AnthropomorPhobic

     When I posted my first entry Mel insisted that I tell you who I am – specifically that I am a Psychoanalyst and Social Worker.  I was hesitant, but he argued that these are my credentials, and going to be the reason people want to read this blog.  I hesitated because I know the restraint this puts on me – if this is a “credentialed” blog then I have professional and ethical responsibilities; in other words, I could get into trouble if I try to diagnose people I have never met - like Michele Bachmann or Sarah Palin (who will be appearing here as soon as she throws her tea bag into the ring).

     So, here’s the disclaimer – this is not a professional, diagnostic or therapeutic blog (except, perhaps, for myself).  Words like crazy, madness, or insanity are not intended for professional use here, and should be taken in the most colloquial sense.  However, that being said, I am not going to be able to completely avoid the lexicon I have worked in for decades.  I will try to limit mental health jargon as much as possible, and only use it to describe cultural issues as necessary – such as the Delusional Bunny Syndrome.

     As you know, I am having an issue with rabbits.  Notice that I do not call them bunnies.  Bunny is the name for rabbits that makes them cute.  The rabbits that have eaten hundreds of dollars of trees, shrubs and flowers in my yard ARE NOT CUTE.  Or are they?  See, I am struggling with the indoctrination I received from Beatrix Potter who corrupted me from an early age with anthropomorphic animals.  Images of bunnies and squirrels, in fetching Victorian garb, are seared into my mind.  

     The Delusional Bunny Syndrome is the reason that whenever I look out the window and see a rabbit or squirrel I go “awww”, why I secretly root for the rabbit whenever our red dog barrels across the yard after one, and why I still break for those pesky critters in the street – it is an automatic response.

     Children’s literature is replete with anthropomorphic characters.  Some might say that they reflect a child’s inner animal or are meant to help master anxiety, others might assert that they will foster empathy with other species.  These sympathies become quite confusing, though, when dealing with real wild animals.  Sometimes I feel like I am straddling a personality split between Mama Rabbit and Mr. MacGregor.  

     I do not believe there is a cure for Delusional Bunny Syndrome, so I will just have to hope the local foxes will do the dirty work of rabbit control – especially since my dogs couldn’t catch one if their lives depended on it. 

     Ok, ok, I can hear you screaming at me already: just yesterday I was talking about symbolism - what about the symbolic meaning of anthropomorphic animals in children’s literature?  True. True.  There is plenty of symbolism surrounding rabbits – but much of it is not cute at all.  In fact there seems to be a thread of sexuality, transcendence and psychosis associated with rabbits.  All that will have to wait for another posting.  For now, my survival kit has to contain Reality Testing as an antidote to Delusional Bunny Syndrome.

      

What's in a Name?

     This in from Popeater: on Naughty But Nice, Rob Shuter reports that Bristol Palin is accusing Michele Bachmann of stealing her mother’s look! Actually, this is old news – anyone who followed the 2010 mid-term elections witnessed the spawn of Sarah Palin across the country.  I call them Stepford Candidates. 

     Michele Bachmann positions herself as the Serious Sarah.  But I do detect something of the wannabe in her logo – yes, I’m talking about the sash across the H in Bachmann!  

     There seems to be a complete misunderstanding of symbolism in the Bachmann campaign.  I mean, really, who launches a campaign from Waterloo?

     Yesterday, in the Minneapolis StarTribune, Bachmann’s announcement to run for president was covered with the headline - Bachmann: ‘America is at a crucial moment’.  They refer to her as U.S. Rep. Michel Bachmann at the beginning of the article and then Bachmann throughout.  This is an article that is Minnesota Nice at its finest – focusing on the positive no matter the darkness lurking underneath. 

     I preferred the restrained, but ironic approach of the New York Times.  On the front page they refer to her as Representative Michele Bachmann of Minnesota – this is stripped of the gravitas of "U.S.", and has the embarrassing tag – "of Minnesota".  However, they primarily referred to her as Mrs. Bachmann and end an essentially respectful article with the following:

            “…But as she stood in her old neighborhood, she misstated a piece of Iowa lore as she explained the important role that Waterloo had in shaping her character.

            “John Wayne was from Waterloo, Iowa,” Mrs. Bachmann told Carl Cameron of Fox News in an interview.  “That’s the kind of spirit that I have, too.”

            The actor was actually bon in Winterset, Iowa, which is about 150 miles southwest of Waterloo.  It was John Wayne Gacy, known as the killer clown who raped and murdered 33 teenage boys in the  1970’s, who lived in Waterloo.”

     Breathtaking, isn’t it?  What is she saying?  Is it remotely possible that Bachmann did not know that the town’s most famous citizen had been John Wayne Gacy?  According the Wikipedia, in 1967, John Wayne Gacy was named “outstanding vice-president of the Waterloo Jaycees.”  Is this what she is referring to?

     Ok, let’s make this perfectly clear: the ability to symbolize is absolutely crucial to complex thinking.  The newspapers both seem to be able to figure this out.  But what about Bachmann???

Foxes vs. Rabbits

     You may have noticed that a stickball bat was in my Suburban Survival Kit – for coyotes.  And you may have wondered how I was planning to defend our land against foxes.

     Actually I see foxes as a valuable part of the animal control team. They are an essential counterpoint to the rabbits and squirrels.  A couple of years ago we were almost lucky enough to get a hawk to move into the neighborhood.  But a murder of crows took care of that.  I watched those old crows hector the hawk even as the rabbit and squirrel population was exploding on the ground below them.  The hawk got the message and left for a more friendly place.

     Last winter the rabbits ate everything they could.  And it all happened in the dead of night, behind my back.  I would look out the window in the morning and see an evergreen striped or another tree girdled – they always went for the unexpected, and I was always one step behind.

      As I was doing remediation this summer, I assumed that there were plenty of greens available for all.  I dreamily awaited the Stargazer Lilies that I planted last year.  I had lost one to winter, but the other two resurrected in late spring on sturdy stalks with a spiral staircase of leaves.  Last week I walked out to pull a few of the many thousands of thistles on my font lawn and this is what I found:

Why?  Why?  Why?  The voracious rabbits were at it again.

      A neighbor told me that a whole fox family is currently laying up under a shed a couple of blocks away.  He agreed that foxes are our friends because those voracious rabbits have cost us all a fortune in trees, shrubs, heartache and stress.  Foxes are definitely part of my Suburban Survival Kit. 

      Now, lest you think that I have forgotten about Michele Bachmann, I want to reassure you that I have not.  The articles in the Strib and the NYTimes today were fascinating - and tomorrow I will send you a particularly juicy quotation from the Times.  But for tonight I am going to stay in my pastoral idle - in other words - my survival kit would not be complete without some denial.  

      

Suburban Foxes

     Survival.  Psychic survival.  That is the point of this blog.  Why suburban survival?  Because this is where I live.  I have not always lived in the suburbs.  I grew up in a small town, and then moved to New York City for a couple of decades - where I became a social worker and psychoanalyst.  A few years ago my urban family moved back to Minnesota. We settled in a lovely suburb because it is close to the city, has great schools, and is free of all the intimacy of a small town.  I will call our suburb Plaid.  Oh, that reminds me, I will be changing names of most of the people I talk about in this blog.   Public figures, however, will retain their names – because that is part of my Suburban Survival Kit.

     A fox sauntered across our front lawn the other morning!  I was staring out the picture window, wrapped in a green chenille bathrobe, and obsessing about the location of the rose bushes that were to go in the no-man’s land by the curb. The dogs, who bark at the slightest movement of a rabbit, squirrel or crow, lolled on the floor waiting for their morning cup of coffee.  I ran to the bedroom to wake my husband, Mel – but by the time he staggered out of bed the fox was gone, and he was threatening to buy a gun (for the fox, not me).  At least this time he believed me.  Over the last couple of years I had tried to impress Mel with my sightings of wild things that could be coyotes or foxes, as well as rumors of deer. Of course the gun seemed extreme, and more dangerous to us than anything else – as neither of us knows how to handle such a device.  The suburbs keep getting wilder and wilder.  Who would have thought?  

     Last week I had taken a photo of the front our late 50’s rambler to the St. Paul Farmer’s Market in search of a rose expert.  I had been informed that he would know exactly what kind of rose would survive the piles of snow, ice and salt that gets thrown on to the lawn each winter.  “Foxy Pavement Roses” was the verdict of the rose expert.  So, I was gazing out the window, dreaming of Foxy Pavement roses, when an actual fox ambled by. 

     And the week before there was an article in the local paper about “human resistant coyotes” which were to be eliminated by animal control.  These are the coyotes that will not be chased off by humans, when they are going after their small dogs in fenced-in back yards. Mel has placed a stickball bat by the back door for just this purpose. 

     Anyway, yesterday I was wailing and gnashing my teeth about Michele Bachman’s poll numbers in Iowa, when my sister-in-law said, “she’s dumb like a fox.”  Again, with the foxes.  But I’m afraid it might be true.  How on earth am I going to survive this election cycle on top of human resistant coyotes, voracious rabbits, and insane weather? 

     Today survival is on the top of my mind because Michele Bachman has officially tossed her tea bag into the ring. 

     So, here’s the 411.  My suburban survival kit as of today: for human resistant coyotes - a stickball bat; for voracious rabbits -yards of chicken wire; for salt and snow – Foxy Pavement Roses i.e. a strong constitution: for politics in general - hair to pull, nails to bite; for Michele Bachman - a sense of humor; for tornados - the basement.