subconscious motivations journal
I still don't understand my subconscious motivations...
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Thursday, May 02, 2002

Yay! I've made a gallery

Friday, April 26, 2002

I'm such a tourist

Out of the blue someone asked me if I was going.

Midget wrestling. midgetwrestlingmidgetwrestlingmidgetwrestling. m - i - d - g - e - t wrestling. MIDGET WRESTLING!

For three hours the words "midget wrestling" had been making me giggle... but I was not prepared.

I imagined two little guys grappling on a circular mat in an uncomfortably homo-erotic way. What I got was not mini-greco-roman wrestling. I got mini-WWF wrestling.

Now, I'm the kind of person who, when presented with the spectacle of WWF wrestling, thinks, "Oh! I've read about this!"

It was like a circus for adult rednecks. There was a lot of beer. There were attractive fire-breathing bartenders who, later that night, probably inspired an outbreak of scorched lips. There was an epic battle between the mini-good-guy and the mini-bad-guy wherein the mini-bad-guy always fought dirty and almost won because of it but the mini-good-guy-underdog won in the end. There were lots of men in costumes and lots of very very very bad acting.

I have now heard an entire room chant in unison, "Kiss-a-mid-get. Kiss-a-mid-get. Kiss-a-mid..." I have seen women volunteer to have Meatball (who looks like a mini-Meatloaf) shake his head between their enormous, bared breasts in order to win a t-shirt. I have seen men line up to "Lick a Midget" for a dollar per lick. I have learned that the interest in midget wrestling seems to be more about sex than gore (despite being called "Bloody Midgets"... perhaps they're just British). I have witnessed drunken men literally drool all over an attractive 4' 6" woman.

When I finally leaned over and asked my friend Ory, "Do guys have a thing for midgets?" He said, "No comment."

Wednesday, April 03, 2002

Talking to My Mother on the Phone

My mother sent me another letter trying to convince me to quit school and do something else instead. She offered to give me a $1,000/month allowance if I went to bible college and became a minister or a missionary. She's planning on going there herself in the fall. I've never told her that I thought missionary work does more harm than good. I've never told her that I don't believe in God. Instead, I called her:

Me: Mom, I want to be a biochemist.
Mom: But you can't make money at that!
Me: I like it. It makes me happy.
Mom: You should sell stocks. Then you wouldn't have to work at all.
Me: I would still want to do this if I didn't have to work.
Mom: God blesses people who spread his word.
Me: Surely, God blesses people who cure the sick of disease.
Mom: Missionary work saves people's souls, not just their bodies.

I frantically looked through the concordance for the word "heal".

Me: Matthew 10:8 says that Jesus told his disciples to go out into the world, heal the sick, and cure the lepers.
Mom: I never said that God doesn't bless those who heal. God has a special place in heaven for those who save people's souls.
Me: Surely, if you're motivated by rewards then God would see into your heart and know that you had selfish motivations.
Mom (sighing): Well, you have to do whatever you think is right for you.
Me: So, bible school is worth $1,000 a month and biochemistry isn't worth anything?
Mom: Okay, I'll give you $300. How does that sound?
Me (laughing): That's fine, mom.


My mother has never shown any curiosity about who I date. She's never met any of my boyfriends.
Me: Mickey wants to meet you.
Mom: Why?
Me: Because he's serious about me.
Mom: Is he nice?
Me: Yes. Dad says he's better than all the other guys I've brought home. He says Mickey's better than all of them put together.
Mom: Really? Okay, I'll meet him.

This response is truly remarkable. I think it was bringing up dad's endorsement that did it.

Saturday, March 30, 2002

Sex and Roommates

I'm moving to Raleigh in the fall. Mickey and I are happy with one another. I've never had a relationship this perfect at the five month mark. It bodes well for the future.

Our only problem so far, other than the distance between us, has been with the intermural dynamics of Mickey's group of friends. For spring break, Mickey offered to take me on a trip somewhere but I told him that I wanted to spend more time in Raleigh around his friends because I wanted to get to know them better. The entire time I was in Raleigh, though, Mickey liked to stay home when Heidi and his other friends went out at night so that we could, uh-hmmm, have sex in an empty house without worrying that our acrobatics would bother her. This empty house preference was due to a different complaint, but it also meant that we saw very little of his friends the entire time I was there. Now I think that his friends feel like I've stolen him away from them. I didn't steal him away. Mickey just likes having sex with me without other people complaining about it.

It's an ironic problem, really. We live so far apart from each other that we don't see each other for weeks at a time. Then, when we have a weekend together, we spend all our time together because we miss each other so much. Yet, his tendency to disappear when I'm around makes his friends suspicious and dislike me. Hmmmm. I think this is what happens when people who've never had a really long distance relationship judge people who do.

There's a part of me that resents the fact that the first real problem we've had has nothing to do with the relationship between the two of us. I feel like we're blissfully happy and others see that and feel compelled to stomp it out. I've felt something like this feeling I have for Mickey only one other time in my life. I don't think that most people experience it once. I just want others to stop complaining and let us be happy together.

Thursday, March 28, 2002

Exotic to Me

I remember the time a New Yorker, a friend who was an avowed anglophile, told me that he had been listening to country music. This interest in country music came to him through the most circuitous route. During his frequent trips to London he discovered that many English peole listen to and enjoy country music because they find cowboys and "The Wild West" to be very romantic. (He insisted that they even line-dance, too, but he may have been pulling my leg.) It was the first time it occurred to me that the things I find common would be exotic to someone else half-way around the world.

[As a side note: When I mentioned this to my father, he confirmed this. My father, who grew up in a small town in Tennessee, said that the only time he ever faked an accent was when he was a young bachelor in London. He was drinking in a pub, admiring the cute ladies with the cute accents when they began to ask him to say anything, anything at all, just so they could hear his cute accent. He said the more he spoke, the deeper the accent got, and the more interested they became... ]

So, I guess it makes sense that I would want to live where I live.

I live in Georgia, off I-75, very near the pile-up that made the news recently. When I first moved to this small town, I was in love with it. Growing up an Air Force Brat, I lived in cities, in suburbs, on military bases, in apartments, houses, and motels. I had lived in Washington, D.C., Las Vegas, Houston, and Monterey. I've lived in Korea and Japan. But I had never lived in a small town. When I first drove into this cute little town, the sun was setting and I saw something I have never seen anywhere else I've ever lived. People were strolling around the neighborhood in small groups of two or three. They were waving and pausing to chat with one another. Their pace made it clear that they were simply enjoying the temperate weather and the sunset. I had looked at several small towns in the north Georgia area and at the time I told myself that I still needed to look further but it was all those friendly, strolling people that swayed me to choose this one.

I suppose I had an overly romantic idea of small town life. I imagined it was the southern version of the New England town that the movie Beetlejuice was set in. In fact, this idyllic view hasn't been entirely eliminated. Sure, there have been odd experiences. There's the guy who stocks the shelves in the grocery store who has the skinhead tatooes, yet is always very nice to me, almost bashful. There's the middle aged lady who lives in the apartment to the west of me, who is clearly an alchoholic, who sunbathes on the lawn every sunny day, and who I sometimes hear singing to herself, softly, sadly, drunkenly, in her heavily accented voice as she smokes a cigarette outside. There were the people who used to live to the east of me, who had six confederate flag stickers on their enormous Ford pick-up truck, who seemed to be either filming a porno or practicing WWF wrestling with a hog, at least from the sounds (alternately grunting, yelling, laughing, hollerin', panting) coming from the apartment every night. These kinds of things don't faze me. I take them as part of the landscape. They pique my interest in human nature, in our strange culture, in the flaws in all of us. They make me realize that Faulkner was not embellishing.

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