Will You Accept This Rose... and Maybe Some Self-Worth While We're At It?

The Bachelor. Has it really been on TV for eight years? At one point, I can remember actually being entertained by the show in an earnest way. Of course, I was a mere 23 years oldish. A train wreck of a girl. I identified with the same desperate obsession--to find the man of my dreams, marry, baby-make, and settle down into timeless bliss and related fantasies--it seemed many of the "Bachelorettes" competing on the show appeared to have.

Now being the ripe old age of 32, while setting up the DVR to tape The Bachelor Finale (On the Wings of Love edition, for you thankfully unaware folk out there), I felt a sense of melancholy. Is it because I'm almost a decade older? I found a new wrinkle yesterday. No, I realized that the entire concept of this seemingly innocent show, guised as a vehicle to help people "find" true love, is actually a contest to determine how worthy each woman (or man) is to be loved.

TRIVIAL DISCLAIMER: Since the first show premise was based on women (and honestly, the only seasons I've watched are the ones with the women competing...blame it on the same-sex schadenfreude I must revel in), I'll comment only on those seasons.

Now, back to that Finale. While watching Jake the Pilot "choose" the black sheep Vienna to be his soul-mate, over the much more audience-friendly Tenley, I became sick to my stomach. If I were in Tenley's position (at the age she was...early 20's), at the moment Jake the Pilot started vaguely referring to "not knowing" what was "missing" from their connection, I would have felt my entire sense of lovability quickly melting into nothingness. To reflect on all the previous seasons, that's pretty much what most of the rejected, deflated women who didn't get the rose, or more tragically, the ring, reported feeling.

And then there was the spectacle of beautiful, young, lithe women stacked up as if on bleachers in front of the Bachelor, just primed for the pickin'. The sacred opportunity to find your ultimate romantic love connection: trivialized into a process that chooses teams for volleyball. Except, instead of being picked for a team, these women are picked to be A LIFELONG MATE. The preposterousness is only hitting me now: at an age and life-point when I'm finally able to have a sense of myself that isn't precariously hinged on approval, being desired, or being liked.

The "chosen" women seemed to be on a perpetual Sally Field Oscar "you like me...you really like me" speech high after they received that damn rose. And for those unlucky enough to stand there empty-handed, after all the American Beauties have been doled out? Well, I guess you just didn't float his boat, toots. You didn't rock his world. You didn't cut the mustard. Maybe you should try a different means of looking for love, say...in reality? Maybe there you'll have a little more equality on the playing field, perhaps even get to have a say in whether a man is suitable for YOU (not just whether you're rose-worthy to him).

Now comes the part that's even more absurd. The scenarios this show sets up for the potential lovebirds are painstakingly false. Who "gets to know" the "real" you whilst hang-gliding in Tahiti? Or on a gondola ride in Florence? Or, in Jake the Pilot's case: realizing his passionate, undeniable connection with Vienna while almost pissing his pants on a bungee cord jump? Are you kidding me? These are the tests of relationship mettle that the Bachelor needs to have put in place to make sure he'll be set for life with The One? These people have been voluntarily thrown into a pressured, fabricated situation for a short period of time. When the hoopla, intensity and competition ends, what actual footing does the couple have to stand on? Though there are a handful of "lasting" Bachelor/Bachelorette couples (Trista being the only one who seems like she might be settled in for the long-haul), I'm interested to note that a huge majority of the relationships met their makers not too long after the cameras ceased rolling.

And then there's good ol' Jason and Molly. Aren't they so cute with their on-air nuptials? I'm sure the rain was a good omen. The fact that he ORIGINALLY ASKED THE OTHER WOMAN TO MARRY HIM really doesn't have any significance anymore, right? I mean, if only we all had that option: to propose marriage, or actually get married, and then suddenly have it dawn on us that someone we've rejected was actually The One. That, I believe, might be the essence of selfishness. Now, let's say Jason married Melissa, had children with her, and then left her for Molly. Yes, that would be way worse. But, let's say Jason, um, didn't ask her to marry him in the first place? That would have been awesome. Again, the pressure to get engaged during the finale is such bunk! Ratings are more important than listening to your gut, I suppose. Especially when it comes to things like making a lifelong commitment to someone else's trusting heart.

And yet, here I am. Watching these shows over the past eight years. Something in the makeup of this show reels me in. Is it the game-show thrill factor? Is it the voyeuristic factor? Maybe. But, I think the biggest reason---and the reason I continue to watch other shows like this---is because there is something enthralling about watching someone getting their sense of worth denied. It resonates with the terror most humans have of being rejected, of not being approved of.

Being rejected instinctually resonates with humans as not surviving; If we're rejected by our parents as babies, we're pretty much screwed. If we're rejected as adults, who will love us when we grow old? These people aren't getting their hearts broken, they're getting their sense of self smashed. And who among us doesn't know and/or fear that feeling? Watching it happen to someone else is strangely cathartic...and also strangely comforting. "Ah, ok. It's not just me who has tried to gain love, approval, acceptance...and had their ego demolished into smithereens." Even if the person who did the demolishing is no more than a random dude you're on a TV show with, the damage stays in your psyche, and that feeling of core-rejection doesn't just disappear. YOU were rejected. Not your talent, not your clothing. You.

Sitting on the couch, watching someone else grapple with that face-flushing, rock-in-the-pit-of-your-stomach, uncontrollable-tears-welling-up rejection makes everything (maybe just for that moment) seem fair in the world among us survival-seeking humans.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Do the unthinkable, and purposely do things you anticipate will be rejected. I like to call these things "self experiments." Getting used to being rejected not only takes the sting out a little with every rebuff, but it also helps prove false a gnawing fear that we need others to prove our worth. We're not helpless infants anymore, dependent on our parents for survival; our worth is inherent. And it's definitely nowhere to be found in the (often transient) opinions of others.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RADIO RX: "Save Me" (AIMEE MANN)

Life is Just a Bowl of Cherry Flavored Anti-Depressants!

Never in my skeptical Julie brain did I ever think I would be called "Pollyanna." And yet, I was. Twice just this past weekend.

I grew up with two incredibly worried and catastrophizing folks. As in "Chicken Little, the sky is not only falling, it's going to be comprised of razor sharp teeth when it falls and will chew you into shreds of human carnitas for the gods to make mortal burritos out of." Indeed, their paranoia and fear had a macabre and often, um, crazy feeling to it. My mom even showed me their wills when I was seven. She explained that ANYTHING HORRIBLE could happen to either of them AT ANY MOMENT, and I needed to BE PREPARED to fend for myself. The fact that they're still alive and kicking seems a cruel joke, considering the defense mechanisms I had to create in order to try and steel myself for their deaths. I was convinced that the pain I was in store for would be unsurmountable, when they would surely die prematurely at some point in the late-1980's.

The defense in question was OCD. Not pop-psychology "OCD," as in when someone likes to be super-organized or really punctual, and suddenly everyone in the office refers to them as "OCD Dave" or whatever. I had OCD because I would do things like count objects or patterns in strange ways; I would have to knock on things thirty-seven times fearing someone important (or everyone important) to me would die if I didn't. Then, I bought these worry dolls when I was eight; I would place them under my pillow every night. But, not until after I had performed a monologue that went something like this, "Dear whomever is in charge of things: Please let no one in my family or any of my friends die, get any diseases, get hurt, get kidnapped, get tortured, or suddenly go blind or deaf (I had to cover all bases)." Then I would have to say ALL of their names, for fear that if I wasn't specific enough, they wouldn't be covered by my magical thinking life-insurance dolls.

It didn't help that my parents allowed me to read Stephen King every night before bed, and watch endless horror and action movies to my latency-age heart's content. Sleeping with one eye open, convinced a monster who looks like Linda Blair in the Exorcist was secretly living in my closet--waiting to slowly devour me with her shiny, chiseled teeth after spider-walking towards me in the dark--was no way to live.

Along with my fears of death and associated horrors, my parents discussed "the world" in frightening terms. They referred to other people in society with "us and them" values, and convinced me that anyone trying to befriend or --gasp-- date me would absolutely be "using me," and privately wringing their hands in Mua-ha-ha! glee.

Yep, this is just the tip of my neurotic iceberg when it comes to being skeptical, negative, pessimistic, a worrywart...whatever word describes it best. I couldn't enjoy a party without thinking, in the back of my mind, "everyone at this party is going to die one day." Yeah, I had some pretty sweet twisted thoughts invading my brain. Like the Maria Bamford joke goes,
"My friends say I should get out and go to a movie with them. I tell them I'm filthy, and they're like 'Why don't you just take a shower,' and I say, NO, IT'S ON THE INSIDE!" Intrusive thoughts. That's what they're called. Anyone who's had them knows how they work. They're always self-destructive and get in the way of everyday life. Not necessarily to the point where you can't function, but in a way that prevents you from ever feeling "all right." They're a symptom of OCD and they fully bite.

Somewhere along the line of several years of therapy and training in psychology, along with some big life experiences and a few traumas, I've managed to nearly free myself from OCD's Debbie Downer clutches. I actually see the drain that thinking negatively causes. Even if it takes extra effort to be positive, I know that it will pay off. Taking the additional minutes, usually seconds, to see my part in a crisis (usually of small-turned-hysterical proportions), and my part in exacerbating the crisis works to nip those stirrings of pissing and moaning in the proverbial buds.

The famous therapist and psychologist Albert Ellis coined "Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy," and I highly recommend it for you fellow negaholics out there. I was a life-long pessismist, and I can say I approach situations with a much more open mind, with more patience, hope, and less attachment to outcomes. Yes, things in life can still suck ferociously...but assuming the worst really does make it much worse. Self-fulfilling prophecies, if you will.

Yes, I'm still cautious. I don't throw my arms open and thrust myself into the world with reckless abandon...I'm not one of those people, and I don't think I'll ever be. But, I'd rather be called foolishly optimistic than smartly skeptical in most areas of life. I've wasted far too many years of my short life worrying about what I'll say, what I'll do, what others will say or do, and what a fool I'll look like if I'm not prepared for catastrophe to strike. So I look naive if I have a positive attitude towards life and other people. Through a combination of Buddhism, therapy, and being married to a perpetually positive person, I've found my constant cynicism and concern does little other than bring others in to my funk, keep me jittery, and never allow me to just "be" in the moment.

Yeah. I might look like a dork being positive; especially since I grew up with skepticism and snarkiness being way cooler than Stuart Smalley-ness. But hey, I am good enough and smart enough, whether people like me or not.




TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Here's a relatively quick and painless exercise you can do for stopping your negative and irrationally crappy moods and reactions. For more info, Google "ALBERT ELLIS and REBT". Here's an example of "The ABC's of REBT," using my issue of jealousy for this demo:

HOW I CREATE MY OWN DISTURBANCE

A. ACTIVATING EVENT
My husband was flirting (being charming) with the attractive female cashier at the grocery store today. Although it was a very brief moment, it immediately made me rageful (obviously stemming from leftover issues in the past I've been holding on to), jealous and angry at him.

BR. RATIONAL BELIEF
1) I don't like it when my husband is even remotely flirtatious with other women!
2) It's too bad that I often perceive him as flirting when he is actually just being friendly and charming.
3) I wish he wasn't so charming with certain women who threaten my confidence.

BI. IRRATIONAL BELIEF
1) He shouldn't ever be attracted to or flirt with other women!
2) It's awful that he would ever flirt with another woman!
3) I can't stand it when women give him attention in a flirtatious way in front of me!
4) He's a disrespectful jerk for flirting with her for even an instant; he should pretend to wear blinders around other women!

C. CONSEQUENCES
Feeling ? MAD/SAD/SCARED (threatened/jealous/rejected) Behavior ? I became passive aggressive, and stopped talking to him for about ten minutes until he asked what was wrong several times. When I finally told him what was wrong, I was still bitchy, and I exaggerated when recounting actions with the cashier so as to make him seem disrespectful of me. (I couldn't take responsibility for how I was projecting my insecurities on the situation.)

D. DISPUTING
1) It's disappointing that, because he is a generally charming and very friendly person to everyone, he might inadvertently flirt with other women.
2) I can stand to see him being charming and friendly with other people, even if it means other attractive women sometimes.

E. EFFECT
Feeling? Annoyance; Understanding of his personality; Acceptance of my insecurities
Behavior? Focus on my being social and friendly instead of on who he is talking with/him being flirtatious; Be able to separate innocent from disrespectful flirting (which he has never done); Focus on being confident instead of creating drama stemming from insecurities.



Oh, and I'll be adding a new feature onto this blog! I'll be prescribing a song to go along with the homework. By the end of each month, there should be a pretty good mix formed...

TODAY FROM ROXY SHOCKS' RX RADIO: "Powder Your Face With Sunshine" - Dean Martin

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.