2001-12-04

Therapy?

Guess what, chickens? Auntie Lisa is going to see a therapist this week!

This has been simmering for a long time. I'm functional and somewhat competent, don't get me wrong, but lately I've been feeling about my life the way you feel when you try to paint the fingernails on your right hand with your left hand. You do it very shakily, and it gets done, but you have to keep wiping up stray brush strokes. I am in need of a steadier hand.

I've been to a therapist twice before: once when I was 12 (I highly recommend sending all 12-year-olds to therapists, frankly), and then again, many years later, when I was trying to deal with some lovely issues that erupted as an undergrad, when I decided to "go for a walk" with someone I'd met at a party.

By and large, I'm not a big fan of therapy, primarily because I'm one of these people who, while clearly suffering from some semi-crippling self-esteem problems, thinks they're smarter than everybody else. I am so not about fluffy bunnies and duckies and daily self-affirmations. I am so not about looking at myself in the mirror every morning and telling myself how "special" I am. I would rather spend a half-hour crouched in the corner licking sandpaper and drinking straight vodka than buy one of those "Chicken Soup for the Soul" books.

So I'm hoping that maybe this therapist can get me through some crap without making me play with dolls or turning me into a crystal-stroking ginseng sucker.

But then, who needs therapy when you can go to karoake once a week? The houseboy and I, accompanied by our boon companions Cubiclegirl and Binx, decided to scope out the karoake scene at one of Jamaica Plain's many pubs.

I have some rather strict rules about karoake. For example, further down the street, at a bar which, to be fair, regularly books my band, a karoake night is held. I do not go to this particular event. I am not interested in hearing local scenesters try and out-hip one another. Karoake is all about the Average Joe� having his moment in the spotlight, to paraphrase the Cubiclegirl, and it's far more interesting � for me, anyway � to watch accountants and sous chefs belt out their endearingly earnest renditions of "Copacabana" and "Brass In Pocket," than watching folks that I already pay $7 to see at TT's do the same thing.

I think I've found my new favorite karoake night. Binx, the Cube and I have already made plans to return this Saturday night, and I am assured that Binx will don a wig and sing Dusty Springfield, while Cubiclegirl made vague mention of a housedress somehow being incorporated into the mix. Houseboy's off to see King Crimson that night, and I say, have your intellectual foray into Fripp-land. He's got Mr. Mister's drummer now, for Chrissakes. I'm all about watching Vernon the sous chef sing some more Barry Manilow.

Dig?

lisamcc at 9:19 a.m.

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