any real activity on my part. Second, while I'm waiting for him to show up, I can be working on my French. Or sleeping. So I'll be really rested and look good when he comes along. And it's not like I'm unwilling to make any effort. Au contraire! I've told many of my friends - and even some people I don't' know - that I'm looking for a Frenchman to marry. My requirements are few. He needs a good heart, a big apartment and a desire to marry an American woman and take her to France.
Okay. I've put this plan in motion. Now I'm just going to sit here and wait for the doorbell to ring.
Great plan, right? I mean, who wouldn't want to live in the country that boasts the highest standard of living anywhere? Plus, I've done my own research. I watched Sicko and learned that the health care is of high quality and is also universal. (Since I have these recurring fears of winding up homeless and unemployed and living under a bridge, knowing that I could be treated for my seasonal allergies and all the various injuries I would expect to occur when you combine a klutz and under-the-bridge living, is reassuring.) I also questioned my friends, Jon and Ginger, who lived in Paris for several years. Yes, the 35-hour work wee is strictly enforced. Yes, they have lots and lots of leave and everyone is expected to and does - use it. Yes, people do spend the odd afternoon sipping excellent, inexpensive burgundy at a sidewalk cafe. Get me a plane ticket!!
Alas, France, just like America, and probably everywhere else humans actually choose to inhabit, isn't out looking for new residents. Those pesky immigration laws! So, what to do?
Obviously, one has to get a job to get a work visa and since my remedial (alright - pathetic) French will probably make this difficult, I'd better look for other options. Maybe someone would adopt me? I'm sure Jon and Ginger would have done so if I could have given them enormous sums of money but a) I don't have enormous sums of money, and b) they're now back in the States, living in New Jersey. Some help they are! What else? What other options??
Why of course! I need to marry a Frenchman! Clearly, this is the best strategy. After all, I'm single, so this should be easy, right?
As I've not actively looked to marry before I'm not sure how one goes about this. Yes, I watched Sex and the City so I'm aware that finding and marrying "the one" can be difficult and time-consuming, but I'm not looking for a soul-mate, just someone with French citizenship.
I polled my friends. There were suggestions that I go to French films, French restaurants and any events at the French Embassy to which I can be admitted. I've done enough of the first two to be pretty sure they don't work. (Also, this has caused me to wonder, why don't French women get fat.) As for events at the French Embassy, this sounds like a pretty good plan. If nothing else works, I might come back to this.
The response most of my friends gave to the "how do you find someone to marry" question, is that they basically wait for someone to knock on their front door.
Yes, these are single friends.
No, they don't date much.
Nonetheless, this plan has a lot of appeal. First, I'm terribly lazy at heart and this wouldn't require any real activity on my part. Second, while I'm waiting for him to show up, I can be working on my French. Or sleeping. So I'll be really rested and look good when he comes along. And it's not like I'm unwilling to make any effort. Au contraire! I've told many of my friends - and even some people I don't' know - that I'm looking for a Frenchman to marry. My requirements are few. He needs a good heart, a big apartment and a desire to marry an American woman and take her to France.
Okay. I've put this plan in motion. Now I'm just going to sit here and wait for the doorbell to ring.
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