Watching: The Masterpiece Theatre presentation of Great Expectations, which I had taped last month but hadn't watched yet. Dad wants to borrow the tape, so I'm finishing it up now. Charlotte Rampling is still beautiful. She's a very effective Miss Havisham. Ioan Gruffudd is a pleasure to watch, as always.

Past is Past

Dad and Bunny came over last night for pizza. Bunny is a very pleasant woman in her fifties with two grown sons. She and my father were married nearly three years ago. Bunny is a dental hygienist and sells Mary Kay cosmetics; fortunately, she has never tried to sell me any, else I might not like her as much. I hardly ever wear makeup. Bunny, on the other hand, uses cosmetics skillfully and dresses well, too. I'm not sure what she sees in my father nor why he was fortunate enough to marry not one but two good women. He has been far more lucky than he deserves.

Daniel proudly showed off his K'nex creations to Dad. Then Daniel decided to motorize his SUV. He soon discovered his K'nex motor wasn't powerful enough to move the SUV so he removed the back wheels and replaced them with large gears. He attached a smaller gear to one of the large gears and hooked that to the motor.

Dad was impressed by Daniel's solution to the problem. "That's the way the transmission in a car works," he commented.

Notwithstanding my low opinion of Dad as a parent, we get along well on a superficial level with our similar tastes in books and movies. He returned Cold Mountain and The Cobra Event to me and is lending me The Coming Plague.

Tab has been urging me for years to confront Dad about the issues of the past. I've resisted so far; being of a practical bent, I don't see what will be accomplished by such a confrontation. The past is past, and my writing a letter about it to Dad will not change anything.

I was not even Dad's prime target. While we all suffered from his emotional and verbal abuse, two of my sisters were the usual recipents of his physical abuse: beatings, cuffings, arm twistings. The damage that was done to me was that suffered by the bystander who witnesses the horror but is powerless to prevent it. Survivor guilt.

We Are Borg

Yesterday I took the Stephen to the doctor's for what turned out to be a simple case of constipation. While the twins and I were waiting, a little girl entered the playroom area and approached the boys.

"Hi," said Stephen. "We're three and a half."

"I'm older," responded the girl.

That news didn't faze Stephen. "We're Stephen-and-Matthew. We're twins."

The girl shrugged and went on playing. Social pleasantries out of the way, Stephen joined her. Matthew said nothing throughout this exchange, leaving it up to Stephen to speak for him.

Those are the answers to the three questions the twins are most often asked by strangers. I guess Stephen decided to preempt the questioning and get information right out in the open.

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