pretend_farmer's Open Salon Blog

The Demon Within

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 11:04:05 -0400

She lurks in the shadows of my psyche, impatiently waiting for the optimum moment to possess me fully, for that perfect storm of family stress on top of an aching head on top of sleep-deprived nights. She likes the last half of my menstrual cycle, when my estrogen level plummets and her co-conspirator progesterone raises its sad and ugly head. She likes it even more now because she has a mate. Her sister demon Perimenopause has joined her and together they turn me upside down and spin me around until I am scarier and way more terrifying than Linda Blair doing a 360 head spin and spewing split pea soup like a Rain Bird sprinkler.

So, yeah. I am a hormonally imbalanced soupy mess. In a way, I always have been; at least, since around age 13. Before that, I was a tidy-roomed, straight A student who performed as expected and was loved by adults far and wide as an example for all children. As puberty arrived, the aforementioned demon began plotting her possession, installing a Ouija board somewhere around my uterus and letting my hormones and the emotions that they affected move the pointer wherever they liked, whenever they desired.

Honestly, I’ve never been the same since. I’ve had periods of calm, my childbearing years being some of the most balanced; but I have never again been consistent or even-keeled or steady. And, the last few years? Well, I’ve been downright erratic.

Happiness and excitement over events, or a job, or even a hobby, tornado-ed into self-doubt, depression, and despair. I’d become my own worse enemy, sure that, if I wasn’t around to muck everything up, the workplace or the project or sometimes even the family would be better off without me. Finally (and recently), I decided enough was enough. Donning my invisible superhero costume, I grabbed my crucifix, holy water, silver bullets, and wooden stakes and went demon hunting (yes, I read a lot of horror, why?).

First off, I researched and read a lot; and, although curative suggestions are legion when surfing the tubes, the three main culprits in exacerbating feminine reproductive and hormonal issues are alcohol, sugar, and caffeine.

Just rip out my heart and hold it, still beating, before my sober, fatigue-ridden eyes.

Let’s start with the evil drink. Even before menopause, women are more vulnerable than men to many adverse consequences of alcohol use and, as we age, we become more so. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but alcohol actually aggravates and increases menopause symptoms. Personally, and even after I cut back on my once worshipped end-of-day glass(es) of wine, I noticed feeling less energetic, sadder, and more capitulating than I ever had. A personal event put the final kibosh on my drinking and, six weeks into my new-found sobriety, I feel better. I don’t feel the need to go to meetings (unless they’re about buying kitchen gadgets or lingerie) or collect coins (except for wheat pennies, I’ve always loved wheat pennies) and I did go through a brief period in which I couldn’t stop eating candy (peanut butter M&Ms are the demon’s tool). But I think I’ve adjusted. Your mileage may vary.

Sugar. Hmmmm… I’m working on that one.

Seriously, can’t I have one decent vice? I was a sugar addict waaaaay before my lips touched Carry Nation’s nemesis. Bubble Yum, Good n Plentys, Caramel Creams. And then there’s ice cream, lots and lots of ice cream.

You know, when I quit drinking I thought I’d lose weight. I’m about 20 pounds heavier than I should be and 30 from that magical number when I remember actually thinking I looked good. But I’ve been supplementing my lost alcohol calories with sugar ones. Last week, I decided enough was enough and cut my sugar intake to a normal person’s level. Yesterday, I had a half a box of Raisinets. Today, I haven’t had a grain and I am still, believe it or not, able to function. I am a work in progress. Which leads me to…

…Caffeine. I’ll give up my morning coffee when they pry it from my cold dead (yet fully awake) hands. But I’m not having any besides that.

Except I had a diet coke with lunch. Shit. WIP. Be the ball.

So what have I learned? Honestly, not a lot that I didn’t already know or suspect. What has changed is that I am heeding the research or at least trying to. I have given up alcohol; I’m trying to cut back on sugar and caffeine. I am eating right and exercising (remember the endorphins; and the Alamo). And although my body is trying to hang on to these twenty extra pounds like a well-worn blanket (it’s so soft and comfy and even lumpy and bumpy), I am trying to rid myself of those as well. Only I can expel my inner demons.

I tried yelling “the power of Christ compels you” into the mirror; it didn’t work.

Flaming Thunderbolts and Other Dangly Bits

Wed, 4 Apr 2012 16:04:26 -0400

In the beginning, there was chaos. Chaos was darkness, the waters of the abyss. The first god, Amun, arose from the waters using nothing but his own strength to give form to his body. Amun existed alone. All was his. Yesterday and tomorrow were his. Alone, he took his penis in his hand. He made love to his fist. He made his exquisite joy with his fingers. And from the flame of the fiery blast which he kindled with his hand, the universe was formed.

I set out to write an essay on women’s roles in ancient fertility rites. After all, the male of our species and his dangly bits have been lauded and attended throughout history: from the Egyptian first god, Amun, the above-mentioned fist-lover; to Priapus, the eternally erect son of Aphrodite (shown left weighing his penis against grain); to the Hindu god Shiva, whose penis, or lingam, was so hot it caught fire, fire only contained when a vagina, or loni, appeared.

As far as excuses go, this one takes the cake. Yes, we know hormones can make our wild testosterone-crazed men do stupid things but, “I had to put it in because my dong was on fire” doesn’t cut it. A Shiva worshipper, I shall never be.

After lots of reading, I discovered one unifying attribute: Men, whether they are gods or mere mortals, think their penises are all that. Some, but not all, women agree. I decided to, er, explore the issue (my husband is out of town).

Back to Shiva. He was the god of destruction and change. Because of control issues (his goddess wife was destroying more than he was), he turned himself into a corpse to fool and stop her. Thinking him dead, however, his wife, the goddess Kali, squatted over his body, ripped out and ate his organs, and then mounted his still erect lingam to complete the cycle of creation.

Which kind of supports man’s my-penis-is-awesome theory. The rest of him? Not so much. As evidence, this statue representing the old dick (along with handy fire extinguisher).

Today, Egypt is primarily an Islam nation and I am NOT going there, thank you very much. Yet around 2000 BC, the Egyptian god of fertility, Min (apparently he didn’t need to over-compensate name-wise) was the principal deity of the Egyptian empire. Artwork and statuary feature Min holding his penis in one hand and a threshing flail in the other. (He was apparently into Dominant/submissive relationships; see “50 Shades of Grey”, “The Story of O”.)

During the coronation ceremony of every new pharaoh, Min supervised from on-high as the ascending pharaoh proved that he could ejaculate ... In front of people. Centuries before Playboy, Min was there to make sure everything worked as designed (and possibly to ensure no new universes were created from the fiery blast of hand to fist love). I’m not sure what happened to Min; however, his temple is somewhere beneath the modern city of Akhmim. It contains his statue, all reported 55 feet of it.

Just think about that schwanzstucker, Ladies.

If we journey farther east, we come to Japan. We enter Japan. We’re in Japan. (I've been reading and writing about this too long; every phrase has sexual connotations.) Bridget Jones’ mother declared the Japanese a “cruel race,” but I like to think of them as passionate grudge holders forced to exude calm facades. Which leads to the first of two tales of Japanese phallic worship:

450 years ago, two rival politicians’ race turned ugly (this seems redundant). Their feud escalated to death threats against one another as well as against their sons, forcing them to hide their offspring. One of the men, Mr. Oji, decided further camouflage was necessary and disguised his son as a girl. By the time the other man, Mr. Sue, found the girl-who-was-really-a-boy, he had worked himself into such a frenzy that he killed the poor child by cutting off his head and then, for good measure, his penis. When the news got out, the local villagers decided to craft wood and stone phalli as replacements.

But not crania. Which leads me to assume Japanese men, at the least, let their little heads do the thinking for their big ones.

Those locals had so much fun making penises that, to this day, they still are doing it. They make a big shrine to the Almighty Cock, fill it with penises, and then, entrepreneurial as can be, make and sell replicas so that people from around the world will visit Japanese Cock Country Jamboree.

But wait, there’s more…

In yet another area of Japan, they have Penis Parades! And they don’t even remember why! The Hounen Fertility Festival gets arousing at 10 am when the sake comes out, and then again at 2 pm when Shinto priests bless the crowd before shouldering a 9 foot, 620 pound schlong. Then, they pray for a fertile year (and a merciful hangover).

It’s like Carnival! With penises! Tastes great, less filling!

Finally, we come to Bhutan. The land of Buddhist monks where at least one man was very, very horny and quite the ladies' man. Yes, Drukpa Kunley promised women that the way to Nirvana was through relationships with his penis, which he nicknamed “The Flaming Thunderbolt.”

Really? Most guys use a simple monosyllabic name like Fred or Chuck. This guy must have had one serious, um, ego. AND he had women pay him for his services in beer! Richard Gere has nothing on Drukpa Kunley.

Somehow, I suspect through sheer balls, Drukpa became part of Buddhist mythology, supposedly defeating evil demonesses by beating them in the face and gagging them, both with his Flaming Thunderbolt. His image, yes THAT image, can be found painted upon homes and buildings for good luck and to ward off evil.

See?

So what have I learned? That, on the surface, men do believe their penises are all that. They start worlds with them, fight enemies with them, and, occasionally, satisfy women with them (if they have skills or possess Flaming Thunderbolts). The Japanese fill woods with carvings of them and the Bhutanese paint them on their houses. Anthony Weiner and Brett Favre tweet pictures of them. Yet for whom? Sorry, gentlemen, but most women need the woo with the woohoo. Your penis does not define you.

Guys, we love you all despite and sometimes because of your flaws and insecurities. Your penises are indeed important, at least for that whole continuance of the human race thing; our vaginas are as well. Yet, you don’t see yonic images everywhere (unless you’re at a Georgia O’Keefe exhibit). We love your big heads and your big hearts - why not show them off now and then? Mine does and I love him all the more for it.

Fifty Shades of Fantasy Porn

Fri, 23 Mar 2012 18:03:54 -0400

First, my confession: I read a lot of smut. This five-year-old proclivity could be a symptom of mid-life crisis, a needed fantasy to replace what my life lacks, or a newly found disregard over what a lady such as I am supposed to read. Only The Shadow knows. But, since the arrival of the Kindle and, with it, the absence of scantily clad pulchritudinous lovers on romance novel covers, I read more than my share of pulsing loin bodice rippers.

Which brings me to “Fifty Shades of Grey” by EL James. I read about it in the New York Times of all things. Apparently, the gray lady likes smut, too. Or readers. Or advertising dollars; definitely advertising dollars. It’s the story of Christian Grey, a damaged, controlling, and handsome billionaire and Anastasia Steele, an intelligent and sexually inexperienced graduate. The usual clichés run rampant, she talks back to him and stands up for herself in his presence while most people, especially women, bow to him (sometimes literally). She cares not for his wealth and he wants to buy her things. He needs to run the world but finds himself unable to run Anastasia. Oh, and did I mention the gratuitous S&M, complete with a toy-filled fantasy playroom, a NDA, and a multi-page dominant/submissive contract? One must set their hard limits after all. No caning, no anal fisting. Way to limit the “kinky fuckery”, Anastasia.

It’s early “Funny Girl” meets “9 ½ weeks” meets “Twilight” meets “Tess of the D-Ubervilles”. And, yes, courtesy of Mr. Amazon and the magic of instant bank charges/electronic downloads, I read the entire trilogy. I enjoyed the first book. In contrast to most smut, the writing, though no means Pulitzer-worthy, was not dumbed down to a 3^rd grade reading level. The author threw in some erudition in the form of art and cultural references. The plot was predictable but enjoyable; the suspense was lame but necessary. The second and third books, however, were not worthy of the first. The novelty of nipple clamps and floggers had worn off like old bruises and the situations became as trite as the first half of this sentence. I found myself slogging through to the rosy end and rolling my eyes enough to deserve Christian’s punishment and then some.

For its genre, “Fifty Shades of Grey” is a step-up from the formulaic. It is escapism with kink and heart designed to make you forget, if only for a few hours, that you’ve had routine sex in front of television and that your passion has taken a back seat to bill-paying and childcare. So read it.

By the way, Amazon also sells sex toys, including floggers. You’re welcome.

The Walking Dead, or Lauren's Non-excellent Adventure

Thu, 8 Mar 2012 17:03:12 -0500

Let’s start with the “No”s:

No hoodies or drawstrings (because both are handy self-hanging equipment).
No multiple tampons (one at a time, please; theoretically, one could string them together for the most embarrassing self-hanging material ever).
No personal toiletries (we’ll give you all you need although we are out of lotion and the shampoo will make your scalp itch uncontrollably).
No backless shoes (we wouldn’t want you to fall over from all the calming conforming meds we plan to give you; no shoestrings either, best stick with the thin cheap puce slipper socks we provide).
No pencils longer than 3” (yes, we’re talking discarded golf scoring graphite).
No electronic devices (this includes your Kindle, home of hundreds of books and puzzles and a battery life of several weeks).
No toilet seats, no fresh fruit, no great outdoors (with the exception of the smoking patio).
No, no, no.

I was there because of my own stupidity, two days in ICU and a mandated 72 hours in the psych ward. I’m out now. I’d like to say I regret what I did, and I do, but my experience crammed a few years of learning in a few short days and, for that, I am thankful.

It takes about 90 minutes to check into the psych ward: vitals checked, meds inspected, clothing gone through for the aforementioned forbidden items, toiletries and Kindle stored in the Contraband Room.

I’ve never knowingly carried contraband before. I feel empowered.

Orientation takes another half hour though could be pared down to ten minutes tops. “Here’s our common area, here’s the kitchen, here’s your room. This bed is yours as is this lower cabinet space. Bring your bag to the Contraband Room once you unpack.” (Straps and handles.) Pointing to lump on the occupied bed in the room, “This is your roommate, Liz.”

Liz sleeps a lot (meds). She also, as I was soon to discover, snores a very high-pitched snore that is so unlike the just-realized melodious sound that emanates from my husband. Not that I would have slept well there, strange place downtown, sirens and trains wailing throughout the night, and Nurse Ratchett checking our room with a flashlight every hour on the hour, but still.

I’m afraid. I look around for something or someone of interest but find neither. Fronted by 20 vinyl armchairs, the television is the starring attraction in the room. A secret pact demands that nothing but stressful, manufactured drama will ever be shown on the screen. The bookshelves hold two paperbacks, one western pulp suspense/romance and “To Kill a Mockingbird” which I grab. Year-old gossip rags litter the table tops and the work table contains stacks of picture coloring sheets and long colored pencils.

After the inspection and orientation I just received, I realize the inherent danger these pencils foreshadow. In a rage I could stab at least a few inmates with them. Or, more likely, the inmates could hurt me.

The inmates are the real story here. A4, where I am placed, houses a maximum 24 people, all in the same age bracket, some of whom have lived here for months. They’ve all lived here long enough to get the med and lifestyle-induced shuffle. Clonopin, Ambien, Xanax, et al have been dosed with so much frequency that the twice daily med times are the highlight of the day and can’t come soon enough for many.

The oldest by appearance inmate (he could be younger than I, hard lives make old faces) shuffles in a wheel chair I doubt he needs. Just by looking at him, I can tell he can’t find it within himself to stand, much less walk. After all, he only has so many square feet he needs to traverse each day, bed to kitchen to med line to tv to kitchen to med line to bed. He’s eating and breathing and sleeping but he is not alive. If this was a horror movie, and I’m not sure it isn’t, he’d have a hankering for brains.

Second to med time is smoke break. On the psych ward, killing ourselves slowly is allowed.

“Smoke time? Is it smoke time? How much longer to smoke time?”

The announcement made, an attendant grabs a crate of cigarettes from the Contraband Room, places them on a chair, and everyone but I grab one smoke and walk the five feet to the smoking patio. The smoking patio is only a patio because little lines of sunlight and air sneak through the steel plates that surround it. I decide they might as well all smoke in the ward for the gagging secondhand smoke that travels right back indoors. I get a headache that stays with me until hours after I leave.

I’d like to say that the third favorite time is mealtime. After all, at my home, it is an anticipated happy event but not at the psych ward. My first introduction to the “food” here is evening snack time. I see a few inmates shuffle into the kitchen and back out again.

“What’s snack?” “Snowballs, milk, I dunno.”

Curious, I take a look and indeed the table is covered with generic shrink-wrapped pink coconut fake food stuffs. If there was milk, it’s gone now. Even though I haven’t eaten since late morning, I go hungry. I decide I’m on the Psych Ward Food Sucks Diet. Breakfast isn’t much better. The menu says eggs and bacon with Cream of Wheat but I’m having a hard time identifying what is what on my plate. I drink the orange juice and discard the rest.

This diet is awesome!

By now, my headache is much worse due to low blood sugar and my surroundings. Hard-life wheelchair man has been sharpening the colored pencils for 90 minutes. Super Sad lady has been shuffling and sobbing since dawn without interruption and off-his-meds new arrival has been doing push ups and arguing with the wall since last night. I cannot escape to my room as Liz is sleeping (I’ve seen her awake for maybe 45 minutes) and I can’t think over her soprano fog horn. Just when I’m about to cry uncle and ask for my own calming conforming meds, a nurse tells me that Dr Zahar will see me now.

This jerks the sobbing girl from her despair, “Oh, you’ll like him. He’s cute. I always tell him so.”

Dr Zahar was indeed attractive but I spared him that observation. For the nth time since Wednesday morning, I regurgitate what I did, why I did it, how stupid I was to do it, why I am not going to do it again, etc, etc, etc. He seems surprised by my clarity. I half expect him to declare that I’m a real girl and a sane one at that. He looks over the medication prescribed to me and stutters as he exclaims that he would never EVER pair the two meds that the same doctor gave me.

“This could have contributed to your condition, you know.”

At this point, we’re old pals. I share my psych ward observations with him; he volleys with what he has seen at the state hospital. I tell him that I feel as if I don’t belong here and add the bon mot that the following day is my birthday. He then asks me if I’d like to go home. And I do.

If most psych wards are like this, our mentally ill have no hope of recovery and will, like hard-life wheelchair guy, resign themselves to a life of shuffling and meds and no more accomplishment than the pretty cardinal he colored that morning. He never went outside the lines.

"The Pastry Queen", Royally Untested for Home Kitchens

Sun, 30 Jan 2011 17:01:07 -0500

Okay, that is a premature judgment, one that may hold water in the long run or not. To date, however, I have tried two recipes from "The Pastry Queen, royally good recipes from the Texas Hill Country's Rather Sweet Bakery & Cafe". Each produced far more than what the yield predicted and each produced mixed results.

You may recall that in the past week, my kitchen has hosted Muffinpalooza and, by request of the Pint-Sized Farmer and because I was bored with blueberry and strawberry, I searched online for a good orange muffin recipe. The one that sounded the best to me referenced this cookbook as its source. "Essence of Orange Muffins" contain fresh-squeezed orange juice, grated orange zest, and all things real (I have a personal rule against using recipes that call for Crisco or margarine or, though it does not apply here, canned cream soups). The predicted yield? 8 Texas-sized muffins, which I translated, incorrectly, as one dozen regular-sized muffins.

Yes, I should have known better when the recipe called for 3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour and a full cup of butter. My go-to blueberry muffin recipe calls for a scant 1 1/2 cups of flour and 6 Tbsp butter. But this was the seventh time I had made muffins in as many days. I, the Muffin Maker, was punchy and soldiered on without judgment until I realized I had enough for more than two dozen muffins. Since I have teenage boys in the house, this wasn't an issue of who's going to eat all these muffins, and they received glowing reviews; but, I am against prevaricating recipes. I'm the Congressman Joe Wilson of The State of the Kitchen Address.

Nevertheless, I ordered the cookbook. Last October, during a visit to Dallas and Austin, my friend Julie and I skirted Texas Hill Country and I wanted more. Creating desserts from a diner located in the German-immigrant-founded Fredericksburg gave me romantic visions of walking from a rustic kitchen onto a weathered front porch after spending the day hard at work baking for the ranch hands. As the screen door slammed, I would wipe my hands on my flour sack apron and, with the back of my hand, brush the mussed hair from my careworn forehead. Across the prairie, I would spy my burly man, quickening his pace as he saw me until he vaulted the porch steps and wrapped his sinewy arms around me.

Um, wait, where was I?

Oh yeah, fried pies. Today, on the Second Bake One's Frustrations Away Sunday, I planned on making fried pies, "Fourth of July Fried Pies" to be specific, only constructed on January 30th. For years now, I have been using Martha Stewart's pate brisee recipe for my pie crusts. Fail-proof and food-processor-friendly, it takes me all of ten minutes to make and roll. But, because I am a glutton for punishment, I followed Rebecca Rather's recipe instead and I'm sorry I did. Too voluminous to prepare in the food processor, calling for six, SIX cups of flour, I struggled to work in the butter, incorporate the ice water, and roll out the dough. Stiff and dry, it was difficult to roll to the called-for 1/16th inch thickness. After much huffing and puffing, and just when my triceps were about to retreat in disgust at their futile mission, I stopped at 12 6-inch circles with over half the pie dough unrolled. The recipe called for 12 5-inch pies in total.

The results were good though not trailblazing. I filled each uncooked pastry circle with a heaping tablespoon of either a blueberry, boysenberry syrup mixture or a chopped strawberry, strawberry preserve mixture. After folding the circles turnover-style, I sealed them and crimped the edges with a fork. At this point, my energy reserves were near empty and my arms flat-out refused to lift the fryer from its cupboard. Rationalizing that baking was healthier anyway, I followed the alternate instructions, painted an egg wash on the pies, and baked them at 375 for 20 minutes instead of the called-for 12.

Will I make the pies again? Yes, but I won't use this Rather Untested in a Home recipe.

Don't expect another lick of accomplishment from this exhausted home cook today. My sinewy-armed man awaits and I need to reserve the little bit of energy I have left.