Spo-reflections on code-switching.

Code-switching: changing your identity to fit in and gain acceptance from others.

As a boy I admired Bugs Bunny’s quick intuition to change voice and character on a dime to suit the situation. The fancy word for this is ‘code-switching’. I do this all the time now, not only at work to go with the patient before me, but also in all social interactions.

In Jungian psychology there is the archetype of The Persona, the theatrical mask worn in a play to play a role. Do not confuse The Personae with who you really are. And The Persona shouldn’t be seen as something false or wrong. How I interact and what lexicon I used depends on whom I am with: patients, family, strangers, even Someone. High diction and fancy words (although I love them) aren’t always called for. Indeed, being inflexible in how you speak and act results in poor communication or worse.

Although I did not realize it at the time, as a lad I used code-switching in a negative way viz. not to stand out or be ostracized. How I talked with another boy was based on my intuition he was ‘normal’ or ‘like me’. Code-switching to cover continues to some degree. How I talk with the men-folk at the Palm Springs resort and how I talk among the men-folk at a sports game are different, although not as much as it used to.*

Sometimes I am called out for talking in one code when another is preferred. My brothers dislike it when I talk like an older brother; as grown men they prefer I talk as one among brothers. Reasonable. I learned quickly with Someone do not talk to him as if he was a patient seeking analysis. Oh the horror.

It sounds confusing but code-switching occurs without thinking, so I don’t worry about it. If I use the wrong code the error quickly shows and I change to suit the situation.

Once in awhile I play the shrink and pause and place myself at a distance from the group conversation to observe why a certain code is being used right now. I look for the person who determined (without saying so) what code is to be used at the moment.

The opposite approach to code-switching is what I call ‘being a Dale”. I have a long time friend, named Dale obviously, who is always the same person with the same interaction with everybody. Curiously this doesn’t get him into trouble or cause confusion or lead to ructions. He is as rock solid of a being as I know. He presents his Self, always. I envy this and at times a strive for. It makes me think about the value of code-switching, although I sense some will always be needed.

*This is also called ‘acting Butch’. It is debatable whether a gay man should do this. There are times my intuition senses danger and I would prefer not to be bashed. As a boy it was a survival tool from being beaten up; it remains handy in these dark times.

99 questions to ask your grandparents #45

45. What was it like where you grew up? Can you describe the neighborhood in detail?

Yes, I can describe my childhood neighborhood in detail, although I worry whenever I pull out my memories of my childhood neighborhood they slightly alter each time to the point they are no longer true. It is like looking through a keyhole into a room locked away and the key is lost. Some things are seen clearly and some are vague visions on the periphery, but the majority is no longer in sight.

The cul-de-sac street where I grew up was lined with high leafy trees that formed a sort of roof, high as a cathedral. They were massive as sequoias. Summers had brilliant thunderstorms the type that shook these mighty elms and silver maples into a frenzy. The fall brought bright yellow elm leaves mixed with brown oaks, raked into piles high as Fafner’s hoard. The winters then were always white. I would sit in the bay window at 1620 Faircourt and watch the world slowly fill with silent snow, often several feet deep but what did it matter? We weren’t going anywhere.

When I close my eyes and go out our door down the driveway and turn left toward the circle and walk clockwise, I recall nearly everyone who liked there. The Couks, The Rademachers, The Barchas, and The Costakisis in the at the end. They were the unofficial head of the neighborhood in charge of all the block parties. Next to them lived The Silberts, who were no fun, and Mrs. Silbert was deemed the wicked witch of the street, as all places have to have a sorceress to both mock and fear. We also believed her house was haunted, as there must be one.

The neighbor I cannot recall was the widow who lived to our right. I can see her and hear her voice, but not recall her name.

Our backyard had a modest one car garage which I don’t remember ever having an electric door opener. The yard itself had various layouts, once upon a time a swing set and another time my first attempts at vegetable gardens. Behind the garage was the sandbox our father made. Brother #2 and I would make prehistoric layouts for our collection of green, red, white, and blue dinosaurs, which like their counterparts are extinct. None of my brothers recalls what happened to them all. Oh to have at least one again!

The upstairs bathroom had a window that went out onto the roof facing the street. Back when I was braver then I am now I would open the window and go out onto the roof to survey the elms up close and the street below.

I strongly suspect if I were to visit the street now I fail to recognize it. The elms and the maples are all gone, and The Couks, Rademachers, and the others are dead, living on only in my memory. I wonder if the current residents even know each other, let alone have block parties.

What a fantasy it is that our memories can be so powerful they could leave a mark like a handprint in the sidewalk, and if our childhood neighborhoods are haunted it is we who are the ones haunting them, as if there is ever such a thing as moving away.

Sunday Spo-bits

My back is out again. It’s the same old song: I did something at the gym the other day that the psoas and erector spine muscles did not care for, and in response they have tightened up to what feels like half their usual lengths. I am quite sore and walking around looking like Groucho Marx. Oh the pain. It’s too hot to do much anyway, so I will spend Sunday trying to sit still. It will do me good. Really, I have no choice. 

Yesterday we went to Costco to get gasoline and came home with a package of brats, frozen dumplings, three bottles of red wine (no rubbish), and a box of tins of sardines. This is what in certain circles is called impulse shopping. It is easy to do at a Costco. I also found kimchi in a jar large enough to feed all of Seoul. I like the taste of kimchi and I plan on eating a daily spoonful on the grounds it is good for the guts. Let’s see if by month’s end I feel somehow better. 

Alas, Babylon! My sourdough starter kit is a bust. After a week of carefully following the instructions what resides in the jar does’t a all resemble what the photos show as the end product.  Mine looks like brown slime and I won’t touch it. No doubt it is operation error or perhaps it’s too hot here for the yeast and wee beasties to grow properly. It is a disappointment. I am beginning to wonder if I am under some curse, an incantation from a wicked fairy who forbids me from ever making a decent loaf of bread. 

Today we go for haircuts and not a moment too soon. I hope by the time of the appointment the Tylenol has kicked in so I don’t sit there with a pained Jack Benny look.  The tonsorial parlor is next to a grocery store; I plan to pop in and have a look-see if they have diet Vernors. No harm trying. I might as well get some store-bought yeast as well and doggedly press on hoping this is the day of success.  

Tell me, what are you doing today with your one and precious life. 

Spo-reflections on attention

Note: this is a short reflection I wrote the other day, hoping to expand on it in time. Ironically, there is going to be a lot that requires my attention this morning, so I thought to post it as it stands. Spo

Lots seem anxious for my attention. Throughout the day I am witness to a continuous barrage of online (and off) items. all waving to get me to look or listen to them. Social media is nothing but countless postings and ads. I could fill the day watching and scrolling. Even when driving billboards and signs ask me to do this/call someone – buy buy buy. Ads have the straight-forward goal of getting me to look at them so I will buy things* People online are not as obvious; they have a mixture of motives. Some want to share what they are experiencing, while others depend on viewers to earn a living. I sense although I am not certain the majority of folks online are there as they crave attention. The more they can get the better it feels. The lot seems to be getting louder and more dramatic, hoping this override others’ efforts. Oh the pain.

I grew up in a culture that was dubious of attention. Folks trying to get some, whether they be crying children or loud adults we seen as self-centered, which was the term used in the Midwest before ‘narcissist’ came along. “Don’t pay him any attention!” was the advice given, or “he’s just trying to get attention’.

Thanks to all the attention-seeking sites and such we’ve grown weak at sustaining attention and worse, how to give someone quality attention. Later in life I learned wanting and giving attention wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. On of the greatest gifts you can give to someone is your undivided attention. We’ve all known the unhappy experience of talking to somebody, only to sense they aren’t paying attention or (worse) they start looking at their phone while you are speaking.

One remedy is to periodically turn everything off and pay no attention to anything but one’s thoughts. I don’t do this enough by a long shot.

The other remedy is when someone is talking to you, put down the phone, focus on the speaker, and keep quiet, other than reflect back what they said. I can think of nothing better.

*Fat chance of that.

Thorsday thoughts

It’s rawther hot here, with temperatures at or over 47C (that’s bloody hot in Fahrenheit). Nothing to be done really. Evening walks are canceled as after sunset it remains over 40C. Hopefully this breaks anon, with temperatures dropping into the pleasant upper 30sC (100F). Until then, one tries not to go out in the mid-day sun like mad dogs or Englishmen.

Speaking of heat, last week The Good Investor (who lives in Chicago) emailed about a financial matter and finished with is there anything else I can provide for you. I replied yes, a Chicago style pizza and hold the anchovies, thinking this amusing. A few days later he replied ‘done’. I had the terrible intuition he was actually sending one, so I texted him please don’t do this: no one in their right mind sends food here May through August. Alas, Babylon! It was too late. Today – on the hottest day of the year – a frozen pizza is being delivered to our doorstep. Oh the horror. I emailed TGI it will probably show up already cooked and ready to eat. Someone is home today, thank the pizza gods, so it doesn’t have to sit there until one of us gets home.

I’ve been sucked into Spotify; I am spending hours at night looking up albums and songs from my past. I propose something and have a look-see if it is there. Most of the time they are and then I spend time hearing songs I haven’t heard since the 70s, 80s, or 90s. I was bewildered ‘Bad romance’ wasn’t there until I realized my search under Madonna’s greatest hits was mistaken: it is song by Lady Gaga. Opps.* Warrior Queen is happy to make me a playlist of ‘things I think you will like’. I am agog what this entails. Does she mean contemporary tunes (Ms. Swift arias, probably) or ‘songs from my time’ which she might imagine to be The Andrew Sisters.

It is day #4 of the sourdough starter kit. Every day I take some of the bubbly brown glop from the night before and add 60g of fresh flour (no rubbish) along with some water and let the nasty brew sit another day. I forget how many days I am supposed to do this or what do with the final product. Make a loaf of bread, apparently. Let us hope so anyway. I am determined to make a proper loaf of bread before I die.

The Boss announced she wants to use me in some post on social media, apparently to lure folks into making appointments here. Her description of who I am and what I do was a little dry, so I edited it to the following:

Urspo is a psychiatrist, board-certified, with thirty years’ experience treating a broad range of mental conditions.  He specializes in depression (unipolar and bipolar types), anxiety disorders, attention deficit disorders, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and post-traumatic stress disorder.

He did his training (psychiatry and neurology) at The University of Chicago; he studied at the C.G. Jung Institute of Chicago.

Dr. Spo is committed to helping patients achieve well-being.

In his spare time, he makes aloha-style shirts, which he often wears to work. 

No word yet if she thinks this a go.

*I mentioned this bungle to Someone, who took away my gay card and said leave this house.

World of mine Wednesday’s Ws.

What’s top of my mind: Harper. My dog is sixteen years old today, can you imagine? She’s deaf and blind and she sleeps a lot. She isn’t very affectionate or interactive anymore, which makes me sad, but She still wants treats from the table, which is comforting. She won’t reach seventeen and I am OK with this. It will hurt so when she goes.

Where I’ve been: Various supermarkets looking for Vernors. Vernors is my favorite soft drink and it is the best ginger ale there ever, ever was. Do not question this. Alas, Babylon! It is difficult to obtain here in the roasting desert. Uncle Albertsons used to sell it but no more, worse luck. I found some at Fry’s the other day but it’s ‘regular’ and I only drink ‘diet’ – when I have any pop at all. Like that fellow with the lantern looking for an honest man I continue my search for diet Vernors.

Where I’m going: The FBI (or something like it). Tomorrow I go somewhere to get my paws printed for The Overlords and probably everyone else. I feel a criminal to do this, but when you are a good boy raised in the Midwest by Protestants you feel guilty even when you haven’t done anything.

What I’m watching: King of the Hill. I have a vague memory of watching some of the series and liking them enough to have a look-see at the upcoming new episodes. I don’t remember the characters well enough, so I probably won’t get the jokes and references.

I also started watching “Penny Dreadful”. Someone likes to watch TV while eating supper – Penny dreadful is pretty disgusting to watch at the table.

What I’m reading: Roman Ivory. The Best Friend’s spouse Robert is a well-known architect historian. He’s written books on the topic. He recently wrote a piece of fiction, a love story, set in Italy. I just started it; it’s been sitting in The Kindle for some time waiting to be read.

What I’m listening to: Spotify. Patience above! We bought a subscription! It’s a pain in the drain to download music from the office computer onto our phones, so Someone proposed we give it a try. It feels like I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole, but this feels what happens when I encounter something vast, unfamiliar and uncertain where to start – like my men. Happily, my two adolescent nieces live and breathe Spotify; they are available for consultation how to operate things. Last night when I should have been slogging through ‘War and peace’ I started by making a playlist named ‘Comfort songs’. Somehow it senses things and proposes (not wrongly) similar songs to add to my list. Quite the comfort indeed.

Do you have Spotify? Do you like it?

What I’m eating: Hi-chews. The nurse practitioners who works on Fridays brings with her to the office heaps of food items from the 4Cs: cookies; candies; cakes; crunchies. It is kind of her to do so, but it is also vexing as I am trying to eschew such. The one I can’t seem to resist is Hi-chews. I’ve never heard of such. They are like taffy, coming in colors and flavors that are not found in nature. One is good at a pop, but if you are being virtuous, one makes two bits chews. They are good candidates to put in the black plastic cauldrons I make at Halloween to hand out to the small-sized beggars.

Whack a mole wild card: Facebook recipes. Facebook grows ever more useless for the point of seeing what friends and loved ones are doing. For a while I was being inundated by ads until I turned them all off with the same snarky comment they are offensive. Things were quiet for a while until I foolishly clicked on a few recipe pop ups and now they are everywhere. I would turn them off as well but for the fear what will replace them. What I should do is turn off Facebook.

Who gets a fist-bump: The Medical Assistant. Today is her birthday. I am buying her lunch and providing a cake. Please don’t feed her buns and things.

What I’m planning: Sourdough bread. Finally! Last month or so I purchased on a whim a do-it-yourself sourdough starter kit from Janie’s Mill. You mix flour with water and let the glob stagnate a few days, then apply half of it to another scoop of flour and water, repeating this for several days until you get a glob of something I won’t trust is feasible or edible. It’s not clear if this makes a onetime loaf or become a baseline for lots of loaves.

Does anyone have any experience and tips on what I am doing?

What’s making me smile: New spectacles none too expensive. I went to the eye doctor the other day in order to update my lens prescription. I found three old spectacles at home and brought them along with the prescription to Lenscrafters. Could new lenses be put into old frames? Yes, they could. This move, along with vision insurance and my Overlord-based medical debit card brought the grand total to $328. Three hund dollars for three glasses! This seems a genuine bargain. When I exclaimed that out loud to the sales lady, she thanked me for being kind; as she only hears the opposite viz why are these glasses so $#*@ expensive?

Notes from the office: wayward patients, or, Little Bo-peep MD has lost her sheep, and they ain’t getting refills until they are found.

The Medical Assistant told me the other day The Overlords have hired a receptionist for the PHX office. I said let’s not count chickens; I’ve seen many hires drop out at the last minute. Lo! A few hours after this announcement she informed me he declined the post. Apparently he wanted more money and The Overlords couldn’t or wouldn’t budge. People often ask why I don’t go into private practice. Hiring and managing staff is something I have never done, nor do I care to learn at this stage of my career. Nerts to that.

The latest project at work to do in my copious spare time is sending out letters. This Overlord policy is either new or something that should have been done all along. When patients disappear there is quite the protocol to officially close the case. There must be (three) documented attempts to call them, followed by a form letter, stating if not heard from by a certain date your chart will be closed. Pre-Overlords, patients who dropped out were considered lost sheep; the porchlight was left on and maybe in time they will return.* The process of sending out said letters (about 200!) isn’t difficult, but it is a tortuous tedium to open up inactive charts to write and send letters. Some of them make no sense. Dicky Purdy was seen once and he never came back; he ain’t coming back surely. I know the reasons some closed patients didn’t return: they are dead or have moved out of state. I am not writing them letters, may they rest in peace.

The ‘living off the refills’ types are now being thwarted by more careful checks of when were you last in/when are you due back. More and more “denied/Patient needs appointment” replies are being sent to pharmacies. Psychiatrists are more timorous than other specialists about their patients running out of their meds; on the whole they are OK to write a refill, provided there is now an appointment on the books. Someone informs me his specialists will not refill any meds if he hasn’t been seen on time, nor will they fill any until he is seen. Period. I wonder if this is the norm now.

There is some positive outcome to all this writing and prescription surveillance. The Medical Assistant tells me there are calls coming in from a few wayward souls (some of them peeved) asking why they are considered closed – because you were supposed to return to clinic after three months and this was said in October 2024, that’s why.

Happily, when they come in, they are usually easy cases. They’ve been fine, living off of refills, and had just forgot to come in (other than I asked them to).

*Some do, often years later. This is often due to a change of insurance, or a relapse in symptoms for having gone without treatment for awhile. Mostly it is from ‘living off of refills’ that ran out, obliging Peer Gynt to finally come back.

Sunday Spo-bits

As I lay typing, Someone is going through his clothing. He’s lost a lot of weight lately (with intent) and many things don’t fit anymore. He is also going through items of clothing he’s kept in storage hoping some day they fit again. There are piles high as Fafner’s hoard of things to keep, to give away, and put back in storage lest he regain all the lost weight back. Urs Truly is supervising, telling him what items to toss and which items if he isn’t going to keep them let me have that one please – that sort of thing. In general I am a ‘when in doubt, toss it out’ sort of person, while Someone is a ‘when in doubt, keep it’ sort of fellow AKA a hoarder ho ho ho.  In his defense, items he’s kept for years now fit him again.  Once in awhile he pulls out a T-shirt from some holiday destination from so long ago neither one of us can remember when it was. 

Screenshot

Speaking of old items I went for a long walk this morning, wearing my panama hat to protect myself from the ardent sun. I found this good morning meme the other day, revealing the hat is twenty years old if a minute. It’s held up well this hat, although the man in it hasn’t. 

Last night I we went to The Irish Cultural center, whose theatre company performed “A doll house’ by Ibsen. I’ve longed to see this play and it didn’t disappointment.  For thems unfamiliar with the drama, it’s about a wife who finally has enough of her belittling husband and by the end of the play leaves him to become her own person, slamming the door as she goes. It was shocking in its day late 1800s; some places demanded the end be rewritten as it was immoral and could give wives similar radical ideas to become people not just wives and mothers. Happily this nonsense wouldn’t ever happen nowadays in Trump America. 

I bought a sourdough starter kit the other day, put it in the pantry, and forgot about it until this morning when I was looking for a tin of chiles. I should give it a try, after all I bought it to do so.  I hope it is still viable. I have yet to make a decent loaf of bread; perhaps if I had my own stock it would help.*  

Someone inspires me to go through my own clothes. I have a fraction of what he has, but I know there are things in the vestidor that no longer fit, although my problem is the opposite of Someone’s: I am too big, worse luck. I suppose I could keep these things for that day when they may fit again*, but I think I will take the superstitious approach to be rid of them, slim down, and wish I had kept them.  There are a handful of Spo-shirts that don’t fit me any more; some are too big and some too small. I may have an online gently-used Spo-shirt giveaway if Spo-fans should fancy such.

*Fat chance of that. 

Lammas day lamentations (not really but the two words sound sonorous)

1 August is a sort of holiday for Urs Truly. It was the birthday of my grandfather and his twin sister, my beloved Aunt Susan. The family reunions were often held on this day/weekend to celebrate their birthdays. I carry on the tradition of having a martini (his favorite) and thinking of them.

I am wearing my sky-blue Spo-shirt today for that color is associated with the month of August.*

It is also Lammas Day, the first day of autumn in certain calendars. I love the trio of August (mature summer), September (fall), and October (Halloween all month).

The first of August was the first day allowed (in my mind anyway) to think of Halloween. Brother #2 and I would get out our trimmings and hold an inspection for needs of any repair. We would start planning our costumes for Beggars Night. We would change our minds many times before October.

On this day I play The Anonymous Four recording of ‘A ladymass’, which is the closet I get to for holiday music.

August always seems a quite month. Most summer activities have been done already, and there are no major holidays to contend with. It’s one long hot summer day, although the crickets start their serenading to portend the end of summer.

It’s the month Someone and I went to Stratford and Niagara-on-the-lake to take in the theatre. This trip often happened near Labor Day weekend; driving back to Michigan afterwards said ‘summer is done’.

Traditionally psychoanalysts would take off the whole month, can you imagine? They assured their analysands they will muddle through somehow without them. It was not clear where these ancient shrinks went or did for a month, as it was kept mum, lest their patients get wind of personal information – a no-no in classical Freudian psychoanalysis.

Happy Lammas Day to you! The fun part of the year begins.

*I got the notion each month had an assigned color from a kiddy-calendar in my youth. The month of August was always bordered by sky blue. It was made the official color of August. Do not dare to question this.

Urspo drops his hair down (what’s left of it)

Note: The Board of Directors Here at Spo-reflections wants up one of those explanation notes, as they still don’t grasp the concept of tongue-in-cheek humor. Stirges.

Mardy: adjective UK Northern English informal. angry and complaining; refusing to be pleasant.

She was acting like a mardy teenager.

I was in a bad mood that day, feeling mardy.

One of Carl Jung’s better take home points is the concept of The Shadow, that dark wild side of us that is always there and if not recognized and made space for will run amok and cause damage. Sometimes I let mine off the leash and let it run amok in the dog park that is my mind.

One of the troubles of being in a profession where you have to be the strong, patient, calm one is there is little to no room to fart, figuratively speaking. One has to bite one’s tongue and squeeze tight the buttocks lest something slip out. Enough of this and you start to rumble like a volcano about to become active. Then you explode like a piece of machinery that was given one ounce of pressure too much and you start knocking heads together or worse. Setting fire to public buildings is available, and it’s Board-supported too, but in the ardent heat of Arizona this wouldn’t be seen as anything unusual.

I know better than to not bring home built-up bile and spew all over Someone for that would be unjust, and besides, he has it worse. He has to be pleasant as a concierge at The City of Phoenix convention hall, dealing with folks far nastier and out of control than the ones I see all day long. At least I get to medicate mine.

Some folks after a sordid day of bottling things up turn to the bottle but this is bad on the complexion. I don’t play violent video games in which to sublimate my spew, nor do I do drugs, worse luck.

The remedy is to take off the oh-so-patient Personae and go into white-trash mode, a sullen nothing-nice state of being, preferably in my Derek Roses and T-shirt, walking around La Casa de Spo with a large lower lip turned down signaling ‘don’t tamper with me!’. In a mardy mood, The Austere Diet can go and screw itself; only nasty chips (or something like it) will do to feed the petulance within. A frozen pizza, cooked and doused with anchovy sauce (so I don’t have to share) is a good idea, especially if you eat the whole thing in one sitting and pass out without brushing your teeth. Oh the embarrassment.

Just writing about such dissolute living makes me smile.