Impressions from this weekend

1. A Piper Saratoga drops like a hot rock if you dump the gear and the flaps, pull power back, etc.
2. I'm getting better at dancing C4. (I know I keep saying this. I really am still learning! There's a lot of it to learn.)
3. There's a cat in Sacramento named Mr. Beasley who is one of the most affectionate, sweet cats alive.
4. Wrote a good six thousand words this weekend. Phew, I needed that. I'm somewhere between 22K and 25K now.
5. If you tell people you are writing a novel, they will want nothing more than to chat with you about why you're doing it and what the book is about and are you published yet. They won't wanna just let you WRITE. If you tell people (square dancers) that you're writing square dance choreo, though, they nod and move on.
6. Feeding three kitties tuna packed in oil is a very smelly operation.
7. But the smell is worse the next morning when one of 'em decides to lose last night's dinner.
8. You folks write a LOT. I got up to skip=375 this morning. Yi.

Memories of a person

All right, gals, raise your hands: how many of you got to read something like Growing Up and Liking It at or near puberty? (Link courtesy amywithani, who succinctly describes this thing as "creepy".) In this one, three girls close to menarche discuss puberty and menstruation with each other by writing letters.

I was given this very booklet. I remember to this day that each girl had her own font, and I had a vague memory that they all had different background colors too. I remembered very little of the wording (and that's probably for the best).

I read it before the move to Natick, making me very close to nine years old. My folks signed on the Natick house on my ninth birthday. I might have been eight still, but not by much.

Nine. Yup. As I recall, my mother at age eleven hadn't been told what would happen, and she was terrified when she saw blood, so she was determined that wouldn't be the way it was for her daughters. So, nine. Or maybe eight. She explained where babies came from, too. I suppose I was a well-educated nine-year-old. (Guys my father's age were already hitting on me, so I suppose in retrospect that it was a good thing I had a bit of clue.)

Oddly enough, even with all these flowery descriptions and warnings, for me puberty wasn't terrifying to look forward to. I understood the birds and the bees and was firm in my conviction that I would "never do that" -- and my mother, bless her heart, didn't let slip that I might not have a choice. I knew there'd be blood, and that everyone said it was okay, so I naively assumed that it would in fact be okay. No one anywhere admitted that it would hurt. So looking forward to it wasn't bad. I just assumed puberty wouldn't affect me. After all, even at age nine, I already knew I wasn't a girl, I was a person.

O'course, once it hit, it was truly awfully bad. And the denial about the pain continued -- even after it DID hurt, and I SAID so, no one would admit that there was any possibility I might be right. And it wasn't long before I figured out that in many ways I wasn't a person after all, no, not if I was a girl. (The guys my father's age helped out a lot in opening my eyes here. But then again, so did lots of folks: my teachers, a coupla my early boyfriends, a doctor or two.)

Twenty-five years later there is hope that I might get rid of the pain surgically. It could cost me every penny I have, or only some. I could spend months recuperating from the surgery, or only a few weeks. I just don't know. I suppose I could throw a party. Shall I call it my twelfth birthday or so as a "person"? Maybe one day I can grow up to be something cool, like a Blue Angels pilot.

I also want a pony.