Monthly Archive for May, 2008

I want a cupcake, and the deeper psychological and social implications of my desire

Published on May 27, 2008 in Meaning Making, Psychology and Quotidien. 45 Comments Tags: Desire, Food, Greek citizenship, Introspection, Psychology.

I am not sure how the moment of consciousness occurred but it did and once their is consciousness I feel a moral obligation to respond to the material I have been given by my psyche. This inner morality about any illumination can at times prove annoying. It all started with a cupcake. I was having a stressful day. There had been 30 calls to Greece by 5 a.m. and I got absolutely no information from these calls. Okay, not altogether true, I did learn that the number I had for city hall was not really for city hall but for a radio station. And, I learned, that the number I called for historical documents, that the receptionist speaks better English than her boss. That is, however, all I learned from my many phone calls to Greece. Also, I had called the Greek consulate five times and they had yet to return any of my calls and there was a huge to-do list to get done before we leave for Paris in two months and the clock is ticking. It was in the midst of all of this that a cupcake came to mind. I wanted a cupcake. I went into the kitchen and turned on the oven and got out the cake mix and that is when it occurred to me. The cupcake is not what I really want, I wanted something else. And, what I wanted was not food.

I began to think about the symbolism of a cupcake and it was that very moment that I turned off the oven. I thought about a book I had read many years ago by the futurist and trend predictor, Faith Popcorn, entitled “Clicking.” Faith is the gal who predicted trends such as Cocooning, Anchoring and Small Indulgence Syndrome. It was the latter of these trends that was in my cupcake desire. According to Popcorn, Small Indulgence Syndrome occurs when people are busy, stressed, tired, and overworked and as a means of rewarding themselves they seek some kind of instant gratification and then indulge in some small luxury. Bingo!

What did I want the cupcake to tell me? “Well, Belette you have been going through a lot lately. You are under a lot of stress. And, you deserve it. Really, Belette, my frosting feels your pain” Ding-ding-ding! I deserve it. Yep, that is. It is not so much the cupcake I want, what I want is to be acknowledged through the act of eating the cupcake that I deserve it, that I am stressed and that there should be some kind of treat to soften all of the above. Consciousness killed the desire for the literal cupcake but the desire for the metaphoric cupcake remains.

I do think that I am not the only one who is infected with Small Indulgence Syndrome. There seems to be an epidemic of individuals infected with it. It may, in fact, be the plague of the 21st century. Okay, that was a little melodramatic. If not a plague, it is safe to say that it is pervasive. Starbucks entire success is dependent on a thirsty, overworked and overtired nation, nay world, that has Small Indulgence Syndrome. Popcorn says that Small Indulgence Syndrome is especially relevant in hard economic times in which individuals are unable to buy big ticket items such as cars, houses and vacations, instead they are more likely to spend money on small luxuries and frivolous purchases such as gourmet coffee or a cupcake.

I wonder what Ms. Popcorn would have to say about the cupcake. I have my theories. For the past, what, 10 years the cupcake has been a hot out of the oven trend. Why is that? Well, I have my theories. I think that cupcakes bring to mind images of parties, special events, birthdays and childhood. And, these little “just for me” confections are loaded not just with carbs and calories but connotations of specialness, childhood and celebration of self. The cupcake is not communal like a cake, the cupcake is a treat of the individual. And, in a culture that so prizes the individual—many individuals are feeling an overwhelming sense of isolation, alienation and despair. I could go off on a rant here about how it is incredibly difficult to be an individual in the western consumer culture but I will stop myself—or I might need another cupcake to deal with my sense of alienation and lack of specialness. Hmm, a brownie sounds kinda good.

Picture of pink cupcake taken beautifully by B during our Austin adventures.

Craving Lake Bluff

Published on May 23, 2008 in On Home. 50 Comments Tags: Austin, Chicago, Home, Self-Indulgent.

I woke up this morning with a profound and distinct craving for my little village in the North Shore of Illinois. Actually, it feels more like an ache than a craving. I am not sure where this came from. Perhaps because today is Friday and it is spring and that means it is Farmer’s Market day in Lake Bluff. That means that if I woke up in my North shore home, instead of our town home in Austin, I would be getting dressed and walking to the farmers market. I would marvel at the green trees and all the flowers that survived the harshness of winter in their earthen beds. I would look at the overpriced fruits and vegetables and I would taste a sample of cheese that I would not buy. I would laugh at the puny wimpiness of Michigan strawberries and compare them in my mind with SoCal berries of my childhood that were the size of apricots. I would see all the North shore women with their North shore babies and their Labradors and Golden Retrievers. I would stand behind two ladies who know each other from one of the many country clubs and they would be talking about their children and how well they were doing in school and what their summer plans are. I would buy a bouquet of spring flowers, as I did every week. I would wonder, as I waited for my arrangement to be constructed, how I got to live in a place with so much beauty. I would, as I always did, tell myself what a great place this is for kids. Every time I went out in Spring or Fall if I was with anyone I would say out loud, “I am so lucky to live here. It is so beautiful.” I said it like a prayer hoping it would protect me from ever having to leave.

After I got my flowers, I would walk to Bluffington’s cafe which would be buzzing with spring activity. I would get a decent cup of coffee and then I would walk my flowers home and leave them in my sink. I would stop for a moment to marvel at the beauty of my backyard and once again I would say to myself, ‘I am so lucky to live here.’

Then I would walk the few blocks to the lake and sit on a bench over viewing the lake. My seated meditation would be one of gratitude. I would sit and breath in the blue of Lake Michigan and marvel at its vastness. I would feel a peace and gratitude that I never felt in front of the Pacific. I would sit and contemplate the day and what it would hold for me and all the while, repeating the mantra, “this is my home; this is where I live. I am so lucky.” All the prayers, and the gratitude did not protect me. And, in retrospect, I feel that my profound awareness of my good fortune and my endless appreciation of the beauty of the Bluff was prescient.

As I am in Austin, and not Lake Bluff, this morning I will drink my coffee and eat my cereal and turn on the A/C and look out at the view from our patio. I will watch traffic go by and feel the heat on the patio door radiating into our temporary home. And, I will say a different kind of prayer.

Picture #1: Lake Bluff Park Gazebo from here.
Picture #2: Lake Bluff Farmers Market from here.
Picture #3: View from our dining room.
Picture #4: View of our back yard.
Picture #5: View of Lake Michigan from Lake Bluff from here.

If you take prenatal vitamins they will come….

Published on May 19, 2008 in Childless Not By Choice. 51 Comments Tags: He-Weasel, Infertility, La Belette Rouge, Self-Indulgent.

Babies are pissing me off again. It started off Friday night—and when I say night I am saying Saturday a.m. I was trying to go to sleep when I got overtaken by a slide show of memories recounting all the time, energy, and expense we spent trying to have a baby.

I thought back to the beginning, when we got really serous about trying to have a baby. I remember with absolute clarity the first time I got online to search for suggestions on upping our odds at the Trying to Conceive website. I searched for success stories and what they did, other than the obvious, to get pregnant. I followed all of their advice to the letter. I bought Mucinex cough medicine in an attempt to thin out my cervical fluid and He-weasel’s, um, fluid. I bought the fanciest and most expensive basal thermometer I could find. I stayed in bed for 30 minutes after sex and kept my legs elevated on the wall. I ordered prenatal vitamins and switched us to all organic dairy, produce and meats—and then I went to the Pottery Barn website and I started planning the babies room. I picked names and calculated birthdays. And, then I waited for the line on the Clear Blue Easy to appear—and when it didn’t I then started reading the over 35 Trying to Conceive message boards and realized that it was time to get my eggs, ovaries, and uterus over to a reproductive endocrinologist office.

I made an appointment with the most famous reproductive endocrinologist in all of L.A. He is “the” doctor behind countless Hollywood pregnancies. He is the man I like to call Dr. Mumbles. He got his name, as you might have guessed, because he mumbles. But that is not his only liability in the bedside manner department, Truth be told, I think Mumbles may have a bit of a social anxiety issue. He may have a great talent when it comes to putting egg and sperm together—he is, however, sorely lacking in people skills. Happily there was always a nurse around who could translate what Mumbles said. Mumbles would say, “wha-wa-blah-blah.” The nurse would then explain, “You have four follicles that should be ready for insemination on Friday.”

I remember everything about that first appointment. I wore a circle printed circle skirt and a black shell with red patent mules. I had filled out my mountain of paperwork days in advance. He-weasel was supposed to meet me at the house at 2:00 so we could be to his beach side office by 3:00. He-weasel was late and I was pissed. I remember every detail of the drive there. I remember where we parked and where we sat in the waiting room and how He-weasel bounced his leg in nervous anticipation of our meeting with Mumbles.
Thanks to He-weasel breaking the speed limit, we got to Mumbles office on time. He brought us into his office that was filled with pictures of babies he was responsible for creating and pictures and statues of airplanes.

Mumbles did an exam of my pelvis inspecting for deficits and abnormalities that would explain my barren state. After I got dressed, he mumbled an invitation for us to come into his office. We quietly sat and waited for him to tell us whether or not we could have a baby. He looked at our blood work and He-weasel’s sperm count results. We watched him hoping for some sign of life in our lab results. Mumbles suggested I undergo a series of painful and expensive tests and then we should have 6 IUI’s and once those fail to then go onto the savings draining IVF’s. He also suggested we take an herbal supplement called Fertility Blend that had showed great success in upping the outcome of fertility procedures. We left his office with hope, brochures and a fee schedule that explained how much our dreams would cost—and several bottles of Fertility Blend.

We did everything that Mumbles suggested and more. I had tests. We did IUI’s. We injected my bootycus with needles. I filled my system with drugs that made me hormonal, hypertensive, bloated, fat, tired and egg filled. I had countless vaginal ultra sounds and blood tests. We rearranged our lives so we could be at the doctors almost every morning at 7 a.m. and then would call at 2 p.m. to find out if I was ovulating, or if I was developing follicles and whether we were ready to move forward to the next level of hell, and if we had already inseminated—if I was pregnant or not. And, every month the answer was no.

We did Feng Shui, Acupuncture, Yoga, and Chi Gong. We took flower essences, vitamins, and herbs. We saw healers, energy workers and Maori Tribal chieftains that supposedly had the power to heal even the most profoundly infertile couples. We were assured by healers, psychics, astrologers, and all who loved us that there was a baby in our future. We were on prayer chains of over 100 churches. People said rosaries and masses for us. We built a baby shrine in our home—friends and family gave us symbols of fertility that would assure us our baby. I meditated, got massaged and got into therapy to manage my stress. I ate more yams than one human should. And, He-weasel ingested more pumpkin seeds than you could find in an entire pumpkin patch. But, no baby ever came.

If an IVF was scheduled on Christmas Eve, or Easter, Father’s day or Mother’s day we were always sure that this was the time; this round was special. But, it never was. No baby ever came.

Just the other day, He-weasel was lamenting that all of our effort towards citizenship might be for naught. I assured him that he was wrong—that all of our investment had to be leading towards something. Now, that I look at all of the investment of time, money and energy we spent on having a baby, I see that I may be wrong. It is possible to invest everything and come out of it with nothing. Sure, I know how much pain I can endure and how strong I am. I know that I tried as hard as I could and did everything in my power to have a baby (including a failed adoption). And, I am glad we tried as hard as we did.

It has been months since we decided we would try no more and that we would live life as CNBC (childless not by choice). There is a part of me that misses the trying and all the hope that trying inferred. But, from the beginning I said I would know when I could try no more—and that time has long since past.

With all that we have endured this year—and with France on the horizon—I thought I was over all this. I thought I was better. Saturday, at the Greek festival, I saw little Greek babies who looked like He-weasel and, as I ate my soulvaki, I sobbed. I cried when I saw young Greek girls with raven curls like He-weasels. I cried when I saw young Greek boys with mischievous smiles and eyes with endless depths, like my Weasel’s. Today, I need no He-weasel look alike to make me cry. Today the tears come effortlessly.

I am still grappling with the fact that we failed. We failed to do something that requires no education, intelligence, wit or wisdom. We failed to be fruitful and multiply. I can tell you that this failure hurts like no other. I know we will go onto accomplish many things—but in this we have failed and I am starting to see that this is a pain and a suffering that will remain with us always. There is a hole in our hearts where baby-weasel should be. There is no Baby-weasel.

No Contempt for Old Men. Or, I am the President of the Boy Bands of Mythology Fan Club

Published on May 10, 2008 in Meaning Making and Psychology. 28 Comments Tags: France, He-Weasel, Myth, Self-Indulgent, Writing.

Last night I spent the night with an older man. He told me stories about his pilgrimages, his inner life and he made me laugh and he made me cry. This man made me think about my writing, my soul calling, my personal myth and even my ontology. I drank wine and ate cheese as I met his intermittent gaze. He told me stories about his life that made me feel alive and he read a poem that made me cry.

And, no, I am not cheating on He-weasel. The truth is I am in love with older men. OK, not all of them. I do fear that this post will attract old men who are looking for younger women to love them. If that is you please leave this post immediately and go to Google and enter the following search terms “gold+digger+looking+for+older+man+to+shower+her+with+gifts+and
+cash.” Please understand, my love is not that kind. My love for the older men is of the deep, transcendent and soulful variety.

I have known about my older man love for many years. It all began when I watched Bill Moyers’ interview Joseph Campbell on the PBS series, “The Power of Myth.” As soon as I heard the 80- something mythologist speak, I swooned at his esprit de vie that was timeless, ageless and mythic. Shortly after falling for Joseph, I read every book of his I could find. Getting to know Joe through his scholarship, I realized that my love for him was not solely based on his Irish schoolboy good looks or his impish charms. In fact, I had the kind of love that inspires epic poems or, in my case, bad schoolgirl style love poems. Not long after he won my heart—my beloved Joe passed away. I am sorry to say that I never got to sit in his presence and hear him share his stories, myths and insights in person. When I watch Joe’s video taped lectures and I see him telling stories about Mithras, Parzival or recount native American mythologies I react like some girls do when they see Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp—only my idol has real depth and pith. To some he may not be centerfold worthy—but to me holds a central place in the Mandela of my heart.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vmlBD3llrrk]
The second time I fell in love with an older man was the very first time I heard James Hillman speak. Hillman, according to Wikipedia is an American psychologist, considered to be one of the most original of the 20th century (Moore, in Hillman, 1989). Trained at the Jung Institute in Zurich, he developed archetypal psychology (polytheistic myth as psychology). Hillman is a prolific writer and international lecturer as well as a private practitioner.” But, really, anything Wikipedia could write about Hillman would do little in explaining the complexities of why I love him. And, I warn you that my reasons are not intellectual–well that is not entirely true—I mean I first fell in love with Hilly for his brain and later I discovered his keen sense of humour, his good looks and his enormous talent for not suffering fools gladly. When I see him speak and he says anything wise, funny or whatever I very often turn to my seat mate and ask rhetorically, “Isn’t he cute?”

One might call me a groupie or say that I have Hillmania. I have read and re-read Hillman many times, in the same way someone who loves Johnny Depp might re-watch Pirates in the Caribbean series continuing to look for hidden treasure in movies they have already seen. I have traveled far and wide to see Hillman speak. But, I have never dared to speak to him nor have I had him autograph my well-worn, highlighted and dog-eared copy of “We’ve Had a 100 Years of Psychotherapy—And the World’s Getting Worse.” Truth be told, Hillman scares the shit out of me. And, the very things that I love about him are the qualities that frighten me most. His profound intelligence and sparkling wit reduce me to an adolescent unable to articulate anything.

Very often, before a Hillman event I will peruse the audience for those most likely to ask Hillman questions. Most often it is men with a raging and unresolved father complex who want to impress Pappa Hillman with just how smart they are. When some insufferable bore gets up to ask Hilly a question he will call the person on it—he’ll say, “I didn’t hear a question in all of that.” Hillman never seems impressed by their puffed up ego exhibitionism or dubious diatribes. But, when someone asks a real or authentic question no one is more engaged and responsive than my beloved Hillman.

Many people find my James difficult as he is not one for straight answers or easy explanations. Actually, he is interested in posing questions that leave you more confused then when the lecture began—and that is why I love him. I know he can be cantankerous and a bit of a curmudgeon—but in my eyes that only adds to his charm. If only Tiger Beat Magazine would dedicate an issue to him. I really would love to have a Hillman poster to place on my bedroom wall or, perhaps, a pillow with his picture on it—I can only imagine the kind of dreams such a pillow sham might elicit. However, I don’t think He-weasel would share my feelings about our home being decorated with Hillman.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFkkQ9eq8qw]
My new love, the one I spent last night with, is Dennis Patrick Slattery. I was privileged to attend a lecture by an old professor of mine, and when I say old I am not talking about his age as I see him as ageless–what I am telling you it has been a good amount of years since I was in grad school and listened to Dennis Patrick Slattery lecture on Dante’s Divine Comedy.

Listening to Dennis read Dante was like witnessing a literary love affair of the highest order. Oh, how I wish there was a clip on Youtube of his lectures so I could share them with you. I can tell you, with no hyperbole, that reading Dante with Dennis was one of the peak academic experiences of my life. There are professors who bring so much passion to the material that just to witness their passion forever changes you. Sadly, those experiences are few and far between.

The theme of last nights lecture was “Pilgrimage as an Archetypal Journey.” This theme was extremely timely for He-weasel and me. The lecture, according to the Jung Society Web Page of Atlanta, explores how: “Consciousness may bring with it a corresponding impulse to leave the familiar confines of family, neighborhood and routine in order to journey down unfamiliar paths, and even to enter the thick part of the woods where no one has yet trod. The pilgrim, not the tourist, satisfies this impulse. Pilgrimage is a quest to satisfy some appetite in the soul that possessions, success, family and friends, cannot assuage. Its journey is two fold—out to the world and into the deeper forest of one’s interior terrain. Pilgrimage uncovers the motifs of one’s personal myth at the same time that it desires to be expressed in writing, art or dance.”

Unlike Campbell, who I will never meet, and Hillman who I am far too afraid of to speak to, I was able to talk to Dennis and briefly tell him how much his passion for Dante had impacted me. I could do that because Dennis has an undeniable warmth, generosity and sincerity that make him highly accessible. And, he somehow manages to make even new acquaintances feel like old friends. Seeing him last night and having such a short time to spend with him I am left today longing for more. His passion on the subject of pilgrimage was as profound and inspiring as his lectures were on Dante. The two-hour lecture was dazzling, soul stirring and, in truth, a bit melancholic. The latter might be surprising—but, as there are so few experiences of this kind, in which mind, soul and heart are all engaged, it makes one aware of the si
ngularity of the moment.

When the lecture was over He-weasel and I went out for cake and I talked about all that I had gotten out of the evening. I swooned and sighed just like a girl after a Backstreet Boys concert. As I picked at my coconut cake and greedily gulped down milk, I asked He-weasel to tell me what he loved about the lecture. “Isn’t he great?” He-weasel agreed. I wanted more confirmation that he loved Dennis as much as I do. “Isn’t he cute?” My bemused He-weasel finds my definition of cute to be one of the many mysteries of me that he will never fully understand.

One of the quiet points of Dennis’ lecture has really stuck with me. D.S.P. posed the following question,”How do the deep wounds we receive become a positive influence in our lives?” As soon as he asked this question I saw immediately how my love of older men relates to my own father wound. You, see my father, like these men, was smart, charming, funny and unavailable. Like my relationship with Hillman, I couldn’t talk to him without fear of attack. Like Campbell, he is gone—never to be spoken to again. Like Slattery…hmm, well they are both Irish. Oh, and, my father dreamed of being a poet and a writer and yet never dared to follow that calling.

Because of my father hunger that had long gone unmet I found fathers in Campbell, Hillman, and Slattery—and others like them. Thanks to these men my life is richer, deeper and is filled with myth, meaning, poetry, and story—and, I am a better person for knowing and loving them. As synchronicity would have it, yesterday was the anniversary of my father’s death day and my grandfather’s birthday, which I did not realize until this morning.

Another gift that Dennis gave me was that he helped me to see that all the trauma and drama we have endured has been meaningful and that it has been preparing me for our upcoming pilgrimage to France. I guess I knew that before—but that is the kind of thing that bears repeating.

Should you be inspired to join the Mythological Boy Band Fan Club these are some of the books you might want to check out before you send in your membership dues:

Joseph Campbell: The Hero With a Thousand Faces; Myths to Live By
James Hillman: The Soul’s Code:In Search of Character and Calling
Dennis Patrick Slattery: A Limbo of Shards: Essays on Memory Myth and Metaphor; The Varieties of Mythic Experience; Grace in the Desert: Gifts of the Monastic Life

If you are interested in reading about others who see value in loving their elders you might want to check out: What Old People Are For: How Elder’s Will Save the World by William H. Thomas or Hillman’s The Force of Character: And the Lasting Life

p.s. I will soon write more about the symbolism of pilgrimage and how that relates to our upcoming trip to France and I also have some ideas on writing that the D.S.P. shared in his lecture that I thought y’all might enjoy.

La Belette Goes Bollywood

Published on May 9, 2008 in Objects. 39 Comments Tags: Clothing, La Belette Rouge, Shopping, Travel.

It was during my search for a black dress at Target that I gave up on Isaac Mizrahi. I hated to do it, I had always loved Isaac. I loved him in Unzipped, I loved his silly show on the Style channel, and there were the cute little black flats, the black shell that has lasted me 8 years, and the 3/4 sleeve black cotton sweater that transcends seasons. Yeah, I have some Issac shoes I got at Saks Fifth Avenue but I don’t love them half as much as the black patent ballet flats I found when I had gone to Target for kitty litter and Clorox. However, for the last two years, every time I perused Isaac’s latest collection I found bubkis, nit and nada. And, each time I found nothing I felt a little sad. I loved Isaac’s original concept of classic American sportswear at a price point available to all. Instead of classic pieces there were odd colours in unusual shapes and styles that never made it into my cart or closet.

The last time we went to Target I was there to get some more of the Method Daily Shower Cleanser, and this is for my shower and not a facial or body cleanser. After getting everything I needed I walked through the clothing section hoping to find something I didn’t need but rather something I wanted. That’s when I saw it, Issac had dresses—and they were dresses that I liked enough to go into those horrible Target dressing rooms. I tried on an eyelet wrap dress, I came out to show it to He-weasel and after getting his approval a lady of questionable style and taste told me that this dress “didn’t favor me.” I was a little thrown by her comment. First, I had never heard someone use this language to say if they thought something didn’t look good on me and secondly it was none of her business as I had not asked for her advice. I am always open to feedback–but there was something about this women and her brood of children who were sitting and eating popcorn in the dressing at Target that made me question whether this woman should have her serve as my style consultant.

I tried on dress # 2. This was the dress. As soon as I tried it on I knew this dress was coming home with me. I came out of the dressing room not so much to hear what He-weasel thought but to dazzle him. See, this dress does amazing things to my waist and cleavage. This dress is what one might describe as a miracle dress only there are no little push up pads that create an unnatural and overwhelming Renaissance Fair, in your face, type cleavage. It is just a really well constructed dress that accentuates and maximizes all I’ve got without going over the top. And, besides that, this dress makes me feel like I am going to an Indian wedding and that I will dance the Bollywood dance. As of yet, I have nowhere to wear my amazing dress and even if I did I don’t know how to dance like they do in Bollywood. But, I did find this at my local Target, “Dances of India: Bollywood to Bollydance with Meera.” While I didn’t buy this DVD that could have turned me into Aishwarya Rai, we did go out to dinner at the Star of India and had some Chicken Tika Marsala and Saag Paneer. And, then we danced….Isaac Mizrahi for Target Bollywood dress, $49.95. Feeling like an Indian goddess, priceless.
p.s. Dress looks much better in person than in the picture.[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jUBEBbhowE]

Monthly Archive for May, 2008

I want a cupcake, and the deeper psychological and social implications of my desire

Craving Lake Bluff

If you take prenatal vitamins they will come….

No Contempt for Old Men. Or, I am the President of the Boy Bands of Mythology Fan Club

La Belette Goes Bollywood

About Me

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