The subject of obsession comes up frequently in my line of work. Every time someone comes to me and says that they need something to make someone be only theirs, I am reminded not of the film Practical Magic but of the novel. Good book by the way. I, like the aunts, have to weigh the morality of the work with the fact that I still need to pay my bills, and usually the capitalist in me wins out. I always warn the person. I tell them that they may not understand the concept of what they are asking for. I tell them that obsession is not pretty, unless it comes in a perfume bottle. Would you like to know how many people actually have changed their minds once I have issued the enormous, lecturing warning? Absolutely none. So then I deal with the fallout. They come crawling back, sobbing, telling me how awful it has turned out, at times accusing me of doing something wrong, and I remind them…”I warned you…” I don’t actually understand obsession. I have never found myself obsessed with anyone or anything, nor have I ever been obsessed over. I can’t imagine that it’s a pleasant state, to be thinking about someone all the time. It must take up a ton of energy.
Oh I say that I am obsessed, I may even whine about my obsession. It’s a great idea, something that legends are made of. However, when it comes right down to it, do I really want someone who has nothing else in his life but me? Do I want to have nothing else in my life but him? Blech…the idea is somewhat nauseating. I see people who have not come to me for work…who have become naturally obsessed on their own…throwing away everything, just for the other person. It is, in its simplest form…an addiction. It is unhealthy, the addict (the obsessed) puts himself or herself into all sorts of creepy situations in order to get his or her fix, and it inevitably does one thing or another….it kills you or you quit. I have seen women give up their children, men give up their jobs, young people give up their bodies and all of them give up their sanity…all for their obsession. I personally like a bit healthier of an attitude on relationships. I like a touch of distance, a life outside of my lover, a world in which I am not a lover, but rather a mother, grandmother, friend, teacher, minister, sister, co-worker, counselor, neighbor or babysitter. I like having the freedom to do things without the person that I am involved with. Now you may think that obsession only is involved in intimate relationships…it’s not. I have heard from friends that they are jealous or angry when a friend spends more time with someone else and not them. Or parents are jealous when children begin to have social lives. All of a sudden, obsession kicks in. I wonder if people realize that obsession is insecurity. It is the deep down belief that if the subject of your obsession has other influences in his or her life, it may mean that you are no longer important. It may mean that they could leave you!
And what if your addiction does leave? What if you have to find out what else there is in life? Gods forbid!
Then there are those who are simply obsessed over everyone they are intimate with…I have no idea what to do with them, so I just hand them the yellow pages open to the section for local psychiatrists.
Obsession
12 Dec 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: addiction, insecurity, obsession, Practical Magic, psychiatrists
Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair
12 Dec 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: beatnik, black hair, father, fitting in, goth, grandmother, hair color, mod, past, reminiscing
Okay, so I’m actually talking about myself, although I don’t think that it is bad to have myself as my own true love. It’s true, after twenty years of not coloring my hair black, I did it again. I know, why color my hair black when the natural color is dark dark very dark brown. I was in a goth, mod, beatnik type mood I guess. So I did it at home, deciding against calling my hairdresser, I’m sure that she’ll hit me with her curling iron when she finds out.
I tried keeping my grays out of the hair color…I wanted to keep them, but it didn’t work. So now…I have black hair. I remember the goth years, I just never quite fit the part. I wanted to…I really did. I colored my hair black, wore head to toe black, even traded in my flip flops for some heavy black boots. I listened to the music, pretending to mope and moan along with Bauhaus or the others. It just didn’t work. I was too giddy, too happy, too attracted to bright colors and disco music. Hidden at the back of my closet were my brightly colored, floral printed clothes, at the back of my makeup drawer were sparkles, pink lipstick and glitter nail polish. I just couldn’t control it. It was like I was constantly crawling out of the doom and gloom to lay naked under the sun. I would, I suppose, make a lousy vampire. I tried though. My cheerleader nature showed through and I couldn’t control my valley girl speak. It’s okay really, it didn’t take long to realize that I didn’t need to conform to fit in with my group of friends. In fact, photographs of the time look pretty awesome with me standing out against a sea of black. It’s a bit like being in the limelight.
So now, as a grandmother…why black hair? I suppose it was just a reminiscent feeling, something to remind me of that moment in time when being absorbed into a group was important to me. When I wasn’t sure of myself as I was. When I needed someone else to tell me how to dress and who to be. It is interesting to look in the mirror in the morning, see the black, remember those times. Good times, bad times, and everything in the middle, the black hair is a reminder, a little nod to my past. I thought about chopping it off as well, but some of us grandmothers still have fathers who give that look of disappointment which cut to the core. As it is I still don’t tell him when I get a new tattoo, so I sure the hell am not going to have him guilt me over cutting my hair. He won’t notice the black. If he does, I guess I could tell him that it matches my heart. At least that will get a chuckle out of him.
Our Lady of Guadalupe Says “YOU go home!”
12 Dec 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: Catholic, deity, Hispanic, Latino, legal, Our Lady of Guadalupe, pride, Quetzalcoatl, tribe
Today is the feast day of O.L. of Guadalupe. This lovely Marian entity is of course representative of so many things, including the Catholic traditions within the Hispanic community, cultural pride and yes of course she also represents the Spanish bringing Catholicism over in the first place. Let’s face it, she is a much prettier image than many of the ancient deities which she replaced, or simply mutated from. “The one who crushes the serpent” is what her Nahuatl name means. I wonder who the serpent is? Hmmm. I suppose that in the eyes of the Church, the serpent would be Quetzalcoatl, the ancient Aztec deity. Or perhaps the serpent is the native people. After all, St. Patrick didn’t really rid Ireland of snakes, but he did a damn fine job ridding the country of pagans. So perhaps the beautiful brown-skinned Mary was representing the squishing of the native people of our lovely land? Or…is O.L. of Guadalupe a gorgeous, sensual representation of everything powerful within the native population, which had to hide in order to reinforce itself. Does the snake beneath Mary’s feet, the same snake beneath St. Patrick’s feet…represent the cancerous cult which grew to such numbers, less due to love and more out of the imposing of fear and physical strength. Don’t get me wrong, I love Catholicism. It’s a grand religious establishment, a beautiful religion, and more corrupt and outdated than modern government.
Most of us, if we have to, mold ourselves into what we need to be in order to survive. The survival of our heritage, our bloodlines, our history, our culture, even our names are important to us, even if we don’t realize it.
So what’s to say that our beautiful lady, is not the mask that an ancestral deity might wear? What’s to say that the beautiful lady in whatever her form, isn’t simply the face of ancestral deities from all over the world? It does make sense, our nature being tribal, our ancestry no matter where we originate, is in fact tribal, so why wouldn’t our ancestral gods see this image, take it on as their own, so as to not be stamped out, to not disappear?
Then again, perhaps she is her own entity, her own self. Perhaps she is full of love of her people, regardless of whether we believe that she is a version of the mother of Jesus, or whether we believe that she is something else. It doesn’t matter really, she is representative of something magnificent either way. She is a beautiful statement that the Hispanic culture, the Latino people are watched over…the tribe cared for from above. She is a message to those who would have us in roles as servants and slaves that we are descended from royalty, from priests of the ancient gods, from women who were powerful and from men who were strong. She is a reminder to us that we do not have to be absorbed and assimilated, that we are as we have always been…survivors.
In a time when there are laws which say that we cannot freely move from one place to another, in a time when we are told that we have to have papers to prove that we are legal, she is a reminder that our tribe was here long before the Church arrived. She is a standing symbol with her mouth curled into a smirk, whispering before her scream, that we are home. We are where we choose to be. She is a representation of our feet, blackened by the earth, standing on the hatred that makes no sense, on the prejudice that holds no truth, and crushing its neck like the evil that it is. She is a magnificent face of pride and elegance, culture and heritage, and of the beauty of the color brown.
Facebook and the Art of the Con
09 Dec 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: con, con artists, facebook, money, stalking, victims, women
I have a facebook page. There are a few reasons that I have one, but one of the reasons includes that it’s public. Because it is public, I have about once a month, one of those con artists either add me as a friend, or try to talk to me. Now, for me, this is curious rather than spooky. I have put together why I am chosen to have the honor of being one of the few women that said con artist might attempt to detach from whatever money they might have. First of all, I am middle-aged, or at least in the age range of the stereotypical middle age range. Next, I am fluffy. Yes, that means fuller figured. Then of course, my status is single. These three attributes seem to be the common status of the women that I usually see said con artists add quickly after creating facebook pages which have stolen pictures. I noticed that usually the stolen pictures are of military men, although I have also seen some civilian pictures. I imagine, although I have never asked, that the reason that I am amongst those honored with this attempted victimization, that traditionally, women in their forties and older, especially those who are single and carrying extra weight, have a tendency to be what some may call desperate and are less likely to catch the player at his game. This is due to many reasons, the top one is that society says that we are done. Magazine articles, news reports, statistics taken by groups that I’ve never heard of, all say that once a woman is past a certain age, she is no longer considered marketable. This can be for hiring, for loving, even for child-bearing. Women, unlike men, are not valued past a certain age…or so they say. I am always amused when a new con artist begins to prepare me for the short con. Apparently they don’t read many of my posts prior to adding me as a friend. Nor do they bother to read anything about me, prior to discussing how beautiful, elegant, intelligent, passionate, sensual or sincere I look in my picture. Trust me, that’s how they describe me. Of course I am beautiful, I know what I look like and since it’s a combination of my gorgeous parents and grandparents, it’s not a surprise. Of course I am intelligent, I work very hard at keeping my brain active. As for sincere, well…I do try, but sometimes I can’t help fawning over the con artist with the fake picture. I can’t restrain myself from acting as if I am a weak and gullible gal, just pining away for that special someone who I haven’t ever spoken to in person. I can’t help telling stories and lying and embellishing and making the con artist feel that he or she might be incredibly successful in this short con. It’s hard for me really, to resist that temptation. After all, it’s not really my fault that he chose me. I certainly don’t have all over my facebook page an invitation to con artist who are not very good at their jobs. Now don’t get me wrong, I think that if an intelligent con artist decided to follow my posts, add me to his friends list and do his darnedest to seduce me into sending him money or a transferable plane ticket or the number of my bank account, it would be huge giggles for me. After all, like all good spies, stalkers and sufferers of OCD, when the work is put into it, the victim can indeed feel really good about themselves for a short while. When the con artist knows so much about the victim that they know what the victim is currently reading, there’s not much the con artist will not know about the victim…and let’s face it, we enjoy when people pay attention to our likes and dislikes. I’ve never actually been stalked, and I don’t have the FBI after me, so no one has really ever paid that much attention to my daily comings and goings. In fact, the few times that it’s come close, the watchers of my ways have been scared off by my lack of continuity and stability. It’s much harder to keep track of traits when they are constantly changing. I enjoy the game though, the cat and mouse game…the idea that I am considered by some to be within the realm of the victim. I enjoy the idea that I am within the range of desperate gals, because of course desperation is something that is continuous in my life. It’s true, everything that I do, I do with the flair of desperation, of hunger, of desire, of intense living. What isn’t true though is this idea that we women lose our senses of self as we get older. Con artists would be better off targeting the younger women, who have little experience with life, lies and love, who want to believe. Most of us older gals are less likely to believe anything…let alone a guy who is so full of flattery that it sounds like a greeting from a telemarketer. Unfortunately, for the con artists that is, the younger gals don’t have the money to donate to the worthy cause that the con is selling. I suppose that I should tell these con artists that I don’t either, but like I said, they entertain me…and I do love to be entertained.
Why I Need Five Husbands
09 Dec 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: boredom, Gerard Butler, husbands, marriage, polygamy
I didn’t like being married. It wasn’t a long marriage, we only lived together for about two years, and the reason that I didn’t like being married was no reflection on my husband. He is still a friend in fact. My dislike for marriage was due to 1)boredom, 2)boredom and 3)boredom. Okay, I may have had some phobia toward commitment and the idea of a legal binding agreement that I will be a loving, faithful wife with obedience and all that, but in reality, it was simply boredom. Fortunately we lived in Hawaii, and in Hawaii it is very difficult to be bored. I may not have lasted as long as I did. Over the years I have had numerous proposals of marriage, suggestions of marriage and even the occasional consideration of marriage. However, it all came down to one question…”Will this be boring?” I realize that life is not always excitement, nor are relationships. When we are comfortable with another person, we find that we try less, we get into ruts and everything becomes routine. Morning coffee, sharing our plans for the day, etc. These things…well I can do them on my own. I can pretty much do anything on my own. There are some things which are more fun with another person, picnics, dinners out, even watching game shows are more fun with another person to shout out answers at the television screen with. I can however, do those things on my own. I can even work hand tools with long nails if I have to. Very little difference between that and tweezing my brows. I have realized though, through the years since I divorced…and throughout a number of relationships which have not tempted me to the altar, that I need multiple husbands. Oh I have seen Big Love, Sister Wives and the news shows of women and children being marched out of communal living arrangements. That’s not the type of marriage that I’m talking about. In fact, I have not yet met a man that I believed could successfully handle more than one wife. Women though, are by nature, able to handle multiple relationships at a time, while still providing the necessary love and companionship to all of them. We can juggle children, husbands, boyfriends, parents, friends, siblings and coworkers with ease, throwing in the local PTA members every once in a while to spice things up. A woman can make every single person feel as if he, she, or they are number one in that woman’s life. With five separate husbands, especially now that my children are grown, I would probably find that the marriage would be successful and long lasting. Of course these men could not suffer from unwarranted jealousy, as I have little to no tolerance for the green-eyed monster. A mechanic would alleviate my need to disturb my father in his budding romance, to do minor maintenance on my car, a financial expert would make it possible for me to not concern myself with anything having to do with money at all and a handyman would keep my hands free from having to screw things in, repair broken shelves and hanging the grandkids’ school pictures. Oh I realize that I could probably find a man who was a jack of all trades which could do all of these things, but that would take some of the fun out of the whole enchilada. Then of course we have the fact that I really like uniforms, so having a husband who was either a police officer, fireman, or even a member of one of the branches of the military would suffice. I like to leave my final spot open, primarily for Gerard Butler, who I will continue to keep a spot open for, since I have this waxing and waning crush on him which just seems to not go away. This of course is silly since I would never marry an actor, artist, musician or anyone else that is in the limelight. Now, you would think that this idea of marriage would be a silly, immature way of looking at something which is commonplace. After all I am a healthy woman, with healthy views about life and love, why should I not be married? Again…boredom. There are too many people in this world which I have a deep affection for. Some of them even appeal to me sexually. I have very little patience for the possessiveness that seems to occur as soon as the minister says “I now pronounce you…” In fact, many of my friends who were perfectly happy living together, found that as soon as the license was signed, things changed. If you think about it, it makes complete sense. Once you know that you are the legal owner of a car, I’ll bet in most cases, you don’t mind tossing the wrapper of that burrito into the back seat. I’m certainly not comparing a person to a car, but let’s face it, we have a tendency to treat those people who are legally connected to us, with a bit less consideration than strangers. I think though, that if I were married to five different husbands, with five different personalities, all of them living separate from me, it might be different. Maybe it will feel a little less restrictive, a little less like an institution. Maybe we will all treat each other with a little more consideration and respect, knowing that a polygamous marriage has much more scrutiny than others. Perhaps the excitement of introducing ourselves as a family would be more conducive to a less monotonous marriage. Or…perhaps my five husbands will decide that they like each other much more than they like me, and they will plan out my assassination like a tight knit organized criminal underground society. Either way, it will make for a very exciting marriage.
Robert Pattinson and the Art of Cuckoldry
09 Dec 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: Bel Ami, cuckold, infidelity, Kristen Stewart, monogamy, respect, Robert Pattinson, Twilight
I feel sorry for Robert Pattinson. Oh I know that it’s not going to affect my life, unless he all of a sudden wants a reading from me, but other than that, I can’t imagine that his relationships are going to have any bearing on my day to day life. However, I still feel sorry for him. It’s hard for young people, this modern fervor for infidelity. Those of us who are older and recognize the sociological and even anthropological power behind “cheating” know what he’s in for, not because his lady love, the ever popular wisp of a stoner, Kristen Stewart, is a bad person. I don’t think that she is. In fact, except for not being a fan of her acting style, I bear her no mind at all. She is probably a delightful young lady, with a personality which is unfortunately invisible on screen. She probably kisses the young Mr. Pattinson and makes his knees quiver. Which is always nice. I feel sorry for him because he is establishing the dynamics of his acceptance, of his ideology of relationships within the choices he makes. It isn’t wrong of him to take back his girlfriend, especially when there is love. However, those of us who are older know that love is not what we once thought that it was. Not only is trust necessary, confidence, respect and communication all play important parts when interpersonal relationships are in play. Because Stewart is in the limelight and aware that she is constantly under the watchful eyes of paparazzi, fans and journalists, she is also aware that her behavior might just make the front page. Her lack of respect for both her partner Pattinson, as well as her lover’s wife, exhibited what will likely occur over and over again throughout her life. Perhaps it is arrogance, or even the simple lack of concern which led her to publicly display her infidelities. Perhaps it’s just due to her youth. I do know though that at her young age, to take such few precautions, to put so little consideration into discretion…followed by really no consequences…leads the human psyche to believe that all is well. I have found, in my years of interactions with the human folk, that when one is not given consequences, there is a likelihood of repetition. Those men and women, falling into each others arms during their afternoon delight, then marry later are often found yet again, cheating on their current mates. Why? Because there was no consequence. Their lovers did not say to them “Why would I marry you when I know that you are a cheater? You cheated with me so I can assume that you would cheat on me.” Pattinson was face to face with the humiliation of having been cheated on, it was all over tabloids and even legitimate news programs. He made the break…then returned to her, forgiveness being the proverbial olive branch. What does this say about Pattinson? That he is madly in love and doesn’t care what she does, as long as she is still his? That he is a cuckold and will be happy being the long suffering martyr of the relationship? Or does it say that he is confused, comfortable in the relationship and unwilling to venture out and find a more faithful mate? It’s really hard to say, at least for me. Having seen his role in Bel Ami, I quickly became a fan of his acting skills which had been so limited in the Twilight series. Because he is my daughter’s age, I hope that he is able to mature quickly so as to not suffer too many breaks in his heart. I hope that, like my daughter who has been in a relationship for six years now, the talented young man is able to figure out that love is not the end all and be all of a committed and monogamous relationship. Love plays a part in many flighty and short-lived relationships, as I can attest to. It is, in fact, the other qualities, respect being the highest peak of any relationship, which are more important. Hopefully he will find someone who respects him, not only as her lover, but also as a man. My grandmother used to say that a man cannot act like a man if he is not treated like a man. I hope that the young actor finds this out before he is turned into something else.
Dreams of Campgrounds
09 Dec 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: bears, camping, CIA, dreams
I hate camping. Now this isn’t a melodramatic play where I actually love camping and want people to say “Oh you just need to camp with us because we have so much fun!” No, I really hate camping. Now, I haven’t ever camped in an RV, primarily because most fans of camping say that it isn’t in fact camping then, but I imagine that I would agree with most of those hardcore fans of camping. There are a number of reasons that I hate camping, the first one of course being that I am somewhat still afraid of the dark. In the thirteen year old recesses of my mind, hidden behind the forty-four year old sensibilities, I do not actually believe that anyone who might be camping with me, will be able to protect me from the bogeyman in the middle of the night, nor will he, she or they be able to keep me from getting mauled by bears who are attracted to my body wash. Which brings us to my second reason for disliking camping. I do not like being without my daily beauty products. Oh it isn’t that I don’t think that I am just as lovely without said beauty products. They are however, a bit of a crutch for me, a contributing factor in how much I enjoy the day. Whether it is lipstick, perfume or lotion, my products play a part in my reaction to others, even if it is a placebo effect. Then of course, there is the fact that I am in nature. I am not a mountain man in nature, nor am I a trained survivalist in nature. I am a born and raised Los Angeles native, a city girl who thinks that nature is the potted plant that she has managed to keep alive for three years. I always think, when I go camping that is, that something is going to happen, some escaped lunatic, some starved bear, some alien predator is going to come after me, I won’t be able to get the zipper down in my tent and won’t be able to run for the woods and find some way to create a subterfuge while waiting for help from the CIA. No, I am that girl at the beginning of the movie who not only can’t get the zipper to her tent down so that she can escape, she is killed by a falling bee’s nest hanging over her tent, which she didn’t bother noticing before she set up her tent in the first place. Yes, I am that girl. It would be gruesome enough to just be hysterical.
I am exaggerating of course, I am really not that much of a city girl, and I tend to do most of my mystical work either near or in streams and rivers, so at least when water is included, I am game, but I really do despise camping. Which is why I don’t understand why so many of my dreams are set in campgrounds. It doesn’t matter if they’re established campgrounds, with fire pits and swing sets, or whether they are simply places in the woods which my subconscious dream brain decides to set up shop for the duration. Most of the campgrounds are ones that I have never been to, ones that don’t strike familiarity when I wake up, but while I am sleeping, are the most familiar places that I’ve ever been. Usually there are people there who are dead to me, whether dead as in “rest in peace” or dead as in “I hope I never even think of them again” they show up in my dreams like long lost friends, laughing and smiling and eating and playing. In my dreams, they haven’t pissed me off, or at least I don’t care that they’ve pissed me off. My mother’s not dead, but sitting next to my grandmother, who also has not passed on, who sits next to my daughter’s dad, who I haven’t seen in ten years. They mingle with friends and family, acquaintances and clients, ex-lovers and ex-coworkers all walk, play, dance and laugh while moving around the campgrounds of my dreams while the necessary archetypes and images show themselves to me in strange ways.
For some reason, my least favorite setting is the most common setting in my dreams. Because I believe that dreams hold both mystical and psychological messages, images and words, I imagine that the fact that such a high number of my dreams are set in campgrounds, it could be in order for me to stay on edge in my dreams, or it could be that I might some day enjoy camping. Then again, it could just be that it’s an easy locale for my subconscious to set up. Unfortunately there is never anyone there who would be able to keep me safe from the alien predators…or bears.
Superstition and the Evil of Names
05 Dec 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: dating, names, superstitions
Superstition isn’t something that bothers me. I enjoy my abundance of them, less concerned with how the unfounded fears affect my life and more amused by their impact on others. I don’t walk under ladders, I bury the pieces of broken mirrors, I don’t put my purse on the floor, and I never give a gift of a timepiece. However, there is one of my superstitions that is not only based not in history, but rather my own personal fears and avoidance of commitment. After all, other than the names which are created in the crisis of “Oh shit, the baby is here and we haven’t decided on a name” most names are shared by at least one other person on the face of the planet. This unfortunate reality contributes in its own little way, to the superstition of which I speak. I never date someone with the same name as anyone I have previously dated. This does pose a bit of a problem, since I have been involved with a Michael, a David, a John and an Adam….there are more of course, I certainly am not too pure to be pink, but you get my point right? Male names are hard to come up with, I imagine that those parents who have all boys are either using common names, knowing full well that their sons will be drops in the seas of James, Mark and Eric. Oh don’t get me wrong, I do occasionally come across someone who has a name which I haven’t heard in a while, but those are rare and I have found that the bearers of those unusual names are already taken. There should be more of a serious ritual for naming a baby, as it used to be, as it is still in some cultures. After all, our names are what we identify with. Because I have never really spent any time using my legal name, but the nickname given to me by my parents, I understand the qualms of “why didn’t they just name me that?” I get the Jr. aspect of naming a boy, especially if it’s the last ten generations who have also had that name, although I do feel that it is somewhat of an ego thing, maybe one of possession, but I still get it. Most of the people I know don’t even know what their names mean. Oh sure, they know why they were named that, whether they were named after someone their parents knew, or whether it was just a name they heard on their way to register for the hospital stay, they know the story behind the name, just not the meaning of the name. I think that it’s important to recognize the monumental importance behind choosing a name for your child, what it will represent for them for the rest of their lives. whether that child will have a name to live up to, or have a name that will become the bane of their existence. Will they blend in or will they stand out, will they be a little kooky or will they feel comfortable in mainstream society? My favorite male names come from all over, such as the archangel Gabriel lending his name to my list of acceptable and even hopeful dating names. Leo, Angel, Julian, Micah and Romeo are some of the other male names that I am fond of. I’ve also never dated anyone with those names. Michael, unfortunately, is one of my least favorite names. Whether it is because my own name is the feminine version of it or whether it is because every Michael that I’ve ever known has been a prick, it’s just one name that I have a problem with. I don’t mind the nickname Mickey, but I rarely come across someone who uses that nickname, preferring to use the even shorter Mike instead. I suppose that this superstition might cut into my dating pool, pushing out the guys who might in fact be compatible in every other way, to my life and future, but I think that when it would come to calling them by their names, I might have a problem, and I certainly don’t want to always use pet names, what if I am mad and don’t want to say “honey” at that moment?
Vincent Price and the Soundtrack to My Life
04 Dec 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: dream, soundtrack to life, Vincent Price, voiceover
My dreams are always strange, a combination of an overactive imagination and hot flashes making an explosive experiment of my subconscious mind. Last night, I was just doing whatever I was doing, in my dream it seemed far more interesting than in life, such as doing the dishes, sweeping the floor, dealing with a sister’s emotional breakdown, etc. However, directly behind me was Vincent Price. Yes, I mean the actor. Now, I do realize that it’s been a while since I have seen one of his films, and he is one of my favorite actors, but honestly, I’d like to know what Jung or Freud would say about the fact that my dream was solely of Vincent Price following me around, reading some of my favorite literary works out loud, as if he were recording a soundtrack to my life. I’ve always liked the idea of a soundtrack to my life, but since I can’t hear music very well, it doesn’t make much sense. However, having someone follow me around while reading to me from classic novels and plays sounds like it would be my cup of tea. If, for example, I was experiencing what is, for me, the all too common occurrence of falling madly in love with someone, I may hear the hauntingly elegant voice of Vincent Price quote Wuthering Heights…“If he loved you with all the power of his soul for a whole lifetime, he couldn’t love you as much as I do in a single day.” Or maybe when I am fighting with my roommate over whose turn it is to do the kitchen, Vincent Price might quote Cat on a Hot Tin Roof with “I’m not living with you. We occupy the same cage.” Maybe my life is better off being voiced over by someone else, rather than carrying with it a traditional soundtrack, songs to set tears a-flowin’ and tempers flaring. Maybe having someone elegant and well…in the spirit world, is just what I need to remind me that my life, no matter how strange and magnificent it might be, no matter how dull and dreary it might get on certain days, is full of moments that are similar to my favorite characters, at least in my own head.
Christmas Garb and the Concept of Sexy
03 Dec 2012 Leave a comment
in Uncategorized Tags: Christmas, holidays, men, Santa Claus, sexy
It’s true, I’m not a fan of the holidays. I hate the trouble of decorating, so I don’t. Since I still have nightmares about my mother yelling at me to put one strand of tinsel on the tree at a time, about thirty years after I last hung tinsel, I figure that it’s a good thing that I avoid creating my own neuroses about decorating for the holidays. I also hate Christmas music. I don’t care whether it’s a centuries old pagan carol or something written to benefit orphan children, I can’t stand Christmas or holiday music. First of all, the holidays are not bright and merry. At least in the Northwest, they are gloomy, rainy, cold and there is only enough daylight to make me remember that once not too long ago, there was sunshine. I was not the type of mother, nor am I now the type of grandmother, to spend three months prior to Christmas, Yule, Solstice or whatever holiday I may celebrate that year, out shopping for the perfect gift. In fact, it’s more often that I wait until the day before. I have even given gifts after the holiday just so that I could avoid the rush and crush of holiday shopping. I do however love the legend of Santa Claus. Any of his versions, from the origins in the Germanic region to our more modernized version of a poorly paid, shabbily attired mall Santa, I love the idea of this jolly old guy who wants nothing more than to reward the righteous and discipline the naughty. It’s not the way that works of course, instead, the poor and the homeless, regardless of their behavior this year may not even get a stocking, let alone gifts, but I like the legend anyway. So you can imagine, that when my daughter and I went to the mall last week, my horror to see Santa-styled undergarments for men and women alike. First of all, men in sexy underwear freak me out. If a man is wearing sexy underwear, I assume that it’s because he is a model, he is a stripper, or he is certainly not trying to bed me. Men…or at least my concept of them, don’t get their nails done, don’t have their hair highlighted and they certainly don’t wear lingerie. However, there they were, these boxers constructed of shimmery red satin, white faux fur lining the leg openings. Next to them were hats and robes, all with the matching disco shimmery red satin and white faux fur, all designed with Christmas, Santa Claus and sex in mind. I winced. I imagined taking a lover who decided to surprise me in this getup, and I winced. For some reason, the connection doesn’t work in my head, and I’m not even a Christian, I don’t even believe that Christmas is the birthday of the little baby Jesus. I don’t even like the holidays. And I LOVE shimmery red satin. But somehow, the connection between the little baby Jesus, kids waking up to rummage through their stockings, a big jolly old man who hangs out with elves and reindeer all year…and getting my groove on….well they just…don’t…mesh…I…just…can’t…put…them…together. So I guess, I can just use my dislike of the holidays as a way to avoid shopping this year, because if I see something like that again, I might have a fainting spell.
Hellish Behavior 