Divas and Harlots

When I Was Eight

May 18, 2011 By Patricia V. Davis 12 Comments

When I was eight, in the summertime my mother had to call me in from playing outdoors at least twice before I even acknowledged I’d heard her voice. Then I’d beg her to let me stay outside for a while longer, until she issued dire threats if I didn’t “come in right this minute.” It was only at that point that I would petulantly stomp back into the house.

Once inside, she’d grab onto me and try to hold me still as she “pre-cleaned” me before setting up my bath. She knew if she didn’t, my bathwater would turn muddy within minutes of my being placed in it. That was because when I was eight, I played in dirt ─ sat right down in it, made mud with it, dug up some very fine rocks and wiggling earthworms hiding beneath it. And so, my mother would put my hands and arms in the bathroom sink and attempt to shake off some of that dirt which had caked onto my arms, into the crevices and lines on the palms of my hands, around my cuticles and under my fingernails. After that, she’d lean down and attack the skin on my knees with a washcloth. My knees were literally black with grime, sweat, and tan. In fact, my skin was so dark from my playing out in the sun so long that she could never tell when she’d rubbed hard enough to get down past the dirt and just onto bare flesh, so I’d end up with raw skin from her efforts. I’d never even heard the word “sunscreen” back then, and when I was eight, I wouldn’t have cared if I had.

When I was eight, I wore my hair to my shoulders the same as I do now, except back then I was too busy being a kid to keep it neat. It stuck out and up in the way only coarse, thick hair can, and I was forever pushing my dirty hands through it to keep it out of my eyes. That’s why my mother also had the nightly task of pulling bits of branches out of my hair that I’d picked up from climbing trees or crawling through the woods in the “forts” we made. My hair was so wiry and tangled that once, a brush my mother was trying to force through it snapped right in half at the handle. In frustration, she had my hair cut pixie short. It did not look trendy, but it was convenient, and instead of being traumatized, I loved how my shadow now looked on the cement patio when I moved my head back and forth and wiggled my arms out to my sides ─ sort of like one of the dancing skeletons in my favorite cartoons. I looked like a shadow skeleton somewhat, because even though I ate three healthy meals a day and all the sugary candy I could buy with 25 cents a week, (which was a lot) I was downright skinny from moving so much, using my body so much for the things it was meant to do.

When I was eight, boys were just more people with whom to climb trees and have racing contests or rock-throwing contests. They were sometimes annoying because they were stronger and could beat me more often than not, and of course, I wanted to win. Some of them seemed to like bugs more than I did, too, and most certainly they often smelled bad. So, why would I care if creatures like that thought I was pretty or not? Why, with so much fun to be had, like running and climbing and sticking my hands in dirt, finding baby birds that had fallen out of trees and nursing them back to health, would I care myself, if I were pretty or not?

When I was eight and if for some reason we couldn’t play outside, my sister, cousins, and I made up games like “Spy” or sang songs out loud in the basement so we wouldn’t bother our parents who were upstairs, smoking, drinking coffee, and talking about stupid, boring stuff we had no interest in knowing about whatsoever. We held plays, and sometimes we could get our parents away from their stupid, boring stuff to come downstairs to watch them. My cousins, sister and I were all bossy, and we all argued about who was going to play what part. Our mothers would tell us to behave. We didn’t listen.

We didn’t meekly submit. Not to our mothers, not to our friends, not to anybody else’s idea of what we were worth. In that world it would have been unfathomable to know of another eight-year-old girl who would hold in her tears while her mother put needles filled with poison in her face, just so she could “be beautiful.” In that world it would be unfathomable to want “boob jobs and nose jobs”, because we felt we were perfect the way we were.

We were real. Life was real.

Filed Under: Contests, Divas and Harlots, Food for Thought, Parents and Children, Social Commentary, Telling it Like it Is, Women's Issues, Women's rights Tagged With: Child Services, Eight-Year-Old Botox Girl, Patricia V. Davis. Child Beauty Pageants, The Diva Doctrine

Breaking Up is Hard to Do — Especially if You’re a Schmuck

February 14, 2011 By Patricia V. Davis 17 Comments

As the TV ad says, "These things always tell the truth"

Those who read my blog regularly know that when it comes to love and Valentine’s Day, I can usually be pretty sappy. Like in this post here. But this Valentine’s Day, I decided to play devil’s advocate and ask people to please contribute the worst break up or parting line they’ve ever had to hear from a lover. Those of you who read my first book already know what mine was. (“Have you got time to do one more load of laundry before you leave?”) But the ones below top even that. If you’re feeling blue or lonely today, these lines will remind that there are far worse things than being alone on Valentine’s Day. Read ‘em, weep, and feel free to add your own:

___________________________________

Sharon: After becoming a platinum blonde in the 70′s….”Wow ─ you look gorgeous…I told you you’d look good as a blonde. I want a divorce.”

Jessica: “I was thinking maybe you could be the stepmom.” (I’ll let you guess the situation that led him to say that!)

Jeanne: It was Valentine’s Day, and I drove out to Cornell to surprise my boyfriend. I got the surprise. I saw him walking down the street holding another girl’s hand. He saw me, said something to her, and she kept walking. He then crossed the street to me. When I asked him what was going on, he said, “Life’s a bitch” and walked away.

Eat My Heart Out

Mark: “Don’t worry about your money…I’ve already emptied all the accounts.”

Brenda: ‎”I could never marry YOU … do you know how big your daughter would be??” (Ha! Joke’s on him … had no daughters and my only son is 6’7″!)

Mike: I have two. “It’s not you, it’s me.” (Which it was.) And, “I’ll give you a call soon.”

Tiana: ‎“I’ve been bad. I’ve been seeing Peggy.” (Oh, and he eventually married her, too. …On Valentine’s Day.)

Take another little piece, now, BAY-BEE

Karen: Not the final line, but the one that lead to the inevitable ending: when asked why he was being so mean to me after my mom had just died, my charmer’s response was,“She didn’t *just* die. It’s been nine days.”

Leigh Anne: He worked at a local ski shop. Picks me up on his motorcycle to spend the day riding up Independence Pass. Without hardly a hello plunges ahead with, “I just helped Stevie Nicks buy her ski boots. I think I’m in love…” Proceeds to rave on about her for the next 2 hours… Gahh! I was trapped. When we FINally got back to my place, it was all I could do not to dive off the bike and run screaming for the house! (Ok, so a bit more than a one liner.)

Alexander: All I can remember really is that two or three times they ended with, “But I was hoping we can still be friends”. I hate that line. Seriously, you tear out my heart and expect me to like you for it? If that line ended with “friends with benefits”, I would be very torn. I think I would have an aneurysm after five minutes of standing there thinking very, very hard.

I Have Your Heart. (Feel the pressure on your chest yet?)

Persia: Unfortunately I heard this same line twice ─ “She isn’t half the woman you are, but I love her.”

Dora: ‎“You don’t deserve me, you deserve better.”

Christos: Okay, here goes— (And this beats George Costanza’s ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ line):

She: I met someone else. You guys are so alike. He has 95% of the great qualities that you have!”
Me: But I have 100% of the great qualities that I have!!!
She: Yeah, but…ummm…well, whatever. See ya!

Jerry: ‎

She: I’m pregnant!
Me: OMG! Really!?!
She: It’s not yours…

You've really caught me in your love trap

Carina: “I’m in love with two women at the same time…” (Gag)

Teresa: ‎”Sorry I didn’t call, but I met up with my ex-girlfriend and we had an erotic experience.” (True story.)

George: …Break up line?

And you…?

Filed Under: Divas and Harlots, Love and Sex, Marriage, Patricia Volonakis Davis' Blog, Social Satire, Telling it Like it Is Tagged With: ex-lovers, friends, harlot's sauce, heartbreak, lovers, patricia v. davis, The Diva Doctrine

Just One More Thing to Worry About

March 9, 2010 By Patricia Volonakis Davis Leave a Comment

Gwen Conliffe and Lon Chaney Jr.

“What are you thinking?”

Men say they cringe when women ask that question, because very often they’re thinking “nothing.”

What they probably don’t understand is that most women can’t imagine what it’s like to be thinking ‘nothing’. Much to our chagrin, we’re always thinking ‘something’, and more often than not, that ‘something’ has a worry attached to it.

I thought I’d grow out of my penchant for worry, but I finally have to come to terms with the fact that that will just never happen. My knack for worrying hasn’t diminished one whit; it’s only adjusted itself for my age bracket. Instead of staring in the mirror at my outfit, worrying whether or not it’s ‘trendy’, which if it weren’t, would invite social ostracism, I now stare in the mirror at my back, to see whether or not its ‘curvy’, which if it were, would indicate osteoporosis. Instead of worrying about whether or not I’m ‘making a good impression’, I now worry about whether or not I’m making a good enough living. And instead of worrying about whether or not I’m going to survive a group of idiot politicians putting us through a nuclear war, I now worry about whether or not my children will survive a group of idiot politicians putting us through a nuclear war.

At least, I can contain my worry a little bit better than I used to when I was younger, but it’s sort of like restraining myself from eating too much. As with that hard-earned discipline, every once in a while, I succumb to my old habit of worry; just like every once in a while, I succumb to that nachos-with- guacamole-and-two-margaritas urge. And then, I’m in big trouble. Because if I lapse back into worry, it can, if I let it, obliterate all else that is wonderful in my life, just like that extra weight that seems to show up on the scale immediately after the nachos.

For example, I don’t know what triggered it ─ maybe it was a hormone imbalance, maybe it was those margaritas ─ but Thursday of last week was my “Worry Day.” I woke up absolutely ballooned with worry, a bloat which lasted for no more than 24 hours, until it just as inexplicably dissipated. But over the course of those hours, my worries ranged from the tiny to the colossal:

I worried about the fact that I still hadn’t replied to my sister-in-law’s email. Would she think I was snubbing her? When did she send that email, anyway? Actually, now I was thinking of it, there were a lot of personal emails to which I still hadn’t responded. How could I be so selfish, so self-absorbed, so busy with work, that I hadn’t responded to my friends and my family in a timely fashion?

In fact, I’d been neglecting my husband, too. Hadn’t I? I’d had such a busy week, and I’d been so exhausted at night, that I just fell straight to sleep. Oh migosh ─ when was the last time we’d made love? Had it been three days already? He must feel so unwanted, so dismissed and lonely. The poor man. What a lousy wife. What if he gets fed up and leaves me? I’d miss him so much if that were to happen. How could I be so inattentive, when he is so important to me?

I must be the only wife who’s woken her husband out of sound sleep to make love. Clearly he didn’t mind, but look at the motivation – it wasn’t that I was overcome by lust or love, but worry.

Certainly not the best aphrodisiac. (Not that he seemed to notice.)

And, after we were done, and my husband fell back to sleep, I couldn’t. I lay there, and continue to worry.

I worried about the fact that we hadn’t heard anything recently from our son about his upcoming wedding. Was something wrong? Was the bride getting cold feet? He’d be devastated if she called things off. Was everything okay? Why hadn’t he phoned?

While I was on ‘sons’, I started thinking about the other three. One was just laid off and not happy about it at all. One was in a job he liked, but living in an area he wasn’t keen on; one was still in school, but conflicted about his course of study. Were they depressed about these things? Would they be alright? What could I do to help? Should I ring them and ask, or would they resent that, as they’re all grown men? Maybe it was better if I didn’t phone, and let them sort it out themselves. On the other hand, if I didn’t phone, maybe they’d think I no longer cared about them. What should I do?

My anxious thoughts suddenly switched tracks from the personal to the professional. Which offers to speak should I accept? Or should I accept them all? I probably should. But… realistically, I couldn’t accept them all…could I? Alright then ─ which ones, and what would I say to those I had to turn down? And then, there was my new book – was that first chapter the ‘grabber’ I thought it was? I should look at it again. Should I look at it again, or wait until the entire draft was completed? Maybe I should wait. But, maybe I’d miss something important if I waited. Then there was the magazine. Some of my writers were over deadline. Should I send them an email, or leave them be? They all had their own lives, too, after all. But…wouldn’t they feel left out if their work wasn’t in the upcoming issue? I know ─ I could send a friendly, light-hearted email, so as not to make them feel pressured. Then again, it’s hard to read tone in an email, isn’t it?

Professional segued to political. Congress was making me sick. I hate Congress. Congress was keeping me awake. Do those emails we all sign have any effect at all? Was Obama going to restore habeus corpus, and do all the other things he’d promised, or had he duped us? I wouldn’t be surprised if he duped us. He’s a politician, after all. I sure hope he didn’t dupe us.

On from political to global. How terrible for those people in Haiti. Just terrible. What if I lived in Haiti? Do those donations we make ever really get to those poor people? It’s just terrible. I shouldn’t ever complain about my life, really. I have it so much better than the people in Haiti right now, I really do. And those in Chile. I mustn’t forget about them.

Eventually I switched back to personal again. I needed a haircut. But Maria, the girl who did my hair, was away, and she’d be very hurt if I made an appointment with someone else. But I really needed a haircut. Should I go to another salon, and just not say anything next time I saw her? She’d notice…wouldn’t she? Don’t hairstylists recognize their own work? Yes, she’d know. What if I just told her the truth? Then again, I could just not say anything, and wait to see if she brought it up.

All this worry, all in one day.

Elizabeth Berg has a great collection of short stories, titled, The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted: And Other Small Acts of Liberation. My collection could be titled, “The Day I Worried over Whatever I Wanted: And Other Giant Acts of Self- Flagellation.” For the reason that worrying like this, as we all know, does nothing for the worrier or those around her, other than to cause sleeplessness. And possibly pimples.

My husband, who’s been through interludes like this with me before, knew I was having a particularly bad one, when in the middle of that night, the lurching and pitching from my side of the bed woke him up.

He: What’s wrong, hon?

Me: I can’t sleep.

He: That’s obvious. Why not?

Me: I’m worried about Maria.

He thought about that for a minute or two.

Finally, he said, “Hon – you come from a big Italian family, and a lot of your friends are Greek. Not to mention that we live in California, where there’s a large Mexican community. That means we know a lot of ‘Marias’. And it’s two o’clock in the morning, so you’ll have to help me out ─ was there a specific Maria you were worried about, or is it all of them, in general?”

And so, for the men who are reading this, I hope this has helped decode what’s going on in a woman’s head when she asks, “What are you thinking?”

Note: VOX has messed up on the software on this page, which is why the comments are switched off. (Sorry.) Please feel free to remark on this post (or just say “hello”) at http://patriciasopinion.com Thank you!

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Filed Under: Divas and Harlots, Parents and Children, Telling it Like it Is Tagged With: anxiety, email, Gwen Conliffe, harlot’s sauce, Lon Chaney, love, lovemaking, patricia volonakis davis, sister-in-law, sleeplessness, sons, the wolfman, worry, writing

Got Love?

February 11, 2010 By Patricia V. Davis 1 Comment

February 14 must only be celebrated by couples who plan to buy dinner at restaurants that usually cost 20 bucks per person, but just for today, cost 100 per person. (Not including tip.) Then, one member of the couple gives Tiffany diamonds to the other member of the couple, the one wearing red panties she (or he) bought just for the occasion, at a cost of more than my best business suit. And, after dinner is eaten and diamonds bestowed, the couple go off to their rose petal-covered bed, where said lingerie is strewn across satin sheets, and they have wild, passionate, monkey sex.

That is, if you believe the media hype. And those who do usually end up being quite disappointed on this day, perhaps even dread it, because if they get or give anything less than the above, they feel they’re either unloved or unloving.

I say hooey to that. I think Valentine’s Day should be the day people set aside to notice how much we all can and do love, and in a multitude of ways:

If your neighbor drove you to pick up your car at the repair shop, you are loved.

If you thought the child sitting in the shopping cart ahead of you in the check-out queue at the supermarket was adorable, you are loving.

If someone leaves a warm message on your answerphone, your email, or anywhere else technology permits, you are loved.

If you go visit your widowed aunt, the one who has yellowed doilies on the backs of her dusty living room chairs, and you sit in one for an hour while she talks non-stop, you are loving.

If that aunt remembers what your favorite cake was as a child, and bakes it for you despite the arthritis in her fingers, you are loved.

If you find your old high school teacher on Facebook and tell her that you remember what a great teacher she was, you are loving.

If she also remembers you and little things about you from back then, (good or bad) you are loved.

If you recycle and try your best to use paper instead of plastic, you are loving.

If you don’t blast your horn and swear at the man who cuts you off because he’s late for an important meeting, or the woman who was distracted by three children in her car, you are loving.

If you worried about the strangers in Haiti who are suffering today, you are loving.

If you’re reading this and smiling, you are loving.

If you’re reading this, you’re one of the people for whom I’ve written it. And so, you are loved.

Filed Under: Divas and Harlots, Friends and Relationships, Love and Sex, Political Satire, Satire and Humor Tagged With: harlot’s sauce, harlot’s sauce and valentine’s day, love and harlot’s sauce, patricia volonakis davis on love

2009: The Year That Ended Dangerously

January 1, 2010 By Patricia V. Davis Leave a Comment

Happy New Year, Everyone! Today I have some significant news to share.

On December 17, 2009, in the very early hours of the morning, I nearly bled to death. I’m afraid I’m serious ─ by the time I was admitted into hospital from the emergency room, I was down to about a quarter of the amount of blood needed to sustain life.

The irony of this situation is that I was under a doctor’s care at the time, and that’s one of the reasons that I’m going public with this today. The second reason is because since I have been off Facebook, my blogs, and other social networking sites, I’ve been getting emails from ‘fans’ asking questions such as: “Are you in rehab? You can tell me! My brother was in rehab last year at this time.” and “Did you have Demi-Moore-head-to-toe-plastic-surgery? Please post pics!”

I was inclined to let these strangers think what they would, but I’ve also been receiving messages of genuine concern, and those are why I’ve decided to write about this very personal experience publicly.

As boring as this probably makes me, a drug habit and/or a craving to own gravity-defying boobies had nothing to do with my absence from the internet. What actually happened was that on November 9, I had what should have been routine uterine fibroid surgery. I wanted to keep the knowledge of that fact limited to my family and closer circle of friends, because to me there is nothing more cringe-worthy than people announcing these things on their Facebook status updates: Jack is …”getting out of jail this week!” Jane…”’s a husband is a lousy cheat!” Patricia…”had a fibroid the size of a baseball removed from her uterus.”

Yuck.

So, I didn’t announce it, (until now) and only made vague references to “not feeling well”, and even those mentions were only because I’d missed some social and business events. However, the “not feeling well” stretched on and on, and when I questioned my doctor, he went from voicing some concern to being brusquely irritated, “You must be patient. You’re not a patient person.”

And that’s where he got me. I’ve heard that more than once. Even my own husband seconded it. So, I tried to be patient. And, as it turns out, I can be patient. Actually, I was so patient, I nearly died of it.

I’m sorry, I still squeamish about writing the specifics, but suffice it to say that I was bleeding, but in such an unusual pattern that it didn’t raise any alarm bells with the doctor. To be fair to him, the symptoms were atypical. Coupled with this detail was my enormous energy level that was only somewhat depleted by the anemia that was increasing weekly. In fact, the day before I was driven to the Emergency Room by my panicked husband, I attended a business meeting, then went to the market, and ended the day with a walk on the treadmill at my gym!

So, I can’t completely blame the doctor and others around me for missing the signs. But I do blame myself. For the reason that I knew something was wrong, and yet, I allowed myself to be talked out of that gut feeling, because an authority figure’s opinion on that was different than mine. I allowed my criticism of myself for my renowned lack of patience to cow me into accepting advice I knew I shouldn’t have accepted.

This really galls me. In the aftermath of a surgery from which I was not even remotely recovered after six weeks, followed by near-death in which I could literally feel ‘things shutting down’ on the way to the ER, a frantic blood transfusion of six units of blood, a second surgery to correct the problem that was causing the internal bleeding, and a stay in hospital that was like a Saturday Night Live skit (they actually woke me up at 2 a.m. after this ordeal to weigh me), and now looking at another few weeks before I’m able to resume all my normal activities, that one fact that I conceded precedence is what still disturbs me most about this experience. Because if I hadn’t, if I’d trusted myself, none of it would’ve occurred.

Usually, I am confident, capable, and secure in myself. In my writings, especially my political ones, I’m constantly stating how we must all think for ourselves, not cling to an ideology or allow some rhetorical speaker to do our thinking for us. And yet, it took this illness to discover that on some levels, I am still trying to be that ‘good little girl’ who is liked by everyone. Given the right circumstances, press the right buttons, and I will still defer to the instincts of others rather than my own. This was a more shocking realization than the ER doc’s words, “Wow- your blood counts are dangerously low. Lucky for you, you’re so fit. You wouldn’t have made it here otherwise.”

And now, because I’ve been so sick for so long (close to two months, now) I have to work twice as hard just to get back to that fitness level I worked so hard to attain in the first place. I also left the hospital with a cough that makes me sound like a TB victim, due to the second surgery temporarily diminishing my lungs capacity, and am short of breath just walking up a flight of stairs. I have to drink a horrid iron potion that tastes like rotted prunes and old coffee grinds. My skin feels like sandpaper, and I have been warned by my hairdresser that some of my hair might fall out due to the trauma. Pitiful, right? You bet. And stupid, too.

But I did learn some lessons, and oh, boy ─ they were big ones. And I think they might be important enough to share:

First is that this year has been an amazing year for me, and not just because it was almost my last one. I didn’t know when I first published my book that there would be a number of people who’d dislike me as a result. Never thought of that aspect of it, but there it was. So that was a lesson, if not learned for the first time, reiterated: Your true friends are the ones who stick with you not only when times are bad, but also when times for you are really, really good. A sad thing to realize, but an important thing.

On the plus side, there were yet a far greater number of people who were tremendously pleased for me and supportive of my first book. Friends I hadn’t seen in years contacted me to offer sincere congratulations, and new people I met through my writing groups, blogs, etc., were equally enthusiastic and complimentary. I feel truly blessed by this. I’ve always thought that the media overhypes the evil of humankind, and now that the average person has his/her own way of communicating globally through the internet, I find that this is true ─ humanity is mostly good, not mostly bad. It’s a shame that we only get reports about the bad from our mainstream news sources. This was a terrific thing to discover.

I also understood from being ill, that my husband and children, to borrow a phrase from Sally Field, “really do like me”. My son slept at hospital with me the first night I was there, and my husband, whose idea of cooking is to make a sandwich, delivered hot, homemade meals to my bedside every night once I got home. And then there were my friends who rallied ─ Thanksgiving dinner, two Christmas dinners, flowers, get well cards, and phone calls. Messages on Facebook and emails from my colleagues, new friends and former pupils, (who feel like nieces and nephews to me) all meant so, so much.

I’ve always valued my friends and my family, but I admit it was wonderful seeing the tangible proof that they value me, too. It was one more reason to get well, so that I could appreciate and enjoy them all the more.

But the biggest lesson I learned is from now on, with no worries about how others will feel, I’m going to embrace my impatience, rather than try to change it. It’s full speed ahead for me, now and always, because I’m made that way. And never again will I not trust myself. Never again will I feel intimidated by others’ opinions, be they valid or not. And when I find myself wavering from this resolution, I’m going to remember the bruises on my arms from IV needles, the feeling weak and dizzy, the crying as the questions ran around in my head as to why I wasn’t recovering, and all the other momentous experiences of this illness now burned in my memory. They all happened because I still haven’t completely shaken the “Good-Girls-Don’t-Make-a-Fuss Syndrome.” Screw that. From now on, I AM MAKING A FUSS. And it will be your choice to like me for it or not, however you please.

I challenge everyone reading this to do the same. If we do one thing differently this year, let’s embrace ourselves, even with all our faults. I don’t mean ‘be a sociopath and proud’. I mean that while not deliberately causing harm to others, let’s acknowledge that we will make mistakes, that we are not perfect, but we are still worthwhile human beings who have something to offer our friends, our family, and the world. Let’s acknowledge that we can and should have faith in our own selves, even with those imperfections. If we start with that attitude, the year ahead will open us to new encounters. Since we’ll feel more confident, we won’t be afraid when one of our beliefs is challenged, because if we learn that that belief is wrong, it will make us feel empowered, not weakened. We’ll have the courage to fail, not feeling that we are “failures”, but rather human beings on a journey to ever-increasing knowledge. And while none of this will necessarily make the year ahead be filled with all the health, happiness and success we all wish each other every January 1, it will certainly help it be filled with less anxiety and self-doubt.

So, look out 2010 ─ here we come!

Patricia and son, Niko at San Francisco’s Litquake Black and White Ball, 2009

Filed Under: Divas and Harlots, Telling it Like it Is, Women's Issues Tagged With: amily, friends, harlot’s sauce, hospital emergency rooms, patricia volonakis davis, san franciso, self-doubt. litquake, uterine fibroids

Just to Clarify- I AM an Expert

July 30, 2009 By Patricia V. Davis Leave a Comment

I have been receiving a lot of emails from readers ever since my book, Harlot’s Sauce, was published. The emails have ranged from “good book, but change the cover” (more than one person has said that, and finally the publisher has listened, but more about that later…) to an outpouring of admiration and assignations to me of wisdom and expertise, as in, “You’re SO wise when it comes to relationships. I wish I were more like you.”

And this feels… weird. Because, first of all, a letter filled with adoration received from a person who doesn’t know me is, to paraphrase Amy Alkon, a bit like having a stranger come up to you and give you a foot massage- it feels good, maybe even a little exciting, but at the same time, it’s unnerving. It’s too intimate, too fast. And I haven’t really earned that intimacy with some of the people who write to me. If anyone who doesn’t know me wants to trust me on anything, trust me on this- no one should be wishing to be more like me.

And the part about me being wise? Ha ha. That’s funny. The only thing I’m an expert on- a REAL expert – is FAILED relationships. I have failed so many times at love- whether it’s romantic, sexual, filial, maternal, daughterly, or comradely, that I guess those who send me emails are right- I probably could predict for anyone when they’re headed for tragedy in any of those relationships. But only because I’ve BEEN there- in a big way. So let’s say then that not only do I have that Ph.d in Patrichism, I have also earned my DFR- Doctorate in Failed Relationships. I’m an expert, alright – at breaking my own heart.

My first serious romantic relationship was with a man who used me and my naive virginity, along with my marked lack of self-confidence as his beard for sexual picadilloes I will never repeat, unless they are tortured out of me. I followed that up by worshiping at an altar I created for a man who for decades, considered my dedication to him his ‘money card’. He withdrew on that card, and withdrew, and withdrew, with no re-investment, until finally there was no balance left to extract.

During that same time, I had a ‘best friend’ to whom I was also devoted, and she dropped me not too long after I finally dropped this man. That hurt almost more than the failure of my romantic relationships did, when it finally dawned on me that we’d been ‘friends’ only because my psyche was in worse shape than hers, and my discontent made her feel better about her own.

And there is so much more, with father and mother and siblings and an extended family group on one side that was less a ‘family’ and more a ‘coven’, blood-sworn in their dedication to dysfunction and maliciousness. A cult which cannot admit people who try to be, or are, happy or whole, because somehow that slackens their dark, powerful clutch on one another. I’m talking about the kind of people Anthony Hopkins in some film would warn you to stay away from, unless you were covered in garlic and Crosses.

I developed a terror of getting too close to people generated by all of the above. Why? It was pure self-protection – I only had so much blood in my veins and I’d let those I cared about suck on it for way too long.

As a result of that fear, I screwed up yet again, and almost lost the one man who truly loves me, who is my best friend, as well as my husband and lover. Fear was never going to allow me to make the honest and true friends I do have now, if it hadn’t have been for the intervention of some seed of good sense that managed somehow to grow into the great, sturdy tree it’s become inside me, despite the soil deprived of minerals in which it’s had to blossom. Or maybe it grew because of that, who knows?

And this is me- the real me, without the cleverly written descriptions of my life that make you laugh, the anecdotes which on some days are so tricky to get down on paper – after all, how easy is it, really, to find ‘the funny side’ of your own foolishness and pain?

Why am I confessing all of this now, and in this unusually maudlin way? Simple. I want you to know who exactly it is you’re writing to, asking for advice, and venerating for her ‘wisdom.’ I want you to know that sometimes the only way to become wise, is to make your own mistakes and live through the agony of them, so that the lesson sticks.

Remember this the next time you come across someone who sounds like an ‘expert.’ Because they may have become experts the same way I have – not through success after success, but through disaster.

And you know what? It’s not nearly as bad as one might think, to learn to be wise that way.

Filed Under: Divas and Harlots, Friends and Relationships, Women's Issues Tagged With: amy alkon, failed relationship expert, harlot’s sauce, patricia volonakis davis, patricia volonakis davis’ memoir, the advice goddess

Scratching That Tickle

June 1, 2009 By Patricia V. Davis Leave a Comment

Scratching that Tickle

Summer is upon us, and though many of us see this season as our opportunity to get frisky in the sun, it’s also the season for bug bites and… other nature-induced itches. The handy guide below will help you decide when, or even if you should “scratch”:

Poison Oak

If you’ve got a poison oak rash, it means you’ve been crawling around in a wild place you shouldn’t have, with your naked limbs exposed, and shame on you. Poison oak rash is oozy and scaly, just like that bloke you almost let pick you up at that sleazy bar your friends dragged you to last week. It’s a contamination that will spread over your entire being the more you touch it. Definitely, definitely do not scratch that tickle. Even if you have had too many shots of watered-down Jack.

Flea Bites

A flea bite is a prickling, burning bite that hurts longer than a lover’s betrayal. And just like a Cheater, fleas are hard to spot, so you really can’t do much to avoid getting bit. Do not scratch this tickle either, once it happens; you’ll only exacerbate the intensity. The only thing to do is let that flea bite burn, until the toxins dissipate and you no longer feel the pain. But it will always leave a little red mark on you which remains pretty much forever.

Mosquitoes

Any woman who believes “size matters” has never had a mosquito in her bed. These little guys have egos bigger than Rod Blagojevich, and they make even more noise than he does, too. Their incessant drone is the only foreplay that you get before they finally settle down for a nibble. And when they do, they catch you by surprise. Yet, their prick doesn’t sting much, nor last long. It can be fun to scratch their itch once or twice, but not too hard, or you’ll swell up with infection. By the time that happens, the mosquito responsible is long gone.

Prickly Heat

Prickly heat is a little red rash that shows up on your skin when you get too hot. It’s suddenly just there, like that new man you find so intriguing. Where did it come from? Will it last long? And most important, will it harm you if you rub? It’s usually pretty safe to scratch this tickle…for as long as the heat rash lasts.

Filed Under: Divas and Harlots, Love and Sex, Satire and Humor Tagged With: harlot’s sauce scratches that tickle, harlot’s sauce: a memoir, harlots sauce radio

How to Make Harlot’s Sauce….

January 1, 2009 By Patricia V. Davis Leave a Comment

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQtfzwWm2k4&]

Filed Under: Divas and Harlots, Italian Culture, Patricia Volonakis Davis' Blog Tagged With: harlot’s sauce, harlot’s sauce: a memoir, harlots sauce radio

Declaring Myself

September 2, 2008 By Patricia V. Davis Leave a Comment

As I roam around various blogs, I notice that though I don’t know many of my blogging friends’ real first and last names, I do know that they are “Christian” or “Atheist,” “Conservative” or “Liberal.”

It seems important to many that others know what bunch they’re part of, and certainly that they are part of a bunch—any bunch. It’s also important to many to know which bunch others are a part of, because in this way they can gauge that other person based on whatever that other person’s particular bunch signifies to them.

For example, if someone states, “Hi, my name is Such-and-Such, and I’m a Christian,” or, “Hi, my name is So-and-So, and I’m a Liberal,” there’s bound to be someone hearing either of those introductions thinking, “Uh Oh,” or, “Thank goodness.” So, without knowing anything else about this new person, we experience either a warm mental welcome towards that person, or an uncomfortable wariness.

Declaring oneself part of faction serves two other purposes for some, too: It allows them to cheer for their particular faction, just like we do with sports teams. Most of us, when we have a favourite sports team, don’t really care much about what that team does to win. As long as it does. After all, that’s the one purpose of team sports these days, isn’t it? To win… regardless of how that’s achieved?

Choosing to be part of a group also means to some that they can let their group do their thinking for them. Let’s face it ─ mulling over our country’s foreign policies, or which candidate we should vote for, or where we stand on each individual issue is hard work. To start, we have to find the hour in our already busy days to read about what those issues are, and from more than one source in order to get a balanced view. Then, we have to analyse all that information and decide what we believe regarding every issue on a one-by-one basis. But, most of us have to work eight hours a day, at least, then come home and take care of chores, houses, kids, maybe even a pet. Much easier to let our group simply tell us what we think. That saves us a lot of trouble, doesn’t it? At least in the short term, it does.

So, in the interest of fair play, because though anyone who reads my blog knows my name, my occupation and even where I live, they don’t know my affiliations, because I’ve never openly declared them. Now I will:

I am a follower of Patrichism, which makes me a Patrichist. Below, I’ll list the basic principles by which Patrichists live:

1. Patrichists strive to be pro-active, not re-active. Meaning, we don’t take action based solely on our emotions, we try to think rather than just feel. Let’s say that something ‘feels’ wrong to us, like, for example, abortion or gun control. I pick these two issues because Liberals are ‘for’ both, and Conservatives are ‘against’ both. But not all Patrichists have an identical opinion on either. What all Patrichists do agree upon, however, is how we deal with our feelings on these two issues. The first thing we do not do is re-act in a knee-jerk way, by issuing hysterical demands to deem them both unequivocally unlawful.
Instead, a Patrichist will think – what might happen if all abortions or all gun control were to be outlawed? What good could happen as a result? What bad could happen? What might the long term effects be? How would those effects spill over into other areas we might not expect or anticipate? Patrichists think the same way with, say, offshore drilling. Or declaring war on another country. Whatever the issue, a Patrichist acknowledges his/her gut feelings, but does not act upon those feelings, by immediately banding with a group that supports or opposes. A true Patrichist thinks everything through thoroughly before holding an opinion. A true Patrichist entertains all perspectives on every issue in his/her mind, openly and without fear of where his thoughts might take him.

Aristotle said, “It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a concept without necessarily accepting it.” Patrichists keep their minds educated by using them and holding their emotions at bay, until such time as their thoughts can be formed coherently.

2. A Patrichist never worries about what others will think if the stance they hold on any particular issue is different than theirs. She doesn’t worry about being ostracized, even from her own group. A Patrichist is unafraid to stand alone.

3. Patrichists are also not afraid to change their minds on an issue if new information comes to light. This does not make them ‘wishy-washy,’ this makes them intelligent. Since Patrichists believe that opinions should be formed based on knowledge and not emotions, it stands to reason that the more knowledge one gains of an issue, the more complex that issue becomes, and the more one needs to think it through, possibly causing a change in perspective. In simpler terms, Patrichists are not blinded to one idea and one perspective only, but are always open to new ones. This is what makes them so powerful. Politicians cannot manipulate Patrichists, because politicians can never get a consensus on what a Patrichist may or may not be thinking about any one issue. Since Patrichists’ thoughts are individually and not grouped-based, that means that the only way any politician has a chance of getting the vote of some Patrichists, (though not necessarily all), is to tell them what he really thinks. Which no politician will ever do, of course, for fear of losing the surer votes of Liberals or Conservatives, or whoever he’s after who can be counted on to have a more predictable mindset.

4. Patrichists use the word ‘faith’ carefully. They never say they have “faith” in a politician, as though that politician is God. Yet, a Patrichist can have faith in their God, if they choose to believe in one. That’s right—some Patrichists believe in God, others don’t; but whether they do or don’t, they recognize that blind ‘faith’ in a politician is the way to loss of free thought and will, but faith in a God is an acceptable choice, as long as it harms no one. No matter what any religious person or any atheist will tell you, there is no clear-cut proof that any god exists or does not exist, there is only each individual’s idea of such. And because religion is an idea, a Patrichist respects every human being’s right to a different one. Even so, all Patrichists recognize that there exists good and evil, and that any killing done in the name of any idea of any religion is evil, pure and simple.
5. Lastly, one of a Patrichist’s main motivations in life is to leave every place she or he enters a little bit better than it was before. But, Patrichists’ thoughts are global when they think in terms of ‘place.’ A Patrichist counts the entire planet, not just one particular state or country, as the place to strive to make a positive difference.

So, that’s the entirety of Patrichism. Five very good points. I try my damndest to practice these every day. In fact, I’ve practiced Patrichism for so long, that I’ve earned a PhD. in it. “Dr. Davis”, that’s me.

Of course, my doctorate is self-proclaimed. How? Because ‘Patrichism’ is my very own ‘ism’ that I made up myself, my personal ‘ism’ by which I try my best to live. This should explain the match of the first six letters of this particular ‘ism’ to those in my first name.

Up until now, I’ve been the only member of my “Society of Patrichists.” But today, I’ve decided to begin awarding ‘honourary degrees in Patrichism’ to those who, by reading their blogs, I’ve come to believe follow (or, like me, try their best to follow) the principles of Patrichism.

Those who receive an honourary degree are under no obligation to accept it, of course. In fact, they can even refute it for any reason at all, and no hard feelings. But for those listed below who feel they have earned a degree in Patrichism and would like to accept it, I’ll happily send you your diploma via email, signed, sealed, and flourished for you to place on your office wall, with my very best wishes:

Diplomas in Patrichism

Honourary Bachelor’s Degree in Patrichism Awarded To (Alphabetically):

All of these ‘Under Thirties’ above have the wonderful ability to think outside the box or group of circumstances they happen to be born into. They are all, in their own way striving to do something special with their lives. I highly recommend their blogs. They have wisdom beyond their years and always teach me something or make me think.

Honourary Master’s Degree of Patrichism Awarded To (Alphabetically):

headwaves.vox.com/

paxblog.vox.com

With all the madness going on in politics these days, reading these two, knowing they’re out there, thinking and caring, makes me sleep better at night.

Honourary Doctrate Degree in Patrichism:

petermcc.vox.com

You know, there just has to be another Dr. of Patrichism out there, and this one feels especially right because he discusses so many issues and he’s (I hope he won’t mind my telling ) even older than I, thus earning ‘experience’ points. I could have picked snowy938.vox.com, too of course, but last I heard he’d already had a reader declare him a ‘Snowy God.’ And being a god beats earning an honourary doctorate any day.

More honourary degree listings coming in future months. And for anyone on this list who wants to accept his/her diploma, on my honour as a Patrichist, I promise I will send you one. To those who accept, I guess I can say, ironically, “Welcome to the bunch!”

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Filed Under: Civil Rights, Divas and Harlots, Patricia Volonakis Davis' Blog, Social Satire, Telling it Like it Is Tagged With: harlot’s sauce, harlots sauce radio, patrichism, patricia v. davis, patricia volonakis davis, pro-active thinking, society of patrichists

Thank Heaven for X and Y (I Don’t Mean the Chromosomes)

August 4, 2008 By Patricia V. Davis Leave a Comment

Hoboken-generation-y

It’s good to be back. My garden, after weeks of neglect, is once again blooming. Having a garden is just like having a life. You have to attend to it every so often, pull out the weeds, expose it to more sunshine and nourishment where needed, in order for it to flourish. I also had a remarkable visit around my growing blog neighbourhood. It was impossible to leave comments everywhere, but I so enjoyed reading about everyone’s activities, seeing all the photos and artwork, hearing the music and musing over the poetry and stories. I’ve said it before —what an extraordinary group of people, what a wealth of talent we have at our fingertips every day. It sure beats reality TV by a long ways.

Here’s something else I discovered whilst reading. Generations X and Y will save not only humanity, but the planet Earth itself. They are politically-involved and astute, they’re compassionate and global-thinking, they are street-smart and tech-savvy, environmentally-focused, entrepreneurial and optimistic. They have endless imaginations and boundless enthusiasm. They embrace their lives and their loves. They’re not easily defeated by the state of the world the way we’ve older generations have left it, either. I’m really, really thankful that we Baby Boomers didn’t completely screw things up for them. And let’s face it— we’ve sure come close.

I don’t know what happened to many of us after we hit 40. We suddenly stopped worrying about our legacy to the younger generations, and instead focused on not getting wrinkles. We focus on our weight and our portfolios and not at all on our children and what they might be missing from their lives– our leadership, our support, our encouragement and most of all, our respect for who they are and who they want to become. There is that portion of us who are that selfish and self-absorbed. The word “parenting” to many of us is a verb no different than “networking,” “exercising,” “investing.” We expect our children to be reflections of our achievements, rather than individuals with needs and dreams of their own.

Then there’s the group of us who sit around in metaphorical rockers and shawls, worn-out, remembering our youth and our one ‘big claim’ to immortality—Woodstock—wondering what happened to it all. That portion of us sighs and says, “We were so young,” as though having any values at all besides a longing for long-term health care and social security benefits, is naïve foolishness that disappears with the onset of menopause and swelling prostate glands.

What a picture we present to young people of their future —shallowness or uselessness. No wonder so many of them feel anxious or depressed. And instead of addressing what they’re feeling, we quickly and remorselessly diagnose them—ADHD, bi-polar, social-anxiety disorder, etc. etc. Then we medicate them and continue with our heads in the sand, just waiting to die, hoping it will be quick and painless.

X_time-mag-generation-x

We let Gen X and Gen Y down. A good portion of us stopped worrying about wars when it would no longer be us specifically who had to stand in the way of the bullets.

I remember asking my husband about the invasion on Iraq, “Where are the musicians this time around? How come they’re not protesting?”

It was a fair question, I thought. Some of the same musicians from the 60’s and 70’s were still commanding huge audiences, so why were they not rallying as they’d done back then?

His to the point response made me cringe, “Volunteer army, Clear Channel.”

And even though the older generation retain most of the financial power in the world, we’re the ones whinging the most about rising fuel costs and real estate busts. Yet did we do anything to prevent either? Or were we as myopic as ever? Did we ever take the younger generations seriously as they protested and tried to educate us on what we were doing to the environment and to the economy? And ultimately, to them?

Furthermore, if I hear one more old fart professor bleat on about how hooked up Gen Y is to technology and how adversely it’s affecting his university classroom, I think I’ll hit him over the head with my new laptop that I’m just now figuring out how to use.

What alternatives have we left our young people? Where else can they find answers to their questions? They’ve come to us in the past and we haven’t helped them. So they‘re seeking guidance elsewhere, using technological advances as they should be used, for the most part—for the greater good. Oh, there are exceptions. There is the occasional young sociopath who wants to use YouTube to record the beating of a classmate. But the youth I encounter on a daily basis through VOX and through interacting with my own children is seeking knowledge and/or creating their art through the internet. They, like my unattended garden, are finding their own way to grow, but with just a little encouragement from us, they’d be able to thrive.

And those of us older folk who acknowledge them and embrace them, not only for what they are doing, what they are trying to accomplish, and for what they can teach us, are earning their respect. Yes, that’s right- earning it. (Read this blog to see what I mean.)
Youth asks us, with open hearts and open minds, to be both their mentors and their friends, and I for one, am eternally grateful to be invited to do so. Because like this man, this man, and this woman, (all admittedly over fifty) there still exists a portion of us of ‘a certain age’ who will go to our graves believing that idealism is not just for the young.