room with a view 3

After an anonymous airport hotel, I found myself in a stylish room with some personality and well off the beaten track.

Unusually, the colour scheme suits my skin tone. In fact, I’d look good wearing the bedspread.

Every photo is a dramatic photo when the light is this low.

Get another view of this same room in room with a view 2.

Sinful Sunday: It’s all about the image.

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room with a view 2

This week started off deceptively calmly with a day off — at least for me, in theory, but the people generating work for me to do were busy all day so all I accomplished was to fall behind. It didn’t help that I had a reaction to some food over the weekend so my energy and brainpower were sub-optimal, and thus I headed into Tuesday with difficulty focusing. And the computer was acting up so I couldn’t do anything. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday have, as a result, been frantic. I woke up early today because of anxiety and was in tears before breakfast.

As of this evening, I’m no longer behind on work but I’ve still got some personal tasks that are getting very stale and I Just. Can’t. Rest. One of the things to deal with is getting the car moving under its own power again after the battery froze. Ten-minute drives a few times a week aren’t enough to keep it functional in the weather we’ve been having, and suddenly my virtue of being almost entirely self-propelled has become a vice causing all manner of hassle. I don’t have the brainpower for any more problem solving, so if there’s any new problems they’re just going to have to wait their turn. (Think that will work?)

I did squeeze in a 10-minute meditation today and I think it helped, and I have a meditation class tomorrow to help me recalibrate. And no one adding to my pile of work over the weekend (touch wood) will also help. Some of my dance folks are coming over on Sunday for discussion and socialising which I expect to be enjoyable but very draining. I’ve told them the start time and the end time and I’m not afraid to boot people out if it comes to it.

I think I can say without risk of jinxing it that, yes, I’m in a blogging groove again, but it’s a struggle to find time to do the writing and, more importantly, the emotional work that undergirds so much of it. I’m managing to keep up with my reading (there’s a reason why my follow lists are short) and replying to comments here (just), but commenting on others’ posts is beyond me right now, I’m afraid, especially given how long it takes me to compose even a simple comment. I’d prefer to contribute a little more social to my media, but for now I’m just going to have to accept blogging at all as a success.

This hotel that’s well off the beaten track houses well-tended, stylish rooms. Unfortunately, the light is stylishly low and it’s hard to get a good photo.

Get another view of this same room in room with a view 3.

Boobday is a body-positive meme where women share images of their bodies in order to show that there is beauty in all of us. With confidence comes power and with power comes confidence.

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communicating with my dad — criticisms of others

Previouscommunicating with my dad — waiting for the phone to ring

The current low-key weirdness with my dad has got me thinking. I’d never really given his complaints about other people a great deal of thought — I find them unpleasant, so I mostly try to tune them out so they don’t affect me too much — but it’s now taken on more significance, so perhaps it would be worthwhile to explore the issue and see what I could figure out.

The complaint I interrupted on Christmas Day was about his neighbours; there’s apparently a light mounted on the outside of their house that they have aimed into one of dad’s windows. It’s a weird thing to fabricate and I think it must be true but it’s also a weird thing to do in the first place. Given the fact that this is far from my dad’s only complaint about them, I’m left wondering whether they don’t understand what the problem is with the light, or whether it’s a deliberate retaliation for something dad had done previously. Either way I suspect dad has handled it poorly, since he’s prone to biting his tongue until he explodes.

I don’t recall what prompted this particular odd diatribe, but during one of our recent calls prior to Christmas he started bitching about naming practices among Black people. The names were made up and sounded silly, he fumed. This seems like a same-sex-marriage sort of situation to me: if you don’t like it, don’t do it. Problem solved. I don’t see how the names of Black kids affect his life in any way, and the complaint strikes me as petty, not to mention racist.

He has also complained about his friends not returning his calls, though I’m sure I don’t have all the facts. Are they not returning his calls at all, or are they not returning calls as promptly as he wants? Maybe they’re legitimately busy; maybe they’re returning the calls in a reasonable time but he’s impatient. Perhaps there actually is a pattern of people not returning calls, and that raises some questions in my mind; I can see it happening with one person who may be being kind of a jerk, but if this is a trend among his friends, then it’s dad who is the common factor.

He often calls me, not to talk to me, but because he was trying to reach my mom and she wasn’t there and he wants to know if she’s around or not. She’s super busy all the time, so I’ll ask him if he left a message. But he doesn’t like to leave messages, so she probably doesn’t know that he even called. When he does leave a message, she has explained to me that she doesn’t return the call right away because she needs to be in the right mood to talk to him. I wonder if others do something similar.

He has friends who he used to stay with when he came to town, but that stopped after they had some kind of confrontation, which he complained to me about repeatedly. The way he told the story it certainly sounded like it was all their fault, but now I’m not so sure. He didn’t speak to them for months, maybe a year. And then somehow they started talking again and I’m not sure how.

By a wide margin, the number-one subject of my dad’s complaints is his wife’s son, complaints about whom I’d estimate have featured in about half of our conversations over the last 15-plus years. (The son is, I admit, very difficult — manipulative, entitled and dependent.) Complaints about her daughter are not infrequent. He complains about his wife’s anxiety and how she doesn’t like to be left at home alone so she comes with him everywhere and he never gets a break.

He scorns the uncle whose thinking is wrong despite his extensive education. He resents the aunt who is self-centred and makes every conversation about herself.

What I think these complaints reveal is that he has specific expectations of people and when they don’t meet those expectations, instead of adjusting the expectations (or discussing the issue with them calmly with a view toward mutually satisfactory problem-solving), he gets angry. But expectation causes disappointment. Or to put it another way, I think he’s making himself miserable.

My dad isn’t stupid. He’s very clever when it comes to figuring out mechanical things and building things, and at the same time he can be very sociable. I think he could figure out people if he chose to, but he seems to get more pleasure and/or satisfaction (if you can call it that) from judging them.

Next: communicating with my dad — criticisms of me

room with a view 1

In transit, in an anonymous room at an anonymous airport hotel. This room either faces the front overlooking a parking lot and the road, or the back overlooking a different parking lot and an airline building. Nothing to see here.

Each room virtually the same as the next — pleasant enough, though characterless.

But what about the guests?

I have three other travel-themed series: Mile High, One-Track Mind and Aerodrome. But it’s high time that hotel rooms get their own, so welcome to my first Room With a View.

Sinful Sunday: It’s all about the image.

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mile high 32

I’m on my own and I’ve now gotten into a groove. Keeping myself well fed and not boring myself to tears with the food I’m making. Learning to improvise meals using staples, the contents of my spice cupboard, and whatever perishables I have at any given time. And not taking all evening to do it. I feel… nascent competence. It’s good.

My workload has calmed from “panic” down to “frantic” and now towards merely “hopping”. The weather has been very cold and I’m feeling creaky because of inherent creakiness plus lack of exercise — the busyness indoors (I work from home) and the frigidity outdoors makes it easy to avoid going out and just park my bum in front of my computer all day.

Though my routine did get shaken up a bit the other day. When I went out to clear the snow off the car (not having driven it for days), the remote door lock didn’t work. I had to actually apply the key to the keyhole and then tried to open the other doors using the unlock button. Nothing. No electricity at all. The battery is completely dead. And I had a physio appointment to get to right away. This was an important appointment so, in problem-solving mode, I called a cab, which is something I never do. Happily, I got to the appointment on time. It wasn’t so far away that walking was impossible but it was a hike: about 30 min to get myself home.

And then I had to get myself to dance class in the evening. Again, I usually drive but walking isn’t out of the question. This was about 25 min. I would have preferred to drive because (a) one of the things I went to physio for was my foot and (b) it eats up rather a lot of time on what is always a busy day due to my dance classes running basically all evening. At least I got a lift home. And I worked out some of the kinks in my legs and hips.

But good news! Wolf is coming home tomorrow! For once we might actually have to decide who cooks supper. But I”m leaving the the dead battery problem to him.

Last leg of my trip home from visiting Jaime, Nov 2017. Do my breasts look tired? All of me was very tired.

Boobday is a body-positive meme where women share images of their bodies in order to show that there is beauty in all of us. With confidence comes power and with power comes confidence.

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communicating with my dad — waiting for the phone to ring

Previouscommunicating with my dad — the mildest confrontation

Ordinarily my dad calls me every 3-4 weeks or so, and I think 6 weeks is about the longest he ever goes without getting in touch.

I became aware of the lapse of time after about a month and now I keep wondering when I’ll hear from him next. At this point it’s been over 7 weeks since that brief, tense conversation — this has reached the edge of our normal timing and is now steadily inching away into uncharted territory.

Since his primary mode of operation seems to be to judge and criticise others, I strongly suspect he thinks that I was judging and criticising him.

Self-image in the sense of identity is remarkably persistent and immune to logic. He must have learned to expect attacks, and so he sees them, now, everywhere. I learned not quite this lesson but something similar. Up to a point I can relate.

Perhaps patriarchy explains a bit of why it manifests differently in us. In the face of criticism, I feel fundamentally wrong, which happens to parallel patriarchy’s habit of finding a way to blame women for any given issue. Patriarchy also says men are generally right, and toxic masculinity authorises anger as the only valid emotion for men. If my dad feels fundamentally wrong, I think he externalises it and it thus manifests as easily feeling attacked. Those people are wrong, everyone is wrong! Then he gets angry.

I’ve known my dad to “punish” his friends by not phoning for months on end when he thinks they’ve wronged him. He has also complained to me repeatedly that he calls and leaves messages for people and they don’t call back, and why should he call them if they obviously don’t care to follow up? (These days I can think of at least one reason why these folks might not be motivated to call…)

Has he has decided to “punish” me by not calling? I’m trying not to get sucked into overthinking this question. Either he feels hurt or he doesn’t. Either he’s angry or he isn’t. Very little of that has anything to do with me. Either he’ll call or he won’t.

If he doesn’t call, is that actually a bad thing? I feel a sense of loss right now but it’s not about losing the relationship we have — it’s losing the dream of the relationship I wish we had.

It seems to me that not talking to him would do no more harm than talking to him would. So I’ll occasionally note that he still hasn’t called, and measure his outrage in weeks, and see how it goes. Perhaps he thinks that if he can’t complain about people, he has nothing to say. Perhaps that’s true.

Nextcommunicating with my dad — criticisms of others

communicating with my dad — the mildest confrontation

Previouscommunicating with my dad — the standard dysfunction

Although my main disappointment when it comes to talking to my dad is that he expresses little to no interest in me, I felt that was a difficult issue to address directly: I can’t make him interested. I thought I should focus on something more concrete — a specific behaviour rather than a broad attitude.

It seems that dad’s complaints are mostly a symptom of focusing on the negative and ignoring the positive, which becomes especially clear when he repeats the same complaint about the same person over 10, 15, 20 years, rather than to try to address the issue somehow or to adjust his thinking about it.

I find it very easy to be negative and critical (I wonder why) so I have to make an effort to focus on the positive, and that’s something I’ve been working on for a long time. When I hear a bunch of complaints I feel vaguely shitty. I find dad’s complaints about people especially corrosive, and they leave me tense and grumpy.

The next time we spoke was Christmas Day. Within 3½ minutes (yes, I timed it), he was complaining. I started feeling nervous and tried to work up the courage to speak up, but then he changed to an easier topic and I was able to relax a bit. However, the conversation veered again and he was soon on to a complaint about his neighbours. He was really wound up about it. Venomous. So I said what I’d been practising: “Um, I’m just going to interrupt you there. I’m not actually interested in hearing complaints about people.”

He was taken aback. “Oh, and I suppose your life is perfect?”

“Hardly,” I chuckled.

“Well, what do you want to talk about then?” he snapped.

“Oh, well, maybe we could talk about some of my stuff.” I was holding a list of topics I’d prepared for just this eventuality.

The conversation stumbled for a moment, but he quickly grabbed the reins again. We didn’t talk long; he signed off, saying that he had a bunch of other calls to return.

I felt mostly good about it: I had determined that this was a boundary for me, I asserted it, and I defended it. I felt like I’d accomplished something — in this case, a particular kind of self-care. And then I cried.

I noted that I’d touched a nerve in him, not that that was my intention, but intellectually I found this very interesting because when I follow the “family rules” this kind of thing never happens. Ordinarily, dad snapping at me would have resulted in me feeling awful and like I’d fucked up terribly. This time I was just sad — that this is how it is, how he is, how our relationship is. These days I know that it’s not my job to manage anyone’s feelings, and it’s healthy for me to speak up for what I need, but actually acting on that knowledge is still difficult. I’m hoping it gets easier with practice.

(When dad complains and I feel shitty, is that a symptom of me still feeling some responsibility for his emotions? Is it me absorbing his emotions, and thus a sign of a boundary that needs strengthening? I may need to do more work on this, but even without that element, the fact is that my conversations with him — or rather, the times when I listen to him on the phone — are all duty and no fun, and I’m allowed to try to edit my life into something that’s more enjoyable.)

A family argument during the holidays is so commonplace that it’s a trope, and here I was, technically the instigator, but really just finally prioritising my own needs and protecting my wounds. I went over to mom’s later that day for supper and told her about the exchange. Her eyes lit up like I’d wrought magic. She was delighted that I’d prepared a list of topics.

Merry Christmas.

So, now what?

Nextcommunicating with my dad — waiting for the phone to ring

communicating with my dad — the standard dysfunction

In late September last year I had a phone conversation with my dad that I found especially frustrating. While he was going on at length about every bit of minutia in his life, I was having difficulty getting a word in edgewise. He’d asked me precisely two questions, and interrupted one of those answers. When he’d had enough of the conversation, he signed off, leaving me annoyed and aware that we really hadn’t connected at all. I’d just been an audience. Again.

Over the next month or so, I pondered this and compared it to previous conversations with him. In that respect, this one had been unremarkable – it’s the way things usually went with him, but I’d always shrugged and didn’t think about it until next time.

This time was different. One reason was that I’ve been surrounding myself with authors and people online who say that if there is someone in your life who does something that causes you difficulties, you’re allowed to ask them not to do that thing. This is contrary to what I’d learned growing up, but it has finally started to sink in.

As I thought about my relationship with my dad, and in particular our roughly monthly calls, I became aware that he rarely expressed any interest in me, and the usual topic of conversation was the trivia of his life (down to his heel that still aches), much of which was complaints, and commonly complaints about his wife’s adult children (who are about the same age as me). I also began to realise that I don’t especially enjoy these calls. They’re just something to endure.

It had occurred to me that maybe he couldn’t talk to his wife about these things (and especially her kids), and so maybe he didn’t have anyone else to vent to. But he’d assigned me this role without ever asking me if that was OK, and as it happens I’m not OK with it, and I don’t actually have to participate in calls that I find largely unenjoyable.

The other thing that was different this time was that I’d gone for lunch with my mom at a time when this was still on my mind. Although we don’t generally talk about anything significant (that’s a whole other issue), I raised this with her, mentioning my concern that dad had no one else to talk to.

Now, my parents split when I was a kid and it was largely very reasonable, neither of them badmouthed the other, and they still talk from time to time. But she said matter-of-factly, “Oh, he’s like that with everybody.”


I’d resolved to confront him in some way about the issue next time we spoke but I hadn’t figured out how best to handle it and that was stressing me out, especially since I was already thoroughly stressed about preparing for my upcoming trip to Japan. I eventually gave up on saying anything about it this time; it would have to wait until I was home again. But if he wasn’t interested in hearing about me, why should I shoehorn that info into the conversation? I decided not to offer anything, and in particular not mention the Japan trip unless he expressed a minimum of interest in me by saying something like “So, anything new going on?”

The next time he called was, as luck would have it, the day before my trip, and as the conversation felt like it was winding up, he happened to ask, “Got any trips coming up?”

“Actually, yes! I’m going to Japan tomorrow!”

“Oh! Good thing I called then,” he said with a touch of acidity.

I thought, but did not say, No, it’s good that you actually asked me one question about my life.

So we chatted about that for a bit, and the conversation felt more balanced and thus better than usual, but it didn’t solve anything.

I needed to do something more.

Nextcommunicating with my dad — the mildest confrontation

aerodrome 2

Another weekend on my own. I’m managing, but this isn’t quite what I’d hoped for when Wolf took this job.

It’s been cold and I’ve been hibernating, staying indoors unless I can’t avoid going out. I’m starting to go a little squirrely, but mostly I’m starting to ache from lack of exercise. But for better or worse I’ll brave the cold tomorrow to get to my meditation class, which is a 15-minute walk away. I’ve got enough provisions at home to see me through another couple days, if necessary.

This has been a bit of a challenging week. I’m glad it’s over. Odd that even at home alone I can have the urge to put a box over my head and call it done.

After a ridiculously long flight and with a short haul flight still to go, a shower at the airport lounge felt like luxury.

Boobday is a body-positive meme where women share images of their bodies in order to show that there is beauty in all of us. With confidence comes power and with power comes confidence.

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mile high 31

I’m feeling very clever for having prepped a bunch of photos two weekends ago. Of course I knew it would make posting easier, but whatever it is that makes it seem difficult to do one at the time I want to post it also makes it seem difficult to do them as a batch. It’s a little tedious and it just takes time at the computer, but I’m already at risk of flattening out my ass from all the power sitting I’m doing while I work more every day than I have in years.

I’ve officially survived 4 weeks on my own since Wolf got that job out of town. The fact that I have to cook for myself is the single biggest difference when I’m on my own. I’ve cooked from time to time over the years but never really got good at it. It was effortful and time-consuming so I’d make a big batch of whatever, and then I’d get bored of it before I finally ate my way through it all. But now I feel like I’m starting to get the hang of it. My repertoire is still very limited, but I’m cooking meals for one from scratch everyday and riffing a bit with flavour.

Sweets are much easier for me, (though the challenge now is keeping the problematic FODMAP carbs under control). Some overripe strawberries in the freezer and some pine nuts and sliced almonds (toasted) turned into some tasty toppings for ice cream. Anyway, I’m feeding myself well and learning to experiment.

The lack of companionship is a drag but it’s manageable; I’m not the most social anyway, and I always see folks at least once a week during my dance class. But I am finding myself a little lonely at times — though not  so much during the day as I’m much too busy with work to notice it then. Wolf is busy keeping his shit together and we’re not in contact all that much. Jaime is available (from a distance) as much as always, which helps. I’m missing my friend Rosa but she’s busy with her new baby. Actually, all of “my people” (including myself) skew towards the less communicative end of the spectrum. Hmm.

A nice big mirror on a nice big plane, coming home from visiting Jaime in Nov 2017. 

Boobday is a body-positive meme where women share images of their bodies in order to show that there is beauty in all of us. With confidence comes power and with power comes confidence.

badge Boobday