Koimoumon labe (damn these are getting long)

Woke up to a phone call from the ex again this morning. She wanted to know if I still had the gray tie in which we got married. I answered sleepily that I did not. I'm normally fully supportive of her right to wear masculine clothing, but not when it interrupts my sleep. Son of a butch.

Well, I never got back to sleep, partly because by then the 2-year-old had rolled to the back of the futon (as usual, she's woken in the middle of the night and I had to bring her out to sleep with me).

When they were both awake, not too too much later, it was breakfast time. I was pleased with myself; I'd thought ahead the previous night and made veggie broth, and cut the veggies and strips of beef for soup. I got that ready and put it on the table, whereupon the 5-year-old expressed dismay announced that she wanted to make breakfast. I said, okay, phyne. (Bitter? A little. What's it to ya?) While she did this, the other one nibbled at the soup, but mostly had fun separating the broth and solids into the two bowls. I ate my yummy, vitamin-rick soup alone; having no crackers, I ate it with grumbles.

With minimal help (oiling the pan, washing the spatula), the five-year-old made breakfast. She brought out three plates for us, each of scrambled eggs and frozen peas. No, not cooked or thawed frozen peas, but frozen peas. This has long been a favorite snack for both of them, you see, and they can't seem to understand why anyone would need them unfrozen. I ate half of mine before I pleaded being full of soup, and the toddler ate the rest.

There was little request for Family Guy clips today; the two did a lot of playing together, when not fighting over the doorway swing and rope ladder. The stuffed animals are a big thing for them.

See, ever since she was present for the other one's birth, the 5-year-old one has been regularly having babies of her own. She announces some days beforehand (usually; sometimes the same day) that she's going to have a new baby. then as the time nears she starts telling me it's going to happen, and she hopes Mommy will be home in time so she can be the midwife, and eventually stuffs a stuffed animal under her shirt/dress for several minutes. Then she lies down on the bed or gets in the tub (where the 2-year-old was born) and in the shortest labor ever the baby pops out.

That's never the end of it, either; they each get a name, and some time later there's a baptism (which gets more elaborate every time), and they have birthdays which she expects us to celebrate with a cake and candles, and, preferably, hats. They have these birthdays a lot, since she now has 6 or 7 "children" and the oldest one, born about a year and a half ago, is now somehow about 9.

Anyway, one of the oldest is Ressie, a huge and very cuddly cow that a passing stranger gave the older one at the State Fair last year (the younger one was asleep in the bottom of our rented wagon). She is the favorite, and gets dressed in their clothes and carried around and pushed on the swing. They bond around Ressie a lot.

The 5-year-old got dressed up to go to a party. It was to be in the hall. I told her to leave the door open, but that meant the 2-year-old would follow her, and she was insisting on a no-clothes day. So the 5-year-old hit on the idea of having the party in our apartment. I made a potato pizza (do not try this at home. I never will again. it was a disaster, but they didn't know it so they ate it anyway) and a bowl of apple wedges.

Once again, no nap form the toddler today. She decided to just have a meltdown around 5:30. Started crying, "Dah-deee!! ::sniff:: I wan' ::sniff:: go ooooutt!" and I said, "Great, let's do that!" Do discover that the sister had fallen asleep. Out cold; I tried for several minutes to wake her to no avail. Finally, I hit on an extreme solution; she was sure to wake up for McDonalds! So I tempted her with Micky D's, prodded her and poked her and tickled her until she sort of agreed to get up some time soon.

Then I was reminded that, in a home with small children, anything not used for a day is to be considered lost. (This varies, of course. With toothbrushes, it can be as little as three hours). The warm weather of the past two days meant we had not worn coats. Now it was 45, and the two-year-old's coat was missing. I searched all over. I went up to the ex's apartment.and searched that. Nothing.

I know I'm eventually going to find it in the vegetable crisper or something.

So, unable to leave the apartment, I did the next best thing and ordered Chinese. This was a disappointment to the 5-year-old, who offered her usual counter: "DADDY!!" It was as effective as ever. We had veggie lo-mein and sweet-and-sour chicken.

After dinner, I checked my email and read the new articles on MIT Tech Review. The other two wanted Peter Pan (again). I looked up and saw it was 7:54; bedtime is 9. Okay, they can have an hour to wind down. I tell the 5-year-old, "Okay, you an watch it in six minutes," but she haggled brilliantly: "SEVEN!" I blinked. "Okay!"

Seven minutes later, I started up Peter Pan... and the 2-year-old pushed the power button and shut it down. After repairing the bite wounds I left in her scalp (joke), I fired it up again, and decided to take a little doze on the futon while they were mesmerized. No danger of that; I was woken every 3-5 minutes by one or the other. As before, 15 or 20 minutes into it the 2-year-old needed rock-a-byes, and I fell asleep with her on the futon.

I woke to the 5-year-old saying, "Daddy, I'm bored." Which, at that time of night, and that tone of voice, means "Daddy, I'm tired." Then I had an intuition: "What time is it?" I asked.

She looked at the computer clock (our only clock, really). "Ten-Four-Four."

"Uh-huh. you restarted the movie."

"What?"

"You restarted the movie when it ended."

She justified this by saying she's tried to wake me and couldn't. Not quite sure how true this is in fact, but I'm sure it was true to her at that time, anyway, so I let it go. A toothbrushing and speed-read of The Subway Mouse later, and that was it. Here I am.

Ready to drop off, myself, which was not part of the plan.

[Oh, sorry, the title, I forgot: "Koimoumon" is (probably badly conjugated) Greek for "Having slept." It;s supposed to be a play on "molon labe". Referring to my just having woken up. It was funny when I started this. But then I'd just woken up.].

Bad mood tonight.

I am unhappy with the state of certain things. I guess it started with this blog. It's not a new blog, but tonight I went back and read some of the comments left after I'd read it the first time. Not happy.

Why is it that we can tell people what they can and can't call themselves? That we our majority experience of gender is allowed to outweigh that of others with a different experience. I suppose we do that with everything; if we haven't felt true love, or the pressure of racism, or divine connection, we're quick to claim it doesn't exist. If I can't see what you do, then your eyes are bad, never mine. If we think differently, you are insane, never I.

Why do people feel they have a right to force people who don't accept their dress code that they have to risk violence in the men's restroom (or else pee in the street) because they don't want someone with a penis in their restroom? ("He could be a rapist"? Couldn't he be that in the elevator? In the garage? In the stairwell? They often are, you know. Maybe we should have women-only parking lots.)

Why is it acceptable to proudly proclaim you will "BEAT THE HELL OUT OF THE SOB" if a woman you kiss turns out to have been born male? Or even if he still is one, in drag? Why is it that seen as different from "I'D BEAT THE HELL OUT A NIGGER WHO KISSED MY SISTER"? What has been threatened that you have to defend with violence? Your manhood? Is it that fragile? Your honor? Can someone else taint your honor? To make sure he doesn't do it again? Couldn't you just not kiss him again?

No. I'm not happy with the world right now. Pity. It was a damn good day, too.

UPDATE several hours later:

Well, I got my answer.

I asked the one who said that, "And would you lynch the black guy who made a pass at your daughter?" and got this email today:

YES YES and I got a good friend that is black and he doesnt beleave in mixed relations

Strangely, it doesn't make me feel a lot better.

Vitamin D and Caffeine, that's what little girls are made of.

The kids came down this morning and wanted pancakes. So I pretended I was awake and made them some. I feel funny about giving them pancakes. It always feels like I'm just feeding them starch and sugar. Now, I'm fully aware that more than half of it by weight is actually milk and eggs, and the flour is stone-ground whole wheat, and half the time I can trick them into using the lightest smear of syrup, but I still feel better when I make them vegetable soup.

Then we did some stuff until noon, but I honestly can't remember what it was. Which worries me a little, but it's been an active day and I'm a little tired, so I guess it's okay. Then, trying to get outside, I realized I'd have to either feed them first or g t some crap food out. So we made chicken-fried steak, fried potatoes and broccoli, with carrot flower garnishes (thanks, DZDiva, for the link on how to make those). [Damn, this memory lapse really makes it look like all I do all day is obsessively cook. Then again, maybe that;there's something to that.]

Finally got out, after the usual false starts (the 2-year-old has learned to stop at the door on our way out, say, "I f'got somefing!" and run back into the bedroom, pause just inside the doorway, then run back saying, "Okay, let's go!")

Today was 69 and mostly sunny here in the Bronx. The first time in a long time the kids were out in short-sleeves and no jackets. We went to the park a few blocks away, which boasts a number of playgrounds, and I informed the them, "Your job is now to go have fun!" Which they did. The climbed, swung, and slid. We collected moss and the 5-year-old read signs with remarkable ease.

And we played the Swing Game, which basically involves me getting annoyed at the 5-year-old and yelling at her to "Go away and STAY AWAY!" while pushing her away on the swing. (See, it's a swing. So of course she comes back. They find such absurdity hilarious.) I get angrier and angrier, eventually deciding to just "Go far, far away, so you'll NEVER SEE ME AGAIN!" -- which involves loudly and dramatically wandering out of the swing area, around it and in through the other entrance. Then I dramatically pace back and forth with my back to them, proclaiming how relieved I am to be so far away from those rotten children. I then wander close enough for one of them to touch me, whereupon I whirl around just as she swings back; this goes on or several minutes of hysterical laughter. Always the highlight of the park trip.

A glorious time. The kids and I are soaking up the sun and fun. Then a problem arises. See, we like the 2-year-old to nap around noon, noon-thirty, maybe 1 p.m, though even 1:30 p.m. is acceptable. If I'm pressed, I'll let it happen at 2 p.m. The thing is, see, the later she naps, the later she wakes up refreshed, the later she stays up at night. Today she did not nap at 11, at noon, or at 1. Then, at the park, around 4:00, she starts snuggling against my shoulder and burying her face in the crook of my neck in that maneuver I know so well. It's the sleepy-toddler's equivalent of the horny-dude's exaggerated yawn at the movies that results in an undone bra. Dah-dee says "No way, little stinkface."

This does not sit well with the stinkface in question. She begins to do the sort of crying I do when she gets me up at 3 a.m.; "NNnnnnnoooo... e-HEH! e-HEH!" Well, I was taking them to the corner store to get some water anyway, so maye that will wake her up. The stinkface, once there, demands soda. e-HEH! e-HEH!

Now, she LOVES soda, loves it like a bear loves bear-heroin, but normally she does not get soda. She gets water or milk. When it can't be avoided, as when someone else at the table has soda, we give her a tablespoonful in her water or milk and cheerfully say "There you go!" and she has not yet caught on. But now as I'm forming the words "Now, we're getting water," a change comes over me. A Decision is Made.

It was like on TV, when someone has a sudden epiphany at the last minute and completely changes the plan and everyone else freaks because It's Sheer Madness, but it turns out he suddenly realized it was The Only Way.

I say, "Okay, soda it is." And I buy a 20-oz. Pepsi. A non-diet, sugary, CAFFEINATED Pepsi. And a tiny box of raisins. (She loves raisins. Loves them like a bear loves... well, raisins, probably.) And as she spends the rest of the afternoon with the opening of that bottle vacuum-sealed to her mouth, I think, "This better work."

Well, it does. She makes it home. Makes it until Mommy gets home (late). Makes it through enough of dinner that when she finally passes out (in the crook of my neck), I am satisfied that she wouldn't wake up at 3 p.m. and moan, "Fooooood!"

I invite the ex over for dinner and to watch Run Ronnie Run (in brief: I love this movie). Having some shredded veggies on hand, I opt for beef stir-fry; a little cliché, so I liven it up with more carrot flower garnishes. Don't worry sir, the dead horses like it when you beat them.

And here I am. She took the kids tonight so she can go to a meeting tomorrow. And I have work to do. And emails. And cleaning up from dinner. And sleep.

I'll work it all out somehow.

Okonomiyaki

Earning my Cliff Claven comparisons:

Been into Japanese food for a month or so now. Well, considering my cooking style is learned almost entirely from texts, and my local ingredients are not what one would gt in Tokyo, perhaps "Japanish" is a better term. Anyway.

The other day I discovered okonomiyaki, and find myself making it daily -- almost obsessively. "Okonomiyaki" means "as you like" or "cook a you like," and it's been described somewhat accurately as a cross between pancakes and pizza. Basically, you pour batter onto a hot skillet/griddle; while it's cooking, you throw in whatever toppings; cabbage seems universal, and I use onion, carrot, diakon, and usually strips of beef or chicken. After the batter side is done, flip it over and cook. the other side. Hiroshima style then puts a broken egg onto the skillet and transfers the whole thing on top (I prefer this, if only because it's neater; the batter seals one side, the egg the other). Then spread on mayonnaise and/or "okonomiyaki" sauce (basically ketchup, soy sauce and worstershire, seasoned and thickened).

Quick. Easy. Tasty. Nutritious (being mostly vegetables). Easily made vegan. While I'm sure my attempts would be recognized by anyone who's lived in Japan, I thought I'd mention it. I keep some shredded cabbage and carrots handy n the fridge now. Today, not having bread for my tuna sandwich, I did he same thing for that, using batter on both sides instead of the egg. It worked.

EDIT: Someone emailed me to ask about the batter. I didn't get specific because I'm not sure I'm using anything better than what anyone else is using. I've seen some that require egg, but I just use flour and water with a pinch of salt and a larger dash of sugar.

I've never used measurements, but I'd guess about a cup of flour, a pinch of salt, maybe a teaspoon of sugar and enough water to make a reasonably liquid batter (enough so to swirl around in the pan, but it doesn't have to be thin like a crepe or anything) Actually, I've been experimenting with various proportions of rice to wheat flour; the rice makes it crispier on the outside, but somehow... gummier(?) on the inside Which isn't necessarily a bad thing depends on your taste.

I also forgot to add that tonight I tried a version mixing the shredded cabbage into the batter before putting into the pan. I may like this better, not sure yet; it's certainly neater, though.

Monsting Report

Monster (n.): One who monsts.

Today was alright. No sickies reporting for duty. I got some work done, did some grocery shopping, came home and received stewardship of the cubs circa 1 pm, just in time to get to Mass. That is, just in time to get to Mass late. We made Communion, anyway. We missed the homily; damn, we'll have to manage another week without hearing about the shortage of priests who (assures Father Stewart) are of vital importance, and why don't more people show up for Mass when it's not a Day of Obligation. (Wouldn't know, man, we're the ones who ARE FRICKIN' HERE!!!)

(Aside: I'm amused to imagine Fr. Stewart coming across this blog and being offended. Because what's he going to say about it that won't involve explaining what he was doing on this site in the first place? Heh-heh!)

The kids were basically great. The 5-yo drew a picture of "Mairy" from a painting on the wall (kick-ass job, too); while Eve alternated between singing along (you know that "A-aa-AAA, A-aa-AAA!" thing the little mermaid did? Like that, with less range), asking "Who's dat?" fifty times while pointing to a "Mairy" statue, and wandering around the church (quietly, at least) so I had to get up and follow her around.

Their Mom joined us for lunch at McDonalds. They have a playroom! So we'll be able to talk about stuff while they play! Why the hell do we always fall for that? I can't remember the last thing of any complexity we've been able to discuss in McDonalds since the 5-yo learned to walk.

So an hour and a half later, Mommy goes off to Mass. She now goes to a church in Manhattan that has a nice GLBT community. (I stick by St. Brendan's because... well, frankly, because it's a short block from our building.) I am left sole acting guardian, and after several more minutes of play, the 2-yo gets antsy and we have to leave.

Getting outside, the 2-yo -- The Best Toddler Ever, remember -- starts the second huge tantrum she's thrown in my presence. Screaming "NO DAAADDDDYY! NO DAAADDDDYY!", wriggling, fighting to get down on the dirty sidewalk. Which I finally let her do (I'm more concerned about bystanders than I am about actual germs), and she lies down sobbing and screaming. Five minutes of careful talking finally get her to tell me what she wants. (At least what she wants now.)

"Fries." Yes, we made it about a block and a half away before she told me that she wanted more fries.

So I tell her, fine, we can go get fries if that;'s what you wanted." and she gradually emerges from Toddler Hell. But McDonalds, when we get there, has suffered dinner rush! It's going to be a 5-minute or more wait, which is an hour in toddler time (two in holding-a-toddler time). So I convince her to help me make fries at home.

Now, the "fries" I discovered the other day are strips of fried tofu. Easy to make, lots of protein and they actually taste pretty okay with ketchup. Both kids like 'em. And I'd just bought a pound of tofu. I also make me a salad of baby spinach, apples, tomatoes, a slice of fried tofu cut in strips, and a strawberry-vinaigrette I threw together. Kick-ass.

While the 5-yo does some digital art and the toddler snarfs fried tofu and sliced raw veggies (she wants 'em, I'm not complaining), I call an MD friend for the first time. Fun conversation, though I realize in the middle of it I'm a little manic; I often am, the first time I talk to someone, and it's compounded by my tendency to talk very quickly.anyway (partly a New York thing, partly because my mind moves a lot faster than my mouth, and partly because I can be compulsive).

Much hilarity and horseplay ensues. It occurs to me as the toddler pushes me onto the bed (with my help) that the only women I can remember pushing me onto a bed are a now-out butch lesbian, and our 2-year-old daughter. Still, I do not cry.

Given the late lunch/snack, dinner is not served until almost 9, which is bedtime. Oh well. Dinner, btw, is salt-fish cakes with sautéed veggies, and is generally enjoyed (though the 5-year-old rejects the peppers, as promised). Then the 5-yo wants her midnight snack, a concept with which she's been obsessed for the past few weeks, and demands before bed, even if, as tonight, she's just eaten dinner. So she eats two small apples, cut in half.

She also wants to at least see Mommy before she goes to sleep. I (it turns out mistakenly) believe the mommy is almost home and say yes. And hour later (an hour and a half past bedtime), I realize my error, and say that's enough Family Guy clips on YouTube ("Funguy!" as the toddler calls it, is their favorite form of entertainment) for one night.

the 5-year-old then eschews the bed for the futon, on some 5-year-old principle, and the Best Toddler Ever serendipitously decides she wants me to "Rock-a-bye" her. She's out and in bed in less than 5 minutes, by which time the big sister is sawing logs as well. W00t.

Mommy shows up about 3 minutes after they're asleep. Turns out "I'm almost home now" was actually "I'm coming home now." Oops.

She's upstairs as I type this. Any minute, should be here to finally get to talk about stuff. The only beer she has is Guinness, however, and as I'm not in the mood for Guinness, that sucks just a bit.

The end.

Shortish cub-day today

Shortish and pretty vanilla. No educational breakthroughs, no major traumas, no grand messes made that couldn't be undone with a dip in the tub (and that bottle of paint is empty now). The 5-year-old finished the background art for The Queen/Birds/Magic Pennies animation.

There was a lot of food prep today. They ate pretty ravenously, and severely dented my peanut butter supply. The 2-year-old made her first sandwich, and did a pretty spiffy job of it, so there was that milestone.

The 5-year-old wanted to make a midnight snack (which I suppose will be eaten as soon as they're done with dinner) herself, her sister and their mom. White rice molded into attractive domes with a teacup, sliced raw carrots and shot glasses of milk, on saucers. She's gotten the "making food look nice" bug from me and my attempts at Japanese-style presentation I gotta remember to go up later and get my shot glasses back.

I uploaded some new pics, enjoy. Also skimmed lacey's intriguing multi-part blog on HIV/AIDS; my instinctive antiestablishmentarianism is really into the possibility, but the I'm aware of the jerkiness of my knee in that regard, so I'm approaching my research with caution.

Watched a lot of Family Guy tonight. I'm a little conflicted on the Family Guy and the kids. On the one hand, the comedy is often crude and touches (in a hilarious way) on adult subjects. On the other, we've never shied from discussing adult subjects with them, and I can't imagine a good daily dose of post-modern subversive absurdity being anything but good for them. I guess I mainly dread them mulling it over and finally quoting or questioning inappropriately in public. "Why did a fish fall out when they did the cavity search on Quagmire?"

Now I'm going up because I just got a call that there's a bunch of food left, and the light in my kitchen is out anyway, so why should I cook? When I get back, it's work and laundry night. May God grant me the endurance for both.

Today: short & sweet.

Today was not the greatest. I spend most of the day asleep. Normally, that might be great. But this morning I woke up sick. I'll spare you the details; suffice it to say that my head and stomach were competing to see which could cause me the greatest misery.

The kids' mom, the Best Ex Ever, came over and got them ahead of schedule, and I fell asleep. From 11:30 am or so to almost 6 pm, my sleep was broken only by brief intervals of hydration and email checking. After six, I was much improved, stomach settled and head no longer throbbing but reduced to a background ache. The Best Ex Ever showed up with some aspirin she'd bought me (any W4W in NYC, I heartily recommend her, she's a gem). Now feeling just about regular, except, oddly enough, a bit tired.

So I get an IM from upstairs; the 5-year-old is on her way down for a change of clothes. We talk about the animation for our story, and this leads to mention of dinner; mom made pizza. I realize I've eaten only a scrambled egg that the 2-year-old rejected for breakfast this morning, and ask if there's any left; there is, and I run up to chow down, and it's the Best Pizza Ever. Fresh basil. Yummy.

The 5-year-old has drawn a picture of a princess -- she names her Cirolla (see-ROL-la, often called si-ROL-la for short), and procedes to narrate the story of Cirolla while I transcribe.

Now, she's usually pretty great with stories. interesting characters, events and wordplay, with some unintentional but very post-modernly amusing anachronisms (in this one, for instance, Cirolla's mother, the Queen, builds a bathtub with some stone she picks up in the royal SUV). This story, though, was more of a fantasy trip, consisting mainly of descriptions of Princess Cirolla's wardrobe, pretty hair and cool bedroom decorations (the last of which matched some of the author's).

That went on for awhile, and I eventually took the opportunity to explain a bit about stories, and plotting, and denouements (nothing serious, and not for long). Eventually we had to say good night, and we'll theoretically get back to it tomorrow. But then we still haven't quite finished the story of The Queen the Birds and the Magic Pennies, so we'll see.

Now I'll probably watch Run, Ronnie, Run, which got some great reviews. I'll let you know about it tomorrow.

My day.

Okay, last night I promised someone on this site that I would try to post my antics daily. I figure I should keep my word for at least a week, so here goes.

Today's interactions with the cubs was not as stellar as yesterday's. Yesterday's engaging discussion of electromagnetism was replaced by the more usual art projects. Not so bad, I suppose; we discovered the art of... um... whatayacall it when you cut out paper shapes and glue them together to make a picture? Not a collage, really, nor a mosaic... Sort of like colorforms with paper. Anyway, this resulted in a sailboat, with multimedia clouds (torn-up bits of white plastic bag).

More excitingly, we made progress on our animation of the story the 5-year-old wrote (well, dictated) about The Queen, the Birds and the Magic Pennies.Got the modeling most of the rigging done for the Queen and pennies.Yay!. Should be interesting watching her learn about camera work, close-ups, etc. And she illustrated a second Queen, presumably for another story.

The kids have been watching The Little Mermaid and Peter Pan lately. The 5-year-old has developed my tendency to nitpick, and I'm so proud:

"Why do Disney princesses almost never eat anything?"

"Why does she have shoes all of a sudden? [after a brief cutaway after climbing onto the ship barefoot]"

"How come she has no blanket on her here... [5-second cutaway to another character]..and here she has the blanket on her?"

"How come Wendy forgot she can fly?"

"How did she make that 'Mmm!' noise? Did they forget she doesn't have her voice? Why do they always get everything wrong?"

Tonight, after giving the kids their nightly dose of chloroform (joke), I watched a netflix movie, "Immortality" (alternate title, "The Wisdom of Crocodiles"), with Jude Law. Sort of a romantic vampire movie. Kinda. Overall, I liked it. Not sure how to characterize it. Main character sorta let me down at the end, but then I was also glad he didn't let me down with a cliché ending. Great performance by Law, regardless.

And then I wrote a blog. The end.

I think I'm done with romance.

Oh, I don't mean romantic love. And I'll always be a romantic at heart, classically speaking. No, I mean the "formal" romance... the dozen roses, the courtship rituals, the sonnets ("Sonnets... I wrote a few. But then again, too bad to mention..."). I realized the other day that I can no longer view such trappings non-ironically. I might do them ironically, or as some sort of role-playing, but for any serious purpose they smack too much of a silly game. Love-by-numbers.

No, I'm interested in genuine thoughtfulness and intimacy, without the need for formulae. Considering her, not a romantic-comedy version of her. I don't mean not giving her flowers (if she likes that sort of thing), but if I do it'll be because I've decided that's an appropriate thing to do, and they'll be whatever flowers I think appropriate. Maybe I'll get her chocolate-covered cherries... or maybe peanut brittle... or a six-pack of Rolling Rock. Depends. I won't be slathering on what's effectively an industrial emotional lubricant; anyone who can't find romance in talking about what dreams you have in common while drinking a couple of beers isn't someone I can build a relationship with.

No. Here's the romance I offer from here on in: I'll be there. I'll listen. I'll let you know what I'm about, and I'll seek to know what you're about. I'll want to make you happy, with the things that genuinely make you happy, not the things that push your "awww" button. I'll often be sweet, but I won't be an endless dessert; I'm a lot of courses, and complexity is good for both the palate and nutrition (I'm sure there's a valid metaphor in there somewhere). I won't take you away from it all, because "it all" is everywhere you go. But I'll go there with you.

And one day, I'll learn to quit writing while I'm still making sense.

Sex & the Sea.

(or Cliff Claven's Wild Kingdom: Anglerfish for her, Inkeeper Worms for him.)

I happened to mention this to the ex tonight, and she immediately thought of the way some friends talked about of their husbands. Thought some of you ladies with exes might have had similar experiences.

Certain species of Ceratioid anglerfish have an interesting reproductive pattern. Like many fish, the male is smaller than the female. Unlike other fish, he's much smaller. Courtship consists of him seeking out a female and biting her on the belly. Not a nibble, either; the two become permanently attached, and their circulatory systems eventually fuse. The male loses all powers of independent movement and feeding, and in essence becomes a permanently attached parasite on the female, existing only to fertilize her eggs. Carrying the comparison further, once fused he often grows to a much larger size than unattached males.

-------------

This flowed from a discussion on the Innkeeper Worm -- which I just learned about on a museum trip with the cubs last week. The Innkeeper Worm (so called because other creatures often share its burrow) is a little critter that lives off the coast of California. After hatching, larvae settle into the soft sand where, if left undisturbed, they develop into females. If, however, they are contacted by the questing snout of an adult female, they are taken into the adult's body, develop into a male, and travel to her uterus, where they spend the rest of their lives, fertilizing her eggs.

Reading this, I could not help but blurt out, "Many a human male's dream..."

(My daughter, being five, didn't get it.)

Just got my degree!

Yup. It's been a hard row to hoe, but I've been putting in the grueling hours and I've finally done it... I've earned my diploma:

B.S. in General Studies at the University of Wikipedia.

I truly love Wikipedia. Time was when people had to go and learn something about particle physics. To know which fork to use for dessert and which for salad, you'd have to at least read a book. No longer. Information without study! Provided by: anyone who feels like it!

It's late. I should be asleep. I'm being weird and silly, and apologize.

But I seriously do love Wikipedia.

Seeking (Dom + Sub) / 2

Here's the thing. I don't get off on gender roles. I just don't. Maybe being married to a feminist for 6 years will do that to you, but I have no desire to be the dominant -- or submissive -- one in a relationship. And there is a huge expectation that someone will, and that it will usually be the man. (There's even the expression, to be "The Man".)

During my marriage, a lot was said (usually behind my back) along the lines of "Well, I see who wears the pants in that family! ha-ha-ha!" The fact is, we both wore the pants; my ex was never one for dresses and skirts. Nether of us was dominant. Over the years, we both at various times brought in the majority of the income; we both worked, made decisions and changed diapers about equally (though she beat me out with breastfeeding). And it's not like we were being careful to be "equal partners" or something, it's just how we naturally interacted. But because I was contrasted with the presumed male role of dominance, I was taken as letting her make the rules.

Okay, so I'm not actively looking for a romantic relationship right now, but now that I'm single again, I find I do not want an alpha/beta relationship (if I ever did, which I don't really recall, it was entirely because of playing in to that cultural expectation). And I'm not sure how this is gonna fly in reality -- specifically, not to put too fine a point on it, with straight women. The expectation runs deep.in our society -- arguably, every society.

I've ranted about the Disney Princess (tm) phenomenon here before, but that's an extreme example. Almost every straight couple I know shows some degree of this, even the very we're-ethical-vegetarians-who-only-eat-organic-fair-trade-produce ones. A lot of profiles here and elsewhere specify they want someone who can "treat a woman right", or be "a real man" (and I suspect their examples, unlike mine, would not include Atticus Finch).

It's been suggested to me that bi women might be more likely to work for me. Idunno. I'm willing to entertain any offers.

Whatta you all think?

[EDIT: The blog title is supposed to refer to an average of Dom and Sub, meaning canceling out, meaning neither. Not, like, one of each, or a Switch. It's not my wittiest subject line, but hey, I needed something, and it got you to read this.]

Question for the night

Is the sex still casual if the other person insists on being called Master/Mistress, or has it become formal?