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Jul. 9th, 2013 05:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
annissamazingI’ve been trying to keep careful notes of my days so I can journal them later, but lately I’ve been failing miserably in this regard. So today I’m going to try to remember any/all of the interesting things that have happened since I last wrote. I’ll start with this dream that I wrote down a while back. I have no idea when I wrote it.
Last night, I had a dream that somebody dropped a nuclear bomb near where I live. I panicked as the flash from the impact grew brighter and rushed into the living room to grab Dominic and hit the floor. I knew it was hopeless and that I likely wouldn’t even get to him in time. What struck me as odd, though, was the sense of resignation and peace I felt immediately after that realization.
When Dominic was new, I used to lay awake at night and worry. I worried about everything, but mostly I worried about a nuclear attack. Since I had a kid, I sometimes think to myself that I didn’t know what worry was before parenthood. I worry a little less now. My worries tend to be more realistic. Things like, “Will Dominic get into 2nd grade?” “Is he being nice to the other kids?” “Are the other kids being nice to him?” “If they aren’t, will he be ok?” “If they are, will he learn empathy?” “Do we have enough food in case of the zombie apocalypse?” (Side note: I still can’t watch zombie movies.)
Dominic did, in fact make it to 2nd grade. I had a meeting with the “Intervention Specialist Team” about Dominic’s behavior. Over the course of the past year, we’ve been trying to medicate him to make it easier for him to pay attention during class. The medicine hasn’t been a success. In fact, the last one we tried gave him a terrible facial tic. He’s been off the meds for a few weeks, and while the tic has improved, hasn’t gone away. While he’s talking, he looks up and winks. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it. Most people think it’s cute and when strangers comment on how adorable it is, I just feel sad.
Last weekend, I went to a housewarming party for some friends of mine. The party was nice and uneventful, but as we were heading home, the onramp for the freeway I needed was closed permanently. I was disallowed even from making a U-turn to use the onramp for the other side of the road. Frustrated, I pulled into the parking lot to turn around legally. This is where I get to feel a bit smug about not making an illegal maneuver (like the car in front of me had done) because pulling into that lot made me realize that my brake line had blown and I couldn’t stop the car. I was going slow enough that the parking brake brought me to a full stop and I was able to call a tow truck and my inlaws for a ride home. I’m trying not to think about what might have happened if I’d gotten onto the freeway.
I started my WWII class three weeks ago. We had the midterm last Thursday. I did all right. I like this teacher a lot. His lectures are interesting and he gives tons of feedback on the exams. I didn’t know that the Axis nations didn’t really work together during the 2nd World War. We also did an examination on the role of women during wartime. The article we read specifically dealt with pinups and how they represented average American women. It also delved into the obligation of women to provide men with either cheesecake or apple pie during wartime. If the men had to protect the women, the women had to look good for the men. The most interesting part of the article, which I wish had been more thoroughly examined, was after the author had established the argument that pinups were meant to represent what the soldiers were fighting for. The “for” has a double connotation, according to the author. Not only are the soldiers fighting on the behalf of the women back home, but they’re also fighting for the right to establish families (or even just have sex) with the women back home. The author argued that when a man is indoctrinated to believe he is obligated to protect a woman (or his family), and is unable to do so, he is inclined to fits of violence. It seemed as if the author was saying the pinups had the effect of developing a sense of misogyny in WWII soldiers. He made the argument better than my summation here, but I may keep an eye out for the book I hope this article is the predecessor of. ("’I Want a Girl, Just Like the Girl that Married Harry James’: American Women and the Problem of Political Obligation in World War II” by Robert B. Westbrook. Permanent link here, for those of you with access to JSTOR: http://www.jstor.org/stable/2713166 )
My inlaws went on vacation to Florida a couple of weeks ago and we watched their dog, Truffles, while they were away. Having Truffles gave me a good excuse to get out and walk in my neighborhood more (hiking in the parks has spoiled me, and now I don’t want to go anywhere else). Unfortunately, one day, because I was in a hurry to get the dog walked and get going for the day, I headed out wearing impractical shoes and ended up taking the skin off the back of my foot. I tried walking barefoot for a while, but that ended up hurting just as much as wearing the shoes. It’s almost all healed up now, but I couldn’t wear any shoes comfortably for about a week.
The inlaws brought back goodies from their trip. They brought Justin some kind of meat stick, they brought me a couple of bags of pecans (one of which I turned into roasted cinnamon spiced nuts and gave back; I can take a hint), and they brought Dominic a bag of lemon drops (his favorite). They said they had another gift, but they needed to unpack first. The next day while I was at the grocery store, they dropped it off. It was their electric piano. They’d been saying they wanted to get rid of it for a while, but even though I wanted it, I couldn’t come up with the money to buy it. They found a buyer on Craigslist and I figured that was that. Turns out, the Craigslist guy didn’t have the money either and wanted them to float him. They declined, but offered to sell him my keyboard (it was a nice keyboard given to me by a friend several years ago, but it was no piano) and gave me to piano. I’ve been playing away on that thing every day ever since. I’d forgotten how lost I could get in the music.
One of the first songs I learned when I started teaching myself how to play the piano was a much simplified version of Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2. When Muse came out with “The Resistance,” it appeared at the end of “United States of Eurasia” and I remembered how much I loved it. So I found the music online, downloaded it, and am now trying to teach myself how to play the real version. It’s a bit beyond my ability at the moment (Chopin sure loved his ledger lines!), but I’m sure with dedication and practice, I’ll get it eventually.
One of Justin’s favorite things to say about himself is that he has “hot Latino blood.” He usually says it when the differences in our temperatures comes up, which is frequently, because he’s usually too warm and I’m always too cold. Dominic has started picking up on it, but he didn’t get it quite right so now he blames his temperature on his “hot Pacino blood.” This is a mistake that neither Justin nor I are willing to point out to him.
Last night, I had a dream that somebody dropped a nuclear bomb near where I live. I panicked as the flash from the impact grew brighter and rushed into the living room to grab Dominic and hit the floor. I knew it was hopeless and that I likely wouldn’t even get to him in time. What struck me as odd, though, was the sense of resignation and peace I felt immediately after that realization.
When Dominic was new, I used to lay awake at night and worry. I worried about everything, but mostly I worried about a nuclear attack. Since I had a kid, I sometimes think to myself that I didn’t know what worry was before parenthood. I worry a little less now. My worries tend to be more realistic. Things like, “Will Dominic get into 2nd grade?” “Is he being nice to the other kids?” “Are the other kids being nice to him?” “If they aren’t, will he be ok?” “If they are, will he learn empathy?” “Do we have enough food in case of the zombie apocalypse?” (Side note: I still can’t watch zombie movies.)
Dominic did, in fact make it to 2nd grade. I had a meeting with the “Intervention Specialist Team” about Dominic’s behavior. Over the course of the past year, we’ve been trying to medicate him to make it easier for him to pay attention during class. The medicine hasn’t been a success. In fact, the last one we tried gave him a terrible facial tic. He’s been off the meds for a few weeks, and while the tic has improved, hasn’t gone away. While he’s talking, he looks up and winks. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it. Most people think it’s cute and when strangers comment on how adorable it is, I just feel sad.
Last weekend, I went to a housewarming party for some friends of mine. The party was nice and uneventful, but as we were heading home, the onramp for the freeway I needed was closed permanently. I was disallowed even from making a U-turn to use the onramp for the other side of the road. Frustrated, I pulled into the parking lot to turn around legally. This is where I get to feel a bit smug about not making an illegal maneuver (like the car in front of me had done) because pulling into that lot made me realize that my brake line had blown and I couldn’t stop the car. I was going slow enough that the parking brake brought me to a full stop and I was able to call a tow truck and my inlaws for a ride home. I’m trying not to think about what might have happened if I’d gotten onto the freeway.
I started my WWII class three weeks ago. We had the midterm last Thursday. I did all right. I like this teacher a lot. His lectures are interesting and he gives tons of feedback on the exams. I didn’t know that the Axis nations didn’t really work together during the 2nd World War. We also did an examination on the role of women during wartime. The article we read specifically dealt with pinups and how they represented average American women. It also delved into the obligation of women to provide men with either cheesecake or apple pie during wartime. If the men had to protect the women, the women had to look good for the men. The most interesting part of the article, which I wish had been more thoroughly examined, was after the author had established the argument that pinups were meant to represent what the soldiers were fighting for. The “for” has a double connotation, according to the author. Not only are the soldiers fighting on the behalf of the women back home, but they’re also fighting for the right to establish families (or even just have sex) with the women back home. The author argued that when a man is indoctrinated to believe he is obligated to protect a woman (or his family), and is unable to do so, he is inclined to fits of violence. It seemed as if the author was saying the pinups had the effect of developing a sense of misogyny in WWII soldiers. He made the argument better than my summation here, but I may keep an eye out for the book I hope this article is the predecessor of. ("’I Want a Girl, Just Like the Girl that Married Harry James’: American Women and the Problem of Political Obligation in World War II” by Robert B. Westbrook. Permanent link here, for those of you with access to JSTOR: http://www.jstor.org/stable/2713166 )
My inlaws went on vacation to Florida a couple of weeks ago and we watched their dog, Truffles, while they were away. Having Truffles gave me a good excuse to get out and walk in my neighborhood more (hiking in the parks has spoiled me, and now I don’t want to go anywhere else). Unfortunately, one day, because I was in a hurry to get the dog walked and get going for the day, I headed out wearing impractical shoes and ended up taking the skin off the back of my foot. I tried walking barefoot for a while, but that ended up hurting just as much as wearing the shoes. It’s almost all healed up now, but I couldn’t wear any shoes comfortably for about a week.
The inlaws brought back goodies from their trip. They brought Justin some kind of meat stick, they brought me a couple of bags of pecans (one of which I turned into roasted cinnamon spiced nuts and gave back; I can take a hint), and they brought Dominic a bag of lemon drops (his favorite). They said they had another gift, but they needed to unpack first. The next day while I was at the grocery store, they dropped it off. It was their electric piano. They’d been saying they wanted to get rid of it for a while, but even though I wanted it, I couldn’t come up with the money to buy it. They found a buyer on Craigslist and I figured that was that. Turns out, the Craigslist guy didn’t have the money either and wanted them to float him. They declined, but offered to sell him my keyboard (it was a nice keyboard given to me by a friend several years ago, but it was no piano) and gave me to piano. I’ve been playing away on that thing every day ever since. I’d forgotten how lost I could get in the music.
One of the first songs I learned when I started teaching myself how to play the piano was a much simplified version of Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2. When Muse came out with “The Resistance,” it appeared at the end of “United States of Eurasia” and I remembered how much I loved it. So I found the music online, downloaded it, and am now trying to teach myself how to play the real version. It’s a bit beyond my ability at the moment (Chopin sure loved his ledger lines!), but I’m sure with dedication and practice, I’ll get it eventually.
One of Justin’s favorite things to say about himself is that he has “hot Latino blood.” He usually says it when the differences in our temperatures comes up, which is frequently, because he’s usually too warm and I’m always too cold. Dominic has started picking up on it, but he didn’t get it quite right so now he blames his temperature on his “hot Pacino blood.” This is a mistake that neither Justin nor I are willing to point out to him.