"I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed man."

Note the quote.

In case you've been living under a rock your whole life, that's a quote from Wilde, and possibly the best of the many lines the man uttered in his run on this Earth that can be considered words to live by. Given the way things have been lately, and the way I've been needing to silently remind myself sometimes several times a fucking hour of the pointlessness of arguing absolutely idiotic issues with absolute idiots, it just feels appropriate. And where better to keep my written reminder of how I SHOULDN'T be wasting my time than on the Internet, Time Wasting Capital of the Universe, and THE premier arena for battles of witlessness? I can't think of a more fitting place myself.

I have begun to realise lately that I have fallen into old habits, letting very stupid issues blossom and grow into major catastrophes by either ignoring them at the same time as remaining in their presence (or keeping them in mine), or worse, remaining in their presence and feeding them with argument and 'relieving the stress' they cause with self-destructive behaviour. I quite often find myself engaging in battles of wits with unarmed men and women, some of whom aren't even man or woman enough to battle face-to-face, using other people (usually ones just as fucking moronic as themselves) or anonymous internet bullshit to get their pointless 'points' across. I tell myself how bloody stupid they are and how little their bullshit really amounts to, but I continue giving them my time and my ear, thus continuing to give their arguments weight and myself fucking stomach ulcers.

And so I end it. I was forced this weekend to give a lot of thought to some issues that I've allowed others to dump on me, issues whose seeds were planted way too long ago by the cowardly and witless and have been growing and eating me from the inside out for entirely too damned long. I gave thought to those, as well as to the fact that as all this petty nonsense was going down, some very real and important things were happening. All of a sudden (or maybe not) I noticed how completely fucking ludicrous it is that I gave any time and energy to most of this shit at ALL as I was battling family issues, illness, addiction, financial problems, and emotional loss. Somehow, I've managed to survive most of my 'real' problems and come out on the other side relatively unscathed. And for this, I feel like I've earned a reprieve. I have earned the right in part two of my life to tell the witless to fuck off and die, to keep their goddamned fighting and drama and pettiness and whateverthefeck else to their fucking selves and leave me the hell out of it. I've earned the right to flip them off and walk away. I've wasted enough time arguing in circles with people too dumb or just too damn thickheaded and unreasonable to be talked to. I simply haven't the time to waste anymore.

"No Angry"

So I had my first adventure with acupuncture this afternoon... have you ever tried it? Please post a comment with your experience if you have.

I've always been intrigued by Chinese medicine. Those folks in the east sure seem to work on a higher level than us yokels in the west. When we moved to our new abode in Brooklyn, one of the things in the neighborhood that immediately caught my eye was the Qi Gong storefront around the corner. Massage and acupuncture, two things that I keep reading about as good treatments for many of the ailments I harbor in this (not so) wee bod. Lately I keep running across reports of studies that show acupuncture as a promising "new" (haha) treatment for things like infertility and fibromyalgia. About six weeks ago, Dave had a bum shoulder and went to this place for a massage. He had a nearly religious experience. So, I figure, what the hell... I've been stuck with enough needles in my life to not be afraid of a few more... why not give it a try?

The place is your typical small storefront. There's a reception area in the front and in the back they have makeshift bamboo covered walls separating the four stalls. There's some faux painting on the walls and new age music to set the serene tone. There are a handful of staff members, all Chinese and none who speak English all that well, so communication is awkward at best. But I get the message across that I want to find out about acupuncture, so the woman shuffles through a desk drawer to find a paper for me to fill out. I put down all the ailments of concern, placing "infertility" at the top of the list. When the woman returns, she says that the doctor has gone to Chinatown on an errand and won't be back for a half hour... would I like to come back or have a massage?

Needless to say, I had the massage. It was excellent, of course, but nothing very interesting or different to report, other than the fact that two women performed the service, each alternating to answer the phone or whatever and then coming back, murmuring a few words in Chinese to each other, but never missing a stroke.

Shortly after the massage is done, the doctor arrives and sits me down at the desk in the reception area to do a consultation. It's a bit odd, discussing my health concerns there in front of everyone, but hey... I'm Full Frontal Honesty... I don't give a rat's ass if the kid waiting for a rub down learns the timing and consistency of my menstrual cycles. While the doctor is full of good humor, he not very adept at speaking English. Still, we manage. I was a wee bit fearful when he had to look up "infertility" in the English/Chinese dictionary. But he assured me that although his English skills were poor, he was a very good doctor. He said he mixes east and west medicine and therefore he "knows everything." I say "that's why I'm here... because you know everything." We are sharing awkward humor across the language barrier. A good sign.

He takes my pulse and blood pressure, asking me questions the entire time. How long you married? When your last period? Blah, blah, blah... and then he says something about "inflamation" and "TB" and what I gather to mean that other things can cause infertility, other than those my western doctor has talked about. He looks at me earnestly and says something about me being sad, stressed and angry and how that is a problem. He says these things pointing to his heart and I nearly start to cry, although I can't really explain why.

Finally, he took me into one of the makeshift stalls in the back for an examination. It was pretty much the same as a western doctor's exam, although he did a few things that were a bit different. When pressing on my lower back, I had pain and he said he had no evidence, but that he suspected a disk problem and that I should go have an MRI to get a diagnosis. But, other than that, he said the exam was normal and he proceeded with the acupuncture.

He put four or five needles in, circling my belly button, and I didn't feel a thing. Then he put one in each ankle. I felt the prick of each one, and a tiny bit of stinging in my left ankle, but nothing too bad. Then he attached wires to two of the needles in my belly and hooked them up to a tiny machine with a bunch of black dials. This sent an electric pulse into the needles, and he asked me if it was "light or heavy" and I said "medium", so he left it at that level. Then he pointed an infrared lamp over my belly. "Too hot?" "No." And that was that, for about a half hour. He came in and out of the room, asking questions, explaining things. He talked about chi and the balance of yin and yang in Chinese medicine. He talked about coming from Shanghai and moving from Connecticut to NYC. I told him about moving from Chicago to NYC.

He said that the acupuncture and herbs were important, but that the spirit is important, too. "No angry." he said again and again. And each time he did, I couldn't help but laugh. It just summed things up so readily for me. "No angry" is the bottom line. It's probably the key to every illness I've encountered. I kept saying "that's the hard part" and he would say, "you can do it." Then he said he would give me a Chinese tea to drink and that I should come back for another session in a week. So we'll see what happens.

In the meantime, I'm going to put alot more energy into finding ways to eliminate the "angry" from my system.

Trollin’ YouTube (Or How My Rockin’ Role Models Saved My Life)

I’ve been musing for awhile on how powerful the rock videos from my youth were. No, not for their cinematic genius (uh, please.) But for the random voyeuristic glimpses into my girlhood psyche.

I found some early Pretenders and Joan Jett videos on YouTube and sat, jaw-dropped at the reminders of where I got my sense of gender identity.

Because here’s the deal: Even in my mid-30s I feel sort of alienated by the woman the media wants me to be. I don’t look, act, dress or even want to be like that.

I don’t have that model body, my physical strength came from hard work, not a personal trainer, and let’s cut to the chase: I wouldn’t feel safe looking and acting like that in my world (or anyone else’s).

And I’m not a cocktail waitress folks, I’m a friggin’ schoolteacher.

My job is to be a realistic role model and empathic mentor for a bunch of pre-teen and teenaged girls. And I remember from first-hand experience the desperation that comes from looking at the adults around you and towards the media for guidance and feeling like you won’t have a place when you grow up.

Which brings me back to rock’n’roll.

I was raised by a single-father and continue to have a difficult relationship with a distant mother who makes me feel like a disappointment for not living up to the beauty and power that women supposedly embrace.


Growing up I realized that I didn’t want people paying attention to me for my looks, hair or body. I wanted them respecting me. I wanted people to treat me like an equal, not an object. My mother seemed so powerless when I was a child, no matter how pretty she was, that was the prime factor of her worth, and I knew even then that I couldn’t hang with that.

I was nine years old before I ever saw a woman who made me feel like there might be a place for me as an adult. It’s funny, in retrospect, that Lily Tomlin in the movie 9-5 was that woman. My mother took me to the movie, it was one of our only outlets for bonding as a child, and I still remember the strained look on her face as I peppered her with questions.

Now, I doubt at 9 I asked about the “gorgeous brunette with the strong features,” but you can be damned sure that wasn’t what mom was hoping I’d take home from one of our mother-daughter sessions.

What, I’m going to want to grow up to have a wrack like Dolly Parton? Uh, no thanks, I’d already watched the insane amount of scumbag attention my mother got from being an above-average pretty blonde, and I didn’t want it.

And the Jane Fonda character? C’mon, I had more brains (and balls) than that at 9. Of course I’m gonna vote for Lily. (I’d like to say, `what girl wouldn’t’ but if that were the case this blog wouldn’t exist, right?)

Thankfully a few years later (as I grew to personify Lou Reed’s protagonist, Jenny) I was “saved by rock’n’roll,” more specifically Mtv launched the summer of my eleventh birthday (The day after said birthday, in fact). And for the first time in my life I had visual proof that there was a whole world waiting for me: I sensed a future where I could be myself, even if at eleven I wasn’t exactly sure what that was.

More importantly, if I could just survive junior high and high school, I might have a peer group one day.

Some day...

And I did, but college was a hell of a long wait away, and I honestly wonder what I would’ve done if I didn’t have my rockin’ role models to fixate on.

Because it’s a sham ladies.

They want us to be weak.

And if you believe them, and try and follow all the crumbs and clues we’re given then it’s just too hard to keep breaking the mold and pushing boundaries. The system is already set, and people don’t like having their pre-conceived notions of gender, power or sexuality challenged any more than they like having their eggs pissed on by the waiter.

But girls, look around. Take whatever role model you had (in my case, boyish guitar slingers who not only taught me how to dress, but how to hold myself as a woman) and be proud of who you are.

No one else will tell you how awesome you are for being yourself.

How sexy your strength and autonomy is.

How it’s ok to wear clothes that let you feel powerful, not on display.

But hey, if it’s all too much to process ...

Then stay pretty, complacent and weak – the corporate suits of Amerika surely need more trophy wives.

Relevant links:


• “Tattooed Love Boys” – The Pretenders, 1980


• “Crimson & Clover” – Joan Jett & The Blackhearts, 1981

Rambles of a pissed bride-to-be

Our wedding planning was going smoothly. We had a photographer and videographer from the same company, booked the reception hall, found my gown, contracted for the men’s tuxes, ordered the invitations, found our florist, spoke with the justice of the peace… everything was working out perfectly.

Then our photography/video guy got arrested. For violating his parole. And re-offending.

What?!

Wait, he can’t be in jail. He has $5K of our money (since he required payments up to and including the day of the wedding). What the fuck did he do?

Ok, forget that. Who’s gonna do my photography? Shit. What about my money? I want it back! Oh God, now we have to find a new person for our video and photography. Where are we going to find the money?

This was the first of the fast slide downhill. I found out that he was arrested for child molestation. GRRRRRR. That just infuriates me! And he REOFFENDED?!! ICK. Why was this man out of jail? And why did we have to find him?

Ok, so now I need a lawyer if I ever want to see my money again. But here's the issue: we don't have any money to pay an attorney because the fuckin’ photographer has it all. I learned this isn’t too big a deal since the attorney would take about 30% of whatever I get paid back. Not ideal, but better than no money. So I asked a coworker pal for advice as to what kind of lawyer I should contact. In his infinite wisdom he said, “Call the State Attorney General's office. It’s their job to protect consumers “So I did.

Apparently they were very aware of the situation and were not only going after the business but also his business partner (who was a partial owner). Ok, now I had info on her. She was dying of cancer and only had a few months to live. The assistant AG’s investigator called me back and gave me more details.

On July 28, his business partner succumbed to the cancer that had been eating at her entire body. Sad as I am… now what? I lost my only contact for the company who wasn’t in jail.

Yesterday I met someone who had him as her photographer. She hasn’t gotten her pics back yet and probably never will. At least all I lost was money. I haven’t lost my memories.

Fine. The AG’s office is on it. I have others to suffer with. Now what? I am gonna fight this guy with all my being. I know he’s done this to hundreds of people and he cannot just sit in his cell being supported by our taxpayer funds.

I know: let’s string him up and make him listen to Tom Cruise. That should drive him insane enough to agree to anything.

And In Related Astronomy News....

Makes sense... Astronomers have also downgraded Tom Cruise from a 'star' to merely a black hole.

Nathan Lane and Mathew Broderick: Divorce Court?

Oh, the horror...

They said they were magical.

They said they were a couple made in heaven.

They said this couple was indestructible.

And yet....

Can't any couple remain together these days? What is it with Hollywood and Broadway, for god's sake, tearing people apart like they are just so much cheap paper? I'm still recovering from Tom and Nicole, and now this?! I simply cannot go on. I'm devastated. I may start drinking again. It's simply too, too much. Too much pain. Too much agony. Too much time spent on crap like this when I should be working.

New York Post: Page Six: August 23, 2006 -- BROADWAY'S most beloved buddy act - Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick - is going solo after their less-than-triumphant pairing in "The Odd Couple."
Lane was overheard in the Hamptons last week telling friends he felt Broderick hadn't given his persnickety all during their most recent stint together as Oscar and Felix.

The implication was that fans who loved their pairing a few years earlier in the smash hit "The Producers" might never see them work together again.

The revival of Neil Simon's classic "The Odd Couple" was a hit with the public. Some $21 million worth of advance tickets were sold, and the show was SRO even after it opened last fall to yawn-filled reviews - and zero Tony nominations.

The Post's Michael Riedel reported Lane was "cranky" in previews because Broderick was slow to learn his lines. A script girl was planted in the front row in case Broderick needed prompting.

But the real problem was that Broderick seemed to be falling back on his Leo Bloom shtick from "The Producers" rather than developing a new characterization of the fastidious Felix.

"He [Lane] was not happy with Matthew's lack of effort, and lack of preparation," said one theater source.

The split is nothing like the Jerry Lewis-Dean Martin breakup, but the two seemed frosty to each other the other night when they sat at the same table at the opening night party for Martin Short's show.

Broderick will next take the stage in the January world premiere of Kenneth Lonergan's "The Starry Messenger" at San Diego's Old Globe Theater. Broderick, who starred in Lonergan's 2000 movie "You Can Count on Me," will play a married university astronomy professor.

Lane's next Great White Way role will be starring this fall in a new production of Simon Gray's bittersweet "Butley."

Simon Halls, who represents both stars, denied any bad feelings between the two. "That's ridiculous. They are the best of friends," he snapped. "Somebody's just trying to stir up trouble."


I don't know what I'll do if Brit and Kevin call it quits.

Welcome to “The New World DisOrders” -- They Are Legion.

If Albert Einstein can be relegated to the ranks of "Autism" these days, then The New World does seem perilously close to be upside down--as I have always suspected.

Does it not anger anyone else that many of the last two centuries' geniuses are now being labeled with various and sundry sicknesses in our current culture? How so very convenient. I wonder what circumstances exactly bestowed them with their ailments in their own times . . . . (Too bad that we did not have a genuine Virginia Woolf brain scan, hot off the presses for analysis, in all its depressive full-color glory, before she dropped the big rock, because she could have been helped earlier, before she ever wrote any of those unfortunate books—even better.) This seems to be the Masses' (no, not just “The Sheep”) revenge: to on one hand, either entirely ignore geniuses, or on the other, to use them for all they are worth to society, subsequently disclaiming them (and on to the next) with psychiatric labeling, so that they can look down their collective noses, and feel superior for being so fucking HEALTHY on all their Meds—what progress and evolution.

One cannot watch television (and believe me, I usually have not for many years now, aside from the occasional new popular war here or major catastrophe there; then it is CNN, but of course (is there anything better?))--especially any major network news hour--without having to suffer through various commercials for this Pill and that Pill claiming to cure this Sickness and that Ailment (many of which are psychic "illnesses") replete with quickly mumbled long lists of disclaimers of side effects (so long that one would wonder why anyone in one’s right mind (Errr . . . Ummm) would risk such possible calamities and destruction to get “better”); illnesses are only euphemistically referred to, but we are somehow supposed to get the subtle cues via cultural osmosis, and ongoing subconscious intravenous feeding. Everyone, and one’s grandmother, is encouraged to obtain the help of a therapist--why should anyone remain "ill" needlessly? I have read and heard enough journalists and interviewed self-help authors featured in reputable newspapers, magazines, books, and on radio programs, television, etc. to suss the milieu of the past fifteen years--at least—and to see the direction of this culture--the Message being, in this regard:

Just get help and take the pills needed to continue to work and function "normally."

Most major life decisions are influenced by economics—do not even get me started on this concept right now, I say . . . . The quick fix of suppressing the symptom(s), and ignoring the cause(s)—this is done with rampant cancer these days as well: the fact that many more children, even, are falling prey to, and dying of cancer somehow is not alarming enough; nor are the higher rates of medicated young children and teenagers, on encouraged substances such as Ritalin and Prozac, their brains still physically growing, affected in development, and having little say in these decisions because they are not of legal age. Yes, start them young, and keep them quiet; who cares what might REALLY be distressing them all?!: No one is actually supposed to have a reaction to disturbing circumstances, feel what one is really feeling, and perhaps make decisions based upon these thoughts and emotions anymore, because it might be too inconvenient for immediate family, and the economic society as a whole.

If people consciously WANT to take these prescribed pills, fine; but it is becoming much harder to put up a fight by saying Fuck Off, I DO NOT, without appearing ill, by the very action of resisting their "Help."

Yes, surely we should be convinced that if all the unhealthy geniuses would just take their pills early and often, as prescribed, along with everyone else, that the world will be a better place for the Future of Humanity.

© Carol Maric
All Rights Reserved

Anxiety Ridden Rides Again

It's quite late, but I cannot move. My feisty little kitten (not so little anymore) has taken up residence on my lap, or rather sprawled across my body kneading me in various places. I must stay until the princess deems me unworthy. Oh insanity, she just bolted after thirty minutes of my legs going numb, when I finally committed to the fact I wasn't going to bed just yet.

I will still write a little. I wanted to say that life scares me. What else is new? My life in particular, and also life and the world at large around me. I might fare better at this life thing if I had none of the things awry with me that I do have, but I don't know.

So last summer I had been doing better with my agoraphobia and anxiety disorder. I stayed a night in Long Island and shortly after took a cruise. I survived intact.

When I returned I had all types of cat problems and while some dolts I knew didn't understand how that could be stressful, oh was it ever. My first and beloved cat Samantha died which I didn't see coming at first. I took her for a routine exam and was slightly concerned she seemed thin, but thought I was paranoid. For months I was led to believe she had a kidney infection that would go away, and her kidneys would rebound.

After my vacation I came back hoping she'd be fine and I'd go out of town again, which was really great for me. My first time out of NY in over three years.

I came back and my vet suggested stronger antibiotics by injection and my cat reacted by developing big sores. He said it wasn't a reaction, but what I read online convinced me otherwise. I took her elsewhere and the new vet did tests and found she was in acute renal failure and not long for this world.

She died not long after. Then ringworm kitten came in to play. My mother and her husband sent her to NY by plane to help me cheer up. It was a nice gesture, but next thing I have ringworm myself. Sigh. Then my second oldest cat is suddenly dying and no idea what's wrong. I plan to meet my friend Rosie at a show and it seems my cat is having a seizure. By the next day she is in an emergency hospital severely ill.
This set me back all in all several thousand dollars.

I had taken her to the vet the day before who had said nothing was wrong with her! The same vet I liked when my other cat was so ill. Now she told me my cat's fine, but she is anything but. I felt my cat needed appetite stimulants and she disagreed. The cat went into the hospital and they told me various things were/may be wrong, even a stomach obstruction. They wanted to do surgery because they saw something, and I consented. The day of the surgery they saw nothing in the X-ray and sonogram but proceeded anyway.

Many so called friends and my family gave me hell for 'throwing away' my money on cats. I didn't hear the end of it, and it made me sad. Someone I knew wrote me a long e-mail about how I must have never endured a 'real' loss to be this distressed over cats. It's sometimes hard for me to accept that what I think is a given (valuing life regardless of what form it is in) is not for everyone. I don't enforce how I feel on others, so when they do it to me I wish one of my cats (crazy Jasmine) could stick her foot where there's.... a lack of sunlight... and have an underpants party with her paw. My mother came around at least, and understood I was not going to let anything bad happen to one of my kitty friends if I could help it. I could not save my Sam girl and that really saddens me. She looked to me to make it better, and I inflicted painful injections on her that just made her worse. Sadly, she only let me administer those shots, anyone else and she'd get violent. I was scared to do it, but when I realized I had to I did. For what purpose though?


So my other cat Jasi is better now finally, and I think I just needed appetite stimulants. She became depressed after her cat best friend passed away. The hospital ended up sending her home with... appetite stimulants. They said she had pancreatitis and hepatitis but when my vet saw the records later he said no. All I know is for months she would only eat wet food from a spoon or nothing at all. I am elated that she's still with me, I love her so very much.

I got into the habit of being afraid to leave her alone and of staying home nearly at all times. Not a good thing for someone who needs to force themselves out as often as can be achieved.

Before I knew it I was having anxiety attacks outside as bad as any I had when this all started in 2003. Even now I am worse off than I had been in 2004 when I was pulliung myself together.


Then the cat drama ended. I just needed ringworm kitten spayed. She couldn't be because of her ringworm. I had it done in Long Island at the vet my other cats all went to. I feel it was better quality and at less than half the cost of these sub par vets I'd seen in Manhattan.

So the day after her stitches were out I finally felt I could leave for a day. For about a week I had tried to go outside every day and went to two movies in two days, to two clubs. Things I truly dread most often.

So the other cat was eating fine, the kitten was healed and I finally left and spent a night at my friend's in Long Island. I had a wonderful time.

I was so happy to be there that I wanted to never go back. When I got back I decided that if I had to be in NYC I should not work solely from home. So I found myself at an interview for a job as part of a creative team for a TV special.

I was so nervous that I had to bring a friend to the interview. I stood outside the elevator for ten minutes before opting to get inside of it. I felt if I 'just did the interview' it was a step.

I had been told I could do the majority of the work at home, and was told suddenly that I had to come in every day. I agreed wholeheartedly in the moment. (I am not ready for a fulltime outside job, and may never choose to do that.)

So I went today. I should feel proud of myself for going, and forcing myself. I have to say I truly was not happy. I saw no point in not being home and doing what I was doing so I up and left. I was scared when I saw the guy I have to answer to had emailed me, but he had just emailed me asking questions regarding the show.

I wrote the person that scheduled me and requested that I work from home tomorrow. I spent hours working on what I was assigned, and sent it in to show I want to do the work. Just not at their office.

I left my desk and bolted to the elevator. There are seriously no stairs. When it passed my floor I started to get that feeling of panic. I thought I'd be trapped there trying to slink out, indefinitely.

I thought I would love it there, the way I loved my trip to LI after fearing leaving home. I did not. So, I don't know. I'm trying? I took some back steps but I really want to get past this as much as I possibly can. I know I will always have my problem (s) but I'd like to be able to maybe realize my goals. You know, shit like that. Or, shit like being able to you know, go outside!

Contributors, Blogrolls and Such

I'd like to take a moment to direct your gaze to the right side of the screen. One thing you will see is a list of the fabulous contributors of this groovy (ahem) blog; women who are a collection of extremely intelligent, opinionated and sometimes hilarious writers and thinkers.

Another thing you will find is a rapidly growing blogroll of sites. Please visit these sites. Some of them are the websites and alternate blogs of the writers on here. Some of them are other sites that have simply caught our interest and I think should be shared and deemed, truly, AWESOME.

If you mosey on down, you'll see a separate blogroll for BloggerChicks. Please check that out. There are some GREAT blogs on there, really awesome women, and I always have a great time reading them. Some of them visit our site often and are much appreciated.

Please feel free to leave kind comments and make yourself known - we dig comments (constructive and pleasant) and always are looking for groovy folks to add to our blogroll.

All the Best,
Billychic

Ornery Woman in Residence

Trust

I'm having serious issues trusting people - and the irony is that I didn't used to be this way. The problem used to be that I trusted people too easily. I have always had the ability to make acquaintances on a dime - and oftentimes I used to confuse that with friendships.

I suppose having about $1,000 worth of my shit stolen in college taught me a little bit about making that mistake.

Unfortunately, I didn't transfer that over to my love life. I still got involved with people hastily - not always, for things like that don't always happen. But if I look at both of my marriages, I can see a pattern there. Uh, like geting engaged within one month of dating. Um...what the hell was I thinking?

Now, to be honest, it was all a set up. I mean - I learned that, you know?
My parents dated for three months and then eloped to Juarez, Mexico. They've been married for 36 years. I suppose it's all relative...depends on who the person is that you get involved with - and the deep level of respect and love that you have for each other. For that can happen; it can hit you right between the eyes, deep in your heart, and right in the crotch - all in the blink of an eye...and not necessarily in that order.

All I know is that my brother said something profound to me a few weeks ago: "Be careful, Diánna. You are like me - you trust too easily, too quickly. I used to be like that. But I'm older and I've gotten a little harder and tougher now."

I dunno. Perhaps. Personally, I actually think that I've turned into a bit of a bitter old bitch. At least when it comes to men.

This trust problem is very upsetting. Honestly, it doesn't take much for me to throw up my hands and start assuming the worst. It's weird...there's a part of me that is still very innocent and wants to hand over my heart and share it; and there is another, colder part - that of the Aquarian that they always seem to talk about (and I always shake my head and say "no, that's not me!") that is clinical and removed - that, like Spock, mentally expounds on everything being rather illogical and therefore not plausible. Like having a Hal 2000 in my brain.

"This trust thing is highly irregular, Diánna. I call infinite bullshit."



My ex-husband told me that he thought I had intimacy issues. I told him to kiss my ass.
Then, I thought about it. For a while. I've always thought of myself as a very intimate person, one who shares a great deal of herself with people and tries to get others to do the same. I am very interested in people, in my friends, and my family. I want to be there for everyone.

And that is what seems to get me in trouble. How can someone possibly be there for everyone? So then, what - I'm kinda sorta there for folks? I would like to think that's not the case. People seem to like me and think I do a good job as a friend. I dunno.

In romantic relationships, I find myself vacillating between giving all of myself to something and being too scared to care - feeling like Jennifer Garner in Alias, taking pictures of secret files over enemy lines.

Right now, I'm scared to death. Terrified. Happy and thrilled, but terrified. It's like being at the very top of a rollercoaster right before the scariest descent, it really is. I know that metaphor has been used to death - but it's rather fitting, actually.

I am trying to work through this...I wish I could go back to trusting too much sometimes, instead of working so hard to trust at all.

It just should not have to be this difficult.

I have about a million things swirling around in my head right now, and I can't even fucking arrange them into a paragraph here thanks to all the goddamned friggin' noise surrounding me at the moment. Yes, it's after midnight and noisy as all hell. Let's just add a little more fun to the happy-fest that is my life lately, shall we? FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK.

But as I was saying....

I'm just prefacing this in this manner so that when I start drifting off and not making any sense, you can realise that I'm not drunk or full of pills this time, I'm just distracted. And not just by what's outside of myself, either. A lot of it's internal.

As some of you might already know, I'm a recovering anorexic. Note how I didn't say 'recovered'. There IS no 'recovered'. Say what you will, but any claims that eating disorders can be reversed or gotten rid of are a load of crap. You can't reverse anorexia any more than you can reverse diabetes. But I digress. What I was getting at is that my weight, in the past couple of years, has gone from nearly 220 to under 85, THEN back up to around 170....and finally, after much work (both doctor approved and....ehh...not) and much needed surgery (NOT gastric bypass....female problems....some of you know these specifics as well, and those who don't, really don't need to) dropped back down to where it SHOULD be. Thanks to some resolved health issues, despite having ED's as well as some very UNresolvable physical problems, my metabolism is finally someplace in the range of normal for the first time in my adult life, and I'm actually more or less able to eat when I'm hungry and still maintain a low/normal weight without having to work out for 6 hours a day (don't laugh, I actually DID this for a couple of years). The sudden dropoff in my weight and the realisation that I can eat and live fairly normally and stay slim definitely did wonders for my eating disorder and my ability to keep it in check.

But then personal problems started to surface, as did some secondary health problems that had previously been overshadowed by larger ones. To make a long story short, over the last few weeks, I've been drinking like a fish, literally almost every fucking night, and while I'm sure as hell NOT drinking cosmos or anything else calorie-laden and froufrou, I HAVE been suffering from some pretty severe cases of the drunk munchies. And as is usually the case when people, particularly WOMEN of a certain AGE, eat onion rings and french fries as post-midnight snacks more than a few times in the span of two weeks, I gained a couple of pounds. Sure, if this had happened a year ago, it wouldn't've been so much 4 or 5lbs as 10 or 20 (really....you have NO IDEA how prone to weight gain I was before), but even still, this has been fucking devastating. While some of the problems that started the out-of-control drinking seem to be resolving themselves, I'm still nowhere near 'stable', and seeing that awful rise in numbers on the scale has pretty well pushed me back into a mental state I haven't been in since my weight was around 160 or so. And that's not all.

I am fed FUCKING up with people starting shit with me when I haven't done FECK ALL to them but leave them the hell alone. I am too goddamned old and sick and otherwise goddamned occupied to be bothered setting aside time to bullshit with people who are just starting drama to alleviate their own boredom. I am not going to waste time 'explaining' myself or my actions, or those of any of my friends, for that matter, to ANYONE just to shut them up and make them 'happy'. No, I'm just going to handle things like a GROWNUP for once in my fucking life and IGNORE them. Okay, so maybe not totally ignore them. But ranting about them here and not actually saying anything to them or even naming them is the next best thing, don't'cha think?

God, I could really go for a drink right now.

No. Shut up, ya fuckin' fat drunk. One week without booze. You can manage that. No booze till next weekend and no drama till....ehh....how about just no more drama? Wait a second, wasn't that a song....?

I told you my mind wanders. What the hell was I talking about again...?

Life is Not for Pussies

Saturday night, I'm in Queens, buzzing off a pair of Johnny Walker Reds. I had just demonstrated my sucking-off skills to Mike and Daniel, and smoking outside the Irish Rover, a familiar hotspot crowded with regulars.

I check my messages, there's one from my former roommate. She had been having some troubles the day before, a man, no less; a man she worked with. She had just left her husband not three weeks before. She was in hysterics. I tried to talk her through her troubles. I've been there, we all have. I invited her over for a bit, took her to dinner...but I had a friend in town and my own man troubles to deal with. There was a downpour that day, the kind that erodes small cliffs in a matter of seconds. I gave her a sweater to wear on her way home, and told her to call me before she did anything "impulsive." She had attempted suicide three years earlier.

But the message wasn't from her, it was from her husband. "Cristina has overdosed. She's in stable condition in I.C.U. at Mount Sinai. If you would like to call the head nurse..." and he gave me the number, which of course I dialed immediately. I talked to the friend who found her, struggling through my alcoholic haze, street lights softening and hardening at whim. She had found Cristina sleeping in her room next to a bottle of open sleeping pills, and she called 911.

I didn't sleep that night. I couldn't stop recalling the beat, the moment, when I told Cristina days before on the phone "lets hang out in a few days," the pause, the long pause, the kind in italics between dialogue in plays when some drastic thing is meant to be said, but isn't.

"I'm not doing very well."

I knew what that meant. It's not even like I can see, now, in retrospect, that she was telling me something. I knew what she meant...and I all I did was take her out to dinner.

The next day, at ICU, she was strapped in her bed. The painkillers caused hallucinations, her eyes rolled back, machines crowded her like Science Fiction beasts. She kept stroking my hair and asking me how the play went, but couldn't understand the reply. Her husband was there day and night, calling her friends, her family, dealing with nurses, doctors, talking her through her hallucinations which bordered frightening. All this for the wife who tried to kill herself for another man. It was heartwrenching to watch him.

She fell asleep, I was alone with her, I watched her. It was like seeing a race-horse with a broken leg, except nobody would shoot her. I wished that someday, somebody would let her put herself out of her misery.

She has been through therapists, psychiatric mediation, she herself is a social worker. But this is deep, everlasting pain that will never go away, its rooted in thick soil, gangrene and hollow. I know how she felt, I've been all too close. But I've learned to see self-hate as a handicap like any other. You reconcile, you overcompensate, you use it to your advantage.

She is in the medical unit now, physically much better, still emotionally destroyed. We talked for a long time yesterday.

She said "nothing is worse than surviving suicide."

She wishes she had been sucessful, sucessful in death. Yeah, I probably would be too...rather than suffer the guilt of seeing your loved ones worry, the doctors and shrinks expounding their fortune-cookie wisdom and their AA bullshit. The In-Patient care she has to go through for god knows how many months. The guilt, guilt, guilt. The knowledge that the man you think you love has not even bothered getting in touch with you, while the husband you left worries about every move you make.

She asked me if "he" will ever contact her again. I say, I don't know, but she shouldn't expect it.

She cried.

I don't know how not to break her heart. I don't know how not to tell her truth. I can't hope she'll someday "find herself..." I hate that term, nobody ever finds themselves, they're lucky if they enjoy the search.

I don't want anybody to think I'm cruel. I'm very glad Cristina is alive, I love her dearly and feel very close to her right now...but I do not believe that this won't happen again. When she wants the pain to go away, and that pain is stronger, harder, and faster than what most of us experience, she will do what she feels is best for her and for everybody. That's what people don't understand about suicide victims: they think they are doing it for the greater good of their loved ones.

Anyhow, I've been increasingly depressed myself for various reasons. Some of my friends have been calling me up, worried to death I'll copy the crime. I won't. This is why being a non-believer can be very helpful...because I don't believe the "next place," is going to be any better, I cherish moments instead of idols, false or otherwise. I plan on sticking around for the long haul. Besides, I have some atoning to do, here on earth.

So How Soon Is Too Soon When You First Boink the Guy You're Dating?

This always happens. No matter how long I wait to first sleep with a guy I'm dating, I inevitably find myself with my legs wrapped around his neck much sooner than I think I should be.

Unless of course it's just some simply, smutty encounter with someone that I really don't care too much about and just happened to look good at 2am. That doesn't concern me.

I'm talking about someone that you're dating, a potential boyfriend (or girlfriend, although women are just cooler about the whole thing and there isn't that weirdness so much afterwards), or simply someone that you hope will be around for a long time.

I have found that no matter how long I've waited: whether it's three or four weeks and the guy is trying to be a gentleman and I end up fucking the whole thing up and practically rape him; or if it's trying to hold out past the first night's dinner and movie and wondering how I ended up practicing puting on his condom with my mouth sometime in the same night; or somewhere in between - a no man's land dance of "what's the right time to do this and not feel like I sullied this potential relationship?"...I find that I always wonder if I didn't hold out long enough.

Why is that? Why do I have to hold the keys to the kingdom? And if the guy tries to hold onto them and keep us from having sex too soon, why can't I just go wank and not rock the boat?

Or does it matter?

I don't care what year this is and how far the women's movement has come - men still seem to enjoy the chase, the effort they have to put in to work for something. God fucking forbid you seem to be making an effort to get to the finish line before them, holding your garter belt between your teeth. Some relationships do just fine when they have sex the first night - and others flounder for the folks who waited. And vice-versa for both. It's so damn confusing.

I'd like to know what people think - should you wait to have sex if you really care for the person? Does it effect the quality of the relationship if you don't? And what if it's the woman that ends up initiating the actual sex?

Because ever since I hit my 30s, my hormones have gone through the roof; it's an effort to not dry hump everything I come into contact with. Nobody really prepares you for the effect of hitting your sexual peak. I thought I was a horndogger in my 20s - HA.

I just hope that I haven't messed anything up by being a dirty young woman - who cares for the person that she nearly took down like a female tiger taking down a gazelle on the African plain.

Consumption Junction, What's Your Function?

One of the more disturbing observations I made during our recent vacation is the plethora of real-estate development happening in the Midwest. Everywhere we went, Des Moines, Davenport, Chicago... the urban/suburban sprawl was never ending. Just how much more open space do we need to fill with strip malls and mega-shopping centers? These sterile, homogenous constructions of plastic and concrete are tangible evidence of the American need to consume. Despite the fact that most Americans live paycheck to paycheck and carry an alarming amount of unsecured debt, these malls are still full of plump consumers, ready to mortgage their futures (or their children's futures) for another new pair of sneakers. Someday soon, instead of the charming expanse of cornfields that once was the state of Iowa, we will just have one big suburban mall field. We can call it: I-owe-ya. Is this the "Field of Dreams" we really want?

Today I am home in Brooklyn, enjoying the beautiful trees outside the window of my brownstone building while I type. This street and neighborhood mix old world charm and city grit to create a very welcoming environment, one that David and I fell in love with almost instantly. But the Development Demons are at work here, too. They are planning to build a monstrosity called The Atlantic Yards, that will include residential towers, office buildings and a basketball arena. (for more info: http://newyorkmetro.com/news/features/18862/) There is much local opposition to this project but, despite the protest flyers and rallies, it is not likely that anything will stop the steamroller of greed that is what we now know as The American Way.

The bottom line is... We no longer produce anything. We only consume. I don't know about you, but I'm thinking it might be time to start learning how to speak Chinese.

Pilgrimage to Pork Central

I am now back from the Land of Expanding Waistlines after a sojourn to the cornfields of Illinois and Iowa. I don't know what it is about the Midwest, whether it's a lack of entertainment or what, but the food is bigger and so are the people. Eating is the number one pastime and menus are more apt to offer additional bacon than a vegetarian alternative. Such is life in a land where The Pig is the cornerstone of economic health. And we're Americans, dammit! Our economic health is more important than physical, mental or spiritual health any day of the week.

Don't get me wrong. I love the Midwest. It is where I was born and bred (or, if you will, bread) and is an underrated region of the country. But the girth of the population is undoubtedly larger than that on either coast.

My husband and I have a running joke here in NYC. When we see an emaciated, female stick figure on the street or subway, we turn to each other and say "business card?" This is our code for evidence of the model-mentality of New York women. We have a stack of business cards for a local (and may I say fabulous?) chain of burger joints called "Jackson Hole" and use them for the sole purpose of telling a total stranger that she is in need of a full-fledged meal. Of course, we never acually GIVE these cards to anyone (that would require a fierce set of balls), it's just the idea that makes us giggle and feel better about the layer of butter rolls resting around our own burgeoning midsections.

On the plane this morning, there was a typical skeletal New Yorker of the female sort standing in front of us as we were waiting to de-plane. We looked at each other and let out a sigh of relief, because seeing that species of wafer thin female indigenous to NYC told us definitively that we were back home again.

Bullshitters Suck....and other observations from The Great And Powerful Captain Obvious.

It just occurred to me this morning (call me a slow learner) how fucking fed up I am with being bullshitted by everyone. At first glance, this statement might make me sound like a massive hypocrite since, despite being the World's Lousiest Liar, I have recently proven myself to be a master at the art of the Lie By Omission, as well as that of lying to myself. However, BULLSHIT in my book is a completely different animal from a lie by omission, or even a little white lie. BULLSHIT doesn't serve any real purpose at all outside of self-promotion and self-service. It doesn't keep you out of trouble or even usually out of embarrassment. There is rarely any real long-term monetary gain to be had. The only thing bullshitters ever seem to glean from their BS is the temporary love/adoration/friendship/pseudorespect of the people around them, some sex, and a couple of free meals. It rarely lasts, though, even if not because the 'conquests' wise up and realise they're being had, because once a bullshitter starts using other people to inflate his own ego, he usually doesn't stop at a few, and ends up fucking things up for himself by spreading himself too thin.

From what I hear, Los Angeles is the American Capital of Bullshit. I have spent all of one day in the city, so I really can't say, though I HAVE met a few people from LA and the surrounding areas (or who'd even lived there for a spell), 90% of whom are prodigious bullshitters. However, having lived in NY for over 15 years now, I think I can safely say that this place comes in a close second. People here are literally NEVER what they seem to be. In fact, dishonesty and underhandedness is SO the rule of the day here that I actually blame NY for my recent foray into fake-itude. (All of it, mind you, from the lying, to the drugs - to the lying ABOUT drugs - to the obsessive dieting, to the Botox, to the surgery, to the fact that I own a Louis Vuitton bag made expressly for carrying around a dog of such high breeding that it only managed to live a year and a fucking half) But as much as I have faked-out since I've been here (and been utterly goddamned sickened by it once I stepped back from it and looked at it sober *puke*), it still always amazes and disgusts me when someone else manages to come along and con me.

I guess what I am getting at is this - I am not a stupid person (so says Mensa). I consider myself to be pretty cautious, especially after spending back-to-back time in Belfast and NYC, and I have a bad habit of being un-trusting to the point of paranoia. NO ONE besides me has my credit card numbers, bank account information, email passwords, or even my freaking MySpace password (which has actually been changed 4 times in the past 7 days!). I won't even use public ATMs, and was just about the last person I knew outside of my dark-ages parents to buy stuff online. I've been screwed over so many times that I watch my back constantly. Well, I watch my back when it comes to everything EXCEPT relationships and friendships. For some reason that shit eludes me like no one's business. And it's HARDLY because I've never been fucked over by BS friends. That was the story of my life loooong before I ever had a credit card number to steal. Every friend I ever had as a kid (by 'kid', I mean like, under 25!) fucked me over royally in one way or another, lying poorly about everything to the very end, and I swallowed that shit like a $5 hooker until I absolutely could not ignore the reality anymore. When dating, I always, always fell for 'lines', even if intellectually I KNEW what was going on. I suppose my problem was never so much stupidity as naivete, but you would think that would wear off after a bit...? My mother likes to say 'Hope springs eternal'. Yeah, and that would explain HER mess too, wouldn't it?

What I mean by all this (since you're probably pretty confused by it....and I apologise....this is an off-the-top-of-the-head first-real-blog-in-months, something I absolutely NEEDED to get off my chest when I started writing. It may be blossoming into a rant, which could get ugly, so I'm going to try and cut it off at the knees now. Thank you for bearing with me....my writing has not gone to the dogs forever, maybe just for the next couple of days!)....is that I've been recently faced head-on with some of the dishonesty I've been perpetrating toward MYSELF, and SO absolutely disgusted with it, I've decided to try and purge dishonesty from my life completely. Problem is, now that I'm looking at myself clearly, I've inadvertantly taken the blinders off when it comes to other people as well, and I just can't ignore any of it anymore. Was I so into my own shit that I just totally missed the fact that I was being blatantly used by so many 'friends'? I guess so, and if the stupidity that implies on my own part isn't sickening enough, there's really not much more sobering than being a person with naturally low self-esteem and having to face the fact that people really and truly, just as you've always suspected, don't ACTUALLY LIKE YOU....they're just keeping you around for their own benefit, and take you off the shelf only when they need you.

And now that I've officially depressed the everlovin' shit out of myself, I'm done here. Have a nice day all, and I'll leave you with this - How can you tell when a person is lying? HIS LIPS ARE MOVING.