Feeling Cranky, Latent OCD, and Dumping My Therapist

This was taken moments after coming *this close* to sitting in someone else's wet fart.

For the past few weeks I've been in a really shitty mood. I'm not really sure why. My moods seem to ebb and flow like tides, and for much too long now the shore has been been barren and littered with seaweed and broken seashells. Or whatever. I'm too tired to come up with a more clever description.

Through the wonders of talk therapy, these cycles have become easier to anticipate, and I'm better able to ride them out than I was before. They aren't necessarily easier to tolerate, but at least now I realize I'm the cause of the problem -- not those around me. And oh yeah, Lexapro helps a lot.

Anyway -- last night Paul and I went to dinner with Michael and Yuriy. Michael was talking about his Psychotherapy course -- specifically, how therapists tailor their approach based on the personalities of the patients. Only 5 or so methods are used. This makes sense. Generally speaking, there are a finite number of personality types, so I'm not surprised therapists consult a manual to help them handle the neurotic ones.

Plus, I've suspected for some time that my therapist has been manipulating me. I won't get into all the details -- that's confidential! -- but once I realized this I decided to play along a little bit just to see what would happen.

For example: A few months ago, when the last downturn hit, I told her how writing seemed to be the only thing that made me feel good. I told her how I found writing to be a real blessing, that it had given my life a new sense of purpose, blah, blah, blah. She would smile and say how proud she was of me, how it pleased her to see me light up when I talked about my work, blah, blah, blah.

She also said she would LOVE to read something I'd written. I felt a little shy about it and said, "When I feel ready." And she said, "Of course, of course."

A few months passed. In the meantime I'd written something I considered particulary representative of the inner workings of my psyche. I was feeling good about my mental state, so I figured, "What the hell? I'll give her this one."

(Secretly, too, I was thinking, "I don't know if my story is any good. But if someone I consider smart who doesn't give a shit about literature is impressed by it, then it has passed a litmus test of sorts." So, my motivations weren't completely earnest.)

At the end of my next session, I pulled the manuscript from my bag and handed it to her. "I brought a story for you," I said, feeling a little timid.

Her face fell. She shifted in her chair. She stammered, "Oh, uh... that's great, but... I'm not sure when I'll get a chance to read it... I'm very busy this month..."

"Don't worry," I interrupted. "I know it's hard to find time. Whenever you get a chance. Really, it's no problem."

Needless to say, several months have passed with no word on the matter.

Now, I know it can be a burden for non-writers to read the work of aspiring writers. I know most people hardly read as it is, and if they do manage to turn the television off for a little while they'll likely pick up a REAL story -- one that has been PUBLISHED.

What I REALLY object to is her duplicity. She pretended to be interested in my work. She used a sympathetic, motherly, interested persona to help fuel my self-esteem, but when we got down to it, it was obvious she wasn't REALLY interested. She was just doing her job.

This isn't the only reason I dumped her. Mostly, I'm just tired of therapy. I'm tired of TALKING about my problems without doing much to actually solve them. The sound of my voice was really beginning to bug me.

All of that was preamble to the HORRIBLE THING THAT HAPPENED last night in the restaurant's bathroom.

I had just finished telling this story to Michael -- among other things -- and I had to go to the bathroom. Like I said earlier, I've been feeling pretty shitty in general, so I was kind of distracted.

After I wandered into the bathroom, I did something I don't normally do: I sat on the public toilet. I didn't think this was a big deal, until I looked between my legs at the rim of the bowl.

There was a big blob of wet fart shit right there. Right between my legs.

(This is where the latent OCD kicks in.)

I ran out of the bathroom and told everyone that we needed to leave RIGHT NOW. We went back to our place, and the whole ride home I was hyper-conscious of every last atom of dirt on my person and on the surfaces around me.

The guys were laughing at me, and all I could say was, "I'm very upset."

We got back to our place, and while the guys hung out downstairs and I took a scalding hot shower and scrubbed my butt until my skin felt like it was going to fall off.

I felt much better, but for the rest of the night I couldn't help worrying whether I was going to catch genital warts or crabs or cancer of the butt or something gross.

On the other hand, I've heard that keyboards are dirtier than toilet seats so who knows?

Cockfights

That guy is kinda hot, no? Too bad he isn't real.

I just got back from a meeting with my boss, and two of my co-workers. All of them are men.

I am so glad I'm not a man.

Today Zeldafitz posted about some of the bad traits women exhibit from time to time: vindictiveness, caddiness, jealously, etc. After this meeting, however, I realized that men, too, exhibit these characteristics -- they just go about it much differently.

Testosterone is the key differential, obviously. When women are trying to one-up each other, they go about it more passively -- they sneak behind each other's backs, slowly and gradually spread gossip, drop malicious hints here and there, sabotage ever-so-sweetly.

But with men, it's as if you can see the feathers rising, the spittle forming on their lips, their chests puffing out. "You're stealing my thunder, goddammit!"

In the office, I could care less if someone steps on my toes. I suppose it's because I don't feel emotionally connected to my work. I can spend days on something, and if my boss says, "I don't like this little piece, please change it to this," I don't really care, even if I think he's wrong. I know he's just telling me what to do because he wants to feel important. Even if what I present is fine the way it is he won't acknowledge it, because after all, it's his job to figure out what I've done wrong. And if he doesn't find anything wrong with what I've done, then how can he prove to his superiors that he's performing his job function satisfactorily? So when I come back from the drawing board with his changes, he can say to his boss, "See that little piece there? That was my idea."

Thank god for writing. I'm grateful to have found something I can pour my heart and soul into. I'm grateful my day job isn't the only thing that fulfills me in my life. (Now the trick is to leave my ego aside when people critique my writing.)

Some of the people with whom I work have been with our company for 25 years. It's obvious they consider the job is an extension of their identity, which is why they become so protective over the smallest things.

"I think these files should be stored in the XYZ database."

"No, no! That makes absolutely no logical sense! They should be in the ABC database."

"But the ABC database will likely be replaced within the year."

"We don't know that for sure!"

This is not worth explaining -- just know that XYZ is maintained by one person, and ABC is maintained by another. I will be the person writing the program that extracts data from one of these databases. Do I care where the data is stored? Hell no.

Databases store data, not gold.

Oh, hell. Who cares?

That's how I feel during most work-related arguments -- "Who cares?"

On the other hand, I'm sure my fellow techies would attend a writing workshop, hear the discussions, and think, "Who cares?"

However, I don't think the difference between the disciplines a matter of apples and oranges. I do think office and technical debates are petty. At the end of the day, the main goal is to get a system up-and-running efficiently. It is an objective task. When you're debating over two possible solutions that are more or less identical -- the only difference being that one person came up with one solution, and that another came up with another solution -- then the argument isn't worth having, in my opinion. Let a manager pick one of the solutions, and shut up.

But with writing, a subjective discipline, the possibilities are endless, as are the interpretations.

Which is a problem I have with the discipline -- because I do think there is an objective standard when it comes to writing. It's just much harder to discover. It's buried beneath so many layers. I suppose that's the point of workshop discussions and blog discussions -- we're trying our best to uncover the fundamental logic behind the arguments and themes and character motivations and whatever else.

Yawn. I totally have to pee right now. I'm only writing this to kill time before the work day lets out.

I really bore myself sometimes.

Lumpy Trees and Police

Today, during lunch, I was out hiking, minding my own business, taking pictures like the ones above, and then... I was approached by police!

"What are you doing? Taking pictures of graffiti?" the policeman asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"What -- do you have some kind of project or something?"

"No."

"You're just taking pictures of graffiti?"

"Yes."

"You know it's my job to make sure no one is up to any kind of nonsense."

"Yeah?"

"You wouldn't be up to any kind of nonsense, would you?"

Now, I should have said, "Do I look like someone who would spray-paint abandoned buildings?"

On the other hand, I don't always look exactly cheerful. Especially by that point -- I was freezing.

I suppose he was just doing his job. It just seems dumb that he would even bother interrogating me. I mean, I was at a park, walking on a walking path.

I don't know why the situation annoyed me so much, but it did.

Workday Blues

“No, no, no, Lisa. If adults don't like their jobs, they don't go on strike. They just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That's the American Way.”
-- Homer Simpson

Why is it that I am the only one who seems to find the day-in day-out grind of office work utterly monotonous? Why is that I appear to be the only one in meetings studying other people’s facial expressions, doodling in my notepad, dreaming about sex, food, and the outdoors? Sometimes someone will be saying something that seems so confusing, so mundane, that I can’t follow one word to the next. And then, to my complete surprise, someone else will respond with an equal degree of unclearness and mundanity and I’ll think, “She actually followed all that? Why wasn’t she thinking about kittens? Why wasn’t she wondering what the temperature outside is like?”

Sometimes I think I’m on the verge of being laid off – when I’ve arrived 20 minutes late to several meetings in a row, when I’ve arrived wearing sneakers and worn-out pants after being told not to, when I’ve neglected to complete my technical training modules on time, when my teammates hold meetings and I’m not invited. But then, I receive good marks on my annual review, and my boss says, “Let’s wrap up that little project [which has taken much, much longer than it should have] because we’re going to be real busy soon.”

Then I think, “Everyone feels the same way I do.” Work is not about passion, silly girl! No! It’s about the burden of having to pay the bills. It’s about doing as little as you can and being paid as much possible.

It would be less productive for the company to fire me than it would be to hire someone new. My absence would add a new element of stress to the people left behind – my managers, my co-workers – and they don’t want to deal with that. So they look the other way when I stroll in an hour late, when I take 2 hour lunches, when I fall asleep on the keyboard – when I write.

Someday I plan to fulfill my dream of becoming a housewife. I’m cultivating a blue beehive as I type this. Until then, I’ll just keep grinding along, popping pills and drinking into oblivion.

Crazy Cat Ladies

Please contact me if you're looking for a full-time illustrator. I'm just oozing with talent, aren't I?

Our new neighbors let their cat out the front door, and leave it out all hours of the day and night -- rain, wind, snow, or shine. Whenever Paul and I leave the house, this little kitty comes running up to us, mewing and begging for food and for petting. There's nothing I can do about it -- in the past I've knocked on the owner's door, but no one ever answers.

Sometimes I think I should bring him inside, but I know I can't. I can't have more than three cats. Three is already borderline wacky.

My other neighbor, with whom I'm friendly, has an unknown amount of cats in her house. She refuses to divulge the amount because it is somewhere over 20. I don't know what the legal amount is, but I do know she's surpassed it. She knows I won't tell anyone -- after all, I've been inside her house and have met most of the little ones. One of them is missing an eye. I told her someday I'd make her a little eyepatch.


This morning, after chatting with her I felt inspired to draw this picture of her and her babies in her backyard. The urge to do this was inspired by the painting on Aimee's wall, of her cat Gretel, which was created by her friend Jodie.

I feel so lucky to be surrounded by such talented artists!

Franco & Luigi's

Yuriy the Mysterious
Originally uploaded by kagogo.

This past Friday night, a group of us went to Franco & Luigi's, an Italian restaurant in South Philly whose defining characteristic is that the waitstaff happens to sing opera and show tunes.

As usual, Michael, a.k.a. Mr. Saturday night, in all of his glory, stole the show. I believe it was 'Tonight' from West Side Story that moved him to stand up and sing along. Franco, the owner, waved him over to the microphone to join in.

Michael, oh my dear Michael, always a crowd pleaser. Yes, indeed.

Drunkards and Balkan Food

Belligerence

I've posted the pictures from my latest outing to my Flickr! site.

And yes, I've decided to post even especially unflattering pictures of myself for the sake of humor.

The pictures appear in reverse chronological order, so we become more sober as you move through the site.

I Heart Fucked-Up Men

Is there anything more sexy than a silent, broken man? A man who uses emotional distance as a means to conceal the deep angst brimming within? Sure, sure, maybe once in awhile he punches out two biker dudes in your honor. Maybe once in awhile he smiles at you a little after forcing you to have anal sex. Maybe. To me, that's hot. It's why I fell so hard for Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain.

I'm kidding! I loved this movie wholeheartedly, and was so moved I posted a "review" of the movie on PhillyWriters.net. I wrote it quickly, so it's kind of rough, but I think it gets across most of what I felt.

~

An aside: Before the movie began, two elderly women were trying to find seats. The movie was packed, and the previews had just started. One of the women was covered in makeup and hairspray; the other was on crutches. They were headed for the seats between Paul and me and another group. While they were settling in, the two women were making such a loud fuss, the man sitting in front of me turned and said, "STOP TALKING," with such venomous hatred. I'd never before heard anyone hush someone so succinctly. He achieved his desired effect, and I was certainly grateful.

Gorging Oneself, My Bipolar Relationship with Food

Michael and me, at the Indian buffet. Just because it's vegetarian, doesn't mean I can't overdo it.

I don't know when it happened. I might have started when I quit exercising cold turkey about two years ago. When I was young, I was a competitive swimmer. I swam ALL THE TIME. Then I went to college, and for almost two years, I swam ALL THE TIME. Why I quit is a different story.

One of the side-effects of my constant exercising was an enormous appetite. After practice, I would go to the dining hall and eat two servings of pasta, a large salad smothered in Ranch dressing, french fries, and two pieces of chocolate cake. It didn't matter because I'd burn it all off the next day in the pool.


But that's not the case anymore. I woke up one day and decided that cuddling on the couch with my kitties is far more favorable than huffing and puffing on a treadmill. Yes, my lack of muscle strength is beginning to take it's toll, and yes, now I huff and puff climbing stairs, which is pathetic. But despite this, for a long time, I kept eating at the rate I'd always had.

This worked for a little while. But this past year, due to increased socializing, I've integrated a lot more alcohol into my diet. I don't have a "problem" -- isn't that what everyone says? -- but the restaurant-prepared food accompanied with an alcoholic drink or two (or three) has proven a little problematic for my waistline.

So, my resolution for 2006 is to cook more, and to eat better. I've dabbled with vegeterianism, and it's worked out well, though I know it's not something I can be militant about. Dinners with families and friends often results in some meat-eating. I don't want to be rude.

So, I got this awesome cookbook, whose name escapes me right now. Actually, the format of the book is really good -- the recipe sections are interspersed with articles about health, vitamins, the nutrients in certain foods, holistic approaches to curing common diseases, insights into the diets of Eastern countries. The main point of the book is that "healthy" does not mean "boring". She introduces many spice combinations, and shows how to bring out the natural flavors in grains and vegetables. There is also a section on "fake meat" recipes, which is cool, because the book is not exclusively vegetarian.

Anyway. How boring. Talking about food. Almost as boring as talking about cats.

A Holiday Retrospective

I’m thankful to report my holiday season was very enjoyable and heartwarming. It was all of the things Hallmark wants us to believe it is, and yes, my bank statements obviously reflect this sentiment. But that’s okay. My new attitude on consumerism is that money doesn’t matter, so what harm is there in blowing as much of it as you can on crap?

1. Gadgets as Gifts (The Lock De-Icer)

During my early 20s, I never thought much of the holidays. I thought they were an excuse for materialism and false good cheer, and on top of that, stressful, since I never had enough money to buy meaningful or useful gifts for my family. Besides, no one in family has ever been interested in material items to begin with, which makes the search for gifts even harder. Plus, their lack of interest never stopped them from pouting when I’d arrive empty-handed. But this year, we found a good solution: We went to the mall as a group. If I wanted a sweater, my mother bought it for me. If my brother wanted a book, I bought it for him. If my mother wanted a bracelet, Paul bought it for her. It worked out very well. The most exciting gift of this year was the lock de-icer Paul bought for my father. Yes, you heard me. A lock de-icer. A completely useless gift since my father parks his car in the garage and often uses the [beep-beep!] remote-control door-unlocker. But you see, my father fears strange things, one of which happens to be the damage that can result from frozen locks. To prevent this from happening – prior to receiving the lock de-icer, of course – my father stuck duct tape to the door handles to prevent moisture from getting inside the lock. But no longer! Now he merely presses the gadget’s magic button and a key-shaped piece of metal pops out, heated up and ready for action. Then he sticks it in the lock and all of his frozen lock anxiety just melts away.

Christmas with Paul’s family was a little less silly and a little less laid back. After all, a family member died. But aside from that, everything was a-okay (see pictures). We received good gifts: a nice lamp, the DVD collection of Six Feet Under, and a panini-maker. Please do not confuse a panini-maker with a George Forman grille. A George Forman grille sits on an angle. Plus, there is a receptacle for the fat that drips down as a result of said angle. The panini-maker is not on an angle, and has two grille surfaces. Press them together and lo and behold, a panini is born. Now, I’m sure I could use it to grill other things, but wouldn’t that diminish the brilliance of the panini-maker?

2. On Becoming a Woman


One thing this holiday has taught me is that I am more of a female than I’ve ever been before. Not only do I suddenly appreciate the value of good kitchen appliances – I forgot to mention that I also received cutting knives as gifts – but I also appreciate the value of female bonding. I always found it odd – and a little sexist – that in Paul’s family, the women are constantly bustling through the kitchen cooking and cutting and cleaning while the men sit idly on the couches staring blankly at the television. I never felt comfortable helping the women, on account of my poor kitchen skills, and I never felt at ease slumming it up with the guys. I always felt guilty. Last year I decided I wasn’t going to feel guilty about sitting around, so I, too, grabbed a beer and commented on the football game. But instead of feeling guilty, I felt bored. And I realized that the reason men don’t help is not due to a sexist sense of entitlement, but rather a result of very little cognitive activity, especially when the TV is on. In the home, in their resting place, men seem to lack the ability to plan more than 5 minutes ahead of schedule. So, this year I decided my time would be better spent helping out in the kitchen. And I discovered this: The kitchen is where the drama lies! There are all sorts of strange social dynamics happening! This has nothing to do with being female; it has to do with what emerges form groups working together toward a common goal. Hence I announced I would receive orders from whoever wanted to dole them out. I didn’t want to ruffle anyone’s feathers. And in the process of following orders I absorbed all sorts of family gossip. I won’t repeat any of it here, but the point is this: Unseemly stories about people I barely know is far more entertaining than a stupid ball game.

Now that sounds petty. It certainly steals light from the more meaningful discussions I’d had with the women of Paul’s family during the Christmas dinners and funeral activities. What I’m really getting as is that I’ve discovered it’s easier to talk openly about emotions and feelings with women who are near-strangers than with men who are near-strangers. And it’s through this kind of sharing that I feel connected to the human race, which is usually a good thing.

3. Acting Like An Ass
This past New Year’s Eve was probably the wildest one I’ve experienced in some time. Usually I stay at home with some friends, eating cheese and playing word games. But this year, I spent a night chock-full of pre-planned events.

First, my friend Michael, his friends Albara and Yuriy met Paul and me at our place for pre-dinner drinks. My selection was lacking, so Mike pulled out his tangeray and gin and made Martinis. I don’t typically drink hard drinks like that, so after two, I was feeling pretty loose.

Around 9:00 pm we headed to Jones Restaurant for dinner. We had more drinks and got drunker, asking the waiter for more hats, streamers, and noise-makers every time he passed.

Videos like this were captured.

Then Neda arrived, as you can see from the end of the video. After dinner, we headed off to the fireworks at Penn’s landing. Michael and I tap-danced and ran around like chickens with our heads cut off. People stared but we didn’t care.


After the fireworks, we headed to Tattooed Mom’s to meet my friend Aimee, her boyfriend Shaun, and some of her friends. We drank Pabst, which Michael claimed was refreshing, which I suppose could be perceived as such when you’ve drank nothing but Martinis all night long. Part of Michael’s nice, clean-cut family met us at the bar. They were smiling and friendly, but I wondered what they thought of the drag queen sitting at the table next to us. Or the S&M postcard of the nearly nude gimp boy, announcing the date and time of his 26th birthday bash. I don’t know if it was because of the social awkwardness, or because of the sheer volume of the crowd, but Aimee quickly suggested we go back to her place for karaoke.



4. My Budding Singing Career

One of my resolutions for 2006 is to tour Philadelphia bars with Aimee’s boyfriend Shaun and their PlayStation, so we can sing duets provided by their karaoke video game. We can turn the TV toward the crowd so they can watch the bosomy cartoon character bump and grind along with the beat while we provide the lyrics. Michael would tap-dance and provide occasional vocals. Although he sings an exceptional ‘Unforgettable’, he demonstrated his lack of range and flexibility when butchering ‘Turn the Beat Around’ by Gloria Estefan. So, dancing and backup vocals it is, Michael. Give up all your hopes and dreams of becoming a star.

5. Outstaying Our Welcome

Just before my final duet with Shaun, Aimee pulled me aside, bleary-eyed, and said kindly, “After your next duet, can you guys go home?” I looked at the clock. It was 3:30 am. “Oh my God!” I said, “Of course!”

Afterwards, while we were putting on our coats, Aimee noticed a strange, frilly scarf on her bed.

“Who’s is this?” she asked.

“Why, it’s yours, isn’t it?” Michael said. “I grabbed it from the bar.”

“That’s not mine.” She asked everyone else in the room whether the scarf belonged them. No. Michael had unwittingly lifted it from the bar, assuming it belonged to someone in our group. Oh well.

We made it home, barely. Paul and I crashed into bed, slept ‘til noon, and spent the entire next day vegging on the couch.




6. Re-gifting

When I talked to Aimee this morning, she wondered if perhaps the frilly scarf would make a good gift for an older family member. I thought so. It was seemingly styled for the older generation, and it seemed in good condition.

I shamelessly re-gifted to Beth yesterday. Last year Beth had a gift-exchange party – the kind where you pick a gift, and then someone else can either choose to pick a new gift from the pile or steal yours. From the party I received a fancy gift box with nothing in it. I kept it all year with intentions to use it this year. But I never did.

So when Beth invited me to lunch and said she had a present for me, I immediately thought it would be funny to give her a gift inside that box. I also immediately felt guilty, because I hadn’t bought her anything. So I filled a small bag with products for people who dye their hair (not sure why my mother gave me those products; I imagine she was re-gifting), stuck that and one of the many lovely scarves I’ve received from Paul’s mother over the years. I have a whole drawer filled with pashminas that I’ve been trying to get rid of. Like I said, they are all lovely, but alas inappropriate to my current wardrobe. Same goes for the lifted scarf from Tattooed Mom’s. Onto someone else, then. Perhaps someday I’ll write a story told from the perspective of an unwanted scarf.



7. The Aftermath

After all this hoopla, can the coming months compare? It was rather depressing driving into work this morning. It was cold and rainy, and Howard Stern has moved to Sirius Radio. Perhaps next Christmas I’ll ask for a satellite radio. Until then, I’ll be forced to listen to NPR. Or Rush Limbaugh, maybe.

Oh… it’s always hard coming down from a season of great fun. But it’s good to know the fun will come around again at some point.

Happy New Year!

IMG_0589
Originally uploaded by kagogo.

Michael, a.k.a. Mr. Saturday Night, painting the town red.

More to come.