Baby Chewed

I have to admit, I'm pretty happy to have my body back.

Now, when I say "back", I don't mean it in the glossy-mag, "Get Your Pre-Baby Body Back!" way.  That, as I have covered before, is more or less impossible, because bones.  I just mean I'm happy to be able to take a full breath, eat a full meal, fully empty my bladder, and not be constantly running my belly into objects.

Also it's nice to see my ankles again.

Which is not to say I'm not eyeing by body with a mind towards getting it back into "fighting-trim", once I'm cleared for/feel up to exercise beyond gentle yoga and slowly meandering around the block.  I've definitely been taking stock of New Changes, and working to restructure my mental image of myself to encompass said changes.

One of the New Changes is a fine display of new stretchmarks (or "tiger stripes", as I like to call them).  I already had a decent collection on my breasts and hips from making it through Puberty (and carrying excess poundage through my early twenties), but (much to my surprise) the TLG pregnancy didn't really result in any new ones.  This time around, however, I carried lower than I did with TLG, and as such I've acquired some new, raspberry-colored tiger stripes on my (still quite rounded) lower belly.

So I was staring at those in the mirror the other day, and at my not-perky-but-heavy-with-milk breasts, and the silver on display in the roots of my hair, and the phrase, "baby-chewed" kept going through my mind.

And I felt inordinately pleased.

You see, "baby-chewed" is not my phrase.  It's a phrase used multiple times by Robert Heinlein when describing older mothers (including grandmothers and great-grandmothers).  His characters describe them admiringly, as beautiful with their soft stomachs and pendulous breasts, as being very attractive and desirable, because their bodies have been lived in.  These women are also very intelligent and accomplished, of course, because that's how Heinlein characters roll, and it's clearly stated that these inner qualities are a large part of their beauty.

(Heinlein also had a thing for redheads, which, uh, might also have had in influence on the more shallow end of my Personal Beauty Standards...)

This attitude regarding the beauty of a lived-in body (in spite of other, somewhat problematic aspects of his writings) was a very healthy one for a prepubescent girl to be exposed to, because it embedded itself into my psyche at an impressionable age, and left me feeling a lot more comfortable with/looking forward to Signs of Aging than our culture deems Appropriate for Women.  For example, I remember being thrilled when I finally started getting crows' feet, a reaction which puzzled more than one person of my acquaintance.  But I like having evidence of much I smile!  And now I'm feeling pleased with my new tiger stripes silently proclaiming that this shell of mine has carried life multiple times.

Love the skin you're in, people- the more lived-in, the better.

Fair Witness

One of my all-time favorite books is Stranger in a Strange Land, by Robert Heinlein.  In this book there is the concept of a professional "Fair Witness", a person who is trained to observe events and report exactly- and only- what they actually witness.  For example, at one point in the book a Fair Witness is asked what color a house is, and she replies "It's white on this side." (emphasis mine) It is then explained that she does not make the assumption that the rest of the house is white.  She does not give extrapolation or opinion- only observed fact.

I absolutely fell in love with this concept as a younger person, because it made so much sense to me.  It resonated with me, and with the way my brain works.  I know that I annoy the hell out of most people with my oft-repeated motto, "Precision of language is important!" but it is.  Precision matters.

But most people do not want precision.  They want broad, easy strokes.  And this can make life very awkward for me, indeed.  At times during my childhood it made it downright miserable- other children can be cruel to peers who are different, and using polysyllabic words at a young age certainly marked me as different.  But even more than that, certain adults don't know how to deal with children who are as smart- or smarter- than they are, and some of those adults react by attempting to put said children "in their place".  The world can be terribly lonely when you are surrounded by peers and "superiors" who are all telling you that the way you're acting- the way you are- is showing off and mean and wrong.

But that's another blog entry entirely.

The point is, I have a history of saying things that alienate people, all because I tend to forget that the average person doesn't care about precision in their day-to-day interactions.  They only care that you hit the proper steps of social ritual.  And although I've gotten better about it, I still occasionally fail to switch out of logical-Vulcan mode.

I failed today.

A friend of mine asked me,

"Am I a good person?"

And instead of responding like a normal person would, by saying, "Of course you're a good person!" and thereby giving them the reassurance they were searching for, I said, thoughtfully,

"Well, I  don't know."  I went on to explain that I wasn't sure anyone could ever know whether or not another person was good, that the most I could do was comment on the behaviors I'd observed, and that they seemed like the person in question was probably a good person.  But I couldn't know.  And while I'm saying these things, my mind is whirling with thoughts like, "What is good?  I don't even know that I'm a good person- I'm more likely a neutral person who occasionally does good things," (any time I take those, "What's your Alignment?" quizzes I get "true neutral", if that tells you anything).

And then, suddenly, I realize that my friend is looking at me.  Looking at me in that, "You just failed a test of basic social niceties" way.  And then they sort of try to brush the whole thing off, but can tell that actually I've really hurt their feelings.  And I feel awful, because I absolutely didn't mean to hurt their feelings, and if they had phrased the question just slightly differently, ("Do you think I'm a good person?" or "Am I a bad person?") I could have answered appropriately, but oh no- whatever part of my psyche that cannot let go of literal-ism is flailing around screaming that if I don't know what the definition of something is, I cannot categorize things using said "something".

But then?  Then I start to feel angry.  Because why the hell do people have to take things personally when they aren't personal?  Why do people have to be so sloppy with language?  And why can't people just ask for what they actually want, rather than making me have to guess at their stupid normal emotions and react "appropriately"?

But then I realize that I'm just going into defensive mode, myself, getting angry to mask the discomfort of having unintentionally hurt my friend.  So I shake it off, apologize, and try to explain myself- but the brusque way they're speaking indicates that they don't really get it.  In fact I'm pretty sure they're still thinking that I think they're a jerk.

::sigh::

Oh well.  Tomorrow is another day.






(In all fairness, sometimes I'm just plain self-centered/oblivious.  It's a pretty major personal failing, and I'm working on it.  I've been working on it for over a decade.  Theoretically someday I'll get better about it.  Hopefully.)

Hangin' in the Hood

Strictly speaking, that title is a misleading one, since we spent the majority of the day not in Hood River.  But still.

We got up a decent hour so that we could take Miss Isis to doggy day care- and I would be lying if I said I didn't have a tiny little pang at abandoning her to complete strangers.  But it was necessary, because, generally speaking, they do not allow dogs in museums.

But before the museum we had a date with Stonehenge- not the original, obviously, but a replica located in Maryhill, Washington.  So very random and awesome.

Someday when I am filthy rich I want to recreate Stonehenge, too.  Only I want to do it with stones, not concrete.

From there we drove the few miles to the museum, which was quite good, especially if one likes art nouveau (as this one most decidedly does).  They also had an impressive collection of Rodin, which was meaningful to me because I finally got to see Fallen Caryatid Carrying Her Stone, of Stranger in a Strange Land fame (one of my all-time favorite books).   Once we'd had our fill of Art, we asked the lady at the front desk if she had any local food recommendations.  She said that no, she didn't, but that we could probably find something in the little town up the way called Goldendale.  So we chanced it, and thanks to the powers of the interwebs, we found a little place called The Glass Onion.

Readers, it was ridiculous.  As in, ridiculously good (and beautifully presented) food in the middle of frickin' nowhere.  I had a charcoal-grilled polenta, and Nathan tried the fish taco- he declared it the best fish taco he'd ever had, including the super-delicious one he got down in southern California*.  This place would be right at home in the Pearl- but it wasn't priced that way.

Shave Parmesan YES.

After that we headed back into Hood River, and spent a while wandering its oh-so-charming streets until the 4pm  tour of the Full Sail Brewery.  That was interesting, and afterwards we sat in the pub and Nathan sampled a few beers (and I, for the first time since being diagnosed with the gluten intolerance, felt sad about not being able to have beer).

Teeny weeny tasting glasses are amusing to me...

All too soon it was time to pick up the pup, and when we did so we were treated to at least four different staff members rapturizing over what a sweet, good dog she is.  They even took her picture to show off to another staff member who wasn't there.  And Readers- one of them even came running out of the building to say goodbye to her.  What a spoiled baby.  (...she says in a relieved tone that is code for, "Thank the stars she didn't eat anyone,")

Speaking of which:

This would never, EVER happen at home.  Because I am WAY too neurotic about the sheets...

*(I went to link to that entry and discovered that I never did get around to posting our Road Trip travelogue.  Hmph.  The darn thing is written, so I have no idea why I never put it up.  Maybe I'll go add it to the archives...)

Here and Now, There and Then

There are two kinds of readers in the world: those who re-read books, and those who don't. As you may have gathered by this point, I'm in the former category. I have such a voracious appetite for stories that I tend to get my books from the library, because to purchase them all would a)bankrupts me and b)leave me without room to move about the apartment. Some books, however, are worth investing in for the long-term. And I'm not just talking about money- no, shelf space (and the willingness to shlep the weight back and forth across the country) is worth far more than money (which is why most of the books I do bother to buy end up given to someone else). So if I'm going to not just purchase a book but also keep on the shelf, it's going to be a book that I'll want to re-read. Multiple times. (Or, you know, a reference book- but that's another entry entirely).

Most of these books that I invest shelf-space in are books that I find comforting to read. Something that, if I'm sick or just having a bad day, I can pick up and will feel better by reading. That's not to say they're all happy books (they're not), but they're all populated by characters with whom I feel I've established a relationship. I've become emotionally invested in their adventures, and re-visiting them is like re-visiting old friends. Which, as I've mentioned, is comforting. Furthermore, there's something so nice about the fact that even if a beloved character dies, I can always go back to the beginning, where they are still (and always shall be) alive. It was Heinlein who made me think about that as it applies to the real world- he has a novel in which time-travel allows certain characters to travel back before a blast that killed someone they loved. As they watch her moving about in their past, one of them comments how strange and comforting to know that this time (in which she is alive and happy) always exists, whether or not they're in it.

Ironically enough, it's a time-travel novel that I'm re-reading at the moment: Diana Gabaldon's Outlander. There are currently seven novels in the series, but it's this first one that I return to time and again (and therefore the only one I've devoted shelf-space to). The love story between the protagonists is so real (warts and all), and so poignant, that it makes me smile and get all squinchy every time I revisit them. It doesn't hurt that Nathan's on the road again, which always makes me nostalgic in general...