These are "sacred words" to the Hawaiians. But I am going to be using them a lot in the next week or so.
Heading down to the Big Island (Hawaii) to spend some time with my uncle El Capitan and his wife, my Tia L. Although it's not hard to rise above the fray in my freakish family, El Capitan and Tia L have pretty much always been on a different planet -- always very loving and supportive and welcoming. (El Capitan is the youngest brother of The Notorious M.O.M., and he doesn't understand what the hell is wrong with her, either.)
The cause for my visit is a combination of vacation and really wanting to see Tia L, who has Stage 4 lymphatic cancer. Right now, she seems to be in pretty good health, all things considered, so I am taking the opportunity of having this break in school to run down to Kona and spend some time with her.
This morning, I got the idea in my head that she might be willing to do a life story interview, similar to what I did for my Lifespan Development class last year. She's always been very relaxed and open, and I think it might be a nice thing for everyone else to have when she's gone.
She has touched the lives of many people, mine not the least among them. When I was engaged in fits of mental torture through my coming out process, the two people I knew would still be in my life regardless of who I was were El Capitan and Tia L. They mean a great deal to me.
Anyway, I'm jetting off early in the morning, and I'll be enjoying the warm Pacific waters and some fabulous snorkeling (one of my favorite ways to chill) for the next week or so. Don't know if I'll blog or not. But you can be assured that I'll be having a good time, enjoying what may be my last visit with Tia L and reconnecting with my most favorite family member of all, El Capitan, an eternal hippie and the most laid back dude I've ever known. Doncha know he taught me to play the bongos when I was a toddler....
Gotta sleep now. Or perhaps just stay awake so I'll PASS OUT on the flight to Kona and not notice I'm so goddamned thirsty from not being able to take bottled water on the plane with me. (Fuck you, TSA, and your pathetic paranoia. I'd rather take the risk of dying than be without water on a long flight!)
BTW, if I do not return (because El Capitan has a habit of taking me into harm's way), I propose that the women in my life arm wrestle for what they want. This hardly constitutes a last will & testment, but maybe it's better than nothing.
Aloha & mahalo, my friends.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
About children. And other things.
So this has been a busy few days. Where to start?
Oh. Some rat bastard busted out one of the windows on my car on Thursday night. Cost me $165 to get it replaced, which I couldn't get done until this morning thanks to me not discovering this problem until the middle of the afternoon on Friday.
And so that meant that on FRIDAY night, some other fucker noticed my window was ... er, missing ... and broke into my car again. As had the rat bastard from the previous night, the fucker rifled through the contents of my glove compartment, the map wells in the doors and the storage under the armrest.
Here's the kicker: I know the car was broken into for the purposes of theiving. Shit was thrown everywhere. BUT in a world where these things happen just for the possibility of spare change -- or even, the jackpot of a toll-road stash -- the ONE PLACE where I keep such things (and is full of lots of silver coins) was untouched. Guess the matte finish of its sliding black cover was simply invisible in the dark to those constricted meth-head eyes.
Too bad, suckas!
So on Saturday night, I had my first ... uh ... "employment" in a year. I watched S2's two lovely daughters while she and her J-Boy went out for a 20-year high school reunion. (As hired help, I dare not speak of the condition in which at least one of them returned. A-hem....)
This was an interesting little episode. I had a couple nights earlier spent two nights at the beach with S2 and her children, Getting To Yes and Little Pea, who are 6 and 3, respectively. That whole beach visit turned out to be helpful for several reasons, one of which is that I got to witness the bedtime routine and know what mom's doing (and, more specifically, because kids ARE kids, what mom's *not* doing). I'm never fond of being played for a sucker.
The Little Pea and I get along quite nicely. For some reason, I connect with itty-bitty kids who mainly like to giggle. I think this is because I giggle back at them. That M.O. doesn't help much when she's upset, but ... again, I've seen what S2 does when Little Pea's upset, and I play it a bit like wash, rinse, repeat. (Or, as I put it on Saturday night: What would Jesus do?)
When it comes to Getting To Yes (so named because she's a skilled negotiator), I used to think that she didn't like me very much. I got a wary eye from her for a while. But I think now that it's more likely she's just discerning. (Anyone who likes me is discerning. Those who don't have very bad taste.)
GTY and I had some fun down at the beach. We played in the surf together -- it's some COLD water up this way, man! -- and I had a delightful time. I was thinking, mainly, that what's cool about kids -- especially in that 6, 7, 8 range -- is that they're curious and capable of digesting more-complex information, but they're not so jaded as to think you can't tell them anything new. They're also not so sullen and hormonal yet that they refuse to have fun even when they're having fun.
When each wave came crashing in, I held onto GTY's hands while the water swept her off her feet. She looked like she was having a blast, and, as a consequence, I had a total blast myself. Also, it got me nearly chest deep in that absurdly cold water, so that, when we finally were out and about to dry off, S2 said, "A couple more days here, and I would've had your head under out there, swimming."
No way, I told her, wondering how long my legs would remain numb. I can't imagine swimming in that.
S2 gave me some kind of look. I don't know what it was. Perhaps she was thinking (as I superimpose my Texan vernacular on her), "Chicken shit." Whatever the case, suddenly I heard myself say, Dare me?
Well, look here people: This is an insider tip. UCM pretty much never turns down a dare. When UCM says something stupid like, Dare me? she may instantly regret it, but she'll probably also do it.
S2 didn't know that, of course. But goddamn her, she was all, "Yeah, get in there!"
So yours truely walked out into that frigid surf and not being able to figure out exactly how to put her face in water that cold, turned into a total DUMB ASS and plopped herself down with her face facing INTO the wave, thus getting a saline nasal enema pronto pronto! Not to mention so much damn sand in every crevass known to ... woman ... that it was two days before any midgets could march into the bath and announce, "This house is clean."
But I digress.
So the day after we were playing in the surf, GTY made me, of all things, a friendship bracelet. I thought that was just peachy. She's a sweet kid, and I heard Sally Fields somewhere there in the background of my grey matter saying, You like me. You really like me!
And thus made a peculiar leap in logic: Now, she'll be nice to me when I baby-sit her.
So the great thing about GTY and Little Pea is that I don't think they would actually be *bad* to a babysitter. Just coy. Because what kid doesn't relish having someone who's *not* mom or dad around for the night, someone on whom to try out the beta versions of whatever bedtime stalling tactics have been dreamed up recently?
All I can figure is that I got off lucky. But then, S2 told me to put them to bed "sometime between 8 and 9," which thanks to me feeding them bowls of cereal at about 9 o'clock -- they said they were hungry! -- did not exactly happen.
But I did make sure they brushed their teeth. And when they tried to tell me they sleep in their "street clothes," instead of jammies, I wasn't falling for it. I said, If that's so, why did your mother pack like a DOZEN sets of pajamas for you to take to the beach?
And then I read to them. I can skip! I can skip! I like to skip all the time! GTY got something more intelligent. A couple of chapters about a kid who demonstrates her hook shot with a basketball during a fire drill, only to hit the principal in the head and knock off his toupee. A delightful read that allowed me to answer all sorts of questions: "What's a hook shot?" That's where you throw the ball with one of those hook hands, like Captain Hook has. (blank stares.) "What's a toupee?" Oh, that's how a man compensates for his smooth pate. "Pate? What's that?" You know, the thing you eat off. And so I'm immediately corrected by the little one, "pWAte!"
Heh. I love kids.
And so I tuck them in with the nightlight on, give them each a kiss on the forehead and wish them sweet dreams. And I go downstairs and think, GOOD GOD! What was I THINKING, wanting one of those?! Even the good ones are a LOT of work!
This is when it occurs to me: I really do like children. For a long time, I've been thinking that I don't, but that's never been true. It's just been ... OK ... I don't want the responsibility.
Raising a decent human being, especially in this day and society, is not an easy task. S2 and J-Boy have daughters who are loving and complicated and intense and incredibly sweet -- not to mention cute as bugs. But they are also the products of a very involved, full-time mom who doesn't let them watch much television, feeds them a really healthy diet for the most part, engages them in all sorts of activities, spends a lot of time and energy teaching them how to communicate with each other (and they do so in ways many adults I know could benefit from doing) and makes sure they get a lot of exercise.
In other words ... it's a lot of EFFORT.
I find it a bit of work to ensure my dog gets adequate exercise in his twice or three-times daily walks. I want to stop at the donut shop along the way. I like to leave my dog unattended at home for hours on end, knowing he can hold it and that if I've exercised him enough earlier in the day, all he's doing is sleeping anyway.
So when I think of that blog entry the other week about my biological clock... no, that's not it. What interests me about kids is their energy and how much fun it can be to play with them and how much they seem to love it when adults "stoop to their level." And I also love how they engage with the world, their present-moment powers.
But I also love my life without children. The one where I stay up late, wake up later, shower slowly, take the pup to the coffeehouse, get a soy au lait and sit at an outdoor table where we (me and the pup) watch the passersby. The one where I get to see adult movies -- not talking porn here (though there's nothing wrong with that, either), just you know, like DRAMAS or Margaret Cho standup-- and don't have to worry about the content. The one where I pay for my own college tuition without having to worry about anyone else's 15 years down the road.
So I figured it out. I probably shouldn't be anyone's mom. No crying sack of blood and snot should emerge from these here loins. But someone's doting, playful, goofy aunt? Now that's my kind of gig.
Funny thing is, with three siblings -- two of whom are still living -- there has been no offspring, and all signs are that there *never* will be, either. In some respects, it's a pity. I have superb auntie talents which may never find expression.
Well, the upside is that, in the finest single-childless-female fashion, I've gone off and bought myself some sweet snorkeling gear for my upcoming trip to Hawaii. It's even got some style to it. The woman helping me looked at the white snorkle I selected to go with my white and blue mask and said, "Now, *that* is sexy." I hope this doesn't mean a turtle will try to mate with me....
In Hawaii, I have a cousin who's just turned 1, but I hear he's already walking. Heh. I wonder if he likes to be tickled?
Oh. Some rat bastard busted out one of the windows on my car on Thursday night. Cost me $165 to get it replaced, which I couldn't get done until this morning thanks to me not discovering this problem until the middle of the afternoon on Friday.
And so that meant that on FRIDAY night, some other fucker noticed my window was ... er, missing ... and broke into my car again. As had the rat bastard from the previous night, the fucker rifled through the contents of my glove compartment, the map wells in the doors and the storage under the armrest.
Here's the kicker: I know the car was broken into for the purposes of theiving. Shit was thrown everywhere. BUT in a world where these things happen just for the possibility of spare change -- or even, the jackpot of a toll-road stash -- the ONE PLACE where I keep such things (and is full of lots of silver coins) was untouched. Guess the matte finish of its sliding black cover was simply invisible in the dark to those constricted meth-head eyes.
Too bad, suckas!
So on Saturday night, I had my first ... uh ... "employment" in a year. I watched S2's two lovely daughters while she and her J-Boy went out for a 20-year high school reunion. (As hired help, I dare not speak of the condition in which at least one of them returned. A-hem....)
This was an interesting little episode. I had a couple nights earlier spent two nights at the beach with S2 and her children, Getting To Yes and Little Pea, who are 6 and 3, respectively. That whole beach visit turned out to be helpful for several reasons, one of which is that I got to witness the bedtime routine and know what mom's doing (and, more specifically, because kids ARE kids, what mom's *not* doing). I'm never fond of being played for a sucker.
The Little Pea and I get along quite nicely. For some reason, I connect with itty-bitty kids who mainly like to giggle. I think this is because I giggle back at them. That M.O. doesn't help much when she's upset, but ... again, I've seen what S2 does when Little Pea's upset, and I play it a bit like wash, rinse, repeat. (Or, as I put it on Saturday night: What would Jesus do?)
When it comes to Getting To Yes (so named because she's a skilled negotiator), I used to think that she didn't like me very much. I got a wary eye from her for a while. But I think now that it's more likely she's just discerning. (Anyone who likes me is discerning. Those who don't have very bad taste.)
GTY and I had some fun down at the beach. We played in the surf together -- it's some COLD water up this way, man! -- and I had a delightful time. I was thinking, mainly, that what's cool about kids -- especially in that 6, 7, 8 range -- is that they're curious and capable of digesting more-complex information, but they're not so jaded as to think you can't tell them anything new. They're also not so sullen and hormonal yet that they refuse to have fun even when they're having fun.
When each wave came crashing in, I held onto GTY's hands while the water swept her off her feet. She looked like she was having a blast, and, as a consequence, I had a total blast myself. Also, it got me nearly chest deep in that absurdly cold water, so that, when we finally were out and about to dry off, S2 said, "A couple more days here, and I would've had your head under out there, swimming."
No way, I told her, wondering how long my legs would remain numb. I can't imagine swimming in that.
S2 gave me some kind of look. I don't know what it was. Perhaps she was thinking (as I superimpose my Texan vernacular on her), "Chicken shit." Whatever the case, suddenly I heard myself say, Dare me?
Well, look here people: This is an insider tip. UCM pretty much never turns down a dare. When UCM says something stupid like, Dare me? she may instantly regret it, but she'll probably also do it.
S2 didn't know that, of course. But goddamn her, she was all, "Yeah, get in there!"
So yours truely walked out into that frigid surf and not being able to figure out exactly how to put her face in water that cold, turned into a total DUMB ASS and plopped herself down with her face facing INTO the wave, thus getting a saline nasal enema pronto pronto! Not to mention so much damn sand in every crevass known to ... woman ... that it was two days before any midgets could march into the bath and announce, "This house is clean."
But I digress.
So the day after we were playing in the surf, GTY made me, of all things, a friendship bracelet. I thought that was just peachy. She's a sweet kid, and I heard Sally Fields somewhere there in the background of my grey matter saying, You like me. You really like me!
And thus made a peculiar leap in logic: Now, she'll be nice to me when I baby-sit her.
So the great thing about GTY and Little Pea is that I don't think they would actually be *bad* to a babysitter. Just coy. Because what kid doesn't relish having someone who's *not* mom or dad around for the night, someone on whom to try out the beta versions of whatever bedtime stalling tactics have been dreamed up recently?
All I can figure is that I got off lucky. But then, S2 told me to put them to bed "sometime between 8 and 9," which thanks to me feeding them bowls of cereal at about 9 o'clock -- they said they were hungry! -- did not exactly happen.
But I did make sure they brushed their teeth. And when they tried to tell me they sleep in their "street clothes," instead of jammies, I wasn't falling for it. I said, If that's so, why did your mother pack like a DOZEN sets of pajamas for you to take to the beach?
And then I read to them. I can skip! I can skip! I like to skip all the time! GTY got something more intelligent. A couple of chapters about a kid who demonstrates her hook shot with a basketball during a fire drill, only to hit the principal in the head and knock off his toupee. A delightful read that allowed me to answer all sorts of questions: "What's a hook shot?" That's where you throw the ball with one of those hook hands, like Captain Hook has. (blank stares.) "What's a toupee?" Oh, that's how a man compensates for his smooth pate. "Pate? What's that?" You know, the thing you eat off. And so I'm immediately corrected by the little one, "pWAte!"
Heh. I love kids.
And so I tuck them in with the nightlight on, give them each a kiss on the forehead and wish them sweet dreams. And I go downstairs and think, GOOD GOD! What was I THINKING, wanting one of those?! Even the good ones are a LOT of work!
This is when it occurs to me: I really do like children. For a long time, I've been thinking that I don't, but that's never been true. It's just been ... OK ... I don't want the responsibility.
Raising a decent human being, especially in this day and society, is not an easy task. S2 and J-Boy have daughters who are loving and complicated and intense and incredibly sweet -- not to mention cute as bugs. But they are also the products of a very involved, full-time mom who doesn't let them watch much television, feeds them a really healthy diet for the most part, engages them in all sorts of activities, spends a lot of time and energy teaching them how to communicate with each other (and they do so in ways many adults I know could benefit from doing) and makes sure they get a lot of exercise.
In other words ... it's a lot of EFFORT.
I find it a bit of work to ensure my dog gets adequate exercise in his twice or three-times daily walks. I want to stop at the donut shop along the way. I like to leave my dog unattended at home for hours on end, knowing he can hold it and that if I've exercised him enough earlier in the day, all he's doing is sleeping anyway.
So when I think of that blog entry the other week about my biological clock... no, that's not it. What interests me about kids is their energy and how much fun it can be to play with them and how much they seem to love it when adults "stoop to their level." And I also love how they engage with the world, their present-moment powers.
But I also love my life without children. The one where I stay up late, wake up later, shower slowly, take the pup to the coffeehouse, get a soy au lait and sit at an outdoor table where we (me and the pup) watch the passersby. The one where I get to see adult movies -- not talking porn here (though there's nothing wrong with that, either), just you know, like DRAMAS or Margaret Cho standup-- and don't have to worry about the content. The one where I pay for my own college tuition without having to worry about anyone else's 15 years down the road.
So I figured it out. I probably shouldn't be anyone's mom. No crying sack of blood and snot should emerge from these here loins. But someone's doting, playful, goofy aunt? Now that's my kind of gig.
Funny thing is, with three siblings -- two of whom are still living -- there has been no offspring, and all signs are that there *never* will be, either. In some respects, it's a pity. I have superb auntie talents which may never find expression.
Well, the upside is that, in the finest single-childless-female fashion, I've gone off and bought myself some sweet snorkeling gear for my upcoming trip to Hawaii. It's even got some style to it. The woman helping me looked at the white snorkle I selected to go with my white and blue mask and said, "Now, *that* is sexy." I hope this doesn't mean a turtle will try to mate with me....
In Hawaii, I have a cousin who's just turned 1, but I hear he's already walking. Heh. I wonder if he likes to be tickled?
Saturday, August 19, 2006
The Apology
Some things in life shouldn't be remarkable. They should be a matter of course. Nothing to blog about, no reason to write home. But when you live a life that's a bit unconventional (as mine technically is) or if you've been deprived in significant ways (alas, a claim I can also make), little things otherwise unremarkable can sometimes become experiences completely out of proportion to what might be considered "normal."
Such has been the case for me with regards to an apology I received from a Very Dear Friend a few weeks ago. This VDF said something a bit upsetting to me -- something that was both personally disappointing and made me wonder about VDF's understanding of me as a full-fledged human. I immediately took her to task over it, and we had a vigorous debate about what she intended.
I spoke my peace and thought we were done with it. As with previous disagreements or instances when I have been injured in some way by a friend or family member, I intended to lick my wounds and retire the matter, probably after some kind of apology on my part for being too sensitive or something.
In my life, I've generally played the role of peacemaker. What this has meant, time and again, is offering an apology when none is warranted -- or, more specifically, when one is really owed to ME but has not been forthcoming and the resulting tension had become unbearable or was otherwise causing problems.
Case in point: My sister beat the living crap out of me one Christmas Eve when I was in college. I eventually lost patience with being punched repeatedly in my head and face and fought back, only to be caught doing so by my mother. Who promptly decided your dear UCM was "trying to ruin Christmas." (There was never any need to "try to ruin Christmas" in my family, by the way. That always managed to happen rather ... organically.)
I was outraged. A stalemate ensued between my sister and I which lasted until the following Thanksgiving. I knew there would be further incitement if one of us didn't do something, so I moved first -- even though I was physically sickened in doing so.
I rang her up, heard 11 months of simmering hostility in her voice and said, Look, we're going to have to see each other for Thanksgiving. Why don't we do something that really fucks with everyone else instead of fucking with each other?
That got her interest. "Like what?" she asked.
Let's pretend we're really happy to see each other. Let's act like we like each other. Like we're the best and closest sisters one can imagine. Let's pretend we love each other and have been separated for a long time.
"I like that idea," she said. "But first, don't you think you should apologize?"
*sigh*
Somehow, I did. And we had a peaceful holiday. And the rest of the family was REALLY confused by our behavior.
My life is filled with example after example of this nature -- no matter the size or scope of the problem. With my siblings, with my parents, even with friends. Somewhere along the line, I internalized what the Notorious M.O.M. was constantly telling me about myself: I was a trouble-maker, a bad seed and that it was all caused by my dad taking her to see "Rosemary's Baby" when she was pregnant with me. Thus, I had a lot to apologize for, whether I had done anything wrong or not.
But I've grown very weary of this role. It's demoralizing and dehumanizing, and there's no reason I should be doing that to myself. So while it's not an easy habit to break, I've been working on it.
This explains, in part, why the Notorious M.O.M. hasn't spoken to me since March. She was nasty to me, and I said: Enough! in the most polite-yet-direct way you can imagine. She got pissed and hung up the phone on me, and I suspect she is waiting for me to call and apologize.
Not gonna happen.
So that's a long bit of backstory to bring us to the situation with the VDF who made the errant comment that hurt my feelings. Following our argument, I understood where VDF was coming from, and I was OK with it. I fired off an e-mail to her in an attempt to explain my perspective in a more coherent fashion, but I was otherwise prepared to drop the matter. I didn't want it creating unnecessary friction in our friendship.
Then a strange thing happened. The next day, this VDF stood in front of me, looked me in the eyes and in the most heart-felt manner, expressed her frustration with the whole matter and ... apologized to me.
I have been racking my brain for a similar experience, and I can't find one. Best I can figure, this is the first time such a thing has happened. In a life in which my early experiences were filled with violence and in which profound betrayal has been unfortunately common, it took until I was 37 for someone to apologize TO ME.
(Note: Of course, I'm talking about an apology related to something important or meaningful. People who've spilt coffee on me, for example, have apologized. But even the guy who broke my fibula and tibia didn't bother to say he was sorry. And as for the relationship with XGF: I don't think she ever did anything that really warranted an apology, which is probably one reason the relationship didn't last.)
Anyway, for the past month, the power of this experience has been slowly sinking in, and I've been surprised to feel its effect on me.
When giving our presentation on "Social Invalidation of Same-Sex Relationships," one of the tips The Debutante suggested for therapists was to "create an alternative experience." This means, for example, that if you've got a gay client who's been experiencing discrimination in some way (and is thus expecting it from the therapist, as well), the therapist can get more traction by creating an affirming experience, one that is so contrary to the client's expectation that it's almost shocking.
Without realizing it, this is what VDF created for me: a completely novel experience. In receiving this apology, I had the most peculiar internal experience, something which is defying any accurate or meaningful description. Maybe I could say my heart opened up. Or maybe I could say that some wound which had long been open suddenly closed. Perhaps I could say both of those things. It would still be an insufficient description.
Either way, the sensation that has been sinking in since then is one of healing.
It's interesting. This sense of healing has *nothing* to do with VDF in most respects. The argument we had was a blip in a mutually enjoyable friendship that has been a source of great support as I've gone through my divorce and its attending emotional clusterfuck (as well as the recent suicide of a long-time friend).
It was the act itself that was so powerful. For the first time, I witnessed a display of someone caring whether *I* was hurt. Until that happened, I had no clue just how weary my spirit had become, how accustomed I was to having emotional and physical pain rendered meaningless by the inability or unwillingness of those who've harmed me to own their part. Nor did I realize just how much I was harming myself in offering unwarranted apologies to dismantle the tension in the relationships with these people.
I have been wondering in recent years about the nature of forgiveness. Does it really exist? And if so, where does it come from? What does it feel like? What does it mean?
It's not that I've been walking around holding grudges for my entire life. There's a huge difference, I think, between holding a grudge and not being able to forgive. But I suspect one of the reasons I've been unable to conceptualize forgiveness is because, until this apology, I lacked the experience of someone caring enough to ask for it. I'm still not sure what forgiveness is all about, but at least I now have a different context in which to consider it.
No matter what conclusion I reach, I can say for certain that there's great potential and real power in the "alternative experience." Trust me, I've felt it. And it's still just sinking in.
Such has been the case for me with regards to an apology I received from a Very Dear Friend a few weeks ago. This VDF said something a bit upsetting to me -- something that was both personally disappointing and made me wonder about VDF's understanding of me as a full-fledged human. I immediately took her to task over it, and we had a vigorous debate about what she intended.
I spoke my peace and thought we were done with it. As with previous disagreements or instances when I have been injured in some way by a friend or family member, I intended to lick my wounds and retire the matter, probably after some kind of apology on my part for being too sensitive or something.
In my life, I've generally played the role of peacemaker. What this has meant, time and again, is offering an apology when none is warranted -- or, more specifically, when one is really owed to ME but has not been forthcoming and the resulting tension had become unbearable or was otherwise causing problems.
Case in point: My sister beat the living crap out of me one Christmas Eve when I was in college. I eventually lost patience with being punched repeatedly in my head and face and fought back, only to be caught doing so by my mother. Who promptly decided your dear UCM was "trying to ruin Christmas." (There was never any need to "try to ruin Christmas" in my family, by the way. That always managed to happen rather ... organically.)
I was outraged. A stalemate ensued between my sister and I which lasted until the following Thanksgiving. I knew there would be further incitement if one of us didn't do something, so I moved first -- even though I was physically sickened in doing so.
I rang her up, heard 11 months of simmering hostility in her voice and said, Look, we're going to have to see each other for Thanksgiving. Why don't we do something that really fucks with everyone else instead of fucking with each other?
That got her interest. "Like what?" she asked.
Let's pretend we're really happy to see each other. Let's act like we like each other. Like we're the best and closest sisters one can imagine. Let's pretend we love each other and have been separated for a long time.
"I like that idea," she said. "But first, don't you think you should apologize?"
*sigh*
Somehow, I did. And we had a peaceful holiday. And the rest of the family was REALLY confused by our behavior.
My life is filled with example after example of this nature -- no matter the size or scope of the problem. With my siblings, with my parents, even with friends. Somewhere along the line, I internalized what the Notorious M.O.M. was constantly telling me about myself: I was a trouble-maker, a bad seed and that it was all caused by my dad taking her to see "Rosemary's Baby" when she was pregnant with me. Thus, I had a lot to apologize for, whether I had done anything wrong or not.
But I've grown very weary of this role. It's demoralizing and dehumanizing, and there's no reason I should be doing that to myself. So while it's not an easy habit to break, I've been working on it.
This explains, in part, why the Notorious M.O.M. hasn't spoken to me since March. She was nasty to me, and I said: Enough! in the most polite-yet-direct way you can imagine. She got pissed and hung up the phone on me, and I suspect she is waiting for me to call and apologize.
Not gonna happen.
So that's a long bit of backstory to bring us to the situation with the VDF who made the errant comment that hurt my feelings. Following our argument, I understood where VDF was coming from, and I was OK with it. I fired off an e-mail to her in an attempt to explain my perspective in a more coherent fashion, but I was otherwise prepared to drop the matter. I didn't want it creating unnecessary friction in our friendship.
Then a strange thing happened. The next day, this VDF stood in front of me, looked me in the eyes and in the most heart-felt manner, expressed her frustration with the whole matter and ... apologized to me.
I have been racking my brain for a similar experience, and I can't find one. Best I can figure, this is the first time such a thing has happened. In a life in which my early experiences were filled with violence and in which profound betrayal has been unfortunately common, it took until I was 37 for someone to apologize TO ME.
(Note: Of course, I'm talking about an apology related to something important or meaningful. People who've spilt coffee on me, for example, have apologized. But even the guy who broke my fibula and tibia didn't bother to say he was sorry. And as for the relationship with XGF: I don't think she ever did anything that really warranted an apology, which is probably one reason the relationship didn't last.)
Anyway, for the past month, the power of this experience has been slowly sinking in, and I've been surprised to feel its effect on me.
When giving our presentation on "Social Invalidation of Same-Sex Relationships," one of the tips The Debutante suggested for therapists was to "create an alternative experience." This means, for example, that if you've got a gay client who's been experiencing discrimination in some way (and is thus expecting it from the therapist, as well), the therapist can get more traction by creating an affirming experience, one that is so contrary to the client's expectation that it's almost shocking.
Without realizing it, this is what VDF created for me: a completely novel experience. In receiving this apology, I had the most peculiar internal experience, something which is defying any accurate or meaningful description. Maybe I could say my heart opened up. Or maybe I could say that some wound which had long been open suddenly closed. Perhaps I could say both of those things. It would still be an insufficient description.
Either way, the sensation that has been sinking in since then is one of healing.
It's interesting. This sense of healing has *nothing* to do with VDF in most respects. The argument we had was a blip in a mutually enjoyable friendship that has been a source of great support as I've gone through my divorce and its attending emotional clusterfuck (as well as the recent suicide of a long-time friend).
It was the act itself that was so powerful. For the first time, I witnessed a display of someone caring whether *I* was hurt. Until that happened, I had no clue just how weary my spirit had become, how accustomed I was to having emotional and physical pain rendered meaningless by the inability or unwillingness of those who've harmed me to own their part. Nor did I realize just how much I was harming myself in offering unwarranted apologies to dismantle the tension in the relationships with these people.
I have been wondering in recent years about the nature of forgiveness. Does it really exist? And if so, where does it come from? What does it feel like? What does it mean?
It's not that I've been walking around holding grudges for my entire life. There's a huge difference, I think, between holding a grudge and not being able to forgive. But I suspect one of the reasons I've been unable to conceptualize forgiveness is because, until this apology, I lacked the experience of someone caring enough to ask for it. I'm still not sure what forgiveness is all about, but at least I now have a different context in which to consider it.
No matter what conclusion I reach, I can say for certain that there's great potential and real power in the "alternative experience." Trust me, I've felt it. And it's still just sinking in.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
The Second Burning
S2 and I were having a conversation the other night about whether psychotherapy can sometimes cause an even greater sense of upheaval in a client's personal life than he or she had when walking in the door. Serious self-examination is never easy work, and when one is unprepared for what one finds within, it can be very disturbing.
But we were also talking about how to identify the line between valuable self-examination and flagrant navel-gazing. We both being fairly post-modern thinkers, we quickly conceded that such a line can never be defined in any useful way.
There's certainly a place, however, where it gets crossed. God knows I do it all the effin' time. I can't speak for S2 (but I'd wager that she has, an assumption founded only on my belief that anyone who engages in serious self-examination will meander across that line at some point). The important issue is whether you can make your way back, keep your life in some kind of reasonable perspective and learn to be *in* the life you have rather than standing somehow removed from it while you critique yourself.
I know this path quite well. I have trodden it so heavily at times that I've laid tire tracks on my own back. Some of this was necessary. I was so terribly divorced from my feelings of attraction to women and so fearful of attachment in general that the first illumination of my psyche was done in a very harsh light. It was scorching, in fact.
Because I am what several people have called "a prolific writer," I had a therapist once upon a time who engaged me in some serious self-examination via typewriter. One day, as I sat like a mute in her office, refusing to speak of what was on my mind, she asked me to go home and write. "Start at the beginning," she suggested, "and then just see what comes of it. Bring in what you wrote and give it to me."
Between March and October of 1993, she received more than 350 single-and-a-half spaced typewritten pages. With narrow margins all the way around (something I never noticed until S2 pointed it out to me the other night).
The occasion for S2 to see this monstrous work of mine, which I have these many years lugged around with me, was when I burned it the other night in a fire pit at her beach house. I had resolved several months ago to burn this book. I found the story contained within to be an unfair and depressive depiction of myself, considerably more the story my demented parents told me than the one I know to be true.
For years, I had ignored its continued existence, doing little more than putting a note on it that suggested no one ought to read it and that it should, upon my death, be destroyed. But earlier this year, prompted by a question Dr. M posed about my "coming out" experience, I returned to the manuscript and started reading it in search of the answer. It was in doing so that I decided I wanted to destroy it.
So over Spring Break that's what I did up at Lake Quinault. I burned the damn thing. It took more than an hour to manage the fire while I fed it the papers. That burning also included sections I wrote in 1997 about an experience I had with a friend who betrayed me so deeply that I returned to therapy over it. (Man, I was *pissed* about that. Those chapters were an outlet for the anger I had no other effective means of expressing.)
Anyway, I burned all of it.
Or so I thought. Because only a week or two after I burned the book and was feeling all cathartic about destroying the demons contained therein, I found in a filing cabinet a SECOND copy. I had forgotten that the therapist had made photocopies at each session and had returned her files to me when our therapy concluded. So here was the book all over again, not destroyed at all.
I felt vexed.
When I told some of my friends about this, they each independently remarked that perhaps there was some kind of "reason" for this. Even the anti-meaning atheist Dr. M, who witnessed the First Burning, said as much. S2 laughed at the irony and suggested I might need to try other methods of disposing the book. Perhaps it had some phoenix-like quality that would let it rise from the ashes of itself.
For four months, I had the book in my possession again. I kept a watchful eye on it to ensure it would not duplicate itself, but I otherwise let it be. I recognized that I had, in fact, been given a second chance, an opportunity to reconsider whether I should actually destroy what essentially was a substantial creative work. I found in that time one additional section of the book -- to accompany perhaps one or two others -- that I felt had stories significant enough to warrant surviving. But otherwise I maintained my desire to destroy it.
So that's what I did last night.
S2, who poked the fire with a driftwood stick while I tossed in chapter after chapter, called the process "The Second Burning of the First Book."
It was a curious experience. Because the First Burning had been laden with emotion, I anticipated the Second Burning would be ever so much easier. But both times, I was unable to escape the experience of destroying something I had created under emotionally dense circumstances. I had a lot of myself wrapped up in that book, in its descriptions of me, in its examination of my family of origin, in its collection of the often minute details of what was happing in my personal and professional life at the time that I wrote it.
At many points, it crossed that line between self-examination and outrageous navel gazing. It also frequently crossed the line between an honest critique of myself and downright abuse turned inward.
But oh were there a few good turns of phrase, a few precious details of my life many years ago. Perhaps in saving a few chapters for other reasons, I have saved a little bit of good writing in the process. Maybe it will prove useful one day for me to have them, but I otherwise felt like destroying the entire work.
Not once, but twice.
As the final chapters were being tossed into the fire, S2 remarked, "I hope you'll write a book someday. You have a story you need to write."
I'll wager she's right. Somewhere within is a story worth telling. But it wasn't the one I burned twice over.
But we were also talking about how to identify the line between valuable self-examination and flagrant navel-gazing. We both being fairly post-modern thinkers, we quickly conceded that such a line can never be defined in any useful way.
There's certainly a place, however, where it gets crossed. God knows I do it all the effin' time. I can't speak for S2 (but I'd wager that she has, an assumption founded only on my belief that anyone who engages in serious self-examination will meander across that line at some point). The important issue is whether you can make your way back, keep your life in some kind of reasonable perspective and learn to be *in* the life you have rather than standing somehow removed from it while you critique yourself.
I know this path quite well. I have trodden it so heavily at times that I've laid tire tracks on my own back. Some of this was necessary. I was so terribly divorced from my feelings of attraction to women and so fearful of attachment in general that the first illumination of my psyche was done in a very harsh light. It was scorching, in fact.
Because I am what several people have called "a prolific writer," I had a therapist once upon a time who engaged me in some serious self-examination via typewriter. One day, as I sat like a mute in her office, refusing to speak of what was on my mind, she asked me to go home and write. "Start at the beginning," she suggested, "and then just see what comes of it. Bring in what you wrote and give it to me."
Between March and October of 1993, she received more than 350 single-and-a-half spaced typewritten pages. With narrow margins all the way around (something I never noticed until S2 pointed it out to me the other night).
The occasion for S2 to see this monstrous work of mine, which I have these many years lugged around with me, was when I burned it the other night in a fire pit at her beach house. I had resolved several months ago to burn this book. I found the story contained within to be an unfair and depressive depiction of myself, considerably more the story my demented parents told me than the one I know to be true.
For years, I had ignored its continued existence, doing little more than putting a note on it that suggested no one ought to read it and that it should, upon my death, be destroyed. But earlier this year, prompted by a question Dr. M posed about my "coming out" experience, I returned to the manuscript and started reading it in search of the answer. It was in doing so that I decided I wanted to destroy it.
So over Spring Break that's what I did up at Lake Quinault. I burned the damn thing. It took more than an hour to manage the fire while I fed it the papers. That burning also included sections I wrote in 1997 about an experience I had with a friend who betrayed me so deeply that I returned to therapy over it. (Man, I was *pissed* about that. Those chapters were an outlet for the anger I had no other effective means of expressing.)
Anyway, I burned all of it.
Or so I thought. Because only a week or two after I burned the book and was feeling all cathartic about destroying the demons contained therein, I found in a filing cabinet a SECOND copy. I had forgotten that the therapist had made photocopies at each session and had returned her files to me when our therapy concluded. So here was the book all over again, not destroyed at all.
I felt vexed.
When I told some of my friends about this, they each independently remarked that perhaps there was some kind of "reason" for this. Even the anti-meaning atheist Dr. M, who witnessed the First Burning, said as much. S2 laughed at the irony and suggested I might need to try other methods of disposing the book. Perhaps it had some phoenix-like quality that would let it rise from the ashes of itself.
For four months, I had the book in my possession again. I kept a watchful eye on it to ensure it would not duplicate itself, but I otherwise let it be. I recognized that I had, in fact, been given a second chance, an opportunity to reconsider whether I should actually destroy what essentially was a substantial creative work. I found in that time one additional section of the book -- to accompany perhaps one or two others -- that I felt had stories significant enough to warrant surviving. But otherwise I maintained my desire to destroy it.
So that's what I did last night.
S2, who poked the fire with a driftwood stick while I tossed in chapter after chapter, called the process "The Second Burning of the First Book."
It was a curious experience. Because the First Burning had been laden with emotion, I anticipated the Second Burning would be ever so much easier. But both times, I was unable to escape the experience of destroying something I had created under emotionally dense circumstances. I had a lot of myself wrapped up in that book, in its descriptions of me, in its examination of my family of origin, in its collection of the often minute details of what was happing in my personal and professional life at the time that I wrote it.
At many points, it crossed that line between self-examination and outrageous navel gazing. It also frequently crossed the line between an honest critique of myself and downright abuse turned inward.
But oh were there a few good turns of phrase, a few precious details of my life many years ago. Perhaps in saving a few chapters for other reasons, I have saved a little bit of good writing in the process. Maybe it will prove useful one day for me to have them, but I otherwise felt like destroying the entire work.
Not once, but twice.
As the final chapters were being tossed into the fire, S2 remarked, "I hope you'll write a book someday. You have a story you need to write."
I'll wager she's right. Somewhere within is a story worth telling. But it wasn't the one I burned twice over.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
My finest artform
I futz around with all sorts of things -- writing, woodworking, decoupage, mosaics, decorating -- but the artform where I seem to be nearing perfection is none other than ... procrastination.
I've learned to pull so much stuff out of my ass. I still need to pack for the beach, take the pup for a walk, get a cup of coffee and take the pup over to his dog-sitter's -- all within the next hour (so I can get my hair done before leaving town) -- but I am *instead* writing on my blog. And contemplating a new decoupage project I've got under way.
Oh, and I need to make my bed.
This is so pathetic.
I don't suppose they have a National Gallery of Procrastination, do they? Because I am *in* there, man.
I've learned to pull so much stuff out of my ass. I still need to pack for the beach, take the pup for a walk, get a cup of coffee and take the pup over to his dog-sitter's -- all within the next hour (so I can get my hair done before leaving town) -- but I am *instead* writing on my blog. And contemplating a new decoupage project I've got under way.
Oh, and I need to make my bed.
This is so pathetic.
I don't suppose they have a National Gallery of Procrastination, do they? Because I am *in* there, man.
Friday, August 11, 2006
From the In-box Archives
When going through my in-box, trying to decide how to manage the 1,037 e-mails that are currently clogging up the screen, I found the following exchange between me and S2 that I made me totally laugh when I read it again.
For a little background, we were talking about the existential nature of grief and the impatience I feel with myself at times.
-----Original Message-----
From: UCM
Sent: Monday, June 19, 2006 11:45 PM
To: S2
Subject: Re: wanna bail?
i hear what you're saying about the grief. i just wish it wasn't so fucking inconvenient.
one of the ways i *knew* there was no "loving" god -- and figured, no god at all and CERTAINLY not a "perfect" creator -- is that women have messy, inconvenient and frequently painful menstrual cycles. if there was a perfect creator in the universe -- one that actually cared -- menstruation would not be painful and would not require tampons or pads because you'd be able to hold it in like pee.
this is also how grief should be. you should be able to store it up for more convenient time, whereupon you should be able to unload it at a place and in a manner of your choosing. and it shouldn't hurt.
also, our belly-buttons should be able to produce a bite-sized piece of german chocolate cake -- or whatever our favorite confection might be -- at will.
also, i would like arms that were sufficient to give myself a good back massage. or at least to apply lotion to my entire back easily.
and furthermore, every time a pretty woman walking down the street says, "oh, how cute!", she should be talking about *me* instead of my dog.
but none of that's going to happen. therefore, there is no god.
--On Jun 20, 2006, at 12:01 AM, S2 wrote:--
Dude - Can I live in that world! I want the cake feature. Then we could sing "God is great, he gives us chocolate cake."
OK - but if you could hold it like pee, would you go running to an isolated place, saying loudly and urgently, "I have to grieve, I have to grieve!"?
The burden of menstruation seems to me to be foreshadowing for a life of responsibility, inconvenience, grief, AND great joy and ability. We have to know how to handle pain without running through the room screaming, "I have to grieve." OK, so it's not actually all that bad, but you get my point...
UCM's comment for the blog: What a vivid image, that whole bit about running around a room, yelling, "I have to grieve!" I can see it so clearly. You know, what I see, I think, "Hey, that wouldn't be so bad. If we would get as worked up about our grief -- and then find so much relief in releasing it in one fell swoop -- as when we've got to pee really badly, I think that would be GRAND.
Other cultures are so much more spectacular in their displays of grief than we here in the United States. Maybe they understand something about the physical experience of grief that the rest of us are fighting because of our silly social customs about what's appropriate.
We uptight white people of European descent find it unseemly to throw ourselves on the coffin at a funeral and make a big fuss over the departed. But perhaps we should. Or just fucking sob. Or have a big heady wake with a lot of alcohol and a lot of drunkeness that results in lots of weeping at the night's end.
I hade a really bizarre dream a few weeks ago about two competing graveside services. I had a job as a funeral coordinator at a cemetery (in my dream), and these funerals were causing me trouble. One funeral was the dreary, staid religious sort, but a bishop was blowing incense out of a peace pipe. Another was a New Orleans-style send off with a jazz band and a lot of colorful umbrellas.
I suppose there are parallels to be found in this dream of the grief experiences I've been dealing with in my life, which have quite been competing with each other and hitting many different levels of my psyche. Loss of relationship/family has been very present, while at the same time, in marking the five-year anniversary of my youngest brother's death, I have, I think, found a much greater level of peace with losing him.
I'm pretty sure somewhere along the line, I have run around a room somewhere yelling, "I have to grieve! I have to grieve!" And have gotten just as dramatically upset as a child who's been holding it for way toooooooo long. But let's keep that between us, shall we?
However, I'm still waiting for the german chocolate cake dispenser in my belly button. It would give a whole new meaning to that Ani DiFranco lyric, "I am feeding on your body." ... Let's all just make a deal right now? When the dispenser shows up on my belly, it's a sign the End Times are at hand. Put *that* in your Bible and swear on it.
For a little background, we were talking about the existential nature of grief and the impatience I feel with myself at times.
-----Original Message-----
From: UCM
Sent: Monday, June 19, 2006 11:45 PM
To: S2
Subject: Re: wanna bail?
i hear what you're saying about the grief. i just wish it wasn't so fucking inconvenient.
one of the ways i *knew* there was no "loving" god -- and figured, no god at all and CERTAINLY not a "perfect" creator -- is that women have messy, inconvenient and frequently painful menstrual cycles. if there was a perfect creator in the universe -- one that actually cared -- menstruation would not be painful and would not require tampons or pads because you'd be able to hold it in like pee.
this is also how grief should be. you should be able to store it up for more convenient time, whereupon you should be able to unload it at a place and in a manner of your choosing. and it shouldn't hurt.
also, our belly-buttons should be able to produce a bite-sized piece of german chocolate cake -- or whatever our favorite confection might be -- at will.
also, i would like arms that were sufficient to give myself a good back massage. or at least to apply lotion to my entire back easily.
and furthermore, every time a pretty woman walking down the street says, "oh, how cute!", she should be talking about *me* instead of my dog.
but none of that's going to happen. therefore, there is no god.
--On Jun 20, 2006, at 12:01 AM, S2 wrote:--
Dude - Can I live in that world! I want the cake feature. Then we could sing "God is great, he gives us chocolate cake."
OK - but if you could hold it like pee, would you go running to an isolated place, saying loudly and urgently, "I have to grieve, I have to grieve!"?
The burden of menstruation seems to me to be foreshadowing for a life of responsibility, inconvenience, grief, AND great joy and ability. We have to know how to handle pain without running through the room screaming, "I have to grieve." OK, so it's not actually all that bad, but you get my point...
UCM's comment for the blog: What a vivid image, that whole bit about running around a room, yelling, "I have to grieve!" I can see it so clearly. You know, what I see, I think, "Hey, that wouldn't be so bad. If we would get as worked up about our grief -- and then find so much relief in releasing it in one fell swoop -- as when we've got to pee really badly, I think that would be GRAND.
Other cultures are so much more spectacular in their displays of grief than we here in the United States. Maybe they understand something about the physical experience of grief that the rest of us are fighting because of our silly social customs about what's appropriate.
We uptight white people of European descent find it unseemly to throw ourselves on the coffin at a funeral and make a big fuss over the departed. But perhaps we should. Or just fucking sob. Or have a big heady wake with a lot of alcohol and a lot of drunkeness that results in lots of weeping at the night's end.
I hade a really bizarre dream a few weeks ago about two competing graveside services. I had a job as a funeral coordinator at a cemetery (in my dream), and these funerals were causing me trouble. One funeral was the dreary, staid religious sort, but a bishop was blowing incense out of a peace pipe. Another was a New Orleans-style send off with a jazz band and a lot of colorful umbrellas.
I suppose there are parallels to be found in this dream of the grief experiences I've been dealing with in my life, which have quite been competing with each other and hitting many different levels of my psyche. Loss of relationship/family has been very present, while at the same time, in marking the five-year anniversary of my youngest brother's death, I have, I think, found a much greater level of peace with losing him.
I'm pretty sure somewhere along the line, I have run around a room somewhere yelling, "I have to grieve! I have to grieve!" And have gotten just as dramatically upset as a child who's been holding it for way toooooooo long. But let's keep that between us, shall we?
However, I'm still waiting for the german chocolate cake dispenser in my belly button. It would give a whole new meaning to that Ani DiFranco lyric, "I am feeding on your body." ... Let's all just make a deal right now? When the dispenser shows up on my belly, it's a sign the End Times are at hand. Put *that* in your Bible and swear on it.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
A comeuppance
A couple of weeks ago, I was out in the southeast burbs visiting my pal The Shervinator when she told me a story that left me seething with jealousy. A woman who had once been her "nemesis" had finally gotten her just dessert.
The Sherv leaned back in her chair and said, with a touch of pride and smugness, "My nemesis was brought down. How many people do you know who get to say that?" And she laughed.
I love schadenfreude. It is at once among the most cynical and the most delicious of emotions. So complex. So thoroughly against my Catholic upbringing in a way that's a little frightening ('cause God might be watching you take pleasure in the suffering of others) and absolutely yummy ('cause, shit happens and sometimes it happens to those who deserve to suffer).
So as The Shervinator leaned back in her patio chair and raised her wine glass to poetic justice before she sipped, I felt the sting of envy.
I have a nemisis or two I'd really like to see get their comeuppance, I said. It might happen, but I don't think I'll ever see it because I don't even know where those people are anymore.
This afternoon, however, an e-mail arrived that proved me wrong. There apparently is some such justice for one of the two people who played the lead roles in a very troublesome, painful, dark and absolutely wretched experience that crossed the boundary between my professional work and my personal life.
I cannot bother with the details here. Suffice it to say, I had an Evil City Editor who was trying to fire me and was using my sexual orientation as a component in an attack on my mental health and my personal character. (And this was actually in a workplace that actively recruited gays and lesbians.)
I was powerless in the situation, and because I was in actuality dealing with some depression (which was neither the source nor cause nor reason given for my predicament), I was not finely organized enough to fight for myself effectively. And even if I hadn't been depressed, it was not a battle I was going to "win," per se.
In the end, it was my personal fortitude and persistence that kept me from losing my job, my ability to do exceptional journalism under tremendous personal duress that kept this particular son-of-a-bitch from having his way.
It so happened that the Evil City Editor who was gunning for me was also going after another colleague, God-Eye, for reasons that too complicated to discuss here but were, as with me, unjust. Our mutual experience of being so vigorously attacked cemented quite the bond between God-Eye and myself. He became, over the years, one of my most ardent professional supporters and wrote a more glowing letter of recommendation for my graduate school application than I could imagine. He stayed in the news business, and I left.
This is where my love of shadenfreude comes into play. The Evil City Editor is out of work, having been forced out of a job up here in Oregon for what *he* claims is an unfair bit of office politics. What goes around comes around! ... And now the guy is having difficulty finding work.
So who does he contact today and from whom does he beg assistance? From God-Eye! Who is now in an influential editing job down in California at a paper where the Evil City Editor has been applying and applying and applying, to no avail.
God-Eye immediately forwarded it to me and to the Managing Editor who eventually saved our hides by asking the Evil City Editor to find work at another newspaper in our corporate family.
At the beginning of a lengthy e-mail stacked with a litany of complaints about his difficulty finding work, the Evil City Editor wrote, "We haven't communicated for many years, but I hope you remember me. Of course, I remember you!" (I once had a journalism professor who claimed you only get to use an exclamation point five times in your writing career. This does not seem to be a good use of one of them.)
I asked God-Eye how he intended to respond. He replied, "I think the best way to respond is to simply say: 'I'm sorry, I don't remember who you are. Good luck in your search for employment. Have a nice day.' I think that would be a huge blow to that Titanic-sized EGO of his."
It's interesting how long pain can linger. I have never had my character called into question in so wretched a fashion as what happened with the Evil City Editor. It was nearly 15 years ago, and the thought of this man still turns my stomach.
Up until this experience, I had been in the closet -- I was still going through the process of coming out to myself at that point. His tactics were so aggressive, I had to out myself immediately to most of my colleagues and to the management just to protect myself. He created such a climate of misery for me in the office that I could feel my heart race every time I got out of my car in the parking lot and headed toward the newsroom.
The reasons I didn't immediately get another job are myriad. I still believe the best choice was to weather the storm. But it was a hellish one.
It took nearly 15 years for some payback. But I finally got a little of it today. And goddamn, that schadenfreude feels good!
I'm sure The Shervinator will be happy to have company in her elite little club.
The Sherv leaned back in her chair and said, with a touch of pride and smugness, "My nemesis was brought down. How many people do you know who get to say that?" And she laughed.
I love schadenfreude. It is at once among the most cynical and the most delicious of emotions. So complex. So thoroughly against my Catholic upbringing in a way that's a little frightening ('cause God might be watching you take pleasure in the suffering of others) and absolutely yummy ('cause, shit happens and sometimes it happens to those who deserve to suffer).
So as The Shervinator leaned back in her patio chair and raised her wine glass to poetic justice before she sipped, I felt the sting of envy.
I have a nemisis or two I'd really like to see get their comeuppance, I said. It might happen, but I don't think I'll ever see it because I don't even know where those people are anymore.
This afternoon, however, an e-mail arrived that proved me wrong. There apparently is some such justice for one of the two people who played the lead roles in a very troublesome, painful, dark and absolutely wretched experience that crossed the boundary between my professional work and my personal life.
I cannot bother with the details here. Suffice it to say, I had an Evil City Editor who was trying to fire me and was using my sexual orientation as a component in an attack on my mental health and my personal character. (And this was actually in a workplace that actively recruited gays and lesbians.)
I was powerless in the situation, and because I was in actuality dealing with some depression (which was neither the source nor cause nor reason given for my predicament), I was not finely organized enough to fight for myself effectively. And even if I hadn't been depressed, it was not a battle I was going to "win," per se.
In the end, it was my personal fortitude and persistence that kept me from losing my job, my ability to do exceptional journalism under tremendous personal duress that kept this particular son-of-a-bitch from having his way.
It so happened that the Evil City Editor who was gunning for me was also going after another colleague, God-Eye, for reasons that too complicated to discuss here but were, as with me, unjust. Our mutual experience of being so vigorously attacked cemented quite the bond between God-Eye and myself. He became, over the years, one of my most ardent professional supporters and wrote a more glowing letter of recommendation for my graduate school application than I could imagine. He stayed in the news business, and I left.
This is where my love of shadenfreude comes into play. The Evil City Editor is out of work, having been forced out of a job up here in Oregon for what *he* claims is an unfair bit of office politics. What goes around comes around! ... And now the guy is having difficulty finding work.
So who does he contact today and from whom does he beg assistance? From God-Eye! Who is now in an influential editing job down in California at a paper where the Evil City Editor has been applying and applying and applying, to no avail.
God-Eye immediately forwarded it to me and to the Managing Editor who eventually saved our hides by asking the Evil City Editor to find work at another newspaper in our corporate family.
At the beginning of a lengthy e-mail stacked with a litany of complaints about his difficulty finding work, the Evil City Editor wrote, "We haven't communicated for many years, but I hope you remember me. Of course, I remember you!" (I once had a journalism professor who claimed you only get to use an exclamation point five times in your writing career. This does not seem to be a good use of one of them.)
I asked God-Eye how he intended to respond. He replied, "I think the best way to respond is to simply say: 'I'm sorry, I don't remember who you are. Good luck in your search for employment. Have a nice day.' I think that would be a huge blow to that Titanic-sized EGO of his."
It's interesting how long pain can linger. I have never had my character called into question in so wretched a fashion as what happened with the Evil City Editor. It was nearly 15 years ago, and the thought of this man still turns my stomach.
Up until this experience, I had been in the closet -- I was still going through the process of coming out to myself at that point. His tactics were so aggressive, I had to out myself immediately to most of my colleagues and to the management just to protect myself. He created such a climate of misery for me in the office that I could feel my heart race every time I got out of my car in the parking lot and headed toward the newsroom.
The reasons I didn't immediately get another job are myriad. I still believe the best choice was to weather the storm. But it was a hellish one.
It took nearly 15 years for some payback. But I finally got a little of it today. And goddamn, that schadenfreude feels good!
I'm sure The Shervinator will be happy to have company in her elite little club.
Monday, August 07, 2006
About those precious bodily fluids
This is a funny story from beginning to end. Which is why I'm going to tell it ... from beginning to end. (And I'll issue fair warning: It's weird.)
So Friday night, Dr. M had arranged a gathering of rather interesting folks from school to celebrate the end of the term with some kind of "wino" festival. I can't remember what she named it, but I do remember it had the word "wino" in it and thus was quite apt.
At one end of the table -- long before any of us succumbed to what Pablo Neruda lovingly called "the canticle of the fruit" (so, in other words, there's no excuse for our behavior) -- S2 and I sat talking, with Dr. M off to the left, engaged in different conversation. I was telling S2 about a journal I had decoupaged earlier this year. And that is when the following conversation occurred:
UCM: So, essentially it's done. I just need to shellac it.
S2: Shellac it?
UCM: Yeah. You know, cover it with some Modge Podge or something.
S2: God... That's just reminded me. I used to date this guy. He was an artist, and I remember going to his place one time and looking at his art, and he said to me, 'You know, I shellac my art with my own cum.'
UCM was not expecting *this.* But she recovered quickly: Oh, well, that's what *I* should do. Except for I think the collection would be problematic. You know, very difficult to ... uh, harvest ... and very time-consuming.
As S2 nodded in agreement, she said, "When you said 'shellac,' it just reminded me of that. That was sooooo ... ick! But really very funny now that I think of it." Then, sarcastically, she added, "Yeah, you should do it! Why not?"
That would just take toooooo long, I said. And the collection would be fraught with difficulty. I can't even think how I could collect my own bodily fluids in that way.
At this point, something caught Dr. M's attention and she entered the conversation, essentially clueless. "Whaaahh?"
We're talking about how I could collect my own cum for the purposes of shellacking some decoupage.
Dr. M raised an eyebrow. So I added, S2 dated an artist who shellacked his artwork with his own cum...
Dr. M turned to S2. "How long did you date that guy?"
"Oh, twice maybe," S2 said. "Not long, that's for sure. Not after he told me that, anyway."
...So we're discussing whether I should -- or even *could* do the same thing with some decoupage I'm working on.
"Oh, that's simple," Dr. M said. "It's easy! Like milking a python!"
A python? I don't think so!
"Uh, I mean ... a rattlesnake!" Dr. M said. "Just put the fangs in a cup and ... squeeze. Or whatever."
We're talking about *me*! I said. About *my* precious bodily fluids! That is hardly "milking" a snake.
Dr. M's head recoiled, a bit like a snake about to strike. She looked ... disgusted. Then, she recovered with the quick-witted aplomb that I've come to admire in her. "Use a sponge," she said.
But still, I countered, it would take a LONG time.
Dr. M, waving her hand dismissively, said "Ehn..." and issued her prescription: "Try reading Anias Nin's 'Delta of Venus.' It'll take you two or three days tops."
Thus concluded a conversation which I feel certain is unique, truly unique. As in, never have these particular words been strung together before in the history of the universe. (And probably for good reason.)
But that's not the end of the story. There's more....
So last night, I'm online purchasing airline tickets to Hawaii late in the evening. Because I drank too much on Friday night and am suffering from some screwed up sleep as a result, I have just taken an Ambien to force myself to sleep. (Somehow, I think the sleeping medication is related to what happened next.)
As I'm waiting for United to process my credit card and whatnot, I get drawn off track -- as the Internet can do to a person -- and I end up at Amazon.com, reading the first few pages of "Delta of Venus."
I hear the voice inside my head making reasonable comments: Just a few paragraphs, and that woman is already giving blow jobs.... It's been a long time since I read any Anias Nin. It's August. I've got nothing better to do with my time. Why not buy the book?
So I click the button to add it to my "shopping cart." And I see Amazon is tempting me with a Tom Robbins' novel -- "Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates" -- that was destroyed in a flood in my old basement. I see it's available used for $2.98, which is when I think, Shit. If I'm going to buy a used book, I should go to Powell's, so I can check out the quality.
And I notice my head is dipping precariously toward my keyboard, courtesy of the Ambien taking effect. I decide to shut down the computer and go get some shuteye.
Fast-forward to Monday morning. I'd like to say I awaken bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to the sound of birds chirping (which *is* something that's happened before), but in reality, the phone wakes me up. It's 10:40, and I feel drugged ('cause pretty much that's what I was).
As I stumble toward the shower, trying to wake myself up for a hike, I turn on the computer to check my e-mail. There are several. One of them, curiously, is from Amazon.com, informing me of some kind of "delay" with a shipment. In my recollection, there's nothing I've got waiting from Amazon, so I hit the link.
The lingering effects of the Ambien are quickly erased when I see the order that has been "delayed," thanks only to the fact that I hadn't updated my credit card number with Amazon in a while. As best I can figure, rather than adding Anias Nin's "Delta of Venus" to my "shopping cart," I must have hit the button that says, "Buy this item with one click."
And so, thanks to the great ether of the Internet and online shopping, Anias Nin's erotic "Delta of Venus" had (theoretically) been purchased and was already trying to make its way...
... to my dad and his wife.
You can't imagine how fast I hit "cancel." It was like I'd never taken the Ambien. Never had all that wine on Friday night. Never heard anything about using cum to shellac artwork. And *certainly* never considered collecting those precious bodily fluids on my own.
Of course not. None of it happened. None of it.
The author wishes to note that none of the identities have been changed to protect the innocent. Because no one here -- not S2, her avant-garde artist, Dr. M nor your dear UCM -- has any claim to "innocence" whatsoever.
So Friday night, Dr. M had arranged a gathering of rather interesting folks from school to celebrate the end of the term with some kind of "wino" festival. I can't remember what she named it, but I do remember it had the word "wino" in it and thus was quite apt.
At one end of the table -- long before any of us succumbed to what Pablo Neruda lovingly called "the canticle of the fruit" (so, in other words, there's no excuse for our behavior) -- S2 and I sat talking, with Dr. M off to the left, engaged in different conversation. I was telling S2 about a journal I had decoupaged earlier this year. And that is when the following conversation occurred:
UCM: So, essentially it's done. I just need to shellac it.
S2: Shellac it?
UCM: Yeah. You know, cover it with some Modge Podge or something.
S2: God... That's just reminded me. I used to date this guy. He was an artist, and I remember going to his place one time and looking at his art, and he said to me, 'You know, I shellac my art with my own cum.'
UCM was not expecting *this.* But she recovered quickly: Oh, well, that's what *I* should do. Except for I think the collection would be problematic. You know, very difficult to ... uh, harvest ... and very time-consuming.
As S2 nodded in agreement, she said, "When you said 'shellac,' it just reminded me of that. That was sooooo ... ick! But really very funny now that I think of it." Then, sarcastically, she added, "Yeah, you should do it! Why not?"
That would just take toooooo long, I said. And the collection would be fraught with difficulty. I can't even think how I could collect my own bodily fluids in that way.
At this point, something caught Dr. M's attention and she entered the conversation, essentially clueless. "Whaaahh?"
We're talking about how I could collect my own cum for the purposes of shellacking some decoupage.
Dr. M raised an eyebrow. So I added, S2 dated an artist who shellacked his artwork with his own cum...
Dr. M turned to S2. "How long did you date that guy?"
"Oh, twice maybe," S2 said. "Not long, that's for sure. Not after he told me that, anyway."
...So we're discussing whether I should -- or even *could* do the same thing with some decoupage I'm working on.
"Oh, that's simple," Dr. M said. "It's easy! Like milking a python!"
A python? I don't think so!
"Uh, I mean ... a rattlesnake!" Dr. M said. "Just put the fangs in a cup and ... squeeze. Or whatever."
We're talking about *me*! I said. About *my* precious bodily fluids! That is hardly "milking" a snake.
Dr. M's head recoiled, a bit like a snake about to strike. She looked ... disgusted. Then, she recovered with the quick-witted aplomb that I've come to admire in her. "Use a sponge," she said.
But still, I countered, it would take a LONG time.
Dr. M, waving her hand dismissively, said "Ehn..." and issued her prescription: "Try reading Anias Nin's 'Delta of Venus.' It'll take you two or three days tops."
Thus concluded a conversation which I feel certain is unique, truly unique. As in, never have these particular words been strung together before in the history of the universe. (And probably for good reason.)
But that's not the end of the story. There's more....
So last night, I'm online purchasing airline tickets to Hawaii late in the evening. Because I drank too much on Friday night and am suffering from some screwed up sleep as a result, I have just taken an Ambien to force myself to sleep. (Somehow, I think the sleeping medication is related to what happened next.)
As I'm waiting for United to process my credit card and whatnot, I get drawn off track -- as the Internet can do to a person -- and I end up at Amazon.com, reading the first few pages of "Delta of Venus."
I hear the voice inside my head making reasonable comments: Just a few paragraphs, and that woman is already giving blow jobs.... It's been a long time since I read any Anias Nin. It's August. I've got nothing better to do with my time. Why not buy the book?
So I click the button to add it to my "shopping cart." And I see Amazon is tempting me with a Tom Robbins' novel -- "Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates" -- that was destroyed in a flood in my old basement. I see it's available used for $2.98, which is when I think, Shit. If I'm going to buy a used book, I should go to Powell's, so I can check out the quality.
And I notice my head is dipping precariously toward my keyboard, courtesy of the Ambien taking effect. I decide to shut down the computer and go get some shuteye.
Fast-forward to Monday morning. I'd like to say I awaken bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to the sound of birds chirping (which *is* something that's happened before), but in reality, the phone wakes me up. It's 10:40, and I feel drugged ('cause pretty much that's what I was).
As I stumble toward the shower, trying to wake myself up for a hike, I turn on the computer to check my e-mail. There are several. One of them, curiously, is from Amazon.com, informing me of some kind of "delay" with a shipment. In my recollection, there's nothing I've got waiting from Amazon, so I hit the link.
The lingering effects of the Ambien are quickly erased when I see the order that has been "delayed," thanks only to the fact that I hadn't updated my credit card number with Amazon in a while. As best I can figure, rather than adding Anias Nin's "Delta of Venus" to my "shopping cart," I must have hit the button that says, "Buy this item with one click."
And so, thanks to the great ether of the Internet and online shopping, Anias Nin's erotic "Delta of Venus" had (theoretically) been purchased and was already trying to make its way...
... to my dad and his wife.
You can't imagine how fast I hit "cancel." It was like I'd never taken the Ambien. Never had all that wine on Friday night. Never heard anything about using cum to shellac artwork. And *certainly* never considered collecting those precious bodily fluids on my own.
Of course not. None of it happened. None of it.
The author wishes to note that none of the identities have been changed to protect the innocent. Because no one here -- not S2, her avant-garde artist, Dr. M nor your dear UCM -- has any claim to "innocence" whatsoever.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Is that *my* biological clock?
Something is wrong with me.
(Yeah, go ahead. I've heard too many witty retorts to that line for you to surprise me with anything new, so just get it out of your system, and then we'll go on. Together. Like adults.)
So back to what's wrong with me.
Lately, by which I mean several weeks, I have had these recurring thoughts. In psychological terms, they'd be "intrusive thoughts." Because they keep coming into my head and I don't want them there.
For the record, I do NOT want to give birth to and raise a child from infancy.
But I'm beginning to worry that this particular statement is some kind of CBT thing, where I'm telling myself a statement to counter the intrusive thought. Which I'm having trouble spelling out. Although my headline, if nothing else, should've given it away.
Some. Thing. Freaky. Is. Happening. To. My. Mind.
I keep ... shit ... I keep trying to figure out what the hell I would do if I got pregnant. Becuase I keep having this weird premonition that I'm gonna end up having a ... a B.A.B.Y.
Now listen. I know I'm not pregnant or anything. In fact, I'm hoping that blogging on this will break the cycle of the thought, totally erase the concept from my mind and, just in case I'm having some super freaky premonition, make whatever the hell impregnating experience would cause this NOT HAPPEN.
Because this is one loopy fucking idea that I want to GO AWAY. Shoo! Shoo!
No, I'm not worried about some kind of traumatic event occuring. Nor accidentally sleeping with that 1 in 1,000 lesbians who really does have sperm on the tip of her tongue.
What I'm worried about is that, perhaps ... I ... I can barely say this! ... uh? ... want one?
It can't be! Such a little creature would totally fuck up my life, take every last bit of personal stamina I have and put in in a fucking SHREDDER. It would cry, and I don't think I could take that. Not to mention, I have enough trouble being responsible to my dog sometimes. He can be left at home and he can hold himself for a good 14 hours. (Let's not even address the ways in which I've personally contributed to his neurosis, because I *am* responsible for several things, including his eating disorder.)
I don't even want to get into the whole bit where I'm an unemployed graduate student. Nor how I would be a single mom.
Nor how by the time that either of those situations is properly resolved, I would be considerably older than I think is reasonable to have a child, especially when one will be facing 20 years of debt payments on student loans, god only knows how many years working in the non-profit ghetto before I have the experience and connections to start a (higher-paying) private practice, nor the fact that I DO NOT WANT THAT KIND OF RESPONSIBILITY.
'Cause infants can be cute (sometimes) but they are labor intensive, fussy, noisy, demanding and STINKY. And then they become 2 and 3. And then they become teen-agers. Lots of misery. And no guarantee of any kind of payoff in the form of a loving or close -- or even respectful -- relationship as they get older.
I KNOW all of that.
In short, I keep thinking a child would essentially ruin my life, drive me into poverty and make me pull my hair out.
And yet, I keep having these weird thoughts that it might not be so bad. I could have a little girl and name her Tanzania and we'd get along famously, except the part where we live in poverty.... (Obviously, just as there's no accounting for my delusions of parenthood, there's no accounting for the taste I'd display in naming a child.)
So I need some more effective CBT. Giving birth would push me into poverty. I agree with that statement (strongly) about 98 percent of the time.... Christine Padesky, where are you and (at least what was) your ugly hair and your absurd little charts when I need you?
Actually, I'm thinking I need more than CBT. Anyone got a screaming, sickly, mean-spirited little child they want me to babysit?
Because I think the real problem here -- the source of this delusion -- is the time I've spent time around S2's children. They are wonderful. Even when throwing a temper tantrum, there is something amusing and beautiful about them.
But, being the product of their intelligent, intact and thoughtful parents, they absolutely do not represent the devil's spawn that would be generated and raised by yours truly. Especially as a single mother. Yet, I keep thinking about it.
And THAT, my friends, is FUCKED UP. One should never reproduce simply because one would not otherwise have a family. Really, that *must* be my motivation, that must be what lies beneathe these thoughts. Because I otherwise have never wanted such a thing, cannot afford such a thing, do not want any of the changes necessary to be responsible to such a thing and could only in my most delusional moments think such a thing would be good for me or for that poor child.
Thank god I'm a lesbian. Maybe that and that alone is keeping me from being the dumbest woman on the planet right now.
(Well, that. And the fact that Britney Spears is still breathing. Even if the oxygen isn't quite making it to her brain.)
(Yeah, go ahead. I've heard too many witty retorts to that line for you to surprise me with anything new, so just get it out of your system, and then we'll go on. Together. Like adults.)
So back to what's wrong with me.
Lately, by which I mean several weeks, I have had these recurring thoughts. In psychological terms, they'd be "intrusive thoughts." Because they keep coming into my head and I don't want them there.
For the record, I do NOT want to give birth to and raise a child from infancy.
But I'm beginning to worry that this particular statement is some kind of CBT thing, where I'm telling myself a statement to counter the intrusive thought. Which I'm having trouble spelling out. Although my headline, if nothing else, should've given it away.
Some. Thing. Freaky. Is. Happening. To. My. Mind.
I keep ... shit ... I keep trying to figure out what the hell I would do if I got pregnant. Becuase I keep having this weird premonition that I'm gonna end up having a ... a B.A.B.Y.
Now listen. I know I'm not pregnant or anything. In fact, I'm hoping that blogging on this will break the cycle of the thought, totally erase the concept from my mind and, just in case I'm having some super freaky premonition, make whatever the hell impregnating experience would cause this NOT HAPPEN.
Because this is one loopy fucking idea that I want to GO AWAY. Shoo! Shoo!
No, I'm not worried about some kind of traumatic event occuring. Nor accidentally sleeping with that 1 in 1,000 lesbians who really does have sperm on the tip of her tongue.
What I'm worried about is that, perhaps ... I ... I can barely say this! ... uh? ... want one?
It can't be! Such a little creature would totally fuck up my life, take every last bit of personal stamina I have and put in in a fucking SHREDDER. It would cry, and I don't think I could take that. Not to mention, I have enough trouble being responsible to my dog sometimes. He can be left at home and he can hold himself for a good 14 hours. (Let's not even address the ways in which I've personally contributed to his neurosis, because I *am* responsible for several things, including his eating disorder.)
I don't even want to get into the whole bit where I'm an unemployed graduate student. Nor how I would be a single mom.
Nor how by the time that either of those situations is properly resolved, I would be considerably older than I think is reasonable to have a child, especially when one will be facing 20 years of debt payments on student loans, god only knows how many years working in the non-profit ghetto before I have the experience and connections to start a (higher-paying) private practice, nor the fact that I DO NOT WANT THAT KIND OF RESPONSIBILITY.
'Cause infants can be cute (sometimes) but they are labor intensive, fussy, noisy, demanding and STINKY. And then they become 2 and 3. And then they become teen-agers. Lots of misery. And no guarantee of any kind of payoff in the form of a loving or close -- or even respectful -- relationship as they get older.
I KNOW all of that.
In short, I keep thinking a child would essentially ruin my life, drive me into poverty and make me pull my hair out.
And yet, I keep having these weird thoughts that it might not be so bad. I could have a little girl and name her Tanzania and we'd get along famously, except the part where we live in poverty.... (Obviously, just as there's no accounting for my delusions of parenthood, there's no accounting for the taste I'd display in naming a child.)
So I need some more effective CBT. Giving birth would push me into poverty. I agree with that statement (strongly) about 98 percent of the time.... Christine Padesky, where are you and (at least what was) your ugly hair and your absurd little charts when I need you?
Actually, I'm thinking I need more than CBT. Anyone got a screaming, sickly, mean-spirited little child they want me to babysit?
Because I think the real problem here -- the source of this delusion -- is the time I've spent time around S2's children. They are wonderful. Even when throwing a temper tantrum, there is something amusing and beautiful about them.
But, being the product of their intelligent, intact and thoughtful parents, they absolutely do not represent the devil's spawn that would be generated and raised by yours truly. Especially as a single mother. Yet, I keep thinking about it.
And THAT, my friends, is FUCKED UP. One should never reproduce simply because one would not otherwise have a family. Really, that *must* be my motivation, that must be what lies beneathe these thoughts. Because I otherwise have never wanted such a thing, cannot afford such a thing, do not want any of the changes necessary to be responsible to such a thing and could only in my most delusional moments think such a thing would be good for me or for that poor child.
Thank god I'm a lesbian. Maybe that and that alone is keeping me from being the dumbest woman on the planet right now.
(Well, that. And the fact that Britney Spears is still breathing. Even if the oxygen isn't quite making it to her brain.)
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Thoughts from a Dressing Room
So this here's the thing:
I forgot to mention during my presentation that one example of heterosexism is the fact that glamour mags don't print articles on how to please your female lover, only "your guy." I think my point was gonna be that there *are* fashion-conscious lesbians out there who would like to get their fashion, celebrity smut and sex advice all in one place.
Why should we have to buy *special* magazines like Curve to get our sex advice (more on Lesbian Bed Death later) when all those magazines I read at the hair salon could just as easily in put ONE lesbian article per mag (or even just an answer in the relationship Q&As now and then) and make me a happy customer there in the salon?
'Cause it's not like the salon carries lesbian magazines.
And do not tell me, "Then, UCM, you should go to lesbian salons to get your hair done."
Because, as most of us can observe from looking at your typical lesbian hair style, that is NOT an option. OK, I'm sure in SF, there are lesbian salons (or lesbian-owned salons where lots of men get their hair done) that cater to your fashion-conscious lesbian. But I'm talking HERE. Where the hair runs shag-shaggier, and the mullets are not so soft.
(It's important to note that while I am a fashion-conscious lesbian, I'm not especially fashion-responsive. I look, I like, but I don't ... do. This has more to do with the size of my body and the size of my budget -- and some strange desire (that's falling by the wayside) to just kinda *blend in* -- than it has anything to do with my lez-bionic genetics. If I had my druthers, I'd dress like Diane Keaton, some kind of mix of sensible, sexy and ... uh, how shall we say it? ... very, very independent. But this not being my situation, I am currently wearing The Lesbian Uniform: cargo shorts, a Pride t-shirt from several years ago, and ... let's not talk about my shoes.)
Anyway, I was just thinking today -- when I was trying on a new pair of cargo shorts with this one top that, when I put it on, I said: OH YEAH, now that's *hot,* baby! but didn't buy it 'cause it's out of season -- that I'd forgotten to put that bit in my presentation last night.
This would be the presentation titled, "Social Invalidation of Same-Sex Relationships." Although it was way too long, it was actually pretty darn good -- if used as part of a weekend workshop or, in the Debutante's mind, a two-credit class.
For a straight girl, The Debutante seem particularly touched by her participation in the development of this mental health intervention, which it was also her idea to create. It strikes me that she may have been on a steeper learning curve about gay culture and the gay experience than I knew.
Tiger-Woods on the other hand ... she taught *me* a thing or two about the lesbian experience. Not that she's got any first-hand knowledge of it. She just told some stories about her lesbian friends that gave old UCM's heart the warm fuzzies. I don't think I've ever seen a straight person embrace the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name quite so romantically, to spin a yarn about a really interesting lesbian wedding quite so enthusiastically, nor to express so poetically the belief that two women can love each other just as deeply (if not more so) as a man and woman.
In fact, Tiger-Woods' presentation on "fusion" in lesbian relationships was very interesting to me, because she attacked the pathologizing of that experience as both sexist and culturally biased. "Women have different ways of relating," she said. "So do different cultures. In the American individualistic perspective, I am fused with my family. Latinos have different family relationships."
She threw up a PP slide with this comment: “One person's 'fusion' can be seen as another’s intimacy, and judgments about what is 'too much' or 'not enough' closeness are fraught with personal bias."
And she talked at great length about how Lesbian Bed Death is both mythological and a misnomer, as "sex" seems to have been poorly and inconsistently defined in research. I found this part of her presentation enlightening. It took me back to a discussion I was having with Bubba a couple months ago in which it became obvious that she and I have wildly different definitions of "sex."
Anyway, Tiger-Woods and The Debutante both taught me a thing or two about lesbians. And I apparently taught them in return, so I guess it all worked out swimmingly.
The down side is that there are a few people in the class who needed a substantial education, and there's just no way that our presentation got through their heads.
One of them -- the 50-something white male mentioned in a previous blog entry -- actually engaged in, as Dr. M said once, "what in improv they call blocking." (God save me if I didn't quote her right....) He tried to stymie our role play, refusing to take a question seriously and standing in the way of progress. Never fear, your UCM pressed the question, because I don't put up with shit like that.
But whatever. The thing's done. The Deb, Tiger-Woods and I did our best, and we had some sweet and curious and yummy experiences across the way. And we enjoyed playing a little with the shock factor. The other night in class, it raised a few eyebrows when Tiger-Woods said to me, across the room, "I am not a expert on this lesbian stuff, right?" To which I replied, I'd say you became one when we had sex last weekend. (What can I say? I'm *always* playing to the young, naive Mormons in the room.)
But damn was that all anti-climatic! We worked our butts off, and gave this rather thorough, well-researched (and perhaps a tad boring, in the finest academic tradition) presentation, and then ... it was over.
So we had beer afterward.
The night ended with me telling S2 that I am unfit to be a counselor. Because even though I might be far enough in my development to be more racially and cuturally sensitive than that bozo in our class, I am lagging way behind in fair and decent resolutions of certain Ericksonian conflicts I should've crossed off the list a long time ago. (Not that you're ever really done, but still....)
But that's a discussion for another time. S2 argued that I've probably been learning some stuff in reverse -- that I learned at 5 what I should've learned at 30 and vice versa. Everyone needs a friend like S2. Pied Piper or not, her version of the story sounds good to me.
So I'm gonna stay in grad school. Not like I was actually thinking of quitting. And I'm gonna keep advocating for gay rights in my own little way.
Although many of my friends would expect me to be hard on the bandwagon for gay marriage (given that whole damn presentation and all), what I'd actually like most right now is either some serious glamour in the lesbian magazines, some lesbians in the glamour magazines or some glamourous lesbians in the serious magazines.
Is that too much to ask? Or has someone written a Constitutional Amendment to keep that from happening, too?
I forgot to mention during my presentation that one example of heterosexism is the fact that glamour mags don't print articles on how to please your female lover, only "your guy." I think my point was gonna be that there *are* fashion-conscious lesbians out there who would like to get their fashion, celebrity smut and sex advice all in one place.
Why should we have to buy *special* magazines like Curve to get our sex advice (more on Lesbian Bed Death later) when all those magazines I read at the hair salon could just as easily in put ONE lesbian article per mag (or even just an answer in the relationship Q&As now and then) and make me a happy customer there in the salon?
'Cause it's not like the salon carries lesbian magazines.
And do not tell me, "Then, UCM, you should go to lesbian salons to get your hair done."
Because, as most of us can observe from looking at your typical lesbian hair style, that is NOT an option. OK, I'm sure in SF, there are lesbian salons (or lesbian-owned salons where lots of men get their hair done) that cater to your fashion-conscious lesbian. But I'm talking HERE. Where the hair runs shag-shaggier, and the mullets are not so soft.
(It's important to note that while I am a fashion-conscious lesbian, I'm not especially fashion-responsive. I look, I like, but I don't ... do. This has more to do with the size of my body and the size of my budget -- and some strange desire (that's falling by the wayside) to just kinda *blend in* -- than it has anything to do with my lez-bionic genetics. If I had my druthers, I'd dress like Diane Keaton, some kind of mix of sensible, sexy and ... uh, how shall we say it? ... very, very independent. But this not being my situation, I am currently wearing The Lesbian Uniform: cargo shorts, a Pride t-shirt from several years ago, and ... let's not talk about my shoes.)
Anyway, I was just thinking today -- when I was trying on a new pair of cargo shorts with this one top that, when I put it on, I said: OH YEAH, now that's *hot,* baby! but didn't buy it 'cause it's out of season -- that I'd forgotten to put that bit in my presentation last night.
This would be the presentation titled, "Social Invalidation of Same-Sex Relationships." Although it was way too long, it was actually pretty darn good -- if used as part of a weekend workshop or, in the Debutante's mind, a two-credit class.
For a straight girl, The Debutante seem particularly touched by her participation in the development of this mental health intervention, which it was also her idea to create. It strikes me that she may have been on a steeper learning curve about gay culture and the gay experience than I knew.
Tiger-Woods on the other hand ... she taught *me* a thing or two about the lesbian experience. Not that she's got any first-hand knowledge of it. She just told some stories about her lesbian friends that gave old UCM's heart the warm fuzzies. I don't think I've ever seen a straight person embrace the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name quite so romantically, to spin a yarn about a really interesting lesbian wedding quite so enthusiastically, nor to express so poetically the belief that two women can love each other just as deeply (if not more so) as a man and woman.
In fact, Tiger-Woods' presentation on "fusion" in lesbian relationships was very interesting to me, because she attacked the pathologizing of that experience as both sexist and culturally biased. "Women have different ways of relating," she said. "So do different cultures. In the American individualistic perspective, I am fused with my family. Latinos have different family relationships."
She threw up a PP slide with this comment: “One person's 'fusion' can be seen as another’s intimacy, and judgments about what is 'too much' or 'not enough' closeness are fraught with personal bias."
And she talked at great length about how Lesbian Bed Death is both mythological and a misnomer, as "sex" seems to have been poorly and inconsistently defined in research. I found this part of her presentation enlightening. It took me back to a discussion I was having with Bubba a couple months ago in which it became obvious that she and I have wildly different definitions of "sex."
Anyway, Tiger-Woods and The Debutante both taught me a thing or two about lesbians. And I apparently taught them in return, so I guess it all worked out swimmingly.
The down side is that there are a few people in the class who needed a substantial education, and there's just no way that our presentation got through their heads.
One of them -- the 50-something white male mentioned in a previous blog entry -- actually engaged in, as Dr. M said once, "what in improv they call blocking." (God save me if I didn't quote her right....) He tried to stymie our role play, refusing to take a question seriously and standing in the way of progress. Never fear, your UCM pressed the question, because I don't put up with shit like that.
But whatever. The thing's done. The Deb, Tiger-Woods and I did our best, and we had some sweet and curious and yummy experiences across the way. And we enjoyed playing a little with the shock factor. The other night in class, it raised a few eyebrows when Tiger-Woods said to me, across the room, "I am not a expert on this lesbian stuff, right?" To which I replied, I'd say you became one when we had sex last weekend. (What can I say? I'm *always* playing to the young, naive Mormons in the room.)
But damn was that all anti-climatic! We worked our butts off, and gave this rather thorough, well-researched (and perhaps a tad boring, in the finest academic tradition) presentation, and then ... it was over.
So we had beer afterward.
The night ended with me telling S2 that I am unfit to be a counselor. Because even though I might be far enough in my development to be more racially and cuturally sensitive than that bozo in our class, I am lagging way behind in fair and decent resolutions of certain Ericksonian conflicts I should've crossed off the list a long time ago. (Not that you're ever really done, but still....)
But that's a discussion for another time. S2 argued that I've probably been learning some stuff in reverse -- that I learned at 5 what I should've learned at 30 and vice versa. Everyone needs a friend like S2. Pied Piper or not, her version of the story sounds good to me.
So I'm gonna stay in grad school. Not like I was actually thinking of quitting. And I'm gonna keep advocating for gay rights in my own little way.
Although many of my friends would expect me to be hard on the bandwagon for gay marriage (given that whole damn presentation and all), what I'd actually like most right now is either some serious glamour in the lesbian magazines, some lesbians in the glamour magazines or some glamourous lesbians in the serious magazines.
Is that too much to ask? Or has someone written a Constitutional Amendment to keep that from happening, too?
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Are we a little defensive?
From Craigslist, we have ... a 22-year-old woman with attitude (but poor grammar skills):
Natural beauties are the best...
If you are a man, a fake and bake barbie doll, a smelly man like female or just socially unacceptable, then please move on. Females, if you aren't seriously into personal hygiene and don't honestly enjoy taking damn good care of yourself then move on. I don't want to associate with someone who does anything more than smoke a little green or drink a stiff one here and there. If you have EVER done anything past this, move on. Nothing grosses me out more than a WOMAN who does not have enough self repsect to treat her body and soul like a temple. You don't get a second chance at looks, youth and life Ms. Meth Head. If you have ever lied to a man and told him that you were pregnant so he would stay, then move on.
I'm 22, hard working, intelligent, simple, natural-BEAUTIFUL. I don't have time for bullshit and hate drama. I want the best out of my life and I am working very hard to get that. I will not be anyones sex object, ATM, taxi or doormat. I will be a honest, real, worthwhile soul. You will get to know me and be happy you took the time to do so. We will have fun, doing whatever comes to mind, shopping, movies, hiking etc. You will accept that you will not be the center of my universe and that I have a life away from friendship. You should be a like minded female. Driven, intelligent, clean, healthy and beautiful.
We all know what the fake bake barbie image is, a woman who thinks that sensuality, beauty, style, grace comes from what she does to her shell.
Makeup, too many materials to name, and a hollow center. Like the chocolate bunnies you get for easter. You're so excited, you got chocolate! So you bite the bunnies head and there's nothing inside? How enthralling. Like I said: MOVE ON. I write a lot. Talking not so much. I'm shy. So what about you?
UCM says: MOVE ON! You're going to judge a woman on whether she wears makeup? This is how you screen out the Meth Heads?
Sensuality *does* have a lot to do with what a woman does to her "shell." What the fuck? It's a BODY. I can't think of the last time I orgasmed from a thought alone.
Nothing grosses you out more than a woman who doesn't treat her body and soul "like a temple," huh? Well, that's good! Because I've decided to grow my hair out -- EVERYWHERE -- so I can look like a temple that's been reclaimed by the jungle. I'm modeling myself after Angor Wat. Have you *heard* of Angor Wat?
By the way, I once lied to a guy about being pregnant. But it wasn't to get him to stay. I just wanted the cash for "an abortion." I had quite the shopping spree at the Galleria. Got some very pretty shoes out of the deal (back when I could wear pretty shoes).
So I guess I'm wondering: Is it the part where women lie to guys about being pregnant that bothers you so much? Or is it just the part where they want the guy to stay? 'Cause if it's the latter instead of the former, we might be able to connect.
If you weren't such an angry bitch, that is.
Natural beauties are the best...
If you are a man, a fake and bake barbie doll, a smelly man like female or just socially unacceptable, then please move on. Females, if you aren't seriously into personal hygiene and don't honestly enjoy taking damn good care of yourself then move on. I don't want to associate with someone who does anything more than smoke a little green or drink a stiff one here and there. If you have EVER done anything past this, move on. Nothing grosses me out more than a WOMAN who does not have enough self repsect to treat her body and soul like a temple. You don't get a second chance at looks, youth and life Ms. Meth Head. If you have ever lied to a man and told him that you were pregnant so he would stay, then move on.
I'm 22, hard working, intelligent, simple, natural-BEAUTIFUL. I don't have time for bullshit and hate drama. I want the best out of my life and I am working very hard to get that. I will not be anyones sex object, ATM, taxi or doormat. I will be a honest, real, worthwhile soul. You will get to know me and be happy you took the time to do so. We will have fun, doing whatever comes to mind, shopping, movies, hiking etc. You will accept that you will not be the center of my universe and that I have a life away from friendship. You should be a like minded female. Driven, intelligent, clean, healthy and beautiful.
We all know what the fake bake barbie image is, a woman who thinks that sensuality, beauty, style, grace comes from what she does to her shell.
Makeup, too many materials to name, and a hollow center. Like the chocolate bunnies you get for easter. You're so excited, you got chocolate! So you bite the bunnies head and there's nothing inside? How enthralling. Like I said: MOVE ON. I write a lot. Talking not so much. I'm shy. So what about you?
UCM says: MOVE ON! You're going to judge a woman on whether she wears makeup? This is how you screen out the Meth Heads?
Sensuality *does* have a lot to do with what a woman does to her "shell." What the fuck? It's a BODY. I can't think of the last time I orgasmed from a thought alone.
Nothing grosses you out more than a woman who doesn't treat her body and soul "like a temple," huh? Well, that's good! Because I've decided to grow my hair out -- EVERYWHERE -- so I can look like a temple that's been reclaimed by the jungle. I'm modeling myself after Angor Wat. Have you *heard* of Angor Wat?
By the way, I once lied to a guy about being pregnant. But it wasn't to get him to stay. I just wanted the cash for "an abortion." I had quite the shopping spree at the Galleria. Got some very pretty shoes out of the deal (back when I could wear pretty shoes).
So I guess I'm wondering: Is it the part where women lie to guys about being pregnant that bothers you so much? Or is it just the part where they want the guy to stay? 'Cause if it's the latter instead of the former, we might be able to connect.
If you weren't such an angry bitch, that is.
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