The reluctant housewife of Orange County

In scripted TV, the beautiful driven woman always leaves the manipulative, controlling man. In Reality TV, she stays. The woman in scripted TV may struggle for awhile. She may sob to her girlfriends only to return to the one who made her cry, sure that her tears are her fault. But by the end of the script she is free of him and possesses a new sense of self-importance and the ability to realize her own worth. Reality TV tells another story -- and one sadly one that is much more frequently close to the truth.

Last night I finished Season One of The Real Housewives of Orange County. I'm hardly new to reality TV. I've watched Laguna Beach, The Hills, and Keeping up with the Kardashians religiously, while well aware that aspects of the shows are scripted. What I know is never scripted though is the actual relationships between the men and women. The producers may decide when and where they meet, but what they say is all them.

Laguna Beach was my first initiation into relational Reality TV (as opposed to competitive, like Survivor). At the time I was trying to get over T, who to this day is the man I still feel was closest to "the one." While he said I was his favorite contemporary author, put my novel behind a glass case, spent hours talking with me, taking dance lessons, and my holding hand while ice skating in the park (among other acts of intimacy that I won't get into), he was so elusive that I would go weeks without hearing from him, breaking plans just by not showing up to them. During this time, I was flipping through channels one night and got hooked on Laguna. When Jason got tired of his girlfriend Jessica and started retreating, Jessica latched on even tighter, going so far as to text him while snowboarding with her girlfriends, sitting in the snow in the middle of a slope with snowboarders rushing down the hill all around her. Suddenly I became completely mortified by the drunk, crying messages I’d left on T’s phone and the time I saw his truck leaving a parking space and tried to chase him down the street with hands full of groceries. He was in no way manipulative and controlling like the other men I'll describe here, but I was still doing myself a disservice by letting a man make me miserable.


In The Hills, Audrina was always eager to reunite with "Justin Bobby" even though their coupling had to be on his terms and with no claim at exclusivity on his part. She was supposed to remain otherwise unattached. Then Kourtney Kardashian kept taking Scott back even though he was a violent alcoholic. And yesterday I started mutely yelling at the TV when 24-year-old Jo took back 40-year-old Slade, crying that she had failed him even though he was the one who made her stay home with his kids (who only came to visit twice a week) instead of getting a fulfilling job to go with her corporate degree. She "failed" by going back to work against his orders.


While Jason and Scott knew they were jerks, Slade had no idea. He is the kind of man who is convinced that he is the quintessential nice guy, but in reality is down right abusive with the way he separates his fiance from everything that would interest her, speaks to her in a condescending voice with phrases like "That's unacceptable behavior," and insists that any unhappiness is her fault. She could have had anyone she wanted, and instead she stayed with one of the most "charming" abusive men I have ever seen.

I worry about the next generation and the messages that young women are being sent by the actions of those they watch on TV. And part of my worry is because I do see this sort of relationship being played out in real life, with me -- and with many others. I wonder though if Reality TV makes us put up with abusive men less because we do see it on the screen. One can always assert that scripted TV isn't real life, and while Reality TV isn't real life either, seeing a woman put up with crap from the man who is supposed to love her makes us cringe in a way that putting up with the abuse ourselves might not. Things are always more clear without emotional attachments, and maybe seeing these men take advantage of these beautiful, confident women and make them into subservient crying messes will help real live women to avoid the same fate. Maybe if Reality TV had existed in the mid-90s, it wouldn't have taken me so long to break up with my "charmingly" manipulative and controlling boyfriend D.

I won't admit that Reality TV is the best way to be spending my time, but there are positives to everything, and every time I yell at the screen over a messed up relationship I feel it makes me that much stronger regards to not putting up with any abuse myself. And while some of these girls never seem to free themselves of their controlling partners, the producers of the show are well aware that female viewers will be disgusted by the subservience and present the relationship in such a way that we know they are disgusted as well (though they also sadly know it makes for good TV -- just think of Spencer and Heidi). It also makes me cringe at bleached blond hair, yellow skin, and fake boobs -- all of which Jo has thus far avoided, at least in Season One. I want to take her natural drive and beauty, see it in myself, and not be her, by not letting any man -- or reality show -- stand in my way.

Full Dis-clothes-ure

My online dating experience took on a new look recently when I made use of the webcam built into my computer. Using the webcam wasn't my idea. Rather it was the idea of two men who had each contacted me through Plenty of Fish. Shortly after signing on with Plenty of Fish I learned of its reputation for being a sexual hookup site, but I stayed on for awhile hoping to find a diamond in the rough, with a disclaimer in my profile saying that I was not looking for sexual encounters. This disclaimer was even more important because men seemed to latch onto my (covered) breasts in my profile photo more than on anything I had to say.

A few days ago a guy popped up to chat. Normally I ignore these requests, but he was good looking, spoke proper English, and didn't make a comment about my breasts. After some pleasant conversation he asked if he could see me via webcam, and I assented. He praised my smile and my overall look, but then began to turn raunchy, asking to see my breasts. I declined, and he quickly lost interest. Yesterday I closed my account at Plenty of Fish, but today decided to answer someone I had met through that site who I had added to my yahoo messenger site. (I use yahoo for people I meet online because of its anonymity.) He asked if I'd had success at Plenty of Fish, and I said no, citing the previous encounter of "Bobby" asking to see my breasts, and the countless other men who had contacted me with a hint of vileness. We turned on our webcams, at his suggestion, and he immediately turned raunchy as well, commenting, as many men do, that my lips look very kissable. He then asked for a picture of my legs. Disgusted, I declined, and he disappeared. My third experience with the webcam came a couple days ago when another guy I had previously texted with asked to webcam as well, and he popped on without a shirt on, looked like a serial killer, and started off the conversation saying how good looking I am. I quickly said I had to go and took him off my messenger list.

This whole webcam thing has left me feeling slightly "meat-ified," and not in a good way. We know that men always check women out, and most of us, including myself, do the same when we scope dating profiles, bars, guys behind us in line at the grocery store, etc. But what happened to wanting to know what someone's hopes and dreams are? Do we not really care about those things but just pretend we do? Are these men just being honest about their intentions while others are more skilled at playing the game? If either of these men (aside from serial killer) had asked about my job, my pets, my favorite movies, etc., I would have been more willing to take my clothes off eventually. Well, after a few in-person dates. But not only did these men not care to know about the inner me, they also didn't care to share about themselves. Now, there may be women out there who get turned on by a guy who sends them a picture of their gigantic penis, but most women I know would be more turned on by a guy who sent them a picture of their gigantic dog who they shower love upon. Most of us care more about the girth of a man's heart, not the girth of his loins. Why do so many men have such a hard time realizing this?

The emergence of webcams brings dating to a whole new level no matter how one uses it and what one's intentions are. If speed dating was once the wave of the future, it has been replaced by "dating" that can take five seconds instead of five minutes. I knew within five seconds that I did not like shirtless guy. However, much of my dislike might have been the fact that he was shirtless. Can you imagine going on a first date with someone and having them take their clothes off at the restaurant? It seems to speak of a certain desperation and a childlike mentality of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." It also takes away all chivalry, all adherence to the natural process of dating, and all sense of communing with fellow human beings. It places us as Hottentots in the midst of carnal lust and judgment. I recently lowered my standards a bit because of my disability, thinking maybe I've been too reserved in regards to the mental image of my future mate. But today all that reservation returned. Whoever I spend my life with will be someone amazing, smart, mature, family-oriented, and who doesn't ask to see my breasts but rather expresses physical intimacy as an outward expression of the love he feels for me. He also won't be the "infamous O" who has turned to crazy house parties and nightly sexual rituals that shake the walls. My faith in the male species has been shaken as of late, but male maturity is out there... Somewhere.

Brainhilda's Reservations

I've been watching a lot of romantic comedies lately, in part because I like them and in part because Brainhilda* likes predictable plots. Because of this self-imposed survey of the cinematic genre, I've noticed some patterns in regards to the way love and work is portrayed on the screen. Right now I'm watching No Reservations for the first time, and while it's just starting I already know how it will end -- the workaholic and stick-in-the-mud (but shockingly beautiful) chef will first hate and then love the easy spirit male chef who she gets thrown into contact with. Now, this observation isn't entirely original. I read an article about this phenomenon about a year ago in regards to movies like Knocked Up which pair anal women with easy-going men. But after reading the article I am even more aware of the phenomenon's presence. I know exactly why films like No Reservations exist. It comes from a transition of female gender roles. Catherine Zeta-Zones' character most likely had to prove herself as a woman in the workplace. Especially as a beautiful woman who could have become a model or an exceptionally striking housewife. Aaron Eckhart's character, by comparison, is expected to be a professional in his field. He might have had to overcome battles like finances, but as a (white) male, no one would look at him and not take him seriously, especially because he's good looking. Therefore Jones' character assumes an air of a fighter, and Eckhart is free to be goofy and in need of a woman to make him take on more responsibility. And what these films' resolutions tells us is that as professional women we will never be content, fully-functioning human beings capable of love, unless we let loose and not take ourselves too seriously.This is compounded in the above mentioned film, as she raises her niece after the mother dies, and tells her therapist that she lacks the maternal instinct. No doubt Aaron Eckhart will help her find it.

My family is dealing a lot with gender role reversals and challenges right now because of the economy, as is much of the world. One cousin struggles to get a job after obtaining her master's degree while her partner hangs onto his government-based position by the skin of his teeth. Another cousin's teaching position is also being drastically cut as she struggles to raise two children. My sister's nursing program is on the verge of being blocked to future applicants, and my aunt is struggling to find full time and permanent work, as a professional who has entered the workforce in her 40s. And me, well, my state disability program is being threatened to be cut as well, leaving my $339 a month income and free medical care in a precarious position. (I just hired a lawyer to appeal the denial of my social security claim.) The men, while employed, are all facing similar cuts to services and to the ability to create retirement nest eggs as well as help their grown children. The dating service for working professionals that my roommate joined is now calling incessantly trying to find new clients, no doubt losing present clients to changes in income. And my roommate herself is facing a possible layoff next year.

What does all this have to do with gender roles? And what does it have to do with dating with a disability? It means this: On the one hand, the fact that I can't make my own money is less of an issue because many women are in the same situation. On the other hand, that same fact is more of an issue, because while I don't want a man to provide for me, there's less of a chance that he will be able to as well. And with my condition, I can't even think of having children without a full-time nanny to give Brainhilda a break from noise and to get kids to school early in the morning, even though I've always been against the thought of nannies. When a woman in this century thinks about what is expected of her, and how she should wrestle with competing expectations and wishes involving work and home, my female friends, family and I are always wondering if we're making the right decisions. In a way I have more in common with the women I'm in contact with right now than I would if the economy was better. In a way it's as if we're all disabled. We all can not obtain the life we want, and we all have to make adjustments and sacrifices. Will my future sister be able to pay for the wedding of her dreams? Will my cousin's boyfriend make enough to feel like he can get married and have children? Will I find a responsible, care-free man who rolls with the punches that life, the economy, and Brainhilda bring? Will he not only be okay with my professional, academic nature that might rival his own, but also be okay that I don't make an income, don't cook, have a motherly heart but not a motherly brain, and have an independent nature in a somewhat dependent body? We're all struggling to find our places -- every one of us. And maybe the current romantic comedy trend is in part so successful because while the women "need changing," the men are attracted to them because of their strong spirits. And no faulty economy can take that away.

(To see a refreshing change in the genre, I highly recommend the movie Just Wright. It's one of the only movies I've seen where the woman is loved exactly as she is and doesn't change one bit. Three cheers to Queen Latifah!)

*Brainhilda is a term coined by Carole Starr, a violinist who has suffered a rare disorder following a brain injury, with symptoms almost identical to mine. My cousin recently heard her on the radio and she and I have since been in contact.

Muse(ings)

After my diagnosis of somatization, I had one really bad day where turning my head made me dizzy and I felt like I was going to throw up. Of course that much of that was due to crying hysterically the night before (no pun intended). My best friend's words echoed through my head... "You need to sleep less hours a night... Everyone gets in funks... You need a boyfriend..." and I felt myself feeling guilty for being too ill to to anything but with not enough strength to change it. The next day, everything changed.

I woke up just after noon instead of around 5 o'clock, while still maintaining my regular 12 hours I needed by going to bed earlier. I subsequently got to enjoy the sun pouring into the house as I went about my day. I opened my blinds, and I listened to music on my ipod as I cleaned, something that I had stopped doing because the times I can deal with the musical stimulation are so rare. I jumped up and down at Muse's most electric moments, and aside from my birthday where I did the same with each peg knocked down by my bowling ball, jumping is something I had ceased to be able to do for the past few months.

This change was not because I'd willed myself to be better. It was because I had recognized those better moments and made them the best they could be. As my uncle advised me last night, my symptoms are real, they aren't out of laziness, and I do have a medical condition, but all I can do is keep pushing myself within reasonable limits and not party too hard so I don't crash too hard. And in that way my condition is better than it used to be. These days, if I want to be well for something I just make sure that I have nothing scheduled for the few days beforehand so that my stimulation receptors (or whatever the medical term may be) can cool and recharge.

Tonight I went out for Halloween -- my last big event outside the house for the next couple of months as I try to spend more frequent and less intense moments out in the world. I danced, I drank, I talked and laughed, and had a merry good time. I also returned to the dating world -- or at least the "physical" world -- without even trying. A guy reached for my hand as we walked along, squeezing it affectionately, and I squeezed back. We stood side by side, shoulders touching, and caste flirtatious glances at one another. Sure, he was drunk and will probably remember none of this tomorrow, and I agreed to take his hand only because he was part of our group and I was afraid he would fall over otherwise, but it reignited something in me, reminding me of the intimacy I'm missing. I'm unsubscribing from the disabled dating sites. If I fall in love with a disabled man, great, but I'm going to start seeing me when I look in the mirror again, not the disorder that has been threatening my identity. It's real, but it doesn't define me any more than my race, sex, or shoe size. As Muse says, "It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life / for me / and I'm feeling good."

Hysteria Lane

Last night I wondered if I'd ever be able to write a new blog again. First I had my second appointment with the specialist, who decided I have somatization, and then one of my best friends admitted he thinks I have it as well. As my aunt says, this is nothing new, I've been here before. But the fact that those who truly believe my case are dwindling is still a bit alarming, especially given the medical evidence of a cerebellum disorder. When I received a reply from my regular neurologist it all came together -- he had written in my file that some of my worsening may be an emotional response from starting a new path.

My neurologist didn't want to tell me this gut reaction of his, and neither did the specialist or my best friend, J.R. After my appointment and before the phone call with J.R., my roommate and I finished watching Sex and the City 2, where Carrie kisses Aiden on foreign soil and is contemplating whether or not to tell Mr. Big. The girls act as little voices on Carrie's shoulder, speaking aloud the debate that is going back and forth in her mind. "To tell him would only distress him." "It was only a kiss." But a bigger voice, the one she uttered herself, said that she and Big never keep secrets and that she wasn't going to start now. Mr. Big was hurt but came around, and Carrie realized that she needed to trust that her relationship was not turning into that of an "old, married couple," and that even if it did, that would be okay.

While Mr. Big didn't yell at Carrie, probably due to his natural elusiveness and her long distance proclamation, I did yell first at the specialist and then at J.R. "It's something to think about," J.R. said, and I assured him (while still yelling), that's it's something I think about every day. Whenever my legs won't work I wonder if I am creating this drama for myself, or if bad karma had come back to bite me because I used to love to pour over medical journals filled with gruesome pictures when I was a kid. But then those who have or do live with me remind me that seeing me day to day assures them that none of this is self-created. Those who see me periodically -- like he specialist who knows nothing about me aside from my complaints, and J.R. who I store up energy for in order to put on my best face -- don't see my day to day struggle that has everything to do with bodily responses and nothing to do with a sour or melancholy mood.

What's interesting about somatization is that it is merely a 21st Century term for hysteria. Much more women than men are diagnosed with it, and because it is defined as something the patient creates but ultimately has no control over, it's an infallible assumption. My aunt, who was equally outraged at the appointment, asked the specialist why we are supposed to go on faith when medicine is built on scientific proof. Somatization is in many cases another word for "I don't know," without the feeling of helplessness that doctors can feel with those words. Somatization really means, "We haven't figured it out yet," because if you look back through history, many now well-known disorders and illnesses were first said to be based on stress, simply because the medical profession didn't yet have answers. But somatization, like hysteria, is a dangerous term, treating the patient as a self-sabotager who back in the day would be forced to lie down in bed for months, see no one, and to live solely on warm milk. Sounds kooky, doesn't it? Now doctors take the opposite approach. Somatization means that you need to do more, be more, and just suck it up and move on.

Back to Carrie and Mr. Big, is honesty the best policy? Would it have been better if these men had not shared their perceptions with me? Absolutely not. If I did have somatization I would cast them from my life and insist that they were crazy. But because I don't, I can allow myself to see things through their eyes, to accept them for their human reactions, and to work with them to create an even better cooperative approach to my diagnosis, prognosis, and care. I've had many conditions that were first considered to be psychosomatic and that have since then been diagnosed medically, and I know this current condition is no different. Furthermore, while the specialist read my file and assumed that my case was all psychosomatic -- with a smirk on his face while he said that he's seen this many times before -- my neurologist and my best friend just want the best for me (the latter thinking all I need to cure me is a boyfriend). They just want answers, as do I, and I'll keep writing my story no matter what people think.