Random Therapies

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I have started this blog with a gratuitous picture of my cat, Coco Divine. Though she looks adorable, don’t be fooled. She is not very friendly, at least not to anyone except me and my partner (and yes, he is the one who named her. I was thinking of something like ‘Butch’ but lost the coin toss). Coco worships my equally furry partner, probably because he brushes her every morning in what we call the ‘love spot’ on top of his Ikea dresser. During this intimate event I make myself scarce in case Coco tries to pee on me. She has been known to squirt angrily on other people. One of her nicknames is, logically, Madame Golden Showers. Other less logical nicknames include Devil Dog, Sweet Baby Jesus, and Cocsatawny Cocs. 

Besides being appropriately self-indulgent for the holidays, posting about my cat introduces the theme of this blog. After all, pets are considered therapeutic. This subject matter is a little lame, you are thinking. You are correct, but I experienced little of note this week and you are stuck with a handful of loosely related observations about therapy in what might be my weakest blog entry. So get ready! According to about.com ‘in the broadest sense, therapy is a term that can be applied to any form of treatment for any illness or disorder. For example, antacid is a form of therapy for heartburn, rehabilitation is a form of therapy for addiction, and exercise is a form of therapy for obesity.’ These days most people immediately think of therapy in terms of ‘the talking cure’ meant to alleviate mental illness, and come to think of it, exercise is another great form of therapy for the mind as well as for obesity. All the same, I will start with ‘slap therapy,’ an activity described to me by a friend who becomes increasingly enigmatic the longer I know him. My nickname for him is ‘man whore,’ mainly because I doubt that he is a man whore, despite his charming ways and best intentions. Just the other day, MW explained that it can sometimes be a good idea to ask a trusted friend to slap you across the face, in a ‘thanks I needed that’ kind of way. Continue reading →

Sugar Rush

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I am powerless in the face of a shortbread cookie. I look at it; it looks back at me. ‘Don’t eat that you fat bitch,’ I command myself. Then I start bargaining: ‘As a sign of your strong will and self-discipline, you must not eat this cookie. You can have a cookie later, just not this one.’ Soon the Scottish temptation is flying into my mouth and I am savouring my moment of defeat. Wait for it….yeah…an intense wave of pleasure washes over my body Continue reading →

Picadilly Circus of Sins

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‘Face direction of travel,’ commands the sign suspended in a shiny hallway of the Heathrow airport. My spatial disability prevents me from obeying, for I never really know where I am. If you try to help by using such exotic terms as ‘north’ or ‘south,’ my eyes will go blank as I swerve the wrong way, probably into the Thames River. Right now I know only that I am headed back to Canada, my ever-too-brief English visit at an end. I will return home a little fatter—the Licorice Hut near the London Eye is partly to blame—and a whole lot wiser. For example, I learned the useful verb ‘vagazzle’ from watching a British TV show about women with shiny faces and glue-gunned twats who date boxers. I learned that taxi drivers do not like to take credit cards, but they are much obliged, and rather surprised, by tips. ‘Cheers Madam!’ I learned that expensive rubber pants are worth every penny. Oh, and I guess I also learned something or other while reading books every day about early modern tape worms, breast cancer, and anal fistulae at the Wellcome Library, British Library, and British Museum. After all, research was the reason for this trip, right? Well…  Continue reading →

The Look of Cosmetic Surgery

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Unlike most people, I love long flights. That is the only time I can unguiltily relax, get caught up on Mad Men, or even better, read an entire book in one sitting. While travelling I recently completed Rhian Parker’s Women, Doctors and Cosmetic Surgery (2010). Though in many ways hideously dull and repetitive, I found one argument–based on in-depth interviews with Australian women who have purchased cosmetic surgeries of various kinds–surprising. Apparently, women do not pursue breast reductions or enlargements, nose jobs, and eye lifts in order to stand out or be looked at, enviously by women, lustfully by men. (All of the interviewed women were straight, something worth thinking about). Oh no; they just want to blend in and ‘look normal.’ 

Really? Because that is not my experience with cosmetic surgery; I mean, with hearing about other people’s cosmetic surgery, for I have had none of the invasive prodecures listed above (nor have I had any kind. I have not even had my appendix out or experienced a broken bone). Now I should confess–and this is something you already know–that most of the women I encounter who have had such interventions are fitness models, Continue reading →

Clean Machine

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Right now I am in a certain northern Ontario town giving a talk about medicine and art. After touring me around all day, my lovely host dropped me at a fancy new gym beside the grocery store. I paid $15, got changed, and then went into the spacious, well equipped weight room, feeling rather pleased with myself. A staff member suddenly appeared, informing me that I was breaking an important club rule. ‘Tank tops are not allowed,’ she said, staring at my sleeveless attire, emblazoned with the words Olympia Las Vegas 2010. ‘You have to wear a t-shirt.’ ‘What?’ I chortled. ‘How else am I supposed to show off my guns?’ (I said this as if I was joking but the message was factual. I often pretend to lie while boldly telling the truth. It’s kind of my thing.) The heavily-clothed staff member was not amused. ‘Some clients could be intimidated,’ she stated. I had never before thought of my shoulders as intimidating, even offensive. I suddenly remembered visiting the Vatican and various churches in Rome, where bare shoulders are forbidden. God knows what you’re wearing, you brazen hussy. And so does Angelica, the anti-armpit Nazi. Continue reading →