Dream On!

Ok, so I am a bit loath to publish a vivid dream of mine on the internet, but being as this is a blog and it's all about exhibitionism and voyeurism and all that post-postmodern trash here goes....

Last night, I dreamt that I was living in a futuristic city (think Minority Report) with my RL husband. I do not remember if I had my son or not. We got into the public transit cars and were speeding along the circuit to a gathering at a friend's house.

We got there, the apartment decor was kind of a dark minimalist design. We ate a la fondue (no, Heather Ann, I still can't get my keypad to make the accent marks.) And who's there, across the table from me in all his dark and sensitive glory? None other than Colin Firth. Mind you, he wasn't an actor, he was an industrial chef. You know, one of those people who works for a super-rich mega corp with a cafeteria that actually serves good food? (It was a dream, afterall.)

We hit it off. We ended up drinking wine and flirting deliciously in the kitchen, while my husband and the other guests enjoyed the evening back in the other part of the apartment. He was subtle, sexy and intriguing. The next series of scenes flew by in rapid succession, signifiying passage of time, I think. We ended up having a passionate, tender and steamy affair. I ended up leaving my husband for this man!

Now, those of you who know me, understand that cheating is a huge hot button for me. My ex cheated on me. In real life, I like to believe I would never cheat on my husband no matter how upset or unfulfilled I may be. (Definition: Cheating means having extra-marital intimacy without my partner's consent.) I believe that I can be honest enough with myself and my husband to address those issues, should they arise.

I know that it's common for individuals to dream about being with other people. But in this dream, the act of cheating and the ensuing affair were foundational aspects. Color me puzzled. There are parts of my marriage that I'm less than pleased with, but not nearly enough to cheat. What is my subconcious trying to tell me? That I need to be worried or that I really to star in a sexy movie with Colin Firth?

You make the call.

Vacation report and then some...

Well, we're back.  Had a blast in Yosemite and driving down the Pacific Coast Highway. Saw this in the beautiful afternoon sunlight.

My mother-in-law and sister-in-law, along with my stepdaughter, husband, son and I, went on a whirlwind trip through California.  We visited Yosemite for two days, drove across the state to Monterey, had dinner on the wharf with my parents and grandmother, then drove home down the Pacific Coast Highway. 

My mother-in-law and sister-in-law are wonderful people. I felt very welcomed and loved. I dig the added value family members included in the husband package!

My stepdaughter went with us. She's 17 and bipolar. I hope she had a good time. It's difficult to tell, sometimes.  She told my husband she's convinced I hate her.  I don't. I love her very much. I just refuse to allow her to use her illness as a crutch, shield or excuse.  When she does this, I disengage, effectively ignoring her and shutting down my participation in the process.  My husband admits to giving in sometimes, because it's not worth the hellfire she'll throw at him if she cannot get her way.  I understand that he's got a different dynamic with her than I do.  They need to work out their own relationaship style. I am working out mine.

My sister-in-law confided in me that she worries that my husband is bipolar, as well.  I approached him with this information.  He and I go to counseling and we decided to bring it up in our session.  The therapist isn't sure, but she did make note of his strong family history of it.  His paternal grandmother and her sister used to "lock themselves in their [respective] rooms for weeks at a time," according to his dad.  His bipolar sister committed suicide in her thirties.  His daughter is diagnosed with it. 

So, she gave him a personality test to fill out. It's not the MMPI, thank goodness, because he'd never sit through over 400 questions, thanks to his attention deficit disorder.  Our therapist usually gives this test, the BPI, to individuals who are seeking gastric bypass surgery. We all got a chuckle out of that, since he's not in need of that. She threw in another answer sheet, so I could fill it out too, just for fun.  I say fun because I was a biochemical psychology major at one point in my college career. I know how multiphasic tests work.

Which brings me to what she said next... My husband made an offhand remark about hating tests that ask things like, "I never have... I always see..." with a true/false response.  I commented that they word the questions in that way to determine the cognition processes of the test-taker. He kind of nodded, but my therapist looked at me and said, "You know, you really need to think about getting into the psychological profession."  She knows about the psych-dropout bit.  "You have a lot to offer. Really." I was taken aback.

The whole reason I dropped out of Psychology was because I realized I was really just trying to fix my autistic brother.  I told her so. She said that nearly  everyone approaches the psychological profession  from a wounded place. It's working through those issues and sharing the distilled insight gained, that makes the profession worthwhile.

I told her that I've contemplated getting a theological degree to become a Unitarian Universalist chaplain at hospitals or hospice. She encouraged me to keep pursuing that and not to rule out psychotherapy and/or psychology.  

Her words gave me pause. I'm still thinking about it.

On Vacation

I'll be in here till Thursday. See ya when I get back.
 
Peace

Little. Black. Precious.

We got a new kitten last night from the ASPCA. She's black, medium haired. Adorable in all respects and, might I add, has the brass cajones enough to take on our older gray cat. Did I mention the Lauren Bacall meow? This cat was smoking way too much at the pound.

We were sitting on the sofa, watching the feline gymnastic floor show trying to decide on a name. We searched the net for all kinds of names. What midnight, black, jet and other synonyms were in different languages. We really liked Midnight Black in Vietnamese: Hyun. But it didn't address her spunky side. So we decided on Ninja. Yes, I can hear you now... Should have been Kunoichi! But try spelling that at the vet's office.

Fine, fine.... When my husband gets home I'll call a family meeting and we'll discuss it. Nyah.

(I suppose women, like cats, have the prerogative to change their minds.)

I'll add pictures later.

Peace.

Demand Marriage Equality

Call, email and/or fax your US Senator right now. Tell them to vote no on S.J. Res. 40, the Constitutional Amendment on Marriage. It takes three minutes at most.

I apologize if you're not in the USA and this means nothing to you. Please know that it means a lot to the 1.2 million gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered individuals in the US.

We can't let our puppet king get away with this.

I must be getting older...

I am only 28. I say only because, really, I don't think it's that old. Sure I'm out of the 18 to 25 demographic, but I didn't really fit in that demographic when I was in that demographic.

But this weekend? I feel old.

My stepdaughter is visiting. She's 17. She brings with her scads of fashion magazines. Vogue, Elle, Allure, Marie Clarie. Magazines that, yes, I admit I purchased in my early twenties. Mostly for the pictures of naked and scantily clad women. I freely admit this. Oh, and the makeup advice. I love makeup. And body paint. But I digress...

I can't remember which one it was, but really it may have well been all of them --the models in these books are CHILDREN. I swear. They are 14 year old girls slathered in couture and fine jewels, thrust onto the runways of major cities and then immortalized in print.

I suppose every blog has to have an entry about anorexic, soul-less, fashionista culture, but damn. I look at these pictures and I feel old. I love sewing. I love fashion. I love couture, actually. I believe clothing can be art and ideas and culture. But these girls are CHILDREN or at least they look like children.

Vogue has Kirsten Dunst on the cover this month. Definitely a 22 year old beauty, who looks like a young woman. But, notice the girl (and yes I say girl) on the left? The one in the lovely blue trench coat. Her bio says she was born in 1983. But does she look 21 to you?

Even if she is, I really think our youth obsessed culture is pathological. And this weekend, it really made me feel old and quite frankly, appalled.

Family on my mind

Do you ever have one of those days where you feel like the gravity of life weighs on you? Today is one of those days for me.

I was chatting with a friend last night and I was describing what it's like to be a stay at home mom. I told him I was a teacher, psychologist, maid, cook, disciplinarian, comforter and coach all rolled into one. I think I figured out why they don't make a job description for Mom -- it would take up 30 pages and would look so daunting no one would ever do it!Then add another 30 pages for life partner/wife and you're in way over your head. At least, I feel that way sometimes.

I have to be gentle on myself about being a stay at home mom. I'm very much a neo-feminist. And being a neo-feminist means that I have the choice to stay home if I want to. And I do. No offense to anyone, but for me, I cannot in good conscience have a baby and then ship him off to daycare for someone else to raise, change, clothe and feed for 9 hours a day. It's just not in me. Maybe it's the earth mother in my soul, but it's how I feel for me. But DAMN, there are days when I wish my job fit into a nice, tidy little job description. I could do all the footwork of this job with more ease if I didn't have to be completely emotionally involved, present and available to my son 24/7. Duh, you say, that's what being a mom is all about. And yes, you're right. But this is the hardest most important thing I've ever done in my life. It's fucking huge! I feel like she-Atlas holding the world on my shoulders, while it pulls my hair, throws food at me and has a poopy diaper!

Maybe every parent feels this way. It's just really in the forefront for me today...

I also watched the Disney flick "Snow Dogs" with my stepdaughter today. It's one of her favorites. It's cute, for sure. But it always makes me cry. Adoption, family secrets and lies are the underlying premise of the film. My dad is adopted. His parents never told him he was adopted. He found out while trying to repair the roof on his deceased father's house.

Picture a small, aging Italian neighborhood in northern California. My grandfather has just died, maybe a month gone. My parents are trying to make repairs to his house after the 1989 Loma Prieta quake (yeah the 7.1, it was huge.) When, as my father's on the roof, one of the old neighbors walks by. After paying her condolences to my father, still on the roof, she says, "Oh M, I'll never forget how proud J and J were when they brought you home from the orphanage in San Franscisco! You should have seen your mother's face. Your dad was so proud." Normally, this would have been a warm sentiment. But my father, who had always suspected -- being fair haired and freckled to Italian/Sicilian American parents -- nearly fell off the roof. His shock wasn't lost on the neighbor. She was mortified and apologized over and over again. She couldn't believe my grandparents never told my dad.

I'm not surprised they didn't tell him. It was the late 1940s. Open family communication was not encouraged at Catholic orphanages. What bothers me is that my dad, to this day, has never told me. My mom told me when I was 25. They found out when I was 13. She says they never said anything because they were afraid it would color my feelings toward my Nani and Papa. I honestly can't say if it would have. I do know that I am angry at the secrets. I am angry, but understanding, of my father's desire not to seek out his biological parents. Of course they could be horrible people, but I think it takes a hell of a lot of courage to give up a baby. I for one, would like to say thank you to her and/or him. My Papa was the most wonderful person I ever met and because of their choice, I got to have him in my life -- even if it was only for 13 precious years.

I want to know if anyone in their family is autistic, like my brother.

According to my Dad's state records, he was 18 and she was 16. Both were farm workers. His genetic father worked at his parents restaurant, too. He was christian scientist, she was catholic. He was Scots-Irish, she was French and Italian. And that's about it. One or both of them named my father at St. Elizabeth's Hospital, but it's been blacked out on the records.

I'd like to say thank you, to show them my son. Maybe to reconnect with a grandparental figure, aunts, uncles cousins. Chances are my bio-grandparents are not together, but I would love to meet one or both of them.

Yet, my father will have nothing of it. Out of respect for him, I don't pursue it. But I want to. Oh, how I want to. He carries the shame of being "unwanted" by his bio-parents. I can only imagine how he feels. I don't think it's justified because my grandparents wanted him badly, but I cannot imagine not feeling that way if I were in his shoes.

My parents put a letter of contact in his state case file. Which means if either of his bio parents (or siblings, should the parents be deceased) ever look up the file, they will find his information and can contact him. It's been 15 years and no response. Perhaps they're dead, perhaps they want to leave that chapter of their lives closed. But for me until there is closure, that chapter will always be open. Empty. Needing more.

I am afraid of time slipping away. What do I have or know now, about them? Nothing. What do I lose if they never contact? Nothing, I guess. Nothing but chances and time. The opportunity for love, kinship, forgiveness, understanding. And I long for those things. I'll cherish the memories my Nani and Papa gave me, but I'll always think, quietly, about the two teenagers who were faced with that awful choice. The two teenagers who gave up their baby boy, out of love.

Happy Fourth of July

Happy July Fourth.

It could have been Happy Chinese Appreciation Day on my block, what with all the pyrotechnics to be had. Fireworks even out date Jesus. How cool is that? Read all about it here.

In other news, we went to Santa Barbara yesterday. The Veterans For Peace movement placed over 850 crosses on the beach to commemorate the fallen American soldiers who have died in Iraq. They made a point to say that if they added the Iraqi dead to the memorial, they would have covered the whole beach. I cried.

And lastly, I've fallen back into an old habit. My husband and I have been spending our free time (after the baby's asleep) MUDding. We're losers and we know it. But damn, sometimes it feels good to slay orcs, especially since we can't slay the orcs in Washington DC. We'll see ya on The End Of The Line.

Peace