Sandra chose sex.
My Mom owns this preteen sex information book. I don't remember ever being shown it, and thank God I wasn't. Never has sex looked so unappealing. It has illustrations by one of the New Yorker cartoonists. The one who draws everyone as monsters or anteaters. I can't really tell what they're supposed to be. They are horrifying. That is not in question. Their faces look stretched out like Alec Baldwin does in Beetlejuice when he tries to look scary -- all nose and overbite. And hair because they're hippies.
The cartoonist sometimes has them leer, showing even more teeth and -- though you didn't think it possible -- looking even scarier.
It's the kind of book that makes you never want to have sex, which was maybe the intention all along.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Friday, March 16, 2007
Feet Only a Mother Could Love
Susie chose feet.
TLC has a program called My Unique Family and one of the episodes is about a Mom and her two kids, a twenty-year-old girl and a seventeen-year-old boy – all of whom have ectrodactyly, a genetic disorder in which the digits of the hands and feet fuse and twist together.
“It’s sometimes called lobster claw disease,” the Mom tells us. She works as a local news anchor. She shows us these hollow plastic hands she shoved on whenever she would be on camera until her producer told her to forego them. Their hands look like they’re perpetually cramped inside a sock puppet, and the mother spoke about surgery the children had when they were young, to separate what digits were distinct enough to be separated like surgery on conjoined twins.
She and her daughter seem very well-adjusted with it, but the son is another story.
The Mom tries taking him to a meeting/support group for people with disabilities, but all the members are in wheelchairs. None of them have ectrodactyly, and you can see the son thinking, “Whatever else is wrong with me, I can walk, you know, Mom,” but he puts a good spin on it after the meeting and gamely talks about not letting disabilities get in your way but in this very flat way. He knows that’s the right answer, but he doesn’t quite believe it.
And it got me thinking, how would you keep your balance? But I guess they all get used to it. The mother had a barely discernible limp to her gait, and the kids didn’t at all. They didn’t mention walking from what I remember.
The mother is dating a surfer, and he takes the son out surfing one day. The camera gets a shot of his feet. The big toe curves toward the others, which are also rearing back in a reciprocal, uniform curve as if they were forming a clamp. I don’t think we don’t see any shots of him on the surfboard or actually surfing, just scenes of them waxing the boards, and then the camera cuts to an interview with the Mom.
The saddest scene is when he’s in the garage, working on his bike, trying to turn a socket wrench on the rear tire. He tries it with one hand but can’t get a good grip, so he then places both of them on top of the wrench and putting all his weight against it, but the wrench falls out of place, and he collapses on top of the bike. He picks himself up, gets on his knees and just stares at where the wrench was.
It reminded me of Giant Size X-Men number one, the first appearance of Kurt Wagner, Nightcrawler. Born with three fingers apiece on his hands and feet, a prehensile tail, and blue fur, his family seemingly abandoned him at birth, leaving him to be taken in by a gypsy carnival where he worked as an acrobat with his adopted sister and had a rather pleasant if unorthodox childhood.
When we first see him, he is fleeing from a mob until Professor Xavier stops them, and then, despite his loving and accepting home life, the first thing he blurts out, after Xavier invites him to America, is "Can you make me normal?"
TLC has a program called My Unique Family and one of the episodes is about a Mom and her two kids, a twenty-year-old girl and a seventeen-year-old boy – all of whom have ectrodactyly, a genetic disorder in which the digits of the hands and feet fuse and twist together.
“It’s sometimes called lobster claw disease,” the Mom tells us. She works as a local news anchor. She shows us these hollow plastic hands she shoved on whenever she would be on camera until her producer told her to forego them. Their hands look like they’re perpetually cramped inside a sock puppet, and the mother spoke about surgery the children had when they were young, to separate what digits were distinct enough to be separated like surgery on conjoined twins.
She and her daughter seem very well-adjusted with it, but the son is another story.
The Mom tries taking him to a meeting/support group for people with disabilities, but all the members are in wheelchairs. None of them have ectrodactyly, and you can see the son thinking, “Whatever else is wrong with me, I can walk, you know, Mom,” but he puts a good spin on it after the meeting and gamely talks about not letting disabilities get in your way but in this very flat way. He knows that’s the right answer, but he doesn’t quite believe it.
And it got me thinking, how would you keep your balance? But I guess they all get used to it. The mother had a barely discernible limp to her gait, and the kids didn’t at all. They didn’t mention walking from what I remember.
The mother is dating a surfer, and he takes the son out surfing one day. The camera gets a shot of his feet. The big toe curves toward the others, which are also rearing back in a reciprocal, uniform curve as if they were forming a clamp. I don’t think we don’t see any shots of him on the surfboard or actually surfing, just scenes of them waxing the boards, and then the camera cuts to an interview with the Mom.
The saddest scene is when he’s in the garage, working on his bike, trying to turn a socket wrench on the rear tire. He tries it with one hand but can’t get a good grip, so he then places both of them on top of the wrench and putting all his weight against it, but the wrench falls out of place, and he collapses on top of the bike. He picks himself up, gets on his knees and just stares at where the wrench was.
It reminded me of Giant Size X-Men number one, the first appearance of Kurt Wagner, Nightcrawler. Born with three fingers apiece on his hands and feet, a prehensile tail, and blue fur, his family seemingly abandoned him at birth, leaving him to be taken in by a gypsy carnival where he worked as an acrobat with his adopted sister and had a rather pleasant if unorthodox childhood.
When we first see him, he is fleeing from a mob until Professor Xavier stops them, and then, despite his loving and accepting home life, the first thing he blurts out, after Xavier invites him to America, is "Can you make me normal?"
Friday, March 9, 2007
Baby, I hope you're a therapist cause you're driving me crazy!
Maya chose therapy.
While I have never sought therapy, I am often attracted to and attract people of … dubious mental health, let’s say. I always thought it was subconscious cheating, guaranteeing myself an adventure.
“I likes em a little crazy,” I explained once.
“You do,” Katie said. “You should hang out by a therapists office and say, ‘Come here often? Then, let’s date!’”
Once, I was at a party with my then roommate Chris and some other friends when I informed them of my latest crazy guy. “I kind of have a boyfriend.”
“Well, good for you. I support it,” Kristin said.
“Where does he work?” Chris asked.
“He works at a mental health call-in center.”
Chris laughed. “Did you meet him at his work, Will? Did you finally decide to seek professional help?” I glared at him. Living with Chris was like having an older gay brother: we teased each other a great deal, but we also looked out for each other. We met online, but since Chris isn’t crazy, we never dated. I, however, accidentally let slip and muttered something to myself while I was hanging out with him. Cause I do that from time to time. Months later, Chris showed no signs of letting it go.
The guy I was dating, Daniel, was actually the first potential boyfriend who regularly attended therapy sessions, and I was a little intrigued – a new adventure, a variation on my old crazy theme.
He didn’t say much about his therapy. He mentioned the psychoactive medication the doctor prescribed for his depression. He said he was trying to work through some issues stemming from abuse.
His reticence changed when, on our third date, he confessed, “I told my therapist about you.”
“Ok.”
“She’s a little worried.”
“Oh?”
“She says that people with mental problems attract each other and make their problems worse. So…. Do you need therapy?”
Oh, I bet you say that to all the guys! Really though, I have a hard enough time dating someone without doctors cock-blocking me.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Although with my roommate and my boyfriend questioning my mental health, I did start to wonder. I looked at Daniel. Surely we weren’t so alike. I mean, for Heaven’s sake, I didn’t have the perilous childhood he seemed to. Sure, we both sometimes muttered to ourselves. Daniel, saying “Oh my God!” under his breath and giggling, and me, saying whatever. But that’s not really so strange or alarming. Look at all the characters in Shakespeare who talk to themselves: Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth. Pictures of mental health, one and all.
We both spoke in thick country accents when speaking for pets. I was quite tickled to find out that Daniel’s cat Ellie sounded just like Audrey. Although I suppose mine is a little odder since Audrey is never around when I talk like her.
And since she’s not even my pet.
Anyway, Daniel suggested therapy one more time when he broke up with me. He said he had too many mental issues and that now just wasn’t a good time for him to be in a relationship and that he was scared.
“I’m scared too,” I said feebly. “I’ve only been in one other long-term relationship. I met your step-dad. This is new for me, too.”
“Well, then maybe you need therapy. I don’t know. You tell me.”
The conversation went on, and when it seemed like it was about to loop back around – as conversations often did with Daniel – I abruptly excused myself. I sat at my desk a few moments, fuming and muttering. I went over the events, constructing a narrative out of it, and when I was ready, I called a friend and told him what had happened.
“I don’t think you need therapy.”
I thanked him and said, “From now on, when someone has a reasonable reaction to something, I’m going to accuse them of needing therapy.”
I think my mental health mirrors my physical health: could certainly be better, but nothing to worry about. I’m often in my own world, obliviously walking by friends unless they shout at me or jump up and down. I’m like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Sometimes, it spills over, and I find myself mouthing what I’m thinking, and sometimes, I audibly say a few words. It’s never caused a problem except for the times when I’m caught talking to myself; that’s a little embarrassing.
As I did after getting off the phone with Daniel, I tell myself stories both for practice and to make sense of what happens day by day, or imagine things I might say later. I work out problems. So in a way, I guess I was already following Daniel’s advice. I engage in “the talking cure” – just by myself.
While I have never sought therapy, I am often attracted to and attract people of … dubious mental health, let’s say. I always thought it was subconscious cheating, guaranteeing myself an adventure.
“I likes em a little crazy,” I explained once.
“You do,” Katie said. “You should hang out by a therapists office and say, ‘Come here often? Then, let’s date!’”
Once, I was at a party with my then roommate Chris and some other friends when I informed them of my latest crazy guy. “I kind of have a boyfriend.”
“Well, good for you. I support it,” Kristin said.
“Where does he work?” Chris asked.
“He works at a mental health call-in center.”
Chris laughed. “Did you meet him at his work, Will? Did you finally decide to seek professional help?” I glared at him. Living with Chris was like having an older gay brother: we teased each other a great deal, but we also looked out for each other. We met online, but since Chris isn’t crazy, we never dated. I, however, accidentally let slip and muttered something to myself while I was hanging out with him. Cause I do that from time to time. Months later, Chris showed no signs of letting it go.
The guy I was dating, Daniel, was actually the first potential boyfriend who regularly attended therapy sessions, and I was a little intrigued – a new adventure, a variation on my old crazy theme.
He didn’t say much about his therapy. He mentioned the psychoactive medication the doctor prescribed for his depression. He said he was trying to work through some issues stemming from abuse.
His reticence changed when, on our third date, he confessed, “I told my therapist about you.”
“Ok.”
“She’s a little worried.”
“Oh?”
“She says that people with mental problems attract each other and make their problems worse. So…. Do you need therapy?”
Oh, I bet you say that to all the guys! Really though, I have a hard enough time dating someone without doctors cock-blocking me.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Although with my roommate and my boyfriend questioning my mental health, I did start to wonder. I looked at Daniel. Surely we weren’t so alike. I mean, for Heaven’s sake, I didn’t have the perilous childhood he seemed to. Sure, we both sometimes muttered to ourselves. Daniel, saying “Oh my God!” under his breath and giggling, and me, saying whatever. But that’s not really so strange or alarming. Look at all the characters in Shakespeare who talk to themselves: Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth. Pictures of mental health, one and all.
We both spoke in thick country accents when speaking for pets. I was quite tickled to find out that Daniel’s cat Ellie sounded just like Audrey. Although I suppose mine is a little odder since Audrey is never around when I talk like her.
And since she’s not even my pet.
Anyway, Daniel suggested therapy one more time when he broke up with me. He said he had too many mental issues and that now just wasn’t a good time for him to be in a relationship and that he was scared.
“I’m scared too,” I said feebly. “I’ve only been in one other long-term relationship. I met your step-dad. This is new for me, too.”
“Well, then maybe you need therapy. I don’t know. You tell me.”
The conversation went on, and when it seemed like it was about to loop back around – as conversations often did with Daniel – I abruptly excused myself. I sat at my desk a few moments, fuming and muttering. I went over the events, constructing a narrative out of it, and when I was ready, I called a friend and told him what had happened.
“I don’t think you need therapy.”
I thanked him and said, “From now on, when someone has a reasonable reaction to something, I’m going to accuse them of needing therapy.”
I think my mental health mirrors my physical health: could certainly be better, but nothing to worry about. I’m often in my own world, obliviously walking by friends unless they shout at me or jump up and down. I’m like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Sometimes, it spills over, and I find myself mouthing what I’m thinking, and sometimes, I audibly say a few words. It’s never caused a problem except for the times when I’m caught talking to myself; that’s a little embarrassing.
As I did after getting off the phone with Daniel, I tell myself stories both for practice and to make sense of what happens day by day, or imagine things I might say later. I work out problems. So in a way, I guess I was already following Daniel’s advice. I engage in “the talking cure” – just by myself.
Explanation
It's the impetus for casting aside all fears and concerns and doing what we always wanted, what we always felt we should be doing. It's what shocks us out of our complacency and inspires us to wrest control of our lives so that we have a more fitting memorial than stinking shrimp stains.
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