This Sunday my husband and I are hopping in the car and heading down to Charlottesville, Virginia, to visit Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson. It’s one of my favorite places, if not, so far, my favorite place I’ve ever been. I’m really looking forward to showing my husband Monticello. I’m not expecting him to feel the same as I feel about it, but, as a history major, I’m sure he’ll enjoy being a tourist.
Best part: the gardens. At this time of year the flower garden looks like an organized attack of wildflowers. I’m hoping especially to see love-lies-bleeding, bloodflower, and flowering tobacco, whose flower smells sweet and a little like jasmine, but comes out only in the evening or if it’s a cool part of the day. I was lucky one mid-September afternoon—and probably won’t be this trip since it’s going to be hot and we’ll be there in the morning.
If it were allowed, the winding walk flower garden is where I would have gotten married. However, the place is open every day except Christmas, and the Jefferson Foundation doesn’t place weddings on their top ten list of preservation strategies (I asked during one tour; they said no). Perhaps if I could prove myself a direct descendant of Jefferson the idea may have been considered? I thought about a secret elopement in the corner of the garden, but if I were going to get married at Monticello there were going to be guests and pictures. I’ll ask again this trip, and if they’ve changed their minds I’ll get a divorce and remarry my husband, just for the wedding. About this I think I’m only 30 percent kidding. In other words, I really like Monticello. I considered working there after college in some capacity, but magic is lost once you go behind the curtain.
It must have something to do with Jefferson himself. Granted, Monticello is genuinely appealing to many people--it's not an ugly place--but I like knowing that Jefferson was there. I share none of his intellect, eloquence, foresight, or taste, so I can't view Monticello or the world as he did, but I like being close to it anyway. What I can relate to is his struggle between ideals and reality, and how he could never really get the two to meet. The hardest person to fight is yourself.
It's peaceful up on the mountain, even with all of the tourists around. I'd love to have it to myself for a morning, but it wouldn't be authentic. Since Monticello was a plantation, in its "glory days" there would have been many, many people moving about the grounds all day as well, just with more purpose. Ideally, had I been able to visit during the "glory days" (the quotes remain due to slavery), James and Dolly Madison would have been there, and the cook would be serving the French dish of noodles with melted cheese that Jefferson liked. Mmm.
Update: I didn't ask about weddings. It's better that way.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Playing psychologist
I've edited many psychology books and journal articles, so many that I sometimes feel certified to open my own practice. I'd probably be more qualified to tell you what words are misspelled most often in the psychology field than the presenting symptoms for a cognitive disorder, but close enough. I also lived for two years with two psychology students diagnosing me for various disorders (some of which I may indeed have), I own the DSM-IV, and I watch Frasier. These are my criteria for my following blog entry.
I can't remember if I've talked about this before, but I would like to introduce a new disorder into the field. You've likely heard of the Peter Pan syndrome. It's not in the DSM; it's a pop psychology term, but awesome nonetheless. It was introduced by psychologist Dan Kiley, who wrote The Peter Pan Syndrome and The Wendy Dilemma. Quick overview: Peter Pan = men who refuse to grow up, and Wendy = inappropriately self-sacrifing woman (does all the work, complains all the time but does nothing to remedy it, "admits" to being wrong when not, full of self-pity, and generally an annoying and unnecessary martyr). Staying on the J. M. Barrie theme, I'd like to introduce to the wonderful world of pop psychology the Tinker Bell Disorder.
I termed this disorder a few years ago during a discussion with a friend. It reoccurred to me this morning due a dream I had last night of an ex (who may have appeared as Sonny Corinthos from General Hospital). In the dream a group of friends and I were staying at a beach house. A hurricane was coming, and my ex had decided to go stand by the ocean. He likely, as in real life, was doing this because he decided I would be better off without him. He loved me, or at least thought he did, and so because he loved me he'd stay away--think Edward Cullen in Twilight and you'll get the picture, minus the vampire part, although sometimes I felt like il suo cantante. Not that this ex ever in real life threatened suicide, by hurricane or any other means--he was never horrible and manipulative--but he did remove himself from my life on multiple occasions under the same premise. (This drama may explain why he appeared in the dream as a soap opera star). Anyway. In the dream I decided that I too would stand out in the hurricane for as long as he did. I woke up before the battle of stubborness could be won.
Ironically, when my ex was trying to be most like an adult--making decisions for me based on what would be best for me--he was behaving his most childish. He didn't really have Peter Pan Syndrome, mostly because of circumstances beyond his control, but it was this childish behavior, and subsequent non-grown-ups I was attracted to/I attracted, that led me to diagnose myself with Tinker Bell Disorder: Women who like men with Peter Pan Syndrome. Different from Wendy. Tinker Bell loves Peter even though (or because) Peter can't love her back. Tinker Bell exists only because someone wills her to be there, and, in fact, she has a very short life in Barrie's novel, because that's the way it's supposed to be. Fairies live (commit) only a short time because to fairies it seems like a long time. By the end of the novel Tinker Bell has died and Peter has forgotten all about her. Disney leaves this out.
Those diagnosed with Tinker Bell Disorder aren't really ready to be adults either. Aren't ready to be adults and aren't ready to love adults. Once Peter decides to leave Neverland Tinker Bell will stay back, or will actually cease existing because Neverland is the only place she can exist. In the movie Hook, where Tinker Bell actually talks, she tells Peter, "Peter, you know that place between asleep and awake? That place you still can remember your dreams? That's were I'll always love you, Peter Pan." Not the real world.
However, it's okay to visit Neverland now and then. (Just not Michael Jackson's.)
I can't remember if I've talked about this before, but I would like to introduce a new disorder into the field. You've likely heard of the Peter Pan syndrome. It's not in the DSM; it's a pop psychology term, but awesome nonetheless. It was introduced by psychologist Dan Kiley, who wrote The Peter Pan Syndrome and The Wendy Dilemma. Quick overview: Peter Pan = men who refuse to grow up, and Wendy = inappropriately self-sacrifing woman (does all the work, complains all the time but does nothing to remedy it, "admits" to being wrong when not, full of self-pity, and generally an annoying and unnecessary martyr). Staying on the J. M. Barrie theme, I'd like to introduce to the wonderful world of pop psychology the Tinker Bell Disorder.
I termed this disorder a few years ago during a discussion with a friend. It reoccurred to me this morning due a dream I had last night of an ex (who may have appeared as Sonny Corinthos from General Hospital). In the dream a group of friends and I were staying at a beach house. A hurricane was coming, and my ex had decided to go stand by the ocean. He likely, as in real life, was doing this because he decided I would be better off without him. He loved me, or at least thought he did, and so because he loved me he'd stay away--think Edward Cullen in Twilight and you'll get the picture, minus the vampire part, although sometimes I felt like il suo cantante. Not that this ex ever in real life threatened suicide, by hurricane or any other means--he was never horrible and manipulative--but he did remove himself from my life on multiple occasions under the same premise. (This drama may explain why he appeared in the dream as a soap opera star). Anyway. In the dream I decided that I too would stand out in the hurricane for as long as he did. I woke up before the battle of stubborness could be won.
Ironically, when my ex was trying to be most like an adult--making decisions for me based on what would be best for me--he was behaving his most childish. He didn't really have Peter Pan Syndrome, mostly because of circumstances beyond his control, but it was this childish behavior, and subsequent non-grown-ups I was attracted to/I attracted, that led me to diagnose myself with Tinker Bell Disorder: Women who like men with Peter Pan Syndrome. Different from Wendy. Tinker Bell loves Peter even though (or because) Peter can't love her back. Tinker Bell exists only because someone wills her to be there, and, in fact, she has a very short life in Barrie's novel, because that's the way it's supposed to be. Fairies live (commit) only a short time because to fairies it seems like a long time. By the end of the novel Tinker Bell has died and Peter has forgotten all about her. Disney leaves this out.
Those diagnosed with Tinker Bell Disorder aren't really ready to be adults either. Aren't ready to be adults and aren't ready to love adults. Once Peter decides to leave Neverland Tinker Bell will stay back, or will actually cease existing because Neverland is the only place she can exist. In the movie Hook, where Tinker Bell actually talks, she tells Peter, "Peter, you know that place between asleep and awake? That place you still can remember your dreams? That's were I'll always love you, Peter Pan." Not the real world.
However, it's okay to visit Neverland now and then. (Just not Michael Jackson's.)
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Summer's end
It's cold today. I started this morning with the window wide open in my office, then cracked, and now I've closed it. I'm not ready for the summer to end, which I can't fault August for, because even if summer lasted until March I still wouldn't be ready for it to end. I know there are places on earth with constant summer, but they also have big cockroaches.
I've finished my work for today, and it looks as though I may have a few days off before my next project. I planned on going to the park today, but going to the park in anything other than a tank top and shorts today would just depress me. It's true. Going in tank top and shorts and being cold would have the same effect. It's things like this that make me so fun to be around.
Summer suits me better than any other season (and so gives sunblock makers reason to exist). If you've known me for more than a few minutes you've probably heard me say that I'd rather be hot than cold, and I really mean it. Yes, in the cold you can warm up, but I enjoy being hot. And I live near trees, under which I can sit. Summer also gives me an excuse to wear as little clothing as possible--I very often consider moving under a pier at a beach just so it would be okay to wear a bikini all the time, in context. Do cockroaches like saltwater?
What I feel now is the foreboding back-to-school weight, which never made sense to me because I liked school, and doesn't make sense now since I'm not going back to school and haven't actually gone back to school in six years. Yet, it still exists. I suppose it's more of having to let summer go, again, like finishing a good book, or the series finale of your favorite television show, or the end of a good concert. Summer means windows open and bonfires and doing regular, everyday activities outside, like cooking, eating, drinking, reading, and watching sports. Summer means road trips and long walks. Summer is an open door. Winter in upstate New York is confining, and often literally traps you right where you are. Physical confinement often agitates my emotional claustrophobia.
You can list for me all of the reasons I should be excited for fall: leaves, football, watching Kiley's soccer games, cider, apples, brown, The Office starting again, and I am excited, but I would gladly delay all of them for a few more months of summer.
I know; get over it. I will. Just let me mope through the last B-Mets homestand of the season and maybe I'll feel a little better.
I've finished my work for today, and it looks as though I may have a few days off before my next project. I planned on going to the park today, but going to the park in anything other than a tank top and shorts today would just depress me. It's true. Going in tank top and shorts and being cold would have the same effect. It's things like this that make me so fun to be around.
Summer suits me better than any other season (and so gives sunblock makers reason to exist). If you've known me for more than a few minutes you've probably heard me say that I'd rather be hot than cold, and I really mean it. Yes, in the cold you can warm up, but I enjoy being hot. And I live near trees, under which I can sit. Summer also gives me an excuse to wear as little clothing as possible--I very often consider moving under a pier at a beach just so it would be okay to wear a bikini all the time, in context. Do cockroaches like saltwater?
What I feel now is the foreboding back-to-school weight, which never made sense to me because I liked school, and doesn't make sense now since I'm not going back to school and haven't actually gone back to school in six years. Yet, it still exists. I suppose it's more of having to let summer go, again, like finishing a good book, or the series finale of your favorite television show, or the end of a good concert. Summer means windows open and bonfires and doing regular, everyday activities outside, like cooking, eating, drinking, reading, and watching sports. Summer means road trips and long walks. Summer is an open door. Winter in upstate New York is confining, and often literally traps you right where you are. Physical confinement often agitates my emotional claustrophobia.
You can list for me all of the reasons I should be excited for fall: leaves, football, watching Kiley's soccer games, cider, apples, brown, The Office starting again, and I am excited, but I would gladly delay all of them for a few more months of summer.
I know; get over it. I will. Just let me mope through the last B-Mets homestand of the season and maybe I'll feel a little better.
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