I have been having the most wonderful "children" experiences lately. Makes me think I should've had some of my own. Or that perhaps I really ought to be working with them.
I babysat Little Pea and Getting To Yes on Saturday, and they were so incredibly good and charming that I thought I'd landed the Easiest Job Ever. I haven't ever been around children who were so well-behaved.
Some of it is just because they've had good parenting. But another part is because those two are developing a little bit of a relationship with me. Some of it was because they had been heavily stimulated in the hours just prior to my visit with pumpkin carving activities (as they say: a tired dog is a good dog -- that must go for children, too). And then, lastly, their dear father bribed them with CANDY, telling them that if your UCM decided at evening's end that they had been well-behaved, they could each take a premature dip into a bowl of Halloween candy.
Then, tonight, I went trick-or-treating with Little Pea, Getting to Yes, their mom (S2) and dad (JB), The Debutante and The Deb's daughter, Bonnie Blue Butler. I haven't been out trick-or-treating in a good 20 years or so.
In S2's neighborhood, there's a little bit of a time warp going on. On a chilly, windy autumn night, the streets were filled with goblins and princesses and butterflies and pumpkins, all tentatively walking up onto the porches of large, old-fashioned homes from the 1920s -- beautiful places with art deco windows, gorgeous old speakeasies in the doors, large Craftsman bungalows, farm houses and grand old homes with huge front porches. Brown and red and yellow leaves swirled in the streets, and the jack-o-lanterns were all well-carved. It was like being on a movie set. Had Susan Sarandon opened the door at one of these places, I would not have registered the least bit surprise.
Not having a costume, I wore a carnival mask. Kids on the street seemed to like it, and it drew the occasional compliment, as well as the periodic adult insisting I take a piece of candy myself on accounts of my mask. But mainly, I was there to trail the kids, some kind of fifth wheel adult chaperone who'd had a few glasses of wine and was hob-gobblin' it up for the kiddies every once in a while.
And what a sweet thing that was.
When you don't have kids (or neices, nephews or much, much younger siblings), you don't get to go out and do this. You're one of the people who stays at home and opens the door and gives out the candy. (And tries to calm your neurotic dog who's freaking out every time the doorbell rings.)
That's just not the same thing as going out on the streets with a 3-year-old dressed as a pumpkin and a 4-year-old dressed as a princess and a 6-year-old dressed as a butterfly and watching them alternate between the desire for candy and being totally FREAKED OUT by the scary, costumed adults answering the doors at the homes with the strobe lights and the spooky music and lots and lots of cobwebs.
It's not the same as watching the little ones muster their courage to ring the doorbell the first dozen times, weakly issue forth a "trick-or-treat" or a "happy Halloween" or just sit there and STARE at the person who opened the door.
It's not the same as seeing them start to get the idea as they watch the candy -- candy, candy, candy! oh, glorious CANDY! -- accumulate in their bags and then see them get more and more enthusiastic about ringing the doorbell and to hear those first mumbled "trick-or-treats..." become a chorus of "TRICK-OR-TREAT!"
Then, just as the adults are feeling bushed, the little ones start to fade, the bags loaded with candy start to feel heavy, the night starts to feel a little nippy. And so, if you are as lucky a crew as those I was with tonight, you retire to a warm, beautiful home with a roaring fire.
And the kids sit in the middle of the living room and dump their goods and commence, this one night of the year, to eating however the hell much candy they can stuff in their little faces. The adults grab another adult beverage and watch as the little ones ascend the sugar highway before falling, crying and tired and way past their bedtime, into the sugar abyss.
It gets a little rocky near the end, my friends, but damn... childhood was SWEET in so many ways, wasn't it?
Lacking any children of my own, I'm not often afforded this window into the past. I thank my friends, S2 and her JB, as well as The Deb, for inviting me along. It was a priviledge.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Trouble times three
Last week, I had a thought.
And in atypical fashion, I kept it to myself.
Until it unexpectedly came out of my mouth Tuesday morning in the hallway of a preschool as I mingled amongst a bunch of hipster and granola moms. A woman there handed business cards to S2 and me for a new salon that opened down the street from me.
Oh, I know this place, I said. It's cute. (But that wasn't the thought I'd kept to myself -- although it technically was a thought I had when I noticed the place last week.)
The woman who handed us the biz cards said, "Oh, well you should patronize the place. The woman who owns it just had triplets."
Which is when the thought I'd kept to myself suddenly made an unexpected appearance:
I don't like people who have triplets, I said.
S2 turned and gave me a look I get from her sometimes. The one that's a mix of surprise, bemusement and horrified curiosity about what I'm going to say next. She laughed and asked, "What's wrong with people who have triplets?"
They hog the sidewalks with their three-across, side-by-side strollers, I replied. They take up so much room, and they don't pull over, so they make you step off the sidewalk into the parking strip so they can pass.
The woman who handed me the business card looked appalled. Not about the triplets, but about my opinon. Some people are sooooo judgmental -- if you say ONE BAD WORD about mothers, especially of triplets, you might as well be the antichrist.
S2 knew better than to take me too seriously, but she also knows me well enough to know that I am serious about such things. People who take up the entire sidewalk with their massive strollers do not please me. Nor do I like those people who walk the streets with GOLF umbrellas, epecially when they don't raise or tilt the umbrella to make sure it clears your head, forcing you to duck. Nor do I like those people who walk beneath awnings with their umbrellas open, refusing to make way for people in rain coats. (Look, this is PORTLAND. Umbrellas are for wimps. Get the fuck out of the way with those things!)
But the amusing thing is how S2 will engage with me in the silliest of discussions -- if for no other reason than to make me aware of some perspective I must have overlooked. Thus:
"Well, I suppose when you have triplets, you might really want to take control of the sidewalk," she said. "It might be the only thing you feel like you can actually control."
I don't care. I don't like 'em. I replied. They should have strollers that are three *deep* rather than three across.
"Some of them do have those," S2 said.
Not in my neighborhood, apparently. Because I have to step off the sidewalk all the time for those three-by-side deals.
The woman who handed me the card seemed aghast. So I did not continue with the direction my commentary *could* have gone about fertility treatments, multiple births and what have you.
"Well, you sure are *bitter* today," S2 said. "You're being very out of character." (That's the nice thing about good friends: They want to believe in your better nature even when you're just being totally random in your bitchiness.)
Now, perhaps you are wondering: Just how the hell can I have such an issue with triplets -- and isn't it a bit of an exaggeration that I have to step off the curb for them "all the time"?
The truth is, I run across a few sets of multiple-birth people when I'm out walking the dog in my neighborhood, at least two of which are triplet people. Those triplet people *always* force me to step aside. Never even put one wheel of their massive, ATV-like strollers on the grass, NEVER wait for a moment someone's driveway where we can all pass without getting our feet muddy. (It was raining when I came across them most recently, and this is when I thought them especially rude.)
I feel like slapping them with a "Share the Road" bumpersticker next time we come across each other.
I mean, just because you went off and popped out *three* infants at the same time doesn't mean the world rotates around you. Me and my dog deserve to pass on the sidewalk. Let's learn to SHARE, shall we?
Or maybe I'll just go get myself two more little Cairn terriers, walk them three abreast and refuse to step aside. Considering how much little terriers like to lick and nip at the faces of small children....
I'm just sayin'.
And in atypical fashion, I kept it to myself.
Until it unexpectedly came out of my mouth Tuesday morning in the hallway of a preschool as I mingled amongst a bunch of hipster and granola moms. A woman there handed business cards to S2 and me for a new salon that opened down the street from me.
Oh, I know this place, I said. It's cute. (But that wasn't the thought I'd kept to myself -- although it technically was a thought I had when I noticed the place last week.)
The woman who handed us the biz cards said, "Oh, well you should patronize the place. The woman who owns it just had triplets."
Which is when the thought I'd kept to myself suddenly made an unexpected appearance:
I don't like people who have triplets, I said.
S2 turned and gave me a look I get from her sometimes. The one that's a mix of surprise, bemusement and horrified curiosity about what I'm going to say next. She laughed and asked, "What's wrong with people who have triplets?"
They hog the sidewalks with their three-across, side-by-side strollers, I replied. They take up so much room, and they don't pull over, so they make you step off the sidewalk into the parking strip so they can pass.
The woman who handed me the business card looked appalled. Not about the triplets, but about my opinon. Some people are sooooo judgmental -- if you say ONE BAD WORD about mothers, especially of triplets, you might as well be the antichrist.
S2 knew better than to take me too seriously, but she also knows me well enough to know that I am serious about such things. People who take up the entire sidewalk with their massive strollers do not please me. Nor do I like those people who walk the streets with GOLF umbrellas, epecially when they don't raise or tilt the umbrella to make sure it clears your head, forcing you to duck. Nor do I like those people who walk beneath awnings with their umbrellas open, refusing to make way for people in rain coats. (Look, this is PORTLAND. Umbrellas are for wimps. Get the fuck out of the way with those things!)
But the amusing thing is how S2 will engage with me in the silliest of discussions -- if for no other reason than to make me aware of some perspective I must have overlooked. Thus:
"Well, I suppose when you have triplets, you might really want to take control of the sidewalk," she said. "It might be the only thing you feel like you can actually control."
I don't care. I don't like 'em. I replied. They should have strollers that are three *deep* rather than three across.
"Some of them do have those," S2 said.
Not in my neighborhood, apparently. Because I have to step off the sidewalk all the time for those three-by-side deals.
The woman who handed me the card seemed aghast. So I did not continue with the direction my commentary *could* have gone about fertility treatments, multiple births and what have you.
"Well, you sure are *bitter* today," S2 said. "You're being very out of character." (That's the nice thing about good friends: They want to believe in your better nature even when you're just being totally random in your bitchiness.)
Now, perhaps you are wondering: Just how the hell can I have such an issue with triplets -- and isn't it a bit of an exaggeration that I have to step off the curb for them "all the time"?
The truth is, I run across a few sets of multiple-birth people when I'm out walking the dog in my neighborhood, at least two of which are triplet people. Those triplet people *always* force me to step aside. Never even put one wheel of their massive, ATV-like strollers on the grass, NEVER wait for a moment someone's driveway where we can all pass without getting our feet muddy. (It was raining when I came across them most recently, and this is when I thought them especially rude.)
I feel like slapping them with a "Share the Road" bumpersticker next time we come across each other.
I mean, just because you went off and popped out *three* infants at the same time doesn't mean the world rotates around you. Me and my dog deserve to pass on the sidewalk. Let's learn to SHARE, shall we?
Or maybe I'll just go get myself two more little Cairn terriers, walk them three abreast and refuse to step aside. Considering how much little terriers like to lick and nip at the faces of small children....
I'm just sayin'.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Misadventures & misdemeanors
Act 2, Scene 1: In which we discuss Act 1, Unscene 1.
Our setting is S2's kitchen. It's *early* afternoon, and she is pouring me a glass of wine.
"Where are you going to start this story?" she asks.
With her index finger, I reply. Her *right* index finger.
S2 freezes. Stops midpour. A look that blends skepticism and fear and curiosity appears on her face. "Uh... her *index* finger?"
Yeah. The end of it was stained brown. She is such a heavy smoker that, I kid you not, her finger was stained brown.
S2's look turned to disgust. She extended the bottle toward my glass and said, "You're going to need more of this."
We looked at each other, laughing. Raising our glasses, I toasted, Such as it is.
I had, just before arriving at her home, been on one of those strange forays that happen to single people in this modern age. I met someone on the Internet. I decided to meet her in person for coffee.
It was noon.
Turns out this lady was on about her eighth cup of coffee that day. She had, mercifully, switched to decaf. Her first sentence to me, aside from noting that she'd consumed six cups of coffee before leaving the house this morning, discussed the fact that she had not studied for the oral exam in her German class today "because of all my personal problems."
I'll say at the outset that I knew immediately -- even before shaking her brown finger -- that this was a no-go. But when S2's hubby later asked me why I'd allowed this meeting to last as long as a 50-minute hour, my impulse was to say that I have never been able to turn away from a train wreck and certainly wasn't going to start today. But instead, I added the whole bit about where I think it's rude to carry out an in-your-face rejection move.
Plus, truth be told, I was a little fixated on the brown finger tip. I have never known anyone who smoked enough to turn their finger brown. Her teeth were positively disgusting -- nothing I hadn't seen before -- but the finger was kind of like the Sucker's Trophy, which I won for not paying heed to some of the signs rather evident in the e-mails this woman had been sending me.
Considering the way in which our e-mail exchange *began,* I really ought to have noticed something was amiss. But, as I said, train wrecks and all... I boldy go where others seem to know better.
A couple weeks ago, I was in a pissy mood, and I was reading Craigslist. As I mentioned in a previous blog entry, I have taken now and then to issuing rather nasty missives into the ether, giving totally random people little slices of my thoughts. This particular woman had advertised herself as "Loyal to a fault." And so, because I was feeling pissy and pompous and heaven knows what else, I replied to her add: I'd like to make a suggestion: Don't advertise yourself as "loyal to a fault." That just makes it sound like you're willing to take abuse.
Now, if someone sent such a thing to me, I either would not have responded or would've replied with a bit of my "go fuck yerself"-ness, of which I have in abundance for the most part but rarely deploy because I'm trying to learn to be a "better person."
I thought this woman was in the did-not-respond camp until earlier this week, when I found her reply as I was scanning my spam filter. (Also caught in that spam filter was The Clairvoyant's birthday wish for me, even though I get e-mail from her pretty regularly. The whole *world* is capricious, my friends. Not just some of my teachers. But I digress.) This woman's response was, basically, "Thanks for the advice. I find the CL ads so *demanding* that I decided to go in the opposite direction." And then she made a few comments which caught my interest, so I responded.
And there you have it. Following some curious e-mail exchanges -- in which she engaged in a bit of excessive self-disclosure -- we decided to meet for coffee. With me being a "gay gal trapped in a straight woman's world," as S2 has noted, I have been trying to figure out how to expand my social circle a bit. I wasn't thinking "date," which is why I suggested coffee. And having seen a photo of her online -- which turned out to be an exceptionally flattering photo -- I thought she seemed alright. I mean: Why not?
There have been so many times in my life where I've asked myself, "Why not?" and gone ahead and done something I might otherwise not have done. I would love to tell you, my friends, that my curiosity has been rewarded with really positive, enriching experiences that might someday find their way into one of those obnoxious anthologies, a little "Chicken Soup for the Adventurer's Soul" or somethign of that ilk.
But that's generally not what happens. Instead, I end up with some kind of story of that includes aspects of horror or humiliation. Like how I ended up at the "Casa del Serpiente" out in the Amazon, a place where an Amazonian cultural experience met a carnival midway show met the cast of "Deliverance." Or how, on the same little boat journey on the same day, I ended up dancing with topless, drunken women who were quite a few steps beyond *bored* out of their intoxicated minds and just a tad irritated, perhaps, that I had awakened them from their afternoon nap. (Hey, I didn't want to be there, either! But I had said, Well, why *not*?)
The upside to all of this is that I usually end up with a good story. I tend to appreciate the more humorous aspects of life. (Not that I'm laughing at discussions of traumatic events in class or anything, mind you. That is *not* me who's doing that. ... Is it?) Anyway, there's usually a good story to be had, traumatic or not.
And, although there was considerably more I could share with you -- most of it outrageous and weird and funny -- this one really centered in a brown index finger.
I suppose, if I have one more bit of advice for this odd woman, it would be, Honey, avoiding dairy and eating vegetarian really does not compensate for your caffeine and tobacco habits. In fact, chewing on a little meat now and then -- better yet, gnawing on a bone -- might help you clean a little of the tar and coffee stains off them there teeth. I'm just saying'.
But I'm afraid, given her first response to my random criticisms, that kind of comment might lead her to think we're in a relationship or something.
All things considered, I'd rather spend a night at the Casa del Serpiente.
Now, onto Scene II, Act II.
Our setting is *still* S2's kitchen.
I don't want to say I got *stuck* in S2's kitchen, but when, five hours after my arrival, I was trying to figure out how to make my exit and really developing an appreciation for my habit of watching train wrecks, I thought, This experience *here* is all about bitch-slapping my ovaries. I was quite convinced that the universe was conspiring to make me excrutiatingly aware of what having children might like.
Now, let me say at the outset that I have long been of the opinion that, when it comes to mothering, S2 is DA BOMB! I hate to use such a cliche and dated term, but she is freaking *awesome,* and I admire the hell out of how she interacts with her children.
On this day, however, she had two extra kids under her wing. So, in this scene, we have the following cast: S2's own children, including Little Pea, age 3 and a half, and Getting to Yes, age 6; as well as the children of one of S2's friends, including 18-month-old Baby and 4-year-old Lil' Dude.
For a few hours, all four of these children were swirling around S2 like a human tornado. To have four children under the age of six is one thing, to be on your FOURTH day of caring for all of them is something entirely different. Especially when you have, as S2 has, been feeling under the weather yourself.
At first, I filled the role of the Big Play Thing. Kind of like that oversized, flying dog (or whatever that was) in "The Never-Ending Story," if you know what I mean. I played "tennis" with Little Pea. I talked to Lil' Dude about his fake snakes. I entertained everyone by attempting to get a tennis ball back from the neighbor's German short-haired pointer, which was interested mainly in *not* returning the ball.
And then, as S2 did something else with the three other children, I played some lopsided "game" in which Little Pea poked and prodded and punched at my breasts while repeatedly asking me, "Do you *know* the co-co? Do you *know* the co-co?"
Finally, I asked her, What's your fixation with my boobies? And I was told, "They're big. Mommy's are not big. The only big ones are you and my babysitter." She obviously liked their fleshiness. When I suggested she punch another "boobie" -- which was the roll of fat at my waist -- she poked at it, deemed it too hard to be a boobie and demanded, as she pulled up my shirt, that I show her what the mysterious lump was. *sigh*
And then I stood in the kitchen and watched S2 make dinner for this brood, each of whom was demanding her attention in some way or another. The baby was crying for water, Lil' Dude was insisting S2 see how many peices of pork he had on the tendons of his fork at a given moment, Little Pea wanted mom to look at the fake lips she'd made out of an apple, Getting To Yes wanted to talk about something.... It doesn't matter what. They were all talking at once, all calling out for S2, all wanting her attention.
I stood back, behind them all, and felt my eyes widen at the sheer shock of it. I thought about The Notorious M.O.M. and what it must have been like to have four kids at once. Especially when one of them was yours truly. What a nightmare that must have been.
But here's the difference between S2 and The Notorious M.O.M.: With all that *insane* demand on her, S2 still appeared to be functioning. She did not yell at the collection of children before her that she was fed up and was going on strike, didn't go lock herself in her bedroom and not come out for days.
No. Instead S2 appeared to be present, to be attending to each spontaneous, childish eruption and demand for attention. She responded to each child, replied to each request as if they were the only one asking for something. Each little human got treated as if they were deserving of attention, of a real response to their curious little pleas.
Little Pea got down from her chair, walked behind me and started poking me in the ass. If it's not the front end, it's the back end. She wanted to play a game whereby when I turned to the right to see what was poking me, no one was there. And when I turned to the left to see what was the matter, no one was there, either. Everytime I looked over my shoulder, she would shift sides, hiding her small frame behind my enormous ass. It was quite a thrill for her, if all the giggling was any indication.
But aside from entertaining that little one, the others continued to put such a demand on S2, who was also cleaning the kitchen and tidying up the house in anticipation of a guest's arrival, that I found it difficult to make note of the fact that I would be leaving. I pretty much couldn't get in a word edgewise -- if only because I was too fascinated by the sheer amount of energy swirling around there in the kitchen. Periodically, a child would leave his or her seat and run somewhere, only to run back. It was INSANE.
In the middle of it all, however, I took a phone call that lead to me committing a misdemeanor. Or perhaps a felony. Doesn't really matter. Because all I could think was that, even if I got busted, whatever time I might spend in lockup would pale in comparison to the kind of hard-time your average mother serves when she's got three or four young children in the house.
Which is also when I realized that, at my age, and not really having "natural" impregnetion as a method at my disposal, chances are getting better and better that my ovaries are sending out too many eggs at once. If I got pregnant under the most likely conditions, I could easily end up with a multiple-birth situation.
That realization was when my ovaries got bitch-slapped. And then bitch-slapped again for good measure. Like: Ohmyfukingod, there is NO WAY.
So, eventually, I made my exit. I walked out into the cool evening and headed home to my dog. He was very excited to see me. Which I knew on accounts he sniffed my leg. Then we took a walk together. I fed him an easy dinner of kibble in a bowl. Then a friend came over, and we talked without interruption, and then we went out and got dinner.
And I was happy living my child-free life.
Except the part where there was no one who wanted my attention or needed my love.
Except for that, life is grand.
Our setting is S2's kitchen. It's *early* afternoon, and she is pouring me a glass of wine.
"Where are you going to start this story?" she asks.
With her index finger, I reply. Her *right* index finger.
S2 freezes. Stops midpour. A look that blends skepticism and fear and curiosity appears on her face. "Uh... her *index* finger?"
Yeah. The end of it was stained brown. She is such a heavy smoker that, I kid you not, her finger was stained brown.
S2's look turned to disgust. She extended the bottle toward my glass and said, "You're going to need more of this."
We looked at each other, laughing. Raising our glasses, I toasted, Such as it is.
I had, just before arriving at her home, been on one of those strange forays that happen to single people in this modern age. I met someone on the Internet. I decided to meet her in person for coffee.
It was noon.
Turns out this lady was on about her eighth cup of coffee that day. She had, mercifully, switched to decaf. Her first sentence to me, aside from noting that she'd consumed six cups of coffee before leaving the house this morning, discussed the fact that she had not studied for the oral exam in her German class today "because of all my personal problems."
I'll say at the outset that I knew immediately -- even before shaking her brown finger -- that this was a no-go. But when S2's hubby later asked me why I'd allowed this meeting to last as long as a 50-minute hour, my impulse was to say that I have never been able to turn away from a train wreck and certainly wasn't going to start today. But instead, I added the whole bit about where I think it's rude to carry out an in-your-face rejection move.
Plus, truth be told, I was a little fixated on the brown finger tip. I have never known anyone who smoked enough to turn their finger brown. Her teeth were positively disgusting -- nothing I hadn't seen before -- but the finger was kind of like the Sucker's Trophy, which I won for not paying heed to some of the signs rather evident in the e-mails this woman had been sending me.
Considering the way in which our e-mail exchange *began,* I really ought to have noticed something was amiss. But, as I said, train wrecks and all... I boldy go where others seem to know better.
A couple weeks ago, I was in a pissy mood, and I was reading Craigslist. As I mentioned in a previous blog entry, I have taken now and then to issuing rather nasty missives into the ether, giving totally random people little slices of my thoughts. This particular woman had advertised herself as "Loyal to a fault." And so, because I was feeling pissy and pompous and heaven knows what else, I replied to her add: I'd like to make a suggestion: Don't advertise yourself as "loyal to a fault." That just makes it sound like you're willing to take abuse.
Now, if someone sent such a thing to me, I either would not have responded or would've replied with a bit of my "go fuck yerself"-ness, of which I have in abundance for the most part but rarely deploy because I'm trying to learn to be a "better person."
I thought this woman was in the did-not-respond camp until earlier this week, when I found her reply as I was scanning my spam filter. (Also caught in that spam filter was The Clairvoyant's birthday wish for me, even though I get e-mail from her pretty regularly. The whole *world* is capricious, my friends. Not just some of my teachers. But I digress.) This woman's response was, basically, "Thanks for the advice. I find the CL ads so *demanding* that I decided to go in the opposite direction." And then she made a few comments which caught my interest, so I responded.
And there you have it. Following some curious e-mail exchanges -- in which she engaged in a bit of excessive self-disclosure -- we decided to meet for coffee. With me being a "gay gal trapped in a straight woman's world," as S2 has noted, I have been trying to figure out how to expand my social circle a bit. I wasn't thinking "date," which is why I suggested coffee. And having seen a photo of her online -- which turned out to be an exceptionally flattering photo -- I thought she seemed alright. I mean: Why not?
There have been so many times in my life where I've asked myself, "Why not?" and gone ahead and done something I might otherwise not have done. I would love to tell you, my friends, that my curiosity has been rewarded with really positive, enriching experiences that might someday find their way into one of those obnoxious anthologies, a little "Chicken Soup for the Adventurer's Soul" or somethign of that ilk.
But that's generally not what happens. Instead, I end up with some kind of story of that includes aspects of horror or humiliation. Like how I ended up at the "Casa del Serpiente" out in the Amazon, a place where an Amazonian cultural experience met a carnival midway show met the cast of "Deliverance." Or how, on the same little boat journey on the same day, I ended up dancing with topless, drunken women who were quite a few steps beyond *bored* out of their intoxicated minds and just a tad irritated, perhaps, that I had awakened them from their afternoon nap. (Hey, I didn't want to be there, either! But I had said, Well, why *not*?)
The upside to all of this is that I usually end up with a good story. I tend to appreciate the more humorous aspects of life. (Not that I'm laughing at discussions of traumatic events in class or anything, mind you. That is *not* me who's doing that. ... Is it?) Anyway, there's usually a good story to be had, traumatic or not.
And, although there was considerably more I could share with you -- most of it outrageous and weird and funny -- this one really centered in a brown index finger.
I suppose, if I have one more bit of advice for this odd woman, it would be, Honey, avoiding dairy and eating vegetarian really does not compensate for your caffeine and tobacco habits. In fact, chewing on a little meat now and then -- better yet, gnawing on a bone -- might help you clean a little of the tar and coffee stains off them there teeth. I'm just saying'.
But I'm afraid, given her first response to my random criticisms, that kind of comment might lead her to think we're in a relationship or something.
All things considered, I'd rather spend a night at the Casa del Serpiente.
Now, onto Scene II, Act II.
Our setting is *still* S2's kitchen.
I don't want to say I got *stuck* in S2's kitchen, but when, five hours after my arrival, I was trying to figure out how to make my exit and really developing an appreciation for my habit of watching train wrecks, I thought, This experience *here* is all about bitch-slapping my ovaries. I was quite convinced that the universe was conspiring to make me excrutiatingly aware of what having children might like.
Now, let me say at the outset that I have long been of the opinion that, when it comes to mothering, S2 is DA BOMB! I hate to use such a cliche and dated term, but she is freaking *awesome,* and I admire the hell out of how she interacts with her children.
On this day, however, she had two extra kids under her wing. So, in this scene, we have the following cast: S2's own children, including Little Pea, age 3 and a half, and Getting to Yes, age 6; as well as the children of one of S2's friends, including 18-month-old Baby and 4-year-old Lil' Dude.
For a few hours, all four of these children were swirling around S2 like a human tornado. To have four children under the age of six is one thing, to be on your FOURTH day of caring for all of them is something entirely different. Especially when you have, as S2 has, been feeling under the weather yourself.
At first, I filled the role of the Big Play Thing. Kind of like that oversized, flying dog (or whatever that was) in "The Never-Ending Story," if you know what I mean. I played "tennis" with Little Pea. I talked to Lil' Dude about his fake snakes. I entertained everyone by attempting to get a tennis ball back from the neighbor's German short-haired pointer, which was interested mainly in *not* returning the ball.
And then, as S2 did something else with the three other children, I played some lopsided "game" in which Little Pea poked and prodded and punched at my breasts while repeatedly asking me, "Do you *know* the co-co? Do you *know* the co-co?"
Finally, I asked her, What's your fixation with my boobies? And I was told, "They're big. Mommy's are not big. The only big ones are you and my babysitter." She obviously liked their fleshiness. When I suggested she punch another "boobie" -- which was the roll of fat at my waist -- she poked at it, deemed it too hard to be a boobie and demanded, as she pulled up my shirt, that I show her what the mysterious lump was. *sigh*
And then I stood in the kitchen and watched S2 make dinner for this brood, each of whom was demanding her attention in some way or another. The baby was crying for water, Lil' Dude was insisting S2 see how many peices of pork he had on the tendons of his fork at a given moment, Little Pea wanted mom to look at the fake lips she'd made out of an apple, Getting To Yes wanted to talk about something.... It doesn't matter what. They were all talking at once, all calling out for S2, all wanting her attention.
I stood back, behind them all, and felt my eyes widen at the sheer shock of it. I thought about The Notorious M.O.M. and what it must have been like to have four kids at once. Especially when one of them was yours truly. What a nightmare that must have been.
But here's the difference between S2 and The Notorious M.O.M.: With all that *insane* demand on her, S2 still appeared to be functioning. She did not yell at the collection of children before her that she was fed up and was going on strike, didn't go lock herself in her bedroom and not come out for days.
No. Instead S2 appeared to be present, to be attending to each spontaneous, childish eruption and demand for attention. She responded to each child, replied to each request as if they were the only one asking for something. Each little human got treated as if they were deserving of attention, of a real response to their curious little pleas.
Little Pea got down from her chair, walked behind me and started poking me in the ass. If it's not the front end, it's the back end. She wanted to play a game whereby when I turned to the right to see what was poking me, no one was there. And when I turned to the left to see what was the matter, no one was there, either. Everytime I looked over my shoulder, she would shift sides, hiding her small frame behind my enormous ass. It was quite a thrill for her, if all the giggling was any indication.
But aside from entertaining that little one, the others continued to put such a demand on S2, who was also cleaning the kitchen and tidying up the house in anticipation of a guest's arrival, that I found it difficult to make note of the fact that I would be leaving. I pretty much couldn't get in a word edgewise -- if only because I was too fascinated by the sheer amount of energy swirling around there in the kitchen. Periodically, a child would leave his or her seat and run somewhere, only to run back. It was INSANE.
In the middle of it all, however, I took a phone call that lead to me committing a misdemeanor. Or perhaps a felony. Doesn't really matter. Because all I could think was that, even if I got busted, whatever time I might spend in lockup would pale in comparison to the kind of hard-time your average mother serves when she's got three or four young children in the house.
Which is also when I realized that, at my age, and not really having "natural" impregnetion as a method at my disposal, chances are getting better and better that my ovaries are sending out too many eggs at once. If I got pregnant under the most likely conditions, I could easily end up with a multiple-birth situation.
That realization was when my ovaries got bitch-slapped. And then bitch-slapped again for good measure. Like: Ohmyfukingod, there is NO WAY.
So, eventually, I made my exit. I walked out into the cool evening and headed home to my dog. He was very excited to see me. Which I knew on accounts he sniffed my leg. Then we took a walk together. I fed him an easy dinner of kibble in a bowl. Then a friend came over, and we talked without interruption, and then we went out and got dinner.
And I was happy living my child-free life.
Except the part where there was no one who wanted my attention or needed my love.
Except for that, life is grand.
Silent Bob: No. 1 reader
You silent readers out there are making me feel lately like I'm talking to myself. I do not like that.
JellyGirl, when are you going to learn how to post a comment? When you got all piqued about what I said about the minivans, you could've bitch-slapped me right here on the site.
Think about it people. There's a method for you to flay and excoriate me in public. Just post the comment here already. And you can still hide behind your fake identities. Hell, I wouldn't know S2's online ID if it came up and bit me in the ass.
I'm beginning to think a few of you just like to slap me around behind the scenes with e-mails, phone calls and the occasional snide reference. I suppose that's fine.
But it's also a little ... boring.
Whatever happened to the Athiest In Texas?
JellyGirl, when are you going to learn how to post a comment? When you got all piqued about what I said about the minivans, you could've bitch-slapped me right here on the site.
Think about it people. There's a method for you to flay and excoriate me in public. Just post the comment here already. And you can still hide behind your fake identities. Hell, I wouldn't know S2's online ID if it came up and bit me in the ass.
I'm beginning to think a few of you just like to slap me around behind the scenes with e-mails, phone calls and the occasional snide reference. I suppose that's fine.
But it's also a little ... boring.
Whatever happened to the Athiest In Texas?
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Christine Lahti & the Lap Dance of Inertia
Two things.
Let's start with Christine Lahti. She's so hot. I was watching "Studio 60" last night, and there was this scene in which she plays a journalist interviewing all these people who work on the SNL-like comedy show.
That hot blonde woman -- sorry I don't know the actress' name -- asks the Christine Lahti character, "Don't you need to write this down?" To which Lahti replies, "No."
That was one of the best things I've seen on television in a long time.
Here's one of my dirty little secrets: When I worked as a journalist, I always took notes while interviewing people. But they were rarely legible. I mainly "took notes" to inspire confidence among my subjects. The truth is, I just remembered what they said.
Under the best (or worst) or circumstances, while writing, I'd flip through my notes to trigger my memory. I'd see some string that *maybe* looked like, "t dn fe" and remember the conversation and know it meant, "I looked through the window there, and I could see there was something on fire in the microwave. That gave me the legal justification I needed to enter the home. So I went in and opened the microwave, and that's when I saw there was a donut on fire. I did what I could to save it, but it was too far gone." (Honestly, this *is* a story I wrote once: Some cops tried to "save" a donut that was on fire and caught some theives in the process. Or vice versa. Didn't really matter because it was a funny story. Cops having their relationships with donuts and all....)
But I digress.
A scene in which a journalist claims not to need to take notes was rather thrilling to me. Of course, when the interview is over, she's running around looking for a pen because she wants to record her memory before she forgets the *precise* quote. But it was cool nonetheless.
Not too long ago, Dr. M made a comment about my "eidetic memory." There is some dispute about whether such a thing exists or not, but my recollection for conversations and my ability to see, in great detail, areas through which I've passed only once or twice is apparently an uncommon trait. Certainly, I seem to recall with great clarity the things people say to me, much more so than do the people who spoke the words themselves.
I don't get questioned much, so I think I must be rather accurate. In 10 years of reporting, I only got busted twice for screwing up something. And in both cases, it was the spelling of the person's name.
The first time this happened was with a women I named "Joyce Slakes." She was particularly annoying to me, because we were talking on the phone and she said to me, "It's (S)lakes, as in corn flakes, frosted flakes, but with an 's'." I repeated it to her over the phone, So it's s-l-a-k-e-s. She said, "Yes, that's right. Like corn flakes or frosted flakes, but with an 'S.'"
Turns out, as she noted in a *vicious* letter to the editor published a week later, her name was Flakes. I felt like calling that woman and saying, Listen you flakey bitch. Learn how to explain the spelling of your name. What the fuck was that "but it's with an 'S' about? ... But I didn't do that. I took my lumps and learned to use military spelling and a lot of repeating to get the spelling right.
The second time it happened, it was just my own freaky mind at play. I was writing about a couple named Tim and Patsy, so I had to refer to them by first names to keep it straight on accounts my paper did not use courtesy titles. Throughout the entire story, I referred to him as "Tom."
The way I overcame this error was a sign of my ability to establish good relationships with strangers. Even though I totally and repeatedly screwed up this guy's name, he accepted my apology and invited me to be with him and his family as he underwent a pioneering brain surgery. The story I wrote about that earned me a Pulitzer Prize nomination. I felt a little bit like the come-back kid.
But, other than those two nasty, embarrasing errors, I rarely screwed up anything, despite my weird and nearly useless note-taking habit. So I was tickled by seeing Christine Lahti, who is terribly hot for a woman of her age and who I've had a serious crush on since Chicago Hope, play a journalist like me. One who remembers conversations with uncanny accuracy. It *is* a special skill.
And, heaven help me, it may be the one saving grace I have as a therapist. Until I get Alzheimer's or something, I'm going to remember what my clients tell me. As I learned from a particular therapist I had once upon a time, it really sucks when they don't. So I shouldn't be letting my clients down on that level. More likey to be the part where I don't work up any real sense of empathy for their issues.
So, onto the topic of inertia, YogaGirl called me this evening, and as seems common for us, we got into a long conversation about all sorts of shit. Once upon a time, she worked for Planned Parenthood in a significant position. These days, she's a classmate of mine.
Once upon a time, we were both people who were very hooked in, very involved, very interested in what was happening in the world and very prone to doing something about it. Now, both of us have been overtaken by some nasty inertia that we've decided is the result of a vast conspiracy by the Powers That Be.
I have to refer to them as the Powers That Be because, as YogaGirl and I discussed, the people who are *really* running this country are probably not who most of us think they are. We probably don't even know them. They could be chowing down on Chin's thai food downstairs, and I wouldn't even know it. They're probably members of some super-small, super-secret clan who we'll never know.
Talking of the parallels between the current state of American Democracy and the fall of the Roman Empire, YogaGirl compared this possible secret society to those who had access to the innner circle at Palazzo Ducale in Venice. She mentioned how gruesome she'd found Bosch's paintings there in the inner most sanctum -- the place where deicions were made by the De Medicis and others. "It makes me wonder how sick and twisted that inner sanctum of American leadership is," she said.
Ditto that from your UCM.
We also discussed our difficulty putting our fingers on any single, specific thing that is going to hell in a handbasket. But that's only because it feels like *everything* is. This country is heading in the wrong direction, and no one can manage to mobilize a decent rally or protest about it because our concerns are fractured and we're all a little distracted.
This is exactly what the cabal that's controlling the Republicans wants. Make an assault on *everything* from education to the economy to civil rights to abortion, and people will be fixated so much on their pet cause that they won't get activated to really display the deep discontent so many are feeling.
I suggested we create a massive rally: The Conglomerated Prostest Against Faceless Conglomerations and Capitalist Swine. Something like that.
YogaGirl liked the idea. But then, in recognizing the inertia that is at play here, we decided it was unlikely that anyone would attend. Not even us. Even though we're organizing it. Because the chances are she and I would just be two freaks on the sidewalk, yelling about something. Back in the day, she said, she used to throw on a couple of black bandanas, make herself look like a Wild West bank robber, and march in front of a Swedish restaurant on Michigan's Upper Peninsula, yelling, "Free the goats! Free the goats!" just because the place had a little herd of goats grazing (rather precariously -- one died in a fall) on its roof.
But now ... what, exactly, would we be protesting?
I don't know, I said, but I feel like doing something really radical. Something to help me get over the electric jolt that put me on this path. Something just really out there.
YogaGirl thought for a moment, suggested we daydream a little about it and then said, "Well, we could always just go to a strip club."
And that, my friends, is how a lap dance can bring down an empire.
Let's start with Christine Lahti. She's so hot. I was watching "Studio 60" last night, and there was this scene in which she plays a journalist interviewing all these people who work on the SNL-like comedy show.
That hot blonde woman -- sorry I don't know the actress' name -- asks the Christine Lahti character, "Don't you need to write this down?" To which Lahti replies, "No."
That was one of the best things I've seen on television in a long time.
Here's one of my dirty little secrets: When I worked as a journalist, I always took notes while interviewing people. But they were rarely legible. I mainly "took notes" to inspire confidence among my subjects. The truth is, I just remembered what they said.
Under the best (or worst) or circumstances, while writing, I'd flip through my notes to trigger my memory. I'd see some string that *maybe* looked like, "t dn fe" and remember the conversation and know it meant, "I looked through the window there, and I could see there was something on fire in the microwave. That gave me the legal justification I needed to enter the home. So I went in and opened the microwave, and that's when I saw there was a donut on fire. I did what I could to save it, but it was too far gone." (Honestly, this *is* a story I wrote once: Some cops tried to "save" a donut that was on fire and caught some theives in the process. Or vice versa. Didn't really matter because it was a funny story. Cops having their relationships with donuts and all....)
But I digress.
A scene in which a journalist claims not to need to take notes was rather thrilling to me. Of course, when the interview is over, she's running around looking for a pen because she wants to record her memory before she forgets the *precise* quote. But it was cool nonetheless.
Not too long ago, Dr. M made a comment about my "eidetic memory." There is some dispute about whether such a thing exists or not, but my recollection for conversations and my ability to see, in great detail, areas through which I've passed only once or twice is apparently an uncommon trait. Certainly, I seem to recall with great clarity the things people say to me, much more so than do the people who spoke the words themselves.
I don't get questioned much, so I think I must be rather accurate. In 10 years of reporting, I only got busted twice for screwing up something. And in both cases, it was the spelling of the person's name.
The first time this happened was with a women I named "Joyce Slakes." She was particularly annoying to me, because we were talking on the phone and she said to me, "It's (S)lakes, as in corn flakes, frosted flakes, but with an 's'." I repeated it to her over the phone, So it's s-l-a-k-e-s. She said, "Yes, that's right. Like corn flakes or frosted flakes, but with an 'S.'"
Turns out, as she noted in a *vicious* letter to the editor published a week later, her name was Flakes. I felt like calling that woman and saying, Listen you flakey bitch. Learn how to explain the spelling of your name. What the fuck was that "but it's with an 'S' about? ... But I didn't do that. I took my lumps and learned to use military spelling and a lot of repeating to get the spelling right.
The second time it happened, it was just my own freaky mind at play. I was writing about a couple named Tim and Patsy, so I had to refer to them by first names to keep it straight on accounts my paper did not use courtesy titles. Throughout the entire story, I referred to him as "Tom."
The way I overcame this error was a sign of my ability to establish good relationships with strangers. Even though I totally and repeatedly screwed up this guy's name, he accepted my apology and invited me to be with him and his family as he underwent a pioneering brain surgery. The story I wrote about that earned me a Pulitzer Prize nomination. I felt a little bit like the come-back kid.
But, other than those two nasty, embarrasing errors, I rarely screwed up anything, despite my weird and nearly useless note-taking habit. So I was tickled by seeing Christine Lahti, who is terribly hot for a woman of her age and who I've had a serious crush on since Chicago Hope, play a journalist like me. One who remembers conversations with uncanny accuracy. It *is* a special skill.
And, heaven help me, it may be the one saving grace I have as a therapist. Until I get Alzheimer's or something, I'm going to remember what my clients tell me. As I learned from a particular therapist I had once upon a time, it really sucks when they don't. So I shouldn't be letting my clients down on that level. More likey to be the part where I don't work up any real sense of empathy for their issues.
So, onto the topic of inertia, YogaGirl called me this evening, and as seems common for us, we got into a long conversation about all sorts of shit. Once upon a time, she worked for Planned Parenthood in a significant position. These days, she's a classmate of mine.
Once upon a time, we were both people who were very hooked in, very involved, very interested in what was happening in the world and very prone to doing something about it. Now, both of us have been overtaken by some nasty inertia that we've decided is the result of a vast conspiracy by the Powers That Be.
I have to refer to them as the Powers That Be because, as YogaGirl and I discussed, the people who are *really* running this country are probably not who most of us think they are. We probably don't even know them. They could be chowing down on Chin's thai food downstairs, and I wouldn't even know it. They're probably members of some super-small, super-secret clan who we'll never know.
Talking of the parallels between the current state of American Democracy and the fall of the Roman Empire, YogaGirl compared this possible secret society to those who had access to the innner circle at Palazzo Ducale in Venice. She mentioned how gruesome she'd found Bosch's paintings there in the inner most sanctum -- the place where deicions were made by the De Medicis and others. "It makes me wonder how sick and twisted that inner sanctum of American leadership is," she said.
Ditto that from your UCM.
We also discussed our difficulty putting our fingers on any single, specific thing that is going to hell in a handbasket. But that's only because it feels like *everything* is. This country is heading in the wrong direction, and no one can manage to mobilize a decent rally or protest about it because our concerns are fractured and we're all a little distracted.
This is exactly what the cabal that's controlling the Republicans wants. Make an assault on *everything* from education to the economy to civil rights to abortion, and people will be fixated so much on their pet cause that they won't get activated to really display the deep discontent so many are feeling.
I suggested we create a massive rally: The Conglomerated Prostest Against Faceless Conglomerations and Capitalist Swine. Something like that.
YogaGirl liked the idea. But then, in recognizing the inertia that is at play here, we decided it was unlikely that anyone would attend. Not even us. Even though we're organizing it. Because the chances are she and I would just be two freaks on the sidewalk, yelling about something. Back in the day, she said, she used to throw on a couple of black bandanas, make herself look like a Wild West bank robber, and march in front of a Swedish restaurant on Michigan's Upper Peninsula, yelling, "Free the goats! Free the goats!" just because the place had a little herd of goats grazing (rather precariously -- one died in a fall) on its roof.
But now ... what, exactly, would we be protesting?
I don't know, I said, but I feel like doing something really radical. Something to help me get over the electric jolt that put me on this path. Something just really out there.
YogaGirl thought for a moment, suggested we daydream a little about it and then said, "Well, we could always just go to a strip club."
And that, my friends, is how a lap dance can bring down an empire.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
All about the look
I suppose you all know that I'm not actually a giant green lizard (it's supposed to be Nessie). The icon is there not only to protect my identity (and, thus, those about whom I write), but it's ... ok, let's face it ... cuter than I am.
It has a jawline and a neck and a naked woman in its mouth, and I have none of those things. (The absence of the naked woman is perhaps the most acutely felt absence, but it's also the one that can change most easily.)
In fact, like just about everyone I know, I do not fit the current socially popular definition of "beautiful." It's probably too harsh to call me homely -- some would say I'm more attractive than I realize -- but I've never been someone who catches the attention of the eye, you might say. I'm the kind of girl who has to rely upon my personality.
There are a lot of reasons for this, but perhaps the most powerful one is that the images of "beauty" in our culture are impossible for most of us to attain.
Last week in my stats class, we were talking about the normal curve, and in an attempt to explain it, I offered an observation: If the curve were measuring attractiveness, the extreme ends would measure those humans who are, essentially, freaks -- either supermodels or people who are extraordinarily ugly -- and everyone else would be in the middle.
Most of the class started laughing when I said the word "freaks." And the professor said that, while she'd never heard it explained that way before, yes, the far ends of the curve could be considered freaks.
Now, before you chew me up over the fact that a normal curve would be most useful in measuring something that has definable parameters -- because "attractive" is not a concept that can be effectively operationalized, thanks to the simple and gracious reality that beauty is, in fact, in the eye of its beholder -- I would like to make my point. And it is thus:
Not only do many of us, myself included, constantly shower ourselves with distorted thoughts about our physical attractiveness, we are bombarded day and night, from every imaginable source, with images of beauty that most of us will never be able to attain.
In fact, I saw a really stunning commercial on TV today, produced by Dove, that show just how impossible it is for us to achieve the type of beauty that has been to elevated in our society. Because of my experience with photography and graphic design, I've long known that what we see in ads and on television aren't reflections of reality, but this video puts it all together in a way that was jarring even to me.
If self-esteem is a measurement of the gap between our actual self and our ideal self, most of us who regard these images -- even when we don't take them seriously -- will suffer bouts of poor self-esteem with regard to our personal beauty.
What's most annoying about this issue is that I can't see the way to a simple solution. What does it mean, for example, to use "real" women in advertising?
One of my friends wears extra-small clothing without struggling to stay in it. Another is a size 14 or 16, fights tooth and nail to stay that way and has developed a really adversarial, unhealthy relationship with food as a consequence. There is someone I know to fit all the stages in between these two. Some have an easy-going beauty while others achieve the look they want with a fair amount of makeup.
So which one gets to be in the ad? Which ones get to call themselves "real" -- the ones who maintain their weight without a struggle, the ones who diet persistently, the ones who wear no makeup or those who do?
There's no easy way about it. For its part, Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty is advocating that women start a dialogue with young girls about being confident and loving of themselves. Well, this is a guess, really, because Dove says, "Start a conversation," but I couldn't find any suggestions about what might be useful or effective.
I do have a few thoughts, however. We adults can stop beating up on ourselves, especially in front of young girls and teens. What's more, we can be more appreciative of the beauty we see in the women around us.
Why not pick one physical feature in ourselves each week that we consciously admire? Each week, choose a new one.
Shamelessly admire it. Then, perhaps, when enough body parts have been admired, the result will be that we admire ourselves, rather than striving to emulate a fraudulent, distorted image of beauty that falls so far outside of the normal curve that it really, genuinely *is* freaky.
I'll go first. I really like my lips. They are soft, supple, well figured, nicely colored and pleasantly full without looking falsely plump.
It has a jawline and a neck and a naked woman in its mouth, and I have none of those things. (The absence of the naked woman is perhaps the most acutely felt absence, but it's also the one that can change most easily.)
In fact, like just about everyone I know, I do not fit the current socially popular definition of "beautiful." It's probably too harsh to call me homely -- some would say I'm more attractive than I realize -- but I've never been someone who catches the attention of the eye, you might say. I'm the kind of girl who has to rely upon my personality.
There are a lot of reasons for this, but perhaps the most powerful one is that the images of "beauty" in our culture are impossible for most of us to attain.
Last week in my stats class, we were talking about the normal curve, and in an attempt to explain it, I offered an observation: If the curve were measuring attractiveness, the extreme ends would measure those humans who are, essentially, freaks -- either supermodels or people who are extraordinarily ugly -- and everyone else would be in the middle.
Most of the class started laughing when I said the word "freaks." And the professor said that, while she'd never heard it explained that way before, yes, the far ends of the curve could be considered freaks.
Now, before you chew me up over the fact that a normal curve would be most useful in measuring something that has definable parameters -- because "attractive" is not a concept that can be effectively operationalized, thanks to the simple and gracious reality that beauty is, in fact, in the eye of its beholder -- I would like to make my point. And it is thus:
Not only do many of us, myself included, constantly shower ourselves with distorted thoughts about our physical attractiveness, we are bombarded day and night, from every imaginable source, with images of beauty that most of us will never be able to attain.
In fact, I saw a really stunning commercial on TV today, produced by Dove, that show just how impossible it is for us to achieve the type of beauty that has been to elevated in our society. Because of my experience with photography and graphic design, I've long known that what we see in ads and on television aren't reflections of reality, but this video puts it all together in a way that was jarring even to me.
If self-esteem is a measurement of the gap between our actual self and our ideal self, most of us who regard these images -- even when we don't take them seriously -- will suffer bouts of poor self-esteem with regard to our personal beauty.
What's most annoying about this issue is that I can't see the way to a simple solution. What does it mean, for example, to use "real" women in advertising?
One of my friends wears extra-small clothing without struggling to stay in it. Another is a size 14 or 16, fights tooth and nail to stay that way and has developed a really adversarial, unhealthy relationship with food as a consequence. There is someone I know to fit all the stages in between these two. Some have an easy-going beauty while others achieve the look they want with a fair amount of makeup.
So which one gets to be in the ad? Which ones get to call themselves "real" -- the ones who maintain their weight without a struggle, the ones who diet persistently, the ones who wear no makeup or those who do?
There's no easy way about it. For its part, Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty is advocating that women start a dialogue with young girls about being confident and loving of themselves. Well, this is a guess, really, because Dove says, "Start a conversation," but I couldn't find any suggestions about what might be useful or effective.
I do have a few thoughts, however. We adults can stop beating up on ourselves, especially in front of young girls and teens. What's more, we can be more appreciative of the beauty we see in the women around us.
Why not pick one physical feature in ourselves each week that we consciously admire? Each week, choose a new one.
Shamelessly admire it. Then, perhaps, when enough body parts have been admired, the result will be that we admire ourselves, rather than striving to emulate a fraudulent, distorted image of beauty that falls so far outside of the normal curve that it really, genuinely *is* freaky.
I'll go first. I really like my lips. They are soft, supple, well figured, nicely colored and pleasantly full without looking falsely plump.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Odds-n-ends
I found out tonight that a classmate of mine with whom I've had a ... uh, let's say "curious" connection since we started the program last fall is actually this guy.
It reminded me of how little we know about one another. Even those close to us. Which he's not. He's just someone who's rather oddly on my wavelength.
This little tidbit was revealed about him in class tonight in a discussion about Csikszentmihalyi's ("Chicks-in-knee-highs," is my favorite mispronunciation) concept of "Flow." Turns out our dear gamer was, in fact, geekin' so hard on some old stand-up Atari version of "Star Wars" that he surpassed a world record by playing it for more than 54 hours on one quarter. And yet the main thing our classmates were interested in is how he relieved himself during that time. Dude. I just wanted to know how he managed to stand for 54 hours straight, much less stare at a video monitor.
But this wasn't the only illuminating moment of the day.
I also encountered a woman who is into this. She was ironing *something* -- I couldn't tell you what -- near the top of Victoria Falls in Zambia.
I was intrigued by this for several reasons: 1) exotic traveler, 2) long blonde hair, 3) single lesbian and 4) owns an iron. Not necessarily in that order, mind you.
Mainly, though, I was taken aback by the whole concept itself. How perfectly frivolous! It reminds me of my quest to photograph my action figure of Captain Janeway at various and sundry exotic locales. Alas, I keep forgetting to bring her along. Which is too bad, because she would've been quite charming posed on one of those goddamned porcupine trees in the Amazon.
But I digress.
I've also been asked out on a date several times now. By a man.
I keep trying to explain why that's not going to happen. But I don't seem to be making my point very well. He insists he is going to be rather persistent and very patient.
It is giving me a new-found appreciation for an obnoxiously similar behavior on my part with a friend who has the ability to light my fire but doesn't actually want to do so. I'm going to have to stop doing that. 'Cause ... goddamn! ... that's annoying.
Especially that part where he keeps going on about how I haven't met the right guy yet. (Which, mercifully, is a line I've never used on anyone -- from the girl angle, of course. 'Cause Puh-leeeeeeze!) As if I don't know myself after all these years of HAVING SEX WITH WOMEN.
However, I do have a classmate who insists I have to live another TWELVE years until I can say -- safely and fo' sho' -- that I be lesbionic to my bones. She claims some kind of "hormonal shift" in women is "relatively common" during their 40s and that I'm just as likely to start craving dick as I am to remain in solidarity with my sapphic sisters.
But you know what? She's a DAMN YANKEE. So I can't give any credence to that argument. I know what I like, my friends. And the closest she comes to having a dick is a strap-on you can throw in the dishwasher. I'm just saying'.
It reminded me of how little we know about one another. Even those close to us. Which he's not. He's just someone who's rather oddly on my wavelength.
This little tidbit was revealed about him in class tonight in a discussion about Csikszentmihalyi's ("Chicks-in-knee-highs," is my favorite mispronunciation) concept of "Flow." Turns out our dear gamer was, in fact, geekin' so hard on some old stand-up Atari version of "Star Wars" that he surpassed a world record by playing it for more than 54 hours on one quarter. And yet the main thing our classmates were interested in is how he relieved himself during that time. Dude. I just wanted to know how he managed to stand for 54 hours straight, much less stare at a video monitor.
But this wasn't the only illuminating moment of the day.
I also encountered a woman who is into this. She was ironing *something* -- I couldn't tell you what -- near the top of Victoria Falls in Zambia.
I was intrigued by this for several reasons: 1) exotic traveler, 2) long blonde hair, 3) single lesbian and 4) owns an iron. Not necessarily in that order, mind you.
Mainly, though, I was taken aback by the whole concept itself. How perfectly frivolous! It reminds me of my quest to photograph my action figure of Captain Janeway at various and sundry exotic locales. Alas, I keep forgetting to bring her along. Which is too bad, because she would've been quite charming posed on one of those goddamned porcupine trees in the Amazon.
But I digress.
I've also been asked out on a date several times now. By a man.
I keep trying to explain why that's not going to happen. But I don't seem to be making my point very well. He insists he is going to be rather persistent and very patient.
It is giving me a new-found appreciation for an obnoxiously similar behavior on my part with a friend who has the ability to light my fire but doesn't actually want to do so. I'm going to have to stop doing that. 'Cause ... goddamn! ... that's annoying.
Especially that part where he keeps going on about how I haven't met the right guy yet. (Which, mercifully, is a line I've never used on anyone -- from the girl angle, of course. 'Cause Puh-leeeeeeze!) As if I don't know myself after all these years of HAVING SEX WITH WOMEN.
However, I do have a classmate who insists I have to live another TWELVE years until I can say -- safely and fo' sho' -- that I be lesbionic to my bones. She claims some kind of "hormonal shift" in women is "relatively common" during their 40s and that I'm just as likely to start craving dick as I am to remain in solidarity with my sapphic sisters.
But you know what? She's a DAMN YANKEE. So I can't give any credence to that argument. I know what I like, my friends. And the closest she comes to having a dick is a strap-on you can throw in the dishwasher. I'm just saying'.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
From my in-box
In the e-mail this morning was a reply from the aforementioned personal ad writer:
"You have demonstrated to me that I have NOT just about seen or done it all. So maybe I should change my ad to reflect what I have seen and done that's gotten me this far."
*sigh*
Now I feel like a snotty little lesbian. Bad UCM! Bad!
"You have demonstrated to me that I have NOT just about seen or done it all. So maybe I should change my ad to reflect what I have seen and done that's gotten me this far."
*sigh*
Now I feel like a snotty little lesbian. Bad UCM! Bad!
An ad to which I actually replied (nicely. sorta.)
The following turned up on CL tonight, and it caught my eye enough to respond.
With It Chick Seeks Same - 36
36 yr old woman whose seen it all and has just about done it all seeking a with-it-woman for friendship/companionship. I have much to offer and enjoy women who can emotionally offer it back. Looking for laughs and lack of drama. Taking it nice and easy is a must.
Mind you, I'm such a *bitch* sometimes that rather than simply posting these ads on my blog and making fun of them, I reply to the author directly. You might imagine what caught my attention here: It's that whole bit about someone who has "seen it all." Well, shit, I couldn't resist *that* one.
So I asked this "with it chick" (who apparently hasn't seen the rules on hyphenating compound modifiers) if she's seen some of the things I've seen. Just a few of them. If she can say yes to *any* of them, there might be room to talk. But I'm betting she didn't mean to be taken literally.
I would, however, like to meet a girl who has seen a lot. But not *all* of it. There are just some things you shouldn't see. Like Barbara Bush's perineum. No one should look at that.
With It Chick Seeks Same - 36
36 yr old woman whose seen it all and has just about done it all seeking a with-it-woman for friendship/companionship. I have much to offer and enjoy women who can emotionally offer it back. Looking for laughs and lack of drama. Taking it nice and easy is a must.
Mind you, I'm such a *bitch* sometimes that rather than simply posting these ads on my blog and making fun of them, I reply to the author directly. You might imagine what caught my attention here: It's that whole bit about someone who has "seen it all." Well, shit, I couldn't resist *that* one.
So I asked this "with it chick" (who apparently hasn't seen the rules on hyphenating compound modifiers) if she's seen some of the things I've seen. Just a few of them. If she can say yes to *any* of them, there might be room to talk. But I'm betting she didn't mean to be taken literally.
I would, however, like to meet a girl who has seen a lot. But not *all* of it. There are just some things you shouldn't see. Like Barbara Bush's perineum. No one should look at that.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Fine dining...
My aunt and uncle, Tia L and El Capitan, drove into town this afternoon after almost two weeks of doctors visits and cancer testing hoo-haw at a center up in Seattle that specializes in lymphoma. They'll be in town until Monday, and The Notorious M.O.M. is out of town, so the three of us get to hang out for the duration. Very happy over here.
The showed up around 4, and we sat around and chewed the fat for a while. Tia L wasn't feeling all that great because she had a lung biopsy yesterday, so she took a nap while El Capitan and I walked with the pup to the grocery store.
I rarely have the chance to cook for someone in my home. Even when I invite friends over, they often bring food with them. So I was kind of in a twitter about feeding someone. El Capitan had suggested going out to dinner, but I figure, when you've been traveling and doing doctor's visits and whatnot for two weeks, it can be a lot nicer to have a home-cooked meal than go to yet another restaraunt. So I wanted to cook for them.
But what, oh what, can your UCM cook with any degree of confidence? Let me tell you: Not much.
(Yes, some of you have had my soups, and a recent version of my aunt's jambalaya went over quite well, but when one of my classmates recently asked of my the dishes I ate at school all summer, "Weren't you going through a chicken cutlet phase at one point?" that pretty much made the point about my limited cooking repetoire. ... For the record, I never went through a "chicken cutlet" phase, but I did eat a lot of boneless skinless chicken thighs and breasts this summer.)
Anyway, I decided to cook something I pretty much NEVER screw up: salmon poached in wine and vegetable stock with loads of dill and lemons. I whipped up a citrus-yogurt sauce to top it. For sides, I made some roasted potatoes with rosemary and some fresh green beans.
I stood in the kitchen preparing this while they sat at my dining table and gave me the third degree about my little ritual action last weekend. They wanted to know *all* about it, including what I was wearing. I talked as I prepped the food and fended off their frequent offers to help me in the kitchen.
It was a useful conversation because El Capitan being the brother of The Notorious M.O.M. was able to validate a lot of things I was saying about her. In short, we all agree that she has no comprehension of the idea that people have different perspectives. As far as we can tell, she sees that there is ONE world, and it's the world according to her. The rest of us are irrelevant.
El Capitan said, "I'm sure you've had it 10 times worse than me, and all my life, she has painted me out as the black sheep of the family, and I never got that."
There's a good reason he "never got that:" He never was the black sheep of the family. In fact, he would probably win Mr. Popularity in our extended family. He's one of the best men I've ever known in my life. But in my mom's opinion, he did all sorts of effed up things. Like join the Peace Corps.
But I digress.
So I told them about the ritual deal while I made dinner. At one point, I repeated the comments my sister, dad and brother had made about having their "own family" now and not needing the family from which we all spawned.
My uncle rolled his eyes and said my brother was more like my father than he knew. After a minute, he looked at me and said, "Well, we're your family."
Tia L chimed in, "Yeah, we've decided to adopt you."
Those were some of the sweetest words I've ever heard.
At that point, my youngest cousin, Spitfire, called my aunt to complain that her boyfriend is acting "even weirder on Friday the 13th than he normally does." So while Tia L chatted with her, I finished making dinner. They set the table, and we all sat down to eat.
I thought the sauce I made was a little bitter -- too much orange zest, I think -- but Tia L and El Capitan seemed pleased. Then, Tia L said, "This is like fine dining."
Fine dining? I repeated, shocked that she would rate my salmon and roasted potatoes so highly.
She lifted the napkin from her lap and explained, "Cloth napkins. It's been so long since I ate with cloth napkins. I don't know why we don't do that anymore. So much nicer. And so much less waste." There was a long pause, and then she added, "Oh, and this salmon is so perfectly flakey and moist. How did you cook it?"
The only way I know how, I replied.
The showed up around 4, and we sat around and chewed the fat for a while. Tia L wasn't feeling all that great because she had a lung biopsy yesterday, so she took a nap while El Capitan and I walked with the pup to the grocery store.
I rarely have the chance to cook for someone in my home. Even when I invite friends over, they often bring food with them. So I was kind of in a twitter about feeding someone. El Capitan had suggested going out to dinner, but I figure, when you've been traveling and doing doctor's visits and whatnot for two weeks, it can be a lot nicer to have a home-cooked meal than go to yet another restaraunt. So I wanted to cook for them.
But what, oh what, can your UCM cook with any degree of confidence? Let me tell you: Not much.
(Yes, some of you have had my soups, and a recent version of my aunt's jambalaya went over quite well, but when one of my classmates recently asked of my the dishes I ate at school all summer, "Weren't you going through a chicken cutlet phase at one point?" that pretty much made the point about my limited cooking repetoire. ... For the record, I never went through a "chicken cutlet" phase, but I did eat a lot of boneless skinless chicken thighs and breasts this summer.)
Anyway, I decided to cook something I pretty much NEVER screw up: salmon poached in wine and vegetable stock with loads of dill and lemons. I whipped up a citrus-yogurt sauce to top it. For sides, I made some roasted potatoes with rosemary and some fresh green beans.
I stood in the kitchen preparing this while they sat at my dining table and gave me the third degree about my little ritual action last weekend. They wanted to know *all* about it, including what I was wearing. I talked as I prepped the food and fended off their frequent offers to help me in the kitchen.
It was a useful conversation because El Capitan being the brother of The Notorious M.O.M. was able to validate a lot of things I was saying about her. In short, we all agree that she has no comprehension of the idea that people have different perspectives. As far as we can tell, she sees that there is ONE world, and it's the world according to her. The rest of us are irrelevant.
El Capitan said, "I'm sure you've had it 10 times worse than me, and all my life, she has painted me out as the black sheep of the family, and I never got that."
There's a good reason he "never got that:" He never was the black sheep of the family. In fact, he would probably win Mr. Popularity in our extended family. He's one of the best men I've ever known in my life. But in my mom's opinion, he did all sorts of effed up things. Like join the Peace Corps.
But I digress.
So I told them about the ritual deal while I made dinner. At one point, I repeated the comments my sister, dad and brother had made about having their "own family" now and not needing the family from which we all spawned.
My uncle rolled his eyes and said my brother was more like my father than he knew. After a minute, he looked at me and said, "Well, we're your family."
Tia L chimed in, "Yeah, we've decided to adopt you."
Those were some of the sweetest words I've ever heard.
At that point, my youngest cousin, Spitfire, called my aunt to complain that her boyfriend is acting "even weirder on Friday the 13th than he normally does." So while Tia L chatted with her, I finished making dinner. They set the table, and we all sat down to eat.
I thought the sauce I made was a little bitter -- too much orange zest, I think -- but Tia L and El Capitan seemed pleased. Then, Tia L said, "This is like fine dining."
Fine dining? I repeated, shocked that she would rate my salmon and roasted potatoes so highly.
She lifted the napkin from her lap and explained, "Cloth napkins. It's been so long since I ate with cloth napkins. I don't know why we don't do that anymore. So much nicer. And so much less waste." There was a long pause, and then she added, "Oh, and this salmon is so perfectly flakey and moist. How did you cook it?"
The only way I know how, I replied.
My way or the highway
The other week, when I was talking to S2 about the burning ritual described in a previous blog entry, she asked if I was concerned about the "hole" it would leave in my life.
What with me having no family (such as it is or was) and all.
She further wondered if she herself would have the courage to look at such a thing if it were in her own life. How does one accept the absence of something as important as a family? How does one accept you don't have what you want most and might never get?
With a touch of the absurd bravado that seems to run in my genes, I replied, Nah. That hole was already there. I've been looking at it for a long time, waiting for it to fill, and this is really more about just acknowledging its emptiness. Then maybe I can move on.
Let me tell you something: That's easier said than done. Particularly that part about acknowledging the lack of something so strongly desired and then moving on.
Ever since that little burning ritual of mine last weekend, something has been amiss within me. I suppose it actually started a little bit before I went off and did all that psychic cleansing, but the actions I took at the little itty bitty firepit have had some ripple effects.
My biological family? I covered that pretty well. That ritual was a powerful way to symbolize something that I already knew to be true. I can't count on those people and shouldn't hold any expectations of that changing. So I let them all go, one by one.
(Interestingly, my sister called me today in search of support for herself, the first time she has *ever* done such a thing. She has some strange neurological problem that I can tell is starting to scare her -- even though she'll only admit to it being "a nuisance," what with her legs going numb and not working.
She said, "I'm too tired to work, too alert to nap, too crabby to read and daytime television is too vapid for me to tolerate another minute of it, so I thought I'd call you." This comment brought with it an awareness that I did, in fact, let go of something in that burning ritual. I replied only, I'm glad you called. Just because I burned her in effigy last week doesn't mean I don't want to be there for her. We're all on our own paths in life. She's on a particularly odd one right now.)
But in the week since the ritual, I've become aware that I didn't let go of enough. There's one really huge thing sticking in my craw these days, a persistant bit of misbehaving on my part that is Exhibit A in my own Insanity Defense.
When it comes to a particular slice of my life -- forgive me for being vague but it's the only decent thing to do in this forum -- I've managed to lose track of myself. I sold out. I stopped being the UCM you all know and love and ... well, I *adjusted,* to put it nicely. I lost my center. I changed. Distorted myself, really.
This is the worst kind of thing -- certainly the most painful -- that I manage to do to myself. Fortunately, I don't do it very often. But when I do, it's devastating. And it usually takes me a good long while to figure out what I've gone and done. Because even though I can pinpoint a particular moment in a coffee house on a Saturday morning back in 1994 or so as the beginning of one of the more gut-wrenching experiences I've had with losing myself, it usually only becomes clear in hindsight just what I've done.
More than anything, I need to be true to myself. For as long as I can recall, I've been the kind of person who takes a stand -- and who has often taken it on the jaw for doing so. One of things I value most in myself and in others is integrity in communication, in speaking as much as possible (and with respect for others) with authenticity.
And yet, in an extremely significant and poignant way, I have not been doing this.
That's got to stop. And so it shall.
I had already decided that when I picked up the Willy Week and read my horoscope this evening. Now, I'm not all into astrology or anything, but I always appreciate a coincidence. Thus, I'll share with you all a sliver of this week's advice: "The cosmos is giving you permission to be unapologetically vivacious and mischievously blunt as you say, 'It's my way or the highway.' "
I don't need the cosmos' permission, per se. But I'll take it. It sounds like a hell of a hall pass.
I'm not exactly sure how to fix the mess I've made this time. I'll take some time to think about it. But there's no question I'll be reclaiming that which I wrongly gave away. Don't take it personally. I love you all. But I need me back.
What with me having no family (such as it is or was) and all.
She further wondered if she herself would have the courage to look at such a thing if it were in her own life. How does one accept the absence of something as important as a family? How does one accept you don't have what you want most and might never get?
With a touch of the absurd bravado that seems to run in my genes, I replied, Nah. That hole was already there. I've been looking at it for a long time, waiting for it to fill, and this is really more about just acknowledging its emptiness. Then maybe I can move on.
Let me tell you something: That's easier said than done. Particularly that part about acknowledging the lack of something so strongly desired and then moving on.
Ever since that little burning ritual of mine last weekend, something has been amiss within me. I suppose it actually started a little bit before I went off and did all that psychic cleansing, but the actions I took at the little itty bitty firepit have had some ripple effects.
My biological family? I covered that pretty well. That ritual was a powerful way to symbolize something that I already knew to be true. I can't count on those people and shouldn't hold any expectations of that changing. So I let them all go, one by one.
(Interestingly, my sister called me today in search of support for herself, the first time she has *ever* done such a thing. She has some strange neurological problem that I can tell is starting to scare her -- even though she'll only admit to it being "a nuisance," what with her legs going numb and not working.
She said, "I'm too tired to work, too alert to nap, too crabby to read and daytime television is too vapid for me to tolerate another minute of it, so I thought I'd call you." This comment brought with it an awareness that I did, in fact, let go of something in that burning ritual. I replied only, I'm glad you called. Just because I burned her in effigy last week doesn't mean I don't want to be there for her. We're all on our own paths in life. She's on a particularly odd one right now.)
But in the week since the ritual, I've become aware that I didn't let go of enough. There's one really huge thing sticking in my craw these days, a persistant bit of misbehaving on my part that is Exhibit A in my own Insanity Defense.
When it comes to a particular slice of my life -- forgive me for being vague but it's the only decent thing to do in this forum -- I've managed to lose track of myself. I sold out. I stopped being the UCM you all know and love and ... well, I *adjusted,* to put it nicely. I lost my center. I changed. Distorted myself, really.
This is the worst kind of thing -- certainly the most painful -- that I manage to do to myself. Fortunately, I don't do it very often. But when I do, it's devastating. And it usually takes me a good long while to figure out what I've gone and done. Because even though I can pinpoint a particular moment in a coffee house on a Saturday morning back in 1994 or so as the beginning of one of the more gut-wrenching experiences I've had with losing myself, it usually only becomes clear in hindsight just what I've done.
More than anything, I need to be true to myself. For as long as I can recall, I've been the kind of person who takes a stand -- and who has often taken it on the jaw for doing so. One of things I value most in myself and in others is integrity in communication, in speaking as much as possible (and with respect for others) with authenticity.
And yet, in an extremely significant and poignant way, I have not been doing this.
That's got to stop. And so it shall.
I had already decided that when I picked up the Willy Week and read my horoscope this evening. Now, I'm not all into astrology or anything, but I always appreciate a coincidence. Thus, I'll share with you all a sliver of this week's advice: "The cosmos is giving you permission to be unapologetically vivacious and mischievously blunt as you say, 'It's my way or the highway.' "
I don't need the cosmos' permission, per se. But I'll take it. It sounds like a hell of a hall pass.
I'm not exactly sure how to fix the mess I've made this time. I'll take some time to think about it. But there's no question I'll be reclaiming that which I wrongly gave away. Don't take it personally. I love you all. But I need me back.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Outside looking in; inside looking out
Last night, I experienced something utterly novel: I surrounded myself with friends of my choosing -- only one of those invited chose not to attend -- and I asked them to engage in a ritual with me. There was something I wanted to do that I thought they might help me accomplish. But in the end, something totally unexpected happened.
My biological family has long been a source of psychological pain for me. My sister has referred to the whole clan as "a loose confederation of unaffiliated gypsies." I could parse this whole matter in psychological terms and talk about my problems with attachment, the way in which I learned to expect the worst from people, the various traumas that occurred along my developmental path.
But I will just put it this way: "Family" has always been a dirty word, the dirtiest of the F-words.
Yet there has long been within me a powerful yearning for the sense of belonging that I believe -- that I assume -- occurs in families that function better. In other words, I wanted a family in which love exits. And I did not grow up in one of those.
That yearning created a problem for me. The presence of these other people, biologically related to me, in my life for all these years kept me thinking they might change. I had expectations of them displaying with love and respect, of acting like they gave a damn, of engaging in selfless acts for one another. But if my brother's death illustrated anything to me, it was that these things were not going to happen.
Nevertheless, I had a hard time releasing the expectations because they were so intimately linked to my desire. I thought it reasonable to expect a mother to love her daughter, rather then persistently engaging in a litany of disapproval and disappointment. My mother has insisted she's not to "blame" for the way I turned out -- that someone else (probably my dad) is responsible for the immense fuck-up that is me.
But you know what? I am not a person for whom someone needs to be BLAMED. All things considered, I turned out quite nicely. I have deep veins of neuroticism and I am undeniably fussy at times, but I am also a decent person. So I don't know why a mother would be looking for someone else to blame for the likes of me, but mine is.
And everyone else in my family is passionately disinterested in one another.
So last night at sunset, in a ritual on a panoramic hilltop here in fair Stumptown, I gathered with The Good Witch and these friends I've made in school -- S2, The Debutante, Dr. M and Bubba -- and I released the expectations I've been holding onto with regards to my biological family. I made little paper effigies of each of them, decorated with words and images, and I burned them in a small cauldron The Good Witch brought along for the ceremony.
Only once was our ritual interrupted. Two male security guards walked up, stared at the smouldering embers in the little cauldron, which was perhaps 10 inches in diameter, and asked, "Uh, what are you doing?"
TGW and The Deb explained we were conducting a ritual, letting go of some old pain by (safely) burning some things. The guards stood there, mute, and stared at our little fire. The Deb said, "It's nothing religious," to which one replied, "That's not our concern." But they never stated a particular concern and continued to stand there hemming and hawing at us. Finally, The Deb, who's all of 26 and bears a resemblance to actress Andie McDowell, turned around, faced them directly and said, "We're just old women talking about our feelings."
If ever there were words that could make men leave a group of ladies alone, those uttered by The Deb may be powerful enough to warrent a patent. The guards turned and walked away, speechless.
So I burned all my little effigies but one. The one I made of my youngest brother, with whom I had a close bond but is now dead, did not manage to catch fire even after I poked it in the embers a bit. The hesitation of the fire prompted my friends to suggest I not try too hard to make it burn, especially when all the others had been quickly engulfed. (Granted, the embers were waning when I tossed him onto the flames.) But I decided to consider it an omen and removed him. There are two places on the figure where flames started but extinguished themselves, leaving small scars.
"You already burned his book," Dr. M said of some writing I had done about my brother's prolonged death from a brain injury. "He wasn't going to let you burn him, too."
That concluded, several in attendance around that small fire, threw on paper figures they chose to represent their own release of matters personal to them but felt in common by most of us.
As the last ruby-orange drained from the sky, we turned and went to our cars and drove down to the twinkling city below, beneath the rising of a bright and nearly full moon. We met again at my home, and a second part of the ritual commenced.
Act Two was kick-started by champagne and food -- lots of little hors d'ouvres and some spicy chili The Deb cooked up -- and rounded out with wine and discussion. It was the amiable chit-chat that always accompanies this circle of friends: school, relationships, psychology, a touch of politics, a bit of pop culture, discussion of Bubba's sex life....
The Good Witch, herself a long-ago graduate of the school the rest of us attend, had been interested for some time in meeting my friends. She'd met S2 once, but she was curious about the others. Upon leaving, she told me how lovely she thought all of them to be, how I had picked my friends well.
I already knew they were a great collection of people. I have an individual relationship with each of them, but they are all people with whom I share different aspects of my thoughts rather openly. I would say they all know me rather well.
But in the ritualistic part of Act Two, they collectively -- along with the assistance of my out-of-state friends JellyGirl, The Asian, Shall Be Revered and The Mountain Girl -- painted a picture of me that was one with which I have not been well-acquainted.
Two weeks ago, I was having a chat with The Deb when she said that she believed other people's perceptions of us probably play a greater role in the relationships we have than our own self-concept. Of course, our self-concept influences how other people perceive us, so it's totally recursive.
But her point was well made: We often feel things within ourselves that we think must be apparent to others but are not. She shared with me one of the ways in whch she experiences that dissonance. And I told her how I believe the common perception of me as "strong" sometimes gets in the way of people realizing I need or want some TLC at times.
The second part of the ritual was designed for people to share their wishes for my future, my "new beginning," if you will, in light of releasing my family. I asked all these people to participate because they represent various parts of my "community," a term The Deb uses as for what others might call a family of choice or a posse or any number of terms that signify sources of love and support in a person's life.
I had no idea what my friends would say. I figured some might wish me a long and healthy life, others might say they hope I find the love I want and deserve, perhaps one or two might wish I would develop a greater (any, really) sense of spirituality. But when it boiled down to it, I had no clue.
(As Dr. M later noted, it wouldn't be terribly surprising for something like this to go awry, to turn into "an intervention," to become a bad comedy skit. Not with my friends, of course. But perhaps with someone else's.)
Those friends in attendance started out by reading some e-mails sent to me by the folks out-of-state. Their wishes ranged from blessings of love to a steamy sex life for my still-virginal bed. One told the group that I snore (which I don't!). Another wrote a stunning essay about the nature of our spirits and her hope that I don't unnecessary fight the currents of life. It was, collectively, beautiful and funny and sweet, and I learned I have a habit of sharing poetry with people that goes back quite a ways.
Then, one-by-one, my friends in attendance told me their wishes. But in each case, there was some description of their sense of me, of some personality trait or quirk that came to their attention. Some used words that have special meaning to me -- such as "loyalty" and "kindness" -- because they represent things I believe about myself but think often go unnoticed. Others used words foreign to my self-concept: "charisma" and "beautiful" come to mind.
In each telling, a picture of myself emerged that grew more and more astounding to me, that I'm still grappling with because it is so ... different. I had this sense, suddenly, of how difficult it is to understand the first thing about how other people perceive us. We just *think* we know.
We have far too many filters, too many defenses, too little objectivity to see ourselves as othes see us. Even if we videotaped ourselves and analyzed the footage, we would never be able to adequately separate what we saw from what we knew we were feeling at the time. Our history, our experiences, the things other people tell us, the things we tell ourselves: It all colors our perspective and prevents us from seeing what others do.
I recall reading a while back about a mirror that allows us to see ourselves as others see us. There's no reversal of image because the mirror is reflecting the image of other mirrored reflections of ourselves. It's said to be a captivating experience, that people who look into the mirror tend to stare at themselves for long periods of time.
I've been wanting to look into such a mirror, to see how I appear to others.
Last night, most unexpectedly, my wish was granted. My friends, with their words, their songs and their hugs and kisses, showed me an image of myself so lovingly painted, so full of character, so imbued with light and warmth, that I was stunned by the beauty of it. I knew it was I who they described. I could see the truth in their reflection, but the whole image was much kinder and more forgiving of my flaws than I could ever manage for myself. With such a mirror before me, I wanted to stare and stare and stare at it.
And then I wished they could all see themselves as I see them. Because they are all so very beautiful, too.
My biological family has long been a source of psychological pain for me. My sister has referred to the whole clan as "a loose confederation of unaffiliated gypsies." I could parse this whole matter in psychological terms and talk about my problems with attachment, the way in which I learned to expect the worst from people, the various traumas that occurred along my developmental path.
But I will just put it this way: "Family" has always been a dirty word, the dirtiest of the F-words.
Yet there has long been within me a powerful yearning for the sense of belonging that I believe -- that I assume -- occurs in families that function better. In other words, I wanted a family in which love exits. And I did not grow up in one of those.
That yearning created a problem for me. The presence of these other people, biologically related to me, in my life for all these years kept me thinking they might change. I had expectations of them displaying with love and respect, of acting like they gave a damn, of engaging in selfless acts for one another. But if my brother's death illustrated anything to me, it was that these things were not going to happen.
Nevertheless, I had a hard time releasing the expectations because they were so intimately linked to my desire. I thought it reasonable to expect a mother to love her daughter, rather then persistently engaging in a litany of disapproval and disappointment. My mother has insisted she's not to "blame" for the way I turned out -- that someone else (probably my dad) is responsible for the immense fuck-up that is me.
But you know what? I am not a person for whom someone needs to be BLAMED. All things considered, I turned out quite nicely. I have deep veins of neuroticism and I am undeniably fussy at times, but I am also a decent person. So I don't know why a mother would be looking for someone else to blame for the likes of me, but mine is.
And everyone else in my family is passionately disinterested in one another.
So last night at sunset, in a ritual on a panoramic hilltop here in fair Stumptown, I gathered with The Good Witch and these friends I've made in school -- S2, The Debutante, Dr. M and Bubba -- and I released the expectations I've been holding onto with regards to my biological family. I made little paper effigies of each of them, decorated with words and images, and I burned them in a small cauldron The Good Witch brought along for the ceremony.
Only once was our ritual interrupted. Two male security guards walked up, stared at the smouldering embers in the little cauldron, which was perhaps 10 inches in diameter, and asked, "Uh, what are you doing?"
TGW and The Deb explained we were conducting a ritual, letting go of some old pain by (safely) burning some things. The guards stood there, mute, and stared at our little fire. The Deb said, "It's nothing religious," to which one replied, "That's not our concern." But they never stated a particular concern and continued to stand there hemming and hawing at us. Finally, The Deb, who's all of 26 and bears a resemblance to actress Andie McDowell, turned around, faced them directly and said, "We're just old women talking about our feelings."
If ever there were words that could make men leave a group of ladies alone, those uttered by The Deb may be powerful enough to warrent a patent. The guards turned and walked away, speechless.
So I burned all my little effigies but one. The one I made of my youngest brother, with whom I had a close bond but is now dead, did not manage to catch fire even after I poked it in the embers a bit. The hesitation of the fire prompted my friends to suggest I not try too hard to make it burn, especially when all the others had been quickly engulfed. (Granted, the embers were waning when I tossed him onto the flames.) But I decided to consider it an omen and removed him. There are two places on the figure where flames started but extinguished themselves, leaving small scars.
"You already burned his book," Dr. M said of some writing I had done about my brother's prolonged death from a brain injury. "He wasn't going to let you burn him, too."
That concluded, several in attendance around that small fire, threw on paper figures they chose to represent their own release of matters personal to them but felt in common by most of us.
As the last ruby-orange drained from the sky, we turned and went to our cars and drove down to the twinkling city below, beneath the rising of a bright and nearly full moon. We met again at my home, and a second part of the ritual commenced.
Act Two was kick-started by champagne and food -- lots of little hors d'ouvres and some spicy chili The Deb cooked up -- and rounded out with wine and discussion. It was the amiable chit-chat that always accompanies this circle of friends: school, relationships, psychology, a touch of politics, a bit of pop culture, discussion of Bubba's sex life....
The Good Witch, herself a long-ago graduate of the school the rest of us attend, had been interested for some time in meeting my friends. She'd met S2 once, but she was curious about the others. Upon leaving, she told me how lovely she thought all of them to be, how I had picked my friends well.
I already knew they were a great collection of people. I have an individual relationship with each of them, but they are all people with whom I share different aspects of my thoughts rather openly. I would say they all know me rather well.
But in the ritualistic part of Act Two, they collectively -- along with the assistance of my out-of-state friends JellyGirl, The Asian, Shall Be Revered and The Mountain Girl -- painted a picture of me that was one with which I have not been well-acquainted.
Two weeks ago, I was having a chat with The Deb when she said that she believed other people's perceptions of us probably play a greater role in the relationships we have than our own self-concept. Of course, our self-concept influences how other people perceive us, so it's totally recursive.
But her point was well made: We often feel things within ourselves that we think must be apparent to others but are not. She shared with me one of the ways in whch she experiences that dissonance. And I told her how I believe the common perception of me as "strong" sometimes gets in the way of people realizing I need or want some TLC at times.
The second part of the ritual was designed for people to share their wishes for my future, my "new beginning," if you will, in light of releasing my family. I asked all these people to participate because they represent various parts of my "community," a term The Deb uses as for what others might call a family of choice or a posse or any number of terms that signify sources of love and support in a person's life.
I had no idea what my friends would say. I figured some might wish me a long and healthy life, others might say they hope I find the love I want and deserve, perhaps one or two might wish I would develop a greater (any, really) sense of spirituality. But when it boiled down to it, I had no clue.
(As Dr. M later noted, it wouldn't be terribly surprising for something like this to go awry, to turn into "an intervention," to become a bad comedy skit. Not with my friends, of course. But perhaps with someone else's.)
Those friends in attendance started out by reading some e-mails sent to me by the folks out-of-state. Their wishes ranged from blessings of love to a steamy sex life for my still-virginal bed. One told the group that I snore (which I don't!). Another wrote a stunning essay about the nature of our spirits and her hope that I don't unnecessary fight the currents of life. It was, collectively, beautiful and funny and sweet, and I learned I have a habit of sharing poetry with people that goes back quite a ways.
Then, one-by-one, my friends in attendance told me their wishes. But in each case, there was some description of their sense of me, of some personality trait or quirk that came to their attention. Some used words that have special meaning to me -- such as "loyalty" and "kindness" -- because they represent things I believe about myself but think often go unnoticed. Others used words foreign to my self-concept: "charisma" and "beautiful" come to mind.
In each telling, a picture of myself emerged that grew more and more astounding to me, that I'm still grappling with because it is so ... different. I had this sense, suddenly, of how difficult it is to understand the first thing about how other people perceive us. We just *think* we know.
We have far too many filters, too many defenses, too little objectivity to see ourselves as othes see us. Even if we videotaped ourselves and analyzed the footage, we would never be able to adequately separate what we saw from what we knew we were feeling at the time. Our history, our experiences, the things other people tell us, the things we tell ourselves: It all colors our perspective and prevents us from seeing what others do.
I recall reading a while back about a mirror that allows us to see ourselves as others see us. There's no reversal of image because the mirror is reflecting the image of other mirrored reflections of ourselves. It's said to be a captivating experience, that people who look into the mirror tend to stare at themselves for long periods of time.
I've been wanting to look into such a mirror, to see how I appear to others.
Last night, most unexpectedly, my wish was granted. My friends, with their words, their songs and their hugs and kisses, showed me an image of myself so lovingly painted, so full of character, so imbued with light and warmth, that I was stunned by the beauty of it. I knew it was I who they described. I could see the truth in their reflection, but the whole image was much kinder and more forgiving of my flaws than I could ever manage for myself. With such a mirror before me, I wanted to stare and stare and stare at it.
And then I wished they could all see themselves as I see them. Because they are all so very beautiful, too.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Hello, Gorgeous
So I'm walking down the waterfront today, near the Maritime Museum, with my uncles D and El Capitan and with my Tia L when a guy (who looked suspiciously like Danny Glover, who does live around here) arranging the aluminum cans on the back of his bike turns and says to me, "Hello, Gorgeous."
Thank you, I replied, because well... what do you say to that?
Tia L walks up behind me and asks, "Are you flirting with men these days?"
"Yeah," El Capitan says, "look at you pulling the compliments!"
Well, yeah, I do seem to have a following among homeless guys, especially the drunk ones.
"Hey," El Capitan says, "I count *every single compliment* that comes my way. Life doesn't dish 'em up often enough."
So true.
And then I'm reminded of that SNL skit from last spring when Julia Louis-Dreyfus was with a group of friends who each had been complimented and leered at and been the recipients of all manner of sexual innuendo from this one gnarly homeless guy. But he simply would *not* flirt with Julia Louis-Dreyfus.
She got a little perturbed by this, wondering what was so wrong with her that a stinky drunk would ogle her friends but refuse to give her so much as a sideways glance.
Eventually, her friends had to pay the homeless dude to many some rank sexual comments to her so she would feel better.
Yeah, I was walking on the waterfont, thinking of that. And I suddenly felt grateful because I knew my relatives hadn't had the opportunity to pay this guy to dish up a compliment. And you know, the dude didn't even look at my Tia L.
So OK. El Capitan has a point. Take the compliments offered to you.
And that goes for the rest of you, too.
To my fearless readers, then, I say to you each, Hello, Gorgeous. (And you should just pretend you can't smell the wine on my breath, OK?)
Thank you, I replied, because well... what do you say to that?
Tia L walks up behind me and asks, "Are you flirting with men these days?"
"Yeah," El Capitan says, "look at you pulling the compliments!"
Well, yeah, I do seem to have a following among homeless guys, especially the drunk ones.
"Hey," El Capitan says, "I count *every single compliment* that comes my way. Life doesn't dish 'em up often enough."
So true.
And then I'm reminded of that SNL skit from last spring when Julia Louis-Dreyfus was with a group of friends who each had been complimented and leered at and been the recipients of all manner of sexual innuendo from this one gnarly homeless guy. But he simply would *not* flirt with Julia Louis-Dreyfus.
She got a little perturbed by this, wondering what was so wrong with her that a stinky drunk would ogle her friends but refuse to give her so much as a sideways glance.
Eventually, her friends had to pay the homeless dude to many some rank sexual comments to her so she would feel better.
Yeah, I was walking on the waterfont, thinking of that. And I suddenly felt grateful because I knew my relatives hadn't had the opportunity to pay this guy to dish up a compliment. And you know, the dude didn't even look at my Tia L.
So OK. El Capitan has a point. Take the compliments offered to you.
And that goes for the rest of you, too.
To my fearless readers, then, I say to you each, Hello, Gorgeous. (And you should just pretend you can't smell the wine on my breath, OK?)
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Rollin' with the punches
Let's start this where it needs to start:
I love women. So leggy women in really short nothin' nothin' with fishnets and some serious booty and their cha-chis sometimes popping out of their negligee while they hip-check and push each other around?
LOVE IT!
So I was in some kind of white trash, lesbionic verision of my Own Private Heaven tonight when Bubba, YogaGirl and I went to catch the Rose City Rollers season-ending roller derby championship.
Roller derby reminds me of one of my favorite Really Bad Movies of All Time, Reform School Girls, featuring Wendy O. Williams. It's just very ... naughty. And ridiculously funny at the same time.
I don't think three consecutive minutes were able to pass without Bubba, YogaGirl and I each busting into smiles or spontaneous laughter over the action on the floor. It was sporty and sexy and camp -- all at once.
Tonight's bouts were a sold-out affair, and the stands were so crowded when we arrived that the only place we found to grab a seat was right on the edge of the race track. So for the first hour, we had front row seats to a scene that...
Well, it was a bunch of scantily clad women, many of them dressed in costumes that blended sex with bad-ass in such a way that ... whoa. Lots of tatooes out there on the floor, too. And all the women had amusing names: Slaybia Majora, Vominatrix, International Booty Trap, Apocalipstick, Viva Vendetta, Viagrrra Falls, etc.
My two favorite roller chicks were on a team named the Heartless Heathers. They were a fast group of bad-ass mo-fos, I'm telling you what. And the two baddest asses of all were Sol Train and Sump Pump, both of whom were jammers for their team (along with Vominatrix).
For those of you who may not recall the rules to roller derby ... essentially, each team has a "jammer," the woman who starts in the back of the pack and tries to get past a group of blockers and pivots (pivots being pace-setters, essentially). The blockers do just what it sounds like they do: They try to block anyone getting past. That's were all the funny, campy, hockey-like checking and pushing goes on, as these women whirl around a fairly short, circular flat track. For each blocker and pivot a jammer passes, the team gets a point. If the jammer can lap the pack and pass everyone again, she takes the lead and can call off the race if she wants. Each of the contests lasts for two minutes or less, and they start as many races between the same two teams as are necessary to run out the clock in a 20-minute quarter.
A second set of teams competes in the next quarter, and then in the second half, the teams compete against each other again.
When the game is close, things can get really heated. This, by the way, is not the scripted roller derby of old; instead, it's actual competition that includes all the crazy camp costumes, pushing, blocking and hip-checking of yesteryear.
To get a sense of the competitive spirit at play here, all you needed to do was look at the fierce expression on the face of Sol Train, a river-rafting guide who has massive thighs and the most phenomenal ass you can imagine on a woman -- a real piece of work that made me want to run out and squeeze her butt like it was a bin of Charmin.
She and Sump Pump were favorites of me, Bubba and YogaGirl, and when their team won the whole shebang, we were really jazzed.
In fact, watching those gals swinging around the track was inspiring. YogaGirl said to me, "We totally need to go dig some skates out of somewhere and hit the road."
Only if I get to shoulder-check you a time or two, I replied, giving her the elbow.
"Oh, absolutely," she said. "And throw in a little hip-check, too."
But here's the truth: That roller derby takes some really tough women. The fact that some of them are seriously sexy and circle the track in little panties that say, "Spank me," and "You'd be lucky to get this booty" on them is just the icing in the cake. I'm not sure I know a woman who could hang with that crowd.
Although Bubba and I did have a conversation or two about how well S2 might fare in this sport. She's already got the sparky attitude and a body piercing or two. All she needs is to lose the bottoms from her silky Victoria Secret PJs and throw on some kneepads, and she'd be ready to roll! Except for that part where she weighs like 105 pounds or something. She's a little small.
But then, Bubba and I did have a conversation about whether our little clique from school should work on some kind talent act. We were highly amused by the half-time show performance of the Sprokettes, a collection of women who ride little, itty bitty bikes and do funny, nearly talentless choreographed dances with each other and their little bikes.
The whole of the roller derby event -- from the beginning Jimmy Hendrix-style national anthem to the roar of the crowd as Sump Pump lapped the pack in her final bout -- was a carnival from start to finish. Probably the best $15 I've spent on entertainment all year.
In the end, all I can say is: I love women. And this event was very cha-cha-cha.
I love women. So leggy women in really short nothin' nothin' with fishnets and some serious booty and their cha-chis sometimes popping out of their negligee while they hip-check and push each other around?
LOVE IT!
So I was in some kind of white trash, lesbionic verision of my Own Private Heaven tonight when Bubba, YogaGirl and I went to catch the Rose City Rollers season-ending roller derby championship.
Roller derby reminds me of one of my favorite Really Bad Movies of All Time, Reform School Girls, featuring Wendy O. Williams. It's just very ... naughty. And ridiculously funny at the same time.
I don't think three consecutive minutes were able to pass without Bubba, YogaGirl and I each busting into smiles or spontaneous laughter over the action on the floor. It was sporty and sexy and camp -- all at once.
Tonight's bouts were a sold-out affair, and the stands were so crowded when we arrived that the only place we found to grab a seat was right on the edge of the race track. So for the first hour, we had front row seats to a scene that...
Well, it was a bunch of scantily clad women, many of them dressed in costumes that blended sex with bad-ass in such a way that ... whoa. Lots of tatooes out there on the floor, too. And all the women had amusing names: Slaybia Majora, Vominatrix, International Booty Trap, Apocalipstick, Viva Vendetta, Viagrrra Falls, etc.
My two favorite roller chicks were on a team named the Heartless Heathers. They were a fast group of bad-ass mo-fos, I'm telling you what. And the two baddest asses of all were Sol Train and Sump Pump, both of whom were jammers for their team (along with Vominatrix).
For those of you who may not recall the rules to roller derby ... essentially, each team has a "jammer," the woman who starts in the back of the pack and tries to get past a group of blockers and pivots (pivots being pace-setters, essentially). The blockers do just what it sounds like they do: They try to block anyone getting past. That's were all the funny, campy, hockey-like checking and pushing goes on, as these women whirl around a fairly short, circular flat track. For each blocker and pivot a jammer passes, the team gets a point. If the jammer can lap the pack and pass everyone again, she takes the lead and can call off the race if she wants. Each of the contests lasts for two minutes or less, and they start as many races between the same two teams as are necessary to run out the clock in a 20-minute quarter.
A second set of teams competes in the next quarter, and then in the second half, the teams compete against each other again.
When the game is close, things can get really heated. This, by the way, is not the scripted roller derby of old; instead, it's actual competition that includes all the crazy camp costumes, pushing, blocking and hip-checking of yesteryear.
To get a sense of the competitive spirit at play here, all you needed to do was look at the fierce expression on the face of Sol Train, a river-rafting guide who has massive thighs and the most phenomenal ass you can imagine on a woman -- a real piece of work that made me want to run out and squeeze her butt like it was a bin of Charmin.
She and Sump Pump were favorites of me, Bubba and YogaGirl, and when their team won the whole shebang, we were really jazzed.
In fact, watching those gals swinging around the track was inspiring. YogaGirl said to me, "We totally need to go dig some skates out of somewhere and hit the road."
Only if I get to shoulder-check you a time or two, I replied, giving her the elbow.
"Oh, absolutely," she said. "And throw in a little hip-check, too."
But here's the truth: That roller derby takes some really tough women. The fact that some of them are seriously sexy and circle the track in little panties that say, "Spank me," and "You'd be lucky to get this booty" on them is just the icing in the cake. I'm not sure I know a woman who could hang with that crowd.
Although Bubba and I did have a conversation or two about how well S2 might fare in this sport. She's already got the sparky attitude and a body piercing or two. All she needs is to lose the bottoms from her silky Victoria Secret PJs and throw on some kneepads, and she'd be ready to roll! Except for that part where she weighs like 105 pounds or something. She's a little small.
But then, Bubba and I did have a conversation about whether our little clique from school should work on some kind talent act. We were highly amused by the half-time show performance of the Sprokettes, a collection of women who ride little, itty bitty bikes and do funny, nearly talentless choreographed dances with each other and their little bikes.
The whole of the roller derby event -- from the beginning Jimmy Hendrix-style national anthem to the roar of the crowd as Sump Pump lapped the pack in her final bout -- was a carnival from start to finish. Probably the best $15 I've spent on entertainment all year.
In the end, all I can say is: I love women. And this event was very cha-cha-cha.
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