the World of Webmistress Ming

Still mired in my mother's latest "let's slap our TG grandchild in the face AGAIN" episode, I had a revelation.

Her latest broadside is long, vicious, guilt-trippy and hysterical, but it all boils down to one message: "You are ANGRY with me!"

Somewhere in the middle of the night, it clicked: by her lights, I'm not ALLOWED to be angry.

So here they are, courtesy of insomnia; my new boundaries:

• No Fighting By Proxy No more using third persons to communicate. If anyone has a beef with me, they can take it up with me. If someone else is asked to relay a message, I will refuse to hear it or respond to it.
• Go Fight Your Own Fights By the same token, I won't fill the third-party role, either. Got a beef with my kid? Call her yourself.

Hold it! Stop! Rewind the VCR for 31 hours.

Yesterday morning, our whole family was happy. My daughter had been given the green light to visit her 100-year-old great-grandmother, with the blessing of the good lady's son-and-daughter caregivers.

I'd crafted this event with as much care and caution as I could. After a few days' e-mail exchanges, the meeting had been brokered.

It was cute, hearing about my grandmother's response to the question. My aunt asked her, "Mother, would you like a visit from Brighid?"

I am doing something that always humbles me: watching the film version of Alan Paton's novel, "Cry, The Beloved Country"

It's among my favorite movies because it's that rarity: a film version of a novel that is honest and true to the spirit of the book.

I can never watch this movie (or read the book) without wanting to throw my current life away for that of the novelist. Today, sadly, I feel that call redoubled.

I feel it on account of two disjointed experiences.

So much is happening. So little is happening. So it is, when the spirit takes a turn to a new direction.

If I added up the last few weeks, they would total very little, in a worldly sense. "How have you enjoyed becoming a lady of leisure?" asked a friend, over the weekend.

I am doing so little.

I am doing so much.

I am nesting.

The last time I did this, it was 10 years ago, and it was the preface to an online career spanning 10 years. That's why I'm tolerant of "letting things ride"; I know they are the preface to new growth.

A pattern is emerging: for some reason, my entire routine and structure is being done away with.

Retirement brought an end to too-long days nursing servers and watching over message board communities. Last Friday, I lost my regular tap classes when I re-injured my collarbone in class, and on Saturday, I learned my Pilates studio had relocated to a much farther-away, less convenient location.

Now I've lost my cleaning team leader, and don't know whether I'll keep the franchise without her. That means the regular weekly cleaning day is also up in the air.

Disclaimer: this is a dog-lover tear-jerker entry (with a happy ending).

Yesterday morning, scraping along on the very bottom of my personal fish-tank, I woke up to this story in our local paper:

Dog Has Nowhere To Call Home

Coming on the heels of the collapse of most of life as I know it, it was the last straw. What DO we pay taxes for, if not to care for our most fragile friends?

I tried to call the number, but got a busy signal. Still, I worried all the day.

I petted my own two cherished doggies, who have never known a day's hunger, a moment's unnecessary pain, and I wondered how my community could drop this ball, so far, so hard.

The thing about depression is, it makes you stupid. It makes you forget that life has a way of coming through, just like Nature does. Then there's that moment when life surges back, you see a new possibility, and depression backs off.

I just got the life-equivalent of having a crocus pop up through the snow: I've been asked to sit on the board of our area's only gay/lesbian/transgender/bisexual youth center.

It's not gonna be easy.

I worry about my daughter. I worry about my son. My collarbone is dislocated, the pain is bad and the aspirin is eating holes in my stomach. I'm no longer a tap dancer, there are workermen in my house, and over it all drones the whine of the drying fans.

I am going to choose to be upbeat today.

I will get up and get showered and get dressed to handle the young adjuster (who thinks he's coming to steam-roller an old lady into a cheap settlement). I will clear my desk and clear my mind.

Then I will give myself a treat: venture out to buy the HD-DVD version of "Elizabeth: The Golden Years", and maybe a bucket of Kentucky Fried.

This being Martini Boy's poker night, I plan a girls-only wallow on the sofa in front of the tube this evening. Just us bitches: Ming and Dicks and Lindsey. We will watch the first Elizabeth (with that luminous Cate Blanchette), and then we will feast our eyes on the sequel, in all the hi-def glory.

And, in true Tudor style, we'll gnaw on our chicken bones and lick our fingers.

Not a bad plan for a down day.

This is not a good time, right now.

During Friday's dance rehearsal, I re-injured my bad s/c joint, and re-injured it badly. Dancing with the other "girls" in a kick line, the line went one way, I went another, and the joint went "pop".

Now I'm in worse shape than a year ago. Constant pain despite the ice packs and heating pad.