I learned that my good friend MM, the professor for whom I act as a teaching assistant (he has also been my clinical supervisor, fellow researcher, and all around great guy) was blacklisted back in the 1980's by James Dobson on his Focus on the Family radio show. Dobson called him out as heretic and not a Christian for supporting Mary Stewart Van Leeuwen, Ph.D. and her publications on gender roles and gender identity development. Heh, it makes me like him even more.
When you add that his brother got kicked out of Liberty University, I love the whole freakin' family. It helps that his 13 year-old son is the coolest kid on Earth, and his wife is amazing as well.
Also, I have this fantabulous Spirituality class that is a required course for the Psy.D. program. (How cool is that?) I have grown up in church, been a Christian for 12 years, and this is the first time I've been discipled in the spiritual disciplines, learned the major spiritual movements, and read such great works as The Great Divorce, Till We Have Faces, Return of the Prodigal Son, and Embracing the Love of God, among others.
Our professor is this amazing scholar whose calling is clearly to be a man who pursues the spiritual disciplines and helps others to do so. He spends a couple hours at least in prayer or spiritual discipline every day, takes a good run every morning, and is an incredibly peaceful person to be around. There seems to be no hint of pride or arrogance in him.
This is why I was shocked (and INCREDIBLY encouraged) when he did allow a glimpse into his political leanings. We were discussing the Keswick movement *shudder*. And the major flaw of this movement is that there is absolutely no way to address corporate sin within its teachings. So eventhough your retirement money is invested somewhere in a corporation that does some evil things, there is no acknowledgement of that, or the fact that your bank probably uses your money for some type or another of ursury. So on and so forth...
My prof said something to the effect of:
Because of the implications of corporate sin, and because of the current president's preemptive stance toward a war based on these "weapons of mass destruction, which, of course, we're going to find any day now," that is soley for monetary gain, I haven't been able to vote for that candidate in the past two elections.
This just thrilled my soul that 1.) This prof is in the Christian Formation Department 2.) He said it in class 3.) I'm not the only one who feels this way.
Just when I had started to think that my own personal journey to this decision was only because I am a megalomaniac...
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
I'm a trained rat...
Actual conversation had between me and Mr.GoingApe
Me (Rubbing his neck): What'd you do today?
Him: blah blah blah work. Ohh, keep rubbing my neck.
Me (Spying a package of Jelly Belly beans on his desk): It'll cost you a jelly bean.
Him: Okay...oh, move there. That's nice..
Me: This is costing you more. How many beans do I get?
Him: Five
Me: Okay, I'm done.
Me (Rubbing his neck): What'd you do today?
Him: blah blah blah work. Ohh, keep rubbing my neck.
Me (Spying a package of Jelly Belly beans on his desk): It'll cost you a jelly bean.
Him: Okay...oh, move there. That's nice..
Me: This is costing you more. How many beans do I get?
Him: Five
Me: Okay, I'm done.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
I Caught on Fire Today
Uh, so, I'm not talking in a spiritual God talk way. I was literally. On. Fire.
Well, I have weekly clinical supervision. And it's the day before Thanksgiving. And my supervisor lives 5 minutes away. We planned for me to go to her recently purchased townhouse for supervision while her young son napped. I show up and all is super great. But we decide we're cold. And that lighting the gas fireplace is a good idea.
Now, I've lit gas logs five bazillion times. Had them in our home growing up. So, she says, okay, the flue is open. But, either she was wrong, or it fell shut. Cause when I went to light the logs, A massive fire ball comes out of the fireplace and ENGULFS MY FUCKING HEAD. Hair on fire. Burning sensation. Screaming supervisor. I pat the fire out. Run to her bathroom, and hop into the shower.
The damage is not so bad for having one's head on fire. I did lose some hair in the front and right side, luckily my hair is kinda long, so I can cover that up. I have first degree burns on most of my face, especially the lips, nose, and right eyelid area. I have very very small eyebrows that make me look like I tweeze 'em with a weed eater. I do have eyelashes.
We spent 1.5 hours putting cold compresses on my face before she left to go buy some aloe, and I called Mr.GoingApe. Boy, that was an interesting phone call. Almost as interesting as the one to my mother.
Now, about 9 hours later, my face isn't red any longer. It is still sensitive. But the hair, so sad..the hair. That will take at least a year. At least. But I do have this cool, thank God I'm alive thing going on. And my supervisor, who is also a faculty member, will never, ever forget me.
Well, I have weekly clinical supervision. And it's the day before Thanksgiving. And my supervisor lives 5 minutes away. We planned for me to go to her recently purchased townhouse for supervision while her young son napped. I show up and all is super great. But we decide we're cold. And that lighting the gas fireplace is a good idea.
Now, I've lit gas logs five bazillion times. Had them in our home growing up. So, she says, okay, the flue is open. But, either she was wrong, or it fell shut. Cause when I went to light the logs, A massive fire ball comes out of the fireplace and ENGULFS MY FUCKING HEAD. Hair on fire. Burning sensation. Screaming supervisor. I pat the fire out. Run to her bathroom, and hop into the shower.
The damage is not so bad for having one's head on fire. I did lose some hair in the front and right side, luckily my hair is kinda long, so I can cover that up. I have first degree burns on most of my face, especially the lips, nose, and right eyelid area. I have very very small eyebrows that make me look like I tweeze 'em with a weed eater. I do have eyelashes.
We spent 1.5 hours putting cold compresses on my face before she left to go buy some aloe, and I called Mr.GoingApe. Boy, that was an interesting phone call. Almost as interesting as the one to my mother.
Now, about 9 hours later, my face isn't red any longer. It is still sensitive. But the hair, so sad..the hair. That will take at least a year. At least. But I do have this cool, thank God I'm alive thing going on. And my supervisor, who is also a faculty member, will never, ever forget me.
Monday, November 21, 2005
First ever
My first ever class lecture is today. And it's not to undergrads. Nope, Master's Students. (!!!!) I think I'm going to throw up.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
I Speculum This Might Be Funny
Well, since Ninjanun feels comfortable enough to tell all of you about her yearly visits, I think you'll all appreciate this yarn, or maybe you'll be repulsed, mortified, and horrified. If that's the case, you're probably a man.
At conservative evangelical Christian college of the Midwest, we have a very interesting insurance plan. You see, before one can go to a doctor of her own, she must first see a nurse at the Student Health Center who decides if her complaint is worthy of the doctor's time. Have a cold? Not good enough. Running a fever? Maybe, come back next week. Arm severed? I think we can fit you in tomorrow.
So, this week, I realized that I have an infection of the girlie sort. We won't get into the sordid details of that. Thursday afternoon, I venture over to see the nurse. I fill out the little slip of paper, listing "Reason for Visit" as suspected *insert technical name of girlie infection here*. The nurse calls me back, sits down next to me, and WHISPERS, freaking WHISPERS, while pointing to my slip of paper where I had written suspected *insert technical name of girlie infection here*, "What is that? I've never heard of it." Suppressing the urge to yell, "Look it up on WebMD! I sure did!" I politely explained the ins and outs of the most common girlie infection known to girlies to the nurse, liberally using terms such as "sexually active" and "oral sex", whose face was screwing itself up into a growing grimace of disgust. Then, she ducked her head, and said in the lowest discernible whisper....."Does it itch?" So, I ducked my head and whispered in my lowest discernible whisper, "Yes, like bloody hell." (Really, I said, "No" because it doesn't, but admit it, that was funny).
So, the nurse decides that girlie infections are quite urgent, and that I should see the doctor tomorrow, come severed arms or high fevers. She sure as hell wasn't going to go poking around in there. So she escorts me to lobby, and then whispers in the ear of the receptionist why I need an appointment. I'm pretty sure she was saying, "I'm disgusted by this vile woman, schedule this for the other nurse." Meanwhile, the secretive nature of all of this and the evident discomfort of these so called health professionals is making me want to scream in the lobby to all of these undergraduate students, "I HAVE A VAGINA, and it's INFECTED! I'VE BEEN HAVING SEXUAL RELATIONS!" Instead, I said, "Thank you." and took my appointment card.
Fast forward, next morning. I return to Student Health, sign in, and this time a different nurse calls me back. (I told you that other nurse didn't want to see me again.) So we walk through the entire facility all the way to the very back exam room. Because we must only do things with our privates in private places, where no one else might figure out that we have privates and girlie infections, and some of us might be having sex. GASP!
New nurse asks me how I'm feeling today, are my symptoms any worse? I point out it's been less than 24 hours since the last note was written, and so she reads it. She looks up and asks me quizzically, "It doesn't itch?" (NO! It doesn't itch! Do you want my girlie parts to itch? Isn't it a bonus to not have one's most private and publicly inappropriate places to scratch to not be itchy?) "When was your last menstrual period?" I have an endocrine disorder, which affects these period thingies, so I say, "Eight weeks, but I'm not pregnant, I took a test at home to make sure last week. This isn't uncommon for me. I'm seeing another doctor about it." The nurse’s eyes grow as big as saucers. She says, in slow motion, "Are....you....married?" (No, I'm a whore and your incredulity makes me feel so much better about it.) But I reply, "Yes, nearly four years." The nurse scrawls MARRIED STUDENT across my file, so I can be absolved from eternal damnation by Student Health Services. With that resolved, I take off my clothes from the waist down, retaining some dignity in still wearing my socks, and wrap the plastic sheet around my waist.
The doctor comes in; who I must admit was highly professional. She gives me the spiel on what happens with a pelvic exam*, and then pulls out the speculum. For you men, a speculum is a medieval torture device used to open a woman's cervix. To fully appreciate what happens next, you must see this device. If you're worried about the mechanics of it, here is a tasteful medical diagram.
So, doc pulls out the speculum, and unwinds a cord and PLUGS IT INTO AN ELECTRICAL OUTLET! I'm getting that unsettled feeling, like someone is about to do severe bodily harm and that I'm just supposed to lay back and let her. Then I realize, the speculum lights up! Like a Christmas tree, the clear plastic speculum has a light that is inserted in it that lights it up. So, I do the "Scoot to the end of the table, put your feet in the stirrups position."* She does the exam, and I somehow manage not be electrocuted, and I miss getting to see whether my womanly flesh glows the same way my hand does when I put a flashlight to it.
Doctor leaves, I get dressed. Doctor comes back with diagnosis and confirms girlie infection of a different sort. And somehow the rest of my day is supposed to be typical. Hmmm, and they wonder why women hate going to the gynecologist.
*The Pelvic Exam Spiel is "Scoot all the way to the end of the table, and put your feet in the stirrups. Relax. You'll feel a little pressure." This is code for, expose your self to me with your feet in midair, try not to clench yourself together to avoid this foreign object while I pry open your insides."
At conservative evangelical Christian college of the Midwest, we have a very interesting insurance plan. You see, before one can go to a doctor of her own, she must first see a nurse at the Student Health Center who decides if her complaint is worthy of the doctor's time. Have a cold? Not good enough. Running a fever? Maybe, come back next week. Arm severed? I think we can fit you in tomorrow.
So, this week, I realized that I have an infection of the girlie sort. We won't get into the sordid details of that. Thursday afternoon, I venture over to see the nurse. I fill out the little slip of paper, listing "Reason for Visit" as suspected *insert technical name of girlie infection here*. The nurse calls me back, sits down next to me, and WHISPERS, freaking WHISPERS, while pointing to my slip of paper where I had written suspected *insert technical name of girlie infection here*, "What is that? I've never heard of it." Suppressing the urge to yell, "Look it up on WebMD! I sure did!" I politely explained the ins and outs of the most common girlie infection known to girlies to the nurse, liberally using terms such as "sexually active" and "oral sex", whose face was screwing itself up into a growing grimace of disgust. Then, she ducked her head, and said in the lowest discernible whisper....."Does it itch?" So, I ducked my head and whispered in my lowest discernible whisper, "Yes, like bloody hell." (Really, I said, "No" because it doesn't, but admit it, that was funny).
So, the nurse decides that girlie infections are quite urgent, and that I should see the doctor tomorrow, come severed arms or high fevers. She sure as hell wasn't going to go poking around in there. So she escorts me to lobby, and then whispers in the ear of the receptionist why I need an appointment. I'm pretty sure she was saying, "I'm disgusted by this vile woman, schedule this for the other nurse." Meanwhile, the secretive nature of all of this and the evident discomfort of these so called health professionals is making me want to scream in the lobby to all of these undergraduate students, "I HAVE A VAGINA, and it's INFECTED! I'VE BEEN HAVING SEXUAL RELATIONS!" Instead, I said, "Thank you." and took my appointment card.
Fast forward, next morning. I return to Student Health, sign in, and this time a different nurse calls me back. (I told you that other nurse didn't want to see me again.) So we walk through the entire facility all the way to the very back exam room. Because we must only do things with our privates in private places, where no one else might figure out that we have privates and girlie infections, and some of us might be having sex. GASP!
New nurse asks me how I'm feeling today, are my symptoms any worse? I point out it's been less than 24 hours since the last note was written, and so she reads it. She looks up and asks me quizzically, "It doesn't itch?" (NO! It doesn't itch! Do you want my girlie parts to itch? Isn't it a bonus to not have one's most private and publicly inappropriate places to scratch to not be itchy?) "When was your last menstrual period?" I have an endocrine disorder, which affects these period thingies, so I say, "Eight weeks, but I'm not pregnant, I took a test at home to make sure last week. This isn't uncommon for me. I'm seeing another doctor about it." The nurse’s eyes grow as big as saucers. She says, in slow motion, "Are....you....married?" (No, I'm a whore and your incredulity makes me feel so much better about it.) But I reply, "Yes, nearly four years." The nurse scrawls MARRIED STUDENT across my file, so I can be absolved from eternal damnation by Student Health Services. With that resolved, I take off my clothes from the waist down, retaining some dignity in still wearing my socks, and wrap the plastic sheet around my waist.
The doctor comes in; who I must admit was highly professional. She gives me the spiel on what happens with a pelvic exam*, and then pulls out the speculum. For you men, a speculum is a medieval torture device used to open a woman's cervix. To fully appreciate what happens next, you must see this device. If you're worried about the mechanics of it, here is a tasteful medical diagram.
So, doc pulls out the speculum, and unwinds a cord and PLUGS IT INTO AN ELECTRICAL OUTLET! I'm getting that unsettled feeling, like someone is about to do severe bodily harm and that I'm just supposed to lay back and let her. Then I realize, the speculum lights up! Like a Christmas tree, the clear plastic speculum has a light that is inserted in it that lights it up. So, I do the "Scoot to the end of the table, put your feet in the stirrups position."* She does the exam, and I somehow manage not be electrocuted, and I miss getting to see whether my womanly flesh glows the same way my hand does when I put a flashlight to it.
Doctor leaves, I get dressed. Doctor comes back with diagnosis and confirms girlie infection of a different sort. And somehow the rest of my day is supposed to be typical. Hmmm, and they wonder why women hate going to the gynecologist.
*The Pelvic Exam Spiel is "Scoot all the way to the end of the table, and put your feet in the stirrups. Relax. You'll feel a little pressure." This is code for, expose your self to me with your feet in midair, try not to clench yourself together to avoid this foreign object while I pry open your insides."
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