We Wish You A Merry Aerosmith

"It wouldn't be the Christmas season if the stores were any less hooter than they HOTTER than they are." It's finally Christmas; the time of year when we care a little more; the time of year when we are a little more giving; the time of year when we can watch Chevy Chase and not feel dumber for it. And so, in honor of the season, I spent an evening pondering the true meaning of Christmas, warming myself by the fire with a warm cup of hot cocoa...

Is that him skiing on the sweater? I know what my wife is getting for Christmas.

To get myself fully in the Christmas mood, I was listening to the Michael Buble Christmas station on Pandora. It was working perfectly. I was feeling all jolly and seasonal. I listened to Martina McBride scoop her notes more than humanly possible (ruining a perfectly good Dean Martin song) while I was wrapped in my Snuggie:

Leopard Snuggie! For those who want to be warm, but still look sexy.

I was just about to break into a round of O Holy Night, when out of nowhere, I hear faint violins. "OOOO," I thought, "A Christmas song I haven't heard before. Maybe it's Bieber (lot's of dude's have that thought, right?)." As the song continued, I hear, "I could lie awake, just to hear you breathing."

Wait. Is this a Christmas song? Because if it is, it's putting the wrong spin on the whole Santa thing. No. This isn't Christmas; how come all I can picture is too many long scarves on a microphone stand? And a giant mouth? Why the mouth?

Then, it hits me like a sweaty tour-bus:

How come nobody stops HIM when he's walking on stage in his bathrobe?

Admittedly I might be in the minority on this, but Steven Tyler doesn't usually conjure up Christmas memories for me. I mean, there was that one Christmas when my dad and I sang Silent Night back-to-back like rock-stars sharing the same mic, but that's not really the same thing.

Nope. No Christmas here. Pandora sucker-punched me. They got me feeling all nice and warm, all seasony and yule-loggy, and then they slapped me right in the face. You don't come back from that. Do they think I'm a moron? I know that I Don't Want to Miss a Thing makes us all think about Ben Affleck and the end of the world, contemplating the meaning of life....wait, maybe that's it. Pandora figures that if I think about the meaning of life, I'll remember the true meaning of Christmas?  ...No. That makes no sense. They just wanted to ruin my Christmas. They backloaded all the good feelings we were having together. Where are you now Buble?

I guess I can't really be mad at Pandora for this. We all do this from time to time. We backload. We'll tell someone something really nice about themselves, and then hit em with some Aerosmith. Boom! "I love the way you always take out the trash! I just wish you would try and remember to put a new bag in the can." "You are such a good mother, but you're always short with the kids."

We backload because we don't want to fight. We figure if we say something nice first, our partner/spouse/child will be a little more receptive. "I don't think you're a complete idiot, but could you put a trash bag in the can when you are done?" Or maybe we worry that if we just compliment someone, they will think we're OK with all the dumb stuff they do. But by the time the backload comes out, the first part is missed completely. Suddenly, a moment of genuine kindness and connection turns into a fight; all we can hear is Aerosmith ringing in our ears. Even worse, we start to expect every compliment and 'genuine moment' to have a 'but' attached. Then we wonder why we can't even give someone a compliment anymore.

So, 'tis the season to be a little less sneaky. Just compliment your spouse/partner/child with no other motive other than making them feel better about themselves. Backload a little less. Give a few more compliments with a little less Aerosmith aftertaste.

You better watch out. You better not cry. You better not pout, I'm telling you why. Steven Tyler's coming to town

....See. Ruined.

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT

Marriage Counselor, Austin TX

Um...I Think I'm Going To Take Off My Pants

There are rare moments in life when you hear, read, or see something something truly poignant; something that shifts your worldview perhaps providing renewed purpose. For many (if not most) of us, one such moment occurred in 1987:

Do you realize that in the 80's, we basically wore denim suits...and not ironically?

Unfortunately, such lycanthropically-inspired events are few and far between. It's much more likely that most of us will read something on Pinterest or Facebook that, however inaccurate, will make us stop and think briefly, perhaps reposting to indicate we are one of the few who truly care. Still, these moments generally cause some degree of reflection.

I had such a moment the other day, early in the morning. Upon waking and greeting my wife with the customary, "Good morning lovely. You are truly the core of my life. You are a queen," I made my way to the kitchen. My wife, whom we shall call Whiteboard Siri, is an organized person. She relies heavily on a whiteboard to stay on top of things that need to get done each day (I'm pretty sure this smartphone thing is just a fad). Occasionally, she will leave reminders for me to, say, call the dentist, or get an oil change (psh. GET an oil change? I think she means change the oil...cause I'm a MAN and that's what men do...). These messages for me are often separated from the others, making it obvious they are for me. So, when I approached the whiteboard on this particular morning, there was no question the message she was trying to send:

I wasn't aware there was a requirement.

Apparently, I have really been dropping the ball. What kind of slouch husband have I been as of late? Have I really digressed so far as to leave the house sans pants? When I approached her to confront her about the message, fully panted I assure you, she claimed it was for her, reminding her that the kids needed pants under their costumes for the cold weather. Sure.....there's only one way that message can be taken.

Still, her message made me think; not only about the larger philosophical implications of the pants-wearing continuum, but also about being intentional about the little things. I can honestly say, I have thought of this message each time I have put on my pants, mentally checking it off the list each day. I'd like to think that I put my pants on a little more lovingly each day...thinking of Whiteboard Siri each time I do.

Okay, maybe I'm making too big a deal out of wearing pants (come on, how many other blogs are you going to read this year that will have that phrase in them?). But, like pretty much everything on my blog, wearing pants can compared to our relationships (How Rob? How?). A lot of us tend to think that once we get in a relationship, it should just work...you know, because we are MFEO...made for each other (name that movie!). We end up getting lazy and figuratively walking around our relationship without pants...or literally for some of us. We stop trying to make the relationship better. We assume it will continue on a forward course. We roll out of bed and go about our relationship making no effort to take care of the things that seem routine. Then we wonder why our relationships get stuck in a rut and we feel unhappy.

Make more of an effort in your relationship. When was the last time you did something to make it better? Think of something you can improve today. Don't wake up one morning with a reminder from your partner that you need to do better. Do better now. Make a big deal out of things. Dress up nice for your date. Say I love you more. Say thank you for the little things. Pay a little more attention. Go put on some pants.

Now for some Teen Wolf Too (Do you see what they did there with the title? Mind bending).

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT
Marriage and Family Therapist / pants-wearer, Austin TX

The Great Peanut Butter Debacle of 1985

It's that time of year again. Kids are returning to school, the temperature's dropping, and presidential campaign's heating up. My daughter is going to school for the first time this year. I'm a little freaked out. Luckily during this time of year, I, like most of you, have one thing constantly on my mind to quiet the anxieties: REO Speedwagon.

Look at 'em, just pretending the bald dude doesn't look pedophilic.

Aside from marveling at the many wise style choices the band has made over the years,

"You promise? This doesn't come across as creepy?"

I miss my Grandma.

they have made some truly poignant statements on life (Case in point). One such view that has stuck with me (luckily) is the lead track on the Tuna album, Roll with the Changes. This is not something I have always been good at, rolling with the changes. I tend to get expectations in my mind of how things should go and I tend to fixate and get pouty when they don't go the way I planned. Let me give you an example.

When I was probably 5 or 6 years old, my sister Jen was babysitting me (that's probably not true, but it's how I remember it, so that's what you get). I asked her to make me a piece of bread with peanut butter and butter on it. Jen has to be one of the nicest people on the face of the planet, so she gladly made me a piece of bread exactly as I had described it; peanut butter with butter on top.

Holy crap! How could she screw up such a simple request? Who eats bread with butter on top of peanut butter? What are we, savages? Everyone knows you put the butter down as a foundation on which to build your peanut butter. Changing that would change the very balance of nature. It would taste absolutely horrible. I have never been so disappointed in my life.

Jennifer was so apologetic. She clearly felt terrible. She offered to make me a new one, but I was the bigger man and decided to choke down what was placed before me. I remember taking bites through tears and marveling that somehow this culinary monstrosity didn't taste any different than when the butter was on the bottom. Still, it was not what I had planned, so it was not as good.

I see a lot of couples and clients who sometimes struggle with the same problem. They become so set on what they think their relationship or life should look like that they fail to see the great things they already have going. They focus on the ideal (often unattainable) creating problems for themselves where they don't need to exist. My peanut butter bread was not what I was picturing, but it tasted exactly the same. I made sure I didn't really enjoy it and made my sister feel miserable in the process.

Too often our fixation on making sure we get exactly what we expect or what we planned comes at the expense of what matters more. I expect to have my driveway nice and clean after I mow, but when my daughter asked to sweep it for me yesterday, I knew I was giving up a clean driveway. It was worth it. The more open we are to changes that occur to mess up our expectations, the happier we will be; they are going to happen anyway.

"So if you're tired of the same old story, oh, turn some pages." Talk to me REO.

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT
Couples Counselor, Austin TX

A Festivus for the Rest of Us

A magical event happens each year in March, something with which I am afraid far too many people are unfamiliar; a holiday that brings us together and fills our hearts with wonder and anticipation. I am not referring to the overly-commercialized holidays like National Frozen Food Month or Peanut Butter Lover's Day. No, the event of which I speak is untouched by corporate sponsors (applications now being accepted) and the selfish agenda of political parties and the right wing/liberal media. The event of which I speak is a time in March full of mystery, gift giving, patriotism, family unity, arrogance, and horror. Yes, the event to which I am referring is none other than the 8 Crazy Nights of Rob and Ty.

Calm yourselves. I will provide you with a broader understanding of, and perhaps burning passion for, said holiday with an enthralling, nay--informative, backstory.  The 8 Crazy Nights of Rob and Ty is aptly named for the 8 magical nights that occur each year between March 13th and 21st, during which my cousin, Tyler, and I are the same age. Tyler is one year younger than I (though vastly lagging from a maturity standpoint), but for 8 wonderful nights each year, we are but one age. No longer is it, "This is my younger cousin Tyler. Please excuse his lack of understanding of the broader world. He is but a young child, unfamiliar with such things." No. During the 8 Crazy Nights of Rob and Ty, it's, "I am pleased to introduce my cousin Tyler. He is a principal, educating the promise of tomorrow. He is a father and husband. But he is more than that. He is my colleague, my friend...my equal." Truly, he is the Marvin to my Chuck Berry. 

Apparently I really like Back to the Future.

The 8 Crazy Nights began when Tyler and I were roommates in college. One night as we discussed man's struggle and how we might, we humble servants, ease the burden of our fellow man, we postulated the idea that perhaps we as a people needed more to celebrate, especially during the dreary, arduous days of spring. Perhaps, we might lift our spirits more each year and raise our chins a little higher if there was some significant moment in time that could bring us together as a people, as brothers and sisters. As Tyler's birthday approached, such a significant moment became clear.

Realizing there were 8 days between our birthdays, 8 days during wich we were no longer separated by the divide of age, we devised a holiday during which others might find renewed joy in life. The plan was simple. Each night of the 8 crazy nights, we would like a candle to commemorate another day of same-aged bliss, which we would promptly blow out, as apartment rules specifically prohibited open flames. As each candle was lit, we would join in a duet of the National Anthem until the flame was extinguished (5-7 seconds). Finally, as a way of spreading 8 Crazy Nights cheer, we would allow our friends and loved ones to present us with a daily gift of their choosing.

The inaugural celebration of the 8 Crazy Nights went remarkably well. We actually had 2 women who brought us gifts each night (I think they had a crush on Tyler. He has hair like a lion).

It's like he can see into my soul.

So, each night we graciously accepted our gifts, lit our candles (extinguished almost immediately), and sang the National Anthem. All was right with the world. Until one night, as we were lighting our candle and reflecting on the solemnity of the occasion, we noticed we were one candle short. How could this be? In our haste to bring joy to the world, had we miscounted? No, 21-13=8. The math is sound. Stooping to remedial methods, I began counting the days on my fingers....13, 14, 15...20, 21...OH! If you count Tyler's birthday and my birthday, there are actually 9 nights (what do you want from me? I'm just a therapist. He's the principal).

Horror struck through me as it sunk in that this magical time might never come to full fruition. We couldn't call it the 9 Crazy Nights of Rob and Ty, that just sounds stupid. We thought quickly how we might redeem our new holiday. Then it dawned on us. Of course! It was so simple, obvious even. We would celebrate a Second Seventh Night!

The Second Seventh Night is quite mysterious. No one is quite sure how it came into existence (disregard explanatory paragraph above). All sort of 'mysterious' things happen on the Second Seventh Night. Really, anything that occurs on this day of days can be labeled mysterious. Try it out! "I mysteriously didn't show up to work today." or "I mysteriously went 15 over the speed limit." (Legal disclaimer: using such excuses may result in you 'mysteriously' being fired, or 'mysteriously' getting a ticket.) It's an 8 Crazy Nights miracle!

Arguably the pinnacle of the 8 Crazy Nights occurs on the Second Seventh Night. Each year, we gather as family and friends via phone to simultaneously watch a scary movie....mysteriously. We aren't scary movie watchers generally, so we like to go big:

Jim Henson Productions. Creating traumatic responses in children since 1982.

We pause the movie midway to call each other and discuss key plot twists (Dreamhouse Spoiler alert: The guy can't tell his right from his left), process important character development, and provide emotional support. When the movie is over, Tyler wishes me a happy birthday the following day, after which the holiday draws to a somber close for another year.

So, there you have it. You're welcome. You are now encouraged to get on board. Tell your friends. It's a big holiday with a lot of gift giving, so it's best to begin preparations in late September. I will update the blog to fill you all in on the movie of that year (I'm leaning toward The Black Cauldron).

Other than arrogance or my own personal gain, why would I tell you about this magnificent holiday? It's simple. My wife thinks the whole thing is a little dumb, childish perhaps. Though I could present her with pie charts and diagrams defending the legitimacy of the holiday, I must concede there is element of immaturity about it. But it has become a very important holiday for both me and my cousin. If we went the entire year without an email or phone call, I know we will have contact for those 8 magical nights. Are we forcing it? Perhaps. Are we putting more effort into celebrating our own birthdays than anyone around us? Likely. But that doesn't matter. We have created something that for the two of us (spouses and my brother included) has become very meaningful. It connects us.

On more than one occasion, I have asked one of my clients to say something specific to the other, to actually repeat what I say. Almost without fail, they will turn to me and comment on how it feels stupid to just repeat what I am saying. Or they will talk about how awkward it feels when everyone is watching (everyone meaning me and their partner/spouse). Or they will comment that it feels forced. I simply tell them, "I know. say it anyway." I know it doesn't matter. I'm just giving them the words to start what they want to say. If I didn't force them to say it, it usually won't get said.

We spend too much time waiting for the right moment. Unfortunately, we often spend so long waiting for the right moment that we have far too few moments. It doesn't matter if it's forced. Not everything is spontaneous. Sometimes you need to write down what you want to say. Sometimes you need to create the connection, not wait for the moment to happen. Moments are only as meaningful as we make them. Worry less about feeling forced or fake and create a moment that means something.

How's that for informative?

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT

Marriage Therapist/8 Crazy Nights Co-Founder, Austin TX

Excuse Me While I Whip This Out.

This is actually the seventh time I have written this blogpost. The original post talked about how I used to write songs when I was in a band. I was in a band. A very sexy, cool band with a horn section. We were super cool. Lots of women were attracted to us. It's hard not to picture how amazing I looked on stage:

"Damn these sweaty arms. If only I had some type of rainbow-colored, sweat-absorbing, elastic wrist cuff."

But I digress. I wrote six previous versions of this post because I wasn't sure what I wanted from this post. Then I realized, I knew what I wanted from the post, but I was worried that it wasn't going to fit my formula...you know, tell a funny story with some funny pictures and then bring the mood down a bit while I lay down the smooth message. Then tie it off with a quick witty comment. Deviation from the formula could disappoint some of my dozens of fans.

So, I wrote and rewrote hoping to come up with some amazing, witty story that would really resonate with people and make them remember my blog and ultimately how amazing I am, and by extension, what an amazing therapist I am. Alas, amidst all my writing and rewriting, I became consumed with the thought of how horrible the post was coming out.

Now, in this the seventh time writing, and after talking extensively with my wife (we openly share our feelings with each other each night, as any good husband and wife would...for example, my wife just told me, "I haven't showered yet today," while smelling her armpit), I realize I do want to talk about being in a band. I don't think it gets said enough (Hi, I'm Rob. I was in a band).

I wrote a song on our album called Competition. It's not my favorite song. Any time someone asks for a CD (call in the next 10 minutes and receive this stunning diamond pendant) I hand them one and tell them to skip track 10. A number (3) of people have told me it's not that bad. I say thanks, but assume they are also fans of Le Tigre. Then I hope they don't come back to me and tell me, "Hey man. Good CD" while laughing under their breath. But as I have listened to the song more over the years (there's nothing wrong with listening to your own CD...it's just like watching your high school state championship football game over and over) I can respect the effort I put into the song. It's not the most amazing song, but I wrote it and I take pride in that.  


The same has been true for me with this blog. Each time, I write and rewrite worried it won't be as funny as the last (I know, I set the bar pretty high). I worry that my message will be missed (yes, these posts have messages). I worry that people won't be impressed.


The truth is, I am proud of what I write. Some posts are not my favorite (I'm looking at you "Why Don't You Just Tell Me the Name of the Movie You've Selected"), but I am putting myself out there. I'm taking a risk (as much as you can writing a blog) that what I have to say will be received and not just become more white noise.

It's easy to get caught up in the worry and anxiety that accompanies creating something. But if we never risk, we never get the chance to stand proudly behind what we have created. If we never risk, we bemoan our circumstances and complain that others have all the luck. If we never risk putting ourselves out there, we never become closer to those around us. If we never risk, our circle of influence will never increase.


Real joy in life and relationships doesn't come from sitting back and watching things unfold before us. It comes from risking vulnerability and failure. It comes from putting ourselves out there. Create something. Grow closer to someone. Increase your circle of influence. "You're free to go off and be jilted yourself." (What?! I know lots of guys who quote Pride and Prejudice).


I'm not sure this ended up being much of a deviation. (Insert witty comment here)

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT
Marriage and Family Therapist, Austin TX

My Density has Popped Me to You

Speaking of olfactory uppercuts, I was once ticketed for O B camping in Yellowstone.

Be sure to catch Old Faithful. It's a disappointment you won't want to miss. (att.)

For those of you less hardcore-campers, O B camping means out-of-bounds camping. The truth is, I am so one with nature that I can't be bound by silly national park rules and regulations like camping in designated campsites or not lighting trees on fire. No, I O B camp. But when I O B camp, I look for only the best places, places of which only true outdoorsmen know, completely isolated from the outside world. A place in which I can truly commune.

I'm sorry ladies, theres' only room for 4 of you in this beauty.  (att.)

I went to Yellowstone a few years ago with two of my friends. One of my friends (Shark) had never been, and as an outdoorsy lumberjack type, I knew it was my responsibility to take him. So, One day, after a manly outing of wrestling buffali and not being inhibited by 'trails,' my friends (Shark, Kenipples) and I

Shark

Kenipples

began looking for a place to lay our weary heads. We headed back to a camp at the Southwest entrance (west is always left, right?). We drove past a few campsites, but they didn't suit my seasoned palate. Some looked too full, others looked too ugly. So, we soldiered on. We came to what I knew was the final campsite for miles. This place was never full. She was the campsite nobody asked to dance, so I knew we would be fine.

When we arrived, I saw the "campsite full" sign. I had a moment of panic as I realized we had nowhere to sleep. But, ever resourceful, I decided that Shark, Kenipples, and I would hunker down, all 600-unshowered-for-3-days-living-off-of-beans-and-manly-feelings-pounds of us, would band together in a moment of O B solidarity and create a humble domicile from a sky-blue, 1991 Toyota-Tercel. Oh what a feeling.

As we stretched our legs in the more than ample room inside what has been coined (as of right now) the Taj Mahal of 2-door compacts, we turned on our flashlights to play cards for the evening. As we did so, a park ranger drove past slowly, no doubt admiring our plush accommodations, and then continued on, leaving us to our manly game of hearts poker.

As the evening wore on, we settled into our respective rooms (seats) for a generous night's sleep, Shark in the back, Kenipples in the front passenger, and I resting delicately in the driver's seat. Sleep came quickly as I was held lovingly in place by my steering wheel. Occasionally, as I awoke briefly to ponder the solemnity of the moment, take in the beauty of the nature around me, or to punch my steering wheel, I was gently and tenderly reminded of my companions' presence as Kenipples would pass gas, the smell of which can only be described as violent. Such delicate reminders comforted me, bathing me in the smells of Yellowstone. Only as the night wore on and I began to notice the obscene amount of condensation on our windows did I become concerned that tender asphyxiation may be a very real possibility.

Morning mercifully arrived with an abrupt knocking on my driver-side window. Wiping the smell from my eyes, I could just make out the shape of a large-brimmed hat and green uniform through the droplets of tenderness that lay on my window; undoubtedly a park ranger waking us to greet the day.

"Good morning Merry Sunshine. The park and all its natural beauties await your exploration. Can I offer you a croisant and fresh-squeezed orange juice to rouse you from your coma-inducing stench?" (att.)

As I slowly rolled down the window, I noticed the park ranger reel back quickly. No longer leaning down to gingerly welcome in the day, she stood head high, nose pointed slightly outward. In this moment, I suspected things may turn sour for me. She (not the woman in the picture) asked a few questions...well one really, "Did you sleep here last night." I had to think quickly. Wasn't it obvious? Maybe I could tell her we got up to see the sunrise, cleaned up camp, went for a sweaty hike, rolled in buffalo dung, swam laps in sulfur-drenched geyser, and then jumped in the car to boil some vinegar. (Seemed unlikely, but not any more unlikely than the fact that the violent smell and condensation was human-based.) Instead, still groggy from my olfactory pummeling the night before, I muttered, "Yes Ma'am."

She then went on to inform me that what we had done was called O B camping (and I was like...more like B O camping....eh?.....eh?.....roy?....crickets). I feigned curiosity by asking questions about why camping in a car was out of bounds, despite the fact that I had first-hand, near-death knowledge as to why. She explained that she had seen us the night before, but assumed we were looking at our maps with our flashlights (maps...ha!). She wrote me a ticket and I couldn't help thinking one of the other campsites would have been perfect (and probably less asphyxiation-prone), if I had just made the decision. But I kept thinking there was one perfect campsite out there for me. I didn't realize there were a number of campsites that could have made me perfectly happy.

There is a horrible idea out there perpetuated by romantic comedies. The idea of a soulmate (or in this case, one perfect campsite that was meant for me). I know this sounds horribly unromantic of me (especially after such a romantic blog), but there is no such thing as a soulmate, at least not as we know it. There isn't one perfect person out there for us that we are meant to find. Thinking there is such a thing gets people (and relationships) in a lot of trouble. We get into relationships thinking or hoping we have found our soulmate, and that as a result, everything will be smooth sailing, no fighting. The problem is, when the fighting starts we think, "This must not be the right person for me. How could it be so hard if it was. I need to end this and go out and find my soulmate."

Scott Stanley, a leading researcher in marriage and relationship education, has found that the biggest difference between marriages that stay together and marriages that don't is commitment (here). Not passion, not soulmatedness (copyright), not lack of fighting. It's commitment. Couples that make it 40 years with happy marriages do so because they were committed. Despite hard times, despite feeling 'out of love,' despite anger, they were committed to their relationship.

Please don't misunderstand me. I am not saying you should stay in your relationship no matter what, even if it means a threat to your physical safety or that of your kids. But the vast majority of couples that end their relationships do so for much simpler reasons (i.e. we just don't love each other, we fight all the time, we grew apart). You can fall back in love. You can grow back together. Commit to making it work and figuring it out together. Commitment to a life together can make all the difference. It can get better.

It's either that or a slow death by tender asphyxiation.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go hug my steering wheel.

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT
Marriage and Family Therapist, Austin TX

Oh, I'm mom enough.

When people first find out I am a marriage and family therapist, they tend to assume two things: 1.) I am analyzing everything they do as a couple and parent, and 2.) I have a perfect marriage/family. I feel now might be a good time to publicly address these rumors.

First, to quiet your fears, yes, I do analyze your relationship (you as a person, really). Please remember, this is not a judgment. I simply recognize the vast store of knowledge I possess and feel obligated to help, solicited or not. Just think of me like your medical doctor friends who can't help but provide physicals during a dinner party. My silent analysis is no more awkward than that.

Keep in mind, I speak from a place of not only education (lots and lots of rigorous training, studying, excelling), I speak from experience. My marriage IS perfect; the perfect blend of intimacy, respect, mutual compassion, and testosterone:

"Babe, I just don't think it's legitimate unless I'm wearing the kilt." (attribution)

Each morning, I wake refreshed, breath smelling appropriately minty, and let my wife know of her stunning beauty and her inner worth and majesty. We both arise early to greet our children with a heartfelt "Good morning! You are important. You matter. How can I serve you this fine day?" Never a harsh voice raised, nor biting word spoken.

I recently had an exemplary moment with my two eldest children. Both approached me at the same time asking me to assist them (some might call it whining, but I'm above such labeling). My son wanted strawberry milk and my daughter wanted the candy my son was eating, rightly protesting the fairness of him having candy and her not.

Please keep in mind, I had already navigated the day gracefully by first pouring sugary drinks for breakfast (as named by my son to mean any drink that is not his normal whey protein and acai berry shake--no  responsible parent would give their children anything less). Throughout the day, I had listened intently to each of the 347 requests my children posed, quickly responding and gently correcting when necessary, as any perfect parent would. With each response or correction, my children and I would hug and reassure each other of the deep love we have for one another.

So, when my two children approached in what lesser parents might call whining, I quickly recognized a teaching moment. I lovingly told my children that I could not hear them when they were speaking at the same time. I gently informed them that I would not respond until they could state their concern one at a time in a calm voice. As each persisted in their previous course, I promptly and appropriately stood up, left the room, locked myself in the bathroom, turned on the bathroom fan, and plugged my ears as my children banged on the door, crying for more damn sugary drink.

Despite this all too-common moment of immaculate parenting, I too have moments of weakness with my children. I have, on occasion, treated my wife with less than the respect she deserves. I have had moments when I thought it might be a good idea to lock my children in the garage and yell, "Sweet fancy Moses, just go away for a few minutes."

If I were truly honest, as I have been up to this point, I admit I sometimes feel horribly awkward parenting my kids in front of people. I think people are watching to see how I handle things. I do things I am sure people think are a terrible idea, and may well be. But none of us is a perfect parent. No one has a perfect marriage. We all fight. We all have moments we wish we could take back. Marriage and relationships (adult and parent-child) are a lot of trial and error; a lot of figuring things out as we go.

We're all doing the best we can. There is not one right way of doing things. The world doesn't move to the beat of just one drum.  What might be right for you, may not be right for some. I guess what I am really trying to say is that it takes different strokes. That's important. Let me repeat that. It takes different strokes. Ultimately, it takes different strokes to move the world.

Now for some sugary drink and bathroom fan.

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT
Marriage and Family Therapist, Austin Texas

What was it George? Birdwatching?

Goerge McFly is watching Loraine McFly.
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I've been bothered lately by the idea of anonymity. Why is it that I can't read something on the internet or listen to music without Facebook telling everyone I know about it, but I can spend three hours on an airplane farting and no one is the wiser?

Hey Kevin! I saved you a seat, buddy!

Oh, but they are the wiser; they just don't know it was me. I was on a plane recently when someone kept tearing 'em off. Planes are loud, so you can't hear it. Plus I wear abnormally large headphones.

"How can I wear my two favorite chromatically-divergent shirts at the same time?" 

So, instead of hearing (which is the best part of a fart, by the way) someone let off gas (I wasn't allowed to say fart when I was little), I just got olfactorilly punched in the face every 5 minutes. And the problem with planes is that they are essentially a cylindrical hotbox. The smell isn't going anywhere. You just absorb it until you are half the man you were when you boarded the flight.

Why are my airplane pillows never that big?

Every plane-tooter believes, "I can fluff on the plane. It's full of people. No one will know it was me. Plus, it already smells like 1973 in here, it's not going to hurt anyone." Then, they "anonymously" let one go. 

And therein lies my problem with anonymity. Even if nobody knows who did it, someone is still affected. The myth of anonymity is that if we aren't identified, there are no consequences. Now, I'm not speaking of anonymous gifts (unless you count mid-flight fluffernagles as a gift). Anonymity is great when you are donating a kidney to an orphanage (that happens, right?). I'm speaking of anonymity in terms of doing things to which we would never admit. It creates in us a false sense of safety that we aren't hurting anyone.

Much more distressing than anonymous plane-foofs is pornography. One of the myths of pornography is that we are not hurting anyone by watching. For couples, however, the effects of pornography are often catastrophic. A large number of female clients have told me that their spouse viewing pornography feels like cheating. What one spouse thought was anonymous browsing seems to the other like an extra-marital affair.  

Even if it's not pornography, or even if we aren't in a relationship, anonymity leads us to think we can live two separate lives; the Facebook life everyone knows about and the one nobody sees. Maybe we should live a little more like everything we do will be posted on Facebook. Stop believing the myth of anonymity. Nothing anonymous is ever anonymous. Every action and decision has repercussions. 

...Or maybe not?

Be more integritous (yes, I know that is not a word). Remember, Facebook is watching. 

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT

Marriage and Family Therapist, Austin TX

Why don't you just tell me the name of the movie you've selected?

I love movies. I want to start a movie club. The problem, apparently, is that movies (the cinematic arts, to the high-brow among us) are for dummies, the uncultured and uncivilized.

Mark Eaton. Uniting professional sports and the Theory of Evolution since 1982.

Whereas book clubs and literature are for the more refined among us (print books for the truly intellectual, no e-readers).

And here, my friend, is to your nude-colored turtleneck. mmyes. 

The truth is, I can't remember half of what I read in books. I get the main gist (Tom Sawyer got some kids to paint a fence...got it). But if you ask me to discuss the literary nuances and the subtle societal undertones of the story, I got nothing. I can do that with movies, though. I can talk about the depth of the characters or why the director and cinematographers chose to film the way they did. So, when I'm invited to a book club, I offer instead to start a movie club. No one ever takes me up on it. Probably because they know as well as I do every movie club would turn into this:

If you look at this picture from a distance, it looks like Yanni.

Because I love movies, I have Netflix. I've gotten frustrated from time to time with Netflix. I'm not sure they really care about my feelings. Netflix asks me to rate movies I have seen. Then, based on those ratings, they make recommendations to me. For example,

Rob, based on your interest in:

What this book presupposes is...maybe he didn't?

We recommend:

Like watching an epileptic seizure.

Clearly, Netflix just doesn't get me (or maybe they really do get me and Yo Gabba Gabba has a deeper meaning than I've ever considered). Either they are basing their assumptions (making an ass out of U and Mptions) on one small part of something I said, or they aren't even listening to me. I guess a third possibility is that their movie selection is so poor that Yo Gabba Gabba is literally the closest thing they have to The Royal Tenenbaums, in which case, I'm in the wrong line. (I can't rule out the possibility that I'm not being really open and honest with them, but we'll save that for another blerg.)

I've noticed in my time doing therapy that Netflix may not be the only poor communicator out there. I was in the kitchen with my wife the other day and she was trying to tell me something. As I am an advanced communicator and knew exactly where she was going, I went ahead and tried to finish her sentence for her. I failed, but ever resilient, I gave it another go:

The problem is assuming I know where she is going. I stop listening and fill in the blanks. I have clients who do this all the time. We all do it. Even if we hear the words, we stop listening when we think we got the message and miss the meaning completely. We hear "I want a movie," and we spit out Yo Gabba Gabba.

There are 20,000 book out there about listening for a reason. If we stopped listening for what we are going to say next and really tried to understand someone's meaning, we could have better relationships (and our intimacy with Netflix would skyrocket).

I think it's time for an epileptic seizure.

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT
Marriage and Family Therapist, Austin TX

I Totally Phoned in that Dennis Quaid Movie

I think, as a society, we may have underestimated the versatility of leggings for men. We all know they are great for a night on the town and perfect for professional business meetings, but what about the more elegant affairs? 

Welcome to my Sophomore Slump. It's best to lower all expectations now. Let's face it, my first post was amazing. There is nowhere to go from here except Mind blowin', the aptly named second album of Caucasian Icon Vanilla Ice (thank goodness he left off the 'g' or it never would have sold):

We forced his hand to create musical (and lyrical) genius equal to "Havin' a Roni."

Like so many before me, I am using Rob Van Winkle to soften the blow and lower expectations for this, my second blogpost. So, without further ado, I blerg. 

I've had a problem with expectations since the 8th grade PE with Coach Rock. Our class was rotating through sports and had just wrapped up softball, where I really shined. I was catching everything. I was pulling Derek Jeter's into the stands. I was eating onions; I was spotting dimes.

Then came basketball. There were some who felt this was not my strong suit.

I am nothing if not meticulous about form.

But I knew that I was a natural athlete. Just because I was incredibly handsome and witty did not mean I was not more than accomplished on the b-ball court (that's what we basketballer athletes call basketball). Coach Rock had us running some layup drills. I was on fire. I was delicately, yet deliberately guiding the ball to the hoop. I was so on fire, in fact, that Coach Rock asked me to demonstrate the proper form, as he had just witnessed what I can only assume to be perfection. 

I was a little overwhelmed. The whole class was going to be taking notes from me on how to masterfully layup a basketball. I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. Focus. Poise. Athleticism. I backed up and released the graceful gazelle inside of me:

Reason #347 why the ponytail-unitard combination is widely considered to be magical.

As I...strided? strode? strooded? strooded--there is it. As I strooded toward the hoop, I wondered, "What if I am not as athletically amazing as we all know me to be? What if I'm not the person everyone expects me to be? What if instead of looking like this:

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT. Saving marriages and families one villainous look at a time.

I look like this?":

When you put it like that, I will have that 7th piece of pie.

Suddenly, the weight of expectation hit me. All of the basketball training (all 3 hours of it) I had received previously left me. And instead of looking like this:

That's spot-on for my arms, though.

I looked like this:

Then this:

My ball went in, but it was ugly. Since that time, I've struggled with expectations. I still try, don't get me wrong. I don't shy away from trying to exceed expectations, I just tend to trip and slide eyebrow-first across the finish line. I even do it to myself.

I was running the other morning and set a mental finish line on the street. When I was about 4 feet from my mark, I just stopped and walked. What's wrong with me? I was 4 feet away. Just run one more step. Maybe it was fatigue from the many, many miles I had run the day before. Maybe it was mental fatigue from willing myself to go faster than before. Maybe it was the second bowl of Marshmallow Maties I had before the run. Regardless, I quit before the finish line. I had set an expectation for myself and failed to live up to it.

But then something occurred to me as I walked heroically past my finish line. I finished. I didn't run past the line, but I finished. I still crossed the finish line. Sometimes that's not an easy thing to do. If you're like me, you tend to beat yourself up from time to time about not doing something as well as you 'should' have, or maybe for not doing something as well as someone else did, or as well as someone expected. But you still did it. I ran 3 miles that morning (adjusted for inflation). Who cares if I walked the last two steps?

I'm not saying you should stop trying to improve, or that you should never try to live up to expectations. I'm saying, sometimes all you can do is finish. Not finish first, or finish gracefully, but finish. Sometimes we are overwhelmed by too many things...work, relationship, school, kids, anxiety, depression, addiction. Sometimes just getting the ball in the hoop or walking across the finish line should be applauded. If John Travolta can recover from Stayin' Alive to bring us cinematic gems like Hairspray and Battlefield Earth, I can recover from walking across the finish line.

Here's to finishing.

That's the floor of my kitchen in my next house. 

Coach Rock would be proud. Kino Jr. High School Football Rules!

Rob Porter, Ph.D., LMFT
Marriage and Family Therapist, Austin Texas

A Dive into Lake Me

Sometimes I wonder what I am doing in the therapy field. I think I'm a pretty normal guy. I like to watch movies, I go running, I took a modern dance class...you know, normal guy stuff. I don't come from a difficult background (although my mom is Canadian), but it seems like that is a prerequisite for being a therapist. Come from a difficult background...and be weird.

I think I have those pants.

Or, if you are not going to be weird, be overly touchy-feely.

Did that couple just close a business deal?

I'm just the right amount of touchy-feely.

This is where the healing begins...

And I do like to talk about feelings. The truth is, I don't know what else I would do with my life if I wasn't a marriage and family therapist. My brother-in-law is a cop. He was an undercover drug/gang cop and on the SWAT team for years. Really nice guy and a real man's man:

I could never pull off the vest.

One day I was hanging out with my manly brother-in-law. He and a friend of ours (an FBI agent....when did I start hanging out with such cool people?) were swapping manly stories about taking down culpri...felo...bandits. My BIL (that's text-speak for brother-in-law. Yes, you can borrow it) asked if we wanted to see his gun that killed a man. I suddenly became a 5-year old and yelled, 

"Cool...I mean, sure dude, whatever. Who hasn't shot a guy?" 

He pulls the gun out and he and the FBI agent talk about the type of gun. It was like a 68 caliber. The FBI agent holds it up and gets a feel for it. My BIL asks if I want to hold it. 

"Sure," I say as I wonder what emotions my BIL must have felt as he shot a man and how he handles the tears that inevitably still come. I take the gun and hold it up, just like the FBI guy. In my head, I looked sweet. My BIL's reaction indicated I may have looked something more like this:

Many less-experienced gunmen don't realize the ocular cavity is one of the best places to brace for kickback.

So, I may not ever have a moment in my life where I yell, "Put it down!" (for those of you not counting, that is 2 Twin Peaks references in one blog post). But I'm good at what I do. I relate well to people. I'm the kind of guy you want to hang out with, though not necessarily in athletic competitions.

Not all therapists are weirdos (if you are a therapist and you are reading this blog, I don't think you are weird). We don't all hope to become one with the universe and our inner chi. We don't all look like Dr. Jacoby, and none of us want to be Dr. Phil. Most of us, myself included, believe in what we do and try our best to help people.

I think I need a hug.

Rob Porter, Marriage and Family Therapist (not to be confused with Fred Garvin, Male Prostitute)
Austin, TX