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Monthly Archive for May, 2010

Writing in Valencia: Part Fifteen

I have always been struck by the phrase “How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they have seen Paree?”. It was a phrase I think I have always known. It has lived in my unconscious and it may be proof of Jung’s theory of the Collective Unconscious, as I don’t ever remember learning it—it was just always there. It would come to mind whenever someone had a life event that was so big and paradigm blowing that it would leave me wondering how they could possibly return to their ordinary life.

I didn’t know until I Googled the phrase that it was actually a song from 1919. I listened to the song on Youtube and as I listened to the tune I found it altogether too sprightly and spirited for the subject matter. This is a song that Billy Holiday or Morrissey really could have done justice to. It is a song about men who had lived a very small life on the farm—maybe they had never left their town. Maybe they never made it to the county fair. They had never seen another landscape, heard another language or eaten a food that wasn’t grown on their farm—and then they want off to war. They were 1900′s Idaho Odysseuses, reluctant heroes who left their farm-girl Penelopes behind to quilt and can things and care for their children and work on the farms while the uniformed Odysseus went away.

Continue reading ‘Writing in Valencia: Part Fifteen’

Monkey Business

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Most days when I talk to He-weasel at work the conversation goes like this:
Me: Hi, how are you doing?
He: Good. But I am really busy.
Me: Oh.
He: What are you doing?
Me:(Internal gasp) The same things I am always doing. Nothing new.
He: Oh, okay. I gotta go, I have a (pick one of the following: call, meeting, appointment) and I have to run.
Me: Okay, bye. See you tonight.

I got tired of this daily ritual. With each call I realized how I am not doing anything new or exciting, each day, for the most part, I do what I always do and he does what he always does. So I decided on a new routine that would not trigger existential angst in me. I decided to call him with a joke each day. I call and he answers the phone. I tell him the joke and it is usually a groaner. He laughs and then I say goodbye and that I’ll see him later. So far it is really working and there are no longer any uncomfortable reminders of the monotony of my everyday life.

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Guess where I am

Clues:
1. I am not in L.A.
2. I am not in California.
3. I am deliriously happy.
4. I am in the city that has a drink named after it. The ingredients for said drink are sweet vermouth, bourbon whiskey, bitters, maraschino cherry and orange.
5. It is a city that never sleeps.
6. I can see the Cleopatra earrings up close and personal.
7. I am hanging with Gigi and Henry.

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The 16 things you shouldn’t say to a CNBC (childless not by choice)

I don’t know if Ms. Manners, Martha Stewart or any other blond anal-retentive woman with a well developed Super-ego who is keen on handing out the rules of genteel and polite society has come out with a primer on things best not to say to women who have been pumped full of mind altering hormones, and endured an alphabet soup of invasive procedures(ART, IVFs, ICSI’s, IUI’s,), miscarriages and/or had failed adoptions.

So even though I am only a redhead who occasionally confuses my desert fork with my salad fork, I thought I would take this matter into my own hands and create a guide of what not to say to someone who is infertile, going through infertility treatment or has just had a miscarriage. Perhaps if I do this I and others who are in my position will stop enduring these comments that hurt more than a progesterone shot in the ass.

Continue reading ‘The 16 things you shouldn’t say to a CNBC (childless not by choice)’

Progress report

1. Yesterday, here in the states, it was mother’s day and I didn’t cry once. Let me also say that I didn’t spend the day with my mother, his mother or anyone else’s mother. It likely helped to not spend the day fete-ing what they are and what I will never be. It also helped to read Anne Lamott’s fantastic piece “Why I hate mother’s day”. I considered watching Mommy Dearest to make my mother’s day complete but I couldn’t find it on Netflix on-demand.
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The curse of the aluminum swan

I have only been to Gladstone’s 4 Fish four times and let me tell you here and now that I will never go there again. It isn’t Gladstone’s fault. The food was fine. The view is lovely. The location is ideal. It’s just that everytime I went to Gladstone’s it would lead to a breakup.  Two times after a surf and turf the very next day I was broken up with. And the two other times when I dined at Gladstone’s I ended up breaking up with the guy who shelled out a lot of clams to buy me a lobster tail.

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The cosmology of cosmetics( to be read with tongue firmly planted in cheek)

I have a friend who took tests in college to determine what career choice would best suit her interest, abilities and temperament. Upon completion of this extensive battery of tests she was told that she should be a cosmologist. Every time she tells me that story I say, “You mean a cosmetologist?”. She sometimes gets my joke and on other occasions she corrects me and says, “no, no, a cosmologist.” Most recently she reminded me of her gifts for cosmology as we walked through the makeup section of CVS pharmacy.

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Mild paranoia

No, I don’t think my phone is being tapped. I don’t think that the CIA is reading my blog or that I need to wear an aluminum chapeau to protect my thoughts from being read by alien life forms that would then use satellites to communicate my inner most secrets into coded messages in the scores on Dancing with the Stars. No, my paranoia is of another variety. For example: The other day when I had tons of stuff I needed to tell Igor. I needed every one of those 50 minutes and even then I wasn’t sure I was going to get it all out unless I was uncharacteristically laconic and terse. I decided that today would not be the day for small talk. I wouldn’t spend the usual first five minutes of the session making small talk, chit-chat and social pleasantries. I wouldn’t ask him how he was. I would have to resist the impulse to ask him how the Lakers were doing( as the truth is I don’t really care). I planned the order of my conversation in bullet points in my brain. I would stay on task and if after sharing something with him I saw him begin to enter one of his long winded silences I would ignore it and just keep talking. And, if necessary when I hit the 50 minute mark and I hadn’t gotten everything out I might be forced, for the first time ever, to ignore my invitation to leave and just keep talking.

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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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