My therapist owns a cat.
You may have read about this before, here or here. I've tried to let the subject die, but it refuses. Every so often, during therapy, I will look at John and remember that he owns a cat. And I will fight the urge to ask about it. I don't need to know the cat's name, really I don't. I'm happy to think of it as Mr. Whiskers. Or at least I am, as much as I can be happy to think of it at all.
But I can't stop now. Mr. Whiskers is so much bigger than any 50-minute therapy session or blog bit. I've been thinking about him and speculating about him and laughing about him for so long that I knew something had to happen, and it was up to me to make sure it did.
And so I've added something new to my resumé. It took me until about 5am, but I did it. I am now a singer-songwriter, for I have penned "The Ballad of Mr. Whiskers."
I may record a performance and put it on YouTube. I'm not sure yet. In any case, here it is, in all its early-morning cowboy-ballad glory.
The Ballad of Mr. Whiskers
Legend has it there once was a mighty, fluffy feline,
They say he lived with a man named John in a pad East of the Beeline.
His eyes were wise, his fur was soft, his claws as sharp as Fiskars,
And legend says he lived up to his name of Mr. Whiskers.
Mr. Whiskers! Yippee-ki-yi-yo!
Mr. Whiskers! In a sweater and a bow!
Well Whiskers was the toughest indoor cat you've ever seen.
He could take on any Tom in that Cat Fancy Magazine.
He lived on milk and Fancy Feast and though he'd sometimes roam,
He was loyal still enough to come when John called, "Daddy's home!"
Mr. Whiskers! Yippee-ki-yi-yo!
Mr. Whiskers! Strolling through PetCo!
Now Whiskers, he looked good in both a sweater and a hat,
And even Santa Claus confessed, "Now here's an awesome cat!"
Mr. Whiskers walked with pride in a collar and a lead,
And though he'd rather now, that cat could swim across Lake Mead.
Mr. Whiskers! Yippee-ki-yi-yip!
Mr. Whiskers! Playing with catnip!
No woman was ever good enough for this noble cat's friend John,
Whiskers frightened would-bes off with a show of cattish brawn.
And so the bachelors lived alone, a counselor and his pet,
But Mr. Whiskers is, of cats, the best of all as yet.
Mr. Whiskers! Yippee-ki-yi-eer!
Mr. Whiskers! Loyal through the years.
John died alone and Whiskers mourned the loss of his dear friend,
Then Mr. Whiskers disappeared and so our story ends.
But be alert, for Whiskers might just pass on by,
You'll know him by his whiskers and the twinkle in his eye.
Mr. Whiskers! Yippee-ki-yi-yi!
Mr. Whiskers! The legend never dies!
Showing posts with label obsessions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label obsessions. Show all posts
17 February 2010
30 October 2009
The Return of Mr. Whiskers
I held out as long as I could, I really did.
For weeks, I found excuses for giggling during therapy - knock-knock jokes, lines from sitcoms, bumper stickers. I tried as hard as I could to keep from mentioning how much mental energy I have expended of late thinking about my therapist's cat.
Yesterday, I failed.
I blame my mother.
John's birthday was the 24th, and my mother mentioned something about having a birthday party with the cat, and I mentioned something about giving the cat a party hat, and it went downhill from there. Yesterday, about two-thirds of the way through my hour, I pictured Mr. Whiskers in a party hat, and I lost it. It started with a choked-out laugh, scarcely suppressed.
John raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering what I found so amusing about having boundary issues. I tried to cover my laugh with a cough, but that only made things worse. I found myself wondering if John would say "Bless you" to his cat if the animal sneezed (do cats sneeze?), and I laughed again. Unbidden, the image of John and his cat in matching Christmas sweaters came to mind, and I found myself shaking like a hotel bed with Magic Fingers.
I laughed out loud, more of a bark than anything else, and the dreaded giggle loop came crashing down around me.
I bloody lost it.
John stared for a moment, clearly worried about my sanity. Then, perhaps realizing that as my therapist, he should have a better grasp on my sanity than to simply wonder, he asked me what I found so amusing.
Excuses flooded my mind, each less plausible than the last - I just got a joke I heard yesterday. I figured out the best way to exact revenge on my ex-boyfriend. I'm having a seizure.
Perhaps if I hadn't been trying so hard to come up with an excuse, I could have actually come up with one. But in this sudden surge of brain activity, I lost control over my tongue, and out came the words, "You have a cat!"
Understandably, John didn't see what was so funny about the fact that he owns a cat. I can't blame him. I laughed the laugh of the damned for another minute, and then the tale of Mr. Whiskers came tumbling out of my mouth. The cat's name. The leash. The screensaver. The matching Christmas sweaters.
John seemed particularly offended at that last bit. "Oh, gosh, no!" he exclaimed, and I could see him racking his brain, trying to figure out what he may have ever said to me to make me think that he was the sort of man to put a sweater on a cat.
I gave him the first excuse I could think of. I blamed my mother.
"She's a sick woman," I blurted out. "She needs medication!"
He raised an eyebrow, which gave him a rather unintelligent look owing to the fact that his mouth was still open, as it had been since I brought up the topic of cat sweaters.
"I don't know what's wrong with her," I continued. "It's got to be her ADD!"
John managed to compose himself at last. "Does she do that sort of thing often?" he asked. "Just take a topic and go off on it?"
I thought about that for a moment. "Yes," I lied.
I'm not sure if he believed me or not. He didn't seem to, but I could tell that he wanted to, that he would rather believe me than accept the fact that after working with me for four years, I am still mentally disturbed enough to spend the better part of two months imagining his life with his cat.
After the tale (no pun intended) came out, there was a moment or two of awkward silence, during which, I believe, John and I made a tacit agreement never to speak of Mr. Whiskers again. Then he asked me how long I'd been seeing him, and I cheerfully told him it's been four years.
I think a little bit of him died when I said that. I could see a bit of light leave his eyes. I smiled more widely. It is slightly perverse, I'll admit, but the truth is that, as much progress as I have made since 2005, I didn't feel I'd accomplished very much until just then, when I realized that, whether he liked it or not, John would never be able to forget me for the rest of his life.
And if I'm not mistaken, he's learned an important lesson about sharing bits of his personal life during an hour that someone else is paying for. And that, my friends, is progress.
For weeks, I found excuses for giggling during therapy - knock-knock jokes, lines from sitcoms, bumper stickers. I tried as hard as I could to keep from mentioning how much mental energy I have expended of late thinking about my therapist's cat.
Yesterday, I failed.
I blame my mother.
John's birthday was the 24th, and my mother mentioned something about having a birthday party with the cat, and I mentioned something about giving the cat a party hat, and it went downhill from there. Yesterday, about two-thirds of the way through my hour, I pictured Mr. Whiskers in a party hat, and I lost it. It started with a choked-out laugh, scarcely suppressed.
John raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering what I found so amusing about having boundary issues. I tried to cover my laugh with a cough, but that only made things worse. I found myself wondering if John would say "Bless you" to his cat if the animal sneezed (do cats sneeze?), and I laughed again. Unbidden, the image of John and his cat in matching Christmas sweaters came to mind, and I found myself shaking like a hotel bed with Magic Fingers.
I laughed out loud, more of a bark than anything else, and the dreaded giggle loop came crashing down around me.
I bloody lost it.
John stared for a moment, clearly worried about my sanity. Then, perhaps realizing that as my therapist, he should have a better grasp on my sanity than to simply wonder, he asked me what I found so amusing.
Excuses flooded my mind, each less plausible than the last - I just got a joke I heard yesterday. I figured out the best way to exact revenge on my ex-boyfriend. I'm having a seizure.
Perhaps if I hadn't been trying so hard to come up with an excuse, I could have actually come up with one. But in this sudden surge of brain activity, I lost control over my tongue, and out came the words, "You have a cat!"
Understandably, John didn't see what was so funny about the fact that he owns a cat. I can't blame him. I laughed the laugh of the damned for another minute, and then the tale of Mr. Whiskers came tumbling out of my mouth. The cat's name. The leash. The screensaver. The matching Christmas sweaters.
John seemed particularly offended at that last bit. "Oh, gosh, no!" he exclaimed, and I could see him racking his brain, trying to figure out what he may have ever said to me to make me think that he was the sort of man to put a sweater on a cat.
I gave him the first excuse I could think of. I blamed my mother.
"She's a sick woman," I blurted out. "She needs medication!"
He raised an eyebrow, which gave him a rather unintelligent look owing to the fact that his mouth was still open, as it had been since I brought up the topic of cat sweaters.
"I don't know what's wrong with her," I continued. "It's got to be her ADD!"
John managed to compose himself at last. "Does she do that sort of thing often?" he asked. "Just take a topic and go off on it?"
I thought about that for a moment. "Yes," I lied.
I'm not sure if he believed me or not. He didn't seem to, but I could tell that he wanted to, that he would rather believe me than accept the fact that after working with me for four years, I am still mentally disturbed enough to spend the better part of two months imagining his life with his cat.
After the tale (no pun intended) came out, there was a moment or two of awkward silence, during which, I believe, John and I made a tacit agreement never to speak of Mr. Whiskers again. Then he asked me how long I'd been seeing him, and I cheerfully told him it's been four years.
I think a little bit of him died when I said that. I could see a bit of light leave his eyes. I smiled more widely. It is slightly perverse, I'll admit, but the truth is that, as much progress as I have made since 2005, I didn't feel I'd accomplished very much until just then, when I realized that, whether he liked it or not, John would never be able to forget me for the rest of his life.
And if I'm not mistaken, he's learned an important lesson about sharing bits of his personal life during an hour that someone else is paying for. And that, my friends, is progress.
05 October 2009
Happy Anniversary! You're Crazy.
Tomorrow is kind of a big day for me. Kind of.
It's also sort of depressing. Tomorrow is the four-year anniversary of my being in therapy (with this particular therapist, anyway). This is depressing for several reasons, two of which are that 1) my relationship with John is the longest I've ever had with anyone to whom I am not related, and 2) it's been 4 years, and I am still in therapy.
I mentioned the anniversary to John last Thursday at our session. He wasn't sure of the date. He unearthed my file, which is dangerously thick.
He rifled through a heavy stack of session notes to the last page. "Four years," he said. I wondered if he was thinking what I was, which is that I'm not sure what it says about his skills as a therapist that I am still seeing him four years later, and I'm not quite 26 so how screwed up can I really be yet that I need four years of therapy?
He then asked me what sorts of things I felt I still needed to work on. I'm sure he was thinking along the lines of grieving my father's death and my baby's adoption and the anger I have at my ex.
But what I was thinking to myself, that I almost blurted out, was, "I have a problem, John, and it is a big one. I have spent more time wondering about you and your cat than I have spent on anything else this week."
I didn't say that, of course. I thought about it - several times I thought about it, throughout my session. And at one point I actually laughed out loud about it. John asked what was so funny and I had to make something up to keep from telling him that every time I drive past a pet supply store I picture him inside pushing his cat up and down the aisles in a shopping cart.
I told him what I felt I still needed to work on, and he said something about how those were valid issues, blah blah blah, and as he spoke I pictured him discussing boundary issues with his cat.
I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up. Eventually I am going to have to tell him about the cat problem, and I'm not sure how he'll react. I'm hoping he will find it funny and we can have a good laugh about it and move on.
I am terrified that he will feel the need to give me details to set me straight on the subject. I know too much already. What if I discover something even more distracting? What am I going to do then?
I think it's probably a good thing that, four years later, I am still in therapy. I seem to need it.
It's also sort of depressing. Tomorrow is the four-year anniversary of my being in therapy (with this particular therapist, anyway). This is depressing for several reasons, two of which are that 1) my relationship with John is the longest I've ever had with anyone to whom I am not related, and 2) it's been 4 years, and I am still in therapy.
I mentioned the anniversary to John last Thursday at our session. He wasn't sure of the date. He unearthed my file, which is dangerously thick.
He rifled through a heavy stack of session notes to the last page. "Four years," he said. I wondered if he was thinking what I was, which is that I'm not sure what it says about his skills as a therapist that I am still seeing him four years later, and I'm not quite 26 so how screwed up can I really be yet that I need four years of therapy?
He then asked me what sorts of things I felt I still needed to work on. I'm sure he was thinking along the lines of grieving my father's death and my baby's adoption and the anger I have at my ex.
But what I was thinking to myself, that I almost blurted out, was, "I have a problem, John, and it is a big one. I have spent more time wondering about you and your cat than I have spent on anything else this week."
I didn't say that, of course. I thought about it - several times I thought about it, throughout my session. And at one point I actually laughed out loud about it. John asked what was so funny and I had to make something up to keep from telling him that every time I drive past a pet supply store I picture him inside pushing his cat up and down the aisles in a shopping cart.
I told him what I felt I still needed to work on, and he said something about how those were valid issues, blah blah blah, and as he spoke I pictured him discussing boundary issues with his cat.
I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up. Eventually I am going to have to tell him about the cat problem, and I'm not sure how he'll react. I'm hoping he will find it funny and we can have a good laugh about it and move on.
I am terrified that he will feel the need to give me details to set me straight on the subject. I know too much already. What if I discover something even more distracting? What am I going to do then?
I think it's probably a good thing that, four years later, I am still in therapy. I seem to need it.
28 September 2009
My money's on "Mr Whiskers"
My therapist has a cat.
I wish I didn't know this, but I do. He mentioned it in my last session. My therapist is in his forties, and single, and he has a cat.
I wish I didn't know this. Oh, certainly I'm glad to know that he prefers cats to dogs, because I've found that cat lovers are more empathetic than dog owners. But I still wish I didn't know this. I wish I knew that he liked cats, but not that he owns one. Because my mind can't just let it go. I can't just accept that he has a cat, and move on with my life. One could argue that, were he a better therapist, I would be able to let it go. But I've been seeing him for four years, and he has a cat, and I can't let it go. Questions arise, unbidden, in my neurotic brain.
I start to wonder about the cat. Is it a shelter cat? What sort of markings does it have? What color are its eyes? How big is it? How old is it? How long has John owned it?
What is its name? What sort of name would John choose for a cat? Paws? Frankie? Boots? Mr. Whiskers? Or does it have some sort of embarrassing lovey-dovey name like Angel or Sweet Pea or Baby? Does he talk to the cat?
Is he the male equivalent of a crazy cat lady? Does he have a picture of his cat as a desktop or a screen saver on his computer? Does he subscribe to Cat Fancy magazine? Would he, in casual conversation, refer to his cat as his furbaby? When he gets home from work, does he announce to the cat that daddy's home? Does he kiss the cat on the mouth? Does his cat screen his dates? Is that why he's still single?
Does he take the cat for walks? I think he's the sort of man that might put a cat on a leash. Do they go shopping together at Petco for kitty toys? Is he the kind of person who puts outfits on his pet for different holidays? Is there a picture of the cat with Santa? Are there pictures of John with his cat? Would he send them out in his Christmas cards? If the cat went missing, how much would he offer for a reward?
I am taking advice - life advice - from a man whose house contains a box that holds cat poo. How can I do that? How can I take my psychotherapist seriously when I know that he spends some of his time scooping cat poo out of a litter box? Is anyone who would voluntarily handle cat poo really qualified to give advice?
I don't know how I'm supposed to take him seriously now. Tomorrow I'm going to see him, and I have to try and sit there and discuss my problems and pretend that he doesn't have a cat and that I haven't spent the better part of an hour wondering about the cat. What if, mid-session, I crack up? What if I can't stop laughing? He's going to ask what's so funny, and I'm going to have to tell him that I have a mental picture of him and his cat in matching Christmas sweaters.
I'm not sure this is going to work anymore. I think I may have to find a new therapist.
I wish I didn't know this, but I do. He mentioned it in my last session. My therapist is in his forties, and single, and he has a cat.
I wish I didn't know this. Oh, certainly I'm glad to know that he prefers cats to dogs, because I've found that cat lovers are more empathetic than dog owners. But I still wish I didn't know this. I wish I knew that he liked cats, but not that he owns one. Because my mind can't just let it go. I can't just accept that he has a cat, and move on with my life. One could argue that, were he a better therapist, I would be able to let it go. But I've been seeing him for four years, and he has a cat, and I can't let it go. Questions arise, unbidden, in my neurotic brain.
I start to wonder about the cat. Is it a shelter cat? What sort of markings does it have? What color are its eyes? How big is it? How old is it? How long has John owned it?
What is its name? What sort of name would John choose for a cat? Paws? Frankie? Boots? Mr. Whiskers? Or does it have some sort of embarrassing lovey-dovey name like Angel or Sweet Pea or Baby? Does he talk to the cat?
Is he the male equivalent of a crazy cat lady? Does he have a picture of his cat as a desktop or a screen saver on his computer? Does he subscribe to Cat Fancy magazine? Would he, in casual conversation, refer to his cat as his furbaby? When he gets home from work, does he announce to the cat that daddy's home? Does he kiss the cat on the mouth? Does his cat screen his dates? Is that why he's still single?
Does he take the cat for walks? I think he's the sort of man that might put a cat on a leash. Do they go shopping together at Petco for kitty toys? Is he the kind of person who puts outfits on his pet for different holidays? Is there a picture of the cat with Santa? Are there pictures of John with his cat? Would he send them out in his Christmas cards? If the cat went missing, how much would he offer for a reward?
I am taking advice - life advice - from a man whose house contains a box that holds cat poo. How can I do that? How can I take my psychotherapist seriously when I know that he spends some of his time scooping cat poo out of a litter box? Is anyone who would voluntarily handle cat poo really qualified to give advice?
I don't know how I'm supposed to take him seriously now. Tomorrow I'm going to see him, and I have to try and sit there and discuss my problems and pretend that he doesn't have a cat and that I haven't spent the better part of an hour wondering about the cat. What if, mid-session, I crack up? What if I can't stop laughing? He's going to ask what's so funny, and I'm going to have to tell him that I have a mental picture of him and his cat in matching Christmas sweaters.
I'm not sure this is going to work anymore. I think I may have to find a new therapist.
01 September 2009
Confessions
I'm working on a few new rants, but in the meantime, here are a few random items from my list of deep, dark secrets (so deep they squeak).
-I have no idea what “3G” means.
-I didn’t know how to pronounce the word “mojito” until about three months ago.
-I have two Hannah Montana songs on my iPod (but I won’t say which two).
-I have had the game of football explained to me more than seven times, but I still couldn’t tell you which guy does what and for which reason.
-When people in public places ask me to sign a petition, I tell them I am Canadian so that I don’t have to sign without hurting their feelings.
-I cried at the end of “Nanny McPhee.” I cry every single time at the end of “Nanny McPhee.” I have seen "Nanny McPhee" about ten times.
-I joke about my fear of fish, but I am seriously terrified of the things. If I ever had to touch one I think I’d have a seizure.
-I think that pigeons are adorable. Also, chickens. Farm animals in general get me very excited. I think they are fantastic.
-I do not understand the cultural appeal of the zombie. Or the pirate, or the ninja.
-I once kicked a dog. The dog had it coming, and if I had the chance, I would kick it again. It was a horrible beast.
-It's not really a secret anymore, but I watch "SpongeBob SquarePants" with alarming regularity.
-I enjoy watching TV infomercials.
-I screen my phone calls.
-I am addicted to celebrity gossip. I waste my money on at least two scandal rags every week.
-I faint at the sight of my own blood.
-I'm not sure what it says about me that the preceding are some of my deepest, darkest secrets.
-I have no idea what “3G” means.
-I didn’t know how to pronounce the word “mojito” until about three months ago.
-I have two Hannah Montana songs on my iPod (but I won’t say which two).
-I have had the game of football explained to me more than seven times, but I still couldn’t tell you which guy does what and for which reason.
-When people in public places ask me to sign a petition, I tell them I am Canadian so that I don’t have to sign without hurting their feelings.
-I cried at the end of “Nanny McPhee.” I cry every single time at the end of “Nanny McPhee.” I have seen "Nanny McPhee" about ten times.
-I joke about my fear of fish, but I am seriously terrified of the things. If I ever had to touch one I think I’d have a seizure.
-I think that pigeons are adorable. Also, chickens. Farm animals in general get me very excited. I think they are fantastic.
-I do not understand the cultural appeal of the zombie. Or the pirate, or the ninja.
-I once kicked a dog. The dog had it coming, and if I had the chance, I would kick it again. It was a horrible beast.
-It's not really a secret anymore, but I watch "SpongeBob SquarePants" with alarming regularity.
-I enjoy watching TV infomercials.
-I screen my phone calls.
-I am addicted to celebrity gossip. I waste my money on at least two scandal rags every week.
-I faint at the sight of my own blood.
-I'm not sure what it says about me that the preceding are some of my deepest, darkest secrets.
16 June 2009
“How exciting to be present at the birth of a new phobia.” – Niles Crane
Ladies and gentlemen, I just got even more lovably neurotic. I have developed a delightful new phobia.
You wouldn’t think such a thing was even possible, considering I have about thirty-seven phobias already. What more could I possibly have to worry about?
Barking dogs.
I don’t know if it’s because the weather’s been in the double digits lately, or if there’s been a rip in the space-time continuum or if there’s a disturbance in the force. I don’t know why, really. But I do know that in the past week I have heard more barking than I have heard in the past … oh, year or so. All of a sudden, the dogs in my neighborhood can’t keep their yaps shut.
My neighbor, Zippy the Pinhead, has two or three of those nasty little fuzzy crap machines – pomegranates or whatever they’re called. I’m not sure why. I’ve never seen him or the vampire chick that used to live there or Bobby Hill or the ugly beer-drinking chick go anywhere near the dogs. No one walks them. No one pets them. No interaction. And every so often, perhaps in protest, one or more of them will start yapping.
The yapping I can handle. My father had them trained, Pavlov-like, to run into their house when our back door opened (he spent months using a powerful spray bottle full of water shooting each dog when the noise got bad). They don’t do that anymore, but I’ve found that they respond rather well to me shouting “Shut up!” at them. Also, I know the exact address of next door so if the dogs don’t shut up I can always call the police.
The booming bark is new.
A few weeks ago at 11:15 it started and didn’t stop until my mother called the police. The next morning it started again. The police were summoned again. The barking stopped. I didn’t hear any barking for about a week. I thought perhaps the police had put the fear of God into the dog’s owner. But a few days ago it started again. At 3am. And again at 4am. Then this morning at 6:30. This dog barks whenever it wants, for as long as it wants to, and the owners seem to neither know nor care.
I can no longer relax.
I spend an unprecedented amount of time worrying that barking is going to start at any point. I dread coming home from stores and events because I think, I’m going to sit down to relax and then the barking will start. I dread going to sleep because I think, as soon as I’m mostly asleep, the barking will start. I’ve been wearing earplugs but I don’t know how much I trust them to keep things quiet in my head. I realized a few days ago how fixated I have become on the possibility of barking and I decided to keep track of it. I made a note of the time each time the paranoid fear hit me. Here’s a sample day:
11:36am
11:41am
11:51am
11:57am
12:12pm
12:17pm
12:46pm
1:15pm
1:24pm
1:37pm
1:45pm
1:53pm
1:58pm
2:13pm
2:17pm
2:32pm
2:45pm
2:57pm
3:01pm
3:07pm
3:14pm
3:27pm
3:31pm
3:46pm
3:49pm
3:53pm
3:58pm
4:19pm
4:37pm
(out of house for a while)
6:12pm
6:16pm
(out of house)
7:34pm
7:41pm
7:48pm
7:53pm
7:56pm
8:05pm
8:09pm
8:20pm
8:24pm
8:30pm
8:36pm
8:46pm
8:49pm
8:55pm
8:58pm
9:12pm
9:26pm
9:30pm
9:36pm
9:42pm
9:58pm
10:00pm
10:06pm
10:11pm
10:15pm
10:21pm
10:25pm
10:47pm
10:57pm
11:01pm
11:52pm
11:59pm
12:01am
12:04am
12:10am
12:15am
12:21am
12:26am
12:31am
12:35am
12:42am
12:47am
12:52am
12:56am
1:06am
1:12am
1:21am
1:29am
1:35am
1:38am
That is, I believe, at least 70 times. And that was just when I had a pen and paper handy.
I’m not sure what to call this new phobia – the fear that sometime soon a dog will start barking – but I think I’ve got enough empirical evidence here that it does in fact exist. If you can think of a good name for it, let me know. But speak loudly – I’m wearing earplugs.
You wouldn’t think such a thing was even possible, considering I have about thirty-seven phobias already. What more could I possibly have to worry about?
Barking dogs.
I don’t know if it’s because the weather’s been in the double digits lately, or if there’s been a rip in the space-time continuum or if there’s a disturbance in the force. I don’t know why, really. But I do know that in the past week I have heard more barking than I have heard in the past … oh, year or so. All of a sudden, the dogs in my neighborhood can’t keep their yaps shut.
My neighbor, Zippy the Pinhead, has two or three of those nasty little fuzzy crap machines – pomegranates or whatever they’re called. I’m not sure why. I’ve never seen him or the vampire chick that used to live there or Bobby Hill or the ugly beer-drinking chick go anywhere near the dogs. No one walks them. No one pets them. No interaction. And every so often, perhaps in protest, one or more of them will start yapping.
The yapping I can handle. My father had them trained, Pavlov-like, to run into their house when our back door opened (he spent months using a powerful spray bottle full of water shooting each dog when the noise got bad). They don’t do that anymore, but I’ve found that they respond rather well to me shouting “Shut up!” at them. Also, I know the exact address of next door so if the dogs don’t shut up I can always call the police.
The booming bark is new.
A few weeks ago at 11:15 it started and didn’t stop until my mother called the police. The next morning it started again. The police were summoned again. The barking stopped. I didn’t hear any barking for about a week. I thought perhaps the police had put the fear of God into the dog’s owner. But a few days ago it started again. At 3am. And again at 4am. Then this morning at 6:30. This dog barks whenever it wants, for as long as it wants to, and the owners seem to neither know nor care.
I can no longer relax.
I spend an unprecedented amount of time worrying that barking is going to start at any point. I dread coming home from stores and events because I think, I’m going to sit down to relax and then the barking will start. I dread going to sleep because I think, as soon as I’m mostly asleep, the barking will start. I’ve been wearing earplugs but I don’t know how much I trust them to keep things quiet in my head. I realized a few days ago how fixated I have become on the possibility of barking and I decided to keep track of it. I made a note of the time each time the paranoid fear hit me. Here’s a sample day:
11:36am
11:41am
11:51am
11:57am
12:12pm
12:17pm
12:46pm
1:15pm
1:24pm
1:37pm
1:45pm
1:53pm
1:58pm
2:13pm
2:17pm
2:32pm
2:45pm
2:57pm
3:01pm
3:07pm
3:14pm
3:27pm
3:31pm
3:46pm
3:49pm
3:53pm
3:58pm
4:19pm
4:37pm
(out of house for a while)
6:12pm
6:16pm
(out of house)
7:34pm
7:41pm
7:48pm
7:53pm
7:56pm
8:05pm
8:09pm
8:20pm
8:24pm
8:30pm
8:36pm
8:46pm
8:49pm
8:55pm
8:58pm
9:12pm
9:26pm
9:30pm
9:36pm
9:42pm
9:58pm
10:00pm
10:06pm
10:11pm
10:15pm
10:21pm
10:25pm
10:47pm
10:57pm
11:01pm
11:52pm
11:59pm
12:01am
12:04am
12:10am
12:15am
12:21am
12:26am
12:31am
12:35am
12:42am
12:47am
12:52am
12:56am
1:06am
1:12am
1:21am
1:29am
1:35am
1:38am
That is, I believe, at least 70 times. And that was just when I had a pen and paper handy.
I’m not sure what to call this new phobia – the fear that sometime soon a dog will start barking – but I think I’ve got enough empirical evidence here that it does in fact exist. If you can think of a good name for it, let me know. But speak loudly – I’m wearing earplugs.
05 May 2009
Oh, you humans ...
You just kill me sometimes, you know that?
I try to be good on Facebook and Twitter. Only twice have I left comments correcting grammar or spelling. Twice! And I could have done so at least sixty-three times this past week alone.
On the off chance that the offenders are reading, here's a refresher. And yes, I do see the irony in my being a stickler for grammar and spelling and being so poor at style. What can I say? Strunk and White bore me.
-"Your" indicates possession. If you mean to say "you are," the word you want is "you're" which is a contraction of the words "you" and "are." As in, "I'm sure you're aware that your pants are on backwards."
-Contractions are tricky little things, aren't they? Here's another one: it's. A contraction of the words "it" and "is." "Its" is, like "your," a word that indicates possession. As in, "It's annoying when people don't know the difference between two similar words. English isn't that difficult. Its rules are fairly simple."
-"Their" indicates possession. "There" indicates location. "They're" is one of those tricky little contractions, this one of "they" and "are." As in, "They're parking their car over there."
-So much of English is about possession, isn't it? Here's another one: the apostrophe. This one's important, so I'm going to go all caps-lock on your arse: YOU DO NOT NEED AN APOSTROPHE TO PLURALIZE A WORD. Never have, never will. An apostrophe and an "s" can be another contraction, usually a given word and the word "is," as in "Jill's intolerant of poor spelling." However, if I had just returned from a Jill Convention, I would not need an apostrophe to say, "There were a lot of Jills there." The "s" alone is sufficient for pluralization. To say that "There were a lot of Jill's" there would beg the question, Jill's whats? Apostrophe = possession. I will shout it from the rooftops.
-The following are not words: lite, nite, rite, thru, tho, and any mishmashed abbreviation that one might use in a text message or a chat room.
-It is customary to begin the first word of a sentence with a capital letter, unless you are e.e. cummings. And his work just irritates me. Also, proper nouns should begin with capital letters. Is it really that hard to push the shift key?
-If a word you've typed is underlined in green or red, the computer doesn't like it. Usually, the computer doesn't like it for a reason, and that reason is that you can't spell.
Please keep these things in mind, dear humans. Read them. Learn them. Use them. Because I can keep my opinions to myself for only so long, and once I begin my merciless red-pen rampage, no one will be spared.
I try to be good on Facebook and Twitter. Only twice have I left comments correcting grammar or spelling. Twice! And I could have done so at least sixty-three times this past week alone.
On the off chance that the offenders are reading, here's a refresher. And yes, I do see the irony in my being a stickler for grammar and spelling and being so poor at style. What can I say? Strunk and White bore me.
-"Your" indicates possession. If you mean to say "you are," the word you want is "you're" which is a contraction of the words "you" and "are." As in, "I'm sure you're aware that your pants are on backwards."
-Contractions are tricky little things, aren't they? Here's another one: it's. A contraction of the words "it" and "is." "Its" is, like "your," a word that indicates possession. As in, "It's annoying when people don't know the difference between two similar words. English isn't that difficult. Its rules are fairly simple."
-"Their" indicates possession. "There" indicates location. "They're" is one of those tricky little contractions, this one of "they" and "are." As in, "They're parking their car over there."
-So much of English is about possession, isn't it? Here's another one: the apostrophe. This one's important, so I'm going to go all caps-lock on your arse: YOU DO NOT NEED AN APOSTROPHE TO PLURALIZE A WORD. Never have, never will. An apostrophe and an "s" can be another contraction, usually a given word and the word "is," as in "Jill's intolerant of poor spelling." However, if I had just returned from a Jill Convention, I would not need an apostrophe to say, "There were a lot of Jills there." The "s" alone is sufficient for pluralization. To say that "There were a lot of Jill's" there would beg the question, Jill's whats? Apostrophe = possession. I will shout it from the rooftops.
-The following are not words: lite, nite, rite, thru, tho, and any mishmashed abbreviation that one might use in a text message or a chat room.
-It is customary to begin the first word of a sentence with a capital letter, unless you are e.e. cummings. And his work just irritates me. Also, proper nouns should begin with capital letters. Is it really that hard to push the shift key?
-If a word you've typed is underlined in green or red, the computer doesn't like it. Usually, the computer doesn't like it for a reason, and that reason is that you can't spell.
Please keep these things in mind, dear humans. Read them. Learn them. Use them. Because I can keep my opinions to myself for only so long, and once I begin my merciless red-pen rampage, no one will be spared.
24 January 2009
The ugly office, or: My therapist is messing with my head
My therapist – I’ll call him John, since that’s his name – my therapist has a beautiful office. It’s been feng shui-ed and color coordinated, the plants are lovely and green, and the sofa is a miracle of modern engineering – terribly comfortable, but easy to get up and off of.
It wasn’t always so, although it’s rarely been uncomfortable. When I first started going three years ago, John and his colleagues were in a small-ish office on Baseline. Then they planned to move. But their new building wasn’t complete yet. So once the lease on the old place ran out, they relocated to temporary offices down the street – the furnishings of which were spartan to say the least, particularly the folding chair collection that made up the waiting room.
Finally the new offices were completed –again, on Baseline, but this time a good seven or so miles to the west. But it was worth the drive, because the new waiting room has overstuffed leather couches and lots of dark wood and all sorts of English-Lord’s-study sort of touches. And John’s office was a good size, with a little niche for his desk and a big window for the plants. I spent many a happy (sort of) hour staring at the ugly tasseled rug and gazing out the window into a lovely green area, hoping for a glimpse of the fluffy black cat that likes to nap there.
A number of other therapists are in the same set of offices, and some of them do group sessions. They need more room for more people, obviously, so some months ago instead of meeting in John’s chi-friendly workspace, we went down the hall to what I can only describe as an architectural afterthought. One last room tacked on the end, a perfect small square with two windows.
I call it the ugly office. Nothing matches. The furniture looks like remnants from other decorating styles, the throw pillows clash with the throw blanket (and by extension the sofa), a large black floor fan/heater takes up a good deal of room, and the filing cabinet looks like it was on special at Costco. The walls are painted ecru but the switch plate and the outlet covers are bright white. The decorating touches are random and sporadic – a little iron scrollwork here, a wood-framed clock there, dark mini blinds killing the natural light from the windows. Everything is in a different color palette, which means that nothing matches – further adding to the feel that the room was a last-minute addition.
The first time we met in the room, I didn’t think much of it beyond, “hey, I didn’t know there was a room here.” But it’s been nearly four months and we’re still in the ugly room. I don’t know who’s using John’s office that couldn’t find ANY other place to meet. But the ugly room has taken its toll on me. I can’t focus in there. The schizophrenic decorating is too much of a distraction. I actually spent 20 minutes of therapy time a few weeks back detailing all the ways the room irritates me.
I felt much better when I’d gotten it all out. And John agreed that it was an ugly room.
But we still meet there, week after week, leaving me to wonder: now that he knows I hate the room, is he having us meet there to annoy me? He practically admitted once to pushing my buttons if he’s had a boring day. Part of me suspects that his office is free and we’re meeting in the ugly room because I hate it in there.
Last Thursday we went into the ugly room as usual, and much to my surprise, there were a few additions. A large rug covered the snag in the carpet by the couch, and a number of silk plants had been stuffed haphazardly into corners. One particularly large fake palm tree was stuck behind the chair John sits in, giving him the impression of being the ruler of a small tropical nation. And there were new throw pillows - ones that matched absolutely nothing, including the rug. Which, by the way, is hideous. It's squares - six squares long and eight squares wide - with smaller squares in the middle. There is no pattern to the colors of the squares. I spent a good fifteen minutes trying to find one.
After I'd discussed my week and grief and a few other things, John asked me about the rug. I think he could tell it bothered me. So I told him I hated the randomness of the square colors. You know what the man did? He asked me about it for the remainder of the session, seeming fascinated that the disorder bothered me. I told him that my brain feeds on logic and order and reason, and the ill logic of pink square, brown square, blue square, green square just irritated the enamel off my teeth. And it wasn't enough just to say that. He said that maybe the point was that there was no point. So I had to argue semantics and how no point can't be a point - no avocado can't be an avocado, after all, and points in this instance were just as good as avocados.
And that wasn't enough. I had to try to explain the inner workings of my brain to him. At 5:30 we quit, me with my migraine and John looking like he'd just watched a favorite TV show.
"I think this helped me understand a little better how your mind works," he said. I was sorely tempted to ask how, after more than three years, he didn't have a comprehensive understanding of the Jill Brain, but I kept my trap shut because I suspected that would only lead to more questions.
And because I was still mad about the rug.
It wasn’t always so, although it’s rarely been uncomfortable. When I first started going three years ago, John and his colleagues were in a small-ish office on Baseline. Then they planned to move. But their new building wasn’t complete yet. So once the lease on the old place ran out, they relocated to temporary offices down the street – the furnishings of which were spartan to say the least, particularly the folding chair collection that made up the waiting room.
Finally the new offices were completed –again, on Baseline, but this time a good seven or so miles to the west. But it was worth the drive, because the new waiting room has overstuffed leather couches and lots of dark wood and all sorts of English-Lord’s-study sort of touches. And John’s office was a good size, with a little niche for his desk and a big window for the plants. I spent many a happy (sort of) hour staring at the ugly tasseled rug and gazing out the window into a lovely green area, hoping for a glimpse of the fluffy black cat that likes to nap there.
A number of other therapists are in the same set of offices, and some of them do group sessions. They need more room for more people, obviously, so some months ago instead of meeting in John’s chi-friendly workspace, we went down the hall to what I can only describe as an architectural afterthought. One last room tacked on the end, a perfect small square with two windows.
I call it the ugly office. Nothing matches. The furniture looks like remnants from other decorating styles, the throw pillows clash with the throw blanket (and by extension the sofa), a large black floor fan/heater takes up a good deal of room, and the filing cabinet looks like it was on special at Costco. The walls are painted ecru but the switch plate and the outlet covers are bright white. The decorating touches are random and sporadic – a little iron scrollwork here, a wood-framed clock there, dark mini blinds killing the natural light from the windows. Everything is in a different color palette, which means that nothing matches – further adding to the feel that the room was a last-minute addition.
The first time we met in the room, I didn’t think much of it beyond, “hey, I didn’t know there was a room here.” But it’s been nearly four months and we’re still in the ugly room. I don’t know who’s using John’s office that couldn’t find ANY other place to meet. But the ugly room has taken its toll on me. I can’t focus in there. The schizophrenic decorating is too much of a distraction. I actually spent 20 minutes of therapy time a few weeks back detailing all the ways the room irritates me.
I felt much better when I’d gotten it all out. And John agreed that it was an ugly room.
But we still meet there, week after week, leaving me to wonder: now that he knows I hate the room, is he having us meet there to annoy me? He practically admitted once to pushing my buttons if he’s had a boring day. Part of me suspects that his office is free and we’re meeting in the ugly room because I hate it in there.
Last Thursday we went into the ugly room as usual, and much to my surprise, there were a few additions. A large rug covered the snag in the carpet by the couch, and a number of silk plants had been stuffed haphazardly into corners. One particularly large fake palm tree was stuck behind the chair John sits in, giving him the impression of being the ruler of a small tropical nation. And there were new throw pillows - ones that matched absolutely nothing, including the rug. Which, by the way, is hideous. It's squares - six squares long and eight squares wide - with smaller squares in the middle. There is no pattern to the colors of the squares. I spent a good fifteen minutes trying to find one.
After I'd discussed my week and grief and a few other things, John asked me about the rug. I think he could tell it bothered me. So I told him I hated the randomness of the square colors. You know what the man did? He asked me about it for the remainder of the session, seeming fascinated that the disorder bothered me. I told him that my brain feeds on logic and order and reason, and the ill logic of pink square, brown square, blue square, green square just irritated the enamel off my teeth. And it wasn't enough just to say that. He said that maybe the point was that there was no point. So I had to argue semantics and how no point can't be a point - no avocado can't be an avocado, after all, and points in this instance were just as good as avocados.
And that wasn't enough. I had to try to explain the inner workings of my brain to him. At 5:30 we quit, me with my migraine and John looking like he'd just watched a favorite TV show.
"I think this helped me understand a little better how your mind works," he said. I was sorely tempted to ask how, after more than three years, he didn't have a comprehensive understanding of the Jill Brain, but I kept my trap shut because I suspected that would only lead to more questions.
And because I was still mad about the rug.
19 January 2009
These boots were made for walking - if they fit
For reasons I can’t properly explain, I have always liked boots. I’m not talking about stiletto-heeled pointy-toed ankle booties. Those make me throw up a little in my mouth. But I like regular boots – cowboy boots, riding boots, Frye boots, combat boots, Wellington boots.
Boots make an outfit. A shirt and jeans is just a shirt and jeans. But a shirt and jeans and boots? That’s a look. Boots are sturdy. Boots are warm. I even like the word “boots.” But I never wear them.
I can’t.
I don’t mean that I can’t in a fashion-phobic sense. I don’t mean that they make me look short or anything like that. What I mean is that I literally can’t. Apparently in the world of shoes, calf size does not grow with foot size, with the result that I can’t fit my (what must be) freakishly large calves into any pair of boots I’ve tried on.
I got a pair of boots (my father called them Nazi boots) when I was about fourteen years old. They zipped up the sides. They looked perfectly normal in the catalog but when they came in the mail, I found that they didn’t zip higher than four inches above my ankle.
I tried to wear them anyway, unzipped. I looked like a bloody fool. But I wanted to wear boots so badly! I was even skinny then. And still they wouldn’t zip.
I’ve tried since then to find boots that fit over my calves. I’ve never thought I had abnormally large calves; on the contrary I think they’re fairly proportionate to the rest of my body, including my feet. So why is this so hard? I can’t even get Wellies to fit. I got a pair from Old Navy that I thought must certainly fit me, as the opening at the top was oversized. No such luck. I could get them on, but the top of the boots was scrunched under my calf.
So you can imagine how pleased I was to discover these boots. They wrap! Meaning they will fit my legs. The problem of course is that they’ll run me a hundred bucks give or take, and I’m unemployed.
I’m going to save up. I have to. They may not be comfortable, I haven’t a clue. But I don’t care. This is my one chance in life to wear boots and I’m not going to miss it.
Boots make an outfit. A shirt and jeans is just a shirt and jeans. But a shirt and jeans and boots? That’s a look. Boots are sturdy. Boots are warm. I even like the word “boots.” But I never wear them.
I can’t.
I don’t mean that I can’t in a fashion-phobic sense. I don’t mean that they make me look short or anything like that. What I mean is that I literally can’t. Apparently in the world of shoes, calf size does not grow with foot size, with the result that I can’t fit my (what must be) freakishly large calves into any pair of boots I’ve tried on.
I got a pair of boots (my father called them Nazi boots) when I was about fourteen years old. They zipped up the sides. They looked perfectly normal in the catalog but when they came in the mail, I found that they didn’t zip higher than four inches above my ankle.
I tried to wear them anyway, unzipped. I looked like a bloody fool. But I wanted to wear boots so badly! I was even skinny then. And still they wouldn’t zip.
I’ve tried since then to find boots that fit over my calves. I’ve never thought I had abnormally large calves; on the contrary I think they’re fairly proportionate to the rest of my body, including my feet. So why is this so hard? I can’t even get Wellies to fit. I got a pair from Old Navy that I thought must certainly fit me, as the opening at the top was oversized. No such luck. I could get them on, but the top of the boots was scrunched under my calf.
So you can imagine how pleased I was to discover these boots. They wrap! Meaning they will fit my legs. The problem of course is that they’ll run me a hundred bucks give or take, and I’m unemployed.
I’m going to save up. I have to. They may not be comfortable, I haven’t a clue. But I don’t care. This is my one chance in life to wear boots and I’m not going to miss it.
22 November 2008
Houston, we have a problem ...
Or I should say that I do, anyway.
I think I have a blogging addiction.
I started off with just one blog - this one. Then I started taking pictures and began my Domo blog. Then I started a third blog, a private one, as a journal of sorts.
And I've done it again.
I blame my mother.
I have an unhealthy obsession with English usage, and she has always encouraged it. She's as likely as I to point out inappropriate quotation marks and words pluralized with apostrophes. It was only a matter of time before I began photographing examples of abuse and looking for a place to display them. And the time has come.
I am pleased and slightly embarrassed to introduce you to my newest blogging effort, The Language Police. I have no way of predicting the update frequency, as I'm unsure how many examples of language misuse I can regularly capture in my camera phone. But rest assured that if I see it, I will photograph it, and I will share it.
It is, perhaps, worth mentioning that as I was setting up my new blog, I got an idea for another blog. I wonder if Blogger has a limit to the amount of bandwidth they'll allow me to waste at their expense. I should check on that.
And while I do that, I humbly suggest you check on my newest blog and let me know what you think. I am also accepting submissions, so keep your eyes peeled, and I may appoint you Language Police Officer status. I am the police chief, but I could always use a deputy.
I think I have a blogging addiction.
I started off with just one blog - this one. Then I started taking pictures and began my Domo blog. Then I started a third blog, a private one, as a journal of sorts.
And I've done it again.
I blame my mother.
I have an unhealthy obsession with English usage, and she has always encouraged it. She's as likely as I to point out inappropriate quotation marks and words pluralized with apostrophes. It was only a matter of time before I began photographing examples of abuse and looking for a place to display them. And the time has come.
I am pleased and slightly embarrassed to introduce you to my newest blogging effort, The Language Police. I have no way of predicting the update frequency, as I'm unsure how many examples of language misuse I can regularly capture in my camera phone. But rest assured that if I see it, I will photograph it, and I will share it.
It is, perhaps, worth mentioning that as I was setting up my new blog, I got an idea for another blog. I wonder if Blogger has a limit to the amount of bandwidth they'll allow me to waste at their expense. I should check on that.
And while I do that, I humbly suggest you check on my newest blog and let me know what you think. I am also accepting submissions, so keep your eyes peeled, and I may appoint you Language Police Officer status. I am the police chief, but I could always use a deputy.
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