It is addictive, you know.

"Betcha can't do just one" should be the tattoo industry's motto. I am currently searching desperately for a reputable tattoo artist. Why? Because ever since I lost my tattoo virginity last August (which is a long and entertaining story in itself, involving amorous Arab tattoo artists in London's Camden Town) I have wanted to get another tattoo, and now that school is over and I have nothing to focus on but my part-time job and finding an apartment in Athens, Georgia, my obsession with ink has boldly asserted itself.

While I am definitely not as interested in tats as, say, The World's Most Tattooed Woman, I find myself compelled to get at least one more. I'm thinking a Scottish thistle Claddagh on my left ankle, to complement the shamrock I have on my right. In this way, I will proudly bear my Scots-Irish ancestry on the outside of my body as well as in my genes.

And now to return to Isobel Varley, the aforementioned WMTW. She has a serious penis obsession; she recently had one tattooed between her breasts and has a thicket of them growing on the back of her head. There are also dozens of small mice and birds nestled in various areas of her body. This is a little weird, but I like that she defies conventions so boldly. I suppose that the traditional caution against young women getting tattoos - that they'll sag as you grow older - really doesn't apply to her anyway, since she is now 71 years old. Isobel travels the world and experiments with both traditional and innovative methods of tattooing, and her ambition is to get every inch of her skin covered by the time she kicks the proverbial bucket.

I think she's fascinating, partly for this obsession of hers and partly because she makes my own desire for another bit of ink seem very normal in comparison. Meanwhile, while I'm not planning to ink my body to quite the extent of Isobel, I really do need just one more.

Because I could not stop for Death...

I think the down-side to being a fairly thoughtful individual is that sometimes you cannot stop thinking, particularly about things over which you have no control. Lately, my obsessions have run to the things I cannot change: graduation, growing up, growing old, death. I know I'm not alone in these considerations, but it is still depressing to think of this life that I am learning to love so much ending, even if it is not a pressing concern presently.

I've also discovered a new love recently: Khalil Gibran. We read some of his work in a literature class and I adore him, although the poet in me is ashamed to admit that despite his apparent fame (Wikipedia claims that he is the world's third best-selling poet after Shakespeare and Lao-Tse) I had never heard of him before I read his work in class. But here is a portion of "On Death," which encourages me:

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.
In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

I love this. I am certainly a dreamer of dreams, though far less a music-maker, and I like to think that maybe those dreams are worth something. Gibran seems to think so. I don't imagine I'll ever stop wondering what it will be like to be old, to be different, to die; but I won't let it keep me from loving life as it is, at this moment. Perhaps the two will even coalesce someday, and I will come to think of what comes next as another great adventure.

La meme.

I was notified by my friend Amy J. (another W alum!) that I was tagged in her blog, so now I have to complete a meme! I'd say I love doing these because I procrastinate, but since I officially graduated yesterday and don't go back to work for almost two weeks, I have nothing to procrastinate from!

The rules are:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

All right, the book nearest me is The Jane Austen Handbook: A Sensible Yet Elegant Guide to Her World, a lovely gift from an equally lovely friend. Actually, my living room is full of books, and it was a toss-up as to which was closest, but since the JAH has a delightful pale teal cover, it caught my eye first. Here are the sixth, seventh, and eighth lines of page 123:

Here are some techniques and tips to help you get past the Big Quarrel.

Forgive him. If he has done something to anger you, give him the opportunity to show you that he has changed.

That really is strikingly applicable to my life at this point, and excellent life-advice in general. I am rather glad I did this now!

And to carry it on:
Mother Wendy
Dances with Blogs
Je Vois la Vie en Rose
Ill-Behaved Woman

And that's all I know! I know, I am a sad blogger.

Why I Couldn't Be A Therapist.

I hate narcissists, I really do. If I were a professional therapist and had to treat them, I would routinely be arrested for beating them over the heads with my clipboard.

It's the J in me. I am easily outraged (as any of you who've read my entries on Rachael Ray will know) and have no difficulty expressing this. In fact, my mother's nickname for me used to be "the prophet" because my firm ideas and fiery temperament reminded her of Elijah.

As some of you may also know, I'm also currently dealing with several instances of narcissistic men who believe they are far wiser, sexier, and better people than they actually are. All of them are convinced they're now "players" who are irresistible to women, and all of them have had or continue to have issues with substance abuse.

I see people I love being hurt by these men, and it's terribly hard for me to keep my mouth shut instead of screaming at them. I see it as a sign of my increasing albeit certainly-not-optimal maturity that I haven't driven to these individuals' homes and beaten them with the inferior reproductive organs for which they are clearly overcompensating. I make up for it by fantasizing about them one day being told by someone they're trying to impress that they're the assholes they are. And blogging.

I continue to be amazed by how blind some people can be to their own lives. It's hard to believe that one can be so shallow, self-centered, and dogmatically insistent on always, always being right and getting the last word, yet believe that he is generous and wise and spiritual. And it's maddening when these men, who have caused people I love so much pain and harm, then try to turn the tables and - rather than admit to specific, damaging actions of theirs - point out how everyone else has failed them. Or try to blame me for the growing chasm between the person they've been misusing and themselves. A grown man playing the victim is simply nauseating.

Some of my friends have tried to take action to distance themselves from these abusive patterns; others persist, certain that their love will make everything all right in the end. I hate to ever contradict John Lennon, but love isn't all you need. You need common sense too. And narcissists are notoriously difficult to change. In one case, the narcissist involved was asked to keep his distance for a while and make no contact with my friend; of course, he hasn't let go of his iron grip on the relationship, because that would mean not getting the last word. And that's impossible for these men, who believe they are fighting grand injustices against them and are really just nice men who are misunderstood.

The thing is, I've been on the other side of this, too. As a very young child I was labeled sociopathic by doctors; fortunately they were wrong, but I was tenacious in my views and, as a clever child, found ways to turn any argument back against the other person until they either lost their original topic or grew so frustrated that they gave up. I remember often feeling as if the whole world were ranged against me and I was grandly misunderstood, and that if people would just listen to me they would realize I was right. It was a lonely existence.

And then I got out of puberty and, thank god, grew the fuck up.

It's really sad when men in their late twenties haven't left their inner child behind.

Why the Food Network Is Still Worth Something.

The saving grace of the Food Network revolves around one man: the balding, be-moled Alton Brown, who makes my own nerdiness disappear in comparison. Not only is he the host of Iron Chef America, a show in which chefs take on a "secret ingredient" and create gourment cuisine in an hour, but he also is the brains behind (and host of) Good Eats, which is essentially the show Bill Nye the Science Guy would have if he cooked.

The name of the episode I'm watching right now is "American Slicer," and it demonstrates various slices and chops, which is in itself very useful. To top it off, he mentions while slicing a jalapeño that capsaicin, the "hot" element of peppers, is an oil that will stick on your fingers for hours.

Unless, that is, you dip your hands into a 5:1 solution of water and bleach. Why? "This will cause a chemical reaction that will turn the capsaicin into a water-soluble salt that will come off with a rinse."

I love it when science is fun.

Get it together.

Life-coach: google it and you'll find about 6,620,000 results. Definitions range from "an advisor who helps people with problems, decisions, and goal attainment in daily life" (thanks, Webster) to providing "creative common sense" in life situations (from, you guessed it "Creativecommonsense.us").

What I don't understand is how any reasonable person can that think hiring someone else, except perhaps a licensed medical professional, to solve one's problems is a wise investment. Isn't the difficulty facing most Americans that we rely on outside forces for our motivation? Fat? Get a gastric-bypass. Lazy? Claim it's a genetic disorder. If there's an excuse, make it. Don't have self-motivation? Get someone to tell you what to do! And these life-coaches do not require licensing or supervision, because they don't technically provide psychotherapy. This is the court ruling even though most of these coaches do focus on goals like "managing your emotional state" and "conflict resolution," which both sound like the province of clinical counseling to me. If there were ever a way for one person to abuse and manipulate another, it is this situation.

And that doesn't even take into account the fact that these uncredentialed "coaches" often display disturbing personality traits of their own and are generally annoying. For example, almost all of these "life-coaches" use the Royal We, even when they are clearly one person taking a picture of themselves in someone's kitchen. If that's not the hallmark of a narcissist, I don't know what is. In fact, who other than a narcissist could present themselves as the answer to your problem in the first place?

Of course, you may disagree, and say the use of pronouns is just a stylistic choice. (I disagree. Pronouns are a sacred part of the language and should be treated with care, just like any other part of speech.) Then what about their hyperbolic claims on their CVs? Like this one, from "Charles":

"I've coached athletes, performers, and public speakers into peak performance. I've led individuals from career cul-de-sacs into the dream job superhighway. I've succeeded at everything I've ever put my mind to. That means my life is one string of soaring successes after another."

Call me a cynic, but I don't trust someone who claims he's succeeded at "everything" he's ever put his mind to and characterizes his life as "one string of soaring successes after another." (Not to mention the last bit is grammatically dubious in its adjective placement: it should read "a string of one soaring success after another." Yes, it does really come down to word choice.) If I want someone with delusions of grandeur, I'll talk to Han Solo. I definitely won't pay him $100 an hour to instill and maintain in me my own unrealistic views of existence.

Or this one, from "Ryan":

"It is time for the 'Light Workers' of the world to join together to raise the vibration of the Universal Consciousness."

Not only does that sound more than a little like a sex act, it's characteristic of the vagueness of these "coaches." How does vibrating the Universal Consciousness - apart from probably giving the ole gal a good thrill on a Saturday night - solve the fact that you procrastinate chronically, or that you have abandonment issues because of your childhood?

The straight fact is that it doesn't. I'm a supporter of professional counseling and therapy, precisely because therapists (at least, good ones) are straightforward: if you don't want to achieve your goals, you won't, and nobody can help or make you. And therapists are licensed and educated. But anyone, even a narcissistic grammar-abuser taking his own headshot in a crowded kitchen, can set up a jokey website and charge unsuspecting souls $100+ an hour (which, by the way, is more than I pay my doctorate-holding counselor). $100 an hour to get life advice from someone who has apparently solved all his problems and is now moving on to solve yours.

Now that's something you need help with.

Pre-packaged Proposals.

A friend of mine sent me this link. I was, in short, appalled. Apparently, pre-packaged proposal deals are all the rage.

Call me a romantic idealist - Yahoo!'s personality quiz did - but I like to think a proposal is something that a person needs to come up with him/herself. (I include both pronouns since I am an equal-opportunist.) Doesn't it take the magic away to have a person named "Jenifour" (and speaking of which, I abhor pretentiously spelled names that then require mispronunciations) plan out that big event? Jenifour's website provides package deals for proposals ranging from luxury cars to rose-bedecked hotel suites to - you guessed it - dinner at la Tour Eiffel. I'm all for lush romantic gestures, but I think there's something stunningly hollow about paying someone else to plan out, even script, what amounts to one of the most important and life-changing decisions you'll ever make.

And this doesn't even take into account the possible ramifications of spending $5,000-$25,000 on a proposal. First of all, if you lay down that kind of cash, how can you afford the wedding, which in today's society will cost you the average of $27,000? I'm sorry, but I think spending $50,000 on getting married is silly when you can buy a beautiful new 2008 Mercedes SLK-Class convertible for that, which will, with today's divorce rates, likely remain enjoyable far longer.

And secondly, won't this raise expectations to the level where they cannot possibly continue to be satisfied? Staging an entire Broadway musical themed around your proposal may be dashingly romantic, but I challenge anyone to top that for their ten-year anniversary gift. I think this is a form of setting oneself up for failure, by establishing the idea that everything in marriage must be so giddily ideal that when it fails to be - as it inevitably will - and you realize that they really don't know how to put the damn toilet seat down, you start looking for the next person who'll shell out five grand to pop the question.

Another of Jenifour's (and every time I see that, I want to type Jenifive) packages is the "sexy nurse" role-play. The reasons why paying someone else to set up a role-playing sex game is disturbing are numerous, but I particularly thought so of this quote: "Since people have fantasies of their lovers in an assortment of roles and costumes, please feel free to interchange your event to include: maid, stripper, spy, flapper, school girl, milk maid, Jessica Alba, etc."

Jessica. Alba.

Talk about unrealistic expectations...