Random crap/therapy session

Including today, I have only nine full days before I head back to Tallahassee. That place seems a million miles away, like it's not my life, like I don't belong there. I don't, and I never have. This place has always been home. I just didn't know it until now.

On Thursday, C* and I have an appointment with an advisor at the Citizen's Advice Bureau to talk about the steps I can/need to take to come here permanently. It's not going to be as easy as I once thought.

I looked at the web site of the immigration office for the United Kingdom the other night. I can apply to come here as a fiancee, but the application has to be accompanied by all kinds of documentation including C*'s passport, a copy of his lease, a statement of our intentions to marry, financial statements, proof of employability, etc., etc., etc. The fee is $1,050, and the money is nonrefundable even if my visa is denied. If it's accepted, I can live here for a maximum of six months before we have to be married, and I can't work until we tie the knot.

C* putting new front brakes on his car at his mum's house:



I've been applying for jobs this past week, and I think my chances of finding a job here are pretty good. I have a college degree and loads of professional work experience, and smart people tend to leave the Highlands for better jobs in bigger cities. I really like it here, though, which is good considering we'd be here for 5 years minimum. This place is really decent for a small city. It has a nice downtown with a city feel yet there are great country walks and drives not far away.

Boats on the Seine - photo taken by C*:



a-z of the 90s is on the TV right now, music videos of popular and not-so-popular songs from that decade. I'm starting to get sad knowing that I'm going to be leaving here and that I won't be with C* again for months and months. Worried that my visa will be denied. Worried that what I want rests in the hands of some fucking stranger in New York City. Perhaps I'm being too negative. Why should my application be denied?

Bridge in the woods, Cawdor Castle:



I talked to my brother the other day. He told me that my dad was rushed to the hospital the other day with weird heart problems. It turned out that one of his chambers was beating ultra fast, out of time with the others. The doctor said that in 95 percent of these types of cases, there is something else wrong with the heart, some kind of more serious problem. But, in his case, the doctor said, he should be fine. He didn't find any other problems.

My dad was put on medication and will be reevaluated in six months. Instead of being happy at hearing that my dad will be OK, I was disappointed. What a weird feeling. To be disappointed that my father isn't on his last legs. I'm not just being adolescently morbid here. I was actually disappointed. I still am. I think I need to go back into therapy.

The beach at Loch Ness:



Did ZZ Top really have a song, much less a video, in the 90s? Viva Las Vegas. God help us all.

A trunk in the woods, Cawdor Castle:



My dad and I haven't talked since last September. That's when he called to find out how I did on the LSAT and found it highly amusing that I spent $500 and studied my butt off only to do so poorly on the test. He. Was. Laughing. That's when I informed him that I didn't exist for his amusement and that I was really, really tired of him treating me like he does. That's the day he hung up on me (again) after informing me that he wasn't ever going to talk to me again (again). Since then, there's been a Thanksgiving, his birthday, a Christmas, a New Year's, my step-mom's birthday, my birthday, Mother's Day. Not a single phone call in either direction, though they still sent the yearly Christmas card and $200 check - the same thing I've gotten each year since I turned 18. We could have no communication for the entire year, and I'd still get the card, a corporate-type boxed card they send to everyone, and the check. There's no thought put into it on their end, and it has never meant anything to me.

Highland cow:



My step-mother had a birthday in March. My brother lives a 10-minute drive from our parents and had a birthday card to give to her. He called to find out when a good time would be to come over that day, and our father informed him that he should mail the card instead because they were hosting a birthday party for her at their house with all their friends. Mail the card. Because there was going to be a birthday party. For his mom. At his parents' house. He wasn't invited. Am I the only who thinks this is weird?

Paris - photo taken by C*:



Every time they shun him, which is often, his feelings are hurt. That makes me very, very mad. It also makes me mad that they are willing to fly to Virginia to stay with my dad's other son, the one he didn't raise, and his wife and their daughter. They do it several times a year and have photos of their grandchild all over the house. But my dad can be in Tallahassee and not even take 10 minutes out of his schedule to see me. It has happened. Oh, yes. It has.

An alley in Paris - photo taken by C*:



I can't stand him. Or her. I wish they'd fall in the water on one of the two cruises they take each year and never be heard from again.

Cawdor Castle:



Hm. I think I definitely need more counselling.

Oscar Wilde's grave, Paris - photo taken by C*:



In other news: my ex-boyfriend and now ex-friend
got married last month. Good for them. Seriously, I'm actually happy for them. Everyone has their match, and I'm glad they found each other. I didn't send a gift, but, then again, they didn't tell me about the wedding. I heard it from the father of ex-friend's kids. He gave them a dinner cruise as a gift.

Paris view - photo taken by C*:



Time to get moving for the day. Thank you for listening. : )

My love:

I loves me some tennis

There are some nice courts just a five-minute walk from C*'s front door. When the weather cooperates, which is hardly ever, we get on the courts for some exercise.

Here's C*, dejected after a good thrashing. : )

Camping on the Isle of torrential rain and gale force winds

C* and I and The Boy and his best mate and Woody attempted to go camping Saturday night on the Isle of Skye, a monstrous and magically beautiful island that sits off the northwest coast of Scotland where Gaelic is still spoken and sheep get a lot more than sheared by their shepherds.

What a fucking nightmare.

The previous Thursday and Friday had been sunny and warm, perfect for sitting on the back porch of C*'s friend Thursday night after a great Scottish meal that included this delectible little cheese made in these parts and a stew of fish and prawn and a dessert made from raspberries and homemade whipped cream dotted with oatmeal flakes. A bottle of homemade wine here, some undistilled whiskey there and a few thousand cigarettes over there, and we were having a mighty fine time. That's when the thought hit us. Great weather! An impending weekend! The Boy! His friend! An offer of a loan on some camping gear! The Isle of Skye!

The drive out there was fabulous. Clear skies, warm. Not a drop of sky water in sight. Once over the bridge, we stopped at the "beach" on the Skye side and let the boys out with their nets to see what they could find while we made lunch and fed and watered Woody. It was warm. Clear. Gorgeous. That's how I remember it, anyway.



But after looking at the few photos I snapped, anyone could have seen the downpour coming from a mile away. Perhaps I'm an optimist after all?

On Skye, there were huge mountains, old castles and quaint towns between us and the area we had picked for camping on the western side of the island. By the time we got there, however, it was pouring down rain. The sky opened up. The clouds were angry. There wasn't a sun in sight. Onward, we trudged. To a campside back toward the east. Still raining. Onward. To a campsite even further east, back toward the bridge. Rain. We decided to give it a go.

In the downpour, C* and I got the big tent out and attempted to erect it. Once it was halfway up, though, it acted as a net to catch the horrible wind. It took all my strength to keep it from flying away while C* worked on getting it pegged down. No luck. In our haste, we had done something wrong, and the tent, on one side, wasn't sitting properly on the ground. Soaking wet and cold, I gave up.

"Let's go home."

That turned out to be the best suggestion anyone had made all day. After all, the weather was crappy, the kids were acting like major brats (I'm hungry, etc., etc., nonstop) and I wanted to get rid of The Boy's friend because he's a fucking asshole who I'm sure will grow up to be a thuggish construction worker/thief/vandal who drinks way, way too much. I'm quite sure I shouldn't be an elementary school teacher after this weekend.

On the way back off the island, we stopped so I could nab a photo of this castle:



The rain continued for two days. The end.

Making a move?

Sent out a few job applications today...in Inverness. I'm 95 percent sure this is where I'm going to make a new life.

The Boy, The Family and England, oh my!

The first time I met The Boy, I was sitting in C*'s lounge. The Boy and his mother arrived to drop him off for the weekend. He had seen me on the webcam and talked to me on the phone before, but that was through the safety of the 5,000 miles that separated us. Now I was in his father's living room, and he stood bashfully in the hallway just out of view.

"Go on in. Don't be shy," his father prodded.

Then, he was there, standing in front of me. The Boy who factored heavily into whether or not the relationship between C* and I could continue. We had already discussed it. If The Boy didn't like or accept me, C* and I would be through.

"Hi," he said.

Hi, indeed.

The Boy this past weekend in England with a bowl of ice cream and jelly at Granny Jill's house:



He's cute as a button, and he seems to be a genuinely nice and normal boy. I'm in a precarious position, though, as I continue to be my own worst enemy by automatically forecasting the situation through his eyes in the most negative way possible. Some examples of thoughts that I fear have run or are or will be running through his head at any possible moment:

"That's the bitch who's taking my daddy away from me."

"I want my daddy all to myself again."

"I wish she'd go away."

"I'll make it so that she goes away."

I'm not speaking entirely without experience. My dad had four wives by the time I was 7 years old. The last one stuck, but I couldn't stand her, and I couldn't stand the way the relationship between my father and I changed after she got her meaty hooks into him. I'm not saying that I would ever want the relationship between C* and The Boy to change on account of me, but you never know what The Boy is thinking.

That being said, I never wanted a son. I mean, what do I know about helping to raise a boy? A daughter would have been much more my speed.

Boys pick their boogers and eat them. They play too rough. They are always dirty and stinky. Their hands are always greasy, and they smear that grease on everything. And they talk with their mouths full. Oops. I do that, too.

As far as boys go, though, The Boy seems to be a good one. He can be sweet. He loves to read and draw. We like the same movies. He loves the Simpsons. He travels relatively well. He is mightily inquisitive. He likes to play tennis. And board games. That boy loves his board games.

So, if I were to become a part-time stepmum to The Boy, I think I could handle it. It would definitely always be a balancing act, keeping in mind that I will never be his mother. Where are the boundaries? What is acceptable behavior on both our parts? When will it be appropriate to lay down some rules of my own, especially if C* and I get our own apartment and the space stops being strictly "daddy's space"?

Already, my presence has caused at least one change. This being a one-bedroom apartment, The Boy had gotten used to sleeping in bed with daddy. When I came on the scene, The Boy was told to hit the couch. I told C* that I'd be willing to sleep on the couch on the weekends to avoid any kind of hard feelings. But C* is firm about The Boy sleeping on the couch. Now the wee one wants to know if I moved here would he have to sleep on the couch every weekend? No, we'd move into a bigger place so The Boy would have his own room. But he's a daddy's boy, and I think he liked his place snuggled next to daddy at night.

Things change. But how much change can go on before The Boy starts feeling resentment at what caused the change? Am I overthinking things?

In other news: C*, The Boy and I did the drive to Malvern in the Shire of Worcester (pronounced Wooster) for a visit with Mum, brothers and their family. Already, I'm a huge fan of Mum



and, even after just a long weekend, I like C*'s family and seem to get along with them far better than my own.

Ullapool

Ullapool is a small fishing village on the northwest coast of Scotland. C* and I paid a visit, and, along the way, stopped to chat with some of our new Highland friends, pick up litter along a river and admire the views. As usual, the day was overcast. But the rain held off allowing us a chance to step out of the car often and investigate our surroundings. Click on any of the photos for more detail.

On the way to Ullapool:



Sadly, people don't seem to mind throwing trash on the ground in Scotland. In Inverness, McDonald's bags litter the streets, and beer cans and bottles and food wrappers pollute the environment around the river that runs through it.

On the way to Ullapool, we stopped at several lay-bys and let Woody run amok while we surveyed our surroundings. Though there was a garbage can for use at one lay-by, there was a particularly disdainful amount of garbage on the ground. C* and I took five minutes out of our day to fill a few plastic bags full of rubbish, and we gained all kinds of satisfaction at clearing the area of litter. Mother nature: 1. Litterbugs: 0.

Once in Ullapool, there wasn't much to see except a few restaurants, touristy-type shops selling expensive Scottish woolens and uninspiring neighborhoods:



For dinner (lunch), we stopped at the local chippy



where I had my second helping of fish and chips and mushy peas since landing in Scotland and dipped my tongue into the local fizzy favorite, Irn-Bru (pronounced Iron Brew), a carbonated beverage that tastes kind of like cream soda. The fish and chips and peas were lovely. I'll take a pass on the Irn-Bru from now on, though.



Our journey back to Inverness was much more fun than our destination was. On the way back, we played like children in the countryside, inspected a farmhouse ruin, trespassed on the grounds of a castle-turned-hostel and got up close and personal with some Highland livestock. I even took a brief turn behind the wheel on a narrow country road.



The above scene was once the view from a farmhouse that has since fallen into ruin:



It was neat inspecting its remains. C* wanted to know what it would feel like to be Santa Claus circa early 1800s.



Never ones to follow a straight road anywhere, C* and I made several detours after stopping at the ruin. In the distance on one road, we spotted a castle. At first, we couldn't find a bridge that would take us across a river and closer to the castle. Just when we thought all was lost a few miles up the road, we crossed a bridge and backtracked toward the castle. Eventually, we happened across it and found that it is a castle-turned-youth hostel housing a fresh supply of newly-arrived teenagers.



We popped in for a view of the interior and made like we belonged there so we could get a closer look. The kids were queuing up for tea (dinner), and I suggested we get in line for some food. We looked around for a bit, instead. All of the spikes hanging from the ceiling hold a single lightbulb in this room filled with camping gear and snacks:



This is quite a large room that looks far too fancy to be a hostel:



Afterwards, we stopped a few more times to commune with some cows, the Highland variety and otherwise.

C* reaches out to a cute, but skittish, baby Highland cow:



The traditional black-and-white variety:



A pen of fully-grown Highland males. This one probably didn't appreciate our presence:

Loch Ness

It's Tuesday, and there's only two weeks and two days between me and a plane headed west. Throughout the past three weeks, I've been in three countries, met The Boy, met C*'s mother and brothers and family and come to discover that I never want to leave here, that I want to make a life here with C*. I'm wondering if C* feels the same. I've already asked him to marry me. His reply? A not-too-uplifting "I'll think about it."

Hm.

A little more than a week ago, C* took me to the nearby shore of Loch Ness. With dog Woody in tow, we enjoyed a wooded walk around part of the perimeter of the famed loch, but there was nary a monster in sight.



This lake is huge: 23 miles around, to be exact. And it's so deep that no diver has ever been to the deepest part of the bottom of it. The legend of Nessie is still alive and provides a living for at least one weirdo who has set up shop on the lake's shore. He considers himself to be a "researcher," but his method of research where the legendary beast is concerned involves nothing more than looking through his stupid telescope to see if the monster has decided to rear its massive head. He lives in his research van on the lake's shore and sells Nessie souvenirs made out of what looks like bits collected from around the lake. Can anyone say "freak"?



We made the trip to Loch Ness on an overcast day making for dramatic views:



And this:



Woody picked up some tics as he scoured the wooded area sampling all the scents that were to be found. But he had a good day, and so did wheeeeeee!

PARIS! (day 2)

On day 2, C* and I used the Eiffel Tower as a starting point. Getting there involved a 10-minute walk from the hotel. We climbed halfway up the tameable beast for this view, among others. That body of water, my friends, is the famous Seine:



Afterwards, we strolled arm in arm along the Seine before catching a train to the Louvre. We didn't go into the Louvre, mind you. There were far too many tourists waiting to get in, and we didn't feel like spending our whole day fighting our way through the maze that is the largest museum known to man. Instead, we sat outside:



This photo is in no way representative of the enormity of the Louvre. For better pics, go here.

From there, we did the walk of shame (all tourists, all the time) up the Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe:



Along the way, I snapped this photo of les jardins des tuileries:



The Champs Elysees is a minefield of tourists and swanky shops. Several high-end car dealerships sit along this row of shops-that-are-way-too-expensive-for-my-meager-budget.

Halfway between the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe, C* and I decided to rest on a bench. It was there that some maniacal kleptomaniac pilfered C*'s sunglasses and a box containing ONE cigarette right out from under us! The aforementioned items sat between us on the bench, and the lunatic took a seat on the bench behind us facing the other direction. Somehow, he/she managed to secure the glasses and cigarettes in his/her grubby little paws before heading off down the street. We considered ourselves lucky that that's all that was stolen from us during our stay. After all, signs at the Eiffel Tower warn visitors of pickpockets. Those nasty little Frenchies!

After a meal of table wine, cheese, fruit, quiche and bread procured at an outdoor market, C* and I headed back to the hotel beaten by exhaustion. We stayed in the rest of our last night in Paris. The next morning, we hunted for souvenirs before getting back on the train that would take us to the bus that would take us to the plane that would take us to the car that would take us back home.

Side note: Americans hate the French. That's how it is. We mock them. We call them weak. We think they're faggots. We are certain they are rude. I don't think that way, of course, but your average American is brought up harboring a certain disdain for all things French. Lucky for me, I have ignored it all. Instead, I immersed myself in the French language and culture from the time I was in middle school. I studied French throughout middle and high school and got a minor in the romance language in college.

Since I was young, Paris has been the one thing I had to had to had to had to experience to consider my life complete. I have to say after experiencing it that it's everything I ever imagined and more and that America is way, way wrong. All the French people we were fortunate enough to communicate with were helpful and kind. Some even went out of their way when it was obvious they were in a rush to help us get to where we needed to go even though our language skills and accents were way under par.

So, in summation, fuck you, America! I'm siding with the French!

PARIS! (night 1 and the following day)

C* booked a weekend trip to PARIS! for us a week or so before I flew to Europe. I've always wanted to go to Paris, and I was turning 35 that weekend. What better way to celebrate?

We flew into Beauvais airport an hour or so south of Paris. Ryanair got us there at a cost of 1 pence for each ticket plus taxes. We each ended up paying $25 American for a round-trip ticket, but we had to drive to Glasgow to catch the flight at Prestwick Airport and catch a bus from Beauvais to Paris.

Paris is beautiful. Talk about every view being a postcard! Et voila:



After we found out about the three-day, unlimited-use pass for the subway and got directions (twice) for our maiden subway voyage to the hotel, we got to the hotel, checked in and had a walk around the neighborhood.

We stopped for cigarettes (when in France...) and a couple of pints at the nearest bar where we got a taste of just how expensive things can be in a large European city. Two pints of 1664 cost 13 Euros ($17.57 American)! Added to that was a mystery charge of 3 Euros. We think it was added on because we chose to sit outside but we're not sure, and we didn't want to look cheap and/or stupid by asking. We looked dumb enough trying to order drinks and cigarettes.

The next morning, we headed off to Pere-Lachaise, the final resting place of such notable greats as Apollinaire, Bernhardt, Camus, Chopin, Ernst, Modigliani, Moliere, Piaf, Proust, Seurat, Stein (Gertrude, of course!) and Wilde. The main reason we made the long trek there was to see where Jim Morisson lay, of course.

I had seen TV images of Morisson's grave. The candles, the grafitti. The flowers. The hordes of people travelling from far and wide to offer gifts to the grave of the famous and infamous rock legend. We went there on a quiet day, however. Of anyone's grave, Morisson's definitely attracted the most attention, but, the whole time we were there, there weren't but a dozen visitors at any one time.

Morisson's grave is packed tightly among various other graves making it hard to photograph. It's made even harder by the fact that a metal fence circles it to try and keep the grafitti artists at bay. But the fence was easily climbed. Voici:



After several hours at Pere-Lachaise, we wandered on over to the Sacre Coueur and spent the rest of the day in the part of Paris known as Montmartre. Historically, Montmartre is where so many of the great painters lived and spent their time painting and drinking their lives away. It's widely known as a tourist area now, but plenty of locals still live there. Its narrow cobbled streets and the variety of painters who still peddle their paintings there allow residents and visitors alike a glimpse into the past that's still alive and well there. This is the area I'd want to live in if I ever moved to Paris. I mean, come on! You can still buy absinthe there! How great is that?

The Sacre Coeur:



Looking down on Paris from the steps of the Sacre Coeur:



Painter row in Montmartre:



Painters love their absinthe. I'm thinking it's more expensive now than it was in the 1800s:



The preferred mode of transportation in Paris:



C* posing with his first-ever crepe - with cheese:



The view from where we stopped for a beer in Montmartre:



A gorgeous residential street in Montmartre:



After the cemetery but before hitting the mean streets of the tourist area of Montmartre, C* and I stopped at a lovely little grocery and stocked up on provisions for a picnic in a park. Restaurants are wildly expensive in Europe, so we dined on grocery goods the entire time we were in Paris. This meal included ham and cheese sandwiches, chips and drinks in an urban park frequented by bums and other Parisian weirdos. While we were there, C* made a friend who told him, in French, that he looked like an American. But not just any American. He looked like an American cowboy.

C* and his new Parisian friend:



Before we left Montmartre, we stopped at a museum there dedicated to 300 works by Salvador Dali. St. Petersburg, Florida, holds the highest number of works by Dali outside of Figueres, Spain, but this museum held several of Dali's 3D works, all of which I had never seen, even in a book. He made statues. He made furniture. He even made dresses, none of which I would ever be caught dead in. But the trip to the museum was well worth it as I had a chance to see 2D works by the frazzled genius that were outside the realm of what you'd normally expect from Dali.

One of Dali's sculptures and some 2D works you would never attribute to Dali:



After this long day of walking, we went back to the hotel and stayed in for the rest of the night watching funny French commercials and writhing naked women on the hotel TV.

Next post: Day 2 in Paris

OK. UK! (Inverness)

I am now in the land of quid, fish and chips and mushy peas, a real pint and driving on the left side of the road whilst sitting on the right side of the car.

As I taxied down the runway a week ago last Tuesday, all kinds of crazy thoughts ran through my head. What if they all hated Americans? What if they're really different from me? What if I stick out like a sore thumb that everyone wants to bash with a hammer over and over and over? What if C* doesn't even show up at the airport and I end up having to exchange my return ticket and scoot home heartbroken straight away?

All this worrying was for naught.

They don't all hate Americans. They're not so different. I don't stick out like (such) a sore thumb. They're all too poor from paying $8 American per gallon of gas (about £.94 per litre) to even own a hammer, and they're all too drunk to accurately aim for my head. *wink*

My first impressions of Inverness are that it's a quaint city full of down-to-earth people and overpriced everything - including restaurants. I know the minimum wage here is the equivalent of $10 American, but get this: a free-range omelet and fries and a huge burger with fries and two drinks for the equivalent of $32 American? And that's at a roadside diner in the middle of nowhere!

But everywhere you look in this town, it's like staring at a postcard. And this city's downtown puts Tallahassee's to shame even though Tallahassee has a population nearly three times the size.

I think I like it here. As long as I'm not looking to buy anything. Ever.

UK. OK!

I hadn't been writing because I'd had nothing to say and because I had been super busy with long hours at work. Three months out of the year, we work our asses off in my office. The bad news is that it involves 12- to 14-hour workdays and six- to seven-day workweeks. The good news is that it allows me to accrue tons of comp time that I am now burning with a vengeance with a five-week trip to Scotland to see my sweetie.

This is my first time out of the United States except for a five-day trip to Montreal in 2000. Ever since I was a wee lassie, I had been wanting to go to Europe - specifically to PARIS! I always told myself that I could die happy once I had been to PARIS! - and now I can.

First things first, though. Getting into London.

I almost wasn't allowed into the UK. The immigration control lady at London Gatwick grilled me about who I was going to visit and why. Where was I staying? How did I meet this person? On the Internet? Hm. Seems suspicious. Has he ever been to the US before? Had we ever met in person before? When are you returning to the US? Where's your itinerary? No itinerary? How do I know you plan on going home? ARGH!

The lady finally let me by, and I've been in Scotland since May 8 except for a 3.5 day trip to PARIS! that ended yesterday.

In the coming weeks, I will be posting details (and hopefully photos) about my trip as well as my impressions of the places I have visitied and will be visiting between now and June 14.

Next post: Initial impressions of Inverness
Next next post: PARIS!
Three posts down: The Highlands

Yay, guns!

Thirty-two people at Virginia Tech are dead and all the NRA and other gun nuts can do is pull their weapons tighter against their breasts and staunchly dig their heels into the ground in favor of gun owners' rights?

That's what's wrong with this country.

In my opinion, the Columbine killers had some kind of leg to stand on when they extinguished their prey 10 years ago. I mean, at least the topic of school bullying (bullying = bad) was brought to light and bandied about for some time before that event slipped into obscurity. Unfortunately, for all we can stand to learn from the VTech massacre, this Cho Seung-Hui kid comes off in his videos and writings as just some kind of delusional freak who was operating without a full set of batteries.

OK. I got it. He was peeved because he perceived his fellow classmates as having far too much. Cognac? BMWs? Those kids were living the high life, it sounds, yet complaining about their miserable existences all the way while poor, little Cho Seung-Hui was stuck out in the cold receiving only a great education while not having to work. Poor Seung-Hui! Why couldn't the United States have given the poor immigrant boy more of a chance in life?

So far, I know that he was a senior English student at Virginia Tech and that he had a history of depression. He had no friends and didn't socialize. He ate alone. He went to bed early most nights. He was a shitty writer. He liked to wear sunglasses and preferred his baseball hat pulled low. He listed his name as "question mark" on a classroom sign-in sheet. He stalked a couple of female students and took photos of females under his desk. He scared teachers. He was referred for counseling. He was sent for a psychological evaluation. He was thrown out of a class. He was marginalized by fellow students and teachers. On and on and on.

But he was still going to class? Still a student at VT? Still roaming free?

That's what's wrong with this country.

Did school officials not step in sooner and harsher because they didn't have the legal authority to do so? Or were they just scared of him? Did they not want to deal with it? Did they not have enough evidence? Did he need to kill someone first before anything could be done?

That's what's wrong with this country.

Where are his parents in all this? Why haven't they stepped forward? Why hasn't anyone interviewed them? Was the murderer abused as a child as his writing might suggest?

That's what's wrong with this country.

I heard on some newscast that this kind of brutality is uniquely American. What is it that we, as a country, are doing wrong? Are we not taking mental disorders seriously enough? Is it still taboo to discuss them? Do we still foolishly think that young people will just live in their misery and that this misery won't leak out to affect others?

That's what's wrong with this country.

And will those powerful right-to-gunners always think it's perfectly sensible for someone - largely, anyone - to be able to walk into a store and buy loads of guns and enough ammunition to destroy thousands? Will the NRA - with its very deep pockets - always be so powerful?

That's what's wrong with this country.

In the end, I think Cho Seung-Hui's actions could very well open up all kinds of debate and teach us, as a nation, a lot about mental illness, troubled youth and the effects of the second amendment on an individualistic, capitalistic nation whose morals and virtues (more money, more power, more everything...NOW!) are largely skewed.

Seung-Hui might not end up getting his rambling and incoherent message across to the country that survives this event, but I think we have a great chance, if we choose to listen hard enough, to hear and learn powerful messages and lessons that could change society for the better.

Chances are, though, we won't listen.

We never do.

That's what's wrong with this country.

World map discoveries

maarmie: (looking at a world map) Did you know...that the United Kingdom...is an island?

C^: (with mock surprise) It is?

maarmie: Yes. And did you know...that Ireland...is southwest...of Scotland?

C^: Yes. I knew that.

maarmie: I don't understand...why they don't build a bridge.

C^: A bridge where?

maarmie: Between England...and France.

C^: That would be good. There's already a tunnel.

maarmie: (shocked because the map clearly does not indicate a tunnel) There is??? That's so...cool! I love tunnels!

Pendulum swings, part deux

Long-distance relationships are hard, and I suspect that the people who say they are easy/in any way fun/remotely satisfying are the same people who are only comfortable in relationships that have a low degree of intimacy.

Long-distance relationships are not for the meek…or the insecure.

All kinds of trouble can brew in a long-distance relationship when you're talking to your beloved (or are in the middle of phone sex?!) and you hear him/her furiously typing in the background. Who is he writing to? Why is she ignoring me? How come she's not telling me what she's doing? Is it a big secret? Is he cheating on me? Did he meet someone else in a chat room, and is he now feverishly typing her the first of a series of ardent love letters? AM I ON THE WAY OUT?!

All kinds of trouble can brew in a long-distance relationship when all you've got is webcam/phone sex in the place of a real fleshfest and one of you can't quite get there for some reason. Is he having a dry spell? Is she not turned on by me anymore? Is she thinking of something or, worse, someone, else?

All kinds of trouble can brew in a long-distance relationship when the only connection you have is a phone, and you are tired/depressed/irritated/frustrated. Sighs and dead silences can be severely misconstrued leading to a barrage of inane questioning and, most likely, an argument or 20.

All kinds of trouble can brew in a long-distance relationship when, after months of sending and receiving cards and gifts, talking on the phone for hours a day and writing and reading sweet e-mails, you realize that all you fucking really fucking want to fucking give/get is a fucking kiss and/or a fucking hug to/from your significant other but all you fucking have in front of you is fucking nothing. This continued realization tends to make one cranky and/or bitchy and can lead to unsolicited arguments. Fun! Fun!

All kinds of trouble can brew in a long-distance relationship when you're an insensitive clod - as humans are prone to being, especially when harboring ill feelings - and you make less-than-loving comments to your sweetie such as "You're a jerk!" "I've dated bigger and better feminists than you!" "Your son doesn't need you! He's going to have a new father soon!" "You look awful today! Your face looks smashed!" "You're a liar! You're a liar!" "You're stingy!" "Fuck off!" "Men suck!"

All kinds of trouble can brew in a long-distance relationship when one or the other or both of you have major insecurities and you aren't there to see what's going on but you get to hear all about: the male employee she hangs out with when she's bored; the female co-worker he hung out at the beach with one day; the single female neighbor who moved into the empty apartment across the hall from him; the guy who invited her out to coffee and then tracked down her e-mail address; the married women who boasted of their many boyfriends he shared vodka with at the airport before trading e-mail addresses with them after one of the women invited him to an upcoming party; the guy who is on her IM list and the male friends she goes to the movies/out to dinner with.

And it's not just the "who's" that can get your long-distance significant other's hackles up, it's the "where's" as well.

He thinks she's coming right back to the computer to chat after putting the groceries away but she gets on a roll and ends up cleaning out her fridge and doing the dishes before heading back toward the webcam. When she gets back, he is gone and has left an IM saying "You should have just told me you weren't coming back."

She thinks he'll be home at 5 p.m. her time to chat, but he doesn’t end up coming home until 1 a.m. his time after hanging out at a bar with his male friend who he has brought home with him to keep the good times going for another few hours and forces her to chat with his buddy on the phone even when she is fuming and CERTAINLY. DOESN'T. FEEL. LIKE. TALKING.

demain: Pendulum swings, part trois

Pendulum swings, part un

I apologize for not having written in so long, but I've been on a crazy rollercoaster the last few months and am just now taking the time to breathe, reflect and share.

At the beginning of November, I met a man online, a random partner with whom I shared a few games of backgammon on Yahoo! games. Those few games turned into lengthy conversations, a sharing of e-mail addresses, more conversations over Yahoo! IM, then with webcam, then on the phone. Great talks. So much in common. Lots of laughter. Fabulous.

General stats: Born and raised in England, 39 years old, Taurus, student, one son, never married, 6'1", approximately 170-180 pounds, blue eyes, grey hair (formerly blond).

Two months after first meeting him online, he flew from Scotland (yes, Scotland) to Tallahassee over new year's so we could spend time in person and see if the chemistry in the flesh was as good as the chemistry on the phone and the Internet. It was.

We had a great time talking, kissing, canoeing, traveling to Savannah, meeting friends for dinner. He flew back home at the end of the first week of January knowing we wouldn't see each other again until May at the very earliest. Four months away from each other. Would it work? Could things last?

Neither of us had ever attempted a long-distance relationship before, and, I, for one, can say that I never wanted one until I met C^. Here are the things about him - and the relationship - that I love the most, the reasons I decided to make a go of all this in the first place:

1. C^ is completely unique/doesn't follow the herd.

2. He recognizes and appreciates my uniqueness.

3. He is emotional and shows his emotions easily.

4. He is incredibly intelligent.

5. He is reasonably understanding/open minded.

6. He is usually willing to admit when he is wrong.

7. He seems open to self improvement.

8. He appreciates my intelligence and frequently tells me he thinks I'm beautiful.

9. We share many of the same beliefs about religion, politics, relationships and parenting and the way the world ought to be/work.

10. We have a similar sense of humor and agree on nearly every topic under the sun.

11. We like the same books, movies, music and activities.

12. His accent is to die for.

13. He can turn me on like you wouldn't believe.

14. I'm pretty sure he puts the toilet seat down after ever wee...AND HE WIPES THE RIM!

...However...

Even though we share all this, even though I appreciate all this, even with all of this as a foundation for a relationship, this relationship has been more incredibly difficult than I ever thought imaginable.

Had I written this post a month ago, it would have been some kind of blathering love letter, a syrupy-sweet ode dripping with the kindest of words and comparing our relationship to the very best of relationships that ever existed or ever would exist, putting what seemed to just naturally exist between us and what I thought we had created on a pedestal for all the world to see, admire and attempt to emulate.

But, after three months, harsh words, misunderstandings and more arguments than I care to admit, the luster has worn off some. The reality that nothing is ever perfect is setting in. The realization that our "effortless" relationship isn't going to be so effortless after all has slapped me in the face. Can we learn from our mistakes? Can we improve ourselves and, through these improvements, improve the relationship? Can this relationship last? And, most importantly, if this relationship doesn't work out, how am I ever going to stalk him when he lives so very far away???

demain: Pendulum swings, part deux

Transition

There's not enough maarmie left in this body to come to you as her, so, instead, I'll be coming to you as myself. But this won't be the first time, and it certainly won't be the last.

Writing this blog has been a strange experience for me. This maarmie character didn't turn out to be a character at all, even though, at times, I liked to think that's all she was. I wanted to think she was merely the voice of some fictional embittered woman, one who had grown tired of disappointments and was ready to strike back any way she could. One who, through having a voice on the Internet, could unburden herself by writing about bad bosses, bad people, bad men, bad public policy, bad situations, a bad world. One who was finally going to be able to get some power through that voice.

All along, maarmie has been me, a little pocket of my personality, thought patterns, fears and hopes that grew larger with every post. maarmie gained power through this blog, indeed, and she, in time, gained strength in me as a result. It wasn't fun, but I suppose it was cathartic. Perhaps it was a necessary stage for me after having gone through the shit I've gone through the last few years and throughout my life. But I've come to realize that, through my poor decisions, I played a larger role in what I went through than I care to admit. Because of my previous pathetic needs to please others and be liked at almost any cost, I put myself in and stayed in situations that were unhealthy for me, and, frankly, beneath me.

All that has changed. Perhaps I have maarmie to thank for it. She may have acted as my bridge to a better way of being.

maarmie has not been eaten...

but she has all but vanished. Update in the next day or so.