tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91438939226679933712024-02-19T14:52:46.287-08:00The Low End of NormalClinical Social Worker in existential crisis loses shit, quits dream job, starts comic blog. Wh-whaat??!L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-57882874084757794332011-11-05T12:51:00.000-07:002011-11-07T12:07:35.229-08:00What if?Whoop Whoop! <br />
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We got good news! A. does not have any manner of fatal or dibilitating plague! Big fancy neurologists have narrowed the issue down to things that are treatable and/or manageable and would almost be boring if the symptoms hadn't led us to believe she could be dying. The flood of relief is overwhelming. <br />
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We've been in "what if?" mode for months, which has of course had me slithering around in the murky depths of my dark and twisty imagination where I store my encyclopedic knowledge of worst-case scenarios. It's been crunchy, for sure. But whatever, now it's awesome again! My catastrophic What Ifs have receded and my usual mix of oddly specific, fantastical, and generically anxious What Ifs are back on the scene.<br />
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Now that I've got my blogging pants back on, I'll use this post to take a more interesting, less emotionally gutting look at the day-to-day What Ifs that populate my imagination. This is only a sampling, mind you. People as cursed with my special combination of anxiety, perfectionism, inappropriate humor and a highly analytic thought process as I am spend vast portions of our existence firmly planted at the bottom of theWhat If rabbit hole. I'll just take you for a quick tour. You don't want to linger there. It's a massive time suck, and it causes muscle tension.<br />
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Without further ado, here are my top non "my-spouse-is-probably-dying"-related What ifs:<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">1. What if my cats could get their shit together?</span></b><br />
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I don't even know why I torture myself with this one; it's never going to happen. All three felines are irreparably self-involved, destructive to our personal property, and entitled beyond your wildest imagination. They are lazy as hell and contribute zero effort to maintaining the household. Even our black lab licks sticky spots off the floor, and he's not even smart. But what if they got their shit together? <br />
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If I could wave a magic wand there would be no further "litter crumbs" on my bedspread, nasty vomit-y hairballs on my dining room table, or mammoth, regenerating hair tumbleweeds on the bathroom tile requiring me to dust-bust several times a day. They would immediately cease whatever inane behavior results in all those weird kibble chunks in the water bowl. Berkeley would stop sleeping on my face and I would no longer fear suffocating in my sleep on a blob of ginger cat ass. Koa would stop hissing at shadows and alienating the dog. And Ashes, by far the most functional pet, would step the hell up with some leadership and stop dicking around on the windowsill all day.<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">2. What if I won the lottery?</span></b><br />
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This is a no-fucking-brainer: I would quit my ER job, buy a farmhouse back in Vermont near where I grew up, pay a bunch of people who need work an exorbitant amount of money to restore the shit out of it, and move A. and I over there where I would be a fabulously balanced and joyful writer and mother and she would run a collectibles business. We would also take all our peeps on a swanky vacation somewhere warm and lazy. And I would pay off all the student loans of everyone I know. And I would start a foundation that gives scholarships to rural kids from small schools. And I would buy us the fancy sperm from the expensive sperm bank so I can get pregnant with top-shelf sperm and not the discount sperm from the outlet <strike>mall </strike> sperm bank we are currently using.<br />
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And I would buy a summer cottage on a lake or the ocean. And a sailboat. And sailing lessons. And then I would put all the money in an awesome credit union and hide it from our top-shelf kids so they don't know we have it and become all entitled like the goddamned cats. Come to think of it, I need to go buy a Powerball ticket...<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">3. What if my hair dryer dies?</span></b><br />
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This just can't happen. It just...can't. I will completely lose my shit.<br />
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I have had my hair dryer for almost 12 years. It is missing a piece silver plastic inlay and the air screen on the back falls off about 50% of the time. It blows the exact temperature and speed required by my hair styling approach, and every other dryer I have ever tried is either too strong, too loud, too hot, too weak, too weird to hold, or otherwise woefully inadequate. One of my most gripping irrational fears is that my hair dryer will bite it soon and I will be left alone, unable to achieve appropriate body, fullness and shape. I have tried to prepare for this day by testing other dryers. I have gone window shopping for new units, but I just can't pull the trigger because deep in my heart I know that there is no hair dryer like mine and I will never be satisfied with a lesser appliance. I know I need to cowboy up and steel myself for the day that I have to adjust to an inferior model, but I'm not ready. In fact, I'm getting a stress headache just writing this.<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">4. What if I had been born in the Olden Days?</span></b><br />
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Guys, I would have <em>killed it</em> in the Olden Days. No joke. <br />
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I was born to milk goats and make quilts. I have the exact combination of rugged individualism, non-nonsense Protestant work ethic, and affinity for DIY that the Olden Days requires. In fact, when I was a kid, I often pretended I was Laura Ingalls Wilder or a member of Massachusetts Bay Colony <i>for days at a time </i>in my head without anyone noticing, even at school. I spent hours pretend chopping pretend wood, pretend spinning yarn from pretend wool, and making pretend stew from the last of the pretend potatoes and onions that we'd had to stretch through the very REAL (this <i>was</i> Northern Vermont IRL) long, cold winter. My family used to have frequent campfires in the summer and I learned to build a quick, perfect fire specifically to enhance my skill set for playing Olden Days. As an adult I have advanced my abilities to include basic gardening, sewing and animal care. Seriously, I would fucking thrive in Olden Days. My people would be warm and fed and no one would succumb to TB or the plague.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidNmpuZH4FRx-lcKGcJM6d91JniXwTkJUZ_xLIP0tsmUdkltEivV8o6UyFktwd-UedBqpS_ve-ZTUVwkqvihscFT-UIwuTa6_bREP3XwGS58USOy0Im53SOmdaq2-FcjCqPOcNhDjDuMA5/s1600/what+if+olden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidNmpuZH4FRx-lcKGcJM6d91JniXwTkJUZ_xLIP0tsmUdkltEivV8o6UyFktwd-UedBqpS_ve-ZTUVwkqvihscFT-UIwuTa6_bREP3XwGS58USOy0Im53SOmdaq2-FcjCqPOcNhDjDuMA5/s640/what+if+olden.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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Other people would flock to my homestead seeking advice or aid and I would become a leader in my community, helping others to rise above hardship. Like an Olden Days Social Worker. I would also have the best dresses and pantaloons. Duh.<br />
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I'd like to think my What If tendencies are exclusively reflective of my creativity, optimism and general strength of imagination, and not also about my anxiety-fueled urgency to "future trip" and predict and plan for every possible outcome in life. <br />
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Yeah, I'd like to think that. I'm going to keep thinking that. <br />
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Because what if I don't?L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-66209828606883657902011-10-26T07:55:00.000-07:002011-10-27T07:48:42.275-07:00Gay Man, Teenage Boy, or Dyke?Well, friends, it's been a while.<br />
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Things have been all cruh-zazy up in the LEON household due to some significant health issues A. has been having. We had to get all serious and focused-like. Frankly, I haven't been feeling very fucking bloggy. I especially haven't been feeling artistic, and although my "drawings" may lack, uh, <strike>any shred of</strike> a certain level of talent, they still require me to be in a doodle-y, silly mood. Life has been a bit low on silly moods of late. So no drawings for you. None. Zero. Nada. No whining. I mean it.<br />
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The good news is that I have been seeking distractions and ways to blow off steam which has lead to the welcome resurgence of a beloved game I invented back in my 20's up on Cap Hill (aka "The Gayborhood") around happy hour. I was waiting for a blind date, and after several false alarms I realized that every goddamned person who walked by looked the same. It was like the entire city of Seattle was wearing an ironic vintage t-shirt and grey hoody. I was soon catapulted to a deeply uncomfortable and confused place when I accidentally flashed my sexiest "nice to meet you" smile at a decidedly-not-legal male skateboarder who shuffled hastily past me like I was a deranged pedophile. Awkward.<br />
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I started wondering how often this happened to other people, and informal polls of my lesbian friends revealed that this guessing game was a fairly common occurrence. Apparently, this phenomenon is <a href="http://lesbianswholooklikejustinbieber.tumblr.com/">well documented</a>. I started keeping my eyes peeled at the bus stop, in coffee shops, at the movies, and--in cases where the individual could be sufficiently confirmed as a gay man, a teenage boy, or a dykey lesbian--I developed an impressive record for speed and accuracy. Out of this mini-obsession grew the official game: <b>Gay Man, Teenage Boy, or Dyke?</b> Or, "GMTBD" as we playahs call it.<br />
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This game can be played anywhere you find good people-watching, and is spectacularly challenging here in the Greater Seattle area, as I imagine in will be in most diverse urban centers. It could prove challenging in rural parts, too! GMTBD can be played with friends or alone, requires no equipment or preparation, and is sure to provide hours of entertainment! Amazeballs!<br />
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Here is how it works:<br />
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<b>1. Spot a difficult-to-identify stranger, typically facing away from you and/or at some distance away from where you are.</b><br />
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<b>2. Guess if that person is a gay male, a teenage boy, or a dykey lesbian.</b><br />
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<b>3. Wait until you can tell, then rejoice in your success or suffer the sting of defeat.</b><br />
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Here, let's try a practice round:<br />
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Casual hoody? Messenger bag? Short, breezy haircut? It's a mystery!<br />
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I won't keep you in suspense. The verdict is..........(drumroll).......:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>DYKE</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrTpvHEgFIK_Ib8aCl8yGyP04osRu1g5P6-RSTZN9cX141mIZ2dh2P-7rNmPujLIlHDISbDzRg_QYr2iDXT0hl2gGGZBJgXZKHyHPi5POoBBuhrJe5nhBLsS-4v7u6RwtF06tyHuR2g-tG/s1600/Guess1maddow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrTpvHEgFIK_Ib8aCl8yGyP04osRu1g5P6-RSTZN9cX141mIZ2dh2P-7rNmPujLIlHDISbDzRg_QYr2iDXT0hl2gGGZBJgXZKHyHPi5POoBBuhrJe5nhBLsS-4v7u6RwtF06tyHuR2g-tG/s400/Guess1maddow.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">MSNBC's Rachel Maddow</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">At this point, you're likely thinking: "Hey, LEON, this is bullshit. Rachel Maddow was dressed like a teenage boy. No fair." To this I say: T<b>here is no "fair" in GMTBD</b>. Let me illustrate:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>GAY MAN</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BQ2RrFLW8nDIMHrn6LiDrHvAm62Uy39dGzzHL4kMxmnk0Y9Lwu2Uh8Q6Zx6FHDAMmGkvmnNeMMRhk04k3Ls6ZSXkbxlH6261rOxusHGrqdH0rHhjLVyz9-LSAEQwmpcitzPyr7mYakQl/s1600/black1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4BQ2RrFLW8nDIMHrn6LiDrHvAm62Uy39dGzzHL4kMxmnk0Y9Lwu2Uh8Q6Zx6FHDAMmGkvmnNeMMRhk04k3Ls6ZSXkbxlH6261rOxusHGrqdH0rHhjLVyz9-LSAEQwmpcitzPyr7mYakQl/s400/black1.JPG" width="290" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Singer Adam Lambert</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><b>TEENAGE BOY</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDMOAVU_wZCeU4IyaTmyrkem2BcF4yShuFqyQjQdaoDCP7MD5X60lFv-R_DIX68rN7btjZqz22F_RQds6cwNH0K0kjQSEDqECOUwDGaNTPFrEe7KJ69-HqQBjokXSVgnJ-xI9TEj9SXGv/s1600/black2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSDMOAVU_wZCeU4IyaTmyrkem2BcF4yShuFqyQjQdaoDCP7MD5X60lFv-R_DIX68rN7btjZqz22F_RQds6cwNH0K0kjQSEDqECOUwDGaNTPFrEe7KJ69-HqQBjokXSVgnJ-xI9TEj9SXGv/s400/black2.JPG" width="271" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Biebs, AKA teen heartthrob Justin Bieber</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><b>DYKE</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCK44GLtls6UQsf46jVzHhB4qZpVnysS-0K-GOfWFSGXhPkJ6TPOrzljVlyalWboEZVaFWu0sUAI_lR5i9Z0p28z4yDhL2-MNFqWU5-cFonrg7nhWvP7onSxZupKg7owI4BVmMnl7rjDyq/s1600/black3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCK44GLtls6UQsf46jVzHhB4qZpVnysS-0K-GOfWFSGXhPkJ6TPOrzljVlyalWboEZVaFWu0sUAI_lR5i9Z0p28z4yDhL2-MNFqWU5-cFonrg7nhWvP7onSxZupKg7owI4BVmMnl7rjDyq/s400/black3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">DJ Samantha Ronson</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>GAY MAN</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xD2TC4zzPNjaHx5_wlgdYhtio1mSdNKAck19sHtVw6NUc9-_lh0oqbGZ0f7sn-qSKTPsP7dEocdtsr8iV8BBS83OfjIReNnHfqaijgtMLIWsJ9OcCe_9xVPVX89R7dNJFe7xta0i-XnR/s1600/plaid1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xD2TC4zzPNjaHx5_wlgdYhtio1mSdNKAck19sHtVw6NUc9-_lh0oqbGZ0f7sn-qSKTPsP7dEocdtsr8iV8BBS83OfjIReNnHfqaijgtMLIWsJ9OcCe_9xVPVX89R7dNJFe7xta0i-XnR/s400/plaid1.JPG" width="208" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Actor TR Knight</div><br />
<b>TEENAGE BOY</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7tFDkhLyqjZ3pXis8RyYxv58K6GzbCWYI5kP7UFsJyoqmwpdoqGQxaneEHTnI_vkKHzpzlWe2xfgfszdPYV2ek9fJpBmCaTI_2ISsok0Uxe1fUCjIRvdtwFuthxCi7GMxZLoKnEBmNwyZ/s1600/plaid2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7tFDkhLyqjZ3pXis8RyYxv58K6GzbCWYI5kP7UFsJyoqmwpdoqGQxaneEHTnI_vkKHzpzlWe2xfgfszdPYV2ek9fJpBmCaTI_2ISsok0Uxe1fUCjIRvdtwFuthxCi7GMxZLoKnEBmNwyZ/s400/plaid2.JPG" width="296" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Twilight <b>"</b>actor" Taylor Lautner</i></div><br />
<b>DYKE</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EuT7WQy5raMD3tbRt6ulUX4SWZ39IH5CyqLJDU7_eBOSYCwZiw8z15vW2KZcjhbObmY0PmqmSmsC-L4M8GExqr8q4Bb6AfnJfmIkCxdvkgRroTkuo4alUXDhB-NLalsF9xQHjswMAUg2/s1600/plaid3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-EuT7WQy5raMD3tbRt6ulUX4SWZ39IH5CyqLJDU7_eBOSYCwZiw8z15vW2KZcjhbObmY0PmqmSmsC-L4M8GExqr8q4Bb6AfnJfmIkCxdvkgRroTkuo4alUXDhB-NLalsF9xQHjswMAUg2/s400/plaid3.JPG" width="306" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Comedian & TV host Ellen Degeneres</div><br />
<b>GAY MAN</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9YCQX5P7WPUL-0LYfr4ZnGKfyJoJ4JjQlup92tqEv7z9gzPq73pl-0Je4WWvAa2_XLJqzIbcbtYEy0wjIZoO9pi_Ch2BXG2y7HtFiTUZGiT5hmR90rrGUZq45NZZM26jWzmOz8_ZZRe2/s1600/tshirt1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9YCQX5P7WPUL-0LYfr4ZnGKfyJoJ4JjQlup92tqEv7z9gzPq73pl-0Je4WWvAa2_XLJqzIbcbtYEy0wjIZoO9pi_Ch2BXG2y7HtFiTUZGiT5hmR90rrGUZq45NZZM26jWzmOz8_ZZRe2/s400/tshirt1.JPG" width="343" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Actor Zachary Quinto</div><br />
<b>TEENAGE BOY</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin761hL4Q1oGwu0mM0EFs1PC-is385mYBou40ACesz_YtHcab0V5PicGo1Dv7140VPTmApbOJB2gOkWyzBdWsE-Xq3APWP3-8Ksf0FJzLMURMepuYIQswT2ccEGChi7-eSHpUD24simi0i/s1600/tshirt2a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin761hL4Q1oGwu0mM0EFs1PC-is385mYBou40ACesz_YtHcab0V5PicGo1Dv7140VPTmApbOJB2gOkWyzBdWsE-Xq3APWP3-8Ksf0FJzLMURMepuYIQswT2ccEGChi7-eSHpUD24simi0i/s400/tshirt2a.JPG" width="317" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Nick Jonas of The Jonas Brothers</div><br />
<b>DYKE</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHWMEnDgCsEERJbqOmC97_gVdszR20gJo32pzJfE24PQjxseLpiToqzUloBuLFoNYkWiEBsdL5N_27RLvEKFwYaQCP13TrGCqQfJk5zRKvZLeiuzpz-C8eijClhk7KRyR5ZsyooYB0Nny/s1600/tshirt3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHWMEnDgCsEERJbqOmC97_gVdszR20gJo32pzJfE24PQjxseLpiToqzUloBuLFoNYkWiEBsdL5N_27RLvEKFwYaQCP13TrGCqQfJk5zRKvZLeiuzpz-C8eijClhk7KRyR5ZsyooYB0Nny/s400/tshirt3.JPG" width="303" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"L Word" Actor Kate Moennig</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">See? It's like half the planet is shopping at <a href="http://www.aeropostale.com/family/index.jsp?categoryId=4025675&cp=3534618.3534619.3534624.3542202">Aeropostale</a>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The trick to GMTBD success is to play your odds. What are the odds that a couple of gay men are attending a lesbian parenting lecture? How likely is it that a couple of adult dykes are practicing jumping their dirt bikes off a ramp? Is it common for teen boys to hit the tanning salon? You get the picture. Two caveats on the common sense front: A) obviously, teenage boys can be gay men-in-training, so expect some cross-pollination in clues; and B) should you find yourself at a "mixed culture" event such as, oh, say, a "Glee" Tour concert, you may as well pack it in as you are basically S.O.L...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">OK, so let's get guessing! Answers are at the bottom.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>1.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCAiEchdydlgfvGSPQKmkk9IGXlAoeHlalj86otG2lIqfND7bxZ0LEg0Rahs5S83oUIGc-lk6NgUpN3lykTGaJ1bgqn9ePoI64gAnTVWy1gC3zVkNVY01u_NyNA7WNBNusfDg7etAq-Yp4/s1600/editguess3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCAiEchdydlgfvGSPQKmkk9IGXlAoeHlalj86otG2lIqfND7bxZ0LEg0Rahs5S83oUIGc-lk6NgUpN3lykTGaJ1bgqn9ePoI64gAnTVWy1gC3zVkNVY01u_NyNA7WNBNusfDg7etAq-Yp4/s400/editguess3.jpg" width="288" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>2. </b></span><br />
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</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>3.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>1. GAY MAN!</b></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTgQZ4t9V38_QTua-kgHi5pZaLWuxGkEerZwJQ6EECmwxvuqropZoohZVwQb3O_w7gRwcyR9BepoiDgaOjwO_yWURwrOk5d7E97G6mLjaI3ZhOD9L7vj18cAG0bBHPPlFXXLnRFbUEj8Ss/s1600/guess3wentworth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTgQZ4t9V38_QTua-kgHi5pZaLWuxGkEerZwJQ6EECmwxvuqropZoohZVwQb3O_w7gRwcyR9BepoiDgaOjwO_yWURwrOk5d7E97G6mLjaI3ZhOD9L7vj18cAG0bBHPPlFXXLnRFbUEj8Ss/s400/guess3wentworth.JPG" width="287" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Actor Wentworth Miller</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>2. DYKE!</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtajRYWHAlbC970_d6sdpFKTZ9gEG4k4sY4THQP69-nVvTdKk8PP5N0FRF0ClaBJVKLNywRE9-w0Sn9Ipiv3mAaogwl_jmHLixQ4TxOSyUKjGpgo1oA3OmapDQYtrk_CgYlsFLuPzURLYJ/s1600/guess2becca.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtajRYWHAlbC970_d6sdpFKTZ9gEG4k4sY4THQP69-nVvTdKk8PP5N0FRF0ClaBJVKLNywRE9-w0Sn9Ipiv3mAaogwl_jmHLixQ4TxOSyUKjGpgo1oA3OmapDQYtrk_CgYlsFLuPzURLYJ/s400/guess2becca.JPG" width="281" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Comedian Rebecca Drysdale</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>3. TEENAGE BOY!</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdBrRronmZMULWWtFx9HBWlqlg0MhAschZcVpvGidOm7MQpo7atnPQ7hNTsH4hKi0prJ2tYu6kQM8S_VfeDSmYZq-pJAwxfhOLe0VTS_2vVZGykubAhkDvYtRtKHhNtooT5AfZRbfvysgQ/s1600/guess4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdBrRronmZMULWWtFx9HBWlqlg0MhAschZcVpvGidOm7MQpo7atnPQ7hNTsH4hKi0prJ2tYu6kQM8S_VfeDSmYZq-pJAwxfhOLe0VTS_2vVZGykubAhkDvYtRtKHhNtooT5AfZRbfvysgQ/s400/guess4.JPG" width="261" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">American Idol sensation David Archuletta</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Let me know how you did. And please, share GMTBD with your friends and neighbors. In these tough economic times we all could use a little low-cost entertainment, non? Pay it forward, y'all. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(PS. Thanks for your patience in my absence. I know it's not really cool to launch a blog, drag you all into reading it, and then disappear for a couple of months. Lame. Please forgive me...you're super pretty.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div>L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-52908146553608488602011-08-23T16:40:00.000-07:002011-10-31T01:40:08.129-07:00Unsolved MysteriesYou might not know it to look at me, but I am a thinker. I have been since I was a kid, when I would spend an hour or two staring at the weird flower pattern on my bedroom wallpaper pondering great mysteries like why those kids on <i>You Can't Do That on Television</i> didn't just say "I'm not sure" to avoid getting green slimed. Or what would happen if the tooth fairy and Santa had to come on the same night. Would he share the cookies? Would she let him out the front door? Do they even know each other?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTlGubE_Eb5ghO3cG7OysQLG5U4f-cn2CarTvhF05kHPVcjb_45DkfT210u4-MXywYWYgFZrqZNXvndKK82bjFfXWqjxFVE_ZpCyZpOpr5srIzHWuvfaHw0cq8qspESZFRe0mVsu8ksod/s1600/xMysteries+Santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTlGubE_Eb5ghO3cG7OysQLG5U4f-cn2CarTvhF05kHPVcjb_45DkfT210u4-MXywYWYgFZrqZNXvndKK82bjFfXWqjxFVE_ZpCyZpOpr5srIzHWuvfaHw0cq8qspESZFRe0mVsu8ksod/s640/xMysteries+Santa.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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As you can see, I was quite the budding intellectual.<br />
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Three decades later, I have acquired as many degrees that confirm my brilliance. Yes, friends, you are reading the wise words of a woman with BA's in both French <i>and</i> Sociology (Mon dieu!), and a graduate degree in Social Work. Pretty swank, huh? No need for trivial things like computer science or international economics, no sir. I spent my years and extensive financial aid dollars at elite institutions fine tuning my conjugation skills and reading up on methodologies for dismantling The Self. Cha-ching, baby, <i>chaaaaa-ching.</i><br />
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Lately I've noticed that, no matter how hard I get my stare on or how long I ponder, there remain certain questions I simply cannot answer. Some of these questions persist day after day, sometimes year after year, and pick away at me, even keeping me awake a night. I thought maybe this blog post would be a good way to invite others to please, <i>please</i> share some insight into these maddening mysteries. <i>Please</i>.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>1. Is Alanis Morissette a total idiot or a fucking genius?</b></span><br />
Speaking of <i><a href="http://www.ycdtotv.com/cast/index.php?p=morissette">You Can't Do That on Television</a></i>, this Alanis Morissette issue really chaps my ass. The mystery is simple: in her seminal 1995 hit "Ironic," Morissette lists off situation after situation which she refers to as "ironic", but <i>none of these things is actually ironic.</i> This song is so maddening to me that I literally feel like I'm going to stroke out when I hear it. "Rain on your wedding day"? Um, shitty luck but not ironic. "Good advice that you just can't take"? Also lame, and possibly an indication that you are fucked up, but still not ironic. "No smoking sign on your cigarette break"? Yep, not ironic. And don't even get me started about the ten thousand spoons...<br />
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So the question is: is Alanis Morisette (in the words of my high school German exchange student) so many cups short of a cupboard that she--and her entire production team, apparently--doesn't realize these lyrics do not in fact represent irony? Or, does she <i>know</i> <i>they are not ironic and use them anyway</i>, thereby rendering the entire song <i>truly</i> ironic--meta ironic--because it's called "Ironic" but there is no irony in it, which would make her brilliant?!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-FE3qpZdQ24mYvity4U9eJxRsresQOTmxTsO4vcI2suNdpd0Smfxy7nUHyuG8tfy1LE9npbee6xHDP4sv6a5mRRKGUpraAnNE6UtirmtA5EYa4mV1si0IPeWOVI2wbEsqm1d6lFpsZJc/s1600/xMysteries+Alanis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-FE3qpZdQ24mYvity4U9eJxRsresQOTmxTsO4vcI2suNdpd0Smfxy7nUHyuG8tfy1LE9npbee6xHDP4sv6a5mRRKGUpraAnNE6UtirmtA5EYa4mV1si0IPeWOVI2wbEsqm1d6lFpsZJc/s640/xMysteries+Alanis.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
I have worked this one over time and again, even talking about it with various friends, and we just can't come to consensus. I deeply want for her to be brilliant, but a little voice inside tells me she is really just a tool with a limited grasp of the concept of irony and has no idea that her big hit sends more learned listeners such as myself into full-on conniption because it is so fucking daft.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>2. What is the deal with tail-on shrimp and how are you supposed to eat it?</b></span><br />
I don't get you, tail-on shrimp.<br />
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I mean, what is your <i>deal</i>? Unless you are going to be featured in shrimp cocktail, where I will pick your tasty ass up by my fingers, you perplex and irritate me. I find it confusing when you are in my scampi or stir-fry. How am I supposed to eat you without getting my fingers all gucked up in my food from getting your tail off? Am I supposed to eat you with the tail on, and somehow spit it out? You make no sense. I've tried to de-tail you with just my silverware and it's impossible. Why are you even here? Are the chefs just lazy and can't be bothered to remove your tail? Is there some special benefit to cooking you with tail on that is important enough to justify asking the diner to dig their fingers into their food to remove you at the table? If that's the case, why don't you come with instructions? You are so delicious that I continue to order you despite the fact you are an epic pain in the ass.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsoVIkIH9bqwrIPda33R9d0OSrf4zUHF_Si3ZRzZOOEvvO3wEsyA08QlUk8KSz1QkYMx7f3wPM_4nmnPRMXovmx1weFDeuLwvylTzfYk0fRHLll1H_Ik1CFITgekhKB9NhAQTBUdC3h4C/s1600/xMysteries+Shrimp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsoVIkIH9bqwrIPda33R9d0OSrf4zUHF_Si3ZRzZOOEvvO3wEsyA08QlUk8KSz1QkYMx7f3wPM_4nmnPRMXovmx1weFDeuLwvylTzfYk0fRHLll1H_Ik1CFITgekhKB9NhAQTBUdC3h4C/s640/xMysteries+Shrimp.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Fuck you, tail-on shrimp, fuck you.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b>3. Why the hell does Autocorrect infuse people's texts with filth and nonsense?</b></span><br />
Ok, first off, if you don't know what I'm referring to here, let me fill you in: Autocorrect is a smartphone program that "predicts" what you are trying to type into a text message and fills it in for you. Nifty! Except it tends to <a href="http://damnyouautocorrect.com/10484/the-top-15-most-popular-dyac-texts-of-all-time/">fill in everything with words and phrases that are pornographic, bizarre, and/or nonsensical. </a> It throws in shit like "Manboobs" instead of "Monday" and "Poophole" instead of "pool" and typically renders the unwitting texter frustrated if not mortally embarrassed. To be sure, I find replacing the word "purse" with "pussy" as funny as the next person, but c'mon, this program is rigged! I've heard it said that Autocorrect fills in your texts with words you yourself commonly use, but that is a lie, since I personally have had all manner of explicit body parts and weird pop culture references "predicted" into my own texts messages when I know for a fact I have never before typed those words.<br />
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So what the fuck? Are the Autocorrect programmers just a bunch of childish frat boys sitting around flooding the dictionary with gems like "assmunch" and "dickinabox" while they share a spliff? Or does the dictionary somehow populate with the words most commonly used by all text users? And if so, who are all these people writing texts with words like "afterbirth" and "manjuice" with such frequency that they would get added to the damn program? <i>Who</i>??<br />
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I implore you, LEON readers, if you have any reasonable theories or direct information about these unsolved mysteries, for the love of god, clue me in. I have other more pressing matters I would like to devote some thinking to, like how to get my dog to stop eating cat shit from the litter box and new strategies for getting A. to change the toilet paper roll, for starters. Help a sister out.L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-17271652781866795102011-08-14T23:03:00.000-07:002011-08-15T00:11:19.648-07:00Defying Gravity, aka Fail Blog #1<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">So, I'd been working on a post about Do's and Don'ts for when you have to go to the Emergency Room, but something is weird about it and I'm not sure it's that funny. I could make it a lot more funny, but to do so would require violating some professional boundaries and possibly HIPAA, so given that I like my job and hope to remain employed, I'm shelving it for now. (If you're interested, here's the take-away: If you want a pleasant, quick and medically helpful ER visit, don't lie, act right, and try really really hard not to shit your pants.) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">But fear not, friends! A post you shall have! My ER post got me thinking about my own numerous visits to Emergency Rooms over the years. I'm kind of a frequent flier:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">Those of you who know me can attest that I am mythically prone to falling down and other acts of violent and dangerous uncoordination, the frequency and absurdity of which dwarf the mishaps and accidents of normal people. I deeply wish this were hyperbole. My body, pocket book, and self-esteem would all be in much better shape if I were just being dramatic here. But alas, I am not, and so I thought to myself, "Self, you have no dignity left in this arena. You lost that on a patch of ice in a parking lot back in 1998. Might as well just broadcast to the entire internet the magnitude of your klutzery." Lemonade out of lemons, kids.</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">So I identified a sampling of my most memorable fails, highlights from various ages and places, (although two of the fails are from college because, well, it's fucking college and frankly it's impressive that I made it out alive, what will all the tomfoolery, sleep deprivation, reckless abandon and recreational substance use.) I began to notice I was having a hard time narrowing down the list and was ultimately forced to admit that I could possibly create a whole<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>series</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>of posts on this topic and not run out of material. I add to the fail collection often, you see. There is even a good chance that I could acquire puncture wound or broken toe<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>just in the course of writing this post</i>. I tell you, the world is my obstacle course.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">So, in the name of good story-telling and metering out my shame over time, a series it shall be. To start us off, I have identified a particularly embarrassing childhood fail. Let us begin...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><strong><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Fail 1: Bike Meets Brick Wall Fail, age 8</span></span></strong><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><strong><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></strong></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">This fail is near and dear to my heart, as it is one of my earliest and possibly the first time I learned that with great physical calamity comes great humiliation. It started off innocently enough: I was riding my bike down at The Graded School, the large, old, brick school house at the end of my block. (It really was called The Graded School--the name was carved into the front of it. I always thought it was weird to have an adjective as a school name, but I guess that how they rolled in the olden days.) At the time, this school functioned as my town's junior high, so I wasn't old enough to attend, but I knew it well because I lived just a few doors away and all of us neighborhood kids played there regularly. We loved to roller skate and bike down "the hill," the paved drive that ran from the front parking lot along the left side of the building and opened up into the large paved playground area in the back. I use "playground" loosely here, as it primarily consisted of several old tractor trailer tires, a basket-less basket ball court, an open blacktop area salt and peppered with shards of broken glass, and an unobstructed embankment leading down to the leech-filled Passumsic River, which was prone to flood the entire area several times a year. In retrospect, the whole place was kind of a death trap, but in the 80's, this specimen of rural splendor was our neighborhood stomping grounds.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">On the day in question, I was riding my bike up and down "the hill" pretending I was Laura Ingalls Wilder riding my horse. Pretending to be Laura Ingalls Wilder was an alarmingly popular activity of mine, and I was so good at it that I would sometimes go for days at a time pretending that I was away at "teacher's college" and my entire family were just the people who ran the boarding house I lived in while I pined to go home to Walnut Grove. Yeah. So I was pretty good at getting into character, which I believe accounts for my general lack of awareness in this fail.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">I'm not sure where everyone else in the neighborhood was that day (maybe they fled the prairie) but I had been doing this horse-hill thing for about 20 minutes or so when I had a great idea: it was time to pull my horse into the barn for feeding! The Graded School was shaped like a large capital "I". The original school house was the top of the "I", and then a newer hallway-ish thing connected a large gymnasium addition at the back of the school, the bottom of the "I". The hill I was going up and down was the side of the "I", and the indent part, I was sure, was the barn. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">So, from the top of the hill I began to pedal, with the intention of veering sharply to the right half-way down to park in the barn. Sweet plan!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Except this: when it came time to turn, I was going too fast. My horse would not fucking whoa. I felt myself panicking but the course of my demise was set. I couldn't turn the required ninety-degrees and instead turned at about forty...and crashed, full speed, head-on, into the brick wall of the gymnasium.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">I remember little about the impact other than the sound of my crumpling horse-bike, but I suspect my body hit the wall before bouncing back several feet and splaying all over the gravely blacktop, which I hit with a resounding thud to rival any child-body-on-pavement thud. I laid there for a minute and assessed: wind knocked out, head pain, searing knee and ankle, tingly elbow, feeling of utter shock and devastation. I also sensed that I had acquired a sampling of bloody, gravel-encrusted scrapes but I couldn't bring myself to move to check. Before I could muster the strength to lift my head, a figure appeared over me. It was Mrs. E. from across the street. She had heard me crying (was I<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>crying??</i>) and came to see what was the matter. She looked positively<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>stricken</i>. "My god, dear!" she said, so concerned, "<i>what happened?</i>"<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Holy shit, people will want to know what happened! Oh my god! How on earth do I tell them that I essentially pedaled myself full-speed into a brick wall? That I was trying to put my fake horse in the fake barn? That I forgot to think about the mechanics of speed and turning and such? They will think I'm a fucking wackjob! That. Can't. Happen. Gaaaaaah!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">And yet--perhaps because of head injury-- I couldn't think of a single reasonable lie to tell her that would explain this. There were no other kids around. There were no rogue kitties to swerve to avoid, no disorienting sun glare. I caved:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"> I just let it go. I began--or perhaps continued-- to<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>wail</i>. Cried my fucking guts out. Poor Mrs. E. She had two daughters a bit older that me, who I know for a fact were major contributors to the broken glass situation around here but likely had never propelled themselves into this building. She gingerly lifted me up, gave me a once-over for protruding bones or severed arteries, and said she thought I "needed some ice." We collected a few pieces of debris--chunks of broken reflector , part of my gear shift lever--and </span>walked me and my bike carcass home. </div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Actually, technically she walked me to my neighbor's house because I didn't want her talking to my mom. I limped into the garage and threw my bike in a heap next to my sister's (We were not consistent kick-stand users in our family) before slinking in the back door and racing to the upstairs bathroom where I sullenly de-graveled my wounds before dabbing them all with a wet washcloth. I knew we didn't have any band-aids. My mother's first aid philosophy centered around the concept of cowboying up and the belief that any non-fatal injury could be healed by "rubbing it" or covering it with paper towels. After taking inventory of my scrapes, aches and at least one hematoma forming on the back of my head, I declared myself healthy enough to avoid disclosure of this incident to my mom and decided maybe it was time to curl up with a good Nancy Drew. I'd had enough Little House for one day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">Over the next few weeks, I will offer up more confessions of LEON's Top Fails in addition to my other material. I think it will be therapeutic. If nothing else, please<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>please</i> take this body of work as a giant, illustrated cautionary tale. Although, let's be honest: there is no prevention mechanism for the particular blend of Little House obsession, physics ignorance, and lack of planning that lead to this FAIL, nor for the many LEON eccentricities that conspire to erupt in all manner of physical nonsense. In any case, stay tuned for Fail #2: Dorm Steps Peach Snapple FAIL, coming soon...Cheers!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">PS. If you like LEON, you can <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Low-End-of-Normal/145654385520430">like it on Facebook</a>! You'll get all the posts without having to check the blog directly. Amazeballs!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-8509274258431735632011-08-09T10:22:00.000-07:002011-08-09T19:58:03.894-07:00SchmexerciseIt's summer!<br />
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Or, for those of us with BMIs over 20, "the season of low self-esteem."<br />
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Each year at this time I dive head-first into a shame spiral about how lax I've been about exercising and "getting back in shape." Actually, to get "back" in shape you have to have originally <i>been</i> in shape, and I'm sure that there's some kind of statute of limitations preventing me from using my senior year in high school as a benchmark to return to. Still, to be fair, a few years ago I had lost a lot of weight and was feeling great:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CCxPPMJ7wDY3l6XdP9XAzYT941q09HJ4T7PNt2Zeyk1ZlvCa2-eCveiSSpaBcahDWFyH76Gsn-31EX-fswtNu9G0RTAlKFP0irN5vk6Jm9kDwV75Qxoql0UXJRPC4MqXLBlrecMP5Eki/s1600/xSchmex+FINE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2CCxPPMJ7wDY3l6XdP9XAzYT941q09HJ4T7PNt2Zeyk1ZlvCa2-eCveiSSpaBcahDWFyH76Gsn-31EX-fswtNu9G0RTAlKFP0irN5vk6Jm9kDwV75Qxoql0UXJRPC4MqXLBlrecMP5Eki/s640/xSchmex+FINE.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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But then I did a bunch of life things like falling in love and working like a maniac and I slowly packed back on some of what I had lost. For a while I didn't notice, but then I had to buy new work pants and shit got serious. I started feeling like Fatty Fatterson and the Chubtones every time I had to wear something other than yoga pants. It was time to (sigh) <i>exercise</i>.<br />
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For some people, exercising is a wholly pleasurable endeavor. These folks are inclined towards activities such as repeated marathon running, mountaineering, extreme weight-lifting and the like. They can be identified by their ripped abs and glow of self-satisfied vigor:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRWqzxdiBDayE9Bv-o0oOSqx6xVs7IW8ozW_5eHzo-O34btw2MksnxA9qr_POHnU50sgHMan7DICH-fe0auR4AXEry0IrVvC03G3ruZIoTI3qDh3NWZ7uyPAjFvKDKdNlAfvrcGpcb0AOR/s1600/xSchmex+woohoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRWqzxdiBDayE9Bv-o0oOSqx6xVs7IW8ozW_5eHzo-O34btw2MksnxA9qr_POHnU50sgHMan7DICH-fe0auR4AXEry0IrVvC03G3ruZIoTI3qDh3NWZ7uyPAjFvKDKdNlAfvrcGpcb0AOR/s640/xSchmex+woohoo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Perhaps you know some of these people; I do. I find them completely disequilibrating to be around. These elite exercise enthusiasts are typically oblivious to the fact that most of us have a love/hate (if not full-on <i>hate/</i>hate)relationship with physical exertion. They just don't get why we might prefer, say, laying in our underwear watching a House Hunters International marathon to hitting the pavement for a 12-miler.<br />
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First of all, exercise makes most of us really fucking hot. And sweaty. This is not a good hot and sweaty, like, say, you'd get in a sauna. This is a soul-killing tsunami of physical misery. Your heart is pounding, sweat beads drip into your eyes and ears and your hair gets all wet and disgusting. Your skin flushes and itches and maybe you even get heat rash hives. I suspect that the exercise fiends enjoy this panoply of sensations. Perhaps they find it invigorating and cleansing. Regular folks, however, do not share this perspective. We know this state of sticky despair is our body's way of warning us to abort mission, and we avoid it at all cost.<br />
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Secondly, unless you are already fit, coordinated, and experienced, it is almost impossible not to look like a total asshole while exercising. Between the active-wear that exposes your arm pudge, the complete absence of appropriate technique, and the huffing and puffing that serves as a flashing neon sign advertising your lack of fitness to the world, exercising can be an emotionally debilitating affair. It requires the participant's willingness to be humiliated in the name of health. I experienced this recently when I attended my first Zumba class:<br />
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This extent of my embarrassment rivaled the time my mom told our entire house full of Christmas party guests that I had just started my period for the first time.<br />
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Lastly, it is often those fitness elites themselves who serve as a barrier to exercise for the average person. We are totally sure that they are judging us. Most likely, many of them are completely unaware that we are even there and are focused instead on their own workout and general awesomeness. There are some, however, that we are certain are utterly consumed with taking stock of our every hyper-extension, grunt, and misstep:<br />
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We feel their laser eyes boring down on our flabby bodies each time we pause to take a water break. And we feel small. Bad small, not fit small.<br />
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All of this is enough to make many of us give up exercise altogether and resign ourselves to our chubby, winded lot in life. But before you throw in the sweat towel and head for the Ben and Jerry's, I encourage you to try the secret weapon I have honed over years of pride-swallowing fitness endeavors. It has allowed me to keep plugging along in all my sweat-soaked glory through all manner of yoga classes, Nautilus rotations, and even "running" my first 5k earlier this year. I call it the "Wonder Woman," and it's very simple: just pretend you are inside an invisible jet. No one can see you. No one even knows you are there:<br />
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Feel like going home after only doing 11 minutes on the eliptical? No problem, no one will know! Drop a dumbell on your foot and burst into tears? Who cares? You're invisible! Cry your eyes out!<br />
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The Wonder Woman, when properly employed, will allow you the freedom to exercise without inhibition. Go ahead and try that pilates class you've had your eye on. Feel free to take up ballroom dancing or tennis. I can't say you won't be hot and sweaty, but shit, you can stop if you want and no one will judge you. You can lay your ass down in the middle of the gym and take a nap if you feel like it . No one will see! (NB:Young people may prefer to call this technique the "Cloak of Invisibility" for a more age-appropriate pop-culture reference. Be my guest. Whatever works!)<br />
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The bottom line seems to be that we've all got to move our asses from time to time or risk dying painful, shameful and preventable deaths from horrible diseases that will consume us and make us wish we'd done more step aerobics. So, use the Wonder Woman. Or come up with your own method for staying active. If anyone invents an anti-hot-and-sweaty pill, I'll be your best friend. No joke.<br />
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L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-84490420131690864742011-08-02T05:52:00.000-07:002011-10-29T06:52:29.413-07:00Five Ways to Fuck Up an Apology : A PrimerAh, apologies.<br />
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Those pesky little moments of humility and accountability where we get to be all mature and remorseful while every cell in our bodies squirms with awkwardness and shame. Or, alternatively, those moments of great deception when we attempt to get the social currency that comes with vocalizing remorse while internally holding fast to the notion that we are right, goddamnit, and the other person is a moron/asshole/baby or otherwise off-base. Apologies can be an opportunities to grow and to build enhanced connections with people, often taking relationships to a new level:<br />
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Often, though, they are characterized by insincerity, minimization, passive-aggression, or other qualities that negate the value an authentic apology may have held, and in fact can even escalate the conflict or leave the other person feeling worse than if you hadn't "apologized" at all.<br />
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You'd think since apologies are so important, we'd all be kick-ass at being sorry. Not so, friends! My personal and professional experience indicates that there is almost nothing we handle more poorly in our interpersonal relationships than apologies. I myself am a perfect example. I mean, I'm a <em>therapist</em> for christsake, and even I have an embarrassing collection of epically fumbled mea culpas that salt and pepper everything from my romantic relationship resume to my friendships. (Sorry about that, everybody. Really. Totally sorry.)<br />
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There are two ingredients needed to make an effective apology: actual feelings of remorse, and the ability to appropriately communicate them. If you're missing the first, then your impending apology is already pretty much dead in the water and I urge you to reconsider even attempting a fakey. In addition to being lame and possibly karmically toxic, it can get you into a Boy Who Cried Wolf territory with the recipient; once they are on to your trickery they never believe any future apologies and usually write you off as a narcissist or a douche. (Maybe you <i>are</i> a narcissist and/or a douche, but I encourage you to at least attempt to function like a more authentic, compassionate human being, even if it feels overwhelming. If nothing else, you'll have more friends.)<br />
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Assuming you <em>are</em> actually sorry, now you have to figure out how to say so in a way that is effective. Since many apologies need to happen on the fly--say, mid-argument--you don't really have a lot of time to strategize. It helps if you know some common pitfalls to avoid. And guess who's here to help with that? <em>Me</em>, baby. <em>Me.</em> (No applause, really. You're too much...)<br />
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So here you have it, free of charge, right from the Mental Health Professional's mouth:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1. <b>The </b><strong>Equivocal Fakey, aka "I'm sorry, but..."</strong></span><br />
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The EF is one of the most common apology pitfalls out there and occurs when you aren't actually sorry at all. Remember my advice above and try to resist the urge (or the outside pressure) to prematurely apologize, or you risk walking off this plank. The EF is basically a gigantic monster blame bomb you are throwing at the other person, insinuating--if not outright saying--that whatever you're "apologizing" for is their fault. It's completely inauthentic because what you are really thinking is "I'm not sorry at all. You deserved it because of what you did and I think <em>you </em>owe <em>me </em>the apology. I am still mad and I also don't think I did anything wrong." It can be super-destructive to bust out an EF, and it makes you look like a jerky hothead. Avoid this at all costs because you lose points and then you have to apologize for your apology, which is a real drag.<br />
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<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">2. The Condescender</span> </strong><br />
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The Condescender is a dark and twisty little bugger that worms its way into apologies from people who are self-righteous, judgmental and/or arrogant. Sadly, the person implementing The Condescender generally earnestly believes they are apologizing. These people often have no idea how patronizing and un-sorry they sound. If you tend to find yourself constantly taking stock of other people's flaws, weaknesses, and limitations and never of your own, you may be prone this one. My suggestion is to stick to a script that only talks about you: "<strong>I</strong> am really sorry <strong>I </strong>did/said ______. <strong>I</strong> know <strong>I </strong>hurt you." The goal is to emphasize the feeling of remorse for <em>your</em> behavior. Again, it helps to actually feel sorry. It also helps to try to be less of an arrogant prick. <br />
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<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">3. Enigmatic Mystery Apology</span></strong><br />
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The EMA--popular in frat houses and other arenas where straight men congregate-- is problematic in that the recipient has no fucking idea what you are talking about. It's hard to have meaningful repair in a relationship when you're not sure if the person is sorry for shooting your dog that time at hunting camp or for banging your girlfriend down in Cabo last New Year's. Maybe s/he is sorry for taking your Garbage Pail Kids collection in 3rd grade, who the hell knows? The EMA can be particularly confusing when you have done multiple crap-ass things for which you are or should be sorry. The solution here is to be specific: "Dude, I am super-sorry I drank all your beer and then painted your computer screen with White-Out." Once you've been clear, you can go back to non-communicating as usual. <br />
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<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">4. The Relapse</span></strong><br />
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Like The Equivocal Fakey, The Relapse also occurs when you are not really sorry and/or not yet calmed down. It is characterized by repeating the behavior you just apologized for. If you do this, you are either devoid of even a minimal level of self-awareness, or you are still angry and amped up for a fight. The Relapse comes in two forms: short-cycle, like the example above, and long-cycle, such as when someone apologizes for cheating on you and then cheats on you again. I'm just going to spell this out so there is no confusion: If you apologize for something, <i>you need to make every effort to avoid ever doing that thing again</i>. Otherwise, you are a shitty person.<br />
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<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">5. The Time Bandit</span></strong><br />
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The Time Bandit is the granddaddy of the apology fuck-up. It has the capacity to deal a fatal blow to the relationship. The Time Bandit is an apology given at the absolute most stratospherically inopportune moment possible, when the receiver is either completely unavailable/incapable of responding to the apology or will be forced into responding in a constrained fashion for which s/he will resent you until the end of days. Examples include apologizing for infidelity right before your partner takes the stage to accept an Academy Award and broadcasting your apology on the Jumbo-Tron at the nationally televised play-off game. Ninety-five percent of TB's typically start with a shocking confession at the helm and come from spineless, sackless, cowardly gits who intentionally chose an inappropriate moment in an attempt to manipulate the recipient into a small reaction, quick forgiveness, and minimal discussion. (The other five percent of TB's are made by people who are too socially inept, disoriented or impaired by altered mental status to even have noticed how inappropriate the timing on the apology was. Those folks get a pass, and frankly, should get points for apologizing at all.) If you have considered--or worse, <i>utilized</i>--a Time Bandit, the only course of action I can recommend is a swift self-flagellation. That, and grow some fucking balls.<br />
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So there you have it, friends. Be honest, be specific, avoid blaming, keep assholery to a minimum, and try not to sabotage your recipient with shenanigans that will make them hate your fucking guts.<br />
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Happy Tuesday!L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-10979898799861910282011-07-30T05:06:00.000-07:002011-07-31T04:26:36.105-07:00Pork Chops<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Take it from me, we should not. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">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 <em>annually for eternity, </em>enter select people's homes and leave gifts while somehow not upsetting the 65% of the planet that doesn't celebrate this holiday. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">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:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;">1. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><strong>Pigs lay pork chops </strong></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"> 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 </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><em>nine years old</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;">. Yeah. Like fourth grade. The only reason I learned that this was </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><em>not</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"> 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 </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><em>(ham!)</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"> were responsible for these killings. It was a long car ride for me that day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">2. <strong>Dan Rather, Bob Barker and Ronald Reagan were triplets</strong></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8X2vvQaApqjDZOBUsTIA4x-FWFQic-OlnA_jHFQ24GzU0C3a-NE1koOIT3Ic7mCg-k4-NxNQepr7H939v8sl8U_j52bXx2ui7t_5VtvB0Bi77T4_Iw6H62WfJbJ2zR7bfQ4reRvkKCrU/s1600/xPork+Chops+Bob+Barker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8X2vvQaApqjDZOBUsTIA4x-FWFQic-OlnA_jHFQ24GzU0C3a-NE1koOIT3Ic7mCg-k4-NxNQepr7H939v8sl8U_j52bXx2ui7t_5VtvB0Bi77T4_Iw6H62WfJbJ2zR7bfQ4reRvkKCrU/s640/xPork+Chops+Bob+Barker.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"><b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">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! </span><span style="font-family: Times;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">3. <strong>If you put butter and peanut butter together on the same piece of toast or english muffin, it becomes lethal and will kill you.</strong> </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSO-gjY4RhQJohBv3MCv5fiAbFA3t6hPKpeLxTq-1VgWoc9t27GV2hyphenhyphenYX1ckngl6Tt00cFddwykTAiCBrD2bFfteVprc4J_4NJ6BvmtsI-4_fmqotETueS0bfzel3ApJe6nYbRl23dAaM/s1600/xPork+Chops+PB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSO-gjY4RhQJohBv3MCv5fiAbFA3t6hPKpeLxTq-1VgWoc9t27GV2hyphenhyphenYX1ckngl6Tt00cFddwykTAiCBrD2bFfteVprc4J_4NJ6BvmtsI-4_fmqotETueS0bfzel3ApJe6nYbRl23dAaM/s640/xPork+Chops+PB.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">4. <strong>You have to have your ears pierced to go to a funeral.</strong> </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlfZdE3a3P2MuejlqmuAhvkw0w0XJ026DtzMCjOeD742-pkww5hG1Z-oZlKFrE3467Tk68EcIdD_DvP-BTrQ8ap7G2bVSgp37UOpjNiEb_E_cl3mKzTSyLMPrCpICAysnp_jxZx_a2WTb1/s1600/xPork+Chops+Funeral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlfZdE3a3P2MuejlqmuAhvkw0w0XJ026DtzMCjOeD742-pkww5hG1Z-oZlKFrE3467Tk68EcIdD_DvP-BTrQ8ap7G2bVSgp37UOpjNiEb_E_cl3mKzTSyLMPrCpICAysnp_jxZx_a2WTb1/s640/xPork+Chops+Funeral.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">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, "<em>really??"</em> 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!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">5. <strong>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.</strong> </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2LlZB8WR8d38X4IXdCHah6ZSG2fzT3U902QcZ2o2ZQiEH2guxyUEq_SInFAlx-CwU9XWv2agskmUBgYCc7jpVh-eKZy4NYfXCE0TssMF-3dlJUUPU6O0tXUwdNH-wsc07r-Lz5q-PfaNa/s1600/xPork+Chop+Grain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2LlZB8WR8d38X4IXdCHah6ZSG2fzT3U902QcZ2o2ZQiEH2guxyUEq_SInFAlx-CwU9XWv2agskmUBgYCc7jpVh-eKZy4NYfXCE0TssMF-3dlJUUPU6O0tXUwdNH-wsc07r-Lz5q-PfaNa/s640/xPork+Chop+Grain.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">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 <em>just</em> <em>telling us it was a grain conveyor belt</em> 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 <em>you</em> think it was??)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times;">You know, like Facebook and Wikipedia. </span>L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-13633357825222119162011-07-27T02:21:00.000-07:002011-07-27T10:42:17.278-07:00Asshole N.O.S.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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 <a href="http://allpsych.com/disorders/dsm.html">read up</a> on this wonderful manual that "guides" my profession should you choose.) </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For example, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But wait! "NOS" has a vastly more relevant and helpful purpose, however, when applied to real life!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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..</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZDyBcbGR0YQ5zorplfsFg_gPDpIP47bxkHzOOvRz3KoY7qkQfvhwFJ3JxGYIIUBE7Q-L69dcBhanOWqDsL-nZSRZv8CvLf4QKZhF2LDAnTDCjSKO88Qw9VSpJrRH_GGNbyZiYExb-Xyz/s1600/xAsshole+NOS+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZDyBcbGR0YQ5zorplfsFg_gPDpIP47bxkHzOOvRz3KoY7qkQfvhwFJ3JxGYIIUBE7Q-L69dcBhanOWqDsL-nZSRZv8CvLf4QKZhF2LDAnTDCjSKO88Qw9VSpJrRH_GGNbyZiYExb-Xyz/s640/xAsshole+NOS+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2EzNMFX59-YQt7hpwSQ92tgntawPetex_m-D5jlwFQRkCHV9SSLdstO0xZqOcAyglRQo3qaB8Ust_hgMLhCHSFKqUDSM3LUtDF2JhyphenhyphenL_rg0PDdwqZcS08U1kUeakqgnasQxdX25ppJQp/s1600/xAsshole+NOS+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2EzNMFX59-YQt7hpwSQ92tgntawPetex_m-D5jlwFQRkCHV9SSLdstO0xZqOcAyglRQo3qaB8Ust_hgMLhCHSFKqUDSM3LUtDF2JhyphenhyphenL_rg0PDdwqZcS08U1kUeakqgnasQxdX25ppJQp/s640/xAsshole+NOS+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> 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! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Let's try it again:</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZDyBcbGR0YQ5zorplfsFg_gPDpIP47bxkHzOOvRz3KoY7qkQfvhwFJ3JxGYIIUBE7Q-L69dcBhanOWqDsL-nZSRZv8CvLf4QKZhF2LDAnTDCjSKO88Qw9VSpJrRH_GGNbyZiYExb-Xyz/s1600/xAsshole+NOS+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZDyBcbGR0YQ5zorplfsFg_gPDpIP47bxkHzOOvRz3KoY7qkQfvhwFJ3JxGYIIUBE7Q-L69dcBhanOWqDsL-nZSRZv8CvLf4QKZhF2LDAnTDCjSKO88Qw9VSpJrRH_GGNbyZiYExb-Xyz/s640/xAsshole+NOS+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizss_X8CtNUBe2kpa3jPQE07r_UIVv4xR7zlIt8H5huFxD2xb60an073HB6k_9Qs-JJlAYSYRgGUSS8U9FQYE-0p3fOf_qkuNvB3IwKeiXCbXRrwkKzx3hrf41D9lGjyTey6C9qMgBDpxe/s1600/xAsshole+NOS+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizss_X8CtNUBe2kpa3jPQE07r_UIVv4xR7zlIt8H5huFxD2xb60an073HB6k_9Qs-JJlAYSYRgGUSS8U9FQYE-0p3fOf_qkuNvB3IwKeiXCbXRrwkKzx3hrf41D9lGjyTey6C9qMgBDpxe/s640/xAsshole+NOS+3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Cheers!</span><br />
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</span>L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-9736658992512791002011-07-26T06:07:00.000-07:002011-07-26T23:39:33.692-07:00Say "No" to WeedWhen 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. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmzU0UMpiu3FT88TOuOQ7Ez7l88r6m2gruOZL3dplIsXOzhtBrldmOiyvw_iWTdJn7SVIU07fzV5NieQUbXLfwtwOkW2H22rhcgAy9q04OEpO_FVRLylyZ58jznDrV5ik_lQhLdg17lK1/s1600/xSay+No+1.house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmzU0UMpiu3FT88TOuOQ7Ez7l88r6m2gruOZL3dplIsXOzhtBrldmOiyvw_iWTdJn7SVIU07fzV5NieQUbXLfwtwOkW2H22rhcgAy9q04OEpO_FVRLylyZ58jznDrV5ik_lQhLdg17lK1/s640/xSay+No+1.house.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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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 <i>more</i> raised beds! Holy fucking shit! This garden was going to kill it! We would be like farmers! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8cUoOxF_xT2X5C-GENyDENK6GxT-9C99zaIleW499cZdm0B2XXiRlJ0stbQiew_in0m-15JfsFYMApwKvfbjzn-PGpun_Jv_IK6roeC96UBqTfROMy9gjlmLqEByVbSngDWWJWVoBO-o/s1600/xSay+No+2.+delusions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8cUoOxF_xT2X5C-GENyDENK6GxT-9C99zaIleW499cZdm0B2XXiRlJ0stbQiew_in0m-15JfsFYMApwKvfbjzn-PGpun_Jv_IK6roeC96UBqTfROMy9gjlmLqEByVbSngDWWJWVoBO-o/s640/xSay+No+2.+delusions.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>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. <br />
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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. <br />
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</div>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. <br />
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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. <br />
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But I had forgotten about something. I had forgotten completely—or maybe <i>never even really known</i>—about weeds. <br />
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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 <i>earn</i> it. I plucked that first weed and patted myself on the back. I had just weeded! I just did <i>extra labor</i>. I practically <i>toiled</i>! Look at that dedication! I really am like a farmer! <br />
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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 <i>that’s</i> what those are for), and prepared to earn my gardening stripes the honest way. <br />
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Needless to say, my summer basically went like this: <br />
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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.L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-35572238616707542742011-07-26T04:01:00.000-07:002011-07-26T23:31:01.042-07:00There's One in Every Crowd<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilreUv6UERMfE7nZjVyw5GfW0GyqMve79ALVhNRXvqfaN3LA6zuQpXmKkSNiE5G2yzk_EaxzxuEh-VK6u2amCQZ99UEI-Gz9J-vEIrA-X6XlvSS61798BaZ1rSwhcrEJxOg4ePuDpuhHXQ/s1600/Suposably2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilreUv6UERMfE7nZjVyw5GfW0GyqMve79ALVhNRXvqfaN3LA6zuQpXmKkSNiE5G2yzk_EaxzxuEh-VK6u2amCQZ99UEI-Gz9J-vEIrA-X6XlvSS61798BaZ1rSwhcrEJxOg4ePuDpuhHXQ/s640/Suposably2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-15426975028803499602011-07-26T03:57:00.000-07:002011-07-26T23:50:28.993-07:00Activities of Daily Living<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ah, Wikipedia. I heart you. I pretend there was never a time when you didn't exist:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><b>Activities of Daily Living</b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> (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. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Health_professional" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none;" title="Health professional">Health professionals</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> 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 </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disability" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none;" title="Disability">disabilities</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> and the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_age" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none;" title="Old age">elderly</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-EN_0-0" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1em;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Activities_of_daily_living#cite_note-EN-0" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;">[</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0645ad;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-origin: initial; white-space: nowrap;">1</span></span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;">]</span></a>"</sup></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;">If they only knew...</span></span><br />
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</span></span>L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-16879788560573736972011-07-22T04:19:00.000-07:002011-08-02T07:36:48.954-07:00Marriage: Myth vs. RealityI’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.<br />
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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 <a href="http://www.nataliedee.com/">Natalie Dee</a> , we would be living in each other’s fart cloud until we’re dead. Whoa.<br />
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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.<br />
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<b>MYTH 1: You’ll have a hot sex life forever.</b><br />
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<b>MYTH #2: You will always want to be together and enjoy being in each other’s personal space</b><br />
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</div><b>MYTH #3: You will always understand each other</b><br />
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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!L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9143893922667993371.post-7655284037440297402011-07-21T05:03:00.000-07:002011-08-07T00:48:04.917-07:00I blog therefor I have a deathwishSo.<br />
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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 <a href="https://www.shamwow.com/">ShamWow</a>. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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!<br />
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So here we are. <br />
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Some quick housekeeping items. Let me show you around. This is me:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDdcLUjQRox0E_BOkKLskW2XiwdUYNy6UFJpYkMm_6haAATLWZ_Ls5uJTZRoKfngRnsNfWdPljGFnvpnjOtl8_LDh3HnO2ZPrZq5uZb3hOvvREBN2ncg9RegqrEUnRL-heyCVFe3KC-nz4/s1600/xLEON+INtro.LEON.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDdcLUjQRox0E_BOkKLskW2XiwdUYNy6UFJpYkMm_6haAATLWZ_Ls5uJTZRoKfngRnsNfWdPljGFnvpnjOtl8_LDh3HnO2ZPrZq5uZb3hOvvREBN2ncg9RegqrEUnRL-heyCVFe3KC-nz4/s640/xLEON+INtro.LEON.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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This is my partner, A. :<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC3Drr2jsSgOuhrEuijyGL80EgtPcFJFAf4ABIbbMRvQobNIejS64PWhlFzo1Shv7PDvSCPdAkLsGfKHORYOPpEwSY1j9VHz8zCkKoi9SJJFed5reOlF2ZAPFPKWATQ4iQbcPkY7iG9bCv/s1600/xLeon+Intro.Ang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC3Drr2jsSgOuhrEuijyGL80EgtPcFJFAf4ABIbbMRvQobNIejS64PWhlFzo1Shv7PDvSCPdAkLsGfKHORYOPpEwSY1j9VHz8zCkKoi9SJJFed5reOlF2ZAPFPKWATQ4iQbcPkY7iG9bCv/s640/xLeon+Intro.Ang.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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(And yeah, we're lesbians, if you feel distracted or uncomfortable with that may I direct you to another blog right <a href="http://microaggressions.com/search/sexuality">here</a> for your enjoyment.)<br />
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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.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRmb2UwIQItBnUp9oSi0TuI8Xm0YkDQypNWTkzoxpSBtrf25vNXlo9ZLUivFtsyzUdRj4NlOiCZphgRgiWnCLo84Cm_7oSR-wB9xIDhTVZlD_sbLJSG0BPfl6DPmwxR7P-my0XPTIUzko/s1600/xLeon+Intro.Carbon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRmb2UwIQItBnUp9oSi0TuI8Xm0YkDQypNWTkzoxpSBtrf25vNXlo9ZLUivFtsyzUdRj4NlOiCZphgRgiWnCLo84Cm_7oSR-wB9xIDhTVZlD_sbLJSG0BPfl6DPmwxR7P-my0XPTIUzko/s640/xLeon+Intro.Carbon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>These are the goddamned cats. I <i>know</i>, 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.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdktIwnQx0FWEzb2DFCJmWPR9QDVgHscIQpSbOFUHpmDsm1eaUz9GgrxpsUJsCxEoHXVkvD3FZExxijaDQfja60-DrMtthKfIW59CvG7NcNByuRGd-ASjZvMXUHUnx61VDoQLKTzgF7b8z/s1600/xLeon+intro.cats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdktIwnQx0FWEzb2DFCJmWPR9QDVgHscIQpSbOFUHpmDsm1eaUz9GgrxpsUJsCxEoHXVkvD3FZExxijaDQfja60-DrMtthKfIW59CvG7NcNByuRGd-ASjZvMXUHUnx61VDoQLKTzgF7b8z/s640/xLeon+intro.cats.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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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...<br />
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Cheers!L.E.O.N.http://www.blogger.com/profile/10318841178841323841noreply@blogger.com0