The Carrot & The Stick

Annie Pinchis sat staring at the ink blot. Her therapist, Dr. Lipke, seemed to think this was an important step in her “healing.” Healing from what he had, thus far, kept to himself. Annie thought Dr. Lipke was a douche bag but, thus far, she had kept that to herself.

If Annie had known that she would be subjected to an unholy mélange of Jungian philosophy. Freudian analysis and self help mumbo jumbo she’d have given therapy a pass. But, unfortunately, Dr. Lipke was the only therapist in her insurance network within fifty miles. He also insisted on her attending at least one session a month in order to get her prescription. Annie knew that medication was all she needed. So, she thought, my brain chemistry isn’t right. Big whoop. Give me a pill and leave me alone! Dr. Lipke continued to hold up the ink blot.

Annie began to panic. What if she said the wrong thing? How often would he require her to come in then? Oh, Christ, she fumed, they always find something wrong with your answer. They say there is no right answer. So, if there’s no answer why ask the question? Hu? Why? Just to mess with you.

Annie looked at the ink blot. It looked remarkably like someone had spilled ink on a white piece of paper. Wisely, she decided that that probably wasn’t the right not right answer. She leaned forward as if concentrating on it more closely.

“It looks,” think, she screamed in her head! “It looks,” safe. Safe. What’s the safe answer? “Like Bugs Bunny holding a carrot!” There! What could anybody possibly say about that? Annie felt a smug smile creep across her face.

“Is it,” Dr. Lipke leaned forward excitedly, “a large carrot?”

Annie sank back in her chair, smirk sliding away to nothingness, and resigned herself to twice weekly sessions.

I Didn't Fall Off The Wagon Today . . .

so much as I jumped off and flipped it the bird as it drove away. And, yes, if you must know, I feel pretty foul about it and the fact that I can't seem to quit smoking on my own. So, feel free to keep any shitty comments to yourself.

What can I say? I'm an addicted addict. I can't stop. Maybe next I'll try Wellbutrin and hypnotherapy. That last one would be good just for the fuckin' comic value.

In conclusion, I am a loser. I accept this.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BIRTHDAY GIRL!

Happy 4th Birthday, Sadie!

How To Avoid Thinking Of Smoking

Step 1:
Go to the farmer’s market. Buy a roast, a pound of green beans, a pound and a half of peas (in shell), six ears of corn, a pound of potatoes and a pound of peaches.

Step 2:
Go home. Attempt to refrain from hitting other cars/pedestrians “accidentally”.

Step 3:
Season roast beef and place in preheated oven.

Step 4:
Snap the green beans.

Step 5:
Shell the peas.

Step 6:
Shuck the corn.

Step 7:
Peel the potatoes.

Step 8:
Cut up the peaches. Sprinkle them with sugar. Place in refrigerator.

Step 9:
Boil the potatoes.

Step 10:
Mash the potatoes. Cover bowl of mashed potatoes and place over a pot of simmering water to keep warm.

Step 11:
Boil corn, beans and peas (in separate pots).

Step 12:
Take meat out of oven. Leave to rest for 20 minutes.

Step 13:
Make gravy.

Step 14.
Move all vegetables to serving dishes.

Step 15:
Cut roast beef.

Step 16:
Serve dinner.

Step 17:
Whip a cup of heavy cream.

Step 18:
Place peaches in dessert bowls. Top with whipped cream

Step 19:
Serve dessert

Step 20:
Clean up.

Step 21:
Make chocolate chip cookies.

Step 22:
Clean up.

Step 23:
Clean bathroom.

Step 24:
Type up list.

That’s it. Now keep in mind that during all of this you will still think, constantly ,about having a cigarette and also about killing anyone who gets in your way . . . Or who is breathing within a six mile radius. But all of these separate steps will keep you from grabbing a cigarette, or a knife, for at least a few hours.

One day at a time. Oh, and let someone else do the carving. Seriously. You can’t be trusted.

Take Two (million and six)!

Today I cleaned out my car. It was disgusting. My car is clean and I am filthy. I found jackets and shoes I forgot I owned. Oy. So, yeah, maybe once a year isn't often enough. Who knew?

Also, as of today, I've quit smoking...again. I know. I know, I've tried before. I KNOW! But I'm feeling good about it this time. Last time I quit I just decided one day to do it and didn't prepare at all. This time I think I'm prepared.

• I cleaned out my car so it no longer smells.
• I threw away all my cigarettes and cigarette related paraphenalia (except my engraved zippo - it says "Dark Fury" I had to keep it. Besides, I've never filled it so how can it hurt?).
• I purchased the Commit nicotine replacement system. They're gross but we'll call the aversion therapy.
• I joined a quit smoking support group website.

We'll see.

Roll Up! Roll Up! Get It While It's Hot, It's Lovely!

Lately, I’ve been too bored to blog. . . too pooped to pop. . . um. . . . too nauseated to navigate? Hu. Yeah. Probably not that last one.

So, back by unpopular demand –

Stream Of Consciousness! And the crowd goes wild! Or just sits there and thinks, “ok.” One or the other. Up to you.

I’m getting a wrinkle. A laugh line to be precise. I suppose that that’s better than a frown line but it’s still a wrinkle. It still smoothes out when I relax my face. Nevertheless, I know it’s there. Waiting. Maybe Botox isn’t so bad. No. No. That’s probably how they sucked in Nicole Kidman and look at her now! Scary. I hate when men get Botox. Hate it. I like a lived in face. Besides, how do I know what you’re saying without facial cues? I don’t. You could be lying through your teeth and, without the appropriate facial expression, I’ll believe you. I’m kind of gullible. I need the cues to know what’s really going on. Maybe that’s why Nicole Kidman hasn’t made a movie in yonks. Because she can’t get the emotion across. Not that she ever really could but that’s a different story. I wish Craig Ferguson would write himself another movie. There, my friends, is a lived in face. Lovely. Or a book. Where’s the next book? Bloody hell, man! Get with the program. I need to quit smoking. I looked into Chantrex (sp?) but that’s not meant for people with a history of “mental illness.” I hate that expression. I want a different one please. How about “batshit”? Or “loopy”? Or “mad as a bag of cats”? That last one is my favorite. It’s so colorful. Imagine if that was the clinical term.

Doctor: Well, Mrs. Jones, we’ve figured out why Mr. Jones sits in his study all day listening to death metal and screaming obscenities at the dog.

Mrs. Jones: Oh, doctor! What a relief. The children were beginning to notice.

Doctor: Yes, yes, Mrs. Jones. We’ll soon have it sorted. The technical term for your husbands’ condition is “Mad As A Bag Of Cats.” It’s quite treatable. Pick up the six prescriptions at the desk on your way out.

Mrs. Jones: (weeping quietly in relief) Oh, thank you, doctor! Thank you!

Ain’t language grand? All languages are pretty. Well, ok, not German but I’m biased. Maybe it’s simply gorgeous but I’m a bitch who can’t let it go. Probably not but it could be. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. Wrinkles. It honestly never occurred to me that I would live long enough to get wrinkles. When I think of it like that, I’m almost pleased. Almost. Vanity thy name is Dark Fury. Who knew? Luckily, I’m smart and funny. If I were just a pretty face, I’d be screwed.

Three (3) Random Things

OK, before we get to the scheduled randomnes or randomossity, if you prefer, I feel the need to briefly set something straight. I will never attempt to not be funny. That would be as fake as spray tan and I'm not OK with that.

On to the random!

1. The Jewish year is currently 5767 (I think. I forgot to buy a calender this year.). How does that work? Is it like leap year? When we started using the modern calender how did people know when it was their birthday? Did the just pick a day and go with it? Did they get two? I just wondered.

2. I have one of those Buddha glasses you get from Asian resteraunts sitting on my desk. I use it as a pen holder. It has a hole in it that was meant for a straw. I stick a pencil in it. At least three (3) people have walked by my desk - giggled - and said that it "looks dirty." The hole is in it's chest. Who have these people been dating and/or what's wrong with them that they find a sucking chest wound "naughty"? I mean there's kinky and then there's just creepy.

3. I hope that if anyone ever again offers me "E" (sucking on lollipops like an idiot while my spinal fluid dries up? Sounds keen! Wait. . . hold on . . . no.) that they do so on a Friday night. Just so I can tell them, "I don't roll on Shabbas!"

Yeah, I was booooored today and no, I didn't spell check.

On July 6th . . .

Elisa was born. To this day the only hippie I love. . . but she's still not allowed to hump me. . . just sayin'.

HAPPY (belated - I couldn't find the right picture) BIRTHDAY, GUUURL!

On This Day . . .

Patherine Kackard was born.

Leo Horoscope (Jul 23 - Aug 22)Your life should be humming along in the mid-Leo summer Sun, yet beneath the appearance of the fun and games, someone may be missing. But don't waste energy feeling sorry for yourself. Just because your soul mate is off making movies and missed your birthday doesn't mean it isn't meant to be . . . even if you've never met. . . .

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PATHERINE!

Sometimes, I Hate My Job.

Today, as part of my job, I listened to about sixteen people tell the story of how they met and had children with their exes. They all met in different places. They all came from different backgrounds. They all had one thing in common (besides the fact that all their relationships exploded and the now hate each other). They had absolutely no courtship period. This led me to wonder - What the hell happened to wooing?

It seems that now-a-days people don’t date anymore. At least they don’t in any way that I recognize it. They “hang out“. They become “friends“. They drunkenly “hook up” and then, SHAZAM!, they’re an item. This repels me on so many different levels.

I am disturbed by this. I’ve always stood by the adage - “You don’t ask? You don’t get.” I expect, no, I demand, a wooing phase. A courtship, if you will. I expect and I expect that my friends expect and I expect that their friends expect that there will be an expectation of…OK, I got carried away. Where was I? Oh! Yeah! I expect that if a man is interested in me he will, oh, I don’t know, do something crazy. Like tell me or show me. I know! I’m a nut.

I feel that this whole hanging out thing as a replacement for dating is along the same lines of the other two things I hate. “The 3 Date Rule” and “Friends With Benefits”. The first, as you all must know, states that on the third date a woman will “give it up”. Too subtle? How about “bang like a drum”? That clearer? Great! The second, as you again know, is a situation where two people who aren’t really interested in each other have sex on occasion. No strings, if you will .

Both these and the hanging out instead of dating trend are for one sole purpose - to make it easier for men to get laid. I shouldn’t even say that it makes it easier for men to get laid. I should say boys. Because, honestly, a man steps up and asks for what he wants. A boy just let’s things happen. That way he can always say, “Hey! I never intended that!” Or, “Oh, it just happened.” Usually these things are said while smirking. Repugnant. It’s called responsibility. Look into it. We have many fine reference materials available. They’re called “dictionaries”.

Now, men, obviously, couldn’t get away with this if it weren’t for women. And the women who are going along with this crap are standing around feeling good about the fact that they’re “fucking like a man”! They believe that this is what the fight for Feminism was for. Well, in a way it was. But, in most ways, it is completely and totally apposed to said principles.

I can see where you’re confused. I’ll explain. Feminism is all about choice. It is your choice to do with your body, mind, life exactly as you please. And, hey, if you want to go out and fuck the neighborhood blind? That’s up to you. Go for it. It’s your right. On the other hand, Feminism is also about respect. And if you think that anybody respects anything that they get without work you’ve obviously never met a rich person. I mean somebody who was born rich. Real rich. I’m talking Rich. Capital “R”. I have. They have no respect for most of what they have. “Oh, that? What? It’s just money!” Or, my favorite, “I just don’t understand why people go to work“.

I mean, it’s America and it’s up to you. Be the catch or be the thing just came along so I took it. It’s up to you. But, please, remember that someday you’ll have children. Maybe you’ll have daughters. . .Think about it. . . I’ll wait. . . There it is! I knew you’d catch up. I have faith in you.

Now, let’s get back to expectations. Everybody should have standards and expectations. They don’t make you picky. They don’t make you high maintenance. They make you, well, a person with standards and expectations. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, we, as in humans, wouldn’t have survived this long without them. We want to pick out the best mate to continue the species. It’s in our DNA. Is the best way to do that to just take what you can get? To say, eh., you’ll do? No. It’s not.

So, in conclusion, ladies step up to the plate. Have expectations and standards. Gentlemen, step up to the plate. Give us a reason to have expectations and standards. Trust me, you'll be rewarded for it. Why, Dark Fury, I hear you cry out as one, What do you mean? I mean that since nobody out there is doing the right thing when you do you’ll be a king. You’ll be beating the broads off with a stick. I promise you this.

I shall close with a quote that is very close to my heart . . . .

“He that is more than a boy is not for me. He that is less than a man, I am not for him.”
Shakespeare, “Much Ado About Nothing”

There Is No Growth Without Pain. . .Or Something Like That

Hmmmmm . . . Deep contemplation time . . . .

This evening I had dinner with my best friend. Some of you may know her as Blonde Justice. I know her as my personal therapist. We had an informal two hour session in the parking lot. It made me thoughtful. This may not be the most coherent post. I apologize in advance.

I have, I realize, lived my life as a performer. I was raised to perform and I was good at it. I am good at it.

I was on stage from the time I was five years old until I was about twenty-five (that’s twenty years for the mathematically challenged). But, even before I went on the stage, I was performing. I have worked every day of my life (that’s thirty-three years for the Dark Fury birthday challenged) to make sure that I am pleasing.

As most of you know, my father left before I was born. I, therefore, have a severe fear of abandonment (shocker!). If it weren’t for my grandfather I would have no positive male role model at all. Be that as it may, I have used humor and my general talent for gab and snarky commentary to amuse and try to deflect interest from what was going on internally.

I am dark and twisty. I am broken. I have problems like we all do.

My therapist (Blonde Justice) believes that people want to get to know the “real me.” The me without the chatter. The me without the performing. I tend to disagree. I believe, as I always have, that if people see the dark, twisty, broken me they will run like the wind. I could give you specific examples of when this has happened. Or, worse, I believe that they will use what they find out to hurt me. I could, sadly, give you examples of this as well.

But, will me or nil me, I’m willing to give it a try. This will, I fear, cut waaaaaaaaaay back on my social, what shall we call it? My social coin? I don’t know. I am, as far as I know, invited to most of the places I’m invited to to act as court jester. Well, I’ll still be funny - I can’t change the way G-d made me - but the hat with the bells is coming off.

I was not put on this Earth to be your (collective use to signify all mankind) clown or dancing monkey. I’m allowed to have a down time. It will be difficult but I’m hoping we can all get through it together. And now, per doctors orders, I’m taking a deep breath . . . I’m breathing out . . . And I’m asking . . . Who wants to really know me?

I’ve had surgery that was less painful than that last sentence.

They Who The Lord Doth Smite Stay Smote.

I'm dieing. Seriously. There are only two options.

1. The devil has possessed me.

2. I have a virus.

If it's number 1 I'm screwed. If it's number two and I have inadvertantlt infected you I apologize. If it's number two and you've inadvertently infected me then I curse you. I curse you and I curse your children and your children's children down to the fourth generation and pray that the Lord, in his wisdom, will smite you with a mighty smiting and thou shalt know his anger through the fact of being smote. Amen.

Also, my prior will (from a couple of months ago - still posted if you want to refresh yourself on what you'll be getting) still stands.

Chaos, Panic and Disorder . . . My Work Here Is Done.

Today I had a panic attack. It felt like it lasted for an hour and a half. That, of course, is impossible. Panic attacks last for about twenty minutes tops. So, in actual fact, I had a series of them. Being a sensible human being didn't help matters at all.

At 8:30 I was looking over a file and, all of a sudden, I felt like I was going to die. Seriously. Die. Big "D". For about five minutes I thought about going to the hospital which made me think about the fact that I don't have health insurance which made me more agitated. Then I realized it was a panic attack.

I told myself I wasn't having a heart attack. Then I started thinking what if someday it is a heart attack and I mistake it for a panic attack and I die? What then, smarty pants?! Then I told myself it was a panic attack and it would be all over in twenty minutes . . . tops. I started watching the clock. Twenty minutes . . . twenty minutes . . . Twenty one minutes . . . Twenty one? Holy shit. Twenty one! Heart attack! Heart attack! Not panic!! OK, I thought, ok. It's panic. It's panic. DON'T PANIC! Maybe it's time to go back on medication. Then I remembered I don't have health insurance . . . again. BOOM! More panic.

Finally, at ten, a coworker came and asked me if I wanted to go on break. We went outside. I took some (more) deep breaths. We shot the shit. I calmed down.

Keep in mind this all happened, silently, whilst I was sitting at my desk pretending to go over some figures. Say what you will about me but I know how to behave in public. I really should have been born Lady Muck. I have mad stiff upper lip skills . . . um, yo?

I'm fine now. Relatively. The aftermath is almost as bad as the actual attack. I'm sleepy and shaky and want to go to bed. Ain't we got fun?

The point of all this is the following -

Anybody have any valium?