A small story:

"I LIKE this dress!" Consort says appreciatively. I nod in agreement; it's very flattering, clever enough to keep me from yelling about who would pay over $700 for this dress. I mean, I wouldn't but I respect that someone with near-infinite resources would.
I swish around so the dress can have a moment and Consort says happily, "I'm glad you're enjoying this experiment."

I stop mid-swish.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," I say, then add, "I mean, it's fine. It's a good writing prompt."

Even the best couples have unbridgeable chasms.
I think of Consort's temperament as the byproduct of his Mediterranean ancestors, a man capable of great pleasure merely by being surrounded by the things in this world which matter to him. A great red wine being drunk with lifelong friends on a lakeside porch?

Joy.
I admire this and love this in him - I thrill when I see this inclination in Kid - but suspect I either lack this gene or the epigenetic material of trauma switched it off very early. Anything outside me can, will leave and as such, must on some level be treated as already gone.
Therefore, in my Northern European (and also insane) reasoning, enjoying something which is already gone well...that's verging on necrophilia.

I am constitutionally suspicious of enjoyment; the highest praise I will extend to most objects in my life is "It's fine."
I know enough Catholic- and Jewish-mother jokes to know that the end of that sentence is supposed to be, "...i'll just sit in the dark," but I promise you, I'm not saying it's fine to leverage guilt. If I say something is fine, I mean I can imagine living with, and without, it.
I'll admit, "It's fine" does have a shadow side. Things that are comfortable unsettle me; when we finally bought a new mattress I was not allowed to pick the mattress firmness because I angled toward "brick."

"It's so perfectly unyielding," I said, staring at the store ceiling.
"So, you're a joyless lump."

I prefer to see it as "My ceaseless vigilance allows you happy souls to gambol about."

You know, like a Belgian Malinois, a breed I have always secretly coveted, in part because it would be nice to have someone in the house to share the workload.
This is one of Consort's favorite pictures of me, which he took when Kid was about two. Kid was frolicking around the park, Consort was walking back from the car from having grabbed something. As he explains, "First, I saw her, having fun. Then, I saw you."
Something about the ease of my body and the absolute focus of my eyes pleased him. He liked this picture so much, he had Preschool-Age Kid create the frame for it.

I just showed it to him and he said, "I love that picture."

He then asked, "Do you love it?"
"It's me," I said honestly, "So, 'loving it' is not an option but it pleases me. It's very Malinois."

It's been over a quarter of a century together.

He knew better than to ask what that meant.
If pressed - and what is a personal story but an opportunity to press the sore places and see if they are still sore? - I'd say that I view enjoyment, pleasure, comfort as moments of fragility, weakness. I already know the secret; what you love, will leave.
What I have replaced those feelings with are satisfaction, a ferocity over protecting and supporting my loved ones. One of my loved ones is my writing. I wore the dresses for my writing, to give me new writing ideas; whether the dresses look good or not is immaterial.
I explained all this to Consort, who had the grace to mute his sigh to barely audible. As a thank you, I dress-swished a few more times before I returned it.
(Trust me, it's much better-looking than this but, like the wearer, doesn't photograph well)
Did I say $700?

I was mistaken.

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More from @quinncy

12 Oct
A few weeks ago, it was suggested a certain “self-made” “billionaire” is expecting a male child.

Court Jester immediately suggested a terrible joke, a joke so bad Quinn informed her, “That joke is not going out.”

She agreed, but suggested we send it to @AlecMapa.

“Fine.”
He laughed.
This morning, I saw this.
Read 5 tweets
9 Oct
Started the podcast and realized, "I MUST LISTEN TO THIS BOOK!"

Got it on @librofm.

@HallieRubenhold has written a compelling, fact-based, sympathetic but clear-eyed history of the people who actually matter in the Jack the Ripper stories; the victims.

Think you know them?
You probably don't.

For one, they were probably not sex workers. Not that their job matters but it set the narrative of blame, a narrative which continues. Rubenhold tells some harrowing stories in her podcast of Ripperheads rating the victims in terms of their sexual appeal.
(You already know that the people attacking her on social media for telling their actual stories, for not being interested in "solving" the case, for giving the victims their humanity back are, by a wide margin, men)
Read 21 tweets
9 Oct
A small story:

Very small.

I don't think you will be surprised to learn I have zero interest or aptitude for the domestic arts. If you've ever heard any of the Biblical passage waxing lyrical about what a real woman does (Proverbs 31:10-31), well, I am Goofus to that Gallant.
This past year, I was (badly) ironing some dress shirt belonging to Consort as we were going to a Zoom funeral. I was watching a pleasantly anodyne baking show while I ironed when I suddenly realized the shirt was done and I still had more show.

I like things to line up.
I looked around and spotted the sheets I was about to (badly) fold and put away. On a whim, I ironed the pillowcases. Owing to them being rectangles, some might even say I didn't do it badly. I started the show again and the baker who won the week mentioned orange-flower water.
Read 6 tweets
8 Oct
My father-in-law was a cameraman who won two Emmys for his work shooting live. Because of his experience, he was brought on for a new live weekend sketch comedy show, where he worked until he retired. He worked for decades in the business, rarely said anything bad about anyone.
There was exactly one person he said was a fucking asshole.
Huh.

It's Chevy Chase's birthday.
Read 4 tweets
7 Oct
A small story:

"Quinn, you seem to enjoy needling idiots."

I do.

"Fish in barrel."

Sometimes, yes.

But also, no.

I suspect but cannot prove that part of what got us here was entirely too much "Let the idiots wear themselves out."

Idiots are built for endurance.
While the adults are waiting for these demented child-golems to stop screaming and setting things on fire, they've convinced five more previously borderline-reasonable souls to scream and set things on fire and yes, the first idiots are tired but also, more fires.
Ideally, needling is like tying ankle weights on them, wearing them down faster. Perfect world, the idiot is embarrassed enough to go wandering off for at least a few minutes to shit on their own toothbrush or listen to @hughhewitt.
Read 21 tweets
5 Oct
A small story:

Mustn't brag but you know you're maybe taking too many Zoom Sculpt classes when the teaches says, "You seemed a little distracted yesterday."

"I was," I answered, nervously eyeing all the accessories we need for class; chair AND resistance band is not good.
I continued, "Small domestic drama was playing out."

I explained that while she was running us through various weight-related tortures, Kid was in lockdown in Doodlehaus because a neighbor had reported a man with a gun in their neighborhood.

"AND YOU STAYED IN CLASS?"
She shouted that but I'm guessing you did as well. I told her what I will now tell you: they were in the inner rooms of Doodlehaus, away from windows; the lights were off; several of her cheerful male roommates were there.

"You sitting on the ground?" I texted Kid.
Read 19 tweets

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