My Subconscious Drinks Riunite and Watches Daytime TV

During that writers' conference I attended in April, there was one session advertised in the brochure as an opportunity to mine one's subconscious mind for writing material using relaxation techniques and guided imagery.

That's code for "hypnosis" if I ever saw it, so naturally I signed myself right up. If there's anything I love more than looking up an old boyfriend on Facebook to see if he's bald yet, its New Age religion.

Now, in the past I've had no success getting in touch with my spiritual self. I was the person at your high school retreat who kept one eye half open and peered surreptitiously at her peers during quiet prayer. I've tried meditation, and found it nearly impossible to shut off the running commentary in my head. But I am desperate to try, and darned if I was going to miss an opportunity to mine the old spiritual quadrant, and for writing material, to boot.

The presenter, Suzette Martinez Standring, began the session by speaking very eloquently for some time about the writing process, about the kind of writing that resonates most with readers, and the importance of evoking all five senses in one's work. I took copious notes, and before I knew it, it was time to go under.

The process was familiar, one I'd tried to follow countless times before when awake with insomnia or in the throes of an airborne panic attack.

The room was darkened, and we were encouraged to breathe slowly and deeply.

To still our minds.

To get centered.

To tune in to faraway sounds.

And to relax each part of our bodies in turn.

Next, we were to imagine a cord of light extending from the bottoms of our feet down to the center of the earth. We were invited to visualize ourselves at the top of a staircase. We would take three steps down. With each step, we would journey deeper and deeper into ourselves so that when we finally reached the bottom, we would be "in trance."

I was skeptical, but earnest. When I got to the bottom of my visual staircase, I was supposed to enter a place of great beauty and serenity. It could be anything I wanted it to be, as long as I felt at peace there, and comfortable.

I didn't see much. So, I pictured myself lying face down on a patch of lush green grass in a forest clearing. I have always enjoyed lying face down in grass because - and you didn't read it here - it is just like hugging the earth. Zero degrees of separation! To me that is very profound.

Anyway, I'm lying face down on the grass and trying to conjure up the feeling of sunlight on my back. It seems as though a babbling brook should be there, so I install one, and spotty sunlight beaming through the trees, as well.

The problem is, I know I'm not really in a forest. I know I'm still in the Torch Lounge at the University of Dayton. My hyper vigilant brain has failed me again, but I keep on visualizing the heck out of that forest clearing because I am going to get hypnotized if it's the last thing I do.

After a few more minutes of this, we are told to let a memory come to us, anything at all.

I get nothing.

After a little while, though, I see a red ball with a faux weave pattern, the multi-purpose kind every kid whose ever gone to school in America knows well. And that ball brings me back to Mr. Finneyfrock's gym class on President's Physical Fitness Test Day, like this:

I am ten years old. It’s President's Physical Fitness test day at school and I am hanging from the playground chin-up bar in a test of endurance. My size 2 feet, encased in white Keds with rainbow stripe friendship pins beaded through the laces, dangle several feet above the loamy ground. The mustachioed Mr. Finneyfrock, in soccer cleats, shorts, and yellow jersey, is standing next to me with his timer. It is warm out, and a soft breeze is blowing. I’ve been up on the bar for almost four minutes now and am barely showing signs of fatigue. My classmates stand in a semi-circle around me, cheering for me and my freakish strength.

I continue to hang there, wondering how much longer I should stay. My arms are not very tired. In fact, I like the slight burn, the sense that by the strength of my thin, tanned, arms alone, peppered with the golden threads of hair I detest, I am being held aloft. When I finally lower myself down, I am an elementary school hero. "IT'S A GODDAMNED RECORD!" Mr. Finneyfrock bellows.

Granted, this was not an unfamiliar, buried memory, but it was unbidden and true. Thing was, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was supposed to mean. I thought about it in the context of my current situation and the soul searching I've been doing to find my calling in life, about how I hoped that calling would include writing in some form of another. (Ironically, being at a writer's conference was unearthing all the self-doubts that have always plagued me in this regard.) I decided it meant that I was strong, stronger than my outward appearance belies. And then I didn't think about it again.

But last weekend I was sitting on my couch, staring at the wall and picking my cuticles. The kids were asleep upstairs, and my husband was down in the wine cellar, updating his inventory. I was considering making myself a cup of bedtime tea and taking a stab at some prophetic dreams, when suddenly it hit me.

Hang in there.

I'm supposed to just hang in there, it's as plain as the nose on my face, as obvious as the chin-up bar in my waking dream.

And . . . as cliché as a Hallmark card. Apparently, my subconscious mind has been drinking Riunite and watching Lifetime TV.

(But something is going to happen.)

I know it.

It's Not Like I'm Garfield

Rimarama: "You know what? I am SO GLAD I signed up for this Erma Bombeck writers workshop! I think it will be really good for me."

P-Dawg: "Oh?"

Rimarama: "Yeah! I mean, I'm sure that BlogHer would be fun, but I feel like I'll get a lot more out of this from a writing standpoint, you know what I mean? I've always wanted to hone my humor writing skills. Plus, I get to meet KC."

P-Dawg: "It's funny, when I think of "humor writing,", I never think of you."

Rimarama: "What are you saying?"

P-Dawg: "I don't know."

Rimarama: "You don't find me the least bit entertaining?"

P-Dawg:

Rimarama:

P-Dawg: "It's just that when I think of a humor writer, I think of somebody like Lewis Black, you know? Someone whose all crass and crotchety."

Rimarama: "Are you telling me you've never once laughed at anything I wrote?"

P-Dawg: "I -"

Rimarama: "Have you even chuckled inwardly?"

P-Dawg: "I've chuckled inwardly."

Rimarama: "'What about, "guffawed?' Have you ever guffawed?"

P-Dawg: "Well . . . it's not like you're Garfield."

A Few of My Favorite Things

The Sound of Music premiered on Broadway fifty years ago (November 16th, 1959), but I discovered it again for the first time last week.

The little J-dog was busy playing trucks when I popped in the DVD, but as soon as Julie Andrews came bounding over the horizon and opened her mouth to sing, his little head swiveled around like a periscope.

What is that exquisite sound?

Who is that beautiful lady . . . and why isn't she my mother?

He planted himself directly in front of the TV and gazed on with rapt attention for a good half hour.

Me, I was riveted by the fairytale plotline, the boundless optimism, the yodeling . . . and Captain Von Hawt, whose smokin' good looks had somehow evaded me for these past thirty-six years.

So in honor of the Sound of Music's fiftieth anniversary, here are A Few of My Favorite Things:

1. Coffee (touch of cream, no sugar)
   
2. Sushi
3. The Daily Show
   
4. Lithuanian folk songs
5. My attached garage
6. The iTunes Store
   
7. Leonard Cohen lyrics
   
8. Built-in bras
9. The Star-Spangled Banner (straight up, no soul)
   
10. Cosmic signs
    
11. Musical harmony
12. Reading in bed
13. White linens
14. Lost
    
15. Chamomile tea
16. Aveda Inner Light dual foundation
    
17. The combination of buttered movie popcorn with Skittles
    
18. Hot showers
19. Good lip balm
    
20. Lavender lotion from L'Occitaine
    
21. Striped tights
22. Black boots
    
23. Cinnabon
    
24. Cabernet Sauvignon
25. Guinness beer
    
26. Christmas Eve
    
27. Tylenol PM
    
28. Jello pretzel "salad"
29. Order and symmetry
30. Airplane Coke
    
31. The sun on my back
    
32. Abba
33. Geico caveman commercials
    
34. The smell of pipe tobacco
35. Foot rubs
36. Comments
    
    
37. and The Sound of Music, of course.
    
    
    

I Love a Good Grosgrain

I went to the secret wholesale design warehouse with The Decorators yesterday to start picking out furniture and fabrics.

The Decorators are my new best friends, though they know it not. Always impeccably dressed and trailing a faint scent of Gucci in their elegant wake, their very presence compels me to flaunt every piece of design lingo I've ever gleaned from reading Flutter's Shared Items shelter magazines.

It's like I'm transported to another dimension where potty training and housework do not exist. I catch myself saying things like, "I am loving the way this grosgrain picks up the blues in the ikat! Did you know I'm a flexitarian?" when just a half an hour earlier found me yelling, "IF I CATCH YOU JUMPING ON THE COUCH OR LICKING THAT DOORKNOB AGAIN, I WILL PERSONALLY HAND OVER YOUR LEGOS TO THE GARBAGE MAN, SO HELP ME GOD" at the top of my lungs.

("Grosgrain" is a new word I learned. And did you know that "damask" is pronounced with the accent on the first syllable?)

The design center was a bit overwhelming and I felt completely out of my element (Le Target), but in the end I managed to get several photos of myself posing with various pieces of furniture, select an assortment of fabrics, a sofa, sideboard, chair AND coffee table, and to stuff my purse full of complementary chocolates.

I now wear a knotted scarf and take my breakfast in the morning room.


"Girl With Knotted Scarf, Borderline Personality Disorder"

A few of the fabrics I liked:

The Lowdown on the Wrapup

P-Dawg and I went on a weekend spa getaway to celebrate our anniversary.  Timid spa virgins no longer, we signed ourselves up for massages and seaweed wraps.  I thought they'd roll me up in some wet leaves and twenty minutes later I'd be skinny, but that's not how it went down.

First I almost kicked the massage therapist's teeth out when he tried to exfoliate my feet (I'm very sensitive), and then a smelly, wet paste made out of ground up seaweed was smeared all over my bod-day - kind of a shocker when you're expecting to be swaddled in something more akin to a fig leaf.  (I am from Ohio.)

Next, the P-Dawg and I were individually folded, burritolike, in some butcher block paper and a layer of warm thermal foil.  Then we were left alone in our respective mud cocoons for about twenty minutes to dwell on the various itches that developed the minute our arms were incapacitated. 


"P-Dawg?"

"Yep."

"I have a facial twitch."

"A new one?"

"No. Will I die?"

"Someday."

(Time passes.)

"P-Dawg?"

"Right here."

"I really have to see a man about a horse."

"Me too."

"We oughtn't have pounded that mineral water."

(A few minutes are spent staring at the ceiling and listening to Enya.)

"P-Dawg?"

"Yep."

"I actually didn't realize it was going to be mud."

"Me neither."


"Do you think our bod-days are really being detoxified?"

"Nope."

"Well, crap. I was sort of counting on being a dress size smaller after this."

When all was said and done, I may have lost a pound or two of water weight and my skin was as smooth as a baby's butt for a solid week, but I'm not sure it was worth it on account of the ick factor.  Plus, I gained it all back when we went out to dinner that night, so it was kind of a wash.

And therefore I give seaweed wraps, as a general category, a solid "C" rating.  But I give our anniversary getaway weekend an "A+."

My, What Thick Corneas You Have

Last week, I went for a preliminary evaluation to see if I'm a candidate for laser eye surgery.

First they had me fill out a questionnaire explaining why I wanted it. I knew I couldn't write "I hate my f*ck#ng glasses," so instead I talked about how they interfered with my quality of life. My glasses are making me fat by impeding my ability to participate in contact and water sports! I live in fear of being trapped in a burning building if I had to escape quickly and couldn't locate them! Also, they make it difficult to watch TV while lying sideways on the couch.

Not five minutes after I'd handed in my essay (did they read it?), a technician invited me back for a battery of tests. I had made the first cut! For the next hour and a half, that technician poked and prodded me. She had me follow a pinprick of light with my eyes, took pictures from different angles, and shot puffs of air into my eyeballs at random intervals, then snickered when I recoiled. (Optometrists get their kicks from administering the glaucoma test, apparently.) But we had a rapport, the tech and I, and felt certain that by the end of our time together, she would present a glowing recommendation to the surgeon.

When I finally went in to meet him, the surgeon started in on the old "good news and bad news" speech, but I cut him off at the pass.

"Give it to me straight, doc."

"Well, you're a . . .reasonable candidate. I like the thickness of your corneas and your pupils dilate beautifully, but . . . [whips out thermal relief map of my eyeballs and furrows brow in concern] there is a bit of dryness I'd like to remedy before going forward," he confided, pointing his laser at some suspicious yellow areas.

He assured me that he'd performed the surgery with great success on many, many people with my exact profile, but since most peoples' eyes become more dry for up to a year afterwards, it's a good idea to "get a handle on the dry eye" before proceeding. Also, there is no way to tell for sure how much drier my eyes will become post surgery and whether or not the condition would be permanent. Still, I left with a prescription for Re$ta$i$ and a tentative surgery date in early June, which I plan on canceling at the last minute.

Then I went home and spent way too much time surfing Lasik message boards, reading posts about Lasik disasters from people with screen names like, "Keep Your Glasses" and "Lasik Ruined My Life." Who I'm assuming got the two-for-one special at Lasers-R-Us and not the Cleveland Clinic Cole Eye Center, but still. I find this "reasonable candidate" business disturbing.

What to do? And who will win: my vanity, or the Internet doomsayers?

I'll Take That as a Complement

I always wore glasses as a kid. And I'm fairly certain that my gargantuan, chablis-tinted plastic frames, coupled with a short, cross-gender haircut - which I liked to wear feathered and parted straight down the middle (not pictured) - were my main obstacles to social superstardom.

Ninth grade saw salvation and gradual peer acceptance in the form of contact lenses, the kind that would routinely pop out as I went about my daily business. Still, rooting around the bathroom floor searching for your contacts beat the hell out of getting stuffed into your locker by Frank Snodgrass.

Alas, my glasses reprieve was short lived. They served me well through high school and college, then all of a sudden*, I just couldn't wear them comfortably anymore. I haven't worn them regularly for over ten years now, and it really chaps my hide. Because even though I have a decent pair of virtually weightless Swiss specs that are the least obvious pair of glasses I've ever owned, they still give me a bit of a complex. Whatever! Things could be worse.

Every once in awhile, I'll put in my daily wear disposable contacts on the off chance that my dessicated, renegade eyeballs decide to cooperate, but it's usually only a matter of hours before I peel them off and flush them down the toilet in disgust. I had them in today, and as I was going through the supermarket checkout line, the cashier says to me:

"You have such a pretty face!"

Me (blushing): "Oh! Thanks!"

Cashier (recognizing me as a regular customer): "You usually wear glasses, don't you?"

Me: "Um, yeah. I have my contacts in today."

Cashier: "It makes a huge difference in your appearance."

Me: "Uh, thanks."

Cashier: "Just lovely."

Me: "Yeah, I'd wear them more often if they weren't so uncomfortable, you know what I mean?"

Cashier: "Such a pretty face . . . Hey, Carl! (to bagger) Take a look at this young lady, don't you think the contacts really make a difference?"

Carl: "Oh, yes! Very nice!"

Cashier: "She usually wears glasses."

Carl (contorting face in disapproval): "I see."

Cashier (shaking head): "You should wear your contacts more often. It's a shame."

Me: "Thank you."

Cashier: "No, really, I mean it."

Me: "Okay, thanks."

Cashier: "Have a nice day."

Then me and my beautiful visage hightailed it outta there before the stroke of noon, when I was scheduled to morph back into a bespectacled hag.


* Following a recurring, untreated case of conjunctivitis that may or may not have been triggered by poor contact lens hygiene habits.


"Beauty"


"Beast"