Merde, do I hate getting ready for long trips.

I don’t travel well. I used to, back when I had a van which could basically substitute as a mobile home, or when I camped rather than stayed in hotels or houses; back when getting someone to watch my place was a simple, “The bed’s there, feed the cats, lock the door.” Back before everyone had cell phones, when you could just drop in anytime, anywhere, and when I didn’t have to look presentable at any point, and no one cared if I wore the same ratty jeans and t-shirt every day for a week.

But lo: those times are gone. Given all the last-minute phone calls I had to make, it even got to the point where I — the person determined to be the last person on earth to get a cell phone — was very nearly wishing I had one of the damndable devices. Don’t tell anyone I said that. Especially Mr. Price.

Even just prepping the housesitter was like planning for the invasion of Normandy.

Thank christ, it’s at least looking like I don’t have to go on Fox News. Yes, I was going to go on Fox News: they’d asked a couple months ago, assured me that no, they were not trying to be scandalous or demonize sexually active teens, queer teens or myself, but still, I was wary. Even though I made very clear that if they tried, I’d go all bodhisattva on their ass and just sit very quietly and say nothing in response, I wasn’t feeling very trusting. But, seems clear they just couldn’t get their proverbial shit together in time — and since I told them I needed a day and time a few days before I left at a minimum, and they didn’t give me one, I’m in no way obligated to do it if they contact me at this point — which takes a giant weight off of my shoulders. I’ve declined television stuff before now, I’ve never really wanted to do TV, and I’m glad to have escaped it once more.

I’m feeling very nervous about going home, though. I haven’t spent this much time in my home city since I left it in ‘99. I also will be primarily staying at the mother’s place, and we haven’t spent a week in the same space together since 1985. When you run away from your home at the age I did, even when your parent is no longer living in the same space, or with the same jerk of a husband, and some things have changed, excited to go anything resembling “back there” again is not what you are. In a lot of ways, too, when I moved from Chicago there was this huge weight off of my shoulders because I was free of so many physical reminders of the worst things that had happened to me in my life: there were so many places I just couldn’t even drive by, that living in cities with all of nada when it came to traumatic history has been very nice. I’m not that elated about having to see or pass by some of those places again.

It’ll be good: I’ll see some people I have missed, spend time in some places I have missed… the ones that remain, anyway, which are sadly few and far between. My Dad even told me that you can’t find a paleta man anywhere at city parks in the summer to save your life: apparently, even a nice, chilly paleta is too ethnic for the (once almost nothing BUT ethnic) north side now.

I was really hoping to find a way to get my own shit together and try and arrange a mini-reunion between myself and the kids I used to teach (few of whom are kids now), but I just couldn’t swing it. As it is, just getting the laundry done in time and all the loose ends wraped up for the events I already have going on is proving a challenge.

And I suppose me sitting here going on and on probably isn’t helping. Well, damn: off with me.

posted in Heather Corinna, home, history | permalink | comments (6) »

One can never have enough barely-awake-mumbly, head-still-fuzzy, sleepy-sweat-musty, easy-to-arouse-y, blanket-warmed-toasty, just-a-bit-clumsy morning sex.

Just sayin’.

posted in Heather Corinna | permalink | comments (2) »

I sent this in response to the New York Times piece published last week regarding abstinence-only education. Alas, I didn’t hear back from them, so I offer it up here. I feel it’s vitally important to get as much informed commentary out there on this issue as possible right now, especially considering the recent continuance and increases given to abstinence-only funding.

Re: Abstinence Education Faces an Uncertain Future: July 18th, 2007
To: oped@nytimes.com, letters@nytimes.com

There is sound reason to question any approach to one of the most diverse arenas of human behavior which privileges one set of choices over another.

By putting virginity — a concept few teens and adults can even define; one which also leaves gay, lesbian and transgender youth, as well as sexual abuse survivors, out in the cold — in a cagematch with being sexually active, we make teens feel even less capable of figuring out what choices are right for them. Since partnered sex is always about more than one party, enabling young people to make independent choices based on their individual needs, limits and boundaries should be our greatest concern. It does “rule” for any person to feel comfortable with the choices they make about sexuality, but only so long as their choices – whatever they are — are made with accurate and inclusive information which allows them to consider sex through their own intellectual, emotional and moral compass.

There IS nothing wrong with being a virgin, and there isn’t anything weird about choosing to abstain from sex.

There also isn’t anything “weird” or wrong about choosing not to.

By stating that sex before marriage is the unilateral ideal, and the only sound, morally acceptable sexual choice, we affix more guilt, shame and confusion to sex, which is so overwrought with it already. As it is, weighty matters of popularity, normalcy, social status and peer acceptance, conflicting messages from parents, partners and the media about sexuality all cause young people to feel pushed and pulled in radically different directions when it comes to sex. As parents or mentors, we know that it is vital for youth to develop autonomy to resist external pressures: why further institutionalize this tug-o-war and suspend that logic when it comes to sex?

Abstinence-only programs are rife with misinformation on safer sex and birth control, sexually transmitted infections and the relationship realities of a diverse population. They enable the worst of traditional gender roles, in which boys are often represented as mindless, libidinous beasts for whom the girls — whose interest in sex is represented as solely emotional (and heterosexual) — are the sexual gatekeepers.

And we’ve learned this lesson before: during the first World War, all other nation’s soldiers were given condoms; ours, a “chastity campaign” instead. The result? The United States — at rates exponentially higher than those other nations — experienced its first big wave of sexually transmitted disease when our soldiers came home and gave their wives gonorrhea and syphilis. Marriage didn’t protect those couples from STIs or negative sexual consequences: abstinence approaches put them in harm’s way then, as they put couples in harm’s way now.

Even for those who wait until marriage for sex — and for GLBT youth, that could be a lifelong wait — they STILL will need sexuality information. While marriage may have the power to do some things, it lacks the ability to instill couples with information on how to practice safer sex, use birth control, have mutually satisfying sex together that is truly about both parties; to discuss sexual limits, boundaries, desires, wants and needs openly and informedly. And as anyone who works in any arena of education knows, when we learn certain skills and information influences how likely we are to retain it and best apply it throughout our lives. We would recognize a clear problem if we were not teaching language in the window in which children are doing their key language development: we should see the same problem when we are not teaching sexuality basics — knowing that like language, we do not just teach for now, but for lifelong use — during the time when that development is prime.

While over the last decade and a half, the age of first intercourse and teen pregnancy rates have declined, that trend began with the rise of comprehensive sex education and better access to birth control, and has not further decreased since 2001. We also need to take into account that rates of other sexual activity which carry just as much emotional risk, and often as much STI risk, have NOT declined. In the United States, people between the ages of 15 and 24 continue to be those with the highest — and most rapidly rising — rates of infections; our rates of STIs in young adults are substantially higher than rates in nations who provide comprehensive sexual education and better access to sexual healthcare services. Of teens who report saving sex for marriage, it is only a rare few who mean ALL sex: for most, it means forestalling only intercourse, and for many that is still not delayed until marriage. Considering the median age of first marriage is now around twenty-six, we can easily suss out why that’s not a surprise.

I have run Scarleteen.com, a comprehensive young adult sexuality education website, since 1998, which sometimes sees as many as 30,000 users a day. Over the last few years, we’ve seen an increase in newcomers to the site reporting participation in sexual activity like anal sex. Often, teens engaging in unprotected anal sex or oral sex will report doing so because, according to the sex information they have, it is less risky than vaginal intercourse and will also leave their virginity intact. Many of those teens have not learned how to say no to those activities when they want to from abstinence-only sex education. “Just say no,” doesn’t teach us much about “Maybe,” or “I need to find out more about our risks first, see if we can take care of ourselves in a way that’s smart and safe, talk about it more, and then see how I feel.” Whether someone is single or married, has one partner or five, they need to learn how to have conversations about sexuality that are far more complex than no or yes.

The most pervasive messages of abstinence-only education — and its logical and practical flaws — have been heard loud and clear, filtered through teen minds the way any of us filters anything: with only the information we have at hand. We know abstinence-only approaches just don’t work and never have worked, and any of us past our teens knows why. If we keep the real-life experiences we know are realities and the sexuality information most of us now have as adults from teens, some won’t know why this doesn’t work, but many will find out that it doesn’t: the hard way.

Comprehensive sexuality education includes information about abstinence. But it also includes discussion with teens about what it means to be emotionally, physically, interpersonally and materially ready for any sort of sex — not just heterosexual. It includes all of the accurate sexuality and sexual health information all of them will need — including GLBT youth. While comprehensive sex education serves both teens who abstain and those who do not, the idea that comprehensive sexuality education will result in youth having sex they would not be having otherwise is as flawed as suggesting that lessons in U.S. history about the founding of the nation will encourage young children to immediately try to organize a genocide of indigenous people.

Whether a young adult chooses to have sex or chooses not to have sex, it’s their choice to make, not ours. If adults, with a political power they do not yet have, are making any one choice a mandate, not an option, then no matter what they choose, teens aren’t making a choice at all: we’re making it for them – and we’ve been making it poorly. One can only hope abstinence education faces an uncertain future, because as of right now, it’s set up millions of teens with a decided and intentionally ignorant uncertainty in an area of their lives we should all want them to be as certain about as possible.

Heather Corinna
Editor & Founder, Scarleteen.com
Author, S.E.X.: The All-You-Need-to-Know Progressive Sexuality Guide to Get You Through High School and College

(Cross-posted at the Scarleteen blog.)

posted in Heather Corinna, Scarleteen, activism, soapbox, sexuality | permalink | comments (2) »

I’ve been aided over the last week by some really excellent conversation. It certainly doesn’t fix anything in any practical way, but it does help my general mood.

For starters, Chris and I have been passing some emails back and forth I’ve really enjoyed. While much of the conversation has very much been The Big Conversation, we’ve also been dishing nostalgia for 80’s punk culture and have had a bit of an ongoing fracas about which of us, exactly, deserves the love of Patti Smith.

Honestly, I think I can keep my hat outside that ring, and leave Chris to fight it out amongst all the other ardent Patti-lovers of the world. As I often tell Mr. Price, while I’ve done open relationships before, I just can’t hack poly, simply because I don’t have the bleeding attention span, the time or the patience for the regular dramas which so often ensue. As it is, I’ve already long been in the situation where my primary partner is actually my work, and making the time and emotional room for just one partner is hard enough. An affair with Patti couldn’t ever be casual or occasional, but rather, would necessarily be all-encompassing. If I can’t manage to even work out an occasional one-night-stand anymore on top of everything else, there’s no way in hell I could manage a love relationship with a goddess.

Speaking of Patti, Fish came over with her cousin the other day for a wonderful evening of wine-guzzling and cupcake-nibbling –as well as lawnmower-donation, thank christ — and what did she have in her hot little hands? Two tickets for us to see Patti at the Showbox when I get back from Chicago. Talk about a good friend. I fully expect us to squeal like Beatlemaniacs throughout, before, and for many days after.

My Aussie friend Stephen and I also got to have some great conversation this week, time differences and my being seriously over-caffeinated that day notwithstanding (poor guy).

Over the last month or so, I’ve also lucked out in netting a few phenomenal sex educators as volunteers for the advice column section at Scarleteen. It’s always been very hard to get and keep adult volunteers — I don’t really blame anyone, it’s not easy work, nor is it work you’re going to have universal love showered on you for doing. So, having Sarah and David on board now, and Jhames back, as well as a longtime youth volunteer who is now an adult public health expert, Susie, is brilliant. We also have Paul Joannides on board, too.

Getting and keeping adult male volunteers is even harder then netting adult women for help, which always bites. I could go into why I think that often is, but it’s involved and I’m in no mood for a diatribe (and after my earlier one, you’re probably not, either) about the crappy way men are so often socially conditioned when it comes to sex and sexual philanthropy, as well as the valid fears adult men now have to have about being engaged in any way with teen sexuality, even in a context like this. It’s not that it’s somehow essential that teens with questions have same-sex people answering them, but often enough, many of them prefer that. Sure, I can answer the questions for the guys, but they also have a special appreciation when adult men just demonstrate that they understand and they care, so having a couple solid male volunteers is a big blessing.

In walking Paul through some of the backend stuff the other day, on the phone we ended up in a conversation that spanned nearly two hours, and was just fantastic. It’s a rarity for me to be able to have good opportunities to just sit and share notes with other sex educators and researchers: that’s always so productive and important for any of us. Given how widely sexuality, sex lives and sexual attitudes vary, and how different the populations/generations any of us works with can be, sharing shop talk is divine. It also makes me feel less isolated in what I do, which is a pretty big deal right now. I’m thinking that if things somehow manage to look up for me and the sites over the next couple of months (the maybe lifesaver I mentioned in passing a couple weeks ago didn’t pan out: not surprised, but still a bummer), that it might be high time to try and organize some sort of regular regional roundtable of folks working in sex education and sexual health so that we can just sit around and compare notes.

But well before that, there will be Patti. And me. And not you, Chris.

posted in Heather Corinna, apropos of nothing | permalink | comments (1) »

I had a bit of an epiphany the other day. Well, an epiphany for me, anyway: it may well already have been obvious for others.

I’ve been trying to do this thing for myself, at least once a week, where for around a half an hour, I just allow myself to accept and entertain the possibility that I might not be able to keep doing the kind of work that I do. I’m not doing this to be morbid, but rather, in the hope that if things do get to that point, it’ll be easier for me to deal with if I’ve come to some small level of acceptance in advance.

I’ve been reminded lately, that eleven years ago, I wasn’t in a dissimilar position than I may find myself in soon again. Having to close the crunchy, indie Kindergarten I’d run for nearly five years really gutted me. On the last day of school, I threw a big party for all the current and former students and parents, because I wanted the kids to have something happy to part with, not sad, but that day, every five minutes I had to walk away, go into the alley, and sob. I gave away most of our materials to the kids, partly out of generosity, but partly because I knew if I had them around, I’d look at them all the time and torture myself.

I had to do that largely because financially, there was no way to make things work without it a) either becoming unaffordable for parents because I needed extra space and help or b) seriously killing me because 80 hours a week on your feet, with no assistants, a majority of which were spent managing a group of small children is just something you can only sustain for so long. I even saw it coming over the last year, had tried various things to make it workable, but I was so in love with the job and the idealism of the thing (it was a vegetarian school, we had a kickass parent community, even including our own food co-op, we were trying to raise kids compassionately and peaceably, etc.), that I didn’t really visualize my life without it.

So, when the inevitable happened, it was really awful. I was beyond depressed for months, I felt like I’d lost this huge part of myself, and like I’d lost family, and to boot, I just felt like a complete failure (which is kind of a silly thing for someone twenty-six who started her first indie biz at 21 to feel like, but I had no hindsight at the time). So, if I get to a similar space again, I want to do everything I can to try and be smarter about it this time around and try and do some things to preventatively manage what would be a very serious heartbreak of an even greater magnitude.

On to my epiphany. A friend messaged me when I was in the midst of one of these meditations/visualizations, and made some noise that it wasn’t the best time to talk to me (I sit and weep when I do this: that’s fine, it’s catharsis, but it’s not pleasant to be around), but not enough noise, really. Truth is, I want to talk about this stuff with people, I just feel like a perpetual downer these days, and feel really guilty about burdening people with it. And so it got brought up, my malaise with this, and she mentioned that I couldn’t be a failure because many people consider me a (s)hero.

Forgive my bluntness — she did, she’s a peach, and she gets it — but being a hero to someone or even a lot of someones rarely pays the rent or puts food on the table. And right now, and at my age, I’d honestly easily give up any hero-status I may have for some form of reliable paycheck. I mean, it’s really nice, I’m not a complete asshole, nor an ungrateful louse, and it does makes me feel good about myself and what I do/have done.

But here’s the thing. I’ve come to the conclusion that much as is the case with artists, where they and their work are usually considered most valuable when they’re dead, that with actvists – and what nutjob decides to be both, anyway? Erm… – we are often considered less valuable, less heroic, if we have even the basic creature comforts that everyone else does. In a word, I think that people perhaps often confuse heroism with martyrdom.

I’m no Catholic nor a Christian. I’m Buddhist: our goal is to certainly accept that we all suffer, for sure, but we try to work to reduce the suffering we and others experience, not to elevate or celebrate it. I mean, I think Jesus was an incredibly cool guy, one of the all-time-greats, for sure, but I don’t think he died for anyone’s sins en masse or that his death or the way he died is anything to celebrate or idolize. I also have a really hard time believing that anyone would seriously ask someone to crucify them, even if they were batshit crazy or just totally worn out with being the Messiah (well, maybe that one I believe). I think he got screwed by a jealous ass and that that seriously sucks. And if that isn’t what happened, and in fact, Judas really was following Jesus’ directive, then it’s Jesus who was the ass, because that’s a fuck of a cruel position to put a friend in, man.

But enough about Jesus: let’s talk about me.

Well, in a minute. Instead of Jesus & Co, — and I’m hardly comparing myself to these folks, just looking for activists people know to talk about — I’m thinking about people like Aung San Suu Kyi, and the fact that from, where I’m sitting (which is not in Burma, so if I’m being inaccurate, please correct me), it appears that only after she was put under house arrest, and thus, laregly unable to continue to do the amazing activist work she was doing, did she get the big street cred and awards. Certainly, refusing to leave the country, which would have given her freedom, was an incredible protest all by itself, but so was the work she did which led her there in the first place.

I’m thinking about Martin Luther King, and the likely reality that had he not been assassinated, his profound achievements not only would have been less recognized, but in no short time whatsoever, the fact that he cheated on his wife, that he wore nice suits, or that he didn’t have to put his life at huge risk anymore would have overshadowed his incredible accomplishments.

I’m thinking about Phil Ochs, Nelson Mandela, Alice Paul, Medgar Evers, the current Dalai Lama, Harvey Milk, the works. And what I’m thinking is that without their martyrdom and their profound suffering (far more than mine, obviously; I’m just kvetching about having big troubles paying the bills and not having a segment of the population think I’m some sort of child predator: I’m certainly not grappling with being shot or imprisioned for years and years), their heroism wouldn’t be held up so high.

And I’m thinking that is complete and utter bullshit.

I’m thinking that that complete and utter bullshit has something to do with why on earth I keep finding it so hard to make ends meet when someone working at a fast food restaurant the number of hours I do often, say, has some sort of vehicle, and someone who sits on their arse in a cubicle all day getting paid for forty hours, with benefits, but really working maybe 20, is doing far, far better in just having some basic stability, security and quality of life than the both of us.

It’s become pretty clear to me over the years that a lot of people just figure that anyone who does any sort of activism, especially if they do it for their living, has made some sort of intentional choice to barely scrape by — or chose that because we somehow are trying to show others we’re better people than they are by scraping by — or somehow deserves to live poorly or at higher risks because we chose not to have “real” jobs, even if our work benefits those who have those “real” jobs, or fills in the gaps because those with the “real” jobs don’t have the time or wherewithal to tend to the stuff we are. There absolutely is plenty of commentary out and about which clearly states that full-time activists deserve to stay poor and struggle because we chose the “luxury” of doing work that we feel is universally important rather than the hellacious torment of a corporate job.

It seems clear, especially if I pay attention to what others say about people like me, that if I wrote my missives from a comfortable house that I owned, or had a car I drove around in, or talked about the kids I can’t likely ever afford to have at this point, by some, I’d be less of a hero; less of an activist.

It seems clear that if I didn’t sit here perpetually whinging about how much it sucks that forty is flirting with me and no matter how hard I seem to work doing things people say are important, I can’t squeeze even a dime for it from the majority of folks who talk about the value of what I do, I’d be less of a hero. That I’m considered more of one because someone can look up my woes about healthcare without insurance, see how low and exhausted I can get, how tough it is for me to get real credibility, or look back and read about the winter I had to post online to ask for someone to donate a coat for me for the winter because it can get just that bad. And that’s freaking lunacy.

This, for the record, is not intended to be any sort of guilt trip. Rather, this is me simply acknowledging pervasive attitudes that exist, and trying to desconstruct them in the hope of perhaps changing them, or at the very least, accepting them better than I do now. I’m trying to suss these things out because I’m in a space where I’m trying to look the life I have now square in the face and see if there is any chance of continuing to do things the way I do them — or continuing to be a full-time activist at all — but to also have some hope of some semblance of a basic, comfortable life. I’m wondering if the sort of attitudes I’m talking about aren’t a big (maybe the biggest? Maybe not?) barrier to that, because if they are, then it seems to me that I need to accept that there is only so much I can do to change them, and more realistically consider what I might need to do — not for the world-at-large, but just for myself — in that context.

Look: I grew up with the sorts of people I mentioned above as my heroes and sheros. When my friend I was talking to asked me who my own heroes were, I admit, I was loathe to roll out the list, because when you look at it, it seems pretty clear that from day one of my life, the role models and idols I’ve chosen aren’t just activists, but also martyrs. It’s entirely possible that I, too, am influenced by that conflation and confusion, even if I abhor it; even if I’d by all means prefer that more of my heroes were still alive than dead young and early, that they lived much more comfortably than they did. (Mind you, I’d rather have grown up with those folks as my role models than the vapid celebrities so many young people hold up, but still, it begs an important question about idols and role models.)

However bitter a pill it is to swallow, I’m glad, at least, that my brain is going to these places, because I very much need to think about them, very seriously, and pretty much now. It’s gotten pressing to do so financailly, it’s gotten pressing to do so emotionally, and since I’ve also found myself with a bonafide life-partner, there is that on top of it all. By all means, Mark knew pretty well what he was signing unto with me and what I do, but I also don’t want my work, my life, and my fallout from both to cause him suffering. There’s this activist/social work trap you can so easily fall into where you’re so invested in making huge groups or classes of people feel better, have better lives, so focused on the big picture that you get myopic about your own life, your own betterment, and with making sure the people closest to you are also okay, and that you’re not only helping them, but not making things WORSE for them by working so much to make things better for others (it’s something I also see a good deal of in feminism, too: there are some incredible activists who are doing great things for women-at-large, but who sometimes seem really inept or careless when it comes to maltreatment of the women right next to them). I’ve found myself in that place before with work and my interpersonal relationships and my own life, and I do not want to land there again.

I’m not sure what to do with this particular epiphany, where to file it, or where to go from here just yet. I’m just at the starting gate of sorting it all out, after all. So, I’m more aware of what part of this is likely about, acutely aware that I think it’s crap, and obscenely aware that I don’t want a cross on my back, because that’s just plain fucked up.

Well, you gotta start somewhere.

posted in Heather Corinna, activism, rantapalooza | permalink | comments (3) »

There’s little better for an author then having an event at not only your favorite bookstore, but at the bookstore that you truly came of age in, where you’d sit for hours reading, and was your best home away from home. It’s amazing for a feminist to have an event in a place where you started doing your cornerstone reading in feminist theory, and which has provided a haven for feminist women, activists and authors for nearly the whole of your life. Same goes for coming of age queer and confused and having a haven where you knew you could sit with your hairy pits and your stompy boots and read your Adrienne Rich, your Rita Mae Brown or your Curious Wine, all while crushing on the gorgeous woman who always saved you the books she knew you’d like, without anyone looking at you funny.

So, I am beyond elated that I have a book event at Women & Children First on Friday evening, August 3rd at 7:30 (5233 N. Clark St., In Andersonville, on the north side of the city). We’re doing this as a remedial sex ed Q&A for women of all ages, since I have so many adult readers who benefit from the kind of Sex 101 I give at Scarleteen, and since so much basic sex ed is really not about women, and in addition, certainly not often inclusive of women who sleep with women, and also not very informed by feminist approaches and a holistic viewpoint on sex. I imagine, given how events with me usually go, that it’ll turn into a pretty cool bit of CR and roundtable discussion on women’s sexuality. (I also expect to tear up the minute I walk in the door, so bring me some tissues, if you would, please.)

The extra on this is that my fave bookstore in the world has also been in a tough financial pickle — laregly due to the fact that they helped make the neighborhood they’re in so much more awesome that now they can barely afford the rents there — like most feminist bookstores have, so I’m happy to do anything at all that I can to keep them around, even if I live across the country and can’t enjoy their stacks myself anymore.

So, please come if you’re nearby, and please tell as many of your friends in Chicago as possible about the event. For anyone who comes themselves or is telling others, I encourage everyone who has some books they’ve been meaning to buy lately to wait until that event and please buy them at W&CF: they need your business, and we all need them. They’ve been supporting women’s work for close to 30 years now, and so long as they stay afloat, they’ll be doing it for many, many more.

(Also? I can’t eat them anymore myself, alas, but if you aren’t often in Andersonville, know that if you decide to make a day of it, or arrive very, very early — they close at 2:30 — and are hungry, that Svea, right across the street, has the best swedish pancakes you will ever eat in your life.)

Don’t forget, too, that if you’re in or near Chicago, that if this event doesn’t work for you, I’ll be at Early to Bed on Tuesday night, the 31st, doing an event for parents and allies of kids and teens.

posted in Heather Corinna, bookish bits, Happy!, feminism, events | permalink | comments (0) »

Seven Ways to Cheer Up When You’re Feeling Eight Below

1. Make something completely decadent with items already in your cupboard. Thankfully, even when I’m living extra-lean, there are always baking basics lying around here: cooking and baking are important balms for me. Cocoa, shortening, sugars, flour: check. What else is here? Hmmm…arrowroot powder, a bag of frozen cherries, some pinot noir not so good for drinking, but fine for cooking, and an influx of balsamic. Voila!*

Enjoy the first cupcake, while it’s still a little warm, by yourself and Ooh and Ahh out loud. Then call a couple of people who you know will also delight in a simple bout of vegan decadence, and share cupcakes with them on the porch during a perfect summer evening. Done!

2. Take a bath: don’t rush, and be sure to soak your head.

3. Be Mr. Rogers. Go and see the people in your neighborhood, and don’t be in a hurry. Take the time to have more than a two-minute conversation with the sweet woman at the mini-mart you buy smokes from. say hello to the folks at the coffeehouse. When people on the street stop to pet your dog, let them play with her as long as they’d like. Have your coffee on a chair with the homeless guy who can’t ever decide if his name is Pete or Elmer (I have no idea what that’s all about), but who always calls you “darlin,” tells great (albeit drunken) stories, and who people always rush by. Hope he found the five bucks you put in his hat when you saw him sleeping on the sidewalk last week, as you have before, but say nothing about it: it’d be nice for him to feel he had a secret admirer.

4. Clean and change all your bedding. It doesn’t matter if your sheets aren’t 400 thread count, if there are piles of laundry around your bed, or if there are no fresh flowers nearby. Sliding into fresh clean sheets and closing your eyes always feels like you’ve landed in a posh hotel.

5. Laugh. That isn’t a challenge when in sharing a headslap over this with Sarah, and mentioning that you almost told the questioner that if vaginas could expand so much you’d be thrilled, since you’d FINALLY have a place to keep your keys where they wouldn’t get lost, she shares this gem: “I have a multi-month archive of persistent emails from this 12-year-old kid who was convinced that if I wasn’t keeping things (e.g., an egg, a can of Pepsi, my wallet) in my vagina at all times, I was “wasting space” and was immoral in the same way as people who don’t turn off the faucet while they brush their teeth. Just walking around with this big, empty handbag between my legs, not doing anyone any good. It makes me think their must be some sub-genre of horror writing about empty, cavernous, enormous vaginas? People falling into them, never to be seen again?”

6. Remind yourself that lotuses grow from the mud. If something beautiful can continue to grow in the unforgiving cement of your backyard, then for fuck’s sake, so can you.

7. Open your email and find out you’ve been unanimously nominated for an award that Jocelyn freaking Elders won last year. Dayum.

* Incidentally, the cupcakes are an adaptation of an Isa Chandra Moskovitz’ recipe from Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World, a cookbook I use much too often for my own good. The changes I made include using balsamic vinegar in the cake rather than apple cider vinegar: I always do that w/vegan chocolate cake; the balsamic makes the chocolate taste richer. I also shredded some gorgeous cherry/vanilla/dark chocolate into the mix and on top that Beppie (that was SO nice, gal) secretly arranged with Mark to have sent to me, and added orange extract to the cake and the kirsch because orange is gorgeous with chocolate, and makes cherry taste more tart. I did the cherry filling a bit differently, adding the red wine and skipping the sugar (who needs it with all that icing?). Too, her vanilla icing recipe is to die for, but I let it sit in the mixer for waaaaay longer than she suggests: a good 20 minutes makes it fluffy as anything. Adding some ground vanilla bean is also a help.

posted in Heather Corinna, Auntie Heather's Helpful Hints, Happy! | permalink | comments (8) »

There has been some continued suckitude lately, but also some good stuff.

I’m starting with the yuck so I can end with the yay: better for me, better for you.

For a while there (like, the two years kind of while) the Scarleteen email just was NOT working. Basically, you get a site with THAT much traffic, you get so much spam every day that even a great email server gets jammed up every day. Given the content of a lot of spam is just stuff that really messes me up to read, I had to mass delete a LOT. This wasn’t a big deal: after all, I still had many ways for people to contact me otherwise, and the boards are always open. And me missing a lot of hate-mail (especially since, as I was just telling someone today, the big haters aren’t the fundamentalists: more often they’re the pissed-off hetero college boys who feel that the information we provide is going to make their dating pool less pliable: would that I were kidding)? Not exactly a bummer.

One boon of that was that I got a lot less personal emails from users. I’m not talking about hate mail, I’m talking about advice stuff. I always make clear that I do not do advice via email (I used to, years and years back, but I stopped). There are a couple reasons why. The biggest one is that given I’m often serving minors, I want everything I do and say to be up front and center so that it’s all out in the open; I don’t wind up with anyone thinking I’m soliciting their child in any way, or having an inappropriate relationship, and I also just feel like this is often such delicate work that I really prefer a sort of public monitoring. People have insinuated about what goes on “behind the scenes” in some pretty crappy ways in the past, but since I know full well that there usually IS no behind-the-scenes at all, it’s pretty easy to shrug off and just let people be the idiots they wanna be.

Another biggie is that there just isn’t time in a day, and while in many respects, working Scarleteen is often working for free, it at least has the possibility of paying me and the org sometimes. Not so with email: while I’ve accepted a deal to do some interfamilial email or phone counseling/mediation before, for a reasonable fee, there’s no way to do emails from minors that way, and I’d feel really weird about it.

The other reason, though, is that it shelters me from some of the truly awful stuff: I have enough of that to deal with in a day, and one person really can only take so much. Often, people (for obvious reasons) do not want to publicly post the worst of the worst — or even what they think is normal, but you feel is nightmare — so even if you say you don’t do email, they’ll try, in the hope that you’ll be sympathetic, which, of course, I often am. But since the redesign where we now have contact forms up, I’ve started to get more and more of those again, despite setting clear limits where I ask people not to email me personally for advice.

Like the woman yesterday who asked me to give her “proof” to give to her boyfriend who left her because she had such terrible bleeding from rough vaginal and anal sex that he’d come to the bizarre conclusion she could only be bleeding like that because she’d been cheating on him. But that’s not it: she also made clear to me that he had masculinity issues which involved him needing to have rough sex to prove something, and to keep him, she needed me to explain all this blood was okay and he could still keep doing that. It didn’t matter to her that she might well be sustaining injuries and seriously opening herself up to infections: the concern was keeping the guy. Then there was the other one, on the boards, a new poster who posted to ask if her boyfriend continuing with anal sex (she was the receptive partner) until he reached orgasm, despite the fact that she told him at the start it was hurting her and asked him to stop throughout. I explained that yes, that was rape, and not only did she tell me she’d thought it was “just” an abuse, but she also was exceptionally confused because “he deserved to feel good,” and doing what he did was “just being a guy,” wasn’t it?

No, I don’t have thimngs like these every single day. But it’s awfully close. The night before last, when I couldn’t sleep, I was up half the night on the boards counseling a 14-year-old incest and physical abuse survivior (from her brother and father, respectively) whose main concern was that she HAD to be on the pill. Why? Because — she wouldn’t give me details, and I didn’t press because I could counsel her without them — the situation she was in (now at least out of that home with the incest, thank christ) was “complicated” and sex was “going to keep happening whether she liked it or not.” I talked to her as best I could, but you know, she hasn’t had any real support or counseling, and it can be mighty hard to get a big sexual abuse survivor to understand that she really does have a right to say no to whomever. And ultimately, you have to just tell her how to get the birth control, knowing that if there isn’t anything you can do to help her to be better cared for (and to better self-care) that’s at least one way you can mitigate the bad outcomes that she’s willing to pursue. But when you go to bed after that, you don’t sleep well.

Tangentially, I was trying to explain to Mark last night that counseling for abuse amoung teens that age can get really tricky — and serious props to those who do nothing BIUT that, full-time for that age group — because they’re not just abuse survivors, they’re also normal 14-year-olds who behave and talk like normal 14-year-olds. I had to ask that one to please stop saying “My mother will KILL me if…” because in context, it was making it nigh unto impossible for me to figure out what her mother would ACTUALLY do, and if there was any abuse there with Mom, too, or not.

I do get things like this almost everyday, and sometimes several times in a day. Every now and then, they’re some creep wanting to just get his rocks off by pretending to be a rape survivor asking for help (and in those cases, whereas most survivors don’t usually want to start a conversation with a straner by detailing every minute of their rapes, with those posts, it is always written in explicit detail, that I get to read, lucky me, from the start). But from what I can tell, that’s the rarity, not the norm. (And every now and then, I have a wonderful, blissful day where absolutely not a single post makes me want to cry at all: they are infrequent, especially during the summer months, but they are WONDERFUL days.)

Needless to say, this stuff is stressful as hell, and not something you can often just call up any old friend and recount: more times than not, on days like these, I’ve started to learn to just talk to no one at all about them. It’s so damn isolating to do this kind of work, and even more so when so much of the world around you is bound and determined to say these things never, ever happen, or only happen very rarely. This stuff isn’t rare: it is, literally, an everyday occurrence. And fuck, does it suck.

What else sucks?

Still no end in sight to my financial nightmares. But I don’t want to talk about that.

Speaking of nightmares, last night, likely as a result of the overwhelming yuck of the last day or so, I had a really awful dream, starring no less that four bloated, drowned corpses being pulled out of the water right in front of my face, and a Montessori classroom that was bigger and messier than I’d ever seen, and which I was responsible for cleaning up — a Sisyphysian task, in part because it was also full of people, and every time I’d go in a different corner, I’d find myself without my clothes. Also in this classroom I found my old bunny is his cage, which I had forgotten to ask anyone to care for over the summer. He should have just been dead, that given, but instead, he had turned into this yellowed, vile and shriveled mass with bright yellow eyes that was still barely alive. Those were the highlights.

Well, I was supposed to go over to Cheryl’s land Saturday, but alas, my dog got sick AGAIN. This is the second time in two months, from a dog who has never gotten sick before, and who is also the baby to both Mark and myself here (in fact, he gets way more freaked than I when she’s not right). He was still out of town, so I didn’t feel okay leaving her scratching herself silly and vomiting and having all kinds of big bowel yuck, so I had to reschedule, even though we both really, really needed that day.

(As of right now, the vet opinion is that the fleas of last time had their revenge: apparently my dog is also massively allergic to fleas — or that’s their best guess now — and apparently when that’s the case, your dog can be not-right for even a month or two after you treat the damn things. Ain’t nothin’ like being a pet owner when you’re broke, as you may know: it never fails that just when you’re scrambling for cash to pay the usual bills, they have to get sick and you have to get stuck with vet bills on top of everything else. Argh! The antihistimanes they gave me for her were supposed to do the trick, but alas, they don’t seem to have, so I’ll likely be back at the vet AGAIN today or tomorrow.)

Know how women who are pregnant get baby weight? I have book-weight. You have to spend nearly a year with insanely long days strapped to your chair writing, under a fierce deadline…well, some things are fairly inevitable. I don’t really care all that much from a body image perspective, but I don’t dig it from the perspective of my body feeling out of whack — I’ve noticed over the years that I seem to be really sensitive about my own equilibrium — and the bigger issue is that I have to go do book promo back home in a couple of weeks and my favorite stuff to do things in and travel in isn’t feeling very comfortable right now, and I’m hardly in a spot to go buy new stuff to tide me over until moving around a lot again sets me back right.

Lastly, it sucks when you have this flood of brilliant ideas right as you’re falling asleep. I had this happen the other night, but as an insomniac, I know better than to get up and jot them down: I may be up a whole night if I do. If I go to bed at all tipsy or the like, I just accept they’re gone, but the other might I went to bed clean as a whistle, so fully expected to remember them all, and lo: not a single one remained in the morning, only the memory of brilliance long lost to me.

One forgets that as the years creep up, even though you’re totally supposed to be too young to be going senile, age itself is then only toxin required to blitz your memory.

* * *

Enough with the bad stuff.

Know what does NOT suck?

What does NOT suck is your partner coming home from a day-job biz trip to Lincoln, Nebraska (I keep telling him I feel like he’s a vacuum cleaner salesman or something, since he gets shipped to the oddest places) and having a perfecty-perfect stay at home date where you walk to the market to get what you want to cook, make a beautiful dinner together, mix up some experimental cocktails (more on that in a minute) and laze about utterly until the wee hours blabbing away. Well, mostly laze about except for the hour you get weird and have to hula-hoop in your dining room to bad 70’s pop just ’cause. But who doesn’t?

It also doesn’t suck to stretch out the anticipation with snuggles-only that night so you can have phenomenal welcome-back sex the next day.

So, here’s my fave cocktail of the evening, which currently remains nameless: icy-cold vodka (about a third of the glass) and a glass chilled after lining it and the rim with fresh orange and orange zest. Then fill with limeade and some lime pulp, and stick a big sprig of peppermint in there, and muddle it the TEENIEST bit. Yum. Free book to anyone who wants to give me the best name for it.

It also doesn’t suck to have a really good book-sales week, and last week was phenomenal. It’s pretty cool when you see your YA sex guide outsell the book that was your own YA sex guide way back when (yes, there was one day in that good last week where my numbers eclipsed Our Bodies, Ourselves: talk about an ego-boost). Rachel: I think I’ve got you to thank for that, gal.

It’s not at all sucky when one of your favoritest friends gets the hang of your “just drop by” mentality and does, and you get to head over to your neighborhood Sunday farmer’s market, and eat peaches so ripe there’s a flood of juice at your feet, and drink lemonade so tart and fresh it makes the sides of your mouth stick together. Actually, over the last couple of weeks nearly all of my fave buds up here have just dropped by, including two women who just dropped by from Tacoma — an hour away.

It’s really not sucky to have one of your favorite feminist orgs who you didn’t even know knew you existed not only interview you — and acknowledge the work you do as feminist work, because it’s about freaking time someone from something cornerstone did — but ask really amazing questions that bust your brain (an extended version — we got pretty deep into it — lives here). And Chris? We don’t even know each other — well, rather, I didn’t know you until now — but finding this this morning seriously made my day: that’s easily one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me, and you couldn’t have said it at a better time. I may need to steal that first sentence for my press package.

It doesn’t suck that when I go back home to Chicago, I’m definately going to be seeing one old friend I’ve missed, one old friend I have never even met offline, one of my best friends from elementary school who, oddly, found me because she’s gone into YA sex education and nursing herself (was there something in the water?), my two favorite aunts (one of whom is so close in age to me she’s more like a sister: my mother comes from big Irish family, another of whom I really need to tell stories about sometime), my Dad, my Mom, my favorite ex of all time (and his partner, whom I adore), one of my favorite living contemporary artists (who I’ll also get to take to my faveorite art museum anywhere: how cool is that?) and also very probably one of the teachers who saved my life, one of my best friends from high school and another from college. It also looks like (details forthcoming) despite my favorite feminist — really, just my fave bookstore, period — bookstore being in some crisis right now, likely get to do an event there. I even get to catch a Cubs game in bleacher seats, and take my sweetie to Wrigley for his first time.

(I also will likely be going on Fox News while I am there, but that’s more terrifying than it is not-sucking.)

I also pitched a book idea to my editor I really, really, really hope will fly. Not only do I just not want to pitch books to other pubs right now because I so badly want to work with my same editor again, I also really don’t want to do anything super-heavy or as provocative as what I’d usually do or be asked to do just this one time around. It’d be really nice to do work at least once in my life which half the populace or more soesn’t think is shameful and needs to be ferreted away somewhere. And I need a break from the heavy. I lit on something that is far lighter, but also still incredibly important — I don’t do fluff, just not my thing: don’t want to, and I suck at it, besides — and still young adult, which I’d like to stay in for a while. And not primarily about sex, thank freaking christ. Think good thoughts.

And today, I’m not doing any advice, I’m not reading any advice letters, I’m not even looking at the boards. Too. Much. I have other work I need to get caught up on, I have books I need to ship out, I need to do some boxing, some laundry and given last night’s nightmares and endless dog-scratching, I should even try to just take a freaking nap.

P.S. I’ve been noticing that in the last year, when I write here, I’ve been seriously overusing parentheses, and I have absolutely no idea what that is all about (really: none whatsoever).

posted in Heather Corinna, bookish bits, apropos of nothing | permalink | comments (2) »

All I’ve got for you today are some book-related quickies, in passing.

When Mark goes out of town for work, I never can get to sleep until dawn. Being so used to living in apartment buildings, houses feel unsafe to me, especially when I’m the only one in them. In apartments or rowhouses, you’ve got people on every side of you, who you know full well can hear even feet in your place, because they’re probably complained about it at least once. I’m a loud yeller, so if anything ever happened here, I’d probably get heard, but at the same time, this is Seattle, and the passivity of people here hardly inspires confidence.

I’m not afraid of the dark, but for whatever reason, when I’m here on my own I feel far more secure sleeping once the night sky starts flirting with dawn. However, since I’m also someone who naturally wakes when the light completely comes up, this means I get little to no sleep, and thus, am without proper brain function today.

Chicagoans: Still firming up some other dates and times, but on Tuesday, July 31st, at Early to Bed at 7:30 PM (North side: 5232 N. Sheridan Rd., right off Lake Shore Drive at Foster), I’ll be having an informal evening salon all about talking to kids and teens about sex and sexuality. Wine and munchies will be there, as well as the fantastic environ of a very fabulous women’s sex shop. (Thai, Sean and Erica: I’d better see you both there. Or else!) I’d also be up for an evening meet-and-greet somewhere that week if anyone wants to dish about it.

Two new press pieces on the book this week, one at Wiretap (Alternet’s Teen channel — it was also reprinted at The Nation and Alternet — whoohoo!), by the always-wonderful Rachel, and another at the Minnesota Women’s Press, by — which just rocked — a very cool high school intern.

I’m finishing an interview for the Center for New Words today, finally. It’s taken me an age because the questions they asked were so insightful and so huge, it’s earnestly broken my brain. But I was pleased as punch to be asked — it seriously made my month. For the most part, one of the toughest things I’ve dealt with in my writing and arts career is getting the perpetual cold shoulder from most feminist press: it’s taken a long time, for whatever reason, for a lot of feminist orgs to find the feminism in what I do, which has always flummoxed me utterly, since it’s not like you’ve got to dig for it. But, that’s looking up, which makes me very happy.

No joy yet on the financial front per all my work, I’m sorry to say. But I’m still over here trying to do everything I can to get that to turn around. Well, not yesterday. Yesterday the weather was so wonderful that I hooped in the back yard, played with the dog, viciously attacked the weeds that keep trying to take over my garden, made myself a fresh, simple dinner and whacked off before staying up all freaking night.

(I actually think I inadvertently did the equivalent of pissing on another dog’s territory in my masturbatory endeavors. Because I was feeling so ooky about being alone, I felt better masturbating in Mark’s office — which is HIS usual spot for that — than in the bedroom, which is my usual spot, and only occasionally his. I swear, I wasn’t trying to mark territory, but in hindsight I’m feeling a bit like a bad little puppy.)

posted in Heather Corinna, bookish bits, s.e.x., apropos of nothing | permalink | comments (2) »

I’d like to think that when Dorothy was in the middle of that tornado, that if when the wicked witch biked by, her skirt happened to fly up over her head, revealing a bright red baboon butt, she’d have to have laughed, even while her house, her dog and that poor old Auntie Em were floating away and her life hung precariously in the balance.

Because, you know: you just gotta crack up sometimes. Long before any sort of work strife, political struggle, flirtation-with-previous-states-of-poverty, breakup, illness or whatever will do you in, if you stopped being able to laugh and have some joy somewhere in there, you will have gone down way earlier and far more painfully than you would otherwise.

I’ve been the warrior I’m reputed to be this last week, and I have been busting my rump to think even outside of MY box (which usually isn’t much like a box at all: it’s more like one of those inflatable rumpus rooms you rent for some kid’s birthday party or a street fair — and yes, I mean outside that OTHER “my box,” too), and step outside my comfort zones to do my damndest to make this all better in a way where it’s hopefully better from here on out. No progress to speak of in terms of the results of my efforts yet, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t want to talk about that stuff today, anyway.

(And seriously? You can only answer “How are you?” with “I still suck,” so many times before you just want to respond by begging people to just put your mopey ass DOWN, for fuck’s sake, you know?)

Instead, I’d like to have a giggle at that witch of the west with her crimson baboon butt, or, in my case, over the needed eviction of Philip Glass.

* * *
As far as the rest of my life goes, it’s been a pretty okay week. A handful of nights back, for instance, I was workingworkingworkingworking, as I’m prone to do, and Mark kept coming downstairs — with less and less clothing on — trying to get me to go upstairs with him.

You know how it is when you’re depressed: even though you know sex is a nice balm, it does a number on one’s libido. And in my case, that’s usually just about me: in other words, I’m down with getting my other person off, but I know myself well enough to know that when I’m seriously down, orgasms for me just are not going to happen and I don’t want to trouble myself or anyone else with trying. Thankfully, even though my sweetie is a bio-boy, our sexlife is blissfully free of most hetero dynamics. For instance, I’ve never had to let go of the very nice queer thing where you sometimes will have a few sessions where you just take turns getting each other off, at different (and extended) times the same night, or on different nights altogether. In fact, in some of my life when I’ve partnered with men, one of my biggest bitches has been that bizarre heteronormative idea where folks seem to think that people are supposed to come from the same thing — especially when it’s the stuff women don’t usually come from in the first place, and men often don’t even find that interesting — or at the same time, or even on the same night (you have no idea how many times in a day when answering advice questions, for various reasons, I find myself sighing and saying out loud “Oh, poor straight people.” For real, and yes, I know that’s patronizing and I’m terribly sorry). While that’s all groovy when it happens, and plenty of times I do want to get off when my partner has or will, too, there are also plenty of times where I just don’t want to be distracted by my own desires for orgasm (or vice-versa), and I’d rather focus all my attention on my partner or have them focus all of theirs on me.

Plus, being naked is my happy space. In other words, part of the reason I’m so damn naked all the time is because I’m generally feeling pretty groovy so I want to run around without underpants like a hyperactive four-year-old. But when I’m feeling crappy or hyper-vulnerable, clothing is an armour for me, and I like to keep it on.

So, eventually, I headed upstairs, clearly getting the more-than-subtle hint that Mark wanted to get it on, with the hope that he was cool with a for-him-only turn.

Mr. Price is not a light the candles, put out the flowers, cover the bed in rosepetals for sex kind of guy — neither am I. We’re more usually the kick the laundry aside and hope you land somewhere near the bed for sex kind of people. I’d made clear the day before, however, that the bedroom was SUCH a freaking disaster that I couldn’t even think about sex in there: I could only wonder when the hell someone was going to call the health department and hope Sofia didn’t get forever lost in the piles while we were sleeping at night. So, I got led by the hand into his office — we both have our own rooms/offices here: it’s a strong cohabitation rule of mine — and there were blankets and pillows on the floor, a clear space around them, incense burning and lo, little flickering candles.

You know, for whatever reason, if that had been about seducing ME to be the receptive partner it would not have been half as darling and cool (it probably would have felt like guys way too old for you when you were in high school offering you a backrub): but since knowingly or unknowingly, it was about seducing me to seduce HIM, it made it not only really charming and sweet, but also very nicely genderblurry-scrumptious hot. So, by all means, that night was all about him, but there were a few days there where the very pleasant image of my naked boyfriend and his candles and pillows and not-naked me was the gift that kept on giving for this girl. MeOW.

And the wonderful afternoon-that-turned-into-evening picnic my friends Ben and Joriel hosted for a handful of us; vegan lunchies, plenty of hula hoops, sneaky liquor and all yesterday were just completely brilliant. The weather was to die for, and a whole day out in the sun, hooping and hollering with friends was just the thing.

But the best giggle I have had in a while was because I found the notes I took after my dentist’s visit in Minneapolis over my last visit.

Allow me a little backstory and an admission of the type I don’t like to make often, because it always feels like setting myself up for more hell than I have to deal with already in terms of some folks ideas about my suitibility as an educator for young people. But it’s essential to get the beauty of this.

When I was in my teens and early-to-mid-twenties, I very much liked me some hallucinogens. Very. Much. For an ungodly number of times I dropped them, I only had one bad trip, ever, and a WHOLE lot of exceptionally nice ones. (Go on now: tell me how women “aren’t visual,” I dare ya.) There was a while there…well, let’s just say the primary reason that I said toodle-oo to LSD and her chums was because I very easily could have blissfully drifted into a shiny, sparkly acid oblivion quite gladly for the rest of my life. Lucky for me I don’t still do them and haven’t for an absolute age (sigh!) or else I couldn’t really talk about this stuff here at all.

So, you can imagine my surprise and delight when, while in my dentists chair, settling in under the gas mask, it became clear from the taste in my throat, the fog in my head and the auditory and visual hallucinations that my hygenist perhaps took my talk of my high tolerance for chemicals a bit TOO seriously and dosed me GOOD.

Mind you, they’re pretty liberal with the gas over at my dentist’s, to the degree that the first time I visited just to have them look at my teeth, as I set in the chair, I was asked if I wanted gas and replied, “Umm, for a consultation? I mean, sure, but I think I’ll be okay without it, too.” They said they didn’t know I was there for that, butcha know, I don’t believe them. It’s been very apparent that they love their nitrous there to me, every time I’ve gone in. I should also note that before the mask went on, she and I were telling some mighty funny shared stories about my high tolerance in being a McDego compared to hers as a Native American, and determined we wound up with the same blessing and curse: we bonded, man. I also know for a fact that she knew what went down with me with that gas, because the next day, she greeted me the way people greet do when you had a good one-night stand with the night before. When I came in that next day for more work (not with her, alas), she — who I had never met until our lil’ trip together — rubbed my arm, winked and said, “Hey, I know you….”

(I tried not to think about why she was THAT familiar with me, since heaven freaking knows what I might have said or done while under all that gas. But what happens at the dentist stays at the dentist, right? Well, unless you put it on the Internet, that is. Ah, well.)

Once I started to get the feeling that I was somehow (legally!) tripping in my dentists office, I first had a moment where I wasn’t sure if I was hallucinating, or if I was hallucinating that I was hallucinating. When I figured out it was bonafide, I then had a few moments of extreme paranoia realizing I was going to lalaland, but thought it through: in a safe place, with a medical staff, everything is legal, I have a drug buddy sitting right next to me. Okay! Let’s go! So, float away I did, and an hour turned into a couple of days, and I walked out of there feeling as well rested as I would have with a full month of sleep, and as centered as the Dalai Lama.

I left there (gawd bless the rapid come-down powers of nitrous), took a long walk to the cafe where I was meeting a friend for lunch, and immediately 1) Googled the hell out of this to verify that it was even possible (and yes, it is, it’s just pretty uncommon), then 2) typed out copious notes in the hopes of making something profound out of the experience. I pulled up the notes today thinking maybe there would be something inspiring in them to jettison me this week.

And those notes net me something about as profound as the scribbles and cartoons I’d make while dosing in high school, hoping to later express my profundity, did.

(Italics are my additions from today. That’d be why they actualy make some sort of sense.)

* * *
Squares of ceiling, squares of ceiling, dots inside the squares make other squares, make other dots. Mmmm, negative space. Need more negative space.

Did Dr. Tye (my very odd, but very nice Hawaiian dentist for a few years before my teens) use gas on us? Is that why dropping acid felt so homey? Is THAT why he was always playing the Cocteau Twins when no one even knew who they were and most of his clients were little kids — Cocteau Twins are very nice when floaty. Was very nice dentist: maybe he hit the gas, too.

She was saying “close” and “open” but they sounded exactly the same. Why?
(That poor woman trying to clean my teeth and me likely looking at her like she was speaking another language while I drooled all over her. Ugh.)

Paranoia first/inner peace/deep acceptance/sense of balance — teeth in better shape than one thinks, even before work? More important to mental health?
(I sat thinking about that one for a while after making that note before my friend came, convinced that having perfectly clean teeth was this totally undiscovered path to perfect health and happiness. Then I sat thinking that maybe this is why people went into dentistry in the first place, having that insight themselves, and thinking they needed to be some sort of spiritual teeth gatekeepers. Then I had a cup of coffee and found my sanity again.)

SUNNY!

Need to defrag brain or nervous system? (Shit, apparently.)

Nerve endings in teeth and mouth: link to spinal nerves, brain? Changes feeling of temperature? Did not feel warm or cool - like sitting in bathwater where temp. is same as body temp. Limbo-zone between chakras? Why?

Do same things tomorrow: breathe deep, maybe pant, let go earlier, don’t worry (be happy!): find way to say thank you.
(I was SO hoping to be able to have the same sort of experience the next day when I went in for fillings, rather than just a cleaning, but alas, it was pretty obvious once I started the gas that I wasn’t inhaling anything close to the amount I was the day before. On top of that, idiot-me had decided that given how great gas could really be, I’d try and get filled without any novocaine. Not only did that immediately conjure up very vivid memories of having had that done nonelectively when I was little, it also hurt like a MOTHER. So, if I was even going to get a mini-buzz from the gas that second time, I pretty much killed that outright. Bummer.)

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Anyway, ummm…yeah. Some seriously profound stuff in there, as always with post-drug-induced notetaking. Some things never change, including how utterly silly they remain.

posted in Heather Corinna, my fine romance, subconscious life, apropos of nothing | permalink | comments (6) »