Goddammit!
I already have enough difficulty getting to sleep at a decent hour. But on a night when I have a job interview the next day, the last thing I need is this tune richocheting around in the hollow orb that once contained my brain:
Bananas and pineapples!
Bananas and pineapples!
Tap your head!
Crap your head!
Tap your head!
Crap your head!
In fairness to the song's creator -- which would be that sweet, curly mained Little Pea, who I adore -- the line "Crap your head!" is really supposed to be "Clap your head!" But Little Pea is just twee and a half, and a 'L' sounds like an 'R,' while 'R's sound like 'W's in her world.
Nevertheless, her performance of this song the other evening was long enough, dramatic enough -- it had her own YMCA-like moves -- and loud enough to imprint itself indelibly as, "Crap your head!"
And it is, as such, running around my little noggin like a dog chasing its tail.
Lord help me.
But you know, it's really altogether appropriate when I think about it. See, tomorrow, I have a job interview at what I (humorously but altogether inappropriately) am calling, "The Home of the Criminally Insane." It's a transitional group home for people who've spent a few years -- or more -- in the state mental hospital after being found not guilty of some crime or other by reason of insanity.
If anything, therapists are supposed to be empathetic with our clients. Some shoes -- perhaps as those worn by the criminally insane (or insanely criminal) -- can be very hard to step in and feel the empathy.
But when, as I have, you have been finishing up a treatment plan for a child with OCD after a night of the kind of love nibbles on my ear that only my Research Methods class can supply, coming on the heels of a week in which I've been retaining too much water and feeling randomly and wantonly pissed off at my sister-in-law -- and when, to top it all off, you find yourself singing "Crap your head! Crap your head!" -- perhaps it's a little easier to understand the criminally insane *and* the insanely criminal.
I'm just sayin'.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
The Meaning of Life
UCM interrupts before she even begins: This post was written on Thanksgiving, but never posted due to some Blogger snafu. That is why it's appearing now, for your reading pleasure. Peace out!
There is a scene in Monty Python's "Meaning of Life" that pretty much sums up my situation at this moment.
The fat man has just finished eating an outrageous meal, but the waiter insists on tempting him with "one small, thin, mint wafer." The diner refuses, but the waiter pressures him until he relents. The fat guy eats the mint wafer and then he explodes, in the most vile fashion.
I ate a phenomenally tasty and HUGE meal today -- as many of us did. I ate so much food that it may have actually been a life-saving move when I declined to participate in a sampling of ALL the desserts. Instead, I ate a small slice of what I consider a "compromise pie," a pumpkin pie topped with a layer of pecan pie filling.
Food is the focus of Thanksgiving, but the gathering of people is what I've always found most compelling.
In my biological family, that was rarely a good thing. Family fights -- by which I mean: multiple fights on sundry topics, some of them violent -- had a tendency to break out with little warning. One year, my dad waved the carving knife in my face as he gesticulated wildly while yelling at me about something. Ah, pleasant memories...
But once, when I was 16, I went to Thanksgiving at Tia L and El Capitan's home outside of New Orleans that they ran as a B&B. That year, we celebrated my maternal grandparent's anniversary -- I think it was their 45th. That was the one time in my life that I was in the presence of a complete version of my maternal extended family: grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Only my sister wasn't there.
For reasons I've never understood, my mother is nothing at all like her siblings. They are gregarious, fun-loving, gentle-souled people who are spiritual but not especially religious. The Notorious M.O.M., in contrast, is a religious stick-in-the-mud with no concept that there are multiple perspectives of reality.
So being around all these positive people, rather than just my nutty nuclear family, was really special, especially en masse. There were nine of us grandkids, the three siblings and their spouses and my grandparents all staying in the old house. Sometimes, I come across a photo taken of all of us on the front porch, and I think, Well, there was a family there once, wasn't there?
But this Thanksgiving, which I spent with S2 and a few members of her extended family, S2 turned to me while the bird was still baking and asked, "Do you miss your family on a day like today?"
I replied, rather bluntly, something to the extent of: What the fuck is wrong with you? Or maybe I said, What the hell kind of question is that?
Because I'm a gracious guest.
She clarified, asking about my brother, Jaws I, who is in town and was having dinner with The Notorious M.O.M. (Jaws II is no longer with us. Today, the 24th, would have been his 31st birthday.)
In any case, I replied to S2, I do miss having a family, if that's what you mean. But I don't miss *that* family. As for Jaws I, I just feel bad about him being with The Notorious M.O.M.
But that was his choice. And mine, too. I'm taking a break from her these days, and that includes holidays.
S2, bless her, kindly invited me to join her family for dinner today.
I have, in my many years of being a single person, found myself in peculiar places on the holidays -- Thanksgiving more so than Christmas, the latter being something to which I've only once been invited to celebrate with non-relatives (and thus have frequently spent alone or working or at the movies).
In any case, I've learned that people may celebrate with a similar notion -- gather a large group, cook the foods you grew up eating on that holiday and eat too much of the spread -- but it's rarely carried out the same way.
One year, back in the late 80s, I was invited to have Thanksgiving with a Vietnamese family. My friend Thao had literally been on one of the last helicopters that lifted off in that infamous evacuation of the U.S. embassy at the end of the war. Her father had worked for the U.S. government, and his compensation was to get his family out of the country at the bitter end.
There were quite a few family members that made it over, and they all lived in the Dallas area. I was going to college there at the time. The year before, my dad had been waving the carving knife in my face, so I was happy to have an alternative to another trip to Houston. I arrived at Thao's home with the only thing I knew how to cook at the time: a pumpkin pie.
I walked in the front door and was greeted by Thao's grandmother, who didn't speak a word of English. She looked strangely at my pie, and I said, "It's pumpkin pie." She took it from me and placed it in the middle of the enormous dining table, which was not yet set.
As more relatives filtered in, they all stopped and regarded the pie, which sat woefully alone in the middle of the massive table. I would hear long strings of Vietnamese, punctuated periodically with the words, "pumpkin pie." Stuff that sounded like, "lo hanh ny eepy wah lo sho wee pumpkin pie" (with "pie" drawn out particularly long). Sometimes, there was giggling, or the curious upnotes of a question. They pointed at it, got close to it, sniffed it, regarded the "sweat" on its top.
I felt very awkward.
Appetizers consisted of spring rolls and wontons. Dinner was duck, with sides of noodles and fried rice and things wrapped in cabbage.
Dessert rolled around and the most curious thing happened. Someone cut me a slice of the pumpkin pie. A normal-sized slice. And then, because there were more than 20 people in attendance, the rest of the pie was cut into preciously small slices and *every single person* ate some of it. I have no idea what they thought.
One of Thao's cousins, who I knew, told me, "We are all eating a piece of your stupid, freaky pie because you are a guest."
Do you like it? I asked.
She scrunched up her face and replied, "Do I look like I like it?" At which point, Thao told her to shut up and then insisted her cousin was just teasing me.
It remains a mystery.
But, then, so does what happened today.
At S2's house, there is a tradition with which I am utterly unfamiliar, and when I asked S2 if it was *really* a tradition or something silly, she said, "It's just a thing we do."
There was some singing of a "blessing," that had hand movements vaguely reminiscent of the Village People doing "YMCA." (That wasn't the silly part.)
There was also the creation of a circle around the table in which we each had a popper. I don't know what you call those things -- the round cardboard that looks like a bow, and you pull it on the end and it makes a popping sound. Inside is a fortune or a joke or a trivia question along with a little toy or ornament. (That wasn't the silly part, either.)
Rather, the "silly" part (and forgive me, S2, if you think this is *not* silly), was the fact that everyone's table setting came with a paper crown that we were expected to wear.
It turns out that the paper crowns come with those popper things, a fact explained to me by my English sister-in-law and then, further explained by S2 that her father's family is English by way of Canada (whereas mine is French by way of Canada). This explains, in part, why S2's non-religious family has fun on their holidays, while mine is into a freaky bit of Catholic piety and sexual repression.
But I digress.
The point is, they were all wearing silly hats. All of them. And despite the fact that, upon donning my own paper crown, S2 pronounced me "another person with a big head," I joined in this silliness. It was a sweet and funny scene.
In fact, the entire event took me to a place I've been and never been at the same time. The relaxed atmosphere, the kids running around entertaining one another while the adults enjoyed G&Ts and vodka with cranberry juice, the fabulous spread of food, the congenial conversation ... it was like being with a real family. Like what the Thanksgiving meal at my aunt & uncle's B&B would've been like that year if my parents -- who were warring behind the scenes and throwing daggers with their eyes at Jaws I, II and me across the table (warning us, all the time, not to "say anything" about their marital discord and secret separations) -- ... if they weren't there. *That* is what I think it might have been like. Which is why S2 & JB's house on Thanksgiving felt like such a great place to be: someplace I almost was once in my own family and, at the same time, someplace I've never been.
I am not a member of their family. But today, they welcomed me as Good Enough -- and they got me liquored up and then fed me until I was about to burst. And, mercifully, no one took offense that I passed on the "sampler platter" of *everyone's* desserts.
Just as mercifully, no one subsequently taunted me into eating a "small, thin, mint wafer." They just let me kick back in a comfortable chair and listen to them be a family -- an interesting, talkative, likeable ... family -- while the turkey slowly digested and moved me toward stupor.
Later, as I waddled toward the door, making my way through the crowd of kids putting on shoes and adults donning coats, I opened my mouth to say "thanks" but was cut off at each turn by one or another of them beating me to the punch, thanking *me* for coming. Such warmth follows you out the door and lingers for a long, long time. It lingers still.
There is a scene in Monty Python's "Meaning of Life" that pretty much sums up my situation at this moment.
The fat man has just finished eating an outrageous meal, but the waiter insists on tempting him with "one small, thin, mint wafer." The diner refuses, but the waiter pressures him until he relents. The fat guy eats the mint wafer and then he explodes, in the most vile fashion.
I ate a phenomenally tasty and HUGE meal today -- as many of us did. I ate so much food that it may have actually been a life-saving move when I declined to participate in a sampling of ALL the desserts. Instead, I ate a small slice of what I consider a "compromise pie," a pumpkin pie topped with a layer of pecan pie filling.
Food is the focus of Thanksgiving, but the gathering of people is what I've always found most compelling.
In my biological family, that was rarely a good thing. Family fights -- by which I mean: multiple fights on sundry topics, some of them violent -- had a tendency to break out with little warning. One year, my dad waved the carving knife in my face as he gesticulated wildly while yelling at me about something. Ah, pleasant memories...
But once, when I was 16, I went to Thanksgiving at Tia L and El Capitan's home outside of New Orleans that they ran as a B&B. That year, we celebrated my maternal grandparent's anniversary -- I think it was their 45th. That was the one time in my life that I was in the presence of a complete version of my maternal extended family: grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Only my sister wasn't there.
For reasons I've never understood, my mother is nothing at all like her siblings. They are gregarious, fun-loving, gentle-souled people who are spiritual but not especially religious. The Notorious M.O.M., in contrast, is a religious stick-in-the-mud with no concept that there are multiple perspectives of reality.
So being around all these positive people, rather than just my nutty nuclear family, was really special, especially en masse. There were nine of us grandkids, the three siblings and their spouses and my grandparents all staying in the old house. Sometimes, I come across a photo taken of all of us on the front porch, and I think, Well, there was a family there once, wasn't there?
But this Thanksgiving, which I spent with S2 and a few members of her extended family, S2 turned to me while the bird was still baking and asked, "Do you miss your family on a day like today?"
I replied, rather bluntly, something to the extent of: What the fuck is wrong with you? Or maybe I said, What the hell kind of question is that?
Because I'm a gracious guest.
She clarified, asking about my brother, Jaws I, who is in town and was having dinner with The Notorious M.O.M. (Jaws II is no longer with us. Today, the 24th, would have been his 31st birthday.)
In any case, I replied to S2, I do miss having a family, if that's what you mean. But I don't miss *that* family. As for Jaws I, I just feel bad about him being with The Notorious M.O.M.
But that was his choice. And mine, too. I'm taking a break from her these days, and that includes holidays.
S2, bless her, kindly invited me to join her family for dinner today.
I have, in my many years of being a single person, found myself in peculiar places on the holidays -- Thanksgiving more so than Christmas, the latter being something to which I've only once been invited to celebrate with non-relatives (and thus have frequently spent alone or working or at the movies).
In any case, I've learned that people may celebrate with a similar notion -- gather a large group, cook the foods you grew up eating on that holiday and eat too much of the spread -- but it's rarely carried out the same way.
One year, back in the late 80s, I was invited to have Thanksgiving with a Vietnamese family. My friend Thao had literally been on one of the last helicopters that lifted off in that infamous evacuation of the U.S. embassy at the end of the war. Her father had worked for the U.S. government, and his compensation was to get his family out of the country at the bitter end.
There were quite a few family members that made it over, and they all lived in the Dallas area. I was going to college there at the time. The year before, my dad had been waving the carving knife in my face, so I was happy to have an alternative to another trip to Houston. I arrived at Thao's home with the only thing I knew how to cook at the time: a pumpkin pie.
I walked in the front door and was greeted by Thao's grandmother, who didn't speak a word of English. She looked strangely at my pie, and I said, "It's pumpkin pie." She took it from me and placed it in the middle of the enormous dining table, which was not yet set.
As more relatives filtered in, they all stopped and regarded the pie, which sat woefully alone in the middle of the massive table. I would hear long strings of Vietnamese, punctuated periodically with the words, "pumpkin pie." Stuff that sounded like, "lo hanh ny eepy wah lo sho wee pumpkin pie" (with "pie" drawn out particularly long). Sometimes, there was giggling, or the curious upnotes of a question. They pointed at it, got close to it, sniffed it, regarded the "sweat" on its top.
I felt very awkward.
Appetizers consisted of spring rolls and wontons. Dinner was duck, with sides of noodles and fried rice and things wrapped in cabbage.
Dessert rolled around and the most curious thing happened. Someone cut me a slice of the pumpkin pie. A normal-sized slice. And then, because there were more than 20 people in attendance, the rest of the pie was cut into preciously small slices and *every single person* ate some of it. I have no idea what they thought.
One of Thao's cousins, who I knew, told me, "We are all eating a piece of your stupid, freaky pie because you are a guest."
Do you like it? I asked.
She scrunched up her face and replied, "Do I look like I like it?" At which point, Thao told her to shut up and then insisted her cousin was just teasing me.
It remains a mystery.
But, then, so does what happened today.
At S2's house, there is a tradition with which I am utterly unfamiliar, and when I asked S2 if it was *really* a tradition or something silly, she said, "It's just a thing we do."
There was some singing of a "blessing," that had hand movements vaguely reminiscent of the Village People doing "YMCA." (That wasn't the silly part.)
There was also the creation of a circle around the table in which we each had a popper. I don't know what you call those things -- the round cardboard that looks like a bow, and you pull it on the end and it makes a popping sound. Inside is a fortune or a joke or a trivia question along with a little toy or ornament. (That wasn't the silly part, either.)
Rather, the "silly" part (and forgive me, S2, if you think this is *not* silly), was the fact that everyone's table setting came with a paper crown that we were expected to wear.
It turns out that the paper crowns come with those popper things, a fact explained to me by my English sister-in-law and then, further explained by S2 that her father's family is English by way of Canada (whereas mine is French by way of Canada). This explains, in part, why S2's non-religious family has fun on their holidays, while mine is into a freaky bit of Catholic piety and sexual repression.
But I digress.
The point is, they were all wearing silly hats. All of them. And despite the fact that, upon donning my own paper crown, S2 pronounced me "another person with a big head," I joined in this silliness. It was a sweet and funny scene.
In fact, the entire event took me to a place I've been and never been at the same time. The relaxed atmosphere, the kids running around entertaining one another while the adults enjoyed G&Ts and vodka with cranberry juice, the fabulous spread of food, the congenial conversation ... it was like being with a real family. Like what the Thanksgiving meal at my aunt & uncle's B&B would've been like that year if my parents -- who were warring behind the scenes and throwing daggers with their eyes at Jaws I, II and me across the table (warning us, all the time, not to "say anything" about their marital discord and secret separations) -- ... if they weren't there. *That* is what I think it might have been like. Which is why S2 & JB's house on Thanksgiving felt like such a great place to be: someplace I almost was once in my own family and, at the same time, someplace I've never been.
I am not a member of their family. But today, they welcomed me as Good Enough -- and they got me liquored up and then fed me until I was about to burst. And, mercifully, no one took offense that I passed on the "sampler platter" of *everyone's* desserts.
Just as mercifully, no one subsequently taunted me into eating a "small, thin, mint wafer." They just let me kick back in a comfortable chair and listen to them be a family -- an interesting, talkative, likeable ... family -- while the turkey slowly digested and moved me toward stupor.
Later, as I waddled toward the door, making my way through the crowd of kids putting on shoes and adults donning coats, I opened my mouth to say "thanks" but was cut off at each turn by one or another of them beating me to the punch, thanking *me* for coming. Such warmth follows you out the door and lingers for a long, long time. It lingers still.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Reconsidering sexuality
I've been reading all day, most of it about female sexuality and sexual identity, for a research design project at school.
My work group, The Sex Files, is exploring the fluidity, plasticity or stability -- whatever you want to call it -- of female sexual identity. For several weeks, we've been pouring over and discussing other research, most of which is aimed at determining how women label their sexual orientation and whether it changes at any point.
But this morning, we got together and decided that we'd rather overturn the whole process of sexual identity labeling by questioning the social construct of sexual orientation at its core.
In other words, our project went from "Female sexuality: Fixed or fluid over the lifespan?" to "Who the fuck are you to expect me to label my sexuality with your confining words, man?"
Or as one of my classmates *not* working on this project once said of her sexuality: "I get a little antsy when someone tries to put me in a box."
My work group -- composed of a straight woman, a bisexual woman and a lesbian, as we identify ourselves -- has been wondering just where the line ends between one label and another. Just how are we supposed to quantify a woman who reports bisexual attractions without bisexual behavior? Or one who, perhaps 20 years ago, had sex with a woman but has otherwise exclusively been in the company of men yet calls herself "bisexual"? And what to make of lesbians, many of whom have had sex with men (some of whom enjoy it), but declare they have an exclusively lesbian identity?
There are numerous other possibilities, making the quantification of sexual orientation or identity just about impossible.
What's more, those women who refuse to label themselves not only throw a wrench into the works, they also tend to be excluded from research into sexual orientation precisely because they can't be pigeonholed. Yet the refusal to be pigeonholed strikes at the heart of things, in many respects.
Much of the research also stems from trying to establish societal norms, with same-sex relationships as essentially deviant and, thus, abnormal. The categorization of same-sex attraction and behavior as something "different" from the way everyone else does it is a fundamental bias in the description of sexuality itself.
This afternoon, I was reading a piece by feminist researcher Deborah Tolman in which she revisits Adrienne Rich's notion of "compulsory heterosexuality." Back in the early 1970s, Rich pulled back the veil on how lesbians are made invisible by a social presumption of heterosexuality based on beliefs and practices that keep woman apart while overtly and covertly forcing women into relationships with men.
Tolman argued that female sexuality often develops under adverse conditions: those in which adolescent girls learn to see themselves as the object of male desire, provacateurs (all of us) who must assume the responsibility of "keeping things from going too far" with guys. Rather than embracing their sexuality as a positive thing, the vast majority of girls only learn to be a counter-balance to the uncontrollable male.
What's worse, in one study cited, 75 percent of a sampling of "several hundred" girls described their first experience of heterosexual intercourse as painful, disappointing and boring. (What's sad is not just how many of you might agree with this description from your personal experience, but the assumption on the part of so many women that it's an experience to be expected.)
Tolman talked about the problem that has been unearthed by feminist researchers who have posed research questions premised on the notion that there is a positive experience of female adolescent sexuality.
"...We have found collectively that for most girls, sexuality is most often not positive and is always complicated by the negative meanings (and quite often real material and social consequences) of their sexuality," she writes. "The outcome of the desire to know the positive posits ironic limits to the question itself: it may not be there to be found."
Now, that is one sorry statement, my sisters.
What I would really love is for one of my female friends to tell me they bucked this trend, that they had an essentially sex-positive, open, healthy concept of their sexuality from a young age. And I'd love to hear what that was like.
By the way, if you are one, the research suggests you have your mother to thank. This article states that "pleasure narrators" (girls with sex-positive attitudes) have mothers who conveyed "a sense of entitlement to pleasure and safety."
I suppose if I have one thing to say about all of this, it's that, as adult females, we can be a part of rewriting the story. Let's teach girls and young women that there is immense pleasure to be found in their bodies when it comes to sex. At the same time, let's teach them how to avoid unwanted pregnancy and disease. And let's teach them to hold men accountable for controlling themselves.
Easier said than done, I'm sure. But in light of the VAST MAJORITY of women growing up feeling shame and restriction in their sexuality, it's certainly worth the effort.
And, I suppose that while I'm off preaching from my little idyllic world, I'll add that we should be pursuing a world where the labels we use to describe sexuality today are totally obsolete. To rewrite the song a little: Be with the one you love; love the one you're with.
And by all means, enjoy your whoopie.
Of course, these are the words of a woman who's not seen any action in MONTHS. So you might want to take *all* of this with a grain of salt.
My work group, The Sex Files, is exploring the fluidity, plasticity or stability -- whatever you want to call it -- of female sexual identity. For several weeks, we've been pouring over and discussing other research, most of which is aimed at determining how women label their sexual orientation and whether it changes at any point.
But this morning, we got together and decided that we'd rather overturn the whole process of sexual identity labeling by questioning the social construct of sexual orientation at its core.
In other words, our project went from "Female sexuality: Fixed or fluid over the lifespan?" to "Who the fuck are you to expect me to label my sexuality with your confining words, man?"
Or as one of my classmates *not* working on this project once said of her sexuality: "I get a little antsy when someone tries to put me in a box."
My work group -- composed of a straight woman, a bisexual woman and a lesbian, as we identify ourselves -- has been wondering just where the line ends between one label and another. Just how are we supposed to quantify a woman who reports bisexual attractions without bisexual behavior? Or one who, perhaps 20 years ago, had sex with a woman but has otherwise exclusively been in the company of men yet calls herself "bisexual"? And what to make of lesbians, many of whom have had sex with men (some of whom enjoy it), but declare they have an exclusively lesbian identity?
There are numerous other possibilities, making the quantification of sexual orientation or identity just about impossible.
What's more, those women who refuse to label themselves not only throw a wrench into the works, they also tend to be excluded from research into sexual orientation precisely because they can't be pigeonholed. Yet the refusal to be pigeonholed strikes at the heart of things, in many respects.
Much of the research also stems from trying to establish societal norms, with same-sex relationships as essentially deviant and, thus, abnormal. The categorization of same-sex attraction and behavior as something "different" from the way everyone else does it is a fundamental bias in the description of sexuality itself.
This afternoon, I was reading a piece by feminist researcher Deborah Tolman in which she revisits Adrienne Rich's notion of "compulsory heterosexuality." Back in the early 1970s, Rich pulled back the veil on how lesbians are made invisible by a social presumption of heterosexuality based on beliefs and practices that keep woman apart while overtly and covertly forcing women into relationships with men.
Tolman argued that female sexuality often develops under adverse conditions: those in which adolescent girls learn to see themselves as the object of male desire, provacateurs (all of us) who must assume the responsibility of "keeping things from going too far" with guys. Rather than embracing their sexuality as a positive thing, the vast majority of girls only learn to be a counter-balance to the uncontrollable male.
What's worse, in one study cited, 75 percent of a sampling of "several hundred" girls described their first experience of heterosexual intercourse as painful, disappointing and boring. (What's sad is not just how many of you might agree with this description from your personal experience, but the assumption on the part of so many women that it's an experience to be expected.)
Tolman talked about the problem that has been unearthed by feminist researchers who have posed research questions premised on the notion that there is a positive experience of female adolescent sexuality.
"...We have found collectively that for most girls, sexuality is most often not positive and is always complicated by the negative meanings (and quite often real material and social consequences) of their sexuality," she writes. "The outcome of the desire to know the positive posits ironic limits to the question itself: it may not be there to be found."
Now, that is one sorry statement, my sisters.
What I would really love is for one of my female friends to tell me they bucked this trend, that they had an essentially sex-positive, open, healthy concept of their sexuality from a young age. And I'd love to hear what that was like.
By the way, if you are one, the research suggests you have your mother to thank. This article states that "pleasure narrators" (girls with sex-positive attitudes) have mothers who conveyed "a sense of entitlement to pleasure and safety."
I suppose if I have one thing to say about all of this, it's that, as adult females, we can be a part of rewriting the story. Let's teach girls and young women that there is immense pleasure to be found in their bodies when it comes to sex. At the same time, let's teach them how to avoid unwanted pregnancy and disease. And let's teach them to hold men accountable for controlling themselves.
Easier said than done, I'm sure. But in light of the VAST MAJORITY of women growing up feeling shame and restriction in their sexuality, it's certainly worth the effort.
And, I suppose that while I'm off preaching from my little idyllic world, I'll add that we should be pursuing a world where the labels we use to describe sexuality today are totally obsolete. To rewrite the song a little: Be with the one you love; love the one you're with.
And by all means, enjoy your whoopie.
Of course, these are the words of a woman who's not seen any action in MONTHS. So you might want to take *all* of this with a grain of salt.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Don't believe I heard that right...
I had my nose buried in the Endless Decoupage Project -- which I have been working on since July -- this evening while the news played in the background. So I did not *see* the commercial to which I'll refer, but I certainly heard it.
I sincerely doubt I heard it correctly. But what I did hear amused me.
It's a Safeway commercial, with a voice-over song that askes repeatedly, "Are you having any fun?" Sounds like Sinatra, but I don't know Sinatra well-enough to say for certain. In any case, it sounds all holiday festive, and I can imagine the holiday images that are being splashed across the screen while the song plays.
But then came the tagline. I *swear* the woman said, "Let your holiday blow!" And touted Safeway as a source. For all that sucks, I presume.
If you *have* to ask, "Are you having any fun?" perhaps your holiday *does* blow.
You know, come to think of it, my mom shopped at Safeway. Hmm.... Perhaps that explains more than I realized.
I sincerely doubt I heard it correctly. But what I did hear amused me.
It's a Safeway commercial, with a voice-over song that askes repeatedly, "Are you having any fun?" Sounds like Sinatra, but I don't know Sinatra well-enough to say for certain. In any case, it sounds all holiday festive, and I can imagine the holiday images that are being splashed across the screen while the song plays.
But then came the tagline. I *swear* the woman said, "Let your holiday blow!" And touted Safeway as a source. For all that sucks, I presume.
If you *have* to ask, "Are you having any fun?" perhaps your holiday *does* blow.
You know, come to think of it, my mom shopped at Safeway. Hmm.... Perhaps that explains more than I realized.
A feast gone bad
The pup Brogan had his Thanksgiving feast a little early this year.
Yesterday, while walking back from the pet store where I bought his holiday meal, canned Turducken (whole human-quality food that includes peas, carrots and potatoes), he yanked on the leash a bit hard and the can flew out of my hand. The top split open on the sidewalk.
I realized I would have to feed it to him prior to Thanksgiving. And perhaps, because the spoiled little guy warrants a treat, I was going to go back and get another so he could have his feast the same day I have mine.
Well, forget *that* idea.
He enjoyed his can of Turducken last night like it was the Rapture. But today? Today was Amageddon.
Turns out the food was a bit too rich for the pup's otherwise very tidy diet of high-quality kibble and the occasional scrap of nastiness he snarfs up off the pavement when we're taking a walk. His little bod is on a 24-hour cycle, and 24 hours after enjoying his meal, he was decidedly *not* enjoying its departure.
I've never heard a dog scream while trying to poop. Not until tonight, anyway.
And I learned, several hours after the fact, that the pup actually was unable to hold it until his walk time rolled around. He actually relieved himself in my bathtub. Which I discovered at about 12:30 tonight.
Nothing quite like cleaning up a really stinky, nasty, unformed bit of dog mess from the tub at 1 a.m. Took me back to some of my less coordinated moments in high school, when I was still learning how to hold my liquor (and not passing the exams).
But while it's rarely a smart human move to expel bodily fluids of any sort in the bathtub, it's actually pretty darn cunning for a dog who knows he's not supposed to go on the floor or on the furniture.
Also, I've learned, the bathtub is where the pup hides when he's *really* scared of something. And as far as I can tell, his own gastrointestinal distress was frightening him. Poor little guy.
So, no, I will not be overwhelming the pup on Thanksgiving with another feast. In fact, I think I'll let that be a lesson to me: Just say no to too much rich food.
But I will say yes to my fair share (and then some) of wine, however. Because that stuff, I've learned how to handle. It's the creamy something-or-other and the pumpkin pie that really gets me.
Well, on the upside, my tub is ridiculously clean now. I think I might have polluted the entire ecosystem and given myself chemical burns from using too much Comet, but ... eeeww ... no choice. No choice at all.
Yesterday, while walking back from the pet store where I bought his holiday meal, canned Turducken (whole human-quality food that includes peas, carrots and potatoes), he yanked on the leash a bit hard and the can flew out of my hand. The top split open on the sidewalk.
I realized I would have to feed it to him prior to Thanksgiving. And perhaps, because the spoiled little guy warrants a treat, I was going to go back and get another so he could have his feast the same day I have mine.
Well, forget *that* idea.
He enjoyed his can of Turducken last night like it was the Rapture. But today? Today was Amageddon.
Turns out the food was a bit too rich for the pup's otherwise very tidy diet of high-quality kibble and the occasional scrap of nastiness he snarfs up off the pavement when we're taking a walk. His little bod is on a 24-hour cycle, and 24 hours after enjoying his meal, he was decidedly *not* enjoying its departure.
I've never heard a dog scream while trying to poop. Not until tonight, anyway.
And I learned, several hours after the fact, that the pup actually was unable to hold it until his walk time rolled around. He actually relieved himself in my bathtub. Which I discovered at about 12:30 tonight.
Nothing quite like cleaning up a really stinky, nasty, unformed bit of dog mess from the tub at 1 a.m. Took me back to some of my less coordinated moments in high school, when I was still learning how to hold my liquor (and not passing the exams).
But while it's rarely a smart human move to expel bodily fluids of any sort in the bathtub, it's actually pretty darn cunning for a dog who knows he's not supposed to go on the floor or on the furniture.
Also, I've learned, the bathtub is where the pup hides when he's *really* scared of something. And as far as I can tell, his own gastrointestinal distress was frightening him. Poor little guy.
So, no, I will not be overwhelming the pup on Thanksgiving with another feast. In fact, I think I'll let that be a lesson to me: Just say no to too much rich food.
But I will say yes to my fair share (and then some) of wine, however. Because that stuff, I've learned how to handle. It's the creamy something-or-other and the pumpkin pie that really gets me.
Well, on the upside, my tub is ridiculously clean now. I think I might have polluted the entire ecosystem and given myself chemical burns from using too much Comet, but ... eeeww ... no choice. No choice at all.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
On Becoming the Woman I've Hated
I've been wanting to learn how to make cheese for a few years now. (Nevermind that I'm allergic to it.)
Last year at Christmas, I considered buying XGF a cheese-making kit for Christmas, to make brie. But I wasn't sure the conditions in the basement were suitable. So I held off -- and then I got divorced.
But guess what, my friends? I've learned how to make cheese in the past year anyway. Without a book. Without a kit. Without any instruction whatsoever.
Unfortunately, all I know how to make is Velveeta. Or, rather, something very highly processed, hard to swallow and absolutely not good for you.
And I *hate* that. I've become the kind of woman I've hated: a Velveeta maker. That wasn't what I was going for at all. *sigh*
Last year at Christmas, I considered buying XGF a cheese-making kit for Christmas, to make brie. But I wasn't sure the conditions in the basement were suitable. So I held off -- and then I got divorced.
But guess what, my friends? I've learned how to make cheese in the past year anyway. Without a book. Without a kit. Without any instruction whatsoever.
Unfortunately, all I know how to make is Velveeta. Or, rather, something very highly processed, hard to swallow and absolutely not good for you.
And I *hate* that. I've become the kind of woman I've hated: a Velveeta maker. That wasn't what I was going for at all. *sigh*
Friday, November 17, 2006
Dog & human alike
From the rather meager records of "profound" thought:
A conversation I was having earlier today with a Rather Shy Classmate got me to thinking about the nature of anxiety.
Rather than casting it in a nature or nuture debate, we were discussing whether anxiety had roots both genetic and environmental. She's got loads of it in her family tree, so she assumes a genetic component. But she's also keenly aware of the anxiety-producing behavior and commentary of her ancestors -- parents, grandparents, etc. -- that have contributed to her own shyness and anxiety.
Listening to her, I consider the likelihood that anxiety, as a biological construct, serves an evolutionary purpose. Those of us who are hyper-vigilant for threats in our environment are going to be prepared for the chaos, going to survive the unexpected. Right?
But in our modern, Western society, we've created "typical" living conditions that do not require us to be hyper-alert. Life, even when we've got financial troubles or are dating unpredictable people, is actually pretty mellow compared to the days when humans were fighting off dinosaurs. (Yes, I know: Humans and dinosaurs did not co-exist. But my point is: HUGE threats from predators, from the environment, from the Crusaders and from masked bandits in the Wild Wild West.)
My point is that, once upon a time, this vigilance, this suspicion and paranoia, this hiding in the bushes, this excessive attention to detail -- checking, checking, checking! -- served the purposes of our survival.
Now, it's just wasted energy. But those of us who are wired to be more alert, more cautious, more suspicious of the unexpected, are now, in this society, labled as anxious. Because, like, we just can't relax, mon. We just can't chill out all the way. We never know when the Gestapo will be banging on our door, ya know?
So my Rather Shy Classmate and I were talking about that. And even though I don't care much for the comparision of humans to dogs, neither am I a speciest. I do not know the "Dog Experience," so I really ought not be criticizing their behavior. Seriously, dude.
It is in the vein of special equanimity (heh) that I consider the parallels of anxious humans to that of alert, attentive, so-called "highly strung" Terriers who live in urban lofts.
Right?
Because the pup Brogan has nothing to fear. Life in this here urban loft is pretty sweet.
He eats a high-quality dog food designed to keep his skin and coat healthy while providing nutrients dense enough to keep his stomach satisfied while his poop "deposits" remain tight and compact. He enjoys regular teeth-cleaning, breath-freshening, environmentally friendly, healthy dog treats.
He lives in a home protected by several fire sprinklers installed in the ceilings, with double-paned energy efficient windows, with a luscious area rug made of silk and wool.
He gets regular walks -- and by regular, I mean two or three a day of about 30 minutes duration, sometimes longer, rarely shorter. Suffice it to say, he gets adequate exercise, sometimes more than enough for a being who's legs are no more than four inches long.
He has an eagle-eye view of the street that allows him to see any and all on-coming predators, to observe all multiple birth strollers in the vacinity, to look down his exceptionally cute little black nose over all that walks below his window. His perch is a lovely arm chair upholstered in high-grade, attractive fabric.
His coat is meticulously maintained -- regular brushings a couple times a week -- to ensure he does not have skin problems and to keep him looking his spiffiest. He LOVES being brushed, and he looks *fabulous* as a result of his personal grooming.
By day, he naps where he sees fit. At night, he usually requests -- and is allowed -- to sleep at the foot of a solid mahogany sleigh bed covered in a beautiful silk comforter that covers a plush, hypo-alergenic down comforter. His belly get scrached upon wakening.
On holidays, he gets special canned dog food.
Sometimes, he wears a bow tie.
In short, it is hard for a dog's life to get more exquisite. He is truly pampered. And if any dog ever had a reason to *chill,* the pup Brogan is one of them.
And yet, he is neurotic.
This is not because he is overly pampered. It is simply because he wants to CHASE AND KILL SOMETHING. Something small and feral. Like a rodent. Or a badger.
He wants to mix it up, display his Terrier prowerness. He wants to get his bow tie DIRTY.
But no. *This* society does not require that of him, even though he is hard-wired to do so. (Cairn terriers were bred to kill rodents -- and on up to badgers -- that hide in the piles of rocks, also known as "cairns," on the farms of the Scottish highlands.)
So, in lieu of satisfying his blood lust and killing other small creatures, my little pup Brogan expresses his pent-up energy as anxiety, as dog neuroticism.
It's just what happens when you continue to exist but your services are no longer required. Like anxious humans waiting for the next predator, the next disaster, the nex calamity. Once, it served a purpose. Now, those skills are a bit outdated.
Until the End Times come. At which point, both the pup Brogan and my Rather Shy Classmate will be in high demand. The rest of us slowpokes, stoners and those who have otherwise unconcerned about the fate of our respective species (including those rather lazy Retreivers and Labs) will be begging for the super-alert anxious humans and neurotic terriers among us. We'll want someone to protect us.
But then, we may not make it that far. The anxious humans and the neurotic terriers will be prepared. The rest of us? Will probably just die.
I'm just sayin'.
A conversation I was having earlier today with a Rather Shy Classmate got me to thinking about the nature of anxiety.
Rather than casting it in a nature or nuture debate, we were discussing whether anxiety had roots both genetic and environmental. She's got loads of it in her family tree, so she assumes a genetic component. But she's also keenly aware of the anxiety-producing behavior and commentary of her ancestors -- parents, grandparents, etc. -- that have contributed to her own shyness and anxiety.
Listening to her, I consider the likelihood that anxiety, as a biological construct, serves an evolutionary purpose. Those of us who are hyper-vigilant for threats in our environment are going to be prepared for the chaos, going to survive the unexpected. Right?
But in our modern, Western society, we've created "typical" living conditions that do not require us to be hyper-alert. Life, even when we've got financial troubles or are dating unpredictable people, is actually pretty mellow compared to the days when humans were fighting off dinosaurs. (Yes, I know: Humans and dinosaurs did not co-exist. But my point is: HUGE threats from predators, from the environment, from the Crusaders and from masked bandits in the Wild Wild West.)
My point is that, once upon a time, this vigilance, this suspicion and paranoia, this hiding in the bushes, this excessive attention to detail -- checking, checking, checking! -- served the purposes of our survival.
Now, it's just wasted energy. But those of us who are wired to be more alert, more cautious, more suspicious of the unexpected, are now, in this society, labled as anxious. Because, like, we just can't relax, mon. We just can't chill out all the way. We never know when the Gestapo will be banging on our door, ya know?
So my Rather Shy Classmate and I were talking about that. And even though I don't care much for the comparision of humans to dogs, neither am I a speciest. I do not know the "Dog Experience," so I really ought not be criticizing their behavior. Seriously, dude.
It is in the vein of special equanimity (heh) that I consider the parallels of anxious humans to that of alert, attentive, so-called "highly strung" Terriers who live in urban lofts.
Right?
Because the pup Brogan has nothing to fear. Life in this here urban loft is pretty sweet.
He eats a high-quality dog food designed to keep his skin and coat healthy while providing nutrients dense enough to keep his stomach satisfied while his poop "deposits" remain tight and compact. He enjoys regular teeth-cleaning, breath-freshening, environmentally friendly, healthy dog treats.
He lives in a home protected by several fire sprinklers installed in the ceilings, with double-paned energy efficient windows, with a luscious area rug made of silk and wool.
He gets regular walks -- and by regular, I mean two or three a day of about 30 minutes duration, sometimes longer, rarely shorter. Suffice it to say, he gets adequate exercise, sometimes more than enough for a being who's legs are no more than four inches long.
He has an eagle-eye view of the street that allows him to see any and all on-coming predators, to observe all multiple birth strollers in the vacinity, to look down his exceptionally cute little black nose over all that walks below his window. His perch is a lovely arm chair upholstered in high-grade, attractive fabric.
His coat is meticulously maintained -- regular brushings a couple times a week -- to ensure he does not have skin problems and to keep him looking his spiffiest. He LOVES being brushed, and he looks *fabulous* as a result of his personal grooming.
By day, he naps where he sees fit. At night, he usually requests -- and is allowed -- to sleep at the foot of a solid mahogany sleigh bed covered in a beautiful silk comforter that covers a plush, hypo-alergenic down comforter. His belly get scrached upon wakening.
On holidays, he gets special canned dog food.
Sometimes, he wears a bow tie.
In short, it is hard for a dog's life to get more exquisite. He is truly pampered. And if any dog ever had a reason to *chill,* the pup Brogan is one of them.
And yet, he is neurotic.
This is not because he is overly pampered. It is simply because he wants to CHASE AND KILL SOMETHING. Something small and feral. Like a rodent. Or a badger.
He wants to mix it up, display his Terrier prowerness. He wants to get his bow tie DIRTY.
But no. *This* society does not require that of him, even though he is hard-wired to do so. (Cairn terriers were bred to kill rodents -- and on up to badgers -- that hide in the piles of rocks, also known as "cairns," on the farms of the Scottish highlands.)
So, in lieu of satisfying his blood lust and killing other small creatures, my little pup Brogan expresses his pent-up energy as anxiety, as dog neuroticism.
It's just what happens when you continue to exist but your services are no longer required. Like anxious humans waiting for the next predator, the next disaster, the nex calamity. Once, it served a purpose. Now, those skills are a bit outdated.
Until the End Times come. At which point, both the pup Brogan and my Rather Shy Classmate will be in high demand. The rest of us slowpokes, stoners and those who have otherwise unconcerned about the fate of our respective species (including those rather lazy Retreivers and Labs) will be begging for the super-alert anxious humans and neurotic terriers among us. We'll want someone to protect us.
But then, we may not make it that far. The anxious humans and the neurotic terriers will be prepared. The rest of us? Will probably just die.
I'm just sayin'.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Return to sender
Alright. I'm done with "Osama."
And you know what?
"Hotel Rwanda," which sent my *dog* into fear-inspired fits, was considerably more uplifting. Jolly good fare in comparison, if I do say so myself. Genocide and all.
Seriously, folks.
Save it for when you think you've hit rock bottom. "Osama" will be proof, no matter what the fuck is going on, that you haven't *quite* gotten as low as you can possibly go.
Because there are always rat-fucking religious fundamentalist MEN to take you down one more notch, my sisters.
I'm just sayin'.
And you know what?
"Hotel Rwanda," which sent my *dog* into fear-inspired fits, was considerably more uplifting. Jolly good fare in comparison, if I do say so myself. Genocide and all.
Seriously, folks.
Save it for when you think you've hit rock bottom. "Osama" will be proof, no matter what the fuck is going on, that you haven't *quite* gotten as low as you can possibly go.
Because there are always rat-fucking religious fundamentalist MEN to take you down one more notch, my sisters.
I'm just sayin'.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Perspective, perspective
Like, oh my god, there is a *reason* the movie "Osama" has been sitting, untouched, on top of my television since August.
It's 'cause it's fucking DEPRESSING.
I had to stop watching it for a little bit -- to write, to watch Letterman, to eat my *very* late dinner of pumpkin-yellow pepper soup -- just to decompress from the oppressiveness of it all.
It's about a girl in Taliban-ruled Afghanistan who disguises herself as a boy so she can work and help her mother and grandmother survive (dad having been killed in the Kabul war and brother having been killed in the Russian war).
The film is rife with women in burkhas and starts out with a protest scene in which all these burkha-clad women are protesting, yelling, "We are not political! We are hungry! Give us work!" And then the Taliban shows up and starts hosing them down with fire hoses and rounding them up and throwing the women in carts enclosed by chickenwire -- and then, I think we all know what happens to them, even though the movie doesn't show it: If the stories are right, they get sent to a soccer stadium to be crushed by a stone wall that's toppled on them. Or something like that.
Ick.
(I want you to know, S2, that I'm *watching this movie for you,* because I have a constitutional disposition to sending back Netflix a film unwatched when it's been sitting on top of my TV for more than two weeks, much less one that's been there since August 21. And I really want to snag "I (heart) Huckabees," because it is one of the funniest fucking films ever.)
And you know, after I watch this film, I'm gonna need to laugh.
So what's the "Perspective, perspective" headline all about? You watch this film, my friends (my women friends), and whatever thing is bugging you, whatever psychic ache or fundamental unfairness in our society, whatever ... and you will just *not* be feeling so bad about whatever the hell it is.
Because women, under the Taliban? THAT SUCKS!
It's 'cause it's fucking DEPRESSING.
I had to stop watching it for a little bit -- to write, to watch Letterman, to eat my *very* late dinner of pumpkin-yellow pepper soup -- just to decompress from the oppressiveness of it all.
It's about a girl in Taliban-ruled Afghanistan who disguises herself as a boy so she can work and help her mother and grandmother survive (dad having been killed in the Kabul war and brother having been killed in the Russian war).
The film is rife with women in burkhas and starts out with a protest scene in which all these burkha-clad women are protesting, yelling, "We are not political! We are hungry! Give us work!" And then the Taliban shows up and starts hosing them down with fire hoses and rounding them up and throwing the women in carts enclosed by chickenwire -- and then, I think we all know what happens to them, even though the movie doesn't show it: If the stories are right, they get sent to a soccer stadium to be crushed by a stone wall that's toppled on them. Or something like that.
Ick.
(I want you to know, S2, that I'm *watching this movie for you,* because I have a constitutional disposition to sending back Netflix a film unwatched when it's been sitting on top of my TV for more than two weeks, much less one that's been there since August 21. And I really want to snag "I (heart) Huckabees," because it is one of the funniest fucking films ever.)
And you know, after I watch this film, I'm gonna need to laugh.
So what's the "Perspective, perspective" headline all about? You watch this film, my friends (my women friends), and whatever thing is bugging you, whatever psychic ache or fundamental unfairness in our society, whatever ... and you will just *not* be feeling so bad about whatever the hell it is.
Because women, under the Taliban? THAT SUCKS!
I, Prickly Pear; I, Warrior
I got a little gnarly with one of my professors this evening. She's an interesting character and a lovely, well-meaning woman, I think, but sometimes, she starts channeling Shirley MacLaine and telling us all to "hold the energy" for our clients, and the "woo-woo" cup overfloweth.
Tonight, she did not do the best job of holding my energy. So I kind of ... unleashed it on her. To wit:
She asked the class if anyone would share a "personal metaphor." The guy who sits next to me every night said he is perpetually in an airport bar -- one that has video arcades -- and that he never boards a flight to anywhere.
For several minutes, the teacher dissected this metaphor, and members of the class pressed and prodded as well. When they were done, I said, His metaphor was highly descriptive. But what do you do with a metaphor that doesn't have all that setting and obvious meaning?
Teacher replied, "What's yours, UCM?"
There are many arrows in my quiver.
"That's it?" teacher asked.
Yes.
And thus began a wide-ranging, prodding, projection-filled discussion in which most members of the class at one point or another took stabs at the possible meaning, the symbolism.
Were the arrows a metaphor for violence and aggression? Were they layers of defensiveness? Were they not really arrows? Were they Cupid's arrows?
More like Artemis than Cupid, I replied at one point.
And so then the questions and the feeling statements tumbled forth from the teacher and my classmates. I was a hunter. I was trying to make a big, visible, frightening statement about myself to others. I was ready to slay whoever got in my way.
I don't see these arrows as intended to threaten or hurt others, I said.
"But," the teacher said, "you're not using them. They are like your untapped potential, a symbol of your impotence. How does that manifest with your career? Your sense of impotence?"
And that is when I kind of blew a gasket.
I don't need to use them, I said. They are *not* symbols of impotence; they are symbols of my inner strength, my personal resources. My quiver is full because they are MINE.
Then, the teacher suggested they weren't arrows after all. "I'm kind of seeing a walking stick, perhaps with a little bit of a point on the end," she said.
What? They're ARROWS, I replied.
"But arrows are weapons," she countered.
They may be weapons, but they're not for aggression, I said. They have big colorful streamers on the end of them. If I fired them from a bow, they would sail through the air more like a ... salutation.
"Perhaps they're banners," she responded. "I'm seeing banners."
No! I insisted. They're ARROWS. It's *my* metaphor, and they are *my* arrows in *my* quiver.
The teacher says to the class: "See, this is interesting. Clients will become very protective of their metaphors. They will tell you when you're wrong."
And you *are* wrong! I blurted out.
Now, I will tell you: This is an abbreviated version of what actually was said. The teacher actually made several other off-base comments. Other members of the class periodically popped in and suggested something different than what the teacher was saying. Two of my classmates came very close to articulating a more accurate interpretation of the arrows in my quiver.
In truth, this is a highly personal, very powerful image for me. It came as a vision when I was under hypnosis to get rid of a snake phobia last year. I have the tape of the hypnosis session, and no where on it is anything related to this vision.
It is simply a profound, self-generated image of me reaching down to the ground and scooping up these massive arrows with colorful streamers on the ends of them and putting them into a quiver on my back. Each arrow represented a personal strength, a victory, a trial overcome. There were dozens of them, but they fit into a small and highly portable quiver over my left shoulder.
I did not share this with the class -- only the statement, "There are many arrows in my quiver" -- so they could play around with it. I was alright with people trying to figure it out, exploring where to go with it. But when the teacher suggested they were symbols of impotence, I became very protective of my personal iconography, and I started fighting back.
You might even say I pulled out one of those arrows and shot it at her.
A few of my classmates were a bit flustered by the exchange between me and the teacher. One of them, apparently trying to rouse me into another round, said to me during the break, "You have a very violent personal metaphor."
Really, it *isn't* violent in the least. Not even a statement of threat. They are my strengths. I don't even see them as being especially visible to others.
"Well," he countered, "my personal metaphor is a gigantic bazooka and a live hand grenade. What do you make of that?"
Don't blow yourself up, I told him.
At that point, we were called back into the classroom by another classmate. A student was going to give a presentation, and he said to me, "We were waiting for you. I didn't want *you* to miss my presentation, UCM. I thought you might have something interesting to say about this guy."
Look, it's clear I'm being feisty tonight, I replied, but there's no intent to hurt anyone.
The teacher smiled.
After class, I went up to speak to her. Before I managed to get out half a word, she said, laughing, "Oh, let's hug," and threw her arms wide open to embrace me. What a funny woman.
I took a few minutes to explain what the metaphor really represents to me. I also told her I was bothered by a series of personal questions she asked me the other week while my classmates silently worked on a questionnaire I had created for them.
And then this teacher said something that all graduate school teachers should probably keep in mind: "All this role playing needs to stop every now and then, and you should be able to have a real conversation."
Role playing? I asked, feeling I had missed something.
"Yeah, the role playing of the classroom. The teacher-student role playing, where one person is the teacher and one person is the student," she said. "Sometimes, you should just relate to each other as human beings."
Oh, that, I said.
"Yes, that."
I've never been too good at the hierarchical stuff, I said. It was probably the biggest problem I had in Corporate America. I would be just like: So you're the VP of Legal for the Mothership, so what about it? That means I'm not supposed to treat you like an equal?
Teacher responded, "That's exactly what that means to a lot of those people."
I know. I just could never be bothered to play that game.
Leaving the classroom, she patted me on the shoulder. "You have a lot of intensity and directness in your person. That's just how you are, and that's OK. In fact, as a counselor, I think it's going to serve you very well."
Oh really? I asked. Because I've always assumed it was going to backfire on me.
"I don't think so," she said. "A lot of people need counselors who aren't afraid to be real."
Then, as I walked off, she added, "And I think you need a picture of Artemis in your home. You have a lot of warrior energy."
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I didn't. Because, interestingly, this is the second time in a handful of days that someone has said that to me, and I'm finding that a little curious.
I was hanging out at the Pub at the End of the Universe with YogaGirl on Saturday night, and she told me, "I know it bugs the hell out of you when people say that you're strong, but when I think of you ... I was into Greek mythology for a while, and when I think of you, Athena comes to mind. She was a warrior, and I see you being strong like that."
Somewhere recently, I was reading words like these: See yourself as I see you. For tonight, I'll take that advice. Just so long as it's clear those arrows are *not* symbols of impotence. (Don't make me shoot you.)
Tonight, she did not do the best job of holding my energy. So I kind of ... unleashed it on her. To wit:
She asked the class if anyone would share a "personal metaphor." The guy who sits next to me every night said he is perpetually in an airport bar -- one that has video arcades -- and that he never boards a flight to anywhere.
For several minutes, the teacher dissected this metaphor, and members of the class pressed and prodded as well. When they were done, I said, His metaphor was highly descriptive. But what do you do with a metaphor that doesn't have all that setting and obvious meaning?
Teacher replied, "What's yours, UCM?"
There are many arrows in my quiver.
"That's it?" teacher asked.
Yes.
And thus began a wide-ranging, prodding, projection-filled discussion in which most members of the class at one point or another took stabs at the possible meaning, the symbolism.
Were the arrows a metaphor for violence and aggression? Were they layers of defensiveness? Were they not really arrows? Were they Cupid's arrows?
More like Artemis than Cupid, I replied at one point.
And so then the questions and the feeling statements tumbled forth from the teacher and my classmates. I was a hunter. I was trying to make a big, visible, frightening statement about myself to others. I was ready to slay whoever got in my way.
I don't see these arrows as intended to threaten or hurt others, I said.
"But," the teacher said, "you're not using them. They are like your untapped potential, a symbol of your impotence. How does that manifest with your career? Your sense of impotence?"
And that is when I kind of blew a gasket.
I don't need to use them, I said. They are *not* symbols of impotence; they are symbols of my inner strength, my personal resources. My quiver is full because they are MINE.
Then, the teacher suggested they weren't arrows after all. "I'm kind of seeing a walking stick, perhaps with a little bit of a point on the end," she said.
What? They're ARROWS, I replied.
"But arrows are weapons," she countered.
They may be weapons, but they're not for aggression, I said. They have big colorful streamers on the end of them. If I fired them from a bow, they would sail through the air more like a ... salutation.
"Perhaps they're banners," she responded. "I'm seeing banners."
No! I insisted. They're ARROWS. It's *my* metaphor, and they are *my* arrows in *my* quiver.
The teacher says to the class: "See, this is interesting. Clients will become very protective of their metaphors. They will tell you when you're wrong."
And you *are* wrong! I blurted out.
Now, I will tell you: This is an abbreviated version of what actually was said. The teacher actually made several other off-base comments. Other members of the class periodically popped in and suggested something different than what the teacher was saying. Two of my classmates came very close to articulating a more accurate interpretation of the arrows in my quiver.
In truth, this is a highly personal, very powerful image for me. It came as a vision when I was under hypnosis to get rid of a snake phobia last year. I have the tape of the hypnosis session, and no where on it is anything related to this vision.
It is simply a profound, self-generated image of me reaching down to the ground and scooping up these massive arrows with colorful streamers on the ends of them and putting them into a quiver on my back. Each arrow represented a personal strength, a victory, a trial overcome. There were dozens of them, but they fit into a small and highly portable quiver over my left shoulder.
I did not share this with the class -- only the statement, "There are many arrows in my quiver" -- so they could play around with it. I was alright with people trying to figure it out, exploring where to go with it. But when the teacher suggested they were symbols of impotence, I became very protective of my personal iconography, and I started fighting back.
You might even say I pulled out one of those arrows and shot it at her.
A few of my classmates were a bit flustered by the exchange between me and the teacher. One of them, apparently trying to rouse me into another round, said to me during the break, "You have a very violent personal metaphor."
Really, it *isn't* violent in the least. Not even a statement of threat. They are my strengths. I don't even see them as being especially visible to others.
"Well," he countered, "my personal metaphor is a gigantic bazooka and a live hand grenade. What do you make of that?"
Don't blow yourself up, I told him.
At that point, we were called back into the classroom by another classmate. A student was going to give a presentation, and he said to me, "We were waiting for you. I didn't want *you* to miss my presentation, UCM. I thought you might have something interesting to say about this guy."
Look, it's clear I'm being feisty tonight, I replied, but there's no intent to hurt anyone.
The teacher smiled.
After class, I went up to speak to her. Before I managed to get out half a word, she said, laughing, "Oh, let's hug," and threw her arms wide open to embrace me. What a funny woman.
I took a few minutes to explain what the metaphor really represents to me. I also told her I was bothered by a series of personal questions she asked me the other week while my classmates silently worked on a questionnaire I had created for them.
And then this teacher said something that all graduate school teachers should probably keep in mind: "All this role playing needs to stop every now and then, and you should be able to have a real conversation."
Role playing? I asked, feeling I had missed something.
"Yeah, the role playing of the classroom. The teacher-student role playing, where one person is the teacher and one person is the student," she said. "Sometimes, you should just relate to each other as human beings."
Oh, that, I said.
"Yes, that."
I've never been too good at the hierarchical stuff, I said. It was probably the biggest problem I had in Corporate America. I would be just like: So you're the VP of Legal for the Mothership, so what about it? That means I'm not supposed to treat you like an equal?
Teacher responded, "That's exactly what that means to a lot of those people."
I know. I just could never be bothered to play that game.
Leaving the classroom, she patted me on the shoulder. "You have a lot of intensity and directness in your person. That's just how you are, and that's OK. In fact, as a counselor, I think it's going to serve you very well."
Oh really? I asked. Because I've always assumed it was going to backfire on me.
"I don't think so," she said. "A lot of people need counselors who aren't afraid to be real."
Then, as I walked off, she added, "And I think you need a picture of Artemis in your home. You have a lot of warrior energy."
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I didn't. Because, interestingly, this is the second time in a handful of days that someone has said that to me, and I'm finding that a little curious.
I was hanging out at the Pub at the End of the Universe with YogaGirl on Saturday night, and she told me, "I know it bugs the hell out of you when people say that you're strong, but when I think of you ... I was into Greek mythology for a while, and when I think of you, Athena comes to mind. She was a warrior, and I see you being strong like that."
Somewhere recently, I was reading words like these: See yourself as I see you. For tonight, I'll take that advice. Just so long as it's clear those arrows are *not* symbols of impotence. (Don't make me shoot you.)
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Now why didn't I think of this first?
Except for how it ends up in the occasional freaky social encounter, I love trawling on Craigslist, looking for the next curiosity. Part of my compulsion is feeling better about myself, right?
And, so, it is with a tremendous sense of success and a vast appreciation for my stellar nature as a woman, human being and resident of the universe that I bring you the following low-life announcement from "women-seeking-women," Portland style. The post was accompanied by a photo of two kittens kissing and a photo of a woman in fatigues sticking her rather lengthy tongue out to touch what looks like the tap on a glass keg of homebrew :
you know what? - 21
im drunk AND i think this sleezy ass personal ad on f-ing craigslist will actually help me out...yeah right my sistas. Im totally LES. its a recent revolation of mine. i have no idea if im femme or butch..but i guessing more of an inbetween. im totally sucking at life right now and all i want to do is run away. i want to find a cozy spot where i can meet new people and have awesome connections. im kinda a hippy..but not in the way of wearing hemp and tripping out on acid at burning man..more like i dont drive or eat meat or do anything chemically induced. i just moved back here from an organic farm that i lived at for 4 months and finding myself to be somewhat as a loner. ok..im gonna stop typing now because i dont even know if this post will exist in the morning...man im tired. oh and i love cats and brewing beer. if im watching tv im probably watching the l word. am i right?..
im sorry but if you respond.. i need a picture so i can jack off.
UCM's reply: I've got nothing to say.
And, so, it is with a tremendous sense of success and a vast appreciation for my stellar nature as a woman, human being and resident of the universe that I bring you the following low-life announcement from "women-seeking-women," Portland style. The post was accompanied by a photo of two kittens kissing and a photo of a woman in fatigues sticking her rather lengthy tongue out to touch what looks like the tap on a glass keg of homebrew :
you know what? - 21
im drunk AND i think this sleezy ass personal ad on f-ing craigslist will actually help me out...yeah right my sistas. Im totally LES. its a recent revolation of mine. i have no idea if im femme or butch..but i guessing more of an inbetween. im totally sucking at life right now and all i want to do is run away. i want to find a cozy spot where i can meet new people and have awesome connections. im kinda a hippy..but not in the way of wearing hemp and tripping out on acid at burning man..more like i dont drive or eat meat or do anything chemically induced. i just moved back here from an organic farm that i lived at for 4 months and finding myself to be somewhat as a loner. ok..im gonna stop typing now because i dont even know if this post will exist in the morning...man im tired. oh and i love cats and brewing beer. if im watching tv im probably watching the l word. am i right?..
im sorry but if you respond.. i need a picture so i can jack off.
UCM's reply: I've got nothing to say.
About that impeachment pleading
I have not researched this to find out how accurate and/or plausible it is, but there is a comment on my preceding blog entry that provides a link to bring a citizen-initiated impeachment of El Diablo, Jorge W. Bush.
That sin-of-a-bitch lied, BLATANTLY lied, about something ever so much more serious than anyone should ever take a blow job. His lies have resulted in the deaths of more than 2,800 American soldiers and the permanent maiming of 10 times that many (the injuries are really being made invisible). No to mention the deaths and injuries of TENS OF THOUSANDS of Iraqis, the vast majority of whom are not combatants of any sort.
And along the way, he's diverted our nation's financial resources to the tune of nearly $350 BILLION, money that could have been spent rebuilding the my beloved city of New Orleans -- or dishing out 23 million college scholarships worth $15,000 each (which would have certainly made *my* life a little easier). Or it could have paid for a week's worth of groceries for like, say, THREE BILLION PEOPLE. Or funded the salaries of 11 million school teachers.
Something like that.
No matter how you slice that, this fool-hardy bullshit war is an offense, considering it was built on lies and the most pernicious propaganda and intentional manipulation of the media that this country has ever seen. If not an impeachment, there should be a revolution.
All the legalish-sounding pleadings are already written for you. You just need to fill in the blanks and mail that sucker to Nancy Pelosi. They suggest sending it to her twice: Now to prime the pump and then on January 15, when she becomes Speaker of the House.
Let's do what we can, people.
That sin-of-a-bitch lied, BLATANTLY lied, about something ever so much more serious than anyone should ever take a blow job. His lies have resulted in the deaths of more than 2,800 American soldiers and the permanent maiming of 10 times that many (the injuries are really being made invisible). No to mention the deaths and injuries of TENS OF THOUSANDS of Iraqis, the vast majority of whom are not combatants of any sort.
And along the way, he's diverted our nation's financial resources to the tune of nearly $350 BILLION, money that could have been spent rebuilding the my beloved city of New Orleans -- or dishing out 23 million college scholarships worth $15,000 each (which would have certainly made *my* life a little easier). Or it could have paid for a week's worth of groceries for like, say, THREE BILLION PEOPLE. Or funded the salaries of 11 million school teachers.
Something like that.
No matter how you slice that, this fool-hardy bullshit war is an offense, considering it was built on lies and the most pernicious propaganda and intentional manipulation of the media that this country has ever seen. If not an impeachment, there should be a revolution.
All the legalish-sounding pleadings are already written for you. You just need to fill in the blanks and mail that sucker to Nancy Pelosi. They suggest sending it to her twice: Now to prime the pump and then on January 15, when she becomes Speaker of the House.
Let's do what we can, people.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Election day
Now that it looks like the Democrats will control the House of Representatives -- and that we'll have a woman speaker -- can we PLEASE get the hell out of Iraq? Can we PLEASE see some impeachment proceedings? Can the Democrats PLEASE get their crap-ass acts together and *do something* about this fucked up situation?
My Magic 8 Ball is reading, "You wish!"
Yeah, I'm not holding out a lot of hope here. The Democrats are two shakes short of being totally worthless, which is why I've long been registered and voting Green.
(An aside: Don't blame me for the last six years. I've voted for the Democrats in tight races. But I've always done so with a heavy conscience because, even though they're not as bad as those fascist Republicans, the Dems have sold out to corporate influence peddlers and gotten too freaking soft for my game.)
Fortunately, this election seems to be reflecting nationwide contempt for Bush, his cronies and their policies, so the lack of leadership by the Democrats didn't really seem to factor in to the situation much.
It's just too bad that our fellow countrymen woke up two years too late, and we must yet suffer another two years at the hands of that legion of weasles and rat bastards running the White House.
So PLEASE, Madame Speaker, show us what you're made of, and make the next two years the most miserable that Shrub has ever known in his life. Impeach the son-of-a-bitch -- and his little dog, Cheney, too.
My Magic 8 Ball is reading, "You wish!"
Yeah, I'm not holding out a lot of hope here. The Democrats are two shakes short of being totally worthless, which is why I've long been registered and voting Green.
(An aside: Don't blame me for the last six years. I've voted for the Democrats in tight races. But I've always done so with a heavy conscience because, even though they're not as bad as those fascist Republicans, the Dems have sold out to corporate influence peddlers and gotten too freaking soft for my game.)
Fortunately, this election seems to be reflecting nationwide contempt for Bush, his cronies and their policies, so the lack of leadership by the Democrats didn't really seem to factor in to the situation much.
It's just too bad that our fellow countrymen woke up two years too late, and we must yet suffer another two years at the hands of that legion of weasles and rat bastards running the White House.
So PLEASE, Madame Speaker, show us what you're made of, and make the next two years the most miserable that Shrub has ever known in his life. Impeach the son-of-a-bitch -- and his little dog, Cheney, too.
Monday, November 06, 2006
The weekend wrapup
I've got a little job interview about 12 hours hence, so I'll keep this short, sweet and to-the-point.
Had a dee-light-ful weekend, starting on Thursday night with a four- or five-hour brew-filled conversation at the Buffalo Gap with YogaGirl. She is, in her own words, a kindred spirit in many ways, even though we are exceptionally different people. We covered the bases on conversation, but one of the topics centered on what it means to be genuine or authentic, both in the counseling world and in our personal lives.
Carl Rogers would say there's not a difference -- or rather, that there shouldn't be one. He believed that if we brought authenticity, empathy and an unconditional positive regard for others to our work, it would help clients make the therapeutic movement necessary to deal with whatever issue they faced. He also said these were the qualities we should bring to our personal relationships, as well, because it's an approach that benefits humanity.
Various theorists have suggested clients need a good bit more than that. Each school of thought has its ideas: CBT, DBT, ACT, EMDR, NLP. All that alphabet soup represents theories and techniques designed to make something *happen* with clients. And yet, no one suggests that Carl Rogers was off-base. These techniques are almost always in *addition* to what he suggests.
So YogaGirl and I were talking about authenticity from a lot of different angles. Late in the evening -- or early Friday morning, to be more technically correct -- her boyfriend arrived at the bar. He's a cute guy who was wearing some jazzy cityboy musician clothes and "an old man hat," as YogaGirl put it.
The three of us had another round of beer and talked for a while. A good time had by all. All except for the pup, Brogan, who was at home waiting for his dinner. (Sorry, little guy!)
On Sunday, I got an e-mail from YogaGirl in which she said that, unsolicited, her boyfriend, who had not been part of our conversation on authenticity, said that your UCM seemed "truly real."
It's music to my ears. Because that's not what I'm trying for, it's just what I am. Some people respond better to it than others. It never served me well in Corporate America. I was a total flunky there because part of the job description in my old company was to be a fake suck-up, and I never got good marks on my evaluation when it came to that category.
But YogaGirl's BF gave me a positive rating on the first encounter. So there, Corporate Scaliwags and others who do not appreciate my authenticity! Take that!
I don't know what happened to the rest of Friday. If anyone heard from me on that particular day, let me know. I must have done something other than my laundry. But I couldn't tell you what.
Saturday night, I went to dinner with another classmate, who we can just call Handsome Gay Male, or HGM for short. He came over after a class, and we shared a bottle of pinot gris while he talked to me about astrology and how the alignment of the stars and moons at the moment of our birth has some correlation to our personalities. I'm not sure he was making a case for causation, but certain correlation. He described what the moons would say about a mutual acquaintance, and I was shocked by the accuracy.
Not that I'm about to go get all Moonie on y'all or anything. I'm just saying: It was freaky how dead-on the description was, especially considering he doesn't know the person all that well. (Nor do I, for that matter, but I know what I know.)
He's promised to do my charts. I shall report back on their accuracy -- or lack thereof.
Then, we went to an oyster bar down the street and shared a platter of oysters on the half-shell. Three different varieties. We got to conduct a little taste-test. It had been years since I sucked down any raw oysters. Took me back to New Orleans and the first time I ever tried them -- and how a dirty old man told me I would presently be getting very horny and he'd be happy to relieve it.
And yet I wonder about the origin of my lesbianism....
I had a great time with HGM. We put back another bottle of wine (sauvingon blanc) and shared a few fine dishes. I had an heirloom squash soup with chanterelles and "fried sage," which was absolutely sublime.
I went home, called S2 about her Sunday soccer game (to be discussed) and got into a wide-ranging conversation with her. Getting To Yes had engaged in some particularly 6-year-oldish behavior earlier in the day, and S2 was mulling over her response to it.
I mentioned as how I had done something similar myself -- but probably considerably worse -- when I was a little older. Just as I was getting to the part where I questioned developmental norms, I encountered a man pushing a MULTIPLE BIRTH STROLLER down the sidewalk.
And then my phone went dead.
Goddamn, those Multiple Birth Stroller People! They are obviously out to get me.
I mean, it was 11:30 for christsake! Who's out walking multiple babies at 11:30 at night in the rain? Who?! ... Only those with the cell phone scrambler, battery killer device broadcasting from the freaking satellite dishes they have on those things nowadays. It's a conspiracy.
So Sunday morning, I had to call S2 again about the soccer game. There has been one helluva rain system moving through these here parts in the last 48 hours, and today saw more than an inch. (Fortunately, it was a gentle inch rather than an angry inch.)
In this sloggy weather, I headed out in my finest raingear and watched S2 play some soccer. I've been wanting to do this for a few months. But today, her game started at 2:30, so I was actually able to wake up for it without difficulty. Rain, schmain.
S2 and her teammates were out there in shorts and t-shirt, running around in the mud and generally having a good time of it. They lost, but that didn't seem to phase them very much. The one goal scored by her team was set-up by a sweet downfield dribble and kick by S2, so that was a highlight. If one of their forwards had found better aim -- it was a wet, muddy ball -- S2's team might have won.
Well, it was fun. And like I always suspected, that S2 is hardcore. Even when she's not finding a lot of contact with the ball, she's running her butt off. Midfielders have the toughest job on the field. They've got to cover the whole thing but always have to be mindful not to get ahead of the forwards. All the work, and so little of the glory. S2 played the entire game and even with 15 minutes left, she could still sprint down the field.
That there is a woman keeping herself young.
*sigh* ... I do miss soccer. It's the sport I miss playing the most.
Returned home, dried off, played a little Tetris on my GameBoy. Then, I headed out into the rain again to see Frank Rick, the New York Times columnist, with S2 at the Schnitz. It was a very full house, brimming with appreciative liberals.
But you know, I was DEPRESSED. In words more eloquent than I can muster, he talked about the changes in journalism that made me feel disgusted enough to leave the biz, specifically the conglomeration of all the networks and most major media outlets under the ownership of entertainment companies.
I remember when, a few years before I left, Disney purchased Capital Cities (one of my former employers), which owned ABC. At the time, I was working for Gannett, which with USA Today had already learned how to turn newsprint into colorful chum.
I remember, too, being asked to develop marketing plans for my newspaper to attract a particular readership. Following Frank Rich's talk, I had mistakenly told S2 that I did so only for the features section, but I'm recalling now several business trips I made to one of the Gannett Mother Ships to talk with editors from newspapers all over the West about how to attract a *particular* demographic with the content of the entire paper. (I'm not going to publish just which demographic that is, but you can ask me in person if you're interested.)
In any case, the idea was to get one particular group. And yet, I had been raised and schooled to believe that a newspaper serves its community, ALL the people in its community, by reporting THE NEWS, by, as Frank Rich put it, "judiciously determining which stories mattered most, which were (supposed to be) as close as possible to the truth as it was known on that particular day."
That is not what was happening when I left the biz. That is not what I was being asked to do. That is not what was happening to the face of daily newspapers, the papers of record for their respective cities, at that point.
Since then, it has only gotten worse. And to understand it as Frank Rich describes it is a sickening thing. Something that has sickened me for many years now. It is what has made me want to stop paying attention.
The news has, in a large degree, turned into a slurry of entertainment and propaganda and meaningless drivel, packaged as something critically important. Stories are senstionalized into a brutal feeding frency that Rich calls a "mediathon," wherein the pack descends upon an often meaningless topic like so many pirhana on a bloody tampon.
As Rich noted, the TV miniseries was co-opted by news producers and turned into things like CNN's coverage of the first Persian Gulf War. Then OJ Simpson came along. (Don't get me started on Rodney King and the L.A. riots, which I covered as a rookie.) And it has been a race to the bottom ever since.
Rich's speech centered on the most recent Iraq War and how the Bushies sold this country a bill of goods, using highly calculated manipulation of the media to get what they wanted. He details all of this in his book, "The Greastest Story Ever Sold," about the path from 9/11 to Iraq and to the fallout from Hurricane Katrina.
I left the theater seething.
One humorous highlight of the night, though, was the moment when, in the silent auditorium, Frank Rich mentioned Judith Miller by name. Instantly, S2 and I emitted the same sound simultaneously and none-too-quietly: It was half hiss, half ... I don't know ... maybe you could call it a growl. It was *not* a pleasant sound. For reasons that remain a mystery to me, no one else in the place seemed to be on our wavelength.
Then we looked at each other and giggled.
There are some things you just need to hiss at, some things you need to growl at and some things that make you laugh. So rare for them all to occur in a single moment. So very pleasing when they do.
So much for being short, sweet and to the point....
Had a dee-light-ful weekend, starting on Thursday night with a four- or five-hour brew-filled conversation at the Buffalo Gap with YogaGirl. She is, in her own words, a kindred spirit in many ways, even though we are exceptionally different people. We covered the bases on conversation, but one of the topics centered on what it means to be genuine or authentic, both in the counseling world and in our personal lives.
Carl Rogers would say there's not a difference -- or rather, that there shouldn't be one. He believed that if we brought authenticity, empathy and an unconditional positive regard for others to our work, it would help clients make the therapeutic movement necessary to deal with whatever issue they faced. He also said these were the qualities we should bring to our personal relationships, as well, because it's an approach that benefits humanity.
Various theorists have suggested clients need a good bit more than that. Each school of thought has its ideas: CBT, DBT, ACT, EMDR, NLP. All that alphabet soup represents theories and techniques designed to make something *happen* with clients. And yet, no one suggests that Carl Rogers was off-base. These techniques are almost always in *addition* to what he suggests.
So YogaGirl and I were talking about authenticity from a lot of different angles. Late in the evening -- or early Friday morning, to be more technically correct -- her boyfriend arrived at the bar. He's a cute guy who was wearing some jazzy cityboy musician clothes and "an old man hat," as YogaGirl put it.
The three of us had another round of beer and talked for a while. A good time had by all. All except for the pup, Brogan, who was at home waiting for his dinner. (Sorry, little guy!)
On Sunday, I got an e-mail from YogaGirl in which she said that, unsolicited, her boyfriend, who had not been part of our conversation on authenticity, said that your UCM seemed "truly real."
It's music to my ears. Because that's not what I'm trying for, it's just what I am. Some people respond better to it than others. It never served me well in Corporate America. I was a total flunky there because part of the job description in my old company was to be a fake suck-up, and I never got good marks on my evaluation when it came to that category.
But YogaGirl's BF gave me a positive rating on the first encounter. So there, Corporate Scaliwags and others who do not appreciate my authenticity! Take that!
I don't know what happened to the rest of Friday. If anyone heard from me on that particular day, let me know. I must have done something other than my laundry. But I couldn't tell you what.
Saturday night, I went to dinner with another classmate, who we can just call Handsome Gay Male, or HGM for short. He came over after a class, and we shared a bottle of pinot gris while he talked to me about astrology and how the alignment of the stars and moons at the moment of our birth has some correlation to our personalities. I'm not sure he was making a case for causation, but certain correlation. He described what the moons would say about a mutual acquaintance, and I was shocked by the accuracy.
Not that I'm about to go get all Moonie on y'all or anything. I'm just saying: It was freaky how dead-on the description was, especially considering he doesn't know the person all that well. (Nor do I, for that matter, but I know what I know.)
He's promised to do my charts. I shall report back on their accuracy -- or lack thereof.
Then, we went to an oyster bar down the street and shared a platter of oysters on the half-shell. Three different varieties. We got to conduct a little taste-test. It had been years since I sucked down any raw oysters. Took me back to New Orleans and the first time I ever tried them -- and how a dirty old man told me I would presently be getting very horny and he'd be happy to relieve it.
And yet I wonder about the origin of my lesbianism....
I had a great time with HGM. We put back another bottle of wine (sauvingon blanc) and shared a few fine dishes. I had an heirloom squash soup with chanterelles and "fried sage," which was absolutely sublime.
I went home, called S2 about her Sunday soccer game (to be discussed) and got into a wide-ranging conversation with her. Getting To Yes had engaged in some particularly 6-year-oldish behavior earlier in the day, and S2 was mulling over her response to it.
I mentioned as how I had done something similar myself -- but probably considerably worse -- when I was a little older. Just as I was getting to the part where I questioned developmental norms, I encountered a man pushing a MULTIPLE BIRTH STROLLER down the sidewalk.
And then my phone went dead.
Goddamn, those Multiple Birth Stroller People! They are obviously out to get me.
I mean, it was 11:30 for christsake! Who's out walking multiple babies at 11:30 at night in the rain? Who?! ... Only those with the cell phone scrambler, battery killer device broadcasting from the freaking satellite dishes they have on those things nowadays. It's a conspiracy.
So Sunday morning, I had to call S2 again about the soccer game. There has been one helluva rain system moving through these here parts in the last 48 hours, and today saw more than an inch. (Fortunately, it was a gentle inch rather than an angry inch.)
In this sloggy weather, I headed out in my finest raingear and watched S2 play some soccer. I've been wanting to do this for a few months. But today, her game started at 2:30, so I was actually able to wake up for it without difficulty. Rain, schmain.
S2 and her teammates were out there in shorts and t-shirt, running around in the mud and generally having a good time of it. They lost, but that didn't seem to phase them very much. The one goal scored by her team was set-up by a sweet downfield dribble and kick by S2, so that was a highlight. If one of their forwards had found better aim -- it was a wet, muddy ball -- S2's team might have won.
Well, it was fun. And like I always suspected, that S2 is hardcore. Even when she's not finding a lot of contact with the ball, she's running her butt off. Midfielders have the toughest job on the field. They've got to cover the whole thing but always have to be mindful not to get ahead of the forwards. All the work, and so little of the glory. S2 played the entire game and even with 15 minutes left, she could still sprint down the field.
That there is a woman keeping herself young.
*sigh* ... I do miss soccer. It's the sport I miss playing the most.
Returned home, dried off, played a little Tetris on my GameBoy. Then, I headed out into the rain again to see Frank Rick, the New York Times columnist, with S2 at the Schnitz. It was a very full house, brimming with appreciative liberals.
But you know, I was DEPRESSED. In words more eloquent than I can muster, he talked about the changes in journalism that made me feel disgusted enough to leave the biz, specifically the conglomeration of all the networks and most major media outlets under the ownership of entertainment companies.
I remember when, a few years before I left, Disney purchased Capital Cities (one of my former employers), which owned ABC. At the time, I was working for Gannett, which with USA Today had already learned how to turn newsprint into colorful chum.
I remember, too, being asked to develop marketing plans for my newspaper to attract a particular readership. Following Frank Rich's talk, I had mistakenly told S2 that I did so only for the features section, but I'm recalling now several business trips I made to one of the Gannett Mother Ships to talk with editors from newspapers all over the West about how to attract a *particular* demographic with the content of the entire paper. (I'm not going to publish just which demographic that is, but you can ask me in person if you're interested.)
In any case, the idea was to get one particular group. And yet, I had been raised and schooled to believe that a newspaper serves its community, ALL the people in its community, by reporting THE NEWS, by, as Frank Rich put it, "judiciously determining which stories mattered most, which were (supposed to be) as close as possible to the truth as it was known on that particular day."
That is not what was happening when I left the biz. That is not what I was being asked to do. That is not what was happening to the face of daily newspapers, the papers of record for their respective cities, at that point.
Since then, it has only gotten worse. And to understand it as Frank Rich describes it is a sickening thing. Something that has sickened me for many years now. It is what has made me want to stop paying attention.
The news has, in a large degree, turned into a slurry of entertainment and propaganda and meaningless drivel, packaged as something critically important. Stories are senstionalized into a brutal feeding frency that Rich calls a "mediathon," wherein the pack descends upon an often meaningless topic like so many pirhana on a bloody tampon.
As Rich noted, the TV miniseries was co-opted by news producers and turned into things like CNN's coverage of the first Persian Gulf War. Then OJ Simpson came along. (Don't get me started on Rodney King and the L.A. riots, which I covered as a rookie.) And it has been a race to the bottom ever since.
Rich's speech centered on the most recent Iraq War and how the Bushies sold this country a bill of goods, using highly calculated manipulation of the media to get what they wanted. He details all of this in his book, "The Greastest Story Ever Sold," about the path from 9/11 to Iraq and to the fallout from Hurricane Katrina.
I left the theater seething.
One humorous highlight of the night, though, was the moment when, in the silent auditorium, Frank Rich mentioned Judith Miller by name. Instantly, S2 and I emitted the same sound simultaneously and none-too-quietly: It was half hiss, half ... I don't know ... maybe you could call it a growl. It was *not* a pleasant sound. For reasons that remain a mystery to me, no one else in the place seemed to be on our wavelength.
Then we looked at each other and giggled.
There are some things you just need to hiss at, some things you need to growl at and some things that make you laugh. So rare for them all to occur in a single moment. So very pleasing when they do.
So much for being short, sweet and to the point....
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Breasts, ahoy!
I am reminded, from time to time, of a conversation I had once upon a time with a lovely friend of mine over wine. We were sitting near another woman I regarded as physically attractive but lacking in some of those magical personality traits necessary to make my toes curl.
If I could combine the two of you, I commented to my friend, I'd have the perfect woman.
My friend eyed the woman in question, sipped her wine and said nothing. Later, I apologized to her, thinking on second thought that it was rude to suggest I would change either her or the woman in question.
She has a constitution made of teflon (and a wonderfully sound sense of self-esteem to match) and shrugged. "The only thing I wondered," she said, "was which part of her you would keep. I thought it must be her breasts."
I know why she thought such a thing. I admire a great rack. It's by no means a requirement in the women I date, but I certainly enjoy the sensuous pleasure of full breasts.
And so it with a bit of humor that I post the following ad from Craigslist:
Boobs or just a "boob"
So - I'm curious. Does anyone else get suspicious of an ad when a "woman" posts her preference for a breast size or tells you hers? I mean, personally I don't give a shit about her breast size. But when I see that it smacks of a guy posting as a girl. I’ve never, EVER known a girl to care about another woman’s boobs(and I’ve known quite a few in my day). Am I just a dork or do some of you really care?
me, butch, 94, seeking 100 yr old grandma. Please be dusty.
UCM here & this is what I want to say: Grandma, I'm a girl, and I've cared a great deal about another woman's boobs. It's not the be-all, end-all defining factor of a woman or her femininity. But boobs inspire all sorts of reactions in me.
I've written small little love sonets to a set of knockers. I've also been frightened out of my wits by the appearance of some unexpectedly large areolas. I've found some nipples quite tender. Some sensitive enough to send a woman over the edge, a sheer drop into orgasm, with a single well-timed kiss.
You're right that size doesn't matter. Small cha-chis have their own special charms. But I must admit that I do find the sight of a full breast especially appealing. Perhaps there's something about biology and evolution there: Maybe I'm looking for the woman who's going to nurse the young-uns. Or perhaps my pursuit is purely Freudian, and I'm seeking the mother I never really had.
But *dusty* ones? On a grandma?
There are some places none of us are supposed to go. And *that* is one of them.
So you are not a "dork," but ... yes, some of us *do* care.
If I could combine the two of you, I commented to my friend, I'd have the perfect woman.
My friend eyed the woman in question, sipped her wine and said nothing. Later, I apologized to her, thinking on second thought that it was rude to suggest I would change either her or the woman in question.
She has a constitution made of teflon (and a wonderfully sound sense of self-esteem to match) and shrugged. "The only thing I wondered," she said, "was which part of her you would keep. I thought it must be her breasts."
I know why she thought such a thing. I admire a great rack. It's by no means a requirement in the women I date, but I certainly enjoy the sensuous pleasure of full breasts.
And so it with a bit of humor that I post the following ad from Craigslist:
Boobs or just a "boob"
So - I'm curious. Does anyone else get suspicious of an ad when a "woman" posts her preference for a breast size or tells you hers? I mean, personally I don't give a shit about her breast size. But when I see that it smacks of a guy posting as a girl. I’ve never, EVER known a girl to care about another woman’s boobs(and I’ve known quite a few in my day). Am I just a dork or do some of you really care?
me, butch, 94, seeking 100 yr old grandma. Please be dusty.
UCM here & this is what I want to say: Grandma, I'm a girl, and I've cared a great deal about another woman's boobs. It's not the be-all, end-all defining factor of a woman or her femininity. But boobs inspire all sorts of reactions in me.
I've written small little love sonets to a set of knockers. I've also been frightened out of my wits by the appearance of some unexpectedly large areolas. I've found some nipples quite tender. Some sensitive enough to send a woman over the edge, a sheer drop into orgasm, with a single well-timed kiss.
You're right that size doesn't matter. Small cha-chis have their own special charms. But I must admit that I do find the sight of a full breast especially appealing. Perhaps there's something about biology and evolution there: Maybe I'm looking for the woman who's going to nurse the young-uns. Or perhaps my pursuit is purely Freudian, and I'm seeking the mother I never really had.
But *dusty* ones? On a grandma?
There are some places none of us are supposed to go. And *that* is one of them.
So you are not a "dork," but ... yes, some of us *do* care.
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