May 22, 1999.

Have I mentioned that I love my new short haircut? I was reminded of my infatuation by Pamie's entry about her hair, and whether she should cut it. Let me tell you, it's so refreshing to take 7-minute showers, and not to worry about leaving conditioner in the whole time in order to get a comb through it afterwards. It's refreshing not to use combs or brushes - the salon told me to "finger comb" after washing. Do you know what finger combing is? It's when you look at your wet head in the mirror, smooth down a few rogue locks and then go do something else. It's caveman-level grooming, hippie level hair care. After a whole lifetime of worrying about parts, curls, shape etc, this is a heavenly reprieve.

Besides, it's so soft & healthy now. I just got out of the shower, and it feels so good damp...like feathers. It doesn't drip down my neck, either. To add to my relative comfort at this moment, I'm wearing an enormous blue flowered dress that makes my mom laugh every time she sees me in it. She thinks I look like the Cunningham girl in To Kill A Mockingbird, getting ready to bust up a chiffarobe. Slatternly, in other words. But there's nothing like pulling a sleeveless cotton garment over one's head and to be done dressing at that instant. Dirk is very jealous of the sundress concept. Tough darts, say I.

Speaking of hippie stuff, (and we were speaking of hippie stuff, keep up, you) I've been experimenting with hippie-style names for the Boy's place. To call it "the Boy's place" seems inadequate, especially if I'm speaking to someone who also knows Q & Pixie Stix. But to call it "Q & Pixie's place" ignores the fact that as of this morning, my sole reason for dropping by is to visit the Boy. To use all three names is cumbersome. And all of the above ignores the fact that I'm regularly fed from the communal cupboards and my opinion is usually considered when I happen to be there and something needs to be decided. The place is run like a post-modern capitalist collective, in many senses. It's not exactly a hippie place or a commie place or a new age granola place or any derivation thereof...but those concepts seem to apply in a limited way. So I've decided to rotate through terms like "Co-op" "Collective" "Commune" and "Farm" until one sticks. How semiotically egalitarian, huh?

All of this is complicated by my evolving relationships with Q & Pixie (and the Boy of course, although the analogous stages of comprehension took place with him rather a while ago). Yesterday Q played too rough with me and I didn't know what to do. When you are in a laughing conversation and someone tells you to eat shit, you know that you are being teased...but that doesn't stop you from involuntarily recoiling. At least, the knowledge of the joke didn't stop me for turtling up & inwardly sulking for 20 minutes or so (while my outward demeanor remained relatively social...ah, the joys of social tact.) This is the first time he's been that harsh with me, and it came out of nowhere. But the real discomfort came in knowing intuitively that to make a big deal of it would be a fatal mistake.

Antinomy, Javina, the word is antinomy. "Contradiction between two propositions, both of which seem equally urgent and necessary." To want to quit, but to need to work. To want to cry out at a verbal cat-scratch, but to remain silent to keep that relationship going. You'd be surprised how often you can apply the word to your everyday life, as it describes one of the basic tragedies of human existence...and even when it's not a tragedy, it still hurts for a second or so.

I've developed a new approach to self-pity therapy, creating it in the field so to speak. See, the Boy has been signed up with a temp agency that has not gotten him work in a month. Two days ago, just as he was about to chew them out & sever his connection with them permanently, his agent mentioned that there was a 2 month contract position available at $15/hour and would he like his resume submitted? The Boy swallowed his ire (which hurts just as much as you remember) and agreed.

Yesterday he was in a frenzy; flitting around the Commune and stopping every once in a while to audibly wonder why he hadn't been contacted. At 3 p.m. he lost patience and called them, only to find out that the job wasn't going to him (of course, why break their perfect record now?) So he began to wonder what he was going to do, etc.

Now, the Boy's situation is far from desperate, and I reminded him of all this in gentle tones, along with the non-verbal comforting appropriate to the disappointment. 4 or 5 times. During the sixth repetition, I got frustrated. During the seventh, I got puckish. So I did what I thought was appropriate to the situation: I started to give him wedgies.

I know, that sounds horrible. "Amo," you sniff, "I'm never coming to you with a problem." But you've got me all wrong, I'm a great listener. Sympathetic, quiet, all of those things. But there are only so many times I can offer reasonable solutions before I want to resort to schoolyard tactics.

And besides, it worked. By the time I'd administered the third wedgie, the Boy had collapsed on the floor, laughing. It actually does shock you out of the self-pity loop...and if it doesn't, I could always flush your head in the toilet.