Think Off!

Talk about having safe sex! Apparently, humans are capable of treating themselves to the mother of all orgasms with no hands involved. None. Not his, not hers, not yours.


Sunday evening I was sleepless in Atlanta, an unusual event for me. It was undoubtedly due to the fact that my computer had contracted a virus that had wiped out my browser, so I was unable to connect to the Internet. For me, that's like taking the needle away from a heroin addict and locking her in her room.

I turned on the bedroom TV and found there was programming instead of an infomercial on TLC. "Strange Sex" was the title of the program. On the screen was a middle-aged woman with blonde and fuchsia hair. Barbara Carrellas was discussing a technique she discovered for achieving an orgasm without genital stimulation.

Thinking off, according to Carrellas, is the process of combining deep breathing techniques with your personal thoughts to bring yourself to rhapsodic spasms of orgasmic Nirvana. Ooookaaaay.

While the story of this woman's efforts to share her discovery and to have it scientifically authenticated played out on the screen, my over-stimulated mind went to work dreaming up scenarios of the absurd.
How many times had I been trapped in the doctor's examining room waiting for Her Majesty to sweep through the door? I had read all the magazines in the room six months ago when I was similarly trapped, and there were no windows to stare through. Why not make use of the examining table to "practice my deep breathing?"
On the screen, Ms. Carrellas is conducting a class, teaching both men and women her technique of thinking off.

"What a minute!" I think. "This could get messy if guys do it." So, I sit up in bed and pay closer attention.

In no time, people are writhing on their mats, laughing hysterically or moaning or almost crying. But there were no visible signs of, um, completion on the men's frontal regions.

"I didn't ejaculate, but I experienced what felt like an orgasm over my entire body," said one guy in a post-orgasmic interview. Whaaaat? Naturally I think it's all BS, that this woman and her cohorts are full of it.

Not so fast, you skeptics. TLC anticipated your mockery and derision. Enter the white coats. Yes, there is technology -- I've seen it on House -- that can graphically capture brain activity while a person is in the throes of ecstasy. 

Barbara Carrellas was slipped into the imaging contraption and asked to do her thing. Two doctors sat behind image screens watching her brain activity as she worked herself into a frenzy. Sure enough, it was Christmas in Carrellas' amygdala, the part of the brain that registers pleasure. In fact, the effect was so intense that Carrellas went right on screaming and writhing long after the doctor's told her the test was over.

Of course this discovery, if widely practiced, could change the sex lives of millions of women who are otherwise deprived for lack of a partner or the inclination to use battery operated boyfriends. And men will have the option of relieving their own tension without having to *handle* things -- you know, like their clothes.

On the other hand, this could bring a whole new set of challenges for getting through one's daily commute on public transportation! The sights! The sounds! Oh my.

What's So Sexy About THIS?

I don't think I'm doing this retirement thing right.


Like so many other key events of a life -- becoming a "woman" when the menses starts, turning 16, getting drunk, or losing one's virginity -- it's just not going the way I had imagined it would.


I remember when I was in my forties (yes, I can still remember them) there had been a number of opportunities to listen to "experts" on career planning. One point they all seemed to stress was the need for working people to have a plan for their retirement. It wasn't a good idea, they said, to simply drift aimlessly into the alarm-clock free, meeting-free, bossless, end-t0-end days of leisure.


I had done the planning, like the "sperts" suggested. According to my plan, I should be sitting in first class on some international airline, making my way through my travel list. I should have already spent several weeks in Australia and New Zealand. Italy and Spain would have claimed a month or so of my time by now.


Well. There is no need to rehash all the reasons that plan has fizzled flamboyantly into the mist. No amount of planning I knew how to do included the Great Recession of the New Millenium.


This morning I awoke and repeated a habit I've had since childhood. I lie in bed each morning and mentally review the list of things I have to accomplish that day. This particular morning, the list was so short it stunned me. During the time I was a working mother with all kinds of business, civic and personal responsibilities, I would have killed to wake up just once in that predicament. Not today.

Today I realized that 2010 has truly become the first days of a time when I cannot afford to look back, not even for a moment. I need to develop a forward moving plan, but this time with little to no resources other than my mind, my body and my soul.


There is an overwhelming sense that I am wasting time, that this carefree time that I struggled so hard to reach in recent months is nothing more than a squandering of my own potential and usefulness. On the other hand, I am reluctant to make commitments to volunteer or join groups, for fear that I will fall back into the dizzying pace that results from my irrational tendency to take on ever-increasing amounts of responsibility wherever I go.

I realized today that, although I have spent most of my life "looking forward" to some kind of milestone, some kind of achievement that I could check off my bucket list, I currently have no such "something" in the pipeline.


Am I done? Have I accomplished everything I'm going to accomplish in this lifetime? If I have, and at 65 I could well have another 25-30 years of life ahead of me, then that is just wrong. With people around me who are 20 and more years younger facing debilitating illness and premature death, I am in relatively good health and I'm still able to think a coherent thought every now and then. What a waste!

Since it doesn't look likely that I will find a job anytime soon, my self-imposed assignment for the next several weeks is to find something to drop into my pipeline. I will discover at least one, hopefully several things I can accomplish in the total absence of money that will provide me with the sense of purpose, the feeling of usefulness and the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of others, that I so desperately miss.


Think I can do it? Stay tuned.

Guest Blogger: My Friend Richard Greener

I have never turned my blog over to a guest before, but Richard has done a magnificent job of describing my feelings.


A Dagger To The Heart Of The Democratic Party - Once Bitten, Twice Shy

You Can Call Me BTFSPLK

Do you remember the old Al Capp comic strip, Li'l Abner? There was a pitiful character whose very presence in a frame guaranteed something very bad was about to happen.

Well, just call me Joe Btfsplk.

Ever since I reached adulthood, I have been in close contact with a disaster looking for a place to happen.

You think I exaggerate?



Milwaukee, 1968 or 69

It was our wedding anniversary. He surprised me with a fancy dinner at a swanky restaurant in suburban Milwaukee. It was lovely. As we stepped outside after dinner I felt as if I had fallen down Alice's rabbit hole. A car that had been parked in front of the restaurant door had been flipped over on its side. A trash can was perched atop the bench inside the bus stop enclosure, and the tree across the street had been uprooted. A tornado had touched down outside without even disturbing an ice cube in the restaurant.


Chicago, February 4, 1977, 5:25 p.m

An elevated train rear-ended another train on the northeast corner of the Loop at Wabash Avenue and Lake Street. The collision forced the first four cars of the rear train off the elevated tracks, killing eleven people and injuring more than 180 as the cars fell onto the street below.

I had driven through that exact intersection not more than five minutes earlier.

Google Images, no credit given

San Francisco, October 17, 1989, 5:05 p.m.

George Nikitin, Associated Press

For once in my life I had won a lottery for a chance to buy tickets for the All Bay Area World Series. My friend and I had taken a city bus from our office in downtown San Francsico to Candlestick Park. We found our seats in Section 153 first, then decided to get hot dogs and peanuts before the game started. The weather was strange, conditions San Franciscans referred to as earthquake weather. As we left our seats, I glanced around to take in the 50,000 plus fans who had already arrived. "Man, Kathy, this would be a terrible time for an earthquake," I said. Five minutes later, the Loma Prieta Earthquake took out the Oakland-San Francisco Bay Bridge, killed 63 people and injured 3,757. We hitched a ride back downtown on an NBC News motorcoach, which sustained four bullet holes as we drove through total darkness.

Oakland,1991

We lived in Moraga, CA, a small town just east of the Oakland hills. On October 20, 1991 the Oakland Firestorm swept through the East Bay, killed 25, injured 150 and destroyed 3,354 houses. The fire came within one mile of my home. I was forced to evacuate with only enough time to grab photo albums, one expensive painting and my medication.

Atlanta, March 13, 1993

I had been transferred by AT&T from San Francisco to Atlanta. The moving van with all my possessions, including my car, had driven off as I was driven away from my California home for the last time. When I arrived at S.F. International Airport the ticket lobby was mobbed. Since that was not at all unusual for that busy airport, I waited patiently in line to check in for my flight to my new home in Atlanta. The ticket agent asked where I was headed. "Atlanta," I chirped. "Not today, you're not," he smiled. "There's a blizzard in Atlanta." "Ha ha ha, that's funny," I said. It was true. The Storm of the Century, the Superstorm, The Great Blizzard of 1993 chose this day to delight the children of Atlanta with a school-closing snowfall. Two days in an airport hotel later, I arrived.

Hurricane Opal, October 4, 1995

A 100 year old oak tree fell between the back of my house and the neighbor's house behind me, taking out my huge vine-covered trellis and part of her roof.

1996 Summer Olympic Games, July 27

My employer, AT&T was the corporate sponsor of the Global Olympic Village for the athletes. I had just completed my 12-hour shift in the press relations office. After watching Shannon Miller and her teammates receive a gold medal, I left the park for home sometime after midnight. At 1:20 a.m. Eric Rudolph's bomb exploded on the exact spot that I had stood to watch the medal ceremony.

Simon Barnett/Getty Images Jul 27, 1996

March 14, 2008

The Atlanta Tornado hit downtown and this building less than one mile from my house.

Courtesy, NWS

September 21, 2009


The skies over Atlanta Metro opened and dumped torrents of rain after a drought of several years. Rivers and creeks rapidly overflowed, flooding entire communities up to their rooftops. This photo was taken in an underpass located just three blocks from my house.

                                            Photo by Caroline Smith

I REST MY CASE!

Did Lindsey Ever Stand a Chance?

For reasons that weren't readily apparent, Lindsey Lohan's mom Dina decided to make herself available for a lengthy interview this morning on The Today Show. She should have kept her Barbie-doll derriere in her antacid-pink Barbie® Glam Vacation House!


It is impossible to be unaware that the beleaguered child actor is currently under court-ordered treatment for one or more of her addictions at the UCLA Medical Center. It seemed reasonable to me to expect that Mrs. Lohan was there to clear up misconceptions about her famous daughter's troubles, to talk about her maternal concerns for Lindsey. Based on the way the interview went, I kinda think that is what the elegant Matt Lauer was expecting, too.

Combative, rude, interruptive, and with the most transparent agenda to indict everyone EXCEPT herself and her daughter, Mrs. Lohan came out with her fangs bared. She made repeated snide remarks about the irresponsibility of the media, especially, of course, the sleazy tabloids, and about Matt who she accused of getting his information from those rags and/or TMZ.

Dina Lohan flatout lied in the face of the camera when Matt stated that Lindsey was currently into her fourth round of rehab. She split hairs about which were court-ordered and which (one) was at her personal insistence. She stated unequivocally that there had only been two. But when NBC was crazy enough to bring her back, live, during the next hour, Matt pressed the issue, listing the four instances of rehab. Now Dina Lohan said she meant there had only been two court-ordered events. Pressed further, she admitted that the current one made three court-ordered rehabs, plus the one she herself initiated.

When asked about the confusing decision on Lindsey's part to sport a F**k You fingernail to court on the day she was sentenced, Mom's response? "We were blind-sided. We weren't expecting the sentencing to occur that day." Huh?

And, as if to offer proof of her stellar parenting skills, she repeated more than four times, that I counted, the assertion that her son, "who is brilliant," had recently graduated sum cum laude from Ithaca College in New York. My guess would be he accomplished that in spite of his parents' antics in Hollywood!

How can anyone expect a young person who has met with success beyond anyone's wildest imagination to have a mosquito's chance in a hurricane of growing into a well-adjusted, addiction-free adult when she has a mother like that?

The Knock

I seem to be on a roll here lately.  Today's post was also an Editor's Pick on Open Salon.  Go figure...

Real Families Open Call: Fireworks!

I wrote this post in response to an open call for submissions of essays about Real Families on Open Salon.  It has been selected as an Editor's Pick and will appear on the front page on OpenSalon.com today (7/27/10)

Like all major holidays, the 1956 Fourth of July started very early for the adults in the family. As a very mature 11-year-old, I was anxious -- too anxious, it turns out -- to join that club, so I was determined to help this year.

Every holiday in my family was a bit of a crap shoot. They would all start the same: Granny in the kitchen, throwing handfuls of this and pinches of that into huge pots; seasoning a mountain of hand-selected and Johnny-the-butcher-across-the-street-cut prime spareribs; boiling spuds for a tub of mustard-spiked potato salad; and, if we were lucky and she felt up to it, rolling out her flaky dough for her world-famous fried sweet potato pies.

The guy who held all the dice was my Grandpa. He always did, every day, but on holidays the relatives would come. What happened on a week night at the dinner table, we were all used to. But it was a horse of a different color when the relatives came.

Grandpa was a legendary drunk. His legend grew out of the fact that he would be "three sheets to the wind" --a phrase they all used, but not one of them would or could ever answer my incessant requests for a definition -- from about 30 minutes after he rose in the morning until he retired at night. But never, not once, did he ever miss a day of work. Not even the day after he stepped out of the coal delivery truck he drove on one icy evening, slipped on the ice and broke his leg. To this day I haven't figured out how he drove that truck with a cast on his leg.

My eleven-year-old self had learned by then to anticipate Grandpa's antics. That I was his favorite grandchild was a well-known, much discussed and deeply hated (by my sister) fact. He was only about 43 when I was born. My father was in the Coast Guard (November 4, 1944) so Grandpa was the one who drove my mother to the hospital. He was the one the nurse found in the waiting room when she announced my birth. And, according to lore, he was the one who paced the floor with me when I was screaming with colic.

On that morning, under the guise of arriving early to "help Granny cook," I climbed on Grandpa's lap and whispered in his ear. "Can you try to slow down on the booze today? For me?" He laughed, patted me on my head and slid me off his lap. "Anything for you, Punkin."
Well.

All the relatives had arrived, my mother and my uncle, her brother, were setting up the ubiquitous croquet set, the aroma from the barbecue pit was creating watering mouths and Grandpa was nowhere to be seen. That was never good.

Apparently, he had "gone to see a man about a dog," his way of announcing either a trip to the bathroom or a trip to the liquor store. The bathroom was unoccupied.

Suddenly he came sauntering around the side of the house, his ever-present newsboy cap pushed back on his head and a silly grin on his face. Uh oh.

Granny looked at him and sighed. Too loudly. Grandpa said, "Oh, brother!" Red flag number #3; the cap and the grin were 1 and 2. I grabbed my sister and my little cousins, who were running around screaming as they played Hide and Go Seek, and ordered them to sit down on the lawn.

As Granny was walking from the barbecue pit to the house, Grandpa reached out and grabbed her, hard, by her upper arm, sending the platter of freshly cooked meat flying. Jr., their son, my uncle, missed his croquet shot because he tossed his mallet sideways and reached his parents in about two long steps. He grabbed his father by the shoulders, spun him around and shouted "Not today, old man. Not today."

At 54, Grandpa was still lean and strong, despite his daily abuse of his body with alcohol. Uncle Jr. was an athlete, was a sailor on a ship during The War and knew his way around a brawl.

They grappled their ways up on the back porch, a long narrow expanse behind a large, side-by-side duplex. On the porch, in addition to the metal porch chairs were some tools that had been used recently to bust up some concrete for reasons I don't recall.

At that moment, my mother walked out onto the porch from inside the house. Confused by what was happening, she yelled "Goddammit, what the hell is going on now?" She immediately ran over and, without thinking, tried to get between the two furious men.

Livid by now, and roaring drunk, Grandpa grabbed the sledgehammer that was leaning against the porch wall, and took a roundhouse swing at my mother. I screamed and fell to my knees crying. All the younger kids were crying uncontrollably. The 20-pound head of that hammer wrenched the handle out of Grandpa's hand, grazed the skirt of my mother's dress and slammed its way through the entire wooden door that led into the kitchen.

And we still had the fireworks to set off.