a big "told ya" on the small screen

You know how you read about a local happening that you are sure your kids will love?

And then you tell your kids and they're all, Um, no thanks.

And you're all, But I made plans so you could attend this super funtastic interactive art event.

And they're all, I'm not going.

And you're all, But I know you will love this. Trust me. It's paper making, printing art, book making crafts. Cool stuff!

And they're all, Why would I want to make a book?

And you're all, You absolutely will go or you can stay home and clean the dust bunnies under your bed.

And they're all, Don't care. Not going.

So then you're all, with your eyes bulgy and your voice screeching in that larynx-popping way, We're going and you're going to like it. Now get your little arses in the freaking car now.

And then the entire way there you hear whining and complaining and you start to think you've got this parenting thing all wrong. Instead of wasting so much energy keeping them entertained, you should be locking them in a cement laundry room where you pass them clothes to wash, fold, and iron, and a bowl of lukewarm gruel, but only after they've gotten every last wrinkle out.

That way, when you offer up a funtastic arty outing they'll be all, Yay, Mom! You're the greatest!

But instead you get to the artsy place parking lot and the kids are all, Look, there's a teenager. It's for bigger kids, Mom. We're not going in there.

And you're all, Just wait until we get inside. We'll see how it is and decide then.

And then when you enter the art studio you're greeted by a kindly and enthusiastic printmaker who smiles at your children, and he's all, Step right this way.

And the kids are all, rolling their eyes and looking like spoiled brats all apprehensive masked by underwhelm.

And the printmaker's smile distorts into an uncomfortable grimace and you detect a smidgeon of disapproval.

And you're all, with an awkward smile back, Sorry, we have a couple of reluctant book makers here.

But then you cattle prod nudge your pride and joys into a line where they have an antique printer press set up and they get to pick out the metal letters spelling their names from a printers drawer and work the press themselves.

And then they move along to wood block relief printing, and paper marbling, and calligraphy, and book collage, and suminagashi.

And they're all, Oooh, we really love the suminagashi.

And, Look, Mom! My name in calligraphy! Isn't this cool?

And, when it's time to leave, they're all, Noooo, Mom. We want to watch her do another calligraphy.

And, Can't we do one more book cover?

And, But the kindly printmaker has this really cool marblized paper for my collage book.

And, the next day we see footage of this event. It has made it to the local television news. We see one of our girls making a book collage and the shoulder of the other girl watching the relief printing.

And they're all, Hey Mom! Look! There we are!

And they're all telling their friends how funtastic the collage and bookmaking and printing press was.

And you're all, silently told ya.

And when does it get better, people? Seeing your I told ya so on the small screen?

Image source, Wisdom calligraphy, here.

Image source, Suminagashi, here.

an interpretive query

As my workday came to a close, I was doing the usual bookkeeping with collected fees and copays . I came across a check that gave me pause. It was written by a longtime client.

It was written out to, "Burger King."

And I have to say, I was stumped.

Was this an example of transference? What might this client have been projecting onto me, exactly?

And what is the appropriate therapist response? The fact that I, upon reading it, immediately felt a craving for a charbroiled hamburger, could smell it even, says what about the therapeutic alliance, exactly? What counter transference issue was at play?

Interpret amongst yerselves.

you can bite my ass

No wait, fellas. I meant that figuratively. Not that I literally meant for you to bite me on my ass for real. heh heh.

Chigger bites. That's right people. On my ass. Both cheeks. One of the little fockers dared to make the climb into the great gorge, falling just short of my holy grail, you know that place from which things exit but never, ever enter. Dirty bastard.

Try to conduct a full day's worth of therapy sessions when you've got chigger bites all over both of your gluteus maximusses.

"And then, Dr. Yogurt, after he called me a whore, he grabbed me by the hair and threw me across the ...."

I'm sorry, Mrs. O'Reilly. Do you mind if we pause for a moment while I scratch my ass?

scratch. scratch.

scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch

They itch like freaking hell. Especially the dime sized ones. Chiggers like creases. Yeah, right there. Both sides. And at my age, creases are everywhere the sun don't shine.

My daughter fared worse than me. She counted more than 50 bites. Most of them following a military straight marching formation along her bikini line.

Where were we? What were we doing? And how long were we doing it, when we gave chiggers unlimited access to our asses?

First we were walking along here:

Lady Bird Lake, which at my house shall always be referred to as Town Lake Hike 'n Bike Trail. This is part of the Colorado River that runs through Austin. We are standing on the 1st Street pedestrian bridge looking westward, at that dividing point between downtown and south Austin. The bridge in the distance is the Lamar Pedestrian Bridge.

And here:

And here,

The reason my tweenage twin daughters are looking all sullen and petulant and refusing to look at the camera, otherwise known as bringing me the kind of joy and satisfaction I knew would be my reward for all of those million-and-five sh*tty diaper changes, is because the forced march walk was Stalin's their mother's idea. And none of their friends were available to come along. You know how that goes. Mother will pay.

But how did the chiggers skip over the ankles and plant themselves on the butt-tocks region, you ask? I asked that too.

Apparently while we were crouching down to capture the right amount of sunlight for their America's Next Top Model portfolio, a nest of larvae-of-harvest-mites were rubbing their grubby little arachnoid legs together in anticipation of a late lunch.

Right about here,

So yeah. Mother always pays.

on the subject of michael jackson and cognitive dissonance

On the subject of the under reported, hardly talked about coverage of Michael Jackson's death, I will add one sentiment I haven't heard expressed: Relief.

Not for his children, of course. For them I am sad.

I'm sad that Michael Jackson named each of his three children Michael Jackson, including his daughter.

I'm sad that he dangled one of them, dubbed "Blanket," from a 4th story hotel balcony for the shock and pleasure of the paparazzi below.

I'm sad that his children will grow up never truly knowing their father, but rather trying to piece together and comprehend this supremely talented superstar turned bizarre victim of a fame obsessed culture.

No, the relief I feel relates to the laying to rest of the cognitive dissonance, the ambivalence that I, and millions of others, have felt over the years watching this premiere performer morph from a cute and irresistable little boy into a disaster of a middle-aged adult.

Cognitive dissonance because his singing was perfectly nuanced, his dancing was dazzling, and his looks (skin color, even) were ever changing but his psychosocial development was stunted.

Cognitive dissonance because his worldwide fame grew at the same rapid rate as his disturbing behavior.

Because the more mesmerized we were by his complex and stylized entertainment, the more embarrassed we were for him and his off camera persona.

Because we felt the sizzling allure of his onscreen sexuality while reading about his seemingly asexual lifestyle.

Because he told us in his child-like voice that it was perfectly innocent and reasonable for an unattached adult man to hold sleepovers for pre-pubescent boys. He couldn't have been that naive. Could he?

Because the more we admired him, the more we were repelled by him. And if you're like me, perplexed and maybe even disgusted by your own admiration given his potential danger to children. Maybe even his own.

Because you couldn't help love him and you couldn't help loathe him. And you simply had to watch him.

Who could turn the channel, afterall, when the news showed yet another clip of Michael doing his signature moon dance? Or the one where his fancy footwork mixed with fancy fingerwork aimed at keeping what remained of his surgically mutillated nose in place? (How do these surgeons keep their licenses?) How about Bubbles, his pet chimp? His secret marriage and divorce to Lisa Marie Presley? (He reportedly harbored an Elvis obsession). To his dermatologist's nurse? His court testimony? His hair on fire?

A fellow psychologist at Couch Trip (wish I had thought of that blog name) put his ambivalent feelings into words this way:

"I was fascinated....And there was also a sense that his troubles are over, which allows the genius and the music and the dancing to come to the surface again."

So yes, I'm relieved that as time goes by and as the media obsession dies down, so will the discomfort of our collective cognitive dissonance.

In it's place will be left the memories and music videos of a man who, though tragically flawed, was amazingly fun to watch.

We will no longer have to worry about his sex life, his substance abuse, his nose falling off his face.

We'll just be able to listen to his music, smile, and try to remember where we were when we first danced along to Billie Jean.

some like it hawt

We're getting zapped with unusually hot June temperatures. Yesterday, according to the metiorologist meterologist weatherman, the temps reached 108 in some not too distant corner of the Austin area. Now, I like it hot, but not this hot.

I don't like staying camped in the air conditioning, either. I'm grateful that I have AC, and will use it, but I really dislike retreating inside the house, sucking up what feels like stale air.

So I did what any reasonable Austinite would do for therrapy on an extremely hot June day:


Submerged myself in Barton Spring's year round 68 degree water, alternating with sunning on a raft. It could only have been more perfect if I was slurrping on a PPP margarita.


Now my husband, SAM, on the other hand? He chose a completely different path:

He prefers to sun himself from a rooftop, armed with a tool belt and nail gun. He's decking the roof of our neighbor's addition. Which he framed. In this heat. Now that is hawt. And I do likes me some of this kinda hawt.

You can't see me, but I'm down below, rendering myself a nuisance assistance with my camera and a first aid kit: fresh brewed iced tea and a tall stack of ice.

What about you, readers? How do you cope with the summer heat?

it's about that time again

The summer is off to a running start between a busier than usual work schedule and kids with busier than usual comings and goings. No time to catch my breath much less catch up on all of the blogs I've been sorely neglecting. I expect more downtime in July but I'm not making any promises.

So far we've had afternoons of swimming at West Enfield, Deep Eddy (below) and Barton Springs Pools. Swimming is not an option, but a necessity, in these June "we've already hit 100 degrees" temps.

The oldest pool in Texas, Deep Eddy Pool is located close to downtown. Like Barton Springs and Enfield Pools, Deep Eddy is spring fed, making for an ultra-refreshing dip. It's also a great place to people watch and catch the latest trends in men's fashionable summertime headwear:

This weekend? We're beating the heat with our annual girls-plus-kids weekend trip for the second best kind of poolside relaxing, here.

And this year I'll be packing the prickly. Normally reserved for martyr syndrome intervention, I'm feeling the need for a little self-administered liquid therrapy.

Find out how you, too, can beat the heat with a pink prickly pear margarita, here.

I will add a major, energy saving modification. The pears can be frozen in the freezer, taken out the morning of your therrapy appointment, placed in a plastic container and left to thaw in your fridge. Retrieve a few hours later to find the dark purple juice oozing from the pears, ready to be strained and poured into the drink of your desire. Much easier.

exercise in futility

Weight Loss Fact #1

During a routine workout on the eliptical machine I can burn 300 calories in 30 minutes. That's comes to about 10 calories burned per minute.

Weight Loss Fact #2

During a routine sitting in front of my laptop, I can eat four Ghirardelli Truffles in 30 seconds. That comes out to about 600 calories scarfed per minute.

Weight Loss Fact #3

If I want to lose any weight, I'd better stay on the elliptical machine, like, forever.

image source, here

hot tub etiquette at a large downtown gym

Old man with the rotund physique, I don't know where you came from or how you were raised, but proper jacuzzi etiquette does not include:

1. ignoring the stair step entrance;

2. lollying your full body onto the ledge, laying your head nearly directly behind mine so that you appear to intend to roll on top of me, swinging your legs down into the water, missing me only because I have lightning quick reflexes;

3. continuing to sit on the ledge about six inches from my spot, despite an otherwise empty jacuzzi, arms crossed and resting on your buddha belly, head tilted down, eyes closed, as if in deep slumber, remaining thusly situated for the next twenty minutes.

WTF, old man?!? I came here to relax too, ya know.

give a book, get a book

I joined PaperbackSwap a few months ago and it's great. It's an online book swap networking site. You list the books you are willing to swap. You mail it out to an interested reader. You get a point when your book is received. And then you can cash in that point to request a book from some other member. It costs about $2.30 to mail each book.

I'm at a point where I've accumulated several points and want to order some sure-bet summer reading. There are a LOT of books to choose from.

Which brings me to the reason for this post. I would love to hear your suggestions, some of your favorite novels read over the past few years. Books that stand out as having been "one of the best books I've read in a long time." Or "books that I couldn't put down." As I said in my previous post, I'm not into pain or violence or scary. So no murder mysteries or Stephen King, please.

Oh and I did see The Wrestler. As promised, I kept my laptop open through quite a few scenes, all of them, I think, took place inside the ring or in the locker room. I was glad I saw it. There were several emotionally wrenching themes presented in an intelligent, sensitive manner, having to do with substance abuse, parenting, and aging out of careers. It clearly was not about the wrestling so much as the man who is wrestling with his personal demons.

But back to the books. Here are a few of the books that fit this description for me. I prefer women authors but there is one favorite male author who has never disappointed.

For Love by Sue Miller. One of my favorite authors. The story of a woman whose mother enters a nursing home. She returns to help get the family home in sellable condition. She explores her long crumbling relationship with her mother and brother. She evaluates her teetering marriage. She revisits a key childhood friendship. I felt like I was listening to a client or a friend try to reconcile her past with her present. Oh, and if you don't know what a porte cochere is, like I didn't, you can see one here.

Fall on Your Knees by Anne-Marie MacDonald. I read this one years ago. I love novels that delve into childhood associations of Catholic teachings and how they interplay with other religions. I don't wonder why. I grew up a Catholic school girl whose next door neighbors were holy roller Presbyterian on the one side (we choreographed dances to gospel quartet music - her father played stand up bass) , and a liberal, somewhat eccentric (compared to my family's conservative conventions) Jewish family on the other. This novel is set in Nova Scotia. It spans the early 20th century and beyond WWI.

Three Junes by Julia Glass. This one I consider a found treasure. You know how you're walking along and out of the corner of your eye you see something that sparkles? You pick it up thinking it will be an old bottle cap but instead it turns out to be a gemstone? Three Junes was like that. The title caught my eye on the library shelf. I hadn't heard a thing about it. I brought it home to give it a try and I loved it. It's a story of a Scottish family with a matriarch who breeds dogs, her husband, their son who is gay, the family's struggle with acceptance, and the son's life in NYC.

Atonement by Ian McKewan. Although Amsterdam was the McKewan novel that drew me in first and probably is still my favorite. The movie, Atonement, was very well done. The mystery of the logistics of the library sex scene was answered, thanks to the visual aid that is film.

A Round Heeled Woman by Jane Juska. One of the bravest contemporary memoirs I have ever read. Real life "edge of your seat," interpersonal and emotionally moving tale of a woman, late in life, looking for love and connection.

The Weight of Water by Anita Shreve. Another of my favorite writers. This book of hers is my most loved. And I still have not seen the screen adaptation, starring Sean Penn. What is my problem? Adding to my "movies-to-rent" list now.

So how about it, reader? Have any suggestions for me?

wrestling with the wrestler

Because I am such a generous and thoughtful spouse, I rented "The Wrestler" about an hour ago. SAM wants to see it. Me? Not so much. Not after hearing Fresh Air's Terry Gross interview director Darren Aronofsky. Several times she tried to pin him down on the issue of his seeming obsession with "pain." So right now SAM is sawing logs on the sofa and I am thinking I might not wake him up.

Because me? I am definately not into pain.

A love story between an aging wrestler and an aging stripper? Oh my, yes.

But I do not want to see men throwing themselves at each other in a ring, inflicting all kinds of unnecessary pain. I don't like seeing wrestling period, if you want to know the truth. Or boxing. Or fight clubs. No thanks.

So maybe I'll just keep my blog screen open and hit a few links whenever the pain begins.