Moving Forward

I bought a cane the other day.

When I first thought about buying a cane, I thought I’d just use it once in a while (especially when traveling by air, to be able to board early and not fight the crowds while limping).  I had been feeling very pragmatic about the idea, thinking that I didn’t have to use it if I didn’t need it, but that all came crashing down around me on Tuesday night.  I’d been hurting a lot for several days and felt utterly exhausted around 8 pm.  As I crawled into bed, I thought, “I’ll buy a cane tomorrow.”

And I lost it.  I started to cry and couldn’t stop.  So I crawled out of bed, limped into the kitchen where my husband was listening to music on the computer (wearing headphones so as not to disturb me), and just looked at him with tears running down my face.  He asked what was wrong and we sat on the couch for about an hour while I gave voice to all the things that had been running through my mind for the last several weeks.

I thought I had it handled, that I was coping with this condition in a very levelheaded, practical way.  But constant pain is a worm that digs around in your mind and soul, eating at your resolve and laying eggs of doubt and fear.  And fear was very evident as I rambled on: fear of taking a TNF inhibitor (Enbrel, etc.), fear of pain and long-term disability, and fear of having let myself down.

I was afraid of switching to a new, stronger drug.  But my new rheumy gave me more information our first visit than had the old one over the course of a year.  I am still uncomfortable with the idea of the drugs, but actually less afraid (although I still plan to do some serious research on the available drugs prior to making a decision).

As we talked, my beloved asked me about how long I was willing to live with the level of pain that I have been dealing with of late.  Picking an age at random, he asked me if dying at 70 from complications from the new drugs was any worse than dying at 70 (or sooner) from the long-term effects of constant pain, inflammation, and bone deterioration.  Does quality of life factor into my decision in any way?

Well, yes, it does.  I am as afraid of living the rest of my life in this much pain as I am of dying early from the drugs.  That perspective provides an entirely new realm of contemplation for me, one that seems to bear a great deal of weight.

In an interesting twist of fate, I did not feel that my body had betrayed me (as I had felt so long ago with my first autoimmune diagnosis), but rather, I felt that I had betrayed my body.  That I had not been diligent enough in my diet, or that I had missed something along the way and that was why I was getting worse.

And through the fear and the tears, I also knew that when it came right down to it, these feelings were illogical and had no basis in reality.  I’ve done more to keep my body as whole as possible with this condition than many people will ever attempt to, and I’ve done it substantially on my own.  Yes, I have friends and family who have supported me and my decision, who have gifted me with this remedy or that, and who have listened to my rants with calm understanding.  But I have had no medical support at all, and have had to do all the research and “testing” on my own.  So feeling as if I have let my body down is unfair and unwarranted.  Have I arrested the progression of the disease through diet and supplements?  Not to the degree I would have liked.  But I tried, damn it.  It’s one of the reasons I have signed on to participate in the Personal Genome Project: to find the gene(s) that are implicated in psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis so personalized genetic therapies can be developed and prevent others from having to deal with this condition.  I refuse to call it a “disease,” which implies an active external factor (such as bacteria, virus, or parasite).  It is a condition that researchers believe has a genetic factor: once that gene has been turned on, we simply don’t know how to turn it back off again.

Of course, the least logical fear, and the one that I had the hardest time giving voice to, was the fear that taking the drugs meant that I had “failed” to heal myself in the manner by which I had intended, and that I was going to have to give up the fight and cave to Western medicine, the AMA, and Big Pharma.  Those of you who know me understand that this has quite likely been the underlying issue all along (which I was also aware of the other night).  My control issues, particularly when it comes to doctors, are one of the big LIFE LESSONS I have to learn.  A cursory review of my life history would make that abundantly clear to even the least insightful person, and I can hear the snickering (it’s OK, I really don’t mind) from here.

It is the issue of control that ultimately has to be dealt with.  For me to understand, on all levels, that I can surrender to the process and graciously accept the help that modern medicine can give me, while still owning my own life, my own body, and my own choices regarding healthy eating, will be the breakthrough that I need to achieve in order to move forward with all of this.  The fact that the TNF inhibitors will effectively eliminate any food-related joint pain and swelling does not mean that I am required to bail on the diet.  If I know that eating certain foods makes my body unhappy, I am still free to avoid those foods, even if I will no longer experience the symptoms of my body’s unhappiness.  I can still honor what the body has told me during this process.  Armed with the wisdom that I have gleaned over these last few months, I can hopefully walk the path of both worlds: accepting the gifts of modern medicine while honoring the needs and insights of my own body.  I can stop resisting, and embrace the flow of life.

Maybe that’s where I have been heading all along.

Head Scarf, Anyone?

Last week I wrote about the beginnings of my journey with PsA, the dietary changes I’ve made, and the effects of diet, medication, and supplementation on the arthritis symptoms.

Today I’ll tackle the skin issue.  I have patches on both elbows, both knees, and the back of my head.  The part that seems to really bother most people is the patches on the head.  We can wear clothing to cover our limbs if we feel the need to hide the psoriasis, but the flakes from the head just don’t disappear as easily.  Summer is easier, as many people find that a little sunlight, with its natural Vitamin D, makes the patches get a little smaller and less active, but what to do in the winter, when dark colors are the fashionable fave?  Sometimes we look like we’ve been in a snowstorm that hovered over just us.  I don’t try to hide my elbows at all.  I hide my knees only because I don’t normally wear shorts or short skirts in public anyway, but if I choose to wear shorts, I just let the patchy knees show.  All of the patches are, in fact, getting better.  Between the medication, the supplements, the diet, and the topical treatments, all of the patches are getting smaller and smoother.   I use a mixture of honey and cinnamon, 50/50, for an hour or more a day as often as I can, and it seems to be making a clear difference.

I have always had a  head full of hair.  Even with the psoriasis that was true,  until I shaved it all off.  It was really nice hair, too.  In fact, the only part of my physical being that I have ever felt any real vanity about was my hair.

So the idea of removing it voluntarily was a difficult one at first, but as I thought about it, I began to see the sense in doing so.  Like I said, I have (had) a full head of hair, and all of that hair made it difficult to get to the patches.  I couldn’t really keep an eye on how it was progressing (or not), and putting any kind of topical treatment on was hit or miss at best.  And if I wanted to get a little sunlight on there, the hair kept it too well protected.

So I pondered, and thought, and ruminated, and talked to my husband, and pondered some more, and checked in with a dear friend (the only person other than my husband whose opinion I asked for) and then finally, one day while my husband was at work, I just took the clippers and off it came.  It makes it much easier now to put the honey mixture on my head!

I have to say that it was a very liberating experience.  I made sure that the first run of the clipper was such that there was no going back – a broad swath of hair, right up the center of my skull, was there one minute and on the floor the next.  Since that particular look is not good on anybody, I kept going until it was all on the floor.  The longest bits were 10 inches of burgundy and white, and the shortest were around 4 inches.  Too short to bundle and sell to a wigmaker, I just gathered it all up and put it in the trash.  Lucky for me, I have a very round head, so if I want to go bareheaded I can with some success.  But then the red patches are so very visible that I rarely leave the house without a headwrap.  I’ve bought some lovely scarves and wraps over the last few months, and I often get very positive comments about them when I’m out and about.  I wore the wraps to interviews (it did take a while to get a job, but it finally happened) and people rarely ask why I’m wearing it.

I don’t look sick most of the time so I don’t know what people assume when they see me in the headwraps.  Maybe they think I’m recovering from cancer (a couple of women have made comments about a loved one who is “also going through chemo”), or maybe they think it’s a religious or ethnic thing (although few people are whiter than I am, so I’m not sure what ethnic thing they might think it is), or maybe they just think I’ve having a really bad hair day (which is technically true, right?).  The thing is, I don’t have any control over what other people think about me, whether it is based on my appearance or anything else, and I’m too damn tired to care anymore.  All I can do is be true to myself, do the best I can with what I’m given, and if other people don’t like the way I look, well, tough shit.

I spent the first twenty years of my life pretending that I didn’t care what other people thought, even though I was desperate for others to think that I was pretty as well as smart and efficient. In the time between then and now, I’ve gradually reached the point where as long as I like the way I look, and as long as my hubby wants to keep looking my way, I couldn’t care less what others think.

Now, I will admit that being a cultural anthropologist and folklorist allows me a certain leeway in how I dress that perhaps an actuary or a legal secretary wouldn’t have.  That being said, I still believe that if a person looks different than the norm but owns it and is obviously comfortable in their own skin, they can still find employment and a circle of friends who appreciate them.

If people ask about the headwrap, I generally tell them the truth.  I remember when I told my boss about the psoriasis (about two months after shaving my head), he looked so sad and said how very sorry he was that I had to deal with such a heart breaking health issue.  That’s kind of him, but frankly I don’t see it that way.  I’m dealing well with it, it isn’t likely to kill me anytime soon, and I don’t feel as if my life is that heart breaking.  Yes, it’s difficult to manage the diet and the supplements and find the money to do the massages, etc., that help me feel better, but I’m not starving, I don’t live in an active war zone, and I don’t have to worry about physical violence in my home.  I know that I am lucky that my insurance is affordable and covers the basics, and I’m very grateful.  I know that others with this condition do not have that luxury (shouldn’t be a luxury, but it is).  I guess what I’m saying here is that part of dealing with a long-term condition is perspective.  The condition won’t go away because you change your perspective, but your relationship to your body and to the condition can change, and that might make all the difference in the world.  It has with me.  This isn’t my first long-term condition and I learned a long time ago that if I wanted to be happy, I had to find a way to look at my condition in a non-victimized manner, or it would not only rule my life, but rule it with an iron fist.  It is what it is, and rather than fight it, I choose to look at the body as a whole and figure out what combination of factors might alleviate the situation.  Maybe nothing will, in which case I  re-evaluate my perspective and find a new way to look at things.  Or maybe I’ll stumble upon the right combination of food and supplements and exercise that relieves the systemic inflammation and allows my body to heal itself.

In any case, my perspective will make a huge difference in how I feel and move forward.  I love myself with or without hair, and while I hope that one day I can let it start to grow out again, I’m taking it one day at a time.

Hugs and healing to all who live with long-term conditions everywhere.

Living With Psoriatic Arthritis

It’s been a while since I posted anything to this blog, and I’ve struggled with whether or not to share in such a public manner what I am going to be writing about in this post, but it seems like the right thing to do.

I’d had flakes on my scalp for years that would cycle in severity, but it had never been terribly bad.  Until, that is, the summer of 2009.  I had returned to college in 2008 to finish the degree that had been a loose thread in my life for years, and during the last three terms at the university I had begun to notice a drastic increase in the flaking and itching of my scalp.  I put it down to stress and a not so great diet, and didn’t worry about it.

Then in the spring of 2010, I hurt my thumb and it became very swollen and “sausage-y.”  After doing all the normal home remedies for that sort of thing (ice, OTC anti-inflammatories, etc.) I went to the doctor.  A referral to a hand specialist got me my first cortisone shot and the provisional diagnosis.  Not being a dermatologist, he was hesitant to commit to the psoriasis, but he seemed pretty confident.  I had already done some internet research (I’d had three weeks between my initial appointment and seeing the specialist) and I had arrived at the same diagnosis myself.

The thumb needed a second shot and in the time between the two shots I developed sausage toe in the left big toe.  Another three weeks of waiting for a podiatry appointment, then two months wasted, in my opinion, by a podiatrist who said it wasn’t psoriatic arthritis (PsA) because it “didn’t look like any psoriatic arthritis I’ve ever seen.”  Those of you who know me can probably already hear my response to that statement.  So it was two months of wearing a rigid boot to keep from bending the toe, which did nothing but mess up my gait and add to my discomfort.  Suffice to say, I was less than impressed.  I finally got him to give me a corti shot in the toe and recommend a referral to a rheumatologist.

Two more months go by and I see the rheumatologist, who takes one look at the swelling in my fingers and toes, the plaque on my elbows, knees, and head, and says, “You have psoriatic arthritis.”  We start with oral prednisone and he gives me a brochure on the various treatments available.  Which, of course, I had already done research on and muscle tested myself for.  The only treatment that tested positive was methotrexate, an oral immune suppressant that helps stop the body from attacking itself.  The rheumy pushed Enbrel (the drug that pro golfer Phil Mickelson is now pimping for) and I told him that I would do everything in my power to avoid any of the biologics (Enbrel, Humira, Remicade) as I find their potential side effects more frightening than the disease.  He half rolled his eyes, said fine, and we stayed with the prednisone for six months.

After that time, the x-rays showed slight deterioration of the bones at the toe joints (a common side effect of long-term prednisone use is bone loss), so the choice was made to go with methotrexate (mtx).  For the first few months, I experienced the common side effects of nausea, dizziness, and sleepiness, although luckily I only felt one at a time.  It was sort of a side-effect roulette: I never knew which one would manifest, how strongly I’d feel it, which day I would feel it, or how long it would last.  I take the pills on Friday night, and after being on them now for eight months I’ve learned that taking them early on Friday, like around 4 or 5 pm, allows me to sleep through what would be prime side effect time.

You have to remember that while I was going through all of this, I was finishing college and looking for work.  I was out of work for over a year, which I struggled with emotionally.  On the one hand, I felt truly lucky to have that time to work on this health issue and get my body to a point where it could handle being at a job.  On the other hand, I wasn’t adding anything to the household income, and since I had willingly quit my job to go back to school, I didn’t qualify for unemployment, nor did we qualify for food stamps because of Mitch’s military pension.

So, knowing that stress is a part of this ailment, I have worked to let go of my guilt over my unemployment.  I kept looking, mostly for part-time work, as during the early months I felt that full-time work would utterly exhaust me and hinder my healing.  Eventually I found part-time work, first with a previous employer for two-three afternoons a week (at a generous enough pay that it was worthwhile) and lately at a small historical society/museum for 20 hours a week.

Anyway, back to the journey.  I take 15 mg of mtx once a week, on Friday, and take 800 mg of ibuprofen every night before bed.  If the discomfort warrants it, I can also take an additional 800 mg in the morning, but no more often than every-other day.

With the first provisional diagnosis, I began looking at complementary techniques to augment the medication.  Acupuncture worked pretty well, but only on a short-term basis.  I would have reduced swelling and noticeably less pain for two or three days after a session, but then the effects would fade and I’d need another session.  Even at a community acupuncture clinic with a low sliding scale, I simply couldn’t afford to go three times a week on an indefinite basis.

Reiki was also used, and continues to be used, but Reiki alone is not enough to eradicate the issue.  I didn’t think it would be, as it is used to help bring the body into balance, but I use it to support everything else I am doing.

I used detox foot baths, the equipment for which was generously gifted to me by a friend, and it is hard to say if it helped or not.  It isn’t something I did as a solo therapy, but in conjunction with everything else, so I cannot empirically say whether it was helpful or not.  I do enjoy the foot baths, though, and often have interesting healing-related dreams afterward, so my gut says something is happening.  I’m just not sure what it is.

The most useful complementary techniques are things that shouldn’t be considered complementary at all: dietary changes and supplements.  I discovered in 2008 that I don’t tolerate wheat very well, so I’ve been avoiding wheat and other gluten containing foods.  The more “adulterated” the wheat is (meaning the whiter and less beneficial in general) the better I can tolerate it, but even then I need to keep from eating too much.  I use wheat-free pasta on occasion, and wheat & gluten free bread once in a while, but I avoid all those other gluten free products as a rule.  I don’t need the cookies, the crackers, etc. as they are just junk food anyway.

I have also discovered that nightshades are a problem for me, particularly when it comes to my joints.  I had eaten potatoes, tomatoes, bell peppers, and paprika all my life (never a fan of eggplant, though) and had never noticed any problems.  But with the PsA came a change in the way my body responded to nightshades.  After cutting out all nightshades for two weeks (which means really reading labels, since potato starch is used in a lot of products), I added a normal serving of marinara sauce on gluten-free pasta.  The only thing in the sauce that was “new” was the tomato.  Within two hours I could feel my joints getting stiffer, and by bedtime I was in severe discomfort, to the point that it kept me awake all night.  Not only did I feel stiffness and pain in the PsA affected joints, but I also felt it in every other joint as well. I did the same experiment with potatoes, and not only did I hurt after eating a small serving of mashed potatoes, I also had pretty bad heartburn.

I now note any food that either makes my tongue itch or gives me heartburn and I avoid it.  An itching tongue and/or heartburn is a message from the body that this food is not good for it, and we like to mask that message, thinking that our brains somehow know something that our bodies do not.  That kind of split-self arrogance gets us into all kinds of problems!

The foods that I avoid are: wheat (and all gluten-containing grains), tomatoes, potatoes, pepper plants (not pepper corns), eggplant, tobacco, strawberries (joint pain), watermelon (makes my tongue itch), soft drinks (joint pain) and acidic foods (heartburn).  This means that going to a restaurant is tricky – it works best to go to either a big chain restaurant that lists the ingredients for their dishes on their website, or to a local place that you can develop a relationship with.  Restaurants where there is a strict “no substitution” policy are simply out of bounds, as too often there will be an offending food of some sort in every dish.

I do fall off the wagon from time to time, but I do so knowing that I’ll pay a price for it.  Oddly enough, the wagon I fall off of the most is the wheat wagon.  I cannot eat whole wheat at all – one bite is all it takes to turn my throat into a raging inferno, and nothing is worth that.  But crappy wheat, like a pre-made, tomato free, “white” pizza, is a treat that I am willing to suffer mildly for on rare occasion.

Those individuals who can eat anything and suffer no problems are luckier than they can possibly imagine.

The list of supplements that I take is fairly long, and while there are a couple of things that I swear by, I hate to say that one thing or another is the sole reason I feel so much better than I had felt.  I think there is a synergistic component to all of this, and I don’t like running out of any of my supplements for very long.  The medication is fairly inexpensive, the supplements not so much.  Developing a chronic ailment is something only the wealthy can truly afford.

On a daily basis, I take the following supplements:

*6,000 to 8,000 iu Vitamin D

*1 Mega Red krill oil capsule

*3 Tart cherry concentrate capsules ( I do swear by these – really, I do)

*400 mg CoQ10 daily

*2,000 mg Vitamin C

*1,500 mg Organic Nopal Cactus (for inflammation – has anyone tried the tea?)

*1 Calcium + D caplet daily

*1 mg Folic Acid every morning

*one chelated Krebs Magnesium and potassium supplement

*two quercitin & bromelain capsules (inflammation)

*two liver support capsules (milk thistle, turmeric, licorice root, Chinese skullcap root, and schisandra berry)

*an adremal support supplement (Vitamin B6 (as pyridoxine HCL) 25mg, Biotin 1,000mcg, Pantothenic Acid (as

calcium pantothenate) 250mg, Zinc (as malate) 5mg, Copper (as citrate) 500mcg, extracts of rosemary,

ashwaganda and hesperidin methyl chalcone)

*50 mg L-Glutathione daily (for my heart – PsA sufferers statistically have a higher incidence of heart problems, probably due to chronic, systemic inflammation)

I will be adding a hair and nail supplement once I finish researching all the available products (looking for one that is mostly biotin and silica, without the multi-vitamin components).

I am always open to learning about new supplements; if someone knows of something that is working, let me know.

I get blood tests every three months with follow-up rheumatology visits, and my blood test numbers get better every month.  My CRP (c-reactive protein, an indicator of inflammation) is lower than it has been in a very long time, my liver and kidney function stays healthy, and my sedimentation rate (another marker of inflammation) is getting steadily lower.  I think it is a combination of the meds, the diet, the supplements, and the meditation all working together.  I can snap my fingers (both hands), and am walking without a limp (most of the time).  Neither of these things were possible when I was first diagnosed.
I no longer think of the psoriasis and the PsA as discreet ailments.  I perceive them as indicators of chronic, systemic inflammation.  And that is how I approach it, and all the supplements and treatments I use (or try) are evaluated by their effect on inflammation.

I eat less animal protein now than I used to, simply because inflammation is triggered by prostaglandin 2, which comes from animal proteins.  Prostaglandin 1 and 3 are anti-inflammatory in nature and come from plant sources.

I’m not ready to go totally vegan, but I’m happy being a partial vegetarian.  That means more beans, more leafy greens (not a fan but am working on recipes that I can live with), and meat no more often than every other day.

Lots of people successfully take Enbrel or one of its cousins, eat whatever they want to eat, and are content to take other drugs to deal with the side effects of the biologics.  That choice is as valid as any other, nothing in this post, or any other that I make, should be construed as a condemnation of that choice.  It is simply not my choice.

I think most of us end up somewhere in the middle, taking the meds we have to take to function (without my synthetic thyroid supplement, I’d be dead in a year), and making the lifestyle adjustments that we can make and are willing to make.  Often it depends on our families and what they are willing and able to support.  Whatever choice you make, own it.  It is your life, and you have the right to choose whatever combination of therapies that you can afford to keep your body as healthy as you can.  I am willing to live with a certain amount of joint deformation if I can avoid the harsher drugs.  I don’t model sandals, so who cares what my toes look like, as long as I can walk and wear shoes.

I will continue to chronicle my progress on these pages.  Feel free to comment, but play nice.

In health,

Davena

Happy Independence Day!

Happy 4th of July!

Enjoy your celebrations today, but as you do, I’d like you to think about a couple of things.

This isn’t going to be a heavy-handed patriotic post. Although it is always good to remember the difficulties that many of the revolutionaries suffered to bring this nation to fruition, this little rant is about something else. I want you to think about the clash of individual rights that will inevitably occur today, and how the seemingly innocent actions of one person can create fear and distress in another.

Yep. I’m talking about fireworks and noise makers.

I like a well choreographed light show as much as the next person. I remember sitting on the roof of our first home in Tucson to watch the fireworks display from “A” Mountain. It was great – sitting in lawn chairs on the flat roof of the carport, beverage in hand, watching the show as the radio station played the music and loudspeaker announcements. In a way, it brought much of Tucson together. Even if we weren’t up at the mountain, we could all see and hear the same thing at the same time. You could tell which other households in your neighborhood were watching by the timing of the “oohs” and “ahhs” you’d hear around you.

Of course, the other reason we sat on the roof those evenings was to make sure that our neighbor didn’t burn down our house with his (very legal) fireworks. Every year we had to put out a spark or two on our side of the fence (one year that little spark was on the roof – good thing we were, too). He was always very apologetic, of course, but that didn’t make the danger any less real.

The risk of burning down your neighbor’s house is one issue that, with current fireworks laws in most states, is becoming less of a threat. Assaulting your neighbor with noise, however, is still an All-American past time.

I get the appeal to go out and buy whatever legal fireworks are available in your area. I liked sparklers when I was young, just like any other kid. We like explosives, and I don’t think that is just an American thing. People like to blow stuff up (that’s why shows like Mythbusters are so popular). I’m simply asking you to think about how the noise you make will affect other people. Wildlife (yes, your neighborhood has wildlife) become startled by big noises. Birds will fly away from their nests, staying away for a while to keep their young safe from the perceived threat. Squirrels, opossums, raccoons and other such critters are more likely to run in panic and get hit by cars or seek shelter under your house or in your garage.

Infants don’t like big noises, nor do most domestic animals. Shelters fill up on July 4th and 5th with dogs and cats that ran terrified from noises in their neighborhoods. Which is why my dog will be sedated (the shrill, whistling fireworks hurt his ears and he gets panicky) and the cat will be safely locked in the house.

It isn’t just babies and pets that suffer. Combat vets often have problems with loud noises, especially if they haven’t been back from their tour of duty for very long. Victims of gun violence don’t like the big bangs we get from cheap fireworks. These folks will know in advance, certainly, that tonight will be noisy. But to all of you who start setting off fireworks a week in advance, and who continue to set them off for a week afterward, those loud noises are not expected and can be problematic for some people. Put yourself in their situation: Pretend you just had major surgery and feel like hell. All you want to do is sleep. But some yahoo in the neighborhood keeps setting off one firework at a time (more and he might get caught by the cops). The noise gets your dog barking and the neighbor’s baby crying. Not fun, is it?

Enjoy your celebration. You have the right to buy and use legal fireworks, and I’m not asking you to completely forgo their use. But think about how your actions affect people around you, and remember that every right comes with an attendant responsibility.

Words Matter

I’ve been wanting to write about our misuse of language for a long time and never could find the words that I wanted to say. But I’m so annoyed – no, that’s imprecise: I’m so irritated and frustrated – over this little article on the NatGeo website that I feel compelled to finally put hands to keyboard.

The article is a seemingly-innocuous factoid about a dig in Northern Israel. It seems that a number of artifacts were found that appear to be related to religious worship roughly 3,500 years ago in the region. What I find so pernicious is the way the artifacts and their presumed use are described (emphasis mine):

About 200 pagan-cult artifacts, including small ritual stands pierced with mysterious holes (pictured), have been discovered in a rock hollow in northern Israel, archaeologists announced in early June.

The objects—about a hundred of them fully intact, including a cup sculpted with a human face, oil vessels, and various tableware—were found at the Tel Qashish site.

Many of the 3,500-year-old objects, such as the ritual stands, were likely used during idol worship in the local temple, according to Israel Antiquities Authority dig team members Edwin van den Brink and Uzi Ad.

“On top of these stands were placed either food offerings or incense for a pleasant scent during worship of the god or goddess in the temple,” van den Brink said. “We don’t yet know the reason for the [holes].”

The Tel Qashish site was destroyed during the Late Bronze Age (about 1550 to 1200 B.C.), and van den Brink suggested some artifacts had been buried for safekeeping before the violence.¹

“Cult” originally referred to worship in general (from the Latin cultus, to cultivate)². It later began to refer to devotion outside of religion, as in the “cult of personality” or a cult movie. In a popular sense the word is generally understood to mean a deviant form of religious belief that isolates members from their families, controls them with intimidation or coercion, and is centered around a charismatic and mentally unstable individual. When I say “cult,” you think Jim Jones, David Koresh, or black sweat suits and identical sneakers, right?

Using the word “cult” then, while technically correct, creates a visceral response in the reader. Remember, this is National Geographic, not a scholarly text or peer-reviewed journal. The average Joe and Judy will be reading this, and they will decode that word based on the popular and mass-media use of it. The use of the word “cult” was simply unnecessary and creates problems of interpretation where none need exist. They were pagan (even though that word didn’t exist at the same time that they made and used these items) because they were no followers of Christ. While “pagan” is appropriate it is unnecessary as well, since Christ wasn’t around 3,500 years ago*.

Saying that the holes in the artifacts are “mysterious” is another way to simply hook a reader into the story without providing any useful information whatsoever. Of course the holes are “mysterious” – anything we do not understand is a mystery to us. And we don’t really have a clue as to what the people who made these artifacts actually did with them. All we can do is look at various religious practices going on now, at artwork and descriptions of religious practices of the past, and extrapolate out what we think the makers of these artifacts might have done with them. So to tease the reader with the word “mysterious” gives the impression that the holes may have been put there for more than decorative reasons, which we have no right to do. There are other ways to say that we don’t know what these objects were used for without lending an air of the weird or the arcane to them. The use of the word here is simply sloppy.

But what really gets my goat in this piece is the phrase “idol-worship.” Now, how the hell do the archaeologists know that? Again, we have a misuse of language presenting a biased projection upon a long-dead group of people who can’t explain their actions to us. To use the phrase “idol-worship” implies that the people who made these objects actually worshiped the objects. We don’t know that. We do know that many people, in many religions, use focusing objects in their worship, such as statuary, candles, paintings, sand drawings, crosses and crucifixes, and what have you. That doesn’t mean that these worshipers believe that the deity lives inside of the focusing object. It means that the focusing object makes it easier for the person to connect with/pray to his or her deity. It gives them a representation of the deity, of a property of the deity, or of the promise the deity may have made in their sacred texts, upon which to focus. Yet once again we have a loaded phrase dropped into an anthropological report that will be read by the average person, and the society in question will be judged because of its use. I don’t care if you use a statue or a painting to focus your prayers on or if you really do pray to a statue. Really, I don’t. What I do care about is using a phrase that is heavily loaded with Western Christian imagery and values in an anthropological report. If we don’t know what these people did with these objects, then just say “We don’t know what the makers of these objects used them for,” and leave it at that. Why must a value-heavy phrase be attached?

If these items were dated to 1,900 years ago and had Christian iconography on them, the word “cult” would not have been used, even though it would have been technically accurate. “Idol worship” would most definitely have not been included, and “mysterious” would likely have been replaced with something less cryptic, like intriguing or unusual. We all code and decode every bit of information we receive, and the unconscious bias held by the person who coded this message is clear. It is a good reminder to us all to read with an eye to everything that is being communicated, not just the superficial data on top.

Enough. This type of sloppy reporting and inflammatory use of language in order to get people’s attention is a reflection of one of the things wrong with our society (not new, mind you, just wrong). It should be interesting enough that we found these clay objects dating from 3,500 years ago. We shouldn’t have to create more drama around their discovery to get attention for it, but I suppose in the day of 24 hour news cycles, personal drama as entertainment and sensationalism-as-news, I shouldn’t be surprised by it.

I’m not done with the topic of misused language, but I am done with this article. Words matter, people. Make sure the ones you use are really the ones you mean.

*note: “pagan” can refer these days to anyone not Jewish, Christian or Muslim, or even to anyone who is of a non-traditional religion, but the word was appropriated from the legionnaires by early Christians and originally referred only to non-Christians.

Notes

1. Milstein, Mati. “Pagan-Cult Object.” National Geographic 16 June 2010. 18 June 2010 http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2010/06/photogalleries/100616-israel-pagan-cult-tomb-objects-pictures#israel-cult-tombs-vessels_21663_600x450.jpg>

2. “cult.” Online Etymology Dictionary. 2010. Online Etymology Dictionary. 18 June 2010. (sorry for the lack of a link – WordPress isn’t saving the link when I add it in. It is at etymonline dot com under “cult”)

What I Did Over Spring Break

Those of you who follow this blog (all five of you) know that I have spent the last 26 months or so wrapping up a very big loose end in my life: completing the college degree I began 32 years ago. Well, my lovelies, I am happy to say that it is a done deal. I am now a college graduate – yeehaw! And I spent my final Spring Break in NYC with my sister-in-law and her two lovely daughters. It was a whirlwind trip of shopping, eating, and, most importantly (to me, anyway) museum-ing. Yes, museum-ing. It’s my blog, I can make up a word if I want to.

Our first museum visit was the American Museum of Natural History, which the girls, being only seventeen, knew best from the film “Night at the Museum.” This was an interesting visit, as they aren’t particularly keen on the fine art of taxidermy. In the film, of course, all of these previously-living-now-dead-and-stuffed animals come to life and hilarity ensues. Needless to say, this did not occur during our visit. Nor is there a T-rex in the main lobby of the museum at this time (he’s upstairs – there is currently a Barosaurus and a small Allosaurus in the lobby, very different indeed). The visit was not entirely a bust, as the artist niece was in awe of the meticulous attention to detail in the background paintings for the various dioramas. I’m not sure the fashion-conscious niece was impressed, but if we’d made it to the Memorial Hall of Gems I’m guessing she’d have appreciated the new diamonds on display much more than she did the rat pelts in the Hall of Rodents and Small Carnivores. I am happy to say, however, that the Hall of African Peoples presented an opportunity to correct a misconception held by both young women: they thought that pygmies were an extinct form of early man (go, public education!). I explained how there were different ideas about why these people are smaller in size than other population groups, and that environment, mortality rates and other factors may play a role in their size. I also let them know that the term “pygmy” is considered a pejorative term and they should refer to members of these populations by their group name, like the Mbuti or the Aka, etc. After all, I’d hate to let this new college degree in anthropology go to waste!

Our second foray into museum-world was the Museum of Modern Art, or MoMA. It was a cold and rainy Monday and the line outside of the museum was insanely long, so it was a good thing we already had tickets – I don’t know that waiting in that line was really an option for this group. Once inside, we perused the installations on the second floor for a bit, but I don’t think the girls cared much for either of them – one was a very dark series of short animated videos and still images reflecting South Africa during and just after apartheid, and the other was “The Artist is Present,” a high concept bit of performance art where visitors to the museum had the opportunity to sit opposite the artist and experience being present in silence with another human being. The third floor, however, was much more to their liking: a Tim Burton retrospective, with early sketches and doodles, a timeline of Burton’s film and animation career, and models, props, and costumes from various films. It was a blast, even if it was over crowded and poorly ventilated and every fifteen seconds some uniformed staff member would bark out “No Pictures!” None of the people taking pictures was paying the least bit of attention to the museum employees, and frankly I’m not sure that you can really stop people from taking photos these days, what with cell phone cameras and all. It kind of felt like a three-ring circus in that exhibit, with the pushing and the crowding and my height-challenged nieces having to squeeze past people just to see the illustrations. But they were happy, which is all that matters. We did get to see several Picasso’s, the Monet water lilies exhibit, some Pollack’s, and Wyeth’s “Christina’s World,” which both of the girls liked quite a bit. As much as I liked MoMA, I have to say that the crushing crowd and the noise level were fairly distracting. I expected it to be a bit noisy at the Museum of Natural History, what with all the groups of school-aged kids running around poking their hands past the security sensors to try and touch the dinosaur “bones” and alarms going off every fifteen seconds and such, but you don’t expect that level of noise at an art museum.

In that respect, and in all others, I have to say that the Metropolitan Museum of Art was so much more to my liking. My artistic niece and I had the day to ourselves while sis-in-law took the other niece shopping for the day. While there were uniformed staff members everywhere you looked, they were quiet and polite and simply asked that you not take flash pictures, even showing you how to turn off the automatic flash setting on your camera. Did I mention that the Met was much more to my liking? Anyway, I was delighted to see the appreciation my niece expressed in the ancient Greek and Roman artifacts (the number of artists sitting around sketching the statuary might have had something to do with her interest). We had the chance to talk a bit about how early archeology was not as structured as it is now and how many things that were recovered two or even three hundred years ago were not processed with care; how large items were sometimes broken up and distributed in pieces to various museums without thought to reconstruction and how we could learn from the piece if it was whole; and about how we often know very little about the site an item was recovered from, which means we know very little about the importance or meaning of the item itself (context is everything). Of these artifacts, she was most interested in the few small female figures at the museum and we got to chat a bit about what those might have meant when they were created. While that was great fun for me, what my niece as most interested in was to be found upstairs. As a painter, she was particularly interested in seeing the various collections of paintings, and to her delight her favorite piece of art, Pierre-August Cot’s “Springtime,” was hanging in one of the main painting galleries (and yes, she walked out with a poster of that painting in hand). She was captivated by the two artists who had easels set up in the galleries, painting copies of a Vermeer and a Bouguereau (particularly the Vermeer, as the artist was explaining to a tour group how he applied his glaze then used a dry brush to remove it in order to achieve the transparent color he is known for). We were lucky to be there during the current Bronzino exhibit, which includes sixty drawings and one painting, all dating from the mid-1500s. Mitch couldn’t join us on the trip, and if he had gone he would have wanted to see the Bronzino exhibit, so we made a point of spending time there, absorbing the details of each drawing in order to faithfully share our impressions with him when we returned home. It was pretty impressive, let me tell you.

After we exhausted all the painting galleries and had an overpriced lunch in the cafeteria, she indulged my interest in Near Eastern artifacts and we visited the galleries with the Assyrian reliefs, Egyptian statuary (six beautiful seated Sekhmets and entire room devoted to Hatshepsut!) and an amazing collection of Pakistani and Afghani Buddha statues (I didn’t even know that there were Pakistani Buddha statues). We ended the visit wandering through the Asian galleries, looking at statues of various bodhisattvas, different Buddha images, apsaras, Hindu deities, and Tibetan thangkas (Vic, eat your heart out). We marveled at the carved interior of a cupola that was originally part of the Red Fort at Agra, which was pretty trippy for my niece, as she, her mom and her sister went to the Red Fort at Agra when they were in India over Christmas break. As much as I would have liked to have seen every inch of the Met, especially the costume and textiles exhibits, we just ran out of time. The next time you are in NYC, you’ve simply got to go. And if I can remember the name of the little Italian restaurant on Lexington where I had the most amazing Golosi ai Quattro Formaggi (little ricotta and spinach gnocchi in a four cheese reduction sauce), I’ll let you know. It’ll make your toes curl.

Change, healthcare and my New Year’s intentions

The New Year is upon us and the winter holiday season has drawn to a close. We will all soon be back on our normal schedule, with some of us hunkered down for the winter as well. It is a good time to talk about change, don’t you think?

We just changed from one year to the next (an entirely arbitrary change, by the way – our years could start in March or July). Many of us will attempt, and some will succeed, to make lifestyle changes to improve or maintain good health. And I have to start preparing myself for the change from full-time student to, well, whatever it is I will become after I finish school. Initially that will most likely be unemployed, but it is my intention to change from that status to one of income producing member of society in some way within a short period of time (by the way, if any of you out there know of someone in need of a researcher or a digital artist/photographer available in mid-March in the Pacific NW, let me know).

We are surrounded and inundated by change all the time. Most of the time we don’t pay it any mind. But once it threatens to infringe on our carefully crafted daily routine, we tend to get all huffy about it. Which is kind of silly, don’t you think? I mean, if we can’t stop the change from coming, what point is there in getting all worked up over it?

And we can’t usually stop it. Most of the time the change comes from outside of our sphere of influence, or is an internal process that takes us completely by surprise (these can sometimes be prevented if we are aware of what’s going on internally, which most of us are not). I’m thinking of the panic and the vituperative tone of the current “health care debate.” I put all of that in quotations because A) we don’t have a health care system we have a symptom management system, and B) the tone so far is nothing near a debate – more like an argument between two groups of 4 year olds in the sand box.

What I hear in this debate is fear, and it is likely all fear of change. Fear that the people who donate millions of dollars to my reelection campaign will pull their funding if I vote the “wrong” way; fear that my state will not get as big a piece of the pie as some other state; fear that I’ll look foolish in the eyes of my constituents and/or party members; fear that as bad as the system is now, change will be worse; or fear that one side or the other of the aisle will have more control. It is possible that some of these folks actually want U.S. citizens to have affordable access to basic medical care, prevention education and training, and proper nutrition. But if that is the case, I’m not hearing it in the debate.

We hear a lot about how the U.S. has the best health care system in the world, and many people in this country believe that. But is it simply not true. 17 countries have better maternal mortality rates than does the U.S., in part because only two countries have more caesarean sections than we do. We are tied with the UK at #5 in the world for death by circulatory disease, and we have more teenage pregnancies (both in gross numbers and per capita) than any other industrialized nation. We are ranked #3 when it comes to number of years that women live in ill health (10.7 years) and #7 for men (8 years). 30.6% of our population is obese, which is known to create and contribute to a number of health issues, and yet only Japanese people go to the doctor more often than we do (on average 8.9 visits to the doctor per person per year). We spend more per capita on health care than do other countries and the amount we spend is a greater percentage of our GDP than for any other country, yet we only have 3 hospital beds for every 1,000 people (that puts us at a ranking of 81, tied with the tiny countries of Samoa and Andorra) and we are ranked #47 for life expectancy at birth (men and women combined).

In addition, the statistics show us that we spend 95% of our health care dollar on disease treatment and only 5% on prevention, and that doctors interrupt patients roughly 20 seconds into the patients’ description of their problem, which is no where near enough time to get a clear picture of what is really going on. Now I can pick and choose which statistics to display here, in order to make my point (and I know that you know that), but no matter how you look at it, this is clearly not the best health care system on the planet. All systems have their drawbacks and their successes, but it is pretty clear that something needs to change here.

The medical system is fraught with fear: of malpractice suits, of not getting paid, of missing something that this test or that test will highlight. There is no room in the current medical model for a patient-doctor partnership, which is what is truly needed for reform. Patients are not textbooks, and we all respond to stressors in different ways. The only way real reform will happen is if personalized medicine, also known as functional medicine, is given precedence over the disease management model.

But since there is no profit for the big pharmaceutical companies in functional medicine you can expect to see more fear-mongering in the future.

Which takes us back to the topic of change. I see a lack of civility, a lack of compassion, and a lack of basic manners in our current society, with an overabundance of vitriol, misdirection and outright lying taking their place, both on a national scale and interpersonally. It is more popular to be snarky and cynical than it is to be genuine and compassionate, and we see that reflected in our media, the forms of entertainment that dominate the airwaves, and the way our politicians conduct business.

I say it’s time to make a change. It is my intention to be more conscious of my words this year, to become more aware of what I am saying and why I am saying it.

To speak with more clarity and compassion, and to keep my mouth shut if I can’t engage in “Right Speech.”

To speak my truth with grace and not with rancor or arrogance. To recognize that there are many things that are true and that some of these true things contradict each other. My experience in life is my truth: it may differ from yours, but that does not negate the trueness of either experience. We need to change how we respond to the truths of others.

To gently but directly call someone when they speak an untruth. When rumors and misunderstandings are stated as facts, we need to stand up for the truth. Be prepared with evidence, or at least be prepared to find the evidence to show that you aren’t just engaging in debate out of pure emotion.

We need to change how we interact with our physicians and other service providers. Speak up for yourself in the clinic and insist on working in partnership with your care provider. You are not a helpless infant who needs to be cared for by an all-knowing parent. You are responsible for your own health and well-being, so act like it. Learn what you can about what you are currently living with and learn what options are out there for treatment or maintenance. Learn about nutrition, about how diet can create so many of the illnesses we see in modern society. Recognize that your primary care physician simply can’t know everything there is to know about the body and, when your instincts tell you that you need a specialist, insist on it.

If this is of value to you, then let others know your intention. And call your elected representatives, too. Tell them that the tone in Washington has been too divisive and ask them to consider their choice of words before speaking.

After all, we all have to live in this society. Isn’t it nicer when we act like compassionate adults instead of whiny, pouty children?

statistics from NationMaster.com

And When I Die….

My mortality is tugging on my shirttail and demanding all of my attention. It’s an obnoxious little cuss and I’m not really sure what prompted her arrival. My health is same as it has been for quite some time, so that isn’t it. There have been a plethora of celebrity deaths recently, but so what? I didn’t know any of those people personally, most were at least 10 years older than I am and there is always some celebrity whose number is up, so I doubt that had anything to do with it. Yes, I’ve lost friends and family over the years (some fairly recently), but why is this manifesting now? In other words, what is going on within me that is causing me to feel this way?

I guess they “why” is irrelevant, because the issue that wants the most attention isn’t “why” or even “when”, but “are you ready?”

And I don’t mean that in the usual, “is your soul ready”, way. I mean is all your stuff together so that the animals will be cared for, etc. It’s the physical, earthly, here and now issues that seem to be really bugging me.

I suppose there is an aspect of this that speaks to how I’ve spent my time here as well. Did I make a positive difference in some way? Is there something I’ve been meaning to do but simply have put off for a ‘better” time? Do the people I love know that I love them?

But it is all of the little tasks that have presented themselves to me regarding this state of mind that are bothering me: get house keys for the two closest relatives in case we both are injured while away from home; make sure said relatives have each others contact info, along with that of our landlady; get living wills written and signed; decide who gets the stuff that is worth anything (there isn’t a whole lot of that) and who is willing and able to take on the animals; etc., etc. etc.

This has actually created little mini panic attacks in me recently, and I don’t get panic attacks often. It is a logistical nightmare for me and it doesn’t need to be, but for some reason some part of me is making it so. I’ve printed off the retirees “casualty assistance” checklist provided by the Air Force. I’ve downloaded but not yet printed the “Your Life, Your Choices” booklet provided by the VA. This is the booklet that the yahoos with bigger mouths than brains have decried as steering retirees toward suicide. What a crock of moldy horse hooey. This is actually an excellent booklet with descriptions of what happens to the body at various stages of deterioration and what various terms mean. This way you can decide now what you want to be done later. Thank goddess I live in Oregon where I still have those choices.

I guess that what is happening is something I’ve laughed at in the past when it happened to other people: I’ve come to the point in my life where the idea of planning for the inevitable feels like I’m wanting it to happen (or expect it to happen) soon.

My intellect knows that I am simply preparing things for the time when I won’t be able to make those decisions, but my guts feel a little less sanguine about the whole thing. The funny thing is that it is the current lack of planning that actually creates panic in me, yet when I start to work on the checklist I don’t feel any better.

I’m sure meditation would help, but I think this is one time when I just have to power through and see what comes up during the process. See you on the other side!

What to Write…

Man, look at all the spiders out here – I really need to get out here and clean this studio up one of these days.

I need to write. But what about?

I am surrounded by stories but I don’t know the words. I am enmeshed in wonders not yet seen and entranced by the hint of something more going on just beneath the surface.

Do I write a fantasy? A tale of beauty trapped in a bower, awaiting salvation by the prince?

No. Done to death and not my favorite theme, anyway. I prefer that the damsel save herself, or at least that they work as a team. What about the poisoned fruit, the talking fish (no frogs in my pond, sorry), or the magical cat?

Well, all cats are magical, aren’t they, so what’s new about that?

Ah, here is the rain they promise. Soft and gentle, enough to splash its liquid life into the pond but not enough to preclude my needing to water the grass later, I’m sure.

Have I written so many research papers that my pen has forgotten how to fly? My writing partner is far away – I moved, she stayed – and our few attempts at long distance writing “dates” were less than successful. Is that it? Am I only able to create flights of fancy when inspired by another writer? Or am I simply adrift in a sea of words, trapped in a dense web of nouns, verbs and adjectives, unable to string them together and find my way home?

The garden is wildly overgrown. Roses twelve feet high, bending back down to earth by the weight of their blossoms; the lavender is chest high (I’m allergic, thank you), some kind of mint has taken over the small patch in the back, and butterfly bush exploding everywhere in sagey green and shades of lilac. Not to mention the sneaky blackberry tendrils that weave unbidden through the densest stand of branches.

You can’t kill them, you know. They spring up everywhere here, invasive little suckers. They aren’t native, either, and like the trumpet vine and the passionflower vine, they’ll take over everything if you let them. One season is all it would take and you’d need a flamethrower to get more than two feet into the garden.

And there are spiders everywhere. I see four little mamas in their webs just from where I’m sitting and it looks like three different types of spiders (don’t ask me which kind). Brown house spiders, wolf spiders, crab spiders, hobo spiders (same as brown recluse, ‘cept different), black widows – so many types that only Arachne herself would know for sure.

The rain has stopped (see I told you it wouldn’t amount to much) and I can’t even enjoy the reflection of droplets suspended on silken webs. The sky is leaden and grey and no brave beams break through to illuminate.

Do I write of memories long since dead, locked away in musty old houses filled with scurrying feet and muted wings? No, I think I’ll not go down that path today. Maybe when I’m old (and not just gray), when the memories seem as if they belong to someone else. Besides, I’m no good with ghost stories, I scare too easily.

Shoo, little spider, I’m trying to write.

The rain is back: steady, small drops. Maybe I was wrong after all. Maybe it will be enough. Enough to feed, to renew, to refresh. Maybe it will wash the cobwebs from my mind, replacing their dense weavings with something lighter, airier, brighter – like Indra’s Net.

Do I write of brown eyes that light up as he speaks my name? Of a quirky smile and a love that has lasted through thick and thin, pain and joy? No. That isn’t just my tale, it is his, too, and I have no right to tell it alone.

Do I write of floppy-eared dogs with crooked smiles and gigantic hearts? No, I wouldn’t know how to write it without it becoming cloying, maudlin, nauseatingly sweet. Living everyday with such a beast is joy enough, no need to put it in writing.

Geez, that’s the biggest daddy long-legs I’ve ever seen. You can get off my desk now, thank you.

Do I write of giants and trolls, wizards and dragons, treachery, betrayal, honor, glory, and “ever after”? Of gods, goddesses, heroes, heroines, rescues, trials, victories and defeats?

Nah. I think I’ll just make a cup of tea and stare out the window for a while. Let the world write itself today – I’d rather watch the spiders dance in the rain.

Help! It’s Hello Kitty!

Somebody please explain to me this whole fascination with Hello Kitty©. As far as I can see, she’s a cutesy little cartoon character created to amuse elementary school-aged children (ostensibly girls, but who am I to judge?) and make obscene amounts of money for Sanrio. But over the last few years, I’ve seen college-aged (and older) women with HK merchandise, like purses, backpacks, jewelry and sneakers. Celebrities wearing HK pendants, rings, tees, were no big deal. I mean, does anyone over the age of 16 really look to Miley Cyrus, Hillary Duff or even Cameron Diaz for fashion tips? I thought it was odd – perhaps a last grasp at innocence and youth – but nothing more.

Apparently, however, the powers of evil have taken control. Now you can buy not only innocuous items such as those listed above, but items of a much more adult nature. Some of you are already familiar with the HK vibrator, but HK maxi-pads and tampons? Or the HK guns, real and fake, including (I kid you not) an AK-47, an AR-15 and a Glock? What exactly is the purpose of an HK assault rifle – to shoot PowerPuff girls out of the sky? Granted, Sanrio does not license these, but the point is that they are easily available, and apparently there is a market for them.

I guess the tarot cards are no more obnoxious than other cute decks (although if anyone suggested doing a reading for me with HK cards I think “the look” would be in order), but the bong is certainly an interesting item. I can hear the pre-Christmas conversation now: “Mommy, I want Hello Kitty© for Christmas.” “You already have everything they make, honey.” “No I don’t – what’s a bong?”

Most pernicious of all, and the reason for this rant,is the HK Fender© Stratocaster guitar, available in pink or black with matching strap and carrying case (http://www.fenderhellokitty.com/gear.html). That just makes me want to cry. Would Joan Jett, Lita Ford or Jennifer Batten use a Hello Kitty© guitar? I think not. Can’t see Melissa Etheridge or Bonnie Raitt using one either. And nowhere in my wildest dreams can I picture Nancy Wilson, Sheryl Crow or Gabriela Quintero playing an HK Dreadnought. Envision a dark, candlelit club with someone passionately playing a righteous flamenco. Is the guitar pink with Hello Kitty© on it?

That’s what I thought.

So why, in the name of all that’s holy, would young girls/young women/anybody striving to be a guitar player and emulate any of the aforementioned women, want an HK guitar? Come to think of it, why would Fender stoop to making such a product – are sales that bad?

This obsessive trend towards cutsification is unsettling. I have nothing against bongs, thongs, tarot cards, guns, maxi-pads, vibrators, guitars, or any of the other items in and of themselves. In fact, I have some of them (I’ll leave it to you to figure out which ones). I do have an issue with making adult objects desirable to children, along with a complete lack of comprehension as to the appeal of objects designed for adults decorated with childish images. I just don’t get it.