The Wild Woman Archetype

I found this in an old post, while looking for something else. It is from Clarissa Pinkola Estes' book, Women Who Run With The Wolves. To explain the Wild Woman:

The archetype of Wild Woman resides in the guts, not in the head. She can track and run and summon and repel. She can sense, camouflage, and love deeply. She is intuitive, typical, and normative. She is utterly essential to women's mental and soul health.
She is the female soul. Yet she is more; she is the source of the feminine. She is all that is of instinct, of the worlds both seen and hidden -she is the basis.
She is intuition, she is far-seer, she is deep listener, she is loyal heart. She encourages humans to remain multilingual; fluent in the languages of dreams, passion, and poetry.
She is the voice that says, "This way, this way."
She is the one who thunders after injustice. She is the one we leave home to look for. She is the one we come home to. She is the things that keep us going when we think that we're done for.

To adjoin the instinctual nature does not mean to come undone, change everything from left to right, from black to white, to move the east to west, to act crazy or out of control. It does not mean to lose one's primary socializations, or to become less human. It means quite the opposite. The wild nature has a vast integrity to it.
It means to establish territory, to find one's pack, to be in one's body with certainty and pride regardless of the body's gifts and limitations, to speak and act in one's behalf, to be aware, alert, to draw on the innate feminine powers of intuition and sensing, to come into one's cycles, to find what one belongs to, to rise with dignity, to retain as much consciousness as we can.

Blog Ratings

Hmm... wonder what my blog is rated? Is this a great mystery? Purrty Jami has a rating of NC-17. When I sent my father to read my Father's Day Message, he said, "I had to cross off three fucks!" ~ Hee hee.

So without further adieu! My blog rating!

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

fucking (5x) sex (3x) hell (2x) fuck (1x)

(As if we didn't know.)

**KIDS, be sure and bring your parents when reading my blog!**

A Father Is As A Father Does

Quick note to all the single parents who have to be both mother and father. It’s a big and dirty job, and thank God you are doing it! Don’t faint. You know that your labor is of the noblest kind.

I have the father of all fathers. He never lets me down. Never. There have been many men in my life (and I mean MANY) who have professed their undying affection. Who went to great lengths to let me know that they want to know me deeply. They want to be my heart and soul and comfort and protection. Their great cry is, “I want to do things for you. You are so amazing and wonderful and beautiful and you’ve sacrificed so much for your family and friends. I want nothing more than to give you all the things you deserve that no one has ever given you!” Oh, and if I say something like, “Yeah right. I’ve heard THAT before!” They get all puffed up and say, “No, really! With me it’s true! I am not like the other men!”

I’m not fucking shittin’ you. As soon as I get sick or something, I get, “Oh, I don’t really feel like going out and getting you some medicine. There’s all that traffic and I just got off work and I’m tired and … blah blah blah blah fucking blah!” In the name of all that is holy, why oh why did you say you’d be my one and only? These are the men who, like my ex husband, said, “No one will ever love you like I do!” To which I say, “God, I hope not! That almost killed me!”

ANYWAY, my father has always been there for me. After the loser won’t go to the store to get my medicine, my father will. After the fucking asshole is too busy to pick me up when my car breaks down, my father will. (And so will my mother and sisters and friends.)

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’ve known many good men. (In fact I’m dating one!) But they are not the ones who make these great oh-me-is-so-wonderful announcements. They are just humble men who say, “Here’s me… I’ll be there when I can… after all, I’m only human.”

So there’s my dad. He’s done all the things a man can do to be a man. And I know that I don’t tell him I love him anywhere near enough. One father’s day, I sent him Dan Fogelberg’s song, Leader of the Band. These are the words that say it so well:

A quiet man of music
Denied a simpler fate
He tried to be a soldier once
But his music wouldn’t wait
He earned his love
Through discipline
A thundering, velvet hand
His gentle means of sculpting souls
Took me years to understand.

The leader of the band is tired
And his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through
My instrument,
And his song is in my soul --
My life has been a poor attempt
To imitate the man.
I’m just a living legacy
To the leader of the band.

I thank you for the music
And your stories of the road.
I thank you for the freedom
When it came my time to go.
I thank you for the kindness
And the times when you got tough
And, papa, I don’t think I’ve said
I love you near enough –

I love you Daddy.

From Your Sweetheart #3

My Meagre Life

Now there's a word. It means "deficient in quality or quantity." My life is not deficient in either. But then again, some might think so. I am not wealthy, yet I am very rich. I have very little, yet I would be hard pressed to list the abundance. I grew up in a modest home, full of my mother's paintings. To me, that's just one small example of how rich I am.

So, here's the thing. I live in a two-bedroom place. There is not a bit of furniture in any room, except the bedroom. I already had a mattress set (queen-sized of course) but I was looking for a wrought iron frame for it. You'd think that I would spend the extra money I have this payday on at least buying a little furniture for... say... the living room. Or you'd think I'd save my money for the sake of emergency. But nooooooooooooo... I am of a mind that when you get home every day (even if you were gone only ten minutes) you should walk into your bedroom and say to yourself, "God, I love my bed!"

So today, I went shopping at the estate sale showroom mentioned in a previous post. I found a beautiful antique iron frame for my bed. It was a steal at six hundred and forty bucks. (Now remember, six hundred bucks in my world is a LOT of money!) It was delivered around 1 p.m. I made the bed and then went out for a bit. When I came home just now and walked into my room I thought to myself, "God, I love my bed!"

That's exactly what I was after. Remember, folks. The BED is the most important piece of furniture in your home! Here's a picture of mine. (Yes, the walls are all bare and the bedding leaves much to be desired, but that will come too, in time. And I am only going to have original art in my little dwelling. Hung from picture rails! I have fucking picture rails!)

Movie Quote

People should not be afraid of their governments.
Governments should be afraid of their people.

What Do Men Look At?

I don't really care. I don't dress for men. I dress for me. If I like how I feel wearing something, then I wear it. I suppose some women dress for men, but I've not heard of that as being generally true. What I hear is that women dress for other women. They know that men are fucking clueless about fashion, and a man is certainly happy just to know that you are naked under your clothes! Well I'm no fashion plate, so I don't dress for women either.


My OMG-LOL-BFF (she'll get a kick outta that) bought these shoes for me. We have matching pairs, but we don't wear them at the same time. (Of course it helps that we each live on different coasts!) Recently, we had occasion to spend a little time at a reception at the Capitol Building. You know THE Capitol Building. I was wearing some other shoes that my OMG-LOL-BFF had purchased for me to wear for that event. Very nice shoes. Quite comfortable. But also five-inch heels. After five hours on my feet, I was near fainting. I asked another attendee (a darling English woman) for directions to the ladies bathroom. She said, "Go down these stairs and... blah blah blah blah blah." I didn't hear the rest. All I heard was STAIRS. I said, "Oh, I won't make it if I have to take that many steps in these shoes." She said, "Well take them off." So I did. Before I walked away she added, "And next time, wear sensible, flat shoes. Men don't even see your shoes. They look at your eyes and your boobs!"

Too cute.

Skeleton Woman Defined

The story expresses the way that a man might find a “good catch” and get all caught up in thinking how this one will change his life! He’s now found the good thing he’s been waiting for. But it doesn’t take long to discover that what he thought was beautiful and promised great benefits for him might be ugly and scary deep down. A man always stumbles onto a woman’s deep darknesses at some point. And it usually scares the shit out of him! He will likely run. But really, when he runs to what he thinks is safety, he is still confronted with the problem that, in order to have the sweet things in life with a companion, he must see the tangled mess in a softer light. His tender untangling will find a great reward.

This is what I learned from a wonderful story-teller in her book. Her explanation is much better said and encompasses much more. I find this book to be an essential bible for the spiritual health and growth of the wild woman. Anyone who does not have a copy, let me know and I will PROMPTLY be sure you get one!

"A person who has untangled Skeleton Woman knows patience, knows better how to wait. He is not shocked or afraid of spareness. He is not overwhelmed by fruition. His needs to attain, to 'have right now,' are transformed into a finer craft of finding all facets of relationship, observing how cycles of relationship work together. He is not afraid to relate to the beauty of fierceness, the beauty of the unknown, the beauty of the not-beautiful. And in learning and working at all these, he becomes the quintessential wild-lover." (pp.158-159) ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes ~ Women Who Run with the Wolves

Skeleton Woman

There is a story told in folklore, set in Alaska. It is of a man who went fishing one day. He chose to fish in a secluded little cove which didn’t seem to be too often visited by other local fishermen. In fact, they never visited it. For they all knew the story. The story of a girl who fell in love with a boy from a tribe other than her own… many, many, many moons ago. And not just another tribe, but one at odds with hers. Her father forbade them to marry, but she snuck off in secret to do that very thing. Her father apprehended her in the midst of her escape and he took her and threw her off the cliff into that secluded little cove, to her death. The people had passed this story down through the generations, and no fisherman was to ever draw life from that water, as it was thought to be full of the evil of that terrible event. This poor fisherman knew it not. He didn’t have his line in the water long when he felt a great tug. Oh my! This had to be a big one! As he fought with the creature to bring it to the surface, his mind wandered to all the great riches this great catch would bring him. He had struggled for so many long and weary years. It would be great to have some relief. But as the creature came into view, he realized it was not a fish at all… it was a mass of bones and hair… and a skull! And it seemed the eyes of that skull were looking right at him! He panicked. He set his pole down in the boat and immediately rowed to shore, looking back to be sure that the monster was gone. But it wasn’t, as it was still attached to his pole! But, as it is with panic, he didn’t realize this. He just frantically rowed to shore, seeing behind him the dreaded thing bouncing on the water, appearing to chase him. Once on shore, he grabbed his pole and ran for home… again, looking over his shoulder to find that he was still being chased! He dove into the darkness of the little cave he called home and sat there panting, hoping the ordeal was over. He lit a candle and in the dim light, saw that the thing he had hooked was amassed in a pile in the corner. The soft light softened his fears and he approached and began to untangle the mess. He realized these were the bones of a woman and, after untangling her, he wrapped her in a warm fur and went to lie down on his bed to sleep. During his sleep, a tear escaped from his eye. She approached him and drank up the tear, drawing some life from it. She then put her hand on his chest and began singing a song to the beat of his heart. As she sang, all of her sinews and flesh and skin began to recover her body. And when she and the song were complete, she crawled under the covers and she and the man warmed one another. They warmed one another heart and body and soul for the rest of their lives.

(Anyone care to try to interpret that one?)

The Origin of Love

A musical. I saw the movie a good three years ago and have listened to the soundtrack a good thousand times. And I oft quote the lyrics here.

He was a young man by the name of Hansel. He lived in communist East Germany and had a childhood that could be called nothing short of “very troubled.” He was seduced by an American G.I., who persuaded him to have a sex change operation in order to become his wife and go to America with him. Hansel wanted so badly to escape to the other side of “that wall.” His mother convinced him that this was a very good idea and that in order to be free, one must give up a little part of oneself. (Little?) She gave him her passport and her name, Hedwig. Unfortunately, his sex change operation got botched, his guardian angel fell asleep on the watch! Now all he’s got is a Barbie doll crotch! He was left with a one inch mound of flesh. (Six inches forward, five inches back!) In short, he was left to function as neither a man or a woman. Yeah, this would piss anyone off. Made his inch kinda angry!

So he said bye bye to mommy and East Germany. Went to live in a trailer park with the lovely man he married, who lost no time in finding another playmate and left. Hedwig is left to sit and watch the tv, where the news is showing the Berlin wall coming down.

He looks back at his life and at the future he has before him. He ponders the woman he’s become and how the strangest things seem suddenly routine. He decides to delve fully into becoming the caricature version of a woman. Fine! You made me a woman, and I'll be a woman, God damn it! (Note: I choose to call Hedwig a “he” throughout the story, because I am under the impression that he never really felt he was a woman. I don’t believe he would have pursued a sex change operation. He would likely have been very happy as a gay man, but I don’t think he felt he was a woman, except in the sense that he was an amazing person who engendered both sexes beautifully. But I have to choose one! Our dear and purrty friend Jami, on the other hand, I refer to as a woman, since she is one. And likely, as Hedwig, an amazing person by any measure. She was interviewed and clarifies the transgender issue better than anyone I’ve ever read. And I’ve read a lot! I read her interview to my family when I was in Utah and they loved it.)

ANYWAY, embittered as he was, Hedwig moved on in the world of musical passion, maintaining a deep, albeit hidden, sensitivity. A truly gifted songwriter and performer, he obtained a cult following. As with many a slave who has become a tyrant themselves, Hedwig married a Russian woman who was desperate for help with her own citizenship, and used this to control her. He forced her to dress as a man, giving her the same bondage he found himself in. Victim begets victim.

Hedwig sings the song “Origin of Love” to express his belief that there is some half of him in the world that he has yet to find. It is an unbelievably moving song and is full of the philosophies/ideologies/theologies of several paths of thought. But the jumble makes sense. It’s based, for the most part, on the Platonic philosophy that we were once made of two. And God, or the gods, split us apart. This is the explanation for that desperate attempt we make in finding our other half.

Hedwig finds his other half in an agonizing young man who admires him and wants to absorb all he has to offer. This other half then takes the good stuff and runs. He takes the musical talent that Hedwig offered and makes a name for himself. A big name. And not only that, but a name that Hedwig, in his brilliance, gave him. Tommy Gnosis. Gnosis being the Greek word for knowledge.



In the climactic end of the movie, Hedwig must come to grips with the fact that he has become what he hates. He has twisted the beauty that lived in him into wretched bitterness. He realizes that it is important to be whole all alone. He lets the woman he has wrapped in masculinity free. He lets Tommy go. And then he is free.

Why do I love this movie? Is it not obvious? I am ever preaching freedom. I think that those who have been in chains have the greatest appreciation for freedom. I have come to appreciate the place where I am today. The freedom I have is not able to be taken away from me. You could tie me up, put me in a box wrapped in chains and send me to the bottom of the ocean, and I’d still be free.

And again, I refer you to Jami, from whom we have much to learn.

Sidenote: I adore John Cameron Mitchell, whose purrfection created Hedwig. I have mentioned him before, but I’m sure no one knew who he was, or even noticed. He’s a beautiful man, and makes a beautiful woman, too! (Sort of like Patrick Swayze, who is also a beautiful woman! Hee hee.) If you have not seen “Hedwig and the Angry Inch,” I would suggest you do. And see "To Wong Foo" while you're at it! :)

Here is my JCM singing a casual version of "The Origin of Love." He's just so darling! I wanna kiss him! AND, thanks to Purrty Jami, here he is in all his Hedwigian glory singing the DVD movie version.

Next Up

Hedwig. Tune in later for the rest of the story. It will be long, so the faint of heart and mind (or tired of reading and thinking) should belay that request. (I just saw Pirates twice, so I'm using words like "belay.")

My Dear Vixen

Such a sweetie pie! And if we would just listen to her advice. Not necessarily her specific advice, in the sense that not everyone agrees with those tenets, but at least listen to the fact that we should all be aware of one another's boundaries. So that we may all live in peace. (Yes, Jenn, I got your message of peace at your blog... and I believe these little things are the only real way in which we can effect such a thing.)

So go visit my lovely friend's blog (I would post a link here, but good God! Let's face it! How fucking hard is it to go over to my blogroll and click on Bad Girls Guide?? I mean, why did I go to the trouble of doing that if I gotta make it so you don't have to move your mouse another six inches or so ~ six inches... hee hee ~ to click!) and see what her phone rules are. I have posted my twist on them here. (Her rules are in bold.)

Phone Etiquette for Dummies

1. Do not call me after 8pm.

Me: You can call me anytime you like, day or night. If I am busy, I won’t answer. If I’m asleep, I know how to turn the ringer off so that I won’t be disturbed. Likewise, if I’m at a social gathering, I still know how to turn the ringer off.

2. If you do call, and I don’t answer, leave a brief message with your name and number.

Me: If I don’t answer, do NOT leave a message if all you want me to do is call you back, because when I see the missed call, I’ll know that! There is no need for me to dial up my voicemail and run through that deal just to hear, “It’s me, call me” (Unless you’re my boyfriend, in which case, I love every syllable of every word you say, so you could tell me to go to hell and I’d probably enjoy it!)

3. If you decide to call me back later on, give specific time and day that you will be calling back and honor that time.

Me: If you are a man who is interested in dating me (or anyone else) and you say you will call at a certain time, you’d better do it. Vixen gives you a thirty minute window. I’ll give you about fifteen, tops. I agree with Rita Rudner’s account of what it means when a man doesn’t call you. It’s not because he lost your number or his phone is broken, or his arm is broken or he’s in a coma,… it’s because he didn’t want to call you! Plain and simple.

4. If I’m interested and decide to call you back or pick up when you call, after the first round of pleasantries, get straight to the point.

Me: I don’t even know what to do with this one. Hard to make this one a hard and fast rule.

5. When you do ask me out, suggest drinks, coffee or a lunch.

Me: If you want to meet me (again, if this is a dating situation, especially a first “get-to-know-you” date) then you’d better suggest dinner or lunch or at least drinks. I have NO interest in meeting you at Starbucks! If I wanted to stand at a counter and make my own coffee, I could fuckin’ do that at home!

6. If I don’t want to date you, I will tell you that I’m not interested.

Me: Amen to that, sistah! Game playing is for losers. So if you think I’m playing games, then I think you’re calling me a loser. Or you are calling yourself a loser, for wanting to date losers!

7. If you do manage to keep me on the phone after we have confirmed date information, please do not talk about your mother, your ex, your baby mama or any sexual innuendos.

Me: It amazes me the things people ramble on about that really do not suite the situation. I believe that if you don’t have something interesting or important to say, then you should never let anyone persuade you to say it!

8. If you do happen to be a great conversationalist and we actually have good phone chemistry, don’t think you should sit back, relax and assume you’re in like Flynn – because you’re not!

Me: I don’t know who Flynn is. :)

9. The standard first phone call should last no more than 10 minutes.

Me: Shoot, I’ve spent hours on first phone conversations. I dunno how to make a limit on that.

10. As soon as you see me trying to wind up the chat, surrender gracefully and we might talk again.

Me: Chat-winding-up seems to be hard for people to pick up on. I don’t really expect people (especially men) to be savvy about that. If I’m done talking with you, I am very capable of saying, “Bye bye now!”

But let’s go over a couple more things. It is NEVER appropriate to sit and chat on the phone while out with someone. Doesn’t matter who they are. Even if it’s your mom or your sister or your best friend. I realize that important calls come in. You might be on call. Or be expecting to hear that a baby is born, or that someone’s condition has changed at the hospital, etc., but that is not the sort of thing I’m talking about. If you get a call, there is nothing at all wrong with saying, “Yes, I want to talk with you, but I’m with some people at the moment, what would be a good time to call you back?” You get the drift.

It’s also NEVER appropriate to chat endlessly on the phone when others are in a car with you. Whether you are the driver or not. You hinder virtually everyone else in the near vicinity from enjoying anything at all. They can’t talk, or they would be rudely interfering with your conversation. They could also not listen to music, for the same reason. They have no choice but to sit and listen to your lame-ass conversation, and only half of it at that! Ugh!

Ah well… we could go on and on. We could even go into email etiquette. But who pays attention to this shit anyway?

Why I Hate the Blog Exchange

I'll make this quick, and don't think that just because you read this post, you can skip the last one!

It just sucks when you go to one of your regular blogs and find that someone else is posting there! The first time this happened to me, it was at Guntoter's blog. I thought, "Oh cool. I'll reply to this and then go to the other one and reply there and I'll have a new blog friend!" But noooooooooooooooooooo... all I got was ignored! I got no response at either fuckin' place! Okay fine. Then this month, I visited four of my regular blogs and found a different person there! Then when I went to the corresponding blog, my friend may or may not have posted yet! I get all discombobulated and believe me, I don't need more of that!! I was completely through one story and didn't discover until the end that it wasn't even by the person I thought it was by and so I had to re-read it from a different vantage point! Sheesh! Do you people think I have this kind of time?

So I decided that I fuckin' hate that fucking blog exchange! Fuck! :)

Also, someone tagged me (besides The Exceptional One) and for the life of me, I can't remember who it was or what the hell it was about. So if you dare to do it again, feel free! (Although you might pull back a bloody stump!)

This Fuckin' Baby...

... is just so damn fuckin' cute! Yeah, I just got back from visiting that little face. Her comfort revolves around constantly naming everyone in the room, including the vacuum. For some reason, she's always had a fixation with this machine. It's my theory that she was somehow afraid of it when she was tiny and someone said to her, "It's just the vacuum." So now, if she's in a new situation, at a new house or in a new restaurant, she looks around and says, "Vacuum?"

Or maybe she's just smarter than the rest of us and realizes we live in a vacuum, who knows?

My favorite restaurant in Utah: (Has been for almost thirty years) The Old Spaghetti Factory in Trolley Square.

My favorite restaurant in San Diego: Dick's Last Resort (I'm not kidding. It's where my ex and I went for our last date.)

My favorite restaurant in Oakland, CA: Mezze ~ look it up ~ it's unbe-fucking-lievable!

My favorite restaurant in Murrieta, CA: Giovanni's. I love italian food, especially at little family owned places.

My favorite restaurant in Riverside, Seattle, Minneapolis, Sacramento, Newport Beach, etccccccc ~ The Old Spaghetti Factory! You simply cannot beat that browned butter and mizithra cheese! (Although we've learned to make it at home and so we aren't so desperately seeking them out now.)

That was in response to beinged tagged by The Exceptional One. Yes, it was supposed to be in my respective area, but I have never lived in a respective area, so I decided to make it a mish-mash of locales!

By the way, for anyone who is listening, I fuckin' hate it when people do that fucking blog exchange! There! I said it!

That's all for now, folks. Thanks for stopping by! Meow.

My Mommy's House

Sitting on the bed that was my grandmother's. It's an old comfy bed. Like sleeping on a cloud. Some people would think it too soft, but not I! Has REAL springs from the old days! Snuggly nice. I wake up to the smell of breakfast cooking. Mommy singing, "Tessie boo! Time to get up!" Oh it's so fun to be loved.

Mom and Dad are fun to watch. They putter around the house, doing their little chores. At one point, I was cutting Dad's hair, when sister get-along-home-Cindy arrives with some sort of gadget in her hand. She says, "I don't like your nozzle, Dad, so I thought you might want to try this one." He looks at me and I say, "Cin, let's not talk about our father's nozzle!" Ha ha. After the salon session is over, we go into the kitchen and Mom is standing there with a ruler. She bends down to measure something around my father's ... well ... nozzle! He says, "What are you measuring?" She says, "I want to see how long your shorts are because I was going to buy you some new ones." (For those of you from foreign lands, we call short pants "shorts" here in the U.S.) She stands up and smartly states, "Seven inches." I can't even imagine what it would be like for someone to come up to me with a ruler for any reason at all. Silly people.

So today, we will have everyone over for hot dogs and hamburgers and margaritas. Probably play a board game or two. Oh wait, Becky isn't here. She's the board game queen. Maybe tomorrow!

But here's the real story. When I arrived last night, we decided to go to Applebee's to feed Graci, who was starving. Graci is my niece. Erika (baby sis and Graci's mum) and Katie (another niece) joined us. I wasn't hungry, but I did order their special white peach sangria. And the waitress asked me for I.D. I'm not fuckin' kidding you. Well of course, at 46, it's a pleasure to show your I.D., right? Well do you think I had my I.D.? Noooo! I used it at the airport, so I had left it in my other bag! Hahahaha. I swear to God, she almost didn't sell me the fucking drink! Everyone at the table said, "Well I have I.D.! Sell it to me!" Now don't get me wrong. This waitress was as cute as can be. And I began to nervously tell her the story of why I didn't have my I.D. (as if I were being interrogated by the FBI) saying that I just flew in and I live in California, and I was from here, and this is my sister and these are my nieces and I'm just visiting, as I said, but I grew up here, as we all did here at the table... and as I rambled, she became more nervous about having pressed me for my proof of age. I just kept thinking, "Can you just go away so I can stop this endless chatter that I can't seem to keep from pouring out of my mouth?" She finally conceded to giving me the drink, but only if I promised to eat food off of the other people's plates (Utah's other-plate law).

Erika said, "Teri, you went a little overboard with the TMI there."

It was a good drink, though.

I'm Off To See the Wizard!

Ah, the Emerald City! How it shines! Yes, kids, I'm talking about Salt Lake City, to which I'm bound! I'll be there late tonight and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, I'll be coddled by the family-ness. And I'll get to kiss that sweet BrynLeigh Jade's face. I may be in blog-land from time to time, but I'm not making any promises!

So for now, I'll leave you with this ~ compliments of ba doozie! (I think I saw this restaurant on North Temple):