A Hijacked Brain

What we see here is the fight or flight response. One dog lunges at another. The heart races and there is an instinctual, visceral reaction to threat. Catecholamines flood the body. Blood moves from the extremities to the vital organs to support them in case they are threatened. Hair goes up on the back of the neck.

This is exactly what happens when we subject ourselves to people who are continually ranting and raving about things: "I can't believe how terrible it was when so-and-so did what she did to me." The offended party becomes more agitated in the telling until he is worked up to a lather.

The sad thing is that our brains do not know the difference between us being charged by a mad dog, and having to hear someone rant. For me, a rant is as bad as being kicked. I find it intolerable to hear people go on and on in righteous indignation about all the wrongs that have been committed against them. My heart races, my stomach clenches, and my neck goes stiff. I begin to think illogically (if it persists too long), and all I want to do is to run away as quickly as possible. Yes, fight or flight hits and our bodies hijack our brains. We become susceptible to making poor judgment calls, or becoming so physiologically aroused that we can't think straight.

I'll take it one step further. Our bodies don't know the difference between a lion charging at us, and the steady diet of self-deprecatory comments we make to ourselves. It is only a matter of degrees, but we still get a good dose of stress hormones released into our blood streams. People who are highly stressed or anxious have higher cortisol levels than more laid back people. It is because our bodies are made to react, not to think. And our brains, made to think, often don't.

There are some people I avoid like the plague because it feels as though I'm taking a stress bath when I'm around them. They are mean spirited to themselves or others, say hostile things, and the tone of their voice gives me a physical response. It probably happens to you too, you're just not attuned to it.
People who get worked up into a lather over things that happened long ago, or who make continual emphatic points, or become adversarial quickly--these are the people who are more likely to die by sudden cardiac death. Why? Because they give themselves frequent baths of stress hormones and that affects the ability of their heart to pump, their blood pressure, and their overall health.
So when one person I know goes off on a rant about what horrible things she experienced decades ago, the only way I can keep my own body from escalating in response, is to hum and do relaxing deep breaths to keep my body calm. It is one way to stay relaxed in the face of barely contained, agitated hostility.

It also helps me understand why Paul wrote,
"...whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things." (Philipians 4:7-9). There is good sense in the words of the Good Book, isn't there?

Culinary Misfits

You know, today I made an awful main dish for lunch. Years ago at a potluck I ate some wonderful cheeseball patties that had been baked in the oven. I tried to make these this time but instead of baking them, I fried them. They turned out to be greasy, crusty, awful, smushy looking things. I felt ill after I ate a couple of them. They didn't hold together very well and tasted like cardboard. I didn't realize that they'd make me feel sick until a couple hours after I was full of the greasy things.

So to make myself feel better, I thought I'd compile this list of even better delicacies. See what you think.

I have considered writing a new cookbook. People don't have much imagination when it comes to creative cookery so being someone who disdains the ordinary (as evidenced by my catastrophic kitchen experiment today), I've come up with a few dishes that may be of interest to those of you who are sick of the same old thing.
Consider these as ways to perk up your daily caloric intake:

Kumquat Flambe'
Rhubarb Paprikash
Okra Aspic
Fava Bean Flambe
Prunes en croute (oh, ish!)
Slug Pate'

Then I found this website called Bert Christensen's Wierd & Different Recipes. Shocking perusal in store for those who take the time to read what he has assembled.

Check these horrendous stomach turners out!

Cow udder eclairs
Jellied Moose Nose
Lizard Tongues on Crackers
Locust Bisque
Hairball Salad with Saliva Dressing (oh please...this is actually made of alfalfa sprouts and avocado and it looks horrendous)
Curried Kangaroo Tail
Buzzard's Breath Barbecue Sauce
Chunky Cat Barf (don't ask--you don't want to know)
Finish off with Garlic Ice Cream

Wash this down with a chilled beverage called Ralph's Retch

Want to start a restaurant with me?

A Sister for Otis?

Two weeks ago I noticed that Otis seemed a little bit depressed. He's not as outgoing since we've lived here. He could miss the three neighborhood cats that used to spend lots of time on our back porch, just on the other side of the glass from his cat tree. He used to run at the window and scare them, or just lay on the floor on one side of the door while they slept on the other side of the window. Now he is all alone. There is Oscar, the neighborhood cat who sashays across our backyard from time to time, or "Fat Mary," the next door neighbor's cat. So I told Sam just last week that I thought we needed to get Otis a little sister. He'd love that. Sam agreed.
Then, one of my therapist supervisees casually told me Thursday that his wife had one more kitten left from a litter that she'd found on their property. Wouldn't I like to have a kitten? Thinking about Otis, I told him that if he'd send me a photo, I'd send it on to Sam and we'd have a family planning discussion about it and let him know.
Friday morning I went in to my allergist and got tested for every sort of substance that one could react to. So I got pin pricks on each lower arm--40 on each lower arm, in fact. Then I got exactly 48 injections in each upper arm, each numbered and lettered. In 24 and 48 hours I measured the size of the welts and sent it off to my allergist.
It seems that I am allergic to cats. How could I have ever known that? We can't part with Otis, and won't even consider it. But I had to call my supervisee and decline his offer to give us little Fiona.
Aw, shucks.
Now we are happy with Otis and he is enough for me.
Sniff, sniff.

Rambo

This is how I looked today after going on a wild tear in the backyard. Now you tell me: doesn't a woman wielding a pair of hedge clippers, leaving heaps of broken branches, dead plant clippings, and dirt piles resemble Rambo? I think I did today. A horticultural Rambo. Today I dug up the hard-as-concrete dirt on the side of the house, added a mixture of fertilizer (stinky!) and compost, and put in four French Lavender plants. They are drought tolerant, which is needed there; heat resistant--which will be needed, planted against a west wall of the house; and will bush out about three feet, which will cover up the gas shutoff pipe and some other uninteresting wall. I can hardly wait to harvest my first lavender from the plants next summer. It is fragrant and lovely and I want to fill my house with big bouquet of it. (I hope it will grow!)

I have a ton of unfamiliar plants in the planters all around the house and am sick of their untamed look. But when you move into a house you're supposed to let everything grow until you know what it is going to do. Then you can trim it back. Today was the day.

But first I took clippings of every plant and shrub down to the nursery in town. The people there were marvelous. They know everything about everything that grows in my town. The woman with black hair and grey roots identified each plant clipping, then taped each one to my yellow legal pad so I could write the names of each one next to it. I was thrilled.

Then I came home and tore out all sorts of dead things at the side of the backyard. There was a geranium that has grown into a gangly, unattractive tree. I chopped it down to within 6 inches of the ground. All the humongous clumps of daisy type, irritating, smelly plants got yanked out. I found a lovely clematis vine behind it all, and a huge rosemary plant. It is fragrant and marvelous. I think I'll bring in some bunches of it and grind it so I can use it in my cooking. The four miniature rose bushes up in the planter that will become my vegetable garden, got transplanted in my new rose area across the yard.

I am jazzed. And very dirty.

How Ramboesce.

I love you

"It is like a deepening pit that starts in my chest and goes clear down to my knees--on the inside. It's filled with, like...warm chocolate that is all melty and good. And the sun is shining out of it, making it feel good and smell good."

"It's something that makes me grin. To say it makes me smile is a little bit smarmy--no, it's not a smiley feeling that I get. It's a self-conscious grin while I look down at my shoes, thinking about it. And yes, it does feel good to me. Maybe that's why I look down."

"My eyes just start to water when I think about it. As soon as I let my mind linger on it I get teary. I don't know why. I wish I got something else instead--puffed out chest or standing taller."

"I can hardly stand to hear when someone says it to me. I get really embarrassed because I'm not used to thinking about myself that way. What I usually do when someone says that to me is, I screw up my face and strike a Napoleonic pose, or I make silly faces to make the person stop saying it. But I really don't want them to stop saying it--I just want to stop feeling like I don't deserve it."

"When I hear it, everything inside of me comes to a complete stop. I even feel like my heart stops beating--and I can hardly breathe. I just look at his eyes and all I can think of is his beautiful eyes looking right into my heart."

"I get warm and wobbly when it happens to me. I think I could just collapse so I usually look away and grab onto something so I don't drop in my tracks. John says I'm being melodramatic but I can hardly hang on enough to keep myself upright sometimes."

"I get this unquenchable yearning that begins to burn inside of me--right over my solar plexus--whenever she does this. I look and look at her just to savor the moment."

"I love when this happens. I smile, almost absent-mindedly to myself, every time I think of it. I get a picture of being in his arms and of those beautiful, moist brown eyes looking into mine. It is such a gift."

What happens to you when someone tells you how much they love and treasure you?

So I went to my ENT doctor this morning and he came into the exam room holding this little handheld gadget high in one hand, like a trophy. This is how we're going to monitor what is going on in your throat that is giving you such a red throat.
And how are we going to get that down into my throat, I wondered?
The smiling, too-youthful young doctor took an implement and opened my nostril up widely. Another nozzle went into my nose and received a sudden blast of bitter spray--curls of it wafting down my throat and into the other nostril. I sputtered and gasped as he opened up the other nostril and repeated the procedure. A sickening taste dripped down the back of my throat as it became numb.
Now just sniff that down the back of your throat and I'll be back in five minutes to put this monitor down your nose.
I couldn't wait.
A few minutes later Dr. Sweetface strode into the room with a little wire immersed in a glob of lubricant on the end. Okay, here we go. He tilted my head back and started sliding this down my right nostril.
Yikes--not that side!
It went down and was I immediately started coughing and my eyes watered. That little wire felt like it was strangulating me. Maybe wrapped around my uvula. That earned me another blast down the nose.
The end of the long wire was a clip that he fastened to my collar. The wire got two big squares of transparent film stuck over it to hold it to my cheek and then to my neck (that will kill, coming off!)
Apparently, the handheld monitor has to be within 25 feet of my nose at all times. I have to push separate buttons every time I burp, cough, have mucous, eat, sleep, or have heartburn. I had no idea that so much goes on in my throat every day!

I had a friend and her young children visit me this evening. They are on a whirlwind trip from Alaska and they have met many people while down here. To them, I will be "the woman with the wire in her nose." It was an issue of great moment for these children.

I'm dragging off to bed now--time to take my wire to bed. I hope it tells the doctor exactly what he needs to know because I don't want to repeat this any time soon!

Am I Better?

It has been a sobering realization over the last few months, that I am no different than these poor, unfortunate souls we see on this page. These men are shooting up heroin, even though they have hardened, infected veins. Even though they have probably lost all significant, intimate relationships in their lives. Even though all there is to them and their lives is the endless, shaky search for more heroin.

Drug users lie, cheat, steal, to get their drugs. They minimize the effects on themselves, hang around with other people who shoot up like they do. They steel their hearts against the pain and concern of their family members. And they keep on using. Regardless.

And here I am, struggling along with obesity and all that comes with it: gastric reflux, bad knees that sound like a man eating peanuts when I walk up and down stairs, and prospect of getting a host of weight-related illnesses and secondary problems. For one, a stiff neck from propping myself up at night on a bunch of pillows. Why? So my reflux won't bother me so much. Why do I have reflux? Because I eat chocolate. And I eat too much at night--the one time of day when I can eat a decent meal unrushed. But see--even here I'm doing it: making excuses, passing it off. Meanwhile, I've all but lost my singing voice, feel awful about myself, have a wardrobe of unattractive, baggy clothes, and feel like isolating myself. I keep saying that one day I'll drop the weight and get serious about my health. Maybe I'll become a vegan, or I'll start training to climb Mt. Whitney next year when I turn 50. But I keep on eating my chocolate chip cookies, and reaching for everything sweet and fattening. Regardless.

Am I really all that much better than these heroin users?

Distractions

This is the church we attended as we grew up, in New York. To us it was just "The Auburn Church." But to everyone else, it was Willard Chapel. I think it used to be part of a theological seminary at one point. It is the only full Tiffany chapel in the United States, and I just happened to be privileged enough to attend it for several years.

We thought it was pretty ugly--all the chunks of greenish glass embedded in the podium and those huge lights of odd colors hanging throughout the sanctuary. We didn't know we were sitting in a national treasure. You can see the organ pipes in this picture. The woman who played it for years was Shirley Chisholm--a short, stout woman who reminded me of my grandmother. She taught me piano for about three months until I lost interest. She died shortly thereafter and I like to think the two events were not linked in any way. In any event, the next woman who took over the organ was hardly an organist at all, and my father had a fit every time we sat through her musical forays. Daddy used to say that she would hold a chord with her hands while her feet scrambled across the pedals, trying to find the right note. But we did think that the organ and the pipes were beautiful.

Back here, in front of this carving that you see across the back wall, was where all the retarded adults sat during church. I know--that is a jarring thing to read, isn't it? There were several people in this church who took in wards of the state. These people came to church every week and sat in the back so they could step down the hall to use the bathroom easily and without disturbing the entire congregation.

Once we invited a man to come and be our new pastor. So he came out and filled the pulpit to see what he thought of us and vice versa. While he was preaching, Pearl in the back row, suddenly stood to her feet and fired off a salute his way. Being far away from her, he was unable to detect that she was retarded. Bewildered, he saluted back. After all, he thought, it is close to July 4. After two more salutes, the poor man's return salute looked more like someone smoothing their forehead. And little wonder: everyone in the church was grinning broadly. Pearl saluted at everyone.

One of the most remarkable things about this wonderful church was the high ceiling and beautiful acoustics there. Apparently though, congregants were not the only ones who enjoyed the high ceiling. Flies lived up there in the rafters. When the lights flashed on in the morning, it stunned them. After about thirty minutes, they began zooming straight down into the pews like kamikazis. You can imagine the wild slapping and head shaking that this prompted, as a startled man or woman tried to sweep it off their lap or off the front of their clothes. But what reduced us to stifled guffaws was when a fly would shoot downward into a woman's beehive hairdoo. This was during the years of the bouffant styles. So their hair would have been teased, swept upward into a heap on top of their heads, and sprayed to within an inch of its life. So when the fly got entangled in those hairdoos, not only did the fly register its distress by buzzing loudly, but the owner couldn't remove the fly with a simple swat. A well placed, panicked karate chop often shifted the style from an every-hair-in-place look to an asymmetrical do with bobby pins hanging off the ends.

Many a week my siblings and I would laugh ourselves silly, watching people dodge these bothersome flies.

Some people would say that these flies, the struggling organist, and the retarded people in the back of the church were all negative factors in our spiritual lives. But it is actually the imperfections that we remember fondly and that often give character to our beloved memories.

And so it is. As I think back on that lovely, historic church of my childhood, many funny and delightful memories crowd into my mind. Everyone should have such good memories of their church home.

Mother Goose and Chi Square

There was a little girl

Who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good

she was very, very good.

But when she was bad,

she was horrid.

This is what flashed through my mind this morning as I was fighting my hair into submission in front of the mirror. One recalcitrant lock hung straight down in the middle of my forehead and I said this poem to myself as I slung around brush and hairspray.

And in an instant, I was thrilled with a creative flash that brought me an idea for my research class that was about to start in an hour. Since the students were just learning how to create research questions (things that a person can investigate about a topic), why not see how many research questions we could generate about this little ditty?

So when I got to class I wrote it up on the board, sat down and said our opening prayer. Then I announced that this was our first topic for the day. How much research could we think of that could come from this. They were speechless and for a moment I couldn't tell if they were lost, disgusted, or deep in thought. Finally one of the older male students started.

"Well, I'd wonder what events or family qualities predicts whether this little girl behaves badly or not."

From there it really took off. Here are the research ideas we came up with and that thrilled my little teacher's heart. See what you think:

1. Ask a panel of 12 parenting experts to define "bad" behavior in small children. From there, do a survey of parents to find out what they do when their children are "bad."

2. Is there a correlation between bad hair and bad behavior? (the women agreed unanimously that there is!)

3. What are the steps in behavior of someone moving from "very, very good" to "horrid"?

4. Interview children who are "horrid" to understand what they experience when they are behaving horridly.

5. Give a group of parents vignettes of bad behavior in children and examine whether the standards for "good" and "bad" vary across genders.

6. Discover what the precedents or associations to "horrid" behavior might be for peoples whose hair does not curl and whose cultures vary.

7. What parenting practices are used to manage "horrid" behaviors?

8. Are there other features that predict behavior of children?

9. Using a family systems perspective, what is the family impact of one child who is "horrid"?

10. Is there a correlation between marital satisfaction and having a child that acts out?

11. Over the lifespan, what are various "very, very good" and "horrid" behaviors?

12. Are there correlations between adult sexual functioning and "very, very good" childhood behaviors?

And it went on for 40 minutes. By the end of the class there was no more foot dragging and digging in of heels in resistance. Students were buzzing about research ideas and what they might actually do, where to publish it, and how to go about gathering data. I was beyond thrilled. Four hours later when we wrapped up this weekly marathon class, students roiled out into the breezeway outside the building, excitedly talking about what they planned to do for this class. I was ready to drop. But I'm still grinning.