Sunday, September 30, 2012

What Abhorrent Nonsense Is This? Or, Gods and Generals: a Movie review

So last night, Dr. Skull took the kid out to buy new markers for her; they stopped at Best Buy after, and of course Dr. Skull hit the remaindered movie bin.

He brought home two movies, Gettysburg and Gods and Generals. Both in Blu-Ray.  He loves Blu-Ray.

And he talked me into watching the latter with him, which I did mostly because we're all in some serious need of cuddling.

And I tried to be polite, because I know Dr. Skull loves these Civil War movies.

But wow.

First, there are a few things to like about the film.  It does a nice job of explaining both battle strategy and how mistakes by Generals (and others) can lead to disaster in the field.  And the battle scenes themselves, though they have real problems, also go a long way toward showing how strategy and error worked in winning or losing this war.

And the scenery is often beautiful.

Other than this, the film wavers between dull, infuriating, and ridiculous.

I'll leave aside the dialogue, which falls into the category of ridiculous, because I think it's just a misstep on the part of the director (and maybe those who wrote the script).  Basically, we have characters standing around making lengthy speeches to one another -- I think the director was going for Shakespearean, but in the effect it's just bizarre.  (A) No one in real life makes long, heart-felt speeches, rife with rhetoric, to his friends or his fellow generals, and much less to his wife; and (B) if anyone did try that sort of thing, his friends, wife and (probably) fellow generals would interrupt him and mock him and argue with him every two sentences, not stand about watching him talk with expressions of intense awe.  And I'm not even getting into the writer's attempt at black dialect.

But that brings us to the biggest problem: this movie falls right in line with the Revisionist view of history still being taught (and believed) all over America.  It tells us, over and over, that the South did not start the Civil War; that the South did not even fight the Civil War over slavery -- that slaves had nothing to do with it; and that in fact slaves were loyal to their Southern masters, and as eager to fight off the Union "invaders" as their owners were.

Thus, every black character we see is a happy slave, or in one case a happy ex-slave, extolling the virtues of his or her owner; every slave-holder we see loves his or her slaves deeply, treating them like members of the family.

(Re the ex-slave: this is a trope I am seriously sick to death of.  Every time we see a Confederate in film or television, that Confederate, we are told, freed his slaves, because he recognized the immorality of slavery.  See for example the current show on AMC, Hell On Wheels, which has as its hero and main character a Confederate soldier who -- you guess it -- freed all his slaves well before the war.  He didn't fight for slavery, see?  He fought to Defend his Country!)

Even when the slaves speak up against slavery, as they do exactly twice in the movie, those speeches are undercut by the white (Southern) characters earnestly assuring the slaves that they too hate slavery, and want it to end.  The war isn't about slavery at all, see? It's about those Yankees invading our country, and our right to defend ourselves against their tyranny.

And this is crap.  When I hear people arguing that the South fought the war over States' Rights, I always point out that this is true -- the states' right to continue holding slaves.  The Southern Generals in Gods and Generals were in fact -- all of them -- adherents of white supremacy.  They may have believed in treating their slaves well, but they also believed firmly that the white race was superior to the black race, and that blacks were natural slaves.

(And yes, it is true that many fighting on the Union side also adhered to this notion of white superiority.  But none of them aligned themselves with a treasonous movement designed specifically to keep black people under the bonds of slavery.)

(And what about the Southern soldiers?  Frequently people bring that up.  Most of the Southern soldiers did not own slaves, and never would.  So why would they fight to preserve slavery?  This question, which is often presented as a triumphant refutation of the South starting the war over slavery, ignores the real facts on the ground.  (1) Even a soldier without slaves nonetheless benefited from the preservation of slavery, or thought he did, since in the caste system of the South, the poorest white guy was automatically superior to the best black man; and (2) Soldiers today are fighting to preserve the rights of our 1% to exploit them and to get fat off of the American system: these soldiers who will never be among the 1% themselves.  Why do they do it?)

The film also ignores -- erases, essentially -- everything done by the free blacks and those still held in slavery to fight against the Southern side.  Indeed, the only blacks we see are those who joyously support the Southern side.  The existence of black proponents of the Southern side is, of course, unlikely and not supported by actual historical records: is, IOW, a myth much beloved of historical revisionists favoring the Southern side of the war.

The black soldiers and the ex-slaves who participated in the war -- and there were many of them -- are, in fact, all fighting for the Union.  Among these were Fredrick Douglass's sons, and Harriet Tubman, who might be my favorite Civil War warrior of all time.

This movie ignores all of that -- no black soldiers appear, no mention is made of figured like Douglass and Tubman, who were highly instrumental in the direction the war ultimately took, no slaves or free blacks are shown upholding the Union cause.  No.  Just as the Civil War has nothing to do with slavery, according to this film, slaves and other blacks do not affect the war or participate in the war in any meaningful way.  Not only are white men at the center of this film, white men are (really) the only characters in it.

(A few white women characters exist, but their role is only to give the white men someone to talk at, or -- as with the little five year old Stonewall Jackson takes a liking to -- to die and give the white men a way to exercise their emotion. The erasing of important women, btw, is nearly as immense as the erasing of blacks. )

In the end, this film is not just historically repellent, it is dangerously so.  As has become clear over the years, many Americans get their understanding of history not from the study of history or the reading of history books, but from historical novels and films.

This film reinforces a mythic view of history which too many (white) Americans are already happy to believe.  Having watched the horrible movie, they can now happily believe that the version of history that presents Southern rebels as saints and good Christian men, only out to defend their country and their independence.  Given a chance to believe it, as I can attest, most of them will believe this lie.

Luckily (I guess) not many people actually will watch this crap film, and far fewer will be able to finish watching it once they start.  It's just that bad.

Friday, September 28, 2012

Spike

We finally had to give in and have our little dog Spike put to sleep today.

It had been coming for months -- he was sixteen years old, and couldn't see well, or hear; about six months ago, he started losing the ability to control his back legs (he was part dachshund and part Schnauzer, the toy versions of each).  For the past few months, he hadn't been able to keep down most of what he ate.  And he was totally incontinent, which I guess went with the loss of function in his back legs.

But he was still our Spike.  He still barked for biscuits and followed Dr. Skull around, sleeping practically on his feet whenever he sat down.  Even though he couldn't really see, when he looked at us with his one eye (he lost the other in a fight five or six years ago) we could tell he knew it was us.

These last weeks, he didn't seem to know where he was, or to recognize us, much of the time.  He was down to ten pounds (from his fighting weight of 16 pounds) and wasn't following Dr. Skull around anymore.  And he was in pain.

So we did it.  And our vet was great.  And he went easily.

Even so, it was hard.

"He was a good dog," Dr. Skull told me.  "He had a good life."

This is true.  From the day we got him, picking him out at the shelter in Pocatello, Idaho, where they had him stored among the cats because he was so little, he was always a tough little guy.  He ran away a lot when he was younger, making me crazy with anxiety; once when we lived in Charlotte he was gone nearly three days, and I thought we had lost him for sure then, but he finally came staggering home, found Dr. Skull on the front porch waiting for him, and collapsed at his feet.  He slept most of the next two days.  "I don't know where he went," I said, "but it must have been quite a dog party."

And he loved the kid, especially when she was a baby.  Every time she would fuss even a little, he would come and find me and stand looking accusingly at me.  "Can't you hear that?" he seemed to be saying.  "Don't you hear her crying?  The baby needs you!"

We got Big Dog when he was four or five, because a dog book I was reading said that sometimes thug dogs would calm down if you got them a friend.  Dogs need packs, it explained.  So we brought home Biggie, a blue-heeler/fox hound mix, and the book was right.  Spike calmed down considerably, although then we had Big Dog on our hands, a wild if very friendly lout of a dog.  He and Spike have been boon companions since, though they did have a bad habit of fighting over scraps, especially Beanie Weenies.

And Big Dog seems to be missing him.  He's wandering around the house a lot, sniffing at Spike's blanket in the corner, and keeps asking to go outside, as if maybe he thinks Spike is lost out there.  I pet him and give him extra biscuits and tell him (as I keep telling the kid) that things will look better tomorrow.

Sleep well, Spike.  We'll miss you.






Sunday, September 23, 2012

The Life of A Writer

Spent all day yesterday working on my short story about shape-shifting aliens who like pie, and then today (as well as part of yesterday) finishing up the proof-reading of Menial, the anthology I've been working co-editing for Crossed Genres for the past forever.

Okay, past several months.  Editing an anthology turns out to be surprisingly labor-intensive, though, so it did feel like forever.  And we're not done yet!

It's a beautiful anthology, btw.  Great cover, and just excellent stories.  And deal with a subject dear to my heart: it's all stories about workers.

Due out in January or February 2013 -- I know you can't wait.  I'd link the cover here if I knew how to do that.  Sadly I am inept at embedding photos.

Anyway, now it is nearly 8:00 p.m. and I must begin prepping for the week's classes.

And this is (pretty much) how my weekends always go.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Arkansas Forever!

Driving home from the Harps today, the kid says to me, in a give-it-to-me straight voice, "So...we're going to be stuck in Arkansas forever, right?"

"Darling," I said, "I am applying for jobs as fast as I can."

"It's not that there's anything wrong with Arkansas," she said, looking out of the window as we drove down what was, admittedly, probably the worst street in all of Fort Smith (Zero Ave -- well, okay, Midland or Towson might be worse -- but Zero is pretty horrible).  "It's just..."

"I know, I know."

"It's just I'm happier when I'm anywhere else."

"I know."

But!  Today!  On the Chronicle!  A job appeared that I can actually get.  One I'm qualified for, I mean, that's my perfect job!  In Billings, MT.

I cannot tell you how much I have always wanted to live in Montana.  Oh, boy, oh, boy!

I am applying forthwith.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Women's Lit -- Suggestions?

So I'm teaching a Women's Lit class next semester. I've got some ideas for texts to teach, but I'm looking for suggestions -- y'all tell me: if you were teaching a class called Women's Lit and you could teach any books (fiction, non-fic, plays, poetry, whatever!) what would you put on the reading list?

In actual fact, I am probably going to be limited to about eight books. And the list I have already compiled is already too long.

Still! Give me suggestions!

I am especially interested in books outside the box, btw. I have already thought of the obvious -- Room of One's Own and Herland and all that. Give me some rockin titles!

Update: Here's the list I have already -- but it's very tentative! As in I want a lot of suggestions, because I'm not at all happy with this list!

Women’s Literature Possible Reading List

Woolf, Virginia. A Room of One’s Own

Christina Rosetti, “Goblin Market.”

Shulasmith Firestone, The Dialectic of Sex

Larsen, Nella. Passing

Jacobs, Harriet. Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl

Davis, Rebecca Harding. Life in the Iron Mills

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins. Herland

Butler, Octavia. Bloodchild.

Kingston, Maxine. The Woman Warrior.

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaiden’s Tale

Bujold, Ethan of Athos

Joanna Russ, The Female Man

LeGuin short stories

Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Dreams

Thursday, September 06, 2012

TOC for The Other Half of the Sky

Here's a very cool TOC for the anthology The Other Half of the Sky.

Not just the table of contents, but the first lines for each story, and something I have never seen before, a little mini-book of the same, very nifty.

Go see.

Wednesday, September 05, 2012

This is like the plague

I don't know what this disease is, but it's horrible. I've been in bed since Saturday -- today is the first day I could even really get up, and I still feel awful. I'm teaching my morning classes at the U. and then going home again.

Probably it was a mistake to come in at all.

High fever and bone aches, vomiting, headache, sneezing -- I guess it's a flu?

I don't recommend it.

Monday, September 03, 2012

More News of The Other Half of the Sky

(X-Posted at FanSci)


I've been sick as a dog with some sort of virus (I hope it's a virus and not Ebola) all weekend. (My kid informs me that Ebola is a virus.)


So I bring you, rather than an extensive post, a link to two interviews with Athena Andreadis, one of which -- this one, on World SF -- talks extensively about the new anthology she has put together, The Other Half of the Sky, and the other, at SF Signal, where Athena talks about SF more generally.


You might remember The Other Half of the Sky because I was so pleased to have my story in the anthology; in any case, it's an impressive project.


Here's is Athena Andreadis' list of what she wanted in the stories for the anthology This is taken from the World SF interview):

– Space opera(ish) and/or mythic, but it has to be SF — not fantasy;

– female protagonist(s), who do not (nor are made to) feel guilty about career versus family;

– content and style geared to adult readers, not YA “finding one’s self/place”;

– no “big ideas” Leaden Age SF or near-future earthbound cyber/steampunk.


The TOC will be out in a few days; I'm already itching with anticipation.




Friday, August 31, 2012

But Someone On The Internet Was Wrong...

So like an idiot I got involved in an internet argument on some guy's blog over the Akin issue.

I'd link you, but fuck this guy and his internet jerk readers.

The gist of the argument they put up was that (a) Akin was right, not that many women did get pregnant through rape and (b) even if he was wrong, so what, a baby is still a baby, amirite? and (c) women should just stop whining, it's not like being pregnant is a big deal, as compared to, you know DYING, which is what happens to the baby when the woman kills it just to save herself the trouble of having to give birth to a rape-baby, the selfish slut.

I knew better, but I entered a couple of comments -- one saying Akin was wrong; one saying that the real issue wasn't over abortion/not abortion in this case anyway, but over his suggestion that there could be something called "illegitimate" rape; and finally that, listen, seriously, pregnancy is a big deal.

I mentioned that -- quite beyond the complications attendant to pregnancy, such as nerve damage, debilitating heartburn, sleeplessness, exhaustion, loss of income, some of which problems may end with the delivery of the child (or not -- I still have the debilitating heartburn and the sciatica) -- that carrying a child to term was risky (quite a bit more risky than having a legal abortion*).

I added that I happened to know how dangerous childbirth could be from personal experience, since I had nearly died myself, giving birth to my daughter.**

The response, from these Pro-Life gentlemen?

Mockery.

"Oh, I am so glad to discover just how dangerous it is to have babies. I guess my wife and myself just got lucky, when we had our four!"

"Heartburn and swollen feet? Wow, that does sound horrible! Better get an abortion quick!"

One day I will learn that Pro-Life actually means Keep The Bitches In Their Place.

One day.



*I added this part in because an earlier comment had gone on and on about how lethal abortions were --- about how the pro-choice people were the real misogynists, since they killed both women (via "botched" abortions) and "millions" of girl babies.

**I had severe pre-eclampsia, and hovered on the edge of eclampsia for three days. The Attending didn't want to induce labor, because I was only 38 weeks pregnant. He wanted to keep me at bed rest and "let nature take its course," which was lunatic, I don't need to tell you; but my wonderful PCP finally went over his and brought in the head of OBGYN, who was like WTF? Why are we messing with this?? and induced labor.

(38 weeks is close enough to full-term, and eclampsia can kill you.)

Not that I actually cared about any of this at the time: fun fact! When you're in labor, you're just sort of whacked on the pain and the job. I mean, I knew I was probably going to die. But so long as the baby wasn't -- I remember I kept asking that ("The baby's doing okay, right?") -- I just really couldn't seem to work up an interest in my survival.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Further Ruminations on Rape

Upon review, this post sounds a little angry. I know women aren't supposed to be angry. And I will add that I am not angry at most men. Most men I know are lovely. But my God, the 27% I guess it is that are always waiting to fuck up the world.

And sure, I know, there must be a equal percentage of women out there, fucking it up for the men. But I can't help but believe it's not the same thing. Men are afraid of women because women might mock them, or refuse them, or leave them, or take their money, or refuse to give them children, or who knows what. Women are afraid of men because men might beat us, or kill us, or rape us, or do all of those things to our children. And we're afraid of that pretty much all the time, even when we're pretending not to be afraid of it.

Like when I am standing in a post office looking at the stamp machine trying to figure out how it works with my kid standing beside me. A guy comes in. Probably an okay guy. Who knows. But he's big, and he's alone, and we're alone. So I have to do the little terror assessment: is he a rapist? Will he kill us? Will he rape us? Are we safe?

And maybe you think I'm being an hysterical girl, but I cannot tell you the number of times I've had guys just like that one assault me, verbally and physically. Once at a bus stop, a guy rubbed himself -- his cock, I mean -- against me. When I yelled at him to stop he laughed. I was fifteen or sixteen, I think. Once in a bus station, a guy sat down next to me and asked me if I wanted to eat his cock. He said he would give me twenty dollars. Once when I was riding my bike and the tire went flat, a guy stopped and told me he'd give me a ride home if I would fuck him. When I said no, he drove really slowly along beside me for a long time -- it was a highway without much traffic -- telling me he was a good fuck and I wouldn't be sorry and I looked like I needed a good fuck anyway, why not?

So no. Maybe most guys aren't going to assault me, or my kid. Maybe I am safe in most places. Maybe I shouldn't be so angry because it's only some guys and not all of them.

But here's the thing -- when I yelled at that guy at the bus stop to stop it, and he laughed, no one else at the bus stop did a fucking thing. When the guy in the pickup was trolling me, offering to fuck me because I looked like I needed it, none of the other cars passing by stopped to see whether I needed help. And if I had gotten raped, there on that highway? Lots of people would have said I'd had it coming. What was I doing riding alone on that semi-deserted highway, after all? Being a girl and all? Possessor of a vagina? Didn't I KNOW that someone like me has no business going out into the world, acting like she has the right to ride a bicycle anywhere she wants, just like she's equal and shit?

That's what guys in that pickup are for, to teach little misses like me a lesson: we aren't equal. We don't have the right to go anywhere we want. We need to be taught better.

And I did get taught better, by the way. I had been a long distance cycler before that, riding miles and miles through the landscapes of Louisiana, but I quit after that. I never rode my bicycle long distances again. I stuck to well-lighted parks and tame landscapes. Like a girl. Like a girl should. I got tamed.

The men win. That's what makes me so angry, I guess. They scare us enough that many of us shut up. We don't ride our bikes across the world. We don't finish our Ph.Ds. We don't get angry, because good girls don't. We don't wear that sassy dress. We stay home after dark. We keep our heads down.

And we don't speak up.






Saturday, August 25, 2012

Ruminations on Rape

So I know many of us are getting rape-fatigue, ever since Akin started educating us about what was real rape and what was just women trying to get over on the menfolk with their Monday-morning second-thoughts or whatever, but I find I just can't let this go.

Especially since whenever the subject comes up on the net or the blogosphere or even in meatspace, what I find happening, 8 times out of 10, is fellas telling the women how rape works.

Men, mansplaining to women, what rape is.

Guys, setting women straight, about the rape experience.

And you know, I ought to be used to this shit by now. I do live in this world. I did sit through six years as an undergraduate, and nine years of graduate school, with many, many seminars. I know what happens when men and women are in a room together. Guys talk, and women get shut up.

Even when it's a subject about which the women might know more than the men: guys talk, and women shut up.

If, by chance, the women speak up? And that has happened to me. When I was a senior graduate student, I was one of a group of three women, all of us feminists, all of us tough, all of us much smarter and working much harder than any of the men in the program -- so we did speak up, all the time, in classes and in seminars. What happened? We got mocked and teased, sometimes gently, and sometimes not so gently, by other students and by the professors. "The three harpies," one of the professors called us.

Of the three of us? I was the only one to finish my Ph.D. That kind of shit will take its toll on you.

But my point! And I do have one.

Women are instructed, from their earliest childhood, that they should not speak unless they are certain they have something brilliant to say. And even when they speak up and say something brilliant, what they say is often discounted -- it goes unheard. And if what they say is about men, if it is derogatory in any aspect? They can count on being attacked for it.

In fact, what they say doesn't even have to be derogatory. A woman talking about men, unless she praises men lavishly, is automatically going to be seen as a harpy. Even when what she says is neutral, she is a harpy. If what she says criticizes a man -- any man, even a rapist -- then she is in the wrong.

So. A friend of mine, on FB, posts about her experience as a rape survivor.

She immediately gets not one but several men explaining to her that she is wrong, that men aren't all rapists. She gets accused of treating men like criminals. She gets explained to her that she is not allowed to make men feel bad by talking about rape as though it were something men did.

Wow, I feel like a victim after reading these comments. Maybe I am not that well of a reader, but after reading this, I know I am a man and I am a republican so that makes me a rapist. That is how I felt.

One gentleman suggests, in fact, that women are responsible for rape -- after all, they give out "mixed signals" -- and expecting men to interpret those mixed signals is unfair.

... a woman sending mixed signals (which does happen) must be treated like a very confused child, i.e. gently and dispassionately. This implies higher expectations of behavior for men and women.

Another claims that the solution for rape is that men should be put in charge.

Let me propose a solution, to be worked out among men: substantiated claims of rape are punished with a good beating. If men are inherently violent, then let a norm in favor of women's dignity prevail, and let men police men. Will it ever happen? I don't know. Would women thank men? Yes

But the real problem -- always -- is women talking about men.

Now I know not all guys are like these guys. (Thank God.) But.

But here's the thing.

It is so exhausting.

Hard as we try, women, to remember all the guys that are not like these guys, and there are a lot of guys that are not like these guys, and are not like that professor who sneered at my friends and me in graduate school -- who hated us because we were good students, hard-working students, smart students, all of that and women, and that was wrong, in his worldview, you just can't have that, the best students in his seminar could not be women, so he had to do something to grind us down and make us quit --

Not all guys are like that.

I try hard to remember that.

All the guys not like that professor and the idiots who post comments about fat bitches and ugly sluts and how obviously I'm not getting enough sex or I wouldn't be so angry.

I try hard to remember the great students I have who are guys and the fact that Dr. Skull is a guy and he's not like that, and the feminist male bloggers I know who aren't like that.

I try to forget the professor my colleague who made the comment about how tits like that didn't hurt when it came to getting hired, huh; I try to think instead of every instructor and colleague and student who has treated me like a human.

And you know it's all right until some twenty year old shit yells at me out of his pick-up, roaring down Grand Avenue, "Hey, bitch, want to get fucked?"

Because they can always do that: men can always, always remind us that we only have the illusion of being equal citizens. That any time they want to, they can take it away. That any time they want to, they can roar up in their pickups, drag us down, and fuck us.

You know, legitimately or otherwise.

And Todd Akin and all his horde of male jurors will get to decide whether it is rape or whether we were asking for it. Not us. Because we're just women. We don't have a voice here. Not in America. Not yet. And maybe never.


Tuesday, August 21, 2012

What, Really?

Saw the surgeon for my post-op check up and it turns out that what I thought was just an exploratory arthroscopy was the actual surgery.

IOW, he already cut out my bone spurs and inflamed bits. That's why I hurt so much over the past ten days. "Yeah," he said. "Anytime you cut on bone, there's gonna be pain."

Good news: no second surgery.

Bad news: longer recovery than I had expected, and I start PT on Tuesday.

Have I mentioned how much I hate PT?

Monday, August 20, 2012

Man

What a long day.

It didn't help that I can't take Vicodin & teach, so I was in agony for most of it.

Good classes, though.

Now I'm home, and have swallowed my first pain pill, along with an anti-inflammatory, and am drinking an icy seltzer, waiting for drugs to kick in...

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Here Comes The Future Like A Great Big Rock

I'm teaching four classes with four different preps this semester.

This is only the 3,500th time I've done this, so you would think I would be used to it and quit whining. In fact, one memorable semester when I was teaching in NC I taught seven classes in one semester with seven different preps, and my kid was less than two years old when I started the semester, too. What a lovely semester that was! One of the classes was New Testament Greek, which I had neither taken nor taught before -- I had to teach myself koine Greek while I taught it, IOW. Wow. Good times!

This semester, at least the kid is fourteen and can fend (mostly) for herself. I'm teaching

  • Major Authors: Octavia Butler
  • English Grammar
  • Literature of Diverse Culture: LGBTQ Literature
  • ENGL 1203: Comp I
Two of these I have taught before; two never. All of them are prep-intensive -- that is, they will require a great deal of reading, research, and other work before I teach each class.

OTOH, all of them (except maybe the comp class, but eh, that has its charms too) are classes I would have given my left arm to teach in Graduate School, so, yeah.

Speaking of my left arm -- wow, does it hurt. I'm seeing the surgeon on Tuesday, I guess to find out what they learned during the arthroscopy. Right now it hurts more than it did before the procedure. I am still getting a nice supply of Vicodin, but man, it doesn't do more than take the barest edge of the pain.

But! Since I can't sleep (the shoulder hurts too much to let me sleep) I've got all these extra hours to prep in. Win win!

Thursday, August 16, 2012

So Long As We Both Shall Never...

So this post over on Unfogged touched off an unexpectedly interesting conversation between Dr. Skull and me.

The gist of the post is that Alameida is surprised, though not threatened, to find that her husband would not take her back if she ever cheated on him -- they had never had this conversation before, and his answer is not the one she was expecting.

It occurred to me, as I was reading through the comments (the comments are always 98% of the point, over on Unfogged) that, in fact, Dr. Skull and I had never had this conversation.

We'd had a variation on this conversation: early in our marriage we had the Beyond-Which-Boundary? conversation, the one where you say, Okay, what exactly would you have to do for me to say that is unforgivable, our marriage is over?

Mine was if he hit my kid (we didn't even have a kid yet); his was if I left him. Since neither are likely to happen, we're okay I guess. But we never even thought to discuss fucking around on one another.

AS IT HAPPENED, I had this thought while I was lying bed next to Dr. Skull reading Unfogged on my iPad. So I kicked him in the knee and said, "Hey."

"Whut?" he said. He was reading Lord of the Rings for the 900th time.

"What if I slept with someone else?" I asked.

"Why? Are you going to?"

I snorted. As if. "But if I did. Would you take me back?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Yes, I'd take you back. Don't do it."

"I'm not, Jesus. But you'd really take me back?" I admit I was surprised, though I don't know why.

"Yes." He turned a page.

I thought this over.

"Don't do it," he added again.

"I'm not," I said. "Fuck's sake." I kicked his knee again and moved onto another blog.

I've just noticed he didn't ask me the same question. Hmm.