What I Learned This Week

1.  I learned 6 strategies and tactics that should help me on the market this year (through these folks) - and simultaneously learned that I've been wasting valuable time on my jobsearch.  Oh, and I finally learned what 'personal branding' meant.  (Do you have an interview bucket list?  Me neither!!  Do you have your communication strategy in place?  I don't!)

2.  I learned that I have a short fuse when it comes to gathering consensus.  It's so clear to me what an action plan should be and it pains me to have to wait until other, dithering folks come around.  In other words, I don't frakking care.  You want something done, or don't you?  Then *do* it.

A note:  if you are a non profit taking an advocacy position you are afraid your Board will not support, take the time to cultivate and engage them on the issue; not doing this leads to vague, unclear, ineffective communication,  your advocacy efforts die on the vine, and your Board becomes a hindrance rather than a help.  They individually may not be 'for' tax increases, but the services your agency delivers relies on increased state revenue - which comes from taxes and which impacts the folks you serve.  Effective issue advocacy can't happen unless you have a Board willing to 'get' it.

3.  I've also learned that we (i.e., the U.S., the 'West', France, the industrialized world) have royally, historically screwed over Haiti; the teeny bit of aid we're sending over there is a drop of relief in a vast ocean of FUBAR we (the U.S.) have left them to drown in.

For example:
However, due to the fact that France and its allies (including the United States) forced Haiti to make reparations to French slaveholders in 1852 in the amount of 90 million gold francs ($21 billion today), Haiti was forced to pay France for the next one hundred years for its independence and has subsequently become the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere. (here)

100 years to pay rich countries $21 billion.  What the HELL is that?!

4.  I've learned how important it is to be authentically You.  (This isn't about me, but about folks in general, and women of color in particular, so maybe this is about me. But it isn't really.  It really was prompted by something happening to someone else. Really.)

I thought being an academic was my authentic self; but my years with a coach and a therapist showed me how it never felt authentic to me at all and was a burden to me for a long time.  For years, thinking about being an academic, and then not being an academic, gave me panic attacks.  Authenticity isn't supposed to send you into panic.  Sure, am I a smarty pants?  Yes.  But this right now is my authentic self - a self that couldn't exist without that other one.

My 66-yr old father is finally discovering his 'authentic self' and it has nothing to do with being a pastor, father, grandfather or whatever other box we've put him in.  (His journey has made me closer to him and I can only hope my sister can make it through her journey of finding her authentic self - beyond 'Good Wife' or 'Dutiful Daughter.')

5.  It's also freaking hard to eat only 1400 calories a day - especially during a Chicago winter.  And having a boyfriend is great but hanging out with him watching old horror movies. LOST and Dr. Who is making my ass spread (hey! don't be dirty); add to that the stress of work and the few pounds I'd shed creep back.  Dude.  I need to get back on track.  Deciding how to spread 1400 calories over a full work day without feeling ravenous by the time I get home is fucking hard.

But I also have to be ok with myself.  Getting to the other side of 200 will be a long-term commitment.  I'm not going to get it right all the time but, eventually, I'll get there.

6.  Speaking of M-, I've learned that I've chosen my choice.  He's on my team now.  I'm learning what it takes to be One instead of Two.  And, yes, it's just as wrenching as I thought it would be.

Shit.  I'm going to be late.  M- is coming over for movies and whatnot.  Gotta go and pick up some beer.
(Damn! There go my 1400 calories.)

intimacy = epic fail

what a weird day: shoes thrown at Shrub, a good friend let go from my office, massive project about to descend on my shoulders and having weird, sudden, totally bizarre and *couple-like* thoughts about giving a christmas token (ok, gift, whatever) to LTF (Long Term Frolic) who would probably freak if he knew what i was thinking.

exchanging gifts is what couples do.*
LTF and i are not a couple. but i'd like to acknowledge the years (count 'em) we've known each other, show that i'm fond of him and to wish him a good holiday.

or is this guilt?**

what do you get someone who's been your lover for the past 7-8 years but who you've put in a tiny little box and never invited to meet your friends, family, spend a night at your place or read a single piece of your writing? (all 5 of my readers see more of my life than he does.)

a poinsettia? an ornament? an itunes gift card? a set of plushy bath towels***?
_____
* Not that i'd expect anything in return. geez, no.
** Which is what my old coach, Dr. C-, would ask me to explore. But I won't.
*** Or is that too girl-friendy, even though he really really needs them?

summer of love, take 3

it's been a while since i shared what's going in the game called my social life: nothing.

the bench is empty, the players on the field are about to get traded.

B3 (who lasted until right before italy) is about to find out that i really wasn't kidding when i warned him about my intimacy issues - if only he'd answer his email.

B- (!!!), referencing a hot and naughty message i sent him LAST YEAR, sent me a message right before i boarded the plane to italy asking how i was; when i returned, i told him that particular boat of dysfunction had sailed. i kept it friendly! (yes, i have processed this with Dr. C- . with the help of a few friends, i have resisted the siren call of do-over sex with a person who makes my homicidal rage peak.)

and that's about it. sure, there are possibilities (Dr. Cop; Old Irish; NatureDude) but, for all intents and purposes, Ding's dancing card is blank.

i'm fine with it. really.

actually, i'm not, but whatever.

just for snarky, horrifying fun: crap email from a dude - Jezebel via Siddity (on my blogroll, silly.)

my frakkin' luck

so i'm on my second date with B3 (we'll introduce him later); we've had a lovely dinner in bucktown, ingested way too much chocolate and now we're in a local joint in humboldt park listening to a honky tonk band. (i know. honky tonk. but they weren't bad!) when we were looking for parking i thought, 'hm. looks familiar. i remember that chain link fence. i believe there is probably where i lost my purse...' and, looking ahead, i saw the street name from that undiginified morning Walk of Shame.

'with my luck,' i thought, 'Frakkin' Trader will be inside.' but then i thought, no. the universe doesn't hate me that much.

so imagine my chagrin when Frakkin' Trader walks into my view, stops, turns, looks right at me, stares and circles our booth through the crowd. he's still looking at me and i'm still staring at him over the heads of very young hipsters, thinking, 'frakking universe hates me!' of course, i excuse myself to go to the restroom and send a frantic text to my Roomie, the gist of which was "WTF??"

about an hour later, when we leave, he's still at the bar and i avoid catching his gaze in the mirror behind the bar as we pass.

at home, Roomie said, 'come on, Ding. Bar A is four blocks away, Bar B is one, and his place is right in the middle! he's gonna drink somewhere! did you really think you wouldn't see him tonight? really?'
i said, 'well, i thought there was a chance but i was hoping i wouldn't!'

don't blame me for thinking the odds were in my favor; there at least 10 other people in this city with whom i've froliced (sp? that doesn't look right) and i have never run into them - anywhere - after the frolic has ended. (it was like the universe did me a favor and killed them for me.) why would i expect to run into the Frakkin' Trader now?

Roomie said, 'well, it's clear he's avoiding you like you're avoiding him but you're bound to run into him again. the 'hood is just too small.' indeed, it is. and if i keep going out with B3, and his haunts cross FT's, this neighborhood is going to seem as big as my living room.

anyway, the sorta good news is i've made it to date #3, the farthest i've gone in the hetero-normative ritual called 'dating.' Dr. C- would be happy i've made such progress.

on the couch

Dr. C-: so, it's been a while. tell me what's going on.
Me: well, i had a date. in february.

Dr. C-: exciting!
Me: it was fine. ok. whatever. it didn't lead to a second date and that's ok. but it made me weird for a couple of weeks. there wasn't any chemistry but, for some reason, i felt bad about that.
Dr. C-: well, that's to be expected. you haven't done this in a while. have there been other dates?
Me: i keep putting them off. i think i'm ready to go but then i just get all stressed out and then i put it off.
Dr. C-: talk about that.

Me: there's two guys. perfectly nice guys. they aren't the type i usually go for but that's ok. they're in the burbs, they're single dads, they have some college but they aren't grad school types. they ask me out, we're in the planning stages - logistics, you know? the plans are very low-key. movies or something. but then i find a reason to back out - oh, it's too far, my schedule is too busy, blah blah blah.

Dr. C-: what are you afraid of?
Me: well, i don't know that it's fear, it's anxiety. stress. i think about the travel, the dressing up, the effort of getting to know another person, and then i start thinking about if this person is going to fit into my life, my friends, my routine and i suspect that they aren't because i'm not that into them in the first place, and they're probably looking for a mother for their kids and i'm not that - i can't be that - and then i think that i'm going to start resenting them the way i began to resent B- and then i am relieved when the date plans don't work out and i think, 'whew! dodged a bullet on that one!'

(silence for a minute)

Dr. C-: that's a lot of thinking. before you even go on a date.
Me: i know. it happens instantaneously.
Dr. C-: you know, in our field, 'anxiety' is very often 'fear.'
Me: oh.
Dr. C-: so it's like you're expecting the same issues that you had with B-, you start feeling the anger, fear and stress that you felt when you were with him and you're basing your behavior with these new men on it.
Me: interesting.

Dr. C-: well, i think you need to go on more dates.
Me: jesus.

toward the end of our last session, Dr. C- said, 'in order to address what triggers your resistance to intimacy we need to see you in a relationship. so you need to start dating.'

gack.

she recommended i go back online since the normal places people date each other (work, social circle, church, extra curricular activities) are, for me, completely estrogen-filled. but this was her caveat: 'you must be honest about what it is you want and try to avoid men who just want to fool around. you said you wanted companionship, so look for qualities that would make for a good companion.'

i complained, 'that means i won't get laid until well into 2008!'
she sighed. 'ding, if all you want to do is get laid, go out and get laid. but you said you don't want to do that.'
'i know.'
'that's why we're pretending B- has moved.'
'i know. you're right. companion. ok.'

so where am i going to find this companion?
i can forget about nerve; the only folks on there are erectile dysfunctional one night stands. i've done that, already, thank you very much. match was horrific; eharmony sent me youth pastors from lombard and sad, divorced dads living on the illinois-wisconsin border. where can i go next?

chemistry. i think it's supposed to be eharmony-lite. no 29 dimensions, but still a really long personality test (i'm a Director/Negotiator, heavy on the Director bit) and incremental communication steps. the good thing is that they send you matches right away; none of eharmony's esteem-killing, months-long waiting to see a profile. but, again, my honest needs are resulting in suburban divorced dads. i don't know what it is going on. is my inner self suburban? is there a Willow Creek, twin set housewife inside me, just waiting to wander out?

i shudder to think.

anyway, i'll keep all 5 of my readers posted.
...
on the B- front, i've been fairly successful in pretending he lives in another state. at this time of year, i'd usually be planning how i could convince him to spend a long weekend with me in my neighborhood. (such planning would meet with staunch resistance and i'd spend christmas seething silently about why he won't cross town on a bus to see me.) this year, i'm completely uninterested. i mailed him one very impersonal christmas card and, yesterday, when he dared to bait me by saying 'maybe if you got in shape you wouldn't need therapy' and you could think clearly' i politely ignored his rudeness and just said back to him 'i guess we all get in shape in different ways. my therapist is helping me see things a LOT more clearly, thanks.'

yes, i could have called him an asshat, but what would that accomplish?

when will i learn? never ever eat vegan. never. not even non-vegan fare served from a vegan kitchen.

i went to therapy today (rough) and went to a local cafe to decompress and read for a bit (it gets really lonely in the loft during the day). atomix. they're nice. the space is nice. the coffee is ok, i guess. (sort of gritty and burnt tasting but, whatever, it's coffee.) twice i'd been grossly disappointed with their muffins, which could be used for doorstops; so this time i went for the non-vegan peanut butter cookie.

grossly disappointed again! it was as big as a saucer, a half inch thick, and hard as a rock. i needed two hands to break that fucker into adamantine pieces so i could dip it into my coffee and gnaw on it. no flavor and utterly unappetizing as either a cookie or anything resembling a sweet snack. dude. i made better peanut butter cookies when i was in grade school.

i want to support indie cafes, i do. but only if their food doesn't translate into 'inedible snackage only a person with dead taste buds could love.'
...
as for therapy, issues covered today included: dead mom (the rough part), dad, hating the church of my childhood, dating, and finally moving on from, uh, B-. (the exact words Dr. C- used were "In order for you to grow, we have to pretend that B- has moved.")

before the knife

i had a session with my therapist last friday.
how perfect, before entering the great beyond, to see that my current issues could all be set at the feet of my childhood church upbringing. it's good to get all this out in the open before potentially shuffling off this mortal coil.

Dr. C- asked me, 'why can't you make yourself vulnerable to your partners?'

i shrugged. 'well, i don't really see that they have their shit together; if they don't have their shit together, then how can they help me?'

she said, 'harsh.'

i said, 'true. but i didn't have any really good models of male competence when i was growing up.' i explained briefly about growing up in a very hierarchical environment. 'my dad's church was filled with men in positions of power who were so stupid, so incompetent i just felt...contemptuous of them. i thought that if i showed how extremely competent and talented i was, then their whole thinking about women's natural inferiority would be exposed as bogus. it made me hyper competitive against them. my thinking was - is - you don't make yourself vulnerable to an opponent.'

'interesting.' she wrote something down.

and so i told her the story of taking one of my dad's classes on hermeneutics when i was in college. i was the only woman and the rest of the students were seminary students or young ministers with churches already under their charge. halfway through the class, my father said the men in the class came to him and said my presence made them uncomfortable and could he tell me not to come to class anymore.

'how did that make you feel?'

'angry,' i said. 'they couldn't even tell me to my face; they had to go to my dad and have him deliver the message. fucking infuriated me.'

'and your father? how did you feel about his asking you to stop going to the class?'
'angry. i was his daughter. and he asked me to take a back seat to spare the feelings of men he knew were second rate.'
'he didn't defend you, take up for you.'
'no, he didn't.'

she wrote in her notebook again.

at the end of the session, Dr. C- gave me my instructions for the next session (after i am suitably mobile again.) apparently, it's all about examining messages i received about myself by the time i was 10, making myself open to accept help from friends (as practice) and inviting B- to thanksgiving dinner.

yeah. i might have to fail that assignment.
...
anyway, cross your fingers for me. i should be back home on the weekend and the next 5 weeks will be full of drug-addled reflections and new therapeutic revelations.

there may be some residual hostility...

Roomie and I stood at our kitchen counter going through our morning vitamin/pill ritual.

"So," I said. "I had this dream last night."
She turned around. "I had *crazy* dreams last night, too! But - you first."

"So I'm living in New York - "
"Just you?"
"Just me."
"And was this after the cocktail party?" Roomie makes fun of me and my dreams because, in them, I am always at a party. I cannot help that my subconscious makes me out to be Holly Golightly.

"Yes," I said. "And then Al Pacino stopped by to say hello." Yes, celebrities often made an appearance in my dreams. "Anyway, I'm living in New York. My sister and her family are coming out for a visit. They are bringing with them a Filipino surfer guy and his sister. Who are these people? I have no idea. But, apparently, I have a big enough apartment for all of them.

"Anyway, they arrive and the Filipino surfer dude says to me, 'Hey, I think I know someone who knows you and he's going to be here in New York for a thing and it would be great to see him, so is it ok if he stops by so we can play XBox?'"

Roomie interrupts. "I love how the guys in your dreams all talk like girls."
"They do, don't they?"
"They're so chatty."
"So I like my guys girly. Anyway, I say to Filipino surfer guy 'I can't think of who I know that you know but ok. Whatever.'

"The guy comes by, I open the door and GUESS who it is? It's B-! I'm like, 'What the fuck?!' He's all like, 'What the fuck?!' and all I can think of is how totally random my life is, how it's filled with these crazy, weird coincidences that make me nuts.

"My sister and her family go sightseeing and I'm left in the apartment with Filipino surfer guy and B-. B-, of course, is quiet. I'm just hanging out at the back of the apartment wondering how the hell this just happened. Then, suddenly, a masked intruder breaks into the apartment and KILLS B-! He shoots him in the head! I'm all 'What the hell? They killed B-!' Filipino surfer guy is totally traumatized and he's like, 'That was totally unneccessary and harsh!'

"My sister and her husband get back from sightseeing and are absolutely horrified. All they can say is how glad they were the kids weren't home to see this. Filipino surfer guy and I are sitting on the curb, smoking cigarettes while we watch the crime scene team do their thing and roll out B-'s body under a sheet. Heh."

Roomie said, "And you laugh. You are so twisted. I shudder at the thought of whatever psychotic break you'll have when you're tanked up on pain meds after your surgery."

I ignored her. "Anyway, Filipino surfer guy is really broken up about it and he's like, 'But you...you guys were a thing. How are you?' And I have to admit that there's shock that this crazy random crap keeps happening to me, but I'm not that broken up about it. And then it's like that skit at the Second City Show, where the guy tries to cry but can't? Yeah, I'm like that. I'm unh-unh, trying to cry and I got nothin'. And that's when I wake up."

Roomie just stared at me. I smiled.

Then she said, "This was my dream. I'm waiting to pick you you up at work. You come out and you have a dead body with you. What the fuck? You sort of roll it on the ground in front of Corner Bakery and you say, "You have to help me get rid of the body." And you're dressed in high heels and looking girly and I'm still, What the fuck? Who is he? You keep telling me he's just some guy from a meeting; all I can see is this shock of white hair. But you, of course, can't lift him into the trunk. And there are people all around! No one notices this! Some firemen come by and wanna know if you need assistance and you’re waving at them and saying ‘Hi!’ and just flirting with everyone, pissing me off, and so I just get grr! And lift the dead guy over my shoulder and dump him in the trunk. He flips over and GUESS who it is?”

I was agog. “Who? Bill Clinton?”
“It was B-!”

To say that I laughed my ass off would not convey just how hilarious I thought this was.

an expression of things desired

have i told all 8 of my readers that my coaching has officially turned into therapy?
(i'm going to assume there are more than 5 of you now, but i won't be as immodest to assume there are as many as 10.)

yes; Coach C- is now Dr. C- and she said, in no uncertain terms, that my intimacy issues needed immediate attention.

'really?' i said.
'Ding, how long has it been since you've spoken with B-?'

(let's stop here. i know i've been keeping my summertime dallying with B- a secret. but things weren't actually that bad and i was actually looking forward to maybe making things a bit more normal and - i just thought that if it turned into something, perhaps it wasn't a good idea to write about it all over the place. but, clearly, things didn't turn out the way i wanted so he's back on the blog.)

i replied, 'um...since labor day?'
'Ding! it's practically november! how are you going to make progress if you won't make the effort!'
'i was really busy! there were some personal things, moving, work, some medical issues...i had to re-prioritize!'
'normally, where does B- fall on your list of priorities?'

'on a list of 10 things, he is about a 6 right now,' i said. then i thought a bit more. 'actually, in all my years of knowing him, he hasn't really moved up past 3.'
'how long have you been with him?'
'on and off, 7 years.' i shrugged and threw up my hands.
'Ding! that's really bad!' she lost her grip on her professional demeanor a little and laughed.
'i know! that's why i'm here! how can i not do this anymore?'

she sighed. 'i think we have to get a little bit more...aggressive. if you're reading and crying over wedding announcements in the times and you're coming here, it's clear you are interested in having a partner, but your inability to foster intimacy is so entrenched, you will never get one. (ouch, i thought.) i think coaching is too passive. one month between appointments is too long. behavioral intervention is going to be necessary.'

'jesus. there's not just a list of things to do that will help me? you know...write some journals, make notes about my bad habits?'

she shook her head. 'we're past that.'

so...this is me in therapy. at least she said i wasn't depressed.

Patricia Miller and Alfred Zollar - New York Times

i wrote the letter to my high school self today.
(nothing like doing your homework at the last minute.)

it went something like this:
pluck your eyebrows; boys are dumb (just kidding); accept you're a dork; stop listening to dad.

see? all better.

bitch talks shame and i share too much

Bitch Ph.D. had a fascinating thread about shame last week.
what things are Other People telling us to be ashamed of?
folks wrote about their abortions, their class conflicts, their secret envies, their bad habits, secret dreams, their lack of ambition, their overweening ambition. it was like eavesdropping on confessions.

so here's mine, in all their tawdry, shallowness - (some) things i really feel/want yet am ashamed to feel/want on some level because i think that I Oughtn't.

i should be ashamed of...

1. wanting to be hot. like super, duper, jennifer lopez HOT. (what feminist wants to be hot? i do.)
2. not being nurturing enough toward...others. (okay, everyone.)
3. being totally indifferent toward the welfare of children - like, when people say 'think of the children' i really really don't give a shit. not in some hipster ironic way. i really don't give a shit about kids.
4. not wanting to get an affordable condo in the southside of chicago because i know i would hate every second of living down there (and not really wanting my broke down aunt to know where i live.)
5. having no debt but still not being able to pass a credit check for an apartment.
6. being hyper competitive at work and wanting to WIN all the time.
7. REALLY wanting to be hot. like, make men drop in their tracks hot. if i had a fairy godmother, i'd ask to make me hot.
8. having a cleaning lady i write instructions to in spanish.
9. obsessing over things like Real Simple, Domino, Blueprint and Lucky mags and trolling for cute clothes online. i should be ashamed i'm a capitalist piglet!
10. secretly thinking of ways to be a progressive terrorist. (really. my mind goes there. 'if it was my personal mission to rid the world of anti-choicers, racists and misogynists how would i do it? hmmm.' you think i'm kidding but i'm not.)

i should tell my life coach about this exercise.

so the coaching thing is in its third month. our last session was less than emotionally satisfying. in fact, if i had to put a word on it 'excruciating' would be exactly right.
revisiting the past is not good for me; not because there's Trauma, but because it's just...unproductive. who cares that i was a self-conscious dork in high school who hit the books hard rather than cultivate a spirit of openness and popularity? who cares that my emotional development seems to have hit the skids at about the same time that U2 played a concert on the roof of a building downtown?

(sidenote: my roommate and i have been avoiding more packing by watching season one of Dexter. more than once, she has whispered, 'if you turn out to be a serial killer, i will be really pissed off.' she has also taken to calling me Empty Vessel.

i'm not empty, i just react to things at a much lower frequency than other people...)

but my coach thinks it's something, so my homework assignment is to write a letter to my high school self. gack. just ... gack.

about not looking back to high school - there's nothing wrong with avoiding that period of one's life. unless you were at the top of the food chain, high school was fraught with fraughtness. every day was a social test: working in groups, lunch socializing, dances, school spirit days, presentations, performances. the only thing i liked doing was hanging out with my few friends, hanging out in the journalism room and listening to Monsy tell us about being a dyke in east la. (ok, and i liked to secretly compete with josh g. boys were either unrequited crushes or academic competition. they still are.) i liked going to class and being the dark horse that eventually skewed the curve; i liked being alone.

hm. no, i guess it's more accurate to say i accepted being alone.

anyway, my point is that i RESENT having to revisit a version of myself i've deliberately erased.

the road to intimacy

eesh. coaching/therapy (whatever) was really tough today. came close to tears more than once and would RATHER not be forced to think about the years between 1984-1989. there's a REASON i don't talk about it, lady! but now that's she's honed in on my weak spot, guess what we'll be talking about for a while?

aagh.

i know our past plays a part in how we become who we are but who knew that my past was quite so ... present. complete blowage.

so i'm doing some late night cleaning last night and i have the television on for some background noise. i had no idea that vh1 turns into weird skeevy-land on sunday nights. first i endure the final 15 minutes of Rock of Love while I scrub the counters (depressing AND distasteful); then came Scott Baio is 45...and Single.

wow. televised mid-life crisis. though it probably killed several brain cells in the process and made me one of the slack-jawed masses, i watched the whole episode because:
1) i was cleaning and there was nothing else on and
2) i felt intense curiosity about what he was going to hear from all the women from his past. (one word: ouch.)

i hesitate to make it a recorded event on the dvr, but that's ok. i'll watch it online.

send me in, coach!

so, uh, i've embarked once again on the road to self-discovery.
my first coaching session was last night and i already have homework:
list 5 emotional requirements i ask from relationships (hard!)
list 10 mistakes i've made in relationships and any lessons i've learned (i've actually already made this list)
...
there was a moment during my chatty blathering my need for a coach when she said, 'Ms. Ding, you know that coaching isn't therapy; we aren't here for therapy and the framework is different. but sometimes it's necessary to deal with things in a client's past that might help illuminate the present. well, i think we may have to do that in your case. are you ok with that?'

'uh, sure. like what patterns?'
'your intimacy issues.'
'they're like neon, aren't they?'
'mm, yes.'

life coach session coming up...the goal this week: defining my values.
that should be fun.

it took me a week to finish my 'homework.' either i'm as shallow as a cake pan or my subjectivity holds untold depth.