Bumper stickers I want

I saw this one today: "If you can read this, you're not the president."

No bullshit

This is something I like about Dr. R: She seems rather liberated from bullshit. Conversations with her are crystal clear. And funny to boot. No need to discuss the *obvious* intellect, but I'll mention it anyway. Thus: intelligent. But really, it's the fact that she could sport a "Crap-Free Zone" tattoo that I genuinely appreciate.

Soccer-Squared (S2) and I were talking about this the other day: At some point in life, you start craving an end to bullshit relationships -- friends, lovers, whatever. (OK, maybe *we* just like to do without that, while most the population doesn't know any other way of relating. From S2's perspective, we're simply "more evolved.") In any case, we were discussing how much crap can be present in relationships: power differentials, shallow relations, oblique dialogue, jealousy and godonlyknows what else. And how *beyond tired* we are of that shit and how vastly more interesting we find people who take a serious stab at authentic communication.

I offered this comment by Dr. R as an example: "Let's just agree from the get-go that when we don't have the time for each other, we just say we don't have the time. Otherwise, it's assumed we have the time, and neither of us should question that." (That's a paraphrase. She was probably more articulate.) S2 replied: "Yeah, I've noticed she does seem to be very clear. I like that about her. I wish more people were like that." Ditto!

S2 and Dr. R are easy for me to relate to because they are so shit-free. I've been a proponent of clear, direct communication for a long time (granted, *not* with my mother, which is a grotesque failing of mine), but people have frequently regarded my directness as a bit freaky. It can be frightening, you know, to have someone share a feeling with you, tell you they like you, tell you they don't like what you just did, tell you where the lines are and what's going to happen if you cross them, etc. In fact, I'm sure people have considered me deranged at times, especially during my internment in Corporate America. (They *hate* clear and direct communication, which is why there are Web sites like this: http://www.dack.com/web/bullshit.html -- sorry, don't know how to make a link in my blog!) Good old Corporate America! I used to make heads spin Linda-Blair style with simple comments like this: I can't "just copy" that competitor material. See the copyright mark there? Not to mention, plagarism is just so ... gauche. No surprise when I got laid off, eh?

I'll point out, though, that there is a line -- sometimes, a huge, gaping chasm -- between clear communication and too much honesty. I'm reminded of this saying I heard once: "There is no such thing as brutal honesty; there's honesty, and then there's just brutality." I don't need to know every goddamned thing you're thinking, and you don't need to know every passing thought I have. But when it comes to what you *do* say, I appreciate it when it's clear and meaningful. Say what you mean, people. (You don't, in my book, always have to mean what you say. Otherwise, I'd never get to tease anyone, and I rather enjoy teasing people in a good-hearted way, especially with dead-pan delivery. Gets me in trouble all the damned time. But I keep on doing it.)

But now I'm just rambling.

Here's the thing: S2 is right. Somewhere in our evolution as individuals, we reach a point where bullshit in a relationship is just a waste of time and energy. Maybe some of that has to do with getting older and realizing that, in the life-is-short vein, depth and meaning and *genuine connection* with other people is a fundamental desire, as well as a minimum requirement, in our personal relationships. Otherwise, what's the point?

So, should she ever read this blog, I would say this to Dr. R: I like the way you pour straight shots. Keep 'em coming.

As for straight-shooting S2? You da bomb, baby. (This may be an outdated phrase, but I think it's better than "Fabu," which is what Dr. R called you. But then, she was feeling very in touch with 1973 tonight. So we can forgive that, huh?)

Back to maudlin

Really. I mean, really! How the fuck do I get through this? It absolutely *kills me* to see someone I love and care for feel rejected by me.

Something people rarely come to know about me is the immensity of my soft spot. There's a ridiculous tenderness to my heart.

I used to ask my parents to buy me the stuffed animals that had little defects -- like a missing eye or ear or something -- because I thought they might not otherwise be loved. If a fucking one-eyed stuffed penguin can get to me, imagine what a live human being does.

Sometimes, I wonder why this old heart of mine hasn't gotten calloused yet. I feel so totally wretched. I think I'm getting sick.

This blog is not a *total* drag...

I hate when I'm going through personal upheaval because it so easily consumes my life. Guess it wouldn't be upheaval otherwise. Nevertheless, I'm tired of highly personal, maudlin blog entries, so I offer this:

Saturday night, we were having a Mardi Gras party. Mr. Clean mixed me up three G&Ts during the evening. Well, the first two were clearly G&Ts, but I'm not sure what the third one was. Mr. Clean said it had "something special in it," and he suggested I gulp it down. He was trying to get me to chug, but I am not a chugger. I took two swallows of it and as far as I know, I didn't finish the drink.

Instead, I went into the living room and enlisted the help of Single Gay Female and someone else to roll up the carpet so we could dance. We were lifting the carpet over the couch to tuck it away when it slipped and grabbed the bottom of the curtains behind the couch. This not only yanked down the rod and curtains that cover the large picture window, but also pulled two of the brackets out of the lath-and-plaster wall. SGF was startled and wanted to fix the problem. I hadn't noticed the brackets had come out and told her, Don't mind that; it happens all the time. Let's dance!

It was about 2 a.m. when I realized the full extent of the problem. I could not rehang the rod and curtains that provid the only barrier against turning our home life a gigantic diorama for the neighbors and passersby. There were large holes in the plaster above the window where the brackets had been mounted. There was a fine layer of plaster on the floor. Standing on a chair, with Mr. Clean's mystery drink still coursing through my system, I realized there was nothing to do about it but turn off the lights and go to sleep.

In the morning, a neighbor who had come to the party reported that he looked across the street at our home and started laughing his ass off. He saw that I had left the curtains balanced on the back of a dining chair, askew. "I left the party too soon!" he cried. "It's never a really good party unless something gets broken!"

So it would seem. The last time we had a big bash, someone broke the bathroom door. Pulled it right out of the hinges. In that case, I have no clue what happened. I heard a loud bang in the hallway. The vibration of the door being slammed -- or whatever -- was so strong that a framed photograph flew off the wall, its glass shattering on the floor. I went and looked at the person who was in the bathroom -- the girlfriend of a co-worker. What happened? I asked. She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. It just kinda got ... stuck." Something about her presentation reminded me of the time a friend in high school set off firecrackers in a hotel room bathtub and then shrugged her shoulders when management showed up asking questions. Not very convincing. But what was I going to say? I learned how to install a new door and jamb shortly thereafter. I'm *so* handy.

Oh, just telling that story reminds me that last night, Mr. Clean tracked me down in the basement and told me that he had accidentally "lost" the locking mechanism on the bathroom door. At least no one was going to get stuck in there after that. Just ... surprised.

So it was a good party. There was a lot of food and drink, people wore costumes and masks, and things got broken. But I had fun. And in the end, maybe that's all that matters. If there's a personal trait I should more fully develop, it's hedonism.

How I'm a jack-ass of all trades

I believe I deserve passion in my intimate relationships. (Some would call this foolish.)

When I realize that I'm absolutely without this in my partnership, I open my mouth and say something to her about it. (Something as nicely worded as possible, mind you. And if you knew the kind of syrupy loquacity that I can employ when it's called for, you'd know I can be *incredibly* nice and thoughtful -- but still honest. This is both a hidden talent and something for which I probably will be sent straight to hell.)

Once the cat is out of the bag, I'm the kind of person to do something about it. (Am I really supposed to say, You know, darling, we've never had that chemistry. You admit it; I admit it. But, what the hell, let's just stay here in this situation anyway? I'm not 70, for christsake.)

When GF tells me we should break up, I agree. (Rather than fighting about it.)

When GF conversely tells me we should *not* break up, I disagree. (Exactly where is that missing chemistry going to come from when it's never been present? And which one of us is going to comprimise on the big Life Path question?)

Then, I throw a party, put on a big mask and dance. (Well, OK, the party was planned long before this. So let's back up: I do not wait until after the party to start having this talk with her. Timing is everything, and I clearly have very bad timing.)

When GF starts processing all this highly emotional stuff with me, I sit quietly and listen, speak soothingly and generally accept that I reap what I sow. But then, I tell her You really need to talk to someone else about this -- someone who's not *me.* She looks at me with disbelief and sadness. I add softly, That's because I am the source of your problem right now. Don't you think it's unlikely that I am going to do or say anything that helps you feel better? (Really, there's nothing soft about this, but I let's get for real: When you're splitting up, you need the support of your *friends,* not the person from whom you're splitting.)

Not to overlook my Catholic upbringing, I feel ever so guilty. But guilty about what? Wanting something better for myself? Not being able to commit to moving here and there across the country -- or the planet -- so that GF can pursue her Life Goals while I shuffle along, keeping her company?

No, the guilt is probably most deeply rooted in this "passion" issue of mine. When my fires get stoked, I notice. I've told myself for many years that it's an absurd pursuit to expect passion in an intimate relationship, mainly because it has been missing here with GF all along. (Even she told me the other day that she thought the absence of passion in our relationship from the get-go was a "good thing" because it meant a more "stable" relationship.) I'm not so naive to expect passion to be constant in a relationship, but I suspect you really need it at the outset so you can rekindle it from time to time.

In any case, it's something I don't have. And something I want. I tend to feel my emotions with some intensity. I can't say how it compares to the general population, but GF has many times commented on how "big" my emotions seem to her. Most of the time, this is played out in some kind of neurotic way: I'm annoyed by something or worried about the future or disgusted with my mom. But I also take fairly keen notice of things like near-death experiences. I enjoy laughter immensely. I take great pleasure in positive social relationships. And, as far too many people can now attest, I have no problem dancing like a fool.

Periodically, though, I'll get a taste of something really sweet -- something I haven't had the pleasure of enjoying in my love life: an unmistakable, heart-pounding sexual chemistry with someone I actually like. That last part is important, because I've had one without the other, but never both at the same time. That's a huge part of the allure for me. Perhaps it's absolutely foolish, but I think I can actually have *both* and enjoy them. More to the point, I think I should give myself the opportunity to experience that. This was not going to happen for me -- especially the part where I get to ENJOY it -- in this relationship.

So it seems time to launch out and find this. Or perhaps find nothing at all. Hard to say what the future holds. Please just don't tell me I'm a fool.

Funny things I heard today

Over the PA at Freddies: "Will the shopper looking for malt vinegar please report to aisle 5?" I checked my list. It wasn't me they wanted.... (Another reason to like New Seasons: They take you to aisle 5, rather than paging you there.)

From an old friend: "The Olympics are hurting my husband's sex life."

From another friend: "Sometimes, I think my husband's nothing but a brain stem."

In sign language: "Sorry I'm late. Blind people are always making the Deaf wait."

Well, it made me laugh.

But then, I'm looking for something funny right now. I'm sentimental that way....

Near the end of the opera

This is the part where the Fat Lady sings.

And I have to learn to cook.

Accustomed as I have become to GFs incredible culinary talents -- or ex-GF's talents, as the case has become -- I have developed an outrageously wide palate, and my tongue has been taught to expect something *delicious* pretty much every single night. I suppose if I have to admit something to myself here, it's that GF initially stirred my passions through ... food. (I had never tasted tomato soup that good! And once, there was this summer corn and clam chowder that was downright orgasmic, but she never made it again, in part because she doesn't like to cook the same thing twice.) In the end, the food was really fucking incredible, but that wasn't the passion I've been seeking.

Not that it was only about *food* with GF. There's actual love between us. And a passion for many things in common, just not for ... each other.

So I'll buy myself a set of Caphalon, because I have not a pot or pan to my name. But for now, I'm listening to La Boheme and letting Puccini rip my heart to shreds. As Mimi and Rodolpho knew, love just isn't enough sometimes -- no matter how much you wish it was.

Look ma! Graduate-level work!

Here is an excerpt from my "DSM Journal" assignment, in which we are asked to critique something in the Big Fat Book from a cultural perspective. This is one of six entries. Some of them are actually thoughtful (and thus have no place in this blog). This just qualifies as smart-ass commentary, posted because I should have *some* evidence of doing homework today. Without further adieu:

On the business of Personality Disorders, I take note of the DSM’s admonition that, “Personality Disorders should not be confused with problems associated with acculturation following immigration or with the expression of habits, customs or religious and political values professed by the individual’s culture of origin.” It also talks about “evaluating someone with a different background.”

To the DSM, I must say, “Pardon me, but a background different from whom? And how, exactly, do you determine a ‘culture of origin’ is justifiably different from whatever is considered the dominant culture?”

I’m thinking, of course, that there are little cultures everywhere. Each family is different; each city is different; each region of the country is different. What’s “normal” in Portland might be considered “outrageous” in Raleigh. When, within the United States alone, you can have so much cultural diversity, why are we giving the benefit of the doubt only to immigrants and religious people?

Here is a little slice of my familial and regional culture: Born in Gainesville, Florida, to the (half non-white) adopted daughter of a wealthy, extremely Catholic, French Canadian lumber baron’s family and to the son of a “Tennessee hillbilly who graduated from the School of Hard Knocks.” Raised in Miami; Greenville, South Carolina; and Houston. Educated by nuns through the sixth grade, then educated in public schools full of stuck-up rich kids. As my parents actively hated each other for 20 years prior to divorcing, no decent role model in the house for love and affection. Taught by my dad to compete in everything. Taught by my mother that competing was unseemly. Learned to smoke pot from my counter-culture uncle and his Honduran wife from New Orleans. Learned to mix a good gin and tonic from my French-speaking grandmother. Taught by my hillbilly grandfather to hate Republicans.

That’s just the smallest view into my culture of origin. Add all the ways in which I diverge from that particular group of influences – such a being a lesbian in the South, then out on the West Coast (two vastly different cultures, I assure you!) – and I have to wonder just where a diagnostician is supposed to draw the line in determining which of my behaviors fit the criteria for a Personality Disorder and which are just quirky detritus generated by my “culture of origin.”

I can easily see why several of the diagnoses are considered disorders in American culture. Antisocial Personality Disorder, for example, is essentially based on the laws of our society and a lack of remorse for breaking them. In Liberia, which has been broiling with cross-dressing, drugged-up militias, this type of behavior may be required for survival. But here, it’s a nuisance at best, and we regard those who don’t behave as a member of our “civilized” society as having a personality disorder.

But Schizotypal Personality Disorder? Just reading the criteria makes me wonder where the DSM gets off, especially with criteria such as “behavior or appearance that is odd, eccentric or peculiar.” By whose definition? Several of the criteria for this disorder seem to defy any cultural considerations, even as they give a nod to things like “subcultural norms.” I wonder how well-versed some therapists are in subcultural norms? How will they – how will I – make that distinction in this multimedia world of endlessly mushrooming subcultures?

And Histrionic Personality Disorder describes just about every actor and drag queen I’ve ever met. What’s up with that?

My ginger-mint aura

I saw The Clairvoyant this morning for a massage. She knows me well -- better than most. So all she needed was one good look at me to know something's amiss. Yeah, of course, she knows all about my favorite women, my insane and roaring libido, my diet, my exercise routines and what I go through in choosing paint colors, but I hadn't told her about the problem with GF's Grand Plan.

I mention it, and TC says, "Oh, yeah, I remember we were eating dinner a few months ago, and GF started talking about that. I was wondering what was going on with you, because that just didn't seem like something you wanted to do. The One wants me to move to Philly sometime, and I think, Are you kidding? The upside, though, is that we're allowed to eat pizza and cheese steak sandwiches there. Maybe we should all move to Philly together."

For TC, it always comes back to the food.

But today, after giving me a *divine* massage, she says, "You know, I'm concerned about your aura. Do you mind if I clean it up a little?"

Nevermind the fact that I'm not really sure what an aura is. An energy field around my body? I say, Whatever you think is best.

She grabs a bottle of the shelf. "Before I spray it on your aura, smell this!" She sprays (with a *working pump,* mind you) a fine mist into the air between us. We both lean in to sniff it. "Ginger Mint!" TC says, satisfied. I nod my head. So she starts spraying it around my head, my legs, all over. I feel like my aura is being frisked, maybe. "There," she says. "I think you'll be better now. At least, your aura will smell good anyway."

This is why I enjoy my friends so much. Sometimes, I have no fucking clue what they're talking about or what they're doing, but they each put out a lot of love in their own way. I can only hope I give a fair share back.

Bitch-ass insomnia. Or, rather, becoming an orphan.

So even with a whole Ambien on an empty stomach -- do I need a glass of wine on top? -- I'm a-fucking-wake at 4 something or other. This problem is all in my head. But then, as Dr. M might note, *everything* is in my head. I can blame *all* of this shit on my mitochondria, busy as they are changing my food to energy, thus my fueling my thoughts. Hmm. I like having something to blame. But something so small? I don't know. Kinda makes me feel like a bully.

I held a human brain in my hands last year. It's quite a bit bigger than a mitochondrion -- and something I can wrap my hands around -- so I think I'll go with blaming the brain. Dr. M would probably find that reasonable.... Not that it matters at this hour whether I'm being reasonable.

So here's the thing my goddamned brain has been doing tonight. In Family Therapy class, it started to cry. (Not I, *it*! (Now available on eBay.)) There was some discussion about parents going on -- and what kinds of relationships they have with their kids -- and I got to thinking about how queer relationships are persistently invalidated by the broader culture. If you don't get married, especially in the traditional sense (and even when you do it in the gay sense), your anniversaries are frequently invisible to everyone else. The ways in which you can become rather substantially tied up in the life of another is commonly ignored. This has utterly been the case with my family -- my dad doesn't seem to know GF's name even after more than six years together, and my mom, well ... she likes GF more than she likes me, but she still doesn't give any cred to our relationship. GF is still "the woman who cooks" for me. With GF's family, things are different. All of them are emotionally detached to the point of being mere satellites for one another, but they're still nice people and they still circulate, and they still treat me like I'm a member of the family. Dad-in-law invited us to dinner last night, but I couldn't go on accounts of school. He sent home word that he "missed" me. He's a good guy.

But that's not why the old brain started crying. The old brain sent its terrible message to my eyes to tear up in class -- damn you, brain! -- when I started thinking of that genie I released from the bottle. Saturday's discussion about GF's Grand Plan -- grad school Back East immediately after I finish my own program -- has sparked a sense of inevitability within me, a notion that our lives are on different paths that can't easily be reconciled. She said as much herself on Saturday: "When you compromise on a life path question, someone ends up suffering and the relationship ends up damaged anyway." True... Then she added, "And I don't mean to be having a long-distance relationship with you for seven years. That's not going to happen." ... No shit.

So that conversation comes to me, and I started thinking about my family. This is what queued up the water. See, GF, our dogs and her family -- that *is* my family. I have these other people in the world two whom I'm biologically related, but who do not constitute a "family" in any positive sense of the word. I'm *trying* to build some kind of relationship with my sister, The Professor, but she also seems to prefer GF to me. Indeed, she and/or her husband, The Fancy School Tenured Professor, will probably be instrumental in helping GF get her West Coast bottom in an East Coast school. As I've said, I do not anticipate being able to make this move for myriad reasons. And this will leave me ... an orphan. Seriously. A fucking orphan.

It's true, I do also have a brother. But many years ago, he cast off all sense of obligation to anyone in our so-called family and simply, though barely, tolerates contact from the rest of us. And, yes, I do have a guy I call "Dad." This is a man who has cancer but tells me he doesn't, a man who years ago seems to have separated from his wife but hasn't told her (he simply got a job in Atlanta and left her in Dallas) and, for the love of jesus, he watches all the shows on the WB that I never manage to see, so we have very little to talk about when we talk. And then, there's that crazy lady who wants me to call her "Mom." I tried to diagnose her with something from the DSM last weekend, and was dismayed to find that although she may be an Authoritarian, Religiously Righteous, Utterly Self-Centered Female with a Mile-Wide Mean Streak, that is not necessarily a disorder. So I don't know what the fuck is wrong with her, but I do *not* like her and don't anticipate that changing.

There was one family member I loved, who I simply adored. My youngest brother was my only ally in this collection of nutbags and ne'er-do-wells. We were cut from the same stone -- that being the stone that actually had some sanity, compassion, a good sense of humor and a strongly held belief in the power of loving, peaceful relationships. He would be the one who taught me to experience joy. But he's dead.

So I was sitting there in Family Therapy class this evening and thinking, Shit! When GF goes -- or when I finally cut this fraying chord -- I'll lose my family. I'll be a goddamned orphan. (plop, plop, annoying teardrops!)

Now, it is true that I'm an existentialist to the core. I know we are all isolated from one another. No one can ever share the experience of another. We're born alone, and we all die alone. But wouldn't it be nice to have a decent family from beginning to end? Or even just for a little while in between? The closest I've ever come is GF, the dogs and the in-laws. I feel heartsick because I think losing all that is inevitable. It seems the only question is whether it will be a slow death. And whether I'll be able to keep my dog.

Meaninglessness vs. dumb luck

This is something I'm constantly at war with myself about. Life is meaningless, but I yearn for meaning. There is no "justice" (and, for me, that's probably a good thing), but I find myself wishing for it anyway. Some people believe in fate, but I think life is greatly composed of dumb luck. Part of me embraces the randomness and part of me wants to reject it. There is, in many things for me, great tension at the line between wanting and not wanting. Especially on these topics.

In Family Therapy class, we engaged one night in a lengthy discussion about whether there is any purpose in asking "why" something happened or "why" someone is engaging in a particular behavior. As a journalist, this was always an interesting question to ask because people come up with some really unexpected answers to it. As a therapist, though, it's not the most effective of questions. It can start to a wild goose chase. In part, it's because the simple act of a question presumes there's an answer to it. One answer, anyway. A curative. Something that makes everything else make sense.

But "why" is a spider's web. Sticky and easy to get tangled up in. And there are a lot of paths that seem to head toward some point of convergence that doesn't exist. There are thousands of answers to why. I'd hate to try to explain, for instance, why I'm writing a blog. There's no one reason.

This is, in part, how the concepts of "fate" or an intrinsic "meaning" to life collapse for me. There's no singular truth about anything. And without some kind of singular truth, you cannot have "justice;" there is no ojective place from which to make that determination. Subjectivity of experience, individual perceptions and relative reality simply do not allow such a vantage point.

So people create something external, some notion of "right" and "wrong" and ethics and virtue and morality -- they create god myths and bogeymen and, perhaps, even the "laws" of physics -- to anchor them in what is an otherwise stormy sea. A smart friend described such an anchor as "the luxury of dogma." I would also say it's the laziness of dogma. When you don't have to think for yourself, when you don't have to face the ambiguity of life because you have "the answer" (and jesus loves you for it), it's a bit easy to become smug or, worse, complacent to the point that you give away all the incredible choices you could make in your life.

Perhaps one thing that unites humans is the problem, the joy, the pain and the freedom of "not knowing." Consider that, of all the "stories" we experience in this life, the one ending we're assured of not knowing is our own. Some people regard this as a cosmic slap in the face -- and, well, it probably is -- but it can also be embraced as something that lets us off the hook a little, allows us to stop sitting in such harsh judgment of ourselves and others. We don't know what's going to happen next. We don't know if we'll rise above our own shortcomings or find brand new shortcomings that suprisingly rise above us. We can't even be assured that some day, we won't be boiling our shoe in a pot of water just for the sake of its flavor. (Horrifying, true. But then what happens?)

"All knowledge is an arch wherethrough gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever when I move." That's Tennyson for you. Frankly, I like a world that doesn't have all the answers worked out. If I thought there was "fate," what motivation would I have to make considered choices? And if I really thought there was "justice," it would curb the enthusiasm of the part of me that enjoys misbehaving. I prefer a life where I don't get to know the ending. I don't need "meaning" when I've have the gift of curiosity. Please, life, keep me guessing. But I'll take some dumb (good) luck if you've got it.

(Probably should note I saw Woody Allen's latest, "Matchpoint," tonight. There is a genesis for this little rant.)

A week shy of diagnosis

My insomnia started on January 25. That's the official date, although I think the night of January 23 had some hints of it. On January 24, I ate and drank too much too late at night and slept fitfully -- but still slept. This means that if this annoying problem doesn't clear up in a week, I'll qualify for a diagnosis of Primary Insomnia, according to the DSM. In our DSM class, many of the students joke about how they've diagnosed themselves with something. Apparently, I was not ill to start with, so I had to *create* a disorder for myself. I just wanted to fit in, OK?

I'm not sure if I'm really diagnosable, though, because the insomnia must cause "clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational or other important areas of functioning." I did almost have a car wreck when I was having the worst of this problem, but since Ambien was introduced into my diet, I'm not so impaired. I just can't sleep without the stuff. And, truth be told, even when I take it, it doesn't get me through the night. I awaken, and I start noodlin'.

This morning, I tried to unload some (well, just a little bit) of what's been on my mind. Over breakfast, GF and I started talking about her Grand Plan. She intends to move across the country when I am done with graduate school. In her mind, I'm going with her. In my mind, that is absolutely *not* a given. There are a dozen or more reasons for this, not the least of which is the problem of ditching my social network and the professional network I'm developing at school. Also, I love the Pacific Northwest -- it's clean, beautiful, progressive and the weather (despite the godforesaken windy cold snaps like we're having now) is the best of any place I've lived. Summer is absolutely divine. Fall is gorgeous. Winter is moody but tolerable. And every time GF mentions wanting to live somewhere that it snows a lot in the winter, I want to PUKE.

But it's more than just location, friends and professional contacts that weigh on my mind. It's a nagging feeling that somewhere not too long ago, GF and I came to a fork in our shared path and, without knowing it, we chose to go separate ways. A friend told me recently that her husband is in the process of applying for school and that, "I can't help but think that when he envisions himself moving away for school, he doesn't see me going with him." I know what she feels like. This morning, when I told GF the concerns I have with her Grand Plan, it was clear she was already aware of them and, to some degree, resigned.

I learned a long time ago that plans are nothing more than ideas, that the future is a canvas upon which you can paint many images only to have them disappear overnight. Just as I can't see an end to this insomnia, I can't predict one itsy bitsy tiny goddamned thing about the future. So I'm trying to go on with the life that *is* right now, rather than being upset over the one that might be. Still, it sucks. And still, I'm sleepless.

(It is my belief, however, that really fired up, passionate, shuddering sex is almost always a cure for insomnia. (Perhaps that's why it's on my mind all the time.) My upcoming Treatment Planning course might instruct me otherwise, but I know a good old wive's tale when I hear one. Sadly, this kind of remedy is not so easily dispensed. Therefore, Ambien, thou shalt be my mistress.)

Whose attitude about sex is "correct"?

This is something that came up in my DSM class very briefly last week, and it's been on my mind since then, mainly because we didn't get to have a thoughtful discussion about it. So, world, here are my thoughts:

In the DSM's section on paraphilias, which I presented in class last week, there is a notation that each of the paraphilias -- exhibitionism, voyeurism, sexual sadism, sexual masochism, fetishism, transvestic fetishism, etc., -- must be distinguised from the "nonpathological use of sexual fantasies, behaviors or objects as a stimulus for sexual excitement."

Nowhere in the DSM does it address what constitutes "nonpathological." I asked the good and kind professor about this, and she replied that it is a matter of "clinician's judgment," as is the case for several other diagnoses in the DSM.

That seems to be a pretty sticky thing, I told her. I mean, some client could go to a therapist and talk about how she's been going to sex clubs with a new boyfriend and watching other couples have sex and is, let's say, surprised by how much she enjoys doing that and that her sex life with this new guy totally rocks. Personally, I would say, "Well, if you like that, more power to ya."

The good and kind professor nods in agreement.

But, I said, there are *plenty* of people out there who would think that's horrible, who would pathologize that behavior. I mean, clinician's judgment on sex? Everyone has different attitudes about it, and they can be so extreme that the same person can be regarded by different therapists as either enjoying a healthy sex life or being diagnosably "sick."

"You're right. It happens all the time," said the good and kind professor. "As a matter of fact, I had a supervisee who had such strong religious beliefs that she was actually pathologizing..." (Hold on to your hats, folks!) "...premarital sex. She was diagnosing people with Sexual Disorder Not Otherwise Specified."

Not too long after I put my eyeballs back into my head, I got up and gave a lecture to the class about the paraphilias. I showed that infamous spanking scene in "Secretary," and I said to the class, One of the most important things in distinguishing paraphilias from healthy, albeit perhaps unusual, human sexuality is your clinical judgment. I'm certain there can be a lot of debate over whether this spanking scene qualifies as a paraphilia or not.

Because the verbal presentation required that we limit our information to what is in the DSM, I could not go into more detail at that point. I was hoping it would come up in the Q&A. But it didn't. Even for your's truly -- we could call me Not Especially Shy -- it was not the most comfortable thing to talk about masturbation and whatnot in front of the class. So I'm not surprised the questions tended to focus on Gender Identity Disorder rather than any of the paraphilias or problems with desire, arousal and orgasm.

There are several people in the class who I think could actually have a problem saying the word "orgasm," even among good friends and even whispering it. So I didn't really expect a lot of detailed questions. But I'm disappointed we didn't have a discussion about what's "nonpathological" because it's just *those people* who need most to wrap their minds around the idea that healthy sexuality can manifest in ways that would make them uncomfortable. But that doesn't mean it's wrong.

If you exclude the fact that I enjoy it when women bronco ride my face, I'm not especially kinky. But it wasn't so long ago that homosexuality was a sexual disorder, so I am rather sensitive to this business. I am also aware that there are plenty of uptight plebian therapists and religous freaks and other kinds of bumpkins out there who would still like to pathologize gay sex.

Of course, I suspect they would like to pathologize a lot more than that. Masturbating? Off to the asylum with you! Fantasizing about black men again? Paging electroshock, stat! You got tied up and fucked in a sex dungeon -- and you *liked* it? Let's just send you straight to the gallows and see how you like that! You want to get an enema, listen to Britney Spears and screw your wife at the same time?

OK, you're right. Listening to Britney Spears is going too far. And why would you want an enema, seeing as you should *already* be shitting if you like her music?

In case you're wondering, the use of enemas for sexual pleasure is called "klismaphilia." But, technically, liking Britney Spears is a "cultural issue" that can't be pathologized -- another one of the DSM's shortcomings.

But I digress.

Here's the thing: If you're going to counsel people in a way that helps them live a healthier, more fulfilling life, don't pathologize the *non-dangerous* sexual activities of consenting adults unless they tell you it's a problem for *them.* And even then, perhaps some of your most important work will be in helping them realize that some unusual sexual activities are just fine, so they can enjoy what excites them rather than eating themselves up over their fantasies, urges or behaviors.

Life is too short; people should get to enjoy a good fuck. Put *that* on my tombstone.

Good-for-nothing pump action

This is petty, but it annoys the living crap outta me:

I'm a sensuous woman, alright? Gotta lather myself up with lotion after I shower. Doesn't matter where I am or what I'm doing. (Although, I will admit that I have at times been forced to use 100 percent DEET mixed with sunscreen as a "lotion," but those were special circumstances.) Otherwise, I want something smooth, creamy and good-smelling to put on my skin after I bathe.

But lately, this has become a frustrating endeavor. That's because every fucking cosmetics maker in the world suddenly seems to have defective pumps on their lotion products. Either that or I've become a TOTAL sofa-king without my knowledge and simply don't have the neanderthal capabilities required to use a simple pump. Somehow, I'm thinking it's *not* me. In fact, I know it's not me. That would be an overgeneralization or some other defective thought pattern in the eyes of CBT folks the world over. And we couldn't have that. So it *must* be some cheap factory in China using cheap parts. Because I can't make the damn things work!

They start out OK. But it's not soon -- I am *nowhere near* the bottom of the bottle -- when the pump suddenly can't suck anything up and spit it out. Because my lotions tend toward the creamy side -- I like 'em thick -- they are murder to shake out of the bottle, especially a bottle not designed to expel the lotion from the neck. Ugh! Eventually, I get fed up and go buy myself another bottle of lotion, and my bedside table starts looking like a train wreck of half used lotions. GF, who is utterly anti-lotion, periodically notices the pile accumulating and suggests I have some kind of fetish or obsession. The only obsession I have, I say, is that I want to *use* what I paid for. Would it KILL someone to make a decent pump?

In other lotion news -- so maybe it is a fetish or an obsession -- I got this *squeeze bottle* of some French stuff that's so totally infused with the scent of roses that I can hardly stop sniffing myself when I have it on. Although this stuff contains a fair amount of shea butter, I'm loving it for the pure olfactory pleasure. I put it on yesterday afternoon, and this morning, woke up to the scent of roses still lingering on my arms. Nice! I love a lotion with a scent that lasts.

It's 2 a.m. in Hong Kong and GF is drunk

Also, she's trying to digest a 15-course dinner served in celebration of Chinese New Years. But she can't sleep with all that food and all that booze -- and the jet lag finally caught up to her -- so at 2 in the morning, she rings me up. Fortunately, that's 10 a.m. here, and I was in the the final throws of writing a really BORING paper.

"Everybody was Kung Fu fighting!" she said (and an "earworm" of that song was immediately deposited into my head -- thanks!). They were putting on a demonstration, it seems. And there were some "Hong Kong dancers," whatever that means. She adds, "I think we drank 29 bottles of wine at our table."

The connection on my cell phone is crystal clear. Better than calling across town. But GF's voice is fading. She's about to fall into slumber. "I just called because I couldn't sleep, and your voice usually puts me to sleep," she says. "It's working...."

I'm not sure how to take that. But what the hell. I'm happy to be of service, I say. Sweet dreams.

Those words spark a thought in her. "Soup," she says. "They eat soup for dessert here. It's not sweet at all. They served me fungus and sweet bean soup last night for dessert. I don't want to eat that again. But I liked the shark fin soup. The shark fins were like noodles. Like glassy noodles. They didn't have any flavor. It was shark fin and chicken soup, so it just looked and tasted like chicken noodle soup. But there were no noodles. Just shark fins."

Then she yawns. "Ugh, I am so drunk. They've been getting me drunk every night, and we've been doing business at the same time. It's very ... weird ... to conduct business when I'm, like, smashed." With that, she bids goodnight and slips off to dreamland.

I don't envy the hangover she'll have on that 15-hour flight back to the states. Makes me queasy just thinking about it.

Masquerade

I'm wearing a mask. Normally, that would be a metaphor, but, in fact, today, I *am* wearing a mask. It's a beautiful handmade papier-mache deal with a large headress of feathers that I picked up from a local mask-maker this afternoon. I've got a Mardi Gras party in a couple of weeks, and I learned a long time ago that a mask only truly becomes yours after you've inhabited it for a while. So I'm making this baby mine.

The thing I love about a mask is how it allows you to be someone else and totally "misbehave" if you want to. And when there are a lot of people wearing masks in a single place, something wonderful -- something a little crazy -- tends to happen. People forget who they are for a little while, and they cut loose with a unique kind of energy. This was my experience year after year at Mardi Gras down in the Quarter. I'd put on a mask, drink a Hurricane and be dancing down the street, shaking a can full of oyster shells, with a krewe in no time.

Here in mid-winter, I feel a strong urge to cut loose. As do a lot of people around me, apparently. So we're having a masquerade.

And this is a strange thing: GF tells me she has a mask phobia. Mainly, it's the idea of wearing a mask that gives her fits (so she just won't do that), but she admits she's not sure how she'll react to having a houseful of people in disguise. I guess we'll just load her up with Xanax and bourbon and hope she lives through the night. It's hardly the best way to desensitize someone to a phobia, but *everyone* should be able to do Mardi Gras. Even if it requires Big Pharma to the rescue.

My Valentine is on the way to hell....

Yesterday, GF called from Hong Kong. Being on the other side of the International Date Line, it was already Valentine's Day, and I gave her my best wishes. Today, she called me in turn and wished *me* a Happy V-day from afar. That date line is a really messed up thing. But the upside is that sometimes, you get to celebrate holidays twice.

GF is currently out scouring the streets of Hong Kong, looking for the world's longest escalator. It is something like 800 meters long, and it takes 20 minutes to ride it. GF, who has a slight fear of being "caught" in an escalator, wants to ride that puppy. The only problem, she says, is that it's a one-way escalator for most of the day. Once she gets down to whatever circle of hell you can reach in 800 meters (hello, that's about 2,500 feet!), she's not sure how she'll get back up to the surface. It's just so Journey to the Center of the Earth, isn't it?

Good luck, GF! Bring me back a nice hot mug of mantle!

Me and the Deaf kids

This might seem rude, but I'm contemplating wearing some kind of hearing protection when I go hang out with the Deaf kids on Tuesdays. They're all five and six years old, and their favorite way of getting my attention is screaming. They also do this to each other, but because they're Deaf, it doesn't work. With me, it works just fine -- in that For the love of god, you're KILLING my ears kind of way.

I can't really avoid a physical reaction when I hear something that loud, so when they see me startle, they know I've heard them. And I learned some time ago that if I ignore them, they will just do it again. It's not like you can train children like you can train dogs....

I used to have this co-worker who was intolerant of noise. Even though our office was hardly a loud place, he was fond of wearing those industrial noise-cancelling ear phones that I use in the woodshop. I always thought he was a bit of a freak in that regard, but lately, I've been eyeing the pair hanging on my mitre saw and thinking Those kids are louder than my saw sometimes. Louder than being at the gun range. Maybe I should just wear some ear plugs at school this afternoon.

But I don't because I'm sure it would be a cultural faux pas of some magnitude.

In other news, one of the little Deaf boys, who I'll call Supah-Cute, has revealed a propensity for dressing up as a girl. Every week when it's time to play, he digs through the dress-up clothes and turns himself into a little woman. Today, he put on a lovely black and white evening dress, a pair of white heals and a tiara, and he carted around two purses with him. He's five, right. And I am not going to be telling him he can't dress as a girl if he wants to do that.

But today, an intern asked me how old Supah-Cute is and, upon learning, said, "Then I *guess* that behavior is OK still, huh?"

That got my hackles up, and I said, Even if that behavior lasted several more years, it would be OK. It's really only a concern when the child is insisting he's *is* the opposite sex, not just that he likes dressing that way. When the other kids start noticing and teasing him about it, he'll probably stop doing it. But us trying to force him to stop this would probably only cause him stress. And, frankly, I was thinking, So what if he wants to dress like that for the rest of his life? I really don't know why we care so much about this.

The woman in charge of the group heard me talking to the intern, raised her eyebrows at me and said, "I guess you would know."

I have no idea what she meant by that, because I don't think she knows I'm actually studying this stuff. So I said, Last week I attended a lecture on gender disorder. This does not even begin to approach the criteria for that. And anway, look at him. He's just *so* Breakfast at Tiffany's today that it's irresistable. He looked like Audrey Hepburn, I tell you. And he sure does know how to swing a purse.

My heart goes out to him, though. It's already hard enough to be Deaf in this Hearing world, but being a little gay Deaf drag queen or whatever is one tough row to hoe. Good thing he's Supah-Cute. And he *does* look good in a dress.

A story about saliva. And a dead hairdresser.

It turns out The Clairvoyant had more on her mind than sex when she called yesterday. She wanted me to go to dinner with her and The One. About 8:30, they come over. It's been a couple months since I've seen The One, and right when he walks in the door, he says, "You look smaller! And your hair looks good!" I knew there was a reason I liked him. He is an Observant Man.

The Clairvoyant hugs me hello, fusses with my hair for a minute and then shows me what looks like a transparent little makeup bag with a couple of empty vials in it. "I hope you don't mind, but we have to wait here until 9, so I can make a saliva sample. Better than doing it in the restaurant!" TC is 37 and has been trying to get pregnant, so I assume (correctly) that this saliva business has something to do with it. "I take a sample every day and freeze it. Then, the lab can see what I'm secreting and make sure all my hormones are cool. Apparently, these herbal supplements I was taking after my miscarriage were making it difficult to conceive."

Here's the thing about TC: She is *so* into her body. Every little thing that goes in her mouth has been scrutinized in some way. She works out with a passion. When she tripped on the stairs at The Farm Cafe a few months ago, she threw her body into a tumble and landed on her feet at the bottom, Dick Van Dyke style. Her muscles are incredibly toned but still feminine. Her complexion is exceptional. Even her butt is perfect. The focus of her life is her health and her physique. But she's stumped as all get-out about why a baby has not been forthcoming. Hence, the vials of spit.

With half an hour to kill, The One and I sit down to share a bowl while TC plays with my computer. TC hypnotizes people, and she's trying to figure out if she can use my computer to record a new CD. Presently, she tells The One to go into the kitchen and get her a couple of glasses, one with water in it. I suspect it requires an altered state to sit and watch someone rinsing, swishing, gargling and spitting water into an empty glass. Especially when they're doing it all while hovering over your nice new wireless keyboard. But there you have it.

After a least five minutes of this swishing and spitting business -- to clean her mouth? -- TC gets out a vial and starts to collect her saliva sample. It takes her about 10 minutes to fill it. She puts it in the freezer, and we head out the door for dinner.

This being Portland, we get to the restaurant of our choosing at 9:30 only to find the kitchen closing. What the hell is up with that? Kitchens close too damned early here. So we head on down to Mint, which has a reliable "after 10 p.m." menu. The place is crowded when we arrive, so we decide to eat at the bar in the restaurant. Mint's lamb burger with sweet potato fries hits the spot. TC and I also share some seared tuna, and she comments several times about eating raw fish when she could be pregnant. "It's day 25 of my cycle, so I really shouldn't be eating this for another few days," she says, taking a bite. "Oh well."

I am enjoying a glass of Lacrima, an exceptionally floral and obscure red varietal, when TC starts talking about her dead hairdresser. "He committed suicide," she said. "Four days after died, I had a dream about him, and I told him: What the fuck did you do that for, dude? I need a haircut! He told me I could do it myself!" At that point, she says, she awoke -- or maybe she was in a trance -- and she went into the kitchen, grabbed some shears and made a couple of quick cuts to her hair. Shortly thereafter, she went into the salon to get a professional to fix her up and was told she'd given herself "a perfect cut." "I'm telling you," TC said to me, "I was totally channeling my dead hairdresser!"

As this point, The One leans over and says, "She watches a lot of reality television, too."

"I do not need you defining me in that way," TC retorts. "Do not give people the wrong idea about me!"

Too late, TC, I said. I formed an opinion about you a long time ago. Your dirty little secret about watching reality TV isn't going to change it. What's your favorite show?

Perhaps this is just airing dirty laundry online, but she likes Oprah, Dr. Phil (which puts me into a lather), "transformation shows," the nanny shows and the wife-swapping shows. Absolutely taudry, isn't it? In her defense, she says most of these hour-long shows really only have about 15 minutes of content (thanks to their habit of previewing what's coming *after* the commercial and then, after the commercial, reviewing what came previously). This allows her to do paperwork and insurance filing while not having to follow closely and not missing anything either. It's just the genius of that TV genre, I guess. ... But it's not that interesting.

So, why did your hairdresser kill himself? I ask and take another sip of the Lacrima.

Time to get caller ID

The phone rings, and it's my mom. If I had caller ID, I would know this and not pick up. But I like risky living. Hello?

"UCM, is that you?"

Yes...

"Do you *ever* think of calling me?" she yells so loudly, that I actually ask, What? to make sure I heard her right.

"Do you *ever* think of calling me?" Yep. I heard her right the first time. And I wonder just what the hell kind of answer she wants to that question. Yes, but I don't? Or Of course not! Who the hell are you kidding?

Instead, I let the question glance off the side of me and avoid a confrontation. That's an amusing question, mom. What's going on?

"I called you several days ago to tell you I'm back from Hawaii and tell you how that went. But *you* did not call me back!"

I won't bore you with the details. But this is how it is with my mom: She's rude and annoying and addicted to Catholicism. In other words, we have nothing in common but our DNA (and perhaps that some people find me rude and annoying).

At one point, though, she asks about my school. To wit: "Have you taken *the class* yet where they make you deal with your own shit?"

That's a description of every single class I'm taking.

"Oh," she says. "Did that just start this term? Because I don't think you took *that class* last term."

It's also a description of every single class I've taken.

"No, I don't think you understand what I'm asking," she says. "I'm talking about *the class* where they make you deal with your own shit."

I learned a long time ago not to take this bait. But I still had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, Apparently, you *missed* that class, mother. And, no, you cannot use my notes as a crib sheet. Gotta go now. I don't want you to miss another conversation with God. He hates when the line is busy.

No, this blog isn't all about sex

In fact, I'll prove it (at least a little bit).

Last night, I ate pizza for the first time in months. Dairy is no friend of mine, but cheese, oh cheese, how do I miss thee! If I am to pay for my sins, though, I always try to make sure they're worth it. Therefore, the following was obtained from Pizzacato last night:

Shrimp, artichoke hearts, chevre, roasted garlic and sprinkles of basil and sun-dried tomatoes on a garlic and oil base. Lip-smakin' good.

And, now, back to sex.

People keep asking me in grad school what I want to specialize in, and I say things like, "Hell if I know," or "Listening to other people's stories," or sometimes I say something like, "Major life transitions" or "grief, except for it's just so ... sad," but here's the truth: Sex. Sexuality. Sexual deviancy. Sexual pleasure.

It's not just because I was raised Catholic, either, as Dr. M might inquire. Although that sure would be a part of it.

See, I know from personal experience just how effed up people can get in their heads from even just how they think about sex, and let me tell you, it is a sad, sad thing. When you add the oppressive lessons of the Church -- Catholic or Christian -- to the mix, well, let's just say it provides plenty of encouragement to deny what you are thinking and feeling, and to really limit your options when it comes to doing anything about said thoughts or feelings.

And let's face it, when we're not getting it on because we're afraid of it, life just is not being lived to its fullest.

If there's anything I'd like to do as a counselor, it's help people live more fully. Those "major life transitions" offer an opportunity to get a stronger, more satisfying hold on life, but living fully, in the opinion of this western lesbian post-modern feminist, includes being in touch with the power of your sexual being and enjoying it. So how can I be of assistance?

What seems to have been asked of me this week is to listen to a lot of sex talk. Only a small fraction of it had to do with the sexual disorders presentation on Thursday. The rest of it just seemed to ... happen. Like everyone I talked to this week seemed to have sex on the brain, although some of it came out through my encouragement, I admit. (A couple classmates told me they experienced the same thing this week. One blamed it on the full moon.) In any case, there was a lot of sex talk going around:

Friday: A classmate announces several times that the work on our sexual disorders presentation is making her "horny." When on Thursday, this information shared with the class by a third classmate, I was not surprised. However, I can commiserate with her. My own sex life is ... well, perhaps I should therapize MYSELF.

Saturday: A friend says how "very much" she enjoyed sex with women back in the day. But also says she determined her sexuality based on the "Bar Check," as in who do you check out in a bar. Her answer: Men. (My response, I believe, was that this conclusion is a loss to lesbians the world over. *sigh*) It should be noted that I *asked* her about all this. Much of what followed during the week was, shall we say, unprovoked.

Sunday: *Without asking,* I get an earful from The Good Witch about the experience of having sex with someone with whom she shared a profound spiritual connection. Just hearing this description makes me envious. I'll spare the rest of you, but let me say that it brought to mind that scene from "Like Water for Chocolate," in which the lovers share such hot passion that the whole place explodes into flames.

Monday: During a break in class, The Puppy makes a really unexpected announcement to me and Dr. R. "The first time I had sex -- when I was 21, which was not that long ago -- it seemed very complicated. It was just nowhere as easy as it looks on TV!" After mulling over this comment, in part wondering just where it had come from and why, I replied, like the smart ass I am, That's what KY is for." The Pup looks at me and asks, "What's KY?" And I think, Right, I forgot. Not everyone has GF for a partner -- GF who goes straight for the trump card and ignores all other stimulating factors. But I simply say, It's a lubricant. And the Pup ... writes it down in her notebook.

Tuesday: Let's just say I had a conversation with a friend that reminded me of how GF tried to "diagnose" me with Sexual Arousal Disorder (thanks, DSM, for your place of honor on my bookshelf!). That is an incorrect diagnosis, I said. I did not add the mitigating factors: There are several women I know who arouse me rather intensely. The correct diagnosis would be ... boredom -- or that aformentioned habit of playing the trump card before the game's even started. And, yes, if you must know, I have clearly communicated this. Several times. And so, I took some solace in said friend's story. I'm not broke, either, so put away that goddamned DSM if you aren't qualified to use it!

Wednesday: By Wednesday, I was starting to wonder: WHAT THE FUCK? That afternoon, I got a call from The Clairvoyant, who gave me an hour-long earful about how she'd found it irresistable to cheat on a slew of previous boyfriends. But now, she is with The One, and she no longer puts herself in such situations. Also, she has not told The One about her storied past, as she did with previous boyfriends. "After I told them I'd cheated on the guys before them, they'd always get suspicious and jealous when I'd be around other men." Isn't that curious? "So," she added. "I'm not telling The One about that. He doesn't need to know it, and I get to start with a blank slate." I'm thinking that this non-disclosure is one of the smartest moves made by The Clarivoyant in some time.

Thursday: There was the sexual disorder presentation and that video clip of "Secretary," which a classmate reminds me I called "titillating" (a word I like for its pure sound effects) when describing it to the class. And there was that curious riff by Dr. R about the elusive nature of the clitoris as orgasm approaches.

Friday: I did it to myself by reading more of Woman: An Intimate Geography, by Natalie Angier, which Les had given to me for Christmas several years ago but was, until recently, collecting dust on the bookshelf. Here's something interesting from the chapter on the clitoris: Many women don't experience orgasm until they smoke pot and have stoner sex. Or, as Angier puts it: "Marijuana can be a sexual mentor and a sublime electrician, bringing the lights of Broadway to women who have spent years in frigid darkness." (This is a sad commentary all the way around, but, damn, you just gotta love how marijuana does work some magic.) Angier points out, though, that she's never seen anorgasmia on the list of indications for the use of medical marijuana. It left me imagining a ballot measure here in The Big O: "Because all Oregonians deserve the right to orgasm, and because altered states of consciousness allow you to stop watching and waiting for that pot to boil, hereby let it be resolved that medical marijuana be approved for the purposes of allowing women a really smashing orgasm." I can just see the religious right's campaign ads against that one. "One Man, One Woman, One Orgasm."

Well, I'd sign the petition if someone asked me to. Every woman deserves to orgasm.

And so we're back to Saturday: If you can believe it, The Clairvoyant called back to have another talk about sex. I answered the phone, and she asked, "Do you have a bunch of women over there?" No, I took GF to the airport at 5 this morning, on her way to Hong Kong, and now I am just here by myself. "What are you doing?" she asks, the first question in a series that most recently ended in asking me about my clothes and underwear. I put a quick end to it: Writing in my blog about sex. I'm thinking perhaps I'd be a sex therapist someday. "Oh, you'd be good at that!," TC replies. Then she starts telling me about how, after more than three years, she's still keeping things interesting with The One. And how she needs to, she says, because "he's like a lesbian; he'd be happy to snuggle on the couch and hold hands." I groan, and she adds, "I was on the stairmaster the other day, reading an article about sex toys. You know, vibrators are very bad for you. Dildos are OK, but not vibrators. You can have an orgasm in, like, two seconds with a vibrator. It makes you lazy. It also makes it hard on your partner. It's hard to compete with one of those things unless your partner is just like, r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r (twilling her toungue), like a flamenco singer. I mean, jesus, can you imagine?" An image of a fully-dressed flamenco dancer eating box comes to my mind, and I start laughing. Fortunately, I don't have that problem, I reply.

But now I sure as shit do have sex on the brain. Thanks to a little help from my friends.

My attack of Tourette's

Even though I practiced (a little) my presentation, I still didn't manage to eliminate all the slang that comes to mind when thinking about paraphilias, and I also forgot to actually *shut* my mouth when certain thoughts crossed my mind while speaking. Therefore, my articulate contribution to the understanding of sexual disorders included the following phrases:

"jacking off," which prompted Dr. R (a classmate) to note in the middle of my presentation, "That language is not in the DSM." So, on a subsequent reference, I called it "getting his rocks off." I'm a classy woman, I tell you. CLASSY.

Those nice turns of phrase were joined by "sadistic bastard," in reference to the Marquis de Sade, and...

my helpful observation that, "Everyone deserves to enjoy a little riding crop action from time to time." (a nice bit of TMI from the dark corners of UCM's perverse mind -- although I should note that I was talking about S&M and that spanking scene in "Secretary.")

When class was over, Dr. R, human sexuality wonk, walks up and quips, "Hostile classroom environment, I'm telling you." Like, you're so uptight, I reply. "Yes, I'm a delicate flower," she says. "I could hardly take it. But then, just this week, I was talking to my students about the clit and how it will tend to 'disappear' as a woman starts to plateau. I found myself telling them, 'It's OK. You haven't lost it. Just keep going! It's a good thing!' So I don't have much room to talk about creating a charged environment."

Thanks to Dr. R's accompanying hand gestures, I'm pretty sure that's when my own circuitry blew.

Presently, Kim walks up with a bag of "treats" she brought for the class: condoms and dental dams. She asked Dr. R if she'd like to take the leftovers to her students. I reached in and pulled out a dental dam the size of Montana. What in the hell? "Have you seen a dental dam before?" Kim asked. Yeah, just not this big. There is no way in hell I would use this. Both of them looked at me with that old, You'd-Rather-Get-an-STD? look. I guess if I've got questions, I'll just keep my mouth out of it and stick with these magic fingers of mine.

I mean, if you can't make contact, what the hell is the point? Guys complain about "licking carpet," and I think, well, you obviously just don't know where to put your tongue! But licking LATEX? Kim said it was "flavored," but somehow, I don't expect they're using the right flavor....

All that aside, the presentation went surprisingly well. Most of my classmates managed to keep their snickers to a minimum, and there were no unexpected outburts. Except me and my Tourette's-like use of slang. I'd say the most amusing part for me, personally, was during the Q&A when the teacher addressed a question about why Transvestic Fetishism can be diagnosed *only* among heterosexual men. Certainly, there are women in the world who are aroused by dressing as a man. Young Jeff, sitting next to me, leans over and asks about the phenomenon. You know, I said, there are some women who don't have Gender Identity Disorder, but they like go out dressed up as men, even to the point of packing. Jeff mulls over that last word for a minute, staring at me, then his eyes suddenly widen and a sheepish smile curls onto his face. There's no telling what he was imagining, but it sure looked entertaining.

But seriously, why only heterosexual men? Talk about a cultural bias!

And your sexual disorder is...

The DSM-IV, a manual used in mental health to diagnose and pathologize ever so many facets of human behavior and experience, has a section on sexual and gender identity disorders. Tonight, I'll enjoy the thrilling experience of telling a classroom that is a bit heavily populated by naive counselors-in-training about all the paraphilias -- exhibitionism, voyeurism, S&M, etc. Normally, this might be a titilating experience. How often do you get to say "masturbation" repeatedly in front of a blushing crowd of young adults, many of whom may still harbor suspicions that the act in question leads to hairy palms? And how often do you get to make said youngsters squirm by showing them salacious video clips of "Secretary"?

It has fun written all over it.

And yet, I am troubled. That's because there's a gigantic, gaping chasm between what constitutes a paraphilia -- a pathological sex issue -- and what constitutes healthy, albeit perhaps unusual, human sexual behavior. I'm afraid some of my more naive, conservative or just down-right uptight classmates will not be able to make that distinction, no matter how it's explained to them. People who enjoy having sex in front of an audience, for example, are not the same kind of pervs who jack off for kids on the playground. Similiarly, people who like being members of the aformentioned audience are not to be categorized with the twiddle-dee-dees who peep on unsuspecting people through, say, a bathroom window. Regardless of how tightly wound a diagnostician may be, there's a huge difference between what happens among consenting adults and what constitutes victimization.

How exciting for me to get to draw that distiinction. I can't wait for the Q&A session.