Calling David Lynch

Hard to manage the fact that ex-shrink emailed me, among other "colleagues and friends" to encourage me to spend even more money at his office, but now on "body work." I love it when men write me about body work. I am not a goddamn car. It makes me feel like I'm getting an ivy-league, or new-age catcall. Body work! Holy shit. I'd like to give him some body work, and at women's college we referred to that as "castration with a dull spoon." I'd definitely hire out for that job.

I might be more charitable had it been an error. But no. When I wrote to say, er, doctor, take me off your list, and by the way, you arse, I am not your friend, Dr. Creepo's response was similarly icky. No apology. No pretense that he spammed in error.

Shrinks do not contact ex-patients for business. Yikes. Yuck. Shrinks do not contact ex-patients. Shrinks do not contact patients unless they need to change an appointment or there is a crisis, and they are checking in. Call me old-fashioned, but for crissake, Dr. Fuckup, don't call me.

After taking in the implications of my stern, formerly traditional headshrinker becoming a dirty old man, I contacted our on-again, off-again marriage counselor, who is absolutely brilliant, and who I do trust. Nary a boundary crossed, ever; not a defensive statement ever made. Let's call him Dude. This guy could mediate between two rabid dogs, or even Ball & Chain & me. He completely confirmed that Creepo had been Creepy. I was wondering about my ethical obligations, and we discussed that as well.

I am getting that dread feeling in my gut so this may just be part one. I never liked that David Lynch guy who did Twin Peaks, and I don't like world-famous doctors who violate ethical standards and show me their whole goddamn email list in the process.

Oy vesmir, oy gevalt.

Experience The Mystery

I wake up sticky, like a lollipop someone licked a while back, and when you try to lift it off the windowsill it's not glued yet, but it has pull. My thighs, my palms, under my breasts. And now I have a low backache, too. But this is all wrong. I was perimenopausal, so to speak, and then it went away, and I reverted back to normalcy for a forty-something gal. That's making the long story short, but we don't really need the list of symptoms - it just sucked. Estrogen patch became a necessity, lest I lose all of my hair. I could not abide the hair loss.

But back to the current situation. What the fuck? I wake up a slimeball, an undercooked piece of fish, a person who hasn't bathed in months, soaking the sheets with her blech. Yet I shower daily. My thinking is that I'd rather not experience the menopause thing or the perimenopause thing which is so utterly stupid it makes me think that maybe God is a man except I don't really believe in god (caps or no caps I'm confused), but no matter.

We should eliminate menopause. We should call it something nifty, like The Feminine Mystique. Is that name taken? It rings a bell. So maybe The Mystery. And no telling any boys about it. Or you can tell them because they won't listen. And when a woman is experiencing Mystery, everyone in the community brings her things to remind her of the beauty of her body, like sweet lotions and chocolate cake and cash. If perimenopause - oops - The Mystery - lasts for up to 10 years, this could be an excellent time of life. It would be a cultural taboo to avoid the gifts and courtesies bestowed upon a woman in Mystery. Little girls will ask "Mom, when will I begin Mystery?" Moms and other wizened elders will just smile knowingly, as clumps of hair fall to the floor.

I'm going to go mysteriously drink some more coffee now, which my physician would surely say is not recommended for anyone experiencing the symptoms of a pause. I'll think about that later, after I stick myself to the chair.

Caffeine, Anyone?

How much can one person write in five minutes while she's really wanting to delay going to work and having to give assessments and talk about MCAS and be all orderly on a sunny day when children could be outside smelling the daisies or actually I believe that narcissus have the truly best spiciest smell and this sorta reminds me of the time I sent a slightly drunken email to chrystal as a sociological study to see which was more interesting - the sober email or the drunken one. Results are confidential. Sent out 3 job applications today but have not had time to work on my current story. Just remembered i dreamed tht Glimmer Train rejected another story and that it's such crap when I say a rejection is a sign that I'm a real writer. As far as I can tell I'm a real mother a real friend a real teacher and something of an on and off writer until some legitimate person publishes something more recent because I am victim to mainstream culture which says publish and 2001 is too long ago. can ya tell I'm wound up? Why don't they allow dogs in school, and why why do we have so many clocks and I need more shirts. Edited for spelling only.

P.S. To the hoardes: comments now moderated due to one less-than-friendly person on bizarre vendetta that has nothing to do with me.

Morning Chat

Monday mornings suck. I didn't do my homework. I'm giving an MCAS test. And I have to look decent. Who came up with this system? It's time to go but I'm writing here instead. Both of you readers, and the dog, I hope you appreciate this, because of course it's for you. I found the perfect job but it pays half of my current salary. That is because the children are too small to matter. Any dumbass could teach those kids, and their development is like, wow, I learned how to count. Big effen deal, right?

There's a school around here that was giving electric shocks to autistic children. Some of the parents said it helped, so the courts never prosecuted the place, and now people are angry again. I don't want to name names, but it's The Rothenberg Center. I have a policy of not judging parents or hard-working teachers. Oh well. That is cruel and unusual. I wouldn't shock my dog. Who convinced these people that this was humane? Sure, I'll bet it worked. I'd stop any strange behavior whatsoever, I'd be docile as a lamb if the alternative was to plug me in. I'm betting those parents were desperate because that's another area - helping disabled kids - that gets neglected. People raise money at Jerry Lewis events and wheel out the cutest cripple, then they pay an idealistic young woman who wants to work with that kid enough to eat a pickle and a vegan burger once a week.

Well I gotta go to my suburban teaching job now. If I sound like a morning talk show host, that's because I am considering that as my new profession. Yes! Exciting, isn't it? I could take calls from those beer-belly cigar smoke people who have gads of time to yack and swear at the host, or hostess, and every time they say shit like "the market determines the rate of pay," or "you're one of those crazed peacenik-feminist types," I'll be like "yeah, I'm the one that castrated George W. Bush back in '2000."

I'm sorta glad we skipped the anesthetic. The kids like looking at the remnants in a jar in the basement. Don't worry! They're really, really small, and the jar's sealed tight.