Meme: Commencement Address

Yesterday, I discussed giving myself a challenge of writing a Commencement Address. I don’t really have many people who read my blog, but this meme is more for myself than for others. It is just a writing exercise I suppose, inspired by all of the graduation news I have seen recently.

Here is the body of what I might say at graduation (below). If you do this exercise, let me know, and I will read yours as well.

When I was younger, I thought life was all about balance. In actuality, a balanced life is a life that does not challenge you. Sometimes you need to focus all of your energy into one area of your life. I mean, we don’t bat an eye when a new mother and father focus all of their energy on that bundle of joy; we recognize the importance of being unbalanced at times. I was unbalanced in college as well – studied continuously for a few weeks around finals. Spent another week going out every night (it is harder than it sounds).

Read to enhance your life, not to escape from it.

Have sex (religious folks can insert “in a marriage/monogamous relationship”) to express love, to wash away a crappy day, because your lover looks happy, sad or indifferent. Have sex to say “there is nothing this good on television.” Have sex more than you would admit to your friends because it helps us connect with the ones we most love.

Skinny dip in a public pool at least once. You will be able to draw upon that experience later in life and remember it fondly. And if you get caught, the stories might even be better.

Don’t trade sex for food. Unless the food is really good. Or you think the sex will be really good.

Eat your veggies and learn to cook. Learn to dress up things that are good for you with spice. And add spice to all aspects of your life. It makes the bland palatable, and it makes the wonderful extraordinary.

Say “yes” to a date when you want to say “no.” Either you will be pleasantly surprised, or you will have funny stories to tell others.

Forgive your family even if you don’t think they deserve forgiveness. The relationship with them is worth more than any lesson you can teach them. And swallowing pride is less painful than not sharing their lives when you get older.

Change the batteries in your smoke detector every six months.

Drink red wine.

Laugh at children’s jokes, even if you don’t get them. Or even if the joke is about farts or poo. Seeing them join in the laughter is worth every bit of the acting you may have to endure.

Technology, once Fix-a-Flat was developed, has not improved our lives at all.

Don’t be embarrassed to purchase condoms. If you are single, it means you are taking responsibility for your sexual health. If you are a woman, just think of it is making a statement about not relying on a man to protect you in all aspects of your life. But never make love with a man who you don’t think will protect you.

Buy memorable gifts for your nieces and nephews.

Alcohol won’t solve your problems, but it does make those around you seem more interesting.

You will find yourself trying on a dress you can’t afford that looks awesome on you. Buy the dress anyway.

I guess I could sum up these thoughts with the following. We are only on this earth for a short time - make the most of it. Don't let fear keep you from being the person you are called to be. And share your talents with the world; your gifts were never yours to keep anyway.

Blah Meter

I have been feeling a bit blah lately. You have probably seen it in my "just hit the damned submit button" posts. Yeah, there have been a few of them. I have been feeling blah, but I really was not aware of it. I would say, "I am tired" or "I have too much to do." I am a fairly positive person, so it is hard for me to say, "I feel blah."

And then I thought to myself, I should find other measures, that are not directly related to my blah-ness, that would be an indicator for me. Sure, I might not describe myself as blah, but if I always do something when blah, I could just look for that something. So then I thought, let’s see if I can look at my personal life for signs of the blahs:

Loss of interest in normal daily activities. I am so spastic, that I sometimes looks interest in daily activities, but it does not mean I am blah.
Crying spells for no apparent reason. I always have a reason for crying. Others may not be aware of it, but there is always a reason.
Problems sleeping. I sometimes sleep a lot or a little for no apparent reason. Not a good indicator.
Trouble focusing or concentrating. All the time. I think that has something to do with my brain chemistry.
Difficulty making decisions. I would be a terrible CEO. I can make any sort of decision with little data or understanding of the problem. Sort of like a politician.
Unintentional weight gain or loss. If you intentionally eat a quart of ice cream but don't intend on gaining weight, does that count?
Irritability. Just a part of my personality when I deal with incompetent people.
Being easily annoyed. See above. These signs are starting to piss me off.
Loss of interest in sex. Pass.
Unexplained physical problems, such as back pain or headaches. I am talking about the blahs. I am not crazy.

Well, you know, none of those signs can tip me off to the blahs. So I looked and looked and looked. And you know what is an indicator of the blahs for me, "number of items purchased from Ebay." That is it, plain and simple. It may have been shopping in general years ago, but it has changed.

You know, men are the big hunters, with their guns being some giant penis they point at what they want. Don't say this doesn't make sense. Women, those of us without a chronic penis envy fixation, don't see what is so special about hunting. We may say it is cruelty to animals, but deep down, we don't want to point artificial penises at animals. Just too close to bestiality for my taste.

And shopping in a mall for me is akin to deer hunting. High powered penis-gun just blowing away an unarmed large mammal. Ebay is more like hunting flying animals – squirrels, ducks, quail and the like. It takes either skill or dumb luck to bring those animals down. Same thing with Ebay purchases.

So the next time my Paypal account is overused because of Ebay, I have got me the blahs. I heard alcoholism cures the blahs, though. Or maybe I am confused. You see, I have trouble focusing.

---

And listen, I was kidding about bestiality and hunting. I am from Georgia, for gosh sake, where you will see deer fastened to the top of wood-paneled station wagons outside of Wal-Mart when they are in season.

The Ten Commandments

Grant, an occasional reader and wonderful writer, wrote something on Halloween that was not satanic, overtly mocking, or had any pictures of hot Asian women in miniskirts. He wrote about religion. But not in a "why doesn't your Savior get a haircut" sort of way. More like in a way where several freshmen political science majors could plagiarize his blog, quoting him as "a senior white house official".

Grant's thesis, as follows: "Here in the Southeastern portion of the United States a lot of the Christian propaganda slingers make claims that our laws are based on the ten commandments." I have taken all of the wit out of the thesis, basically so I look clever and sexy, and Grant looks like an accountant with morals. Yeah, some accountants have morals. I have read about them. Okay, I haven't. But based on the number of accountants in the United States, there have to be some with morals.

Okay, I had to go back to Grant's site to cut and paste the Ten Commandments – and there was mention of a miniskirt in his blog. Well, at least I know it is him. [edited in: The bolded parts are from Grant's blog, and the rest is crap I made up and pawned off as fact. I added this after knot made a comment that made me think I was cutting and pasting all of Grant's blog from this point forward.]

The reason I took his 10 Commandments is because I don't know all ten of them. You see, I am Catholic. All I remember is not to have sex before married, or until the guy is really, really frustrated. Anyway, Grant gave very good reasons why most or all of these commandments have no relevance to our current government, and I thought it would be interesting if I tried the exact opposite approach, that the commandments are entrenched in our government.

#1: Do not have any other gods before me. The US Government can be thought of as a god. Our money has the words "In God We Trust" emblazoned on its money, but we are really talking about the US Government. If you have a peek at the government, it grows. When President Carter decided to make two new cabinet posts (the Department of Energy and Department of Education). These two departments have grown a lot over the years, and I don't know too many people who think we have a better energy plan or our education is any better since establishing these two departments. Clearly, the US Government thinks they are god, and the government knows best. So this commandment is clearly entrenched in the US Government.

#2: You shall not make or worship a false idol. You see, the government, according to the above, is the true idol. The government gets more power when you rely on it, when you take their handouts. And I am not faulting anyone from taking handouts. I mean, when I turn 65 or 72 or whenever I am eligible for Social Security, I will be filing my paperwork. But the Government doesn't want us to build our own businesses (why else would they tax them the way they do?), to form communities where we don't depend on Social Security (the Amish, for instance). No, our Government does not want us to worship other things.

#3: You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain. Again, if the US Government is a god, then why do you think we enacted the Patriot Act? To catch bad guys? Right. How about having something where we can spy on our own? Oh, and as a bonus, we can imprison those who are against us. Bonus.

#4: Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. The Sabbath is not necessarily Sunday. For our government, there are several of these days. We call them Federal holidays. Try mailing a letter or depositing money in a bank on those days. Even some public transportation is extremely scaled back.

#5: Honor your father and your mother. Okay, again, "father" and "mother" are actually the President and Vice President. Mom and Pops. Seems you can't burn these people in effigy. I remember in school that the founding fathers burned King George III in effigy. Hell, if W. had a son named George, think of the parallels. Oh, I am off on a tangent again. Anyway, the Government doesn't like free speech if it involves fire. Think flag burning, yelling fire in a building. I could go on and on. Hey, now that is a great title for a blog. Again, a tangent.

#6: You shall not kill. This rule is for individuals, not municipalities. I mean, who hasn't read an article about some rookie cop shooting a ten-year-old with a lime green squirt gun. Oh, and this is the law of the land, as long as you don't count Texas. In Texas, you can kill someone if they are on your property holding your television set. Apparently, a TV set is considered a deadly weapon. I gave an argument for this one, but admittedly, this is my weakest argument thus far.

#7: You shall not commit adultery. I think this means you can't say, "Government, fuck yourself." Say government, bomb, George Bush, and anthrax on the phone to someone. See how long until some ATF guy with a 'tude knocks down your door. It may not be illegal, but if they can put you in jail without you seeing a judge, er, I think that is a bit worse than something that is illegal. I mean, you still screwed.

#8: You shall not steal. You can't cheat on taxes. That is like stealing from god. Not cool, illegal, and how they nailed Capone.

#9: You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor. Don't lie in court. Sort of like the above, except they nailed Martha Stewart (she really needed nailing, in more ways than one). They couldn't get her for those stupid doilies she makes on camera or the bitch she is, so they got her on lying.

#10: You shall not covet your neighbor's swag. I actually had to look this one up. I did not know what a swag was, but I am guessing it is a female stag. Bestiality is illegal, immoral and messy.

Okay, so I just argued the opposite of Grant. And I filled in all the blanks. Oh, and you know what is sort of funny, other than my one stalker (yeah, Grant, I have a stalker and you don't) and a few other people, the only people who will be reading this are freshmen political science majors and people surfing for Asian girls in miniskirts. And that's called limited freedom of speech, baby!

Life to Its Fullest

I want to tell you a little story about a friend of mine. The date is February 2, 2002, and as my friend tells it, she was re-born on that day. Let's see if I can tell it through her eyes.

Her name is Samantha, but people call her Sam and she likes it that way. She is young, sexy, of course, so the masculine name is okay by her. People know she is all woman.

She is in her doctor's office. This is the second visit in a week, a bit surprising because she has only had yearly visits for the last few years. You know the type, the visits that is dreaded – half the time, they scrape the walls of the cervix for fun (okay, for preventive medicine, I suppose).

First visit – they did an x-ray of her chest because they thought she might have pneumonia. Actually, the visit is more of a blur than anything. Not sure why they called her back – it was not explained well. She finds out later it was because someone besides the doctor in the office needed to take a look at her x-rays. Guess they did not want to worry her.

The nurse has already taken her vital signs. Blood pressure is a little elevated. No mystery why that is to Sam. She has on white cotton ankle-high socks, lavender panties, and a white paper examination gown. The panties don't quite match the gown, and she wonders why she is thinking about matching at a time like this.

As she is waiting, she notices that the computer is still on, showing her vital signs, her name, age, and some history. There are some lines that look like previous visits, and tests that were performed on her body. One line says something, and "x ray" is in the line. There are two lines with x-ray, actually, and she clicks on the more recent line.

It pulls up a report by a radiologist. It looks almost like an email, but many of the words are foreign. She cannot make everything out, but she does see something at the bottom. It is written in something like English, with a heading of interpretation or findings, she cannot now remember which.

She does not know precisely what it means, but the radiologist note says that her x-ray suggests several small tumors in her lungs, but that they should have an MRI to resolve what these growths are.

Her pink face turns white.

She does not remember the doctor visit at all. She is pretty sure he had her breathe, and she is sure that a pelvic exam was not part of the tests done. All she really knows is that she got a piece of paper, telling her that she has an MRI appointment in two days.

The doctor may have explained that the MRI was routine, to further resolve what is going on in the chest area. Her impression, fuzzy as it is, is that this was explained as a routine test. Funny thing is that the MRI was scheduled the same week; peculiar because she thought that these machines had months long waiting lists.

The MRI exam was also disturbing. It took about an hour, and they decided to take more pictures, just because. The MRI technicians, there were two of them, looked like they had discovered surgical tools left inside of her, but she had never had an operation. Going home that day, Sam thought she was dying.

For the next five days, Sam continued to play facts in her mind. Radiologist is thinking she had cancer. Two MRI techs, acting cool, definitely did not like the images they were taking with their big magnet. All she really knew was that whatever was making her feel so bad was not pneumonia. And by all guesses, it was much worse.

One would think Sam would have become depressed. She had one sleepless night; she thought all evening about her life, what she was doing with it, that it may soon end. She also thought of things she had planned to do but did not do.

The next night, she was going to tell her husband about her bad prognosis. This was Friday night, and she made a nice dinner for him. She greeted him at the door with a smile and a kiss, an aroma in the kitchen warned him that he was to come to the dinner table instead of plopping himself on the couch.

They had Cornish hens, asparagus, rice, and a good $10 bottle of wine. Clothes were off after dinner, but I don't know exactly how the rest of the night went. Sam did mention that there was no television that night, but she also did not tell him about the bad news. They woke in each others' arms the next morning, and though I do not know this, I would suggest that they ached from the previous night. A good aching; the kind you have when you have pain and smile at the same time.

Sam continued to wonder about her mortality; actually thinking about it for the first time. She looked at her life, her unfinished plans, and identified where she had gone off track. Then something happened. She became at peace with her own demise.

A few days later, she had the dreaded doctor visit. The spots were explained away, actually, as being some kind of fungus. She asked about cancer, and the physician looked at her closely.

"Samantha, I never said anything about cancer."

She knew that the doctor knew that she knew more about her condition than she was willing to offer up.

"Oh, I just thought with the MRI and all, it might be cancer."

I would have thought that February 2, 2002 would be a day to forget. The day you thought you had cancer. But for Sam, tough as nails as she is, she says it was more like a wake-up call. It was like someone (God, perhaps, or Atomic Chickens ® who rule the world) had told her that her life is precious, and that she needed to start doing the things she finds important.

She celebrates every February second. She makes a nice dinner for her husband, and more often than not, she serves the same meal, down to the asparagus. Her husband has no idea to this day, though he has noticed a change in her, a change that he likes. She celebrates life; she has been given a second chance. It was not cancer but the realization that her life is precious. That has made the difference for Sam.

For me, I see Sam's story as a call to look at my life, to see where I may have drifted off the path set by an idealistic young woman.

Christmas Letters

It’s that time of year again, and I received my first Christmas letter today.

Yeah, Ho Ho Ho.

I am not a big fan of Christmas letters. Okay, the idea is nice. People who love you enough to send out a card also send information also send a Christmas letter, and if it is a well-written letter, everything is wonderful. But not many letters are well-written. By well-written, I am not talking about grammar, spelling, subject-verb agreement. I speak to content.

The typical letter I get from those who love me is filled with their yearly accomplishments. "Hey, we had a good year – bought me and my wife matching Lexuses." The first thing that pisses me off is that people should not be rich enough to ever need to pluralize the word "Lexus." Class envy aside, I really need to know that it was a really good year financially for someone.

Only slightly less annoyingly, are the letters that tout the kids. I love, kids, I really do. And I think kids do great just learning how to read, write, and deal with irrational numbers. But either the authors of these Christmas letters are exaggerating their accomplishments, or my relatives and friends' children are going to cure Cancer, the Riemann hypothesis, and discover that there was a second gunman behind the grassy knoll. Oh, and I know these kids. Yeah, they consume oxygen like the rest of us and convert it to carbon dioxide. That does not make them a chemistry wiz.

Next are the letters that laud other accomplishments. I am not going to put an award won at work on my resume' and you probably should not include it on your Christmas letter. Well, if you have won a Nobel Prize, don't brag about the prize. Just mention that you took a trip to Stockholm this year, posed for some pictures for a local event, and went next door to the Netherlands to hook up with a bunch of prostitutes (window shopping) and visiting the pot bars. That would be both entertaining, and informative (and we already know you won the Nobel Prize anyway).

Oh, then there are the wonderful Baptists that send their Christmas letters. Sorry, I know lots of good Baptists outside of my family. There is one, in particular, who think that all Catholic priests are pedophiles, and that I cannot go to heaven because I am not following in Christ's path (simply because I am Catholic). Their letters talk about all of their charity work, reminding us to tithe to a local Baptist church. Funny thing is that the father is racist, and I cannot reconcile racism with Christianity. The Baptist Letter, as it is known in my household, is special each year. We circle the misspellings and comma faults. Anything over twelve and we celebrate. We have gone out because of the letter three years running.

Next is the letter that explains how to have a more "Christ-ful" Christmas. It is along the same lines as the previous letter, though these two families don't automatically condemn one to hell because of their particular brand of Christianity they practice. How Christian of them. I have tried quantifying the contents of these letters, seeing if they are less boastful, more meek, but I just can't figure out how to do it.

Perhaps one of their brilliant children can come up with an expression to do this. It would surely make my Christmas a merrier one.

Polls

I have noticed that I am being asked a lot about myself, about my opinion. Sometimes the polls are telephone polls – and I always make time to answer them. The reason is that I have unusual opinions, and I like being outside of the normal range. I don't have cable, I don't drink coffee, I don't watch sports. Oh, and I do not affiliate myself with either the Republican or Democratic parties. So since they interrupt my dinner or book, I am going to be an outlier in their data. Dewey defeats Truman and all.

One think I have noticed, as well, is that a boatload of websites ask you to take polls. Most of the time, I don't take the polls – they are not scientific, and well, they sometimes are poorly written. Something in the pit of my stomach sometimes wonders if they change their cookies to say, "Don't let Leesa read the really interesting content because she did not complete our poll or questionnaire."

One site in particular asks about printers. I have gone to answering correctly to making up bizarre answers. So if Hewlett Packard has a bad quarter, I think they did it because they were trying to capture the Leesa blogger segment. Having completed a dozen or so questionnaires, I think I deserve being my own market segment.

So the next time you are faced with a questionnaire, perhaps you should make a game of it. I have taken different tactics, to answers these questions.

Making Patterns
My first foray into answering questionnaires was to answer all of a particular letter. But that is sort of predictable, boring. Then I would do the A-B-C-D-C-B-A type of patterns. And eventually, I would hum a tune and try to answer as the questions in the order of the tune. The answers would be a bit more random, well, not really random (tunes are not random notes, well most tunes).

Pretending
My actually favorite tactic for answering questionnaires is to pretend I am someone else. Not people I know, but famous people. I have pretended to be Shakira, Ivana Trump, Elizabeth Bayley Seton (sue me, I am Catholic), George Eliot (aka Mary Ann Evans), and Britney Spears (I needed a shot after pretending to be Britney). It has the allure of fantasy, as well as the mental efforts of pre-supposing how they would answer such questions. Oh, and by the way, I believe the George Eliot would vote for Mike Huckabee, though she lived in an age where she could not vote.

Well, the next time you hear of a Gallop Poll saying that were the election held today, Americans would vote for Meatloaf, don't believe it. Just consider who wastes their time answering the polls, and their true intentions.

Of Nickels and Dimes

When I was a little girl, I was quiet during family gatherings. I don't know if all Georgian families are this way, but my family tells stories. And growing up, I chose to listen rather than try to tell stories.

Stories can be passed from generation to generation. We tell stories to entertain, to teach, to connect. One of my favorite storytellers was my grandfather. His stories normally did all three. Every time I find a dime, I think of one of his stories.

He tells a story of growing up, and every town seemed to have "their bum." You know, someone who drinks Night Train, Thunderbird, or MD 20/20; the fortified wine of your choice. Anyway, my grandfather would say that people would play a game with the man.

Then my grandfather would extract a nickel and dime from his pocket. He would place them side-by-side, and ask, "Which coin, given the choice, would you take?"

And of course, I would choose the dime. My grandfather would laugh, and say, "Yeah, little girl, the dime is worth more than the nickel."

And he would say that the bum always chose the nickel.

Almost rehearsed, I would then say something like, "That's why he is a bum, right? He does not know the value of a dime."

My grandfather would give me the dime, then explain to me that if he chose the dime, no one would want to play the game with him. So he would have earned ten cents. But because the town bum chose the nickel, he had others offer to play the game.

Sometimes, he would sum up, it pays to make a decision that would strengthen the relationship, and in this case, the bums relationship to the town. From that story, I learned that sometimes, you don't necessarily try to obtain the best deal each and every time. Sometimes it pays to form a relationship.

Thanks, Granddad, you wise man, you. I miss you more than you would have guessed.

Leesa Springbutt and Yahoo Answers

I have a confession to make: I was the girl in class that always answered questions from the teacher. Yeah, I was little miss springbutt, always with my hand in the air, always wanting to answer questions.

And, guess what? Well, I just found Yahoo Answers, where you can log onto the site and answer other people's questions. Google had a site where you could get paid for answering questions, but it did not really catch my attention. Was it Google? Maybe Yahoo or someone else?

Anyway, I logged onto it the other day, just playing around, and I started answering questions. I answered five or six questions, then thought better of my time. Well, tonight I am informed, one of the question askers rated my answer the best answer of the bunch.

Here is the question. Drum Roll please.

Does she have lesbian tendancies?
A few months back my girlfriend approached me with the idea of wanting to see what I would look like with makeup. She wanted to apply it and possbily (sic) dress me in her lingere (sic) before making love. So what do you think?

Sooo. According to Yahoo Answers, I am an expert in lesbianism. Straight Catholic girl an expert on whether some guy's wife has lesbian tendencies.

Oh, and my answer: the other night when she came over, she did not make a move on me during the bra-and-panty-clad pillow fight. So I think she does not have lesbian tendencies, though she has really good taste in bra-and-panty sets.

Okay, not really. I mean, I really answered the question, but my answer was more heart-felt.

My real answer: I am a clinical psychologist at Duke Medical Center, and I do not believe your wife shows lesbian tendencies. But you want her to, don't you? You want her in a threesome, don't you?

Okay, another BS answer. Not my real answer either. ¹

I sort of want to post questions myself.

Possible question: I just got over a really bad relationship with a celebrity. Trouble is, I took lots of nude pictures of him, and now I am torn. Do I just discard the evidence, or do I sell the pictures to a tabloid for $50K? What are the moral and legal implications?

Possible question: What is the safest way to remove a light bulb from my lover's anus? He is married and cannot go to the ER, and we have to remove it without leaving marks? His wife is a bit near-sighted and not very bright. His anus, of course, is not very bright either – no electricity.

You know, there are hundreds of ways to waste the day at work with an Internet connection. This is just one way to do so for the show-off² in me.

---

¹Okay, the real question can be found here. And I found the answer under recent questions, not "homosexual, bisexual, and transgendered." I just looked under recent questions, regardless of my expertise in the matter. And, by the way, were I homosexual, bisexual or transgendered, it would piss me off to be linked to the other two categories. I mean, really. Oh, and since I wrote this, I was the best answer for two other posts - one on pregnancy (and I have never been pregnant) and one on retirement (and my retirement plan is either to stay married or become a bag lady).

²Oh, and people who comment on blogs are sort of springbutts too, did you notice? Springbutt = someone who springs up to answer a question, sort of like there is a spring in their butt. Oh, and my most clever answer to date.

Leesa's Imagination Pyramid

You know, there is something called Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Basically, his theory contends that humans seek basic needs, and then, once satisfied, will seek to satisfy higher needs. He organized these needs in a pyramid¹, apparently due to the USDA's hyping of the food pyramid.

Well, anyway, when I was reading some of the comments on my last blog entry, and people were commenting how "Books on Tape" and book reading is not the same thing. This spurred me to think of an imagination pyramid.

Here is how Leesa's Imagination Pyramid works: similar to Maslow's pyramid, or a food pyramid, it assumes that people with limited imaginations will only seek media activities associated with the amount of imagination one has. Sadly, unlike Maslow's pyramid, once one seeks one type of media, one may not advance to seek the next type of media activity.

Television
The media which needs the least amount of imagination is television. Some will bathe themselves in the media, choosing to just sit there and allow the images to float over them. The viewer is fed all of the information, all of the images, all of the sounds, all of the dialog. You don't use your imagination for this. If you use your imagination, it would be to guess who the killer is on CSI or to figure out how Jack Tripper will trick Mr. Roaper again.² For those who want to trick themselves, they say that PBS is "thinking television." Again, you are still fed the images, the sounds, the plot. In short, it takes little imagination to watch much television.

Movies
Movies are sort of like television. I mean, you are still fed the images, sounds and plots, but you know, it seems like movies require a bit more imagination. When I watch television, I go into a vegetative state. For movies, it seems a bit more interactive with the brain. When I watch a movie in a theater, I sort of place myself in the movie. Well, sometimes, for decent movies. Again, it takes greater amount of imagination to watch a movie, according to Leesa's Imagination Pyramid.

Theater
Live theater seems like it takes more imagination than watching a movie. The actors are live, instead of on cellophane (what are movies made of now?), and it seems that more imagination is needed. Again, you are looking at images, but since the actors are live, sometimes you have to use a bit more imagination. You know, sometimes you have to imagine certain things – unseen characters offstage (either because of the artistic nature of the play or the inability to place the characters on the stage, "giants" for instance).

Radio
Okay, I am not old enough to just have radio as mass entertainment, but I have listened to old radio programs. There are no images to see, so you have to imagine what characters look like. You can here them and that might indicate something about what you see in your mind, but you still have to use imagination to get the full picture. Books on tape can fall into this category, as they are audio devices.

Reading
Okay, with reading, you do not have audio cues. When you read the stories, you have to imagine sounds, images, characters, and even some of the backdrops to the story. That, I think, is why most people think "the book is better than the movie." Our imaginations, for the most part, can come up with better images than directors can create. We are so imaginative, and it shows when we read. Similarly, I remember reading that when movies of popular radio shows came out (e.g., the Shadow), many people were disappointed. Peoples imaginations trump how directors construct the plot.

Writing
Writing has a higher level of imagination than reading. For reading, still the author is steering your imagination. To write, to fill a blank sheet of paper, there is no person directing the plot, creating the characters, discussing their thoughts, their goals, whatever.

I am not saying that television is worse than writing. Not that at all. Maslow would not say that certain needs are inferior to other higher pursuits (e.g., creativity above sex). I just wanted to prattle on about a subject that I was thinking about today. More imagination? Perhaps. Well perhaps not more imagination than watching Night Rider with David Hasselhoff. Now imagine him giving me a rub-down. Yum.

---

¹A joke. Not the Maslow stuff, but the reasoning behind the pyramid.

²Okay, as you may know, I don't watch a lot of television. My sit-com knowledge is a tad old. So sue me. Not really.

Intentional Procrastination

I meant to do my work today . . .

But it was so warm and inviting outside. The early morning lunch drifted into several hours of daydreaming, me just soaking in the cool morning rays. While others were tolling inside, I was appreciating the sun, the trees, the flowers. It is important to appreciate nature, and in so doing so, I helped maintain a balance. I helped ensure that visitors to our fair town saw business people relaxing in one of the picturesque squares. Tourism is important to our city, and my soaking up the sun helped with said tourism.

I meant to do my work today . . .

But a friend called with a problem. She needed my attention, my ear, my compassionate, my sighs at all of the right places. She needed me to be present to her, to help her through her personal crisis. Had I not helped her, I most certainly would have spent much time and energy thinking about her, her family, her problems. Had I not helped her, I may have been rude on the phone, and you would not have wanted that. So you see, I was thinking about the greater good, both at work and in her life.

I meant to do my work today . . .

But I still have not done my taxes. You would not want me to go to jail because I failed to timely submit all pertinent copies of the forms and attachments. By the way, thanks for the use of the copier, the Internet, paper and pen. It really helped me complete filing my taxes on time. So I am contributing my part so that Congressmen and Senators can feast on pork.

I meant to do my work today . . .

But I started watching teen angst on YouTube, and I had to watch, had to comment. I had to tell a teen boy that it is okay to feel pain, okay to feel isolated, and it is not okay to hate your own mother. I had to watch people lip synch badly to popular songs, see them violate terms of agreement and copyright laws. I had to watch farting babies, singing dogs, and talented artists, strumming on their 12-string guitars. I had to participate in Web 2.0, to keep the connections live, to keep the "packets flowing". I really don't know what flowing packets are, but it has something to do with the Internet flowing through our lives.

I meant to do my work today . . .

But when I awoke, I smelt the aroma of a willing lover, needing my warmth, my moistness, my body. Had I not called in sick to participate in a day of passion, my mind would have most certainly wondered to other things. And you would not like my attention on other things when I am filing such important documents.

I meant to do my work today . . .

But I had to finish this blog entry. Well, maybe that is stretching the truth a bit.

On Perceptions and News

I was thinking about perceptions the other day. You know, when many watch the news, they assume that the news is right. Sure, it may be “left-leaning” or “right leaning” but most would think that the news is fairly accurate. I am not so sure.

I have been personally involved, so to speak, in a few news stories. The first was an apartment fire that I witnessed. Not a big deal, but when they reported the fire, they said there were four engines that responded. There were only three, including a fire chief in his car that did not have a hook-and-ladder. I have some fireman friends, and another engine was supposed to be there, but it was diverted to another fire. Again, my eyes and my fireman friends could have been wrong, but that is not what I heard and saw. I am not saying that the news intentionally got the news wrong, but they did anyway.

I knew someone who had a friend who was murdered. The news for several days said something about it being a random murder, and they posted the name of the person arrested for the senseless crime. Trouble was, that the murderer and the murdered knew each other, and the news reported that the crime was random. In Savannah, there was a string of murders where they classified them as random, senseless. Someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyway, I don’t know too much about a lot of things, but when there is a relationship between murderer and victim, I would not describe the murder as random.

Third instance was with a speaker, a nationally known speaker. It was a scientific speech, but the scientist was extremely well-known. He won a Nobel Prize, and his speech made the news. I was dating a science major and we attended the free speech together. I clipped a copy of the coverage the next day, and in the article, they summarized what he said. And the reporter missed an extremely important point. In fact, they reported about the opposite of what he said. I asked my boyfriend about it, and he laughed. He confirmed my suspicion. They got it completely wrong. Not that it was a big deal; the big deal was that the scientist was visiting, and he was a really big name in the physics community. But me, being a lay person, had a completely different impression of the speech, and my boyfriend confirmed my suspicion.

Now, I don’t personally have knowledge of many things. I hear about them. And I normally trust the sourse. Trouble is, that the three instances of local news have not confirmed the accuracy of the reports or instilled confidence in the people reporting the news. Now I don’t think all stories are wrong, but each one had critical information that was wrong.

I wrote a few insignificant articles in my youth. In doing so, I met with the editor (not “the” editor, but an associate or assistant editor – but to me, he was the editor) of the publication for each submission. There were opinion pieces with facts. He could not confirm a couple of facts, and when he asked me about them, I said that they were assumed to be true by the experts. And he did not question me further. I know, small publication in a relatively small city.

I don’t consume much new now. Not because of my experiences above but I have noticed that much of the news doesn’t really affect me. We have between thirty and forty murders in Savannah each year, and it is big news, but with about 125,000 residents, give or take ten thousand, the odds of getting murdered in Savannah is about 0.025%. Not a quarter of one percent, but ten times less likely. So, from my point of view, the media gets stories wrong, and many of the stories they tell have little affect on me. I am begging to understand why ignorance is bliss.

In a world full of Eeyores

The other day, I read a blogger who wrote, "It's like living in a world full of Eeyores." Okay, I will not mention – psst Monica, love you babe – because I want this blogger all to myself. I let those words bounce around in my brain, "in a world full of Eeyores." In a word full of Eeyores. Isn't that a wonderful phrase?

I have had "mild depression" for a while. This is clinical mild depression. And I don't know if you have ever been clinically depressed; heck, even if you know how it feels. Not saying "nah nah nah, I am a headcase and you are not." Really, that is not the point. But people who are depressed are a little like Eeyore. And I don't mean that they have a nail in their butt holding their tail on, or they are several shades of purple. Again, not the point. Here, some guys are wondering if there is a sexual innuendo here – nailing an animal in the butt. Wow, I never thought of that before. Bad thought. Bad thought.

Not that I am an expert as far as psychology goes, but I do remember seeing an article in the "letter to the editors" part of a psychology journal (I don't read the journals, but I found this on the web a few years ago). In it, psychologists analyzed the AA Milne characters and gave them psychological work-ups. Really funny. And, no, I could not find it when writing this – and I tried, good readers. Again, off point.

But today, folks, I am talking about depression, a not-so-funny subject. I guess that's why they don't call it something more up-beat, like "Pollyanna syndrome".

I actually was treated for depression with drugs (Fluoxetine) at first. My Mom once asked if I was on Prozac, and I said, "No, but I am taking Fluoxetine, whatever the heck that is." You see, Prozac is a brand name, and I was on a generic version of it. One thing I can be thankful to my HMO for; giving me an out with my Mom!

But you know, I don't want drugs to help me with my moods, so I stopped using Fluoxetine and started drinking tequila. Tequila is not a drug, and it is natural (I guess tequila is good for everyone but the unfortunate worm). Tequila is natural, I think. Part of my homeopathic outlook on life.

Before someone starts bitching about me making fun of those using psychotropic drugs, Fluoxetine was not for me. I think I explained it once this way: when I was on the drug, nothing seemed to bother me. I could have some hack off my left arm, and there I am bleeding all over the place, probably my best blouse getting cut, and I just wonder how I am going to mop up the blood with one hand. Not worried about mopping it up, but wondering about it, as if it is an interesting notion. I was so flat, and I wanted to stop taking it. And tapering off the drug was so hard – oh, I blew up at people for no damn reason. Sort of like PMS-extra. And I was on a really low dose.

And now that I have started writing this, I am starting to wonder what the point of the post may be. Think-think-think. How do I save this freakin' post? Picture me, sitting on the ground, my index finger pounding my forehead, saying "Think. Think. Think."

Anyway, afterwards, after the tequila and the shopping sprees, I was not doing any better. I was eating better and exercising. By the way, I think "the runner's high" is crap. Sorry, VX, but I did not really get how running gives you a high. You have to buy really expensive bras, you nearly get killed by cars driven by people eating McDonalds food at the wheel, and your shoes wear out too darned fast. Personally, I would rather be on a treadmill, watching CNN, or that guy pumping iron and flexing for the rest of us (you know the guy; every gym has him).

Anyway, for whatever reason, my depression seems to have lifted. I think the exercise has something to do with it. And the iPod vibrator (a joke). It is like the clouds have parted and let the sun inside of my life again. Lisa mentioned her depression recently; the loss of a loved one may have had something to do with hers. Now I am not saying she is on Prozac or tequila, but she has been "blue." As apposed to Eeyore purple. Lots of bloggers have been feeling that way.

I have just decided not to be an Eeyore, strange as that sounds. I did not decide to become depressed, and even after several people said something about it, I just figured they were idiots. Well, they may be idiots, but I was depressed too (not mutually exhaustive events, or is that mutually exclusive events?). I am such an idiot. Now I could not will myself out of depression, but now that things seem better, I have decided to eat right, exercise and have lots of hot, sweaty sex.

Let me leave you with the opening lines of Winnie-The-Pooh by A. A. Milne:
Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it.

For many of us with mild depression, we don't really know how we got to where we are, and now that we are here, these feelings seem just a part of living our lives. The feeling of hopelessness is part of who we are, and if we could stop for a moment, perhaps we could think of life the way we were before the depression. But we don't, and if there is not an intervention, until the sky parts in our lives, we don't realize how wonderful the world really is.

Look at Lisa; she masturbated in a car wash the other day. Oh, what a wonderful world this is.

Princess Panties

During my Christmas break, I did some house cleaning. I know, sounds like a party to me. Well, I organized my dresser drawers (does anyone born after 1980 do this, I wonder less-than-silently), drawer-by-drawer. Top drawer is my unmentionable, and, well, I am going to mention one item of clothing: a pair of princess panties.

These panties are very special to me, and embarrassingly, I purchased them while in college. Me and some of my girlfriends were shopping, and one store (not Disney) had them on display in adult sizes. White cotton panties, with a cursive "princess" written in pastel colors, adorned with similarly colored flowers. There were four of us shopping that day, and each of us purchased a pair.

I know, I know. You want me to tell you that we went to Brenda's dorm room, tried them on together, had a pillow fight and that led to a night of wrestling and lesbian moments. But that did not happen.

We bought these panties as a joke, more or less, but I put my panties to good use. I wore them on almost every real first date I had while in college. Stupid as this may sound to my mostly male readership, they made me feel, well, like a princess. By wearing the panties, it reminded me that I should be treated well, having the gentleman open doors for me (even the car door, and many men actually did open car doors – hard to believe, I know), engaging in polite conversation, et cetera. And, another embarrassing to write reason for wearing princess panties is that it kept me in my princess panties. No way did I want a man knowing that I owned a pair, let alone wore them on a date.

After college, I retired my princess panties. I was not engaged nor married, but by that time, I thought to myself, "I want to fuck on the first date." No, that's not what I thought. I thought to myself, "I am an adult now." And I retired them into my top dresser drawer.

Since retiring them (no ceremony, actually), I have worn them three times:

1. Laundry emergency. The first time I wore them was when I had no other clean panties in the house. I actually first changed into a dress and tried going around the house panty-less, but it was uncomfortable. So another fact I am revealing to you – I am no Britney Spears. Instead of finding a short skirt and going panty-less (and no doubt having to exit limousines with paparazzi focusing their cameras up my skirt), I decided to wear my princess panties. That was one good day.

2. Death of my grandfather. When dressing for the funeral, I slipped on my princess panties. He called me his little princess, and it was more of a tribute to him than me wanting to feel good about myself. Also, you know princesses don't cry, and I did not want to cry at his funeral. Princess look solemn and distraught at times, but you rarely see a princess cry. I cried that day for my grandfather; the panties did not work. But I could hear him calling me his little princess, something he did not call me after I hit puberty. I guess he did not think princesses had breasts.

3. After a week of fighting. Many of you who have read my writings know I cheated on my husband. After I told him, he yelled, I cried, he yelled, I fought back, and we were less-than-civil. I was completely spent, my emotions going through so much, and after a week of feeling awful, I wanted to feel worthwhile again. Again I put on my princess panties. I breathed easier; I thought I was not the she-devil; and I began to heal.

Funny how such an insignificant piece of fabric can mean so much to someone. Or how one can write about it for more than a paragraph. And finally, no, I will not pose in the panties on this site. I am sure you can find other sites for that purpose.

Confessions of a Crack Whore

I am a crack whore. There, I said it. Okay, I am not really a crack whore – but I have a confession to make, and I figured this will take the sting out of the confession. Also, this post is not for the meek of heart, or the weak of stomach. And it is definitely not for those under 18, or under 21 in some municipalities. This is a big girl post – so be forewarned.

Last week, I spoke about a strong woman – a woman that wrote about a very deep and personal experience. I was deeply moved by her, in both her ability to share and willingness to "put herself out there". At the time, I wanted to share something deeply personal with me, but, er, I chickened out.

Actually, I once, months ago, asked Dr. ~Deb to allow me to post on this subject on her blog anonymously. I wanted to tell my story, but I did not want it to be attributed to me. Talk about a chicken.

Well, here it goes. Deep breath for real. You see, fellow bloggers, I have an addiction. I am a sex addict. And it is not as titillating as it sounds. I remember snickering about this addiction in college – really thinking that there is no such addiction. It was just people who liked sex a lot and did not want to take personal responsibility for either sticking their thingie in other peoples' orifices or letting others do things to their special places. I am talking about a compulsive behavior that completely dominated my life.

I am not an expert on this addiction – but I have read a whole lot about it. I am not going to talk about what I have learned; you can read that in a book. I am going to tell you about my experiences.

I started out, innocently enough, looking at pictures online. Yeah, I had seen Playboys when I was growing up, but I wanted to be these women, not masturbate to them. And, yes, I had access to these magazines so in the back of my mind, there was nothing wrong with the images. Personally, there is still nothing wrong with nude images – but it throws my life completely out of control. Wrong for me.

I started looking at men mostly. I mean, there were some women's asses receiving penises and all, but my first concern was with the male penis. Then I started collecting images, looking at other images, and then cataloging all of the images. I would feel ashamed, guilty and the like, and stop looking for some time. Sometimes days, sometimes as long as a month. But I still needed to go back to the images.

When the modem fired up and I heard it start, my nipples would go hard. I masturbated to these images, felt guilty, and spent many unproductive hours after hubbie went to sleep. Heck, I was even let go from a job because of my performance. Surfing for images online.

Then I started chatting online. I was so good at cybersex. I am quick-witted, I type fast, and I can describe things well. That and a dirty mind, and you are off to the races.

Again, this really impacted my life. By this time, my sex drive was practically nil with hubbie. Yeah, he complained, and yeah, we had sex occasionally. But it went from the wonderful sex – us becoming one, sharing wonderful experiences, etc. to mechanical sex. Really tragic.

Again, it went from spending hours doing this, more hours thinking about it, and more tragically, not being present for the one person I was supposed to be sharing my life with. I would abstain for a time, feeling guilty, and then back to my normal routine, nipples hard when I would hear the modem, and back to masturbating to images.

Then it spiraled completely out of control. Before, I convinced myself I was not hurting anyone. It was not true, but plausible. And then I started fucking strangers. Fucking friends. Fucking everyone. I would stop for a while, then start again when the temptation grew too strong.

Some of you would say, "You were just having fun. No big deal."

The big deal was that I was ruining my marriage, my work life, my spiritual life, my whole fucking life. There is a lot more than I will put to words right here, right now. I scared the crap out of me the first time I had unprotected sex in a bathroom of a club. What the heck was I thinking? Problem was that I wasn't. Sex had a hold on me, and I was not making rational choices.

A couple of things you might have noticed during my time here blogging: (1) I write erotica, (2) I refrain from using pictures on this site, and (3) I don't masturbate.

About my erotica – this has to do with what I have felt, what I have done. I don't typically masturbate to my own erotica, or, for that matter, any text erotica. But most of my erotica is one particular type. Interestingly, last week, I posted some erotica, and Monica said in the comments, "Nicely tied up, but the story overall lacked your usual roundness and softness. I'm not sure I would have recognized it on a group writing page like your other writings." Okay, I actually wrote it, but she was right, this was a different type of erotica, one that I don't normally write. This would be the type of erotica I would write when experiencing a relapse. Bad Leesa. But it is true.

I don't view erotic pictures, and I probably can't ever do this again. I am not saying that nudes are good or bad, but they start me in my downward spiral. Several times MT Leesa has offered to share some of her pictures. I would love to see them, partly because she is a photographer, and partly because she is a cutie. But I can't. Some pictures don't affect me that way, but I can never tell. Muse took some New York pictures of her in a window. The sun was coming through, and everything glowed gold. They were beautiful pictures of a beautiful woman, and they did not put me in the downward spiral.

I don't masturbate. Not that masturbation is bad. In college, after I figured out how to masturbate in private, it was a small relaxing part of my life. Now, I don't know if it will cause me to do things I have trouble controlling. And I am sure some of you are thinking, "Weak Leesa, can't control her sexual feelings." First, I would like to say, "Fuck you, ignorant bitch." Er, I meant to type: you may think I am making this whole thing up, but I tell you that these feelings/urges are so overpowering. You don't give a rat's ass about the consequences. You just do it. And then you feel awful about it.

One of the most popular books on the subject is Dr. Patrick Carnes' 1983 book, Out of the Shadows: Understanding Sexual Addiction. You can still go to the local bookstore and pay cash for this book if you think you may have a sexual addiction or if you just want to learn more about this. If you think you have a sexual addiction – do not buy the book instead of seeking professional help. Seek professional help.

I know several are saying, "Sure, Leesa, cry me a river. This is just a bunch of BS." Well, maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. All I know is that once I was treated for my sexual addiction, it helped my depression, my marriage, my spirituality, and even my sex life. I am still healing, but I have been doing so for a long time.

Sure, I joke a lot about sex. But that does not fuel this at all. I am learning what does. That last erotica did. Bad Leesa. Again, I feel shame for that. I nearly lost my marriage because of the addiction – and I can remember Prata once asking what made me cheat on hubbie. He could not understand it at all – he is an extremely rational guy, and it baffled him. Perhaps this explains things a little better. I don't know.

I have really struggled with sharing this – but I have seen so much in the past few days, the strong woman, another woman going through a hard time (her hubbie may have the same thing). I don't know. I am breaking all of the rules here – this post is way long, it is too personal, and there are too few jokes.

And I am not the typical sex addict – I am female, and I think 4 in 5 diagnosed sex addicts are male. I was not abused sexually as a child – most were. Funny thing is that when early research in this field was talking place, they found a lot of prostitutes were sex addicts. I mean, getting paid to feed the addiction – sort of brilliant and sad at the same time.

Comments are okay, but not necessary. This is a dirty post about a dirty subject. Some don't believe that this exists, and some don't see it as a problem. Men have asphyxiated while masturbating in a closet (clear bag over head) – nice image for the daughter and wife to see. Some have performed illegal sex acts. Others have driven into trees while masturbating. Sad, sad stories. Hopefully someone reading this may do as I have done and sought help before their live spiraled out of control. Or maybe this will encourage tolerance.

Bitchiness in Blogging

This is going to be a really bad blog entry. Not because it is bad or unentertaining, but because I am going to look like the bitch I am. Okay, let's begin.

I absolutely hate one blogger, Leesa. I am not talking about having no self-love; this is another Leesa. And it is not Leesa's fault at all. Let me explain.

I like reading Stacey the Peanut Queen. She is witty, she is smart, she is a good read. But she already has a freekin' Leesa who always comments on her blog.

I have commented a few times – commented yesterday to this post. But I like to say little things, and this other bitch is already there. Leesa. And when I comment, things get confusing. See, the comment I made yesterday was probably attributed to the other Leesa – so if, per chance, I make a witty comment, the other Leesa gets the props – not me. You know, even talking about this gets me confused. Going forward, I think I will refer to her as bitch Leesa.

Well, bitch Leesa got credit for my comment yesterday. I am sure she did. Okay, to be totally bitchy, I will have to replay the post and response. The post is hilarious, about how freaking cold her office is – and she wants the maintenance guys to fix the temperature for her.

My response:

Peanut Queen, please let me summarize the possibilities:

(1) The maintenance people can do nothing. Results: no work for them, stiff nipples for you.

(2) The maintenance people can find the right knobs to turn, buttons to press, whatever it takes. Results: less time to read Hustler, some amount of work for them.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Let me know how it goes.

Okay, not Shakespeare or Bill Cosby, but I thought it was cleaver. And good or not, bitch Leesa gets all of the credit.

I guess I should also let you know (if you have never ever been to Stacey's blog), her comments don't have pics – so if you don't click on my name, you think it is this other chick.

Okay, to be fair, I just went to Leesa's site, and bitch Leesa has a very nice site. The overall layout is gorgeous, she is freakin' insightful and charming. Oh, she is such a bitch. Not only does she have the roll of Leesa on Peanut Queen's site, but she also has a really nice blog herself. Oh, how I wish I did not visit bitch Leesa's site.

And in defense of myself, I would just like to say two words, Day Two.

True Confessions

My fingers are trembling as I begin this post. You see, I am preparing to bear my soul. My heart races; I brace myself. I wonder what others will think of me after I make this confession.

Oh, my.

You see, I have an addiction. You see, I am . . . oh, crap, I don't know if I can go through with this.

Deep breath.

You see, I am a bibliophile. I said it. I love books. Not just reading them, but owning them as well. My compulsion started in college. I had experimented with books recreationally – with my friends – but now I had to purchase books for class. And I also, as fortune would have it, I fell into the wrong crowd. I had friends who enjoyed going from bookstore to bookstore, binging on "Book and Paper" shows.

Pretty soon I was buying books instead of beer (guys will buy the beer). And I knew it was becoming a problem when I started purchasing books by category – not just poetry, but my own brand of eclectic poetry. For the bibliophile, books are like drugs or alcohol. I have a book of poems written by an English clockmaker – that seems to be a kind of micro-brew. I tasted his words, and while curling up with that early 19th century book, I know that few have tasted those words on one's lips in Georgia. It's not great poetry, but it reminds me of Robert Burns' "Ode to A Louse" (not the quality but the strangeness).

And when I felt dirty, I got into the heavy stuff – romance novels, the crack cocaine of the book world. You can start a romance novel on a Friday night, and by 10:30, you feel the effects – the warm feeling "down there," the emptiness one feels afterwards, and the shame of polishing off the paperback in an evening. Oh, the shame. Now that I have written that, perhaps romance novels are like junk food more than crack cocaine. Because of the guilt and emptiness. Still a vice.

Then there are certain classics – like Moliere. They are like the port wine of books. It is something I enjoy, but as I am reading it, I know there are subtleties that I miss. There is humor lost on a 21st century gal. Plus, like a good port, I can sip and put it down, not needing to finish the bottle.

When I started collecting the same book but different imprinting, judging the bindings, scouring for first editions, I knew I was hopelessly lost in my addiction. Hubbie and I are childless and we don't have cable, so when he is not pawing my privates, we read in bed. And when he is romantic, he reads my poetry to me. Goodness, he is my co-dependent spouse.

Dr. ~Deb, a new reader of mine, probably has some experience in addiction, but probably not this particular addiction. I know I have a problem, but I just don't want to stop. I like the feeling I get when lost in a book. Or just looking for books in an old bookstore.

I have a problem. I am a bibliophile. And I (sob) can't help myself. I am so ashamed. But the books feel so good.

Pretending to be Smart

When I was in high school – and, embarrassingly, in college as well – I would play dumb on occasion. You see, if you liked a guy, he had to be smarter than you. And I liked some fairly average guys – who were sweet and handsome and had other attributes. So dumb I played.

But now, sometimes I play smarter than I am. I have a fairly good memory, and I can make assumptions and draw conclusions that are more often right than wrong. And those attributes can cause the illusion of being smarter than one is.

First, I have all of these words in my brain. Take entropy, for instance. Entropy is a chemical term, having something to do with the universe tending to become less ordered over time. That's about all I know about it. And I vaguely remember that it is one of the "Laws of Thermodynamics". Okay, that's all I remember. But if I, off the cuff, say something has little to do with the second law of thermodynamics, it sounds darned impressive, but I am not really saying anything. Level of intelligence – not much. Perceived level of intelligence: high.

The other day, someone said something about "To Kill a Mockingbird." Okay, I read the story in high school – we probably all did. I remember two things about the story: the auther (Harper Lee) and a character (Boo Radley). Truth be told, I am not sure I liked the book very much. But I added the following to the conversation – "isn't it amazing that Harper Lee did not write any other books." She wrote that one American classic, and not a thing more. Again, level of intelligence – not much. Perceived level of intelligence: high. I offered no real analysis of the story – heck, I can't even remember what it is about. But I remember the author's name, and a vague notion that the author never wrote another story, and I am a literary critic. Score!

Neals Bohr, the Kinsey Report, IP address, Albert Einstein was married to Mileva (who he divorced), Eli Whitney and the cotton gin, "The Origin of Species", Lincoln and Douglas debated. All of these things are random facts. In fact, they are little nuggets that are stuck in my brain, and I know little more than what I have written. People, however, make assumptions – they assume you know more than you say. So if I happen to remember Einstein's wife's name, I may know more about the theory of relativity. Completely fallacious, but I can tell you, people subconsciously make this assumption all of the time.

In short, various facts may make one appear to be smarter than one is.

A few weeks ago, I made a comment on Mike's blog, something about "denial of service." I really don't know about these types of attacks, but I joked that the reason he had 20-40 comments per day, but 500 visits, is that I was (or someone else was) performing a "denial of service" attack on his blog. Again, I know little about this, but the assumption is that I know more than I am saying.

Funny that I pretended to be dumb so guys would like me, and now – more out of a game – I pretend to be smarter than I am.

Losing Me at a Party

This is a thought I had in December, but my thoughts came back to me today. Please, if you are a licensed therapist, please visit another blog. I don't want you analyzing me, and several people who blog need your help.

Around the holidays, hubbie and I attended three events in two days – all three were holiday parties (the new phrase to describe Christmas parties, as all definitely had a Christmas theme). Now, I am no jet-setter, and I don't really go to too many parties, but hubbie is a director of something, so he is obligated to attend. I am merely decoration.

As I was getting out of my dress after the third affair, something dawned on me. First, why the heck are some dresses hard to get out of, but that led me to think about "acting" at these parties. Not that I am phony, but I am wearing a dress that I wear maybe twice per year, I put way too much make up on, and I make it a point to be charming. And for most women, being charming involves listening.

Side note: I have been told that I am one of the most interesting people that several people have met. I sort of laugh, not because it is or is not true, but invariably, the people who make these comments are people who dominate conversations. And what do I do? I listen to these chatterboxes. I would hazard to guess that most of the people who compliment me in this way could not list two things that distinguish me from anyone else at the party. You know, most people appreciate a good pair of . . . ears. Yeah, I know, the men thought I was going to say something else, but once you look down the blouse, you want a woman who has hair to hold onto. No, I mean a woman who listens. At least at the party, that is what people appreciate.

Back to me slipping out of my dress. As I am remembering the party – mentally checking off ways I was charming and polite – it occurs to me that these people only see a very public view of me. And it is fairly one-dimensional. Now I am not talking about the curves that hubbie sees either. Well, not physically, at least. And not showing everyone your entire life is not necessarily a bad thing. For instance, I don't want to know that my boss is on hormone meds, or that my neighbor dresses up like Little Bo Peep to fulfill her boyfriend's twisted fantasies. People are so complex that I only have a few that I actually want to keep track of – hubbie, family members (not all of them) and close friends. That's all I have time for. Nothing more.

And then there are people who I want to know more about, but not everything. For whatever reason, there are several bloggers that I can keep track of what they show here. And I am not talking about Half Nekkid Thursdays, either. I am talking about what people think, how they have their eyebrows butchered, how members of their family are going through cancer, deployments, whatever.

But when I think of what I reveal at parties, most of this is trivial, polite, safe. And that's what people expect and appreciate. I am not going to tell them I hate wearing heels (women probably can assume it, and men don't care).

The symbolism, though, of taking one's hair down, having one's husband help one out of a party dress is so profound at those moments. For several hours, I was lost in pretending to be some one-dimensional ornament. Now I can be who I am, slip out of my hated heels, and be myself for someone who knows me better than anyone else. What a wonderfully comfortable feeling. A feeling felt in December and remembered in February – that's how strong and wonderful the feeling can be.

Phrases that Bug Me

This is a light, fun post. You know, I wonder if Jesus ever said to his Disciples, "Listen, boys, I know I am making you work extra hard talking about the Trinity, or salvation, or whatever, let's say we just go fishing today."

Not that I would compare myself to a saint, let alone the Son of God, but sometimes when I post more reflective posts for a while, I want to take a breather. Know what I mean? It's like when your hubbie has satisfied you a few times (and in various ways) in one evening, and you have to say, "Let's just take a break for a little while. I am getting a little tender."

Today I want to prattle about phrases that bug me.

"To tell you the truth"
This signals to me someone who doesn't always tell the truth. It doesn't matter what follows, I always make a mental note – this person is a liar. But he is a courteous liar, as he is informing me when he is truthful. But then I wonder, can I believe this? Even if I am not wondering this consciously, I believe the unconscious makes these leaps. Not a good phrase to use when interviewing.

"What are you thinking?"
Okay, I will admit it. I use this phrase when talking to hubbie. At first, I thought it was fuller. But the more I think about it, what I am really saying is "I want to talk to you, please make noise and I will start yammering about what interests me." At least that is what ends up happening.

"I don't mean to interrupt, but"
When has anyone ever said "I don't mean to interrupt" and meant it. Yes, you mean to interrupt, and you are being quite effective at doing it. I think what you meant to say is "pardon me." Please notice that saying "pardon me" is more concise and does not paint you a freakin' liar.

"I don't mean to pry, but"
Okay, this is sort of like the above phrase – except this phrase seems to be said by family members. Do family members get a free pass at prying? Heck yes, in my family. My mother-in-law uses this phrase, and if she could have her way, she would attach strings on my arms, legs and mouth. I would be a marionette, because she knows more about her boy than I do.

He is not a mamma's boy, but he generally doesn't want to hurt mamma's feelings. I get that. But I feel like if she could, she would tell me how to cook, clean, and freaking lay her son. And I am a darned good cook! [Just for grins, raise your hand if you thought I was going to say I was a darned good lay?]

"I hate to tell you."
Okay, this is for us women. Some of us are gossips. And real gossips "hate to tell us" but she saw so and so flirting with our man. What the gossip means to say is "I want to tell you because I want to get your reaction" or "I have got some gossip."

I have started saying, in response to "I hate to tell you", "please don't then." And the person's face nearly turns blue (or purple) because the person needs to get the dirt out in the open. Okay, when I worked at a mostly-girl organization, I was a big time gossip. I enjoyed knowing about so-and-so's financial problems, that so-and-so's son got kicked out of school, or anything involving dripping body parts touching other people's body parts. But this really poisons the soul. You just feel bad. So I don't do it anymore (or seldom), and when you interrupt someone to say you are not interested anymore, people stop trying to spread gossip through you.

When people tell you something you think they shouldn't, stop and think, "This person believes that I will not think less of them because I will not call them on the carpet." Others think I am this type of person – and do I really want to be that way? I know I don't.

Crap, I started this out light, and here I am preaching again. Well, if you want to read something more interesting, click on this.

Oh, I just thought of some sagely advice (I am sure someone else has said it, but I have not read it, so this is semi-original):

Leesa Original Quotation: All hyperlinks lead to porn.

Knocking Me on My Ass

I have been given a little bit of feedback lately, and it reminds me that not all of my readers have read every post I have written – and I don't expect people to do that, either. Heck, I don't even do that (most posts I don't even edit), and I wrote the posts. Come to think of it, I probably read about 1/10th of my posts. Only when I am particularly proud of the post.

Girl Next Door, asked Thursday night/Friday morning about one of my statement, "when I was still a slut." And what did that mean.

For those who don't know, I am a married woman. I was married not too young (mid twenties), and me and hubbie started life on our own. We were sort of a fairy-tale couple, actually. Things just fit into place, we hardly argued (but the arguments were heated when they occurred, followed by the most wonderful, sloppy, make-up sex one can imagine). We had our share of problems – some financial problems, infertility problems, just our share of life's problems. Not too much to bitch about, really.

And then, my eyes strayed. Then my hands and lips, and then, well, you get the idea. And it wasn't because I did not love my hubbie; we just stopped working at our marriage. We were spent with some issues, especially the infertility issues. Hubbie started spending more time at work, and I spent more time fucking friends, strangers, and fellow church-members (well, the guys did not belong to my church). And, by the way, some Bible-thumpers are the kinkiest people I have ever knocked ankles with.

A reader who I will call "Coyote," remarked "even mistakes can have value." Screwing all of these guys, did indeed, have value. Our marriage was not perfect; it was failing, and I did not even know it. I didn't even know it when I was "having lunch" with all of these guys. And they were almost always married – because that made them safer.

I am, and I always have been, a religious person. I had to go to Church growing up, so I would think about the homilies, I would read the Bible when bored, whatever. And I would wonder about the rules, what God really wanted from me, and in some cases, even if God was real.

If I had one flaw (okay, I have twenty-three thousand flaws, but if you were thinking that, just back off and write in your own blog), it was that I was not very compassionate about sinners. "Rot in Hell, for all I care," was not something I would have said aloud (against the teachings of my Church), but something I felt within my bones. I could not understand the power of redemption (for Prata, redemption is "the act of delivering from sin or saving from evil", Princeton dictionary definition).

I did not understand redemption until I began forgiving myself – long after the husband I sometimes don't deserve forgave my sorry butt. Okay, I don't really think I don't deserve him, but he definitely didn't deserve getting to have to deal with all of my crap (the infidelity unlocked some secret doors, darned psyche).

Please don't get me wrong, I am not saying, "I am saved." Just that I have sinned in a huge way and through this sinning, I now am more compassionate with those who have also sinned. Personally, God, you could have knocked me on my ass (or off my horse) with a startling vision. That would have, in the long run, been less painful.