People often ask me what I think about polygamy and I often laugh and say, "Don't you know? Haven't you met my husbandS? But shhhh, don't tell anyone." We share a laugh, sometimes awkwardly, and then I explain that the Mormon church does not sanction polygamy and its members have not practiced it since 1890 when it was renounced, six years before Utah became a state.
Today, I laugh about it, but if someone had asked me how I felt about polygamy 10 years ago I would have related a conversation that I had with my dad back then when I was younger and more argumentative. I argued that no self-respecting woman could enter into such a relationship. I argued that it was degrading to her and to the women who preceded and succeeded her. I argued that she was treated as a sex object and for procreation purposes, a sperm depository, a child producer, leaving her with more responsibilities, less freedom than if she had been the only wife of her husband. I argued that the sexist undercurrent of most religions subjugates women in ways that they often cannot detect, the sexism so rampant and ingrained. My dad argued that a lot of women enter into this type of a relationship willingly and that for some, it works out better socially and economically and emotionally than single womanhood does. He referred to a woman we both knew whom he felt would have been better off in a polygamist relationship than single and childless, wishing that she weren't. The discussion ended with my exasperation and disgust followed by his laughter. And though this may sound like an uneasy exchange, it wasn't. My dad and I have a history of disagreeing over nearly everything controversial and political and his way of maintaining the peace is to laugh. Though aggravating at times, I find it endearing and can't be angry with him for wanting us not to hate one another.
That was 10 years ago. But today. How do I feel about polygamy today? It's different. And this post about the author's decision to leave the Mormon church and about a new HBO drama called Big Love has got me thinking about it once again. Do I want to become a polygamist? No. Should young girls--13, 14, 15, 16--be married off to 40, 50 sixty-year-old men against their will, the disturbing practice of fundamentalists as described in Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith by Jon Krakauer, and other sources documenting the activities of the FLDS church? Absolutely not. Do I find Joseph Smith's (founder of the Mormon church) infatuation with marrying--as in getting married to--teenage girls ridiculous? Yes. As did his wife Emma, who opposed his pro-polygamy agenda, eventually leaving the Mormon church and joining a splinter group.
But I can't say all of the above without saying all of this: the choosing of a person to live with, love with, is up to the person/people doing the choosing provided that all involved are consenting adults (yes, tricky to define). If a woman willingly, perhaps lovingly enters into a polygamist relationship, if her children are taken care of, loved, protected, then what? Is this woman any different from anyone else trying to make it in the world? Isn't it her choice? And if it isn't, wouldn't legalizing polygamy offer better protection to the young girls, children who are currently being abused by the practice? Isn't some legal protection better than no legal protection?
It's messy. But I keep coming back to two things. One, an argument that I use constantly to support making same sex marriage legal: Why does it matter to you if gay people marry? Let consenting adults love and marry as they wish. You have your rights that are legally protected. Let others have theirs. So how is it that I can argue to let people love and marry as they wish and then not support polygamist marriage?
Two, polygamists are people and deserve to be treated as such. My exposure to polygamy consists of my great-grandmother's photo albums, reading of the books and news sources already described above, religious history teachings (mostly about why Mormons no longer practice it and the need to distance themselves from it), an NPR interview with practicing polygamists who have been watching Big Love, a This American Life story about a very happy "sister-wife," and a face-to-face meeting with a polygamist woman at our yard sale in Salt Lake City, Utah when I was about 12 years old. Up for sale were an illustrated children's Bible and Book of Mormon series. A woman wearing a dress that occupied all of the spaces from the top of her throat down to her ankles and wrists, hair tautly pulled back from her young face, bought all of the books. She took an extra wide, extra long check out of her bag--the business kind--to make the purchase. After she left our house my mom said, "I think that woman is a polygamist." "How do you know?" I asked. "By her check, what she was wearing. I think she's going to use the books to teach a lot of children," my mother said. "Oh," I said. And that was the end of the conversation. But the image stayed with me. This is what a polygamist looks like. Now, looking back, it seems like she ought to have been wearing a t-shirt saying as much. This polygamist woman could drive a car, spend money, go places by herself. She may have been happy sharing childcare, housecleaning duties with other women, having sex when she felt like it, having a man on her terms. And going to work, to school while one of the sister-wives took care of her children (the sister-wife even got paid). Good times also included drinking with the girls (the other seven wives--this is the way polygamist life was described by the woman on This American Life 1/27/06 "I Enjoy Being a Girl, Sort Of"). It doesn't sound like torture to this feminist writing this blog post. It sounds like a way of life that a lot of women and perhaps a lot of men (polyandry) could like and get used to, but also something (the liking and getting used to part) that most of us, for obvious reasons, would be unlikely to admit to ourselves or anyone else.
P.S. If anyone has HBO, could you tape Big Love for me some time? Thank you. And please send all disagreements with pro legalization of polygamy viewpoints to stewingham@hotmail.com. I'd like to read them.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
St. Patrick's Day, etc.
Despite discovering the night before departure that tickets had accidentally been thrown away and despite three of four Cunninghams requiring stay-in-bed recovery caused by March flu bug the week leading up to the concert, Amanda and James and Tad and I made it to NYC to see The Pogues, setbacks making Reubens at Rein's (I think there's a baby name in the making), lovely Ella Finer's singing of "Fairytale of New York," the instruments and the folks playing the instruments, Shane's 'wings', 'Bloomsday' cheese and market bread, NYC sun and city mucking about and tops of buildings, all the sweeter. More photos here.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
The World of the Dead
March. In bed. Sick. Crawling out from under a two-day television and knitting binge. Writing this because of crappy (I do like it--but not all at once) television--what's on and the reception.
Channel 7--the best of the worst (in terms of reception), clear with intermittent jagged line. Soap opera with evil grandmother witch and small children who often speak in word bubbles, note especially the sound of the disappearing bubble and the dramatic irony. Channel 5--somewhat fuzzier, picture in and out. My favorite soap, the one with Vicky/Nicky, Jess/Tess, the mother daughter pair of multiple personalities--or more an evil twin kind of thing, the 'alters' getting into major trouble, the 'mains' having to straighten things out.
On to prime time and Wife Swap. Stay-at-home family, home schooled in medieval culture with special attentions to dress and shoes and rutabagas and parsnips, meets kickass, cell phone owning, working and socializing 21st century family. Could the differences between the two families be any more extreme? "The man is king" versus "My man cleans." Next up on Super Nanny four unruly girls and one unruly sister/sister-in-law entertain with tears and jeers and hugs and potty training. Finally I shut down my television and what's left of my bubble gum brain with the tear jerker Miracle Workers during which children undergo life altering, sometimes lifesaving surgeries. Little Adrian, with a severe case of scoliosis, repaired, but not without keeping thousands of viewers in suspense as we wondered whether or not he'd be paralyzed after the surgery. 19-year-old Emily, with Tourette's, an electrode placed in her brain to ease the tics that make it difficult for her to do anything. Miracles. Absolutely. But for entertainment purposes? Folks across the country sit comfortably on their couches, watch from their beds, eat chips, Cheezits, ice cream, pepperoni sticks, as doctors take knife to child. It's o.k. because the viewers already know the outcome. These are miracles and only the miracle episodes are aired. But the not so lucky of the children--their episodes. Those don't get aired. Too sad for television. Too sad for entertainment
Front of sweater. Finished. Sleeve cast on. Stitch after stitch after stitch after stitch. Knitting through endless advertising in between endless television, the girls of L.A. Weight Loss telling me about how guys now look at them on the beach. Telling me that if they can do it, I can too. M&Ms floating to the tune of an Iron & Wine song, the one from the movie that I never saw. And the people who want to sell me furniture and Clorox wipes. I hope they get stuck under a trundle, the one I can buy for only $99. Or trapped in a dung smeared bathroom with nary a Clorox wipe to be found.
This. All of this. This means it's time to turn it off. Turn it off. Turn it off.
Turn it.
Off.
And reenter the world of the living.
Channel 7--the best of the worst (in terms of reception), clear with intermittent jagged line. Soap opera with evil grandmother witch and small children who often speak in word bubbles, note especially the sound of the disappearing bubble and the dramatic irony. Channel 5--somewhat fuzzier, picture in and out. My favorite soap, the one with Vicky/Nicky, Jess/Tess, the mother daughter pair of multiple personalities--or more an evil twin kind of thing, the 'alters' getting into major trouble, the 'mains' having to straighten things out.
On to prime time and Wife Swap. Stay-at-home family, home schooled in medieval culture with special attentions to dress and shoes and rutabagas and parsnips, meets kickass, cell phone owning, working and socializing 21st century family. Could the differences between the two families be any more extreme? "The man is king" versus "My man cleans." Next up on Super Nanny four unruly girls and one unruly sister/sister-in-law entertain with tears and jeers and hugs and potty training. Finally I shut down my television and what's left of my bubble gum brain with the tear jerker Miracle Workers during which children undergo life altering, sometimes lifesaving surgeries. Little Adrian, with a severe case of scoliosis, repaired, but not without keeping thousands of viewers in suspense as we wondered whether or not he'd be paralyzed after the surgery. 19-year-old Emily, with Tourette's, an electrode placed in her brain to ease the tics that make it difficult for her to do anything. Miracles. Absolutely. But for entertainment purposes? Folks across the country sit comfortably on their couches, watch from their beds, eat chips, Cheezits, ice cream, pepperoni sticks, as doctors take knife to child. It's o.k. because the viewers already know the outcome. These are miracles and only the miracle episodes are aired. But the not so lucky of the children--their episodes. Those don't get aired. Too sad for television. Too sad for entertainment
Front of sweater. Finished. Sleeve cast on. Stitch after stitch after stitch after stitch. Knitting through endless advertising in between endless television, the girls of L.A. Weight Loss telling me about how guys now look at them on the beach. Telling me that if they can do it, I can too. M&Ms floating to the tune of an Iron & Wine song, the one from the movie that I never saw. And the people who want to sell me furniture and Clorox wipes. I hope they get stuck under a trundle, the one I can buy for only $99. Or trapped in a dung smeared bathroom with nary a Clorox wipe to be found.
This. All of this. This means it's time to turn it off. Turn it off. Turn it off.
Turn it.
Off.
And reenter the world of the living.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
More Pleasure than Pain
A few days ago I purchased a small bouquet of daffodils from Trader Joe's for $1.49. They were fully closed when I got them home, but when I clipped the ends and put them in water they fully blossomed within hours. Their quick bloom surprised Aidan. She kept calling to me in the space of a few hours to tell me that another flower had opened. The next morning they looked lovely in the light, sitting next to a soon to be amaryllis blossom and I had to photograph them. The last photo documents what happens when a mother of a 2 1/2 year old tries for a mid morning photo shoot. The amaryllis 'went down'. However, after some love and care and a little vacuuming, it is recovering nicely, a buck forty-nine plus time spent vacuuming little to pay for the pleasure of looking at and photographing early spring.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Waiting
Thinking. Cole awake post midnight. Crying out. Restless. Kicking. Baby kicking. Hungry. Thinking about not being able to swallow. Survived two hip operations--she's 92. One after a fall and this one, a twist and snap in someone's arms. Frail enough to break, strong enough to get through with a rod in her hip. A contradiction in bodies. Will enough to keep living. Strong, strong, strong, the swallowing the first thing a few days after surgery to go. How long will it take? And will she be comfortable with Morphine. Injection only.
Waiting for a phone call. Waiting for news. Phone rings at 6:30 a.m. Not about her. Waiting. Waiting.
Waiting. For this beautiful and sassy and strong and tiny life to go.
Waiting for a phone call. Waiting for news. Phone rings at 6:30 a.m. Not about her. Waiting. Waiting.
Waiting. For this beautiful and sassy and strong and tiny life to go.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Monday, March 06, 2006
There's a whale in there
This morning Cole informed me that I have a whale in my belly. I'd have to agree with him.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Orifice Boy
Orifice boy does it again. He put a teeny, tiny something shiny in his ear deep enough to require close inspection with mega flashlight, deep enough and strange enough to get a second opinion before running off to the doctor. Big enough to cause pain in a little ear prompting comments from orifice boy such as, "I put a bead (or a bean) in my ear and it hurts." But too small and deeply lodged for fishing out with tweezers by me without possible damage of ear canal and bones that live there. Worry inducing enough to require removal of offending piece by Dr. Tom who at first thought it was a lovely mountain of ear wax, but with probing discovered this--a small, gold rolled up ball of foil, probably from a Hershey's kiss, perhaps on Valentine's Day or shortly thereafter, tossed somehow, somewhere for discovery (he says in the sand table) by little orifice boy who then put it in his ear, taking years of life from his mother and adding another incident to his putting-small-things-in-small-holes repertoire that includes but is not limited to this and this and this.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Question and Answer of the Day
Aidan's get-me-thinking question of the day as we exited the shower, "Who was the first person in the world?" But today I'm undaunted because I know that she is going to get a femininist's spin on Adam an Eve. And evolution. I'm down (or up, depending on interpretation) with evolution. Water creatures growing legs, lungs, walking on land make me giddy.
The baby making question is coming any day now. I can feel it. And I'm prepared. So prepared with answers that I'm ready to go onto Sesame Street with a new segment. There's letter of the day and number of the day and abstract/controversial question and answer of the day. Our new act will be just the thing for millions of viewers.
The baby making question is coming any day now. I can feel it. And I'm prepared. So prepared with answers that I'm ready to go onto Sesame Street with a new segment. There's letter of the day and number of the day and abstract/controversial question and answer of the day. Our new act will be just the thing for millions of viewers.
Half Way
While snapping a few photos of the belly at twenty weeks, A. strolled into the room where I stood in front of her mirror. She looked at me, giggled and said, "What are you doing?" "Taking pictures of the belly," I said. She then asked if she could be in the photo so I asked her to put her hand on my belly. She kept it there only long enough for me to catch this. Then skipping out of the room and chatting to herself, she was gone.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
For Now
A few days ago A. and I went grocery shopping. Not a minute into the ride she casually asked, "How did God get created?" Still reeling a bit from her recent car ride question, "How did the world get made?" (see lost post) and an overwhelming desire to make up a creation myth of my own using characters from her favorite fairy realm book series and Harry Potter, I didn't know what to say. I asked her if it would be all right for me to think about the answer for a few minutes. She said, "fine." After about a minute of silence she asked, "What do you have to think about?" at which point I decided I'd better come up with something.
I've gone the route of "I don't know" or "Some people believe.." or "Some things can't be explained..." or "Not everyone believes in God..." before with Aidan and she has seemed receptive, understanding of the ambiguity. But I'm the one scarred by these answers. They make me feel incredibly guilty, like why would a parent tell her kid that God might not exist when really, in so many ways, it is easy and comforting to believe in God. Religion can give her answers that I can't. It can provide her a kind of comfort that I can't. This I can admit, though I find religion, in general, stifling and narrowing and often existing far from the caring, giving, loving principles that are preached.
Yes, these discussions with Aidan are short and I realize that it would be difficult for me to mess up her life completely in the space of a few minutes. But it's not the few minutes that I'm worried about. It's the few minutes plus the few minutes plus another few minutes over time until she's a grown woman and beyond that worry me. My child is trying to make sense of her world, this world, and she's looking to me for answers. When I ask her why she wants to know about something she'll confidently answer, "I just look around and see things and then I ask questions about what I see." It's simple for her. She sees things and wants answers. So then why do I have to go and complicate it all?
The truth--I don't know whether or not I believe in God. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't--depends on the day. And I definitely don't believe in the traditionally bearded, robed white guy. Maybe God's a woman or a fairy or a unicorn or a dementor or Darth Vader. Maybe God's a light saber or a moon or purple or red. Maybe God is the geranium growing in my kitchen window or the ice crystals that form on the inside of our windows in winter. Maybe God manifests him or herself in the form of a toy backhoe being played with by a little boy or yarn being knitted into a sweater. Maybe God is Hello Kitty.
Another truth--I'm afraid to tell my children that I don't know or that I don't believe. I love these little creatures so much that it scares me, my fierce desire for them to be warm, comfortable, loved, safe, a feeling that keeps me awake at night. So if they want to believe in God in the very traditional or nontraditional sense, who I am to take this away from them, to upset the delicate balance and equilibrium of their lives? Maybe they'll need religion in a way that I don't. Maybe they'll be people needing answers like I do not. They are extensions of Tad and me. But they are not copies of us and I am constantly being reminded of this. They will make their own decisions--and they may choose differently from the ways we have. And this has to be o.k.--in the simplest sense of what o.k. is.
I did answer Aidan's question, if briefly. We talked about God for at least five minutes. I told her that some people believe in him or her and that some people don't. She immediately responded by saying, "Mom. Silly. God is a boy. Don't you know?" To which I said, "Well....God might be a girl. Why do you think he's a boy?" "Because I've seen pictures of him in a book." And then, with slight hesitation, "But I don't like the way the author drew him. I'd make him with curly hair and wings and lots of colors and something around his head. I think he's just like a fairy but a little more different. And he lives in the sky where he can fly around all of the time, like Santa Claus."
Maybe God is a fairy princess Santa Claus, flying around granting wishes, making magic, giving a Few gifts. And I'm o.k. with this. My child is o.k. with this. We're both o.k. with this. For now.
I've gone the route of "I don't know" or "Some people believe.." or "Some things can't be explained..." or "Not everyone believes in God..." before with Aidan and she has seemed receptive, understanding of the ambiguity. But I'm the one scarred by these answers. They make me feel incredibly guilty, like why would a parent tell her kid that God might not exist when really, in so many ways, it is easy and comforting to believe in God. Religion can give her answers that I can't. It can provide her a kind of comfort that I can't. This I can admit, though I find religion, in general, stifling and narrowing and often existing far from the caring, giving, loving principles that are preached.
Yes, these discussions with Aidan are short and I realize that it would be difficult for me to mess up her life completely in the space of a few minutes. But it's not the few minutes that I'm worried about. It's the few minutes plus the few minutes plus another few minutes over time until she's a grown woman and beyond that worry me. My child is trying to make sense of her world, this world, and she's looking to me for answers. When I ask her why she wants to know about something she'll confidently answer, "I just look around and see things and then I ask questions about what I see." It's simple for her. She sees things and wants answers. So then why do I have to go and complicate it all?
The truth--I don't know whether or not I believe in God. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't--depends on the day. And I definitely don't believe in the traditionally bearded, robed white guy. Maybe God's a woman or a fairy or a unicorn or a dementor or Darth Vader. Maybe God's a light saber or a moon or purple or red. Maybe God is the geranium growing in my kitchen window or the ice crystals that form on the inside of our windows in winter. Maybe God manifests him or herself in the form of a toy backhoe being played with by a little boy or yarn being knitted into a sweater. Maybe God is Hello Kitty.
Another truth--I'm afraid to tell my children that I don't know or that I don't believe. I love these little creatures so much that it scares me, my fierce desire for them to be warm, comfortable, loved, safe, a feeling that keeps me awake at night. So if they want to believe in God in the very traditional or nontraditional sense, who I am to take this away from them, to upset the delicate balance and equilibrium of their lives? Maybe they'll need religion in a way that I don't. Maybe they'll be people needing answers like I do not. They are extensions of Tad and me. But they are not copies of us and I am constantly being reminded of this. They will make their own decisions--and they may choose differently from the ways we have. And this has to be o.k.--in the simplest sense of what o.k. is.
I did answer Aidan's question, if briefly. We talked about God for at least five minutes. I told her that some people believe in him or her and that some people don't. She immediately responded by saying, "Mom. Silly. God is a boy. Don't you know?" To which I said, "Well....God might be a girl. Why do you think he's a boy?" "Because I've seen pictures of him in a book." And then, with slight hesitation, "But I don't like the way the author drew him. I'd make him with curly hair and wings and lots of colors and something around his head. I think he's just like a fairy but a little more different. And he lives in the sky where he can fly around all of the time, like Santa Claus."
Maybe God is a fairy princess Santa Claus, flying around granting wishes, making magic, giving a Few gifts. And I'm o.k. with this. My child is o.k. with this. We're both o.k. with this. For now.
Friday, February 17, 2006
"Our Endless Numbered Days"
I get into moods--the world is changing and I am standing here kinds of moods--I want to use dashes (perhaps incorrectly) kinds of moods. Moods that make me want to do something, say something. Say anything. These moods often, but not always, coincide with a newly discovered music love, the most recent being Iron & Wine, more specifically Sam Beam's luscious, dreamy, a bit maudlin at times, pangy, stingy (think bee, not scanty) and sensual lyrics. As I prepared A's lunch this morning, in the kitchen staring into Vanana yogurt (exactly what you think it is), creamy and yellow as pale paint, the color in the new bathroom that we painted over, exchanging pale for vibrant, I poured and stared and stirred out subtle lumps and bumps and thought about people and babies and kids, listening. "Passing Afternoon" from the album Our Endless Numbered Days (thank you Donnie and James and the kid who burned Ben An Espanola Christmas Miracle/Bong Rips for Jesus a couple of years ago for introducing me to the music) came on. There's something about reference to "passing afternoon, summer, warm, open window, wooden spoons, children stir, Bougainvillea blooms, endless numbered, hymns, chosen to believe, autumn blew the quilt, misplaced seeds, sailing ships that pass all our bodies in the grass, hand remembering hers, secrets still, his tattered clothes, baby sleeps in all our bones, scared"...o.k the entire song--that gets me. And if I were a computer wiz I'd post a link here so that you would be able to hear the song. Or if I sang, I'd record myself singing and post it here. I'll do neither, but copy and paste lyrics because this is something that I know how to do.
Happy Friday to you. And if you think Iron and Wine or these lyrics suck, please don't tell me, at least not today. Thank you. Thank you.
Passing Afternoon, Iron & Wine
There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her
Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms
There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
Sunday pulls its children from the piles of fallen leaves
There are sailing ships that pass all our bodies in the grass
Springtime calls her children 'till she let's them go at last
And she's chosen where to be, though she's lost her wedding ring
Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds
There are things we can't recall, blind as night that finds us all
Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
But my hands remember hers, rolling 'round the shaded ferns
Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned
There are names across the sea, only now I do believe
Sometimes, with the windows closed, she'll sit and think of me
But she'll mend his tattered clothes and they'll kiss as if they know
A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone
Happy Friday to you. And if you think Iron and Wine or these lyrics suck, please don't tell me, at least not today. Thank you. Thank you.
Passing Afternoon, Iron & Wine
There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her
Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms
There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
Sunday pulls its children from the piles of fallen leaves
There are sailing ships that pass all our bodies in the grass
Springtime calls her children 'till she let's them go at last
And she's chosen where to be, though she's lost her wedding ring
Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds
There are things we can't recall, blind as night that finds us all
Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
But my hands remember hers, rolling 'round the shaded ferns
Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned
There are names across the sea, only now I do believe
Sometimes, with the windows closed, she'll sit and think of me
But she'll mend his tattered clothes and they'll kiss as if they know
A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
What's your compatibility baby?
About a week ago I was dining at the in-laws, sitting and enjoying an after-dinner chat with assorted folk when we got on the subject of astrology. Seems that Kaia had printed out some descriptions of certain signs so as to see who was what and why and laugh a little over the silliness of some of the descriptions, "The Cancerian grubbing about in the attic." Is grubbing about at all like mucking about? As we continued our conversation we found a need to read the printed words aloud, admire the admirable traits of each sign and laugh some at the weaknesses of each sign, those of Leo, my sign, being the most distasteful. "Unbearably egotistic, overbearing, bossy, proud, intolerant."
This morning when Cole and I woke up at four I started thinking about last week's conversation, giving special attentions of course to how to reduce the undesirable personality traits of the Leo personality. I got out of bed, went to the computer and tried to find the website from which Kaia had printed, if only to argue with the author of the description that Leos are not intolerant. Hah. Take this. And take that. I found, instead, something much more entertaining for a sleepless person with too much time for Googling and such--the NEW compatibility determiner called Astro Match. It works like this: find your sign, then find the sign of the person you are married to or in a relationship with or want to be in a relationship with. Click on 'click to astro match!' (I did not invent the exclamation mark) and voila, your compatibility with said partner will be discussed. For example, Tad is a Pisces and my astro match begins like this, "You'll find yourself drawn to the sexy, yet strangely vulnerable fishy folk." It goes on to say, "Pisces is very inventive and compliant in the boudoir, which is exciting at first but such exotic behavior can become a little distasteful (in your royal opinion) if taken too far...Then....Your roar will thrill the Fish, but when he or she rolls over into a submissive pose, your inclination may soon be to snarl and slash the jugular." And then, as if I didn't see this coming, "This is not an easy match. You'll need to compromise more than you are used to (Why didn't someone tell me sooner than this?). And...it will take very strong compatibilities from Moon and other factors to keep you in this nest for long." Thank heavens for the moon because I have been in this 'nest' a while and I plan to be so for even longer and really--what did people do before the Astro planner?
Of course there are signs that are supposedly more compatible than others--Aries, Sagittarius, Gemini, Libra and Aquarius are winners with Leo--probably signs having something to do with egocentricity, I'm guessing. So, having more time to spare, I delve into the realm of what could have been. According to Astro Match, Leo and Aries are "a truly glorious match....Perfect." Perfect? I'm skeptical here. What kind of Astro Planner is this? One I found while Googling at 5 a.m.?
Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Nearly nothing is perfect. Not this relationship. Not that one. Not any of it. Except love. Love in its barest form is perfect, not true, perhaps elusive and mystical, but perfect, my Valentine's Day message to you.
But you shouldn't trust me on this one. I am a Leo and apt to be relating this information for my own gain. For untainted information about your sign and your compatibility baby, go here .
This morning when Cole and I woke up at four I started thinking about last week's conversation, giving special attentions of course to how to reduce the undesirable personality traits of the Leo personality. I got out of bed, went to the computer and tried to find the website from which Kaia had printed, if only to argue with the author of the description that Leos are not intolerant. Hah. Take this. And take that. I found, instead, something much more entertaining for a sleepless person with too much time for Googling and such--the NEW compatibility determiner called Astro Match. It works like this: find your sign, then find the sign of the person you are married to or in a relationship with or want to be in a relationship with. Click on 'click to astro match!' (I did not invent the exclamation mark) and voila, your compatibility with said partner will be discussed. For example, Tad is a Pisces and my astro match begins like this, "You'll find yourself drawn to the sexy, yet strangely vulnerable fishy folk." It goes on to say, "Pisces is very inventive and compliant in the boudoir, which is exciting at first but such exotic behavior can become a little distasteful (in your royal opinion) if taken too far...Then....Your roar will thrill the Fish, but when he or she rolls over into a submissive pose, your inclination may soon be to snarl and slash the jugular." And then, as if I didn't see this coming, "This is not an easy match. You'll need to compromise more than you are used to (Why didn't someone tell me sooner than this?). And...it will take very strong compatibilities from Moon and other factors to keep you in this nest for long." Thank heavens for the moon because I have been in this 'nest' a while and I plan to be so for even longer and really--what did people do before the Astro planner?
Of course there are signs that are supposedly more compatible than others--Aries, Sagittarius, Gemini, Libra and Aquarius are winners with Leo--probably signs having something to do with egocentricity, I'm guessing. So, having more time to spare, I delve into the realm of what could have been. According to Astro Match, Leo and Aries are "a truly glorious match....Perfect." Perfect? I'm skeptical here. What kind of Astro Planner is this? One I found while Googling at 5 a.m.?
Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. Nearly nothing is perfect. Not this relationship. Not that one. Not any of it. Except love. Love in its barest form is perfect, not true, perhaps elusive and mystical, but perfect, my Valentine's Day message to you.
But you shouldn't trust me on this one. I am a Leo and apt to be relating this information for my own gain. For untainted information about your sign and your compatibility baby, go here .
Love *Duz
Love is
as love does
achy as morning
come round to this
pregnant pause
where teeth
and memory
printless
press full moon light
into what
ought to be
*as cute as it might be, 'does' does not mean female deer--'does' is duz, however you want to interpret
as love does
achy as morning
come round to this
pregnant pause
where teeth
and memory
printless
press full moon light
into what
ought to be
*as cute as it might be, 'does' does not mean female deer--'does' is duz, however you want to interpret
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Because I like series and my daughter and hello kitty
The sunglasses and the t-shirt are a gift from Grandma and Grandpa. The silly, spunky girlness, well, that's Aidan--with maybe a tiny bit of influence from Hello Kitty.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Thursday, February 02, 2006
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