*I* love kitty

I can see it now: I'll be one of those old crazy cat ladies with the long snarly gray hair, surrounded 24/7 by 68 cats. I was raised with in a standard two-parent, two-kid, two-cat household, so that's the pattern I followed this time. If I had it to do over again, I would've adopted two more; four is very manageable. In all actuality, we probably have four now, condensed into two physical feline bodies. And they are the coolest. Behold...



We saw Murphy first. I had always wanted a little orange/red-and-white tiger-striped/tabby cat, and there he was. He was so calm and easygoing, with such a sweet face that we bonded rather quickly. And then he promptly fell asleep, right on my husband's chest. Even in the chaotic environment of the SPCA, he was perfectly comfortable sacking out up against a complete stranger.

Murph is our true special needs kitty. Whether it was a mis-breed or maternal malnutrition or whatever else, he ended up rather retarded. Of all the feline instincts, only the important one--the litter box instinct--remains intact. Otherwise, he doesn't bathe himself, and he possesses no predator instinct. He's mildly attracted to potential prey, but he only plays with it, not knowing that the next step is to kill it for food. Instead, he loves to air-launch and lunge against the back door, in attempt to play with the slow-flying June bugs in March during the morning or evening twilight. Measuring as big as my pillow, he runs into the room and jumps up onto the bed at night, in an attempt to beat me to my side of the bed so he can claim his territory. It's his one display of the act of thinking ahead.

He's a few animals rolled into one, though. Usually, he's a dog, with big feet and a slightly oily coat that he never washes. Piss him off, though, and he becomes a cougar. His meow even transforms instantly from loud shrill kitten into the growl and snarl of a cougar. If he sees you as a threat, he will lash out and put the smackdown on you. He can kick a human's ass, if he needs to. The need for anger management classes is quite rare, though. Strangely enough, he can have that kind of reaction after an encounter with catnip.



Maddie (fully Madison Renee) mandated a middle name solely to have an extended version of her name with which to address her in times of "busted", which remains, 6.5 years later, a common occurrence. We knew it the day we saw her. There she was, the quiet little tuxedo, perching way back in the cage. Behind the others, she looked out calmly and self-assured, simply knowing that she would be seen. The assistant gently scooped her from the back and handed her to me, and I already know the little tyke was a little off: in this environment of stale urine odor, echoing noise, and horrible fluorescent light, this little black-and-white ball of silk was purring.

Yes, at 6 weeks old, Maddie's personality was already formed. We knew she'd be intelligent, too much so for her own good, and mischievous. We also knew she had a little 'tude. Her eyes seemed to communicate a subtle but potent personality instability, although it was the kind of look that would only be recognized as such by an experienced cat person. I tread lightly at first, and it took me a little while to realize that she wasn't going to lash out at all. Underneath all that electricity, she was (still) purring.

Nothing surprises us anymore when it comes to her. She can levitate momentarily (think "The Matrix"), where she spontaneously springs four feet into the air from a stationary position. She doesn't know she's a cat--or maybe she does, but resents it, and doesn't want to admit it. She thinks she is (or, at least she would rather be) a dog. She plays more than she sleeps. She designates certain unlikely objects as her toys and disperses them in strategically in high-traffic places, right in the middle of the walkway, where we can't help but to see them. Usually, she is crouched by whichever toy is closest to where we are at the time. Based on a lot of research on both personality attributes and physical characteristics, she is almost sure to be half Turkish Angora, and a quarter each of Persian and Bombay.

Both of them are so cool they piss ice cubes. Both sleep on the floor on their backs. Both personalities were allowed to develop and come into their own, so neither are very timid about expressing themselves and who they are. Murphy is more timid and slightly less comfortable around strangers than Maddie is (she's downright fearless, almost to a fault), but even he will let it all hang out around someone he's seen a few times. Both of them are talkative and playful and relaxed (although both can be slightly jumpy--I wonder if they were startled by a loud noise as kittens or if they got freaked out by a huge thunderclap during a storm or something). They are polar opposites, the yin and yang. Both enrich our lives in a way that simply can't be duplicated. I can only hope we enrich theirs at least half as much.

Chiropractic Myths

You may have heard horror stories. You may have heard another healthcare professional tell you not to come to us. (This is not only unethical, but it is straight-up illegal.) You may know someone who claims they were hurt or injured at a chiropractor's office. These stories conjure up so much negative imagery that it scares hordes of people who desperately need our help out of coming to see us. I'm on a mission: I'm going to put to rest these ridiculous myths that continue to circulate. I'll attack the most common ones, and then open it up to you; just use the "Post Comment" link at the bottom.

Myth: Chiropractic is unscientific.
Fact: Let's explore that. Think back to your basic introductory science classes, no matter what level. We all learned about the scientific method. Historically, people made observations about the world around them. They formed a hypothesis, which is a working assumption based on the observation. Then they tested that hypothesis as best they could. Based on the results, they either confirmed or debunked the hypothesis and either altered it or started over from scratch. This is the basis for a vast majority of our current scientific knowledge, and it is the method still used today.

If this is congruent with your own definition and understanding of science, then yes, chiropractic is indeed scientific. Actually, there is even more sound research to validate chiropractic treatment than there is for low back surgery. I know it sounds funny to think about achieving good health through having your back being pushed on in a specific way, but truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. Chiropractic has stood the test of time, and has held its own through western allopathic medical skepticism, government and private research, individual case studies, media bias, negative portrayals and accusations, and even those who went to jail for treating their patients.

Myth: Chiropractic is dangerous.
This sentence is true, if you add one caveat: chiropractic maneuvers performed by people who lack sufficient training is dangerous. It is illegal for any unlicensed practitioner to perform any spinal adjusting, or to claim to do so. This includes the quick neck turns and back thrusts. Other types of licensed practitioners, like massage therapists, are also acting well outside of the law (and their client's best interest!) if they stray outside of the soft tissue world. Depending on the individual state laws, Physical Therapists, Naturopathic Doctors, and Medical Doctors can perform manipulations, but often only if they've been certified through minimual weekend workshop training. (But then, you have to ask yourself if you really want a PT wrenching on your neck who only learned their moves over the weekend.)

The fact is, chiropractic is overwhelmingly safe. Just ask the insurance companies. They live and die by doing research on which demographics and occupations pose the highest risk. Risk is assessed based on the number and severity of claims lodged against them. This is how the insurance industry survives--they have to be stellar at assessing risk, or they go out of business very quickly. Since cultural wisdom holds the almighty Medical Doctor in the highest esteem, let's take them on as a group. The average medical malpractice rates average from $4k per year (the very low end for a relatively non-risky medical internist) to over $125k or more (the higher end for a neurosurgeon). The average chiropractor pays between $1500 and $2500 per year. Let's get real for a second: if chirorpactors posed such a huge risk to the public and stroked people out all the time, our rates would be right up there with, or higher than, those of the MDs. The fact is, chiropractors pay an average of 10% as much (assuming an overall MD average of $20k in Washington state). If chiropractic was really so dangerous, would our rates be so low? Would anyone even insure us at all?

Myth: Chiropractors aren't real doctors.
What's a doctor? In Latin, the word means "teacher". In Greek, a physician described a "healer". In contemporary terms, a doctor is someone with a doctoral degree who sees patients, diagnoses their problem, and treats it according to whichever discipline they were trained in. Chiropractic medical schools are recognized and accredited by the US Department of Education, just like allopathic medical schools. The prerequisites required to enroll in chiropractic programs are identical to those of allopathic schools. The program is the same 4 years (although at many schools who choose to operate through summer and accelerate the program, it takes 3 years to complete), and the basic science classes and national medical board exams all contain, and test on, identical information. Here's a rundown...

Average Minimum Required Classroom Instruction Hours During 1st two pre-clinical years *

Chiropractic College		Traditional Medical School
366.4	Anatomy/Embryology.	184.6
561.2	Physiology/Pathology	542.3
197	Microbiology/Public Health/Biostatistics	155.3
312.8	Physical Diagnosis/Clinical Medicine	200.5
141.4	Neuroscience	114
105.9	Cell biology/Histology	130.7
66.7	Nutrition	21.5
29.4	Pharmacology	99
1900.8	Average Hours for 1st two years	1556.3

* Source: the 2008-2009 catalog at Parker College of Chiropractic (the information in the medical doctor column is from the American Medical Association, reprinted with permission in Parker's catalog.)

Myth: Once you get adjusted, you have to keep going back.
This actually depends on what you expect to get out of your chiropractic care. If you want to stay out of pain, it'll probably only take a couple of visits and then voila! But truthfully, aspirin is cheaper. It causes organ damage in the long run, though. Bummer. Chiropractic is so much more than just pain relief. It's all about function. I'll probably explain more about this later (what are the odds?) Suffice it to say that it's a good idea to at least get a monthly checkup. It'll often take a whole 5 minutes and if you do need an adjustment that day, it'll usually be included in the visit price. The main idea is to get an ethical doctor (as is true for every profession) and if you have any doubts, questions, or concerns, be sure to voice them. After all, you're the patient, and it's your time and money!

So, bring it on. Fire away. No question too pointed, no issue too hot. Let's get it all out on the table.

What would *you* do for a Klondike bar?

Wait, don't answer that. I may not want to know.

I was prepared to discuss a completely different topic today, but the hand of fate struck: we went to the mall. This was a task I was not exactly looking forward to, simply because I dislike the experience of being accosted by some snotty Latina (no offense) who comes running up to us--even though we are completely engaged in deep conversation--claiming she only wants "to ask us a question". The holiday shopping season was a nightmare; they tried every tactic in the book, even to the point of pretending you weren't engrossed in conversation or zeroing in on you as if the people you were with weren't even there.

None of the usual counter-measures worked. We tried all of them--walking on the opposite side near the wall, purposefully looking away, starting a conversation or intensifying one already in progress, pretending to answer our cell phones, pretending to be hearing impaired (at least, more so than I am), pretending not to be able to speak English, you get the idea. This particular breed of brat knows no shame. Apparently, they'd submit to levels I'd rather not even think about for that dangling Klondike bar.

Having been a retail employee myself, I do retain a shred of empathy. After all, the memories of being subjected to ridiculous new insta-policies (usually an irrational knee-jerk reaction at middle management level), and feeling compelled to holler across a 4000-sq-ft store to zero in on my target (i.e. anyone who wandered into the store, and for any reason) in 12 seconds or less and then live and die by the scripted approach, or risk being tattled on to management by the dreaded Secret Shopper who has no qualms about failing me on every point of the checklist they clutch in some third hand I can't see, with a neutral smile on their face throughout the whole encounter.

Seeing as how we're studying Freud (Fraud) in Clin-Psych this week, I couldn't help but to pause to attempt to explore why I am so hyper-reactive to unwanted advances by salespeople. I mean, it's not like they're going to physically assault me or anything. (Oh wait, maybe I better not assume that; cynical as I can become, I'm surprised every day by the new depths that people achieve.) Regardless, I'm astute enough to understand that at least part of the problem is me. I hate to admit that Freud has any validity, but maybe he's onto something here. My earliest contacts with other people outside of my family were less-than-pleasant. I was a wallflower, the other kids smelled it, and were on me like a pack of dogs. It's like that "We Are the Champions" song; I was laughed at, put down, and made all kinds of fun of. Anything was fair game - my plain stringy (and later, worse--frizzy!) hair, my shyness, my name, my clothes, my lack of knowledge of how to play sports in gym class, or the fact that I misunderstood or forgot the teacher's directions. Later it was my dating choices and my acne.

Sure, people sometimes buried their hatchet and turned over a new leaf, and the teasing came to a cease-fire...for about as long as it took to play a prank, put me up to something, or extract something from me. The idea of getting something out of me, I believe, is the real culprit. This behavior from others lasted so long that I began to get the idea that A) people sucked, B) trust no one, and C) be especially suspicious whenever someone tries to be nice to you, because it's either a joke or a scam. Wow, healthy.

Moving to Dallas didn't exactly help. It's hard to describe our lovely city, but the words empty, irrational, soulless, selfish, materialistic, self-absorbed, cutthroat, and snobby are an excellent start. Even the locally-based companies won't treat you with any respect. It's hard to get any response to the messages you leave, even if you wave enough money in front of their noses to buy a car. Face-to-face, they're sweet as pie; they talk big and promise you the moon, offering to follow-up with favors or additional information you request, but then they vanish into thin air and all of your voice mails, text messages, and emails vanish into the (Erchonia) abyss. (That was an example, by the way. These people were the 180* opposite of pushy, but in a bad way; I had to pull teeth to give them my business! However, as long as they've acknowledged the sales prospect, they get pushy while trying to pretend not to be. OK, I feel better with that off my chest.)

Never one to allow myself to rant without offering a solution, here's mine: be accessible and attentive, but leave us alone to investigate, and decide for ourselves. If we need you, we'll let you know, if you're around. (If not, we'll just snag the next employee who'd like to make a sale.) And you had better know your product and be able to answer at least basic questions. If you can't, I must ask--do you at least know where you work? Your name and what day of the week it is and all that? Also, understand that consumers are often smarter than salespeople assume we are, and we can indeed smell a sales pitch like a fart in a car. And here's the big surprise: it's usually a turnoff. (And the solution for our singled-out example company is even less complicated: simply act like you want to stay in business. Then you should be good to go.)

This story has a happy ending. Remember those kiosks in the mall with those pushy high school salespeople? Every last one of them shut down. Only those who are decidedly NOT pushy remain. Before someone plays devil's advocate and says, "well, it IS past the holiday season, after all", you're right--except for the fact that I've never seen so many vacancies, not even after the Twin Tour fiasco in 2001. Perhaps the consumers have actually spoken this time, and maybe, just maybe, they mean it when they say their number one shopping pet peeve is pushy salespeople. Maybe these snots drove themselves right out of business. Justice served.

BTW, how much chocolate are in those Klondike bars? :)

the winter of my discontent

I've been a little cranky lately. Not I'm-going-to-turn-my-home-office-upside-down mad, but the mixmaster of life events is sort of trying what's left of my patience.

I think I'm handling it rather well. After all, I sat mildly at the computer and goofed off with my latest winter crush Pandora (a music genome project - www.pandora.com), alternating my seven-times-fire-ant-bitten hand with quickly expiring ice packs and a surprisingly effective cold laser machine. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I did nothing wrong. These little fuckers invaded our home and created a full-on interstate between the port of entry cranny in the wall and our fricking clothes. Not all of them, either--select garments. Thankfully, the lion's share of their amor consisted of my white turtlenecks (sorry, I'm still stuck in the 1970s--so shoot me) where they were more highly visible.

They didn't get me right away. I know how to pluck them off and start mashing them between my fingers (straight pressure, no matter how much, will simply not work) such that they didn't have a fighting chance...that is, until they started dropping down from the hangers above. Geronimo! And when one started stinging, it's like he sent little telepathic or subaudible signals to the others, because then I realized ten other ants had converged onto my fingers and I got multiple stings in seconds flat. I'm mildly allergic, so my reaction is rather pronounced. A single bite will swell my hand up such that my big-ish knuckles completely disappear. It will burn and itch, and get hot and hard, and it will take 4-5 weeks to completely recover. Yeah.

Then I had a no-show. A year and a half ago, this wasn't exactly surprising, as there was a significant drop in the quality of prospective new clients, but this was different. This was one who'd been with me, faithfully and without fail, through thick, thin and everything in between, for the last 4 years. Suddenly one evening, no call, no show, and no email. It has been determined that this client is physically OK, nothing happened to them that night, and without saying as much, nor any reason why, their actions said loud and clear that they weren't returning. I can't help but take that at least a little personally. I mean, this change in the therapeutic relationship was so abrupt, and with no explanation given, that it causes me to wonder what I did wrong, after all this time. Definitely a cause for the reflection that a retrograde Mercury oh-so-willingly encourages.

Yeah, let's talk about that renegade Mercury, now that I mention it. That little leprechaun (who is normally benign) got a wild hair up his butt and started running backwards and took every shred of our sanity with him. Ever wonder why one day every word you utter gets taken the wrong way? Or why you can't get your computer to function to save your life and every avenue you try doesn't work either? Or why you unknowingly send your electric bill payment to the telephone company and vice versa? Heh. Blame that guy. Don't let him fool you, he's got a smirk on his face the whole time. He reigns supreme, too, for about three and a half weeks. Then he does an about face, and he's back to his old benign self again. Hey, at least the full moon is past.

Heh, I guess it's time to turn Pandora back on. It was sedating my fried nerves. Nothing that Pandora and a little chocolate can't fix. But just wait...we haven't even touched upon Clinic Camp yet.

Remember me?

I know, I know, I've been electronically scarce. Sorry about that. I have plenty of excuses, though! Wanna hear 'em? I've learned a whole lot over the past couple of weeks. Like you know how well-meaning people parrot "the grass is always greener on the other side" when trying to make you feel better about being in a crappy place? Well, I learned that sometimes, the grass actually is greener on the other side. As in, maybe the fact that Dallas seems to score higher on the rudeness factor than most places actually may not be my imagination after all. There really is no place like home after all, and I don't mean that in the best of ways.

I also learned that ambient restaurants in ritzy neighborhoods that serve fantastic made-from-scratch food can also be cheap. (Not in Dallas, of course.)

So, I'm just pinging the universe to state for the record that I haven't gone away, and that you're still stuck with me, should you choose to continue to subject yourself. Werd. :)

clean & sober

For those of you looking for cheap therapy in what the media claim is a downtrodden economy, I have the perfect solution: clean. Over the past week, we've ventured where no man has gone for at least the last 7 years, every nook and cranny, and unearthed many a shirt from high school or a framed needlepoint from before kindergarten. We put on the Claude Challe and the Rihanna dance tunes, and old Eurodance tracks from the early '90s bound and determined to get you up and moving, and went.

It got worse before it got better. Everything came out into the open, strewn all over the floor, including the Massage Office computer software that try as I might, I could never get it to work. Or the Trapper Keeper of 2 years' worth of love letters written during class between me and my high school sweetheart. Or the dresses purchased at Goodwill during leaner times (you know--back when the economy actually WAS bad. I call bullshit on the current doom and gloom reports because the mall stores do indeed have "now hiring"/"help wanted" signs hanging outside, something that was not the case during our Goodwill times...but I digress.) Nothing was sacred, nothing exempt. I found second and even sometimes third copies of books; good as they are, we only really need one. We sifted through the VHS tapes and found that some of those that we thought we had gotten rid of, we actually had not yet.

Next was the filing cabinet that stores massage therapy notes and intake paperwork (no, you're not filling all those forms out in vain; yes, we actually do store them). I realized that most of the paperwork pertained to clients that no longer come here and by that I was a little surprised, just because even back when I was actually trying to build my practice and I really put my heart and soul into every session, people still left after 1-2 visits. That's OK, maybe they're shopping around and we just weren't a good fit or they wanted someone who would dig an elbow into the back for an hour. No problem. I also realized that many of those who left had Issues; as in, I can still remember them 3-4 years later and I'm not sorry they're not still clients. There were the One-Hit Wonders--the no-shows, pervs, and just plain psycho people who swore up and down that we had not worked their neck when in fact we had just spent the last hour doing exactly that. But there were the good people too, some of whom I had simply screwed up with, committed a faux pas of some sort somewhere along the line, and they're no longer with me. For that, I'm sorry, and while part of me wishes I could see them again, it is overruled by the house majority that knows I'm far too busy to give them the attention they deserve. I'm more than content with the select few clients I currently have.

The more I went through and unloaded things from my past, the more ready I was to face the present (and future, for that matter). Gone was the yet-unused candle given to me by a former friend with whom I no longer have contact. Gone is that common popular picture of the angel, since angels are predominantly a Christian phenomenon and I am further removed from Christianity with each passing day. Gone are the last belongings from my childhood (don't worry Mom, I kept my baby book and 2nd birthday cards--although I did chuck the laminated cookbook we made as a class in first grade, cuz let's face it--I ain't ever gonna learn to cook hamburger meat, but my husband does a bang-up job, so what's the point?)

I saved the journals I've kept since 4th grade, and the cool late-'80s earrings I got for Christmas when I was 12, because they're still cool and I might still wear them, even after grunge destroyed the glam scene and drowned the hot pink and electric blue in a sea of brown and forest green. I kept the T-shirt the Tangents magazine (read: alterna-crowd) staffers pulled an all-nighter to make the night before my early-morning initiation. I will probably never wear it, and it hangs all the way up on the top row of a walk-in closet with 12-foot ceilings, but I do catch it frequently in the corner of my eye and it still takes me back, so I deem it important. Some of these pointless keepsakes serve as anchors to memories of times long gone, times of innocence, when life was much simpler. Before the mortgages and auto insurance. Before having to file taxes and fight rush hour. Back before I even knew what the rat race was. As far as I could tell, the rat race was for older people. Well, now we are those older people. Sometimes the adult real world gets overwhelming. I feel gypped sometimes, because it's nothing like we saw on MTV.

But what do you do? Some people go to a shrink. But for me, there's nothing like cleaning out unwanted stuff I haven't looked at in 3 years and giving it away, knowing it will probably wind up in the hands of someone who could really use it. Despite my promises to myself that I would need that item someday, thus justifying my hanging on to it, I finally had to admit to myself that it's not gonna happen. Reluctantly, I let it go. You know what? I can't even remember what those items were, and I cleaned them out just a few days ago. Instead, I feel lighter. More refreshed. Simpler. For the first time in a long time, our house only contains objects that we're actually going to use. That shouldn't be a revolutionary concept, but it is. There's no other feeling like it. The therapeutic value is off the charts. And hey--the price is right.