Road Trip: Destination Wendover, NV

Tex and I are fairly spontaneous people. We do plan some things out but for the most part we brainstorm an idea in our head for 5 minutes, say it out loud, and then we both go after it without thinking about the minor details. So on Saturday morning when we woke up realizing Tex had gotten paid, and the bills were all paid for the month of March, he decided “a get away from Park City” was well in store.

With Tex ready to go from the minute "get away" and “Wendover” processed in his brain, we were in a race to pack our things and head on out. Being spontaneous like this when you have other responsibilities means you “give and take” on a few things. Like Hazard…we couldn’t find anyone to watch him, didn't try, so we left Hazard to patrol the house over night alone. He was to keep the cats in order, eat some food, and watch TV with his toy. (Yes the TV was left on along with some lights so Hazard would feel as comfortable as possible.)

Wendover is a “po-dunk” town right over the border of Utah to Nevada. It is in the middle of nowhere with about 5 decent size casinos. We began our “2 hour” journey at about 3:30. The weather was good, the tank was full and the speed limit was 75 on straight aways past the Great Salt Lake and some mountain ranges. After listening to Tex’s Lynard Skynard, I finally was able to slip my mix cd in and listen to DMB, a little Garth, Eminem, and Linkin Park. We arrived in Wendover fairly quickly, since the speed was 75. 75 meant you could go a little over, we easily topped 90 in many areas, but other cars continued to fly by us. Tex gave me no time to check out hotels on the internet prior to leaving, so when we arrived in Wendover, we settled on the first place, Montego Bay. It was overly priced compared to all the other hotel/casinos around, but - this was spontaneous so we paid about $50 more than we should have, had we looked into other hotels a block down the road. (Haven’t gambled yet: out $50).

We got our room, changed, and headed out to the casino. Now, this is the second time only that I have gambled, but I adjusted pretty well. With no hesitation, I found my “slot” that I was going to play all night… “Wheel of Fortune” and luckily Tex played right next to me. We played on Wheel of Fortune for about 4-5 hours. At one point we were up $600 by putting $50/each into our own slot… But come on...When you’re gambling you want more, why settle, so I lost my portion completely and we settled on Tex's (still a win though not as much a) win of $230.00. We scuffled around to the Peppermill Casino and Gold Nugget Casino and played some more slots. (Plus, 4 hours of free Corona’s for me and Jack and Coke for Tex., we were feeling good.) After losing another $20 each on a slot, Tex was very thrilled to see Keno. At about midnight, we switched over to Keno, which turned out to be my downfall not $$-wise but alcohol-wise. I had a blast sitting next to Tex, hanging out, talking, and resting my head on his shoulder. Each round of Keno, Tex who usually wins at Keno, didn’t win and I would win my money back or double. But after several more rounds of drinks and sitting, playing Keno, I felt a little sleepy, and bloated from all the beer I had consumed. So at 2:30, I called it a night at the casino with only $28.00 in my pocket.

We went back to the room and I crashed on the bed. Tex decided to go “see how much we had earned on our passports": cards that go into the slot machine and earn you points for food, etc…(I think it is a scam because every time I forgot to put it in, I did well, when it was registered in the machine, I lost my money more quickly). Well, he must have got lost on the way, because I woke up when he returned at 5 in the morning. Well, I didn’t know this about Tex, but when he gets going gambling…he goes. He accomplished losing more of his money to the point that his ATM is worthless. When we woke up in the morning, we left Montego Bay and went over to the Rainbow Casino. Lucky for me I had used my “passport card” because that is what bought our breakfast at a restaurant. Then, we both hit a slot for another hour with my $28.00 and $50 out from my account...We lost every dime and headed back home by 2:30 pm.

All in all, we lost probably $200 gambling, saved $120+ from gambling to get free drinks, and had a blast together. Overall, we were annoyed that we lost our money but came to find out that Hazard felt the most pain. The previous day, when we had walked out the door, with a bag of clothes in tote, Hazard knew we were going somewhere, he didn’t even try to run out the door and jump into the car, and he just sat there with droopy eyes. While we lost money, our dog, depressed in our absence, didn’t eat any of his food. He didn’t go to the bathroom in the house even though he was alone for over 24 hours…he was constipated when we got home from his depression. On the other hand, he was thrilled to have us home so I coaxed him to eat his food while we ate ours and 20 minutes later, Hazard was good to go. Tex and I relaxed for the rest of our evening and watched a movie.

Trip to Wendover: $100-hotel, $200 gambling, $40 food, $50 full tank of gas, extra $50 to call it a day.

Trip to Wendover: Good times winning and losing with Tex, free drinks, 2-hour getaway, and a dog that doesn’t shit or pee over a 24 hour period of time: PRICELESS.

Things That Go Bump In The Night

Last night I had one of those nightmares that I sometimes have where I'm terrified and trying to scream at the top of my lungs, but no sound is coming out which is only increasing my feelings of terror. Usually what happens is that I'm trying to get away from something or someone and I'm going to die unless I escape. I try to run, but I cannot move because my whole body is restrained. It feels like I'm drowning far below in the depths of the ocean. Like an insect trapped in amber, that's hardening and crystallizing around it. My body has no strength, and my head is clouded. I can't make sense of anything except for my terror and my desparate need to escape, so I try to scream for help.

In my nightmare, I try over and over again to scream, while becoming increasingly terrified, and feeling more and more like I will be unable to escape from certain death. All of my effort produces only a choked silence or a barely audible cry. Finally, after trying and trying, I'm able to scream in my nightmare. The moment I do, I wake up and find myself, not in my nightmare, but sitting bolt upright, having just pushed myself up from the bed, screaming into the silence and darkness of my curtained bedroom in the middle of the night. I don't know what's scarier: being trapped in those dreams, or forcing myself awake by screaming and then having to sit alone in the darkness trying to sort out the nightmare from reality.

Last night, the nightmare had a Texas Chainsaw Massacre twist. Thank you subconscious for that lovely element. In my nightmare, I was lying in bed NEXT to Leatherface. Yes, right next to him, sharing the same bed. Only Leatherface didn't have his face covered with a rotted old leather bag. Instead, he was wearing a hard metal mask with an opening over his mouth that was covered with bars the width of toothpicks in the fashion of Hannibal Lecter. He was bound to the bed and held in place on his back by thick restraints like you would find in mental hospitals of old. I have no idea why I was lying next to him, or why I couldn't run, because I wasn't bound by anything that I could see, but I felt paralyzed. I do know that I didn't trust his restraints, and that it was only a matter of time before he I was going to turn towards me and come for me. I knew that I would die when that happened, and that it would be a grisly and painful death.

I tried to to scream as loud as I could, terrified that Leatherface would hear me before I could make a loud enough sound to alert those who were going to help me. I was inches away from his body, his restraints, and the bars covering his mouth. I tried to scream again and again, but no sound would come out. I was conscious of the bed moving beneath me as my body tensed and shook, trying to make some sound come out of my throat, and I was afraid that I would wake him. I was becoming more and more frantic. I tried harder to scream, and made a small sound. Oh my god. Did he hear it? I didn't look at him. I didn't want to see him coming for me. Instead I just focused on trying to scream, trying to make the sounds that were coming out of me louder and louder, until suddenly, I screamed a blood curdling scream.

My scream pierced through the nightmare and let me escape. I was suddenly awake. I was conscious that I had just thrust myself into a sitting position in bed. As I came awake, I stopped screaming. I could remember the sound, but I was disoriented, not sure if I had really screamed or if I had only dreamed the sound of my scream. Everything was silent in my bedroom and it was very dark. I jerked my head to look at the other side of my bed, but no one was there. The down comforter was piled in odd bunches. I carefully pressed it down and made sure that nothing was concealed beneath it. I sighed in relief, but also fear. I was all alone. At least in bed.

My mouth was dry and I wanted a glass of water, but to get one I would have to get out of bed and cross the darkness of my studio. I looked at my alarm clock. It was 4:20 in the morning. I held my breath listening for any sound in my apartment, wondering in the darkness what had caused me to wake up. Was it the nightmare, or was it something else?

From my bed in the alcove of my studio, I couldn't see my whole apartment, and the kitchen was completely obscured from view. I was too scared to go. I realized I had to pee and, gathering my courage, carefully slipped out of my bed and made my way to the bathroom, just 8 feet away from the edge of my bed. The path to the bathroom is easy, with lots of lights and no need to cross any darkness in order to turn them on. Lighting my way as I went, I half backed into my bathroom, keeping an eye behind me just in case anything suddenly came at me in a rush out of the shadows of my apartment. I peeed quietly, with the door open, leaning towards my right so that I could see out throught the whole doorway. So that I would have warning if I needed to jump up and slam the door shut. Nothing came. I didn't flush because I didn't want to create any sound that might serve as a cover for anything that was hiding.

After the bathroom, I was still thirsty, and some of the fear of the nightmare was wearing off. I steeled myself and walked out into the dark space of my apartment, quickly turning on all the lights, making everything look as bright as it would in the day. That was a little better, but there were still hiding places to check. I stealthily crept towards the closet and checked behind the clothes, while all the while keeping an eye on the rest of the room. The closet was clear. I checked behind my chinese screen. Nothing. I was starting to feel better. The kitchen was clear too. I opened the fridge and poured myself a cold glass of water. I took a sip, standing in front of the fridge, feeling increasingly better, and little bit foolish for being so scared.

It was 4:35 a.m. now, and I needed to go back to sleep. I turned off the light in the kitchen, the one near my front door, and then the one that covers most of my studio, as I walked back towards my bed. The darkness at my back spooked me again, and I moved quickly, but silently, on edge and listening intently for any signs of pursuit. I didn't look back, because that would have been ridiculous, and I was just a little scared that I might have seen something looking back at me. As I got to my bed, I couldn't help myself from leaping up onto it so that my toes didn't have to go to close to the dark space under my bed - a habit from childhood to avoid the grasp of boogie men who live under beds that I've never been able to shake. I spun around and surveyed my apartment, which was once again covered in shadows. Nothing seemed amiss.

I was still too spooked to turn out my bedlight just yet, so I picked up "Knife of Dreams," the most recent novel in Robert Jordan's epic fantasy Wheel of Time series. I opened the page I had dog-eared (my Dad and Raj hate that) and began to read about Elayne's efforts to rule Camlyn, Aes Sedai, the golden-haired warrior Bridget, and the latest developments facing my beloved magical characters. There's a character in the Wheel of Time seris, Min, who can foretell the future and interpret dreams. I would have liked to have heard her interpretation of my Leatherface nightmare. After about 15 minutes, getting happily lost in their world banished the last of the fear that had been clinging to me from my nightmare. It was a little after 5:00 a.m. when I turned off the light and went back to sleep.

Metric, Hipsters, and Happiness

Last night, Raj, his friend Ernest, and I went to see Metric play at Webster Hall. The evening started with the boys hunting among convenience stores for cans of Sparks. I felt like I was back in high school, running around town trying to find wine coolers I could swig on the sly. For some reason, unfathomable to me, Raj and Ernest love Sparks. I personally would never touch them. For those of you who have missed them, they are alcoholic, highly caffeinated drinks that taste like cherry cough syrup. The boys were ultimately successful in their Sparks quest, and then we all stood on a corner outside Webster Hall chatting while they downed their sparks before going in to see the show. Yet another incident that makes me think boys are strange, and pushes me one step closer to admitting that there might just be inate (though culturally and evolutionarily produced) differences between males and females.

Metric is one of these Canadian bands in the "cool because they're not" category of music - otherwise known as "hip" - who, despite their hallowed place in hipdom, are actually pretty damn good and fun to listen to. As a general matter, I'm deeply suspicious of all things "hip." Usually, because those things labled "hip," are all too often a load of conformist garbage. The Emperor's New Clothes phenomenon wrapped up in standard hipster attire: A pair of too-tight euro jeans and too-small shirt with an ugly plaid pattern for boys, and a mini skirt and combat boots with pale skin, thick eyeliner and a block of too-short bangs for girls. I've never understood the point of identifying as a non-conformist, while being allegedly "non-conforming" in such a blatantly conformist way.

Take for example, Emily's outfit (see pictures). Emily Haines, the lead singer and keyboardist of Metric, who admittedly kicks ass, was wearing a form fitting white mini-dress slash skort ensemble with high heeled silver shoes, and short sleeves capped with a perky bow on each arm. The shoes were cool. The skort was... a skort. She had her hair pulled back in a rough pony tail and her blond bangs hung in a ragged curtain that hid most of her face. In another decade, or a social scene, her outfit might have been mistaken for that of an uber rich prepster from the upper echelons of Connecticut high society. However, preppy paired with raggedy hair has become the new anti-uppercrust outfit. Preppy is now hip, and because it's hip, everyone trying to be cool-because-they're-not is doing it, in pretty much exactly the same way, including Miss Emily.

However, despite being hip, Emily and Metric are actually really good, and they put on a great show last night. Emily's vocals in particular, are beautiful. She sings in a haunting, breathy, sometimes raspy, vulnerable little-girl voice that fits perfectly against the harder sounds of her band's bass, guitar and drums. The first time I heard Metric, they reminded me a lot of Belly; Emily's voice has an open quality similar to Tonya Donnelly's and both Metric and Belly can rock in the same way. Last night, they played a lot of the songs that I liked, including "Dead Disco" and "Poster of a Girl." Here are some lyrics to "Dead Disco" that we couldn't figure out after the show (they're sad):

"Dead disco, Dead funk, Dead rock and roll.
Remodel. Everything has been done.
La la la la la la la la la la
I know, I know you tried to change things.
I know you tried to change.
I know."

Unlike me, who thought the show was good, Raj and Ernest thought Metric was "awesome" last night. Don't get me wrong, I had a great time last night, but I didn't love the band as much as the boys did. Partly, that's because Raj and Ernest are both way more into going to shows than I am, and they are huge fans of Metric. Whereas I enjoy going to shows, I don't see it as the end all be all of great times, unless I absolutely love the band, and then it's a totally different story. Lately, whenever I go to shows, it is an oddly introspective experience. Seeing music tends to evoke memories for me of different times in my life, and I end up taking stock of where I am and thinking about where I've been.

Like last night, I spent a good amount of time thinking about the moments in life that matter to me. I started down that train of thought because, in the middle of the show, Raj leaned close to me and yelled over the music, "This is what IT's about!" I was incredulous. Could this person that I love really think that the greatest thing in life is getting drunk on Sparks and watching a rock band? What did this say about our relationship and how he felt about the time we spent together?

I was perplexed by this for most of last night, and into this morning because I couldn't understand whether he was actually saying that he really only experienced the height of happiness, and "felt alive" as he said, while watching shows and being blasted by waves of sound. When he first said that, I looked at him quizzically, and then started thinking about what I think this, as in life, is all about. I can assure you, it's not about standing in the middle of a crowd of people, getting jostled about, listening to a band that's good but not awesome (at least not to me), drinking warm corona out of a plastic cup.

Later, after we were out of the din, I asked Raj, "What about laying around on the couch with me watching a movie?" "What about making dinner with me?" "What about just feeling in love and happy to be with me?" "Isn't that what IT should all be about???" As you can tell, I have relationship, trust, and love issues, and they pop out, inconveniently but humanly, all over the place and in all sorts of interactions.

When he first said that during the show, I thought that he was saying that life is about going to shows and all of the attendant drinking and carousing that goes along with it (not to mention, checking out the female lead singers, which I suspect probably happens) - what I consider to be fleeting and ultimately meaningless moments of life in and of themselves. How could I think this you ask? Like I said, I have issues, and sometimes Raj doesn't say exactly what he means, leaving his words open to all sorts of interpretations.

I thought that Raj was saying that the happiness he was experiencing watching Metric somehow eclipsed the happiness he feels when it is just the two of us sharing moments together. I thought he was taking for granted all the moments between us that I find special and important. The little moments, like walking down the street holding hands, sitting in the theater sharing popcorn, snuggling on my futon watching a movie, bumping into each other in our too small kitchens while making dinner, catching his eye across the gym and smiling at one another, or having one of our many conversations that make me feel loved and understood.

Those are the moments that are important to me, just like similar moments with others that I love, and those are the moments that bring me a far greater happiness than seeing any type of show could ever do.

This morning, I was finally able to understand that what he meant when he said, This is what IT is all about, was that he loved being with me and his best friend, the two of us getting along, watching a band that he loved, having a great time and cutting loose, and being able to release some of the stress of the past work week. He meant that life is about moments of happiness, and that we should enjoy and savor each one of those moments of happiness as they come. He meant that last night was a moment of happiness, not the moment of happiness for him. He was happy because we were sharing that moment together. That is apparently what it was about to him. (That's what he told me). It took me a while, as these things sometimes do, but eventually I got it. I had fun with him watching Metric too.

Tight Rope Walking In My Dreams

When I hear stories from my friends with babies, and how the babies wake them up at all hours of the night, my standard response is, "Oh my god, I could never do that!" I can't imagine having my sacred 8 hours of sleep interrupted every 2 hours by some little creature crying and reaching for my breasts. However, the truth is, these days I hardly ever get my much coveted 8 hours of beauty rest even though I'm completely baby-free. Instead, every night this past week when I climb into bed and sleepily lay down on my plush European pillow-topped, feather-bed covered mattress, the moment my head rests against the pillow it's like some switch gets pulled in my brain and I'm instantly wide awake. My mind starts flipping through on warp speed and in vivid technicolor every tiny little thing that would be on my "to-do" list, if I got over enough of my anxiety to create one.

When I finally do drift off to sleep, the nature of my sleep is not the deep, dream-filled slumber that I love that makes me feel like I've worked through deep issues while in a virtual state of unconsciousness. The kind of sleep that leaves you waking up feeling delicious and heavy and filled with a sense of contentment. Rather, it's this terribly unsatisfying sleep that hovers on the edge of wakefulness for hours and leaves my fragile rest vulnerable to the passing car horns or the 3 a.m. garbage removal crew on the street below. Usually, it seems that it's not until early morning that I'm finally able to drift into a deeper, more restful sleep. Waking up under these circumstances is, of course, torturous. Like today: I wanted to stay in bed so badly this morning!

Part of the reason behind my lack of sleep is definitely the impending move. What I decribed in an earlier post as my countdown to apartment liberation doesn't feel liberating just yet. It feels more like I'm walking perilously on a tightrope while shackled to a million pounds of dead weight dangling from my ankles and dragging me down towards the abyss below. I'm stressed, I'm pressured. The dead weight has post-it notes attached to it with messages like: "Find a storage place," "Search for jobs," "Sort all of the contents of your studio into 'Boyfriend's Apt,' 'Storage,' or 'Toss' piles," "Throw out the clothes that you haven't worn for the last 5 years," (Prue says the rule is 1 year), "Decide whether to sell or store the furniture that won't fit in Boyfriend's much smaller Chelsea Apt," "Fix your resume," "Send out some applications," "DO YOUR LF WORK." Yikes! You can imagine why I'm having such difficulty picking the weight up and getting on with it.

Today though, I made another teensy step forward. Actually it's huge. Who am I kidding? It was more than I did the last 4 days combined. I reserved a storage place!! Pretty awesome, right? I called up Manhattan Mini Storage and spoke to the Most-Helpful-Reassuring-Man-Ever. He was able to provide me with a storage unit right next to Boyfriend's apartment for half of what I though it would cost, on the day I needed it, and for as long as I need it. Not only that, but he also offered to supply me with movers and a truck. When I explained that Boyfriend and I were going to try to do it ourselves, Most-Helpful-Reassuring-Man-Ever told me that if I could guarantee storing my stuff for a month (hell ya) then he could hook me up with a free truck. Is this man an angel or what? On top of that, throughout our conversation, he kept telling me not to worry, and that everything would work out just fine. I think I'm in love.

I got off the phone with Most-Helpful-Reassuring-Man-Ever and raced down the hall to Prue's office to share my elation. I ran into her office and shut the door and then gushed out the whole story in a gleeful torrent. She was as excited as I was and clapped her hands. Prue, incidentally, has something far greater to be excited about: She just gave notice!! OMG. She's my hero. If I wasn't so freaking happy for her, I would be green with jealousy. Perhaps Prue let some of her joy over her own incredible life changes wash over into enthusiasm for my smaller life changes. Whatever the reason, when I shared my storage-space news with her, the girl responded with excitement and pumped me up. Like any most-excellent friend should have.

I left her office even more gleeful than when I had arrived and quickly called Boyfriend to share with him the news. I knew I had been stressing him out with my stress and I thought he would be proud and happy that I had finally picked up the dang phone and made some decisions. I thought he would have been absolutely thrilled to know that he would not have to suffer through anymore of these conversations:

Me: I don't know what to do! I don't know if I should store everything, or sell everything, and I don't know how much will fit in your place, and storage is probably going to be so expensive, so maybe I should sell everything, but maybe I shouldn't, I don't know what to do!

Boyfriend: Hmmm... You just have to decide.

Me: But I can't decide! I just don't know what to do. Should I sell everything, or keep it all? It's such a waste of money, but I don't know what's going to happen, and I like my things and I don't want to get rid of everything... but I don't know what I should do!

Boyfriend: Hmmm... Why don't you make a list and just decide what you have to do?

Me: I just can't do this. I'm a basketcase!

Boyfriend: No, you're not sweetie.

Stop. Rewind. Repeat.

However, when I called Boyfriend, instead of being jubilant, leaping through the phone and doing cartwheels on my desk, Boyfriend's response was a fairly monotone sounding, "That's good." No gushing. No joy. When I said, proddingly, "Aren't you excited?" (hint, hint: Act excited, pretty pretty please with whip cream and cherry on top), he said, "I'm happy, but I don't know if you can actually get excited over a storage unit." I said with 100% certainty, "Yes, you really, really can." But it did not amp up Boyfriend's enthusiasm level. And lest you think Boyfriend might simply be a stoic, unenthusiastic sort of male, allow me to correct you. This is the same boy who roars up from his seat with a lot of hooting and hollering every time the Red Wings or Michigan scores. The boy can bring it, just not, apparently, for me and my newly decided upon storage unit.

I know his less than enthusiastic response was in part because he's at work and because he's also stressed out and tired. And let's face it, me getting a storage unit ultimately means that he's one step closer to having to carry a ton of boxes and there's nothing exciting about that. But still, his less than elated response left me feeling a touch... deflated. It's weird how an interraction with someone close to you can so easily dampen your feelings, even when you know they didn't mean to have that affect on you, and even when you know that deep down they are supportive of your efforts. But, nobody likes feeling like an over-eager cocker spaniel foolishly leaping about for a little back-handed pat of attention, and for some reason (the reasons are being worked out in therapy) that's how his response made me feel. It's also annoying that someone else's lack of enthusiasm, however unintended, could bring your enthusiasm down. Why do things work that way?

I let myself feel deflated, but only for a moment. Then I got over it. Mostly. After writing this all down, I think I'm sufficiently purged of any remaining vestiges of the minor disappointment. I'm back to feeling pretty damn excited that I finally made some progress on the moving front. It's just such a huge relief to have one detail nailed down. Ahhh... Sigh of happiness. Maybe sleep will come easier tonight.

Friday Morning Goddess: Artemis

THE GODDESS ARTEMIS:

Artemis is an Amazonian moon-goddess who was known as a fierce hunter as well as a protector, and one of the main Goddesses in Greek mythology. She is called the "Mother of All Creatures," "The Mistress of the Wild Beasts," "The Huntress," and the "Goddess of the Night."

Artemis is the personification of the moon, and the Goddess of fruitfulness, fertility, and childbirth. She is also, contradictorily, the eternal virgin. As a huntress, depicted here by Cheyrl Rose, Artemis lead the eternal hunt, and travelled in the company of dogs, wild beasts, and mountain nymphs. Her priestesses wore the masks of hunting dogs. In Sparta, her name was Artamis, which means "Cutter" or "Butcher." She was also called Tauropolos, "Bull-Slayer."


Artemis was worshipped at Ephesus, a classical city located in Turkey. There, a sanctuary was dedicated to her and a temple built that was regarded as one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Her image at Ephesus had a torso covered with breasts, to show that she nurtured all living things.

In Greek mythology, Artemis was the daughter of Zeus and Leto (daughter of the Titans Phoebe and Coeus), and the twin sister of the God Apollo, who was her sometimes consort. Artemis was one of the few goddesses immune to the enchantments of Aphrodite. Greek myth paints her as fiercely protective of her chastity. In one story, Artemis is said to have brought about the death of the Horned God Actaeon, another hunter. One day, while Actaeon was hunting with his dogs, he came across the Goddess Artemis and her nymphs bathing naked in a stream. Allegedly, the Goddess turned him into a stag out of a sense of offended modesty, and Actaeon's dogs, no longer recognizing him, tore him to pieces.

In other interpretions of the story of Artemis and Actaeon, Actaeon dies, not as a result of the Goddess's offended modesty, but as part of a ritual fertility sacrifice to the Goddess. Actaeon represents the pre-Hellenic stag king, who reigned over the sacred hunt for half a year before being torn to pieces and replaced by his co-king, another man doomed to die. According to Barbara K. Walker in The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets, in the first century A.D., Artemis's priestesses still pursued and killed a man dressed like a stag on the Goddess's mountain.

One of Artemis's most popular animal incarnations was the Great She-Bear, Ursa Major, ruler of the stars and protectress of the axis mundi, Pole of the World. She was later canonized as a Christian saint, Ursala, derived from her Saxon name Ursel, the She-Bear.

Usually Female Conscious Chloe Triumphs

I watched the nail bitingly tense Season Finale of Project Runway last night with Boyfriend, Boyfriend's sister and her boyfriend. We were sooo excited because we had been avidly awaiting the climax of a show that had provided us with hours of increasingly suspensful entertainment these last few weeks. Who would win? Female friendly Chloe, dashing Daniel V. from Michigan, or the black sheep Santino? Rooting for Chloe I was outnumbered 4:1. The majority of the crowed were pulling hard for Daniel V.

My girl Chloe won, and I should have been jubilant, but I have to say that instead of feeling celebratory I felt oddly disappointed. Chloe's collection was a bit of a let down. I'm not a fashionista by any stretch of the imagination, but I know what I like and satiny poofy explosions of pink and gold just ain't it. See Exhibit A. Her blue creations were a bit more palatable, and the one pictured above had a splash of sophisticated sass to it that I enjoyed. The blue one also fit the model's body perfectly, illustrating Chloe's familiar signature ability to work with the female form.

In addition to feeling a little let down by Chloe, I felt bad for the boys. Shock of all shocks, I felt the worst for Santino! Can you believe it? He was the one I enjoyed "hating" throughout the season. He was rude, obnoxious, and cutting to the other contestants, and his clothes for the most part were impractical, unflattering, poorly fitting, shredded rags or tie-dyed eyesores that hung on the bodies of his models like freakish creations. But for all that, I will admit that I found his impressions of Tim Gunn and his steady stream of humorous banter amusing. I also respected his self-confidence. Throughout the show Santino appeared to have a strong sense of self and his own unique, dare I call it style, and the ability to make light of the whole competition. He had perspective, and that was apparent last night as well, when he said at one point, for example, that whether his 13th model walked out on the runway with a 13th piece or naked, it would not be the end of his career in fashion. I like that pluck. I like that ability to not take everything so seriously, and to have faith in yourself that one event will not be the death of you. Perhaps because it's sometimes hard for me to keep that perspective. I found myself actually thinking that I would like to be just a touch more like Santino in this respect.

I also actually liked Santino's clothes!! Wonders of all wonders. At least on the hangers. On the models' bodies it was a different story. The one on the left was gorgeous (both on and off the hanger), but as the judges pointed out, most of Santino's clothes simply did not fit well, and there were more than one set of boobies in the wrong place. See for example the sea green dress on the right. It looked so cute and uncharacteristically-Santino on the hanger, but on the model's body it's completely unflattering. It hangs off the sides of her torso, the boob placement is all wrong, and it looks like it's 3 sizes too large. It does nothing for her and she's a model!

His collection showed that beneath Santino's outrageousness, there were real problems with his technical abilities to design clothes that fit the female body and to execute well put together pieces. Who can forget that god-awful jumpsuit he put together with scotch tape for Kara? Ugh! And though I felt that the taste exhibited in his collectino was eons beyond what he had displayed before in terms of practicality and grace, I understood the judges' disappointment that he had played it, to use their words, so safe. However, despite his loss, Santino will be just fine. He has his unshakable self confidence and judges emphasized that he belonged in the fashion world. I think we'll see more of Santino, so though I'm a bit sad for him, I'm not worried.

I'm not worried about Daniel V. either. Looking back on his collection, I actually liked more of his pieces than I did of either Chloe's or Santino's collections. I loved this cute little number to the left with the voluminous swishy cream skirt, purple top, and navy vest. It's fun, sexy, light hearted. I like it. I hated some of his other work though. What was up with the breast plates he attached to some of his dresses? Though he said he was going for an asian and militaristic inspired "viewpoint," I didn't see it, and neither did the judges. Several of his clothes also did not fit his models or stuck out awkwardly in strange places, like under their arms. Who wants that type of puckering action? And what is up with his milkmaid inspired outfits?? See picture at right. Come on Daniel! He tried the same thing with Chloe and it was a dismal flop. Get rid of the odd patches and fake corset look and then you'll be good to go. Daniel clearly has talent, and though he didn't win the competition, he'll be able to set himself up with the success he's earned from this show. Micheal Kors all but offered him a job on the spot. Not to shabby Daniel V.

In the end, I think the judges made the right choice. Although her collection was not what I had hoped, based on the whole of Chloe's performance throughout the show, she deserved to win. Many of her clothes (ignore the metallic poofballs in her collection) have a simple elegance about them. They are flirty and classy, and look like they would be fun to wear. I also like her and her family's story. To escape from Vietnam with your parents and 7 sisters (all of whom survived), and then to turn yourself into a successful businesswoman in your adopted country is pretty damn amazing. She made it work, and she pretty much kicks ass in my book. I wonder if she has a store in NYC yet? I'd like to go.

Project Runway: Go Chloe!!

OMG! Tonight is the second and last part of the Season Finale of Project Runway!! It airs tonight at 10 pm EST on Bravo (Part I of the Season Finale airs at 9 pm on Bravo). Luckily, because Lost is a repeat tonight, it won't conflict with me watching Parts I and II back-to-back tonight. Yippee! What's better than friends, a bottle of wine, and ripping apart or applauding the contestants newest creations (or antics)?

I'm rooting for Chloe, but expect her to have some stiff competition from Daniel V. (although Tim Gunn didn't seem that impressed with Daniel's collection). Chloe is adorable, but more importantly she seems to have a real sense for the types of clothes that flatter the female form. Lord knows many designers lack this basic quality. Daniel is creative but did you see that brown and red monstrosity that he made for Chloe?? Hideous! Plus, I don't want to see Chloe cry again.

I fervently hope that Santino does not win, though I do feel just a touch of warmth for him in light of the humanizing portrayal of him in Part I of the finale. Santino just seems too much like an Emperor's New Clothes phenomenom: Everyone oohs and ahhs because it's "creative" and has a "veiwpoint," instead of saying the truth, that his creations are completely impractical, unattractive, and in more than a few instances, downright horrendous. See picture. I am more than a little concerned though because his collection, at least on the rack, looked pretty damn good. He seems to have suddenly realized that the objective of fashion is not to turn women into overstuffed bedazzled turkeys. I hate to admit it, but I think I might even like some of his pieces. E-gads!

Happy International Women's Day!

March is Women's History Month, and today, March 8th, is International Women's Day! I haven't decided yet what I am doing in honor of it, other than to take time to acknowledge that as a feminist I am part of the larger struggle being fought by women of all backgrounds across the world for equality and a better life, and to think about what I can do to contribute more to those efforts.

I try to contribute to the fight to advance women's rights where I can, usually in the form of pro bono work (for all you non lawyers, that's unpaid work usually done for the "public interest"). I work on asylum cases that help women who have been persecuted in their home countries. I also represent women who have been battered in judicial proceedings. Usually, specially when I win, I find that type of work inspiring and fulfilling, although it is of course difficult to deal with the pain and injustice that my clients have had to endure.

The main aspect that I find dissatisfying is that my work, when it is successful, only goes to help my individual clients and does not contribute to making systemic changes that could eliminate the chance of other women having to endure the same difficulties as my clients. When my work is unsuccessful, it is also incredibly frustrating, and far too often the system seems blatantly unfair and far too incompetent to deal with the problems (such as domestic violence) before it. Too often it seems like we (all women fighting for equality) are all fruitlessly running around on hamster wheels desperately grabbing for crumbs (whether that be a limited amount of aid money for the same hot topic, or sporadic wins in a cultural sea of increasing religious fundamentalism and conservatism), when what we really need to be doing is jumping off the wheels and ripping them from their moorings and creating new systems.

One of my main frustrations with my current position at my firm is that the time and effort that I can devote to work about which I am passionate, such as women's rights work, is extremely limited. The reality is that firms are businesses and they are, not surprisingly, in it to make money. When I started, I believed the hype about their committment to the public interest and pro bono work. Now I know that it was all puffery for the most part. Yes, the firm "supports" pro bono work and likes to get recognized for its efforts in that area, and for the time that its associates and partners spend on pro bono work, but given a conflict between pro bono work and work that needs to be done for a paying client, the paying client wins out. Often, to do my pro bono work I needed to work well beyond my billable hours so that I completed all of the work for the paying clients of the firm before I turned to my pro bono work. I don't have sour grapes about this, just a touch of disillusionment.

Many associates in my position would no doubt be satisfied with this system, that enables them to fit small amounts of pro bono work into the miniscule cracks in their overloaded schedules. However, I'm not one of them, because the small amounts of work that I do that I love are simply not enough. They are not enough in terms of contributing to the larger struggle for women's equality, and they are not enough for me. I'm not satisfied with crumbs of inspiration, in a working life devoted mainly to the defense of the silk-lined pockets of wealthy corporations. Because not only am I not doing enough, what I'm doing (working for the man per se) is not only failing to contribute positively, it is most likely making things worse. At the very least, it's doing nothing to challenge the status quo. I forget who said, "If you are not part of the solution you are part of the problem." I believe that's true. It weighs on me that by working in my current position and not being part of the solution, I am in fact part of the problem.

But enough of my introspection, feelings of privileged guilt, and fear that all the potential I have will continue to be wasted in doc review and monotonous meaningless research. I'm trying to change and become part of the solution, both for my own happiness, and hopefully, so that I can make a larger contribution to what I believe in: the fight for women's equality.

Getting back to International Women's Day, for a brief history of International Women's Day, check out the National Women's History Project.

A Positive Life: Hard...but Attainable

I have been blessed with many things in my life including family, education, and freedom. For the majority of my time, I have been very grateful for the life that I have been given. Though, many times when things are going bad, I have been selfish, unappreciative, and angry at the world, and just plain out, a cold person. When I am going around and around in my average life, it is easy to let someone get the better of me and I internalize emotions, usually of negative natures, and I will become a bad unappreciative person.

My husband and I live up on five acres of beautiful, roughed mountainside. We are definitely out in the boonies and we love it. We have our own well for water, a septic tank, and we have propane for our heater, stovetop, and hot water heater. The drive up the dirt road is rough filled with ruts and holes and covered in snow for majority of the year. Most of the dirt road is only wide enough for one vehicle and there are many blind spots.

On Saturday, Tex and I were on our way to the grocery store. As we left our peaceful quiet home, a short way down the road, about 15 cars were parked on the “side” of the road right in the way of any traffic. I couldn’t see around the bend and if another car would have come, one of us would have to back all the way up the road…I wasn’t going to be that person. I was very aggravated but as well I saw this as a challenge, so I passed all the vehicles with my right side of my vehicle driving on the mountainside still coming inches away from the parked cars. I succeeded and made it to the grocery store.

Although, I succeeded I was irate at the people who parked there on “our” road. These are some thoughts running through my head while passing the vehicles: “How could someone be so irresponsible and put all others driving on the road in danger, not immediate but possible danger?” “Why are Utah people so stupid?” “Fucking people…get the fuck out of my way!” (I think I have an anger problem just a tad.) "Why must going to the grocery store be so difficult?"

Now a few days later, there are still 3 or 4 cars parked in the road, but located on the road in a better position than in the previous day. I have calmed down (still annoyed) but I don’t care as much. My lack of knowledge and anger got me again though. Driving to work today, we saw our neighbor with his dog and stopped to chat with him for a few minutes. He informed us that a couple lived in the house down and were in their mid-20’s like Tex and me. While the woman was plowing her driveway a few days ago, she had a seizure and passed away. Suddenly, I remembered all the cars and felt horrible that I had been so selfish to get angry. As well, here I am…alive, able, breathing, happy, mad, sad…I am living and this poor girl was plowing her driveway and just passed away. She doesn’t get to look at her spouse again, soak up the warmth from the sun, go to the store again, or say what she may have wanted to say.

This reminded me of how grateful I am to have chances of living my life. Not to say I will never get angry again or I am changed completely, but this incident made me open my eyes again and said "Here's reality". I still have to work on living life to the fullest without negative emotions taken over me but thank goodness I have today and hopefully more tomorrows to appreciate and change for the better.

Fill Up The Tank!

My mom drove me anywhere and everywhere when I was growing up so I never had to fill up the tank, or bring the car in for a maintenance check. Even though I didn’t have those responsibilities growing up, when I finally got my first car, a sweet 6 cylinder, AWD, Audi, it was easy to take care of it. I never broke down, ran out of gas, or ran it out of oil.

Women vs. Men…very different story than myself. Tex likes to think he takes care of everything, but regardless of his “efforts,” some things just don’t get done. The first time Tex and I ever hung out, he picked me up in his pick-up truck and he was taking me out somewhere in Park City. So, on our journey up the canyon from Salt Lake, suddenly the truck starts sounding a bit strange. By the time we hit the peak at Parleys, the truck breaks down. It had run out of oil. The whole engine gone. Tex looked very confused as to why his truck broke down as well as embarrassed. I was a little concerned but thought poor guy, I better not make him feel like shit and make fun of him, and so I was polite as we walked down the mountainside in sandals (I would have otherwise not worn if I had known I would be in this situation). Everything worked out fine that day seeing that we are now married, but we have come to some consistent issues pertaining to that now fateful day Tex ran his truck dead.

Men: what is wrong with them? Why do they pretend they have everything in order when really they do not? Now five years later, on a Monday morning I wake up in the morning, go to get ready for work, grab my stuff and I’m out the door when I hear Tex saying “Wait I need to make sure my Jeep starts.” I think to myself, “Make sure? It’s a 2000, take care of your shit and you won’t need to 'make sure'”. …The engine doesn’t turn and start right up. Regardless of all the other signs slapping him on his face from the previous 4 times this year that he’s used my car because he’s out of gas, he “thought he could make it just a little more with the idle on E. It’s a Jeep.” The things that irritates the hell out of me is the fact, we have $ to fill up our tanks, but Tex is just flat out LAZY. It would be easier if Mickey D's had a sign, like the one right here, "Eat here, get gas." That way his lazy ass could eat his quarter pounder while filling up.

Bottom line: Being married is very humorous and strange. I used to like that line “in five years from now, you’ll be laughing at....” But I don't anymore...it's been five years, I can't laugh about the same thing over and over again for five years straight. I love him but Tex drives me nuts. He will soon find a bright red sticker (permanently) on his dash board so everyone including himself will see it reading “FILL UP YOUR TANK OR WALK”; I am done giving him a ride. I don't know any other ways. Any other way, please feel free to comment.

How To Eat An Elephant

Last night I stayed up too late (again) and was semi-productive, but not on the things I'm supposed to be doing: catching up on work, sorting through my things in my apartment, or applying to jobs. Instead I wrote for a while, did some sit-ups (which isn't quite pilates but it's getting closer), and read some more of Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. My book club meeting where we were to discuss the book has come and gone (I was not a good book club member this month), but I like the book and hate leaving behind a story before I have finished it, so I'm continuing to read it. It's quite dark, as you can imagine, and fascinating in its exploration of the main character's psyche. Far more compelling than my LF work, sorting through my things, or even applying to jobs.

Actually, that's not true. Dostoyevsky is not more compelling than applying to jobs. At least not in theory. It's just that when I start researching for jobs, I'm continually hounded by this feeling that I should be doing my actual work instead of applying for jobs. I end up feeling like I'm shirking my duty and will be caught out any minute. I'm pressured by guilt because I'm not doing what I know I'm supposed to be doing. I feel the same way when I think about leaving work early (before I have finished everything I was supposed to do) to go to the gym, or even when I contemplate doing a reseach project that I'm inspired by instead of my bread and butter (i.e. dull, monotonous, and tedious) LF work. Even though doing pretty much anything but my LF work would be far better for me in the long run. It's the short run that's problematic.

It's as if at the same time my LF work as become too overwhelming and unappetizing to do, I've also become too constricted by guilt and inactivity to do much of anything else productive - including taking care of myself and making progress on my long list of postive life changes that I want to accomplish. This happens sometimes when I put something distasteful off. It just boils and festers and grows, until it becomes too large and toxic to ignore.

I could start to solve this problem by breaking these tasks into pieces, and I know that's the approach I need to take. It's like my Dad always says: "How do you eat an elephant? Hoof by Hoof." No question that it's odd that a pescatarian would find some inspiration in a joke about eating an elephant, something I would never contemplate doing. I'm also not entirely sure that it's literally correct to describe elephant feet as "hooves." In any event, it's something my father has always said to me at points in my life when I'm overwhelmed and have so much to do that I can't really do much of anything. Like now. The absurdity of the joke and that fact that my father has always been there when I needed him to tell it to me, is comforting. Just thinking about it reminds me that that's what I have to do. I have to eat this elephant, however distasteful, tusks and all, hoof by hoof. Now, if only I could begin.

Lasering For Beauty

I don't like body hair. I don't mean I don't like it in general. It doesn't bother me on men, in fact I usually find it quite sexy on them, especially if it's soft and in small manageable doses. Carpets of thick matted hair creeping up backs and shoulders excluded, of course. Despite my feminist tendencies, I like men who are stereotypically masculine (except for the part about being domineering, emotionless, and into propogating their seed in anything with a vagina) and who look the part. I like men with strong jaw lines, strong arms, and a little hair on their chest. I rarely notice body hair on men anywhere else - including their arms, legs, or around their other, ahem, appendages - although I will admit to waging my own private fight to eliminate unibrows on the faces of those nearest and dearest to me.

I'm not against body hair on women either, and I fully support the decisions of others to go au naturel. I even went through a brief stage when I thought it was sexy on me. I was 23, living on my own in D.C. having just graduated college with a B.A. in Women's Studies, with pierces through my tongue, eyebrow, nose, and belly button (which I thought were beautiful and sparkly), bartending by night and philosophizing with my friend Artemis in the local Silver Diner by day. I took a break from shaving my underarms, and convinced myself that any man who couldn't appreciate the beauty of a woman in her natural state, unmarred by cultural notions of feminine beauty, was superfical and a sexist product of the patriarchy. I still strongly believe that.

The only problem with that belief is that I, quite unfeministly, do not think hair under my arms (nor anywhere else for that matter, except for my head) is sexy. I especially do not like hair down there. It's impractical during summer, doesn't look sexy in any kind of underwear (especially white, pale pink, or see-through lace), it gets in the way during nookie-time, and most importantly, I personally do not find it sexy. I just don't find it hot, and I have a hard time believing that if I was going to spend any amount of time down there that I wouldn't prefer it smooth and hairless instead of obscured and prickly.

This has not been corroborated by any male. Men seem almost puzzled by the question, hairless or not? Most will admit that they think it's sexy hairless, but mainly because they can see it better or get better access, not because they don't like the hair per se. If there happens to be some hair, men are usually too interested to get down there or in there to pay much attention to what's around there. And I have to admit, I find it damn sexy when men don't care. I find it even more sexy when they actually profess to like women in their natural state - women who don't look poreless and smooth all over like airbrushed models, porn stars, or Barbie.

But even though I like men who don't mind hair, I myself fall short of my own standards. Maybe that makes me a willing victim of the patriarchy and it's anti-woman standards of beauty. Is it possible to deconstruct those standards as patriarchal, and then to independently embrace them after deconstruction? Or are our notions of what is sexy so deeply influenced by patriarchal culture that it's impossible to separate out the patriarchal elements from our own notions of beauty? Shouldn't women like themselves as they are, and not have to wax themselves to feel beautiful? I personally feel beautiful as I am, and I am confident that my ability to feel sexy is not dependent upon how recently I've been to my bikini waxer. However, despite the possibly coercive cultural influences behind my notions of beauty, I simply prefer to be bare. If I were to refuse to accept that, and forego being bare just because I suspect that my desire might have been shaped in part by patriarchal notions of beauty, I would be just as much a slave to the patriarchy as I would be if I never questioned any of our cultural notions of beauty.

So, for the last few years, I have engaged in a protracted battle to shave, wax, tweeze, trim, and shape with only limited success and minimal satisfaction. Two years ago I went for a Brazilian bikini wax, and as Eva Longoria can attest to, it was an empowering experience. It was painful, but at least initially I loved the results. However, after a year or so, the cost-benefit analysis changed. It no longer seemed worth it to have to go through massive (what I formerly thought of as massive) pain for just one solid week of smooth skin followed by a couple weeks of unsightlyness as the hair began to grow in unevenly at different speeds, only to go through the pain and start all over again every 4 weeks. Additionally, after months and months of waxing, my hairs had weakened and this had begun to result in annoying ingrown hairs, which I of course could not resist sqeezing or picking at - an admittedly compulsive behavior, which usually did far more damage than good.

This past year, I became so fed up with the whole waxing-regrowing-waiting-waxing process that I gave up going regularly, and began to consider a more permanent solution: laser hair removal. One of my brothers had laser hair removal on his chest with mixed results. He went through a phase, as the hair was falling out, where he had many ingrown hairs, and today I think much of his hair has grown back. He is blond though, and this procedure is supposed to work the best on light skinned brunettes. My precise coloring. I checked with Dr. C, and she said there were no medical complications to be concerned about. After researching the procedure and various costs, I picked my provider, Laser Perfect, one of the most cost-effective providers, and set up an appointment for the following day. Having decided to take the plunge, I wanted to get started as soon as possible.

In preparation for my appointment I needed to shave everywhere I wanted lasered the night before. Having never shaved that area completely, I found the task somewhat daunting. However, not one to be easily dissuaded, I armed myself with shaving cream, a razor, and a hand mirror and jumped into the bathtub. Suprisingly, it was far easier than I had imagined. I didn't even knick myself! At the time, I thought, mistakenly, that I had to shave everything as close as possible so as to prevent the laser from burning the exposed hairs and potentially scarring me. This apparently is completely wrong, but it inspired me to excellence. It took a fair bit of contorting, wrist-twisting and neck-craning, but in the end I was very pleased with the job I had done. I went to sleep that night looking forward to the next day's appointment.

The next day, I arrived at 4:50 pm for my 5:00 pm appointment. I had taken two motrin an hour before - an amount I would soon find out was far, far too small of a dose. My technician, Evi, was businesslike but appeared (initially) to have a soft edge about her. I thought, erroneously, that she might be kind and patient. I lay down on the chair and removed my panties, as Evi fiddled with the laser. I watched her and began to feel a bit aprehensive. She was moving very... briskly. I was starting to get the feeling that pain would not slow this woman down. Especially not my pain. It would not even phase her.

To stall, I asked her if the procedure would hurt, and she said, "Oh, yes, but not too much." That was not the answer I wanted to hear. She saw my tatoo and belly button ring and said, "I love when I see tatoos and piercings. I know you can handle it." I was becoming somewhat alarmed, but I was half-naked on the table, I had already committed to paying my money, I was really, really sick of waxing, and I wasn't about to give up before giving this a shot, so I stayed put.

I asked, "can it cause any burns or permanent scaring?" I knew the answer to this was supposed to be no, but I just wanted to make sure that Evi and I were on the same page about that (at least). Pain I could take, I hoped, but permanent disfigurement was another ballgame. She responded that I should not have any problem with scaring because my skin was white, and only people with darker skin had that type of problem. Evi also added that because my hair was dark, the laser was "really going to penetrate, so you're going to feel it, but it's going to be good because you will get good results." This was starting to sound worse and worse.

She spread some cool gel on me and told me to take a deep breath. I was tense and expectant, watching her move the laser towards me. My teeth were clenched, and my arms were stiff at my sides. It is truly horrible to be lying naked in front of someone with your legs spread, knowing that they are about to inflict unwanted pain on you , and being unable to curl up into a protective ball. It takes every ounce of willpower to stay spread out stiff and immobilized. The only way I can ever do it (this goes for shots to) is because I know that if I move it will be far, far worse.

She asked me if I was ready and I said yes, and she placed the laser against my skin and began to move it across my skin in small increments. At first it was actually bearable, and I told her as much. She said, "That's because you have only a few hairs here [towards the outside]. You will feel it a lot more as I go towards the center." Thanks A LOT, you vile mercilous evil woman. True to her word, as she started lasering the places with more hair growth, the pain quickly became overwhelming.

Pain is a funny thing. You can think about it objectively and know that it is just a feeling that will not cause permanent injury, and almost convince yourself that you should be able to ignore the sensation as it is happening to you, knowing that it will go away as quickly as it came upon you. And as I lay there on that table, I tried to convince myself to not feel the pain. But try as I might to ignore it, her laser felt like she was dragging a white hot poker straight out of the fire, or a burning branch covered with giant spiked fiery thorns, across my skin and searing my flesh over and over again. It was almost unbearable.

Though I knew that she was not burning me, I could not lie perfectly still while it felt like I was burning. Especially not when it felt like I was burning down there. I tried clamping my mouth shut so as not to swear too loudly, and I tried gripping the edges of the table to keep my body from flailing around away from the laser. I tried telling myself that I was not being hurt, but my mind did not agree. She got a quarter of the way through, and I thought I would have to leave, but I didn't. I stuck it out, but it was one of the most excrutiatingly painful experiences that I have ever gone through. Consider yourself forewarned: If anyone tells you that laser hair removal does not hurt, know that they are lying to you.

In approximately 10 minutes it was all over. I put on my clothes and paid for that session, plus the next three. In order for laser hair removal to work, multiple sessions of agony (sometimes as much as 6 or 7, but I'm hoping for 4 in my case) have to take place. As I was paying the cashier, it struck me how ludicrous it was that I was paying someone hundreds of dollars in advance to torture me on multiple occasions. But of course, in our society women going through pain for beauty is nothing new or surprising, and even before my appointment I knew that it would hurt. I just didn't know that it would hurt that badly. After that experience, I am completely amazed - and just a little bit in awe - that some women laser their whole bodies: legs, underarms, bikini, upper lip, and arms. Utterly amazed. I would never in a million years let someone do that to my face. Never. Ever. Vagina, fine. Face, no way in hell. Add vain to my list of sins. Are these women made of steel? Do they not feel pain? Do they take tranquilizers before all their appointments? Come to think of it, that's not a bad idea.

I told my younger brother what I had done that evening after I got home. He laughed his head off until I told him to imagine someone doing that to his penis. That quieted him down for a moment. Then he told me some more details about my other brother's attempts to laser his chest. Apparently our other brother had also thought the pain was excruciating. Just before he went back for his second session, he took 8 advil and drank some Foster's to take the edge off the pain. Normally, I would not approve of such self-medicating behavior, but in this instance I think I will have to make an exception. Boys are sometimes very smart. For my next session, I plan to follow my brother's lead, and thoroughly numb myself up before subjecting myself to Evi's painful ministrations once again.

Pints in the Afternoon

This weekend was great. Despite the frigid temperatures, and having to skip the Brazilian Girls show on Thursday (which was reportedly great) due to work, I had a fantastic weekend, in large part because Wood, Dutch, and Juniper were in town. They flew in on a red eye Thursday morning and stayed through Monday. Friday night Wood got to go out baby-free and play with me while Dutch and Juniper spent some quality time together back at the hotel. Wood, Raj, and I, and some friends went out for drinks in the West Village at the Stoned Crow, a relaxed, unpretentious place with a jukebox and pool tables in the back. The drinks were so-so, but we still had a good time. It was so great to see Wood again. Phone conversations and emails between NYC and Cali are fine, but they're no replacement for just hanging out with one another, joking around, and talking about everything or nothing. I loved it.

The next day, Saturday, was also a lot of fun. The Sweet Juniper Fam and Raj and I wandered around Soho, LES, and the East Village. We went searching for pickles, but had no luck because apparently the famous pickle place that Dutch likes is closed on Saturdays. Instead we window shopped for a bit and then took a break from the cold to get some coffee and cakes. We sat in the basement of the coffee shop and chatted as we watched Juniper practice her newly developing walking skills. It was pretty darn cute. After coffee, we walked around some more until we had the brilliant idea to go grab a beer. It was 4:30 in the afternoon, chilly outside, Juniper had just falled asleep in Dutch's arms, and we were across the street from a cozy bar, Rue __, with a sign outfront advertising its happy hour specials. Perfect. We went inside and ordered a round of pints - Guinness for the boys and Sierra Nevada Pale Ales for the girls. An odd, arbitrary choice in light of the recently discovered fact that Guinness has only 125 calories per 12 oz (compared with 200 calories per 12 oz for Sierra Nevada Pale Ale). Not that I'm a calorie counter per se, but I have no problem drinking great beer and being healthy at the same time. But this particular afternoon, the ladies were in the mood for Pale Ales so through calorie counting to the wind. It was a marvelous afternoon.

That night, I got some more Wood and Juniper QT, because they came over to my place for a few hours, and I had the joy of seeing Juniper do more of her baby sign language magic. There was something about watching Juniper make signs, like the sign for "more," when she wanted another spoonful of baby food (instead of thrashing around and whining, like many hungry babies do), that was absolutely wonderful. It made me think that maybe babies really are born with their own language and that all that crying is just them screaming with frustration at their inability to communicate with these incomprehending giants that are so intent upon swaddling and feeding them. Juniper seems like a relatively calm baby, and I wonder if that has something to do with the fact that she has already started to discover how to communicate with those around her through means other than crying and screaming (although she does try those as well occasionally). Some of the other signs Juniper made this weekend were the sign for "dog," which entails panting like a puppy, and the sign for "frog," which entails flicking out one's baby tongue just as a frog would to catch a fly. The latter reminded me of mutant X-men, but evenso, or perhaps because of that, was completely and unequivocably adorable.


Sunday was Oscars Day, and also the day of my wine and cheese Oscars Party. My partner in crime from the Firm, Prue (the giver of all manner of carefully reasoned and balanced, prudent advice), and my closest friend in New York, attended. Prue master-minded a thoroughly enjoyable Oscars Contest, complete with ballot letters, poker chips, and and a prize for the winner. Each person had to fill out a card with their choice for the winner in each of the categories announced during the show. There was a lot of boisterous card waving and yelling out of nominees, in between wine and cheese tasting. I was robbed on best film, when Crash beat out Brokeback Mountain, and I also made the fatal error of picking Heath or Joaquin over Philip Seymour Hoffman for Best Actor. Curses! Prue ended up winning the game with a grand total of 14 correctly identified wins. Raj and I tied with 12, folllowed closely by Wood. My favorite cheese, by the way, was the Pyrennes with Green Peppercorns. Delish. All in all, the evening and the competition were a wild success.

Unfortunately, the fun had to come to an end, and now I'm back at work on Monday. Yuck. I truly hate Mondays, and hope that this isn't what it means to be an adult. I'd like to think one did not have to live for the weekends. This morning, after having slept over at Raj's, I did my first test run of the morning subway commute that I will be doing once I move in to his place in Chelsea. The ride itself was a bit tiring and clausterphobic, and stressful to be smashed together with all those tense people going to work. I felt like I was surrounded by negative energy, but I might have just been projecting my own work related negativity. Despite the crowded ride, it was fun getting ready and taking the train in together, and the ride didn't take as long as I had thought it would, only 20 minutes. I think I'll get used to it eventually, although there will be no more waking up at 9:30 am and lolly-gagging around. Come April 1st, those days are done.

After commuting in this morning, I met Wood and Juniper for coffee to say goodbye and wish them a safe trip to Michigan. I miss them already. They walked me to my work and I was so sad to have to step through the revolving doors and leave them on the sidewalk. The weekend went by too fast, and I had too little time to spend time with Wood, although we made the most of it and I enjoyed it all. As another baby-related observation, I am continually amazed at how quickly Juniper has grown and developed. I can't believe the little mobile miniature person I saw this trip was the same swaddled peanut who I saw just 6 months ago who could barely hold up her own head. Maybe by the next time I see her, she'll be able to say "Auntie Buttercup." That would be pretty cute.

So I'm sad that they're gone, but I'm going to try to be focused and productive this week. I certainly have enough to do to keep me busy. I have to catch up on work, start sorting and packing my belongings for THE MOVE, and I have to APPLY TO MORE JOBS. Ah, the pressure. Work actually helped motivate me this morning, because I came in to discover an email detailing another large assignment related to The Hideous Giant Case That Will Never Die. I feel that if I get sucked back into that vortex, I will die. But the truth is that if I stay at my Firm, that is exactly what will happen - there will be no escaping the vortex. So, if I want to live, my only choice is to get out NOW, so apply it is. Hopefully after I get out of this hell hole, there will be more time for friends and the occassional happy hour beer. That would be fun.

Friday Morning Goddess: Tara

The Goddess Tara's Story:

Tara, a goddess believed to have originated as a Hindu goddess, the Mother Creator, is revered within Tibetan Buddhism as the mother of all Buddhas. In Sanskrit, Tara means "Star." She has also been called "She Who Brings Forth Light," "The Great Compassionate Mother," "The Embodiment of Wisdom," and "The Great Protectress."

According to legend, prior to attaining enlightment, Tara was a human princess called "Moon of Wisdom." She was devoted to the Buddha and made offerings and practiced meditation. The monks recognized her spiritual development and urged her to pray to be reborn in a male body so that she could more easily achieve enlightenment.

Tara refused, saying: "Here there is no man, there is no woman, No self, no person, and no consciousness. Labeling 'male' or 'female' has no essence, But deceives the evil-minded world." Tara made a vow: "Until every being without exception is enlightened, I shall work for the benefit of all in a woman's body." She ultimately attained enlightment in her female form and is now worshipped as a female Buddha.



Tara's mantra: OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SOHA

Here is the Prayer to the Noble Tara:

I take refuge in Buddha, Dharma, Sangha, and Tara.

May I reach enlightenment for the benefit of all.

May all beings have happiness.

May they be free from suffering.

May they find the joy that has never known suffering.

May they be free from attachment and hatred.

In the space before me appears a white lotus.

Upon it is a moon cushion, and upon that, the love and compassion of all the enlightened appear as the seed syllable TAM. Light radiates from the TAM and transforms into the Noble Wish-Fulfilling Tara.

She sits on the lotus and moon with a luminous aura surrounding her.

Youthful and radiant, her right hand gestures an invitation to liberation. Her left hand indictates the Three Jewels, giving courage and assurance to those dominated by fears.

At her crown, a white OM.

At her throat, a red AH.

At her heart, a white TAM, marked by a blue HUM.

Light radiates from the syllables, inviting the wisdom beings and empowering deities. The wisdom beings unite inseparably with Tara. The empowering deities anoint her, confer initiation and with the overflowing nectar, a Buddha of Infinite Life appears on her crown.

I bow down in body, speech, and mind.

I offer the best I have to give, both real and imagined,

to fill the space between us.

I regret and purify all transgressions.

I rejoice in all virtues.

I request you to remain until total enlightenment.

I request wise and compassionate guidance.

I dedicate my merit for the sake of all beings.

Brilliant light emanates from the syllable TAM within her heart, reaching infinite universes, and collecting back the essence of inexhaustible vitality and the powerful blessings of wisdom mind.

The energy streams forth from Tara's heart and body, and completely absorbs this nectar of light, cleansing and revitalizing my body, speech, and mind.

OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SOHA

If foreseeing signs of premature death, by consistently practicing the path of Noble Tara, may I become a vessel worthy of receiving the powerful

blessings of immortality.

By this virtue may I quickly attain the essence of Noble Tara and secure every being without exception in that state.

Suburban v. New York Professional Woman: Part I

Could suburban women be happier than young successful professional females in New York? When I woke up this morning and headed to my appointment with Dr. C, this question was far from my mind. I was thinking a little about babies and happy family units because Wood, Dutch and Juniper (http://sweetjuniper.blogspot.com) just got in to town and Juniper is so adorable. So, so cute, and calm and sweet. Even after no sleep on the red eye! I was also thinking about yeast infections, because unfortunately my sensitive body has a mild case of the yeasties as a result of taking some antibiotics. Hence the doctor's appointment to rebalance the flora and fauna.

Dr. C takes a holistic approach to medicine and likes to sit down with her patients and hear what's going on in her patients' lives. She asked me about getting back together with Raj and whether this was a good thing, and then asked me how everything else was going. She knows that I have been struggling with depression for much of the past year, and she knows that I am (to put it mildly) unhappy in my current job. We chatted a bit and I told her that getting back together with Raj felt like a very good thing, and that with respect to my other life issues that I had been taking steps to make positive changes. In the course of our conversation, Dr. C said this:

That's good that you are thinking about these things now. Many of my patients are women, and they are going through similar situations. They are young professionals and they are unhappy. I tell all of my patients the same advice: Do what makes you happy. If you want to make a change, do it now while you are young. Don't wait. If you want to quit your job, do it now. I tell them the same thing about having kids. Do it now, while you are young. It takes courage to make a change, but I see so many women, in their 40s and 50s, who have been unhappy since their late 20s and early 30s, and once they reach 40 or 50 they have a real life crisis and they break down. They look back on their life and they cry because they are unhappy about where they're at. I can't help them because I can't even tell them they have time. Because they don't.

My stepmother believes that messages come to us continually in life, through many paths, and from often unexpected sources. She believes the problem is not that life is not showing us the paths that are open to us, but rather that we are distracted and that we don't see the messengers or hear the messages meant for us, even when it's knocking us between the eyes. I think this morning the universe sent me a message through Dr. C. The message was quite simply exactly what she said: Start doing what makes me happy, and don't delay. DO IT NOW. That's what I've been trying to do with my general detoxification/pruning quest, but it's nice to have clear confirmation that you are on the right path.

While I was thinking about what Dr. C was saying, she added that she works out of Long Island two days a week (as opposed to her Manhattan office), and she said that the suburban women are happier than most of the young professionals she sees in Manhattan. Delivered from a different messenger, say the New York Times hysterically shouting about the ovary-spinster-crisis plaguing professional women, I'm sure my reaction would have been different. I would have tuned out and immediately jumped to that space in my head that says I'm a tough successful feminist bad ass for going to law school, for succeeding, for making money at this law firm, and for being as good as, and in many cases better, than the boys.

But the message came from Dr. C, a professional women who I admire and respect, and who is unquestionably women-centered. It also came at a time when I'm a little tired of missing my family (who are developing a critical mass in Houston, Texas of all places), missing my friends and feeling the joy of seeing them again this morning, and contemplating where Raj and I will go in this relationship. It made me feel like ditching it all - the job (oh bliss!), New York's glorious craziness, the search for a job in the women's rights field where I can actually work on changing the world - for a little house with a porch near the people I love.

Of course I'm not going to do that just yet because, among other things, I'm a Capricorn and we are stubborn, tough, and practical. We don't give up easily. Maybe it's true that suburban women are as a group happier than the young professional women in cities like New York. I'd like to think that I could be a happy professional doing something else, and that it's not an either or situation. For now, I'm not ready to jump ship just yet or give up my pay check, without having somewhere to jump to. But I'm keeping in mind what Dr. C said, and I'm working on making the changes that need to be made sooner rather than later.

Wednesday Morning PMU

I gather it's Ash Wednesday today. The clues are unmistakable: random people in my office with smudges of black powder in the vague shape of a cross on their foreheads, the fact that today is a Wednesday, the fact that yesterday was Fat Tuesday (which must have something to do with eating and celebrating as much as possible before the onset of lent and fasting), and it's the beginning of March - a month that brings us closer to Easter egg hunts. Hint, hint: I'm not Christian. I'm something of an Agnostic Atheist, and a strong supporter of a separation between Church and State, in no small part because almost all of the major organized religions of the world (even the Eastern religions for which I have a soft spot) are patriarchal in nature and place women in a position of inferiority.

In the spirit of separation between religious ideology and government, I bring you the following cartoon, courtesy of Slate Magazine http://www.slate.com:

"Killa" and Rabbit

I'm not quite sure what to blog about right now. Well, I realize through this blog, that much of my entertainment comes from Tex and Hazard...but with laughter and good entertainment also comes (sometimes) not so funny and pretty raunchy stuff to deal with. Now I know that with animals comes responsibilities, but when the temperature hits the lower teens, actually "walking a dog" also leaves my mind. I figure...screw it...the dog is going out and he can freeze by himself. Though we have two other pets, and Hazard is friendly with them, I guess he is just friendly so he doesn't get in trouble.

We have many animals that roam the property...deer, badgers, rabbits, birds, etc. Now how in the hell Hazard got close to a bunny I have no idea, they are fast little creatures. But Hazard got a hold of it and like a toy, shook it and played with it to death. That is correct, "To death" is not just figuratively speaking, I have a "Killa" on my hand. He ripped that bunny rabbit apart. Though I have a killer on my hands, there is another issue at hand. Sorry Buttercup, I know it is really repulsive, but here's the serious issue. Imagine...this cute puppy dog coming up to you after the fact and licking your face or hands prior to you realizing what he had just done... I felt like I should wash my face, then put a mask on my face to suck out anything I may have missed, and then wash my face again. What a cute damn puppy dog, but what a pain in the ass.