Busted

My cover was blown last week.  A piece of advice to those who blog anonymously - decline the "remember password on this computer" feature.  Because one day your husband's computer wiz friend may come to your house to help with some computer-related thingy and discover that you are Subjugated Wife.  And he may do this in front of SubHub, who is not big on self deprecating humor or jokes at his expense.  And even though SubHub may know for years the name of your blog and associated with it email account, etc, etc, etc, he may still not be 100% comfortable that his wife calling herself "subjugated," albeit semi-publicly.  And SubHub may be even less thrilled with his friend now knowing that you call yourself "subjugated."

If are lost by now, I don't blame you.  It was, I mean it could potentially be an uncomfortable mess.  And then you may find yourself mumbling things like "tongue-in-cheek" and "almost inactive," while quickly excusing yourself from their company.

Now that I've typed it, I am wondering whether this is being read by The Friend and whether I should edit it.  And while it wouldn't bother me one bit if some man in Timbuktu reading this blog accidentally finds out my real name, a real life acquaintance finding out is a completely different story.

So now I am faced with several options.  1) Abandon this blog.  I doubt, with my blogging activity of the past year, anyone would truly notice.  2) If I were to do #1, that would probably mean abandoning blogging altogether in the foreseeable future.  Even though my readership is very small, at least I know that a few people are still reading it.  I don't have the resources to invest in the new blog.  I don't have time to either regularly write or work on increasing readership.  And I am not above admitting that blogging into the empty void does not appeal to me.  I know, vanity.  3) Pretend that nothing happened.  Which is probably the most accurate description of the event.  After all, The Friend came to help and had no intention to snoop. As I have found out on a few previous occasions, I am not as anonymous as I thought and hoped.  And I doubt that The Friend would run around putting up posters all over the 'hood identifying me.  Or even if he did, it very unlikely would stir any interest or would result in public recognition.  But  a girl can dream stranger things have happened, that's for sure.  (I am still wondering whether The Friend is reading this right now and whether this post can cost SubHub a friendship.)  So even though the whole thing might be in my head, it already is affecting my blogging.  4) Feeling relieved that finally my secret is out and I no longer have to hide is not even an option for reasons that include Jewish guilt, Soviet upbringing and others that are too complicated and more appropriate for other media, such as a case study for Psychology Today.

So there, I am thinking.  Knowing myself, I would not post anything for the next 3 weeks or months, and by the time of the next post, would forget the whole thing.  But then again, stranger things happened.

(And if you have this song stuck in your head for hours, you can thank me in the comments :)

DS scissorhands

It was back to school time at SubCasa the past couple of weeks.  New teachers, new classes, new supplies, lots and lots of shopping.  Even tears, lots of tears.  But not from the kids; unlike their mother, they are troopers.  What can I say - I am a worrier.  I worry about everything.  And my children's future worries me.  And I worry that DS's third year in school might be the year that will break the proverbial camel's back (not that I think he is a camel, but his two previous years in schools - two different schools - left much to be desired). And, upon finding out that DS didn't get the Hebrew teacher that would be a perfect fit for his personality, I broke down.  DS worries me.  A lot.

And then there's secular studies teacher whom I still didn't get to meet.  Hopefully soon.  Actually not.  Hopefully no sooner than the PTA.  But with whom I had already conversed once. 

SubWife:  DS, how was your school today?
DS:  Good.
SW:  How was your English teacher?
DS:  Good.
SW:  Do you like her?
DS:  Yes, she came again.  (DS sounded a bit surprised that she came back. What did he do on the first day of school???)  She is very nice.  She said she will call you.  (He is so naive, he thought it was a good thing.  Ah, the innocence of the young.)
SW:  Oh...

And she did.  My mind raced through all possible scenarios of what a 5 year old could have done to deserve a phone call to his parents on the second day of school. 

Turns out the whole thing was over nothing - DS gave himself a hair cut in class.  The teacher called to apologize.  She really was very nice and very capable of dealing with DS.  She was amazed at how well I took the whole thing - and yes, I did notice the new haircut before the phone call.  She just didn't know about 1) what kind of possibilities I had running in my head only several minutes before the phone call and 2) that DS gave himself a haircut only two months ago and we got used to his bold spots and uneven bangs.  She also mentioned that it was not uncommon for kids to cut their hair when given scissors, but in all her years of teaching, it has never happened "in the first week of school."

So basically, we got a WINNER!  A CHAMP!  Where do we collect the medal?

My psychomusical disorder

There are times in my life when I feel so overwhelmed with whatever happens to overwhelm me at the moment, that I frantically start searching for ways to express my frustration  Healthy ways.  Mostly.

I have yet to come across a piece of literature, with which I have found immediate connection;  that upon reading it I felt that awesome revelation that "yeah, finally, I have found someone who gets it, who feels exactly like I do only with significantly superior writing skills!"  Maybe I did as a teen and forgot, but I think experience that groundbreaking would be something to remember.  Music, on the other hand, is totally different.  I find that it speaks directly to the soul, especially the hurting soul.

Normally, my tastes in music are pretty old fashioned: classic rock and classical music.  Wailing damsels in distress are not my cup of tea (Yes, I am speaking to you, Norah Jones.  (And a side note within a side note - I am totally taking the page out of the Bloggess' book and attempting a blog war with a celebrity.  Yes, Norah Jones, I am still talking to you.  And I am also breaking all the rules by putting parenthesis within parenthesis, for which I will get an eternity of grammar lessons with a Jesuit professor in my afterlife.  Wolverines!!!)

BACK FROM THE SIDE NOTE:  Neither am I fond of screaming till they are hoarse male performers.  Yet in the times of my own distress I found myself drawn to Janis Joplin, Amy Winehouse, Meatloaf and some other, rather uncharacteristic musical choices for me.  Listening to THE SONG that for some inexplicable reason speaks to me NOW, I feel as if I am becoming one with the song, and somehow this feeling makes things better, if only for a few hours.   

Today was one of those days - not terrible, but frustrating - when I found myself frantically searching YouTube for the perfect expression of my mood.  (I am sure that this disorder will soon by identified by AMA, and I humbly request that it is named after me.)  I failed to found one.  My beloved Queen's "I want to break free" and "Going Slightly Mad" seemed to lack frustration.  Meatloaf was not loud enough.  P.O.D. just too full of life.  "Comfortably Numb" made me want to get drunk, and so full of promise "Dazed and Confused" still didn't do the trick.  Have I reached the time of my life when rock just doesn't do it?

On the bright side, I haven't listen to so much music in a long, long time.  And discovered in the process that I am not so desperate that I would give Norah Jones a try. 

You might never look at my gefilte fish the same.

With great sorrow I must inform you of the passing of our beloved Goldie Sub.  She was a good goldfish.  We took good care of her, but she lasted only a day longer than last year's goldfish.  She passed away three days before the kids noticed that she was gone.  Yes, she was that precious.  DD burst into tears upon discovering of Goldie's untimely demise, to be quickly joined by her brother, who I, quite honestly, thought was doing it just to keep his sister company.  Later on, over HoneyNut Cheerios, those two had the following conversation:

DD:  But we took such good care of Goldie.  Why would she die?
DS:  Yeah, why would she die?
DD:  How could she do this to us?
DS:  I know!
DD:  I had to work so hard and win so many games to get her!

The kids have progressed to the anger stage.  Though I still think that DS is angry just to keep DD company.  But overall I think they'll be fine. 

I, on the other hand, am wondering:  who are these cruel people distributing goldfish  - without any care instructions  - to preschoolers, knowing perfectly well that 95% of those fish will die within a week.  I am afraid that my anger stage might last much longer than my kids'.  Seriously, camp folks, can't you just stuff those kids with painted sugar instead?  Or at least send along some goldfish recipe?