Deborah Lipp

So, I dreamed I was taking a cruise, by myself. I planned it carefully, it wasn’t one of those dreams where you show up somewhere and you realize you forgot to pack or by a plane ticket or something (I have those all the time).

I walk down the long cruise ship corridors looking for my room and I see the rooms are labeled “Single Gentlemen” (or something like that) and I think “Huh,” and I also think, “Well, I know this isn’t my corridor; got to find the women’s section.” Which I do, and go into my room, and there’s someone else’s stuff in it and the bed’s unmade and slept-in. Then a man shows up and says it’s his room. We both have room keys, so obviously it’s a screw-up on the ship. We go out in the corridor until we find a steward or something and she says she’ll get it straightened out, and they move him out.

So that’s weird. What does that mean?

Then I’m settling in my room and someone I know in real life, nice guy, married, one kid one on the way, very good-looking, comes up to me and kisses me very very hard. Like grabs my face and holds it so he can get the kiss in before I can protest. Which totally weirded me out, like, woke me up because damn, that’s weird. I hate that about dreams, that you can get all horny over someone you’d never consider in real life. Totally throws your day off.

So, I’m at an event, and I’m talking with this woman who had gastric bypass surgery, and we get on the subject of the psychological effects of massive weight loss on family. Her marriage is ending, and maybe that’s because of how much she’s changed, or because of the role her husband had her in and how that changed, or who knows? Anyway, we’re talking, and I say my sister had gastric bypass, and I talk a little about how Mom’s reaction to me has changed in the time since. Now, Mom was on me about my weight when I weighed a hundred pounds less than I do today, and when Roberta was much heavier than me. In fact, I clearly remember an incident in 1985 when I brought the Important Boyfriend home for the First Dinner With the Family, and she used the opportunity to say “Tsk, Deb, do you really need that?” when I took seconds on something. Which was so mortifying that I remember it twenty years later.

But it’s definitely shifted, partly because I am much heavier, but I started to notice that it’s partly because I’m the best available target now. And to give Mom credit (I was saying this in the conversation), she’s growing and learning, and recently she said something inappropriate about my weight and I said so and she said “You’re right” and backed off. So that was great.

So this woman comes up and says “Forgive me for intruding but I couldn’t help but overhearing…” and shares a moment with her own mom and their relationship about weight, and shares a fairly powerful insight, an incident that made it crystal clear that her mother’s issue was jealousy. Narcissism. That she saw her daughter’s weight only in relation to her own weight.

And I congratulated her on her insight and she said something like “That’s your mother’s issue too. It’s narcissism.” And I said, “No, in my case, that’s not it, but I appreciate how meaningful it was for you; in my case, it’s…” “No,” she cut me off, “It’s narcissism.”

“Everyone’s different, of course,” I said, still smiling and being polite, “And in my case,”

“It’s narcissism, trust me.” She said.

Okay, narcissism? Is what a person has who thinks her insight must be true for everyone always.

My favorite bloggy blog has moved. It is now Shakesville. Go visit.

So I don’t usually do dreams on this blog, but fuck it, it’s my blog. And this was very weird.

First part, I get a t-shirt from a big fat Orthodox guy. Later, I’m giving the shirt to a different big fat Orthodox guy, and just as he’s about to leave, he asks if the shirt was ever worn during money-lending, because if it is, it’s not kosher. So I say, How am I to know? But then I remember who I got it from and I tell him and that’s that.

Later, I’m in an Orthodox neighborhood in the car with Arthur. And I realize that it’s Saturday and if I start the car, we could get beat up. So we hightail it outa there.

Part Two: Driving down the highway, come to a tunnel underpass. Not a real tunnel, just passing under another highway or something. Like on the FDR Drive when you pass under the UN Building. Which doesn’t help you non-New Yorkers, but I digress.

Tunnel looks unusually dark. I mean, it’s only about six car lengths long so it should have more light from the other end. I go in and see a dead animal blocking my way, so I quickly change lanes and as I pass it I see it’s a lioness.

A dead lioness.

And then I see that the exit for the tunnel is blocked off, and the structure is being used to cage another lioness. Presumably the one who killed the first one.

So I back out slowly, and I see that there are people milling around, apparently also trapped by the blocked off tunnel. None of them seem to have cars, just me. And I see there are two more lions or lionesses.

I get out of the car and I try to find out what’s going on, and that’s when I see the gunman.

Gradually I realize this is a hostage situation. This is some kind of crazy person with a gun who has let lions out of the zoo, and is keeping us all trapped. Some talk starts about people volunteering to go with him, be a personal hostage, in order to get information or try to stop him, and Arthur tries to volunteer because he’s hungry and he thinks it’s a way to get fed. I yell and scream at him that he doesn’t understand that the situation is serious and he could die, but of course he says he does understand. And he’s hungry.

I notice Arthur’s hair is a buzz cut with a soft, silky, long growth over the buzz, just like small Orthodox boys. Then I wake up.

And may I say I have totally weirded myself out.

About two years ago, I started coveting blonde streaks. I started seeing young women with dark hair and just one or two streaks of blonde. Looked hot. “I could do that,” thought I.

So I bought a home kit and I did it. And it looked kind of cool, but also kind of sloppy and amateurish. And since I also color the rest of my hair, after a while I looked a real mess. When I went to get my hair cut, the woman explained that what I wanted was highlights. I didn’t know I wanted highlights, but I don’t know all the hair language, and she seemed sure.

So the highlights looked great, and everyone complimented me on how attractive and flattering it was, so I thought I was happy with that, and at least now I knew what it was; what the word for it was and how to get it, and that helped.

So I got my highlights touched up maybe three times, and then the fourth time, I came home blonde.

Just. Blonde. And that was a mistake.

But I said I was happy with it, because, y’know, it’s all over the top of your head, and if you like it, it’s much easier to live with.

Fifth time, they look at me and say “Why the hell are you blonde?” And they do process color, which is more or less what you do at home except better, and now I’m back to my auburn, and there’s no blonde.

So I go a really long time without coloring my hair and I notice a gray stripe is growing in. And I think “stripe.” Like a memory reactivated. And I go to the hair place and I say “gray stripe.” And they say, “No, what you want is a blonde stripe,” and I say, “That’s what I want?” and they say “Yes.”

And it turns out, that’s what I wanted all along. It feels so…soothing to finally have what I’ve been seeking.

I learend all sorts of lessons out of this stupid, senseless, banal, and excessively girly experience. This is 100% how I interact with the world. If I can’t articulate what I want, I absolutely believe what people tell me. Even when they’re wrong. Even when they say “highlights” and I want “stripe,” if I don’t have the vocabulary or the expertise, I assume I’m wrong and they’re right.

And then I say I’m happy. Because it really is too painful to say otherwise. This is how I loved my bad tattoo until the very day I had it covered up. This is how I was happily married until the very day I asked for a divorce. And you know what? I don’t even know that it’s wrong. Maybe it’s “denial” which is unhealthy, but maybe it’s acceptance. Maybe it’s making lemonade. Maybe I’d have gone back and demanded that my hair be fixed if I didn’t deny deny deny, but maybe I’d have woken up and looked in the mirror and hated myself. Is that healthy? Maybe I just don’t expect that life is going to come up with better than lemons all that often, and making lemonade is a skill I’ve perfected.

And finally, I learned how easy it is to find safe space. You just have to be heard. If I say stripe, and they hear stripe, I feel…comforted. Soothed. Happy. Being listened to and heard, that’s the key to everything.

Your results:
You are Poison Ivy

Poison Ivy 63% Apocalypse 63% Dr. Doom 60% Dark Phoenix 57% Magneto 53% Catwoman 49% Two-Face 48% Mystique 44% The Joker 42% Lex Luthor 42% Green Goblin 40% Juggernaut 40% Riddler 36% Venom 30% Kingpin 28% Mr. Freeze 26%

You would go to almost any length for the protection of the environment including manipulation and elimination.

Click here to take the Supervillain Personality Quiz

Ground and center.

See before you a huge, black cauldron. Round, deep, iron, seemingly bottomless. It is the Cauldron of Change.

Everything that enters the cauldron is transformed. The old is burned away, the new is uncovered. The catepillar becomes a butterfly in this cauldron. The weak become strong. Children become adults. Warriors become pacifists, and pacifists become warriors. In the cauldron, a new way is discovered. A new self.

Beneath the cauldron is a fire, impossibly hot.

That fire may burn and injure any who dare to enter the cauldron. It may hurt, to become a warrior, to become a butterfly, to become an adult. It my scald.

Imagine now, if you entered the cauldron, what change might come to you?

Imagine now, and ask yourself, Can I enter the Cauldron of Change? Do I have the courage? Do I trust myself enough?

This one went pretty fast, except I ended up surprised by the one that needed a hint.

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This is a billboard for a New Zealand pizza chain called Hell Pizza. Alas, some people complained, and the New Zealand Advertising Standards Complaint Board upheld the complaints.

Oh well.

On the plus side:

The board ruled the choice of words was irresponsible, but the association with Mr Bush did not cause serious or widespread offence.

So it was the language that was inappropriate, not the slam at Bush. Sounds reasonable to me.

[Cross-posted at If I Ran the Zoo]