A Matter Of Manners

Boys (and Ladies so inclined), here's a little tip: Relationship Rule #1: MALES IN RELATIONSHIPS SHOULD NOT TALK ABOUT OTHER WOMEN. Period. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about this. It is a basic, fundamental rule.

Talking about other women, objectifying them, checking them out, ogling them, flirting with them, or in any other way making it apparent that you might be fantasizing about another woman or any one of her body parts, or thinking that another woman is more sexy, more beautiful, or in any way MORE than the girl with whom you are involved - while you are in a relationship that you wish to remain a committed and long term relationship, is a big NO-NO. (For all those who wish to destabilize and sabotage their relationships, feel free to disregard this rule.)

It is rude, disrespectful, potentially damaging, it undermines the level of trust in the relationship, and it is a sure-fire way to hurt your partner's feelings. Do you understand? It HURTS when someone you love appears to be ogling someone else. Additionally, it's just plain sketchy, and it makes us feel like we are dealing with a 2 year old that's never going to grow up, take care of his shit, and start treating us like we deserve, nicely and with care, and like we are GOLD. Like you are happy to have us, and like you want to keep us. There are always more fishies in the sea, and there is no need to stay with one with a wandering eye.

It's like this guy that my mom dated that would stare at the waitresses while they were out to dinner. My Mom deserved WAY more than that piece of shit, and eventually she ditched him. Go Mom! Why, if you love and adore someone, would you EVER want to do anything that could hurt their feelings? And why, if you love and adore someone, would you EVER comment upon how hot, sexy, or bodacious another woman is? It doesn't make a lot of sense boys. Guess what, you wouldn't. Not if you really loved us, and not if you cared about our feelings as much as you should. If you really loved us, you would only have eyes for us, and you would make damn sure that we believed that that was true.

From a strategic perspective, it's also just plain foolish to ogle others, especially if you have any desire whatsoever to sleep with your partner, and to have them want and desire you. Please pay attention, because I'm trying to help you. There is nothing that kills amorous feelings quicker than thinking that your guy is fantasizing about another girl. It's called self-respect. That goes for celebrities, co-workers, and any other females, including hair dressers. Women are beautiful in a billion different ways. We know that because we look at and dissect one another every day. We don't need nor want you to point out the obvious. If you want to point out how uniquely beautiful, sexy, hot, and babe-aliscious we are, bring it on. Otherwise, zip it.

We don't need you pointing out that someone is "hot" and smiling a little smile as if you've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar while we are innocently enjoying US Magazine, Laguna Beach, 8th and Ocean, Amercian's Next Top Model, or Charmed. Saying someone is "attractive" or "pretty" is not a problem. Appreciating that someone is cute and sassy, that's fine. Objectively ripping apart or offering an opinion on someone's clothes, or look, or in other words acting like our best gay guy friend, even better.

But when you cross the line into teasing about potential sexual attraction, especially when the subject of your potential attraction happens to be teenage girls, when you are almost a grown man of twenty or thirty or more, you've gone too far. It's not funny. It's not attractive. It gives us the heebie jeebies. It makes us question whether we are dating a sexist pig or a pedaphile, or simply a male that does not value us as he should. It doesn't make us feel beautiful and treasured. It doesn't make us want to snuggle with you, or make you a nice dinner, or give you a massage, much less sleep with you. We like sleeping with people who treat us like we are special, valued, loved, and the hottest fucking woman on the planet. Not with boys who act like they could fuck any piece of ass that happened to shake it their way.

So once and for all, there is no need to tell us that Alyssa Milano is a babe. We get that, but that's not why we watch Charmed. We watch Charmed because Piper, Prue, Phoebe, and Paige are witches, they have magical powers that we would like to have, and they kick demon ass. It's nice when you want to watch Charmed with us, but annoying when you make us think that the only reason you're watching it is to check out the T&A. It ruins the positive vibe.

There is no need to tell us that Jessica Alba is a hottie and to frequently bring up the movie Honey. Jessica Alba is foxy and she's plain gorgeous. Not only that, she's classy, appears to be in a stable relationship, and she took on Playboy when Playboy tried to exploit her image and she won. She made loathsome and lecherous Hugh Hefner apologize. She also kicked ass in Dark Angel. We like her, and we're fine with you liking her too. But if all you can see is her amazing bod, then keep that to yourself. It's not a surprise to us.

Same goes for Heidi Klum, Tyra Banks, every model, Kirsten Dunst in Bring It On, Lindsey Lohan and Rachel McAdams in Mean Girls, and every other gorgeous and sexy celebrity that happens to star in shows or movies that we like. We like spending time together with you, but when we are trying to enjoy our favorite TV shows and movies, we don't want to feel like you are confused, and that you mistakenly think you are watching a porno.

If we wanted to watch porn with you, we would to it. But of course, if you are the kind of guy that can't help commenting on T&A, it's probably unlikely that we would want to watch porn with you. It would kind of defeat the whole purpose, unless we were also just looking to get off from the porn and didn't really give a rat's ass about you, which I guess is possible, if you're the kind of guy that just can't keep himself from ogling the T&A of other women.

There is also no need to try to convince us that Marilyn Monroe is a sex-pot, and definitely no need to ever say the following: "Marilyn Monroe is my ideal of feminine beauty." Especially, when the girl you happen to be talking to (which is also the girl you happen to be sleeping with) is 5'10" and slender, with small perky boobs, and long, straight, chestnut brown hair. No need at all.

In fact, this brings me to Relationship Rule #2 (a corallary of Rule #1): MALES IN RELATIONSHIPS SHOULD NEVER SAY THAT A WOMAN, OTHER THAN THE ONE THEY'RE WITH, IS THEIR IDEAL OF FEMALE BEAUTY. This goes for all women, dead or alive. All of the reasons given in support of Rule #1 apply with equal strength to Rule #2. In addition to those reasons, I would just like to add a resounding Duh! I mean really. If you are not going to abide by Rule #2, why not just say to your honey bunch: You are a substandard and inferior model of the female form in my eyes. Thanks bunches Sweetie!

How are you supposed to get excited about sex with someone when they've just told you that you are a substandard and inferior model of the female form in their eyes? I suppose you could just use them for an orgasm, but it would be robbed of the romance that we would all probably prefer to have present, and I'm not sure it would be worth it. No woman should have to share her body and her beauty with someone who doesn't appreciate her.

So boys, if you want us, shape up and kindly abide by the words of advice laid out above. It's just a matter of basic good manners. If you're nice to us, we'll be nice to you.

My Mental Health Posse

As I waited outside of Dr. M's office yesterday morning, I was a little nervous and not sure what to expect. My foray into the world of therapy and mental health is a relatively recent one. Apart from a brief stint in family therapy back when I was 12 and my parents were getting a divorce, prior to this past year I had never gone to therapy and never considered it for myself. I had this notion in my head that I was supposed to be strong, and that seeking support through therapy would mean that I had failed in some way, and that I was "weak."

I have long despised the thought of being "weak" or appearing "weak." Not because I care what other people think, but because I don't want to be that type of person that I myself would view as weak if I were looking at them from the outside. I don't want to look at myself and find myself wanting. Not that I'm in the habit of looking at others and finding them wanting. Generally, I reserve that level of judgment and criticalness for myself alone.

I have never viewed the use of therapy by others as an admission of weakness on their part. Instead, I have always seen it as a sign of strength. I think it takes a great deal of courage to look inside yourself and face the issues that are troubling you, and even more to seek out the assistance you need to confront those issues, especially in light of the mental health stigma in our society. I also have loved ones who have sought therapy, both counseling and medication, and I have seen the tremendous benefit it has had on them.

Even so, when I found myself struggling emotionally and mentally this past year, it took me a long time before I was ready to make the decision to go to therapy. Looking back on it now, I realize that I have been dealing with feelings of depression and anxiety since I moved to New York, a little under a year and a half ago. I'm still not one with the term "depression." However, I am one with realistically appraising my mental state, and I still remember how I felt during the months just before I finally decided to see a therapist.

It was not a pleasant time. My life consisted mainly of working and sleeping. That was it. Emotionally, I felt like I had nothing of meaning in my life, and like I had nothing worthwhile to give or contribute. Most of the time, I felt utterly alone and isolated. I was having panic attacks, and I was crying frequently. After months of this, the point when I really started to worry was when I started feeling nothing for periods of time. I remember one day walking into work feeling as if my whole life was just this empty shell. I had this facade of a successful woman, but inside there was nothing. No hope, no excitement, no joy.

Rationally and intellectually, I knew that this was all wrong. I knew my perception was skewed. I knew that I had family and friends that loved me, and whom I loved. I knew that I was working on worthwhile pro bono cases that had the potential to change my clients' lives, and that I was doing a good job. I also knew that I was getting valuable practical experience on my nightmare of a case, and that it would serve me well when I decided to find a new job. And I knew that there would come a time when I would make a change, and that things would get better.

But as I have learned in therapy, knowing something intellectually is not the same as knowing something emotionally. It takes a long time to emotionally know something, and to believe it. Not to mention all the time it takes to emotionally unknow things.

I finally decided to go to therapy in August of 2005. I had been thinking about it increasingly for weeks, and one day, when I had been feeling like I was going to cry all day, I asked my officemate - after two false starts, and with great hesitancy - if he happened to know of any good therapists. I was trying to be tough and to hold back my tears. I could feel them welling up inside of me, just on the brink of rushing forth and overflowing. I was trying to sound nonchalant. I was afraid that he would think I was looney, that he would look at me and see a pathetic creature that was on the verge of cracking up. I feared he would doubt my ability to do good work, and that he would judge and pity me. I had LOTS of issues about going to therapy. The biggest one was shame. Shame that I needed help. (It's actually still hard to admit that. But it's a fact. I did need help. I couldn't do it all by myself).

His response could not have been better. He was compassionate and candid and gave me exactly what I needed. He not only provided me with the name of my current therapist, but he also told me that HE had been in therapy (with my therapist in fact), and that he had thought it was a fascinating experience through which he had gained a great deal of insight, and also learned about a whole different profession. He likes learning things. He said, "Buttercup, of course I've been in therapy. I'm a philosophy major. We love analyzing, and what could be better than paying someone to focus on you for one solid hour. That's great that you are exploring it."

His reaction was completely contrary to what I had feared it would be. It was supportive and informative and encouraging, and it made me feel a little lighter inside. I couldn't believe that he had been in therapy. He was so calm and collected. Talking with him not only made me feel normal, and like therapy was not a big deal, but it made me think it might actually be kind of cool. It was so very single 30-year old woman in New York trying to figure her shit out. I wanted to be that introspective woman taking control of her life.

I started therapy, and after 7 months, I too can unequivocally say that THERAPY IS THE BEST THING EVER. I highly recommend it. My therapist, CG, is excellent. Upon meeting her, I was immediately comfortable and had a sense that I could trust her. Her office, which is decorated with paintings of flowers, painted a soothing pale yellow, and furnished with a comfy couch with silky pillows, is a "safe place" that makes me feel peaceful inside whenever I step into it. Thinking of sanctuaries, her office is one of mine, for at least one hour each week. After a couple of months, our sessions started leaving me with a feeling of calmness and happiness. Sometimes it only lasts as long as my cab ride home, but I always get it back each week after another session.

I can not pinpoint exactly why I have found therapy to be such a positive experience. It's a process, and it works in subtle ways, and I'm still figuring it - as well as myself - out. Part of it is the process of verbalizing my feelings and getting out of my body and mind things that have been bothering me. It's like mental detoxification. Therapy also helps me sort through my feelings so that I can identify the major issues that are causing me stress, and figure out a way to deal with them. It was my therapist that made me realize a few weeks ago that I was crying in her office because I was stressed about the move, and that one way of dealing with that was to talk through my concerns with Raj. It also gives me perspective on my own feelings and actions, and helps me to see the areas of myself that I might be able to change in order to make myself a happier and better person. A more enlightened being in Buddhist-speak.

My talk therapy with CG has helped me a great deal these last few months. However, I have continued to struggle with feelings of depression. A few months ago, I tried medication for the first time. I had been adamantly opposed to the idea of medication, and had flat out refused to even consider it the first time that CG suggested it as an option. After that session, I went home and thought about why I had been so vehement. I realized that once again I was letting my fear of "being weak" influence me. I do not want to depend on medication to be happy. I feel like I should be able to be strong enough to make myself happy without chemical assistance. I also do not like the idea of putting chemicals into my body.

Ultimately, after much thought, I decided to try medication because this is my life, it's the only one I have, and I would rather spend it feeling like I was living to my full potential. How dumb would it be if I felt depressed for another 20 years, and then tried medication and found that it helped? I would have regretted not trying it long before. I also was finally able to reject the whole mental health stigma and just say fuck it. Trying medication is not like choosing a path that you have to be stuck on for the rest of your life. It's something you can try to see if it helps. If it helps, great. If it doesn't, then you stop. There is no harm in trying. Of course it's not for everyone, and I'm not even sure it's for me. But I feel like it was a good decision for me to at least explore this option.

The psychiatrist I saw was CRAZY. For our first meeting, I went to his office and sat in his waiting room for 15 minutes until my session was supposed to begin. There was no sound coming from his office door, so I figured he was either out, or talking to a patient very quietly inside. At the time of my appointment, the door to his office suddenly opened, and the Dr. looked at me and motioned me inside. He was an old white male, but so many of them are. When I entered his office, I saw that it contained a metal desk with an easy chair, and a lone chair sitting in front of the desk. There was not a single object on the desk, and there was no other furniture in the room. The walls of the room were white and completely bare. It was the most sterile, uninviting, and unfriendly environment I have ever seen.

During that meeting, which lasted all of 20 minutes, Dr. Crazy asked me lots of questions, and even ventured into a bit of dream analysis. He stared at me throughout the interview. He was very Freudian. I walked out of his office with a prescription for Lexapro in my hand, thinking what a bizarre creature he was and trying to imagine what on earth he had been doing in his sterile, undecorated, furnitureless (not even a couch!) office before our meeting, and what he was doing after I left. Maybe he had a secret drawer with a book or a cross world puzzle? I know that if I had to sit in that dreary office for any period of time, I would go crazy for sure.

I took the Lexapro and didn't notice a great change. Except in my libido, which seems to have gone on vacation during the last few weeks (I'm not sure if that's because of depression, tension between Raj and I, stress, fatigue, or because of the Lexapro, but I'm more than a little freaked out by it). I was supposed to go back to Dr. Crazy, but couldn't bring myself to go back to his office. With all the moving stress, I've been quite emotional lately, and it's been nagging me that I needed to find another psychiatrist and get a handle on this aspect of my mental health.

This brings me to yesterday morning, when I was sitting outside of Dr. M's office, waiting to see what he would be like. To my great pleasure, it turns out that Dr. M is awesome (at least based on this first impression). He has a kind face, an easy going but sincere and caring manner, and he's also an impeccable dresser. Dr. M spent almost an hour and half attentively asking me questions about myself and trying to get to know me and my issues. Our conversation went wonderfully, and I'm so happy that I found him. I also feel really good that I took this step to take care of myself.

Dr. M is not a hasty kind of guy, so we made no decision regarding the medication yesterday. Instead, we made a second appointment for later in the week. Dr. M wants to talk to CG, and I could not be more pleased. I'm more than happy to have them both working together to help me figure out my shit. Throughout this process my friends and family (especially Wood, Artemis, Bean, and my Dad and Mom), and of course CG have been very supportive of my efforts to become healthy and happy. Now with the addition of Dr. M, it's like I'm creating a whole mental health posse. With all this support, I have no doubt that I'm going to be able to kick my Depression's ass. Eventually.

Circle of Trust or Enemy Camp?

Bean and I have not been having a good few days, so please forgive us for being M.I.A. Bean is currently in Texas because a member of her husband's family passed away last week. She and Tex drove down from Utah. It's a difficult time for both of them. For him, he's lost someone he's close to, and for her, she has to see someone that she loves in pain. Thankfully, he has her to support him through this time. Funerals and dealing with death are so incredibly difficult, no matter the circumstances. Dealing with death alone is awful. Nobody should ever have to do that.

Bean told me to keep up the blog in her absence, but unfortunately, moving-out, moving-in, and finding myself sharing a tiny little space tripping over boxes and fighting with Boyfriend left me feeling too stressed and drained to write this weekend. I felt yesterday like my chest was imprisoned in this heavy, tight, metal sack that was weighing me down, and I felt closed in and sad. I felt like I had no where to go to feel better. Being depressed is no fun, and it's no fun to write about, especially when you're right in the midst of it. When I tried to express this over the weekend, I was accused of being dramatic. I wish I was a drama queen. It would no doubt be far more entertaining then feeling depressed.

This is how bad this weekend made me feel: When I arrived at my office this morning (Monday Morning), I felt relatively soothed and calmed. That's a BIG problem, when coming in to a place that regularly gives me stomach aches makes me feel better than spending Sunday in "my" new home. Which incidentally I did not. Instead, I spent most of Sunday walking the streets of my new neighborhood contemplating the status of my life and my relationship. I walked and thought in lots of circles. It was better than sitting on the bathroom floor crying, and it gave me some time to reflect.

I'm a firm believer in the idea that your home should be your center, your oasis of calm. It should be a soothing refuge in which you can heal and rejuvenate and be happy. My fear of losing that peaceful space was one of the major reasons that I had doubts about moving. During this past year, my home has been one of the constant positives in my daily life. My friends and family are not in New York, but I had a nice apartment close to work that was pretty, filled with light and windows, and all decorated in purples and pinks. What could be better? It made me happy, and since it was mine and I was alone, I could do anything that I wanted at any time. I could do yoga and pilates on my living room floor, I could curl up on my futon and watch movies, I could be quiet and still and think, or I could be loud and happy and listen to music.

Sometimes I used the space for semi-destructive things, like eating too much, and sometimes I felt very lonely. But I would get myself together, walk down to Blockbuster, get some movies and mint chocolate chip ice cream, and I would feel better. Or I would write in my journal, or go to they gym, or call my friends or my family, and I would feel better. I had space in which to feel sad and to cry when I needed to, and I had space in which I could get away mentally and emotionally from everything that was upsetting me so that I could reflect and rebalance. Now, that space feels like it is gone, and I'm in a bit of a quandry as to how to go about recreating that mental and emotional space now that I'm sharing my very small living space with someone else.

During my walk, I talked to my friend Pas for a bit. It cheered me up to hear her voice. It's been far too long since I talked with her. She told me about some of the details of her upcoming wedding, set to take place in November. A half a year ago, Pas went to North Carolina for a job and hated Carolina, but wonders of wonders, she met a man that is perfect for her. I'm very happy for her. I can't wait for the wedding, and to finally meet this boy that has brought such happiness into her life. She says he is a male version of her, which is just really funny. Pas is quirky, smart, beautiful, passionate and wonderful. It's nice to know there's another her in him form out there, and that they found each other. It makes me believe there might be some truth to that whole soul mate concept.

I shared a little bit with Pas about the issues Raj and I had this weekend, but not much. Since Raj and I got back together 4 months ago, I have had hardly any conversations about "us" with my friends - at least not about fights or issues between Raj and I. While we were apart, I turned to my friends and analyzed our relationship and what had gone wrong, tried to figure out what I still felt for Raj, and I tried to get perspective. But now that we are back together, things are different. Or at least, they should be different. As part of my decision to get back together with him, I made a conscious decision to focus on working out our issues with him, and to keep everyone else and their opinions at a distance. This is part of what my therapist calls building a "wall of trust" between the two people in a relationship. In Focker speak, that would be a "Circle of Trust." Sometimes it's hard to keep that relationship wall intact, but I do my best to not add cracks to it by airing relationship laundry. That is for Raj and I, and no one else, to sort through and clean.

That goes for my family as well. I am very close with my family, but I try to refrain from sharing the details of our issues with them. This is not because I don't think they would support me or be fair minded to Raj, because I'm sure they would be. And it's not because I feel like they wouldn't be able to give me valuable insight, because I'm sure they would. It's because I want my family to like Raj, and I want Raj to feel comfortable with them. I don't want to risk my family building up grudges, or ever create a situation where Raj feels like he's walking into enemy camp when he's visiting with my family - and an enemy camp is what it would be if they've all heard every detail of only my side of each one of our fights.

The other alternative, to have Raj tell my family his side of every one of our fights, is even more problematic. I most certainly do not want my family refereeing my relationship (nor his of course!), and poking their noses into places they simply do not belong. Regardless of how well meaning the poking might be, it's still poking and it's ultimately damaging to the relationship. When you are on the outside of a relationship looking in, you never truly understand what's going on in the inside, so your opinion is always distorted. Anyone who has ever said to a friend, Break up with him, he's horrible, only to have your friend make-up with the boy and look at you askance knows what I'm talking about. Because there's no practical or desirable way to get both sides out there, the only fair approach is to keep both sides between the two of you, where they belong, and where you can deal with them together. As you should.

I feel as if I'm a bit all over the place in this post, but I suppose that is an expression of where I'm at emotionally and mentally at the moment. I still feel uprooted, but work, somewhat shockingly, is having a stabilizing effect on me today. I'm surprised that all of these issues were kicked up this weekend, but I suppose I should have expected this to happen. My therapist told me that moving is stressful, and that it was going to be difficult. She was right. Well, now that I have passed Phase I, I'm hoping Phase II will be much better. At least there are no more boxes to move (except for a few last minute things to bring to storage). Hallelujah! Another positive: Raj brought home yellow tulips for the apartment, and they look beautiful on the coffee table. I appreciate flowers, and I also appreciate efforts to make amends.

My Toes Are Giddy With Anticipation

Moving is like finals. No matter how much prep you attempt to do, it is always a last-minute, late-night cram job. I've been stressing for the last week, trying each night after work and during the weekend to organize and pack as much as I could. Little by little, I was starting to see signs of progress. But tonight, with Raj's help, I have finally seen the apartment begin to transform from my home into an emptyish blank-walled space in transition.

Despite the progress, it's still a certifiable disaster area. It's filled with boxes, odds and ends for which I have not yet managed to find homes, and dust bunnies the size of Godzilla lurking defiantly in the corners. In less than 48 hours I will be DONE moving into Raj's apartment. Thank God.

Granted, I will be in the midst of unpacking craziness, but that will be so much better than the packing, cleaning and lifting that has to be done in order to get all of my stuff into Raj's place. Tomorrow, I need to wake up, get an enormous cup of coffee, finish packing, and then head across town to pick up the truck and start my day of lifting boxes.

Currently, I am living for the pedicure, manicure, and massage that I plan to have on Saturday while Raj is watching the Final Four games. Here are some of my pictures of inspiration. I. Can. Not. Wait. A splurge, pampering, relaxation, and some serious snuggling time are definitely in order.

Comments From Cabbies

This morning, Raj and I had some "issues" relating to the impending move and our relationship come up while we were both at work. We were both tired and far too stressed out to deal with the issues in a mature, rational and loving manner. He said he couldn't talk. I freaked out. I did not handle myself well. I was not mature. I was not balanced. There were tears, some raised voices, and some nasty expressions of hurt and anger flying at one another over email. It was not pretty. Email fights are just not a good idea. It's too easy to pound the keyboard and hit the all caps button when you're feeling hurt and angry, and hardly anything positive ever comes out of it. There's always a need for extensive cleanup to fix the mess of bruised feelings and ragged emotions.

After work today, once we had both calmed down enough to remember that we care about one another, we met at Raj's office and grabbed a cab to go to his house to "talk." The cleanup process began in the cab, while we were still thawing, not quite ready to smile at each other. He told me that one of my particularly angry emails was "unacceptable," and that it made him question whether he wanted to be in a relationship with "the kind of person" who could write that email. I told him that if he was questioning whether he wanted to be with me, then we probably shouldn't be in a relationship. I said I didn't want to be with someone who brought up breaking up every single time we had a fight. It's impossible to feel secure in that type of situation. The conversation was calm, but weighty.

In New York, riding in the back of dark cabs speeding through the city, with cabbies who are often far too busy talking on their cell phones to pay more attention to their passengers than is required to ask "where to?," I often get lulled into feeling secure and safe in what oftentimes feels like your own private, albeit tempory, space. It's relaxing and calming, a brief respite away from the din of the cars and the throngs of people rushing up and down the sidewalks. I often take advantage of those moments of relative peace to catch up on my phone calls to friends and family, or to just relax.

In almost a year and half in New York, until tonight, I had only one negative experience with a cab driver. That time my cabbie was either mentally unstable, a daredevil driver, or on drugs. He took me on a careening trip through the city, alternating between speeding and violently breaking, causing me and the car to jerk around uncomfortably. Each time this would happen, he would cackle and burst into laughter. I'm serious, the man actually cackled. Repeatedly. On that occasion, I was genuinely alarmed, and a little afraid, and considered taking my chances on opening the back door and rolling out onto the pavement. Ultimately, I reached my destination safely, but it was unnerving. With that one exception, and excluding tonight, every cab driver I have ever had the opportunity to ride with in New York has been either friendly, professional, or has paid no attention to me whatsoever.

Tonight, however, I met a mean cabbie. When Raj and I reached Raj's apartment building, I got out of the cab and stood a few feet away on the sidewalk waiting for Raj to pay. Raj was looking through his bags for singles, so a few moments passed before he was ready to get out of the cab. I was standing on the sidewalk, trying to politely wait for him as a show of good will, twisting my feet back and forth. I turned away from the cab and then turned back to see if Raj was making any progress.

As I turned back around, my eyes met the eyes of the cab driver who was staring directly at me out of his open window. I saw him clearly for the first time. He was a brown-skinned man with a white turban wrapped around his head. He was glaring at me and had a nasty look on his face. His stare was aggressive and I felt like he was giving me the evil eye. I felt uncomfortable, but then shook my discomfort away and told myself I was just being silly.

I broke eye contact with the cab driver, who was still staring at me, and walked towards the open door where Raj was still counting his money. He seemed to be fumbling, and he asked me to help him with one of his bags, which I did. He was a bit brusque, but I thought it was because we had just started our thawing process. Raj got out and shut the door and as we were walking towards his apartment, and as the cab was driving away, Raj told me that the cab driver had said something about me. I asked him what the cab driver said. Raj told me that the cab driver had asked him in English whether I was his girlfriend. Raj had replied, "yes," and then the cab driver said something nasty about me in hindi. Raj doesn't understand hindi, so he didn't know what the cab driver said, but he felt sure that it was nasty and that it was directed at me.

The minute Raj told me, I started to cry. It was too much. All the stress about moving, all the work I have to get done, trying to have fun with my mom while she is here, and then all of the other relationship issues that Raj and I have, including the fact that he is Indian and I am white, and his family would prefer that it was otherwise. On top of all that, this Indian cab driver takes it upon himself to tell Raj something nasty about me. How mean! I'm always nice to cab drivers. I would never judge him because he is brown or because he's wearing a turban, yet he judged me because of the conversation that Raj and I had, and because I'm white and I'm dating and Indian man. Granted, I don't know this for sure, but that's what it seemed like. For the third time this week, I find myself wanting to cry and say it's not fair. Because it's not.

When we got upstairs, I blubbered out that the "hindi cab driver hates me and he doesn't think we should be together, and he thinks I'm nothing because he heard you say that you didn't know if you wanted to be with someone who wrote that email, and that's a horrible thing to say - to say that you are going to break up with someone over just one fight - and you shouldn't say that lightly because it's mean and it hurts me, and the cab driver knew it was mean, and he was mean to me too, and he starred at me like he hated me just because I'm white and because I'm with you, and he thinks the same as your family, that you shouldn't be with me..." Cry. Cry. Cry.

Raj said, "First of all, the cab driver was a Sikh. Second of all, I made clear that I was having none of it. Damn it, I shouldn't have tipped him. Third of all, your race and my race have nothing to do with the problems we're having related to moving... Sweetie, can you please forget about the cab driver?" He also suggested that the cabbie may have made that comment because he was of a variety of male that believed that women should be silent and obey their boyfriends. Raj said that I'm "spunky" and that's the way he likes me. Sweet of Raj to say, but whether it was because I'm white or a spunky woman, it was still unnecessary.

I tried to forget, and we talked and we resolved some things, but not everything. After an hour, when we had mostly defrosted, I had to leave. He has work to do, I have work to do, and it's my mom's last night in town. I already feel intensely guilty for not being able to spend enough time with her during the last few days, and for being stressed and a brat during the little time that we actually got to hang out together. I hate feeling like a horrible daughter, but that's often how I feel when we hang out. I get too easily annoyed at little things. I should be better and more understanding. I love her a lot and I should communicate that better.

So I left him, even though I hate letting things go when there are still things left to be said between us. Still misinterpretations that need to be unravelled and hurt feelings that need to be soothed. I hope we'll be able to do that during the next few days, and I hope we'll get through this moving stress and that things will calm down and we'll find that we're happy sharing the same space. I think we will, or I would not have contemplated moving in together. But man is it hard to remember that in the heat of hurt feelings.

One thing we do not need during this stressful time, or ever, are mean stupid cabbies sticking their nose into our business. Even if we did bring it onto ourselves by talking about such weighty issues in the back of the cabbie's cab. He still should not have said anything, and he should not have given me the evil eye. Mean cabbie.

Dishonourable "Honour Killing" in Italy

Every now and then, I come across a story that makes me want to snatch up all the men in the world (except for those proven to be good and worthy) and beat the living shit out of them until I turn them all into unrecognizable piles of bloody pulp. My brothers, father, boyfriend, and other men I know and love, excluded (and yours as well, if you can vouch for them). Today I came across such a story: "Mafioso Shoots Sisters Over "Dishonour."

In Italy this weekend, 24 year old Giovanni Morabito, a member of the Calabrian Mafia, shot his sister, Bruna (32), 4 times in the face in an effort to murder her for having a child out of wedlock. Amazingly, the sister is still alive. She had given birth two weeks ago. The despicable prick of a brother showed no remorse and admitted:

I shot her, I shot my sister...She had a child by a man she was not married to. It is a question of honour. I would have shot her in the back, but she turned round. I am not sorry. On the contrary, I am proud of what I did. [I waited until she had given birth because under Mafia code] you don't kill pregnant women.

This man deserves to have his testicles and penis cut off and fed to him while he is alive to know what he is eating. We'll see then if he continues to feel pride for shooting his INNOCENT sister in the face 4 fucking times. Somehow, I think that if the punishment for honour killings was castration, we would see a lot less of them. This story makes me furious because it is so unjust.

Investigators believe that the sister was targeted, not only because of the child, but also because she had tried to distance herself from her Mafia family. Figures. Honour killings as an excuse used by males to settle unrelated scores are not news. I guess what enrages me the most is that this is an accepted excuse to commit murder. One dick is pissed that another dick put his dick near his sister, mother, daughter. So the first dick shoots the sister, mother, daughter (and sometimes the other dick) to avenge his so-called honour. Where the hell is the honour in killing anyone, least of all your sister, mother, daughter? It makes me want to cry. That poor woman.

How could a brother or father do this to his daughter or sister?

Apartment Moving Angst

It's Sunday evening again and I'm thinking where did the weekend go?? It's already a fading blur and I can't believe it's Monday again tomorrow. Today it hit me in the hardware store in Chelsea, around 2 pm, when the Russian woman behind the counter told Raj and I to enjoy the rest of our Sunday afternoon. I felt my chest clench slightly and I turned to Raj and asked wistfully, "Is it really Sunday already?"

We had just purchased sand paper and a bath tub plug, both integral elements of our apartment-improvement-make-Raj's-space-our-space-and-both-of-us-happy plans. Bubble baths are very important to me. The sand paper was for a bar that Raj and I put up in my closet today to hold approximatley 1/3 of my clothes. Also incredibly important. We put it up all by ourselves. We also detached this unefficient wall monstrosity from IKEA leftover in Raj's apartment from the previous tenant. It will be replaced on Thursday with a far more space efficient book shelf and bureau. Oh happy day. The weekend flew by because I was constantly busy either packing, carting things to Raj's via taxi, or trying to spend some QT with my mom.

Yesterday, my Mom and I decided to go stand in line in Times Square to get 1/2 priced tickets to a Broadway Show. This is the second time we've done this, and each time it's a bit too much effort for what we wind up with. I had envisioned a relaxing Saturday beginning with brunch in Soho and then leisurely strolling around, people watching, and shopping. However, as anyone knows who has gone in for the whole 1/2 priced Broadway thing, the whole experience takes up pretty much the whole day. We got up, had a quick breakfast, and then headed over to Times Square which was packed. After making our way to the end of an extremely long line, I ran and got us coffees from Starbuck's while my mom saved our spot. I was actually enjoying the Times Square vibe at first. I hadn't been to that part of the city for a while, and I have to admit I am always rather dazzled by the spectacle of all the lights and 40 foot ads. Who wouldn't be?

After waiting for a little under an hour, we finally got up to the ticket booth and found that the only musicals available that we hadn't seen were obstructed view seats for the Producers and full view seats for Ring of Fire. We went the full view seats and what we thought would be a Broadway version of "Walk The Line," complete with cute Reese/June and Johnny/Joaquin look-a-likes, drama and dancing. From Times Square we zipped down to Union Square because my mom wanted to find some dress pants at Banana. That was really an error on my part, because we should have gone to the Banana near Macy's on 34th street in light of the fact that we had only an hour and a 1/2 before the show started. Because of my poor planning, we ended up with 15 minutes to grab a bite to eat before the show. We opted for the only food in site, which happened to be a divey pizza place. Decent pizza, but pizza nonetheless. Alas, not the scrumptous brunch I had envisioned.

After taking our seats in the theater, we learned that "Ring of Fire" was actually "the songs of Johnny Cash." One after another. No drama. Minimal dancing. There were some look-a-likes, 3 of each to be precise, but no cohesive story attached to any of them. It was a bit disappointing for both of us, although to be fair to the show, the cast had incredible voices and much of it was entertaining. The second act got a little slow, especially with all the prison songs. My favorite Johnny Cash songs (judging only from Walk The Line and Ring of Fire) are the ones he and June Carter sang together, and they did a few of those in the first act. I liked that song about getting my loving when I've got loving on my mind. I think the main problem for my mom and I wasn't with the show, but rather that we were more in a "Beauty and the Beast" kind of mood than a foot-stomping country singing kind of mood. Talking about it later, we both concluded that it's probably worth it to just pay the full price to get tickets for a show that you actually want to see, instead of running around all stressed for a 3rd place choice.

Saturday night was a lovely dinner at Doc's with Raj and my mom. My mom had two cosmos, her drink of choice. Since I'm lacking a signature drink, I went with wine. The meal was good, though not as yummy as the meal my mom and I had on Friday at Ulrika's. Now that place is awesome, whether you're Swedish or not. And they sell Swedish candy. Yum!! I have to give it up the key lime pie at Doc's though. Delicious.

After our day of apartment-improvements, a tired Raj and I watched Sopranos and Big Love with my mom, his sister and her boyfriend. Tony's awake!! Has anyone figured out the meaning of his whole coma-dream parallel universe sequence yet? I have no clue. Who is Kevin Finnerty? On Big Love, I have only one thing to comment upon: That disgusting older man Roman with a fifteen year old?? Oh my God. So gross. At least she has an ipod to listen to now. The evening was fun, but over too soon, and in the background of all of it was this low wave vibration of stress that I know won't stop until Thursday comes.

I can't believe I move in 4 days!! I still have a lot to do, and I'm worried about the space at Raj's. I want both of us to be happy and comfortable, a challenge in fairly small quarters with limited closet space. I'm also feeling pangs about my apartment. At one point today, I came back to my place to grab the rest of my clothes. I moved them to Raj's pre-move to get them organized before the chaos of Thursday descends upon us. My place is currently a disaster area, with odds and ends strewn about and covering the entire floor space. Clothes for good will are piled up against the walls, and boxes, some packed, some empty, are everywhere.

Despite the mess, when I walked into my place, all I saw was everything that I'm going to miss about it. It's enormous and spacious (relatively speaking and for an L studio), it has 2 giant closets with tons of shelving, shelving, cabinets and a medicine cabinet in the bathroom, a wall of windows that look out onto the Empire State Building, acres of empty hardwood covered floor (that I used to view cynically as wasted dollars), a bed side table on each side of my queen sized bed, a kitchen table, my bike with the flat tires, two book shelves, and space for all of the things that I have collected over the course of these last 31 years. And until Thursday it's all mine. How is it going to feel to not have any space that's just mine anymore? A very small part of me wonders if I'm going to freak out, but I try to not pay that part much attention. I would hope I'm more mature and balanced than that.

I gather that the way couples live together on top of each other like Raj and I are about to do, is through the powers of communication, patience, compromise, and compassion. I hope Raj is compassionate and understanding on Thursday, and on the days that will follow, because though I am very excited to move in with him, I'm a little sad to be leaving my space. He probably feels similarly.

Friday Morning Goddess: Kali

The Goddess Kali is worshipped in Hinduism as a ferocious manifestation of Parvati, an incarnation of the Devi or Mother Goddess. She is the Divine Mother, Goddess of Destruction, Conqueror of Time, and Triple Goddess of creation, preservation, and destruction. She is a Destroyer of Demons.

Kali is fearsome in appearance. She has wild eyes, a protruding tongue, and she wields a bloody sword. Kali holds the severed head of a demon, and she wears a belt of severed heads.

Kali is described in the Devi-Mahatmyam (also known as the Chandi or the Durgasaptasati) from the Markandey Purana written between 300-600 CE, where she is said to have emanated from the brow of the goddess Durga (slayer of demons) during one of the battles between the divine and anti-divine forces. Kali is considered the 'forceful' form of the great goddess Durga.

The unleashed form of Kali often becomes wild and uncontrollable. According to legend, only Shiva is able to tame Kali, a version of one of his consorts. Shiva tames Kali by challenging her to the wild tandava dance and outdoing her, or appearing as a crying infant and appealing to her maternal instincts. While Shiva is said to be able to tame her, the iconography often presents her dancing on his fallen body, and there are accounts of the two of them dancing together, and driving each other to such wildness that the world comes close to unravelling.

Here is one story of the manifestation of Kali: "The Gods were not able to kill the demon, Raktabija. Each drop of his blood that touched the ground turned into another Raktabija. Thus, every time he was struck, millions of his duplicates appeared all over the battlefield."

"At this point the Gods were totally desperate, and they then turned to Shiva for help. Shiva, though, was so deep in meditation that he could not be reached. The Gods then turned to Shiva's consort Parvati for help. The Goddess Parvati immediately set out to do battle with the demon, and it was then that She took the form of Kali."

"Kali then appeared, with Her red eyes, dark complexion, gaunt features, hair unbound, and Her teeth as sharp as fangs. She rode into the midst of the battle on a lion, and it was only then that the demon Raktabija first began to experience fear."

"Kali then ordered the Gods to attack Raktabija, while she spread Her tongue over the battlefield, covering it completely, and preventing even one drop of the demon's blood from falling. In doing this, Kali revented Raktabija from reproducing himself again, and the Gods were then victorious."

Feminine Beauty Is NOT A Load of Pornographic Crap

For the past few days I have been thinking about a post that Morphing Into Mama ("MIM") wrote on "false advertising" and the firestorm of discussion it provoked, some thoughtful and some nasty, that you can read about here, here, and here, as well as in the comments to MIM's post. In her post, MIM made the point that when people project themselves one way during the dating phase of a relationship, and then dramatically alter themselves after marriage (i.e. by cutting off their long luscious locks or significantly changing their weight), their earlier behavior is at least arguably a type of "false advertising." This did not strike me as controversial in the least. Of course it's false advertising to project an image of yourself while dating that you plan on unilaterally rejecting once you have "settled down" with a spouse.

It's false advertising in the same way that it's false advertising when single and dating to add the appearance of 1 or 2 cup sizes to your breasts with the aid of water bras or removable gel pads before you go out for an evening of scoping and flirting. If your breasts catch a boy's attention (because he's into that), it's natural that it might be somewhat disappointing at the end of the evening when you take out your gel pads and show yourself as a bit less buxom than you had previously advertised yourself to be. Not that I'm saying there's anything wrong with boob-enhancing devices. If you're happy and it works for you, then by all means go for it. There's nothing wrong with playing dress-up.

There's also nothing wrong with little boobs. I have 'em and I love 'em. But, it's realistic to appreciate that someone else, upon discovering apples, might be a tad let down if in fact they were expecting melons. This is just common sense. Personally, my boobs are of the small and perky variety, and though I do use push up bras for cleavage now and then, I've never been partial to heavily padding up my boobs because I never wanted to attract a boy with a promise that I couldn't deliver on. I much prefer being upfront with who I am. It's more fun that way, and it's far simpler. It is also, as MIM suggests, a bit more fair.

In MIM's false advertising post she candidly discussed her own body consciousness and admitted that she works to stay healthy and fit for herself and for her husband (emphasis added). I don't want to add to the pile of words that have been shoved into her mouth, so here is the actual language she used:

"I am conscious of my weight, so I don't snack, and I exercise...I work to maintain my figure for myself and my husband. If I had been 160 pounds when we married that would one thing. Then it would be totally unreasonable for him to want me to be 120 pounds. But it would be false advertising if he’d married his 120 pound girlfriend and ended up with a 160 pound wife.” She then commented, "Personally, I think it would be unfair to Husband if I gained a bunch of weight and did nothing about it.”

In a follow-up post, MIM explained that her main point was that: "people in an intimate relationship should be considerate of each other and understand that their physical appearance, and any MAJOR change to it, can affect their partner and their relationship." Seems to me, that's not very controversial either. Of course, people in intimate relationships should be considerate of one another, and of course major changes to one's appearance can affect your partner. There is nothing novel or surprising about this.

However, to my surprise, MIM's post sparked off a blogger controversy, and she was scathingly villified by several writers as a complicit victim of the patriarchy. For example, in an astonishing post that grossly and flagrantly mischaracterizes, misinterprets, and twists MIM's words, "Twisty" of I Blame The Patriarchy accusesd MIM of "capitulat[ing] to the patriarchal feminine hotness imperative," and being unable to "reject the authority of the Male Gaze."

Twisty also attacks MIM for her alleged "weight-specific brand of sexy conformity to patriarchal hotness standards," and suggets that MIM is displaying herself "according to male standards of fuckability as defined by pornography." Twisty ended the post by imploring "all women, regardless of the degree to which they have been assimilated by Dude Nation, to extricate themselves with all possible speed from the prison of male fantasy. Feminine beauty is a load of pornographic crap."

I'm down with rejecting the Male Gaze, and after reading many of MIM's posts, I have a funny feeling that she might just be down with that too. MIM never suggested that she was conforming to anyone's notion of beauty except her own. All she said was that the way she looks affects her partner, just as the way her partner looks affects her. This is not rocket science. Since when does acknowledging that the way you look might affect your partner mean that you are a prisoner of the Male Gaze?

MIM's crimes, for which Twisty appears to believe MIM deserves to be drawn and quartered, apparently consist of being slender, having nice hair, looking hot, and being so "fuckable" that she could appear in a porno. What's going on here? Who exactly is imposing comformist definitions of female sexuality? Is it the Patriarchy, is it MIM, or is it Twisty? I don't think it's MIM because she never made any reference to feeling any pressure whatsoever to conform to any image of female beauty, patriarchal or otherwise. She appears to be doing her own thing and trying to be healthy and fit up to her own standards in a way that works for her.

Does the fact that she is also cognizant that her maintaining her figure might be something from which her husband could derive some pleasure as well mean that she is a victim of the Patriarchy? I don't think so. MIM herself makes clear that she thinks it would be equally unfair if her husband significantly changed his weight. Clearly, in their relationship, the notions of fairness, consideration, and of "checking in" go both ways. There are no draconian, patriarchal views of feminine beauty or "wifely duties" at play.

It can not be, as Twisty suggests, that any time a woman acknowledges that she is somewhat motivated by wanting to appear attractive to her lover that she must be a brainless, conformist, prisoner of the patriarchy. Take for example me. I wax, shave and lazer because I want to, and because I find myself sexier sans hair. That is my decision. It has not escaped my attention that porn stars and strippers are often hairless, nor that many men find hairlessness sexy. My Boyfriend among them. Does the fact that I wax my pussy while being aware that my Boyfriend is going to like it make me a prisoner of the Patriarchy? Not to me. What about if he preferred hair down there? Would I be less of a prisoner of the Patriarchy if I bucked cultural notions of feminine beauty by being hairy (and conformed to the Twisty Gaze), but conformed to my Boyfriend's personal tastes and rejected MINE?

That would just be plain silly. Refusing to do something you want just because you don't want to appear like your conforming to patriarchal notions of feminine beauty does not make you any less of a slave to the Patriarchy. It just makes you an unhappy slave. Doesn't this all come down to figuring out what YOU want, and then following YOUR desires regardless of what the Patriarchy, Husband, Boyfriend, Twisty, or Bloggerdom say? That's what MIM appears to be doing, and that's why I like her. She does not deserve to be trashed by Bloggerdom for her honesty, introspection, and her stating of the obvious. Tsk, tsk to those who attacked her maliciously instead of trying to figure out what she actually meant.

All About Hazard

Today was a terrible day. Just 1 month shy of his first birthday, Hazard went under the knife. I hear you Miss Nibbles…I would have rather gotten a female and breed my pup with another lab but 1) I am not financially stable to worry about all of a sudden having pups that need shots/food and may not sell and 2) 2 dogs that mate would be a handful to take care of especially if it means a litter down the road. Poor Hazard had no idea what was going on today. He knew that when I turned on the highway it wasn’t any normal day going to work. He gave me a questioning look. At that point seeing his beautiful face so unknowing of the events to come, tears fell down.

We made it to the vet, Silver Creek Animal Clinic and I cried in the car; almost decided to say fuck it and keep my pup's manhood. But I knew I would get a phone call to reschedule and in the long run, this is better for his health and will avoid any law suit for my stud impregnating another dog (which I would have no money to deal with). He was as puppyish as ever with his facial features and hyperactive qualities. We couldn’t get him to calm down so they gave him a sedative. Well, it didn’t really work. I waited for everyone and their dog to clear the area prior to entering the building after walking him to get some energy out because Hazard would want some booty or want to play. The sedative did nothing to calm his hormones when a female was around. The vet came out again and gave him some pain medication to see if that would work, and in 15 minutes he was feeling calm. So I walked him to a cage in the back and said goodbye.

Then I cried some more on the way to work feeling very guilty for doing this.

They said he would be ready at the earliest at 3 pm…I got a call at 12:00 saying that Hazard really wanted to go home. The tranqs had worn off quite a bit. My pup always talks like “Arrr, arrr…” (kind of like a Scooby Doo talk), I was nervous that taking his manhood would hurt his personality and verbal abilities, but no, I went to pick up my “baby boy” and I could hear him talking up a storm in the back. He stopped talking as soon as he heard my voice approaching. It was difficult for him to get in the car…but he made it. He has to wear a “volcano thing” around his neck so he doesn’t lick himself.

I feel absolutely horrible and hopefully over the next two weeks, he will be back to my precious pup; playful, and talkative. I hate looking at him with his big eyes looking at me thinking “what did you do to me?” I want to cry every time. More so today seeing his pain, I don’t want to have kids for a long time…Granted I won’t neuter them, but I know I will be more passionate about them than my pup (if you could believe that) and that means many more times of crying and perhaps times of feeling helpless.

These are actual pics of my precious pup. I love him so much. Figured it would be nice to use real ones instead of random pics.

Following In Scarlett's Footsteps

My mom arrived at my apartment this morning at 7 am after taking the red-eye from Bean's (the technical genius behind this blog) place in Utah. Two weeks ago, my mom single-handedly packed up her entire house in Savannah, Georgia and moved all of her belongings to Houston, Texas. It was a damn impressive feat. Unfortunately, as her house in Houston won't be ready until May, my mom had to put all of her belongings in storage. She's going to be living out of several large suitcases for the next two months, bobbing between my brothers', bean's, and my place before her house is ready. Being forced to hobo it out on the road isn't ideal, but it's nice for us kids because we get the opportunity to spend some quality time with her. One-on-one time is quite different than the normal holiday crazyness when all 4 of us + significant others are around stuffing our faces with sweet potatoes or ripping open Christmas presents. That's great, and I wouldn't trade those times for anything, but it's still special to have some time with her just for me.

At first I didn't hear her knocking this morning because I was completely zonked out. This week has been draining at work, and I still haven't recovered from staying up until 4 am on Monday night reasearching. After knocking a few times, my mom smartly called my cell phone. I woke up and let her in, gave her a hug, noted that she has become a full on uberbabe skinny minny due to the South Beach Diet and her amazing self-discipline, and stumbled back into bed. She climbed over the boxes and piles of things scattered about my in-the-midst-of-being-packed apartment and crawled into the other side of the bed. We groggily chatted between yawns for about 20 minutes, before we both fell asleep. I went to sleep thinking how nice it was that she was here.

Since I moved out of my house to go to college 13 years ago, I have generally only seen my family on summer vacations (when I had them), during the Christmas and Thanksgiving holidays, and on other random occasions. This past year and a half, since I moved to New York - a place where I have felt very alone for most of my time here - I have spent a good deal of time thinking about how far away my family is and wishing that I was closer to them. During this past year, my mom has been living in Savannah, my brothers, Dad, and Stepmom in Houston, and my little sister in Utah. All of us have been far away from each other and sometimes, when I was lonely, it seemed so silly. For example, there was one afternoon where my brother, mom, and I all went to see the same movie on our own. We text messaged one another prior to the movie and then after to share our thoughts on it. Doing so made me feel connected to them and less alone, but it was no replacement to actually seeing them and spending time together.

Three months ago, when the large case I was on finally quieted down enough for me to breathe normally again, I started seriously looking for jobs. Faced with the decision about where to look, I contemplated Houston, as there is now a critical mass of my family members either living their or in transit to living there. It was strange to find myself thinking seriously about the possiblity of moving to Houston. All through law school, I had only one city in mind to move to from Michigan: New York. Every other city paled in comparison and I couldn't imagine living anywhere else, certainly not the traffic-choked, strip mall covered, Bush-infested, urban sprawl of Houston!! Puh-lease!

Since moving to New York, I have confirmed that it is fact one of the greatest cities in the world. I love it here. Or rather, I should say, I love New York, and I love all the opportunities here, the energy, the people from all different places, the languages all around you, the fact that I can walk anywhere I want to or need to go, and the sense that everything anyone could possibly desire or wish to experience could be found here if you took the time to look. Except for mountains, trees (Central Park is still just a park), and front porches, New York has pretty much everything I would want in a city. However, I discovered to my complete surprise this year that that wasn't enough.

I realized that living in a fantastic city when your community of friends and family is far away, can seem less than fantastic. It was hard for me this past year when I would go on my aimless wanderings around the city on the weekends. I would eat in a cute little restaurant or find a shop I liked or visit a museum that was wonderful. Weekend after weekend (when I was not working or too tired from work) I would wander about, with only myself to enjoy everything with. I think I'm great and all, and I generally have an impressive ability to keep myself entertained, but even I have limits to how much of just me I can take. There were many days where I wished I had someone around with whom to share this city.

So after a year of this, I find myself having done a complete 180, and would now actually consider moving to Houston to be near my family. The radical shift in my thinking still shocks me. It's funny though how life works, because just as I reached the point of realizing that I had been too far away from my family for too long, something happened to make me stay in New York, at least for the immediate future. Raj came back into my life. Three months after we got back together, we decided to move in together, and now my thinking has shifted even more to the point where I found myself the other day asking Raj whether he would ever consider moving to Houston with me. He said he would consider it. He then asked me if I would ever consider moving to Detroit (where his parents live). Ouch. I said I would consider it, and then promptly decided that we didn't need to worry about those things just yet. Those things, we could think about tomorrow. How in God's name do couples figure out those big life decisions?

Movies, NCAA, and Hazard

A week ago I was ecstatic…my mom was on a plane to see me for a whole week. She left last night and is now with Buttercup. We had a blast together. We saw three movies, 2 with Tex, and one solo with just my Mom. The Hills Have Eyes was a good movie, genuine horror…meaning, stupid people doing everything they shouldn’t do. Eight Below was good. I love dogs, absolutely love them, so inevitably, I cried. I would never be able to leave my dog behind anywhere! Last but not least, The World’s Fastest Indian. This movie was good; Anthony Hopkins is always an excellent actor.

If anyone watches NCAA, I got you all beat…ESPN locked me out, so I was unable to get me final picks into the “competition” of friends and family online. But I was able to find tickets online, so Saturday night my Mom, Tex, and I were off to the NCAA. It was awesome. First game was Boston College vs. Montana. In a full crowd of Montana fans, literally, Boston College was booed when they came out on the court or shot the ball… My Mom and I cheered on Boston College from the start of the game till the finish. And I had a grin on my face when each and every Montana fan was let down by their team. Boston College opened a can of whoop-ass and beat them not just by one basket. Second game was Gonzaga vs. Indiana…I have never heard about Gonzaga prior to this tournament, but they were unbelievable on the court. Both teams played great on the court. Gonzaga is now moving up in the bracket.

Hazard had a great time…my Mom would walk up the driveway or on the grass and I would stand about 30 feet away, Hazard would run back and forth and back and forth. He loves my Mom and the attention he gets from her. We “sat” for my cousin’s dog to see if perhaps Hazard could have a friend to play with more frequently. This blew up in my face. Hazard isn’t neutered so all he wanted to do was “get her done…” I was happy that he still obeyed with such distractions like his hormones and this female “piece of meat” (Buttercup: he is a dog, they don’t converse prior to sexual engagement, so yes this female dog was strictly a piece of meat to Hazard). Fortunately this did not happen, well he “got on her” a little bit and then we separated the dogs for bedtime. The next morning between my Mom saying “You’re crazy. Hazard is a perfect dog and you are going to ruin him.” And Tex saying “I am not walking that dog, you can take care of both…we are not keeping this dog”… I was very comfortable to drop my cousin’s dog back off at his place.

I felt badly for Hazard unable to control himself and now seeing how he reacts to females at least when brought to the house, Tex and I agree that we need to take care of this issue while he is still a pup. Instead of ruining Hazard by getting another dog, we are going to completely deplete his chances of performing in a competition, and breeding this wonderful dog. He has an appointment with the vet tomorrow and they are going to snip him of his manhood, his desire for “booty”, but I am hoping it doesn’t strip him of his awesome personality, and slim handsome figure. If he gets fat I am going to be pissed.

So today, a week after my Mom coming into town, I have a headache from lack of sleep and the sadness of her leaving me. I brought Hazard to work with me to keep me company but I absolutely feel horrible that he is going to go in to the vet tomorrow and have his testicles removed. Each time I look at him, I am grateful that tranquilizers and painkillers do exist, because he is going to be knocked out completely for that procedure. The NCAA games rocked or rather Boston College and Gonzaga rocked, and even though I didn’t win in the online competition, I saw two games with my Mom that I will never forget. ( I found some cool pictures but am unable to upload them now...maybe next post.)

If Only Maverick Were Here To Save Katie From Scientology's Fantatical Clutches

I'm seriously worried about Katie Holmes. What in God's name is she doing?? Look at this picture. She continually dangles around Tommy Boy like a piece of clinging cotton candy, all squinty-eyed sugary smiles, while Tommy Boy has eyes only for the crowd watching him put on his courtship show. If your man is looking elsewhere when he's smooching you, I have news for you: He's not that into you. Katie needs to wise-up and ship-out before he gets his greedy little hands on his seed-child and tosses her unpregnant ass to the curb.

Also note the hard set of his jaw and his aggressively pursed lips. He looks like he's having about as much fun as I did the last time I went to the dentist and stubbornly clamped my mouth shut after my dentist grazed a non-novacained tooth with her spinning drill bit. Tommy Boy's piercing eyes are steely and cold, and his nose has to be poking Katie's cheek uncomfortably. At least he looks like he's clean shaven and not ripping up her face with his stubble. Though Katie's face is radiating her usual star struck lovey-doveyness, the girl's shoulders look tense, and she's leaning away from Tommy Boy. Could this be an unconscious cry for help? Maybe she realizes deep down that she's made a pact with some kind of devil, and that it's not going to be so easy to get her and her baby out of the little psycho world she went skipping into.

Normally I think it's kind of unfair - but amusing - to analyze the body language of celebrities based on a single photo. Everyone takes a bad picture occasionally, and one's body language changes from one second to the next. However, in this instance, I feel no guilt whatsoever in using similar tactics to analyze Katie and Tom's (I refuse to refer to them as "TomKat") "relationship." First of all, it was difficult to find a picture where Katie was not swooning all over Tom like a giant tinkerbell high on fairy dust, so this picture is far from an anomaly. When Katie's not clinging to him, she's allowing him to contort her body into odd unnatural publicity poses - all of which I suspect have as part of their agenda an effort to disguise the fact that Katie is 4 feet taller than Tommy in addition to proving how much these two "love" each other. Yeah, right.

Second, I have decided that Tom Cruise is an unequivocal and fanatical whack-job with far too much power and far too much time on his hands. He has made me afraid. Not just for Katie, but for all of us. Take the recent stunt he pulled by intimidating Comedy Central into yanking a repeat of South Park's Scientology Episode off the air. Who does that? A freaking lunatic member of a cult who believes in aliens, and has voodoo mind-power, that's who. Not that I'm suggesting that everyone who believes in aliens is a nut-job. I happen to believe that aliens quite possibly exist somewhere out in the universe, and will admit to entertaining the fascinating notion that maybe aliens visited earth a long, long time ago and helped out our ancestors (either that, or tagged them for review and possible future extinction ala Independence Day).

It's not the alien component that freaks me out about the Cult of Scientology. Rather, it's that I just don't get it. I gather Ron Hubbard is the founder, and they believe that people get a build up of negative/evil thoughts and must somehow be purged of that negativity. Apparently, all of this is measured by an apparatus which resembles two coke cans attached by wires to some kind of electronic device. Sounds very scientific. I have so many questions about it. Why is it called Scientology? Who gave Scientology permission to imply that its beliefs are grounded in science? Why do we only hear about rich celebrity members of the cult? Why is John Travolta, who looks so innocent on the surface, a member of this cult? Maybe he's been suffering under the same kind of voodoo magic that Tommy Boy is currently using to brainwash Katie? Why does nobody state the obvious and call it a cult?

Even if I liked Scientology, I would be supremely annoyed at Tom Cruise's audacity in forcing Comedy Central to pull the South Park Episode. What was he afraid would happen? Maybe this has more to do with the fact that the episode poked fun at his sexuality, rather than it's treatment of Scientology? Regardless, has he not heard of the First Amendment and the fact that the United States does not engage in outright censorship? At least not of cartoons that regularly make fun of all religions and ethnic groups equally. And what of that chef who resigned in protest. Puh-lease. This chef had no problem with South Park poking fun at the Jews, Catholics, Muslims, Hindus, and Buddhists. But the minute they poked fun at Scientology, this guy went ape shit and started blathering about the importance of "tolerance." Give me a freaking break. I cannot stand hypocrisy, specially not when it's tossed up to defend a freaky-deaky cult.

Here's something funny though from the boys of South Park as reported by NPR. In response to Tommy Boy's fanatical freak-out, the boys of South Park released the following statement:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Scientology, you may have won THIS battle, but the million-year war for Earth has just begun! Temporarily anozinizing our episode will NOT stop us from keeping Thetans forever trapped in your pitiful man-bodies. Curses and drat! You have obstructed us for now, but your feeble bid to save humanity will fail! Hail Xenu!!!

-- Trey Parker and Matt Stone, servants of the dark lord Xenu

I Refuse To Spend One More Second Trying To Prove That Dodo Birds Do Not Exist

I spent hours yesterday researching a question that I knew there was no answer to. The endless quest that lawyers are repeatedly asked to go on: the quest to disprove a negative. This question is very different from trying to prove a positive. To prove a positive, all you have to do is find some cases out there that stand for the proposition for which you want them to stand for. An example might be: "Find a case saying that there is an attorney client privilege." This would be no problem because (1) the attorney client privilege actually exists, and thus you can be fairly certain that cases exist discussing the privilege and (2) it's relatively easy to prove that something that you know exists actually exists.

Disproving a negative, however, is much more difficult to do. It happens when you are given the following assignment by an incredibly annoying senior associate: "Find a case saying that there is no privilege between party x and y." This is basically the equivalent of being asked to prove that Dodo Birds do not exist. It is impossible to prove that Dodo Birds do not exist, because all one can say, despite endless hours of research, is that one has not found any evidence that Dodo Birds do exist, so the annoying senior associate should infer from the lack of evidence that Dodo Birds do not exist. Of course the annoying senior associate would never do that. Instead, the annoying senior associate would say, as they do all the time, "I know there has got to be a case out there saying that Dodo Birds do not exist. Keep Looking."

This kind of pointless searching for a needle in a haystack that you know DOES NOT EXIST is one of the most frustrating aspects of working for a law firm in which you have no say over the nature of your work assignments. It is so ridiculous and demoralizing to waste hours on something you know is so completely and utterly INCONSEQUENTIAL, and such a god damned waste of your time, energy, and intellect. There are about 1,000 things I could think of that I would rather do, including doing my dishes (which I hate), running 8 miles, catching up with friends, and applying for a new job.

The major thing that pissed me off about this last night was not that most of what I was assigned to do was a complete waste of time, but rather that the bullshit work took time away that I could have applied to actual worthwhile projects. For example, I found out last night that two clients that I am representing in asylum proceedings, who are currently residing with their abusive parents, are showing signs that they may harm themselves unless they are removed from the situation. The problem with removing them is that if we do it too soon, it could result in the girls being returned to their abusers, a result which would be devastating for the girls.

I am so upset about this case, and I want to do everything that I can to help them. However, my work insists upon filling up my time with one bullshit project after another, despite my protestations. When I say that my time is filled up and that I can not possibly take on another case and still be able to complete all my work up to the standard that I would like to complete it at, they shake their heads at me and say that I can take on more work. And guess what, as recently as Friday I meekly accepted yet another assignment. I knew that I would not have enough time to do everything that I needed to do this week even without that additional Friday assignment and I told them that, but it made no difference to them. No difference at all. They did not give me a choice, and I accepted it... at least on Friday.

Well fuck that and fuck them!! It is flat out impossible to do an excellent job when you are asked to do 500 things, or even 6, at the same mother-fucking time (no offense to the mamas out there). I wish I was one of those people who could blow things off or get by with the bare minimum but I can't. I care about my work product and I want to do my best, even if it is on a bullshit project. But I know my limits, and what can you do if you tell people your limits in all honesty, and they refuse to respect them?

Last year I made myself sick and depressed, worked all the time and had no life. But I just don't have the energy to do that any more, nor the patience. My life, and working on issues and for people that matter to me, are far more important than making some senior associate think I'm a star because I can slave away without complaint (I have actually never been able to do that) searching for proof that Dodo Birds don't exist. I already know that Dodo Birds don't exist, and I just can't fucking bring myself to spend any more time trying to prove it, especially not when I have more important things to do.

Pity Party Monday

I am super grouchy today. It is not helping matters at all that it is Monday, nor that I had a minor meltdown at Boyfriend's place this morning over our lack of sleep last night and was unfairly flipping out while he was calm and sweet and reassuring. The more I think about it, he was truly a paragon of calm, comforting virtue while I was a freaking brat. Not that I meant to be a brat, or felt like I was being a brat at the time. After 3 hours and a cup of coffee, I'm starting to get some perspective on the morning.

When I woke up this morning, I was feeling frustrated, exhausted, stressed and emotional. I had a horrible headache, my head was all stuffy, and I just wanted to go back to my house and cry instead of going to work. I'm not talking an every day cry. I'm talking sobbing, hysterics, a heaving chest, and wailing into my pillow. That's what I felt like I needed. To let everything out. I didn't mean to take that out on him, and he is a better person than I am for being sweet to me when I was incapable of doing anything productive in the way of communicating my frustration.

Sleeping was an issue last night in part because I was anxious for Monday, and that always makes it hard to relax. I've gotten to the point where I can feel the dread start building in my chest around Sunday afternoon. Yesterday I had this moment where I thought to myself with relief that yesterday was Saturday and I had a whole other day before Monday, then was completely disappointed when I realized I was mistaken and it was already Sunday. Where did the weekend go, and how did it go so fast?

Raj and I spent Saturday and Sunday going through my clothes (him giving me a nod for keepers and a thumbs down for goodwill donatable rejects), packing my things into boxes, and watching basketball games and movies as we worked. He also cleaned my entire kitchen, for which I will be eternally grateful as I utterly despise doing dishes and my mom is coming on Wednesday so the dishes had to get done. He basically spared me 2 hours of agony. The weekend was actually good because we were productive, but there's still a lot of work to do, and only one more week in which to do it in. That's stressful.

Raj and I capped off the weekend by going back to his place last night to watch the Sopranos. We had sushi and mint chocolate chip ice cream while watching the second episode of the new season, which was pretty awesome by the way. No worries, I won't spoil any of the details here. After the Sopranos, we watched this new show on HBO about a polygamous family. I can't remember the name of the show, but I was equally revolted and fascinated while watching it. The man with the three wives is truly disgusting. He rotates between his three houses, each with a different wife, and has tons of sex with each wife each night. He pops Viagra to keep up with all the action.

The wives try to be good Mormon wives and to "conquer their feelings of jealousy" but they are all filled with jealousy and insecurity. The way they handle this is not by beating him to a bloody pulp, which they should and would be entirely entitled to do, but instead by fucking his brains out at every opportunity! In one 60 minute show, this despicable male got loud screaming sex in the morning with one wife, a quickie with another wife in the bedroom of the first wife, evening sex with the third wife and a blow job the next morning from the third wife for giving her "such a wonderful night." Are these women on fucking crack???

But I digress. Watching HBO with Raj was so much fun, and it was relaxing, but the minute I lay down in bed all of the feelings of dread about work started creeping over me. I was able to go to sleep but slept fitfully, in part because there were whacked temperature issues going on. The heater, which is one inch away from the edge of his bed, was blasting into my face and making me all dry and stuffy, while the rest of my body was freezing cold because he was monopolizing the too small comforter.

There were also space issues: I was smashed against the wall because he has a full-sized bed (in contrast to my Queen-sized bed), and he was sleeping towards the middle of the bed. I kept trying to curl over onto my side but couldn't do it because there was not enough space between Raj and the wall, and my knees kept jamming into the wall. I can not sleep when I'm cramped. I'm fanatic about this and I know it. It's one of my flaws or charming eccentricities; however you want to look at it. On top of that, Raj has pale white curtains that let in all manner of light, so between the street lights and the early morning sunlight, I was pretty much destroyed. I'm one of those people who need silent pitch blackness to sleep. I tried sleeping with my head under the covers, but I was simply no match for the heat, space, and light issues. It sucked.

I woke up this morning feeling like I had been repeatedly run over my 40 Mack trucks. After I had my shower and started to get dressed I realized that the shirt I had packed to wear today - the only shirt I had to wear this morning - was see through. This was almost as bad as last week when I realized I had forgotten all my make-up. I don't wear that much make-up, but I do feel pretty much naked without mascara and a touch of cover up. I mean come on. The lack of make-up I got away. No one appeared to notice at the office and I enjoyed feeling like I was camping for the day. But a see through tight black shirt through which I can see my bra? Pretending I'm camping is one thing; pretending I'm in a strip show is quite another. I had to grab an old ratty navy blue zip up hoodie with "Michigan" embroidered across the front in gold to wear over my see through slutty top before I left for work. So much for attempting to look professional.

Then I battled the morning commute carrying my heavy bags filled with work that I did not do this weekend because I was either packing or relaxing with Raj. Commuting via subway to work is a new thing for me and I am still not used to the chaotic throngs of people. I find them jarring and discordant. I thought things would get better when I reached my firm and got my coffee and breakfast. However, because I was running late I missed breakfast in my cafeteria and had to go with a fat-laden and nutritionally bereft coffee cake instead of my raisin bagel, 1 egg, and Swiss cheese breakfast sandwich.

When I finally reached my desk at 10:05 a.m. I realized that I had missed an 8:00 am conference call this morning. I wouldn't have felt so bad except that it was an 8:00 a.m. conference call to Nepal to get a supporting affidavit for one of my Tibetan asylum clients. The call was important, and it's not the easiest thing in the world to arrange calls to a tiny little village in Nepal. I feel morally bankrupt that with all the packing and the selfish-HBO watching I completely forgot about the conference call. What the hell is wrong with me? Feeling overwhelmed is no excuse, and it just feels selfish in comparison to my client's situation where her life and future are at stake in this case.

There is one more detail that makes this Monday suck: Today is Prue's first day of her last week at the firm. We started on the same day and went through a year of hell together. I know that I would have been far more miserable last year if I had not had her to share at least part of it with. She and her husband are moving back to Houston. I'm thrilled for her that she's leaving this place, and also that she's moving back to Houston because I think it's a great thing for her and her husband. But I'm going to be very sad to see her go. I also wish that I felt a bit closer to giving my two-weeks notice, but alas I'm not there yet.