(image from Amazon.com)

Commenter Slim mentioned reading All the Rage, by Darcy Lockman, and further mentioned having two copies to give away if we wanted to do something for Mother’s Day, which possibly we do. This is how Slim described the book:

Basically, straight married mothers’ brains are melting because our husbands think that doing a better job than their fathers is the same as doing a good job.

I don’t think I would mind dealing with all the stuff I have to do if I didn’t have to do it under the same roof as a grownass adult who makes my life harder.

Well, SOLD. I got a copy from my library, and I have finished it, and it is BRISTLING with slips of paper marking Good Parts. Some samples:

• “…couples with low levels of male partner participation in domestic chores are more likely to separate than couples in which men do more. As satisfaction with a male partners’ help increases, so, too, do positive marital interactions, closeness, affirmation, and positive affect. As it decreases, thoughts of divorce, negative affect, and depression go up—for mothers. Although perceived unfairness predicts both unhappiness and distress for women, it predicts neither for men, who often do not seem to fully register the problem.”

• “Writes [Stephanie] Coontz, ‘Self-reliance and independence worked for men because women took care of dependence and obligation.'”

• “Worrying to no purposeful end is unfortunate, but productive worry stimulates action: the scheduling of well-child visits, the installation of outlet plugs, the introduction of solid foods. The fathers in Walzer’s study both pathologized their wives for their vigilance and connected it to their babies’ well-being. It is not, however, connected to a mother’s well-being.”

• “Yana’s husband never explicitly turns down her requests [for help with housework and children]—but he routinely fails to fulfill them.”

• “Occidental College sociologist Lisa Wade summed up what she has seen like this: ‘Men find ways of being so difficult that it’s not worth it. You do it yourself.'”

• “Men do not pause to consider the experience of the other, or at the very least, they appear unmoved by it.”

• “Imagine if your children’s father said these things to you, directly and out loud: Women are easy to take advantage of, your efforts are ultimately unnecessary, the needs of our family are not worth my attention, and I’ll choose the more selfish thing. Fathers are implying every last bit of this with their resistance all the time.”

• I wish I had copied a quote from this section before returning the book, but I didn’t mark it so I forgot, but what I keep thinking about is the part where they found couples who said they were equals, where even the woman of the couple said they were equals and she was satisfied with the equal division of labor; and when the scientists/sociologists studied those couples, they found they were NOT equals and the women were doing more. In every single case.

The book did make me feel angry. But more than that, it made me feel Seen and Validated: the inequality I’m experiencing has been observed and analyzed in numerous studies; I am not imagining how unfair it is and how maddening it is; I am not the only one who can’t figure out how to fix it. And the WAYS in which it manifests, also Seen and Validated: the husbands who “forget” to do something, or just sort of Don’t Do It; the husbands who claim they just have to be asked to help (but the wives do not need to be asked); the husbands who know that if they drop the ball their wives will take care of it; the husbands who make their own lives the priority over everyone else’s while their wives work for the common good of the family; the husbands who simply Opt Out of responsibility for handling things, so that the wives are forced to handle all those things.

I recommend the book to you if your library has it—and, now that I’ve read it, would probably go so far as to recommend buying it if you can’t borrow it and can find it at an affordable price. And perhaps we will see about getting Slim’s copies out there for Mother’s Day—let’s think more on that.

This, THIS is the exact time of year to keep your eye out at the grocery store, at Trader Joe’s, at Target, for POTTED TULIPS. They are available right before Easter and not at any other time of year. It will be six sprouted tulip bulbs in a pot of dirt covered by a bright-pastel paper sleeve, and they will sell for $5 or $6 or $7, and you should not hesitate! You should BUY THEM, and use them to decorate your interior house! Don’t buy just one pot, if you can afford more! Buy two or three! or six or seven!

Because then, when they have wilted, you should bury them in your yard (or anywhere else: a roadside area! a park! a friend or family member’s yard as a surprise!), absolutely casually: just dig a casual roundish hole in your yard (or wherever!—but if it’s not your property, BE QUICK!) with a shovel, and then grab the six stems in a handful ’round the necks and use them to pull the whole soil clump out of the pot, and chunk the whole pot’s worth of soil/bulbs into the hole, and tuck/pat the soil around the base of the wilted stems as if you are doing a good job planting wilted flowers (this will make sure you are at least planting the bulbs right-side-up). It is in no way the right time of year to plant tulips; you are merely doing your part to avoid putting them in the landfill! And maybe that is all that will happen: they will gently decompose and return to the earth whenst they came. Or else they will be eaten by squirrels/chipmunks.

line-up of wilted potted daffodils/tulips waiting for me to go out with a shovel; generally they wait several weeks and then I get a surge of inspiration and plant them all at once

Or maybe!!: not!! And then, when they come up next spring, you will enjoy your FREE BONUS SURPRISE TULIPS!! I currently have many dozens of casually-buried potted tulips coming up in my yard, some from last year and some from the year before that and some from the year before that—and I cannot express how happy a thing that is. FREEEEEEEE TULIPS!! Last spring I got carried away and bought too many pots so as an experiment I planted two extra pots’ worth down by the mailbox, thinking there was NO WAY they would overcome the salt/sand near the roadside. And yet: here we are, it’s March and I see two distinct pot-shaped sections of tulips coming up!!! by the mailbox!!

ONE SURPRISE TULIP CLUMP COMING UP

…I have bought five more pots of them this year so far. AT LEAST TWO MORE POTS’ WORTH are joining the ones down by the mailbox!!

At my last check-up I tried to get my doctor to let me get the shingles shot early: I know of several people who got shingles before they turned 50, and they all say it was the worst pain they’d ever had, worse than childbirth. My doctor declined, and said she didn’t even recommend it right at age 50: she says she recommends getting it later, more like age 60—something about needing it to last the rest of your life. Well. I was not pleased. I went off in a huff! By which I mean I nodded and demurred and made no fuss whatsoever.

But now I am 50, so I can walk into a pharmacy and get the shingles vaccine without my doctor’s permission and have my insurance cover it, and I have not yet done it. I seem to be…chicken. But it is because I have heard the shingles vaccine is one of the very worst! And, worst of all: that it is not the FIRST of the required two shots that is so bad, it’s the SECOND! But once you get the first, you have to follow through and get the second! This is psychologically MUCH WORSE than if the first one were the bad one. But an unpleasant vaccine reaction? to avoid the worst pain of my life? I don’t understand why I am hesitating. It’s not as if I would mind staying in bed for a day and then writing a complaining blog post about it.

Speaking of turning 50, one of my biggest stressors these days is JEANS. I have always been a PEAR: I have a relatively small waist, and I wear a smaller size in tops than in bottoms, and anything long or one-piece (long coats, one-piece swimsuits, dresses) is difficult because of the discrepancy; I carry my weight in my rear and thighs; and I have never, even as a rangy pre-teen, had a flat stomach. But my weight is redistributing, so that I am carrying BOTHERINGLY MORE in my stomach, and it is THROWING EVERYTHING OFF. I don’t even know what fruit shape this is. I tried going up a size (I have about four sizes in storage), but that didn’t work at all: they didn’t fit right AND were too big. If I find jeans that fit at all, they need a belt, and also they look terrible in a way that tempts me to commit the grave error of blaming the body instead of the jeans: if they’re stretchy enough to be comfortable, they’re stretchy enough to SHOWCASE the new tum area, which I will accept but I do not wish to show off. I think this must be why so many older women give up on jeans and start buying Alfred Dunner separates. But I will not go gentle into that good night! (Well, except I searched online for Alfred Dunner to make sure that was still a thing, and ended up thinking “Ooooo actually those are pretty cute!”)

I am having a long run of being unable to face the telephone. I managed to make the ENT appointment because it felt like a potentially dire emergency, and I managed to make some phone calls when Elizabeth’s ambulance claim for her tree-nut reaction was rejected; but I have not managed to make quite a few other phone calls for appointments that need to be made and are causing me trouble. My glasses, for example: speaking of turning 50, apparently now I desperately need BIFOCALS/TRIFOCALS. Sometimes I think in a chipper way that this is FINE! plenty of people get behind on appointments for reasons completely unrelated to phone phobia and it’s JUST FINE! Other times I feel some level of despair: I am FIFTY YEARS OLD, why can’t I do this NORMAL LIFE THING?

Today I realized I had all the ingredients to recreate Swistle’s High School Scent, and so on impulse I recreated it. I washed my hair with Pert Plus, and then I used Suave baby-powder-scented deodorant and Charlie perfume. Maybe it was only the seasonal spring pollen, but two of my co-workers sneezed near me. Just one sneeze each, which is inconclusive—but still, in the future I will save Swistle’s High School Scent for non-working days. I am sentimentally and enduringly fond of Charlie, but it is an aldehyde. I am not 100% sure I am using that word correctly. Aldehyde is a word I have gradually become familiar with from perfume reviews, and to my semi-understanding it refers to that “date-night perfume” element of 1970s perfumes, which non-enjoyers refer to as “nostril-scorching.” I like to have my nostrils lightly scorched by it, and I appreciate the way I can still smell the perfume at 6:30 p.m. after applying it at 6:30 a.m.—but, again from perfume reviews, I am aware of the many, many, many people who don’t appreciate these things (NO NEED TO ADD MORE VOICES TO THE CHORUS, I HAVE SAID I AM AWARE) (NO SERIOUSLY).

Oh! Also this morning, completely unrelated: a slightly alarming thing. I dried off after my shower, and as I hung up my towel I saw streaks of blood on it. My first thought was that this might be one of the highly irregular periods of The Glorious Transition, but no. I had several other thoughts (shaving injury? etc.), checked them; also no. I stood in front of the full-length mirror and examined the corpus entire: no blood! Baffled, I went on to the next step of my routine, which is drying out the ears and nose—and it turned out my nose was bleeding.

…This story was not anywhere NEAR as dramatic in the telling as it was in the experiencing. Honestly it had the twang of true horror. Ideally blood should not be coming from anywhere, but EVEN LESS should it be coming from NOWHERE APPARENT. Is it coming from…THE WALLS?? A GHOST?? SOMETHING ATTACHED TO THE CEILING?????

I have selected the tulips winner, and also a second tulips winner because I felt like it and there was enough in the Swistle Ad Revenue fund, and I have emailed them for their addresses. If you were not one of the winners, may I suggest you order some tulips for yourself or a friend/relative tomorrow morning, if funds permit? 🌷🌷🌷 They restock at 9:00 a.m. U.S. Eastern time. It is really so fun.

Also I wish to know: what was your High School Scent Combination?

I am going to recommend a toothpaste and, if you are like me, the first time you try it you will say “OH NO WHAT DID I PUT IN MY MOUTH?? GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT” and you will want to put the whole tube directly into the trash can; but, and this is assuming you are still me in this scenario, then you will try it on another occasion and have a similar reaction, but for some reason keep trying it anyway??? until you end up somehow enjoying the suffering??? until it isn’t even suffering??? It reminds me a little of mouthwash: how at first I thought “AAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH WHYYYYYYY!!!” for the entire 30 seconds of swishing, and now it’s no big deal and I even get a little head-rush from it, and afterwards I feel as if I’ve done something very nice for my teeth and gums. Here is the toothpaste:

(image from Target.com)

Arm & Hammer Peroxicare toothpaste. Maybe buy your first tube as a single, in case you hate it and continue hating it and then continue hating it after that.

I don’t remember why I bought it in the first place, but I think it was the general feeling that baking soda and/or peroxide might be good for my poor gums. I also wondered if the whitening effect of peroxide would make the inside of my mouth peel the way other whitening toothpastes can, and the happy answer is NO. And my teeth DO look whiter. At my last appointment the dentist asked, “Do you do tooth-whitening treatments?,” which I thought was the beginning of a sales pitch but turned out instead to be a compliment. I am fantasizing that at my next appointment (when they will do the annual gum-poking thing to measure the pockets) the hygienist will make awed noises about how much improvement there has been. Exciting times!

This is a niche complaint paragraph for U.S. college students and parents of college students: THE NEW (2024-2025) FAFSA!!!!! I HATE IT SO MUCH!!! WAS THE OLD ONE NOT SUFFICIENTLY TERRIBLE???? This new ‘n’ improved version doesn’t let you copy your inputted information for a second child, so you have to type it all in again! I have not changed any of the information on my taxes or any of the balances of my accounts from one child to the next!! And I signed mine, but then when Elizabeth did her section, it told her that I had NOT signed mine. And now apparently we wait indefinitely to hear back.

Would you like some surprise tulips? Or I can send them to your friend or relative. I have finished the FAFSA, and I have dropped off my forms for the tax preparer, and my twinnies are home for spring break, and there are tulips coming up in my yard, and I am in the mood to send someone some tulips. It has to be someone in the U.S., and I believe in fact you have to be in the 48. No: I have checked, and they say they are shipping to all 50. That is a little difficult to believe, but I am going to take them at their word. I will ask but not demand that, if you win, you satisfy my curiosity by telling me which two surprise colors you received. To enter, leave a comment (either on its own or in addition to the rest of your comment) saying “tulips!” (you don’t have to use the exclamation point if you’re not feeling it) and/or see if it works to cut and paste this lil emoji to make the comments section all springlike: 🌷🌷🌷. I will choose a winner on Tuesday evening, so that I can collect a shipping address (as usual, it’s fine to choose someone you know in the U.S., if you win and you are not yourself in the U.S.) and get the order in on Wednesday morning when the inventory refills.

This morning I am not working. I so look forward to these mornings off! And then I sit here feeling glum, wondering what people at work are doing.

Usually I have errands to run on my morning off, but this morning I have only a boring errand (groceries) and I have not been able to stir myself. I promised myself a fun errand at the same time (browsing Marshalls or HomeGoods), but found that failed to ignite a spark, and then felt depressed at the idea that I was trying to talk myself into spending money unnecessarily when I didn’t even want to.

After my recent rediscovery of the emotions of the monthly cycle, a friend recommended the phone app Stardust, which I downloaded that same day and have been enjoying. In the midst of my hormonal distress it told me I was a strong little houseplant, and that was good to hear from my nest of blankies on the couch. Today I am apparently ovulating! So perhaps that is enough, in terms of errands and getting things done.

I am interested to know if I AM in fact still ovulating. Do I HAVE to be, if I’m still getting periods? Why don’t I know this. I looked it up, expecting to feel silly about the answer, but actually it looks as if there is reason to be unsure: a period can happen even if no egg was released, and everything gets a little whoopsie during perimenopause. But it looks as if regular periods tend to mean ovulation is still happening. Not that those eggs are likely to be viable. Long ago, I read in what I remember to be an issue of People magazine that after age 42, only 2% of women can still get pregnant with their own eggs and without medical intervention; the context I’m remembering was an obstetrician commenting about celebrity women giving birth in their late 40s and early 50s, and how it was misleading the obstetrician’s non-celebrity patients to think they could do the same.

Recently, the wife of a former classmate gave birth after a surprise pregnancy at 47. This possessed my mind for some time. I found it gave me a thrill, but that I was not envious, and in fact a small slice of the thrill (along with the more predominant joy and delight) was an element akin to horror. There was a time in my life when I felt as if I’d never feel this way, that I would ALWAYS want MORE!!BABIES!!, so it has been a relief to be here. It is nice to be able to turn the mind pleasantly to the next generation’s weddings and babies. Still, there is that weird little difference between “don’t want to” and “can’t.”

I am not exactly recommending this book:

(image from Amazon.com)

Trust Exercise, by Susan Choi

It is the kind of book where, after reading it, I went looking for other people who had read it—as opposed to looking for people who HADN’T read it, to tell them to do so. I wanted to TALK ABOUT IT. I am not at all sure I understand what happened, and I DO NOT LIKE uncertainty—but part of what I dislike about uncertainty is when I feel like the author doesn’t know what happened either and just waved a little “Woooooo, mysTERious/ARTsy!!!” hand over the plot to get the book finished so they could stop trying to figure it out; and in this case I feel like the author knows EXACTLY what happened, and it’s just the reader who might be too dim to put it together. (I would LOVE if the authors who do Clever Uncertainty would provide a merciful cheat-sheet for those of us in that Too Dim category.)

I would also have said I did not like gimmicks, and that I would not enjoy anything called “experimental fiction,” but I believe the evidence is beginning to pile up that I DO enjoy those things, at least in the hands of certain authors. In this case I felt a pleasantly blown-away by it.

But I found the first maybe half of the book pretty hard to get through, especially since it was about the sex/drug/emotional lives of high school theater kids, and one of my kids is a high school theater kid. I asked Henry, DO high school children typically have access to cocaine?? I never even saw POT in high school. “Nerd,” he remarked.

Other things I did yesterday, in my absolutely dismal mood:

1. Contacted (THANK YOU ONLINE CONTACT FORM) the local food pantry to ask if they had any use for the TWENTY-THREE DOLLAR fancy ham Paul bought at the store without realizing it was any different than the $9 nonfancy ham he usually buys—and also without realizing it was a brown-sugar-and-spice flavor, which he said he would not eat. I did not want to try to RETURN MEAT; I also did not want to feel UPSET AND BLAMEY every time I opened the fridge and saw the ham (whomst among us, etc., in these days of unexpectedly leaping prices) (BUT STILL!! TWENTY-THREE DOLLARS FOR A CARELESS HAM MISTAKE!! and the price label is RIGHT THERE ON THE HAM); I also did not want to waste an expensive ham by letting it sit in the fridge until it went bad. I was getting overwhelmed by options (should I offer it to a friend/co-worker? is that a little…weird? also, which friend/co-worker should be offered first?), and then I thought of the food pantry. They emailed right back (BLESS YOU, ORGANIZATION, FOR REPLYING IN THE SAME MANNER AS CONTACTED), saying they could definitely use it. Now it is not a $23 waste, it is a $23 donation, and it is out of my sight/fridge.

2. Donated blood. A long time ago I wrote about the assortment of small nice things each of us does for other people, and in my mind I remember it as a multi-paragraph discussion of how we all find the ways that make sense for us (some of us volunteer our time! some of us our money! some of us our talents! some of us our blood!), and in reality the post is mostly complaints about how long it can take to do all the paperwork/waiting that comes with the blood-donation process. Anyway, by coincidence my appointment was yesterday, and the timing was good: I was feeling bad about Not Doing Things, and this was something I could Do by just showing up and lying there.

3. Wept gently over your comments. You were very nice to me. Thank you for that.

4. Called a Make Your Own Dinner day. Made dinner only for myself. Ate a pint of ice cream afterward.

5. Got my period. Well, well, well, if it isn’t once again the explanation for “I know things are a little dicey right now but WHY do I SUDDENLY feel so INEXPLICABLY DESPAIRINGLY TERRIBLE about them???” My theory is that when I finally figure out this pattern, when I am steeped in misery and think to check the calendar, THAT’S when it will finally stop and Menopause will happen: I will have Leveled Up.

I would not say I am PANICKING, but I would say I am in An Episode of Feeling Panicky. Part of it was set off by the recent experience with the police, where they were SO polite and SO pleasant (and I am a middle-aged white woman thoroughly socialized to respect men/authority; I read an article awhile back that said no other category is as indulged by the police), and I was made personally aware that I can talk/reason all I want, but the police get to make all the decisions. And the “talk/reason all I want” is only at their extreme indulgence: they could have told me to step aside, ma’am, and they could have skipped the ma’am; it was only by their indulgence that I was allowed to talk and explain into their nodding, patient, kind, indifferent ears for awhile while they treated me nicely and waited until they could do what they were going to do anyway.

That powerless feeling (combined with the awareness of just how much worse it could be than a powerless feeling) seems to have suffused a number of everyday/unrelated things. Already I have been feeling partnerless in my marriage in terms of chores/tasks/worries, and very aware that, after over twenty-five years of working on it, talking and explaining while someone nods nicely and indulges me but nothing changes, my two options are stay or leave and that all the options in between have been exhausted/eliminated; that is a powerless feeling. Already I have been feeling overwhelmed by the Extra Stress and Time-Sensitive list items (taxes, FAFSA forms, Henry college search, Henry driving lessons) that I (we) should be doing but I am not doing, day after day; that is a panicky feeling. Last night I lay awake; each time I’d start to drift off, I would think of something (“THE TAXES!”) and jolt awake, and then lie there wondering why our government makes things so hard and stressful for us (taxes, the FAFSA, laws that make life considerably worse).

In that powerless/panicky mode, other things, even much more minor things, can get swept up into the mess, tumbleweed-style. Maybe I mean dust-bunny style. Do tumbleweeds pick things up? Does anything pick up other things in the way I mean? Well, what I mean is that in a mental state like this, where there are truly important things to worry about (marriage, tax deadlines, authoritarianism), things such as “how irritatingly packed-in my sweaters are, and how I should really go through and get rid of some” can somehow get SUCKED IN to the roiling mass as if JUST AS IMPORTANT. This morning, feeling RIDICULOUS, I got rid of four sweaters and five long-sleeved shirts. Did I set up college tours for Henry, or teach him to drive? No. Did I get the FAFSA done? No. Did I get rid of several of the sweaters I don’t like but keep wearing because I am foolishly trying to “save” the sweaters I do like, plus most of the long-sleeved shirts I’d thought I’d wear but never ever do? Yes. Are my sweaters stressing me out less now? Yes.

I also signed the agreement with the tax preparer. I don’t want to use this tax preparer anymore: I trust her work, but she puts the taxes off until the last day or two, with me worrying the whole time that somehow our envelope of tax stuff has gotten lost/forgotten (WHAT THEN??), and then we have to scramble to take one of the few last-minute available times she has for us to come in and sign them. I don’t think she wants to do our taxes: I think she is using the “If you are a professional and there is work you don’t want, raise your price until it is worth it for you to do it” method, which, good for her, truly truly I mean that, our taxes are horrible and made me cry for literally hours every year when I was doing them. But this means that when she sent this year’s estimate, and it is a price that makes me think I MUST either do the taxes myself OR choose a different preparer, the estimate then sits in my bill-paying cubby for a month while I wonder if this level of stress really does relieve the stress of doing the taxes myself.

Last night, lying awake, I thought, “You have given yourself a full month to either find a new tax-preparer or commit to doing the taxes yourself, and you have done neither of those things. You do not have a partner who is going to do anything about this or even think about it. Action needs to be taken, BY YOU, TOMORROW: either call someone else tomorrow; or get a batch of forms and start filling them out tomorrow; or sign the stupid agreement and pay the Inertia Tax tomorrow.” This morning I signed the form and put it in the mail with an Inertia check. And I put the bag of sweaters/shirts in the Goodwill pile. And I had a LARGE breakfast: at times like this, sustenance is important. And I wrote to you. And now I will go do the grocery-shopping.

We had something somewhat upsetting happen yesterday. Paul was on a walk and discovered an older man lying by the side of the road. A car pulled over, and Paul and the driver helped the man up. The man seemed disoriented at first (was resistant to the idea that there was any need to get up; tried to refuse help), but, once up, seemed much more alert, claimed he had just fallen and was fine now, and said his truck was parked right over there with his two little dogs inside, and he would just drive home; he said he lived right up the street. Paul and the driver were like nooooooooope we are doing any plan except that one, and helped him into a nearby business (it was below freezing out). Paul texted me, and I came over with the car, in case I and/or the car could be of any help. Paul wanted us to drive the guy home, but (1) then the guy wouldn’t have his truck, and might not remember where the truck was and/or might have trouble retrieving it; (2) there were two small dogs in the truck; (3) Paul and I are not in any way qualified to assess the difference between “drunk” and “drunk plus another medical crisis” and “something that looks like drunk but is in fact a medical crisis.”

Someone at the business had called 911, and instead of an ambulance arriving, police arrived. [Edited to add: Because it is coming up repeatedly in the comments section: The officers did not seem to be familiar with the man.] They did not check the man to see if he’d hit his head when he’d fallen, or do any other medical checking or questioning; one officer instead immediately started trying to get the guy to say he’d been driving under the influence. (There are several restaurants/bars serving alcohol within a block of where we were. It is legal to drive into town and then drink in those establishments; it is legal to then walk outside. It is legal to have a drink and then have an unexpected medication reaction or unexpected medical event which causes you to fall to the ground.) Perhaps I should not have gotten involved, but I was already involved, and the ingenuous tone of the questioning (“Wait…sir, I don’t understand: how did you and your truck get here?”) gave me an immediate surge of adrenaline. I interrupted the attempt to get the man to incriminate himself, and asked if there was any merit to the idea of us driving the man, his truck, and his dogs home. After all, if the police were confident this was in no way a medical event, it seemed much simpler for us to just deliver everyone back safely to where they were supposed to be. This led to a long exchange I knew I would not win, but I was hoping that I was mistaken at how things were going down, and that at any minute an ambulance would arrive and that it would turn out the police were merely first on the scene. An ambulance did not arrive. The police took the man away, saying he would be in protective custody for four hours, and telling us the small dogs “would be fine” in the truck, in below-freezing temperatures, in the coming darkness, for those four hours. They took my information, as if they had any possible reason for doing so; I gave them my information, even though I know better, because I am apparently incapable of disobeying authority figures. (Though I appear to be developing a new ability to question them, so there is hope for further progress in the future!)

Paul walked over there an hour and a half later, to check on the dogs, and the truck/dogs were gone, so our hope is that the man was able to call someone to come get them. The whole thing leaves me, today, going over it again and again in my mind, wishing I’d said/done something different at absolutely every stage.