Dear Miss Eliza: How to handle a phobia
Dear Miss Eliza,
My whole life I’ve had a fear of molds and fungus. It’s really been getting in the way since I got married because my wife loves mushrooms on her pizza, and all I can think of are little forests of smurf houses growing in my stomach. She says I really should look into therapy, but I’m not the type to spend that much money on something this stupid. Have you got any ideas?
Keeping cool and dry
Dear Keeping,
Did you know that a fear of forests or wooden objects is called xylophobia? There are some really cool ones out there. You should check them out. Go to
http://www.phobialist.com/reverse.html and check through them. The list is long enough that there should be one for everyone (although, curiously, there is no name for fear of mold or fear of fungus) including your wife. This is what is referred to in so many colors as the telephone-pole-in-the-eye approach.
You see, sometimes things are capable of changing, including people. But most times it’s much easier not to. And the agent of change has no buisness being an external force, such as a wife. It isn’t her job to see that you turn into a new person. It’s her job to love you unconditionally just the way you are.
Now she may not know how to do that, which is where this phobia list comes in. Find something that applies to her like barophobia, a fear of gravity or arachibutyrophobia (fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth). Be sure to check for pocrescophobia, the fear of gaining weight.
Then, once you have found your wife’s special phobia you say, "Honey, who are you to talk about my mold issue? I mean don’t you have a thing with poetry (metrophobia)? And I don’t tell you that you need therapy. I accept, nay embrace this side of you each and every day we are together. It is one piece of the puzzle that makes you so incredible. And it is part of the you that I love so wholly. So lets have no more talk of therapy, shall we? We don’t want to try to spoil each other, right?"
That should take care of it right there. And you’ll want to behave like a good role model for her after this discussion, so give lots of hugs, and send lots of flowers with little notes that are careful to avoid being poetic. All in all, act like you love the whole her all the time.
I hope this has been informative. Let me know how things work out in the end.
- Miss Eliza
Dear Readers, Do you ahve a question that you're afraid to ask in the middle of polite society? Well this is the perfet setting for relieving your some of some embarassing lack of knowledge of your part. But there is one thing you have to check.The crew here at Miss Eliza is very demanding about the qualifications for questions we publish. They absolutely have to end in a question mark. We're sticklers about this. So, if you have a question all you have to do is 1. Type it. 2. Put a question mark at the end. 3. Post it in the comments sention on this blog or e-mail it to me at selizawalden@yahoo.com And we'll take it from there. Next thing you know, you'll be just that much smarter. How do you like them potahtoes? (Note the question mark.)
Dear Miss Eliza: the logic of philosophy
Dear Miss Eliza,
I slept late the other morning and ended up missing my first class. The prof blew a gasket and threatened to fail me for not showing up. But, since it was a philosophy class, I got him to make a deal. If I could come up with an unrefuteable logic for why I needed to miss class, He’d give me an A. I need some help on the logic though. Any ideas?
Socrates In Training
Dear Socrates,
The best way to make an argument unrefutable is to treat it like a labyrinth. Start off easy, but get more and more complicated until your professor’s brain is a splatter on the side of a wall.
Also, don’t submit it in writing.
So try something like this: "
I needed to sleep more than I needed to be in class, and that’s why I didn’t make it. Physical needs are far more basic than mental needs, and should therefore take precedence over such superfluous "needs" such as brainian (Side note: making up words is a beautiful twist for your labyrinth)
exercise a measly letter grade. Because think about a grade. Does it even exist? (Side note again: any philosophical argument worth its salt calls existence into question.)
While it can have physical manifestations, it is not that which represents it. (Note: Get into pronouns and move away from antecedents.)
Therefore, it has no physical value, which is the defining characteristic of existence.
Instead I’ve claimed to value that which already has a physical value and is then sufficiently capable, by the mere existence it the value that it intrinsically contains, of having a value ascribed to it. (Note: Did you see how I used the same word in that sentence 4 different times? That’s an excellent way of getting lost.)
And so in valuing something of worth as opposed to something without, I have merely applied logic to my own actions, thereby following the basic tenets you set for us in this class."
I wouldn’t sum up the argument at the end, that would just lead to comprehensability. I’d leave it at that.
Of course, you’ll want to get into it in much more depth, I didn’t because I was trying to spare your sanity. When you try it though, just go for broke. Hope that helps.
Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
I had this dream last night where I living in a department store in the mall. My brother, who owned the store, was having trouble meeting his payroll, the clerk told me he was trying to kill me. So I went out and bought a handgun, and while I was at the store, this snake started following me. It was a little green garter snake, and he was cute, so I named him Dodo. Then I go back to my brother’s store to look for a disguise and find a ball gown and glass slippers that look absolutely stunning on me. They even match with Dodo. But I look in the mirror and see my brother with a knife, so I turn around and look at him, but there’s no knife, and he smiles and cries and gives me a hug. And then he stabs me, and leaves me on the floor as he goes to close the store down for the night.
So how are you at dream interpretation?
All REMed UpDear All,
Well, as a liscenced dream interpreter, it is obvious to me that this dream is the result of your resentment about global warming.
This is extrapolated from the snake. He is green because that is the world is heading towards a green spell. And calling him Dodo is a reference to the famously extinct dodo bird, which is no more because of man’s extensive self-obsession and his beliefs of omnipotence.
Looking into mirrors in dreams is without fail, a sign of self loathing. And the ball gown is of course, central to all those inaugural balls that the president attends once he’s come to office.
The reason you’re living in a mall in the first place is a concept I could write a thesis on. Suffice it to say that this is in tribute to your descendants.
The clerk who tells you that your brother wants you dead is a dead ringer for the preschool teacher who was always putting you in timeout for stealing the other kids’ scissors.
The fact that your brother stabs you in the back has nothing to do with anything. As Freud said, sometimes a gun is just a gun.
In the end then, the moral of your story is that you hate yourself for allowing into office a president who is so lax on global warming. This makes you pine for the days of preschool, where your biggest problem was finding a pair of rightie scissors.
Or, it can all boil down to one word: Don’tvoterepublican.
I should note that this is not necessarily the opinion of the author, but only of your subconscious. Miss Eliza
That's Like 10 X 10 X 10
Did anybody notice that on that fun little counter down at the bottom of my screen, there are now 4 digits? Do you know what that means? 4 different place values! Who’d have thunk it?
In honor of this news I’ve decided to stick to what I’m good at. To focus my focus a little better. To trim the crust off the bread and throw it away (I mean, mail it to those poor children in Africa) if you will.
You know what I’m talking about.
Thing is, I can’t do this by myself. More of the best means I need a little more curiosity from my "readership." Look at it this way:
Ok, maybe I’m not cool like some characters who answer letters on-line. I’m not even in the same universe as Strongbad. But this is good for you. It means that you have a much better chance of getting an answer from me than you do from him.
Also, getting questions is the funnest (yes, I have an English degree, and yes, I am allowed to use that word) part of my day. It’s like sending me flowers or candy or a teddy bear only without the romantic attachment, or the spending of your money. This means, that I’m a VERY good deal.
And lastly, that mouse in my hair has adjusted himself to a diet of my randomness brainwaves. He needs you to activate those brainwaves with your ? so that he doesn’t starve to death. You don’t want to kill my best friend, do you?
No, I would never give you a guilt trip. I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if you actually felt guilty after reading that sentence, you need to question your version of reality.
See that? I said question! If you have a question about your version of reality, I’m the perfect person to ask.
So now that my schpiel is over, if you DO have a question for Miss Eliza, today or ever in your whole life, e-mail it to me at
selizawalden@yahoo.com or post it in the comments section. In the mean time, I have a cake to bake. It's time for a party.
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
I find seasons to be irritating. It’s disturbing that I can’t rely on something as fundamental as mother nature to be constant. Why must we have seasons?
--One Weather Man
Dear One,
We must have seasons because if we didn’t, then the fashion industry would die of boredom. Without constantly evolving seasons there would be no way (nor reason) to introduce new designs. This lack of new fashion would mean that everyone would be cool (cool as in the word that used to be called "hip") because we would all be wearing the latest fashion. This would lead to equality which would lead to peace which would lead to love, etc.
And equality and peace and love are boring.
Not to mention, if there were no new fashions, then there would be no fashion magazines, therefore all the advertisers in those fashion magazines would be completely unknown. And when advertisers are unknown, nobody buys their products and they die.
And dead advertisers means that the Superbowl gets to be very boring, since it would only be about football.
So to recap: We have seasons so that the Superbowl isn’t boring.
--Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
My husband gave me $500 to take a cooking class. I didn’t tell him I wanted to take a cooking class, the thought had actually never occurred to me. But all of a sudden there was the idea wrapped up with a $500 check in my birthday card. Should I be offended?
--Haven’t Killed Him YetDear Haven’t,
Yeah. He doesn’t like your cooking. But a cooking class isn’t going to help. We love what we’re used to, and we’re used to the cooking we were brought up on. So the only way your husband is going to be happy eating your food is if his mother cooked it. (Assuming of course, that his mother cooked his food while he was growing up.) And since you are not his mother, your food is not and will never be hers. (which is as it should be.)
Fear not however, all is not lost. You can ease his subconscious by serving his food on the dishes of his youth. So buy some new plates. To be on the safe side you might want to replace your cutlery too… and your pots and pans and cooking sheets and rolling pin and egg beater. The mixer you can keep, those are way to expensive to be throwing away willy nilly. And the next time you’re at your mother-in-law’s house, steal an apron.
That should do the trick. As for what to do with the $500, well, he really wanted it to go towards you improving yourself, so I would suggest an art class.
--Miss Eliza
Dear Readers,
Do you have a question for Dear Miss Eliza? Sure, you may not think so. But we all have strange notions attached to question marks rattling around in our brains. What most people need to work on is taking that notion and springing into the outside world. This takes a bit of courage, I know. So I’m bestowing upon you, a medal. Go on, take it. Don’t you feel more courageous already? You should be just about able to share your notion now, so I want you to e-mail it to me at selizawalden@yahoo.com or, if that’s to much work, you can just post it in the comments section. Either way I’ll find it. And I promise, I’ll respond.
Thank you very much.
--Miss Eliza
The Publishing Gods V. Sarah Eliza
Warning To The Reader: This entry is long, and quite possibly boring. I'm not a fan of writing long, boring blog entries, but when I get on the topic of books, as in books that I like, I get rambly. And this particular post has been building inside me ever since that first trip to Borders in West lebanon, NH last June. So I'm sorry. But this blog is my therapy. At least that's what the mouse in my hair tells me it should be. And so therapizing myself has given life to this long boring blog entry about books and more books. And me and books. But at least if you finish, you'l know what to get me for Christmas this year.So I’ve been going a tad crazy lately because every time I visit a bookstore, I find something else that I need to read.
It all started this summer when I innocently popped into Borders one day and discovered that their buy-2-get-the-3rd-free now included
every single author I ever adored. This may be an exaggeration, but if it is, it’s not by much. Wait! I’ve got it. There was no James Ellroy.
But there was some of everyone else, from Bill Bryson to Kurt Vonnegut, they all made appearances. I saw
Catch Me If You Can and
Catch-22 and
Catcher In The Rye. Ayn Rand and Ernest Hemingway and Daniel Quinn all made appearances. Or if you were more tuned in to childrens’ literature, look for a little Madeline L’Engle, or C.S. Lewis. Do I even need to mention Harry Potter? No, but I will anyway. I saw Ray Bradbury and David Sedaris. William Burroughs even showed up. I swear, they made sure that every single piece of the literary history of Sarah Eliza was on display within 50 feet of everything else. A little spooky, but mostly just drool inducing.
That was just the kickoff. Of course it was. The gods of publishing were smirking down at me giggling to themselves about the future torture that I was to endure. Because I saw enough books by authors-that-make-me-gaga to put me in a coma. And then I walked around the corner and saw
A Long Way Down. Nick Hornby’s new book. I love Nick Hornby. I think I love all English comedic writers. They just know what to say to make me laugh. So it was with a lump in my throat that I put the book down and backed slowly out of the building. Borders was not safe for me anymore.
Not that I stopped visiting. Could that really be epected? One day my brain just stuck up the white flag. By now the sale had been a little watered down (buy 3 get the 4th free) but did this stop me? Heavens no!
Hell’s Angels by Hunter Thompson (who is easier to find now that he's dead, but easy is stil a relative term),
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote (odd timing, considering the movie coming out any minute now),
Diary by Chuck Palahnuk (why oh why can't that man write longer books? They're so addicting, and yet so quickly over), and
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole (adorable, but dense... very dense),
Drop City by T.C. Boyle,
Dora: An Analysis of A Case of Hysteria by Sigmund Freud (I can explain, it was only $1.)
And still the trial was in it’s initial stages. At some point, I did swear off Borders, and promised to keep my literary spending under control. Not so much because of how much it cost (there are so many more expensive hobbies, when you think about it) but because I kept asking myself, "where am I going to find the time to read all these when I work at a summer camp?"
So I stuck to the Dartmouth Bookstore, and a second hand book shop on the same street. The sales were nowhere near as enticing, but we're talking about an entire basement full of bargain books. I wouldn't call this safe. So what do I see one day when I walk in the door? Guess. What could be more trying to my resolve than a novel by Nick Hornby? A new novel by John Irving, of course.
Until I Find You was splashed everywhere for the rest of the summer. If what I feel for Nick Hornby is love, then what I feel for John Irving is a form of worship. At this point in the summer I had already finished
The Water-Method Man and bought
The World According To Garp ($3 at the second hand store) and
The Fourth Hand ($5 hardcover in the basement). But John Irving or not, I have trouble getting myself to pay full price for a hardcover novel. I resisted.
It turns out, I am pathetically bad at not buying books. As the summer progressed, I found books that needed less and less brain, because I had less and less brain to spare. The first book I read when I got to Vermont last summer was
Wonderboys by Michael Chabon, another author I idolize… (wait, I don’t think I saw a single Michael Chabon book on sale at Borders this year. Wow.) And I ended it with a pathetic historically fictitious romance novel. That’s how far my brain had decomposed. I tried to Get into
Drop City after the romance novel, but my head was pea soup, so I turned instead to crochet, a look-ma-no-brain activity.
In the end, I came back with 19 more books than I owned when I left. Over the summer, I had read 12. The overlap between those two categories: 3. Of the 19 books I bought, I got around to reading three of them before I got home. One was the romance novel, and I didn't even bother bringing that back with me.
And what of course should I find waiting for me when I got back? Books of course. Kurt Vonnegut has a new book out. Neil Gaiman has to be high up my priority list and his new novel
Anansi Boys promises lots in the way of
everything I like to read. Terry Pratchett’s also got another book in stores, and Chuck Palahnuk’s book
Haunted is out and about. These’re back burner compared to the rest of my dire reading situation, though. I'll just let them be. Maybe if I find them in the library.
I wrote someone recently, ranting about all this temptation, this torture, wondering who was going to be the next to smother me with the oldest known weapon: the book jacket. . It turns out that it’s someone from whom I thought I was safe. "Carl Hiaasen," I had said to myself but a week ago, "just had something new last summer." (I know, because I bought
Skinny Dip just this summer.) But of course, the publishing gods are keeping me on my toes. And here is
Flush.
A kid’s book yes. But when has that ever stopped me from reading someone I love? Did it stand in the way of
Hoot, his other children's book? What about
Summerland? (Now that’s the kind of book you read to your kids annually, like my mom did with The Best Christmas Pagent Ever.) Don’t even get me started on Roald Dahl (who was all over Borders. To be expected with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory being released). Talk about readable. And there’s the classic
A Wrinkle In Time.
There’s more to come, I can feel it. The next phase is going to involve dead people. Douglas Adams will implant himself in someone’s brain and write another book. I haven’t heard from Ray Bradbury for a few years. And what about Dave Barry? His last novel was 2002. He’s due. Or Nomar Garciaparra will find that it’s time for his autobiography. The Christmas season is not yet upon is. The storm is not over. I just don’t know where it’s going to come from. And that's jsut how they want it.
