Pork Chops

When you're a kid, your brain is kind of amazing. You are absorbing information, synthesyzing it and putting it to use more rapidly than you will ever be able to do again in your life. As a therapist, I specialized in Child & Family Mental Health, and one of the most interesting and challenging things about working with kids is that the responsibility for what and how they learn--at least when they are very young--lies primarily with the adults in their lives.

So, you've probably met a lot of adults in your life. Should we really be allowed this much influence on brand spanking new human beings?

Take it from me, we should not.


Thinking about child development and learning reminded me that there are several stratospherically ridiculous and/or erroneous things that I believed as a child. I was a reasonably smart and developmentally mature kid and my parents were actually quite good about being honest, educational, and generally aware of making sure we were learning about the world. The problem is that no adult can ever possibly manage everything in their own life and be constantly monitoring a child's developing mind for misinformation that gets processed as truth. It can't be done. Meanwhile, a kid's brain fills in the blanks with all kinds of creative, imaginative and often highly logical pieces of info all on its own. Additionally, young minds are incredibly flexible and forgiving, which is how more than a third of us ended up buying the notion that a fat, white man in a sleigh can fly around the world in about 8 hours with the same nine reindeer annually for eternity, enter select people's homes and leave gifts while somehow not upsetting the 65% of the planet that doesn't celebrate this holiday. 

Still, when I think about my childhood there are some examples of embraced falsehoods and magical thinking that I attribute less to normal "kid think" and more to my own emerging propensity to jump to conclusions. I was a classic oldest child, often praised for being very bright and independent, so I didn't like to ask adults to explain things unless I absolutely had to. This "no, I'm cool. I've got it" attitude directly contributed to the following mistaken beliefs:


1. Pigs lay pork chops 

If you think about it, it's kind of logical. I knew that pork chops came from pigs because of the word "pork" and its connection to Porky Pig. (See how smart I was?)  And being a Vermonter surrounded by farms, I knew that cows gave milk, chickens laid eggs, etc. So, in my mind pigs copped a squat and squeezed out a pork chop or two each day. The real concern here is not that I believed this, which is actually kind of cute, but that I believed it until I was nine years old. Yeah. Like fourth grade. The only reason I learned that this was not true was because one day when my mom and I were driving to the farm of some people we knew I asked about their "pet" pig and she said "they killed that pig last year." When, in my absolute horror, I asked why on earth someone would kill their pig, my mom gave me an awkward look and was like, "uh, for the meat." When I asked her to elaborate, I learned that not only did pigs not lay pork chops, but that bacon and even ham (ham!) were responsible for these killings. It was a long car ride for me that day.

2. Dan Rather, Bob Barker and Ronald Reagan were triplets

This I attribute to the fact that these three seemingly disparate gentlemen featured prominently into my childhood television viewing repertoire and that they all looked exactly alike to me: tall, white, stately, and graying. I believed that they had different last names because they had either chosen stage names or been adopted out. I loved these men deeply and felt safe when I saw them. Bob Barker was so reliable and always giving away money and making people happy. Plus, he cared enough to remind us to get our pets fixed. Dan Rather had the most strong and reassuring voice I had ever heard and was my lifeline to the outside world, a beacon from far off lands full of exotic things like shopping malls and buildings taller than 4 stories. I watched the CBS evening news with unquestioning loyalty and zeal. As for Ronald Reagan, this was a forbidden love, as my mom thought he was an asshole who "didn't care about regular people". I thought she must be off-base. I mean, who would leave all the glitz and glamour of Hollywood for public service but someone deeply concerned about the well-being of those less fortunate? What a guy! This whole house of cards really fell apart when Bob Barker went completely white-haired while Dan and Ronald stayed more brunette. My foundation of security was shattered.



3. If you put butter and peanut butter together on the same piece of toast or english muffin, it becomes lethal and will kill you. 

This one I am pretty sure I completely fabricated as a way to get my sister not to do this because I found it revolting. But then, as is the danger with all lies, I began to believe this myself and eventually I would not even butter my bread with a knife that I suspected had touched peanut butter, and vice versa. It's possible that I still believe this since I have never since consumed these foods in unison and insist on one-condiment-only knife use in all of my food preparation.

4. You have to have your ears pierced to go to a funeral. 

This little gem originated when my sister and I were about to get our ears pierced, ages 9 (me) and 7 (her). She snuck into my room the night before so that we could talk about all of the amazing opportunities our newly pierced ears were about to bring our way, when suddenly I blurted out that now we could go to funerals! My sister's eyes widdened and she was all, "really??" And I was like, yeah, really! We've never been to a funeral and it must be because we have no earrings, damn it! But now no one will refuse us entry! We can go to any funeral we want!

5. The giant elevated grain conveyor belt at a local grain silo was really an amusement park ride that I wasn't allowed to go on. 

This is actually quite tragic: I spent a good 5-6 years of my youth driving by this thing and thinking that my parents were just telling us it was a grain conveyor belt so that they didn't have to take us to this fun park. I never mentioned it to my friends at school because I didn't want to stand out as the only kid who hadn't gone on the bad-ass ride, or to the amusement park at all. It's also disconcerting that we lived somewhere so ungodly remote that I longed to ride the grain conveyor. (Btw, if you're reading this and you're from the NEK, you maybe know the place I'm talking about. It was on the right just after you get off 91 and head toward Lyndonville, before you come to the railroad crossing. Kinda by the intersection with the Colonade, only on the other side of rt 5. What did you think it was??)

This tale has a happy ending. As an adult,  I have learned to ask a lot of questions and I  try not to fill in the blanks too much without consulting other trusted sources of information.

You know, like Facebook and Wikipedia.

Asshole N.O.S.

In the mental health field, we use the qualifier "NOS"--meaning "Not Otherwise Specified"-- when we either don't have enough information to issue a firm DSM-IV diagnosis, or when there is something unusual that does not quite fit with the diagnostic criteria for a DSM-IV disorder. (If you are not familiar with the DSM-IV, first congratulate yourself on a wise career choice and then you can  read up on this wonderful  manual that "guides" my profession should you choose.) 


For example, let's say you're having severe mood swings and come to a clinician for assessment. You might get a diagnosis of "Mood Disorder NOS" indicating that you have some sort of mood issue that is causing you distress but that it cannot yet be attributed to a specific condition like Major Depressive Disorder, Bi Polar Disorder, or Generalized Anxiety Disorder.The "NOS" signifies that more information is needed to make a specific diagnosis because we can't yet pinpoint the cause of the mood swings. It let's everybody off the hook re: getting to the bottom of things right this exact minute, which is usually impossible in a first encounter assessment. Generally NOS diagnoses are intended to "expire" after enough time has passed for more information to be assessed, more symptoms to emerge, etc. Sometimes NOS lingers when we just can't put our finger on what's really going on.


But wait! "NOS" has a vastly more relevant and helpful purpose, however, when applied to real life!


 Let me introduce you to a little game I like to call "Asshole NOS." You can play too! It's great for not getting too riled up when the tides of douchebaggery flood your way! Plus, it's free, it reduces conflict, and it significantly reduces the likelihood that you yourself will suddenly act like an asshole. Win-win!


Let's see how it works. Here is an example of an asshole collision in everyday life, with-- you know, just for the sake of this example--my initial internal response. Just hypothetically, of course..

Now, I don't know this guy. I don't know why he's got a Hummer  or why he can't be bothered to drive the additional 13 feet to the parking lot that is empty. I don't yet have enough information to be able to firmly determine the source of this assholery. Maybe this guy is such a dick because his parents were neglectful and weird and his penis is really small so he feels like he always has to prove something. Maybe he is high as a goddamned kite right now and jonesing for feta. How the hell should I know?


 But I ask you, do I need to take this on, get all offended and toxic and vindictive? Nay! Nay, friends, I do not, thanks to Asshole NOS! Let's try it again:

See?? Asshole NOS just saved me 20 minutes of either a) vengefully affecting a disability and possibly escalating this interaction into a full-blown conflict; or b) crankily dwelling aisle to aisle as I perseverate  alternatively on kicking myself for giving him the cart and what I will say next time someone confronts me for feta. Asshole NOS saved the day!


I encourage you to employ the Asshole NOS technique for a few days and see what you think. Make it your own! You can try my other versions, too, like "Annoying as Hell NOS," "Boring NOS," and "Politically Witless NOS." Let me know how it works out. 


Cheers!

Say "No" to Weed

When we bought our house in September of 2009, I indulged in what I imagine to be very typical first-time homebuyer fantasies. I imagined myself whipping up dramatic meals that would wow our friends and feature foreign dishes with names I had to practice to pronounce. I envisioned A. and I gazing lovingly at each other as we painted rooms and laid new tile, basking in pride of ownership. In this new house, all manner of kick-assness would take place, I was certain.

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None of these fantasies--however cavernously disconnected from my actual personality and activities of daily living--could hold a candle to the massive storytelling I engaged in about what I would do with our yard. I experience what only can be described as true delusions of grandeur in this arena. It was a classic rookie mistake. I mean, we had raised beds, for fuck’s sake. (I am confident that, with the notable exception of major mental illness, nothing has contributed as much to the current homeowner epidemic of magical thinking and delusional behavior as the raised bed.) Not only did we have raised beds (RBs), but six of them were even fenced in a special little thought-distortion-fueling “side garden” area, all separate-like and cute and just waiting for something impressive to be planted! Plus, we had a whole bunch of weird rocky/yardy-type space that we could build into even more raised beds! Holy fucking shit! This garden was going to kill it! We would be like farmers!

I should mention that I felt uniquely qualified for this massive undertaking for one simple, inarguable reason: I am from Vermont. We Vermonters—and I mean native Vermonters, not you goddamned flatlanders with condos in Stowe or pansy-ass 2nd generation outtah-staytahs—are a rugged breed. We pride ourselves on doing difficult, unpleasant things that “regular” people shun and on taking on enormous projects that require back-breaking labor and large, unwieldy tools. We are not a people who “hire it done.” We shovel, dig, chop, haul, and plow our own shit, thank you mis-tah. And even though the earth is only warm enough to grow things for about five minutes a year, we fucking love to garden. Anyone who doubts this truth should swing by for a visit in August and just try to get out someone’s house without a few paper bags full of zucchini.

It should be noted here that a) I have not lived in Vermont since 1999 and b) I have only two distinct memories of actually doing anything garden-related. In one, my mom made me pick cucumbers. It was uneventful. In the other, my grandmother made me dig up potatoes and a worm got on me and I lost my shit completely and ran to the house and wouldn’t come out.

Somehow, in my new homeowner pink cloud, I was alarmed by neither the notable lack of volunteerism nor the dearth of evidence that I possess any gardening prowess or stick-to-it-iveness in these memories. No big deal, apparently.

For a couple of weeks, life was good. I tilled. I built up some new beds. I bought lots of seeds and planted them in precisely-spaced rows which I labeled with wooden kabob sticks pierced through the seed packages, just like my mom. I bought a bunch of flowers at Home Depot that I didn’t know the names of and transferred them to a bed and then posted pictures of them all over Facebook like I had birthed them. I made an involved routine of watering all my beds morning and night and gave A. daily updates like, “Did you see the green beans are poking up?” and “I think the hydrangea might be getting a new blossom!” These first few weeks were high times in my grandiose mind. High times indeed.

But I had forgotten about something. I had forgotten completely—or maybe never even really known—about weeds.

It started so innocuous and cute, one little baby weed just popping up to remind me that gardening takes sustained attention and effort. You don’t get to just sit on your ass and reap the bounty, you have to earn it. I plucked that first weed and patted myself on the back. I had just weeded! I just did extra labor. I practically toiled! Look at that dedication! I really am like a farmer!

A few days later, I was losing count of the weeds, who were looking less like cute little baby plants and a lot more like something out of one of A.’s creepy horror flicks, and they were multiplying like Gremlins in a swimming pool. They were decidedly infiltrating my RBs, and my self-satisfied plucking had given way to long bouts of focused and desperate pilaging. I started asking around and surfing the web for tricks to reduce the workload, but my anxiety grew when I learned that all of my options were pretty shitty. Basically, I could a) spend inordinate amounts of time weeding my extensive network of RBs, which I was already doing; b) douse the fuckers in Round-Up; or c) do nothing and let the weeds take over. A. and I talked it over and decided we were committed to keeping our property chemical-free and concerned about our dog’s health and blah blah blah no Round-Up. For OCD reasons alone I ruled out avoidance. So, I dug in my heels, picked up one of those foamy kneeling pads (so that’s what those are for), and prepared to earn my gardening stripes the honest way.

Needless to say, my summer basically went like this:

For the first time in my life, I understood two concepts that had eluded me: Condo living has some serious perks, and organic gardeners are bat-shit crazy.

There's One in Every Crowd

Activities of Daily Living

Ah, Wikipedia. I heart you. I pretend there was never a time when you didn't exist:


"Activities of Daily Living (ADLs) is a term used in healthcare to refer to daily self-care activities within an individual's place of residence, in outdoor environments, or both. Health professionals routinely refer to the ability or inability to perform ADLs as a measurement of the functional status of a person, particularly in regards to people with disabilities and the elderly.^[1]"




If they only knew...

Marriage: Myth vs. Reality

I’ve been thinking a lot about marriage these past few years. For one, A. and I got married last fall, so obviously we had to think about it the whole deal of linking ourselves to each other for the duration. We also happen to be lesbians who live in a state where marriage equality does not exist, (c’mon, Washington! Iowa is outpacing us?? That’s crap!) so we pondered the legal, political and social dynamics of having a wedding without the legal legitimacy that our heterosexual friends and neighbors enjoy.

Mostly, though, we focused in on the aspect of choice: we were committing to continue choosing to be together romantically, financially, domestically, sexually, etc. forever. Like, forever forever. In the words of the incomparable Natalie Dee , we would be living in each other’s fart cloud until we’re dead. Whoa.

In all the exploration of the whole “forever” part of what we were about to do, I had to dissect and dismantle a lot of the myths of marriage. I wanted to make sure I was choosing reality, not some fantasy of what I hoped being married would be. I’ve asked around, done some unsolicited ninja judging of other people’s marriages, and basically it looks like there are three primary myths that need debunking if we all want to stay sane and happy-ish while plugging along in the fart cloud. Right now I’m going to do all you unmarried readers a solid and lay these out for you so you can have all the cards on the table before getting hitched. Consider it an engagement gift. If you’re already married and any of this seems like a stunning revelation to you, well… um… yeah, I don’t really know what to say to you because it’s too awkward to tell you that you might have to get divorced. Good luck with that.

MYTH 1: You’ll have a hot sex life forever.

MYTH #2: You will always want to be together and enjoy being in each other’s personal space

MYTH #3: You will always understand each other

If you can be content with the decidedly unglamorous side of forever-dom, then you are well on your way to being a marriage success story. Enjoy the fart cloud, y’all!

I blog therefor I have a deathwish

So.

A few months back I gave notice at my job running a large community mental health program. I have been a Clinical Social Worker and Child and Family Therapist for about 10 years, and I'd reached a point where I just couldn't see how I could continue to be who I want to be and do what I want to do in life if I kept working like that. I will spare you the sordid details, but let's just say I was commuting 10 hours a week to a job where I was responsible for services to literally hundreds of high-risk mental health clients on a salary fit for, well, no one, really. And after so many years, the work-- although rewarding and dynamic and meaningful-- felt a lot like trying to bail out the Titanic with a ShamWow.

So, I left. And I went back to part-time work as an ER Social Worker, something I used to do and really enjoy. Something that requires me to read about 3 emails a week and attend exactly 0 meetings.

And then I had all this time. I told everyone how excited I was to be more healthy and active, and to engage in activities that really expand my horizons and bring me joy and blah blah blah. I mowed the lawn one day well before it looked like a meadow for Half-Pint and little Albert to play hide and seek in. I cleaned the freezer. I spent an inordinate amount of time at the video store (I know! Who even know there still WERE video stores?! They have, like, all these videos right on the shelf!) contemplating watching the complete series of The Tudors or The Pacific and decided on both.

Then I got this idea one night that I should start a blog. With pictures! As an outlet for all the snarky things I think but can never say because I want to remain marginally functional in society! Who cares that I have no actual evidence that I am interesting or funny! So what if I have never drawn or created art in any form since 10th grade? Dang, I was going to get my blog on!

So here we are.

Some quick housekeeping items. Let me show you around. This is me:

This is my partner, A. :

(And yeah, we're lesbians, if you feel distracted or uncomfortable with that may I direct you to another blog right here for your enjoyment.)

This is Carbon. He is almost two. He is a pretty great dog but he has some...limitations. He is probably the happiest creature alive. He "sings" when we play a harmonica.

These are the goddamned cats. I know, I know...it doesn't get much more lesbionic than two girls with a dog and three cats. In my defense, I only brought one cat--Ashes--to the relationship. She also happens to be the only pet who doesn't go into seizure if required to be more than 18 inches from us, a point even A. concedes when Berkeley, Koa and Carbon are crushing our chest cavities while we try to watch Shark Week.

I guess that's pretty much it. I hope you find some modest measure of enjoyment in my humble offering to the blogosphere. If not, well, thanks for stopping by. Try not to let the wif-fi boot you off on the way out...

Cheers!