Different words for...

Spinster. Crone. Witch. Old Maid. Hysterical. Past Her Prime. Shrew. Hag. Harpy. Harridan. “Fucking bitch.”

On Friday, in anticipation of, as we joke in the DC-area, a storm bringing “1-78 inches of snow,” I came to West Virginia. Our animal caretaker does not like to drive in icy conditions, I happened to really need a break—read: alone time—, and I despair when I think of any animals, especially my animals, being neglected in any way. Sign me up.

While MD did get a respectable 6”, my little corner of WV got nearly 10”! It is extremely cold and extremely beautiful, and I have spent today feeding and hydrating the goats, cats, birds, and any other little being that I hope to be serving with the vast amounts of seed and water I’m keeping stocked outside. ONE goat has deigned to wear its coat (Rambo, duh), the cats will only come inside for periodic warmings that I think are more about accommodating my maternal worry than their discomfort, and you can see none of the paths I shoveled on my first voyage to the barn. Hey, we still have power (miracle), and I have detailed the stovetop and painted a bathroom and taken many a photo, and the migraine I’ve had since late December is gone. And now it looks like I’ll be here at least until Tuesday. You don’t hear me complaining.

Why are there so many pejorative names for women who aren’t nubile and agreeable? I mean, I offered you but a sample above. And like WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

If the (vastly understaffed because they’ve all been fired by trump) weather service is correct, tomorrow is to be sunny and at least ten degrees warmer than today. This will put the temp at roughly 25 F. I’m not complaining, but I’m also not expecting much in the way of melt. Considering that I did not see or hear even a single plow today, I think I best settle in. For pete’s sakes, I can’t even drive five feet in my driveway which is about a half-mile long, so… But yay for sun! And a proper winter. I pulled a massive dog tick off Jinx tonight, but hopefully the other ticks are all freezing to death in the snow and hopefully all the plants are having a proper lie in and remembering the concept of seasons, and hopefully everyone can just take a minute to calm down and think.

With humility, may I suggest we think about courage and moral integrity and the profound power that can be felt and asserted by saying “NO! I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS!”

I am about to start a new needlework class entitled Emerald Counted Threads, aka Blackwork in needle-speak. In preparation, I brought all my supplies to WV and today enjoyed reacquainting myself with variously sized needles, beeswax, hoops and threads, and the somewhat blinding creative optionality that can be found in so many places. I was awestruck by this bit of ice on a window, for example, but had no luck tracing it (the light) or reimagining it with paper and pencil (too intricate), so gave up and started something with pearled purl and jewel-toned bullion for Valentine’s Day. And to have a whole table full of material and a day of time and a room of glass which means light and so much beauty all around, well I felt rich.

Honestly, I also felt full of rage and deliciously entitled to and empowered by that rage. Were not two innocents just slaughtered in Minneapolis? Were not their killers simply supported with money (you fucker, Bill Ackman, I see you and your BS) and reassignments (no punishment, of course, gasp, what a concept, it’s like Catholic priest pedophiles) rather than punished and shamed as they deserve? Renee Good, a mother and school volunteer. Alex Pretti, a nurse for veterans. Both simply bearing witness to the horrors their community is enduring, both simply showing up, both killed for their goodness.

Y’all, if I find total peace in my counted threads class tomorrow, I will let you know. Could it be so simple? Yes and no.

Because you know what? No one should feel peace right now but for the intermittent kind that we all need to discover and hold onto to stay sane. If you support Donald Trump, you hate America. If you support the GOP, you are evil. If you voted for trump, you have blood on your hands. You should be shamed and tarnished and kicked out of decent society. You can hide behind your “Christian” values or your “safety” bullshit. But Jesus would weep at the sight of your cruelty and the most dangerous among us are white men who peaked in high school and have now joined ICE to feel tough and to vindicate their pathetic existences.

If my words make you uncomfortable, perhaps you’re starting to think of me as an overwrought libtard. A hysterical progressive. A deluded wine mom. If so, I am A-OK with that. YOU are on the wrong side of history, of morality, of justice, of democracy, of what our founders envisioned, and most certainly of Jesus. Fuck, I’m an atheist and I’m a better Christian than every Republican I know.

Consider the words that have historically been used to tar and feather women who were sick of towing the party line. Who wanted to live rather than be controlled. Who wanted to think for themselves rather than having their dear husbands/parents/churches/whatever do that “work” for them. Who would not, and will never, sit by while innocent men and women are being murdered for simply saying “wait a minute; I see your misbehavior and I don’t agree.” You start to wonder about the why behind the monikers, you know?

I will turn 50 in a few months. I’m nearing peak “crone” age. And I am reveling in it because I am no longer willing to sit down, stay mum, keep polite, and remain palatable. Some of you, some of my very family, are wrong. You are deplorable and you are ripping our country apart.

Spinster. Crone. Witch. Old Maid. Hysterical. Past Her Prime. Shrew. Hag. Harpy. Harridan. In those denigrations is such power and liberation. Can you hear my witchy cackle as I raise my hands and heart to the skies?

Two accomplishments!

Y’all, during the past 12-13 months, I have worked inordinately hard on two endeavors that have come—mercifully, thrillingly, finally—to fruition: a needlepoint project that I wrongly assumed would be both simple and quick AND my application for Italian citizenship, a challenge that I knew would take much in the way of effort, time, knowledge, fluency, money, bureaucratic hoops, and paperwork.

Mere minutes ago, I completed this GD doorstop. Truly, if you were to total a price for it based on materials and lady-hours [mine], it would be unaffordable for most mortals. I refused to quit, I enjoyed it most of the time, I cussed a lot, it does not look like the pamphlet, and, regarding that latter point, I do not care. Scottish thistles are marvelous (though murderous) and the brick inside is one I found in West Virginia this past weekend. Layers upon layers of special in this here bar of gold cum doorstop.

I do not think I told y’all that last year at this time, Tom and the kids were granted Italian citizenship via his paternal grandfather. That man’s family hailed from a tiny town in Abruzzo called Fara San Martino which is, incidentally, where De Cecco pasta is headquartered.

I also have Italian blood in my veins: Mom’s father’s parents were Sicilian. However, his father naturalized here which broke the bloodline, and his mother’s birth certificate has been utterly impossible to find, so I was up the creek unless I could pass a language fluency test which would enable me to apply for spousal citizenship. The irony there is that Tom and the kids do not speak a lick of Italian and do not need to, but I would have to pass the terror-inducing CELI exam at the B1 level (it ranges from A1, A2, B1, B2, C) with a certain percentage. Said exam is offered only a few times per year, involves listening, reading, writing, and oral components over ~4 hours, and is then sent to the University of Perugia for final grading. This is not a fast process. You have to know 4+ verb tenses and a gargantuan assortment of random vocabulary like “to strike.” There is always a sciopero about something, and yes, one of the passages on my exam was indeed about a municipal strike. I took the exam in March and found out in May that I passed with a solid B! I was THRILLED.

Then began, with a six-month deadline before shit started expiring, the process of acquiring and having translated and formally apostilled: my birth certificate, marriage certificate from Fara San Martino (no, I was not married there but it had to be translated in Tom’s homeland), and background checks from every state in which I’ve lived (including the six months I was born and then lived in Georgia; who has heard of a felon baby?) plus a federal background check. People, that’s eight background checks. I also had to get a separate one with my married name versus my maiden name because Italians don’t change their names when they get married and I did, so… Then you have to make an account with an Italian website that CLOSES at 4p EST every day and on weekends. Who has ever heard of a website that literally turns off outside certain hours? God love the Italians. Then you have to wait to get an appointment at your Embassy to submit your paperwork which, naturally, they then send to Rome. More mail, many papers. Also, I will never be able to get an Italian passport with my married name on it which means that because all my plane tickets, for example, are issued in my married name, I will have to carry both my Italian and US passports to prove who I am. Priceless.

As determined as I was to finish that infernal doorstop, I was infinitely more determined to get my citizenship. Tom did everything a lawyer for many thousands of dollars does for most people who don’t have a Tom. It was a full time job. And lo, on August 17, three months ago, Tom and I walked into the Italian Embassy in DC and formally applied. The wonderful woman there, after recovering from seeing my ream of background checks, said everything was in order and “I believe you will be granted Italian within one year.”

Viva Italia

For kicks, when it is my time to return to the Embassy for either my passport or my oath, I have to get new background checks run, issued, translated, and apostilled. Mio Dio, madre di Dio, é pazzo ma meraviglioso.

Silly (and extremely excellent) tradition

I believe it was during camp in the summer of 2024, but it could have been 2023, that Oliver was given a cheap watch from Walmart to do something during the last big event, the 2-day King’s Game, before pickup. This watch made it back home with Ol and has been beeping every hour on the hour ever since. It’s not terribly annoying or aggressive- just one perky beep every hour that sometimes we hear and sometimes we manage to completely block out for days on end.

We have spent more time than you can imagine discussing this watch and its beep. We have great respect for the battery and some degree of confusion as to why we have not figured out how to disable the sound.

Several months ago, Oliver and I began hiding the watch in each other’s rooms and possessions. I once found it hanging from a slat underneath my bed, and most recently was stumped for hours until I found it behind a lucite bookend on a shelf. Oliver was delighted with that hide because as Tom and I looked everywhere, he stood in our doorway at first denying he’d hidden it and then demeaning our finding ability by saying repeatedly, with great pride and laughter, “I can see it right now.”

When he left for a scuba and sailing adventure in July, I had hidden the watch in his sock bag. It gave me GREAT pleasure to think of what he’d do when he found it. Yesterday he left for a cross country camp, and even though we’d discussed a watch truce, I furtively tucked that bad boy into his spikes bag with glee.

This morning, I found this:

It defies my power of description to accurately tell you how successful and chuffed I feel about this recent hide. I know he’s gonna get me back once he returns home, and honestly I cannot wait.

These sorts of traditions are so special because they arise organically, require nothing but thought and good humor, and provide much joy to all involved. At this point I hope the watch never stops beeping.