One of the things I struggle with on this blog is my urge to be totally, grossly honest (”So-and-so is such a freaking idiot, can you believe it? Wait till I tell you…”) while maintaining some sort of decency and respectability. What if my anonymity was blown and people at school or work found this? The consequences make my stomach turn. As a result I can’t just be totally honest. I try to write with the idea in mind that one day someone of significance to my life will find this blog, but I have to say I’ve probably already blown my image if that’s the case. Sometimes I fall back on my fantasy belief that my true identity can never be discovered. Well, by anyone other than the friends who already know me. Of course this is nothing more than fantasy. One day, when I get all professional, I may have to deep six the blog to protect my professional identity (did you like how I used “deep six” totally spontaneously? Fucking cool!). In the last week I’ve read about no less then three law suits that were brought or lost due to content on the person in question’s blog (all three were doctors). That’s a scary thought!

So, assuming my ID gets outed one day, I have to self censor. But what if it never happens and I miss the opportunity to go on and on about my fellow students, my work, my screwy family, my true thoughts about things that happen and interactions I have? I guess that’s the price I pay for having an online blog. Alas! Because I totally have some good dirt I could share.

In a perfect world, this blog would function as a no holds barred venting space where I could focus my ire-ful attention on the minutia that makes me crazy. It would be funny. And possibly grounds for dismissal. Why is life so unfair? (Note: said with sarcasm. Only the bourgeios have these kinds of problems. It’s a very white, priviledged problem and I know it.)

The one thing I can probably talk about is me. I was thinking about doing one of those 100 things about me lists, and I may still. But here’s a taste of my top 10:

1. I hate wearing socks and never do if I can get away with it. When I come home, I take off the socks at the same time as the shoes. I cannot understand people who wear shoes inside. Feet need to be free.

2. I don’t understand people who don’t read. What do you people do? (Except Esan: I know he’s out conquering the world one sport at a time, and is excused from reading. I want my blog url on his Tour de France bike.)

3. I have incredibly vivid, cogent, sensual dreams (sensual meaning involving the senses, not necessarily sexual). Movies play out in my dreams. Sometimes I have serial dreams that last over a course of nights with the narrative picking up and progressing each night. I also get night terrors once in a rare while, which sucks harsh donkey cock. I burst out of sleep gasping and terrified, heart slamming and sweating, clutching the bedclothes but struggling to sit up, jam packed with adrenaline. Of course nothing is there. But you try falling asleep after that happens! Good luck! I’ve lucid dreamed twice and it was the best dreaming of my life. In one I controlled my drifting flight over a tennis court and surrounding buildings; in the other I did naughty things I can’t tell you about. Grrrrrawr!

4. I drink about 2L of diet pop a day. Husband never gets any because I drink it all.

5. I’m phonophobic and often go a week or more without answering it. I just let it ring, telling myself if it’s important they’ll leave a voicemail. Then I don’t check voicemail for a week or so. I am somewhat of a phonophobe. I do however obsessively check email, so that’s the way to contact me.

6. I never lose my keys. Ever. Actually, about once a year I lose my keys, and because I have no skills in place to deal with this crisis, my head explodes. Just ask Glass Hurricane, she can tell you.

7. I clean my ears with Q-tips, even though they say you shouldn’t. I derive inordinant pleasure when I get a good waxy clump. Very satistying.

8. I can’t stand to have my navel touched. No one touches my navel, not even Husband, who would like to. Fingers in my navel make me squirm and feel like barfing. I do clean in there (it’s quite deep with a wedge at the bottom, so stuff gets trapped in there) but I have to brace myself and just power through. I consider navel cleaning only slightly less unpleasant than a pelvic exam.

9. I think Oprah is a bossy, self important know it all who clearly does not know it all - and yet feels compelled to tell you all about it. The woman promoted The Secret, which is utter vomit on the scale of purchases (best being kittens and puppies, worst a pail of steaming vomit).

10 I secretly judge everyone. Even you.

Husband and I went to visit the new baby (or “newb” as we call it).  She looks a lot less like a mutant alien and a lot more like a baby now that she’s grown some, so that’s cool.  She has about five pounds of hair on her head.  It’s insane.  You could knit an afghan with that hair.  They say it will all fall out in anticipation of her actual newborn hair (this is preemie hair, which apparently is entirely incompatible with newborn hair.  Maybe they explode when mixed?).  She’s doing quite well and the family seems to be doing well too, which I’m very grateful and relieved for.

Now we’re home.  I’m zonking out watching TV like a slug and Husband is hooked up to his life support system, also known as online poker.  If I end up peddling myself on the street one day for grocery money you’ll know why. (Just kidding, there are no gambling problems in this house.  Just a gambling hobby.)  Blogosaurus ‘Ho!  It has a nice ring, don’t you think?

One of the unintended side effects of therapy school is my new inability to turn off the assess-o-meter. Now, let’s go on the record here saying I’m not a professional anything, not yet a trained psychotherapist, not much more than an enthusiastic hobbyist. But that doesn’t seem to stop me from constantly identifying (with a greater or lesser degree of accuracy, no one checks my work) ego defenses, cognitive faults, attachment problems, and so on, in my fellow men. And women.  Oh what the heck, kids too.

On one hand, this is an enjoyable past time.  The people puzzle is engrossing.  You all do such bizarre things.  Though to be quite honest, the assessing is often accompanied by a certain quiet smugness, as though I’ve figured out a secret about someone else, and isn’t that delicious? This tells us a few things: one, I am an egotist. Two, I love my field and am probably in the right career track. Three, I probably have some significant humbling experiences coming my way. No one who’s a beginner like me can possibly be right about all this stuff. But it’s very absorbing for me, and I like to imagine that one day this nascent ability will be improved to the point where I can do people some good with it.

On the other hand, I feel a little like Pandora. It doesn’t matter that I can spot your projection a mile off, telling you will do no good. There’s a good chance you’ll simply ignore me or get pissed off. This is the thing about psychotherapy. A therapist can’t just tell people what their problems are and expect them to change. It doesn’t work that way (but can you imagine if it did? Zang!) And anyway, it would be beyond inappropriate for me to try out my therapy skills, whether they be good or shitty, on friends and acquaintances. One must always use one’s powers for good and not evil!

The other side of this coin is, of course, that I’m spotting, shall we say, interesting things in myself too. This is especially precarious because of course I’m blind to my blind spots, and who knows what unconscious elements are shaping my interpretations? You can’t really therapize yourself.

I anticipate looking back on these days as a time when I knew just enough to be a hazard but not enough to be good for anything.  They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing and my suspicion is that’s just where I’m at right now.  No one put a patient on a couch in front of me!  The results can only be dire!

Dang it’s sunny out today. Kind of makes my eyes burn actually. I’ve lived in BC too long - I can only tolerate greyness. And while I do prefer rainy days - they’re the best days of all! - there’s something compelling… eerily compelling about the sunniness. It makes me want to get out and do things (it took be about an hour to identify this feeling because I have it so rarely). I made a list of the things I have to get done (read chapters, write paper, clean house, prepare dinner, return phone calls), made a list of things I’d like to do (walk while listening to my new music, take a road trip to the valley), and then tossed the whole bunch away to do blogging.

See why I never get anything done? It’s this damn blog! I blame you, veiwing audience! What a bunch of jerks you all turned out to be.

Anyway.  I’m thinking it might be a good day to take the hard top off the car and go for a drive.

We just got back from a field trip to observe a family of geese living near our place.  With some hunting (and my sharp, honk-detecting ears) we found them: mom, dad, and five little imprinted goslings.  It was terribly cute.  We watched for an hour or so, until some less-sensitive folks arrived, got too close, and set the adults to hissing.  We took that as our cue to leave (plus Husband was pretty goosed out by that point) and now we’re home, sadder but wiser.  Ha ha, not really.

One thing I miss about Halifax is the ocean life.  Here, there’s never anything to see in the water.  Sometimes you see otters or seals or whatever the are, but basically never any fish.  In Halifax I was constantly watching jellyfish and starfish and minnows and such.  The ocean was much oceanier there.  And of course the fishing life was much more integrated into the city and its culture.  Halifax felt like a fishing town and a port, whereas Vancouver feels like Robson Street (people who live here will know what I mean).  On the plus side, I’ve never experienced a blizzard here.

Especially: is not pronounced EX-specially.

Ask: is not pronounced AXE.

Et cetera: is not pronounced ECK-cetera.

Library: is not pronounced lie-berry.

And try to remember that literally doesn’t mean figuratively.  Examples:

1)

Incorrect: “It was literally raining cats and dogs!”

Correct: “It was literally raining water!”

2)

Incorrect: “I literally died!”

Correct: “I nearly died!”

Finally: Irregardless is a double negative.  Don’t say it.  Say either “regardless” or “irrespective,” as appropriate.

Frustrating, frustrating school experiences going on.

I’m in a class right now that is almost identical in content to a second year undergraduate course I took. The undergrad course was a prerequisite for getting into grad school. So I did it. And now here I am, covering the exact same material. It’s not harder, nor more detailed. It’s just the same. And I’m totally irritated at this. Why am I doing second year work in grad school? Why does the prerequisite exist if we’re going to cover it again?

I intensely dislike wasting my time like this. We should be making more of the material somehow: discussing the philosophical issues around disease classification, maybe, or applying our knowledge by trying to diagnose patients based on presenting complaints. Or working in groups to role play therapy diagnoses and interventions. But instead we’re going over the basic material, point by excruciating point, and doing no extending or practicing at all. I’m quite capable of reading the material on my own and don’t need it read to me (we’ve been given the materials in advance); certainly not when it’s this straightforward. But that’s what’s happening: the professor is just reading his printed course notes aloud to us. For those of us who are conscientious enough to do the readings before class, this means we spend a brutal eight hours hearing the (rather simple) material read out that we already read independently - how tedious!

And the killer is this: some of the students need this review! Some of them have no idea what some of the terms are, or the tools, or the schools of thought. How on earth did these people get into my school? Didn’t they have the same prerequisites that I did? I’m baffled. Today someone asked (I paraphrase for clarity): “Do we need to memorize the industry standard diagnosis system for the test?” Yes, you do. And not just for the test - you should learn it because it’s the industry standard and you’ll be required to work with it, for better or worse, for your entire career. And while we’re at it, how did you get into this school anyway?

I’m becoming disillusioned with my school. I’m learning loads but the last two classes have been duds, and my learning took place largely on my own, with my own reading and research. I shouldn’t have to pay for courses and show up for classes when almost no learning occurs in classtime or via assigned readings. I think what’s happening is our instructors are skilled therapists but not skilled teachers. What about the students who don’t have the inclination to go beyond the coursework? If the course is a dud, they learn very little. And we all get the same diploma. Also, it’s becoming clear to me that some of my fellow students do not belong here. Some of us are good with people, some of us are good with academics, and some of us are good with neither. Some of us are good with neither and clearly have huge emotional baggage! It’s the latter two categories that I find troubling. Maybe the administration sees something in them that I don’t - but I have to say, I’d cut about a fifth of my class out for uselessness.

I’m not saying I’m god’s gift to grad school. My weakness is in the practical application - it’s hard for me, and I have to work hard at it. But at the very least I’m a dedicated student. I do work hard. I find ways to learn more, to read a different source, to get advice, to practice my skills when I can. I wish I was consistently in classes that challenge me and help me learn. There’s this thing in educational psychology called the zone of proximal development - in short, it means the zone of learning where you can’t quite do it on your own, but with the help of an expert, you can begin to master the task. This is the place where learning occurs. You are challenged but not overwhelmed, and not bored or understimulated. I wish I was always at the zone of proximal development. It’s not happening right now. And I’m rather grumpy about it.

Stop saying your baby looks like Winston Churchill.  Despite what you think, it is not a terribly clever thing to say.  Not even when you manage to slip it into conversation ostensibly spontaneously.  Just stop it.  This is so overdone it’s burned.  You don’t want your baby to be burned, do you?

And anyway, most correctly, we should say that Winston Churchill looked like a baby.  Which baby?  The Gerber baby.

So I think I’m going to have to stop getting personal training.  I’m pretty unhappy about this because it’s made such a difference for me.  I’ve really made progress and this is the best I’ve ever done in terms of getting in shape and staying loyal to a fitness regime.  But it’s just too expensive right now.  I had to choose between the gym and some medical expenses, and, well, obviously the gym loses out.  I guess I’ll get a regular monthly membership at some regular gym and try to keep things moving on my own.  But still, I’m pretty disappointed about losing the training.  Seriously, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done for myself fitness-wise.

If I get all fat and lazy, you’ll know why.

…are a regular part of Husband’s diet. He loves them. Especially the mushroom flavour, which actually is the only flavour he will eat. I once said that his greatest love is his car, and that if faced with the choice of shoving me or the car into the mouth of a flaming volcano, he would shove in the car, but only after a good long think. He doesn’t love noodles as much as he loves me or his car, but almost.

The problem is in how he prepares the noodles. The instructions are pretty clear: boil water, add noodles, wait three minutes, eat. But this isn’t nearly gross enough for Husband. He has developed his own special system for noodle perparing that has a complicated timing system and a dubious result. He likes to let them sit on the stove, post boil, until the noodles have swollen up, as he says, like a corpse in a creek. Only when they are soggy enough, only when they look maximally like long albino worms, will he deign to eat them.

I love him but he can be pretty gross.