Fighting the Darkness

 

Depression is a trickster. A Casanova, then an abusive lover.

It's seductive. A slickster.

Depression lets you pick out and design your own hell.  If you're tired, just sleep for 1, 2, 3, 4 days.  Don't move if you don't feel like it.  Shower only if you want.  Eat nothing, or everything.

Depression is a beautiful liar. 

Once you realize its tricks, you've got to fight back.  Move at all costs, even if it's to the bathroom and back.  It will sing you a lullaby. Don't listen.  Hum, scream, play music, talk to yourself.

Depression wants to be your best and only friend. 

But it doesn't love you.

Moving an inch is a victory, and don't expect it to let up.  It will find new and astounding ways to convince you to embrace it forever.

Don't believe it's lies.

It is the sweet talk of the devil, the bottomless pit.

January, 2010.

Are You Not Entertained?

Social media has never provoked a high level of disgust in me (shout out to my buddy Zed) - until I saw a Facebook status update from a funeral. How did I know it was from a funeral? Because that was the purpose of the update - to let everyone know they were in the same room as a coffin, paying their respects. After witnessing this gross display of indecency, I felt a seething hate for humanity. Especially humans compelled to document every movement of their lives on Facebook.

I understand Facebook is voluntary, and not an as-yet requirement for inclusion on the planet. I initially joined for the same reasons we all did - mindless entertainment. Back in '06, it was a novel way to keep track of friends, family, wayward children, ex-lovers, enemies, current events, etc.

Now? It's a complete clusterfuck. A posterchild for meglomania. A place where people seldom dialogue about thought-provoking issues, but sit around and circulate bad memes, complain/humble brag about their lives, force you to look at 500 page virtual photo albums, gossip, proselytize, commit uncalled-for hash tag or emoji abuse, post snapshots of kale smoothies; or make shameless exhaustive monologues on life lessons, shitty relationships, personal prayers, or the existential crisis one experiences after being snubbed by a friend’s cat.

Just when did Facebook become the equivalent of the goddamn Hunger Games? I'm not referring to the casual users. I'm talking about folks who act as if they fail to contribute twenty plus updates per day, they will ABSOLUTELY KEEL OVER AND DIE. 

I’d been studying for an exam the last few months, so I'm not sure when my Facebook feed devolved into professionally edited snapshots of pizza, #selfies, sweaty people on gym equipment, song lyrics, and Candy Crush invites. I knew there were compelling events going on in the world (Ukraine, Putin, the Michael Dunn case, Oscar Pistorius, the two US astronauts currently stuck in outer space, The Affordable Care Act, MH370, House of Cards Season Two, etc.), yet all of them took a back seat to what somebody's stupid coworker WORE ON TUESDAY.

So this is what we’re doing now.  How repellant. It's tantamount to group masturbation, with everyone jerking off to their own lives, inviting other people to watch. For why? Because in the 21st century, self-absorption is the look. We must proclaim ZOMGG I'M READING A BOOK, as if it's some peculiar activity that other mere mortals don't do. If we have an experience and don't post it on Facebook, does its significance cease to exist? Is it really that difficult to be still, be present, and bask in the experience of life without the need to document every second of it?

And what happened to living in stealth mode? Whatever happened to SECRETS? Secrets (healthy ones) are provocative, intriguing, sexy.  Secrets – just like modesty, demureness, humility, discretion, class, tact, and decorum - need to make a comeback.

BECAUSE YOUR NARCISSISM IS BORING.

Though I couldn't help but wonder (©): Are people happier this way, compulsively posting about their daily lives? The idea vexed me. I was completely vexed.

Maybe I was missing out.

So I conducted an experiment. I decided to consistently update my FB feed over a span of 48 hours, to see if my personal fulfillment meter surged exponentially. The extra kick was that I got all satirical about it, by posting the same type of mind-numbing, frustratingly mediocre junk that others rudely foist onto their FB counterparts. (who, believe me - have done nothing to deserve it.) No, I’m not above a bout of petty passive-aggressiveness in order to have a little fun.

EXPERIMENTAL DATA, DAY ONE:

Status updates: Photo post from the checkout line at the grocery store.  Announce I was purchasing greens and chicken wings. Post picture of a Ralph’s water bottle, which accompanied dinner. Post that I was about to watch Basketball Wives.  The next morning, post about a delicious red apple I enjoyed as a snack (with photo), post that I'd listened to Carly Simon and Mack 10 on Spotify. Next, a random post of some freak on the internet, an update about my afternoon walk, another post to indicate I was enjoying the day, followed by two status updates on the weather, then a post asking for donations on behalf of the International Bird Rescue. After that -  a Drake meme, then a post announcing my water intake due to the hot weather, a post about taking lunch, a snapshot of said lunch, a mid-day selfie, an almost decade old picture of my kids, an exercise video on planking, a conversation re-enactment had with a co-worker, a snapshot of a caramel rice cake (another snack), a twerk video, a Jesus quote, that I was stuck in rush hour traffic, and a post when I’d finally made it home. Posted about my 20 minute stationary bike workout, then ended the evening with a goodnight post.

EXPERIMENTAL DATA, DAY TWO:

Status updates: A post about a mockingbird that kept me up until 2 a.m. A "good morning, stay positive" post. A picture of a wedding dress. A weather update. A random post about the dude sitting across from me in a café, who looked like a serial killer. Posted lyrics to Drunk In Love, made one post each about Donald Sterling and the anniversary of the LA riots (to see if anyone would bite), a post about the Panda Cam live feed, a post about how much I missed Sassy (my dog), another picture of Sassy, three more pictures of Sassy, a random wisecrack, an excerpt from the book of Exodus. Next post was about my commute home, and that I was on the 10 freeway and drinking vodka (I got a few likes, and no one seemed concerned). Next, a post announcing I'd arrived home, and a final picture of Sassy and two lumps of dried shit she'd left in her potty area - hashtagged. (#twolittlePoopsofLove.)

DATA ANALYSIS AND FINDINGS:

A.     EXHAUSTION: At the end of Day One, I was completely drained. Interrupting my life, to post about my life was unexpectedly tiring. Or, posting such self-absorbed drivel basically sapped my creative energy. It felt like an empty exercise. By the end of Day Two, I was sick of my phone, sick of FB, and sick of myself.

B.     UNPRODUCTIVITY: In the days prior to the experiment, I ‘d been reading two books, journaling, working on blog updates, helping my daughter with her t-shirt store website, catching up on new epi's of Anthony Bourdain’s travel show, and doing some gardening. I accomplished very little of that during the experiment. There is only so much free time in a day, especially after work and other personal responsibilities.  I couldn’t be actively creative AND update Facebook – it was one or the other. FB is a cunning time dump.

C.     SOCIAL INTERACTIONS: I was constantly distracted. I made very little eye-contact with people. I tried to help my daughter with her project during my "experiment," but I wasn’t present with her. I  half- listened. I kept putting her off. She got impatient, which frustrated me even more. I also like to chat with the small sociopaths neighborhood kids when I get in from work - to ask them what they learned, and remind them to stay off my grass. Bypassed that, because I was too busy trying to get inside and resume the experiment. Instead of chilling in the backyard with my pooch, I kept trying to get her to pose for FB pics. She didn't cooperate, nor did she appreciate it. My selfish antics were impacting others. I was simultaneously neglecting people AND getting on their nerves.

D.    FEEDBACK AND RESPONSES: As a result of my increased posting and subject matter, I was inundated with texts, emails, and phone calls inquiring: (1) if my FB account had been hacked (2) if I was okay, (3) if I was engaged in some kind of ironic performance art social media protest, or (4) if I was off my meds. I assured those who didn’t already know, the answer was #3. Those who didn’t know me as well (obviously,) seemed delighted in my sudden participation in Facebook life, and rewarded me with “likes” accordingly. Only three people de-friended me. Not too many cared about the serious topics (Sterling, The Riots), but the mockingbird post and Bey’s song lyrics were winners.

I was also chided that I didn't go hard enough with this experiment, and needed way more status updates, a shit ton of selfies with bad lighting and filters, more typos, more randomness, and more hideous pics of food closely resembling vomit. (shout out to Manochinita)

  E. PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS:  I felt anxious and disconnected. I didn't feel present in my real life, with the people and activities which meant most to me. It was difficult keeping up the momentum at the office, because I'm required to do a certain level of interacting. I do however get that stationary/isolating office gigs can lead to excessive FB posting. Which basically falls under the category of boredom.  There are a hundred other ways to actively (vs. passively) combat boredom.  Even if trapped behind a desk, one can make the most of it -  maybe actually apply yourself to the job you'd like to keep, enroll in an online course, study a new language, brainstorm on personal projects, pen a handwritten letter, take a walk, break your fingers, snort some bath salts, jump off a cliff.  Just.don't.waste.your.life.online.

Sidenote: I did observe a lot of emotional venting on Facebook. I get the feeling some people utilize FB to effectively drown out the reality that their lives might be lacking, unrewarding, empty, dysfunctional, lonely, or unhealthy.  For that, the best resources would be serious self-examination, a private journal, and professional therapy.  Zuckerberg don't give a damn about your mental health.

The comic Louis CK said it better:

You need to build an ability to just be yourself, and not be doing something. That's what phones are taking away, is the ability to just sit there.

That's being a person. And sometimes when things clear away, you're not watching anything, you're in your car, and you start going, 'oh no, here it comes. I'm alone.' It's starts to visit on you. Just this sadness. Life is tremendously sad, just by being in it...

That's why we text and drive. I look around, pretty much 100 percent of the people driving are texting. And they're killing, everybody's murdering each other with their cars. But people are willing to risk taking a life and ruining their own because they don't want to be alone for a second because it's so hard.

   F. FINAL TAKEWAY:  As suspected, my productivity and mental state hit their zenith when living outside the Facebook trap. I have three very good friends who drop kicked Facebook a few years ago, to focus on their real life passions and goals.  They are now, as follows: a social worker, an RN, and a law school student. They weren't posting updates about their case studies or anatomy exams, they were quietly doing their work.  A fulfilling, exciting life isn’t like a business - you don’t have to advertise.

I have yet to deactivate my account for two main reasons:  First, I live for the authentic interactions I have with an amazing group of women (most of whom I know in real life) and our primary mode of sharing is via a private group on Facebook. Second, I am an observer of the human carnival, and Facebook is prime territory to watch it unfold.

The fuckery is entertaining.

Out, Damned Thoughts..

A legal case caught my attention last year, where a young woman pushed her husband off a cliff while on their honeymoon:

Jordan Linn Graham, 22, told FBI agents that she and her husband of eight days, 25-year-old Cody Lee Johnson, were arguing on July 7 while walking in Glacier National Park near their home in Kalispell, Montana. "She could have just walked away, but due to her anger, she pushed Johnson with both hands in the back and as a result, he fell face first off the cliff," the affidavit states she told investigators.

WTF?

SMQ! (So many questions.)

# 1: Sooo she merks the poor dude eight days after getting hitched? For reals? Whatever happened to old-school etiquette, where one respectably stands up one’s betrothed at the altar? At least everyone lives in that scenario.

# 2: Did she have the newlywed version of buyer’s remorse, and decide to return the groom to his maker – kind of like returning an ugly handbag purchase back to Nordstrom’s?

# 3: Was this some kind of plotline remix to So I Married an Axe Murderer?

# 4: Is this a sordid example of how the socially stunted, microwave generation wants what it wants right now - even down to getting rid of a husband? (Honestly, eight days is a tad excessive…everyone knows it takes a good 5+  years before you start plotting ways to fling your hubby off a mountain.)

# 5: Perhaps she meant to push him - but not to his death?

# 6: Or…was he standing too close to the edge when she was overcome by an uncontrollable impulse to push him?

The last question intrigued me most. (naturally) Was there a mental disorder at play? Did she hear voices, was she delusional? (schizophrenia) Did she have a history of impulsive thoughts and/or behavior? Had she ever been diagnosed with Harm O, a sub-type of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder wherein:

A person has aggressive obsessions that they may cause harm to others impulsively. For example, the person may fear that they will punch a friend, when they are not angry, but just because they can. They may be concerned that they might push an elderly person into subway tracks or push a child into oncoming traffic. Another common fear is that the person might grab a steak knife during dinner and stab a loved one.

Most people have the occasional impulsive thought. It's natural, and it passes. Yet this very situation is one of my worst fears realized. (Two fears, if we include the whole getting married thing.) Because anyone like me, who happens to be born with a case of wacky brain chemistry (and diagnosed OCD*), these thoughts reach a whole other level. Many times they turn obsessive, become stuck in an accelerated process, vividly recycle and repeat, to the point where they cause a great deal of stress and anxiety.

(*Quick aside regarding Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder:  Some people proclaim to have "OCD" because it sounds like a cool way to explain certain idiosyncratic behaviors, but have never been professionally diagnosed. OCD is a DSM Axis I/Anxiety-related disorder in which a person experiences frequent intrusive and unwelcome obsessional thoughts, often followed by repetitive compulsions, impulses or urges.  

So having OCD is not the same as being “anal,” or “a perfectionist.”  A person who cleans house thoroughly for tidiness/cleanliness does not have OCD. A person who spends half an hour making sure the curtains fall perfectly (hello), or has to disinfect items repeatedly, and cannot move on to the next task without becoming seriously agitated and upset, is a purer example of OCD. Hence, this scene. )

Plainly put - it only seems edgy and novel when you do not have it.  When you do, it's exhausting; and a bit of a drag.

This particular head trip's been a part of my life before I even knew it had a name.

For me, things started out benignly enough. I was a quirky little girl with strange habits I kept mostly to myself.  My first phobia sprang up full-force at age four, when I developed an irrational fear of pine cones (this is another post entirely). I also developed an uncontrollable need to read the same books over and over, mostly for comfort. I had counting rituals (counting the number of steps it took to walk from one place to another, the time lapse between a red and green light), ordering and arranging rituals (my knee socks had to align perfectly, toys and books had to be stacked a certain way) among other tasks that I would endlessly repeat, until it felt "right."

Then some time around grade school, I became dreadfully afraid of scissors. Not just because they were sharp – but because I had thoughts of them “coming alive” in my hands and hurting someone. I failed Home Ec in high school, not because I was some lame ass, but of my fear of handling needles, scissors, fabric rippers, and other sharp sewing shit. (Elmer-gluing my skirt patterns together = FAIL.)  I wouldn't stand near a ledge at the mall, or a drop-off while hiking, or peer over a rooftop – because of the fear I'd be compelled to jump. Or worse, that I would impulsively push someone.

As I got older, there were places/situations that would set off these anxieties, and I avoided them to keep myself from going nutters. As with any chronic condition left untreated - the symptoms got worse. During a deeply traumatic period in my life which triggered mass anxiety and horrible intrusive thoughts, I ended up in a therapist’s office. And thank Yeezus.  Because after a professional evaluation and diagnosis, I was able to gain insight into OCD, its etiology, and how it could be managed.

And it was awesome, being reassured that I was not insane. (By the clinical/legal definition, anyway. My friends will often argue this.)

I manage pretty well these days with meds that keep my serotonin and other neurotransmitters in check, and with CBT techniques learned in therapy. I’m not nearly as anxious/compulsive/obsessive as I once was - though I still have jittery, sometimes exhausting ways (and flare-ups, when under stress) that I embrace and use to my advantage. Like my homie Monk.

And no matter how many impulsive thoughts I've had about running some idiot asshole driver off the road, or pushing a truly heinous person down the stairs (or disposing of a husband) - I've never done it.  And just to be clear: I do have a temper, and am known to go HAM, yet these ocassions are usually justified (heh). OCD'ers with intrusive thoughts typically have no history of violence, nor do they act on their urges or impulses.  (We leave that to the psychotics.)

But back to this Jordan chick - she had no prior history of mental issues, nor did her lawyers attempt to put up a mental incompetence defense.  It appears she's just a generic sociopath with some fatal anger management issues. Even worse, she tried to cover-up her crime by lying to investigators, claiming she had no idea what happened to her husband. Then eventually fessed up, and lead cops to hubby's body. That 'aint no mental condition, that's a cold-blooded bitch. She eventually pled guilty to second degree murder.

So my original attempt to understand the cliff pusher's plight just didn't pan out. Old girl basically fucked up her life, (and her victim's) for reasons unknown.

Let's see how long she can keep those murderous hands to herself, with cellies who look like this.

UPDATE 3/27/14: Sentenced to 30 years in the Big House.

The Panda Cam

We all look forward to those glorious moments during the day, when we can fuck off take time out for the mental “breathers” that keep us sane at the office. During the course of a garden variety work day, many of us exhale on the internets in the form of: instant messaging, online gambling/ shopping/dating, scouring the gossip blogs, checking fantasy football stats, stalking your teens' Tumblr feed, blathering on about absolutely fucking nothing via Facebook (Instagram, Twitter, Vine, Xanga, yadda yadda); creating stupid cute Bitstrip cartoons, or by leaving rambling, rage-filled comments regarding Obamacare in the entertainment section of Yahoo.com

Well. I've traded all of the above, since the day I found my beloved Panda Cam.

With just one click, I’m instantly transported to the peaceful environs of the Ailuropoda melanoleuca, the Giant Pandas who currently enjoy their endangered life status at the Smithsonian National Zoo in DC.  Twenty-four/seven, a camera follows Mei Mei and Bao Bao (Moms and her cub) as they sleep, stretch, laze around, play, eat, and shit.

There’s something absolutely meditative about watching these cute, burly creatures peacefully lolling around the bamboo garden all day. This daily practice also provides me with a quick, safe, and stress-free method of connecting with nature. (The lifestyle experts say this is important.) And it's really cool to witness these creatures in action, especially since they’d maul your fucking eyes out if you ever got too close in real life.

It’s all so damn zen.

And hey, sometimes my long days at the office can get rough. Working with people who happen to be battling cancer every day is extremely rewarding, but it also has the propensity to suck major ass. (Because, cancer.) My way of decompressing is by observing the life of the exquisite panda throughout the day.

This is reality TV as it SHOULD BE, people.  Natural. Authentic. Educational. Uncensored. There’s no repulsive, warped, dysfunctional behavior going down, like say, in HUMANITY. In the panda realm, there are no politics or hidden agendas. No nastiness. (which means no Republicans) And depending on which camera you select for your viewing pleasure, you'll either have the joy of watching baby Bao Bao stretch and roll around in her crib (ok, cage) like some wild, little, breathing cotton ball with legs:







Or, you'll be greeted by the vision of Mei Mei, chilling in the bamboo garden, serenely consuming lunch, and reigning like the true Thug Misses she is.





Fascinating.

Check what else I learned about pandas:

Lifestyle:

A wild giant panda spends much of its day resting, feeding, and seeking food.

How cool is that? The equivalent in my world would be: Sleeping, lounging, and constant dinner reservations.  These pandas have got the FUCKING LIFE.

Characteristics:

Though the panda is often assumed to be docile, it has been known to attack humans, presumably out of irritation rather than aggression.

Totally can relate. I attack anyone who bothers me around lunch time.

Social Structure:

Adult giant pandas are generally solitary, but they do communicate periodically through scent marks, calls, and occasional meetings.

Me too! Except I communicate periodically through angry facial expressions, this blog, and occasional meetings at the bar (happy hour)!

Raising Cubs:

Offspring stay with their mothers from one and a half to three years.

I dig how panda motherhood is so.... accelerated. Three years tops? My offspring have been hanging around my pad for a few decades. (I bet Panda moms show their boomerang kids the DOOR.)  Mei Mei is a stern disciplinarian, and does NOT play. Especially when she's trying to get some decent shut-eye. If Bao Bao bothers her, wanting to play, or be fed  - Mei Mei will raise her gargantuan paw and fling poor Bao Bao aside like an unwanted rollie pollie.

I respect that.

Kids have to learn not to fuck with Moms during her beauty rest. It's the same in the wild, and at my house.

Not everyone is on board with my latest obsession. A colleague walked in one day, spied the active Panda Cam on my screen.

He kinda scoffed and said something about how he mistook me for suuuucch a progressive, and how could I participate in the exploitation of innocent pandas like that? Violating their privacy, and such. What about the panda's rights?

It took me 4 seconds to realize what was going down. Dude just tried to PANDA SHAME me.

"Listen," I whisper-shouted. "This is my thing. Do I get all judgy with your thing, like when you Skype with those slack-jawed hosebeasts you meet on your secret OkCupid account?" (I was irritated because Bao Bao was stretching after her sixth afternoon nap and I'd just missed it.)  "Is this what you really want to debate with me? Panda advocacy? Of all the social ills ravaging this planet? How about human rights violations going on at GITMO? What about sex trafficking in Cambodia? Miner's rights in South Africa? Do you even care about the homeless? What about the evil that is Fox News? This (I point at screen, as the camera zooms in on Mei Mei taking a shit) is restorative to me. Ok? Oprah has her mountaintop on Maui, I HAVE MY PANDA CAM."

He backed away as if to say ok this is really not how I want to die and meandered away. Actually, he's hasn't spoken to me since.

GOOD.

FINE.

Whatever.

We don't have time for any nonsense, we're here to work.

But how freaking cute is Bao Bao?!  Just look at her. ADORBS!

About Today

It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining. Feels like summer. I'm wearing a cute dress. I’m alive, and sane. I was out late last night, partying with good friends. I’m a bit hung over, and could use a nap. Today I have enough money to treat myself to breakfast and lunch. Tomorrow I will get an estimate on a brake repair, and then my spending habits might change.

But that’s tomorrow.

Today officially began the cartography project with my co-worker. I hung a huge world map across the office wall, bought colorful push-pins, and we marked the top ten places we want to go. My co-worker is an accomplished young man, a tad straight-laced. At 25, he doesn't yet understand the importance of travel. Push past the convention in your life, I say. Stop being so safe. When you are older and have more responsibilities, you’ll either say I’m glad I did it or I should have done it.

For the most part, life is about choices.

I have a push-pins at Morocco, the Balearic Islands, and Milan.  Their locations aligned perfectly on the map. I choose to see this as a sign.  A sign of hope, and good things to come.

This map is displayed in my office, in a building where cancer patients are treated. A friend of mine was here today. I stood with her outside, after the appointment, looked into her puffy eyes, held her hand, as we discussed chemotherapy, radiation, and life.

Beneath a warm sun. On a gorgeous day.

Twelve years ago today, the Twin Towers fell.  Ten years ago today, my sister was murdered. Today, my friend has to deal with the bitch that is cancer. For plenty of people, and reasons, this is a tough day.  Though not unlike any other day, really. Because everyone will have a 9/11 day in their lifetime.  A day when the awful event happens. When something will annihilate you, mangle your core, and from which you must try to recover. It could be abuse. Loss. A disease or affliction. It could be financial ruin, heartbreak, war, betrayal.

Today I am reminded that life is beautiful and painful, usually at the same time. And you can live fully in both, if you can stand it.  Sometimes it takes a catastrophe to appreciate the simplicity of a beautiful day.

Tonight I will drive home, settle in, talk with my kids, cook, watch tv with my little dog curled at my side, journal before bed, and look forward to tomorrow. Just thinking of this makes me enormously happy.

In my life, I've taken plenty of days for granted. But it doesn’t matter. I'm grateful now. If there is a tomorrow, I will choose to be grateful for it too.

Tomorrow, I'll probably complain. But I will be more conscientious about my complaints.  There are people everywhere with hard realities they didn’t choose. So I will be thankful for the little things. A cranberry muffin for breakfast, a creative project, a home cooked meal, loved ones, an evening of insignificant television.

It's been a beautiful day. It's been a tough day. Both, at the same time.

And I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life.

Amen.

The Summer of Fuckery: Installment One

C.A.W.

Summer  2008 will forever be known as the glorious, exciting, harrowing time I went completely off the rails. Alas, it was the first time since my rebellion filled adolescence that I consciously went rogue, and decided to give no fucks about the societal impositions that suggested how I should be living my life.

It also helped establish the C.A.W. movement, but more on that later.

After a particular mentally bleak winter, June had swung around and my birthday was finally on the horizon. I’d completed a year of self-imposed celibacy to get my mind right about a variety of shit, and was game and ready for action.

Basically, I was determined to get laid.

Looking back, I approached this goal with all the subtlety of a grizzly bear - ravenous and on the hunt.  To this day, I firmly believe there was some funky planetary alignment going down, combined with an undetected pheromone leak into the balmy Los Angeles basin. This unique set of circumstances also propelled me into my first full-scale manpage.©  (Similar to a rampage: a manpage is a course of wild and uncontrollable behavior involving exclusively the male species.) .

I'd decided to up my inner vamp, sex kitten, femme fatale game. Which in layman’s terms, meant I spent the entirety of the summer acting like a big ole’ happy slut.

There were the usual recruitment activites: happy hours on hotel rooftops, Taco Tuesdays, sports bars, jazz lounges, Throwback Thursday’s, reggae night, salsa Sundays. I turned into a vicious flirt on every dance floor, veranda, and bar stool. I drug my girls along; made them accomplices to my fuckery, and ignored all rational advice. I sized up every dude within eyesight; praying to stumble across a bootleg version of Idris. (no dice) But if some guy met even the minimum attractiveness quotient, had a nice grill, and didn't say anything too ridiculous, he was hastily promoted to the front of the list.

There were a flurry of prospects.  Plenty were weeded out early on by their mere stupidity, cluelessness, boring ass drag, or questionable sexuality.  I’d engaged in the kissing game with a few, but none had inspired me to full on attack. Then, just as I was about to online shop for wine and dildos – he appeared. A shiny new someone.  He was a colleague, a fresh transfer from another department - tall and athletic, perfect teeth, quasi-metro swag, with sun-kissed bronze skin of the Latin persuasion.  We were introduced, and he could clearly observe something up with me, considering I shook his hand a little too long while politely eye-fucking him.

Turns out he was intelligent and fun and mischievious, and seemingly ready to come outside and play. A week later, we had our first martini lunch date. Screwing around at work was an all-around horrible idea, and so of course, I proceed with a quickness.

Fast forward a month. Our liasions had included fondling in the botanical garden, kissing in an elevator, and pawing each other in the parking garage after sundown. I’d told him all about my celibacy jaunt, and current mission. He was amused, which was cute – but all I really needed to know was if he was down. I laid it all out, like a business proposal. No drama, no regrets, all enjoyment.

We kissed on it, and promised to be discreet.

Our version of being discreet was holing up in my office the next day for lunch, where a variety of adult shenanigans quickly went down. Necking and groping ensued. His pants dropped, my bra unclicked. I slipped him the foil packet I’d secreted in my skirt. It was all so exciting, risky, and we were intoxicated with anticipation, and dammit I was finally about to get laid; and then this whole scene was completely eviscerated when some student worker barreled into my office and busted us in the (almost) act, approximately ten seconds later.

My goofy, horny ass forgot to lock the door.

I was fucked. And, ironically this is what I wanted.

Right?

There was major fumbling, a few "oh shit" and "sorries" offered as we regrouped. The student worker shot back out the door, to bleach his stunned eyes no doubt. And me? I hid in my office the rest of the afternoon, ignoring multiple texts from my would-be lover to meet with him after work. I couldn't do it, my high was completely ruined. The dude from the mailroom had seen my tits, for christ's sake.

Later that eve: Completely demoralized, I recounted the grisly details to my girls. I prepared myself for the laughter and ridicule; how the infamous retellings of my latest dick fail would go down.

One of my consigliere’s caught me completely off guard when she said:

“Sometimes we’re just nasty. Don’t feel bad. Women fought for the right to fuck around at work…”

Did we?

I remember the suffrage movement, and then that Lilly Ledbetter Act, but..

She went on: “Fuck ‘em. It’s your damn right if you want to get a little cock at work. You better walk in with your head held high tomorrow. If you get shit from anybody - start a protest. Fight for your fucking around rights at work. We can print up T-shirts, create a logo, throw up a website; the whole nine.”

My eyes narrowed, thinking of a name for this suddenly righteous campaign.

“Cock at work?”  I offered.

“Hell yeah," she answered. "Cock At Work.”

And with this the C.A.W. movement was born. Now when any of my crew is thinking about a tryst with a fellow co-worker – we recount my cautionary tale, then start a shrieking chorus of: caw caw caw,  like the sound of a raven swooping down mercilessly on its prey. It is both a warning and rallying cry.

It means: Get yours, girl!

But first, lock the damn door.

Scene from "Matchstick Men"

"Look, Doc, I spent last Tuesday watching fibers on my carpet. And the whole time I was watching my carpet, I was worrying that I, I might vomit. And the more I thought about it... the more I realized that I should just blow my brains out and end it all. But then I thought, well, if I thought more about blowing my brains out... I start worrying about what that was going to do to my goddamn carpet. Okay, so, ah-he, that was a GOOD day, Doc. And, and I just want you to give me some pills and let me get on with my life"