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. Fucking Bitch. 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.

Holding the line at 49

I am 49 today and before you say, “Wow, that’s almost 50!” I do want you to know that I am well aware of that fact. Time. It marches on.

Perhaps not surprisingly, I am in West Virginia for my annual birthday plantathon. It has been a spectacularly gorgeous day, and before you say, “Wait, it’s a Wednesday and you still have a child at home: are you there alone?” I want you to know that yes, yes I am here alone. And it’s delightful. Time. Sometimes you don’t get enough of it by yourself, to spend in the way you want, and because it marches on, well…take it when you can. Happy birthday to me!

I’m in our dining room which is also a sunroom, and I’m surrounded by healthy plants (both inside and out) and birds are chirping and enjoying my window feeder and the wind is blowing and my back is aching like a 49-year-old’s back even though I work out twice a week with my trainer Felipe who kicks my ass via Zoom from Argentina all the while telling me I’m “doing amazing.” Do you know I totally believe him even though I’m not sure I am doing amazing? I don’t care. I’m trying. And his dog, Truman, is the cutest. As is Felipe really. And being that young seems ages ago and also yesterday. And that both/and keeps tripping me up. Time. It marches on and lets you know about it. My friend Karen and I are forever sharing stories about living for forced interruptions during our Felipe sessions because my god, we’ve both had two kids and our core strength is never again gonna come anywhere close to what it ever may have been or what Felipe’s is. Probably Truman’s too.

This morning, I made blueberry scones and lemon curd (from a jar) and coffee, and while eating breakfast, a crimson cardinal landed on the fence outside, and I know it was my Nanny coming to say Happy Birthday, Em. I miss her all the time and she’s been gone more than a decade.

Today I mucked the barn, feathered out new straw all over it which of course the goats insisted on eating as I spread, and weeded and mulched and planted and talked to all of the worms and other little beings I encountered, and thought a lot about how fucking excruciating this past year(s) has been and all that it’s forced me to learn and stand up for. I thought how Nanny would get that. How my mom gets that. How stupidly hard life often is and how you will be forced to learn lessons that you’d really rather not. You can’t beat ‘em but you can join ‘em, and I guess that’s the meta lesson.

Y’all, some tufted titmice are fighting in the window feeder. They are so cute.

Anyway, hard is hard, but lessons can be good, and as time marches on, I would rather learn and pivot if it means this one life we get will be happier or more fulfilling or, maybe, just simpler? Less hard? I’m not even sure how to articulate it. It’s not binary, really. But you probably understand. Some things I’ve (re)learned this year:

Profound grief can be felt when someone is not gone but is gone from you. Such absence can feel like your heart left your body and started walking away from you, maybe punching you in the solar plexus on the way out. Grief remains a dicey social topic, not least depending on who took your heart and left and how and what was or was not explained (Tom and I are fine; this isn’t that).

Not unrelatedly, female friendships are the linchpins of life. Some women are shit (Pam Bondi, Usha Vance, Marine Le Pen, etc) but any (good) woman will tell you that she’d be up the creek with zero hope without her female friends. They are the ears, defibrillators, water, comrades, “tell me, girl,” spare tires, laugh tracks, diaries, emergency everything, honest, photo taking, wise, antibiotic, disgusting in the best way, care package sending, late night call picker uppers of life. Without my girls, I think I’d just have quit by now. I would like to add that I have two male friends that I consider girlfriends and that is the biggest compliment and thank you SA and MB.

Some-a minuscule percentage-of men seem to be getting this, but it’s not nearly enough, and I truly feel sorry for them. They are missing out on SO much. And I say that as a woman who birthed two boys and has spent years trying to underscore the value of emotion and sharing it. To their credit, they do feel and share it. To my fatigue, they only feel and share it with me. Do better society. Back to girlfriends. **Please take a moment to listen to Sister Suffragette by Glynis Johns in Mary Poppins. My dear friend Jennifer recently reminded me of this treasure, and shit, it holds up. Not least because…well, if you don’t get the why there, you’re hopeless.

Always behave such that history will not consider you a disgraceful cunt of some sort. Do you see what I did there? If, in that sentence, you’re upset by the use of “cunt,” you are probably not behaving well. Do better. Especially every single trumper, maggat, and other meanie out there. To be fair, WHAT is the Venn of Bad in which one is not a trumper or maggat? Truly? What is left in “bad”? Like, if you abuse animals, I suspect you voted for trump. You appear to be fine deporting a Maryland resident and father to El Salvador with no cause, so you don’t seem to have standards that constellate around good.

Another thing I’ve learned is just how important it is to keep learning, so let me know if there is any answer to the above question about the Venn of Bad. I don’t know that there is, but I am open and eager. Beyond that Venn, I continue to love learning about plants, birds (“peak middle age, Mom!” -Oliver), needlework, Irish literature, some other literature. Irish politics, Ireland, my students, and my female friends. Less enthusiastically but perhaps most importantly is learning to hold my own lines.

Holding ones own lines, aka knowing, asserting, and holding your boundaries, is, to be honest, an absolute pain in the hole for non sociopaths and, probably, most men. Not saying men are sociopaths but they are a lot better at boundaries. Boundaries is probably the #1 or 2 source of angst, fret, therapy, etc for all but one women I know. That woman is a dear college friend, she is neither male nor a sociopath, she is just awesome and powerful. A rare breed in my experience. You go, TC!

I am NOT good with holding my lines, but damn if this past year hasn’t said, “Emily, hold these lines or throw in the towel of life.” And so I have tried. And continue to try. And you know what? It is absolutely worth it, even when it is terrifying, risky, the threat of the unknown looms, or someone gets mad. MY values, my integrity, my moral compass…those are all worth holding the line for.

Most of the birds have returned to their nests and the goats and cats have called it a day. I’m still waiting for the orange feral cat to come get his dinner that I left out on the deck. Poor lamb- he heard me open the door and is hiding, but I hope hunger overrides his fear and he emerges for a double Fancy Feast.

I thank every single dear one of my friends and family who remembered me today. Your notes and texts and calls meant and mean the world to me. Oh, last lesson: It is NEVER a bad time to thank someone or let them know you’re thinking of them. NEVER. Do it more. You’ll never regret telling someone that they mean something to you or have done something that you appreciate. It puts goodness out in the world to thank and take time. It softens edges, it is healing. The world needs tenderness now more than ever. Also boundaries. Jesus christ, can we have more Harvards and fewer Columbias, more Marc Eliases and fewer Skaddens!

Look for and add to the beauty, tend your and others’ hearts (not least because you never know what they might be going through), stand strong and don’t be a cunt, be good to nature and it will repay you more than you could ever wish, and if you’re grieving, find your women. Do it now. Time marches on.