Monthly Archives: December 2015

Finished this book: The Heart Goes Last by Margaret Atwood

Cover of The Heart Goes Last by Margaret Atwood.

Cover of The Heart Goes Last by Margaret Atwood.

I’m a big fan of dystopias and (post-)apocalyptic stories. And basically, when Margaret Atwood writes scifi, she is writing for me. I love her understated style, and the way she can write about the most horrible things in a matter-of-fact kind of way.

The Heart Goes Last is set in the USA after part of the country has experienced an utter economic collapse. The story follows a youngish heterosexual couple (Stan and Charmaine) as they make a lifetime commitment to an enclave that promises shelter, employment, and safety. Of course, once they sign up and are committed, they start to find out all kinds of things about the place (and their relationship), and Atwood does her usual morbidly thorough job at imagining the possibilities.

Charmaine is a fairly common type of female protagonist for Atwood. While they are all different, many of them share some basic elements of being concerned for social conventions, but also being almost ruthlessly  pragmatic and practical and sensible no matter what’s going on. There’s often a really delightful dissonance—and a simultaneous, almost inevitable consonance—between the character’s beliefs and actions. In this book, for example, Charmaine is very concerned with doing her job professionally, efficiently, and compassionately, and this leads her to (*major spoilers deleted*).

The last third of the book was… Oh, I hate to say this. It was not really up to Atwood’s usual work. it was as if she was trying to fit too much in, and so she couldn’t pay enough attention to each piece.

I found the ending a little too pat, but upon further reflection, it had something  to say about Charmaine’s ideas about relationships and her capacity for freedom. So while I had a bit of an eyeroll near the end, I have come to appreciate it more with some thought—although again, it was not as strong as I have come to expect of Atwood.

I devoured this book in a couple of days, fitting time for it around other stuff. It made me think of one of those massive holiday meals: so much preparation goes into it and then it gets eaten in no-time-flat. Fortunately, there are no dishes to do—but as with most of Atwood’s books, there’s always an aftermath for me as it takes me a while to get her books out of my head and move on to another.

 

The Heart Goes Last by Margaret Atwood. 2015.

 

Finished this book: If Morning Ever Comes by Anne Tyler

Cover if If Morning Ever Comes by Anne Tyler

Cover if If Morning Ever Comes by Anne Tyler. Usually I try to find the cover image from the actual copy of the book I read, but my copy is so old that I can’t even find the cover art online… So here’s a different version.

Ben Joe Hawkes is the only male in a family of many sisters. He worries about his sisters and mom a lot but they seem to be doing fine without him. This book opens with Ben Joe off at college and kind of depressed as well as anxious about changes in his family; he heads home and the story takes place over a short period of time while he’s staying back at home. We find out a lot about Ben Joe and his dad (who’s no longer around), but the women all stay rather mysterious. It’s a shame, because most of them seem quite intriguing.

This book was written over fifty years ago, and it does have a bit of an old-fashioned feel to it. It is gentle and easy, in a kind of odd way. Maybe because all of the tropes are so familiar, so there’s no challenge. Everyone is white and straight and believes roughly the same things about relationships and manners and how people should move through the world. The one exception ends up getting smoothed down (look: no real spoiler, though!).

I like Tyler’s writing style, especially her dialogue. This is a sad and yet pleasant book. I mean, maybe it’s just me who finds it kind of sad how people are so constrained by all the unspoken societal expectations and norms that pressure them into certain acts, but in this book they seem so inevitable that the sadness is there but in a kind of resigned way, if that makes sense.

I’m always curious as to why a woman writer would choose a male protagonist. But the more I think about this book, the more it feels like Ben Joe is totally steered by the choices the women around him are making. He’s not the kind of person who really puts his foot down much, while the women in the book seem to have more direction (even though that direction is pretty traditional).

If Morning Ever Comes by Anne Tyler. 1964. ISBN 0425098834.

Finally got to play with my new loom

First I hemmed the work in progress that was already on the loom when I got it.

First I hemmed the work in progress that was already on the loom when I got it.

Back at the beginning of November, I got a new-to-me loom. It was one of those via-via things: the owner of the loom died last year, and her son was finally cleaning out her condo. The son’s partner is in an artist’s collective with a good friend of mine, who heard about the available loom and asked if I was interested, with the caveat that they wanted it gone quickly.

Did I want it? Of course! Could I transport it, and did I have room for it, and do I really need another loom? No, no, and no. But I really miss weaving. My jack-type Artisat loom is in the Room-Formerly-Known-as-My-Studio, and currently known as my bromate’s digs. There is no other place I can put the loom, since it has to be locked away from the cats (all those strings and threads and ribbons and dangly bits: can you say “vet bill,” boys and girls?). Continue reading

Finished this book: How Stella Got Her Groove Back by Terry McMillan

Cover of How Stella Got Her Groove Back by Terry McMillan

Cover of How Stella Got Her Groove Back by Terry McMillan

Warning: Full of spoilers.

This is an entertaining “beach book”—a quick and undemanding read. It was a fun look at a boy-May / girl-December relationship, although it was somewhat marred for me by the countless times Stella let her defensiveness and insecurities run wild. “Oh god, he didn’t come to the phone right away, well to hell with him, I knew he wasn’t really interested. “Shit, I still don’t have a letter from him, well screw him, I knew this was just a fling for him.” “He’s a few minutes late for our date, well goddammit, I guess he found someone his own age, what would he want with an old lady like me anyway.” And so on and so forth ad nauseam.

On the other hand, it’s nice light reading, and it was a pleasure to read a book where none of the protagonists were white. I liked the pieces about Stella’s relationships with her sisters, and how she parents her son. Stories where the main character has no money worries are always kind of fascinating to me, in a “wow, I wonder if that’s what I would do if I wasn’t always so broke” kind of way. It was good to see how Stella eventually decided to return to making her art, although it would have been interesting to hear more about that and rather less about the detailed lists of items she bought on her shopping sprees.

A nice light book, although it is sad to me that Stella’s groove came back because of the man; I would have liked to see her art be the groove-maker. Although it is entirely possible that I am misunderstanding the concept of groove.

Apparently this book has been made into a movie and I am the last North American who hasn’t seen it yet.

How Stella Got Her Groove Back by Terry McMillan. 1996. ISBN 9780140259627.

 

1978: The Steve Miller Band opens for The Eagles

 

Blogger sonofabeach96 posts often about music history. One of his recent posts reminded me of the very first concert I ever attended. So this throwback post is for you, son. 🙂

On July 27, 1978, the Steve Miller Band opened for the Eagles at Assiniboia Downs in Winnipeg. My mom, who was only 32 at the time, really wanted to go but couldn’t find anyone to go with her. So she took me (just turned 8), my brother (6), and two of my cousins (9 and 12). The venue was an open field with rush “seating” (grab a spot and stake out your tarp, basically).

I got my mom to retell the story the other day, and she put a lot of emphasis on how often we kids all had to use the toilet. At one point, the lineup for the women’s toilets was super long, and there was nobody waiting for the men’s. My mom says I just sized up the situation, zipped into the men’s washroom, and emerged drying my freshly-washed hands and looking very pleased with myself (that does sound like me). She was laughing at how much of the concert she viewed from the toilet lineups.

I asked her why in the world she would take four little kids to a concert like that with no other adult to help, and she just shrugged “I thought it would be fun!” And besides, she added, my 12-year-old cousin could be trusted with two kids at the blanket while she took the fourth kid to the can. So it all worked out!

I have two memories of that concert. In one, we are all sitting on a blanket. In my memory, it is one of those acrylic blankets with the wide satin trim—remember those? But my mom says she can’t remember what blanket it was (and kind of side-eyed me for asking about such a detail, haha!). I remember jostling for space with the others, and there were lots of people around us.

I think there were several opening acts. By the time the penultimate band played, we kids were exhausted, so my mom had to start packing up to take us home. My second memory of the concert is of sitting on a bench in the dark and seeing the stage very far away and bright, with tiny people on it. The crowd was a sea of shadowy heads. My mom remembers this as well. She said that as we were headed for the parking lot, the Eagles started playing Hotel California. She stopped at a bench to listen to that song. I loved hearing her retell this story for lots of reasons, but mostly because of the smile on her face when she remembered this.

When I was a kid, my mom’s music was my music. I was probably twelve or so before I realised that other types of music weren’t random anomalies but actual genres. Mostly I thought all music was the Eagles, and Led Zeppelin, and Meatloaf. Foreigner and Loverboy and Toto and 10CC and Eric Clapton and Neil Young and the Who and the Guess Who and Supertramp and the Rolling Stones and CSNY and Bob Dylan and Billy Joel and Queen. Van Morrison, ELO, the Moody Blues, Elton John, Dire Straits, Tom Petty, ZZ Top, Boney M… And above all, Pink Floyd. The family still goes wild for Pink Floyd; my uncles close their eyes and moan, and my mom sings along happily.

It’s not my music anymore, not in terms of what I choose to listen to around the house. But when I hear it, I am carried back to my childhood. The nights I spent falling asleep in my bunk-bed to the comforting vibration of bass, the way my mom and her siblings let their faces open up with joy when their favourite music plays, the lyrics to hundreds of 70s songs that still pop fully-formed into my mind when the first notes of those old songs play… These are some of my best childhood memories. I’m grateful that my mom thought it would be fun to take a pack of kids to an outdoor concert. We don’t often listen to the same music anymore, but we still talk about music a lot. I listen when she has something special to play for me, and she has made it out to a couple of my gigs. I’m glad that she has always loved music so much, and that she has passed that appreciation on to me.

In true sonofabeach96 style, here’s a list of some of faves from when I was just a pup:

Pink Floyd: One of These Days

Boney M: Rasputin

10CC: Dreadlock Holiday

The Guess Who: American Woman

Santana: Black Magic Woman

The Moody Blues: Melancholy Man

Electric Light Orchestra: Don’t Bring Me Down

Loverboy: Turn Me Loose

Finished this book: Warrior Poet: A Biography of Audre Lorde by Alexis De Veaux

warriorpoet

Biographies aren’t generally my thing, but Audre Lorde—“black, lesbian, feminist, mother, poet warrior” (her own words)—is a writer whose writing has had a profound effect on my life and thinking about the world. I had come across her poetry in (I think) the late 80s, and was intrigued. Imagine my surprise when I signed up for a few Women’s Studies courses and discovered that some of Lorde’s essays from Sister Outsider were on the syllabi. Next time I re-read Sister Outsider or her other books, I’ll talk more about that, but for now, let me just say that she’s one of the people whose writing has greatly influenced my thinking about race, gender, social justice, the value of art, and the need to live my politics rather than just talking about them.

So when I came across Warrior Poet by Alexis De Veaux, I was excited to have a chance to learn more about Lorde and how she grew into the icon she became. I have to admit the book sat on my shelf for a very long time, because as I mentioned above, the idea of biographies doesn’t excite me (although when I buckle down and get started, I tend to enjoy them—go figure). Continue reading

Some Sources of My Christmas Stress

People at work keep stopping by my desk to harass me about Christmas. Well, to be fair, they are stopping by everyone’s desk, and they probably think of it as “small talk” rather than “harassment.”

But honestly I am getting so sick of deflecting the casual questions. Are you ready for Christmas? Got your tree up? Have you done all your Christmas shopping? What are you doing for Christmas? Got a big Christmas planned? Spending time with your family for Christmas this year?

I used to just go along with it and shove down all my holiday stress to not make the conversation awkward. But now, I think screw that, why should I be uncomfortable because you are asking some personal questions loaded with cultural assumptions and obliviousness? Continue reading

Finished this book: Gardens in the Dunes (by Leslie Marmon Silko)

Cover of Gardens in the Dunes by Leslie Marmon Silko

Cover of Gardens in the Dunes by Leslie Marmon Silko

This is a lovely, layered, complex book weaving together the stories of many people connected to two sisters of the Sand Lizard tribe, Indigo and Sister Salt, back around the turn of the last century.

There were three themes I really enjoyed. One is the ways in which difference and similarity are interwoven. For example, When Indigo sees some ancient pre-Christian European statues, she immediately recognises Bird Woman and Snake Woman from her own beliefs. These kinds of interconnections are made throughout the book and by multiple characters.

The second theme is that of personal agency. Although Indigo is still a child when her life starts taking unexpected turns, she is always thinking about how she can and should act to survive, to be reunited with her family, and to continue the important work of looking toward the future and the past. Continue reading

Living Alone and Loving It (I Can’t Wait)

 

Blogger sonofabeach96 posted My Nurture Trumps My Nature the other day, in which he talks a bit about his solitary nature and how that works with his married-with-kids life. He was inspired by blogger Kim who has started Who But You (the living alone project), a blog series about living alone.

I really enjoyed reading through these posts. There have only been two times in my life when I have lived alone, and I have loved it. The last time was for the year after my divorce. It was a very tough year in some ways: major home renovations, the emotional aftermath of divorce, my health taking a nosedive, and the coldest winter in over a century (with only me to walk the dogs and shovel the walks).

But in other ways it was delicious. Continue reading

Best Relationship Quote Ever

Okay, so by now you all know that I love Captain Awkward’s advice. I’m slowly making my way through the archives, and the other day I came across the best relationship quote ever.

You know how we always talk about how relationships (friendships, family relationships, love relationships) take work? That we have to expend effort to get something back, and so forth? Well, I always thought of the “work” in this equation as something unpleasant. As in: the effort expended when things are going well isn’t actually work, but the stuff you have to do to repair or maintain a crappy relationship / friendship is what we mean by “work.” Continue reading

Research is important but it’s not necessarily accurate

Rumpydog posted yesterday about a study comparing dog people to cat people. I was intrigued, but also (as usual) prepared to be hypercritical of research assumptions and methodologies, and in particular the “commonsense” taken-for-granted beliefs that shape the initial formulations of hypotheses. I love good research and an armful of endnotes, but part of what I love about it is looking for flaws. (Although when you point out my typos I will be embarrassed and probably need a bunch of cookies for comfort.) Continue reading

Happy Holidays

Hi everyone! I don’t reblog much, but I was entertained and moved by this lovely glimpse into the life of an assistance dog and her family. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. And while this post offers a very gentle reminder about assistance dog etiquette (and the logistics and rationale behind it), part of the story pissed me off enough that I’d like to remind everyone to not only BACK OFF when you see a working dog but also to keep your damned kids under control. Of course, out-of-control kids are always a pet peeve of mine, haha! Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have eaten so many sugary delicious shortbread cookies before this attempt at a reblog…?

I guess I’ll head outside with the dogs and we’ll inspect the yard for toys and new smells. Have fun slipping into Emma’s world for a while!

Big Brown Eyes

1bHappy Holidays Everybody!

Phew – there’s a lot going on at home just now.

A big ‘thank you’, licks and nuzzles to everyone who sent me get well wishes. My paw is a lot better now.

On Saturday just passed, we celebrated 19 months of my partnership with Mammy.
Daddy & Mammy simply can’t think what life would be like without me. I’ve heard them say that I completely changed their World. This appears to be a good thing – at least, it results in biscuits and fuss on a regular basis, so I’m assuming it’s a good thing.

On Thursday, Daddy and I will be taking Mammy out for her birthday. Between you and I and the water bowl, we’re probably going to go somewhere to feed the humans and then Daddy and I are taking Mammy to the theatre.
Daddy is in pantomime for his very first time…

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Saw this movie: Pirates of the Caribbean

It’s hard for me to watch movies. Two hours is a long commitment to invest in something that I know in advance will likely irritate me. Also, I find it hard to sit still for that long. Also, by the time I am ready to watch TV in the evenings, it is usually less than two hours to my bedtime, and I hate stopping shows or movies in the middle.

But I was feeling tired and cranky this weekend, so I cancelled most of my plans. On Saturday night, I stayed home with my animals (missing what I bet was a fabulous night of techno music at the Pyramid, but at least my ticket was only $10 so I wasn’t too regretsy) and decided to take a chance on a movie.

I wanted something entertaining and light but not too light—because most comedy movies leave me cold. I cracked open a bottle of wine (and was I ever surprised to see it had a cork instead of a screwtop; I’m drinking classy booze now, apparently!), Continue reading

Surrounded by Addicts

Sometimes that’s what it feels like. There’s addiction in my family, but people don’t talk about it much, if at all. I learned all the childhood things you learn in an alcoholic family system. Although I had no words to explain what was going on, I internalised the behavioural patterns that go along with this dynamic.

Almost every dating or cohabitation partner I have had has turned out to have a drinking or drug problem (or both) except for my very first love (who was Muslim, so the no-alcohol thing was part of the package).

The addictions of my partners keep taking me by surprise. I like to think I am a pretty smart and perceptive person, but if you want to figure out who’s the addict at any given party, take me along and see who I start hitting on. I’ll hop into bed with them, then fall in love and move in, but it will seriously take me weeks or months or even years to wake up one day and realise I’ve done it again. To realise I am once again emotionally and financially entangled with an addict. It makes me ragingly furious at how I’ve internalised all their bullshit, how low my self-esteem has plummeted, how stupid I have been in not seeing it coming, how naive and ignorant I am in this area. It makes me doubt myself and all my perceptions, in a way that reinforces the effects of the addict’s gaslighting and crazymaking of me during the relationship.

Basically, by the end of these relationships, I am a hot mess. I’ve believed the lies they told me to explain the red eyes and the missed appointments and the headaches and the late work nights. I’m the stable, rational, competent one who keeps the household running even though I don’t know where all the money is going and my partner is always too sick or too busy to help out. I’m generally kind of suspicious and cynical, so I am always convinced that of course I would know it if something was going on, of course I would know if my partner was drinking or doing drugs, of course nothing would slip by me.

But it slips by me all the time. And by all the time, I mean five of the seven actual relationships I’ve had over my lifetime. (One-night-stands and brief fun flings have been excluded from this study.) After my last split-up,  I decided it was time to end this ridiculous cycle, and so I resolved not to get into another relationship for at least a year.

That first year of living alone was hard, but also wonderful. It’s been three years now, and I’m still single, and I still love it. But I have not yet broken the cycle. A person with whom I am very close (but not romantically) is an addict. And our relationship has now moved into the part where the addict occasionally treats me like shit while I keep trying to smooth things over because obviously people are drunks or druggies because they are so miserable, so why would I add my anger to the mix?

For a long time, I thought I was bringing this upon myself. By being too nice, or too bitchy, or too frigid or slutty or naive or whatever. In a way, that is probably true—not that I am too anything, but that the pattern of interaction with addicts is familiar to me. I do not see the warning signs because I have been raised and trained and reinforced not to see them. This is a huge blind spot for me.

The disease model of alcoholism and addiction says that this is a biochemical disorder or predisposition to addiction. But you can be sick (cancer, AIDS, PTSD, common cold, depression,) and not be an asshole. Whereas addicts all turn out to be assholes in the end, even if they were lovely and kind people to begin with. I prefer the behavioural model of addiction because it more accurately reflects my experiences with a long chain of addicts. Behaviour is something that is learned and can be unlearned and replaced with other things.

Also, it helps me to remember that their actions are a result of their choices. Addicts will use all kinds of excuses and justifications for why they get high. A classic one within romantic relationships is “I wouldn’t need to drink if you were only nicer / more understanding / less demanding / willing to fuck more often / etc.” and this obscures the fact that the drug use is in fact a choice. And if it doesn’t feel like a choice—if the addict is really at the point where it feels like it’s no longer a matter of free will—well, being a manipulative jerk is still a choice. Emotionally abusing your partner is still a choice. Refusing to take responsibility for your own actions is still a choice. There is nothing I ever did as a teenager or a middle-aged woman or any in-between age that forced anybody in the world to take a drink or snort a line. That was their choice, every single time.

And my choice, every single time, has been to walk away. It has often taken a lot of time and agonising and therapy and journalling and crying myself to sleep, but in the end I have always decided not to stick around to be the Helpmeet Scapegoat. It is not noble or admirable to let yourself be treated like garbage under the guise of being a good, loving partner. Helping other people only goes so far: I don’t require effusive thanks and gratitude, but I DO require that people not try to blame me for their own actions. I prefer to be surrounded by people who take ownership of and responsibility for their own lives.

Which brings me to this person in my life. Yes, I have known for ages that he is an addict. I love him and worry about him. But now we have progressed to the stage where he is both leaning on me and treating me disrespectfully. And it’s been kind of a wake-up for me this week to realise that despite remaining single-on-purpose for three years, despite all my self-congratulations on how wisely I am keeping myself safe and breaking the cycle, I am right back here again. I thought the danger was in romantic relationships, but it’s not. The danger is in my huge blind spot. The blind spot that lets me Wile.E.Coyote off the edge of the cliff. Right now, I am suspended in mid-air, looking down with a comical expression of surprise and dismay, while the audience groans “Not again! When will she ever learn???”

They say people re-enact situations to try for a different outcome. If that’s the case, I feel like I am seriously failing at this lesson. I’m mad at myself for letting myself get into this situation again. But I can see two good things: The first is that I now know this problem can come from anywhere, not just romantic relationships. This is a valuable lesson.

And the second thing? I have been through this before. I know I am strong enough to survive it.

 

How to Tell People They Sound Racist

Here’s a short video I love and share widely: Jay Smooth’s How to Tell People They Sound Racist. It’s an entertaining and articulate take on how to deal with people who make racist comments.

The take-home message is to separate the person from the problem by focusing on what they did rather than who they are, in an effort to prevent the discussion from being derailed by the whole “I’m not a racist!” defence and keeping it to “that thing you said was racist.”

I really like his advice and his analogy of someone who steals your wallet: you don’t chase him down to find out if he feels like a thief deep in his heart; you chase him because you want your wallet back (i.e., you want to address the harm done regardless of the thief’s unprovable motives and intents).

I’m white, and have struggled a lot to come to terms with the racism I’ve internalised from birth onward. I’ve mentioned before that I was racialised from an early age by my Danish grandfather who felt that I was a half-breed because my mom’s family is from the south of France (“they’re not really white that far south”). I would like to think that I am non-racist but I know the best I can hope for is to be anti-racist—to examine my own words and actions, to strive to do better, to interrupt racism when it occurs around me, and to be open to anger and criticism if I screw up.

It helps that I am also an outspoken feminist, and that when I took my Women’s Studies degree I was extremely fortunate to be taught by professors who were passionate about the interconnections of oppression. I learned and deeply believe that all the isms (racism, sexism, heterosexism, classism, ableism, etc. etc. etc.) are interconnected and mutually reinforcing (Marilyn Frye’s essay “Oppression” was helpful for me in understanding this). Also, my experiences as a feminist dealing with men (and a bisexual dealing  with straights) helps me to understand the ways in which men (or whites or heterosexuals) just don’t get it sometimes, regardless of how good their / our intentions may be. So not only do I consider racist speech and acts to impact me personally even though I am white, I am utterly convinced that this is also my fight. I might do it wrong sometimes and I might not have as full an understanding as I one day will. But inaction is not an option.

Jay Smooth says, regarding dealing with people who have said / done something racist: “I don’t care what you are; I care about what you did.” I think this applies to people like me (white) who abhor racism. We can be totally anti-racist in our hearts, but if we don’t actually do something about it, then we’re doing it wrong.

Applying Jay Smooth’s strategies to conversations about race—holding others responsible for their words and actions—is one way to take action.

Using Euphemisms for Death

So Qrys and I were talking today about death. She was wondering about the origin of “passed” as a euphemism. And that made me start wondering about death euphemisms in general. Why do people use euphemisms like passed, kicked the bucket, gone to a better place, departed, and so on? Qrys and I both prefer just to say that somebody died, and so we’re genuinely curious about why there are so many other ways of saying the same thing.

Here’s a little poll. Also, if you have more to say in the comments about the origin and use of “passed” in particular, I’ll pass that on to Qrys (see what I did there?)

Lest We Forget

Twenty-five years ago today In Montréal.

Geneviève Bergeron (born 1968), civil engineering student

Hélène Colgan (born 1966), mechanical engineering student

Nathalie Croteau (born 1966), mechanical engineering student

Barbara Daigneault (born 1967), mechanical engineering student

Anne-Marie Edward (born 1968), chemical engineering student

Maud Haviernick (born 1960), materials engineering student

Maryse Laganière (born 1964), budget clerk in the École Polytechnique’s finance department

Maryse Leclair (born 1966), materials engineering student

Anne-Marie Lemay (born 1967), mechanical engineering student

Sonia Pelletier (born 1961), mechanical engineering student

Michèle Richard (born 1968), materials engineering student

Annie St-Arneault (born 1966), mechanical engineering student

Annie Turcotte (born 1969), materials engineering student

Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz (born 1958), nursing student

Twenty-five years ago today. We remember you. We remember you. We remember you.

 

My House, My Rules? Well, sometimes maybe.

Someone recently wrote in to Captain Awkward with a question about how to handle her parents’ insistence that she and her partner (who live together) not sleep in the same bed under the parents’ roof during holiday visits because the couple are not married. In fact, on a previous visit, the letter writer’s boyfriend had to sleep outside in a tent.

Captain Awkward’s advice is great, as always, and the commenters have expanded on that advice. But this kind of thing infuriates me, especially the whole “my house, my rules” thing (which is being debated in the comments as well). I don’t know how coherent I can even be about this, Continue reading