So That's Why This Blog Is Called That . . .

When I was in fifth grade, our teacher brought in an elaborately carved ivory ball, which had another elaborately carved ball inside of it, and that one had one inside of it, and so on. I was entranced; even at that age, I loved the intricacy of such designs. And I was fascinated by the idea: the carver would start with the exterior carving, and use the holes that design created to start carving away the connections between that ball and the one inside it. I can almost imagine the feeling he'd get when the last bridge between the outer ball and the next one in was severed and the inner ball could move freely.

Of course, you can never see all of the design work; it's just too hard to rotate the inner balls around enough to work out what they must look like if they didn't have the outer ball(s) obscuring them. This sense of the design being there but unseen seems utterly lovely and rather sad, all at the same time.

I've always wanted one of those balls. Of course, these days one can't in all conscience buy anything new that was made out of ivory, but buying something antique seems less objectionable. And, as fate should have it, my friend Dianne has a small booth with antiques in her hometown of Jacksonville, Illinois. When Hub 1.0 and I visited her some years ago, she happened to have one of these balls. I was thrilled to buy it.


Every once in a while, my life seems complicated like one of these Chinese curiosities. No matter which way I turn it, I see something else, but I can never see all of the concentric problems. This happened to me recently. I wrote something on the quilt-related message board I'd been happily participating in, and it rather came back to bite me on the butt. But what I wrote, what it means, how others perceived it, and why I did it, is all very elaborate. I'll try to explain.

Here's the surface story: Someone on the message board posted a comment about "six degrees of separation," which she interpreted as those weird coincidences, e.g., where you strike up a conversation with a total stranger, and it turns out that she used to live in your aunt's house or dated your husband's best friend two decades ago. This was a fun thread, and several people shared their experiences with such coincidences. (My original story was this: When I was in grad school, I got an internship that included an overnight stint shadowing the psych resident at an Albany, NY hospital. When he heard my last name, he asked if I was related to . . . and named my brother. They'd gone to college in Rochester, NY a decade earlier. I also contributed a couple more posts in the freaky coincidence thread in the following days.)

But a lot of people know the "six degrees of separation" game as dealing with celebrities, and those sorts of posts started to get mixed in with the "and then that's when I realized her aunt had been my second grade teacher" sort. Because some members of this message board had discovered an interest in aeronautics, someone posted something about the famous names they had connections with in aeronautics. Which prompted me to post a list of the famous people that someone in my family has a connection to (has met, worked with, etc.).

Now, before you cry out, "Oh, no you dint!" I hasten to explain that I credited the family's "Zelig" gene (referring to the way Woody Allen's character ends up alongside a bunch of historical figures), stated that I'd only met a couple of these people (and I didn't specify which ones) and tried to be tongue-in-cheek about it ("That, and $4.50 will get you a fancy coffee at Starbucks..." was how I closed the post), but yeah, a list of famous names is still a list of famous names. What I thought was interesting was the list itself. Mahatma Gandhi, Susan Lucci, J. Edgar Hoover, Eunice Kennedy Shriver, F. Murrary Abraham, Walt Disney, Isaac Asimov, Yo-Yo Ma, Bronson Pinchot, B.F. Skinner, and Mischa Barton (late of the O.C. TV show on Fox). It's a wacky list.

You can easily guess how this was received by a couple people. The woman who started the "six degrees of separation" post chastized me for missing the point of the weird coincidences thread, and someone else remarked mildly that this smacked of name-dropping. I would disagree with the former criticism, but I cannot deny the latter.

I do know it's a social solecism to be boastful and self-important, and if I'd felt I'd done that, I'd apologize and we'd all move on. But I don't think I'm special because my father met Walt Disney in 1964, or because my mother worked with Eunice Kennedy in 1945 (she used to leave her chewing gum on the telephone -- eww); that would be absurd. What I think is fascinating is that there is not a single famous person in my family (you have to go all the way to my first cousin twice removed to get to the guy who wrote "I, Claudius" . . . and I never met him!) but we all have this weird knack of meeting famous people. What is that about?

One thing it is -- it's narrow end. Humans tend to form tribes, and one tribe comprises celebrities. Brad Pitt dates and marries other celebrities, not Tammy Jo at the local Mickey D's. So if you have a Venn diagram with Famous People in one circle and Non-Famous People in another, they don't overlap. Even if Brad does marry Tammy Jo, she becomes famous, so it's not a problem Venn diagram-wise (whether it's a problem in other respects is debatable). One way non-famous people meet famous people is when the non-famous person does something noteworthy, like be a contestant on Project Runway. But that's not most of us, and it's not anyone in my family.

I clearly belong to the Non-Famous Tribe. But I also belong to a tiny subset of N-Fers that meet famous people without trying to. And because being narrow end is important to me (frankly, in a lot of ways that don't seem to apply to anyone else in my family -- so even within the tiny tribe of N-Fers Who Meet Famous People, I'm the lone wolf thinking about this stuff), I can ruffle through the index cards with the stories of who met whom when and create a list. Which strikes some people as self-aggrandizing.

I was upset when I read the comments on the message board, and I quickly turned it off and haven't gone back. Which brings me to the next concentric ball inside the last one. Why was I upset? Hurt that my new friends didn't "get" what I was about? Hurt that they would think I'm that shallow? I'd be pretty stupid if I thought that way -- theirs is the mainstream thinking on this subject. It is rude to say, "Oh, and then there's so-and-so, and then whassisface, and don't forget whassername!" I thought the context took some of that rudeness away, but I clearly got the calculation wrong.

What hurt was that I'd wanted to share the fact that I have the Zelig gene. I suspect I'm always looking for the time and place where it's safe to say, "Hey, here's this narrow end thing about me," and have people go, "Oh, okay," or better yet, "Hey, me too." Strangely, this had already happened on this particular message board. I'm a larger woman married to a Brit (for the second time, no less), and two other women fit that description (!); in another context, I'm a non-practicing lawyer with a connection to Kennewick, WA, and another woman is also a non-practicing lawyer who lives there now.

So I got a bit defensive, and stepped away from the computer before I wrote something too sharply worded, expressing my outrage that they should so completely misunderstand, etc., etc. And actually, I haven't missed it much. I love the people I've met, and would like to participate, but I'm always gun-shy around groups, and this experience hasn't reassured me. I'm not saying never, I'm just saying not right now.

Incidentally, I just finished reading Jennifer Weiner's book "Little Earthquakes." She wrote "Good in Bed" and "In Her Shoes," which was made into a movie starring Toni Collette and Cameron Diaz. In the movie, Cameron Diaz reads aloud an e.e. cumming poem, "I carry your heart." I saw that movie on the plane coming home in May, 2006, and that poem really expressed the bond I felt with the Starman, who was still Just A Friend at that time. A Friend I happened to feel a really strong bond to, that's all. Anyway, I read that poem at our wedding, and didn't cry too much . . .

I've met Jennifer Weiner. I've been to her house (unless they've moved), and I've eaten quiche that she's made with her own hands. Mind you, she wouldn't recognize me if we bumped into each other at the South Philadelphia Curves, and I know that because we did and she didn't. That's fine. So after reading the book (which I really liked, btw), I checked out her blog, which was interesting because she had just completed a mini-triathalon, and while she's way smaller than me, she's not exactly svelte.

But here's the thing. I don't know Jennifer Weiner. She's not my friend; she wouldn't recognize my name; I can't call her and say Hey. So I think I'm pretty clued in on the difference between "meeting" somebody and knowing them. And even if I KNEW her, how would that reflect well on me? (I say all this, but when one of the Fugly girls wrote back to me in response to a clever and amusing email that I had spent a LOT of time composing, I was truly puffed up with my .4 seconds of [proximity to] [almost-] fame.)

Here, then, are the concentric balls as I see them: On the outside, I posted a message that suggested I was somehow special because my family has met a diverse group of famous people; some people were offended; I was hurt by their reaction. Inside that, we have the idea of belonging to, and not belonging to, various tribes. Did I violate some code by suggesting that I belong to a subset tribe, and was therefore special? Inside that: But I do feel acutely the separateness of being different from the tribe I ought to identify with. And finally, the littlest ball that I can see: I want someone to embrace, or at least accept, my narrow end nature. Maybe it didn't happen this time on the message board; maybe instead I've left people with a lingering nasty taste when they happen to think of me; but maybe someday someone will say, "Yup, I know what you're talking about."

I still have a lot of questions about all this, but I do know one thing: If I had it all to do over again, I wouldn't write that particular post. At the same time, I'm glad I did. It's gotten me thinking about this topic in sharper focus than I normally do. It's a trust issue: Who can I trust with the most personal truths about me? The Zelig gene thing isn't very important, but it is narrow-end. Almost certainly I goofed in how I presented it, but that's a useful lesson in itself.

Oh, and one last thing: My ivory curiosity came with a base:

She looks like she knows how to keep her cool. She doesn't exactly look computer-savvy, let alone ready to master a message board. But she looks like she knows who she is, what she wants, and how to live with her choices.

I'll endeavor to learn from her the way I've learned from the ball on her head!

Renaming the Cat

Snippet of an actual conversation chez moi:

As Starman walks in the room holding the cat . . .

Me: You know that residential facility where my client's son is? Bridgeview? Well, the staff aren't much older than the residents, so they have to be called Mr. or Ms. and then their first names. You'd be Mr. [Starman] and he'd {indicating the cat} be Mr. Linus.

Starman: But Linus is his surname.

Me: No it's not. {Thinks to self, I was there when he was named, but says instead . . .} If Linus is his surname, what's his first name?

{pause}

Starman: Lionel

{longer pause, while I laugh, hard}

Starman: And he's the Earl of Barfalot.

Mimi and Linus in Harmony

We have two cats, Linus (pictured here with Mimi) and Polly (who you may never see pictured with Mimi). Linus is totally the alpha cat, and commands much greater respect from Mimi than we do. The rapprochement between Linus and Mimi has been a gradual process, and is hardly finished. Mimi's new freedom -- she can now be outside on leash unsupervised -- has given them new opportunities to occupy the same space. And here they are, doing just that. Isn't that a great photo? (Starman took it.)

Our routine in the evening is this: The cats get fed early on (around 5) with kibble in their dish. We then need to keep Mimi from eating it all, so she's not allow into the kitchen. Mimi gets her food at 7:00 p.m. Yesterday, for the first time ever, she was allowed outside prior to supper and after supper. Combined with all the time she spent outside anyway (which, incidentally, was mostly spent lying around waiting for us to do something, but she did actually play with her blue tire on her own), she was pretty pooped in the evening.

Starman's dream is to be able to watch TV with the cats on the furniture with us and the dog in her dog bed at our feet. So far this hasn't been possible -- Mimi is still so full of energy in the evening that we're monitoring her behavior and actions to the exclusion of all else, including what's on the TV. So she usually gets crated and I take her out at 11:00 for her last pee of the night.

Last night, though, I took her out, put the leash on her, and she immediately flopped down in her dog bed! Uh, okay. So we watched some more TV (and not coincidentally slept late this morning) just to enjoy the experience.

Here's another picture of our dog & cat in Harmony:

Invisible Fence -- Off Leash At Last!

Mimi! Off leash!! Finally, the day we've been waiting for! At her feet are two new toys: a red Jolly Ball, which is based on a horse ball like the one she already ripped, and a new flying toy that I bought at the supermarket. The Jolly Ball is her new favorite. I bought it online by researching "horse ball" -- that's a game, I gather, that can be played with a horse ball and actual horses -- but when I found this on Amazon, it was clear that dog owners are the real consumers of this product. She doesn't much care for the flying toys; I clearly buy them because I want her to like them. I'll learn.

Mimi in motion, ball in her mouth. This was yesterday (Saturday) afternoon. Starman wouldn't take her off lead earlier in the day, and I really wanted her to start to burn off all that excess energy.

The Jolly Ball is a soft ball, and Mimi has already punctured it. The handle is rigid, though, and sometimes she'll carry it around by its handle. We can claim it and then throw it for her to catch, but she also likes the game where Starman runs after her and she runs away.

Hey, look -- we've actually tired her out. This was taken this afternoon. She had a long morning session with me, and then a long afternoon session with the Starman. That's what exhausted her. It's not hot here today, so even the panting is a good sign. You gotta love a tired dog!

And this was her reward for a stint of distraction training. She loves the car, and was happy enough to just loll on the back seat while we chatted nearby.

I was afraid earlier today that she might have run through the fence when our neighbors drove by. Well, I don't she can have actually done it, but it looked bad for a moment there. We're supposed to do the distraction training on lead, but the running around & play time is off lead. We had done the distraction training (Starman on a bicycle, Starman with the weedwacker, even her beloved Jolly Ball outside the fence wasn't enough to get her to risk the "correction," as they euphemistically call the shock) earlier, with the leash on her. But the leash comes off for playtime, and that's when our neighbors drove by. Mimi raced after the car, but stopped when I yelled, "Back!" She took off after the car, though, and initially I thought I saw her on the road (i.e., on the wrong side of the fence). Doesn't seem to be the case -- when I got up to the driveway, she was up on our deck, drinking water. Good dog!

We still have some adjustments to make. She was happily flaked out in the morning room with me, and Starman had closed both doors to keep her from roaming into the kitchen. I was working on the computer when she shifted slightly, made a quiet but odd noise in her throat, and then peed on the brick hearth. I mean, seriously, the whole thing from dozing comfortably to peeing was less than 5 minutes, and her "warning signs" are bloody subtle, if you ask me. (As she may have been doing!) I don't know what we're doing wrong, if anything, but I do know we did the next bits right. She got her collar back on, went outside, and I cleaned up the stain with Nature's Miracle. The brick is 200 years old and pretty porous, so all I can hope is that soaking in some Nature's Miracle on top of the urine is sufficient.

Just in case you've forgotten that we have two cats, here's one of them: Linus, looking pretty regal on a silk cushion.

Invisible Fence, Day Three

Okay, so today didn't go so well. We live a long way from anywhere, and we try to keep to a minimum our trips to stores, etc. Blame Al Gore, therefore, for the following story.

Mimi has one leash, which is short (4 feet). That was an deliberate decision when we first kitted her out; it's that much harder to influence an exuberant puppy/adolescent with a longer leash. When we realized we were supposed to get a longer leash for the underground electric fence training, we put it on the mental list of things to get "the next time someone's going to a store..." Which will be this afternoon, when I go to Montrose on business. But I needed to do my part in training and exercising Mimi this morning.

The training was going well. She hesitates when approaching the white flags, and has refused to approach white flags she's been trained to back away from. So far, so good. But we have over 1100 feet of underground electric fencing here, which means a lot of white flags. Meanwhile, she's super-rammy as a result of less exercise in the past two days, which only compounds the problem we surely had after two days of her being kenneled. I walked her, did some training, walked her some more, and then let her play with her blue tire. which is suspended from a nice springy branch of a centrally-located ash tree.

Have you seen the viral email "diary of the household dog & cat?" Don't know who wrote it, but it's pretty funny. The dog's response to everything is "_______ My favorite thing!" (e.g., "Breakfast! My favorite thing!" "Car ride! My favorite thing!") until you get to "Bath. Bummer." The cat, on the other hand, starts "It's Day #987 of captivity," plots his escape by weaving around the owner's legs as he's at the top of the stairs, and comments, "The dog is allowed to leave the house, but then voluntarily returns. He is obviously retarded." I laughed for days remembering that last line.

Well, Mimi would surely write "Playing tug-of-war with the blue tire! My favorite thing!" if she kept a diary. I suspect some of the other entries wouldn't be quite so benign, but that really is her big treat. But, if you can imagine it, it's hard to let her do her leaping & playing while keeping her on the short leash attached to the choke chain. All those contortions don't help. So the following things happened on my watch this morning: she slipped the choke chain, she bit me (TOTALLY NOT HER FAULT -- my hand was too close to the blue tire), she ran off, and yes, she ran through the underground electric fence field. The electric collar is still shrouded (it's not yet been three days) sop there was no electric shock and there wasn't much I could do. She did hesitate at the white flags, for what that's worth.

*sigh*

I will get the longer leash this afternoon. Barn door after escaped horse? I guess, but we'll need it tomorrow when we do distraction training.

"Initial stages of underground electric fence training! Not my favorite thing!"