So are psychologists just truly clueless or are they so tuned in to their need to pathologize everyone who is not happy with themselves that they are willing  to actually pathologize everyone who is not happy with themselves? I’m not meaning to be heartless, here.  If there is a legitimate neurobiological issue involved  then let’s focus on that.  This particular presentation of a new disorder characterized by ‘selective eating’ manages to come off as simultaneously dismissive and ridiculously exaggerated, neither of which is really very helpful for people who perceive themselves to be sufferers. I’m sure this condition causes a fair amount of subjective distress, but suggesting that picky eating ranks up there with anorexia or bulemia and that they all fit under the broad category of eating disorder  makes ‘selective eating’ appear rather silly and pale in comparison. I have no doubt that there are people whose pickiness transcends normal human behavior and that it might even be pathological, but then it isn’t truly ‘selective’ is it and the term has the potential to medicalize a whole segment of the population who just may have different views on food and not just those with a real impairment.

Makes me think of a new ad out for a drug for ‘difficult menstrual periods.’ As opposed to what?  Happy, fulfilling menstrual periods?  Good grief, not every aspect of the human condition is a disease requiring a treatment from a pharmaceutical company. This particular drug is not approved for PMS or PMDD, artificial categories recognized by the FDA as ‘legitimate’ physical ailments, because it is only for milder physical symptoms, formerly known throughout centuries of human experience as ‘cramps.’  How is it that all of these issues ably faced by human beings since the beginning of time only became diseases and disorders for which medical intervention is required in the past few decades? Here’s a clue–watch Mad Men.  Besides the fact that efforts to turn being human into a disease are often nothing more than  marketing ploys with little relationship to to true biological phenomenon, it is stunning to me that people willingly put all sorts of chemicals into their bodies to treat mundane issues that often resolve on their own if left alone. This is insanity.  Maybe this researcher should next do a study on ‘ ‘Gullibility About Disorders’ Disorder.’

(Cartoon by Mike Adams and Dan Berger at NaturalNews.com: http://www.naturalnews.com/021665.html)

Who would think an article in honor of National Poetry Day could start such a brouhaha: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/steve-jones/8043205/National-Poetry-Day-unlock-the-mathematical-secrets-of-verse.html.  I thought it was an interesting take on the human experience. We tend to think of math and science as completely distinct from artistic pursuits, but that, of course, is nonsense.  Try drawing a reasonable representation of anything with no attention to ratio or perspective.  But boy howdy, try telling a bunch of poets that they are actually occult mathematicians and watch the fur fly!  The undisguised sense of artistic superiority represented in the comments section is rather nauseating.  I felt compelled to add my own two cents:

“The fact that so many ‘artists’ are posting defensive comments about how their skill transcends mere dull scientific bounds like mathematics pretty much proves the premise of the article. Good grief people, lighten up. No one is trying to take your superior artistic sensibilities away from you–just pointing out that there are fundamental principles that tie art and science together.

As someone who is a creative writer (and therefore artistically superior, like many of you) and who also dabbles in biological science due to a genetic illness in my family, I for one am thrilled that ‘scientific minds have taken over’ (delphivci) critical parts of human life. I seriously doubt Maya Angelou or Carol Ann Duffy would have provided much assistance in ferreting out the genetic causes of cystic fibrosis, or in helping come up with treatments. Their contributions are no less important, but they are no more important, either. This isn’t an all or nothing proposition–science bad, art good–and it is astounding to me that we clearly still haven’t matured past this simplistic view of the world.”

Given how reasonable and open-minded this group is, I’m sure they feel suitably chastened by my reasonable and not at all controversial commentary.

Courtesy Justin at Shit My Dad Says.

From the website Lefse Time

ATTN SCANDINAVIANS: Avert your eyes from the greenish glow of the plate. It is an unfortunate color artifact and is not meant to represent an actual lefse feast which would, naturally, be color-less.

*Scandinavian for ‘oy vey’

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

There is a classic line in the movie Monster House where the exasperated babysitter confronts the odd behavior of her charges by saying something like “I don’t know what you have, but I’m sure that it has initials and there are pills for it.” I sympathize with her frustration.  In our family, we have identified and assigned initials to one such disorder; C.U.D or ‘Consequence Understanding Disorder.’ Our observation has been that, while it strikes all races and both genders, it is far more serious, long-lasting and difficult to treat in males. In medical parlance this is known as a ‘gender bias.’ This is unfortunate because, of course, gender usually lasts a lifetime. It is more and more clear to me that, unfortunately, so does CUD.

All children have to suffer through the ‘learning by experience’ misery that is part of the human condition. However, people with CUD have the additional challenge of not actually internalizing these lessons, finding themselves in a state of chronic surprise when things go–predictably to the rest of us–horribly wrong.  The symptoms showed up early in my son. He had trouble grasping the notion that it is not a good idea to walk one way while looking another.  As a consequence, his unusually large head was a phrenological paradise with lumps, bumps and bruises everywhere.  Finally sick of hearing the walls in the house shake due to another CUD collision (‘sounds like Rory’s walking again’) and of being suspected of forehead abuse, we resorted to covering his head at all times with a football helmet (seriously).

I admit I sometimes contributed to the problem, albeit innocently, my own mild CUD apparently rearing its ugly head.  I mean what could possibly go wrong with giving a young boy with a limited grasp of consequences a chemistry set? On white carpet?  During the most boring months of winter?

One incident led me to believe we were making some progress. Rory, who was about 6 years old, became interested in a baby rattle belonging to a visiting infant.  The rattle was attached to a suction cup and Rory was fascinated to discover that with a little spit and some force, you could get that suction cup to stick to just about anything.  He stuck it to walls, appliances, and furniture, noting the various stickiness factor of each.  Over the years, I had learned to recognize the look on his face that meant we were in trouble.  It was a “hmmm, I wonder what would happen if…?” look and the blankness behind his eyes made it clear that he was in a full CUD mode. As he sat next to the innocent infant and held the rattle aloft in one hand, I saw that look in his eyes and was immediately gripped with a terrifying vision of the future–a screaming infant, suction rattle bouncing from forehead, being examined by a triumphant six-year-old.  Adrenaline surging, I crossed the room in two large leaps– just in time to hear a resounding WHAP and see the rattle bouncing noisily from Rory’s own forehead. My relief that he had chosen to experiment on himself and not the baby was short-lived, however, because he was in serious distress when he figured out that, once removed, the rattle had left a large, red suction hickey on his forehead.  There was no disguising it with a football helmet this time. He was forced to wear the evidence of his severe CUD for all to see.

As difficult as this experience was for him (his classmates nicknamed him “Bullseye,” a name that sticks–no pun intended–to this day) at least I had hope that his distress would reinforce the consequences of that particular action and break through the devastating barrier of CUD. For a time, it seemed that that is exactly what happened. He suffered from other CUD-related injuries (who could predict that doing pretend death rolls out of your friend’s slow moving vehicle could result in someone getting hurt?), but I thought we had at least crossed the ‘suction-related injuries’ hurdle. Which is why I was so surprised when Rory, now 21 and a college student, came into my office area the other day with a horrible rash on his face. Fearing he may have a serious illness, I asked him about the multiple reddish-purple bruises covering his right cheek, forehead and chin.

“Oh, are they still there?” he said.

I felt my heart sink. “Rory, are what still there?”

“Well, I was holding an empty pill bottle last night–you know, the ones that seem hard–and I noticed that if I squeezed it just right, I could get enough suction to make it stick to my hand.”

No, no, no! It couldn’t be. This was total relapse to age six CUD behavior. But I had to be brave for both of us, so I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and asked what happened next.

“So, I thought I should see if I could get it to stick to my face,” Rory explained, as if this was perfectly rational.

Yes, of course.  When you notice that something you’ve done serves absolutely no useful purpose, you really are obligated to repeat it over and over. This is the perverse logic of CUD.  I immediately recognized the need to break through Rory’s CUD-related denial, which can seriously blur even the most basic behavioral standards set by our society for individuals who are technically adults.  I needed to re-establish his identity.

“Rory,” I said, searching his eyes for some sign of connection, some little indication that he was still in touch with the world around him and not completely in the throes of CUD, “I know you are aware of this at some level, but just as a reminder, you are 21 years old and just got an ‘A’ in physics. Are you seriously telling me that it never occurred to you that you would end up with a face full of suction hickies?”

“I guess I just never really thought about it,” he said.  And that is precisely the tragedy of CUD.

We will continue to work with Rory’s disorder until a cure can be found, but in the meantime, it is important to raise awareness of this little understood condition.  After all, we are all subject to the consequences of untreated CUD. What else could explain the illogical decisions reached by policy makers, corporate titans and elected officials (who, it is worth noting, are overwhelming male and therefore subject to the more severe form of CUD)?Unfortunately, CUD is usually a silent disorder–especially if you are fortunate enough to have handlers protecting you from the consequences of your ridiculous behavior. If suction hickies were a universal manifestation of CUD, we would no doubt be astounded at how serious this epidemic is among our ‘leaders.’ Just imagine…

I am so glad someone had the guts to finally address this critical topic.  With all the attention to the economic meltdown, flu pandemics, etc, we have really lost site of our core American value that what you look like is more more important than anything else.  Fat actors, even if they are middle-aged and have earned the right to focus on something other than their appearance, are a sure sign that our society is on the edge of complete collapse.  It must be stopped!  Maybe we can get a congressional mandate on body mass index for A list actors (and scale it down for those on the B, C, and D lists) with fines and jail time for those who don’t comply.  Or, since it is inexplicably socially acceptable in our culture to bully and discriminate against fat people–even though that sort of behavior would not be tolerated against any other group–maybe we should consider organizing some grassroots movements to ridicule and torment fat actors until they finally achieve an acceptable physique.

Good grief, what a superficial, ridiculous thing to worry about!  Anyone who looks to Ted Casablanca as the paragon of culture deserves whatever unfulfilled life they end up with.

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Despite being a needy little guy, Gus has decided that he is not very interested in bedtime snuggling. At least not with with me. He has a definite preference for sleeping with Rory, who really is not a much of a snuggler.

Maybe he thinks that Rory is just playing “hard to get” and the challenge really works for him.  I don’t know.  My sister suggested that perhaps Rory is just better in bed.  Whatever.  In any case, the long hallway to my bedroom has become Gus’s personal Trail of Tears.  He lumbers slowly down the hall, attempting to duck into every doorway he encounters along the way, with his tail and ears down. The look in his eyes can only be described as a cross between terror and abject despair. I’ve seen this look before.  It’s why I don’t date.

I’ve attempted to reason with him–after all, snuggling with me is not strictly torture as defined in the Geneva Conventions–but as Donald Rumsfield would say, sometimes you just have to go to bed with the dog you have, not the dog you want.

BTW, isn’t it odd that when your dog snores it’s adorable and endearing, but when your partner snores it’s grounds for justifiable homicide?

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