when faces talk

When it comes to cleaning it's always been this way for me - I don't need to clean so much as I need a reason to clean. This weekend I had my reason. My sister and two little nieces are flying down from the north country.

While I was cleaning and vacuming the car (twice a year affair, if that) I found myself smiling despite the one hundred degree temperature and the sweat dripping down my nose. I was thinking about how my sis and I get to laughing hysterically during our visits, mostly because she makes the most ridiculous faces.

Some people call it mugging.

Mugging seems to be a family tradition. My mother always made crazy faces, usually conveying surprise or mocking disapproval. Then there's my sister who routinely puts on clown faces. And now my daughter. When she was a toddler, my husband's sister remarked how animated she was. I didn't understand what she meant. She said my daughter was a lot like me and my sister in that way, that we were so expressive. Huh? I still didn't get it. What was so different about us? I was intrigued.

Many years later I do get it. I've been paying attention. Whereas I used to think everybody made faces when they talked, I've come to see that people's expressiveness ranges from rarely using gestures to regularly making faces to tell a story or emphasize a point or punctuate a joke.

My husband, Sam, and his sister are quick witted and funny but hardly ever make faces in the middle of their story. Maybe never because I can't think of an example where they did.

Some of my friends are dry witted and completely deadpan to the point of almost missing the joke. I like both kinds of humor but think I'm partial to the making faces thing.

Like for instance, my favorite comedians have a thing about mugging:

Martin Short

Kristin Wiig

Andy Samberg

I've also come to realize how much I make faces when I talk. Sometimes I'm overly aware of it. It's like looking out from my own face, noticing my expressions from behind my face and seeing their effect on people. And I wonder if I look ridiculous. If they wonder why the heck I find the need to make so many faces, why can't I simply tell a story without the goofy mannerisms.

What about you? Are you one of the expressives or one of the deadpans?

e-bayte my ass

You know when you have been watching an ebatty item for several days and you wait until the last few seconds to bid, I believe this is called sniping, and then you see that you are currently the winner with barely 3 seconds left?

Your heart is all pounding and you feel all triumphant because the item you won at $54 is actually worth $179? And you have $20 left in the bid kitty? You know that feeling?

But then you refresh the page and see that no, at the very last millisecond, some sneaky, snarky, sniper came in and stole won with $1 more than your top bid? You know that feeling?

So then you content yourself on some primordial level of pettiness with the malicious satisfaction that at least the thief sniper had to fork over an extra twenty bucks at the last second? What is that feeling called?

Schnipenfreude?

do not disturb

Seriously

excellent

reading

in

progress.

For weeks now, I have been patiently pacing the floors waiting for my local library to deliver my hold request.

And Thursday?

Deliverance.

So now, after numerous distractions (volleyball game, two-night visit from mother-in-law, school carnival pick ups, sleepover drop offs) I am, to use a phrase I know the East Texas author would approve of, happy as a pig in sh*t.

If you are looking for a fascinating, disturbing, engaging, and inspiring memoir, or series of memoirs, which in my mind's eye is evah so much bettah, I invite you to read my absolute

favorite series by Mary Karr.

Begin with Liar's Club. Natch.

It's about her Texas childhood. Daddy working the oil fields. Momma working the bipolar. Both working the bottle.

In her words, "A dysfunctional family is any family with more than one person in it."

Follow Liar's Club with Cherry. Karr's adolescent years. Where she unwittingly follows in her mother's footsteps. Isn't it always the way? We're running away from our parents but running right smack into them at the same time.

And finally (oh hopefully not) the sequel to the sequel, Lit.

When I read Karr's memoirs, I feel as if she is sitting by my side, talking to me. An intimate conversation where I'm thrilled I've found a new friend who will tell-it-like-it-is. No sugar coating. No holes barred. Emotional, gutsy soul barings. The stuff typically reserved for the confines of a shrink office.

The way Karr describes her confused, distressed, approach-avoidance feelings regarding her mother is deep, from-the-core, inside turning out.

And her marriage to the wealthy, waspy New Englander. The same. The subtle twists and turns that can steer a married couple right into the ditch. And the way the hurts stick with us, "the shreiking fight or the out-of-character insult endures forever, while the daily sweetness dissolves like sugar in water."

But mostly it's her insights about herself. ""For me, everything's too much and nothing's enough." Yep. Especially when I'm reading her books.

All this to say I may be even less present in the blogosphere than my poor attendance record of late.

But I know you understand.

my stolen screenplay

Rachel is thinking about writing a screenplay. In a recent post, she shares some of her screenplay ideas and asks if her readers have ever had a thought of writing one.

I'm one of those aspiring screen writers who fall under the following category: Think-I-Can-Write-One-for-a-Brief-Exhilarating-Moment-After-Seeing-a-Really-Great-Movie.

The type toward whom authentic screen writers feel complete and utter contempt.

My inspiration, as self-aggrandizing as it is, is likely to occur after I watch movies steeped in emotionally-driven dialog. Especially dialog between women.

Discussing men.

And the plight of women.

As their plight relates to the men in their lives.

Walking and Talking was one. And Lovely and Amazing was another (Alert!! Young Jake Gyllenhaal sighting in the trailer). And Friends with Money, a third.

Or, apparently, anything written by Nicole Holofcener. And starring Catherine Keener.

Because I just now googled Nicole Holofcener and discovered that she wrote all three of these movies. I just love how smart I feel with google and imdb in my back pocket.

So yes, periodically, in a temporary state of half-delirium sprinkled with a fine layer of narcissism, I have been known to consider writing a screen play. But that's as far as it has ever gone ever needs to go.

I did talk with a friend once, at some length, about an idea I had: Women gifted with the power of climbing inside the brains of their male lovers. What would we find? Would we be flattered?

Or horrified?

Or horrified by the brand of flattery?

So wouldn't you know, a couple months after this screenplay-idea conversation with my friend, the Mel Gibson / Helen Hunt movie came out, What Women Want. You know, the one where he plays a womanizer and electrocutes himself trying to put on pantyhose and as a result is suddenly able to act read the minds of the women around him.

I am not kidding. About two months after my incredible idea for a screenplay.

And upon seeing the trailer for this movie I thought, Gah! They stole my idea!

Or, the male corollary of my idea.

And my thoughts ran toward, now when I try to publish my screenplay that I haven't even written one line of nor had a single moment's training in the how-to-of, the producers I present my idea to are going to be all, you so stole that idea from Mel Gibson.

So much for my screen writing career.

How about you, reader? Ever had an idea for a screenplay?

stuck in marriage?

Or marriage struck?

After my last post on temporary divorce I worried that some of my readers might question my committment to married life, or at least those who do not get my pathetic attempt at droll wit.

So worried was I, in fact, that I scoured back to the sad beginnings of my blog for an old post, one of my earliest, in order to camouflage my blogger's block shore up any doubts. Because the fact of the matter is, I'm about as emotionally dependent on committed to my husband as I am to inhaling the air around me.

And so here is my repeat post, which, for the record, enjoyed zero comments two years ago. Needless to say, I am hoping for a better comment showing the second time around.

---

For the past several years at Edge, John Brockman has asked scientists and philosophers a provocative question and then posts their answers.

The 2008 question was "What have you changed your mind about?"

One psychology professor's reply reflected on his research. Daniel Gilbert suggested that the decisions which leave us with the ability to change our minds are less satisfying than decisions which are irrevocable.

Not long after he reached this conclusion he went home to propose to his girlfriend. After several years of marriage, he believes he loves her more as his wife than he loved her as his girlfriend.

For me, a longtime married person, its refreshing to learn there are theories out there that support the notion that love can grow precisely because of options lost.

Or make that, the choice to love only one.

---

Because my own personal case study in marriage, my n=1, no double-blind-placebo experiment, has led me to the same conclusion. I felt stark panic considerable uncertainty about the decision to get married. I love him but is he the right man for me? Will it last? Do I really want to make Texas my home?

But once he put the golden band around my finger all doubts fell away. Uncertainty was replaced by a more complete depth of knowing than I ever thought possible.

The divorce rate tells me this isn't everyone's experience. But I do wonder about the satisfaction levels of other irrevocable decisions.

Having a child comes to mind. We all know how powerfully satisfying parenthood can be. I know in my case, I am always awed into silence when an indecisive childfree person asks me whether she should have children or not. My first instinct as a Mom, though not as a psychologist, is to say "You will not regret it. Not even for a half of a trillionenth of a nanosecond. It is the single most life changing and rewarding experience you will ever know."

How about you, reader. Once you put a sealed decision behind you, did your satisfaction grow?

temporary divorce, anyone?

Joceyln's O Mighty post about exploring temporary housing overseas, which may or may not have included a year long divorce, got me thinking uh oh, clear the room.

Yesterday I was reading Mother Jones magazine in my doctor's waiting room. How's that for a waiting room rag? That would not fly in 99.9% of Texas towns, now would it? Reason number 2033 Why I Love Living in Austin.

So in the new issue of Mother Jones I read Nadya Labi's article about the tradition in Iran of temporary marriages. Where a man and a woman can be married by a cleric for the express purpose of relieving their sexual (his) and financial (her) tensions.

Where a temporary marriage can last anywhere from one hour to 99-years.

Where a man is allowed four full-fledged wives and unlimited temporary wives. Where a woman is allowed one full-fledged husband and no temporary husbands but if she is unmarried or widowed, she is allowed one temporary husband at a time. No mas.

Where a man can choose to extend or cut short the temporary marriage, depending on his whim. Where the woman's only choice is to remain married until the end of the contract, i.e., wait and see what her temporary husband chooses to do.

Are we seeing a pattern here?

Where the temporary husbands get to brag to their business associates about how many temporary wives they have, while typically keeping it secret from their legitimate wives. Where the temporary wives don't dare tell a soul because it is considered undesirable and cheap.

Where women seeking temporary husbands can be found lingering outside a certain shrine, identified by their inside-out chadors.

Where we in these wicked United State think this sounds an awful lot like one of our infidel customs.

There was much debate presented about the fairness of these various arrangements. Widowed women with little or no financial options who appreciated a temporary marriage allowed them to earn money as opposed to starving or begging. Who preferred to obey only their temporary husband's sexual demands compared to full-fledged brides who must obey their husband's every demand. Who were glad they didn't have to live with the dude every single solitary day of their married lives.

Yes. I can see the benefits of temporary marriage. I surely can.

This idea plus Jocelyn's post got me thinking about temporary divorce. Where husband and wife live separately for a period of time decided upon by both parties. One hour or 99-years. Joint custody arrangement, of course. Alternating weeks of utter quiet, solitude, undisturbed blogging. No dinners, no dishes, no homework, no taxi-cab service, no policing of computer time.

Weeks of space where we marrieds get to see what life is like without each other. Of sleeping in the middle of the bed or on his side of the bed which you haven't slept on in 18-plus years because he is that determined to sleep on his side of the bed no matter where we are in this world.

Weeks of having full control of the remote. The luxury of changing back and forth between Judge Judy or Women's Lifetime Channel or Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D List or the tail end of a TMC movie because, yes, those last three minutes still make me cry. Without having to listen to his heavy sigh because you can't help it if he can't follow your random train of television viewing thought.

Weeks of no Dallas Cowboys Sunday afternoons. No San Antonio Spurs-only because-they're-in-the-playoffs week nights.

So hmmm, would the temporary divorce take place during the last part of football season when the playoff games go into infinity or during March madness when the tournament games go into infinity overtime?

But aside from the petty gains of a temporary divorce, perhaps something more substantial would take place. Maybe we would grow more appreciative of the many things we do for each other. We might focus more on how much we miss our temporarily divorced spouses than on how much we wish he would wipe the crumbs off the stove top. More on how nice it is to have someone to snuggle under the covers than how annoyed we are by the fact that he is in the bathroom at just the very same minute I need to be in there.

How about you, Reader? Any thoughts on temporary marriages and temporary divorces?

deceived no more

I'm onto you, my little golden bar of soap. You can't fool me: Your sleek size. Your shrinking weight. Your newly slenderized waistline.

Your same price.

You used to be 4.5 oz. You are now 4 oz. And I am not the only one who has noticed.

At the end of each of our relationships, I used to cherish your remains. Take your soap slivers and lovingly place them flat along the inside of the rounded contour of your replacement bar. In the soap divot, if you will. A sliver pit for soap shavings. A token remembrance of all those showers we used to share.

In fact, your carved out cavity seems designed for the express purpose of holding my leftover slivers, doesn't it? Aiding we spurned lovers in our quest to slide you close along our nekkid bodies ever longer, until the inevitable end.

But in doing so, I see that I am covering your logo. Your crafty product designers wouldn't let that happen, would they? And break their cardinal rule of marketing? Thou shalt not cover thy product's trademark?

So no. I will not suffer fools gladly. Your cored out concavity isn't there for my convenience. It isn't there so I can scrimp and save and get an extra two showers out of your incredibly shrinking bar-hood.

It isn't there for my ease or protection either, so that the soap fits more precisely in my hand, preventing those potentially embarrassing and increasingly dangerous drop-soap-reach maneuvers.

Come back, Heath-soap, come back!

It isn't about me at all, is it?

No, the concave hollow is merely a way for your makers, the manufacturers, to fool me, the loyal customer, into thinking the price remains the same. So that they can continue selling more, but smaller, bars of soap. So that they can keep their jobs. So that their stockholders, your pimps, can continue to maintain their lavish lifestyles.

Make me the cuckhold, will you?

Think a-gain.

So, dear soap, no more recycling for me. No more lingering last moments of lucious lathering. No indeed.

I've hatched a plan. I'm saving your golden slivers in a plastic pouch, otherwise known as a baggie. I'm also saving my empty breath mint dispensers. Because it's only a matter of time before your personal size bar of soap will shrink to the size of a Tic Tac. When that day comes, I shall be ready.

So look for me in the back alley ways. I'll be the woman with the wig and the fake moustache, with the look of spurned longing on her face, frantically waving to get your attention, standing behind her car with the trunk open to reveal thousands of candy sized slivers of soap, encased in plastic dispensers, disguised as orange breath mints.

And on that day? Fear not. I shall no longer be your fool. Your cuckhold. Your spurned latherer.

I shall be free.

But the soap won't be.

$1.09 plus tax, please.

protozoa in your piehole

I read this in my local paper a few days ago: Study finds dangerous bacteria lurks in shower heads. Warns: Do not stand directly under shower spray when first turned on.

Wait. Do people really have to be instructed to stand away from the shower head when they turn on the jets? Isn't the blast of icy cold on warm body deterrent enough?

But to my point. As if we don't have enough to worry about with drug cartels across our borders, economic forecasts dependent on Asia, and nuclear threat in the Middle East, do we really need news outlets publishing one unreplicated study story after another that warn us of the dangers lurking right in our own homes? Cancer from barbeque, radiation from cell phones, hormone additives in our dairy, BPA in the baby bottles, pesticides on our produce, salmonella in the salad. Is there no safe harbor from unseen domestic dangers?

Yet, last I heard, people are living longer than ever. Nursing homes are crowded. No room at the Sunset Inn for grandma. How can this be?

And if is there a better example of toxicological irony, please share in the comments: After everyone but me traded in their BPA laced Nalgene bottles for SIGG containers, SIGG

revealed that their proprietary ‘water-based epoxy liner’ which coated the inside of every SIGG reusable bottle made before August 2008, contained trace amounts of BPA.

So given all of this fear driven news, I sincerely expect to see an article that reads,

Scientists Warn: Kissing is Dangerous

Research microbiologists report findings from a study indicating hundreds of millions of bacteria are found in human saliva. Six hundred different microbial species of bacteria are waiting to spring from that red and white cavity behind your lips.

Stand back, study warns. There's fungi on your face. Cooties on your kisser. Protozoa in your piehole.

What can we do to protect ourselves from this bacterial quagmire?

Dr. Hal I.Tosis of U of OCD recommends donning protective head gear:

young people, look away

Bad Mom posted a funky haikulicious poem the other day a while ago with a 70's theme in honor of You Know...That Blog's Haiku Wednesday.

It made me think of something that freaks me out on a regular basis. Or whenever I allow myself to "go there." Which I don't do very often because it gags me with a spoon.

I was in high school in the late 70's. Back then, it was a big fad to dress up in 50's attire: poodle skirts, bobby socks and saddle shoes. We had a sock hop dance and various other school functions with the 50's theme.

My mom was a high schooler in the 50's. She used to reminisce with us. Especially with the music. Those great 50's songs: That'll Be the Day by Buddy Holly; Earth Angel by the Penguins; Why Do Fools Fall In Love - Frankie Lymon & the Teenagers. Loved those.



But to get to my point. I distinctly remember thinking how ancient it all was way way WAY back in the 50's. A whole two decades ago. Dried up and crusted over ancient.



And now? It's the rad thing to have parties with a 70's theme. My decade. Three decades ago.

So today's high schoolers are looking at me with even more "you're so ancient" disdain than I judged my mom and her chronies?

Is that bogue, or what?



Does anybody out there copy?

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.

synecdoche, synmecdoche

I love Charlie Kaufman's films. Or, at least the three I've seen (that he has had a hand in?) in which he has had a hand.

That feeling of confusion and "huh?" during Being John Malkovich, and then suddenly "getting it, " or at least, some of it. Most of the time. Or, wait, is that, most of it, some of the time? Whichever. I dug it.

With Adaptation, that shudder of recognition in Nicholas' Cage's self-conscious character. The back and forth between the writer's head, the book, and the principal characters he's supposed to be writing about. I loved it. Every.minute.of.it.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind: As a psychologist, I can't stop thinking of the possibilities. In the midst of some of my sessions with clients who have been through terribly painful events, I wish I had my own memory erasing machine. And not just for my client.

Today's meeting-of-minds with Kaufman was not a whole lot different. Synecdoche, New York is a wild ride. No, a slow, agonizing, downward cycle of a ride through the psyche of a man, Caden Cotard, who lives his life straddled between regret for the past and dread for the future. Occasionally he lands smack dab in the middle of the power of now and is rewarded by despair, but most importantly, despair that has been validated. That's as close to feeling good as he gets.

The paper where I get my movie listings gave it four-and-a-half-stars. After feeling thoroughly confused by the review, a WTF moment that only certain, gifted movie reviewers can give me, I decided I have to see this. I had no idea what the title meant, even less of an idea after reading Wiki, and even less still again after reading the definition after seeing Snyecdoche. So now you will understand how I felt compelled to take on the challenge of seeing if I too can get it, like the reviewer who gave it four-and-a-half stars. I mean, she must have gotten it if she gave it so many stars, right?

Feeling a little confused? Like maybe you get my review, or at least some of it, but you're not really sure, so now you'll have to see the movie too, to see if you get it?

There. You now have no reason to see the film. You do get it. And that's the feeling I got coming out of the theatre. Or one of about a thousand zillion different feelings.

In essence, I liked it. I want to see it again. So that I can absorb more. Or maybe not. It's a little too depressing to go through it all over again. But it is a fascinating, confusing, snapshot of a snapshot of a blend between one man's neurotic yet realistic worries, the missed opportunities and losses that result, and his experience of what is happening now versus how he is capturing it through his art (in this case, playwriting).

And now I'm wondering, will there be a director narrated version on the DVD? Ooh, I must watch that.

I was mostly enthralled. I laughed a lot. I smirked. I snickered. I chuckled. I recoiled. I felt that uncomfortable, awkward feeling of recognition that Kaufman's movies elicit. Here's another guy who thinks too much in a depressing, dread-inducing, erectile-dysfunction-happening sort of way. Way more than me, but I can relate to enough of his thoughts to wonder just how focked up I am if I see even a little bit of myself here. I am comforted, however, knowing, that I am mostly able to tuck away my neurotic thoughts into one of two files: "I'll think about that one later" or "Let's just forget we ever thought about that, shall we?" Not so, Mr. Cotard.

And then there's the psychologist in the film. Whoah. I sure hope Kaufman never wanders into my office. And then makes a film where I have a prominent background role as a self-promoting, sexy-except-for-the-blisters, doing more-harm-than-good talk-healer. I would be all, "Therapist, tear down that shingle!"

In the end, I don't agree with the four-and-a-half stars. I'm thinking four at best, five-and-a-half at worst. But that's just me. What you think is what counts. I doubt any three people watching this film are affected the same way. Times five.