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Monthly Archive for September, 2008

Go to your happy place

Published on September 30, 2008 in Psychology and Quotidien. 53 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , .
Youareabeautifulblogger

The word “belette” has two meanings en francais. It literally translates to “little beauty.” “Belette” also means weasel. I can assure you that I identify with the second meaning and not the first. Not that weasels aren’t beautiful, they are! It’s just I am having some ugly days lately.

Truly, I had a couple of days this last week when I felt that it was best if I kept a towel over the mirror and perhaps over my head. I have been hating my hair, hips and hiney. My self-loathing is usually contained to “that time of the month”. This month it has expanded long past PMS and into ovulation and into cycles yet un-named.

As if to challenge my sense of ugly, I received the “You are a beautiful blogger” award from the extremely lovely Seeker. As beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, who am I to argue with Seeker? I am sincerely grateful for this beautiful award and I am absolutely thrilled if Seeker finds any beauty in my blog. I certainly find it in hers. Seeker and her blog “Searching for the Inner Me” is a blog that celebrates self-discovery and exploration. Do not be fooled into thinking her blog is just about fashion. There is a depth of beauty to Seeker’s blog that is available to those willing to see beyond her amazing sense of fashion and fun.

Hammiesblog, a blogging beauty herself, created this innovative award for blogs that have “Beautiful thoughts, Beautiful words, Beautiful pictures.” Winners of this award, according to Seeker, are those who find beauty in the world, make beauty for the world, and talk about beauty in all its permutations.

I am choosing two beautiful blogs to bestow this award to that I have never before shared with you. Before I do I will share a seemingly unrelated story. Many years ago after a particularly horrible experience on the 405 freeway I developed a fierce case of freeway phobia. This is not a good thing to have in L.A. where every road leads to a freeway. After a few weeks of trying to take surface streets from the South Bay to Venice( those of you who live in Los Angeles know what a epic ordeal that is) I decided to see an EMDR therapist to help me get over the extreme fear I felt when I thought of the 405.

When I saw my uber-chic EMDR therapist for the first time she asked me to create a “happy place” I could go to as a way to begin and end our sessions. I wanted to keep my eyes open and look at her minimalist chic suite as my source of inspiration. With Lilith like coolness she instructed me that I needed to close my eyes and find my own internal happy place. I cruised through the usual imagery of rest and relaxation. First I went to the beach but I felt all hot, sandy, sticky and in danger of burning. Then I went to a verdant forest and then I started to imagine that there might be some dark danger lurking out of my field of vision. Open meadows provoked anxiety about bees. Hammocks hanging in the breeze brought up a fear of falling. It took half the session to come up my perfect happy place that was danger free. Finally I arrived at two. I thought of the Hotel el Minzah I had once stayed at in Tangier, Morocco. The majestic old hotel, in the middle of Tangier with its other-worldly interiors, created a sense of calm like no meditation or Enya Cd ever could. Other days, as we began our work I would turn to post-card like memories of Paris filled with a beauty that calmed me when I was done imagining the feelings I felt when on the freeway.

What I created in my mind in my was imagery that is not so different from the imagery of these two gorgeous blogs. Truly, when I went to these blogs the first thing I thought of was my “happy place”.

An Indian Summer
Bhavna has created a gorgeous blog that features beautiful posts about Eastern and Asian design. An Indian Summer “showcases the good, the better and the best from the world of interior designing–covering styles, trends, furniture, accessories, products, designs, architecture, and related good stuff…with special focus on Asia and India!” When I visit Bhavna’s blog I feel as if I am taking a vacation from the ordinary into the realm of the extraordinarily exotic. Just looking at the pictures of all the interiors that I may never have I feel a sense of peace. If I light a stick of sandalwood insense and breath deeply I feel as if I am just one cup of Morrocan mint tea away from enlightenment.

Tongue in Cheek
The blog of this gorgeous expat is like looking into a gilded window of la vie francais. Visiting Corey’s beautiful blog is not unlike watching French Kiss. There are some significant differences between Corey and Kate, as played by Meg Ryan. Corey, instead of being a neurotic and airplane phobic Canadian school teacher, is a talented blogger with a passion for creating a beauty in her home, her life and her blog. Corey’s French husband has nothing in common with the bumbling and sociopathic Luc as played by Kevin Kline. Okay, there may not be a lot of similarities between ‘Tongue in Cheek” and “French Kiss” except they both tell the stories of living and loving in France and that I love them both.

Corey says of her blog: My tales are woven from my experiences of living and loving France. Mostly stories collected at the, marché aux puces, (flea market,) in the south of France. Tales of linens, letters, vintage scraps, and moments of these worn true objects whispering in my ear….life is too short to say no…I left a beautiful country on a yes for love…love has lessons that nothing better can give. A leap of faith has given me many adventures- most I never dreamt possible!

In just ten sessions of EMDR my freeway phobia was cured and I was once again happily spending two to four hours a day on the freeway breathing in fumes and dreaming of my “happy place”. I am not promising you that if you go to these two beautiful blogs you will be cured of anything. But, I promise you that you will see beauty—or at least my idea of beauty.

I would love it if you would share with me your “happy place.” Go on, close your eyes and tell me what you see. A stone cottage? A Moroccan wonderland? Or, someplace else altogether?

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMYzJ4CArXg]

Oh, and for the Beautiful Bloggers,”An Indian Summer” and “Tongue in Chic,” here are the rules of this award:
1. The nominated is allowed to put the picture on the blog.
2. Share the love and link back to both the person who awarded you and back to the person who found this award to "http://hammie-hammiesays.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Hammiesblog.
3. Give it to two bloggers and link to them.
4. Leave a message on those people’s blog to make them aware that they’re nominated.
5. You are free to pass it on again, when you are “inspired” by a beautiful post or a beautiful blog.

Subtext of a shopping spree

Published on September 29, 2008 in Meaning Making, Objects and Quotidien. 62 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , .

Store #1
As soon as I walked into Black Market/White whatever I regretted it. I felt obligated to walk the store and pretend to look. Do you want the truth of why I went in there? I heard Michelle Obama bought a dress there. I thought I might something that made me look First Lady ready. I did not. Nothing in there but a couple of salesgirls gossiping about their co-workers. As I left the store I stopped and said a silent prayer thanking the Lord that I do not work retail.

Store #2
This was soooooo depressing. The store was disheveled. The sales guy walked by me four times, one time literally running into me before it occurred to him to say hello. I came to the mall with the intention of buying this blouse at Banana Republic. I love a good wrap blouse as they give me the illusion of a waist. I am always looking for a white top that will work. I saw that the collarless long-sleeve top also came in black. I cruised the store looking for some day dresses that would make me look as good as Karen did at the Getty. No such dress to be found. I cruised the sales racks. I pulled a pair of jeans and a wide leg pair of khakis to try.

I went into the dressing room which looked like it was an adolescence bedroom, or as my father used to call it “a pig pen.” My depression deepened. The lack of a courteous sales associate and a super messy dressing room made me seriously home sick for the Banana Republic in Highland Park. I tried on my garments with visions of the North shore of Chicago dancing in my head. In the monastic like silence of the sales assistants, I remembered conversations I had with the super solicitous Chicago sales associates who inquired about which Chanel fragrance I was wearing and wasn’t my necklace from their Spring 2007 collection and how cute my shoes were. I sighed audibly breaking the silence.

The jeans were bad. Khakis were sad. Tops were painful. Let me say out loud what I already know, I look terrible in white tops. I must add this truth to the things I know about myself like: I do not do meditation tapes so do not buy them. I do not want a full-time job. If I eat pasta before 11 a.m. I am going to have a very bad self-image day. I will never look like great in a crisp white blouse—I will look like a waitress who works at Chili’s.

I arrived in the dressing room looking alright. I left looking like sh*t. I am not sure how it happened. But it did.

As I chose to buy yet another gold necklace I overheard the manager ask her subordinate dressed in black if he was planning on going to a funeral. My reaction was strong. I considered pulling out my cellphone and calling BR corporate to report her sartorial sacrilege.

Store#3
I went into Gap expecting to find NOTHING. I was just stalling. I didn’t want to go home. No, not true. I didn’t want to go outside. It was hot and I didn’t park in the shade and by the time the car cooled down I would be back home. My trip to the Gap was just about wasting time. I had nothing to do when I got back home with no internet and nothing on TV and no book to read. As I reviewed the absence of items on my agenda I grew more depressed.


I found a straight black pencil skirt. I was sure it would be awful as most pencil skirts are. But, then I saw a transparent weight turtleneck that tempted me. I tried the two on and they were perfect. So perfect that I bought two of each. When I got the ensemble on I felt transported, I was no longer unemployed and living in Desperate Housewife land, I lived in NYC. I worked in art galleries. I had Salmon Rushdie’s and Jeff Koons’ phone number in my Palm Pilot. This was an outfit that required a back up.

Store #4
Walking into Macy’s heightened my depression. The clothes and the sales people and the customers and….everything, it all felt so sad. I tried to tell myself that it was the fluorescent lights, or the bad Feng Shui or even low blood sugar that was responsible for my Macy’s melancholy. I walked through cosmetics and jewelry where I can usually find something to want. Nothing. I was completely devoid of serotonin and the will to walk by the time I got to the shoe department. I did three laps through the department before I found the Mark Fisher Sanjay Slingback in black.

The pictures on Macys.com does not do this shoe justice. These shoes are cute and comfortable and there is something about the way these shoes frame my feet that I feel like I could pose for a Vargas portrait. As well as being kind of sexy, they are insanely comfortable. This is how comfortable they are, I asked the sales gal if she brought me a Naturalizer or a pair of Aerosoles by mistake. She had not.

Store #5
The first thing I noticed when I walked into Nine West was the guy in all black from Banana Republic. He was commiserating on the cruelty of his manager’s comment with the guys at Nine West who were also all in black. I tried to eavesdrop on their conversation as I picked up a cheetah sling. The trio in black turned into a duo when Man in black #2 asked if I wanted to try it on. I did. He brought me a box with more excessive wrapping and packaging than anything you could buy at Circuit City. It took me five minutes to free the slings from all their unnecessary packaging. Man in black #2 and I talked about the absurdity of all the packaging as I looked at how the sling made my calf look. They looked great, thanks for asking. As happy as I am about my shoes, I don’t have anywhere to wear them. I am well-heeled with nowhere to go. I try to console myself and tell myself if I get the wardrobe my life will come.

Sadly the photo of the shoe is not online. Will post photo once I get my own high speed Internet again. Oh, and Man #2 and I talked about how it would be a good idea to write a letter to 9West about their excessive and environmentally unfriendly packaging. I am sending my letter here.

Store #6
The sales gals at Ann Taylor were warm and friendly
and seemed genuinely concerned how I was doing. I felt sure that if I dared to tell them the truth they would actually care.I looked for the faux leather motorcycle jacket that Leah raved about. They didn’t have it in my size and even if they did I fear that my motorcycle jacket days are behind me. I did see a cute zebra trench that I decided was just was a bit too-too and might make me look like the bottom half of a Halloween costume. Still on the hunt for something black and white and chic all over I found a gorgeous zebra belt that I tried on in the shoe department so I would have some privacy.

The sales lady, who looked like she had recently returned to the workforce after a bad divorce settlement, cooed affectionately upon discovering me in front of a mirror meant for shoes. “Isn’t that a great belt?” “Yes,” I nodded, feeling some fear that she might be thinking something cruel under her compliment. As she turned to walk away the encouraging sales assistant bent over to adjust her dove gray d’orsay pump. There was something in her action that made her seem sad, fragile and slightly unstable. I imagined that just last year she had been in my shoes, she a shopper and not a sales gal. I hope that I was wrong and fought off the impulse to ask her as she rang up my sale. As she handed me the shopping bag she looked deeply into my eyes and wished me a lovely weekend. I wished her the same and then walked to my car and collapsed into the seat. I felt a strange combination of grief, relief, and an unquenched longing as I put my car into reverse and began my drive home.

Pale memory of a dark god

Published on September 26, 2008 in Belette's Favorites and Meaning Making. 74 Comments Tags: , , , , , .

I am in the 7th grade with skin that tells the genetic story of potato famines and misty fogs, with no memory of either. I live in a beach city with harsh sun, where the girls all look like the Malibu Barbie I play with after school and the boys look like the Beach Boys music I hear on the radio—all waves and “wipe outs.” I am the only girl with freckled skin that won’t tan in my class of 25.

Mondays are bad, because everyone has spent their weekend at the beach darkening our differences. Their faces are golden and shining, like the sun that burns me. I look at them and dream of what it must be like to be them. I imagine what it must be like to be transformed by the sun and never know pain. They, too, see the difference. They see that the weekend has not changed me—another weekend spent in my room reading.

“Do you lay out at night? Is that why you have a moon tan? You glow in the dark,” says Chris. They laugh as if he has never said it before. Art will say, “Do you have sunglasses? She’s burning my eyes with the glare. Her legs are so white, they’re burning my retinas. It’s like a solar eclipse!” They roar in delight. Tammy will ask me if my parents never let me leave the house. She will ask if they keep me in a closet. They laugh, stabbing shots of teeth filled laughter that flushes my cheeks into a familiar crimson. They are unmoved by the color they have created. Krista will call me Casper-the- Friendly-Ghost, and that will get them all going. They will start booing and making ghostly noises, singing the Casper theme song and asking me if I am haunting any houses.

By Tuesday, they have turned to others, “the fat girl.” On Wednesday they torment “the poor boy.” Thursday, both the “sickly boy” and “the nerd” gets it. Friday it is my turn again. On Fridays we are required to wear skirts. We go to chapel on Fridays, and yet my thoughts are never of God. I feel His absence through my paleness and my inability to transform. I am only aware of my lightness and God is not light; God is tan and brown—He looks something like Malibu Ken and I was not made in the image and likeness of God.

Miss him much

Published on September 25, 2008 in Quotidien. 30 Comments Tags: , , , , .
inkey for halloween

I miss sleeping with my legs bent so he could sleep on the edge of the bed more comfortably.

I miss him crawling on my keyboard or my book or on my black sweater I had laying out to wear.

I miss how he would greet us upon our return home by flopping on his back and showing us his beautiful tummy as if to say, do you see what you have been missing.

I miss the baby Inkey cry he would make when he first woke up.

I miss the game he loved to play. I would give him little pats on his back three times and then he would meow. We did this over and over to the point if I tapped the sofa three times he would meow. It was a game of call and respond and he always would.

I miss how he loved to be held like a baby. I miss the feel of him in my arms. Oh, and the soft sweet tummy fur that he would sometimes let me kiss.

I miss how emptying groceries always turned into a photo-op. No bag would be empty long with Inks around.

I miss how he loved me to rub his nose and how sometimes it made him sneeze.

I miss never being home alone.

I miss Monsieur Inkey.

Dancing and dessert

Published on September 24, 2008 in Belette's Favorites, Meaning Making, Objects and Quotidien. 49 Comments Tags: , , , , .

My grandmother, the one I didn’t like, the one who didn’t like me and told me at four years old,”you know, I really don’t like children.” That comment set the tone for our relationship and we never recovered from it. Even when she had had a stroke and the only word she could say was “rocker” she still could express her antipathy towards me with the one word she had at her disposal. As a child I never liked going to visit Grandma Bitchdikson (her last name was a Norwegian name that just begged to be modified into a name that more suited her poisonous personality). Sure we got to go into San Francisco and there was usually a fancy lunch someplace where I got to drink Shirley Temples and order lamb chops and chocolate mousse—but Grandma Bitchdickson would be there.

On rare occasions I would be left home alone at Bitchdikson’s house and there were two places I would go when such a time came. First I would go into the strange telephone room/pantry. This room, was dark and totally unlit, held canned goods, an old phone with a noxious ring, piles upon piles of notepads from Milbrae Realtors who tried to talk the old battle-ax into selling her home, and a jar filled with fun sized Milky Way bars. I would fill my pockets with the bars and open one immediately and then I would go into my grandmother’s dressing room. Bitchdickson had a full on vanity, there were bottles of perfumes that looked and smelled as if she had bought them in the early 1800′s. She had silver brushes, combs and mirrors. None of that interested me. What she did have that brought me into her lavender scented boudoir was a jewelry chest that had a ballerina. You know the kind—you turn over the box and wind and then there is music and dancing. I would eat a Milky Way bar and watch the caged ballerina do her plastic pirouettes. Once the ballerina tired and the music would fade I would then do an inventory of her jewels. I would examine her broaches, crusted with jewels and ornate excess. I would try on her assortment of clip on earrings that would pinch my ears and leave them red long after I took them off. I would pile on the bracelets and necklaces that she would have never let me touch if she were at home. She would have told me how much they cost and how fragile they were and how I couldn’t be trusted with them.

Once I had all her necklaces on and the bracelets I might find one of Bitchdikson’s hats that she would wear to church and where she would sing loudly and off key and my father would laugh with me at my grandmother’s vocal zeal. I usually would wear her black turban with large black plumes to my already overdone accessory ensemble. I would gaze at myself in the mirror admiringly and imagine someday this would all be mine. That knowledge inspired the unwrapping of yet another Milky Way Bar.

October 31,1991 Bitchdikson died and she left me her organ. I don’t know who got the jewelry box or the jewelry, but I know it wasn’t me. And, I don’t play the organ. I think Bitchdikson knew that.

How to be a writer and sleep like a French woman

Published on September 23, 2008 in Home Is Where the Guest Blogger Is. 80 Comments Tags: , , , , , .

I was planning on writing a post on how to become a writer. The motive of my post was karma. I think I read somewhere in a self help reading spree that if you want money make somebody else rich, if you want love fix up your friends and your deposits into the universal bank of karma will respond accordingly and give you what you gave. So, since what I want is to be a writer I am going to tell you everything I know about getting yourself to write. As a writer with a three year block I feel I have some insight on how to turn the block around. With these five easy steps you too can be writing in no time.

1. Buy and read Julia Cameron’s “The Artist Way”. You don’t have to do a single exercise in Julia’s book if you don’t want to. But, you must do the Morning Pages and keep doing them until you are writing. And do not try to “write” or be writerly when you do your morning pages. Just keep doing them and see what happens. They work if you do them. Just three pages of free writing the first thing when you wake up and before you know it the muses will actually show up when you do your real writing. I don’t understand how it works—I just know that it does—kind of like my car and electricity.

2. Read Anne Lamotte and listen to her advice about sh*tty first drafts. Having the expectation of writing something brilliant the first time around was enough to stop me from writing for several years. Give yourself permission to write the worst piece of….fiction, non-fiction, or whatever it is you want to write. This book should be in the collection of every would be writer right next to your dictionary, thesaurus, and the Dummies Guide to Getting Your Book Published.

3. Do not under any circumstances enroll in a MFA unless you don’t want to write and you were not criticized, shamed, or humiliated enough in your childhood and you are craving some kind of trauma to write about. If it is trauma and humiliation in the form of creativity crushing critique that you seek then you should begin your application process to University of Iowa or Irvine or some other school that promises fame and glory should you be able to write upon graduation.

4. Blog. Okay, maybe you already do that. But, I have to tell you that I have developed a kind of writing discipline that I never had before I began my blog. And, I have worked at a newspaper and I have gotten paid to write and even with a paycheck at stake I did not develop the kind of discipline that a daily blog has given me.

5. Take a writing class with Jamie Cat Callan. Le sigh! Thanks to Ms. Callan I did not do number three, instead I took writing classes with Jamie at UCLA. Her classes were filled with encouragement, enthusiasm, and exercises that actually got me to write. In no other class, and I have taken lots and lots of writing classes, have I ever actually written anything in the class. Of all the writing professors I have taken classes with Jamie Cat Callan is the only writing teacher whose name has stayed on the tip of my tongue just ready to be added to my acknowledgements page when I finally get the big book deal.

Well, there was a teacher who was equally as memorable in her darkness, insanity, and bipolar presentation as Callan was in her powerful positive influence. Let’s call this woman “Crazy Bitch” or CB for short. CB was a very scary woman took me under her wing on the first day of class. She offered to help me with me writing as she claimed to love it. The next day she turned on me in such a shocking manner that I was not altogether sure that she was not faculty at UCLA but rather a patient from UCLA Neuropsychiatric unit–either that or she was teaching a unit on Jeckyl and Hyde. Even more alarming was many years later I saw an author with her first best seller on the Oprah show who thanked CB for being the wind beneath her wings. The layers of shock I felt at that moments are still rippling with in me. What I was most surprised about was that CB was able to maintain her mentorship with this woman for more than a day, she must have gone on some serious medication.

Let me warn you that many writing teachers teach writing because they are not writing or publishing and they are bitter and angry and if they get the slightest whiff of talent they want to squash it. Not all teachers are like this—but I have met those who are and it took some time to recover from the vitriol and venom in their critique.

As I began to write this post I went to Jamie’s web page to see if she was still teaching and whether she had any upcoming classes across the country—because if you are going to take a class you should take it with one of the best and not a CB. When I got to her web page I saw a photo of Jamie looking as chic and lovely as ever but there was more— I also found she has written a book about women, romance and France. I know!! Can you believe it? Her book is called “French Women Don’t Sleep Alone” and it comes out in March 2009. I cannot wait to read it! I am hoping she might let me have an advanced copy so I can review it for you—not that I will able to be terribly objective. In hindsight I am not at all surprised that Jame is a francophile as she was always the height of chic—even early Saturday mornings in a UCLA classroom she was turned out in such a fashion that she would be equally at home at the Sorbonne.

Okay, back to your writing, Jamie does have writing classes and workshops coming up. If you are interested in taking one of her courses you can see her calendar here. I might go to her upcoming class at UCLA in November. If you are interested you can see a sample of her writing here.

For full disclosure: I have not seen or spoken to Jamie in over 15 years. She has absolutely no idea I am writing this and I get nothing out of this other than the good karma involved in helping another would be writer find the tools that have helped me. Truth be told, I don’t think she will even remember me. But, I will never forget her nor the influence she has had on my writing. Merci, Jamie!

Should you take my advice and then write a book and you get a book deal and then go on Oprah would you be sure to mention me and maybe get me a ticket to her favorite things show? If you, in all the excitement, forget—don’t worry I will just bask in the knowledge that I will undoubtedly receive some good writing karma.

The post where I talk about how far I have come with the lack of baby issue

Published on September 22, 2008 in Childless Not By Choice. 59 Comments Tags: , , , .

1. I was actually able to laugh at the new Brooke Shield’s Volkswagen commercial.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qL_9Gmonuo]

2. I have been able to hear about my estranged sister-in-laws children without needing to go into the bathroom and cry. This is real progress.

3. I no longer have to pretend not to like children—I am in a new stage of actually finding them unlikable. Sorry to all of you mother’s and father’s. I feel sure one day I will like children again. Lately I just find them loud and annoying. I am the woman who is unsympathetic when your child cries and throws a scene in a restaurant. You can feel the energy I am sending you with my eyes, ” can’t you get that child under control and if not could you please leave.” Please remember that I spent over $100,000 and went through countless procedures to have such a screaming, squirmy, and sticky thing of my own. So, some of my animus is my own issue and it is best to view my antipathy towards your toddler as pure envy.

4. I did not look at our new medical insurance policy to see if they would pay for me to go to Cornell and go through some painful and horrible procedures that would ultimately…not work. I did briefly look at their adoption benefits and then hurriedly moved onto what kind of psychotherapy benefits they provide.

5. I was able to finally read Petite Anglaise’s book. I had long been unable to even hear the word Tadpole with out sobbing that I would never have my own baby weasel. I didn’t even have to skip the paragraphs in which she described sweet and tender mother and child moments that would have usually unleashed a storm of tears.

6. I am at the point that I will take any one down who will tell me now that He-weasel has a good job and that I can relax that I will get pregnant. I mean, I cannot be responsible for what I do if you say this to me. What that will look like will be me screaming and making crazy eyes. But, this is a long ways from me wishing it were true. So, um, progress not perfection. Right?

7. I just recently paid off my last IVF cycle. And, it only was excruciatingly painful to pay money for something that didn’t work. It was not torture. The difference between excruciatingly painful and torture may seen insignificant to you. However, there is a difference.

Ermine Awards

Published on September 21, 2008 in 365 things that don't suck about L.A. and Quotidien. 56 Comments Tags: , , , , , .
funny-pictures-ermine-eats-bread

Welcome to the 2008 Ermine Award Ceremony. Please don’t go getting all zoologically correct on me now. I know ermines are not exactly weasels but they are very close and I couldn’t think of an award show that created an alliteration that went well with weasel, hence this is the Emmy’s for and from ermine.

I wish I could have gotten John Stewart or even Billy Crystal so do ten minutes of stand up before the show began—but this is a very low budget award show. Much like the arts and science awards at the Oscars. However, the awards and the bestowers and receivers of these awards are of the highest caliber and they deserve to walk the red carpet and be asked questions from Joan Rivers and Ryan Seacrest.

Award Number One
May I have the envelope please. Tatting Chic kindly awarded me with “The 5 blogs that make my day” award. She gave me this award way back when this blog was shut down for my nervous breakdown and so I am sorely remiss in thanking Ms. Tatting for this incredibly kind honour. I am really honoured to make it onto your list and I am truly delighted that I am even one of the 5 blogs you read everyday–let alone one of your favorites.

I would like to thank my mother and father who made me so neurotic that I needed someplace to vent. I would also like to thank my agent. Oops, don’t have one. Um, and a special shout out to Target for dressing me for the ceremony. Thanks for asking, I am wearing the pink squirrel pajama bottoms and the matching pink tee shirt. My slippers? I am not sure who made them. They are zebra acrylic fur mules that have been worn so frequently that the words on the label have worn off. I know what they say about not mixing animal prints but I am daring like that.

I would like to pass this award on “The 5 blogs that make my day” to 5 of my favorite fashion bloggers who make me feel like a shlumpa lumpa as I sit and read their lovely blogs in my sweats. No, really, they make me want to be a more fashionable person and for that I thank them.

1. Observation Mode
2. Make Do Style
3. Couture Carrie
4. My Wardrobe Today
5. Of a Certain Age


Award Number Two
This category is the “Kick Ass Blogger” award. I happily accept this award from the lovely and talented kick ass blogger, Ne je ne regrette rien. NJNRR is the epitome of kick ass. She approaches blogging, her life and all she does with an enormous and infectious spirit of “no regrets.”

This award is a bit complicated, but us kick ass bloggers do not let that stop us. So, I am bringing in the accountants from Ernst and Young to explain the rules to you. No, you may not use your Ti-vo to fast forward through this part.
Rule #1. Select five bloggers who “kick ass”.
Rule #2. Blurt out why you think they are deserving of this award–must have some kick ass in the description.
Rule #3. Link them all together in some slightly sexual way.
Rule #4. Acknowledge the originator of this award and also the lovely, generous, beautiful kick ass woman who is sending it your way.
Rule # 5. Make this one up as you go along.

I nominate the following 5 bloggers for the Kick Ass Blogging Award:

1. La Vie Quotidienne. She kicks ass on so many levels. She is fiercely intelligent and brings incredible insight and thoughtfulness to everything she writes. The more I learn about her and read her blog the more I feel slightly intimidated. Her blog often makes me want to pursue a PhD and I mean that in a good way.

2. Wendy Brandes Jewelry. This one is so easy. Oh the multitude of way this gal kicks ass is so varied that I hear that the film “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” was based on her fierce ass kicking ways. I love how Wendy brings together her passions for history, vintage fashion, her jewelry, and the tremendous support and encouragement she gives to all her bloggy friends. And, then there is the amazing fund-raising she is doing for NieNie. Even when not in latex leggings and spiked heels, WendyB is a super-hero blogger.

3. Stuff Parisians Like I love this blog and only recently found it. Who ever you are who writes these delightful Bon Mots about Paris, Parisians and Paris life, chapeau off to you. Your blog, how do you say, coup-de-pied derrière. C’est vrai? I adore the wit and intelligence that oozes off the monitor each and every time I visit.

4. Paris Breakfasts This kind of passion and commitment to painting the macaron and all the patisseries of Paris must come with enormous personal sacrifice and yet you never hear Carol complaining about serving up a piping hot bowl of Paris to her hungry readers each and every day. Paris Breakfast kicks healthy breakfast in the derrière.

5. Materfamilias writes, and Passage des Perles and Une Femme de un Certain Age. I am sorry but sometimes three way ties do happen. And, all three of these bloggers do a great job assuring me that intellect, wit, wisdom and the love of a red handbag are not at odds. There are not many role models for fabulousness in our 50′s and beyond–we are lucky to have these three lovely ladies on the blogosphere. I fear all three would kick ass on anyone who told them that being in their 50′s meant they must find their fashion at Chico’s. These women kick stereotypes in the derrière. Love them!!

I am sorry, I am not tying these bloggers together in some kind of sexual way, this is a live show and the censors will not allow
it. Suffice it to say that each and everyone of these bloggers kicks ass.

The next award of the evening is in the international category.
It is the Proximo award. I was delighted to receive this beautiful butterfly award from both Observationmode and Searching the Inner Me. I was given this award by two bloggers who exemplify the spirit of Proximo. And, I really am delighted that they believe I am a blogger who deserves this award as it is really important to me that blogging is a dialogue and not a monologue.

This award that originates in Portugal is given to bloggers who create a sense of community with their blog.

According to Seeker, “the “Proximity Award” (or “Closeness Award”)is to promote closeness between bloggers.” Seeker translates for us: (this) “BLOG has been made to achieve people, showing inspiring things and to create bonds of friendship, to invest and believe in PROXIMITY (Closeness).Many bloggers receive messages and don’t care in answering or return them. So then what happens?The friendship ties are broken. And we don’t want that to happen, do we?An union between Reader/Blogger is needed. So let’s visit those who visit us also.Then, we will be closer; we will be Bloggers in the true meaning of the word.”

I am passing on this beautiful blogging award to 5 bloggers whose early and long standing support of my blog has inspired me to keep showing up at the page even when I thought I had nothing to say. I wish I had more of these awards to give out. But, really, I want you all to know that without your early and constant encouragement I doubt I would be here today.
1. Style for the Stay at Home Mom
2. L’ennui Mélodieux
3. My Inner French Girl
4. A-line Skirt
5. Shallow Coffee

The final award of the evening is the I” Love Your Blog Award”. And, I am delighted to receive this award fromSearching the Inner Me, Of a Certain Age and from Not Supermom. I do love your blogs too! Thank you so much for this really lovely award! I am honured.

I would like to nominate the following blogs that I love:

1. Badaude
2. I Heart Fashion
3. La Femme Couture
4. L’air du temps
5. Indigo alison

Seriously, I want to thank you all for these awards. They really do mean a lot to me. And, I am proudly displaying them on my right margin for all to see. I do wish there was a way to keep them on my night stand. And, I also would like to thank all of you who entertain, inspire, encourage and delight me with your fabulous blogs.

Please tune in next year for the 2009 Ermine Emmys.

Fridays with Freud

Published on September 19, 2008 in Psychology. 71 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , .
Under Analysis

I am thinking about calling my old psychoanalyst and I don’t know why. Well, I sort of do. He was as close to a healthy father/daughter relationship that I have ever had and I am home and there is a part of me that wants him to know I am back and that I am better than I was when I saw him last. I want him to know I am happy and not happy. I want him to know that I didn’t have the baby. Yet, that old feeling of failing comes back. That feeling that it is something wrong with me and that this speaks of some kind of intrinsic and unchangeable flaw in me. I want him to know that I am writing as the reason I started analysis was that I couldn’t write and my father had just died. I feel somewhat ashamed to say that I am not working and that I am not getting paid to write. I would like to go back to him in total triumph.

I saw him in a brick building in Santa Monica, California, just blocks from the beach, for ten long and transference filled years. I will never do the math on how much I paid him, no good can come of it and should you want me to collapse into a catechismic depression I suggest that you do the math for me. Superman has kryptonite and I have the balance sheets on my student loans and the paid amount of money I paid to my analyst. Now, if you asked him, and I suppose you can’t because he is not legally allowed to talk about me with you, but if you did and he could, he would say that he was way underpaid and that is true. I was not an easy client. I was secretive, highly sensitive and somewhat passively aggressively angry. But, that said, it was and is a lot of money to me.

I went Wednesday’s at 11 a.m. and Friday’s at 10 a.m. I would drive on the 405 freeway to see him and sit in traffic. I would search the streets of Santa Monica for someplace to park. I would see celebrities and would-be celebrities buying organic fruits and veg at the Farmer’s Market. I would walk blocks to his office among tourists and trendies who walked Third Street with an egalitarian lack of urgency. As I always feared I would be late I would weave and race to get past the men-children, who seemed to be a cliched array of screenwriters and homeless men who sipped Starbucks and sack covered bottles as they sauntered down Santa Monica, and the waitress-actresses who occupied Ocean Avenue.

I would sit in his shabby waiting room that looked like it was a 1962 Smithsonian time capsule of “Psychoanalyst Office, USA.” I would flip through his antiquated copies of Utne Reader and Psychoanalytic Journals that sat on his dusty oak credenza once I had flipped the light to let him know I was there. As I read about “The 50 most charitable companies to work for in Berkley” I would plan what I would tell him. When he would come out of his office with his 10 o’clock client we would begin our well orchestrated routine. I would avert my eyes so I would not see his last client. I don’t think I wanted to share him with anyone else.

Once his client departed he would give me a quick nod and somehow silently indicate that he was going to the washroom( his language, not mine). He repeated this ritual for 10 years which always made me wonder if he actually went to the bathroom each and every time or if he washed his hands or did some other psyche clearing ablutions in the men’s room. He would return and greet me as enthusiastically as his Nordic heritage and analytic training would allow. Then he would do the international hand gesture for “come on in.” I would rise and avoid eye contact with him as I carefully walked past him so that there was no danger that we touched. Not one thing about this changed in the 10 years that we met. He did update his furniture and eventually got a better clock radio that served as the privacy filter. Classical music was the only thing that kept me from eavesdropping on his 10:00. And, it was Mahler that kept his 12:00 from hearing about my mother complex.

I am not altogether sure if I can articulate what I got out of this therapy, well at least not in the context of this post, but I know that it gave me the experience of having a father like figure and there are times when I long for that again. At year ten of analysis I felt like I had worked on my father relationship adequately and that it was time to begin to deal with my mother. My analyst encouraged me to stay and I think he was genuinely sad to see me go. But, I felt a strong desire to start seeing a woman analyst and ultimately desired to quit analysis altogether and instead spend my free cash on important things like manicures and massages.

Before we moved to Chicago I saw him to tell him that I was leaving L.A. We briefly talked about my move and our work together. I talked about how difficult the work had been for me and how I imagine at times it was for him too. He didn’t disagree with me and that little sting has stuck with me the last few years. What I took with me from that session was that I was a difficult child. That was not an unfamiliar message for me. It was a painful one to get from my shrink.

Shrink? I am not sure why I called him that. I never called him that before. I think I did that for you. It was a way to minimize his importance and to show you a casualness about it that is completely at odds with the amount of time I kept going to him.

I called him a shortened version of his name that I added a “y” to for a little more casual irnoy. No, not to his face but when I would speak about him outside of the session. And, speak of him I would. I concocted entire narratives about his wife, his daughter and even what he did when he was not so lucky as to listen to me talk about my father and my mother and the “you won’t believe what she said this time(s)”…that filled our sessions.

Last night when He-weasel and I went to dinner I was reminded of a story about my father and for a moment I genuinely and actually missed him and for a moment I wondered what he would think of me. This may not sound uncommon to you. People do, after all, miss their deceased relatives. I, however, can count the times I have missed my father on my fingers and toes. That is when I think I started to move from random free floating desire to call my old analyst into a clear and conscious thought. I want to pick up the phone and dial his number, the number I still know by heart. I want to call him because I cannot call my father and I might want to have my state of babylessness, joblessness and dependency mirrored by him. Geeze, I could really could use some therapy.

Radio Silence

Published on September 18, 2008 in Quotidien. 55 Comments Tags: , , , , , .

The first few hours in our new home we had Internet and telephone and then something went terribly wrong and we had none. And for nearly 48 hours I was without the ability to blog, email, Google, check Jcrew’s website every few hours to see if they had any new bracelets that I could not live without, or Twitter. It was a dark period. There were shakes, sweats, and desperate OCD like checking to see if somehow magically it was fixed.

I laid about on our leather sofa and discovered that our air conditioning has bi-polar bear disorder, it was either too hot or too cold—never just right. I watched John Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Keith Olbermann, and Rachel Zoe—and none of these were as satisfying as I was not able to multi-task. I think it is best to watch the Rachel Zoe show the way one does a solar eclipse, do not look directly at her or one’s body dysmporphia may be triggered and one may need even larger bug-eyed glasses to compensate. I grew bored and went to the gym and worked at avoiding eye contact with any of the gym rats and was crestfallen that I had not checked the battery before I left the house—so half way through my workout I had no more musical accompaniment and I was stuck listening to two TV’s blaring and gym rats grunting.

When I returned home to Chez Nouveau I felt the need to blog, the way a smoker needs a cigarette with a cocktail. I could have written a post and saved it for another day, but the inability to post it only exaggerated my suffering. So, I went shopping, as one does, when they are trying to sublimate their suffering. I went to Whole Foods and spent $120 and did not buy the ingredients for a meal. For the price of a J Crew bracelet I got raspberries, sparkling water, pesto, cheese, a Tibetan altar candle, chicken salad, roasted beet salad, and Pirate Booty.

While shopping I saw an older woman with the most beautiful white hair and I was desperate to come home and blog about how every time I see a women with beautiful white hair I cannot stop myself from complimenting her and yet that is the colour hair I have underneath all this dye. And, then I remembered that I had no way to blog. More sublimation was clearly called for.

So, I did what I used to do when I needed to be distracted I went to a book store and bought a book and I read. It was okay. But, the bad thing about books is that if all of a sudden you are desperate to know the best products to use to make wavy hair curly there is no Google bar on the side of the page that will allow you access to do a quick search.

As each hour without Internet passed I grew more and more frantic until I finally flipped out on the property management people and made it clear to them that it was vital to the national security for my Internet to be restored immediately. I will lie, exaggerate and throw a temper tantrum to get my Internet. When I saw they were unmoved by my outbursts I brought out the big guns and asked for the phone number, email, and address of their corporate office. If I wasn’t going to have Internet I was going to see if I could make someone else as miserable as I was, i.e. try to get someone fired. They seemed to respond to my final threats. By the time I got home last night not only did I have Internet and phone service we had been given a gift certificate for dinner at a wine bistro across the street. They are so smart, I was planning on going on Yelp and Citysearch and complaining about the horrible customer service at these condos. We had a lovely dinner, a bottle of Pinot Noir and I have Internet. All is forgiven.

I would love to end this post with some heartwarming moral about what I learned from not having Internet and that in hindsight it was such a great experience—but I have no such moral for you. I am addicted, I admit it. Must run, have lots of blog reading, shopping, emailing, Twittering, and Googling to do.

About Me

My name is Tracey, aka La Belette Rouge. I am a psychotherapist and the author of Freudian Sip @ Psychology Today. I blog about psychology, my therapy, dreams, writing, meaning making, home, longing, loss, infertility and other things that delight or inspire me. I try to make deep and elusive psychodynamic concepts accessible and funny. For more information, click here .

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