Appliance Love

 

Lobster Phone by Salvador Dali

After the Ecstasy, the Laundry

"Hi Chela-Bella, how are you?" My Mom's Swedish accent sounded in my ear as I cradled the phone to my cheek. 

"Well, Mom, the good news is, I've fallen in love. The bad news is..." I love my Mom. Both her and my Dad have been the epitome of tolerance and acceptance throughout my eclectic love life, which has ranged from my boyfriend living with us when I was a teenager to my fierce lesbian separatist days in my twenties to being with a transgender partner in my thirties.

"Mom, I've fallen in love with the Miele."

Yes, it was true. My Mom had left her Miele vacuum cleaner at my house for six months. It was worth more than my current car. Candy red, hummed like a well tuned Lamborghini, and boy, could that machine clean.

I think I'm going to start a new movement: Appliance Love. We all know how attached some folks are to their cell phones and laptops, let alone the Hitachi, but it is time to start coming out from the utility closet. Some of us have longer, more meaningful relationships with our household friends than with humans.

I see parades going down Pacific Avenue, led by the Precision-Drill Dust-Buster Squad, followed by the Microwave Marching Band, and of course, the Automatic Coffee Pot float will be one of the main attractions. I'll be the Grand Marshall, my Miele beside me as we cruise in a well decorated convertible, throwing replacement filters into the cheering crowd. Everyone will chant, "2, 4, 6, 8... Take your fax machine on a date!"

Next, we'll petition governments for the right to marry. I mean, there's domestic partners and then there are DOMESTIC partners, right? "To have and to hold, from this day forward, until death or the end of the warranty do us part..."

I made the gross mistake of attempting non-monogamy with my Miele. Yes, I admit it - I let my housemate touch her hose, fondle her attachments, and (gasp) change her bag. Now, I love and trust my housemate to the core, but my whole world shifted when I heard those words, "It just doesn't seem to be picking up like it used to..."

Yesterday I sat out on the back deck and took the Miele apart. Five years of accumulated cat fur, dust, threads, and hair had worked its way in every conceivable crack, corner, and crevice. I used screwdrivers, scissors, exacto knives, and two different kinds of tweezers to lure its secrets out. 

At a certain point, my daughter came out onto the deck. She surveyed the vacuum cleaner parts spread methodically over the deck, my deep plum velvet skirt covered in grey lint, the look of glee in my eyes as I snapped open this and screwed shut that. She listened to me prattle on about how much money I had just saved by spending hours of my time doing this.

"Mom," she said in her funny drawl, "You are all the husband you will ever need." 

(Excerpt from Laphrodite's Guide to Mindful Menopause or the Adventures of a Baby Crone)

Five of Swords - Shark

Don't mess with her. 

She's close to the tides.

Swords and sharks 

close to her side. 

Are you a predator? 

She'll make you prey 

You've messed with

The wrong woman today. 

Lightning strikes, gray clouds gather

Fight now, or would you rather 

Change yourself, change your mind. 

Don't be mean, Learn to be kind.

Eight of Swords - Albatross

We see our heroine bound and blindfolded, surrounded by eight swords plunged downwards into the earth. It is bleak and gloomy, just like her thoughts. One definition of stress is the need to make a decision; another definition could be indecision. So many thoughts, so many feelings, so much and so many people to consider; how can she remain true to herself and not waver? But it's all in her mind; she could cut the ropes easily. 

Albatrosses fly in the sky, symbols of shame, embarrassment, and punishment. Ancient sailors would hang a dead albatross around an offender's neck, symbolic of public humiliation, dirty laundry revealed, secrets betrayed. A rotten time indeed.

Bird cages are embroidered on her robe. Feeling caged by her thoughts, obsessive thinking, plagued by doubts, old insecurities arise. Overthinking, overanalyzing the situation, at times feeling cold and calculating, others at a complete loss of how to participate cohesively in the universal algorithm.

A gray castle is in the background - dreams, goals, or pointless fantasizing as an escape mechanism. A time to crunch the numbers, get down to the nitty-gritty, file those taxes, and pay the dues. 

Puddles of grief stretch out to the low tides of despair and doubt. Enough wallowing in self-pity; there's nothing attractive about it. Pick yourself up by the bootstraps and know the only bad decision is no decision.

 

"Free your mind and the rest will follow." - En Vogue

Raging Hormones

 

Guess what, there's a lot to feel crazed by, let alone be angry about, during menopause, as wellas these particular times. So don’t just be a cranklepuss or a curmudgeon, notice what is really infuriating - it might be some old family dynamics or just what is going on in our government right now. Anger is truly a force to embrace, rather than just trying to be nice or deny it. It can explode and harm others, or implode and harm oneself. Anger serves a purpose - it lets us know that something is not right, something needs to change. 

Often, behind anger is hurt or fear. Take, for example, if someone is standing on my foot. It hurts. I express pain. They don't do anything about it. Now I express anger - I get louder, or maybe I even shove them off my foot. Then negotiations need to start - does the other person see the harm, take responsibility? Do I just act the victim and not say anything, or respond in a passive-aggressive way, i.e., make them feel guilty without letting them know what happened? Whether it is your spouse or your government who is stepping on your toes (or your rights), now is a good time to be fierce and passionate in expressing yourself and your needs. Channel that anger into something passionate, productive, and hopefully for social good.

It's okay to be crankypants. Just like puberty, just like being pregnant, the hormones they are-a-raging. Not that I was ever pregnant, boy oh boy, have I witnessed some emotional turbulence. In fact, if I ever start a Metallica band, it'd be called Hormonal Flux. I think my next bumper sticker will say, “Hormones: Gotta Love ‘Em.” Or maybe, “Have you done your Kegels today?” 

Something as stupid as a Band-Aid commercial puts me in tears. My mind obsesses on worst-case scenarios, and my dreams are plagued with apocalyptic scenes. My body is pumped with not just the mmmm whale noises endorphins but a bunch of testosterone, survivalist notions, my inner cranklepuss activated. Crank crank crank, churn, churn, churn. What has been helpful is to allow each catastrophe to unfold in my imagination, to be mindful to tap into my own inner resourcefulness by writing them out to completion in my journal.

Be Humble. You have never done this before. Puberty, pregnancy, perimenopause - you’ve been through some of these hormonal roller coasters, but nothing like this. Thank the goodness you are stronger than before. Rather than cursing, what follows in the next section is a blessing ritual to transform unhelpful people/situations into helpful ones.

This is a good time to review your past, make peace with it, and let it go. Whether you have prior conflicts or regrets or resentments, it could be as simple as writing a letter, going to therapy, or practicing forgiveness. One can define forgiveness as no longer being affected by a person or incident, not that what happened was okay or ever will be okay. But you can be okay. So forgive parents, siblings, ex-lovers. None of these people and none of the past define you now. If you can’t or don’t want to forgive, you can bless them and move on, using a Helpful Beings Box.

(Excerpt from Laphrodite's Guide to Mindful Menopause or the Adventures of a Baby Crone)

I - Magician - Hummingbird

 

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Transformation is a Way of Life, Not a Moment in Time

We see the magician, one arm raised to the heavens, one pointing at earth, all the four-element tools before her, hummingbirds a-hovering by her shoulders. Then we notice the locks of hair - bringing forth both Samson and the Gorgon.

The most radical thing I have ever done was cut my hair. When I was a kid, my hair was sparse, thin, and cut short like a boy's. People often mistook me for a boy because I wore jeans and T-shirts instead of dresses. 

I always wanted long hair. My mother had hers down to her waist, as did both of my babysitters. This was in the early days of Disney,  and all the princesses had long blonde hair. I remember crying at Woolworth's because the only princess mask was Cinderella, and she had blonde hair when mine was brown. 

My hair finally started to grow in elementary school. This started long fights with my mother. Our chant: “First the brush, then the comb, then the rubber band.” I would keep it contained in one or two braids. By the time I was in high school, I could sit on it. I never got it cut. Occasionally my mother would trim the split ends. It was only in my 20s that I finally got bangs. 

 

During my first marriage, things got a little bit rocky, and I remember thinking,  if we broke up, what would I do? I knew instantly I would cut my hair and do a ritual with it. I became the butch babe I was always attracted to.

In 1994, I went to my brother's hairdresser to chop off my hair. I made a thick braid which was deftly sliced off. That rope of hair lived above my altar for over a decade. One day I decided that as my hair contains my history, I should allow it to be free. I went down to Lighthouse Field and released the strands into the breeze so the birds could make their nests.

I walked into Herland and gave my wife a big hug from behind. She turned and put her hands on my head, stepped back, and said, "I thought you could never surprise me."

It served me well, this butch cut. A classic flat top, a touch of hair gel, I looked like a little spiky hedgehog. Being the queen Amazon at the lesbian bookstore, I needed to be tough, a warrior. Every day I was baited by random men who had nothing to do but try to argue politics.

After Herland closed in 2004, I grew out my hair. I wanted to be the Priestess rather than the Warrior. I exchanged my contact lenses for prescription glasses, bought a plethora of long, flowy skirts and tunic tops, covered my tattoos, and worked hard to embody the archetype of the healer.

Much to my surprise, my hair grew out thick and wavy, when it has always been flat and straight. I keep it about shoulder length, and my hairdresser, who really is my therapist.. She cuts layers upon layers to free me from the weight on my neck and still frame my face. She always cuts my bangs too long, but I love her anyway. 

I walked over to my local coffee shop and ran into an old friend, who said, "Oh, you look so different!"

And I thought, yes, because I am not the same.

"Herland" painted by Vivien Ebright Chung

Two female figures enjoy a sensual embrace amidst a euphoric landscape as their dogs look on and a hat blows away. "Herland" is a homage to the lesbian culture at the heart of the community in Santa Cruz, California, the artist's hometown. The vividness of the colorfield overlays the confident lines of the figures, creating a spacious explosion of energy and sublime expansiveness.

This painting is a pretty loving and restful work, despite its maximalist visual quality. The dog is showing the innocence and purity of love, sensuality, and the interaction between the two human figures.

Ebright Chung connects to and expresses her queer identity through artistic practice, something that struck us deeply at Dotted Line. The featured painting is informed by the artist’s roots in Santa Cruz. It is directly inspired by Herland, the feminist book store that once stood in the city. Herland, full name Herland: The WanderGround, was founded by Kayla Garnet Rose, who discovered feminist bookstores as a Wesleyan student. The name was a mashup of two feminist utopian novels: Charlotte Perkins Gilman's 1915 "Herland," about an all-female society discovered by three male explorers, and Sally Miller Gearhart's 1978 "The Wanderground," about a community bridging an all-female society and a patriarchal one. Their original motto was "A Feminist Utopia in Your Own Home Town."

New Review for Tarot and Reiki

 

Working with Kayla Garnet Rose has been a deeply healing, insightful, and meaningful experience. I have personally had both Reiki and Tarot sessions with her, and each appointment has left me feeling centered and genuinely supported. Kayla herself is exceptionally calm, kind, compassionate, and intuitive--she creates a warm, welcoming space where you immediately feel at ease. Her Tarot readings are remarkably accurate and thoughtful, providing clarity right when you need it, and her energy work feels truly restorative. In addition to Reiki and Tarot, she also offers hypnotherapy, energy work, and astrology. If you are looking for authentic, transformative holistic care, I cannot recommend Kayla highly enough! - Kate W. on Yelp