Watered in fears

A little over a week after my fall, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude that I sent off the Christmas cards early, as hastily written as they were. One in particular was scribbled and tossed into the mailbox, to prevent myself overthinking, because I did way too much thinking in February, while someone else did way too little thinking.

I'm not going into much detail about the so-called "Freedom Convoy" which occupied Ottawa between January 30th and February 20th of this year.  There's a pretty good timeline and break-down at Wikepedia.  Suffice it to say that I was once again relieved to no longer be living in Hades, because the situation there was hellish for my former neighbours, to say nothing of elder daughters' friends and colleagues, most of whom live in Centretown.

I followed events from a distance, getting social media updates from people I knew.

When the whole trucker mess started, there were reports of people blocking long-term contacts on social media, as they learned that relatives and friends supported the truckers.

I thought that was an unlikely thing to happen to me - me with my intelligent reasonable friends.  Of course, within a distressingly short time, I found myself spending days, weeks, trying to pull together a compassionate, polite, calm response to my best friend from high school.  This kind and gentle lady had posted a link to a blog-post, which, among other things, declared that the truckers were honking out of love for Canada, to save it. 

This blow came in the midst of reports from people I actually knew: reports of sleeplessness, of watching helplessly from their windows as people defecated against their buildings, of being unable to get their children to daycare or school, because truckers and police had blocked off access. Two of elder daughter's friends watched from their living room as two men put starter logs in the lobby of the apartment building facing theirs, lit them, then tied the entrance doors shut. (Elder daughter's friends, who are of many colours and sexual orientations, lived in terror, because they were visible targets. Most of them eventually fled to friends and family living outside of the downtown core.)

After a couple of weeks of despairing and steaming, I felt I was in a better place.  I quoted William Blake to myself:

I was angry with my friend/I told my wrath; my wrath did end.

I should tell her.  Then I could stop being so damn angry.

To better illustrate my diplomatic and calm arguments, I re-checked the blog post she had shared, in order to ascertain who was writing.  (I was pretty damned sure she wouldn't know.)  It was some guy named only "Dave", who described himself as a "leading data scientist".  In the post just before the one declaring that the truckers were honking night and day in downtown Ottawa to save Canada, he compared the "unvaccinated" with - so help me - Jews in Europe over the centuries.  A "culture of cruelty", he called it.

Nope, I wasn't going there.  (I'm pretty sure she hadn't read this post; I'm pretty sure she hadn't read the blog entry she did post very closely.)

I felt the exasperation and rage well up all over again.  I envisioned my friend, in her house on a suburban hill in the Okanagan, picturing her reaction if she were surrounded by people using her driveway for a toilet while honking for days until, in a blur of sleeplessness, she stumbled out to walk her pedigree bull-dog.  Not likely.  Which is the point, isn't it?  Too angry to contact her; I distanced myself.

Her birthday is in early November, and I had the pile of Christmas cards out.  I scrawled out a quick greeting, then hurried to the mailbox, before I could change my mind.  She's my friend, after all.

Just not my Facebook friend.

I think I see a pattern forming.

Mr Pickleball

He's in a grey tee-shirt, brandishing a paddleboard and roaring. 

"This is pickleball!!!" His eyes gleam indignantly. 

I gaze blankly at him. I don't know what pickleball is -- it looks a bit like badminton without a net. Or table. Or birdie. 

I've been trying to get Demeter's rollator (otherwise known as a walker, here in Canada) adjusted for height, with a cane holder installed for about six months. The shop that sold us both Demeter's walkers has set up a little walker/scooter clinic in the corner of the auditorium where we usually vote in elections, and today, we're apparently impinging on Mr Pickleball's style. He stalks over and tries marshalling the four people waiting for help with their walkers. His pickleball partner looks embarrassed. Demeter ignores him. The guy from the shop is bewildered and exasperated. 

"I've been asked to come in," he remonstrates with Mr Pickleball. "This is for the community!" 

Mr Pickleball counters with something about the door we're using to enter the auditorium. We were directed to this door by the entrance staff carefully checking our vaccination passports. There's an outdoor side entrance with a deep sill, not feasible for scooters and a challenge for rollators, and besides, it's raining. 

 Mr Pickleball resumes his game and ignores us. I guide Demeter out the contested door, and close it firmly. 

 Here's a brief rundown on pickleball. The lady is way more cheery than Mr Pickleball.

As the crow flies

 

Why is it that the months with the least number of days seem to be the longest?

Yesterday, I made my way back from preparing lunch for Demeter.  I was within a few yards of our building, when I heard the familiar raucous call of a crow in springtime.  My heart sank.

This happens most years, in varying intensity.  It's nesting time for the black critters, and they become convinced that passersby are after their young 'uns.  This usually takes the form of threatening swoops.  I've had the occasional one graze the top of my head.  I've found the best defence is proceeding calmly, eyes front, which takes a tad of self-discipline as one hears the loud approaching CAW.

Having seen Hitchcock films doesn't help. (Incidentally, years ago, I spent a week in the Bodega Schoolhouse, where that famous scene was filmed.  Lots of redwing blackbirds.  No crows.)

Last spring was our first in this building, and we learned that corvid thuggery was a time-honoured neighbourhood event; the ancient trees lining the lawn fronting our apartment contain at least one crow's nest every year.  The angry birds went mainly after joggers and dog-walkers, and being neither, we didn't worry unduly about it.

I should have known this year would be different.

As early as April, I was mildly startled when, walking up the pathway to the entrance, a crow silently glided to the ground over my left shoulder, brushing me with its feathers.  A week ago, I returned home at sunset and a full block away from home, heard harsh foreshadowing squawkings from the foliage that curves over the sidewalk.

Which brings us to yesterday.

As I approached the driveway, I realized I was dealing with one belligerent customer.  After a couple of charges, he (she?) swooped from behind with a strident cry out of hell, striking me on the area just above the space between my shoulder blades and just below the nape of my neck: "CAW --- thunk"

Heading for the entrance seemed a bad idea, so I veered into the parking lot, protesting, "I'm not after your babies!"  The fowl refused to listen to reason.

CAW --- thunk....CAW --- thunk

It hit me twice more, a total of five times in precisely the same place,  before I ducked under the over-hang that protects the cars parked next to the wall.  It didn't hurt; it didn't even knock me off balance.  It felt something like being struck with the flat side of a broom.

Shaken, I reached the side door unmolested, and forgetting to put on my mask, stumbled into the shelter of the stairwell.

Since then, I've been re-routing my departures and arrivals out the lower entrance at the south end of the building, feeling somewhat like a schoolchild scuttling through side-streets in hope of evading a dreaded bully.  

The trouble is, there's a sentinel crow on this quiet backstreet, as well.  I keep my eyes front, and walk briskly, but calmly, feeling those beady bird eyes following me.  

I resist the temptation to sing, even under my breath:  Risselty rossety/Hey bombosity/Knickety knockety/Retrical quality/Willaby wallaby/ Now-now-now....

Occasionally, he coasts through the air from across the street and emits one loud CAW.  

I manage not to jump out of my skin. I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction.

It's going to be a long month.

Racism and yelling and bullying, oh my

I was in the middle of my art lesson when the phone rang.

It was elder daughter, shaken, upset, and full of guilt.  She was on her lunch break, hurrying back from tending to the Accent Snob, who caught his paw in her apartment elevator as a fun conclusion to last weekend.  She's been soaking his paws in epsom salts.  He finds it very relaxing.  I'm not sure she does.

Heading back to her office, she walked smack into a situation.  Several people were waiting for the light to change at the crosswalk.  Out of the blue, a "scary and crazy" man started yelling about "Trudeau's immigrants", how they were living off taxpayers, and stealing jobs.  You know, the usual original ideas that obviously come from deep thinking.

Elder daughter felt helpless, wanting to stand up to him, but not daring to.

"What did the people he was yelling at do?" I asked, absent-mindedly adding a few strokes to my painting.

"Nothing; they kinda ignored him."

"Sounds like they had the right idea; you say he was scary and crazy."

Sitting with my paints in Victoria, I "walked" her back to work, listening as her ragged breathing slowed.

My fellow students discussed the issue after the call ended.  Best not to challenge a larger, nuttier fellow spouting epithets, they agreed.

Coincidentally, I'd sent elder daughter the following clip from John Mulaney, one of her favourite comedians.  It's about racism and bullying too, except with humour, something non-inclusive people often lack.
Elder daughter had already heard it, of course.

I like to think she appreciated the gesture.

Church lady

Younger daughter and I were seated in the second row, centre at a downtown church when the lady approached us. She had been handing out programmes for the noonday concert at the door we didn't use.

"If you move to the left side," she pointed out, "You'll get a better view of the pianist's hands."

I thanked her, explaining that neither of us play piano, and, as the pianist we were about to hear is sometimes younger daughter's accompanist, we preferred to see her face anyway. The woman nodded absently.
"Well, thanks for coming."

We were actually there at elder daughter's recommendation, as our pianist was working temporarily at the small but influential arts organization where elder daughter is a communications and marketing specialist. Elder daughter soon joined us with a few of her workmates, who whistled and cheered appreciatively at the appropriate breaks in a programme that included Bach, Beethoven, Chopin and a twentieth century Argentinian composer who reminded me of Gershwin.

Tea, coffee and cookies were on offer after the recital, so I dropped twenty dollars in the donation tin and suggested younger daughter get herself some refreshments.

The lady who had suggested the seat change was on duty behind the table.

"What would you like?" she asked as younger daughter hesitated.

"Uuuuuuh....tea, please."

The lady poured it out briskly and younger daughter paused uncertainly, possibly because she wasn't sure about juggling a paper cup with cream and sugar.

"Is there something wrong?" the lady inquired, rather sharply. She had rather a schoolmarmish quality.

"No, no," said younger daughter hastily. "There's nothing wrong..."

"Are you confused?"

This is the point when a mother of someone on the spectrum has to swallow her impulses and not murder church ladies, many of whom are volunteers, after all.

"There's some milk and sugar here," I informed younger daughter, while I stepped to the side of the table, so I could face my daughter but take myself out of the line-up.

It didn't quite work.

"And what are you having?" asked church lady.

"Me? Oh, nothing, thank-you."

"Then perhaps you can move elsewhere to make room."

I've had a lifetime of dealing with church ladies and can schoolmarm with the best of them. Keeping my voice level and calm, I looked at her pointedly.

"If you'll excuse me, I need to finish assisting my daughter."

I didn't hear another word. Elder daughter tells me I can be terrifying, but I think that's more in the case of young men who are surprisingly easy to intimidate, often with not much more than a brief glance and a short sentence. Church lady was damned lucky Demeter wasn't there.

Back at our table, we were soon joined by elder daughter's friends, who were giggling about the "snack lady". Apparently she had been somewhat waspish with them as well, which is a comfort, albeit a small one.

The perils of thinking aloud on social media

I'm not all that familiar with the work of Joyce Carol Oates. I read one of her YA books when elder daughter was moving from middle school to high school - I think she had ordered it through Scholastic Books when her homeroom teacher passed around the forms. The book was distressing but intentionally so; the plot involved date rape. It was well-written enough that I had another of Oates' books - aimed at an adult audience - on my to-read list, but I never got around to it.

A week or so ago, Oates came up on my radar again, in that strange domino effect that Twitter has. I follow Marie Phillips, a writer whose work I enjoy, and she re-Tweeted a rather scornful comment by a colleague to a tweet that Joyce Carol Oates had made about ISIS:

Puzzled, I went to Oates' Twitter page to have a look.  Here's what I found.  (The most recent tweets appear at the top of a feed, so these should be read in reverse order):

The tweet on its own was bewildering, but I thought, innocuous.  Read in the context of her three following tweets, it came across to me as an awkwardly phrased, but genuine inquiry.

However, by the time I'd noticed this, thousands of replies and references had been already been posted, all of them to the opening tweet, much as the comment by Marie Phillips' chum had been.  Here's one of the kinder responses.

Most were vitriolic and self-righteous.  More than one man - I came across no woman who did this - felt words did not suffice and posted horrific pictures of ISIS atrocities, presumably in the belief that Joyce Carol Oates had no idea what was going on in occupied territories.  It was "mansplaining" at its nastiest. I had some difficulty sleeping that night.

There were lots of sarcastic retorts, bursts of out-and-out invective, and many retweetings of something cutting the late Gore Vidal apparently said of Joyce Carol Oates years earlier.  Molly Ringwold was also retweeted when she quipped:  "Okay, who got Grandma stoned?"

There were a few who treated the tweet as the question that JCO must have intended.

Others made a stab at defending her:

But there were only a handful.  It was clear that the vast majority had read the first tweet only, and rushed to judgement.  I was saddened to see that Guy Gavriel Kay, an author whose work I've appreciated, had not bothered to read further.

The trouble with Twitter is that you can only "tweet" in bursts of 140 characters.  While it can be an interesting exercise in economical writing,  for the most part it degenerates into, at best, a contest for the funniest, pithiest jibe, or at worst,the shortest, most vicious jab.

It really isn't the best medium for thinking out loud, and this is where Joyce Carol Oates falls down.

Let's put her four tweets into a brief paragraph:
All we hear of ISIS is puritanical and punitive; is there nothing celebratory & joyous?  Or is query naive? Cultures seem to swing between extremes of Puritanism and permissiveness; rigid order & disorder; control & "freedom". What is clear is that human beings can't live for long -- do not care to reproduce -- without meaning in their lives. Tragic that "meaning" can be virtually anything -- someone will believe it & die for it.

It's still pretty damn clunky - gosh, she loves alliteration - but I think there would have been less kerfuffle if she had written the whole paragraph somewhere other than Twitter -- although, no doubt, plenty of people might still have been offended by the opening sentence.  Better still, she could have thought her thoughts through and simply tweeted the last sentence.

However, it wouldn't have got nearly the same amount of attention.

Was that the point?  She hasn't removed the tweets.  I would have were I in her place, but JCO evidently has thicker skin than I do.  She almost immediately plunged into a series of short diatribes about Woodrow Wilson, then went on to make observations about North Korea -- which pissed off a whole bunch of other people -- or perhaps the same bunch of people, all eager to demonstrate how naive/pointless/crazy/old/choose-your-own-derogatory-adjective they think Oates is.

For the record, I have a sort of answer to her question -- even though I think she answered it herself in the remaining three tweets.  Not long ago, I stumbled across a CBC item by Brent Bambury which addresses the subject of music and celebration in the ISIS.  Should you choose to follow this link, I think I should warn you that, while not as graphic as the photos some men in the Twitterverse posted to "educate" Joyce Carol Oates, I had the same sick feeling of horror by what was suggested.

I have no intention of tweeting the link to Joyce Carol Oates. The last time I checked, she was worlds away, thinking out loud about other controversial topics.

Whose side are you on?

This is fun, but is she portraying an office bully, or someone surrounded by idiots?

Write of Passage Number Six: The clash of the stereotypes

A number of thoughts crossed my mind when the big brutha with a ghetto blaster sent up camp at my bus stop. One of them was: A ghetto blaster? Seriously? Is he partying like it's 1979? He stashed his blaster on top of the shelter, thought better of it, then swooped it past my ear a couple of times, while shouting along with the rap lyrics and making those hand signals that seem to have been co-opted by boy bands. (I found this video to try to find out about rapper/hip-hop hand signals, but it's only marginally helpful):

Newest Rap Hand Signs @ Yahoo! Video

As I tried to studiously ignore this guy as he strutted up and down, grinning widely beneath his baggy wool cap and neon-yellow sunglasses, my next thought was: Oh Gawd. Please. Not on my bus. These appeared to be the precise thoughts of the bus driver as I climbed on. He glanced over my shoulder, then back at me and we raised our respective eyebrows. Sure enough, as I took my seat, the brutha-from-anotha-planet made his entrance and proceeded past me. Judging from the facial expressions on the swiveling heads, I'd say roughly half our fellow passengers were thinking: Oh Gawd, not on this bus, and the other half were thinking: A ghetto blaster?? Seriously?
It looked like we were all going to sit this out in quiet Canadian martyrdom, until the song finished and the next one started. That's when a number of guys started shouting back at our homie. A very large man who looked like he rode Harley Davidsons when he wasn't using public transit, was particularly incensed and insistent.

"Have some respect for other people. We don't want to listen to your &%#@."
"Stick in some earphones, like everyone else!" someone else added, while the bus driver pulled over, got out of his seat and pointed meaningfully at the door.

Our homie rose slowly with a few choice words and a face-saving shrug and made his way to the back door... closely followed by Motorcycle Man who, uttering a string of imprecations, gave him a mighty shove. Homie measured his length on the sidewalk for a split second, then sprang up and hurled himself at Motorcycle Man, while those of us still on the bus gasped and gaped. Motorcycle Man soon had Homey pinned on his back, his eyes white and wide without his sunglasses which were scattered across the sidewalk along with his ghetto blaster and several other belongings.

"He picked the wrong white guy to piss off," offered someone.
I had my face buried in my hands and looked up at the young girl seated next to me.
"That was totally unnecessary," I said wearily. "He was getting off the bus."
The girl and a young man standing by us nodded vigorously.
"He didn't need to shove him," they said. A lady in bright yellow Brunhilda braids tried to explain how Motorcycle Man was justified, but no one paid much attention; our eyes were glued on the drama outside.

Our bus driver sighed, waited a moment, then got out and strolled over to tap Motorcycle Man on the shoulder as he continued to pin Homey to the sidewalk. I guess some sort of truce was arranged as Motorcycle Man got up, and Homey struggled to his feet. M.M. tried to hand Homey a yellow book of scripture which had fallen in the melée, but Homey was spitting. There were a couple of additional angry exchanges, before a young fella handed Homey his ghetto blaster and got an embrace in return. Motorcycle Man, thank heaven, did not get back on the bus.

It was only when the woman in Brunhilda braids got off at Elgin Street that I realized she was an office worker dressed for this last day of work before Hallowe'en. I was beginning to wonder how many people on that bus had been in costume.

The fifth day of Christmas (a seasonal rant on respect)

I am wiped. The first four days of Christmas in Hades this year were a parade of frigid temperatures and blowing snow, followed by rain then freezing rain, followed by powerful winds that managed to topple a couple of trucks on the highway and blow out power lines (not in our neighbourhood, thank goodness). This meant four of the most sedentary days ever. With the bus strike in full swing, there was no way we were going anywhere. It wasn't horrible; we have our new DVDs, books, and CDs to amuse us, but today, we decided we'd been in hiding long enough and took advantage of a reasonably temperate day to walk the 3½ kilometres into town to see The Tale of Despereaux. (Not a bad film, although one has the odd feeling that big chunks have been edited out of it.) The trip home, up the slow, slow incline that is Rideau Street, in my heavy Sorels soon had my calves cramping and telling me exactly how four days had thrown me out of shape.

However, this is scarcely a hardship. Despite all evidence to the contrary, we are reasonably able-bodied and as long as what we need or wish to get to is in the neighbourhood or in the downtown area, we will be able to manage. On the way in, though, we passed dozens of elderly ladies loaded with groceries and other shopping, some pushing walkers through slush and ice, others juggling their canes with their bags. Hundreds more are virtually prisoners in their homes and residences, one of the few Christmases left for them ruined. This is to say nothing of people struggling to get into work, either hours on foot or begging for lifts. Or those whose already precarious businesses are thrown into crisis because of customers and employees who can't reach them. People have missed long awaited operations because they couldn't make the requisite medical appointments. Children have missed therapy sessions and lost valuable ground. The nefarious thing about a transit strike is that the ones who feel the blow are the most vulnerable citizens of this god-forsaken city.

So why is there a bus strike? The media tells us it's to do with who has the power to schedule split shifts. As far as I can tell, the management wants that authority, and the union feels that this should be based on driver seniority. I don't want to be a union-basher; workers should have recourse against injustice and abuse, and yes, split shifts suck, but who exactly is getting abused here? In short, it would be so much easier for me to have some sympathy for the drivers if, after eight and a half years of using this particular system, I weren't left with the impression of the overarching contempt and disdain OC Transpo drivers have for their ridership.

Item 1: The elderly. More than once, I've seen drivers actually criticize older passengers with canes or walkers for not getting to the exit quick enough. I've tried to catch seniors as they're flung off balance when they don't sit down quickly enough for the operators.

Item 2: Mothers with young children. I've personally been scolded for stopping a bus at a bus stop after running half a block from a so-called connecting bus stop in a snow storm on a Sunday (when the next bus come in half an hour). The driver told me he had a schedule to keep up. I've run three blocks in the rain with a child in tow to catch a bus which had sped by the bus stops with a "Not In Service" sign on. The driver, who I recognised from my outbound trip, was reading a novel at a timing point as I climbed, drenched and panting, into her bus. I've had younger daughter (the one with PDD-NOS, remember?) summoned to the front of the bus to re-show her transfer while the driver gave me another lecture. I've been told off for not ringing soon enough at night, in the snow, when the windows are grimy and the neighbourhood is unfamiliar.

Item 3: People of colour. Somehow, white people are rarely called on the validity of their transfers. The people humiliated and put off the buses for expired passes almost invariably have accents. The most egregious example of this was an old Caribbean man who was checking with the driver to see if he was on the correct route. The bus driver checked his transfer and informed him he would have to buy a ticket. The little man asked if he would wait while he purchased new tickets at the nearby booth. The driver refused. The little man pleaded his diabetes. The driver called the authorities, and refused all offers by others to pay for the man. At this point, the little man swore and the driver accused him of being abusive. As a number of us got off the bus to wait for another while this was being settled, a woman said to me: "If it were my mother, ill and alone on the bus, I wouldn't want her treated this way." I replied, "Is your mother a little white lady? Then I don't think she would be treated this way..."

Item 4: People with mental and intellectual challenges. There's a fellow who greets us every day from the porch of the group home down the street. One day, he was getting off the bus as I got on and the driver snarled after him: "Your tranfer's expired!" then grumbled at me, "He rode all the way out to the shopping centre and back on that transfer..." "Did he?" I smiled vaguely at him. "I'm sure he didn't mean to; he's a sweetie." Quieter grumbling as I took my seat.

Then there was the bus driver who decided to use his own form of profiling one summer afternoon and summoned each and every young man who boarded his Transitway bus from a rear door (which is permitted on articulated buses so long as you have a bus pass) to the front of the bus on the loudspeaker
with a voice dripping with suspicion.

Each OC Transpo bus has a large poster proclaiming "Respect Goes Both Ways".

Elton, fetch a shovel!

My two daughters, four years and several worlds apart, have much in common. One is their refusal to discuss the tragedies and defeats of the day. "I can't talk about it," elder daughter used to say when she was much younger: "It makes me too sad." As for younger daughter, I doubt I hear about a fraction of the day's disappointments. Stress robs her of words altogether.

I can relate. I can often tell how unhappy I've been by the gaps in my journals and diaries over the years. Writing it down just makes it more real somehow.

So. A few days ago, I was actually having rather a pleasant day. I hurried up to the library just before picking up younger daughter. There was a hold waiting for me, Patty Griffin's 2004 album Impossible Dream, and while the librarian was checking this out, I spotted a new Alexander McCall Smith book lying on her desk. "You want it?" she asked.

I dashed next door to the school with my treasures. On the way out, we spotted one of younger daughter's guardian angels and offered to wait with her until her mother arrived. "Something happened today..." she said.

Apparently, the Grade Fives are tackling something called "Mental Math". One of the young boys in the class thought it would be screamingly witty to change this to "(Insert Younger Daughter's Name) Math". What is almost as dispiriting as learning that the boys have found a new and hilarious way to call my PDD-NOS daughter "mental" is that the young boy responsible was the ring-leader in a little gang that spent at least one recess in November shouting in younger daughter's face and ears, a particularly delightful thing to do to a sensory-sensitive child. Three of these charmers were hauled in to the principal's office and read the riot act. Little Ring-leader sent a long note of apology and a stuffed animal at the instigation of his mortified mother who stopped at an intersection to say: "I can't understand it; he's always been so supportive of her..."

I know she loves him. This is why I'll restrain myself from taking a shovel to school and braining the little creep. "I guess," I told the Resident Fan Boy that evening, "he just thought 'Hey, this would be funny and everyone will laugh'...and from the sounds of things everyone did."
"Oh I doubt he even thought it out that far," said my husband, the former boy. A pause. "I don't think you would have liked me much when I was a kid."

I left a phone message for the teacher and went to the computer for my favourite painkillers: family research, David Tennant, music. The songs on Patty Griffin's album were, as expected, hauntingly lovely. And melancholy. I had to turn them off after a while. (At least Mary Chapin Carpenter and Dar Williams have the occasional flashes of humour.) Took three "Sleep-Relaxes" that night (herbal remedy, not to be taken several nights in a row -- it relaxes everything...). Quick word with one of younger daughter's EA's when he very sweetly offered us a lift to school. He's athletic and works with the class in the afternoon, so he might make an impression. Even quicker conference with math teacher who thanked me for the heads-up. Don't know what the outcome of this will be. I didn't use the "B" word this time, and frankly, I'm weary of reporting these things.

I did appease my own bruised feelings yesterday by "looking shovels" at Little Ring-leader at a field trip to see a play at the local girls' school. Just for a second. Judging by how quickly he averted his eyes, I'd say he knew exactly what I was thinking...