Fact #1. Being a therapist who puts her feet up during sessions, I hold unparalleled contempt for shoes that come with impossible-to-remove price labels on their soles. Because while I do occasionally disclose certain bits of personal information about myself, my clients need not know what I paid for my shoes. Regardless the amount, it will conjure images: Me, obsessively combing the clearance aisle at Marshalls, determined to find something attractive for under $10.99. Me, paying far too much on adorable sandals that show no sign of durability. Me, buying Anne Klein pumps that compromise my ability to walk because I found them on sale.

I repeat: No client need know what I paid for my shoes.

Fact #2. Early in my career, I was referred a client who was tortured by guilt. To the degree that she wouldn’t even tell me what the guilt was about. Her refusal to open up continued for weeks. Finally, having tried everything I could think of, I said, “Come on, how bad could it be? It’s not like you killed somebody.” The client’s eyes welled, and she burst into tears. Turns out, her guilt stemmed from an abortion she’d had in her teens.

Oops.

Fact #3. Occasionally my attunement to language triggers an emotional reaction to a client.

Cheryl, a woman I saw many years ago, chronically employed the word ”indicated” rather than the simpler, more standardly used, ”said.” ”So,” she’d tell me vehemently, “I indicated to her that it wasn’t my problem.” Or, “When we went out for lunch, I indicated that I’d moved.”

Cheryl also never “saw”, “met,” or “bumped into” anyone. Rather, she ”encountered” them. She encountered this one; she encountered that one. Encountered, encountered, encountered. Cheryl’s life was an infinite string of encounters.

I did not suffer this with equanimity.

But then came the re-woo. “So,” Cheryl told me one week, “I think my ex is trying to re-woo me.” I laughed. “Re-woo?” Then, after a pause, ”Now that’s funny.” Cheryl burst into laughter. “Yeah, I know.” She giggled. ”Sometimes I have my own special language.”

From that moment on, Cheryl’s linguistic quirks no longer bothered me. As much.

Fact #4. It’s a special challenge to treat people who incessantly ask, ”Do you know what I mean?”

Here’s the thing. If a client is genuinely interested in an answer, I’ll happily oblige. But if the question is habitual, I refuse to respond. Ever. Even just one slip sets a precedent, an expectation that I’ll be sitting on the edge of my chair, nodding vigorously after everything the client says, thrilled at how profoundly I understand exactly what is meant. I’m interactive in my work, but pressure is pressure.

I nip that shit in the bud.

Fact #5. I was seeing this 13-year-old girl. Gina. Odd, bright, funny and slightly antisocial, she reminded me of myself at her age. Intending to share this thought with our staff psychiatrist, I said, “Hey, Dr. Michaels, you see Gina B., right?” ”I do,” he answered. Then, shaking his head, “A nice kid, but so disturbed.”

I gave a half-hearted smile, then excused myself to the loo.

Fact #6. One week a 10-year-old client marched into session and told me she was getting along better with her stepfather. She’d been angry at him; I asked her what had changed. She looked at me and said simply, “I decided I had to get over it.”

The kid had cured herself. I hate that. Now, how am I supposed to make a buck?

 

← The Google Tease |

I should be thrilled that people are visiting my site. I should be bounding and twirling up a dazzling green mountainside singing “The hills are alive” in a white linen sundress designed specifically to flatter my breasts and legs. But this isn’t the case – and not because mountains are scarce in my neighborhood. Or because I don’t quite fit into the dress. It’s because most of the people viewing my page have Googled “nude beach” and arrived here quite by accident.

I envision the eagerness with which these errant readers enter those golden search words, “nude beach.” Yet, I have no idea what they’re seeking. Photos of young, nubile bodies slick with tropical tanning oil, in various states of repose? The promise of a tawdry encounter? Explicit revelations of sexual indiscretions? Whatever it is, I imagine their hopes deflating when they see where they’ve landed: the blog of one June O’Hara, a neurotic, middle-aged woman bemoaning her changing figure and the minute indignities of applying suntan lotion naked in public.

I don’t know for whom I feel more sympathy, them or me.

An aside: Some people Google “I love the nude beach.” I find this perplexing. If I love cheeseburgers (and Lord, how I do), why would I Google, ”I love cheeseburgers?” What would I expect to find? A detailed account of my dietary preferences? Pictures of me chowing down? My mother’s maiden name?

I just don’t get it.

I’ll admit, a few people stick around a while and sample a few posts. I long to believe they’re charmed by my hatred of William Shatner, my obsession with ringtones, and my conviction that “The House Of Sand and Fog” is an uplifting tale that makes for a perfect vacation read. Of this, however, I am denied. Most of my ”nude beach” readers click off my page in a fraction of a second. Teased, rejected, and abandoned, I am left, crestfallen, in their wake. Sometimes I grow despondent. But more than anything, I get pissed off.

Sure, these readers feel like they’ve been had. But I, too, am a victim. If things keep going this way my ego will be reduced to a pathetic little nub. Where, I ask, is the justice?

Please, I implore you. Read my blog because you find me intelligent and stupid in equal measure and are amused by the resulting debacles that punctuate my days. Because I use strong nouns and verbs rather than falling back on adjectives and adverbs. Accompany me as I get in trouble trying to remove beet greens from a garbage bin, unintentionally proposition the young guy-Friday in my building, and whore out my soul to a self-centered raccoon wanting only his fill of Fruit Loops.

These, my friends. These are the reasons to come to my site.

 

← Me, A Mother? Bad Idea | On Doing Therapy →

It’s fortunate I got my tubes tied before I had any kids. This is attested to by many. It’s also evidenced in ways that I try, but can’t quite manage, to be ashamed of. Like my belief that child labor laws are underrated. My glee when someone kidded, “You call it bullying. I call it parenting.” My adoration for children’s book titles that never made it. ”Daddy Drinks Because You Cry;” “Your Nightmares Are Real;” ”Curious George And The High Voltage Fence;” ”You Can Fly.”

I’ve been laughing at these for the last fifteen minutes. You can check out the rest at: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20090513132028AA6EUwKI’ve

Okay. I’ve pulled myself together and am ready to continue. In celebration of Mother’s Day, I’ve decided to list a few of the things I might have said to a daughter as she got older.

Age 1: “I’ll feed you as soon as I finish my murder mystery.”

Age 2: “Well, if you hadn’t sat on the bee. . .”

Age 3: “I’m sorry the bungee cord snapped you back so hard.”

Age 4: “Playing with Barbie again, Sweetie? Why don’t you get your Jeffrey Dahmer doll?”

Age 5: “Can you think of a synonym for ‘quintessential?’”

Age 6: “Come watch ‘Pulp Fiction’ with Mommy. She had a rough day.”

Age 7: “It’s called Zoloft, honey. It keeps me from hurting myself.”

Age 8: “Shush now. You can stop wearing the brace as soon as we get the handicapped parking sticker.”

Age 9: “For your birthday, I’m giving you the book, ‘Helter Skelter.’ I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Age 10: “You tell Suzie’s mom that there’s nothing wrong with Cocoa Puffs for dinner every night.”

Age 11: “If your breasts turn out to be perky, I’ll resent you.”

Age 13: “Stop talking for a few hours. I’m trying to write a post.”

Age 14: “I have no idea who your father is. I slept with a lot of men that year.”

Age 17: ”Give me your U2 tickets and I’ll give you the keys to the liquor cabinet.”

Age 18: “Happy Birthday. Now get out.”

Age 19: “It’s good to see you! Let’s put on slutwear and go clubbing.”

Me, a mother? Bad idea.

← Back To The Nude Beach | The Google Tease →