"The level of sexual imagery in modern life is astounding. I knew intuitively this was true, but when you tune into it, you just can't believe it. I click on the Yahoo! finance page, and there's this blond model in a low-cut dress looking at a computer screen and nibbling alluringly on the temple of her glasses, apparently very aroused by the latest S&P 500 report."
~ A.J. Jacobs, The Year of Living Biblically

Years ago, when my husband Mark and I were first married, we went away for the weekend, leaving the little city (or big town) we called home to drive to a bed and breakfast on a ranch in the middle of big rolling fields of nowhere.  At night, we could look up and see a sky, not just dotted with a few twinkling stars against a vast blackness, but absolutely littered with more light than darkness.  But even more than the presence of stars, I remember the silence.

There were no cars rumbling past outside, no neighbors talking or banging doors shut, no fire sirens or televisions, no computer network humming and no cell phone coverage.  It was so quiet, I actually had trouble sleeping; the absence of sound rang audibly in my ears.  I didn't realize I was surrounded by a constant whir of background noise until it wasn't there, but when I went back home I was suddenly both very much aware of it and increasingly bothered by it.  Was it good for me to have so much noise in my life that I heard actual ringing in my ears when it was quiet, the same way I have on leaving a rock concert?  At the same time, that level of background noise was clearly normal in the place and culture in which I was living; could I get away from it?

In a way, moving from addiction to recovery felt the same way, as I began to tune in to the ambient noise of our culture.  Suddenly, that billboard or that song or that TV ad wasn't just part of a constant, and largely ignored, backdrop; it was the trigger that could bring the trauma of addiction rushing to engulf me again.  Being married to a recovering sex addict meant suddenly being faced with the need to avoid gratuitous sexual content in order to protect my own sanity.  And that meant becoming acutely aware of just how soaked in sexuality American culture is: everything from hamburgers to web hosting are sold on overtones of porn.  (And seriously, I can think of few things less inherently erotic than ground beef and Internet domain name registration.)

Recovery has also meant looking at patterns of alcoholism and addiction among our extended friends and family, and becoming similarly aware of the pervasiveness of alcohol, which is an integral, accepted, even expected part of everything from weddings to sporting events to birthday parties.

And once I did begin to tune in, I wondered, much as I did when I came home from those nights on that secluded ranch: had all that cultural noise (unnoticed, but loud enough to leave my ears ringing in its absence) been good for me?  I didn't think so.  So, from ad blocking software to a DVR to changes in my own routines, I've worked to beat back the noise our culture throws off and journey toward the quiet that I now crave.

A few weeks ago, as I was poking around the Internet, I saw an ad that caught my eye. "Turn your blog into a book!" it announced.  "Hm," I thought, "Come to think of it, I could print my blog and bind it.  That might be a nice way to preserve it for my family."  So I took all the posts I wrote in 2007, including a few that I either didn't finish or decided not to share, and I had them printed and bound.  And holy crap.  It really was a book.  Nearly three hundred and fifty 8"x10" sheets of paper covered in line after line of 9pt Georgia type.  And that's just from April of 2007 (when I started blogging) to December of 2007.

I have always wanted to write a book: a memoir, a novel, a collection of essays or short stories.  And I always assumed I couldn't do it in my "spare time." But in essence, that's exactly what I did do; I produced a book of essays in 2007, another (although I haven't had it printed and bound yet) in 2008 and another in 2009.  It's not edited.  It's not perfect.  But it's a huge amount of writing, much of which I'm proud of.  Well, what do you know about that!

There are times when I am so proud to be an American, it literally brings tears to my eyes. Sometimes that even happens late at night during the commercial breaks when I'm watching reruns on some obscure local channel.

Since the advent of the DVR (and even before it, the VCR), I'll admit, I haven't watched many commercials.  But occasionally, I'm not quick enough with the remote, something catches my eye, and I watch for a moment, enthralled. Like the other night.  I caught a flag waving and heard the distinctive, demanding, urgently enthusiastic tones of a voice-over announcer commanding me to order now...

And oh, what rapture!  I wish I could share it with you in full, but in a way that is both sad and fitting, it is not available on YouTube.  You may not be able share in the heady rush of patriotism directly, but you can temper your disappointment knowing that magical moments like this simply aren't intended to be savored at cold, hard desks, lingering over our shimmering, pixelated screens; they're meant to be experienced ensconced in the plush loving arms of our sofas, recliners and beds, bathed in the glow of our televisions.

On screen, backed by stars and stripes, images of the Statue of Liberty, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Barack Obama flashed by, each one crowned in vibrant, living greenery.  A pottery replica of Lady Liberty sprouted lush, green tresses before my eyes.  George Washington's bald pate was replaced in moments by a verdant wig, and eerily similar green afros burst from the heads of both Barack Obama and Abraham Lincoln.  Yes, some of our treasured national icons have been transformed into Chia Pets, decorative busts that grow grass for hair.

When the announcer told me that owning one would make me "proud to be an American," I'm ashamed to admit that I experienced a brief moment of skepticism. (Oh, how jaded I've become!)  But then I thought about it.  What could be more American than a Chia Pet?  Can you imagine a Chia pet of any other national symbol?  A Chia Eiffel Tower?  Hardly!  A Chia Big Ben?  Please!  What about ending the Chia Cold War?  You can't even do a Chia Gorbachev, but a Chia Reagan?  Now we're talking.  Ch-ch-ch-Chia Prez!

And what's more American than television, or still more: television advertising?  Seeing the beloved symbols of our nation transformed into a uniquely American product and featured for patriotic consumption on that haloed relic of American television, the commercial, why it's like wrapping the Statue of Liberty in an American flag and baking her into an apple pie.

And that made me so delighted to be an American, that I really did get tears of joy in my eyes and started to hum (softly, giggly to myself) "God Bless America."  If they could only have made Chia Abe Lincoln grow a beard, I think the ecstasy might have killed me.

I attend a weekly 12 Step meeting for friends and family members of sex addicts, and part of our meeting script asks that group members refrain from mentioning specific company names or websites in their shares to avoid triggering others. Whenever I hear this part of the script, I always imagine that what's really meant is "please refrain from saying the word Craigslist."

While I've found Craigslist wonderfully useful for everything from finding writing jobs to getting rid of the kids' baby furniture, it has played a part in the addiction that has ravaged the lives of so many people Mark knows that (well before news of the so-called Craigslist Killer hit the stands) he refrained from visiting any part of the site for any reason in spite of never having used it to act out himself. (After all, if Facebook is dangerous to his recovery, a place like Craigslist would be lethal.) In fact, Mark has so many disturbing negative associations with the name alone that he does not even like to hear it.

Today, under pressure from law enforcement, Craigslist announced that it was doing away with its Erotic Services section and replacing it with an Adult Services section, which will be reviewed by Craigslist employees to ensure only postings from "legal adult service providers." While this may (depending on how well the ads are monitored and reviewed) curb prostitution, I have no doubt that, given its many perfectly legal ads for sex, Craigslist will have no problem retaining its dubious place of honor as an Internet hub for active sex addicts and a painful trigger for many addicts and spouses in recovery.

A year ago, when I was trying to get through to my husband that we were spending faster than we were earning and that our credit cushion was wearing dangerously thin, he had a brilliant idea, "Let's get another credit card." Yep. We're running out of credit, we'll get more credit, problem solved, ta da! (Our own family version of an Arctic National Wildlife Refuge drilling project.)

That was clearly not a good solution and not the one we took, but it was the most obvious solution, especially with credit card companies sending offers in the mail every day. In fact, the offers kept rolling in even as collection agencies called and lawsuits threatened.  And I have to admit, mad as I was that we'd gotten ourselves mired in debt, I was equally angry that credit card companies found it so very profitable for us to do so that they let us have access to more in credit than I've ever made in a year. Our credit is trashed at this point, yet we still get credit card offers every day, and all I can think each time I get the mail is: These companies are just like drug pushers!

I was listening to a piece on NPR a while back about a rise in underage prostitution in certain areas. A guest on the program noted that as a result of stricter enforcement of drug laws in these locales, many former drug dealers were turning to pimping, as a safer, more profitable business. And as secondary crimes and violence related to drug trade were decreasing, police were now dealing with more secondary crimes and violence related to prostitution. As I listened, I thought, "Either way the problems with violence in these cities are related to addiction." Because while some of the clients of drug dealers or prostitutes will be folks who rarely use, the most profitable clients, the regular clients, are primarily going to be addicts. Drug addicts drive drug trafficking. Sex addicts drive sex trafficking.

Those addicts are the regular clients that dealers and pimps want, the same way that the folks at the local bakery depend on me. They know me and make sure I get the good stuff: because I keep coming back again and again, and I tell my friends and bring them back too. I'm a sweet shop's big old cash cow. Businesses know they need to keep their regular customers both satisfied and yearning for more. So, credit card companies want people who will carry a balance and cigarette companies want smokers to suck down a pack or more a day and alcohol manufacturers (regardless of their ads giving lip service to responsible drinking) aren't really catering to people like me who drink a single glass of wine with dinner once a month. What they want, what they cater to in their business practices and their advertising, are addicts.

I'm not saying that business owners frame it that way I don't think most of them do (although some certainly may) but I do think we live in a culture of addiction where the way to make money is to indulge and reinforce the fantasies of your best clients: addicts. Billboards and TV and movies and music and Internet banner ads whisper the messages to us, the messages that may disgust and anger some, but that addicts want to buy: Alcohol makes you sexy. Drugs are cool. Credit makes you powerful. And everyone's a porn star.

And I believe we, as a society, are aching for recovery.

Image credit: Photo by jamesjordan on Flickr

When my son was born, the decision to quit my job was an easy one. I imagine I would still have left a job I loved very much in order to be there for that vulnerable little baby, who seemed to be telling me so desperately that he needed me, but the fact that I wasn't passionate about my career made things all the easier. In fact, I've never held a job that I wouldn't quit the instant my winning lottery number flashed on screen. I've had jobs I liked: jobs where I worked with interesting people, completed projects I was proud of, used some of my creativity and helped others a bit. But in the end, I've done them all for money, and when they stopped being worth the money, I left.

The thing was, I did have something I was passionate about: the kind of writing I do here. But the chances that I could make a living at it were so slim, that I didn't even bother. My husband and I, my brother and his wife, we all grew up in families with parents who dreamed big of being artists, musicians, TV stars. And we all saw that led to a life of run-ins with the IRS, no electricity, no health insurance and a feast-or-famine life of odd jobs. Be a writer? Write the kinds of things I wanted? Nuh uh. No way. I was taking the safe path: the one with benefits and a regular salary and a cubicle with a picture of my well fed, well insured, well cared for family on the desk.

It's closing in on eight years now since I left my last full time job. And in taking up blogging I've finally gotten a taste of my dream job: the one where I get to write what I want to write, where I can connect with and help other people, where I can think and inspire others to think, where I learn and grow as a person, where I spend plenty of time with my family, where I'm my boss so I only have to do what pleases me, where my office isn't a cubicle but my laptop and the world. This is the job I'd keep doing even if that winning lottery number did flash on the screen.

And my AdSense ads -- those ads that paid me pennies an hour for my writing -- they showed me that I could actually get paid to do what I love. They gave me hope. But when Google pulled my ads a few weeks ago, I found that those ads gave me more than a dollar here and there, more even than hope I could do more one day: they gave me a justification for pouring my time into this room of mine.

You see, we stay-at-home mamas, and especially we mamas of special needs kids, often feel guilty for taking time for ourselves. It feels selfish. In spite of the fact that I'm on call 24/7 and working nearly all the time, I feel guilty doing this for fun, doing it for me. When the kids are at school or asleep shouldn't I still be working? When the kids are (as they are now) playing sweetly together, shouldn't I still be working? Shouldn't I spend every last waking moment, every ounce of available energy, scrubbing the bathtub or planning fun educational events for them or badgering the school district for services or making tonight's nutritious dinner? Am I really allowed to do this? Write, just write, just because I enjoy it? And do that at the expense of that time I should be spending somewhere else? (The laundry is not folding itself as I type right now, people.)

That was the beauty of the ad revenue. It didn't matter that the ad money I made in a month of daily posts wouldn't pay for a tank of gas (especially not at these prices), forget making a dent in paying for the mortgage or groceries. What mattered was that I was bringing in something. That money said "I'm not 'just' a stay-at-home mama. I'm not Mr. Manager's wife. I'm a writer. And my writing makes a contribution to this world. My writing has value to people." I could grab my laptop and instead of saying "I'm going to go goof off now," I could say, "I'm going to go get some work done."

This blog, my friends (and you all know it) is a labor of love. (After all, the ads are gone, people, and I'm still cranking out the good stuff for the denizens of the Internet free of charge.) But somewhere along the line, I learned that labors of love aren't "real" work. They're hobbies. They're fun. They're frivolous. They're selfish. And as a good, responsible mama, I'm not allowed to do that. Or (with a mischievous smile) am I?

And the implication (felt in the sinking, burning nausea in my stomach) was that I had done something wrong: clicked my own ads to make buckets of money, encouraged my minions to participate in a get-rich-quick scheme, defrauded advertisers, blackened Google's name and my own. I had hurt Google. I had let them down. They trusted me, and I betrayed them.

I felt like Desdemona being targeted by Othello's rage but not sure exactly what I had done. And I'm not perfect, which (in my perfectionist mind) means I am guilty. So I fretted and berated myself. What had I done to hurt Google? Could it have been that I complained about mail order bride ads? Did I not love on Google right? Could it have been that I joked a few times about ad clicking before I ever had ads? Was I supposed to do more to discourage people from clicking the ads accidentally (or maliciously or in kind gestures)? Was it because I talk about sex and porn? Couldn't they tell me? Couldn't they give me one more chance to fix it? Couldn't we try again? Couldn't I work harder and do better?

I had one appeal to defend myself against charges unknown. I told them (truthfully) that I had never clicked on my own ads. I told them (truthfully) that I hadn't been involved in any ad clicking, morally questionable traffic driving scheme. I told them (truthfully) that I didn't know what happened and that I didn't have the technical expertise or knowledge to offer up much of anything in proof of any of this. But I promised to work hard at whatever they told me to work hard at and do better at whatever it was I was supposed to do better at.

Yep, I shouted tearfully at the cold, empty screen, "I'll work harder. I'll do better. Google, please love me! I'll shower your bed in rose petals! I won't let you down. I won't disappoint you. I'll never hurt you again." But what reason did they have to trust me? I always say: believe actions, not words, and never believe promises. And I'd hurt them already. All they had now was my word, my promises, against... Something. Some unknowable huge thing that I had done or seemed to have done and wanted to take back or fix.

Today Google wrote to officially dump me. They told me it was too late. They said they reviewed my appeal but still felt that I posed too great a risk for their advertisers. Our romance was over and they were never going to speak to me again. Whatever I had done was too horrible to be fixed or forgiven. And I was hereby banned for life, for reasons unknown, from ever participating in any AdSense program ever again.

Now, in spite of the fact that I'm now an AdSense untouchable, you all had better be really, special nice to me. Why? Because now I know that all I have to do to get you banned too is to click 10 or 20 times on one of your ads. I, the clicker, won't get in a whit of trouble, but you, the AdSense participant, will join me on the blacklist for life. I'm a woman scorned, and I may decide that if I can't have Google, no one can. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Oh, and if Google does break up with you for any reason, you can blame me, and reference this post. Now I'm off to back up my blog, lest they summarily delete me for smart assitude.

While reading a recent New York Times article on increasingly form fitting and revealing wedding dresses, I came across one statement in particular that has been rubbing on me for days now, like sandpaper. A designer said his dresses are designed to appeal to a woman who is “confident in her sexuality.”

Confident in her sexuality. Just breathe for a moment and think about those words. They're rich with meaning, those four little words designed to sell dresses. Shakespeare couldn't have written four words with a deeper subtext.

I'm going to take those four words on, on one by one, out of order, because I'm both crazily academic and insanely disorganized.

Let's start with the gender of that third-person pronoun "her." It makes sense, so much sense that we don't even think about it, to talk about sexy formal attire for women. But what if we change the gender? A man may look sexy in a tux or a suit, but overt sexuality isn't the overriding purpose of a man's formal attire. It's hard to imagine different types of men's formal wear, with one set designed specifically for a bridegroom concentrating on appearing sexy at his wedding (or any other formal event). What would that even look like? A skin baring set of suits? Something along the lines of a bare chested, bow tie sporting Chippendales dancer?

In fact, when I asked my husband what a man confident in his sexuality would wear, he answered "pink." I did a Flickr image search for "confident in his sexuality" and found one man sporting a purse, another in a skirt with a coconut husk bikini top and (my favorite) Weird Al Yankovic in (go see if for yourself) heart bedecked boxers, a pink tutu and fishnet stockings. I googled "confident in his sexuality" and found that about a third of the references on the first page were to homosexuality. Yep, we call a man "confident in his sexuality" (albeit in jest) when he is brave enough to appear to be the most fearful thing a man can be: feminine.

If the reverse were true, a woman confident in her sexuality shouldn't be wearing makeup, adorning her flowing ringlets with flowers and wearing something akin to lingerie; she ought to be forgoing the makeup, cropping her hair short and wearing work boots. Yet women express their "confidence" by hyper-sexualizing within gender boundaries. Hmm... That seems (dare I say it?) insecure. A man's confidence in his sexuality is a given, but not a woman's.

Which brings us to the noun "sexuality." We can define a woman by so many characteristics, even if we are focusing solely (as talking about attire demands we must) on appearance: her beauty, her grace of carriage, her flair, her unique style, her peacefulness, her radiance, her physical fitness... The defining characteristic could be any of those, but it's not; it's sexuality. It's more important to be sexy, in particular, than anything else. The idea that women in these dresses will be perceived as sexy is what's powerful, what sells.

Bringing us at last (since, let's face it, I'm not really going to take on the preposition "in") to the adjective "confident." While it describes the women wearing the revealing dresses, it also implies something about the women who do not. These are dresses that not everyone can wear: only "confident" women can wear them. In fact, these are dresses some women will be too scared to wear. These dresses show that the women wearing them are powerful and the women not wearing them are weak and insecure.

The coup de grace, of course, is that women, when they choose their attire, are not simply displaying confidence or insecurity; they are displaying confidence or insecurity in their sexuality. Women who wear revealing dresses exert that powerful sexuality over men and women alike. They don't just draw attention, they "turn heads," they control. By extension, women who are too scared to wear revealing dresses are (so we are to believe) ashamed of their own bodies. They're frigid: unable to enjoy or use the power of sex. That's the subtext.

In those four words, we are being sold on sexuality. We are being sold on being sexy starlets. We are being sold on the idea that sex is the most important thing about a woman. We are being sold on the idea that sex brings power. We are being sold on female hyper-sexuality as the ultimate power. And ultimately, we are being sold a disturbed fantasy. And we are buying it.

But believe me, you'll be even more disturbed when you tune in tomorrow and find out what kind of sexuality I think we're really aspiring to when we buy all that.