getting to know you

riding a new trail is an awful lot like going on a first date. minus the agony of what to wear-- and it's also probably best not to sport an oversized sanitary napkin in your shorts, at least until reaching the 'i can eat spaghetti bolognese/lobster in front of you' comfort level. obviously, there is always a risk that what you are confronted with is going to be an overwhelming flop; too tight, too twisty, scary thin bridges over stagnant ponds, or a penchant for white, cotton turtlenecks... all of which makes it incredibly hard not to keep going back to what is familiar; every root, rock garden and worn log jump are imprinted on your wheel. sort of like hooking up with an ex. how wonderfully reassuring then, when your first time on unfamiliar trail, is chock full of smiles, stomach lurches and the odd bruise.

look how much money you can save on tampons...

women are historically notorious for wanting to snag a man, settle down, and start cranking out the spawn. "uterus for sale! get your uterus here! young, never been used, with two good working ovaries. invest in your future today".

men are simply not the raging comittment-phobes that run from bridal bedlam and baby bootees, that i was sort of planning on them being. as family sizes have shrunk, and people (yes, me) are waiting later and later to get married and procreate (if ever), there is a new panic in town; "continuing the family blood line". generations of family names are coming to an impasse, as these sometimes bra burning (as long as it's not one of the "nice" ones), occasional feminist, "i can pay for my own dinner and open my own bloody car door, but i still want you to take care of me only, if i can keep my own name and don't feel trapped" women are engaging and avoiding the mating dance with an apparent new breed of male (in search of a uterus to house "junior"/"the second").

wanted: one "babymama".

age comes after beauty; age is now.

forget internet dating, the increase in support groups around town (sufferers of varicose veins, survivors of botox, dry cleaning addicts) appears to be a conveniant place to self-help, self-actualize, and find someone to take to the sunday matinee. obviously, a codependency meeting might be a better place than say, overeaters anonymous (unless there is an underground cellulite fetish movement going on that i don't know about). certainly if you are looking to be taken care of, there is no better person than a recovering codie needing a "project".

apparently the years of "forgetting" to moisturize and put on sunscreen have caught up with me; my youthful looks are drying up much like my reproductive system. somewhere in the last year, things have changed. i am no longer asked for my ID when i slap down a bottle of "yellow tail" at the booze shop; i am no longer asked why i am tardy when i go to meetings at high schools; school buses have stopped stopping for me.

at tonight's meeting i sat next to the older guy from a couple of weeks (and blogs) ago. we chit chatted. i apologized for not calling and following up on the potential job opportunity he threw my way. after the closing he turned to me and asked if i might want to get coffee some time. he's older! WAY older. i guess i am older than i feel. so this means i have officially "crossed over". like pubic hair; you don't notice it, then suddenly you become old enough to be "older man's young totty".

the whole "being targeted and pursued/having to reject" is not a dynamic i am well versed in, so i tried to respond with kindness; "i think i'm going to pass" or something to that vague effect. of course i did not want to hurt his feelings (nothing if not classic codie) i said i would see him in 2 weeks after the labour day break, and then i made sure to wave at him when he drove out of the car park.

damn, now i can add a couple more adjectives to the ever increasing neurosis; "naive" and "old".

great expectations

i heard in church (the "no fire and brimstone" service for recovering alcoholics and drug addicts at the local homeless shelter) on friday, how to play "who are you in the story?" during the sermon (it was something about people at a synagogue not wanting to help and heal a decrepit and diseased woman because it was the sabbath).

anyway.

i had a conversation with a friend tonight, about dickens' semi-autobiographical novel. my immediate response was not wanting to end up like the crotchety and bitter miss havisham; admiring her cobweb collection, both on her candelabras and within her spirit. what a dreadful life sentence. until death.

estella; she's pretty, but what a cold, and controlling, fish.

dickens' protagonist, young pip. besotted, hopeful, but seemingly help-less.

each character detaches and/or chooses a situation that perpetuates this detachment.

and they all lived (.....)-ily ever after.

don't be scared of your shadow

all of those things you find highly irritating in other people- as a child this would be your annoying, younger brother, as an adult -probably still him- and of course, the biggest receptacle of blame; your mother. these lucky individuals contain the rejected, and EXPUNGED parts of yourself. the wholly distasteful habits and traits that are unembraceable (?) and can only be acknowledged in relation to "someone else". this characterological emesis is often called [cue spooky music]; "your shadow".

psychoeducation 101 segment; check.

as children, we play with/enlarge/shrink/run from/run to/jump on each other's/try to step on our own/make chickens and doves from our shadow. as adults, we turn on the lights/turn off the lights/go indoors/go outside/close our eyes/look straight ahead/look only behind/look at someone else's. not a lot has changed.

my doves still look like epilleptic octupuses.

exposure therapy

two divorcees and a self-confessed commitment-phobe (or just anti-monogrammed-pouffy-accessories-phobe), all three working in mental health. the obvious sunday activity is to go to a bridal expo at the louisville downtown convention centre for a little "systematic desensitization" to work through past trauma (hyperventilation at the sign of a tiara) and first time anxiety ("you mean i have to COOK? well, maybe i just wont register for pans and butcher knives").

working therapeutically with any family system, there is always an IP (identified patient) who is the scapegoat for all the problems and therefore gets the most attention. today, as the odd one out (odd meaning i had not been married or divorced, not odd, as in a lazy eye and facial twitches), i was the IB (identified bride), although about 10 minutes in, i developed a stinking case of IBS (irritable bride syndrome).

despite what some may think, i really am a crap liar. the middle aged, married vendor ladies excitedly asked us who the bride was, when the date was, and if a wedding planner/honeymoon destination/ballroom rental had been identified. now i can throw a mood swing and pout with the best of the bridezilla's out there, but as the afternoon progressed i admit i got a little testy with the heavy set (unmarried) vendor chick (i bet she belongs to an oprah book club) who was trying to convince me of the value in providing monogrammed necklaces/bracelets/bags/purses/puppies for my bridesmaids. i almost spat at her "i'm not having any bloody bridesmaids, what exactly is the purpose of having 5 females who hate their hair/outfits/jewelry/shoes/personal lives/me (for making them wear hair/outfits/shoes/jewelry) stand around like potted plants 30 plus minutes, only to go to a reception, get utterly plastered, and try to suck face with anything in a pair of trousers and predictably spend the last part of the evening crying at how they will never find a man who will appreciate them (or their 5 cats) and subsequently call the random dudes they tried to make a love connection with, every day for the next 2 weeks.

in an effort to adjust my attitude, i gravitated towards the testosterone that was manning the "x-treme d-jay" booth. i asked if they juggled with swords and swallowed fire. [silence] damn the other 2 dysfunctional amigos for leaving me unattended. they certainly appeared to have worked through their trauma over at the catering table sampling the various canapes and crudites.

i confess to having had high hopes for the people watching component, however the mullet tally did not even get into single digits, despite this being kentucky. the general populus comprised of a bevy of gaucho pant wearing sorority girls, complete with muffin tops and french manicures, whining to their post menopausal counterparts; the mother of the bride. oddly enough the hollywood penchant for having a baby before the "i do's" (or perhaps it started here and now brangelinabennifer are behind the times) was in evidence, as there were quite a few couples pushing strollers while perusing stationary and "destination wedding" packages. out of the few guys that appeared to have been dragged there by the promise of free food samples, there was one rather intriguing groom-to-be sporting a long pony tail, bandana, and black stonewash jeans (hell, i would pony up for a couple's gift certificate to tattoo charlie's just to get an invite to their wedding).

what i have come away with from this little experiment (?), intervention (?), is that a wedding is a slightly more structured version of a halloween party (except without the kitchen aid gadgets). it can often be hard to identify what you want, but i know that i do not want a cake the size of a filing cabinet, or gold leaf, calligraphic, tissue paper invitations where the interior of the envelope must match great auntie gertrude's liver spots. nor do i see the point in stretched limousines with strobe lights, karaoke machines, flat screen tv's or laptops (unless we're commuting to anchorage, alaska for the reception).

the night before bride-a-palooza i told a friend about the impending pilgrimage to all things haute couture, hair, and histrionic. she very nicely conceptualized it for me:
"so basically you're just going so you can make fun of people?"

[uhm....yeah]

"but, i'm going to the state fair for the same reason next month".
(i'm an equal opportunities make funner of others, damnit!)

leaving on a jet plane

i was recently asked what is permanent in life; "personality disorders". those bastards aren't ever changing; "no way! no how, not me, i'm fine, youre the one with the problem". aside from that, everything else is temporary. (cognitive distortion #1)

in the great airport lounge that i will call my life (up until now), (oh yes, its going to be one of THOSE narcissistic essays) it is easier to stay or "be" somewhere or with someone when there is a valid boarding pass with assigned seating tucked inside the back pocket. waiting to leave can make staying more enjoyable, where "goodbye" associated anxiety is much easier to tolerate- not that my cuticles are anything to go by.

many years ago i struggled to like an ex boyfriend's mother, she was loud and in the habit of picking her teeth after the meal at the kinds of restaurants where waiters come by and comb the crumbs/adjust your napkin for you. i panicked at the potential intrusions i envisaged on future domestic bliss, grandchildren, or any social gathering involving corn. of course once i broke up with him, i relaxed and liked her. we went hiking, to the movies...essentially i broke up with him so i could start dating his mother.

i really hate flying.

will you be my back up; in sickness, health and urinary incontinence?

at the risk of sounding too 'sex and the city', all proper theatrical productions have an understudy in case of unexpected outbreaks of mono, crabs or a pimple. my personal comedy (ok, drama), involves a selection of such understudies, sans the over ventilated, toothy, julia roberts perma-grin.

appropriate criteria for the "if neither one of us are married 5 years from RIGHT NOW, then let's plan on shoving cake in each other's mouths and faces" are typically dictated by the ones with uteruses dessicating to the size of a sunmaid raisin.

understudies tend to be somewhat asexual, where the 'hotness' quotient is superceded by sperm with super powered flagellums. toe curling is not a priority when you are selecting from the 'i cant read the top letter at the opticians so i can overlook your hooked nose' donor list. understudies are fraternal. finally, all those horny guy friends who are "just like [my] brother" get their opportunity. they are bestowed the privelege of seeing the 'one week out of the month knickers'; all month. these are the guys for whom you will leave (already leave) the bathroom door yawning when constipated for more accessible requests of last months 'people' magazine, or when the sphincter is so dilated that another roll of TP is of immediate medical necessity.

essentially, the long term personal ad requires someone who would be willing to wipe my bum when im 84.

dear diary, or 'oh shit, lets indulge in yet another weak ego, adolescent moment'

"letting go" (yes, i like to perseverate on certain things), according to my personal dictionary, means moving into a state of accepting that the past is past, and the people that you were so intensely present in the present with, are also; past. something of a relief, but also something that induces 5 year old resistance.

erikson postulated on the psychosocial stages of development, where the moratorium phase encompassed the abyss between adolescent and adult. although i truly believe that this comes at the proscribed time that guys start browsing the "just for men" products, and the y chromosomes amongst us embrace silicone and bleach.

closure (again refer to the 'disa dictionary definition' 58th. ed.) is not one final step, door, or coffin nail; rather it is a multilayer of cabbage, directly related to ongoing experiences (and re-experiences) in the maslow-vian 'hiearachy of needs'.

the shift from fantasy, which inevitably becomes temporal reality and finally abstract history, is as hard to swallow as something i am not going to mention because i do believe that my dad (and their swedish next door neighbour) checks this blog. the challenge is to re-frame 'letting go'; not as someone holding onto your greasy fingers as you hang over the niagara precipice, but rather the pruning of the dead (drama) that prevents new possibilities (although that doesnt sound nearly as exciting subject matter for the blog gristle).




*disclaimer: this was typed BUI; "blogging under the influence" (which, for those who receive emails from me, would acknowledge that it has actually been spell checked).

"one of these things is not like the other"

orange, banana, apple, filing cabinet. sesame street might be something of a distant memory, but the lessons are the same; i am the filing cabinet. my exclusion criteria is based solely on marital and procreative status.

last night i enjoyed a bottle of wine and some tapas with my former grad school tribe. we each testified our evidence through sharing stories that we had, in fact, survived the litigious, psychotic classmate with the personality disorder, the older student who never quite seemed to "get it" (and always wrote down EVERYTHING, uttered by the professor or fellow classmate, in pencil, on her yellow notepad), and that after learning the "house-tree-person" drawing assessment we rushed home to administer it to our respective (and prospective) boyfriends, to determine their suitability based on the placement/presence/absence of a chimney on their "house", or a trauma hole on their "tree".

we have each moved on in our various ways; made babies (1-2), moved houses (once or twice), changed jobs (once or twice), or just plain moved (repeatedly). there was some complaining about husbands and children (or husbands not taking care of children), about the struggles of what to cook for dinner (burn for dinner), magazine subscriptions (with suggestions of what to cook for dinner), alumni newsletters from UofL, which i wasnt receiving ("well thats because you keep moving"); please forward to: "please forward to:"....

to summarize with a gestalt; i am a filing cabinet. i am rigid and awkward, but functional. i am obsessively organized, categorized, and compartmentalized. i collect and contain a lot of stuff, some of it is useful, some of it i no longer need, but i am unable to throw away. you never know when you might need it.

i'm ready!?

it's easy to know when youre not ready, however transitioning into being "ready" is rather like navigating the moratorium state from adolescent to adult. for some this period can become long and protracted, or is revisited later in mid-life when buying a porsche seems like a splendid idea.

readiness is part intuition, part conscious decision, making it easier for self and others to question, analyze, doubt, rinse and repeat. as children, we feel the uncomfortable tummy grumbles and cry, whine and request food (a behaviour i diligently continue to practice into my 30's). we play hide and seek, counting "ready or not, here i come". graduating from nappies to the potty and then toilet there is the cry of "i'm readeeeeeeee!" to the lucky parent on 'wiping duty' to come and positively reinforce, coo, aaaah and complete the task.

not feeling "ready" can certainly be a way to avoid making a comittment, however decisions as an adult are less physically messy, unless the aforementioned adult has graduated to incontinence knickers. perhaps this is the reason that the progression from pencil, to ink pen with the magic eraser function at school was so exciting. there was always the option to erase the ink; nothing was quite indelible. the smudgeproof and waterproof sharpie then begins to feel like the writing implement of adulthood.

the fact is, a thick stick of charcoal on a big piece of white paper sometimes creates marks you planned, and sometimes not; the implicit "risk" and reward of creativity. often there is an unrecognizable mess, but this generally evolves into 'form' over the next few pages, or sketchbooks. i am beginning to get into my thick head that this is the point at which letting go and having a little faith that, in spite of the messes made, feeling "ready", and deciding "ready", are superceded by favouring neither. i dont know many parents who hovered over the 'early years elimination' with an egg timer harassing an "im finished".

free will

a wise woman recently explained to me her views on the human condition of free will. she has acquired a puppy; a fluffy, bouncy, chew everything except toys, and 'pee all over you when he sees you with excitement' puppy. she went on to tell me that she was moving a large, fluffy stuffed animal in one of the bedrooms and thought how much easier it would be if she could have been satisifed with a stuffed animal, how much less work and trouble it would have been.

stuffed animals do not roll over and bare their tummies for a scratch, they do not go tearing around the back garden after squirrels, and they do not throw themselves onto your lap and nuzzle into you. she said how much easier if her husband could behave how she wanted him to, but then she would be married to a "stuffed animal".

despite higher levels of domestic disarray, loving someone or something with free will implies a concsious choice and comittment. there is something to be said for that kind of reciprocity.

anthropomorphization

chameleons change their colours to blend in with the surrounding environment. crabs scuttle sideways to get to/avoid something in their path. puffer fish swell up to volleyball size proportions.

contrary to popular belief, ostriches do not bury their heads in the sand. the closest they get is to lay their long necks flat on the ground so that they become less visible, i would imagine the human version of this is the small child who rolls up into a ball in the corner and covers their face- if i cant see you, then you cant see me. ostriches also have those powerful legs; great to run away from any situation!

happily ever after

picket fences
puppies

a big black hole, a blank
surprise!


safety & security


i want to be surprised, a big crackerjack box surprise.
until
you see his little clown face slowly bobbing
until
he stops

(please can i open another?)

how do you pick "happily ever after" when you want to be surprised? do you pick, then the surprise is the journey; connecting the dots along the way

thats no surprise

you know where youre going to end
up

peter pan and tinkerbell

she is in love with a boy that doesn't want to grow up. he's not the only one with comittment issues.

nightmare...

...standing in front of a full length mirror in a swanky hotel room with a 4 poster bed and "window treatments", wearing a pouffy white dress, as my mother puts a veil over my head, looking into the mirror thinking "oh shit".

choose your own adventure

i think i found the books boring because you could go back and see what else might happen, instead of fantasizing over a potential gripping/fireworks/happily ever after ending. decisions and paths you get to choose as an adult dont have the 'flip to the end of the story for a peek at the outcome/repurcussions' feature. it's hard not to freeze at the moment of indecision, even when you've go inflatable arm bands on, the pool is only 1 metre deep, and your dad is waiting to catch you.