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.

Crazy Bitch or Pobrecita?

I've been immersed in a research paper writing frenzy since I started my doctoral program in July of 2008. But now that I'm a mama (and a working one at that), the world of graduate studies has taken a slightly more, um, hard turn.

Today I find myself drafting what seems like my seven millionth research paper on borderline personality disorder. The stigmatized diagnosis has been getting more press lately as television shows such as "Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew" have started to incorporate clinical depictions, themes and terminology into their format. And hey, there is definitely something intriguing, enigmatic, entertaining, shocking, even hilarious about seeing a person (usually a woman) seeming to fit the "psycho bitch" label that society likes to slap on people who can't seem to get a grasp on their tempers and actions.

But, the actual etiolology of BPD is anything but funny. Beginning in infancy, people who develop the criteria for BPD usually have insecure attachments with their mothers...often they've been abused, abandoned, neglected, and/or molested. Sometimes the parent suffers from addiction and is unable to meet their baby's needs. Somewhere along the line of that child's development, they were arrested in a very painful way, and as an adult they are stuck between wanting to be intimate and have loving relationships, and wanting people to stay the hell away from them because they never learned how to trust that people care for them(or sometimes even know what love is.) This can create a deep wounding called abandonment depression which hurts this child to their core, and is extremely difficult (if not almost impossible) to heal.

Yes, it's a sad situation, and one that deserves more than just a stigmatized diagnosis. Though the DSM-IV can be helpful in ruling out other disorders that mimic BPD and delineating criteria, its been said that when someone has BPD you will just know.

As someone who was diagnosed with having BPD traits as a young adult, I find myself sympathetically drawn towards people struggling with the disorder. And yes, I've been one of the lucky ones who has been able to "grow out" of the symptoms I had; age and therapy have done wonders to a once unstable shell of a girl who had no sense of self or esteem. But for the people who will struggle until their dying day with BPD, what kind of life will they lead?

Most research says a chaotic one, sometimes plagued with abuse, addiction, self-mutilation, suicide attempts, few to no long lasting relationships, no long term careers, and a consuming feeling of emptiness internally. Just like Jennifer Jason Leigh's character in "Single White Female", a person with BPD never reached the point in their child development when they were able to explore their own identity. So, they often have to mimic others, or become chameleon like and "take on" the traits of those around them. If you notice someone becoming really close to you, really quickly, and suddenly adopting your style or quirks...take a closer look at what else is going on with them. Do they have angry outbursts? Are they ever reckless with things like drug abuse, stealing, lying, promiscuity? Do they seem to hate being alone? Do they push you away with bitchy attitude, saying hurtful things one moment, and then apologizing excessively only a few hours later? (Only to repeat the cycle when you get too close?) Of course, it's not your responsibility to diagnose them, in fact that's when things can get ugly (so please don't try)...but to have some background info can be helpful in creating compassion and awareness.

More than anything, people with BPD can't trust. They want to...deeply, painfully want to...but the internal mechanism that develops in early childhood that says "Mommy loves me, whether she is angry or sad or happy...whether she is here or not, she always loves me," never did for them. And so, the next time you hear that someone "is borderline", or has BPD, or exhibits any of the symptoms I've been talking about--take a moment to understand that they might be suffering from an incredibly painful disorder that took root a very long time ago, over which they had no control. Yes, it is their responsibility to get help as an adult. But, the inner tempest swirling around in their minds and bodies can be a strong one, and while it may be easiest to stay the hell away from them (and sometimes that is all you can and should do), take a second look before you judge them as a psycho bitch or a crazy asshole. There's a terrified toddler in there somewhere, searching for mom in everyone's eyes.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Watch Kari Ann on "Sex Rehab With Dr. Drew" to get an idea of the reason why BPD is so stigmatized.

I Think My Cavity Needs a Fillion.

Yeah, I know. The title isn't too classy for a married woman with a baby. But, hey, it takes a lot for me to throw my modesty aside for a celebrity and claim they're hotter than wax for a Brazilian. I'm not one of those wackadoos who think if I start a celeb fan club I'll have a chance at eternal bliss with Robert Pattinson in cougar heaven. Well, I did grow up nursing massive infatuations with Steve Martin and Elvis Presley...but one was dead before I was even born, and the other was a middle-aged recluse when I began pseudo-stalking him. Wanting to live in eternal bliss with Steve in totally inappropriate adolescent heaven was an innocent goal, especially since Steve became more of a muse than a love object as I got older. (I hate that word. Muse. It just sounds so sophistimacated and junk.)

I've never had an full-on adult celebrity crush. That is, until I saw The Fillion. In hopes of not getting into weird stalker-esque detail about why the man is hot and brilliant, I'll leave it at this: Serenity. Slither. Castle. Dr. Horrible. Watch them and just try not to drool.

But I'm not that much of a pervy housewife; I think one of the biggest reasons I dig on The Fillion is because he resembles my hunktastic husband Glenn.

Speaking of filling my cavities, Lucy is teething. She's got her first little nugget of white sharpness rearing itself in her lower gums. And she ain't none too happy, no sir. I'm talkin' up-all-nite-crying-all-day-inconsolable teething. There comes a moment each day when she musters up the energy to look up at us with bloodshot eyes, sniffing up little snotlets, her tiny head shaking with exhaustion from wailing incessantly...anyway, there comes a moment each day when she looks at us as if to say "How dare you people. How could you put this in my life? I will never, ever see you the same way again."

And there's only 19 more to go. For now. Joy.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Appreciate that you're done teething. Go eat an apple and be smug.

Horatio Caine Has Invaded My Brain.

As I sit here with my beautiful rugrat Lucy by my side, I ponder the important things in life, like: "What will her first word be?", "How will I afford a college fund for her," and "When will she fall asleep so I can catch up on the crazy CSI trilogy that's been connecting the three different CSI units in Miami, Vegas and NY?"

And then, I feel a twinge of guilt, knowing that I--someone who is well versed in the importance of object relations and attachment theory--would stoop to prioritize CSI On Demand over her daughter.

But, there's gotta be a time in the day when, between work, school, exercise, cooking, cleaning, husband, friends...a woman can say, without hesitation: "I've spent the last two weeks up late with my child, lovingly feeding, changing, burping and bonding with her. If CSI happens to be on during these late-night moments of mother and child connection, so be it. And if I need to see what happens because it's been "To Be Continued" for three weeks, then SO BE IT. Yes, maybe the writing isn't fantastic with this three part episode series, but come ON. Seeing Fishburne, Caruso and Sinise on the same screen for even an instant makes me get a strange thrill of satisfaction that can only come from knowing you've invested time not in life and loved ones, but in a 24 inch box that glows."

Afterall, can't I be a "good enough" mother (ala the wonderful Winnicott) while crushing on Jorja Fox a little?

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Watch CSI (Vegas, the OG) on Spike, USA or any other channel that airs it ad nauseum. If you really want to enjoy the series, you gotsa see the Grissom/Sidle romance that was always worth watching.

The Shocks Doc Is In...Sane!

Greetings boys and ghouls,

Allow me the cliche opportunity to introduce myself. I've been known in some circles as a sometimes scary, sometimes sexy, always psycho burlesque performer, Roxy Shocks:The San FranPsycho Treat. I began my burly career in 2003 in Seattle as a "Gun Street Girl", then in 2004 some of us disbanded and formed "Glitzkrieg" (a few of us were Jewish and planned to counter any un-PC name protest with our heritage...turned out no one really gave a rat's ass). Then I began solo acts in San Francisco in venues such as The Fillmore, 12 Galaxies, Bill Graham Civic Auditorium and The Make-Out Room, to name just a few. My home has always been SF, and after three long ass years being on the brink of soul death in Los Angeles, I'm pleased to claim my new home as being back in NorCal. Hella pleased.

The other half of me is dedicated to psychology; I earned my MS in Counseling a few years back, and I'm working on my PsyD as we speak (in a great program with a kickass cohort). If all goes as planned, I'll be a doctor of psychology next year. I'm obsessed with the human mind, behavior and pathology, and base my burlesque alter ego on Jungian "shadow" work I've done. Shadow work is my passion, and involves looking at all the dark, freaky shit that we'd rather throw in our "do not disturb" pile on the backburners of our minds. Or in some cases, it's the stuff that nightmares are made of. If we don't embrace our Shadows, they'll embrace us...if you get my drift. It's no coincidence that the things about other people that drive us the most insane are the very same parts of our personality that we don't wanna look at. Like, the politician who so adamantly opposes gay marriage and gets on his high horse about "saving family values" is the very same politician who hires gay prostitutes on the side for BJs and meth. Yep, no happenstance there.

And so, on this journey to Doctor Shockshood, I've decided to include you all with me. All three of you. Hi, mom. Hi, hubby. Hi, myself as I'm reading this again later looking for spelling mistakes like the obsessive-compulsive paranoid ritualist I am.

I'll be posting upcoming show dates, upcoming projects I'm working on (a book and podcast in the works right now), ramblings about current goings on in this madcap world we live in, random stuff about me, but mostly lots of psychology talk -- personality disorders, colon detoxification therapy, positive psychology, alcoholism, panic attacks, music therapy, codependence, sex addiction, attachment theory-- if it's therapy related, I'm on it. All that and more...with my impassioned, twisted, dare I say unique SHOCKS THERAPY take on all of it. Like I said, I've spit fake blood and killed myself onstage for six years and counting. Oh, and last year I pretended to masturbate with a crucifix onstage for my "Exorcist" act with my husband as the priest...and didn't know I was pregnant at the time. Yeah, I have a six month old daughter, too. I'm not your average therapist.

And if what I say or do concerns, disgusts or perplexes you, remember: embrace that Shadow, baby. We all have Light and Dark aspects within us. We can't be sunshine and smiles all the time. Being perpetually pleasing is painful, painstaking, and dishonest, and we know it. Many of us would like to believe (and portray) that we're perfect angels with no secrets or "bad" thoughts. But, we're human; We're primal underneath all that learned civility. We can and should be polite, kind and responsibile. But where is all that other junk and unpleasantness we carry to go? I say be creative with it. Hurt no one, but embrace it and shed some light and awareness on it...then it's no longer so scary. Shadow work can be pretty awesome, actually.

So thanks for joining me! Hope to be spitting stage blood on you someday soon. That, or helping you process the trauma from being spit blood on by some freaky woman at this weird burlesque show you made the mistake of attending.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX:
Go check out this awesome San Francisco troupe I perform with! Voted "Best of the Bay" Burlesque HUBBA HUBBA REVUE!

My next show: MARCH 2010; Hubba Hubba Revue, DNA Lounge, SF!