Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Three's a (weird and creepy) crowd

This last weekend, while attending Mark and Amy's wedding reception, I was hit on in a way that I've never been hit on before. Re-read the title, and I'm sure you can guess the specific way I'm referring to. Um, ewwww.

It happened at the end of the evening, when the remaining guests were more than a little tipsy. I was, of course, one of these guests, and I was definitely tipsy. (I actually have wedding drinking down to a science: only one drink before dinner, so I don't get sleepy when the bar temporarily shuts down, then three drinks containing hard liquor in quick succession after the cake. This allows me to get just drunk enough to actually have fun dancing, but not drunk enough to fall down while dancing.) I won't go into all of the details, and I won't mention who did the propositioning, but I'm 90% sure that a certain couple strongly hinted that they wanted to have sex with me. Together. At the same time.

oh, MY GOD.

Here's the thing: I'm friends with many people who are sexually adventurous, even promiscuous. But group sex? I only know a few people who have admitted to it, and most of the time they're ashamed. They say things like, "It happened on accident" or "We were all just really drunk and weird things happened." In my opinion, group sex is on the Dark Side. It means you are sexually deviant and probably have severe emotional problems. It should not be something you're proud of, unless you're Hugh Hefner or that asshole from Girls Gone Wild.

And, I admit, I am a huge prude. I've always been extremely guarded about my body. I've never made out with a stranger or near stranger (unlike most people I know--even the prudish ones!). While I have gone astray in other areas of life, when it comes to sexuality, I've always kept to the straight and narrow. And while I admit that I could have had a lot more fun at certain points in life had I been more willing to experiment, I'm proud of my prudishness and feel that I've done the best thing for me.

So, of course, when this proposition occurred, I was very weirded out and had to take a few minutes to analyze the situation. Had what I thought just happened actually happened? If it had, why?! Given who had done the propositioning (which will still remain unspoken), there were sooooo many levels of weirdness to sort through. And everyone was tipsy, making logical thought a lot more difficult.

With few options of escape open to me, I simply danced as far away from the offending couple as I could. But suddenly, everyone started creeping me out. Friends and acquaintances who had seemed innocently friendly moments before became sinister and suspect for sexual deviance that might possibly affront me at any moment. After all, the couple had seemed perfectly nice pre-proposition. It occurred to me then that sexual deviance is a lot like adult diapers: with the right clothes, they can be hidden, and no one will ever know about your incontinence unless they get close enough to hear the tell-tale rustle.

With my neuroses in full swing, I began wondering "why me?" Is there something about me that screams "I want to have sex with you AND your fiance?" I don't exactly wear my prudishness on my coat sleeve, but I never thought someone would be comfortable asking me to do a threesome.

The next morning, thinking about the situation again, I put the thought that the proposition had anything to do with me out of my head. Some people are just...odd. And I'm not--at least, not in THAT way. Go me.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

You know you've married the right man...

...when, on your second wedding anniversary, he arrives home from work in the midst of a heated phone conversation with a friend about the new Smashing Pumpkins video, and says this: "...it's so stupid that it's kind of cool, except he's wearing that fucking wedding dress."

Overhearing this, I was suddenly struck by how lucky I am to have married such a strange man.

The "He" being spoken of is Billy Corgan, of course, the eternally angsty rock 'n roll idiot savant behind the Smashing Pumpkins, a grunge-era anomaly that captivated many a moody adolescent back in the mid-nineties. Mike was one of those moody adolescents: he listened to Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness (both discs, and even the songs sung by James Iha and D'arcy) every day after high school and considered Billy Corgan to be a great voice of our generation (never mind that Billy is actually a generation ahead of us). "The world is a vampire..."; "I fear that I am ordinary..."; "We only go out at night...": these are musings that had Mike pumping his fist while crying a single tear in his bedroom every evening as he mourned the injustice of his middle-class, suburban existence.

I laugh at him, acting superior, but really, I liked the Pumpkins a lot, too. And I was, in many ways, the quintessential moody adolescent of that era: I wore black every day; I stayed up late, reading and writing existential poetry by the glow of my blacklight; I snuck clove cigarettes from the older boys I hung out with; and most importantly, I feared that despite these things (which I hoped made me soooo much more interesting and complicated than anyone else my age), I was, nonetheless, ordinary. Billy, who had reached the age of thirty by this time, legitimized my adolescent angst.

But, although I think I'll always appreciate the memories the Pumpkins evoke, and I'll always think that some songs (such as my favorite, "Tonite, Tonite") are fantastic, I'm done with them. I refuse to forgive Billy for quitting Zwan (which I really liked), making an atrociously embarrassing solo album, and then getting the Pumpkins (ie, himself and Jimmy Chamberlin) back together for a new album with the unfortunate title Zeitgeist. To me, grunge-era reunions are a sad cliche at this point. In fact, they remind me of Ethan Hawk, the grunge posterboy. While Ethan had it goin' on in Reality Bites and Before Sunrise, he refused to quit while he was still hip and now tries to write introspective novels and screenplays that are, of course, mediocre at best. Similarly, the Pumpkins of old were iconic; they should have left it at that. But no: Billy's got to beat the proverbial dead horse.

All this to say, I disapproved of the new album in theory even before I saw the horrible artwork and read the quasi-political lyrics. In my mind, there was no WAY it could possibly be good. Mike, while wary, had hope. The Pumpkins had always meant more to him than me: like many adolescent (and adult) males, music wasn't just music to Mike; it created an identity. While I mulled over Billy's gloomy, egocentric lyrics for a while and then called it a day, Mike obsessed over Pumpkins trivia, became part of a Pumpkins web ring, and bought rare Pumpkins imports online. [Mike claims that none of those things actually happened, but I think that's the embarrassment talking.] Clearly, for him, there's much more at stake.

But, while Mike claims that the new album is growing on him, there's still one thing that he can't forgive: Billy's dresses. Or, to quote him accurately: "Those fucking dresses." Billy started wearing them in the late nineties and no one really knows why. When the Pumpkins performed at the MTV awards circa 1996 or 97, Billy wore a long black sheath. Soon, he had a silver one, too. The melancholy adolescent boys, still nursing their homophobia, became disillusioned with their solipsistic hero. Mike tried to ignore the dress, but just couldn't. It began to symbolize everything that was going wrong with the latter day Pumpkins.

So this is why Mike is so pissed: he was hoping the album would be good, and it's not. Even worse, Billy's brought back the dress with a vengeance. It's apparently a wedding dress with all sorts of odd accessories. I haven't seen it myself, because I don't care. What I do care about, however, is Mike describing this dress and his feelings about it, because it's hilarious. And on our second wedding anniversary, it reminds me again why I fell in love.

Friday, July 13, 2007

"How are you feeling, generally?"

Dr. Friday, my therapist since January, asked me this question toward the end of my monthly blab session on Thursday. And the answer wasn't simple by any means.

First, some background on my time in therapy. For three months, I saw Dr. Friday on a weekly basis. This was during the Really Bad Phase when I was in Serious Trouble. But apparently my mental health began improving, and in April, we cut back to two meetings a month. Then, in May, Dr. Friday brought up--wait for it--"termination." When he said that word, smiling optimistically, I began quietly panicking. What? WHAT? You mean, I won't be able to come see you anymore? You mean I no longer have to pay you to be a captive audience for my emotional problems???!!! These are all questions I shouted in my head. Outwardly, I tried to remain calm, but some of this turmoil must have registered on my face, because he suggested that IF I felt uncomfortable with termination, we could simply narrow our meetings to once a month over the summer and reevaluate in the fall. Visibly relieved, I accepted this compromise.

When I left that day, I began analyzing two issues: One, has my psychological health improved so much that I no longer need therapy? I mean, it has only been six months, and I've got twenty-six years' worth of depression and anxiety to sift through. True, we'd made some progress, particularly regarding the Shadow of My Father, but it felt like there was a lot more to do. Also, if the truth be told, I'd kind of resigned myself to being in therapy for life. And I no longer hated the idea. In fact, I'd come to kind of LIKE it.

Which brings me to the second issue: Why did I want to remain in therapy so badly? Isn't one supposed to be GLAD when one's therapist announces that one is no longer crippled by depression and anxiety? Yeah, you'd think so. But not me. As I brainstormed why, here's what I came up with. Option 1: I dislike any changes to my routine that aren't my idea, because this makes me feel Out of Control. Option 2: I'd come to regard therapy and the conditions that made it necessary as an essential part of my identity, and if I stopped going, I'd have to re-align my perception of myself. And finally, Option 3: Dr. Friday is the ONLY older man that I have been able discuss my personal problems with, making him a replacement father figure of sorts (figures). Quitting therapy would mean giving that up and possibly never finding that kind of relationship ever again.

I settled on all three.

So, when Dr. Friday asked me to describe my current state, I started thinking about my sublimated desire to remain in therapy. Would I allow this to skew my answer? And really, how AM I doing?

I'm not sleeping well, but I don't feel tired, and I'm using the extra waking hours to make stuff (see previous post). I'm not as obsessively anxious generally, but the other day I did sit outside of my friend's party for about fifteen minutes before I could muster the courage to go in. I've started smoking again, which is Very Bad for my health, but I'm also running three miles a day, which is Very Good. I've been getting along with my mom, but I've also been dealing with a lot of guilt and regret about other relationships (or lack thereof).

So, my answer? I told Dr. Friday all of the above, and he agreed that I'm vastly improved, but that I still need therapy. And so, the narrative continues.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

I make stuff.

It's true: I'm one of those women who can be classified as "crafty," and it scares the shit out of me. Here's why it's so frightening: I come from a family filled with women like this who have created countless hideous crafts and subsequently ruined their previously tasteful homes by placing these crafts on unsuspecting walls, tables, and any other available surfaces. My mom is one of the worst offenders: in the past year, she has ruined six perfectly good chairs by stenciling pink roses on them; desecrated a wicker table, which was once brown but is now burgundy "flecked" (aka, spray painted) with gold; and made a mockery of the chandelier above her dining room table by covering it in rose-printed fabric. And these are just her latest offenses against good taste. For years I have been sneering at straw hats decorated in pastel silk flowers, stuffed barnyard animals wearing bonnets, and lace edging on every piece of fabric in sight. And I have always sworn that this would NEVER EVER EVER be me.

But I'm helpless: my compulsion to make things has overpowered my fear of being like my mother and having bad taste (which, sadly, are often the same fear). I may be in the process of becoming what I hate. Ever since I was a teenager, other friends with crafty moms and I have frequently discussed when the turning point occurs, and how. Do you wake up one day and randomly think, "Must have mauve calico curtains immediately!" Or is it a slippery slope, one that leads you from thinking a little bit of lace on the edge of the shams would be pretty to displaying stuffed geese in nineteenth-century outfits on your mantle?

Well, now I know: it's apparently a slippery slope. But, I stubbornly insist that the pillow shams I made for my friend Jill last week are not at all mom-like, and that while they may be the first sign that my judgment is devolving, they're still...pretty cool. She thought so, anyway.

Here's the concise version of what I did: Jill and I went fabric shopping at IKEA and (the dreaded) Jo-Ann Fabrics. Jill picked out bright green, turquoise, and eggplant fabrics and contrasting thread. I borrowed several pillows she wanted to cover, designed some patterns, and used my mom's sewing machine to stitch the shams. Then, I found several Art Nouveau designs in a book Jill lent me, sketched them onto cardstock, and turned them into stencils. Finally, I applied fabric paint (no, NOT the puffy kind that victimized me in the early '90s) with a "sponcer" (a sponge for stenciling). Here's the results:



Now, I know what you're thinking: a trip to Jo-Ann fabrics? Fabric paint? STENCILS??? This is dangerous territory. And I agree. But, for the record, I'd like to state that Jill and I made sure to ridicule the soccer moms buying ice cream cone-printed fabric destined for mother-daughter jumpers, and we relived nightmarish puffy-paint experiences while picking out fabric paint just to remind ourselves that this project was SO MUCH different than that.

I insist that I have not yet slipped into style oblivion, which seems to me like the tenth circle of hell. But you be the judge.