Ashley Madison, Have You No Shame?

Actually, we all have SUITCASES of shame, and that's the problem. We usually bring all of it to our relationships, and then create more with each new love. Which is likely the reason that---at some point---there will be conflict.

Ashley Madison is simply the fall-out from a Western society based on bigger-better-faster-stronger, perfectionism, shame-based judgments, fears of mortality, and a general refusal to accept when our demands are not immediately met. So your wife or husband isn't fulfilling you sexually? Or say they're just generally being a pain in the ass? Who needs to WASTE TIME working on that relationship!? Who knows--it could take weeks, months, YEARS to heal that relationship! Who has that kind of time to spend mending the "love of our life"? Pshaw, I say!!

INSTEAD...why don't you just FIX your intimacy problem, get your sexual and emotional needs INSTANTLY met with some STRANGE ASS!!? It's exciting, it's taboo, and best of all: it's OUR SECRET!!! Your partner will NEVER find out, and hey--what they don't know can't hurt them, right?! Okay, so maybe they eventually find out; Say they discover some weird number on the cell phone bill, or you forget to erase the history cache of your computer, or perhaps they start to wonder why you've been going out with "your friends" increasingly more often these days.

Ok, so maybe they DO find out. Here's the thing: Ashley Madison HELPS your relationship!! That's right! By meeting your sexual "exploration" needs, you'll be HAPPIER at home! You'll have more ENERGY for your partner, and you'll be more emotionally available to meet your partners needs now that YOUR NEEDS are being fulfilled! (Granted, by someone outside your relationship...but technicalities, schmechnicalities! You're GETTING LAID!!!)

All right, so cheap shots at the "dating" service aside, does ANYONE actually believe that being granted "permission" to cheat on your spouse is going to, in fact, improve your relationship with them? Because that's the premise that the founder of A.M. based his service on. I happened to catch him on the Tyra Show a few months ago, and he insisted that "people are going to cheat anyway," so why not give them a "safe" place to score their tail? Riiiight, so let me get this straight: Since people are going to cheat on their taxes anyway, maybe I should create a service that allows to you withhold money from the IRS, safely, without anyone finding out...and that will be totally kosher with all parties involved? Cool beans.

I'm sickened and saddened that this is a for-real service; and to make matters worse, this dude is married. WITH KIDS. Two little girls, in fact. And the grossy-grossest part? The Ashley Madison site is named after the "two most popular little girl's names of 2001" (the year the site was founded.)

America, we have met an all-time morality low. Congratulations.


TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Make the effort to work on your romantic, monogamous relationship, and it can and will be fulfilling. If you don't want that kind of responsibility, MORE POWER TO YA! Stay single! Live it up! BUT, if you've chosen to get married or partner-up, you have to put in the work to stay fulfilled!

So it doesn't take much effort to chat up some hottie on IM; think about the effort and time it will take when you get divorced, are in custody disputes, or look someone in the eyes that you've been cheating on. You've made promises (maybe even vows) to your partner. Respect them. Better yet, respect yourself in the morning, and always. As my awesome father-in-law says, "Peace of mind is better than a piece of ass."

Brilliant.

To Be Me or Not To Be Me, That is the Question.

There comes a time, during the course of any day in my life, when thoughts of doubt and worry creep into my mind--even if only for a few moments. Though there are variations on a theme, the main idea is clear: "What if people don't accept me as I am? "What if I'm too edgy, weird, sensitive, insensitive, nice, bitchy, or otherwise ____________ to be a psychologist?" "What if the experiences I've had in my life--especially the juicy ones, the addictions, the creative ones, the passionate ones--what if someone, somewhere doesn't approve, or thinks it ruins my character?" "Where would I be if I wasn't accepted as being 100% wholesome, altruistic, appropriate, and normal?"

Well, I'd be a damn boring person, first of all. Secondly, I'd be crawling out of my skin. If nothing else, it saddens me that when many people have those doubts they make the decision to stifle their real selves in order to please others, to keep up appearances, and to make sure that no one objects to their essential worth as a human.

Being the daughter of a perfectionistic woman who could never be pleased, I've known the madness that is caused by taking for granted the people who accept you, while obsessively focusing on the ones who won't (or can't). Boyfriends, teachers, enemies, authority figures, peers, parents...if someone smiled at me, I'd smile back and forget about it. If someone sneered, frowned, or looked at me sideways, it was as if my head was going to explode if I couldn't get them to like me. I'd find ways to ingratiate myself: compliment them, study them to find out what they liked and how I could capitalize on that. One boyfriend I had (who was holding out on telling me that elusive "L" word) mentioned casually he was really into "redheads." Being a natural brunette, I felt the odds for Love stacked against my dark tresses, and decided to dye. Although the short-term benefits were intoxicating--seeing the gleam in his eye when I walked into view, hearing the compliments about how cute I looked--the long term issues ran much deeper. I was turning myself into what I thought others wanted. If I didn't morph precisely right, I believed, I would be rejected and alone forever.

And so, this brings me to the present. Roxy Shocks is a walking, talking symbol of everything a people-pleaser isn't. She doesn't give a rat's ass if you don't like her, and she'll actually work to make sure she scares the hell out of you, and then she'll give you a gleeful kiss on the cheek as if to say "Now, wasn't that fun?" If there was an opposite to my personality, I created it in her. She is my Shadow. The pride, satisfaction, and relief I've found performing as this alter-ego is immeasurable. But, what happens now? I want to infuse that Shadow persona into my clinical work, but what would the collective "other" think? Would they understand the psychological underpinnings of my need for her (or, at least, my need to create her at the time in my life that I did)? Or would they see an unstable, masochistic, sadistic, hedonistic exhibitionist with a blood fetish? Much as I like to think I've gotten to a space where the opinion of others isn't as important...you know the rest.

How do I synthesize the two worlds, and cope successfully with the fallout that might happen when others start slinging mud at my little bubble of creative catharsis? Or am I just replaying the past, making myself usher new wrinkles in with worries about hypothetical people who might make hypothetical judgments? I'm a freak about hypotheses.

I'm just sick of judgments instead of acceptance as a base for creating change. Where are the examples of an accessible therapist or clinician in the media, who isn't a pious-punishing-and-prudent Dr. Laura, or a no-excuses-straight-talkin'-down-home Dr. Phil? Where is the therapist/doctor who "gets" that we all have a history, we all have our Shadows, and we all deserve the chance to keep learning from them...to work on ourselves with the knowledge that none of us are "better" than anyone else because we didn't make certain mistakes, that to grow healthier is to acknowledge the good and the bad, to make better choices next time, and to extend the same open-mind to the paths of others. Maybe that's just not dramatic enough. I guess "Stop shacking up," and "Get real," confrontations are what America wants; punishing their darkness, idealizing their light, and refusing to condone anyone who veers from that norm. Where, oh where would we be without our negative judgments of others and ourselves?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying we should accept sociopaths with open arms, or have affairs, or hurt anyone including ourselves if we can avoid it; I'm talking about the Dark and Light life that most of us Americans lead and how we can learn to be curious and accepting about it. What are we refusing to look at? Our lies, our denials, our gossiping, our vendettas, our addictions, our inconsiderations, our regrets, our unrequited loves, our desperations, all the things we wanted to do but didn't, and all the things we wish we hadn't done, but did.

If you know anything about Roxy Shocks, or me in general, and you're turned off by me, my burlesque, my stance on psychology, my personality, this blog...that's the way it is. But, I challenge you to look at yourself: what in your life is touched by those aspects of me (or others you've known) that you don't like? Do I trigger your fears of being crazy? Your inability to see yourself as dark, or imperfect? Or maybe I push a button that reads "dork," and you can't tolerate the dorky, geeky, quasi-comedic part of this writing that most of my blog is based on. I'm not taking things seriously enough, or I'm taking myself too seriously. Whatever you don't like, it's all good, but just humor me and take a second look at your reactions.

And if you like this blog, thank you. Maybe I resonate with certain parts of your personality, your experiences, or people in your life. Or maybe I don't...but most likely I do. And I can and will analyze everyone, including myself, until the cows make it on home. But above all, thank you for joining me here. This is the beginning of what I hope will be a lifelong Shadow dance Roxy and I are choreographing. If there's anything I plan to achieve in this life, it's this: becoming the best version of me, and helping others to do the same.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Rattle off two lists of what you love and hate about other people in your life, and in general. If you have time, take a look at both lists with the knowledge (or theory) that everyone has a Shadow (according to Carl Jung). What does your Shadow hold? What are the things/aspects/traits you just can't stand, what are the aspects you love, and could it be true that those are the same aspects you can't tolerate--or that you secretly appreciate--in yourself?

My Baby Broke My Sex Life!

I adore my daughter Lucy like no one's beeswax. She literally brightens my day, makes me smile constantly, and has created new meaning in my life that I didn't even know could exist. She's a delight; A hilarious, curious, silly, adorable bundle of poop, farts, hunger, crying, and cuddles. And she's all mine. Well, all ours.

The bad part: I've let her completely kill my intimacy with Glenn. For those of you reading this who in anyway are related to either of us, I'd say tune-out now. There's going to be some references to our sex life here that could scar you in unpredictable ways. You've been warned.

Ok, so it all started yesterday. I was pumping gas at Chevron on the way home from work, when this creepy taxi driver pulls up, tells me I'm beautiful in broken English, and proceeds to mimic me getting into his cab. All the while he's raising his eyebrows in a "Yes? You, me, sexytime? Yes?" way. I smiled in that "Nice try, sleazeball" way, and pointed to my wedding ring. He shrugged his shoulders, got out of the taxi, and walked into the Chevron mini mart, staring back at me the whole time, in some strange effort to change my mind with his seedy grimace.

Aside from being oddly flattered and nauseated simultaneously, I immediately was grateful for Glenn. I knew I was lucky to have a kind, generous, hilarious, intelligent, and hot husband who loved me like no other. I texted him my intentions, and got home anticipating excitement that's too delectable to publish here.

I walk in the front door, and who's beaming at me through sweet potato clumps stuck to her mouth: Miss Lucy. Then, Sammy the spaniel jumps up and knocks any remaining libido out of my system, licking me with a tongue bearing breath foul enough to kill communities of small rodents.

Glenn looks up at me with a defeated sigh, and I realize: It's Not Going To Happen. Lucy ended up awake and extremely alert for the next several hours, finally going to sleep around 8pm. By the time I sang her "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," and it's brethren "Baa Baa, Black Sheep," I was so beyond sexytime, it was pathetic.

Glenn saunters into the bedroom around 11pm, after finishing up a long evening of editing in his office. I can see the silhouette of his body along the shadows cast on the wall, and I have a moment of craving for the strength and security of his arms around me. Just then, as tiny tickles of passion start to come out of hibernation, Lucy squirms and farts, as if to say, "Ha ha, suckas! Not so fast!"

She, in fact, needed both a bottle and a changing, which left both of us semi-willing to try and keep our appetites whetted for a second chance after she fell asleep again. And yet, this too was not to be.

Mid-diaper change, Lucy suddenly looks up at me, her eyes bulging wide. Apparently she's decided it's time to play. Her giggles, wiggles and squeals indicate a readiness for her "bouncy" chair and an episode or two of "Yo Gabba Gabba" on Nick, Jr.


Awesome.


Yes, that's been the sad state of sexual affairs we've lived lately. To be honest, we haven't had a "normal" sex life for well over a year, since I found out I was pregnant mid-August 2008. To say it's frustrating is an understatement; Glenn has been trying to initiate moments of intimacy wherever he can get 'em: kisses, touches, squeezes, cuddles, and more. Usually I'm open to them, but with a screaming and stinky baby, attempts at reciprocation are usually blocked by feelings of exhaustion and irritation. And sometimes I'm just too far gone in "baby zone" to go there; Singing nursery rhymes, getting mushed carrots on my face, and creating weird, silly voices to entertain Lucy makes the transition into seductress often difficult.

I know this is the plight of married or coupled folks across the nation, nay, the world. We're not alone in our baby cock-blocks. And where does my fertile-with-neuroses mind wander, but to jealousy and fear, of course. Glenn's going to have an affair! Glenn's going to get attracted to every cute girl he sees! Glenn's getting bored with me and wants a threesome! The list goes on in my head, much to Glenn's dismay.

So, I've promised to make more of an effort to "let go" of the Lucy duty state-of-mind, and giving the same loving attention to our intimacy. Glenn's promised to be more understanding as to why I'm not able to instantly transform from mommy into temptress. Lucy has yet to compromise anything, and we're not getting our hopes up. But when she turns 18, we're getting our sex life back, dammit.


TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Practice some "Radical Acceptance" and resign yourself to singing with me today! To the tune of "If You're Happy and You Know It." Everybody, now: If you're married with a baby, shout Hooray (Hoo-ray!), If you're married with a baby, shout Hooray (Hoo-Ray!), If you're cock blocked then you know it, and your sex life surely shows it, if you're married with a baby, shout Hooray (Hoo-Ray!)

Break Up to Break Down

"Ex-girlfriends." Few other words strike as much grief, fear, anger, pain, and drama into the hearts of men. And yet, perhaps no one has suffered more due to these two little words than the poorest of all creatures: current girlfriends.

There's a simple answer, really. Competition. Anyone who thinks the woman who used to be intimate with your man (or woman for my lovely lesbian sisters out there) isn't even remotely a threat has what I believe to be super-human confidence. In other words, you're probably a robot.

I've struggled for years with Ex-Girlfriend Syndrome. A relationship would start off great, getting to know the new beau, sharing stories about our pasts, discovering all the quirky things about each other that we have in common--things we thought no one except ourselves did. Then I'd progress to casually leaving my toothbrush at his house, stealing a T-shirt or two to mark my territory. Endearingly clingy stuff like that.

Inevitably would come The Point. There was always a moment, grilled into my memory like a branding iron in the shape of an "X", when he would mention "her" and my mind would come to an ubrupt halt; My head cocked to the side, my attention fixed onto his words like a hunting dog on a squirrel. Something in my subconscious decided that when he reached The Point my job was to gather as much information as possible about the enemy. And so, I would listen intently as my boyfriends poured out their ex-girlfriend stories. Often, these stories would turn into sagas, and my sense of security would begin to waver, waiting for the moment for him to confess that yes, he was actually still in love with her.

Ex-Girlfriend Syndrome had taken hold. I started to fear ex-girlfriends like the plague. If I saw a picture of her, I would hunt for anything resembling her face in photos he had up in his apartment, and bring up the photos at inopportune moments in a fit of jealousy. I would Google her name to see if I could scrounge up any dirt. Before the internet, I would secretly look through his photo albums, torturing myself with photos of them in a loving embrace at Christmas or Valentine's Day. Sometimes there were more racy photos, and those made small parts of my brain explode. Parts of my brain I will never get back.

My masochism truly knew no bounds when it came to comparing myself to the exes. I would compile what I felt were the traits and aesthetic qualities about her that I was sure he still loved. Then, I would go through the list and realize how I could never measure up. It was impossible to convince me otherwise, as some perplexed boyfriends tried. Others would laugh and say that I was crazy; what was I doing obsessing over his ex, anyway? If he wanted to be with her still, that's who he'd be with.

And yet, there was no arguing with my certainty that these guys all secretly pined for their exes. Even if these broads were locked up in prison for the slaughter of defenseless animals, I would find reasons as to why they were better than me. Somewhere in my sense of self, there was very serious harm done, and I found strange delight in piercing my happiness with countless hypothetical images of my boyfriend getting back together with his ex.

Time after time, my boyfriends would come to a place where they couldn't ignore my masochistic tendencies, and they would ask what the hell it was that I wanted anyway. Did I need more assurance? Was I trying to passively break up with them by saying how great their exes were? Was I basking in lunacy, needing help that only years of therapy could provide?

If you picked "C", you were correct. What I eventually acknowledged was a re-enactment of my past. I grew up with my mom constantly criticizing me, never granting me her approval or even once telling me "I love you." When I made a new friend, she would list the reasons why they were "using" me, or would otherwise soon burn me. Instead of getting into her issues and reasons for this behavior, I'll just say this: I learned to love myself the way my mom loved me--conditionally. By constantly comparing myself to my dude's exes, I undermined any chance our relationship had of surviving. If I sabotaged the relationship by rejecting myself before he had the chance to reject me, I could avoid the inevitable pain. And what better way to slowly sabotage the relationship than to focus on what I felt could be a huge threat? I had decided, as soon as I heard about her, that the ex-girlfriend would at some point come back for her man. This would leave me in a position of humiliation and rejection too painful to consider. And so, I set up the situation to happen in my mind before it could happen in reality.

Yes, I was crazy. Neurotic, if you will. Bordering on psychotic, but more delusional. I deluded myself into believing that all men think like my mom; She believed that I was conditionally lovable and that others would always find someone "better" than me. I would zero-in on the most likely candidate (The Ex), and the self-induced games would begin.

These days, I've more than come to terms with Glenn's ex-girlfriends. I actually like them. There's no need to talk smack, to feel jealous, to let my mind wander into dangerous and hurtful places. These women have separate lives from him, they've moved on, Glenn's moved on...there's no logical reason to worry that they'll waltz back into his life and try to snag him away. And I know there's no one Glenn would rather be with, anyway.

Well, Elisabeth Shue, but who's counting? And if Beyonce walked by I'd definitely get him to look the other way.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: We keep recreating painful relationship dynamics from our childhood until we resolve them. And we can't resolve them until we make healthier choices. What we resist persists, so if it seems like you're perpetually jealous in relationships, go get your beautiful-and-worthy-of-love self into therapy.

The Sad Girls Club

I realize at this point in my blogdom that I've spent a disproportionate amount of time writing about television. Being that I'm a mom, a wife, a student, a teacher and recently moved into beautiful Sonoma County, one might think that I would be busy mothering, wifing, studying, working, or going on a lovely nature walk in Sebastopol. One might be partially right.

I spend 90% of my day being productive and/or living life to its proverbial fullest. The last 10% is spent glued like a three-toed sloth to the couch, devouring my brain-rotting stories like a junkie finding a rogue bottle of opiates in an Applebee's restroom. I'm not saying I've ever found pills in an Applebee's, I'm just saying it could happen.

Anyway, that was a weird digression. I love my TV time. I love it in a way that would make all those "Kill Your Television" advocates out there look me up and down with a false smile, non-verbally communicating their decree that I'm just a lemming lost in loser-ville.

Among the shows that keep me riveted: Modern Family, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Law & Order: SVU. The list is quite lengthy and arguably ranges in taste and quality. I thought I'd reached my bottom of the TV barrel when I actually found myself watching the clock so as not to miss the "Rock of Love" finale. I'm talking the sequel, folks.

No, no. No. The Bad Girls Club has revoked Bret Michael's crown, is now officially my guilty pleasure, and is also the new thorn in Glenn's side. He can't quite stomach that "bleeping" sound that accompanies profanity on TV. We both agree it totally worked with The Osbournes, and then it got old, fast.

Back to those Bad Girls. I'm caught in a weird bind with them; I want to heal their pain, but I also have schadenfreude issues (don't we all?). Therapy would ruin everything; they'd have some understanding into their collective need to constantly defend themselves, to make people think they're invulnerable, they might find histories of abuse or molestation behind their promiscuity and sex addiction, and they might even find serenity with a recovery group or four.

As someone who lives to witness people in their healing processes, finding their voices, discovering the roots of their pain in order to recover--I find a disturbingly large amount of satisfaction watching these girls writhe around in chaotic oblivion. Maybe it's because I identify with the train-wreck each girl is; I used to be a mess of a 22-year-old, and although I was never as venomous as some of these vixens, I definitely had my morally questionable moments. Or maybe it makes me feel better to know I'm not one of them. Perhaps I enjoy getting to formulate tentative diagnoses left and right, knowing that I shouldn't, but that inevitably they're not my responsibility to help...which is both a relief and a missed opportunity.


Annie, Kendra, Flo (I'm nursing a strange crush on her despite my best efforts to resist), Natalie (clearly the front-runner for Most Vile Player), Amber, Portia and Kate. Ever since Flavor of Love (which arguably started this fiasco when The Surreal Life cast members Brigitte Nielson and Flava Flav got their flirt on and spun out some spin offs), reality shows have this annoying tendency to slap nicknames on women, such as "Pumkin," "Paradeez" and "Bootz". These girls don't escape the trend, with surnames such as "The Control Freak" (Annie), "The Socialite" (Natalie), and "The Pistol" (Portia). I'm thinking this helps viewers to get a quick glimpse into the depth of these young women's psyches; a nutshell reminder about the motivations, passions, and aspirations these girls all possess. Yep, that must be it.

Above all else, these girls bum me out; I wonder what will become of them. Maybe they'll look back on these episodes and cringe, do their best to keep family and friends from watching them. Or maybe they won't make it that long. Bottom line, these are some seriously disturbed and troubled women. TV producers are making a killing exploiting people in this society with reality shows like this, and what's worse...I keep watching.

If you're even slightly curious about this delectable debacle, here's the reprehensible round-up of season four:

Beware all ye souls who enter here.



TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: For the love of Ray J., go shut off that damn TV already.

Intelligence, Schmelligence: Look At Those Cans!

I found myself in an annoying debate with the husband last night. We were watching this talk show about the idea of "friendship" between men and women. This guy, who has been "hanging out" with a friend --who also happens to be a super gorgeous chick-- has been growing ever more smitten, given his discovery that she is "actually really smart and interesting."

Ok. Let me get this straight. An average looking girl with a Mensa membership has to bust her ass to get a dude's interest, but a super gorgeous girl is instantly pedestal-worthy because --shock, gasp-- she's "smart" and dare I say it- "interesting"?

Since when is it an after thought that someone we are investing time and energy into doesn't make us yawn? Don't get me wrong, I know the intoxication factor of a hot piece of assumption: smokin' chicks don't have to be smart. They get free passes in life because they're smokin'. But, when it comes to investing time in a relationship--which this friend is clearly doing, being that he's been seeing this girl for some time now--I would think the criteria for "girlfriend" might be more than Hot.

Perhaps I'm more naive than I thought. I've always prided myself on thinking "like a guy." I know that my pre-pregnancy body circa-2006 was a big reason I got asked on so many dates. But, I also know that I was sure to spend some time intellectually sparring with anyone I was interested in. Most of the guys I've dated have put worth on the size of my brain, not just the size of my tatas, before we started spanning time together.

And yes, dumb hot chicks of the world have given hot chicks in general a bad rep. There are some utterly vapid dumbasses out there who don't give a flying fart that they can't spell what is being poured into their free drinks. But they also aren't giving a thought to the fact that their pretty pouts and sexy smiles won't get them jobs when they're past their prime and trying to survive.

And this guy was no schlub, either. He was handsome and articulate, and didn't reek of creepy geek. He also talked about being a supersmart tech wiz, and that it was refreshing to have a hot friend whom he could talk shop with. Or maybe that's the problem. Being with a pretty, smart girl is nothing new for him. Being with a spectacularly hot girl is more of an intriguing prospect. Now, make that a nerdy, spectacularly hot girl and maybe it seems the gods have been smiling especially prosperous on this guy.

My husband argued that, while there are plenty of men (and women) who think good looks and smarts are mutually exclusive, I just might be taking this talk show dude's opinion a little too personally.

Maybe I'm just pissy because I feel my youth, and with it my ability to be seen as the hot chick, slowly slipping through my baby formula-stained fingers. True, I plan on being the best broad I can be at any age ---I will do my damnedest to show what a 75-year-old GILF can look like--- but as for the 18-29 stereotypical age span when guys are biologically programmed to give double-takes and catcalls; methinks that time may have met it's expiration date.

And so, I let things like guys musing about a pretty girl who's also smart affect me. But, I'll just remember that the next time I see a guy who is drool-tastic who is also fantastic at changing poopy diapers.

Oh, wait. That's Glenn. My bad.



And the part about being a 75-year old GILF? I'm very sorry. I threw up in my mouth a little reading that phrase again, too.


TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Hang out with someone who's really hot and find something boring and/or dumb that they do. Then tell me all about it.

If You Can't Say Anything Nice...

...then write it!
Passive Aggressive Notes. If you don't want to check the site out, no worries. And if you haven't decided to "follow" my blog yet, all good. No, it's totally cool. I haven't been posting comments all over facebook, myspace and twitter because I want people to join this blog. I was only doing it for my health. For real.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Be Aggressive! B-E Aggressive! Go get some pom-poms and get nasty out there! At least you'll be honest with people about your hostility towards them.