Now for something completely different

Time to get back to my travel journal. The reason I've been putting off this entry is because it is so LONG. Considering my ability to write long pieces about nothing -- a saving grace in my days as a newspaper columnist -- is it any surprise that I write at *great length* when I actually have something to recount? But there's some good stuff hidden in here -- once you get past the descriptions of my injuries and ailments. (This is the last of the Amazon. The next journal will be from the Andes, where things get pretty funky in my book.)

14 August, Iquitos, Peru

The last two days, I've not been feeling well enough to write in my journal, particularly by the dim light of kerosene, which was the situation at the lodge. Last night when we returned to Iquitos, I was shaving my legs in the shower when an area of my back I injured while boarding the boat started to spasm fiercely. I could barely move. On top of it, I've been suffering from Altahualpa's Revenge (or Incan Revenge) since Thursday -- something I ate at the lodge has been giving me stomach cramps on & off and the shits. It's not as unpleasant as other illnesses I've gotten while traveling. There's been no fever or body aches, and the shits are controllaable, but the stomach cramps come on unexpectedly and make me feel nauseated. I've started taking some antibiotics, but I don't know if the problem is bacterial or not. I went to the pharmacy last night and was able to get some muscle relaxers, some stomach meds and some corticosterioid cream for our many bug bikes.

So, to catch up...

Friday, we went fishing for the second time. It was the last day for the Dutch couple, so perhaps their sense of urgency attracted the fish. Two other American women joined us on the fishing trip, and one of them -- a Peace Corps worker in Piura -- caught SEVEN fish in less than two hours. It was blistering hot on the river -- late morning, and we were without shade -- but I guess the pirhanas like it hot!

They're cunning little bastards -- over and over again, they managed to eat the bait clean off the hook without getting hooked themselves. In the end, though, we all caught at least one pirhana, and there were several pikes in the catch as well. The one I caught was among the biggest in the group, and I was really pleased to snag one. I even touched the nasty little thing while it was still on the hook.

They are vicious. One of the ones hauled in was too small for eating, so Cleever cut it up into bait on the spot. Even after he had cut off the head, the thing was till trying to bite. Cleever stuck the end of his knife into its mouth, and it chomped down on it. Cleever flung it into the water. Good riddance. You don't want those things flopping around in the bottom of the boat. I read somewhere that Amazonian fishermen are often missing the end of a toe or two because of the pirhanas in the boat.

At lunch that day, we ate the pirhanas, and I finally had my dream come true: to be a *woman* eating a *man*-eating fish. A funny joke in my book. The fish meat was very tasty, but you really had to work hard to eat it. They are small fish -- the one I caught was maybe 8 inches long -- and they are very bony. But, like I said, the meat is very tasty, so it was worth it. Besides it being the very first fish I've ever caught, it was a pirhana to boot. Quite a novelty in all regards.

After lunch that day, Kate and I had a fairly unremarkable hike in the jungle with Ucil. He mostly pointed out medicinal plants and a few weird things like the tree whose sap is used to make poison darts and the tree whose hollow trunk is filled with fire ants and has historically been used to punish people. Adulterers, for example, would be tied to the tree for five minutes and suffer the misery of many fire ant bites. Yikes!

I forgot to mention: on the way back from our fishing trip, four of us stopped at the village of San Juan and bought a few pieces of jewelry. We also saw the village pokey, which is a small brick box -- about 4'x4'x4', wherein are locked up villagers who do something bad. The awful thing looked like an oven, and I expect people could easily die from the heat in there despite the little, four-inch-square window.

A little girl had a pet anaconda, and -- as usual -- even though we didn't really want to, we took a her picture with it and gave her a 1 sole coin in return.

Friday night, I could not sleep because my stomach bothered me too much -- and also the bug bites I had were really itching.

Saturday morning, despite feeling unwell, Kate and I went for a 90-minute or so canoe trip upriver. There really was no current either way, so it was hard going the whole way. Ucil sat in the bow, and I sat in the stern. Kate would only paddle on one side of the boat, and it was hard for me to switch sides because of that. Every time I paddled on the same side as her, I spent a lot of energy correcting the dugout's path. As noted before -- I think -- the paddles are made of a dense wood that makes them very heavy and contributes to fatigue. I also had the job of bailing the dugout when too much water leaked in. I had to do so five or six times. God knows we didn't want to sink in the spot where we'd just been fishing pirhanas the day before!

When it came time to depart for Iquitos, there were eight of us, including the two Americans and two Spanish couples.

Oh -- how can I forget! -- the last night we stayed at the lodge, two large tour groups showed up. Huge in that they totalled 20 people, which is several more than had been at the entire lodge on previous nights of our stay. One group arrived after dark, and it was clear to me that most of the people were tired, dazed & confused. They'd come that day all the way from Cusco, a very long journey that had been capped by the four-hour trip upriver.

Most of the tour group members went on a night excursion, looking for caimans, but a few were rightfully too tired to join in. One women who stayed at the lodge had a terrible accident when she opened a strange door in the dining room and stepped outside - onto NOTHING. My first day at the lodge, I had opened the door to see if there were steps down to the group and was suprised to see NOTHING -- a screen door that just opened 8 feet or so above the ground. Because it was so dark -- and because the decks were only dimly lit by kerosene -- this woman saw no reason not to just walk out the door. And she dropped straight to the ground.

Fortunately, her injuries were minor, but she was very upset. I gave her a Xanax and some items from my first aid kit. The lodge staff did not seem particularly ready to deal with the situation. I had to tell them to give her some ice. Her husband, though, was going around popping photos, as if he was collecting evidence for a lawsuit. He asked me if I'd actually seen her fall, and I said it was only out of the corner of my eye. Then I told him, I don't think you'll get very far with a complaint. He wisely responded, "I suppose you're right."

Kate and I have talked about this situation a few times, mainly its cultural aspects. The lodge staff seemed to think the woman was foolish to walk somewhere without looking first where she was going. There is *some* logic to that, but given the fact that it was so dark that you couldn't necessarily see the decks at night, it's not so strange that she would *assume* something would be there. Further, screen doors usually lead to *something,* and form the American perspective -- and the Spanish and Irish and German and god-only-knows-who-else was there perspective - it's quite dangerous to have a door that opens easily and leads to nothing but thin air.

Anyway, that incident aside, the lodge was a pleasing experience. It made the jungle -- with its bugs and heat and humidity and porcupine trees and anacondas and tarantulas -- as easy to bear as possible while not separating ourselves from the natural experience too much.

Saturday, when it came time to leave, though, there wasn't a boat available to haul all eight of us back to the mouth of the Yanuyacu. The staff must have perceived some urgency in our group to leave. Perhaps the Spaniards had an afternoon flight leaving Iquitos. So they set about returning us as best they could manage. To wit, they took their two largest dugouts and hooked them together in that same tow-rope situation from the day we broke down on the Amazon and proceeded to take us down river on the slow boats to China. If it was bad enough for our 15 HP motor to haul the dugout the day were were adrift, hauling the same number of people PLUS all our luggage was something of a farce.

Maria, the Peace Corps worker, was beside herself in outrage, just disgusted by the situation and blaming the tour groups for taking our boat. Fifteen minutes into what would've been at least two hours, Cleever came up river with a boat full of tour group people. You could tell Maria wanted to hijack it somehow. The boat drivers gestured at each other a little, but we continued down river another 15 minutes or so. Then, I looked back up river, and there was Cleever speeding downriver with the empty boat made of metal (unlike the leaky dugouts we were in). He looked like a scene from Hawaii 5-0 or Miami Vice, maybe.

He pulled alongside and there, in the middle of the river, we moved from the topsy-turvy dugouts into the larger boat -- luggage and all. Very amusing, I thought. Just go with the flow around here. Where the Yanuyacu flows into the Amazon, another boat was waiting, and we again had to make a transfer of all persons and luggage in the middle of the river. The woman traveling with the Peace Corps girl told Kate she was amazed at how calmly Kate and I accepted the situation. I guess we've just learned to recognize situations that are out of our control and to just make the best of it.

Alas, as evidenced by today's events, sometimes things that are firmly within your control go in directions you don't want, and you must still try to make the best of it.

This morning at breakfast, one of the hotel staff asked us what we planned to do today. We said we were going to visit Pilpintuwasi Butterfly Farm outside of town. Nice place, he said.

He suggested we use a mototaxi driver friend of his as a guide to get there and to visit to tribal villages along the way. His friend, named Ricardo, was very sweet. Even though we weren't interested in going to the tribal villages, we decided: Oh, why the hell not?

For future reference, I have an answer to that question. It's short: Stick with your gut.

We took Ricardo's mototaxi down to Nanay boat launch, where he arranged for a boat to take us to all three of these sites, ending with Pilpintuawasi.

The first stop was at the Bora village, where Ricardo sounded some drums half way up past the shore. When we arrived, the chief greeted us in traditional dress and ushered us into a large building with a thached roof -- the tribal community center, I guess.

The chief seemed a little drunk, as has been the case with many other river tribal people we've met so far, but he launched into a lecture in Spanish and in Bora language about piercing the ears, nose and lips, something about the tribe's history, its fiestas, its dances in honor of turtles, monkeys and anacondas. Meanwhile, the women were coming into the hall and donning costumes and face paint quickly.

Soon, they started dancing and singing. The sound was nice, but the performance was lackluster -- very canned, and they seemed bored. Also, they put on this show only for me and Kate. At one point, they pulled Kate and me up to dance with them. I could barely -- OK, I *couldn't* -- contain my laughter, especially after they put a headdress on Kate and I saw a woeful look on her face. Then, they put a headdress on me, too. The whole thing felt a bit humiliating somehow. We were both uncomfortable, but also laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.

After they were done dancing, the women swarmed us with their beaded trinkets -- bracelets, necklaces, a purse or two. The quality was alright, so I bought one bracelet and declined any further offerings. Kate doesn't handle such situations as easily as me, though, so even though she had no intention or desire to buy *any* bracelets, she walked away with FIVE at a cost of about 12 soles ($2). Then, we had to pay the chief 40 soles for the performance.

All the way back to the boat, Kate expressed her unhappiness with the situation -- just the most ticky-tacky, unenthusiastic, tired tourist performance ever.

Hard to believe our second stop could be worse, but we should've taken a clue from the fact that Ricardo called it the "Casa de Serpiente" -- and mentioned the presence of animals, mimmicking the slow movements of the sloth and telling us we could wear a big anaconda on our neck. We should've just motored on by, but again, it was one of those "why the hell not" things.

More on why the hell not.

If the Panama City zoo was depressing and sad, at least it had prepared us somehow for the Casa de Serpiente (y otras animales). In absolutely squalid conditions, an Amazonian version of a midway freak show was underway at the Casa de Serpiente.

Barely in the door, a man grabbed a sloth and thrust it into Kate's hands, with lots of gesturing and encouraging photography. Kate was a little freaked out to be holding the poor creature -- probably thinking for SURE that she was doomed to get leschmaniasis.

Then, the Amazonian carnies ushered us to the birds and with no permission on my part, except for the fact that I was standing still at the moment, they placed a large parrot on each of my arms and on my head. No haces caca, I told the bird while Kate took a photo. Then it was Kate's turn to have a large parrot stuck on *her* head.

Onward we went toward a cage -- casa de serpiente, itself. It contained several varieties of boa constrictors, a medium-sized anaconda and, in a murky rectangular trench dug in the ground, a large anaconda. The man actually invited us INTO the cage, and when we declined, he simply went in and pulled the large anaconda from the water and brought it out. He put it on the ground about 15 feet away from us and then gestured for us to come over. It was quite obvious that he wanted us to lug the mammoth snake onto our shoulders and be photographed with it. NO WAY!

Kate tried to make them happy by getting close to the snake and touching it. It didn't move, and she said to me, "It's OK; it's safe." So I went over to her and -- milagro! -- I actually managed to touch it. Just with my index finger and just a few feeble strokes, but I touched a snake nonetheless. I'm going to have to tell Clare about this -- her hypnosis worked pretty well, I guess. I still felt a little anxious, but I walked away from the snake saying, Red, red, red. And I was immediately fine.

It only lasted a brief time, though, because the next place the carnies took us was up the rickety stairs to what I thought was someone's house. Perhaps it was. We walked right through it into an even more rickety walkway elevated some 10 feet above the ground and presently found ourselves faced with a couple of enslaved monkeys chained by their necks to a railing. One was gesturing toward us sadly for food or something and kept trying to grab me with its tail. Th other just sat around pulling at the end of its chain. I felt disgusted looking at this and guilty for being a party to it. There was also a cage with monkeys in it -- a few diferrent kinds, but I wanted nothing to do with the situation and moved to leave. The guys seemed to be a little bothered that we didn't want to take photos. In retrospect, perhaps we should've taken photos to remind ourselves of how casually cruel people can be to animals when there's money involved.

Oh, I forgot. Between the casa de serpiente and the house was an old freezer in which was kept a small caiman. The man handed it to Kate, who ordered me to take her photo as quickly as possible, thinking it was going to bite her at any moment. There was also a small turtle in the freezer, which was handed to me for a photo. He was cute and colorful in the face, which he did not retract.

Oh, and that reminds me... there was along the way a "prehistoric" turtle hauled out of a mud bath and put on the group. It cannot retract its head -- it only moves it side to side. I think this is the only kind of turtle on the planet that does not retract. The thing looked dead when the guy put it on the ground, but after a minute, the guy prodded it, and the turtle's legs moved a tad.

Now back to the platfrom zoo from Something Wicked This Way Comes.... Beyond the monkeys was a cage with two pumas in it. The cage was no more than 6'x12' -- way too small for the pumas, who lay on the ground panting. I asked the man where they exercise, and he looked at me like I was silly. "They only need to eat and sleep," he replied.

Hideous.

Then, lastly, we saw a poor 5-month-old capybara hiding in the back of its cage. Docile and unmoving and very cute, it make me put a quicker step into my foot to leave.

We paid 40 soles (again) for the visit to this riverside attractionm, and I felt like we were paying to leave the place rather than to visit it.

Once back in the boat, I told Ricardo that I did not like the place because of the conditions in which especially the monkeys were kept. He apologized.

Fortunately, Pilpintuwasi Butterfly Farm is the antidote for the Casa de Serpiente. Its main feature is a butterfly farm in an enclosed 500 sq. meter tropical garden, but it is also a refuge for wild animals the owners have rescued from various fates. The manatee, for example, was destined to be someone's Easter dinner when the owner of Pilpintuwasi purchased it from a butcher in Iquitos. Several monkeys, including an endangered red-faced uacari -- red-haired, like an orangutang -- roam the grounds as they please. There is also an ant-eater, a jaguar (which someone had tried to make a pet but couldn't feed it), some land turtles and a tapir on the premises.

All were well cared for and had adequate space when they required enclosure, as the jaguar and tapir do. The monkeys were let to be wild, but they were very tame and came up to interact with humans and other animals. The red-faced uacari decided to groom my hair, which was quite a treat. Once she was finished, she lay down and expected me to groom her. I happily obliged. That and a baby howler monkey were the first monkeys I've ever touched. The were soft and sweet and cuddly, and I am really taken by their teeny tiny fingernails.

We saw lots of butterflies, of course, and were given a tour that included a visit to the laboratory in which the propagation of more butterflies is encouraged. They collect the seeds, nurture the catepillars and give homes to the chrysalis and then transfer the butterflies to the garden. The garden is full of plants the butterflies like to eat and lay eggs on. It is very beautiful -- a world apart from Casa de Serpiente.

Catty, bitchy women shaking fingers

Whatever happened to smiling, happy people holding hands?

The craigslist ads for women seeking women are, as I've noted previously, the most pathetic thing I've seen in a long time. The women are just bitchingbitchingbitching at each other. (Rather than join into the fray and snag and snarl along with the rest of them, I sometimes post an ad on my blog and make fun of it. But that's all in good fun. I mean: A menstrual cuddler? Who wouldn't want to poke at that?)

The problem seems to be that we women, we liberated lesbians who don't need men and don't need to conform to society's rules about relationships, all seem to be wanting to police each other. There apparently is some kind of lesbian gestapo round these parts that goes attacking those of us who are attracted to certain types of women. (See my previous post about femmes, to whom I'm ardently attracted.) See, this shit is just NOT ALLOWED.

Here are some samples of the bickering from craigslist. I could not find the original posting for "Let's give this a try." I can only presume someone *flagged it* for being politicall incorrect. But here are some responses:

RE:lets give this a try

I am manly, hear me laugh...HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH HA

YOU WROTE
"...I'm fairly open minded when it comes to meeting people but I am also quite picky at the same time so that means no manly looking anything...I'm here to meet new people, possibly make a couple people laugh and that's it."

UCM: And here's another...

RE:lets give this a try

No manly anything?
So a double headed dildo is out of the question?
I have a manly dog...does that count?
Oh yeah my cat is also manly.
Manly yes but I like it too.
Your definately too young to remember the commercial.

UCM: And you're definitely too dumb to know the difference betweeen "your" and "you're...."

All the girl was wanting was NOT to date a "manly looking anything." I can't say I blame her. If you're a woman who loves *women* -- as I am -- what the fuck is wrong with wanting your woman to look like a WOMAN?

It just sickens me, all this attackingattackingattacking women who state some kind of preference that doesn't conform to the holier-than-thou, gender-bending blabbidy-blah-blah of lesbian political correctness. Nothing drives me more mad than intolerance of personal taste.

That's why I'm down with the following, one of the few sane voices I've read on craigslist:

Where has all this gone? - 42

It's really entertaining to read these post. I must say though...where have all the add's gone for women meeting other women? There are a few, but mostly it's dogging each other. You read other cities' add's and they are not like Portland's. It's sad to me to think that there are so many catty women out there. Are you women just bored or just really hateful? Everyone needs love in all shapes and sizes and looks, personality and so on...There is someone for everyone, but not everyone for someone. We like to date women that we are attracted too, but the feeling has to be mutual. I do like women that are HWP because that is what I am attracted too. Let's get back to women seeking women. I want a fun date for crying out loud not someone with a low self esteem.

UCM: I hear ya, sister. ... But how about some good spelling and good grammar in addition to a good body? Would that be too much to ask?

Blunt-haired hipster lesbians

The street I live on is packed -- just packed -- with lesbians. But last night, when Bubba and I were walking through the neighborhood, she posed an interesting question: "Why is it that *all* the lesbians around here have that blunt-haired hipster look that is just *not* the kind of girl I'm attracted to?"

I wonder the same thing.

But then, my problem is not just that I don't dig "blunt-haired hipsters," it's that I totally go for the femmes. (We've been over this before, haven't we?)

So this reminds me of a conversation I had yesterday with a customer service rep from Verizon Wireless. I had a question about text messaging. The CSR looked up some information about my account: "Let's see, you have the Motorola RAZR. Is it the black one or the pink one?" she asked.

The pink one, I replied.

"Oh, that is *such* a cute phone," she said.

I know. It's very sexy. (Like, whatever. But yeah, it is....)

"Are you a girly-girl?" the CSR asked.

OK, that was *not* what I expected to hear. Right? So I said, Hmm. Yeah, you could say that. Pretty much.

(You cannot sue me if you injure yourself by falling out of your chair, laughing at the thought of me as a "girly girl." I do at times reveal odd things about myself on this blog. This would be one of them. Some of you may assume it's a secret, INNER girly-girl to which I refer. But it's not. I'm decidedly floral -- and I usually smell that way. That pink phone spoke to me at a visceral, feminine level. And the only reason I don't wear really cute shoes is because an old ankle break prevents it. ... It is true, though, that a lot of my girly-girlness is ... er, underground. That doesn't mean she's not there, though, so if you're one of those people who classifies me as "butch" and is laughing at this ... FUCK OFF.)

Anyway, like I said, I told the Verizon chick that I *am* a girly-girl of some sort (my collection of Keene's and my love of technical outdoor fabrics notwithstanding).

"Well," she replied, "I am *totally* a girl, too!"

I thought: This must be what it's like to be in a sorority.

And then I had some fond flashbacks to a funny little, three-year "passionate friendship" I had with a sorority girl in college. She's probably the one responsible for my love of femmes, damn her.

Then there was that fling I had with a co-worker who wore powersuits, heels and black nylons all the time. Hummana-hummana.

But the rest have been a parade (a very *short* parade) of more-or-less androgynous women -- and a hippie gal. The hippie had a certain level of mastery and chemistry that no one else has managed to match in practice. And long hair. Loved the long hair. But, ultimately, she didn't want a relationship; she only wanted my body. (Now, you can go ahead and laugh at *that* if you want. But it doesn't stop it from being true.) And, also, I often found myself thinking things like: Am I allowed to laugh about how she burns a candle all night long in her bedroom during the full moon in hopes of aligning her menstrual cycle with the lunar cycle?

Also, there was your classic German woman. She was the first, and she kinda scared me. I'm pretty sure she had OCD: She was pretty freaky insistent about me washing my feet -- and drying them *thoroughly* -- before getting into bed. (Now that I'm thinking of it, the German OCD type sounds a bit familiar....)

So anyway, this is a long-about journey to how I can commiserate with Bubba about the blunt-haired, hipster lesbians. Day after day, I'm walking down the street with my little dog, and in cafe after cafe and bar after bar, these women are having coffee and smoking cigarettes. They look alike, and they dress alike. And almost uniformly, they're striving for androgyny.

It leaves me feeling wistful. In this veritable river of lesbians, there's hardly a girl in sight.

A night on the street with Bubba

So this is one thing the blogosphere is all about: You get to give your friends names they don't like, names they do like, names they got no business having. And, in the case of Bubba, names your other friends want to give someone -- but they never write about that someone on their blog and thus suggest YOU call that someone by a moniker they invented.

This is the case with Bubba, who until just today was known as SGF, our Single Gay Female. Rather than permanently cornering SGF into her singleness -- which, considering she dropped the kissingkissingkissing girl today, she might just be for a while -- Dr. M thought up a new moniker. This one more accurately reflects the once-SGF's entire being: BUBBA. The name stands for Buddhist brown-eyed, blonde-haired atheist. Got that?

I asked Bubba what she thought of the new moniker, and she immediately embraced it. She added, "You could also try Bubble, if you wanted. That would be the same name, but with lesbian at the end." (She failed to notice the A was gone, and that atheist part is important.)

Anyway, Bubba and I were out tonight, plying the streets, two single lesbians on the prowl for ... there's no telling what we were looking for. I really wanted a new necklace. I got some soap and a little piece of art. Bubba ended up buying a CD of some cello music with which she can chant her Buddist-Atheist self into a calm centeredness.

We were walking the sidewalks for Last Thursday, the monthly Alberta arts festival. There was a lot of good live music, people walking and dancing on stilts, guys riding exceptionally tall bicycles, a high-energy African drumming and dancing group (with actual African-Americans, not dreadlocked hippies) that did some amazing booty moves (mmmm!). There were women juggling and dancing with fire. Brass bands. Clown acts. A cellist with a lot of reverb on his mic. Gallery openings. Artisans plying their wares. And plenty of carny food that the pup kept trying to eat off the ground.

But, in the end, Bubba and I wound up the evening at the Tin Shed, our favorite breakfast spot. They've got a full bar there, which I hadn't realized, and we sat out in the garden, with the tikki lights flickering in the breeze, drank cocktails and ate dinner.

In the middle of eating, Bubba tells me about a dream she had last night. "I was in a room with a woman who was going to kill me," she said. "She had all this torture equipment, and I said, 'Please just slit my throat, and get this over with.' And so she did. I could feel her cutting me, but it was a shallow cut. There was all this blood. But I could still talk, so we sat there and she talked more about how she was going to kill me."

What a nice image with my jalapeno and bacon burger....

So then Bubba says, "That dream has a lot of psychopathy in it. I wonder what Dr. M would make of it." And then she started to twitter and guffaw and giggle and snort.

What's so funny? I asked.

"Oh, I was just thinking. *That's* how we can recruit Dr. M to the woo-woo side," Bubba said. "Get her to interpret dreams! But, specifically, dreams with psychopathy in them."

For starters, I'm not sure what the *we* business is about. I want Dr. M to become "woo-woo" about as much as I want athlete's foot. ... But I'll admit to liking the idea of her doing dream interpretation of nightmares from a psychopathological perspective. It could make for interesting research, specifically if she collects dream data from those dangerous types she digs so much.

Personally, I think the dream had something to do with the demise of the relationship with kissingkissingkising girl. A shallow cut? Didn't really hurt? They were still talking? But lots of blood.... Yeah, sounds like: Shallow relationship, superficial wound but lots of emotional baggage for Bubba.

Still, she requested I put it out there for Dr. M's consideration -- as some kind of temptation to get woo-woo. (Good luck with that!) Even if it's not my dream, it's my blog, so anyone else who wants to weigh in on the meaning of this dream is welcome to comment. ... So?

Cause of death: a big heart

For the past week, I've been feeling dogged by a thought: How could my friend Lesha have died from an overdose? Because to take enough pills to do that, either she'd have to be a big freaking wigged out pill-popper -- which I've never known her to be -- or she would've been *trying* to kill herself.

And I just could not imagine suicide. The idea was so utterly counter to her character. Her ex-husband died from a heart attack a year or so ago, and her death left her two children -- 18 and 20 years old -- without parents. Family was the most important thing in Lesha's life, so ... ugh. It just didn't make any sense to me.

That's why I was relieved to get a call this morning from Lesha's exGF. She also knew suicide was not a possibilty and was utterly confounded by the coroner's suggestion that the cause of death was an overdose of something, even if it was an accidental one.

Yesterday, she found out the real cause: Congestive heart failure. Turns out Lesha had a bum ticker, one that was way, way, WAY too big. The average human heart weighs about 300 grams. The autopsy showed that Lesha's tipped the scaled at 548 grams. Such a large heart makes it very difficult to breathe, and Lesha apparently drowned in the fluid that built up in her lungs as a result.

It's a wretched situation because my friend apparently had gone to the doctor last year, complaining of shortness of breath (a classic symptom of her condition). She was diagnosed with asthma and given an inhaler. Over the past few months, she'd developed a wicked cough from all the effort she was spending trying to get the fluid out of her lungs. So a missed diagnosis ended her life a lot sooner than necessary.

But there's something appropriate about this, and it's simply the fact that Lesha died from a huge heart.

In my experience, there have been few people I've met who were so welcoming of people -- into her life, into her home. No matter when I dropped by, she always had friends visiting -- or friends staying at her home in between situations. When I asked a previous ex to move out, Lesha offered her a place to stay while in transition. When our friend Jill was trying to get her business up and running, Lesha let her stay for months. She took in orphans -- me, not least among them -- and made them feel like family.

And even though she was often beset with financial problems, thanks mainly to her work in low-paying jobs with disabled people and troubled kids, Lesha was always generous and hospitable. What food and drink she had was yours. When you came to stay the night, she'd evacuate the master bedroom. She threw a lot of parties. To this day, the best birthday party I ever had in my life was the one that she and I shared together at her home, as our birthdays were just a few days apart.

The amount of love people showed to Lesha that night -- and on many, many occassions -- was proportionate to the love she dished out. It was a HUGE amount. I always took note of that. She reminded me of my Aunt Liz in that way, which is probably the biggest compliment I can give to anyone.

So if she had to die of something, a big heart is the most fitting thing I can imagine. She had a terminal case of that all along.

Housekeeping & etc.

First, a note to Dr. M and S2: Ain't no one gonna get the better of me.

Maybe they do for a little while, but I've been fortunate to always have someone who watches my six. This time, it's been the two of you and your most valuable common sense.

I'm thinking of a variation on that scene in "Moonstruck," where Cher slaps Nick Cage and issues a little, "Snap outta it!" Or something like that. I think you two know what I mean.

Grazie.

Second: A friend who's recently made her first appearance on my blog objects strenuously to being called The Jewish Baptist. (It was a shorthand, right? I was just trying to get a piece of writing done.) Said friend claims, "I'm Jewish by injection only." (Everyone can just chew on that for a while....)

"I was just thinking of some other moniker," she said. "People should know me as I am. The wrong name would create the wrong impression."

Therefore, she requests -- I kid you not -- to be known heretofore as (She who) "Shall be Revered" or SBR for short. Far be it from me to give people inappropriate names or to call them other than what they wish. Therefore: SBR, it is. (When you die, you'll have to take it up with Mr. God about why *you* are SBR, I suppose, but that's not really my concern. Just a thought.)

Now, S2: You got a new name for *yourself* yet?

Third: So this is a total rip-off of Dr. M, but "SQUEEEE!" (This is her sound effect. It is possible, though, that it's not a Dr. M original. I'm sure she'll tell me what movie it comes from if it's a copy-cat. And I'll try to come up with my own sound effect later, especially if SQUEE is trademarked or something....)

So what's all the SQUEE-ing about? Tonight, I poached salmon just the way XGF poaches salmon. I did it myself. Without reading a book or NUTHIN'! Just came out of my little brain. A stovetop poaching: wine, vegetable stock, lemons and lots and lots of dill. Turned out perfectly.

I ate half of the salmon tonight, and tomorrow, for lunch, I'll have me some salmon on salad or something.

Fourth: Don't believe people who work in produce. And trust me on this. Because I used to work in produce.

Tonight, at my favorite store, I was shopping, and I realized I hadn't looked in my produce drawer before going to the store. (Actually, I hadn't looked in my refrigerator at all. Nor my pantry. Nor a cookbook. I was just foraging at the store, OK?)

Anyway, I thought to myself: Should I buy baby bok choy -- or not? So I asked the guy working there on the potatoes: How long does baby bok choy last in the fridge?

He said, and I quote, "Oh, about two or three days at the most."

So I said, So if I bought a baby bok choy like, uh, two weeks ago, it's probably not any good?

He wrinkled his nose, shook his head and told me it wasn't possible.

So I bought myself some new babies. Get home, and I'm putting those babies in the fridge, and I inspect the one that's in there: Looks as fresh as the day I brought it home.

Fifth: Uh, is it anyone's surprise that a Fox News commentator has been named Shrub's press secretary? I heard Shrub on the boob tube just now say the guy had actually written some articles recently that criticized the Moron-in-Chief. When Shrub asked him about it, this Tony Snow apparently replied, "You should've seen what I wrote about the other guy."

Let me just ask you something, people: WHO THE FUCK IS THE OTHER GUY? Because if there's some *other* U.S. president out there -- aside from the obvious: Cheney -- I'd say it's time to make the switch. (Past time, of course. Way the fuck past time. Who the hell ... fuckfuckfuck! I'm NOT paying attention to the news. Nevermind....)

For the record

Honesty is not *always* the best policy. I mean: Seriously, people. Who really wants to hear something honest -- and *not* pleasant -- when their heart is already over-exposed and tender because they've just talked about some of the most difficult shit in their life?

Save it for later, when the chain mail is back on, OK?

You know what it's called when you save it for later? Compassion.

Finally, ladies....

I'm having profound moments of procrastination right now, as evidenced by the previous blog entry. I really *could have* been working on those two finals, the paper and the presentation but ... I'm not. I'll do that in a few minutes. I just ate a donut and drank a 16-oz cafe au (soy) lait, so I need to get some excessive brain chemistry issues worked out before I try to be a ... student.

In the meantime, I'll share this little tidbit about our little experience at the wine bar the other night.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to Single Gay Female (who is still, technically, single even though she's got this girl who is *all over her*), and I said, I really wish several of these people from school knew each other the way that I know all of them.

Specifically, I was talking about her, The Debutante, S2, Dr. M and Dr. R.

SGF asked, "Why would you want something like that?" There was actually a slight tone of derision in her voice, which is utterly abnormal for SGF. She's a very open, big-hearted, gentle, love-for-everyone kind of person, which we all uniformly love about her. I was confused.

Why *wouldn't* I want something like that? I asked.

"I dunno," she said. "I just think that's weird."

All I can figure is that SGF just didn't know enough about these other women to see something I could see. I don't know that I can put my finger on any particular trait and say This is what they all have in common, but my instinct said that something fun and interesting could come from bringing their personalities together in a social atmosphere, rather than at school. They are all intelligent and possess great senses of humor, but that's not what made me think they'd all click somehow.

I've had the pleasure of socializing with each of them one-on-one, and in doing so, I've seen them in more relaxed states than gets displayed at school or in our little salon discussions over coffee. The Debutante and SGF are pretty consistent across environments, but the rest of us are older, have worked in Corporate America or academics for a long time and have learned -- OK, me excepted -- to enact professional demeanors rather well.

So it's been my desire to see them all slip into a more easy-going state at the same time. Wine is the perfect medium to help that along, so when The Deb suggested we all gather at a wine bar on Friday night, I was gung ho. I wanted to see what would happen. (Dr. R was absent.)

What happened: I think at the end of the night, SGF no longer wondered why I wanted to experience these women together. It's all about chemistry, and this group has simply fabulous chemistry. The hard-edged humor of S2 and Dr. M was balanced by SGF's and The Deb's softer approach, with me being ... I can't tell you what I am -- that's too meta of me. Maybe "absurd" is a good word?

There's also this interesting balance between those who have excellent social graces -- Dr. M and The Deb -- and those of us who are still working on it. (I'm thinking of how Maya Angelou once told S2, "You need to learn grace." She's surely come a long way since then, so that probably just leaves me as utterly graceless, while, as mentioned previously, SGF was too distracted by her kissingkissingkissing girl to affect the balance too much.)

Add our outstanding intelligence -- even I will claim this one -- and the fact that we share a common experience (grad school) and are all very left of center politically and all leaning hard toward atheism or something of that sort so no one gets offended by religious jokes, and the pump is pretty much primed.

We had a splendid time. Everyone has since said, in one way or another: "We should do that again. And again."

And I, who had a much better experience with Maya Angelou than S2 did, kicked back in my chair, far too many glasses of wine in my gut, and thought, I was right about this. (Of course I was. As Maya noted some time ago, I am "one smart cookie." And no, SGF, that is *not* a joke.) ... I may not necessarily be a Good Thing myself (perhaps only because Martha hasn't met me yet), but I know a Good Thing when I see it.

This group of women is a Very Good Thing.

That said, I return to my studies. Just what the fuck would Jay Haley say about "inverted hierarchies" anyway?

Crazy family members

Right now, I'm suffering -- SUFFERING, I'm telling you. I'm having to listen to my dad's wife talk incessantly about her difficulties attaching files to e-mail. ... And about how the battery in her cell phone dies too quickly. I wish it would die RIGHT NOW.

More than two hours ago, I called and asked if there were any more recent photos of my late brother, Jason, on the computer there at my dad's house. The most recent one I have is from sixth grade.

I had no idea it could be this complicated, especially considering my dad is your classic Early Adopter and has technology this and that coming out his ass. But his wife is the only one at their house right now, and she admits to being dumber than a fence post. However, she also has some kind of deal where she wants me to stay on the phone with her while she clicks and clicks and clicks. (And she's talking to my dad on the other line at the same time.)

I've managed to end this conversation THREE times. But then, she calls back. Once, I didn't answer it. But here I am on the phone again. *sigh* Thank heavens it's the weekend and this isn't costing me any cell minutes.

I've got her on speaker phone. She can hear me typing. She asked what I was doing, and I told her I have two finals, a paper and a presentation all due tomorrow. Hint. Hint. But still.... Just for a damn photo?

This is so stupid. I wish the line would drop.

Slapped by the peloton of my past

Last year, I had the experience of holding a real human brain in my hand. I remember thinking: This is a lot smaller than I expected it to be.

Which is why, today, I am so ridiculously amazed. I am having a hard time fathoming how much this little brain of mine can injest in one 24-hour period, especially without cracking this hard head of mine open and pouring marinade on my cerebrum.

Allow me to tell you about yesterday.

As my blog entry from Thursday notes, an old friend of mine died this week. Lesha, who was one of the friendliest, most open-hearted and generous people I've known, went to bed Tuesday night and didn't wake up. She died in her PJs, listening to music on her headphones. Frankly, that sounds like a pretty good way to die, but it's not natural for a 41-year-old, so the news was a real shock. It also brought me in contact with a few people I haven't spoken with in at least several months -- and one I hadn't spoken to in more than seven years.

Dr. M said something to me last week about me getting my "energy from other people." That's largely true (but not entirely)and it's a good thing. Because check out the log from my cell phone yesterday:

8:40 a.m.: The Drama Queen who informed me about Lesha's death calls and gives me no more information. We talk for 10 minutes, 41 seconds. It was nice to hear from him, but I was still a little pissed about the voice mail obit.

8:53 a.m.: I call my sister to talk to her about the genogram I'm working on for Family Therapy. She was trying to avoid grading some papers, which probably explains why she talked my ear off for 2 hours, 1 minute and 38 seconds. (As a benefit, she did help me find a DSM diagnosis -- or two -- for our dad. He's got Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder for SURE and seems to meet the criteria for Narcissistic Personality Disorder, as well. That explains a lot.)

I take a shower.

11:23 a.m.: I call The Debutante to find out what time we're getting together in the evening at a wine bar with friends. It takes 1 minute, 45 seconds to ring her up and leave a quick voice mail.

I leash up the pup and start him on his walk while calling a friend who I expect will have useful information about Lesha. So:

11:41 a.m.: I call The Mountain Girl. As we haven't talked in about a year, we have some good catching up to do. It takes 57 minutes, 40 seconds. (At 45, she's fallen in love for the first time -- yea! -- and thinks she might finally learn to identity of her birth father, who has agreed to a DNA test. She's also shaking up her work life, which I'm thrilled to hear about because she deserves some excitement.) This was the best phone conversation all day.

The Debutant returned my call while I was talking to TMG. So that requires a quick trip to my voice mail.

12:43 p.m.: I call S2 to tell her what time we're meeting in the evening and whatnot, a call that lasts 5 minutes, 17 seconds.

I grab my bike and prepare to ride to the grocery store to get tapas for this bring-your-own-food wine bar.

1 p.m.: XGF calls to tell me two other friends from California have called, presumably about Lesha. (I say "presumably" because both of them had the tact not to deliver this bad news in voice mail. THANK YOU.) XGF also wants to know how to use the lawn mower. I tell her I will be over on my bike in a few minutes to help her with that.

1:31 p.m.: Done helping XGF with the lawn mower -- and having added air to my bike tires -- I place my first call-while-biking ever. I'm supposed to be meeting The Good Witch at my place at 2, and I want to tell her I'll be late. Fortunately, she'll be late, too. 2 minutes, 13 seconds worth of communication and biking.

2:05 p.m.: Just after I arrive home from the store, XGF calls to give me the phone numbers of the friends who called about Lesha. It's a quickie: 1 minute, 44 seconds.

I decide to vacuum.

Then, I think: Well, I'm going to have to return this call eventually.

2:25 p.m.: I make the call. I get voice mail and leave a message. 1 minute, 25 seconds.

2:26 p.m.: I return the call from a The Jewish Baptist. We catch up for 38 minutes, 38 seconds. (Check out that symmetry!) Some of it is Lesha talk. Some of it is about how The Jewish Baptist found The Mountain Girl's birth father. And TJB also wants to know why I didn't call to tell her XGF and I had broken up. Uhhhh... OK, that was a good question.

While on the phone with TJB, The Good Witch calls and talks to my voice mail. At 3:07 p.m., I spend 37 seconds to find out what she had to say. She's on her way.

3:46 p.m.: Just after TGW arrives, the practicum coordinator calls from school and spends 2 minutes trying to talk me into changing my practicum term. There's a reason the conversation is brief: I tell her no.

TGW and I hang out and chat. FINALLY, there is a face to all this talking. It feels like a relief to see the person to whom I'm speaking. She stays for about an hour.

4:54 p.m.: Single Gay Female calls to inquire about the wine bar. In 16 minutes, 48 seconds, I fill her in on the day I'm having, tell her I'm looking forward to meeting her new girl and talk about the wine bar.

5:17 p.m.: There is a 6-minute, 28-second conversation with S2 about the wine bar and tapas.

5:31 p.m.: For reasons I can no longer recall, SGF calls me again and talks for 1 minute, 8 seconds. I have NO RECOLLECTION of this conversation at all, so I'm assuming that's when I had my regularly scheduled Alien Abduction and my Pod Person was speaking on my behalf.

6:03 p.m.: Lesha's ex calls me back. After 33 minutes, 46 seconds of nearly non-stop details of her life -- when I asked about Lesha's -- I check to see if I still have ears. But, on the upside, I learn that Lesha had been carving out a good space in her life and died peacefully. Maybe she was listening to the Grateful Dead....

7:11 p.m.: The Debutante calls to see if I think the wine bar will be crowded and whether we should go a little early. It takes 2 minutes, 28 seconds to decide I'll check it out when I take the pup for his walk and call her back.

7:27 p.m.: I call The Deb and say, It looks crowded. There's only one table open right now. She announces she'll be on her way earlier.

7:47 p.m.: Dr. M calls because she's confused. It seems sometime earlier in the day, I actually found a minute to send a text message or two, and one of them was to her. I wrote: "4 tapas, I'm bringing smoked salmon mousse." So Dr. M was subsequently unsure whether 4 tapas are on the menu at the no-food-here wine bar or if we were still supposed to bring them. In 1 minute, 42 seconds, I straighten out my bad shorthand -- I meant, "For tapas, I'm bringing..." -- and learn that Dr. M intends to bring pate. (Later, she is the recipient of my unabashed admiration because she turns up with a lovely liver mousse, an olive tapenade, wine-soaked goat cheese and some good stiff crackers.)

8:01 p.m.: *Mercifully,* the last call of the day comes in -- and it's from The Deb. In 36 seconds, we have a funny conversation about a bit of southern slang. In short, she's coming at me.

I walk downstairs to the street, smoked salmon mousse and a box of crackers in hand, and The Deb pulls up in front. We walk down to the wine bar.

Within 15 or 20 minutes, The Deb and I are enjoying some wine. I am digging into the large plate of mozarella caprese she brought with her (and she gets a dose of unabashed admiration for whipping *that* up, let me tell you!). She also brought paper plates and forks. She came well prepared. ... And then, in short order, in walk SGF, followed by Dr. M and S2 (and, a little later, by SGF's girl, who provides the evening's titillation by draping herself all over SGF and mugging on her for the rest of the night).

For the next several hours, I enjoy the incredible, vibrant, intelligent and outrageously funny company of these four women (and the silent kissing girl). Rather than being drained from the excessive conversing I had throughout the day, I feel energized. Talking to all those people was a huge trip into the memory banks, and it was generally a good thing.

Lately, I have been feeling off my game. All the upheaval in my life these past couple months has felt like a torpedo hit, and I've been trying to right the ship. I don't have an even keel yet, I can tell you that. After six and a half years with XGF, I'm not going to get over the divorce this quickly. But hearing from all those people reminded me of pretty much everywhere I've ever been in my life.

Thursday night after my blog post, I had called The Asian to tell her about Lesha's death. We talked for a long time, and I told her about some of the problems I've been having with my genogram. She had said to me, "I'm *glad* you're alone. You should not be a part of that family. You don't need to be involved with those people, except your sister. ... And anyway," she added, "you always land on your feet. I've seen you make some really gigantic changes in your life, and I *know* this about you: You always land on your feet."

I knew she was right when she said that. But it wasn't until I had contact with all these other people from My Former World that I really felt the accuracy of her statement.

In the wine bar, Dr. M turned to me and said, "I'm in a *great* mood." She was pleased to have the end of the term in sight and feeling very good about a display of statistics prowess earlier in the day. I replied, I'm in the best mood I've been in for a long time.

And then I told her a little story about sitting too close to the course at a bike race and thinking I would lose my knees when the peloton passed. The friend I was with at the time had said, "Wouldn't it have been funny if they all stuck out their hands and slapped us as they passed?"

I feel like I've been slapped by a peloton of my past, I told Dr. M, briefly recounting the day. Talking to all those people made me realize I'm gonna be just fine.

Dr. M patted me and said, "I've known that all along."

Distance allows us to see things in other people that they can't necessarily see in themselves. In the aftermath of this divorce -- with my tilting, torpedoed ship working to find its keel -- I apparently needed to get that message from a mirror that only My Former World could provide. There is tremendous power in being a witness to one another's lives. In fact, it may be the most valuable thing we do. (Certainly, that's a big part of what calls me to counseling.)

The day ended as a good day should: Four of us crossed the street to my loft, enjoyed some chocolate with our port and talked some more. Sitting with these women I so enjoy, I felt everything in the day coming together somehow, and a thought occurred to me: I have been referring to a certain part of my genogram and to the fallout from my breakup as The New World -- although one can argue reasonably that this started in August and that the breakup was after-the-fact -- and I had been thinking of my past as I described it here: My Former World.

Neither of these terms is accurate. In the accumulation of all that makes me what I am, there is no clear deliniation between the past and the present. So going forward, I'll call my life what it is: The Known World.

Hello, I'm sorry to inform you I'll be using this technology like an asshole

That's how certain e-mails or voice mails -- or blog posts, for that matter -- should begin when the purpose of the following message is to break very bad news.

Like tonight.

When I got a VOICE MAIL informing me that an old friend -- a dear friend -- died mysteriously in her sleep. By old, I mean long-time. She was just about my age. Which is not old, if you're wondering. I'm only 37.

I was stunned to hear this message. And how this information was passed on to me ... whoa ... that's *messed up.*

Took me right back to the day last year when, out of the blue, I got an e-mail at work -- going to my work e-mail made it all the worse, even though it had no business in e-mail AT ALL -- that my grandfather was dying. And by "dying," I mean literally. I didn't quite understand that in the moment. Until I called the old goat and heard the immense pain in his voice. Bone cancer is some nasty shit. He told me he'd be getting out of the hospital the next day.

So the next morning, there was another e-mail. He had, indeed, checked out. Died in the middle of the night.

Which I learned about in a fucking e-mail. At work -- again. Where I promptly burst into tears. And, thus, rather humiliated myself because doing *that* was just not part of the corporate culture there....

Then, earlier this year, a former co-worker of whom I was quite fond died from cancer. I knew she was gravely ill and would die, but I was still disgusted to find out about her death, via a third party who did not know her, in an e-mail. "Oh, I was sorry to hear about so-and-so's death," the e-mail said. "That was a real shock."

So was the e-mail.

Hasn't anybody ever heard of the telephone?! And if you use it, just say: Uh, call me back. Rather than leaving a message like: Oh, so-and-so died. Especially when you know the recipient would be upset to hear that shit. WHAT THE FUCK, dude?!

The thing in common here -- aside from death -- is the empty, one-sided nature of the communication. Voice mails and e-mails remove the relating, the momentary commiserating, the softening of the blow, the expression of shock and sadness (or whatever you feel) that occurs between two people who are actually speaking to each other. You become simply a recipient. There's not even a person to whom you can say, "When?" (And, inevitably, there's some important information missing. I don't know if my friend died yesterday or two weeks ago.)

I experience these moments as massive voids, even though they are potent communications. It feels like a sucker punch. Because there's never the hemming and hawing that -- in a conversation -- occurs before someone drops a bomb. None of these communications I'm talking about here included any, "Gee, UCM, I don't know how to tell you this... I've got some bad news...." Instead, they've been jarringly direct, which makes them all the more disturbing.

So ... I'm stunned, and I'm deeply saddened. My friend was way too young to be dying in her sleep, even though that seems like a pretty decent way to go. And, as obvious here in this blog, I'm sickened by the way I learned about it. Next time, I'm hoping someone will employ a little decency and just ask me to call back. In the meantime, I'll file this one away in the "Ain't-Gonna-Do-That-To-Others" category. 'Cause that shit's just not right.

Will the pedestrian *please* cross the street?

Portland is an exceptional town. It's geographically stunning: A carpet of green runs through the center of the city, two stately rivers run through (or past) it; and on a clear day, Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Hood are stunning.

Somewhere along the line, Portland has also acquired a car culture that's exceptionally courteous to pedestrians. (I've often been of the opinion that it's because the drivers like to pause and take a minute to admire the scenery.) But sometimes, that courteousness is a bit ... extreme.

Like this morning.

I was out with the pup on our morning stroll -- well, truth be told, it was approaching noon because I rose a bit late -- and toward the end of the walk, I found myself standing on a street corner opposite the Random Order Coffee House. There was a sign out front. It had a lot of words on it. Some of them looked interesting to me. (They were food-related.) So I stopped there on the corner momentarily and tried to read the sign.

I was not looking at the street. I was not making any gestures whatsoever that would indicate I wanted to cross. Except for, as I mentioned, I was standing *on the corner.*

Presently, I heard a little toot from a car horn. I turned away from the sign and looked toward the sound. It had come from the prototypical Portland vehicle -- a Subaru station wagon -- that was lingering there on the street. The driver gestured at me impatiently. Given my sign language abilities, I had no problem interpreting: Get your ass moving across the street already, pedestrian! Jesusfuckingchrist! I've been waiting here an *hour* already.

My own facial expression -- Huh? -- was all she needed. She hit the gas and sped off.

Behind her was another car. Its driver decided to repeat the routine, but without the gesturing. She simply paused there in the street and looked at me.

Well, I said to the pup, looks like I'll have to read that sign tomorrow. Time to cross, whether I want to or not....

And so I did.

So next time you hear the old chicken joke, give it a Portland spin: Why did the pedestrian cross the road? Because the excessively courteous drivers demanded it -- and demanded it *now.*

I'm not complaining, though. It's much better to be forced to cross the street than to be run down.

"Don Juanism"

Here's something peculiar and psychological:

I'm doing a little research on sexual addiction. It's not an actual "diagnosis" in terms of the DSM these days, but it was once upon a time. In the DSM-III (we're now on DSM-IV), hypersexuality -- which includes both sexual thoughts and behaviors with self and other -- was listed under Sexual Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. They called it "Don Juanism" or "nymphomania."

Apparently, they removed this diagnosis (NOS, anyway) because there are no parameters for identifying "healthy" sexual activity, in terms of quantity. See, if you can't tell a person that having sex only once a month is too little, you can't really go telling them that having it four times a day is too much.

Basically, you've got to look at this issue in light of whether it's causing problems with your interpersonal relationships, your work or causing you other psychological distress. I've read case studies where people have gotten so hooked on masturbation that it causes them to be late to work, causes them to take really long bathroom breaks at work, causes them to take lunches that are too long and whatnot. So then they get fired. *That* is the kind of problem they're talking about. That and women who pick up men in bars all the time for anonymous sex and then get beaten up repeatedly -- but do nothing by way of changing their behavior. That's the problem at heart.

Hardly what comes to mind when you think of Don Juan, is it?

And then some...

So, I'm thinking *some women* really know how to turn on the charm! Again, from craigslist, I present to you:

I Shaved My Legs For This - 26

I shaved my legs for this weekend. They are soft, smooth, muscular, and full of energy. I'm looking for an adventure this weekend.

My friends describe me as fun, easy going, relaxed, patient, kind, and open minded.

So, why don't you tell me what I shaved my legs for this weekend. I'm up for a surprise adventure. ;-)

And UCM says: This takes me back to an e-mail exchange with Dr. M, in which I said I was looking for a good woman who would come neat and tidy. What I meant was: a single, emotionally available, intelligent, witty, attractive feminine gal of some sort. But Dr. M had other ideas. She suggested I might find one with a full Brazilian. (Her definition of neat and tidy is clearly different than mine.) While I can do without the pre-pubescent-looking genitals, a woman who shaves her legs -- with her *own* razor instead of mine -- would be a good thing. But *this* here personal ad is just not cutting it. Why? Because shaving her legs is apparently such an event that she tells the world about it on craigslist -- and YET she *still* wants the rest of us to tell her why she did it. Want a "surprise adventure," babe? Let's head down to Goodwill together and see if there are any used Epilady hair-plucking torture devices for sale. ... But, hey, it's good you're patient and open-minded. While you're waiting for your hair to grow back, you can think about whether or not you'd ever get that full Brazilian.

Moving on....

This is just ... fucked up. From craigslist:

Seeking menstrual cuddle partner - 26

I'm looking for a girl (or many) who wants to make a pact with me (and follow through) that whenever either of us has her period, the other will come over and hold her and cuddle her for a few hours. This is what I miss about having a gf, and I don't want a gf now, but I'd really love to still have this. I am SO nice to cuddle with, very nurturing and soothing in general. If you have a gf or even a bf or you just aren't gay that is perfectly fine, I just want sympathetic cuddling. If you expect to start around today, that would be perfect because so am I.

UCM's comment: Not to say that cuddling is bad. Because it's really, really good. But "menstrual cuddling"? Are you serious? I guess she hasn't had a lot of luck with the "follow through" on this. Wonder why.... OMG, I am *such* a bitch. Must be my time of month approaching! So, considering I'm taking no interest in my friends these days, I guess I'm just shit outta luck getting any cuddling of my own at menses this go around, aren't I? ... Oh wait, I forgot! NO ONE is cuddling with me at *any* time of the month. I'm single. I'm not a hard-bodied athlete. I'm not anyone's ideal woman. ... . Thankfuckinggod I have a dog who likes to cuddle and is indiscriminate about the lap he chooses. Otherwise, I might have to respond to this stupid-ass, weird personal ad to get my needs met. *whine, whine, whine*...

Something curious. And a poem or two.

This is weird. In this process of moving, I have found several surprising items, most of them coming from grocery bags full of stuff XGF pulled from the depths of a large and dark cabinet. Included were several journals -- travel journals and personal ones -- in which I've recorded many mundane and peculiar thoughts over the years. I'd forgotten some of them even existed.

For example, one little notebook I hadn't seen in some time is a compilation of thoughts I had while riding the No. 9 bus to and from work in 2001. There are many notes from Sept. 11 and the months following. And there are some curious poems.

So something curious: This term, I wrote a paper for Family Therapy class on the movie "Mindwalk," which addresses the interconnection of all living things on a sub-atomic level. For reasons that escape me, I wrote two poems in 2001 about the same topic (interconnectedness, not the movie).

My poems usually don't rhyme, so I found this one all the more curious:

T-shirts. Skateboards.
Liquor-filled libations. Cups of tea.
Asphalt. Train stations.
Brick and morter. Me.

I am different from a
fence post, a street sign
a rabbit or a house
My consciousness
is sublime, more aware
than a rat or mouse.

But am I different
from the elephants
when boiled down
to my bare elements?

Hardly.

Well ... I wrote it on the bus. Along with a lot of other really weird shit.

I had a regular habit of writing about the river when I crossed it. One day, I observed, "It is so still, I wonder if someone added gelatin overnight."

I also liked to write down weird things I overheard. (Today, my habit has changed: Now I use my cell phone to take photos of weird things I see when I'm out an about.)

In any case, I wrote down this comment made by a teenage boy:
"She was going to kiss me on the cheek, but I was prepared, so ... that was a couple weeks ago." ... I'm *still* wondering exactly what he did.

Oh, the detritus of my writing life! What will turn up next?

Do gays *really* clean up the neighborhood?

The Clairvoyant, The One and I are in the car, on the way to the Baghdad to see "Syriana" (because we are so behind the times and because, as became obvious, it's better to drink and watch that film than just watch that film on its own). TC wants my opinion:

"Maybe this is a case of reverse discrimination: You tell me," she says. "So this house next door is up for rent, and The One told me yesterday that the owners were fixing it up and working in the yard. I told him to go over there and tell them that they should put an ad in 'Just Out,' that gay magazine here in town."

The One interrups. "Mind you, I don't even *know* them, but she wants me to go over and tell them to get us some gay neighbors."

"Right, right!" TC says, "because I think they should rent to a gay couple. So The One goes over and tells them that, and this morning, I see the owner and she tells me, 'Don't worry, honey. If we don't get a hit off Craigslist this weekend, we'll put it in that gay newspaper. And we'll do everything we can to get you a gay couple in here.' Man, I just think that's great! If you don't ask, you don't get what you want, you know."

Why do you want gay neighbors? I ask.

"Because they keep up their houses, and they keep their lawns looking nice," TC says.

Oh, right. I forgot, I said, thinking of how long the lawn at my house had gotten just before I moved out and how prolific the weeds were.

"You know what you are?" The One tells her, shaking his head. "You're a New Age Archie Bunker."

Tidbits

Here is one aspect of my new world to celebrate: CLEAN dishes that required nothing more than me putting them in little racks in a metal box beneath the counter in my kitchen. This is what's known as a "dishwasher," something I haven't actually used since, like, 1994.

I put the dishes in the rack, pop a tablet of something into a little box and, voila!, clean dishes. So much better than that back-aching business of standing at the sink and scrubbing all that junk off the plates and forks with what was invariably a germ-laden scrubber of some sort. Just a beautiful thing.

... Yesterday, my d.i.v.o.r.c.e., such as it is, was "finalized." That means our finances were officially and completely separated by buying me out of the house. So I took this whopping check to the bank and deposited it. While doing so, I asked for $100 in cash. I'd like that all in quarters, I said to the teller.

She looked at me as if I was a bit off. "You want $100 in quarters?"

Yeah. And I'm thinking: It can't be all that strange for someone to ask for all those quarters. But I wasn't sure what to make of her look, so I added, I have a lot of laundry to do.

... Given this abundance, I decided that before I launch into the life of a frugal, unemployed, unsupported graduate student, I should buy myself *one thing* that I've wanted for a long time: a new bed. Specifically, it's the sleigh bed (aka, "the Love Sled," in the words of S2 and her man) that I've mentioned previously. I had a specific one in mind. It's got a 48-inch-high headboard and a substantial footboard (as any decent sleigh should have).

I decided to get one made of solid mahogany, one of my favorite woods. I have a strong affinity for wood. Some might call it a fetish, but I haven't actually sexualized the stuff. I just like to touch it. A lot. So I was in the shop where they make this sleigh bed, and I was touching the nice rounded top of the headboard of the floor model (it was cherry), when this woman walks up to me and says, "You're not actually going to buy a bed this expensive are you?"

I didn't hesitate: I most certainly am.

"Why would you do that?" she asked. (And I was thinking: Uh, seems Dr. R has a complaint about the high cost of consumer culture; is this a saboteur sent to dissuade me? Or is this woman working for my mother?)

Because I'm never going to buy another bed again. This one will outlast me. (Ha! Take that, consumer culture! Buy something good once, rather than buying repeatedly! Send nothing to the landfill!) Then I added, When I die, someone will be very lucky to get this bed.

"Well, you're *young,*" the woman said. (And let me tell you what, people, that is the first time I've heard those words in FO-EVUH. I *love* my new hair color; praise be all the saints in heaven!) "I haven't got that much time left myself." (She's got 20 years easy, if the actuarial tables have anything to say about it.)

That got me to thinking, so I did a little math to see just how much that bed will cost me each night for the rest of my life -- if I live as long as the actuaries bet I will. I decided it was a price worth paying. Even more so if you subtract the $60 delivery fee, which I will pay when the bed is finished in a couple of months.

... Speaking of deliveries, I got a cabinet to hide all my books and CDs. I don't like to see clutter in my environment, and so I also got a cabinet big enough to hide just about everything, including me and the dog, if necessary. But I came within perhaps a hair's width -- literally -- of having bought a cabinet too big to fit through the entry hall of my loft. Ooops! I watched the delivery guys struggle with this absurdly large cabinet for a good half an hour before they finally figured out how to wedge it down the hall. Nearly took the trim off the doors. Actually had to remove one of the doors to make it fit.

It became obvious that it will be the biggest nastiest heaviest mother fucker to move *out* of here, as well. So I said to the delivery guys: When I leave this place, can I call you guys to get it out of here? To which the gentleman overseeing the big burly moving guys replied: "Actually, we'd prefer it if you *lost* our number."

'Nuf said.

Unknown White Male. Creepers!

Dr. R and I went to see "Unknown White Male" on Sunday night, and it's taken me more than 24 hours to digest this film before I could even *think* of commenting on it. No, not a film review. What's the point of that? Just: Oh my.

So, this is a biography, a documentary, about a guy who wakes up from a fugue state (as in, totally dissociated and doesn't even *know* that he doesn't know who he is or what he's all about) on a subway pulling into Coney Island. Awakening from this, he realizes he doesn't know who he is, and turns himself into the police, who take him to the hospital, where doctors put him in the psych ward while they try to find someone who knows who he is.

Long story short: The guy's got total retrograde amnesia, and the film is all about how he reconnects with the important people in his life: family, close friends, ex-girlfriends, teachers, etc. But the dude never -- not during the filming that extends through about two years of his life after waking from this fugue state -- NEVER recovers his memory. He doesn't know anything about his life before, remembers no one. Doctors can't find any biological basis for this memory loss, but there is some speculation by his sisters that the death of his mother (a few years previous?) was very difficult for him to accept.

The film poses some serious questions that my mind is still trying to wrap itself around, especially in light of the presentation I gave tonight on Narrative Therapy. If we are an accumulation of all our life experiences -- and make our meaning in life based on how we interpret those events -- but we *lose* all memory of those life experiences, who are we? Is the person revealed in wake of this kind of memory loss a representation of our "essential" being or what?

This guy's personality apparently changed dramatically. Where once before he was a rich, and perhaps snotty, party boy, his family and friends said he had become more reflective. His sister said she liked her new brother, but also said she missed the old one, that he had an "edge" that was gone.

It's got to be frightening not to know who you are, but there are some ways in which this guy received a tremendous gift. As an adult, with his skills and procedural memory (he might know how to golf, for example) still intact, he got to experience the world with completely fresh eyes. His memories of eating the various foods of the world, of going to the ocean for the first time, of seeing snow and being in London (where he had lived) were all gone, and he got to experience them anew. It reminded me a little of traveling to foreign countries, especially Third World ones, and seeing how dramatically different the way of life is, so much so that it's stunning at times. There is nothing I have experienced quite like that surge of absolutely *new* information about life as when I travel, and yet this guy was getting that all the time, a whole new life. So that actually prompted a little feeling of jealousy in me.

Over dinner, Dr. R asked how I might feel about such an experience. I said, "Lucky, because I would forget the whole lot of you and start over." I was being sarcastic and totally disingenuous, of course, but when I do think about that experience of seeing the world with such new eyes ... wow. (Of course, it's important to note that there's no way to even make the smallest conjecture about how I'd really feel under the circumstances because I would, essentially, not be myself.)

All together, this is a pretty fucked up thing to think about. Just a mind-blowing film because of how I conceptualize the Self. For our Family Therapy class, we are asked to write journals about "something relational." In one such journal, which I wrote a couple weeks ago and turned in tonight, I said the following:

When I think of Nietzsche’s notion of the Eternal Return – that the life you should lead is the one that, should Death come and tell you that you must live it all again exactly as you did already, you would gladly do so – I look at it from the light of self-acceptance. I am a culmination of every moment, good and bad, that has passed since my conception. If I take away any moment, I might very well not be myself. There are things I want to improve, but I generally am pleased with myself. I’ll keep me. But at the same time, I keep an eye on what I’m doing, where I’m going, with whom I’m relating and how.

So that's what I wrote. What's amazing about the situation portrayed in "Unknown White Male" is that he lost not just "any moment" but *all of them.* Say good-bye to your emotional baggage. And wouldn't that be something incredible? But, as Dr. R wisely noted, say good-bye to all your personal connections, your sense of belonging to something. And wouldn't that suck? (Probably, although as one of this guy's old friends pointed out, it's a good way to clean house of the acquaintances you no longer want to deal with: "I'm a different person now, and I don't really like you, so piss off.")

As I said, there's no way I can conceive of how I would *actually* behave under the circumstances, but this is one thing I'd like to think: I like the friends I've been making in grad school. They are all incredibly decent people. I'd hope to still like all of them. I like The Clairvoyant (OK, TC, it *is* love, I admit it) and The One. I like Jelly Girl. I like The Good Witch and Cartman. And, yes, XGF. I adore The Asian and always have. I like my aunt and my two uncles. I like my sister (at this time anyway, because she radically changes with some regularity but without the fugue state and amnesia that might help it all make sense). This list could go on for a little, but I'll stop here. That said, there are a few people -- and a few wretched moments of violence and crushing character assasination -- in my life I might *love* to forget.

But then again, maybe not. Because perhaps those moments or those people I think I could've done without have had the greatest effect in shaping the person I am today. Could I bring as much generosity of spirit to the people I like and love if my spirit had not been so amply tested? Would I understand how big my heart can be for others if it had not ached so profoundly over the loss of my brother? Would my sense of humor be so keen if life had not, at times, fairly well forced me to *find* something funny in it?

My, oh my ... how a simple movie can get me to thinking. Listen to me, people: See this flick. You won't regret it.

A shout out to S2. Whoop! Whoop!

Girlfriend kicks ass!

So yesterday, S2 tells me she's expecting to run a half marathon in 2:10 if she has a good day. "Best-case scenario," she says, "would be two hours." (Worst case would be like what happened to the author of the In-Flight Martini Vomit e-mail, who had an aneurism while running such a race.)

This afternoon, I checked in on our intrepid runner, who was doing 13.1 miles as a training regimine for her soccer playing. (S2, you might recall, is so named because she is both a soccer player and a soccer mom, which makes her doubly bad.) She's a mid-fielder, so she's got to have legs that endure.

She crossed the finish line this morning in two hours flat -- her best-case scenario.

Now, it's a total shame that S2's summer school schedule will keep her off the field most games, but when she's out there, I'm sure she'll run circles around those lumbering fullbacks and steal the ball away from the flighty forwards who cross her path.

Even back when I was much more fit and agile -- and played a really *nasty* fullback with a hard shoulder and a mean sliding kick -- I never wanted to deal with the squirrely mids like S2 must be. The running she's been doing lately would make her ... dangerous. Plus, she just seems like the kinda gal who delivers a kick that no shin guard can protect against.

So to S2, I take off my hat (even though I'm not wearing one). Not only are you an incredible friend and a tireless and patient mom, but, at 38, you are Girl Power personified. Stay hard core, my sister.

One other point of "liberation

I'm wondering how I could've forgotten *this* point: I get to listen to MY MUSIC again.

XGF had a very strong belief that the she needed to hear *her* music -- and that my music passions were somehow lesser. For starters, she doesn't like jazz, and particularly not the ladies: Ella, Billie, Dinah Washington, Diana Krall and Betty Carter. But she also had something against Stevie Ray Vaughn and Van Morrison, not to mention Ani DiFranco and ... opera.

For the six years we lived together, XGF maintained "control" over the stereo system, which had a complicated 32-disc changer that she refused to show me how to use. (Once the long-departed rabbit chewed the buttons off the remote control, there was no way I was going to learn how to use it on my own. It remained a mystery.) It was in this way that she carried out a sort of ethnic cleansing against my music, only putting in a few discs of my stuff and then only when I begged. (She created a jazz "section" in the thing for me, but it never had much in it.)

The other night, for the first time in six years, I sat down and listened to Jan Garbarek's "Officium," which is a blending of religious chanting in latin with a sweet and sensuous saxaphone. (Very good music to play when having sex, actually. But XGF wouldn't know that because she *never* wanted music and sex together, which is something of a tragedy even though it wouldn't have remedied the other problems there.) Anyway, I wasn't having sex. Not ringing any gongs. I was just sitting in the window, people watching and enjoying a glass of something red and eating some olives and tomatoes and cheese and letting this music take me away, away, away....

And I said to myself: Ahhhh.... I get *my* music back. How sweet it is.

(And, yes, Dr. M, I'm aware that I could've been enjoying my music all along if I didn't drive a Flinstone mobile. But that is not my point. I'm talking ambiance in the *home,* dear. In *my* home.)

So that is one more thing to add to my Liberation List. It's right up there with having my own deoderant.

Lesbians online

OK, I'll just say this: It's 2 a.m., and I was bored and not wanting sleep just yet. And one of my classmates had once told me that reading the personals on Craigslist was a real hoot. So I thought, Why not?

Let me tell you why not: Because the women-seeking-women dating ads on Portland's Craigslist are the most goddamned depressing thing ever. If this is representative of what's out there, someone do me a favor and *shoot me now.*

It's a good thing I'm not actually looking. Otherwise, I might be driven to run away and join the NRA -- just to be closer to someone who has a gun and might *shoot me now.* I swear to fucking god....

*sigh*

On being "liberated"

Last weekend, I was at a wine bar with S2, Dr. M and Dr. R when I made some comment about "being single." Like a Greek chorus, my friends corrected my terminology: "Liberated," they said.

Tonight in my Treatment Planning class, I told the Pink Punker I had moved into my own place over the weekend. Her eyes glinted, and she started swiping at my shoulders and head, as if brushing off something. "Hey! You're free!" she said. Then, she added rather sweetly, "You decided to get out, and you did. You're *strong.* That is so awesome."

These responses struck me two ways: First, I never considered myself enslaved or anything other than a free woman; and, second, given that all of these women are in relationships or are pursuing them (and rather assertively in Dr. R's case), I find it curious they use language that's so anti-relationship. (I'll only give the slightest nod to the fact that all of them are studying counseling and two of them are planning to be marriage and family therapists.)

So what's that all about? Is there a perception that my relationship with XGF was like a concentration camp? (Because even if it lacked passion and the dearth of authentic communication was a little maddening, it was hardly wretched. Just not what I wanted, not good for me and not something that could be cured.) Or is there just an idea that all relationships are a trap of sorts wherein you necessarily give up significant parts of your precious self for whatever it is that you believe the relationship has to offer?

Maybe their responses reflect a combination of these two possibilities. I have no clue.

Last night at a networking dinner, I talked to a classmate who will be giving a presentation this weekend on what makes for a healthy and happy romantic relationship. She requested I don't spill the beans on her findings, but I'll sum up what I took from my conversation with her this way: First, to thine ownself be true; and only after you mastered that can you give your partner what he or she needs. Fair enough. Then said classmate asked, "So, are you currently in a relationship?"

Well, no, said I. I was until this last weekend, but it's over now. Or rather, it's changed. There's still a relationship -- just not this kind. So I think it will be a while before I put your lecture to any good use.

Tonight, the Pink Punker cautioned me, "Hey now, I don't want to see that, like next month, you're alll hooking up with someone who is just going to be hanging on you, saying she's in love with you. Because there are women out there who will do that just for your loft!"

It made me laugh, but I thought: There is no chance in hell.

Whether you want to call me single or liberated, I expect I'll be this way for a while. Dr. M has suggested, several times, that I place a gong over my bed to whack ceremoniously every time I get laid, but that would make for a pretty quiet gong. And, as The Asian noted, it's not the safest thing to have hanging over my head in the event of an earthquake....

But whatever. The point is I have no intention of launching myself into another relationship anytime soon. (I know, I *know!* There's no reason I need a relationship to be ringing a gong. Maybe I'll give the one-night stand another try. It's just that with lesbians, they are often hard to get rid of afterwards. As The Asian said, "If I were playing a cruel joke on you, I'd show up on the *first date* with the U-Haul, just to see if you had a sense of humor." Yikes!)

I've got to adjust to living alone again. I haven't lived alone since July 1998. Before that, I shacked up only once for a year or so and otherwise flew solo, so I'm not disturbed by the experience. I just need to get back into the groove, and I think things will be fine after that. This includes learning to cook for myself again and getting used to having no humans in my home in the evenings.

That said, I can already identify several benefits to living alone, especially absent the woman-woman relationship:
-- No one else is using my deoderant (which I always thought a little disgusting to share)
-- No one else is using my razor, so it is not clogged with the remnants left by someone who never understood the part where you rinse out the blade when you're done (another disgusting thing)
-- No one is using the tampons and not telling me there are none left
-- I only do *my* laundry (and S2 alone knows the full scope of that improvement)
-- No one else is wearing my shoes
-- No one is reading my journals or e-mail, which may have been occurring in those final few weeks of relationship breakdown
-- I have a queen-sized bed all to myself, which is a glorious, glorious thing in many respects
-- If an alarm clock goes off in the morning, it's been set to wake up *me* instead of someone else who's already left the house without turning off the alarm
-- I share my avocadoes with no one unless I have company
-- Every dirty dish is my responsibility, and there's no question about that. (Did I mention I have a dishwasher now? This was always a point of contention between me and XGF because a dishwasher was really my only requirement in buying a house, but I caved on that point because XGF wanted to buy that little house of ours so badly and swore we'd get one installed "later." But we never did.)
-- I bought a whole dungeness crab today, ate half of it, and came home from school to find that, lo and behold, the other half is still in the refrigerator and it's mine -- ALL MINE!
-- I can watch whatever I want on TV and do so with impunity
-- I can rent whatever DVD I want and not have to answer for it when it sucks ass
-- I get to live my life completely on my own schedule, don't have to call when I'm late and no longer will be shamed into hurrying through my morning routine, especially with regards to applying lotion
-- A bottle of wine lasts a lot longer
-- There are fewer knicknacks in my space
-- I no longer need to consult anyone when it comes to decorating

And, now this would be one of the most exciting things to me: I no longer have the god-awful, can't-tell-you-how-much-I-fucking-*hated*-it chore of maintaining the yard. This is a point where, when you use the word "liberated," I will salute all of you. Free at last, free at last! I cannot begin to describe just how fucking awful it is to garden in this weed-infested land. All I ever wanted were the fresh-cut flowers, but I could not stand the chores required to get them. So this morning, while my laundry was cycling through it's new coin-op existence, I walked across the street to a little flower boutique and got myself a little vase and had it filled with irises and orchids and carried it back up here and put it on the table. And that is all I needed to do. That and pay $19, which included the $6 vase. It is a price I will gladly pay -- and man, let me tell you about the deals on fresh-cut flowers you can get at the farmer's markets around here -- for the joy of never having to mow the lawn or pull another fucking weed.

Liberated, indeed.