On Postsecret this week, there is a secret that says “I’m sorry I touched you. Puberty was a weird time for me.” The picture on the card is a female. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was from her, that fateful babysitter that changed my brother’s life and mine so profoundly.

She is the reason that evil lurks everywhere for me. I would not have known that evil even exists were it not for her. She showed me that evil comes when your guard is down, and consequently my guard is always up.

“Puberty was a weird time for me.” Yeah, me too. Really weird, since I couldn’t be okay with my body becoming womanly, since that would mean that men would be attracted to me, and that might mean that someone would touch me. And I couldn’t bear anyone touching me because all of their touches would feel like scary betrayals the way your touch was.

“I’m sorry I touched you.” Yeah, me too. I almost killed myself over it, because I couldn’t get over it, and I couldn’t see a light at the end of the very dark tunnel I was in. This is why you shouldn’t fuck kids.

But if you were really sorry, you would find me and tell me. If you were brave enough to fuck us when my mom wasn’t home, be brave enough to find me and apologize.

For some odd reason, whenever I talk I sound really pissed off. I’m not sure why this is, I’ve been this way since puberty. I’m constantly talking in this voice with such hostility as if I were defending myself with words. I wish to change this but I’m not too sure that would be a possibility. I’d be.. well, fake.

It’s the day before Christmas and you had forgotten to take out the garbage which left me rushing out, every body part bouncing to the beat of my barefeet on the cobbled pathway, as I begged the garbage collectors to stop their truck so that our ginormous pre-Xmas-post-wrapping amount of domestic waste could be removed to wherever our carbon footprints pile up.

The only saving grace was, in fact, that it IS Chistmas time. This meant that the illegal, but traditional, black with red binding Croxley Christmas Collection notebook that Cape Town municipal workers produce every year WAS going to be produced and that they would wait for my collection as long as I could continue to hold the mildly malodorous book in my hand while they, for once, eagerly scooped up every bit of garbage (including the hedge clippings)! Making sure that I had seen the highest donation, the garbage collector’s eyes challenged me to equal or better this. But hey, “It’s Christmas” was my response to equal your response of “It’s Christmas” and the garbage collector left, displaying his front gap grin.

Sometimes I can run for you and save your butt, but relying on it may be a mistake that could cost you.

You know what to do with the link:

http://www.klixxi.com/puma-vs-oso/

Name: Audrey Van Noort

Position: Clinic Manager

 Grad Year: As a student of life I bring those cumulative experiences to our office. It has been my journey through college, university, motherhood, sisterhood, as a daughter, as a wife and as a student that adds to my work in such amazing ways.

Other Languages Spoken: I am fluent in American Sign Language. My oldest son was the first Deaf person I had ever met. He was my inspiration to learning this amazing language.

 Favourite Quote: “You can’t be a smart cookie if you have a crummy attitude.” – John Maxwell and “If you think you can do it, you can.  If you believe you can do it, you will.  If you trust you can do it, you will make a difference.” - Catherine Ellis

 Family: I have 4 wonderful children and an amazing man in my life. Twins were my introduction to motherhood followed 4 years later by a daughter and 5 years after that, a son. I finally understood that God really has a sense of humour when he allowed me to begin menopause as my son goes through puberty. I thank Charlie for helping me through it all!

 Favourite Movie: Does anyone remember “Old Yeller”?

 Favourite Sports Team: Am I supposed to have one?

Favourite Musical Group: My kids would say Abba but I love listening to Susan Aglukark and Natalie Cole

 Favourite Book: Your Best Life Now by Joel Osteen

 Hobbies and Interests: I enjoy gathering with friends and family, playing cards and socializing over a pot luck dinner – you get the best of everything!

There are so many artistic photos out there, and artwork in general, coming from so many websites, that I save.  And the websites meld together after a while.  There is DeviantArt.com, vi.sualize.us, photobucket.com, red bubble…then the millions available from just doing a regular search in Google images.  So thus, I have no idea who took this picture or where I got it.  I cropped it so as to not have her whole legs to the waist, showing.  Even if there are photos I might find that do have the face, sometimes now, I will crop the face out, for some reason.  Maybe it is that part of me that likes art or something.  It seems to leave a more artfully mysterious mood to the picture if the face is not shown…

Towards the end of last week, I had put this same legs photo in Facebook as my profile picture.  Don’t ask what got into me.  I think I was in a mood to put something flirtatious in for a profile picture, but changed my mind the next day.  I don’t think about appearing attractive for the sake of men, so often anymore.  But it still happens sometimes.  And I like it when I do feel attractive to the opposite sex when I am in the mind for it.  I stand 6 feet tall in my bare feet.  I have very curly/frizzy hair that I always wear up off of my neck, constantly.  I have large blue eyes with my brunette hair.  I have had very oily skin my whole life that is now paying off in regards to keeping wrinkles at bay.  My legs are as long as the ones pictured here.  When I was younger, I used to choose clothes with the thought in mind of what men would find me attractive in.  Now and for quite a long time, I pick what I would like to wear, to please myself more than anyone else. 

I go back and forth all the time, between feeling like a very pretty woman, then at times the memories of how ugly I was in junior high school come back.  I had been a decent looking child up until the 7th grade, at which point my mother had all of my long hair cut off, I had to start wearing hideous glasses with heavy brown plastic frames, I had to get braces, and had to also wear a headgear for the entire day, at school and everywhere.  My best friend who I had had, transferred to another school the year I entered junior high; so in the midst of having a drastic physical change and in addition to the normal puberty changes, I was alone at school without my best friend.  Every other girl was filling out, wearing a bra, and shaving her legs.  I stayed skinny, no bra, and hairy legs.  That ugly girl I was who looked so awful and was teased so mercilessly, both at school and by my 4 brothers.  It still stays with me all these years later. 

Usually these memories only come around me now, when I encounter the occasional juvenile treatment from men.  Teasing and razzing, the equivalent of putting a little girls pigtails in the inkwell or throwing a frog down her blouse.  It happens, even at my age (and theirs).  Sometimes I go for long periods without experiencing anything like this.  But sometimes, this happens a whole, whole lot.  On some level I know these men who act like junior high boys, might be acting this way because they are attracted, and I have had a couple of more mature male friends, validate this.  In spite of perhaps understanding what the behavior might be about, all this really does is bring back those feelings of being that ugly duckling all over again.   So MariaOcean has self image issues.  It doesn’t matter what is on the outside, if the inside feels insufficient. 

Then there are times that I feel completely confident and attractive.  Times when I don’t care what men think or what anyone else thinks.  Times when I look in the mirror and I am happy with what I see and I know that I am fine.  Sometimes I wonder if that alone makes someone more attractive…in fact it is written in books, “men find confidence attractive, etc.”  The problem is that I am confident when I don’t care…then when I start to care if a man likes me, there comes that insecurity and there goes the confidence. 

I take little baby steps in this direction now, and for how long I have laid low from men, even baby steps are progress.  To be open to the idea of having dinner with a man is progress.  I don’t know what got me to thinking and writing about this; just the progression of thoughts, prompted by my wondering “why did I  put a picture of legs for my Facebook picture last week anyway?”    For now, the “legs” picture is buried in the album of profile photos.  Someone would have to go into the album to look for it.  But it is still sitting there in the album in case I want to put it up again later…

maybe…

sigh…

Even legends like Phil Collins have off days.  Phil Collins “Against All Odds (Take a Look at Me Now) Live”

As I’m preparing to head back to Nashville for Christmas, I started reflecting on the type of person I was when I lived there.  I left right after high school and have only returned to visit….

I’m what grandmas would call a bit of a late bloomer.  My youth and young adulthood were spent largely playing catch up with my contemporaries.  Teeth, walking, talking, puberty, a “womanly shape”, whatever the case might have been, I was physically behind.  Having finally caught up, I remember vainly hoping my body would just hurry up.  “Come on.  What’s taking so long?  Grow those, shrink that, fill out here, just do something.”

High school was especially interesting.  I had the personality of a 40-year-old with the body of a 12-year-old boy.  (Maybe not really the boy part but that’s how it feels when you think everyone else looks like a coke bottle and you more closely resemble a ruler.)  That was not exactly a winning combination.  I never really had to worry about the boys falling head of heels.  To be honest, I’m a little thankful for that lack of attention now.  I, at least, never have to deal with losing that level of interest.  I can imagine that change would be even more upsetting than never having it.  But, trust, it sucked then.  The only people who paid any attention were good friends who just seemed to realize I was a female.  Very flattering.

My mother being the oh-so-sensitive person she can be once told me she’d worried about me getting her families voluptuous tops and my father’s family’s full-figured bottoms.  I may have gotten a bit of the bottom but the top….not so much.  When it became obvious that wasn’t going to be the case, she stopped worrying about fighting the boys off with sticks.  Yes, it’s funny NOW.  But not then.  Thanks, Mom…

In fact, the only curve I seemed to truly develop didn’t really enter the picture until the summer between my sophomore and junior year of college.  I came back that fall semester and my close and close-ish male friends all tried to find ways to tell me or ask where my ass came from. Having no idea what it was they were trying to say to me made the entire experience comical.  I had 4 or 5 normally outspoken guys trying to not offend me but overly curious what I’d been eating that summer.  I’ll never forget that.  Haha.

Anyway, with this delayed overall development, I never quite learned how to take compliments and general interest from the opposite sex based solely on my appearance.  Past middle school and junior high, I never thought of myself as truly ugly.  I could recognize I had traits that could be worked with.  But I never truly felt pretty.  Just somewhere in-between.  Now, I’m not saying that I consider myself to be gorgeous now.  I just recognize that things could be a lot worse for me.  And most importantly, I’m more comfortable with myself.

We always hear it.  People become more comfortable with what God’s given them as the mature.  Sure, there are things we’re never going to like about ourselves.  But we also come to accept that’s just the way things are going to be.  Some people are so stuck on perfection that they find expensive, potentially dangerous ways to “fix” things about themselves.  To be honest, I’m not knocking plastic surgery.  I agree that some people go way overboard but one or two procedures?  Why not?  If it’s that important to you and you are content with the “improvements”, go for it.  Who am I to define your happiness?  However, for myself, I’m simply too lazy to go under the knife to look good.  I’d rather take that money and travel to a far away, exotic land.  Who cares if I’m not beautiful as long as the scenery in the background of my photos is?

I’ve been told and recognize that this new found sense of contentment/comfort is attractive.  Unless you’re pretty enough to excuse all faults, few people are interested in a completely insecure person.  Let me be pleasantly average physically with confidence, a brain and a decent sense of humor.  I’ll be happier with myself.  Anyone that’s willing to take on the challenge that is getting to know me, come on.  I welcome you.  Trust me, a bleeding, guarded heart is an unusual combination.  I like to be different.

Back in my awkward days, I assumed anyone that showed any interest in me was completely full of shit.  Of course, no one would realistically be interested in me.  Unfortunately, at that age, the young men are just as insecure and not willing to be persistent.  Rejection hurts both ways.  However, as I’ve grown up and been forced to realize I’m not all that bad, I haven’t seemed to outgrow the initial assumption people have an agenda.  Either it’s a test or a trick.  Either way, I’m not interested.  Just let me be the friend.  I like that role and I’m comfortable in it.  Tell me I’m smart.  Tell me I’m funny.  Tell me I have a big heart.  But as soon as you tell me I’m pretty, I will shut you down.  Yes, I realize I have some issues to work on.  I’m just airing them in this post.  Hopefully, one of these days, I’ll be able to write that I took a compliment with no arguments, blushing or downcast eyes.  I’ve got a lot of work to do.  But then again I’ve already come a long way…

Thankful she’s at least outgrown Urkelina,

Jo’van

(Inspired by this feature article.)

Old white skin is loose and thin, flimsy between my fingers, like chicken flesh made human. There’s only one patch of skin on a young white woman’s body that even compares to nearly every geriatric inch of an old white woman’s skin — only one… one remote, discreet patch that I can’t recall right now. The first time I stroked old white skin, it felt like the discarded pork fat that killed my pappy. I yearned for it more than Marion Berry craved an 8-ball of cocaine. That singular phrase, “I’m on it like white on rice,” can describe the transparent look and feel of that skin.

Oh, but I had reasons for my craving that were socially sound. For years, I hid behind the notion of young black men leaving their black women under the age of 40 for any white woman with a pulse. A black woman hitting puberty is like Kryptonite to a black man, so I thought. He goes young or younger, average girth or big, average-looking or UGH-LEH or drinks a 40 with his homeys and looking for trouble. Old white women are thrilled to get the black man that they couldn’t get with in their younger, baby-making years, for Civil Rights done happened. It’s not my fault; it’s those black women that wanted me so much that I had to run away.

Well that’s a damn lie. Truthfully, I attract a decent percentage of black women. Heck, some of them aren’t too shabby on the eyes

More than enough black women want me that I could split my paycheck for alimony for a fortnight, but I don’t want them.

I want old white women. And they want me. We look at each other and exchange a sultry glance of lust and fear, passion and purse clenching in those fertile few seconds. And our attraction is based first and foremost on race. Oh, we aren’t one of those pairs who “tear that ass up” with one of a different race or dutifully come together but out of a greater feeling of interracial brotherhood and sisterhood. Not as liberal hippie men and women do we seek each other out. The welfare lines has made it easier to get the mad hookup. Women advertise: ivory frisky for ebony. Men text: I WANT 2 HIT THAT OLD WHYT ASS. We aren’t the same people who cry: Race ain’t all there is, y’all. It is all there is. We want to get with the swirl.

Despite the fact that some amount — I can’t remember the source… let’s say 94 percent — of single Americans have dated outside of their race, that purposeful seeking of the specific other makes some, especially white men, more uncomfortable than Brokeback Mountain.

We are what they blacken and whip: black men and old white women who come together because we want that pasty and dark ass. They are bitter about us taking their unwanted women. Old white women are seventy six and a third times more likely to marry a black man than a white man is to marry one of those… black women. White men can grab statistics out of their air, too, in representing their argument. But in truth, white brothers, we’re after that wrinkled ass, not the commitment and they aren’t long for the Earth anyway.

Yes, that ass!

The men who go after the old white women is a spin-off of black-woman connoisseur Thomas Jefferson’s (also a U.S. president) “always take hold of things by the smooth handle,” for the black man’s handle is large and the old white woman’s handle glove is cavernous. According to some unnamed school of thought, black men turn to white women when baby’s lookin’ fine and they wanna — as the poet Ginuwine once said — “jump on it.” It’s a “damn, girl, you easy” reaction.

When we get to the “damn, girl, you easy” place, they know it, and they are already halfway in the grave. Old white women are more grateful, accommodating and easier to shut up than black women. They know how to cook meatballs, a nearly lost art among the rest of us. An old white women is so damned fine because she knows how to make some meatballs.

Old white women have something black women don’t have anymore: shawls. They clearly know that their necks are delicate. Black women appear to be waiting to catch their death of cold to learn whether they are resilient. Yet old white women know that they are fragile, one step away from fatal pneumonia, something black women would name their child. They make you feel like a man that needs looking after, after you grip it and rip it. I can go all out when I am with them. How many black women can treat a man like a gentleman and a succubus of life energy?

I often felt in my Black period that only during lustful sessions of freakin’ it that the connection between me and the world was as light as cornbread, encompassing my intimacy like a cast iron skillet. It takes a lot of sexin’ for two black people to be in the same room together. These old white women, so alive by the waning days on their calendar, slice through that cornbread and latch on with their delicate bodies, freeing me and I can truly get with it. I am like the driver of a Cadillac hooptie with a fine-ass bitch that can shoot a gun out the window. I know I can yell, “Move bitch, get out the way!” but there’s no need. On the other hand, the last time I waxed some black ass, we chugged along on a crowded bus, and she was like Mabel “Mama” Thomas from What’s Happening, Raj and Dee’s mother that disappeared sometime after the first season and never came up in conversation for some reason.

My current girl, a spry Medicare recipient, seduced me via butterscotch candy at a senior center while I was doing community service. Without saying a word, she felled me under her spell, presented with her drawn-in eyebrows. She didn’t motion me over or ask me to see pictures of her grand kids until she knew that I wouldn’t take her Social Security check. Both quaint and hip, she has a butt that won’t quit. I was asking her if she wanted to go downtown 30 minutes after that candy.

Another afternoon, in that same senior center, a different old white woman, a spry pensioner, asked me to help her off of her feet.

I don’t doubt that there are some old white women who can’t get down on it or make meatballs. Personally, I have not experienced one that can’t. (True, I am not dating some broke-ass woman, but I didn’t do that when I dated black, so clearly and without doubt, I am an equal opportunist.) They look better than black women, they hold, coddle and top it off better than black women. Statistically, their vaginae are only a fraction of a meter larger on average, but they seem friendlier and whiter.

Black women under 40 still have their waistlines and standards — if they ever had them. They carry youth, courage and firm breasts above their plump asses. Perhaps a good part of that firmness is their courage. Even the youngest ones look courageous somehow and deeply fearless. They soldier on despite any setback that would fell the whitest of women. Surely, our culture as much as biology has made them braver, grittier, less-pushover versions of themselves just at the point where black men and old white women and Eskimos are browbeaten within an inch of their lives. Society undervalues the black woman, leaving her scrappy and bold when she realizes under the age of 40 that she’s all that.

With the exception of some college women at Freaknik after a few Mad Dogs, black women don’t turn me on anymore.

That admission put me in the same grouping as the unpopular geek only interested in Asian women. While black men my age will shake their heads at me, not understanding why I’m not chasing down a young, thin white woman, I feel a kinship with the dorky nerds. We are the same, me and that awkward geek, drawn to the exotic object of lust, not caring that the forbidden fruit doesn’t know about the term “baby mama” or prenuptial agreements.

Break down the roots of attractions all you want — like so-called scientists will do, just because — and you won’t be able to formulate a good answer why we want to sink the canoe. Desire pours out like a 40 on Dre Day, and it is delightfully oblivious to others who just don’t know. Yet until just now, I opined that my passion was like affirmative action, because it was a reward for my suffering.

Halfway through my last booty call with a black woman, I realized that little smoke rings of courage and audacity were escaping her ego like fur from a wolf shot down from Sarah Palin’s helicopter. This woman was at least mildly secure in herself, and I wanted to tell her to go fix me some food, submit to me and cater to my every whim. I would have climbed off her and told her to get her ass out, but she seemed to expect that — like she wanted to start a fight. I couldn’t give into her desire and make her louder and angrier. My Northern cousins would describe her general aire as “uptight” or “like the president.” Into the second double dip of ass-freakin’, I wanted to get my ass out and I didn’t notice that she said that she was late because she stopped taking her pill.

What did she think would turn me on more: That I didn’t know she was late because of her not taking her pills since Clinton was president, or that she wanted me to be the father of her baby because we already had three kids?

I cannot even imagine an old white women having a baby without the horrific black magic of modern medicine.

That was my last token black women. I recently came out of my race-exclusive closet and told my friends, “I love old white women. I’m not attracted to uppity black women under 40 and I am not dating them anymore. Really, I don’t love them hoes.”

Nobody was dumbstruck.

(from en.wikipedia.org)

 Yes, it’s winding down. Monday was the last dissection in the gross lab for my group.  Tuesday was my last Histology small group. Tomorrow will be our last lecture, Thursday will be our last CSE, and Friday will be our last exam in HSF. 

So now it’s time to run to the end. On Sunday, I was worried that I might be sick. Thankfully, after resting and a good night’s sleep, I’m back to normal. 

*** 

Never understimate the hunger of a group of med students during the school week.  They can be like sharks, circling around for free food. If you haven’t marked or labeled your food, look out. 

I mention this because of a popcorn confection I took to a weekend holiday party. The snack was a hit, but I still had about two containers of it leftover. So I took the containers to med school and dropped them off in the med student lounge, with an “Eat Me” Post-It note on the top of each container.   

I dropped them off around 8 AM. Around 11 AM, I came back and found them each about 1/4 empty. (Keep in mind that classes were still going on.) By 3 PM, both containers were completely empty. I am impressed. 

***

Dr. Osol finished his lectures on pregnancy, puberty, and the male and female reproductive systems today (Tuesday), and he remained ever informative and hilarious.

He talks about the story of sperm, which he says is “one of the most tragic tales in biology”. You see, if around 250 million sperm are ejaculated into the female reproductive tract, then far more than 225 million sperm will die in the first two minutes! In fact, only a few thousand will survive to try and fertilize the egg.

He then asks a female in the front row to pretend to be the egg, and he acts out a sperm who’s attempting to fertilize the egg.

“You’re so beautiful, and I want to approach you, and I get very close! But then, my head starts to hurt! And I can’t get closer! And then I’m going to watch you as I die. Because another one got there first! I know you guys all know about that.”

Here are a few more of his quotes from his lectures: 

• “There really are two-headed sperm. I just couldn’t get one to show you. So I brought a brussel sprout instead.”
• “Sperm are fun. They’re really playful little cells.”
• On puberty: “Hopefully you’ve been through it. If not, you should see a doctor at this point.”
• On famous hermaphrodites: “And then there’s Lady Gaga! She might be Lad Gaga! I don’t know!” (Apparently there are rumors that she is one.)
• On the process of sperm maturation, which takes about 70 days: “So if a sperm starts today, right around Valentine’s Day, he’ll be ready to roll! He may be a Valentine’s Day present for some people.”
• “…Viagra, which the French call Le Weekend pill, because you take one on Friday and have a great weekend.”
• “Abstinence is perfect, if you can abstain. That’s the problem.”

***

Histology today was led by Dr. Deborah Cook, a pathologist here at UVM. Pathologists have the reputation of knowing everything. Actually, Dr. Cook tells us, it’s just that they know how to look up everything.

Nevertheless, they are awesome. I’ve met several of them in and out of school (as well as students going into the field), and literally every single one has been amazing.

Josh Pothen (UVM’s Meager Med Student)

Donate $1 to The Meager Med Student!

A couple of months ago, I had my first taste of so-called feminist horror cinematography, in the form of Teeth.

That first taste of feminist horror tasted bad. Bad enough so that I was almost totally turned off by the notion that such a thing as “Feminist horror” could exist. Teeth has gotten mixed reviews and reactions around the internet; I thought that having vulvar pain myself I’d somehow be able to sympathize with the main character, or at least get a kick out of the revenge aspect. But it turned out to be too violent, nonsensical & over-the-top campy for me. Teeth didn’t work out; I didn’t like it, I don’t recommend it.

While I was checking out what other people were saying about Teeth, I learned about another feminist horror film that was supposed to be very good – Ginger Snaps, a werewolf movie with feminist themes. Werewolves? What, like from Teen Wolf & Twilight? I filed Ginger Snaps in the back of my mind and figured I’d get around to it eventually… That time is now.

It’s not Halloween season anymore, which is a shame, since part of the film takes place on Halloween. It would fit right in with a monster mash-up movie fest. But on the other hand, we do have Ginger Snaps‘ anthesis playing in US theaters right now – Twilight: New Moon. Vampires vs. Werewolves… a movie & book series criticized for the way it depicts the main female character, vs. a movie which merits a feminist critique for different reasons. I can’t say I’m particularly fond of either vampires or werewolves, actually. I could either go see the Vampire movie right now which has a few shirtless werewolves and themes of abstinence in it (or at least in the book series it’s based off of,) or I could see a werewolf movie that centers the female characters as one of them goes through menarche & puberty.

Welp New Moon isn’t available on Netflix yet, so we’ll go with Ginger Snaps. Werewolves win this round…
And, it turns out, werewolves win my approval too. This… is a surprisngly good movie. I… liked this.

****SPOILERS****

Ginger Snaps takes place in the town of Bailey Downs during early Fall. Some weird shit has been going down in town – pets & strays have been getting mangled and killed by an unknown beast. This is the setting in which we meet 16-year old red-haired Ginger Fitzgerald and her 15-year old sister Brigitte. Ginger is clearly the dominant sister, with a protective streak when it comes to Brigitte. They’re very close – they share a bedroom and have taken a vow to be together forever: “Out by sixteen or dead on the scene, but together forever.” They rely on each other, and I suppose they have to – their parents, Pamela & Henry are very laissez faire. I actually like the girls’ mother, Pamela – she seems mellow & respectful of her daughter’s boundaries, and is willing to answer their questions without shaming them for asking in the first place. But Pam & her husband seem distracted by marital problems (Pam mentions counseling at one point in the film,) and high school is a very rough time to live through. The girls’ don’t have many other friends to talk to, so they turn inward. Their interests include all things goth, trash-talking their peers and taking staged death photos of each other. (For this reason, the movie may be triggering to people with a history of self-injury.)

Neither Ginger nor Brigitte has started menstruation as of the beginning of the film, although Ginger has been experiencing some recent cramps & discomfort. She has also started developing secondary sex charactersitics, including larger breasts relative to Brigitte. Several boys at the girls’ school have been eyeing the sisters and harassing them. During gym class one fine day, Brigitte and Ginger dis another rival student, Trina, who then targets Brigitte during a field hockey game. This time, Ginger fails to protect her younger sister. Trina pushes Brigitte onto the ground and into a dog corpse, another victim of the Beast of Bailey Downs.
How no one else noticed a dog corpse lying in the middle of a gym field before that, is beyond me.
The girls decide to exact revenge that night by sneaking out and hurting or killing Trina’s pet, a big burly dog, then staging the scene to make it look like the Beast of Bailey Downs killed it.

While the girls are making their way to Trina’s house, they encountered yet another pet corpse. This seems like it will work out well, as they can use it to scare Trina into thinking her dog has been killed. While trying to move the body, Brigitte notices blood on Ginger’s leg. Ginger hadn’t been feeling well all day, and the blood comes from her first period. It comes as a surprise to both girls; Brigitte even lets out an “Ew.”

Ginger’s menarche just happens to fall on the night of a full moon.

Unfortunately, upon noticing the menstrual blood, Ginger is immediately attacked by the Beast of Bailey Downs, perhaps attracted by the blood. The monster drags her into a wooded area. Brigitte and Ginger eventually escape and make it back to their house, but their parents aren’t there, and Ginger is unwilling to go to the hospital to treat her injuries. Meanwhile, during their escape, the Beast is struck by a passing van and dies. (Werewolves in this universe are not so strong that only silver bullets can kill them.)
Back at the house, Ginger’s wounds have already begun to heal remarkably fast. She’s clearly distraught, and still dealing with menstrual pain, but trudges on to school the next day anyway.

It soon becomes clear that since the night of menarche and the animal attack, Ginger has been going through some changes. Brigitte worries for her elder sister, who starts acting much more aggressive – in every respect. Ginger becomes more confrontational in general and develops an interest in the boys at school. She is attracted to one in particular, Jason, and spends less time with Brigitte. In an effort to relieve her heavy menstrual cramps and bleeding, she even tries drugs for the first time (In this case, marijuana.)
It just so happens that Ginger’s first drug use takes place in the same van that killed the real Beast of Bailey Downs. The van’s owner, Sam, and Brigitte know something is happening in town with all the animal killings and then the Beast’s death. Since Sam is the only other person Brigitte is able to connect with, and because he does not reject her fears as absurd, (after all, he saw the Beast with his own eyes the night he struck with his van while driving,) she begins bonding with him while they research werewolves. Brigitte tells Sam that she is the one who was bitten by the Beast, in order to cover for her sister. Sam & Brigitte eventually decide that the best way to cure werewolfism is to use a dose of Monk’s Hood plant, which grows only in spring, and so isn’t available even in Sam’s greenhouse.

It was somewhat ambiguous at first, whether Ginger’s personality and physical changes were due to normal hormonal shifts associated with going through puberty, stress, or whether the changes were due to the beast attack. Ginger and Brigitte get some feedback from a school nurse, who schools them on what to expect when you’re going through puberty, and Ginger seems assured that what she’s going through is within the realm of normal. (Appearantly the girls’ public school did not include comprehensive sex education.) The nurse also offers condoms, since Ginger can now become pregnant if she has sex. (This would have been an interesting sub-plot! Pregnant she-werewolf transformation! But the directors didn’t take it in that direction.)

But then Ginger’s body begins to change. We see Ginger’s razor is covered not just with ordinary body hair, but with tufts of fur. In fact, she’s growing quite a bit more body hair where none was before – particularly around the animal wounds she endured. As the days go by, Brigitte finds that Ginger is even growing a tail. Of course, that’s not a change usually associated with menstruation. Additionally, over the course of the film, (it spans about a month,) Ginger’s hair goes from red to white.

Against Brigitte’s advice and the school nurse’s warning, Ginger and Jason have unprotected sex, which winds up infecting Jason with the same werewolfism she is infected with. (He does not realize anything is wrong until he urinates blood and subsequently becomes more aggressive.) Ginger returns from her first sexual encounter visibly distraught, and Brigitte finds out the real reason why – Ginger killed a neighbor’s little pet dog on the way home. The sex wasn’t great, but it wasn’t upsetting in and of itself either. What was more upsetting was the uncontrollable urge to tear living things to pieces.

Although Ginger has held it together up until then, she reveals the fear she’s going through while these strange changes are happening to her body. The only thing that satisfies her is killing, as in the case of the little neighbor dog. As the film progresses, Ginger’s bloodlust only grows, until at one point she compares the pleasure of killing to the pleasure of masturbation: “It feels so… good, Brigitte. It’s like touching yourself. You know every move… right on the fucking dot. And after, see fucking fireworks. Supernovas. I’m a goddamn force of nature. I feel like I could do just about anything.”

Brigitte tries to help her sister, piercing her with a silver ring – a gift from Sam. It’s not meant to be a purity ring in the sense of abstinence, but rather in the hopes of purifying Ginger’s body of the infection.
It’s not a bad idea, but because this isn’t a typical Hollywood variety werewolf, the ring has no effect.

Brigitte also helps Ginger tape down her tail in the morning before going to school. Brigitte is growing up, and is becoming a protector of her elder sister.

But Brigitte is not fully grown yet, and she is still the target of other girls at school. The girls’ rival, Trina, continues to bully Brigitte. Ginger reacts with rage, attacking Trina and geting in trouble at school. Later, Trina shows up at the girls’ house, claiming that her dog has been stolen by Ginger. (The viewer never finds out if this is true.) Trina and Ginger get into a major fight at the house, and Trina dies.
She did not die by Ginger’s hand directly on camera – she tripped and hit her head on a countertop.
The girls quickly act to hide the body, leaving only two fingers out in the yard by accident. While burying the body, Ginger bitterly reflects on the kinds of woman one can be - “Slut, bitch, tease, or the virgin next door.”

Things are getting serious now, with a human death involved and Ginger’s increasingly aggressive behavior. The girls make plans to flee, but their plans are quickly derailed. Luckily, Pamela has brought home a boquet of Monk’s Hood plants from a local craft shop. At the first opportunity, which happens to be the morning of Halloween, Brigitte locks Ginger into the bathroom, partly to protect the public, and to protect Ginger from herself. Brigitte brings the plants to Sam’s greenhouse and they make a dose of anti-werewolf serum. Sam reveals that he knew all along that Ginger was really the bitten girl, not Brigitte.

On the way home, Brigitte runs into Jason again. He, too, is becoming more aggressive, and his looks are changing as well – he looks like a mess. Brigitte tests the anti-werewolf serum on him, which works. As soon as he is injected, his aggressive behavior stops and he wanders off. Monk’s Hood is safe to use Ginger.

Meanwhile, the girls’ mother has discovered Trina’s disembodied two fingers left out in the yard from earlier. At first, she dismisses the fingers as props used by the girls during thier photoshoots. But just in case, she seals them in tupperware… she’s clearing getting suspicoius. Her suspicions are confirmed when she unburies Trina’s body in the shed. She goes looking for her daughters.

But where is Ginger? She escaped from the house and went to school, where she killed a teacher. This is the first human death at Ginger’s hands that we know of; it is not the last. Brigitte finds her sister at school and offers to help her by volunteering to help clean the body up. But before Brigitte can get started, Ginger kills another victim, the school janitor. At this point, Ginger is all but lost. She is enjoying killing so much that she wouldn’t even want to be cured anymore. And she knows that if she was returned to a normal human state, she would have to face the consequences of her actions – she’d surely go to jail.
The girls get into a major verbal fight. The viewer is starting to learn that Ginger hasn’t just been over protective of her sister while they were growing up – she’s been manipulative, too. I’m wondering if Ginger’s alpha personality is the reason Brigitte is so introverted. For if the girls had no one else to turn to but themselves, and Brigitte was always expected to follow her sister’s orders, then she would have been stifled for her whole life.
Ginger leaves the scene, intent on killing Sam. Brigitte takes off after her.

Pam, who has been out looking for the girls, catches up with Brigitte. Pamela knows that Ginger is the dominant sister, and that Trina’s body was probably her doing. Still, Pamela loves her daughters & is willing to sacrifice everything to protect them both, even if it means leaving her husband & burning down their house. But first, they need to find Ginger, and go to Sam’s greenhouse to find her. Brigitte leaves her mother behind.

By now Ginger’s face is almost completely unrecognizeable and has clear animal features. Her hair is totally white, and when she reveals her body to Sam in an attempt to seduce him, she is covered in scar tissue. It’s like her body is just wasting away. Her body was changing gradually, but, perhaps because it’s been about a month since she was first bit, the transformation is accelerating. (I didn’t catch if Halloween takes place during a full moon for this film. That would have been cool if it did.)

Brigitte catches her sister before Ginger is able to kill Sam (but he is seriously injured.) Brigitte even sacrifices herself to save Sam, and hopefully, her sister. She cuts her hand and applies it to Ginger’s, passing on the werewolf infection to herself. Brigitte tells Ginger, “You wrecked everything for me that isn’t about you.” Now both of them will need the Monk’s Hood cure, which is available back at the girls’ house. Sam knocks Ginger unconscious and loads her up into the back of his van. By now her transformation is almost complete & we see glimpses of her changing body. This part looks like it was done good ol’ fashioned costumes & puppet work, not CGIs. The effect is mixed – it looks like the transformation is tangible, but the monster costume looks fake & rubbery. The wolf mask isn’t able to express emotion, it’s frozen in a snarl.

Sam & Brigitte arrive safely at the house, but Ginger, now fully transformed into a werewolf, escapes into the house. Naturally, Sam & Brigitte follow, hoping to get the Monk’s Hood medicine prepared.
For some reson, although the house clearly has electricity available, no one thinks to turn the lights on to make finding Ginger easier.
Brigitte and Sam agree to lure Ginger out then inject her with the medicine, but Sam is attacked and dragged away by Ginger.
The next scenes are the climax of the movie. Brigitte follows the blood trail to Sam, still alive but not for much longer, and Ginger. Ginger does not attack her sister. Instead, she just watches to see what Brigitte does… Brigitte tastes Sam’s blood, but rejects it. She is unwilling to meet the same fate as her elder sister, and unwilling to die. This enrages Ginger, so she kills Sam. Brigitte escapes to their old bedroom and pulls a knife out of their dresser drawer to defend herself with. She has a syrine full of the Monk’s Hood medication, but before she has a chance to use it on her sister, Ginger attacks.
And impales herself on Brigitte’s knife.
As Ginger lays dying on the ground, Brigitte looks around their room at all the photos & knicknacks they’ve collected over the years. She approaches Ginger’s body and stays with it until Ginger finally stops breathing. It’s a sad sequence… they were very close sisters for their whole lives, but in the span of about a month, everything fell apart.

And that’s the way the movie ends.

We do not know what happens to Brigitte or her family after this. I hope that Brigitte would have used the medication on herself, to cure the werewolfism before it got severe. (There is a sequel, and a prequel to this film, so I suppose I could find out if I wanted. I heard the other movies in the series aren’t as good though.)

The film was made in 2000, and it shows – it looks great on DVD, good sound quality, decent music. There aren’t any shoddy early-generation CGI effects. CGI, on the one hand allows for more detail, but often sacrifices a feeling of realism. Everything looked like it was done with costumes & puppets where needed, but at times the costumes are stiff.

The dialog is believable. It’s got a lot of cursing, but I recall my own teenage years and the number of f-bombs sounds about right. There is a lot of dark humor.

All of the characters have personalities that are consistent from scene to scene, which is an improvement over Teeth. Because the characters all have clear personalities, it’s easy to emphasize with what they’re going through – particularly Brigitte’s anguish over her sister drifting away.
But Ginger is scared too – her body is changing, and not in the expected way. While she tries to keep her fears under control, at times they bubble up to the surface and she breaks down trying to maintain a brave face. Even as she starts exercising autonomy, she is losing control of herself to the infection. Yet she retains some memory of who she truly is up to the very end. Ginger, in wolf form, attacks Brigitte, but only after Brigitte finally broke free from her elder shadow’s sister – Brigitte rejected her.

Although I have a sister myself, I found I could not personally relate to these sisters’ relationship. My elder sister has always been significantly my elder, and we struggle to have any connection at all. There was no race to menarche or lording her sexual maturity over my childishness. I was a child. She was a teenager. End of story. She was older, she had decision-making authority – or at least, she would have, if she had ever babysat me. I never needed to clean up any messes she may or may not have been making, because if she was making any at all, she kept them hidden.
It’s always been that way. I have never had any sisterly relationship to lose.
Yet because I am on the outside of that relationship – I paid more attention to the movie and enjoyed the challenging dynamic between the two.

It’s not clear whether Ginger would have still drifted apart from her sister so much had she not been attacked by a werewolf. It’s possible – Ginger holds menarche over Brigitte’s head several times, lording it over her younger sister as a sign of greater maturity and authority. Some of my own girlfriends did this within our own circle of friends once we started entering puberty. But if the attack had never occured, Ginger would probably have not acted so aggressive & dangerous. As it happened in the film, Brigitte had to clean up Ginger’s murderous messes. Perhaps, in the absence of the werewolf attack, Brigitte would have had to clean up different kinds of messes for her sister.

The girls are understandably frustrated, living in a suburb with few outlets for creativity and activity – and what few outlets there are, are regulated either by their own peers & rivals, or by adults. The girls’ most private & creative outlet is their simulated self-injury and death photography, but when they present their work to a classroom, their teacher takes offense.

I was very impressed with this film. It’s enjoyable because it’s well done overall. It’s not always scary – there’s plenty of blood & gore, but it’s more of a drama than a spooky film. You don’t have to watch it around Halloween to enjoy it. It’s probably worth a rent from the local video store or Netflix next time you have a craving for a good drama, or something with a hint of feminism.

1. To a woman in her home, décor and fashion supersede functionality. According to men, functionality should reign.
2. To men sex is an end. To women sex is a means.
3. Females want to see justice served through equality, when equality is more theory than achievable. Males want to see justice served through fairness, which is both practical and achievable.
4. The male nature promotes winning as the only thing—fairness in action. The female nature promotes how one plays the game as more important than winning—equality in action.
5. Men value what they see when they see it more than what they remember about what they saw. Women are opposite.
6. Although both sexes are emotional decision-makers, men tend to weigh facts and truth with greater reality. Women tend to more easily blend reality with their emotions.
7. Women more easily endorse political correctness than men. (In the name of compensating for past injustices, it makes things more equal. According to my favorite intellectual giant, Dennis Prager, truth and political correctness are mutually exclusive.)
8. Boys either mature mentally before puberty or remain adolescent as men. Girls either mature mentally after puberty by denying sex to boys, or they remain adolescent as women.

“Adon’s World” way of life; (Dec. 12, 2009)

            One, “Indulge in the entire sensory material world (that does not kill you or maim you) and repeatedly till the age of puberty; then desist indulging on sensual pleasure to the bare necessity.”  The rationale is that at that early age the brain gets connected and trained to perceive the world from repeated signals and impressions from the outside material world, nature, community, and interactions; your brain is learning to perceive the world as a “coherent entity”, a world that seems to be governed by activities of cause and effect.  After puberty, the brain is mostly engaged in re-structuring and maintaining what has been stored and registered. Thus, overindulgence after puberty is the ruin of health, confusion in the mind, and proliferation of worries and problems with no return for the brain development.

            Two, “Be exposed to all kinds of pains (that do not kill or maim you) till the age of puberty and then flee any pain like the plague”.  Rationale: your developing brain has to be trained to control mechanisms in order to guide you well oiled “common sense” practices; your brain will be better equipped to orient your decision away from rash decisions and to plan for the longer term pleasures of the mind.  After puberty we no longer have to suffer pain or try to endure it if we have treatments to alleviate it because pain is totally counterproductive in all mental or physical activities.

            Three, “Do not fear the Gods.” If you survived till your brain was properly trained and adapted to reflect, study, and control your behavior then your well developed “conscience” is a good moral guidance to rely on.

            Four, “Do not worry about death.” You are already a happy reflecting independent mind and you will adapt to happy philosophies that do not dwell so long on what happens after death. Fight against the “valleys of tears” teachings. Since it is a matter of belief then pick the positive and pleasurable belief.

            Five, “The individual is a whole and integral microcosm of the universe and he is holy.” Struggle of the dignity of the individual, his well being, and equality in human rights.  We were all born to be free from oppressions and crimes against humanity and we must enjoy opportunities to be freed from oppressive environments.

            Six, “Spirit and matter are one entity; the world of ideas and the material world are perception of our brain.”  Our brain has learned to unite these two worlds as a “coherent whole” and he may also dissociate them at will if necessity for survival arises. Once the brain is dead then the world is dead. Your friends will remember your good deeds and keep your memory alive. Thus, every individual created a world as he perceives it; there are as many worlds as living human beings. Listen to the other point of view carefully: his world is as real and viable as yours.

            Seven, “If you are an introvert then enjoy your seclusion in good conscious. If you are an extrovert then go into politics with good conscious.” Do not fight your naturally acquired behavior; what was not rectified before puberty has no chance to be corrected. Your job is to investigate the best alternatives that extend your behavior.

            Eight, “Do not worry about your neighbor until he asks for aid; then, extend a helping hand with all your might and energy”. Respect your neighbor’s sense of dignity and his individuality. Your neighbor might be your best resource to re-structuring your brain.

            Nine, “Constantly work on improving in body, mind, and the pursuit of continuing education.” You have to learn to enjoy physical exercises, mental problem solving, and living in nature.

            Ten, “Refrain from over indulgence in everything”: it is an ugly sight dying looking constipated. Moderation is the optimum strategy for a happy and durable comfortable and healthy life.”

            Eleven, “You are a perfect atheist if you failed believing in the dignity of your own soul”

            Twelve, “Never shirk the concept that you may once experience a fusion with the “cosmic spirit”, the “cosmic consciousness”, and feeling one with God.” Keeping the highest expectations in your mind and working on viable solutions will bring the best results in health, comfort, and pleasurable activities.”

            Thirteen, “Refrain from extreme positions unless your goal is to reach a consensus for a working resolution.” Dialectical processes of thesis, antithesis and then synthesis of extreme concepts work in the long term; time for reaching a consensus can be shortened commensurate to world knowledge development, and universal political institutions with executive power.  Thus, if you encourage the middle ground do not discourage extreme positions: the necessity of survival will select the appropriate period for social development.

Fourteen, “Once a grown up individual dies then an entire universe vanishes.” Nothing is lost, the interactions of the dead individual played the catalyst to changing lives and transforming views on the universe. Knowledge is propagated and developed.

Today the young men and women gather at the village. Today they come of age. They face three trials.

The first trial is one of patience. A huge obelisk of chocolate stands before the young men and women. A block is lopped off of the top and lobbed into ninths. Each individual places one block in his or her mouth. The block takes exactly one day to dissolve. It is too hard to chew. They will be watched. If the block leaves an individual’s mouth, that one fails.

The second trial is one of willpower. The young ones are given a very addictive substance. They are then placed alone in a room with additional doses. They are told to resist and are secretly watched. Those who overdose fail, or die.

The third trial is to build a computer, harness resources to power it, then use the computer to complete an application to NASA. The computer is then destroyed just before the application is sent. Those who take revenge with physical violence fail.

In short these trials are set up to prepare for a life of waiting, trying not to over-consume or die, doing the impossible, having terrible things happen and finding ways to deal with those terrible things that don’t end in violence.

Those who pass are told that they are not adults, just oversized children with more hair and strange sexual fetishes.

Glee speaks to the geek or outcast we were in high school.

Don’t stand up on a high horse and pretend you were perfect. Every teenager (thanks to the magic of puberty) goes through a time when they are not sure where or if they belong. I played baseball, but was a huge art nerd and creative-writing wonk so I got the short end of that stick.

Source:
http://www.wired.com/geekdad/2009/12/were-all-gleeks-10-questions-with-glee-co-creator-brad-falchuk/

Glee speaks to the geek or outcast we were in high school.

Don’t stand up on a high horse and pretend you were perfect. Every teenager (thanks to the magic of puberty) goes through a time when they are not sure where or if they belong. I played baseball, but was a huge art nerd and creative-writing wonk so I got the short end of that stick.

Source:
http://www.wired.com/geekdad/2009/12/were-all-gleeks-10-questions-with-glee-co-creator-brad-falchuk/

A line from Adrienne Rich’s Contradictions: Tracking Poems – number 11.

It has been ringing and rings throughout my experience of myself as a female. Having had problems early on with my body, specifically growing into a female body, I have always thought “if it causes so many problems, why not just get rid of it?”

The distaste stems not from my distaste for the female body. The distaste is for the restrictions imposed, the implications you are continuously reminded of when you have a body that can bear a child – as if that is the most important thing a woman can do. All actions revolve around protection of this ability – take your vitamins, drink milk, don’t partake in heavy labour, don’t forget to drink water, don’t drink too much coffee – all seemingly innocent, useful advice until it is implicitly related to (and it always is) the fact that I as a woman of child-bearing capability must preserve this capability or I will lose my value – I will become the barren, child-less woman, the lonely, crazy cat lady down the street, devoid of all trace of kindness or “femininity” as it is defined in heterosexual culture.

Having a vagina has always been a problem for women. There is the constant threat of rape, abuse, some sort of sexual domination in any sexual relationship with a man, the suppression of sexuality through both, forceful and coercive methods (clitorectomies performed on girls without consent vs. women being socially reprimanded for any expression of sexuality) and I wonder why it is this difficult. Why is it not possible to live without having to deny or constantly be in conflict with one’s femininty?

Giving more recent, culturally relevant examples, the crash-diet, thin as a stick with silicone implants fad. Three words – what. the. fuck? Around the age of 12 I feel into the trap of trying to look like a celebrity or what i thought was the ideal woman. I wanted to get it right, this being a woman thing because I get everything right. And so began the patterns of self-destruction. What first began as an interest in myself turned into a relentless self-loathing. My body was my enemy and I wanted to rid myself of it, monthly mess and breasts included. I remember having fantasies of cutting my breasts off – literally just chopping them off because they got in the way of things. Soon I realized the longer I starved, the longer I could postpone my period and so it went, me shrinking back to the body of a  6 year old with its connotations of purity, simplicity, innocence and all that bullshit.

The impulse keeps returning over and again – if it causes trouble, why not get rid of it? But the question also arises, is it my body that is causing trouble or the things I have been told about it? Thorugh meticulous self-reconstruction, discovery, a long process of taking responsibility for what I have done (and learning what I havent) I have come to where I am now – still being told that my body is a problem but vehemently refusing to accept it.

I wonder why we do not speak of such things. Why such incidents which I’m sure are widespread are isolated. Why is it that friends, mothers, older women who are in the position to guide children do not speak of this. To preserve innocence? And what innocence is this that teaches you self-loathing? Is this in fact the “ideal woman” that all women hope to be? The self-chastising, conflicted little girl that has not yet grown to love her body the way she loves it, but seeks to love it they way she is told by a patriarchal, heterosexual culture.

I wonder where we will go to now. Who we will become as people, as women so trapped in cycles of destruction and anger that cannot otherwise be expressed. I do it still, the occasional meal skipped, the nails dug too deep into my palm, the denial, the punishment for things I have not done, for things I have done, for things that cannot be done, said, believed… because we all have died of this.

A book specifically designed to teach teenagers with ASD about puberty

This book is designed to teach individuals with an Autism Spectrum Disorder about what to expect when going through puberty and how to deal with the changes in their appearances, emotions, and social situations.

Puberty can be difficult for all teeangers. Their hormones are changing, their bodies have new hair, odors, and shapes, their interactions with their peers are taking on new forms. Popularity becomes more important, and some may begin dating (298).

For individuals on the autism spectrum, puberty can be even more challenging. Resistance to change is a hallmark symptom of autism, and it can be very difficult for an autistic teen to come to terms woth their changing bodies. Ignorance of social rules and customs is another symptom, and  many autistics do not understand the need for or purpose of daily showering and deodorant. Finally, the social scene becomes more complicated, less forgiving of errors, and far harder to navigate when the individual switches from elementary to middle school. For this reason, books which specifically address puberty in a way that is appropriate and useful for teenagers with autism are in very high demand.

Her Highness Abigail prompted this article. At post #751 she commented: “…your writing makes me feel like women have a very bad deal. Surely men aren’t all as selfish as you make them sound!”

Of course men are not. WhatWomenNeverHear describes the potential that men have for making women happy or miserable, and how women can prevent, avoid, or cure it. How I describe men generally has little connection to specific traits of an individual. Across an array of characteristics, every man appears differently.

However, I point out these realities about selfish/unselfish:  

• Selfishness emerges naturally. Learned behavior suppresses it as disadvantageous to one’s self-interest.
• Women promote unselfishness, because it helps bond relationships. Men have much less interest, because they are more individualistic.
• Women see unselfishness as critical to relationship harmony, and so they teach children to adopt it. They also measure the offensiveness of male selfishness by relationship standards.
• Men see far less practical use for stabilizing relationships, so they differ from females about selfish/unselfish issues. Not saying it’s fair, or that selfishness is justified. It’s just human nature in action with different sexes involved.
• We’re all born selfish. Mothers are the primary instrument by which selfishness is ‘untaught’ in childhood. Girls grasp and more easily embed it in their subconscious. Boys require more diligent programming to become generally unselfish as part of their consciousness.
• Whether a man has conquered a female or not plays a major part within a couple’s relationship. After their first sex together, he may show a level of selfishness that surprises her.
• After puberty, boys’ selfish/unselfish behavior relates to whoever else is involved. Consequently, chaste girls have considerable influence in conveying the merits of unselfishness to teen boys. Chaste single women have similar influence with men.
• Players prey on females that don’t pay much attention to masculine self-centeredness about sex.  Consequently, players learn that selfishness pays off. When they marry, it’s tough for wife to accept it and tough for him to change.

Paraphrasing Forrest Gump, Selfish is as selfish does. In the end, everyone has something about which they are selfish. Adult men and women tend to be as selfish/unselfish as their self-interest guides them.

Before anyone raise the red banner, I exactly know what I wrote on the title. One, yes everyone, I know “bulaga” (*surprise) is not English in anyway neither is “bulaga”(*surprise) a guy’s name. Just yesterday, mid-afternoon,  I overheard two puberty boys talking while I was cleaning our aquarium in the veranda.

Puberty boy 1: “Tol, anong magandang pangalan ng lalaki na english? (*Dude, what’s a good English name for a guy?”)

Thought bubble 1:[what the hell are kids talking nowadays]

Puberty boy 2: “Para saan?” (*For what?)

Puberty boy 1: “Gagamitin ko pang-asar kapag natalo siya” (*I’m just going to use it to tease him when he lose.)

Thought bubble 2: [maybe it's for a computer game or something]

Puberty boy 2: “eh di bulaga!” (*What about “Surprise!”)

And it ends there and I was like wtf?! Was that even a fair conversation?

3 minutes passed…

Yes folks, the conversation doesn’t end there, here they go again

Puberty boy 1: “Tama, ako si Bulaga 2, ikaw si bulaga 1″ (*That’s right, I’m Surprise 1 and you’re surprise 2)

MORAL: Don’t ever try to understand pubertal conversation nowadays if you’re not ready to comprehend!

INDEED WHAT A SURPRISE!

Editor’s Note: This is part III in a series  of posts on The Exorcist and Rosemary’s Baby.  For part I of the series, scroll down or click here.  For part II, scroll down or click here.  As mentioned before the first post: I reveal many plot points from these films, so please watch them before reading.

In my previous posts on Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist, I touched upon some of the ways in which these films exploit the uncanny feelings we experience in relation to our own bodies, as well as how these films may have a comment on the ways in which contemporary power structures terrorize and appropriate the female body.   In this continuation of the larger discussion on Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist, I am interested in investigating how these films might also be mining some horror from the inherently uncomfortable disconnect we all have between our minds and our bodies.

In support of this notion, I will posit that the eeriest things in life are not often the things prowling around outside your home at night, nor are they the things coming down from outer space to apprehend unsuspecting sleepers, and certainly they are not pitchfork-wielding goblins reveling in a fiery orgy of sin below the earth.  On the contrary, the eeriest things in life often originate within the confines of our own skulls.  Throughout our history, we humans have made a habit of projecting the weird things going on in our own psyches outwardly, thereby attributing anomalous or unsavory behavior or phenomena to demons, witches and the like.  For instance, Mary Beth Norton makes a compelling argument in her 2002 book In the Devil’s Snare, that the Salem Witch Trials toward the end of the 17^th Century can be largely attributed to the anxieties and other psychological ramifications of frontier life, and specifically the fear of Native American attacks on European settlements.  The dark-skinned men lurking in the unfamiliar forests, along with the constant bloodshed that was inherent to that time and place, created a fear that was coupled with an already-present collective belief in witches, demons and unknown evils lurking in the shadows.  While these settlers did have actual danger prowling outside their homes, they were not aware that the reach of Native American influence reached through the walls of their homes into their minds, leading to irrational behavior and decision-making.  Those weren’t demons in the woods, those were people tired of being slaughtered and otherwise molested by strangely-dressed white people.

The point is that our own minds are the source of our greatest terrors.  And historically, as with the Salem Witch Trials example above, it has been  much easier to explain away the most uncomfortable or undesirable aspects of our lives with a little bit of supernatural belief and magical thinking.  The most powerful of these supernatural belief systems are the monotheistic religions which, although they are very much thriving to this day, are much more difficult to accept absolutely than they were, say, 500 years ago.  Magical thinking was a pat way to explain away events and circumstances that otherwise were baffling or anxiety-provoking.  With scientific knowledge skyrocketing in the latter half of the 19^th Century and through the 20^th Century, it became much more difficult to blame everything on witches, angels, demons and god(s).  In this vein, both Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist share a subtheme of religious faith and the loss thereof.  Father Karras, the central priest character in The Exorcist (although not the “Exorcist” referred to in the title), is wrestling with his own loss of faith.  Father Karras resides in a slummy area of Washington DC, with poverty and squalor constituting his day-to-day world and, along with this, he shares his small apartment with this ailing mother, who eventually is forced to move into a mental institution brimming with the psychologically anomalous.  Karras finds it difficult to rectify these realities with his Catholic beliefs and the demon possessing Regan exploits this fact.  In Rosemary’s Baby, one scene has the camera conspicuously linger on the April 8^th, 1966 cover of Time magazine.  The cover simply features the question “Is God Dead?” in bold red letters over a black background.  This was an actual cover of Time that was attached to an article that stated that the age of religion was essentially out the door.  Rosemary herself, when asked by Roman if she is religious, states, “I was brought up Catholic, but now I don’t know”.

Both films take as their setting a 20^th Century backdrop that is turning more toward medical, scientific and psychological knowledge to assist with problems of the body and mind instead of relying upon supernatural paradigms.  Until recent modern history, many of us have told ourselves stories about the ethereal soul and its dominion over the base, corrupted body.  The soul is said to be made of otherworldly material that is unfortunately tainted by the fleshy, gooey spaceship that it must possess in order to traverse through our inherently dirty world.  If one begins to accept the idea that we – every part of us – are of this world and then supplants the soul idea with this way of thinking, then the means by which one thinks of oneself and the world becomes dramatically altered.  This paradigmatic shift would be seismically uncomfortable, and it is my contention that Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist place themselves firmly in the fault line created from just such a shift.

In his wonderfully entertaining 2007 film The Pervert’s Guide to the Cinema, Slavoj Zizek shares some of his thoughts on modern cinema from a philosophical perspective that is rooted in the ideas of famed French psychoanalytic thinker Jacques Lacan.  In his film, Zizek pontificates on Ridley Scott’s Alien and claims that this film derives its power, particularly regarding the iconic scene in which an alien baby hatches from the stomach of its human host, from the idea that humans are essentially alien intelligences with a human body as a host.  We humans are uncomfortable in our own skins because of a fundamental disconnect; we tolerate our bodies, but we must also misrecognize our bodies as something different from ourselves in order to get by.  This disconnect is much easier to handle when one has, for instance, the Christian notion of the soul which advises comfortingly that there is no need to worry, that it’s right to fear your body, and that it’s really okay that you will die someday, for everything will be taken care of because your personality is actually not of this world to begin with.  For psychoanalysis as well as for Christianity, we are essentially ghosts inside a machine, or aliens inside of spaceships.  Christianity tells us that our alien souls will someday rejoin the Mothership (Fathership?)  in the sky, whereas psychoanalysis offers no such happy ending.  For psychoanalysis, life is weird and then you die.

Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist generate some wonderful creepiness by interjecting antiquated notions of Soul/Body and Good/Evil into a modern, scientifically-advanced setting.  One can have every priest and psychologist on call, but life will never cease to be strange.  It’s unfortunate that this basic concept is lost on many contemporary horror filmmakers.  These filmmakers spend too much time on computer graphics and convoluted story lines and not enough time looking into the mirror and contemplating the stranger staring back.

Note: I’m thinking there’s one more post on these two films on the way.  I’m thinking the next post will be about domestic spaces and antagonistic furniture in Rosemary’s Baby and The Exorcist.

“Because you have beard.”

Four little words. So much joy.

Pride. Once it was a broken shadow of growth, sunlight through a trellace – all patchy and misshapen.

I would tentatively grow it. Just to see. And the upper lip furred, the rest like left over spaghetti. Single hairs strewn sparsely across a battlefield of acne. Casualties.

Push through it. Keep it our little secret. Cat and mouse. Ah, you see it multiply? I see it. And the hairs tumble into the bin to allow new to grow.

“Cut it and it grows faster”

Twenty-three years old. It’s become a feature. Stubble. But not. Too soft still, there’s no aggravation.

I flirt. A week with. A week without. It passes without comment.

For nearly two years now, though, permanent. Part of the package. I = beard.

And now. 26 years old. The barber has the close trimmer in his hand and he looks. Stops.

“No line?”

He’s staring at the point between my beard and my hair, the neighbour of the ear and the eye.

“I’m sorry?”

He tries again.

“No line, yes. Because you have beard.”

Oh! Yes! Definitely! No line. Because I have a beard!

I have a beard. The barber said so. It’s official.

Goodbye puberty. It was nice. For a while.

1. Sex to her is giving of herself. To him, it’s taking—especially their first time together.  
2. She is the expert on relationships and bonding. He is the expert on sex and escaping.
3. Starting at puberty, boys are turned off by female nagging—unless she’s a sex target as yet unconquered. It’s natural and for life.
4. Women hunger for marriage. Men can easily do without.
5. A man’s confidence emanates from his self-image, his picture of who and what he is. A woman’s emanates from her self-esteem, how well she likes herself as a person, her self-love.
6. The masculine way is eat to enjoy life. The feminine way is eat to sustain life.
7. The sexual pleasures for a woman are far outweighed by the other things she needs for a happy life. Men for the most part let sex substitute for whatever else is missing.
8. Therapeutic recovery for a man lies within his work or doing something. A woman mostly relies on time for healing while unloading anguish to the sympathetic and empathetic ears of friends.