Hot Buttered Rum

So last night, after my long drive home in the extreme dark and cold of the Polar Vortex, I attempted to make myself a glass of hot buttered rum, based on Beppi Crosariol's recipe in the Globe. The only thing I left out was the sugar, thinking that a 'paste' of butter and vanilla ice cream was probably bad enough. To that, I added hot water and my Puerto Rican spiced rum. I sat in front of the fire and decompressed for a good long while and thought, okay, so this is winter.

Winter gets me down. I don't like it. I especially don't like being cooped up inside with E's kids, who are always obnoxiously behaved. It is getting to me in a really bad way. I am planning on vacating the rest of the winter, just as soon as I recover my home from my sad-sack tenant at the end of this month. I'm not sure at all what this will mean in the long run . . . certainly, I'm now fully committed to an alternative 'family' constellation - and notice I've used air quotes. This is an artificial approximation of family and his kids will never let me forget it.

Stop it, already!

I hate this winter! It has to stop.

It took me an hour and a half to drive in this morning. Traffic was crawling and several macho truck dudes went spinning out in front of me as they raced through intersections. I puttered along and made it in the nick of time, but it was close.

This is why . . . this is a big reason why . . . I will be returning to this side of the river soon. First, I have to bid farewell to the gloomy, grey-haired, soon-to-be divorce who has been occupying my former bedroom in my small home. He has not been a terrible tenant, but he is so intent on taking advantage of me (having hour long hot showers, doing hot washes every night, installing cable and a large screen tv against my wishes and angling me to share their costs, campaigning for me to pay for snow removal) that I think he's a rather unpleasant man. So, bye. As soon as he's out, I'm back in.

Of course, this seems necessary and easy to do right about now, but the other side of this decision is the sense that living at E's house is impossible, and our marriage is . . . faltering. I'm not sure I really believe that . . . not really . . . but surely if it were good and healthy I wouldn't want to live away again. I do want my space again. After three years of constant bad behaviour from his son, rudeness and provocation, I don't want to have to spend another day avoiding him in order to preserve my sanity.

All I can do is return to what seemed to have worked better -- separate residences and shared alone time, without kids around. I realize, of course, that this is more like dating than marriage, but second marriage is more like war than love, so - all's fair.

Oh Doris, how could you???

Okay, so I am reading Doris Lessing's "The Grandmothers" now and I came across this passage that made me realize that even great writers can be really dumb about how academia works, or maybe it is wildly different in the UK, but I doubt it.
"To deal with her feelings of emptiness and loss, she accepted a job at the university as a full-time teacher of drama, worked hard, swam twice a day, took sleeping pills."
Oh, the tragedy of having to accept a full-time academic position, oh, the sorrow of it!
Oh, please! How unlikely and unrealistic. I'm disappointed.

Let's call this story . . . moral culpability

They cast him as not morally culpable. He was, the article states, “over-achieving” and his responsibilities “mushroomed” so much that “his inability to cope was inevitable.” When I read this, well, all I could do was think about writing it down. It doesn’t hurt anymore, surprisingly. It doesn’t hurt me because I’m into a whole other set of hurts in a second marriage, but it still rankles. I was married by that man, it was, now in retrospect, a fraudulent marriage, and my ex-husband’s brother-in-law is defending that man, as he defended my husband, in court. The brother-in-law lawyer, larger than life, known for his hair as much as his work, thinks he’s championing the little guy, casts himself as the true defender, but mucks about in people’s lives without conscience himself. My ex’s whole family was like that, truly gothic in tone, and there I was, pregnant, and caught in the middle of it.

***

That's the beginning of my new story, based on today's headline. I mean, really, how can I not write about it and all its parallels?

Time is a strange healer. It was always offered up these quite public stories that have confirmed that I was right in my judgement all along . . . accurate in my moral compass . . . though it tends not to agree with the media evaluation, the media scrutiny reveals what it cannot know. 

So, here I am, almost now 7 years on . . . and still sifting through wreckage. 

Anyway, that's love, right? 

Adore

After a long day yesterday, E and I watched a movie on our new HD TV. Adore wasn't well received by critics, I learned this morning, but I loved it. I'll try to read the original story by Doris Lessing this weekend. It traces the close relationship between two young girls, who remain close through adulthood. When one's husband dies, they seemingly become even closer, as do their two young boys. In middle age, their boys grown into beautiful young men, they spend a lot of time together at the beach, which leads them into passionate affairs with each other's son. These affairs last years, until one son drifts into a relationship while away on a work assignment. This results in both deciding to end the affairs, which leaves one son angry and bitter . . . .to the extent that when he discovers his mother's affair with his friend is still on, years into his marriage, he confronts his lover and betrays her and his mother to their two young wives. With their wives and children out of the picture, the boys resume their former honeyed state in the arms of their lover/mothers.

Ahh, watching this . . . middle age just doesn't stand up to the beauty of youth . . . good thing I don't have a son, or a good friend with a beautiful young man for a son . . .

The Public Library

I feel so lucky that I can sit here in a quiet room at the library and work. I mean, it is really a luxury to have this. I don't have internet at home right now, but having this means that I can stay connected.

This weekend, A and I will be coming back here together to do research for her school project on Chinese New Year. A grade 2 project isn't really about the kid doing research, it's about the parent doing it with the kid, which is okay, I guess, but it isn't something I've had to do before. E used to complain about this . . . but now that his son is in grade 6, E is almost off the hook. My mouth is just opening to receive the worm.

I can't remember a time my parents helped me with homework, but maybe I'm not remembering as far back as grade 2. Still, I think things have changed.

Haven't they? My friend H and I were talking about fathers and how absent our fathers were. Did they do much of anything with us? Not really. At least now fathers seem to get involved. I can be thankful, for all his flaws, A's father does do things with her. Really, she does benefit from that, when it happens.

But how much time do we need to spend with a 7-year-old? It has been such a relief to have A quite happily retire to her room to draw or browse her books (not quite reading) or play. She can do that and be quiet, so I'm thankful. She's not plugged into any device yet . . . she's just plugging into her own interests.

That means I can too, sometimes. Here now . . . for a brief bit . . . and for snatches of time later.

Which reminds me of watching The Motherload last Thursday night on Doc Zone on CBC television. I'm not alone, it seems, in feeling overwhelmed by multiple roles and responsibilities, the most important and pressing of which is my daughter. I've always prioritized her . . . and, as a result, my career has suffered, if not sputtered to a complete standstill. Will I ever regret this?
Probably not. But why is it necessary?

Shouldn't we all be asking why we have to compromise so much of our family and personal lives for our work?

Facebook stalking

Guilty.

There was so much ice everywhere yesterday that I couldn't leave the house. I hate driving, so there was no way that I could drive, when I couldn't make it to the driveway without falling. So, I stayed in and . . . facebook stalked my sister's children. There's a reason for this.

I haven't seen them in more than 12 years since my mother's funeral. My sister cut off all contact soon after that. It was an inheritance issue . . . I think. She never explained. She just absented herself and refused contact. As a result, I'm reduced to keeping up through facebook, which is remarkably easy to do. In fact, it feels almost like being there, even though I'm not even a friend. I can view pictures and see comments and imagine . . .

Maybe that kind of distant contact is what is most manageable for many people. Why else would facebook be such a phenomenon?

It not only allows us to reconnect with the past in a voyeuristic way . . . we can actually contact people who we have lost touch with. I did that too. I was able to connect with a boy I really liked in my twenties . . . and see how gracefully he's aged into a good man, husband, and father. As I told him, that's encouraging, especially when I feel so utterly lost.

I told my good friend this yesterday and she said I shouldn't worry. I should just be, I shouldn't worry so much about doing.

That's not so easy, because worrying is the one thing I can do.

Alone, at last!

It's Saturday morning. I slept in for the first time in what feels like forever. There was no one here to wake me. Silence is blessed to me.

Not so for E, who lost it last week and screamed that he hated silence. That was new. He doesn't usually lose his temper, but it made me realize that he holds a lot of anger in, which worries me. The fact that he hates silence also worries me . . . because it underlines our basic lifestyle incompatibility. I've known this for a long time . . . but if it is wearing on him as much as it is wearing on me . . . then something has got to change before we destroy each other. Ah, marriage. Lovely, isn't it?

Here I am a year-and-a-half in and I feel half-out already.

I watched Stepmom on Netflix last night, and that didn't help much. It did address some of the stepmom challenges, but it was just a weepy at heart, and not at all realistic. As absent as E's ex is . . . she's not dying. I'm not replacing her in any way and don't want to. The problem with the kids is how to co-exist with me and their dad.

I don't miss them. Ugg. I'm just so glad not to have to deal with them for a while. It is always so stressful and makes me feel terrible. Awful, but true.

Mothering is so rewarding. Stepmothering is a trial.

I do wish the stepmother group I tried to start had worked. It didn't. Maybe I'm the only stepmother in this region who needs to rant.

I'll channel my frustration into fiction, I've decided. I've started something . . . and will continue writing to see where it goes. My play is on hold for the moment . . .

There must be a way to sort through all of this without imploding. I've imploded far too much already.

Egads - can I handle this?

Okay, it was -31 overnight and then this morning . . . somewhere near there and dark when A and I left for the Breakfast Club. The street was icy, the car relatively snug, considering it had been in the garage overnight. Unfortunately, the streets were busy, with Aylmerites hitting the road early in order to make it in to whatever office in good time. Even leaving at 7:00 am, A and I didn't reach her school until 7:45 am.

When we arrived, I hustled her in and then tried to help C, the Breakfast Lady, prepare the hundred or so bagels, muffins, eggs, and cereal servings that she dishes out for all the kids who attend Breakfast Club at A's school. A watched patiently, but peppered us with questions as she waited for 8 am to take her first serving. By the time she was tucking into her rice krispies, I was back on the road, headed to the University and praying for a parking space. I cut it so close that I pulled into the closest paid parking lot and used my credit card to pay for what I thought was enough time, but ended up being an hour short. Not wanting to start again, I hoped for the best and took off jogging to my basement classroom. Thankfully, I made it in time to load my power point lecture and begin. It went relatively smoothly, and I was able to build in some introductions that I forgot on the first day. After class, I had to remind myself to motor back to the parking lot, which I did, thankfully, just in time to avoid a ticket. It was my lucky partking day. They don't come along often.

I was back at the school and in Mr. D's JK class by 10:25 am, just in time to help wash hands, open tupperware containers, rip goldfish bags, comment of healthy lunches, and help the kindergardeners get dressed for the -24 celcius weather (they only keep them in at -28 celcius or lower). After recess, I headed to my house to eat my lunch, then headed back to school for the afternoon recess. It was nice to wander about in the sunshine, even in the cold, even as I was admonishing 4-year-olds not to clobber each other with blocks of ice. This did happen and resulted in an office visit . . .but the ECE made the long walk there with the kids in question so that I could stay and focus on lunch duty.As soon as the clock struck 2:00 pm, I bolted and made for the car and another coast across town to the U. There were no spaces in the lot this time, so I circled and found paid parking on the street, again, just in time to arrive at the 5th floor class (no elevator) with minutes to spare.

Afterwards, I had minutes to make it to my office hours and another parking relocation to complete. The parking gods smiled again, however, and a coveted 3 hour space on Nelson opened just in time for me to take it and sprint to the office where a student was waiting to tell me my blackboard account wasn't working.

Ah, technology.

I'm still in the process of fixing that. Meanwhile, brain-wiped, I'm watching videos of rodents performing a variety of tricks to wend away the time.

My life is very dull. Busy, but . . . blurry, not to mention cold. Often dreary. But how can I really complain? Like this . . .but it's meant well.

Back

It was a long, cold drive in . . . and I'm at the point, still, even after holidays, of not really being able to handle this commute. It takes hours a day to do it and really, considering I could stay in my house, it seems unnecessary. The problem is my tenant, renting a room, who makes acid comments if I show up, which is why I'm glad he's leaving, hopefully at the end of this month. That would make my life easier in many ways, although not financially. There doesn't seem to be any easy way to do anything these days.

That's winter, I guess. That's remarriage with kids. That's mid-life. There are all kinds of explanations, but it doesn't make it feel better.

It's all in how you react though, so . . . back to yoga for me . . . but not today. I'm not up for it today. I am content today to sit listening to acoustic music in a cafe, until I have to pry myself out of here and face recess in the cold and ice. Not nice.

Did I mention our mice? Our new pets are hiding out in their house, currently in our hamster cage, eating and sleeping like the babies they are. So far they are more active than our beloved hamster Snow, but still not comfortable with us. Taming takes time - both for animals and the spirit.

I must try to tame my rebellious side . . . and figure out how to abide all of this . . .

Cold

There isn't much one can do in this extreme cold. It was -24.5 today. Needless to say, we stayed in. I am unable to work well, as yet, but I'm gearing up for it.

I finished Maddam and that felt like accomplishment enough. It wasn't my favourite book of the trilogy, although I'm not sure why. Zeb wasn't my cup of tea, I guess, and I can't get around the name Toby . . . and hope Atwood didn't choose the name because of a fellow grad student I knew who met the grand ole dame during a conference we organized in her honour. This student was manipulative and unkind . . . and threw me under the bus to forward her own career aspirations, so I certainly hope this heroine of Atwood's wasn't named after her . . . one has to admit it is an unusual name. Anyway . . . that's done . . .I can move back into the genre of the term, short fiction. I picked up America's Best at the Hudson Bookstore at the New York airport, so I can start that now.

Reading by the fire is about all I can manage . . . until everything starts again and I lose track of time and myself.

At least the light is increasing again . . . and there's only another month or so of extreme cold . . .

2014

Happy New Year!

I always hope for a new start. I asked myself this year . . . what can I do differently? I think that I have to do something different to get different results . . .but as usual, I'm not sure what to do.

Writing may help, so as I've done before . . . I resolve to write . . . more. Just more. I can't commit to much else. I can set definite goals because that's destined to fail. All I can do is try incremental change. Okay? Okay.

We spent New Year's inside our home, tucked away from the cold, with E's friends. I hoped for some friends to join me . . .but everyone I asked was busy, so I listened to E and his friends talk politics. I rarely join in to their conversation and they rarely invite me to. There isn't much to do about that. I'm not one of them - in their field, of their ilk. We are wired differently. I have to live with the limitations of those around me . . . and my own. That's what I've decided.

E does the same. He came up North with me. He tolerates my family. That's something

I also tolerate his . . .which is my biggest challenge.

I've been finishing Atwood's trilogy this holiday . . . The Flood  and now MaddAddam. I'm liking the last book less than the second. At least in The Flood we focused on some female characters, but MaddAddam deals with Zeb a lot, who is less interesting to me. What I do like is the assertion that despite the desperation of circumstances, in this case, the end of our world, people are still essentially concerned with relationships and narrative. Storytelling is essential to our humanity.

As such, I will try to narrate my way to a more humane existence. Ranting may not be humanizing . .. but it is cathartic, which is also valuable. It is a safety valve. I don't want to implode, which I felt in real danger of doing, especially when I inadvertently knocked myself in the head with a shovel and suffered a concussion. That was a wake-up call. Wake up!

Stumble through. Manage.

Today A is returning from spending New Year's Eve with her dad. She's still sick with a gastro that had her puking up all over me in our bed up North. That was a miserable night, followed by a miserable morning in the regional hospital and a miserably cold drive back to Gatineau. It is still far too cold to bear and I've been holed up next to the fire ever since. Hopefully she will be better today.