Resolved...Check!

Driving north on I-45 at 2:30 in the morning is a kinda strange time to have your Electra Complex resolved. But that's when it happened to me, a little less than a month ago on the night of "springing forward". So not only was one of Freud's greatest sexual seminal* rites of passage, but the closing of a massive medieval portcullis with big spiky thangamabobulars, raising of the moat bridge, and lighting of the boiling pitch stuff floating on the moat, resolved... it was obliterated. To wit, a long time familial simmer finally boiled.

For those of you who care to read a VERY personal lament, please fell free to continue on. For those of you would rather bling** blind themselves with a melon baller, I promise there is much more funny and weird stuff in the archives or in some other place altogether.

Forewarned is four-armed...

I dare say that most women's first role-model on which they base their future criteria for a mate is their Father. No exception here. This is part of the sexaulization of the father by the girl-child and according to Freud, and I think he was probably smack on with this (the Electral Complex) and the Oepdipal Complex, accompanied by the desire to supplant the mother (or in this case the step-mother), is usually resolved prior to puberty. Obviously, this does not usually present a major problem when the nuclear family remains intact; and, usually wouldn't represent a problem in the case of a step-family, if all of the mature participants are psychologically fit. Quite easy to glean at this point in the narrative that my family was not only step-, but bonkers, evil, and very unfashionably selfish and bipolar/sociopathic.

Left by Mother to be raised by her parents when I was 2-3 years, initially my father played his role without fail - taking me for custodial weekends every third Saturday and Sunday, switching off holidays, plying me with dandy gifties***, and submitting the court-ordered $50 bucks in a timely fashion. Dad really wasn't into staying single, and certainly it didn't elevate his executive aspirations, so around the time I was 5-6 he married a nice**** girl. I witnessed the event and in order to secure my cooperation was given a bag of candies to stay quiet (because a 6-year old is the perfect witness for a serious marriage at the JP as everyone clearly knows...). Regardless, soon thereafter father decided to take a foreign stint with the Corp. by which he was employed and I was notified that I would be going with - YeeHaw! "Hey," I thought, "one of my parents is stepping up to the plate." Shots were given, blood was taken (a trauma inspiring needle poking session right from the elbow like in the hospital kind of blood getting as opposed to the finger pricking hey that's not so bad procedure), promises were made and before you know it, father was away across the ocean with new wife and I was still in the good ol' US under the caring aegis of my grandparents. I think, in the mind of a 6-year old, that created some pretty hefty abandonment issues. Fueling the fire of my father's rejection was the constant whispering and conniving of the wife. Forbidden to have children of her own in favor of a rising executive career (and all the benies associated therewith), I can only imagine that her jealousy, rage, insecurity, and instability were ingredients in a hate-stew that was put on the burner from the very beginning.

Lots more details later, what I came to regard as the proper way a man should be constructed psychologically, in order to meet the model I had formed from ol' dadders, was someone who didn't really care, who would eventually abandon me, who would make fabulous promises, and who was underneath that charming exterior, a tad (if not more than a tad) fairly unbalanced. I have a series of failed relationships to attest to my ability to meet these criteria with unflagging accuracy - Whoopee.

But, here's the happy part, now I don't have to use that model anymore. I have been released, and as much as I would love to use a stunning metaphor or clever simile here to convey the momentousness and unbridled weightlessness of that releasing, there truly are no words. Maybe at a later time when things are more processed and palatable. But for now, it is simply sensational in the true and basic sense of the word... completely of the senses. Hating as always to be "normal" I have to say that the moment of release was quite predictable. Not by me of course, but certainly any semi-sane outsider could have foretold what would eventually happen. 

So, several weekends ago, having driven to father/step-mother's house, there occurred an explosion of such proportions that I thought it could only have happened on a bad latin (redundant) soap opera, or possibly in that one episode of "Dynasty". The step-mother unleashed all of the bile and hatefulness and bad ju-ju that had been in that awful simmering stew of 37+ years in a drunken, rage laden flail. Expected. Anyone could plainly see that she was the product of a real-life pre-Jerry Springer upbringing and it was just a matter of time. However, it was father's participation (really complete lack thereof) that sealed the deal. I had been biting my tongue, sweetening my behavior, and bending yogically in supplicating postures for so long that I had deceived myself into thinking that this very event could somehow be avoided or that if it did occur, father would acquit himself appropriately. Conflict, verbal and physical, is definitely not my bag, Baby. But, the forces of .... erm, gulp,... good?? evil?? whatever?? combined to open my occluded eyes and show me the true nature of the person I had for so long called "Dad". And in a series of moments, I was released from 40+ years of subjugation, abuse (self and other inflicted), and mental contortion that had made parts of my life a nasty mess.

Absolutely, the remnants of this lifelong aberration did not instantly vanish, but what did happen was permission to heal. The dawning of a process that had been waiting patiently in the wings. The freedom to access and begin the mental calisthenics that will lead me to successful mates, friendships, and associations. 

It's good to have done with it, and it's fearful to begin again. But not a bad kind of fearful, an expectant kind of fearful - the kind you have right before you jump out of the airplane.


*this was neither a slip nor entendre nor pun - a simply hellacious truth, at least in my case

** sometimes the typos might be more interesting

*** the MOST rockin' purple bike complete with name painted on, speedometer, and silvery banana seat

****translate to demonic-witch-psycho-redneck-fubar woman

**&@#%&&*&%*#!!@#

Useless Factoid Thursday

Here at sEa_sick, we pride ourselves on collecting, assimilating, collating, and harboring useless, nonsensical, and completely irrelevant information for dissemination at a mere moment's notice. While reading my fellow blog-buddy, Fab, I noticed that he was prepetuating a terrible untruth about our fellow earth inhabitors, Carcharadon, or the wily shark.

Many folks mistakenly believe that all sharks have to swim all the time, and while I would love to believe that there is one ABSOLUTE and undeniable truth in this universe, this is not the one. While sharks do need to continually move water over their gills as a form of respiration and oxygenation, they can do this while lying absolutely still and flexing their spiracles (don't try this at home without adult supervision or without consulting your doctor first). Not all sharks have spiracles and so must swim around to let lovely ocean water ripple sensually through their mutliple gill slits, but the nurse shark is a prime example of a spiracle-bearer. She can rest unmoving in caves, grottoes, swim-up bars, and right out on the sandy floor until some divers come along to spoil her oceanic dreams.

However, upon closer inspection, what we find is that this myth arose not from an oxygen standpoint, but from a sleep perspective. We assumed that since sharks swam arround most of the time, that they didn't sleep and HAD to move around for this whole respiration thangy. When, in fact, it has everything to do with the absence of the ever-important and mostly ignored, swim bladder. Most fishes possess a little internal balloon that can be handily filled with air, or lighter than water substances (helium is not recommended and rather hard to come by in pelagic conditions) in order to give them buoyancy so that they don't go sinking off into the depths when they want to rest their little fishy fins. Sharks, alas!, were out eating reckless swimmers and other flotsam the day that Darwin was handing out swim bladders and so, if not in shallow waters with tolerable atmospheric pressures, must swim, swim, swim.

And there, my faithful blog-populace, is the undoing of yet another slanderous shark myth. (AND, did you know that boy sharks have two, yes 2!, peniseseseses... woohoo!)

Damn the Luck

I did NOT win the cleavage contest, although I was in first place for a whole, like, uh, ... two hours??? But I don't photo well, and apparently neither do the hooters. Ye ol' ego is untouched by the affair, obviously MrFab's readers have no taste, bunch of wild-ass hooligans with a bald fetish if you ask me.

In future note to self, only cameo's and personal appearances by hooters.....

Reprise Priscilla et.al.

Many moons ago I moaned about my recurring run in with "Priscilla" my ever-friendly and gregarious oral fibre. Much to my chagrin, she has broadened her horizons and begun explorations of my gums and soft palate. It's all stress-functional.

Ya know, other people throw things, or throw up; cry maniacally; get hives; spin on the floor; whatever the chosen expression is when stress is sucking the life out of them. But me, vain ol' me - no, no, no, no, no, nooooooooooooo, nothing so plebian. I've got cold sores forming shanty towns on my soft palate and along the gum line of my molars, not to mention making brief reconnaissance missions in the rear guard of my tongue.

Too much info??? Yeah, well, you're here so might as well get comfortable. No doubt this is all sprung up from the recent break-ups. Ach....... what's an exciting life without a little oral discomfort to break up the rhythm???

On the Nature of Duality and Tea-Cup Puppies

He was SO cute and tiny and fragile. And I could see that he was hurt, but he was so supplicating. He licked my face and waggled his tail and errupted in delighted 'yurps' to be in my arms, but there was something distinctly wrong with him. So I rescued him, and we went to see the doctor. After the x-rays, the doctor told me that someone had performed an operation on this wee innocent fellow and had inserted an hand grenade into his body, "See there, what you thought was a wound is just a scar healing from the surgery. And his bulging tummy, that's not malnutrition although he could use a good meal or two."

And so it was, I stood there already loving this diminutive little puppy who just wanted to be my onliest and bestest buddy, trusting that I would love him and hug him and call him "George". The awful duality of his nature completely obscured to him but now boldly and awfully revealed to me. The doctor assured me that the grenade could go off at anytime, who knew when that pin would work itself free.

I took him anyway, but my love was tainted, fearful, watchful and frantically nervous.

That was the dream I had last night - I think it was the seminal truth of my just ended, but lingering, most recent relationship.

Hooter Pimping

Since I have so many adoring fans, I thought I would let you go over to Fab's place and play/vote in his most recent contest (and of course I am entered, but vote with your conscience....)

Yep, Yep....

I'm comin'.... don't worry... gonna post here real soon. Just got to let some things settle, but I'll have super-dooper juicy tidbits for all in a couple of days. Meanwhile just hang out and see if you can find your bliss.

A little help here?????

MrFab is having a contest and I'm gonna compete. AND, I'm going to WIN!!! But what I really need is an accomplice. Seems cleavage is the subject matter of said photo contest and I think I may need a photographer. Certainly I could use the timer on my li'l, ol' digi camera that takes crappy photos, or I could use the built-in on the Mac... but I bet there's gonna be some folks who are doin' some extra special stuff to their pics with Photoshop, and I just ain't got them kinda skills.

So please apply here....

Thank You for your Support **snork**

Crispy...

This is Polly... She loves to taste everything that I eat. Here she has crept over the bar to snack on some delightful Lays con Limon. Did I mention I am addicted to sour stuff... salt-n-vinegar crisps, buttermilk (don't make that Ewwwwwwwwwwww-face! If you had ever tasted the real stuff, you would think it mind-numbingly scrumptious as I do.), lime juice on virtually everything. So I am corrupting the birds tastebuds as we age along together. Pepper likes to have her very own spoonful of my very sour plain biotic yogurt in the mornings... picture at later date. Here's more Polly, in the fuzzy one I am trying rather pitifully to get a close up of the crisp-crumbs on her lips.