To follow up on my previous post, and my discussion of adult dating/sex sites, there's clearly some real money to be made out here by someone younger and less scrupulous than I am (I have oodles of scruples). I met one very pleasant person from the site who said I was the first response he got who wasn't some website trolling for subscribers to watch their porn (which won't watch itself, we know) or someone seeking paying customers. I.e., he was about to set up a meet with another woman from the site, and she sent him a list of rates. Of course, since he would NEVER hire a prostitute (see my earlier post about how no-one actually admits to using prostitutes), although he would spend $30 a month for a swingers website, that was a no go.
Well, see what fine company I'm keeping. Are there really no other married women out there who would actually like to enjoy sex again? It's just all the married men and me? Is it just that women who are sexually deprived will suffer in silence and do without? Or is it the idea that just stating: "Yes, I would like to have sex that I really truly enjoy again" is unfeminine? Or something else? If I were single, I wouldn't be in this bind. Obviously, it was easier when I was single and in my early to mid-twenties, but even at middle age, clearly the very effective technique of walking into a bar in a relatively short skirt with some make up on, sitting down, making eye contact with a few of the men sitting there, smiling, and then crossing one's legs to show a bit more thigh would probably still be effective. Since I have no intention of putting myself out there publicly like that (this isn't public, this is fictional), I'm trying something else.
But clearly, someone could be making some money here. As a rational economic actor, of course. What intrigues me more is the difference between male and female (human) expressions of desire. Obviously, men feel free to do a fair amount to make sure that they have sex and that it is satisfying sex. Women clearly feel less free. The lack of freedom that women feel, I believe, in the end results in men getting less sex. I.e., if we women hadn't all been pre-programmed either genetically or through socialization to not simply reach out for sex when we want sex, men would probably be getting a lot more sex. So guys, let's reward those gals who are willing to say, yes, I'd like to have sex. Don't say bad things about us. Because really, if you do, you're really saying that having sex with you is actually not a good thing, and I don't think we want to go there.
April 30, 2005
The Concept That People Are Rational Economic Actors
One of the underlying postulates of a lot of conservative economic thinking is that people are rational economic actors. This theory causes me to snort my drink through my nose every time I think of it while imbibing. Can anyone look at human behavior everyday and not conclude that we are all capable of acting in ways that are enormously against our own interests and the interests of those we love?
You see it in organizations: people sabotage themselves all the time if they have a boss they hate or if there is someone they want to hurt more than they want to perform well. Are any of us really capable of even identifying the things that are in our own interests? I've just started reading Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed, by Jared Diamond, and hope to understand exactly what would make a society such as that on Easter Island decide to pretty much devote all its resources toward building big giant heads (also a reference to Third Rock from the Sun, but hey). Presumably, everyone is rational enough to try to maximize their returns. But how does that explain people who go out and invest their savings and dedicate their lives to Amway and Nuskin? These things don't work, and we all know it. Yet someone can be convinced to invest.
Sorry this is a dull post. I told someone about my blog, and now I can feel myself censoring my words. Maybe I'll have something better to say, about sex, for instance, tomorrow. The economics of sex. Yeah, there's a topic. Have you ever noticed that no man ever admits to having visited a prostitute? Nope. No guy I've ever been involved with and no man any friend of mine has ever been involved with has ever admitted to seeing a hooker. "I'd just rather do it myself (i.e., jerk-off) than pay someone" is the standard disclaimer. But you know what? Someone is paying for an awful lot of sex that no-one is admitting to having because just like all that porn doesn't watch itself, all those escort services aren't escorting themselves around. They're in my yellow pages (several pages worth) and unless someone has no business sense at all, somebody must call those numbers, ask for those escorts, and pay enough bills to justify running the ads. Unless, of course, the people running the escort services aren't rational economic actors. Gosh, I even managed to tie that into my original theme. Ok, I think I got over the self-censoring part. Whew, that was a relief.
So, another thought: why do the hookers have the bad reputation? Obviously the men feel some shame or a man would say, "Yeah, when I get the itch, I hire someone to scratch it" but I guess the shame gets displaced onto the woman who actually does what he wants? Go figure. I've got to think more about this. I think I have another whole diatribe in me. And why is the whole thing geared toward male sexuality? I think there would be a lot of money to be made if someone would just pay attention to female arousal and orgasm (going back to Margareth Cho, and being "close").
You see it in organizations: people sabotage themselves all the time if they have a boss they hate or if there is someone they want to hurt more than they want to perform well. Are any of us really capable of even identifying the things that are in our own interests? I've just started reading Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed, by Jared Diamond, and hope to understand exactly what would make a society such as that on Easter Island decide to pretty much devote all its resources toward building big giant heads (also a reference to Third Rock from the Sun, but hey). Presumably, everyone is rational enough to try to maximize their returns. But how does that explain people who go out and invest their savings and dedicate their lives to Amway and Nuskin? These things don't work, and we all know it. Yet someone can be convinced to invest.
Sorry this is a dull post. I told someone about my blog, and now I can feel myself censoring my words. Maybe I'll have something better to say, about sex, for instance, tomorrow. The economics of sex. Yeah, there's a topic. Have you ever noticed that no man ever admits to having visited a prostitute? Nope. No guy I've ever been involved with and no man any friend of mine has ever been involved with has ever admitted to seeing a hooker. "I'd just rather do it myself (i.e., jerk-off) than pay someone" is the standard disclaimer. But you know what? Someone is paying for an awful lot of sex that no-one is admitting to having because just like all that porn doesn't watch itself, all those escort services aren't escorting themselves around. They're in my yellow pages (several pages worth) and unless someone has no business sense at all, somebody must call those numbers, ask for those escorts, and pay enough bills to justify running the ads. Unless, of course, the people running the escort services aren't rational economic actors. Gosh, I even managed to tie that into my original theme. Ok, I think I got over the self-censoring part. Whew, that was a relief.
So, another thought: why do the hookers have the bad reputation? Obviously the men feel some shame or a man would say, "Yeah, when I get the itch, I hire someone to scratch it" but I guess the shame gets displaced onto the woman who actually does what he wants? Go figure. I've got to think more about this. I think I have another whole diatribe in me. And why is the whole thing geared toward male sexuality? I think there would be a lot of money to be made if someone would just pay attention to female arousal and orgasm (going back to Margareth Cho, and being "close").
April 29, 2005
Valhalla: Ideas of Heaven and Hell
For a brunette, I have a lot of Scandinavian ancestors. I've wondered when the ferocious Vikings (the phrase "protect us from the terrible Northmen" was only removed from the English Book of Common Prayer in the 1970s, I believe, although correct me about the date please, I haven't checked it, I just remember my mother telling me that) turned into the pastry and butter loving Danes and Swedes of my acquaintance. The Norwegians still look pretty fierce, and the Finns (correctly, as I understand it) consider themselves in a different class altogether. The Finns (apocryphal but probably true story), when the Russians invaded in 1939 and Finland had practically no armaments, shrugged their shoulders and said "This is a small country. Where shall we bury them all?" Or words to that effect.
But even in modern, socialist-democratic superliberal Scandinavia there is an undercurrent of the old Nordic philosophy, of Odin giving up an eye for wisdom. The part of that philosophy most illuminating to me is the concept of Heaven as Valhalla. You get to go there if you go down fighting bravely. Your reward for doing so is that for eternity you dine with the Gods, and each successive day arise to fight in Valhalla until the day ends when you then resume drinking and boasting. So heaven is getting to battle forever. Wow. Wouldn't that be a great reward. I can see why a Muslim man would buy into the oodles of virgins in paradise fantasy (although is that supposed to be paradise for the women as well? I don't think so), but the idea that the reward for fighting the good fight is to be able to do it forever kind of mystifies me.
It's kind of like making partner in a law firm. All these people are working their tails off, forgoing kids' birthday parties, marriages falling apart, and losing most of their connection with real life to spend their entire days acting as though a misplaced comma is a crisis and doing so until midnight most days. If you do it enough and build up enough of a clientele, your reward is to be made partner and be allowed to do it for the next 35 years. At least in Valhalla you get to hit things.
The other thought that just popped into my brain is that the idea of a hot hell comes from a hot climate. The Norse hell is cold. We'll if I have to choose between freezing or fighting, I'd choose fighting, especially if a nice meal follows.
But even in modern, socialist-democratic superliberal Scandinavia there is an undercurrent of the old Nordic philosophy, of Odin giving up an eye for wisdom. The part of that philosophy most illuminating to me is the concept of Heaven as Valhalla. You get to go there if you go down fighting bravely. Your reward for doing so is that for eternity you dine with the Gods, and each successive day arise to fight in Valhalla until the day ends when you then resume drinking and boasting. So heaven is getting to battle forever. Wow. Wouldn't that be a great reward. I can see why a Muslim man would buy into the oodles of virgins in paradise fantasy (although is that supposed to be paradise for the women as well? I don't think so), but the idea that the reward for fighting the good fight is to be able to do it forever kind of mystifies me.
It's kind of like making partner in a law firm. All these people are working their tails off, forgoing kids' birthday parties, marriages falling apart, and losing most of their connection with real life to spend their entire days acting as though a misplaced comma is a crisis and doing so until midnight most days. If you do it enough and build up enough of a clientele, your reward is to be made partner and be allowed to do it for the next 35 years. At least in Valhalla you get to hit things.
The other thought that just popped into my brain is that the idea of a hot hell comes from a hot climate. The Norse hell is cold. We'll if I have to choose between freezing or fighting, I'd choose fighting, especially if a nice meal follows.
April 28, 2005
Single Malt Scotch vs. Blended
This is a very tough decision. Fortunately, one's decision need not be final. Tonight, one can have a finger of Glenmorangie and tomorrow one can taste some Chivas or Johnnie Walker Black Label. Of course, Macallans, Glenfidditch, Glenlivet, and Oban are also nice single malt tastes.
I'm a heathen. I like my single malt with either a little water or a little ice. Purists pooh-pooh this approach. Too bad. I've always wondered who makes up the rules about what drinks are appropriate. Do they have better taste than I have? Probably not.
I'm a heathen. I like my single malt with either a little water or a little ice. Purists pooh-pooh this approach. Too bad. I've always wondered who makes up the rules about what drinks are appropriate. Do they have better taste than I have? Probably not.
April 27, 2005
Why I sometimes wonder if I am actually female
Whenever people talk about masculine and feminine traits, either as absolutes or generalities, I end up wondering if I'm really transgendered but just don't know it. I've never wanted to be a man, but I've never really fit the stereotype for being a woman either. I think I'm pretty nifty the way I am, but it always seems to nonplus people. At least most people. Whenever I meet someone who accepts me the way I am, it's such a gift.
First, I am direct. Back before I was married and was dating ("being an active and practising heterosexual"), I made it clear that safe sex was the guy's job. I.e., pick up the goddamn condom before you come over. If a swain would try the "you can trust me, I'm clean" line, I would simply eject him from bed. Once I actually kicked a guy out of bed. It was the second time we had had the same altercation, I had explained that safe sex was a necessity, and that it was his job. Basically, I said something like, "If you want to fuck, think enough about it to stop at the drugstore and pick up a raincoat, OK, jackass?" So the second time, he was getting ready to get going without the condom, I moved to the side and used those nice strong leg muscles, and on the floor he fell. He remembered condoms every time thereafter.
I don't have trouble making up my mind. I don't need to know all the ingredients in a dish served at a restaurant to order it. I once worked with a lovely young woman who was very feminine. We were summer interns trying to win well-paying post-graduate jobs where our professional judgment was very much an issue. Every time we went to lunch (whether with other interns, with supervisors, or with clients) this superfeminine chiquita would ask about all the ingredients of every entree before ordering. This would take 20 minutes or so. Needless to say, she didn't get a permanent job offer. If she can't make up her mind about lunch (who, by age 26 doesn't know whether they would rather have caesar salad, a burger, or a pasta dish at any given point in time?), how will she ever decide strategy or research to assist a client? I never had that problem. I looked at the menu, and ordered my lunch. Less than a minute.
I don't like to shop. I hate to shop. I don't find it relaxing. I shop like a man. I walk into the store, pick out the item I want, buy it, and leave. I have two stores that I know carry my size clothes and my size shoes. If the item is visibly what I want (red shirt, for example) I don't even try it on. I buy it and leave. I can buy a job interview suit that looks good on me and give tailoring instructions in 20 minutes, maximum.
I don't like to share feelings (except here, and this doesn't count, because even if I have a real audience, you're imaginary to me). Don't share. Just deal with it. When friends tell me their problems, I don't go all emotional, I tell them how to fix things.
I don't feel coy around the opposite sex. I remember in college listening to a few dormmates talk about boyfriends, potential boyfriends, whether some poor schmoo might be "the one" (what a burden!), and all the interpretations of every gesture ever made by the guy in questions. BORING. If I thought I wanted a guy, I'd walk up to him. Start talking, then ask him if he wanted to leave. If I knew I wanted sex, I'd roll my diaphragm in my t-shirt sleeve, because I sure as shit didn't want to be carrying around a purse.
I don't like to decorate. I just let my Mom (an artist) take over. That way it looks good, and I don't have to do anything.
Am I just an abberation? I'm a pretty neat abberation, but still, I've never met another woman like me. I guess I've finally decided I'm quitting with trying to be feminine. I have body hair. You know what? That means I have a sex drive. It doesn't mean I have to spend hours on depiliation. I'd rather read a book. If I spent all the time grooming that women's magazines recommend, I'd never get to work.
I think it's funny that all the porn sites on the web (for a good reference, go see All that porn isn't going to watch itself)and everywhere else focus on these women with no body hair, enormous breasts, and tiny waists. Men explain this, saying that this is the fertile and sexually active women men are genetically programmed to want. Except that this statement is not true. You don't get porn star breasts naturally unless you're breastfeeding. After each kid, I've had stripper bazoombas. Unfortunately, breastfeeding, by the guy's logic, means the women isn't particular fertile until the breastfeeding stops. And of course, right after giving birth, you have no waist. And body hair! To have a sex drive, you need the hormones that give you body hair. The more hormones, the more hair. In the Renaissance, a woman with a slight mustache was considered to be highly sexual. Now, not only no facial hair, but no leg hair or any body hair, and even now, no pubic hair. What's that about? You want a woman with no sex drive who will fake it? No wonder so many married men complain about the absence of sex in their marriages. D'oh.
Even socially, if a woman pursues guys sexually, without wanting lots of hearts and flowers, instead of thanking her, they'll call her a slut. Is sleeping with them so horrible? So, porn as it exists now is women with very little actual evidence of a sex drive and physically incongruous bodies clearly faking pleasure. Where's the women's porn?
First, I am direct. Back before I was married and was dating ("being an active and practising heterosexual"), I made it clear that safe sex was the guy's job. I.e., pick up the goddamn condom before you come over. If a swain would try the "you can trust me, I'm clean" line, I would simply eject him from bed. Once I actually kicked a guy out of bed. It was the second time we had had the same altercation, I had explained that safe sex was a necessity, and that it was his job. Basically, I said something like, "If you want to fuck, think enough about it to stop at the drugstore and pick up a raincoat, OK, jackass?" So the second time, he was getting ready to get going without the condom, I moved to the side and used those nice strong leg muscles, and on the floor he fell. He remembered condoms every time thereafter.
I don't have trouble making up my mind. I don't need to know all the ingredients in a dish served at a restaurant to order it. I once worked with a lovely young woman who was very feminine. We were summer interns trying to win well-paying post-graduate jobs where our professional judgment was very much an issue. Every time we went to lunch (whether with other interns, with supervisors, or with clients) this superfeminine chiquita would ask about all the ingredients of every entree before ordering. This would take 20 minutes or so. Needless to say, she didn't get a permanent job offer. If she can't make up her mind about lunch (who, by age 26 doesn't know whether they would rather have caesar salad, a burger, or a pasta dish at any given point in time?), how will she ever decide strategy or research to assist a client? I never had that problem. I looked at the menu, and ordered my lunch. Less than a minute.
I don't like to shop. I hate to shop. I don't find it relaxing. I shop like a man. I walk into the store, pick out the item I want, buy it, and leave. I have two stores that I know carry my size clothes and my size shoes. If the item is visibly what I want (red shirt, for example) I don't even try it on. I buy it and leave. I can buy a job interview suit that looks good on me and give tailoring instructions in 20 minutes, maximum.
I don't like to share feelings (except here, and this doesn't count, because even if I have a real audience, you're imaginary to me). Don't share. Just deal with it. When friends tell me their problems, I don't go all emotional, I tell them how to fix things.
I don't feel coy around the opposite sex. I remember in college listening to a few dormmates talk about boyfriends, potential boyfriends, whether some poor schmoo might be "the one" (what a burden!), and all the interpretations of every gesture ever made by the guy in questions. BORING. If I thought I wanted a guy, I'd walk up to him. Start talking, then ask him if he wanted to leave. If I knew I wanted sex, I'd roll my diaphragm in my t-shirt sleeve, because I sure as shit didn't want to be carrying around a purse.
I don't like to decorate. I just let my Mom (an artist) take over. That way it looks good, and I don't have to do anything.
Am I just an abberation? I'm a pretty neat abberation, but still, I've never met another woman like me. I guess I've finally decided I'm quitting with trying to be feminine. I have body hair. You know what? That means I have a sex drive. It doesn't mean I have to spend hours on depiliation. I'd rather read a book. If I spent all the time grooming that women's magazines recommend, I'd never get to work.
I think it's funny that all the porn sites on the web (for a good reference, go see All that porn isn't going to watch itself)and everywhere else focus on these women with no body hair, enormous breasts, and tiny waists. Men explain this, saying that this is the fertile and sexually active women men are genetically programmed to want. Except that this statement is not true. You don't get porn star breasts naturally unless you're breastfeeding. After each kid, I've had stripper bazoombas. Unfortunately, breastfeeding, by the guy's logic, means the women isn't particular fertile until the breastfeeding stops. And of course, right after giving birth, you have no waist. And body hair! To have a sex drive, you need the hormones that give you body hair. The more hormones, the more hair. In the Renaissance, a woman with a slight mustache was considered to be highly sexual. Now, not only no facial hair, but no leg hair or any body hair, and even now, no pubic hair. What's that about? You want a woman with no sex drive who will fake it? No wonder so many married men complain about the absence of sex in their marriages. D'oh.
Even socially, if a woman pursues guys sexually, without wanting lots of hearts and flowers, instead of thanking her, they'll call her a slut. Is sleeping with them so horrible? So, porn as it exists now is women with very little actual evidence of a sex drive and physically incongruous bodies clearly faking pleasure. Where's the women's porn?
April 26, 2005
Back to Therapy
With my now helpful and wise new-old therapist, I am discussing all the things that I am sharing here on the web (according to my stat counter, 57 people have at least looked at this blog, although only a few have spent more than 5 minutes reading my thoughts). Actually, those statistics are a good thing. You should have better things to do. And the readership spikes when I write about sex. Why are my thoughts about sex interesting? I assure you, you probably have better and sexier thoughts. I'm just trying to express mine or find an outlet. Preferably with a mammal, better yet, a higher primate, best of all, another human, male, if possible.
I know, I know, I've got a husband. He just isn't all here right now. Should I make him feel bad about not quite doing it for me while he's worrying about me being the primary wage-earner, etc.? Or should I just assume he'll get it together eventually, at which point, I will reconnect? Things could really go awry here. But this is life, things can always get worse.
I know, I know, I've got a husband. He just isn't all here right now. Should I make him feel bad about not quite doing it for me while he's worrying about me being the primary wage-earner, etc.? Or should I just assume he'll get it together eventually, at which point, I will reconnect? Things could really go awry here. But this is life, things can always get worse.
April 25, 2005
Anarchism: Too Disorganized?
This post has nothing to do with my other thoughts, which are me basically whinging about the meaning of life, worrying about my husband, or contemplating having an affair (which is highly unlikely to occur with the candidates with whom I've been presented so far). I'm just remembering living abroad in a country veering switching from fascism to democracy. My host family's daughter, Lupe, was an anarchist. That lasted until she went to some of their political meetings. She dropped them because they were too disorganized. Well, I think she was onto something there, no?
Kind of like the family values republicans (and boy are there a lot of them, which does say something, doesn't it?) searching for extramarital nookie on the web . . . oops, I said this post wouldn't be about my obsessions with sex, depression, and the Sisyphean struggle that is our lives.
Kind of like the family values republicans (and boy are there a lot of them, which does say something, doesn't it?) searching for extramarital nookie on the web . . . oops, I said this post wouldn't be about my obsessions with sex, depression, and the Sisyphean struggle that is our lives.
Job Hunting and Dating
Job hunting and screening potential romantic or sexual partners are really identical pursuits. You send out a resume or post a listing on a dating website and see if your honest yet self-promoting self-appraisal gets any responses. I'm pretty good at both. I've been sending out resumes and getting interviews, which makes me feel guilty when I hear all the horror stories about people sending out hundreds of resumes and not getting a single interview. I'm clearly going to find a job, its just a question of whether it will be a job that suits me. Similarly, my posting on the dating website is getting lots of responses, and it's really more about elimination of candidates than anything else.
Word to the wise for men posting on websites, even websites describing themselves as sex and swingers websites: There are a lot more of you than women posting. Many of the women posting are actually decoys for other websites or professionals drumming up business. Actual women who want a commitment free hookup either on a one time or on-going basis will be very unlikely to: post their picture, give their actual name any time soon, send pictures without some hint of who you are, or give you much identifying information. If you push too hard, they will flee. Also, if a woman, in her profile requests discretion, take that as a hint that sending of a picture of your genitalia (or better yet, of you standing, with a woman on her knees in front of you fellating you) with or without your face visible will not impress the woman that you are capable of discretion. Just my humble opinion, but unless the whole point of these websites is for people to pretend they are going to have extramarital affairs, it seems as though men posting would be at pains to show that they can be discreet, respect limits, and will understand a woman's concerns regarding privacy and safety.
And what is with the eternal email flirtations? No-one can tell whether there is any chemistry or connection, even by viewing the sexiest photo ever. What does the person smell like? Skin texture? All that stuff.
Job hunting is easier.
Word to the wise for men posting on websites, even websites describing themselves as sex and swingers websites: There are a lot more of you than women posting. Many of the women posting are actually decoys for other websites or professionals drumming up business. Actual women who want a commitment free hookup either on a one time or on-going basis will be very unlikely to: post their picture, give their actual name any time soon, send pictures without some hint of who you are, or give you much identifying information. If you push too hard, they will flee. Also, if a woman, in her profile requests discretion, take that as a hint that sending of a picture of your genitalia (or better yet, of you standing, with a woman on her knees in front of you fellating you) with or without your face visible will not impress the woman that you are capable of discretion. Just my humble opinion, but unless the whole point of these websites is for people to pretend they are going to have extramarital affairs, it seems as though men posting would be at pains to show that they can be discreet, respect limits, and will understand a woman's concerns regarding privacy and safety.
And what is with the eternal email flirtations? No-one can tell whether there is any chemistry or connection, even by viewing the sexiest photo ever. What does the person smell like? Skin texture? All that stuff.
Job hunting is easier.
April 23, 2005
Pablo Neruda
Spanish poetry sounds beautiful even when it is about ugly and sad things. The same with Italian. Even the most mundane statement can have a poetry that English does not convey. Pablo Neruda's poetry captures a lot of my feelings about Spanish. His Cien Sonetos de Amor simpy overwhelm one with longing, and Canto General, Alturas de Macchu Picchu leaves on with the feeling that he must have known much of the sorrow and loss that would come with Los Desaparecidos in Chile and Argentina in the 70s and 80s. Trying to write anything worth reading after reading his works, which are so beautiful it almost hurts to read them (que son tan hermosas que casi duele leerlas) seems futile. But I still play the guitar after listening to Segovia or Kottke.
April 21, 2005
When did we age so much?
Like most people over age 35, I can't really believe I have reached this stage in life. When did it happen? Everything used to be exciting and new. Now to be excited, one has to up the ante a good deal. Why are we hard-wired so that once something is no longer new and fresh, our thoughts stray? Men seem to argue that this is a trait of theirs, but I have seen enough women get itchy feet to know that women also get bored once a relationship is in a rut. Unfortunately, nothing can recapture that sense of wonder one sees in teenagers or young adults embarking on a first romance. It's like the first time a baby sees flowers. Oh, they are so wonderful. We can never recapture that. It seems like everyone is trying to do so.
April 20, 2005
Angel from Montgomery
Listening to Bonnie Raitt sing Angel From Montgomery is one of life's truly sublime experiences. I'm trying to play it on the guitar, but, let's be honest, if I had one-tenth the talent that Bonnie does, either singing or playing the guitar, I probably wouldn't have to work doing the analytical work that I do. Does one have to be good at something to enjoy it? In the U.S., people are always yammering on about being "the best you can be" or reaching "your personal best". Everyone is always describing their abilities as exceptional or top-rated. What about those of us who are merely average or slightly more or less so. I am not a talented guitarist. I am an amateur guitarist of no great skill, but I truly love playing my guitar.
Before OLGA and the other online guitar chord sites on the internet, as a teenager I used to spend hours listening to music and then picking out the chords by ear. Hours and hours in my dorm room, annoying my roommate trying to figure out how to play Before the Deluge, Ladies of the Canyon, Sweet Sir Galahad, or Faithless Love. In high school Jackson Browne, Linda Rondstadt, Joan Baez, Judy Collins, and Joni Mitchell were the gods of my idolatry. Only more recently did I discover Bonnie Raitt, John Prine, Ry Cooder, Leo Kottke, Nancy Griffith, Leon Redbone, B.B. King, and other stuff I really wish I could play.
So I'm not good at it. I still love it.
Before OLGA and the other online guitar chord sites on the internet, as a teenager I used to spend hours listening to music and then picking out the chords by ear. Hours and hours in my dorm room, annoying my roommate trying to figure out how to play Before the Deluge, Ladies of the Canyon, Sweet Sir Galahad, or Faithless Love. In high school Jackson Browne, Linda Rondstadt, Joan Baez, Judy Collins, and Joni Mitchell were the gods of my idolatry. Only more recently did I discover Bonnie Raitt, John Prine, Ry Cooder, Leo Kottke, Nancy Griffith, Leon Redbone, B.B. King, and other stuff I really wish I could play.
So I'm not good at it. I still love it.
Let's meet, let's cheat, let's be discreet
Well, I've actually started meeting my married suitors who want something on the side. Apparently, women, of any age who might be interested in fooling around without strings are REALLY in high demand. This would make a fascinating sociological study, except I don't know how one could do it scientifically. As I wrote before, I posted a rather vague but honest profile, except for birthdate (which I have since corrected to make me older than I actually am), and said I was looking for something to spark up my life without ruining my marriage (it's true. I don't think I'll find that there, but it is a true statement). I said I was plump. I only once went into the site's chatrooms. Unfortunately, the chatters were not writing in what I would consider to be English. I posted no photo.
I left. I mentioned before that I then I started getting emails to the anonymous email account I set up to go with the ad. Lots of emails. After eliminating the people who need to go to grammar and punctuation re-education camp and the out-and-out creeps (over 100 responses fell into one category, the other, or both), I still had plenty of letters from guys who sincerely seemed to want to get to know me under the conditions I had set forward.
So far, I've met four, and I'm quite convinced that I will never, ever, ever have an affair. The funny thing is, none of these guys actually lied about who they were. Height, age, weight, etc. all seemed to be approximately correct. I'd heard horror stories, but no-one seemed wildly off. Nonetheless, it's just like dating. Even though one doesn't want a commitment, all the other intangibles apply and somehow, without a spark, nothing is going to happen.
I'm still dubious about the women who aren't having sex with their husbands. Even if the sex isn't orgasmic, don't they get some closeness out of intercourse, and some happiness in their husband's satisfaction? Or is the sex actually unpleasant? Who are these guys? There is such a Rashomon-like quality to the whole endeavor. I think I'm being completely honest: married woman, missing something, seeks something. They say the same. But is it really sex everyone's looking for or some sort of magical rescue or escape? I can't remember the name of the movie starring Vanessa Redgrave, but in it one man, responding to his single friend's complaint of loneliness says "If you don't want to feel truly lonely, never marry." This comment follows a scene in which the husband and wife are so clearly not able to connect or communicate that it is painful to watch.
Anyway, I'm trying to find ways to build up my husband a bit without sacrificing more of myself to that task. I know there's no happy ending in the looking for a little action on the side activity. But then, of course, this is life, there is no happy ending. We're all going to die.
I left. I mentioned before that I then I started getting emails to the anonymous email account I set up to go with the ad. Lots of emails. After eliminating the people who need to go to grammar and punctuation re-education camp and the out-and-out creeps (over 100 responses fell into one category, the other, or both), I still had plenty of letters from guys who sincerely seemed to want to get to know me under the conditions I had set forward.
So far, I've met four, and I'm quite convinced that I will never, ever, ever have an affair. The funny thing is, none of these guys actually lied about who they were. Height, age, weight, etc. all seemed to be approximately correct. I'd heard horror stories, but no-one seemed wildly off. Nonetheless, it's just like dating. Even though one doesn't want a commitment, all the other intangibles apply and somehow, without a spark, nothing is going to happen.
I'm still dubious about the women who aren't having sex with their husbands. Even if the sex isn't orgasmic, don't they get some closeness out of intercourse, and some happiness in their husband's satisfaction? Or is the sex actually unpleasant? Who are these guys? There is such a Rashomon-like quality to the whole endeavor. I think I'm being completely honest: married woman, missing something, seeks something. They say the same. But is it really sex everyone's looking for or some sort of magical rescue or escape? I can't remember the name of the movie starring Vanessa Redgrave, but in it one man, responding to his single friend's complaint of loneliness says "If you don't want to feel truly lonely, never marry." This comment follows a scene in which the husband and wife are so clearly not able to connect or communicate that it is painful to watch.
Anyway, I'm trying to find ways to build up my husband a bit without sacrificing more of myself to that task. I know there's no happy ending in the looking for a little action on the side activity. But then, of course, this is life, there is no happy ending. We're all going to die.
April 19, 2005
Reality: It's such a personal thing.
Really, what can one do? My husband seems to be entering some sort of fugue state, where the real obligations of life, supporting one's family, paying the mortgage, etc., fall a distant second to his dreams. He wants to have his own business, yet doesn't research business plans, markets, or have any strong sense of where he wants to go. He still wanted to invest $100,000 (which, not too coincidentally, we don't have) to buy an auto repair shop, a business he has never run and hasn't really researched. How do you say "We just don't have the cash or a good plan for this business" to someone who understands neither concern. Is me being the primary wage earner the problem? Is he emasculated? If so, get over it. Family values creeps, I don't want to hear from you unless you'll pay my mortgage.
April 17, 2005
Beautiful Spring Day
Days like this are such a gift that all the other troubles seem to fade away. I can forget all the worries and hassles of life, at least for a bit, and just focus on the cherry blossoms, flowering tulips, forsythia, and other spring blooms just bursting out all over the area.
Lots of family comes to visit next week, and, for once, I am actually looking forward to seeing everyone. Work is moving ahead. My husband is feeling better. The kids are sick, but not seriously, and I'm going to get to take a long walk this afternoon.
Stopping to smell the roses is such a cliche (and the roses aren't out yet), but days like today remind me why, no matter how difficult situations are, I must just keep going. Of course, we are guaranteed suffering, sorrow, and loss in this lifetime. Every relationship ends, either due to parting (whether happy or sad, voluntary or involuntary) or death. But some moments are just jewels that shine. Today is one of those days.
The baby is proudly working on her rolling over skills (mad skillz, I guess they're called in the modern vernacular), several projects are progressing nicely, and just looking out the window makes me smile. So I'm out of here (blogger) and out to enjoy a clear crisp day with dog, kids, and spouse.
Lots of family comes to visit next week, and, for once, I am actually looking forward to seeing everyone. Work is moving ahead. My husband is feeling better. The kids are sick, but not seriously, and I'm going to get to take a long walk this afternoon.
Stopping to smell the roses is such a cliche (and the roses aren't out yet), but days like today remind me why, no matter how difficult situations are, I must just keep going. Of course, we are guaranteed suffering, sorrow, and loss in this lifetime. Every relationship ends, either due to parting (whether happy or sad, voluntary or involuntary) or death. But some moments are just jewels that shine. Today is one of those days.
The baby is proudly working on her rolling over skills (mad skillz, I guess they're called in the modern vernacular), several projects are progressing nicely, and just looking out the window makes me smile. So I'm out of here (blogger) and out to enjoy a clear crisp day with dog, kids, and spouse.
April 16, 2005
The Stoics
I am not a stoic. Whenever someone says, "whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger" I always think "what the fuck is wrong with being weak and happy?" Additionally, hardships are not necessarily strengthening. They are additive. While one might survive a divorce, or a friend's suicide, or a job loss, or a handicapped child, too many such crisis type events can tend to overwhelm. I've dealt with my parents divorce, I've checked more family and friends into psychiatric wards than I care to think about, been the last person a friend of mine called before committing suicide, seen a husband through a business failure, and had several miscarriages. I'm not stronger because of it.
I don't want to be a stoic. I know I can survive pretty much anything thrown at me. That doesn't mean I want more. So weak and happy, that's my new goal. Of course, for the family, I'll put up with whatever, but outside of that, I'm going for frivolous, for shallow, for carpe diem. To misquote Dante, I'm midway through my life on a darkening path, but I don't want to take the journey he did (nor do I accept his theology) to reach a better place.
I don't want to be a stoic. I know I can survive pretty much anything thrown at me. That doesn't mean I want more. So weak and happy, that's my new goal. Of course, for the family, I'll put up with whatever, but outside of that, I'm going for frivolous, for shallow, for carpe diem. To misquote Dante, I'm midway through my life on a darkening path, but I don't want to take the journey he did (nor do I accept his theology) to reach a better place.
Angst, Ennui, & Weltschmertz -- the Zeitgeist of Our Times
Obviously, to anyone who might ever read this blog, I'm not at a comfortable spot in my life right now. Having always tried to do right by others, I am now trying, selfishly, to take care of my own needs. Hence the dating forays. At this point, I've met three men, talked to one other, and plan to meet at least two others for look sees. Not to make new friends or look for a replacement or supplemental spouse (I already have one, imagine how much more trouble I would be in if I had two. This though makes me wonder about cultures the allow for polygyny/polygamy, such as certain Islamic republics, etc. What, you're allowed four wives, so you get your nagging in quadrophenia?).
My nefarious plan, such as it is, is to determine how many guys around me are actually in the same boat I am -- loving their spouses and yet out in the cold, either due to disinterest, incompatible tastes, illness, or whatever, and then see if there is any solution short of divorce that can resolve my current situation. I may or may not do anything with the information, phone numbers, and email addresses I have collected. I always wonder if one of these guys is going to turn out to be someone I already know.
It is such a mean trick. Once you have kids, you want to be committed more than anything to your spouse. But first the midnight feedings, and then the little feet padding into your bedroom early in the morning (just when you and your spouse were going to start cuddling), and then the extra worry about money, and college, and the future, and all of a sudden your husband doesn't see you as a desireable woman anymore. He's right, you did gain weight during pregnancy. Also, I wonder if the modern practice of having the husband join you in the delivery room is really such a good idea. Watching you try to pass the equivalent of a bag of sugar through your vagina is not exactly going to be a sexy and erotic memory for him. Alternatively, your husband still desires you, but simply doesn't take the time to get you in close to the zone. I'm not a big fan of Margaret Cho (I'm not hip enough to get a lot of her stuff), but she had one riff on the differences between male and female sexuality (I think in "I'm the One that I Want", but I could be wrong) in which a guy has finally gotten his moves going the right way and she's close . . . and then he starts doing something else. She explains he needs to go back to whatever he was doing, because she was close, but he just doesn't get it. Guys don't get close. They're already there.
So what to do? Probably not what I am doing, that's for damn sure.
My nefarious plan, such as it is, is to determine how many guys around me are actually in the same boat I am -- loving their spouses and yet out in the cold, either due to disinterest, incompatible tastes, illness, or whatever, and then see if there is any solution short of divorce that can resolve my current situation. I may or may not do anything with the information, phone numbers, and email addresses I have collected. I always wonder if one of these guys is going to turn out to be someone I already know.
It is such a mean trick. Once you have kids, you want to be committed more than anything to your spouse. But first the midnight feedings, and then the little feet padding into your bedroom early in the morning (just when you and your spouse were going to start cuddling), and then the extra worry about money, and college, and the future, and all of a sudden your husband doesn't see you as a desireable woman anymore. He's right, you did gain weight during pregnancy. Also, I wonder if the modern practice of having the husband join you in the delivery room is really such a good idea. Watching you try to pass the equivalent of a bag of sugar through your vagina is not exactly going to be a sexy and erotic memory for him. Alternatively, your husband still desires you, but simply doesn't take the time to get you in close to the zone. I'm not a big fan of Margaret Cho (I'm not hip enough to get a lot of her stuff), but she had one riff on the differences between male and female sexuality (I think in "I'm the One that I Want", but I could be wrong) in which a guy has finally gotten his moves going the right way and she's close . . . and then he starts doing something else. She explains he needs to go back to whatever he was doing, because she was close, but he just doesn't get it. Guys don't get close. They're already there.
So what to do? Probably not what I am doing, that's for damn sure.
April 15, 2005
Using the Power For Good
I can't stand the whole "random acts of kindness" people any more than I can stand the "what would Jesus do" people. Long ago, when I was a waitress, I observed that anyone with any sort of religious jewelry,clothing, or other religious or spiritual indicators (words on a t-shirt, a turban, a yarmulke, certain types of clothing, or the WWJD bracelet of "practice random acts of kindness" slogans) invariably was a bad tipper. So who actually does good deeds?
A recent foray into the world of online dating for married people brought this out. I actually went on a date with guy from a website to remain nameless. He actually was as attractive as he said he was, met in a public safe place, as I requested, and, upon sitting down for a coffee immediately tried to set up an assignation. I noticed that he had a cross on a necklace and asked him about it. He told me that Jesus was his personal savior and asked me if I had been born again in the Lord and did I know Jesus's love? I asked him if he perceived any inconsistency between those words and his actions to date.
However, the saddest thing about this whole endeavor has been the discovery that pretty much every married man in the major metropolitan area, either (1) isn't having sex with his wife at all, (2) isn't having sex more than once every few months, (3) isn't having good sex, (4) is having sex that the wife merely tolerates, or (5) has a wife with an illness that precludes physical intimacy. Presumably, a number of these guys are lying (Let's vote: I'd say 65%. What does everyone else think? Please add a comment below). But posting a fictitious, but none too flattering self-description without any picture or racy details got me hundreds of responses. About 95% could be excluded because of abuse of English, really bad punctuation (and I mean, worse than mine), horrible Internet abbreviations ("when can i CU"), or, best of all, inclusion of photos of the guy's penis (do these men think this technique will work with an actual woman?). The remaining 5% or so have comprised more than 20 men (so far).
I decided to investigate further, and began reading the profiles of the "women" on that website. Most women on the website describe themselves as under 30, tiny-waisted (22" or 24") and big breasted (38DD etc.) and ready for a "hot stud" or something like that. My read: this is a professional solicitation or an attempt to bring traffic to a website. An actual live woman posting anything on such a site gets tons of responses. I can't figure out what is going on. Are all these men really wanting sex much more than their wives want it? Or are the wives on some alternate reality website where all the men are tightly muscled, well-read, good speakers, sensitive and caring lovers, and at least 9" long?
It really makes me sad. All these people with lifetime mates who don't have sex on tap. Of course, since those people include me, it's even sadder. Is there always an imbalance of desire or does the appearance of children put the kibosh on sexual desire forever? Are the wives of these men who are out seeking sex thinking their sex lives are good or bad? Do they think once every two, three, or four months is adequate? Is that adequate for them?
Maybe the idealized female form, now, at least in porn movies pretty much hairless except on the head is an indicator. Women depiliate all over the place because we're not supposed to have hair on our legs, lips, chins, underarms, or whereever. But the hormones that add to the female sex drive are also linked to hirsutism (with differences due to various ethnic backgrounds). If we've been genetically selecting again hirsute females, are the females who really don't desire sex that much the one's who get it?
Also, in college and high school, it's made very clear to us that we shouldn't initiate sexually. Being sexually liberated really hasn't happened. We've been made sexually available, but that's different. A young woman, at least when I was in school, who simply pursued sex as an end in itself would be called a slut, or whatever. Like it's a bad thing that she likes sex? Or the guy calling her a slut (for sleeping with him for God's sake) has such low self-esteem that he's absolutely certain that any woman actually eager to be intimate with him must be defective? I think he should just say, "Thank you. Can I have some more?" Finally, the woman gets the message and stops reaching out.
It's a mystery.
A recent foray into the world of online dating for married people brought this out. I actually went on a date with guy from a website to remain nameless. He actually was as attractive as he said he was, met in a public safe place, as I requested, and, upon sitting down for a coffee immediately tried to set up an assignation. I noticed that he had a cross on a necklace and asked him about it. He told me that Jesus was his personal savior and asked me if I had been born again in the Lord and did I know Jesus's love? I asked him if he perceived any inconsistency between those words and his actions to date.
However, the saddest thing about this whole endeavor has been the discovery that pretty much every married man in the major metropolitan area, either (1) isn't having sex with his wife at all, (2) isn't having sex more than once every few months, (3) isn't having good sex, (4) is having sex that the wife merely tolerates, or (5) has a wife with an illness that precludes physical intimacy. Presumably, a number of these guys are lying (Let's vote: I'd say 65%. What does everyone else think? Please add a comment below). But posting a fictitious, but none too flattering self-description without any picture or racy details got me hundreds of responses. About 95% could be excluded because of abuse of English, really bad punctuation (and I mean, worse than mine), horrible Internet abbreviations ("when can i CU"), or, best of all, inclusion of photos of the guy's penis (do these men think this technique will work with an actual woman?). The remaining 5% or so have comprised more than 20 men (so far).
I decided to investigate further, and began reading the profiles of the "women" on that website. Most women on the website describe themselves as under 30, tiny-waisted (22" or 24") and big breasted (38DD etc.) and ready for a "hot stud" or something like that. My read: this is a professional solicitation or an attempt to bring traffic to a website. An actual live woman posting anything on such a site gets tons of responses. I can't figure out what is going on. Are all these men really wanting sex much more than their wives want it? Or are the wives on some alternate reality website where all the men are tightly muscled, well-read, good speakers, sensitive and caring lovers, and at least 9" long?
It really makes me sad. All these people with lifetime mates who don't have sex on tap. Of course, since those people include me, it's even sadder. Is there always an imbalance of desire or does the appearance of children put the kibosh on sexual desire forever? Are the wives of these men who are out seeking sex thinking their sex lives are good or bad? Do they think once every two, three, or four months is adequate? Is that adequate for them?
Maybe the idealized female form, now, at least in porn movies pretty much hairless except on the head is an indicator. Women depiliate all over the place because we're not supposed to have hair on our legs, lips, chins, underarms, or whereever. But the hormones that add to the female sex drive are also linked to hirsutism (with differences due to various ethnic backgrounds). If we've been genetically selecting again hirsute females, are the females who really don't desire sex that much the one's who get it?
Also, in college and high school, it's made very clear to us that we shouldn't initiate sexually. Being sexually liberated really hasn't happened. We've been made sexually available, but that's different. A young woman, at least when I was in school, who simply pursued sex as an end in itself would be called a slut, or whatever. Like it's a bad thing that she likes sex? Or the guy calling her a slut (for sleeping with him for God's sake) has such low self-esteem that he's absolutely certain that any woman actually eager to be intimate with him must be defective? I think he should just say, "Thank you. Can I have some more?" Finally, the woman gets the message and stops reaching out.
It's a mystery.
Sex and other fun things.
I haven't been able to post in a while. Work certainly does interfere with online snarking, among other things. Aside from trying to get into the swing of my new position, I been trying to come up with lists of areas in which I would like to improve my life. Aside from improving earnings without sacrificing quality of life (it is such an extreme either/or proposition in this town), the next thing on my list would be to start enjoying sex again.
Does the sex lives of couples who have been married for more than a decade invariably go stale? If not, why not? Is it the kids that come along (and climb into bed in the morning or middle of the night, interrupting any fun plans one might have) that put the nail in the coffin, or is it that once one is a mother, then one's husband simply can't see you as sexy? I try to discuss these things with my husband, who simply insists that I'm enjoying myself when we have sex. No counseling, no read through Joy of Sex (or better yet, She Comes First). I don't turn him away. It's not unpleasant. But pleasant is not exactly the word I want to be using to describe intimate relations with my mate. So I'm goal-oriented. What am I going to do?
Does the sex lives of couples who have been married for more than a decade invariably go stale? If not, why not? Is it the kids that come along (and climb into bed in the morning or middle of the night, interrupting any fun plans one might have) that put the nail in the coffin, or is it that once one is a mother, then one's husband simply can't see you as sexy? I try to discuss these things with my husband, who simply insists that I'm enjoying myself when we have sex. No counseling, no read through Joy of Sex (or better yet, She Comes First). I don't turn him away. It's not unpleasant. But pleasant is not exactly the word I want to be using to describe intimate relations with my mate. So I'm goal-oriented. What am I going to do?
April 8, 2005
Truth or Beauty
Sometimes I think one has to choose whether one will view life through a lens allowing one to see the truth or through a lens allowing one to see the beauty of existence. Sometimes I think that truth and beauty can coexist (or virtue and beauty, for that matter), but then I seesaw to the perspective that these qualities are opposites.
For instance, one can read the Diary of Anne Frank and read the last sentence, which I shall now misquote, in which she confides that she still believes in the goodness of mankind and think "How wonderful, that in the midst of the horror of World War II and being forced into hiding, she still capable of optimism" or one can think "yes, but her fellow man killed her at Auschwitz within the year (I think) and I doubt she had such an optimistic view as she died of typhus or cholera (I don't remember which, but not a pleasant way to die, to the extent that there are pleasant ways to die)."
I have always tried to look for the good in other people, and at times that has been a real protection, but at other times a curse. Sometimes, I think finding something good in someone, whether it really exists or not, gives that person the chance, that he might not have had before, to be better than expected. When, as a teenager, I hitchhiked around Europe, which was a really stupid idea, I had some really nice people who would take me home to meet parents, wives, whatever. I think by simply being so sweet, the poor guy would think "Who is this kid and who are her parents?" and then set out to rectify the omission. I had one really bad ride, where I threw myself out of a moving car (let's just say that as we entered a town where the driver had to slow down I knew that I had a choice to make about the extent of bodily harm I was willing to endure). At that point, I picked myself up off the curb and walked into the first business establishment I saw, a bar. I asked the bartender (a woman) if there was a phone I could use to call a friend of mine who lived in a reasonably nearby town. The bartender left the bar and brought back the phone, already connected to my friend. I got on the phone and Trini told me to come to Baza and then her mother talked to me and said I was welcome to visit. This was during Semana Santa, and it was busy in Andalucia. The bartender had her cousin drive me to the train station and put me on the train to Baza, and then when I got there, Trini's Mama went into full Spanish Mama Mode (a real experience in coddling). I was most certainly not allowed to leave until my exchange program's Spring vacation was over and I was on a train back to my school. I realized later that the bartender had filled Trini's Mama in on all the details of my dive from the car, and that Trini's Mama had NO intention of letting me loose to hitchhike on the highways of Spain or any other country.
So what's the moral? That women like Trini's Mama exist? Or that men like the guy driving the car, who made it clear that by getting into the car I had consented to whatever he wanted me to consent to, which I was never very clear on, being sixteen and stupid at the time, but which I was sure would not be pleasant or good for me at a minimum?
My oldest daughter is shockingly beautiful, even at age 5. What do I tell her? Your looks are an asset? Or, you will need to be extra self-protective, especially since you are so tall. When I was 13, I was 5'10" tall. I passed for 18 (back when the drinking age was 18) easily. Guys didn't seem to get that a woman who is 5'10" will have reached that height before age 18 or 16. I had to deal with a lot of stuff that probably should not have come my way. I survived without harm (I was pretty aware that I was way too young for most of those guys), and didn't actually get into play, sexually, until college. But my daughter, who at 5 is so confident, she rules the world, is not just attractive, she's beautiful beyond belief. Will her good will protect her? Or do I need her to be less fearless?
For instance, one can read the Diary of Anne Frank and read the last sentence, which I shall now misquote, in which she confides that she still believes in the goodness of mankind and think "How wonderful, that in the midst of the horror of World War II and being forced into hiding, she still capable of optimism" or one can think "yes, but her fellow man killed her at Auschwitz within the year (I think) and I doubt she had such an optimistic view as she died of typhus or cholera (I don't remember which, but not a pleasant way to die, to the extent that there are pleasant ways to die)."
I have always tried to look for the good in other people, and at times that has been a real protection, but at other times a curse. Sometimes, I think finding something good in someone, whether it really exists or not, gives that person the chance, that he might not have had before, to be better than expected. When, as a teenager, I hitchhiked around Europe, which was a really stupid idea, I had some really nice people who would take me home to meet parents, wives, whatever. I think by simply being so sweet, the poor guy would think "Who is this kid and who are her parents?" and then set out to rectify the omission. I had one really bad ride, where I threw myself out of a moving car (let's just say that as we entered a town where the driver had to slow down I knew that I had a choice to make about the extent of bodily harm I was willing to endure). At that point, I picked myself up off the curb and walked into the first business establishment I saw, a bar. I asked the bartender (a woman) if there was a phone I could use to call a friend of mine who lived in a reasonably nearby town. The bartender left the bar and brought back the phone, already connected to my friend. I got on the phone and Trini told me to come to Baza and then her mother talked to me and said I was welcome to visit. This was during Semana Santa, and it was busy in Andalucia. The bartender had her cousin drive me to the train station and put me on the train to Baza, and then when I got there, Trini's Mama went into full Spanish Mama Mode (a real experience in coddling). I was most certainly not allowed to leave until my exchange program's Spring vacation was over and I was on a train back to my school. I realized later that the bartender had filled Trini's Mama in on all the details of my dive from the car, and that Trini's Mama had NO intention of letting me loose to hitchhike on the highways of Spain or any other country.
So what's the moral? That women like Trini's Mama exist? Or that men like the guy driving the car, who made it clear that by getting into the car I had consented to whatever he wanted me to consent to, which I was never very clear on, being sixteen and stupid at the time, but which I was sure would not be pleasant or good for me at a minimum?
My oldest daughter is shockingly beautiful, even at age 5. What do I tell her? Your looks are an asset? Or, you will need to be extra self-protective, especially since you are so tall. When I was 13, I was 5'10" tall. I passed for 18 (back when the drinking age was 18) easily. Guys didn't seem to get that a woman who is 5'10" will have reached that height before age 18 or 16. I had to deal with a lot of stuff that probably should not have come my way. I survived without harm (I was pretty aware that I was way too young for most of those guys), and didn't actually get into play, sexually, until college. But my daughter, who at 5 is so confident, she rules the world, is not just attractive, she's beautiful beyond belief. Will her good will protect her? Or do I need her to be less fearless?
Therapy (no, not the David Lodge book, although that's great)
I'm in therapy. I've been in therapy off and on for years. First I saw a therapist while my birth family self-destructed. Then I saw a therapist, off and on, at boarding school and then college. At 25, I had some sort of crisis and started again. I went through three therapists before I found one I clicked with. During that last therapy, I decided to get married (to the man who is now my husband) and start the graduate studies that led to my current career. Everything was on track. I knew I tended to get depressed easily, but figured I knew how to handle it: lots of exercise, keeping my mind busy, always having a goal to be headed toward, ample application of chocolate, and always having light reading around, so that I could switch to something not-too-depressing if the history or biography or "serious novel" that I was reading simply made the world too bleak. Bubble baths also helped.
My husband also helped. While I am the primary breadwinner, my husband babies me like crazy. He runs my bath for me, picks up my favorite foods at the grocery store, reminds me to take my medicine, and generally makes my life easy in every way possible except the earning of money. Obviously, having kids has cut back on the amount of babying I get. When I had my first child, it was a twin pregnancy, but I miscarried one of the twins. But I figured, one pregnancy, one healthy child after age 35, I couldn't really complain. Then, the next year I had another miscarriage at the same time as bumping into some real job trouble for the first time in a long time. I started therapy again (also taking medicine) to help. I found a new job requiring us to move, but my therapist gave me the name of someone here who I also liked. I had another miscarriage, the new job was horrible, and while job-hunting and everything else, I stopped seeing my therapist simply because life was too hectic. Fast forward a year and a half: another new baby and job-hunting again with some other crises as well (neighbor waging war, insurance company refusing to cover daughter, other insurance company trying to skip out on paying disability for post child-birth recovery), I tried to find someone inexpensive in-network. No-one's available. A friend recommends a therapist who has no time free. The recommended but unavailable therapist recommends someone in her office.
What a damn disaster. This young woman seemed surprised that I feel pressured to find work, etc. For $130 for 45 minutes (which she recommended twice a week), she told me I had undifferentiated anger without any guidance as to what to do about it, which, not too surprisingly, made me mad. She found me to be so fierce on the outside yet fragile on the inside. My anger made it hard for her to deal with me. I spent more time worrying about what this tender flower was feeling than about how to resolve my own problems (which are, in order: getting a stop-gap job to pay the bills, finding out what permanent job might suit me, finding that job, getting my husband better, and continuing to provide a safe and happy home for my children. After all those factors are taken care of, I'll start worrying about deep and meaningful things like personal fulfilment and nurturing or smacking my inner infant). After 6 weeks of therapy with this woman, I cried on the subway on the way home, did not want to get out of bed, and was basically a basket case. When I called her, requesting emergency assistance (need to get out of bed and find a job, not cry on the phone when answering potential employers' calls, and otherwise be at least partially functional), she said she would see me the next week and why was I calling her? Oh, I don't know, because she was my therapist and supposed to help me, not just watch with disinterest as my life increasingly goes down the loo? I told her I wouldn't pay for further sessions. Finally, chance works in my favor, and in calling around to get recommendations, one of the numbers given to me has one digit transposed and that is the number of the therapist I'd stopped seeing before, recommended by my prior therapist in the other city. I'm not going to print her name, but she is a jewel. The first thing she says is that "we'll worry about money later. We need to get you through this." For the first time in months, I feel like things have a hope of improving, at least from totally doomridden to merely dire or even mildly gloomy with a chance of cheer.
But aside from this one caring therapist who actually seems to want to help me resolve the immediate problems and then work on background stuff when appropriate, are psychotherapists capable of looking at problems in terms of the hierarchy of needs (first you need food and shelter, then the other stuff)? Is therapy just for the well to do with worries? Is it designed to help someone who is truly in crisis or is the assumption that everyone who is in crisis can afford lengthy inpatient stays at luxury mental hospitals? Do these people even know about managed care? I'd be interested in hearing comments (to the extent this blog is ever read) from actual therapists about how one would help someone whose personal and career crises put them, not too surprisingly, in fiscal difficulties. Or are personal crises that do NOT affect one's ability to earn a living and pay one's bills the only ones you treat? And the other causes of personal crises, death, divorce, addiction, and illness, tend to affect people's financial well-being as well. Are these people only treatable until insolvent? Do you feel any obligation to be a bit, oh, goal oriented to avoid exacerbating the crisis at hand or is that just too mundane for you? And to the fired therapist: no, I do not need to hear from you.
If anyone is seeking therapy in the greater DC area, I'll be glad to disclose the name of the fired therapist so that you can avoid her. And you really should avoid her.
Now maybe I really am just a fragile person. But I've been supporting myself for the last 25 years, my family for the last 13, and have managed to become an educated professional despite parental divorce and mental illness, suicide of loved ones, and various other hurdles. Despite my limitations, I have a loving relationship with my husband and children, and would like to improve that and my ability to support them. Telling me I have "undifferentiated anger" really isn't that helpful. At least I have a competent, caring therapist now, and I have accomplished step 1, the stop-gap job to tide me over until I get back on my feet. That woman (the fired therapist) would have to get therapy to process split hairs or chapped lips; I don't know how she would deal with unexpected pregnancy while on a new job, a husband's mental illness, or one's own post-partum depression while job-hunting.
My husband also helped. While I am the primary breadwinner, my husband babies me like crazy. He runs my bath for me, picks up my favorite foods at the grocery store, reminds me to take my medicine, and generally makes my life easy in every way possible except the earning of money. Obviously, having kids has cut back on the amount of babying I get. When I had my first child, it was a twin pregnancy, but I miscarried one of the twins. But I figured, one pregnancy, one healthy child after age 35, I couldn't really complain. Then, the next year I had another miscarriage at the same time as bumping into some real job trouble for the first time in a long time. I started therapy again (also taking medicine) to help. I found a new job requiring us to move, but my therapist gave me the name of someone here who I also liked. I had another miscarriage, the new job was horrible, and while job-hunting and everything else, I stopped seeing my therapist simply because life was too hectic. Fast forward a year and a half: another new baby and job-hunting again with some other crises as well (neighbor waging war, insurance company refusing to cover daughter, other insurance company trying to skip out on paying disability for post child-birth recovery), I tried to find someone inexpensive in-network. No-one's available. A friend recommends a therapist who has no time free. The recommended but unavailable therapist recommends someone in her office.
What a damn disaster. This young woman seemed surprised that I feel pressured to find work, etc. For $130 for 45 minutes (which she recommended twice a week), she told me I had undifferentiated anger without any guidance as to what to do about it, which, not too surprisingly, made me mad. She found me to be so fierce on the outside yet fragile on the inside. My anger made it hard for her to deal with me. I spent more time worrying about what this tender flower was feeling than about how to resolve my own problems (which are, in order: getting a stop-gap job to pay the bills, finding out what permanent job might suit me, finding that job, getting my husband better, and continuing to provide a safe and happy home for my children. After all those factors are taken care of, I'll start worrying about deep and meaningful things like personal fulfilment and nurturing or smacking my inner infant). After 6 weeks of therapy with this woman, I cried on the subway on the way home, did not want to get out of bed, and was basically a basket case. When I called her, requesting emergency assistance (need to get out of bed and find a job, not cry on the phone when answering potential employers' calls, and otherwise be at least partially functional), she said she would see me the next week and why was I calling her? Oh, I don't know, because she was my therapist and supposed to help me, not just watch with disinterest as my life increasingly goes down the loo? I told her I wouldn't pay for further sessions. Finally, chance works in my favor, and in calling around to get recommendations, one of the numbers given to me has one digit transposed and that is the number of the therapist I'd stopped seeing before, recommended by my prior therapist in the other city. I'm not going to print her name, but she is a jewel. The first thing she says is that "we'll worry about money later. We need to get you through this." For the first time in months, I feel like things have a hope of improving, at least from totally doomridden to merely dire or even mildly gloomy with a chance of cheer.
But aside from this one caring therapist who actually seems to want to help me resolve the immediate problems and then work on background stuff when appropriate, are psychotherapists capable of looking at problems in terms of the hierarchy of needs (first you need food and shelter, then the other stuff)? Is therapy just for the well to do with worries? Is it designed to help someone who is truly in crisis or is the assumption that everyone who is in crisis can afford lengthy inpatient stays at luxury mental hospitals? Do these people even know about managed care? I'd be interested in hearing comments (to the extent this blog is ever read) from actual therapists about how one would help someone whose personal and career crises put them, not too surprisingly, in fiscal difficulties. Or are personal crises that do NOT affect one's ability to earn a living and pay one's bills the only ones you treat? And the other causes of personal crises, death, divorce, addiction, and illness, tend to affect people's financial well-being as well. Are these people only treatable until insolvent? Do you feel any obligation to be a bit, oh, goal oriented to avoid exacerbating the crisis at hand or is that just too mundane for you? And to the fired therapist: no, I do not need to hear from you.
If anyone is seeking therapy in the greater DC area, I'll be glad to disclose the name of the fired therapist so that you can avoid her. And you really should avoid her.
Now maybe I really am just a fragile person. But I've been supporting myself for the last 25 years, my family for the last 13, and have managed to become an educated professional despite parental divorce and mental illness, suicide of loved ones, and various other hurdles. Despite my limitations, I have a loving relationship with my husband and children, and would like to improve that and my ability to support them. Telling me I have "undifferentiated anger" really isn't that helpful. At least I have a competent, caring therapist now, and I have accomplished step 1, the stop-gap job to tide me over until I get back on my feet. That woman (the fired therapist) would have to get therapy to process split hairs or chapped lips; I don't know how she would deal with unexpected pregnancy while on a new job, a husband's mental illness, or one's own post-partum depression while job-hunting.
April 7, 2005
Disaster Dating and a History of Foilwoman
My first day at the new job went pretty well.
I realize I never explained my nom de whinge, so here goes. After college, I moved to DC area and began to try to establish a sophisticated metropolitan life. This effort was, of course, at times a complete failure. However, one hilarious side effect was that other female friends of mine and I started sharing dating war stories.
Some of the disaster dating stories included: (1) Being taken to a bar for dinner in which the patrons were engaging in a belching contest. When asked what she recommended for dinner, the waitress said: "Eat someplace else." (2) The usual dates where one got to listen to how horrible the ex-girlfriend or ex-wife was. (3) Dates during which one bumped into the spouse of one's ostensibly single date. (4) A first date, that was a blind date, during which the couple introducing the pair, noisily broke up in a restaurant involving tears, broken crockery, and the blind date couple seeing the sobbing ex-girlfriend home. (5) Having one's date take his gun off and put it on the table (etiquette question: how does one respond?).
Most of us worked as administrative assistant/secretary/aides to Ivy league educated attorneys, consultants, politicians, and other powerful folks. Many times we would cover for their hangovers and foibles. We came to the conclusion that most of the $300+ an hour professionals weren't really necessary for the work they did. I started writing "Foilwoman of _____, an Urban Tale of Horror, Love, and Disaster, with a Moral." Needless to say, this book remains incomplete. The underlying theme was the interchangeability of most DC lawyers/consultants/lobbyists. Our heroine and her roommate fell under the power of some secret governmental experiment's emissions into their apartment that left our heroine superstrong and occasionally possesssed by an alter-ego that she couldn't recall (who acted by cover of darkness, naturally) and the roommate in need of a real connection with a heterosexual man capable of emotional and physical intimacy. Foilwoman, which is who our heroine became when possessed by her alterego, would search the streets of DC, looking for one good man. Not for herself, but for her roommate.
As the lawyers, consultants, and lobbyists got kidnapped and were found lacking they were placed in suspended animation of some sci-fi sort to be figured out later (we weren't going to kill them) and no-one, absolutely no-one, noticed their disappearances. Their secretaries and AAs simply kept rescheduling appointments and returning phone calls when the callers would be out, wrote lots of boring memos about policy, and basically mimicked 9 to 5 without Dolly Parton or Dabney Coleman. These guys were so bad in bed that the roommate whose needs Foilwoman was trying to find someone to satisfy never even remembered a thing (although the roommate was also under the influence of the experiment, which possibly also caused her forgetfulness).
Both Foilwoman and her roommate noticed something was going on (what was in that fridge in the basement, why did Foilwoman's shoes wear out so fast, why was roommate's bed always in need of clean sheets?). However, nothing got resolved until one night, Foilwoman managed to kidnap a guy who would actually be missed. In various versions of the book the guy was a garbage man, a mailman, or a kindergarten teacher. Kindergarten teacher won in the final cut. Not only was he instantly missed (you want to be in that classroom at 8:30 a.m. when he doesn't show without a phone call to say a substitute is needed? Now that's a really scary image), he didn't really need to be kidnapped (he was capable of emotional and physical intimacy) and actually connected with roommate on his own. His roommate, an FBI agent who would NEVER take off his gun and place it on the table while having dinner, after hearing from his roommate's school that he was missing (believe me, 20 unattended 5-year olds will make you stand up and take notice and be missed in a way no attorney can ever hope to be missed), tracked down Foilwoman, her roommate, and his roommate. He and Foilwoman uncovered the government experiment that has driven Foilwoman and her roommate to this state. Since some of the effects are irreversible, Foilwoman and her roommate have to make do, roommate with FBI guy's roommate, and Foilwoman has to find someone who can be with her superstrong, superassertive self without feeling threatened. I never did get around to transforming FBI guy into this paragon, but it was clear that's where the story was headed.
And the lawyers, lobbyists, and consultants? The reason they were such jerks (and completely unmissed by all they had dealt with) was because they had, among other things, not gotten enough sleep, never really relaxed, and generally were tense. Suspended animation was actually good for them. But I never got around to finishing that part of the story either, and in reality, all those guys are still alive (to the extent you consider working 80 hours a week and never actually connecting with anyone living) and kicking here in the greater DC area.
Why "Foilwoman"? Because after she got invented, we had a Halloween party (roommate and I) and I went as Foilwoman, dressed in a silver unitard with strategically placed tin-foil as my superheroine costume. I still have some pictures, but I'm not posting them (and I sure don't look like that now). Once her superheroine costume had been created, the name stuck.
At this point in my life I need a little bit of Foilwoman back in me. So here I am, trying to find her again.
I realize I never explained my nom de whinge, so here goes. After college, I moved to DC area and began to try to establish a sophisticated metropolitan life. This effort was, of course, at times a complete failure. However, one hilarious side effect was that other female friends of mine and I started sharing dating war stories.
Some of the disaster dating stories included: (1) Being taken to a bar for dinner in which the patrons were engaging in a belching contest. When asked what she recommended for dinner, the waitress said: "Eat someplace else." (2) The usual dates where one got to listen to how horrible the ex-girlfriend or ex-wife was. (3) Dates during which one bumped into the spouse of one's ostensibly single date. (4) A first date, that was a blind date, during which the couple introducing the pair, noisily broke up in a restaurant involving tears, broken crockery, and the blind date couple seeing the sobbing ex-girlfriend home. (5) Having one's date take his gun off and put it on the table (etiquette question: how does one respond?).
Most of us worked as administrative assistant/secretary/aides to Ivy league educated attorneys, consultants, politicians, and other powerful folks. Many times we would cover for their hangovers and foibles. We came to the conclusion that most of the $300+ an hour professionals weren't really necessary for the work they did. I started writing "Foilwoman of _____, an Urban Tale of Horror, Love, and Disaster, with a Moral." Needless to say, this book remains incomplete. The underlying theme was the interchangeability of most DC lawyers/consultants/lobbyists. Our heroine and her roommate fell under the power of some secret governmental experiment's emissions into their apartment that left our heroine superstrong and occasionally possesssed by an alter-ego that she couldn't recall (who acted by cover of darkness, naturally) and the roommate in need of a real connection with a heterosexual man capable of emotional and physical intimacy. Foilwoman, which is who our heroine became when possessed by her alterego, would search the streets of DC, looking for one good man. Not for herself, but for her roommate.
As the lawyers, consultants, and lobbyists got kidnapped and were found lacking they were placed in suspended animation of some sci-fi sort to be figured out later (we weren't going to kill them) and no-one, absolutely no-one, noticed their disappearances. Their secretaries and AAs simply kept rescheduling appointments and returning phone calls when the callers would be out, wrote lots of boring memos about policy, and basically mimicked 9 to 5 without Dolly Parton or Dabney Coleman. These guys were so bad in bed that the roommate whose needs Foilwoman was trying to find someone to satisfy never even remembered a thing (although the roommate was also under the influence of the experiment, which possibly also caused her forgetfulness).
Both Foilwoman and her roommate noticed something was going on (what was in that fridge in the basement, why did Foilwoman's shoes wear out so fast, why was roommate's bed always in need of clean sheets?). However, nothing got resolved until one night, Foilwoman managed to kidnap a guy who would actually be missed. In various versions of the book the guy was a garbage man, a mailman, or a kindergarten teacher. Kindergarten teacher won in the final cut. Not only was he instantly missed (you want to be in that classroom at 8:30 a.m. when he doesn't show without a phone call to say a substitute is needed? Now that's a really scary image), he didn't really need to be kidnapped (he was capable of emotional and physical intimacy) and actually connected with roommate on his own. His roommate, an FBI agent who would NEVER take off his gun and place it on the table while having dinner, after hearing from his roommate's school that he was missing (believe me, 20 unattended 5-year olds will make you stand up and take notice and be missed in a way no attorney can ever hope to be missed), tracked down Foilwoman, her roommate, and his roommate. He and Foilwoman uncovered the government experiment that has driven Foilwoman and her roommate to this state. Since some of the effects are irreversible, Foilwoman and her roommate have to make do, roommate with FBI guy's roommate, and Foilwoman has to find someone who can be with her superstrong, superassertive self without feeling threatened. I never did get around to transforming FBI guy into this paragon, but it was clear that's where the story was headed.
And the lawyers, lobbyists, and consultants? The reason they were such jerks (and completely unmissed by all they had dealt with) was because they had, among other things, not gotten enough sleep, never really relaxed, and generally were tense. Suspended animation was actually good for them. But I never got around to finishing that part of the story either, and in reality, all those guys are still alive (to the extent you consider working 80 hours a week and never actually connecting with anyone living) and kicking here in the greater DC area.
Why "Foilwoman"? Because after she got invented, we had a Halloween party (roommate and I) and I went as Foilwoman, dressed in a silver unitard with strategically placed tin-foil as my superheroine costume. I still have some pictures, but I'm not posting them (and I sure don't look like that now). Once her superheroine costume had been created, the name stuck.
At this point in my life I need a little bit of Foilwoman back in me. So here I am, trying to find her again.
April 5, 2005
Paranoia
My husband, when we had our first child, started believing that his co-workers were trying to poison him (by putting dust on his desk). He took a leave of absence, but his fears didn't stop. I tried to get him to talk to our doctor about it, but no dice. When he got a new job, he believed the workers from Job #1 were communicating with Job #2, and the dust was now at the new workplace. He left Job #2, but I came home from work one day to find him vacuuming the telephone to remove the dust (poisonous) placed there by former colleagues who somehow had access to our apartment. I got him to the emergency room by saying I was in crisis, and then told the story to the shrink and said "Honey, either we need to call the police, or you need help."
Now I have the feeling something similar is happening after our second child's birth and a job hunt by me (stressful), but need to get ready to start my new job tomorrow. Where do these feelings of paranoia come from? One can't change or save other people, but when an otherwise sane and calm guy starts getting all weird, how does one respond?
Now I have the feeling something similar is happening after our second child's birth and a job hunt by me (stressful), but need to get ready to start my new job tomorrow. Where do these feelings of paranoia come from? One can't change or save other people, but when an otherwise sane and calm guy starts getting all weird, how does one respond?
Just another day
Why am I starting to write a blog when it is clear that this trend is already on the way out? Heck, maybe someone will even read stuff I write. Or not.
I start a new job soon. I have two small children. I never feel quite good enough. Despite advanced and prestigious degrees and academic honors, a high paying and prestigious career (until recently), and other external indicia of success, I have always felt like I was just a very good fake-out artist.
I love my husband, I like the work that I do (when I have it), take satisfaction in helping people, and am absolutely clear that my children are the most amazing ever (how do all you parents of merely ordinary kids manage? Especially when you see mine?). It's never enough. Maybe it's just the angst, ennui, and weltschmertz of our times. Or maybe I'm just one of those overprivileged people without enough trouble in my life, so my ever active brain creates some, just to keep things interesting.
I'm really not a type-A personality, so I should be able to say "That's enough" and quit striving, at least for most things. You know the cliche: give me the ability to change the things I can change, let stand the things I can't, and know the difference between the two.
I'd settle for being able to do a salchow again (this second kid really did in my figure skating ability).
I start a new job soon. I have two small children. I never feel quite good enough. Despite advanced and prestigious degrees and academic honors, a high paying and prestigious career (until recently), and other external indicia of success, I have always felt like I was just a very good fake-out artist.
I love my husband, I like the work that I do (when I have it), take satisfaction in helping people, and am absolutely clear that my children are the most amazing ever (how do all you parents of merely ordinary kids manage? Especially when you see mine?). It's never enough. Maybe it's just the angst, ennui, and weltschmertz of our times. Or maybe I'm just one of those overprivileged people without enough trouble in my life, so my ever active brain creates some, just to keep things interesting.
I'm really not a type-A personality, so I should be able to say "That's enough" and quit striving, at least for most things. You know the cliche: give me the ability to change the things I can change, let stand the things I can't, and know the difference between the two.
I'd settle for being able to do a salchow again (this second kid really did in my figure skating ability).
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