Mary + Her Mental Health

Okay, so blogs are about as open and free a forum as you can get these days. Still every blogger in the bloggernacle must keep a set of implicit rules for posting. A general rule of thumb I stole from a celebrity blogger is never post what you wouldn’t say to someone in person. Bearing this in mind, I shall proceed.

Today my post is about bosoms.

Ha! Just kidding. I could write about bosoms here because I have no problem discussing bosoms (within certain limits and only in a respectable form of context.) But there are more interesting things to discuss than bosoms. (though certain men may argue with that) Besides, I wouldn’t want to be misunderstood on this rather personal subject.

The fact is, this is the way I was raised. We girls were taught by our mother to use the proper names for body parts. Mom explained to us the female reproductive system, and the system of procreation, complete with visual aids and diagrams, right from our kitchen table. It was all very matter-of-fact and non-tabooish. We were allowed to ask questions, (although we seldom did what with our pre-pubescent heads spinning uncontrollably with this new information, rendering us vertically comatose. It took me months to even look at a boy. It was three years before I talked to one again. When I was 15 I believe I said, “hey” and kept walking with my head down.) It was just all very open and real.

I sometimes forget that not everyone has a Mom like this. It’s proved to be a disservice only in that I’m pretty obtuse to the feelings of mixed company the minute I start talking about cramps or use the words “fallopian tube.” It’s only after the guy has abruptly bolted out of the room mumbling something about a drink of water that I think...oh. I said “fallopian tube” didn’t I? I recognize I should be more considerate. I know that there times and places for these discussions, and this is a practice I've taken that my Mom certainly did not endorse from her kitchen table.

Maybe somewhere down the line I figured that guys weren’t squeamish about this stuff because my Dad certainly wasn’t. Not his fault. Six women in his house. Two men. My brother leaves. And then there was one. Just Dad. He’s so a goner.

Example: a dialogue you might hear at my house…

Daughter: Hey, Dad… I think my uterus is going to explode.

Dad: I’m sorry to hear that, kitten. And how are the ovaries today?

And yet, this minor wrinkle has not deterred me from my resolve to teach my children the same way my mother taught me. I’d rather they know the proper names for things. I want their questions to come to me and not to their school teacher or that schoolmate who thinks she knows what’s what but doesn’t. I got it, thanks. They’ll know they can come to me and I won’t be mad. Sure, their eyes will glaze over in horror as I begin to draw my little diagram, as mine did. They’ll squirm and freak out and probably want to run away, but the initial shock will wear off eventually. And as far as not talking to boys/girls for years afterward...you know, I’m really okay with that.

BIRTHDAY TIME

Taking a half day today and having lunch with my girls.

Got flowers and a chocolate mousse cake from my boss (yes, I am totally spoiled.)

Party tonight. For those in the area, feel free to stop by!

Yay! It's really good to be alive.

I'm sending out positive vibes with my brain right now that my friend, Kelly is acing the Bar. (go Kelly go Kelly go Kelly go...)

Tell someone today that you love them! Peace, my chums.

So tomorrow is my birthday. I am venturing one year further into the third decade of my existence. Watersheds, such as birthdays, have an obvious propensity for one to reflect and ponder on the direction of one’s life. One might say one is pensive, and seeks to find meaning over one’s previous choices and circumstances. When one is confronted with one’s future and what it will hold for one such as myself, one must always keep in mind the importance of humor in one’s everyday dealings one with another. One must draw diversion, release, and even comfort in the wit one or another one may offer one. One may even offer this one a whimsy jest, which typically begins: “so this one and this other one walk into a bar…”
At other times, one must cast all levity aside and be able to look confidently at oneself and say: I like one. I’m proud of what one has become. One may be unsure of one’s future, but one has lots of promise. Go on, one. Spread your wings and be one with one.

Who knows? Maybe this time next year, one will be two? With one on the way?

Anyone?

Seriously.

I’m in one of those moods where a big crisis is no problem, but a broken nail just might force me to kill someone.

This morning I’m on the bus to Kendall/MIT and I happen to sit behind the most lovey-dovey girl couple ever. One of the girls’ chin was in desperate need of some tweezers. I’m sorry to be so mean, but it just bugged the crud out of me. A meadow was growing on this girl’s chin. This is how ridiculous my thoughts are: why would Girl A even want to cuddle with Girl B whose got a meadow growing on her chinny-chin chin? You can’t tell me you don’t notice it. Shoot, I got a half-second glance at her profile and that’s ALL I could see - - Meadow. You know, sometimes loving someone means telling them to pluck. So stop with the neck massage and practice good grooming.

I get off the bus and start my walk across the Longfellow Bridge into the city. Shortly after I begin up the bridge, I realize that I’m closing in on an older lady walking in front of me. Would you believe… I started to get irritated with her. I begin thinking, “I don’t want this lady to be in front of me. Too slow! Too slooooww!” I eventually pass older lady, and try to make it look like I’m not the witch that I actually am.

I get to the center of the bridge, and the wind is really picking up. My hair, my skirt, everything is blowing to the left with a fair amount of force. So what do I do? I get mad at the wind. Yeah. I start thinking, “can you just calm down so I don’t look like a royal mess when I roll into the office this morning? It’s bad enough I grabbed this skirt from my bedroom floor, now I’ve gotta look like I don’t brush my hair either?”

I’m getting mad at the wind. Let’s just think about the futile waste of energy that is.

It’s at this point that I realize I have got to get a grip.

I get to the office and check my email first thing. No messages. What th....FINE!

I wish I could quietly turn off my computer right now, leave the office and walk back over the Longfellow Bridge, away from the city. The wind will blow my hair and everything to the right. Older lady is at work now, so I won’t be running into her. I’ll take the bus back to my house, mindful to avoid sitting next to any hairy couples. I’ll throw in a Jane Austen film and break out the Peanut M&M’s. I swear, after that I’ll be a much better person.

Yesterday at the doctor's office, my doctor couldn't find my uterus. I'm lying there on the table as she went in search of my uterus. I'll just spare you the details of what that feels like.

At last...Eureka. There she is! She found my uterus, hiding in the back. Playing solitaire.

I have a shy uterus. She's especially shy of doctors. I think my uterus is feeling negelected. Maybe she thinks I don't appreciate her. I haven't really given her the chance to "show off her talents."

Dear Uterus: Hang in there, pal. I haven't forgotten you. Don't disappear on me.

Love, Me

This morning I’m in line at Dunkin’ Donuts (mmm…donuts) and there’s this Mom there with her three kids, all of them wearing t-shirts that say “Martha’s Vineyard” on them, which of course leads me to coldly and silently label them, “Yuppie Fam on Vay-Kay.” Yuppie mom has a tall order, which takes quite a while for the two DD employees to assemble. She’s changing her order here and there, asking her three kids “what kind of bagel? What kind of cream cheese? Orange or apple juice, Cameron?” At the very end you hear the desperation in her voice as she orders “and I need an iced hazelnut, large!”

All the while, of course, the line is getting longer and longer behind her. I’m not really impatient with this because I know what it’s like to be her…sort of. You can’t help but take some time when you’re ordering for 5 or 6 people, so I’m just standing there. But periodically, the oldest boy keeps looking back at me with this look on his face which I can only describe with dialogue such as: “Are you mad?” I could tell by the way he was watching his mom and his nervous side stepping in place that he was anxious to get out of everyone’s way. And I thought…how interesting. This is a conscientious kid…almost to the point of unhealthy. He’s too young to be worrying about this.

His mother finally finishes ordering, and she’s trying to stuff her change back in her wallet, put away her purse, grab these boxes of food, and slide her children out of the way of people. And here’s her oldest son, practically pushing everything off to the side, including his siblings, and saying things like “Mom, you’re in the way, you’re in the way.” He’s not rude, just a teeny bit anxious. And because of his attitude I was more anxious to show him that I was not mad that they were in front of me taking time, so I smiled and gave them extra room before I walked up to the counter.

This kid reminds me of me sometimes. Maybe too concerned, at times, of imposing or intruding on others. I wondered what this boy was going to be like as an adult. Would he still be aware of the feelings of others around him? Will he still care like he does? Or will the world teach him sooner than later to take care of number one?

What made him this way? Is it something to do with him being the eldest? Is it just his personality? Is he perhaps treated with a different set of expectations by his parents, which causes him to be hyper-conscientious? Mr. Anticipatory? Mr. Pleaser?

All I know is I saw something of me in this kid, and I felt his pain.

Today I got an email from an old professor from grad school who forwarded me “important internet information.” The email went on to say that Congress is attempting to pass laws which give the federal government authority to monitor, restrict, or otherwise tamper with what is published and accessible to the open public on the internet. (It’s obvious from what I just wrote that I haven’t read all the details yet.)

Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t have political opinions. I don’t think I’m smart enough to have them. I never protest, or write Congress, or even choose sides. I steer clear of all conversations around political issues of any kind. But I just need to say something here, and I don’t care if it’s an argument full of holes and contradictions. It’s how I feel.

I’m sure the government is hoping to handle a lot of problems by proposing this bill to build restrictions on the internet (i.e. homeland security, classified info leaked by a nosey blogger, copyright infringement leading to expensive lawsuits, identity theft, etc., etc.) The government is attempting to invade our privacy to “protect” our privacy and safekeeping, but at the cost of certain personal freedoms fought long and hard for by countless patriots who believed in a system of free but limited government. And “We the people” get angry when they start to do that.

But you know what my first reaction to this email was? If passing this bill means less porn in my inbox, I say Hallelujiah. You have my blessing. Thank you for doing what we as individuals should be doing for ourselves: exercising self-imposed accountability for the images and content we share with the world, and maintaining a healthy respect for the rights of others over the rights of one.

I’m sorry, I have a deep and profound reverence for the First Amendment, not to mention a personal dependence on it to protect my right of worship among other things. Thank God we have such a country where our liberty is protected by this statute. But it is my belief that some of us have taken our self-proclaimed liberties to an extreme that enters a realm self-destructive behavior. We’re so adverse to place any kind of sanction on the way we express ourselves, that now the rights of the individual to make a buck in cyberspace are trampling over the rights of the majority like a buffalo stampede from hell.

There is an enormous amount of filth running through our broadband cables like fast-moving sewage. It infiltrates and pollutes my inbox, it pops up at me without warning. It is unwarranted and most definitely unwanted. But I have been asked by my government to tolerate it because I need to respect the other guy and his right to say whatever he wants, and sell whatever he wants. If I want to live in a country where my right to worship God as I choose is tolerated, then I have to tolerate another person’s right to invade my inbox with porn, because both these things are protected under the same amendment of our Constitution.

Is there a political mind out there that can explain this to me?

I don’t think the government should come in and slap a bunch of “No, Can’t Do That’s” on us, but since we aren’t doing it for ourselves….and there are some serious socio-economic consequences resulting from it….we’ve then lost that piece of our freedom, and the government is taking over for us. It’s like Mom sending you to bed early after warning you that if you keep jumping on the bed, someone will get hurt (maybe not you, but someone!). We keep jumping, someone gets hurt. Mom’s calling us on our crap. Good night.

There are those out there that will say to me, “Don’t take away our rights! If you don’t like it, get firewalls installed on your computer, or turn it off, or you can block the pop-ups, or you can monitor your family more carefully to see what they’re doing on the computer.” Translation: Don’t like it? Not my problem. It’s my right to put this out there. I don’t care what it does to you.

There are those out there that will say: “It starts with the internet, and then pretty soon they’ll be telling us what to wear, what we should eat, how we should think and feel.” Do I want Fahrenheit 451? No. And I don’t think that’s what I’m asking for when I ask you to minimize the internet crap. And I don’t think that’s what will happen. “They” is still “Us.” We prevent our government from too much involvement, too many infringements on our individual lives (as this internet epidemic only reinforces.) Why is it so hard to be accountable for our actions, and to admit that we don’t need over 7 million pornography sites. I think 1 million is perfectly adequate, don’t you? Not to Joe Schmo over here who thinks he can make bank off of a new porn site, and God Bless American Capitalism.

I’m going to stop there. But please understand that I could devote hours to this subject.

This afternoon I was headed out the door for lunch when I noticed this young woman, early to mid-twenties, passed me down the street. This girl was like many I’ve seen coming from yoga or something, hair up in a sweaty loose bun, rolled-up mat under her arm, loose tank top, stretchy leggings, flip-flips and sunglasses.

This girl was thin. So thin. Toned and thin. Toned, tall and thin. Her legs were long, and her thighs didn’t jiggle (I’m sure the lycra helped this.) This girl had the body that I see in every pop culture periodical on the rack, but she’s real and she’s walking right past me. Even her bones were thin.

So what do I do? I do what I always do… I start making comparisons between us. I stare at her thighs and then glance at mine and try to figure how much bigger mine are from hers. Then I move to her upper arms, and try to guess how many more inches in circumference my arms are from hers. It’s a sick, sick mind game. And I’m compulsive about it.

Now before I go on with my story, let me interject something. I know that some of my friends at this point might be saying: ‘WHATEVER, Mary…shut up, you’re thin too…’ and the like. To which I say…hey! This is my blog, and these are my thoughts and tendencies however ridiculous or unfounded you think they are! They’re real to me. If you grew up in a ballet studio where teachers were telling you 4-5 days a week to watch the brownies at age 10, perhaps you’d be as demented as I. (eek. El sensitivo. A little defensive, are we? Um, yeah.) Besides, there’s Mary thin (which fluctuates between sizes 4-10; 6 if I’m happy, 12 if I’m living back in Fresno) and then there’s this chick on the street, the non-jiggler. You know what I’m talking about.

There are girls that are way below their weight range, with a 16.2 BMI, and are still complaining about their underarm fat. Thanks to an article I read off of Kelly's blog this morning, I know now that there are actual underground support groups known as “pro-ana” which support a woman’s “life choice” to have a life-threatening food disorder such as anorexia (“ana”) or bulimia (“mia”). This is catastrophic to me. I do not use the term lightly. Women will go down in big ways because of this epidemic.

Okay, so back to skinny yoga chick on the street. As I start my ritual comparing of the thighs, a thought comes to me like a soap bubble bursting in my face. And here it is…

Why the heck would I want that woman’s body over mine? My body is perfectly great!

Let me explain, lest you think I’m bragging. Ha.

My body is divinely crafted. He designed me, He custom made me. My body is part of what makes me Me. It’s part of why He loves me as Me.

He knew I wanted to be a mother someday. So what does He give me? Sturdy Norwegian legs, strong enough to bear the weight of pregnancy. Hips where my babies can rest their little tushies while I’m talking on the phone. My body was designed for motherhood. (At least, I hope it is. Assuming all the plumbing works, I haven’t tried it out yet.)

I’m just not made like little Ms. Thing here! I was not created with those thighs, or even the potential to have those thighs. It’s not in the plan, Stan. So why compare? I’m beautiful. Nuff said.

Anyway…these were my thoughts after brushing past Ms. Thin and Toned. I was so happy, I felt like celebrating.

So I went to Burger King.

I'd like to give a shout out to my girl, Carri, for supplying me with the Fenway Fotos.





Carri's beating 'em away with a stick right now in SLC, but we look forward to her safe and swift return to us in August.

If I could freaking figure out how to post links on my blog, I'd be doing it that way. But I don't. Y'all MUST take a look at a couple new friends who've joined the bloggernacle: my sisters Laura
and Amanda.

They've just started, so let's give them lots of support! I promise they will make you laugh. Be sure to check out their profiles.

Peace.

These are the times when I remember why I'm here in Boston.
Friday, June 3, 2005.
Our choir sang the national anthem on the mound at Fenway. We then sat in the bleachers and with THIS as a backdrop, we watched Johnny Damon score the winning run at the bottom of the 8th inning after a great game with Anaheim.

What a great night. Peggy and I were very happy. See?

(Sidenote: I’m sorry to use the same stale photos of me with glasses…be advised that I’m getting more soon.)

Today I realized for the first time that most people around my work environment are under the impression that I know what I’m doing.

Am I under some sort of moral obligation to tell them that the expression “faked it till she kicked it” will be engraved on my tombstone?

Look, kids. Just because you ask me if I can create an organization chart, download photos into a powerpoint presentation, or research caselaw for precedents involving institutional liability issues over consensual amorous relationships in the workplace, and I say… “sure no problem,” DOES NOT mean that I’ve ever done it before. It just means that I’m pretty sure I can figure it out. So don’t go thinking I’m smart or nothing. I’m just afraid of telling people no. It has more to do with my paralyzing fear of what people think of me than my zealous “go-getter” work ethic.

You know what it is? It’s a simple mathematical equation:

Lemon = nervous, over-achieving energy propelled by a deeply rooted fear of disapproval and unacceptance

X= a task with corresponding quality expectation and date of accomplishment

Lemonade= task accomplished on time and with sufficient quality compliance

Lemon + X = Lemonade!!!

And they say a woman’s mind is complex.* Mule muffins! Take a look at the equation, pal! That’s 2nd grade arithmetic you’re looking at.

*I do however reserve the right to become inexplicably more complex in nature without prior notice and for no logical purpose whatsoever.

Day of rest? Not so much. Forget about a night of rest either.

So I turn out the lights approximately midnight thinking "oh, nelly I will sleep so hard tonight." Why do I think that?

After a couple of hours (H-O-U-R-S) of battling racing thoughts, droopy mattress, humid air, achy head, and the like, I make my way to the couch like one of those creepy sleepwalkers. Only I'm not sleepwalking, I'm wakewalking. I throw my pillow on one end of the couch, sigh self-piteously, lay down and try not to think about anything at all. For the rest of life.

2:08 a.m. Get up...get a mug...fill with water...swallow two Aleve...back to the couch.

5:17 a.m. Harley-tattoo neighbor man, Mark, who works a night shift, comes Harley-tattoo roaring in home from work. Crap. Mark. Ride a bicycyle, man. Really good exercise. And you could use a trim, now that I'm awake and thinking about it.

Pick up pillow...pick up bedsheet...go back to droopy mattress. Whine/weep like a baby for 30 seconds. Fall asleep at some point.

7:04 a.m. Wakey Wakey!!!! Yippee! It's Monday, and I am ready to open a vein!!!!! Woo Hoo!

3:10 p.m. Zombie. Total, utter, and complete.

It's almost become a bizarre curiosity to see how long I can function with this amount of sleep every night. The account cited above represents, on average, between 4-5 out of seven nights of the week. It really. really. stinks.

Would love some un-stale suggestions on how to fall and stay asleep. Anybody got any ideas? If you have no ideas, that's okay. Sympathizers also appreciated. Thanks. And now I need to crack open my third Diet Coke. Ta.

I’ve decided that I want to be a Disney princess for a living.

I’m going to pack my little Suzuki econo-sedan with my four measly boxes of worldly possessions, drive across the country to sunny L.A., storm into Disneyland casting headquarters and make them hire me as their new Cinderella.

I can think of worse ways to make a living. I’m aware of the drawbacks. Here are a few:

1. peasant children tugging on my princess dress
2. beads of princess sweat on my princess forehead because of the thick princess wig I wear
3. everyday being amongst my subjects in the heat and crowded peasant streets of Fantasy Land
4. writer’s cramp
5. playing by Disneyland rules and not being able to tell off rude peasants when they make fun of their princess (i.e. “Cinderella thinks you should jump off the Matterhorn, rude peasant!!!”)

But here are some tempting bonuses to being a Disney princess:

1. People think you’re a princess!
2. You get to dress like a princess!
3. Girls want to be you, cuz you’re a princess!
4. Boys want to date you, cuz you’re a princess!
5. I can get my family & friends in the park for free - - promoting me to Goddess.




Just thinking about this gives me joy and happiness in my heart. Tell me, is it a bad sign if after only 6 weeks of being in your current job you’re fantasizing about being a princess?

I gotta go make some copies and fax something now. Fare thee well.

I've been at casting workshops where agents tell us that they pretty much know in 15 seconds, from the moment that person enters the room, whether or not a person's "got it."

My take-away: if I don't have "it" in 15 seconds, I don't have "it" period. And there's really not a whole lot I can do about it at the 16-second mark. 16 seconds. Up. Time's up. Next, please.

Let us now leave the realm of "casting directors" and travel to the world of dating.

How many of us think we know all that there is to know about a person in 15 seconds? Oh heck, let's be generous and stretch it to a full 2 minutes. How many of us really believe that if "it" isn't there in 2 minutes, it never will be? If in 2 minutes, I feel no physical chemistry, he hasn't made me laugh, he hasn't said something extraordinary,...next please. It would never work out. Be honest!! Have you done this? Are you still?

Hm? Ever?

Here's my next question: does anyone else see a really big problem with leaving such a big decision to the discretion of a mortal, finite brain's ability to accurately assess all the variables (which btw hold eternal consequences) in 120 seconds?

What do we do about this? Bruce C. Hafen says that the best marriages come from good solid friendships. How do I juxtapose this with the 2-minute dilemma? And if Bruce C. Hafen is correct (which I believe he is) then how am I ever to know if I'm giving up after 2 minutes on something that could transform over time into exactly what I didn't know I could have with this person?

You know what this is really about? It's about fear of emotional intimacy. If we don't feel something extraordinary in two minutes, it's too risky to pursue something that may take longer to discover. Because what if it never happens? We want the bolt of lightning, or we don't make a move. We want the return without the investment.

I think my thoughts are too hard to follow. Someone else can probably put it better than I.

"My worst nightmare is that I wake up single and I haven't started my family yet."

[quote taken from a woman's testimony offered in my home ward in California on July 3rd.]

I really don't know where to begin with this one.

It's so hard not to get bitter sometimes. I am so fighting it off. Actually, I really don't feel bitter about men 90% of the time. I love men. I especially love men that understand the true purpose and practice of their God-given priesthood. It's such a turn-on to see a guy who knows it's not about authority, but responsibility and a built-in reason to walk humble everyday. But it's often those good, decent men who get duped by a dark force then gradually and carefully they go one of two ways:

Man A) I mask my seething hormones with intellect, wit, or some other ego-maniacal trait that portrays confidence but is really fear actualized in the form of over-compensation, and with this puffy poo-poohead of mine I convince myself that no woman in my sphere possesses all the qualities that are requisite in my future wife, and will therefore play the field looking for ways to throw her outta the game prematurely on even the smallest infraction; or

Man B) I abandon my seething hormones and pour myself into the Lord's work, where I soon learn how to fast for 6 days straight, but quickly forget how to talk to a girl, much less connect with her in any intimate way like a normal person, and hope they don't notice that my libido is on permanent sabbatical while I turn in my home teaching report three weeks early.

I think the fact that I limit men to two categories probably means I'm slightly bitter, not to mention ignorant. Perhaps bitterness breeds ignorance. I just better stop there.

Anyone else wanna weigh in? Spare me the lectures, I know I'm wrong for writing this. I'm asking for fellow sympathizers looking to vent!

Guess what I'm doing tonight? I'm going to eat a calzone and watch LOTR with my roommate, Peggy Ruth Deming! We've decided to start at the beginning (well, with Fellowship, as we don't have a copy of that '70's animated version of The Hobbit anywhere handy) and if we're still alert by the end (I don't imply these movies are boring, heavens no, merely that I'm already tired and it's 2 p.m.) we're going to watch the documentaries which accompany the extended releases - - ALL THREE HOURS OF 'EM! Get. your. freak. on.

I hate this part of the day. 2:00 - 5:00. What a nighmarishly blah period of life. What takes me 15 minutes at 9:20 a.m. takes me 4 days at 2:40 p.m. No lie.

About the glasses I don in my photos herein posted: they aren't mine. They belong to a former boss of mine who now lives in Connecticut. Sorry Maria, no glasses this Sunday, or any Sunday for that matter. I am, however, starting a collection fund for my very own pair. Those of you who wish to donate, please visit www.4-eyes&akiller-rack.com.

That fictitious URL was rather inappropriate. Funny, though.