Ms. Jackson done sang it: "I'm in CONTROL."

I hate controlling relationships. To see a person subjugate oneself to another, the so-called "alpha," him or her rimlicking without knowing it, his/her head totally in the dark of the domineering person. It is not just chauvinist men controlling doormat women -- it pisses me off more to see a woman pistol-whipping a man, emasculating him to the point of rendering him a certified eunuch.

The acrid taste that comes up when a girl talks flippantly of her "stupid boyfriend," or a woman demeaning "her man" for not doing exactly what she demanded or summoning some innate ESP and reading her mind. It comes up whether she chastises him in front of me, or confides to me her dissatisfaction and tries to appeal to our common womanhood -- that supposedly as a woman, she automatically possesses the "universal right" in a relationship. (I have to check myself and admit I'm guilty of this BS in past relationships. I know now why I acted and reacted that way. As I've said, know your triggers...)

An eyewitness account of such a dysfunctional relationship: my former best girlfriend from the neighborhood. (Bitch was already on the outs with me since being a histrionic mooch at my birthday celebration, for which she is too conceited to apologize.) She enslaves her husband en total. He's indebted to her because their "love match" of a marriage also fortuitously saved him from deportation -- and she makes him pay for it with his pride. The whole purpose of his being now is to make his wife successful. I've never heard what his goals are.

No wonder he drinks himself into a stupor almost every night. No wonder he wants to spend his whole paycheck playing pool at pubs, defying his wife's Oprah-budget rules. I can even understand his violent side, the anger he takes out on inanimate objects, the Martha-Stewart WASPy material things she so covets and values. She boasts how she plucked him from the crowd, changing him from a shirking wallflower, picked his hipster clothes and turned him into something; now she is horrified to see what that something really is.

I don't hang out with them anymore. My easygoing smile and nonmaterial outlook are wasted on the likes of them. (Before I cut them off, I had a very bemusing incident, maybe too much to recount on this blog.) She refuses to ever admit she's wrong. She expects me to be as a much of a bootlicker as her husband. Don't hold your breath, woman. I actually enjoy hearing dissenting viewpoints -- openness deepens understanding. But I won't back down from my principles.

As a single mother, I have to be very selective when choosing a potential partner (even if it's just for a fun time or a good screw). Being steadfastly Pro-Choice, it was a point of empowerment for me to choose to be a single mother. Whoever I bring now into my life and my son's life, I have to enforce that same control. I am looking for an equal.

The next guy I date:

Should familiarize himself with the term "taken in hand." He also should be able to openly discuss it with me and understand what I mean it to be.

Other essential reads from takeninhand.com:

• What is Taken in Hand?
  
• Could this kind of relationship be for you?
  
• Give me intensity or give me death!
  
• I am a strong woman but I want to be taken in hand. Is this normal?
• The submissive alpha female
  (Scroll down for some great scenarios.)
• Who says you have to be submissive?
  
• I don't want to be a servant or slave
• Do you have a commanding presence?
  
• Is your new man dominant, domineering, or a dithering wimp?

(Ever since I watched the movie Secretary [with James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal; click right photo] when it was released a few years ago, I've become fascinated with this subject. But it was only today that I found out there was name for this kind of relationship.)

I miss arthouse films...

Forget mainstream, R-rated films. It's the unrated foreign or indie films that I miss the most now that I am a mother, especially now that my son is a very aware toddler. As a single mom struggling with her budget too, it is hard to find an excuse for spending $25+ for just a visit to a far off arthouse movie theatre, not to mention the subway time and fare, and the distinct possibility that grisly popcorn and nuked nachos will not satiate my stomach. Then add the hassle of sneaking in a bottle of seltzer and maybe a Quiznos sandwich. On top of that, try coordinating schedules with an ex-boyfriend-turned-parenting-partner who will babysit for free, only if he can raid your fridge. Last but not least, breast engorgement from staying away from my nursing child too long...

At long last, my cable provider, Time Warner, added an "International Movies on Demand" Channel, an offshoot of the "Indie" section on the general "Movies on Demand" Channel. My prayers were somewhat answered — there are some interesting sounding films listed, but many are years old. If I'm looking for the latest Almodóvar film that was just released on DVD, this is not the channel to search.

Yesterday was my second time ordering a Pay-Per-View movie, and both had been from the "International" Channel. (The first was a French period film, A Song of Innocence, about the life of a wetnurse in the 19th century — excellent and resonant film that could be applied to the politics of mothering and breastfeeding today.) Yesterday, I ordered 1996's The Stendhal Syndrome, a tale of a policewoman in Italy hunting for a serial rapist/killer. It stars Asia Argento, who I have a girl-crush on (she is like a cross between Chloë Sevigny and Angelina Jolie; if I were a dyke I'd totally fuck her — actually all three of them) and Thomas Kretschmann, this blond German up-and-coming hottie, who was in King Kong and The Pianist with Adrien Brody.

It was melodramatic, heavy-handed with the dialogue and acting. It was extremely gory and violent, considering it came from Europe and since it's from 1996, it predates the CSI-TV and Saw-movie series. It was also impressively imaginative in its hallucinatory depiction of an actual Stendhal Syndrome sufferer and the viseral nature of this sociopath's crimes. Asia Argento shows off her dichotomous butch/femme side (which is making her hot in Hollywood action films right now) as an avenging riot grrrl on Thomas Kretschmann's disturbingly sexy sadist with washboard abs (his second-fiddle roles in King Kong and The Pianist did not put him on the map for me). (I did not actually finish the climax of the film because Time Warner's On Demand system can be wonky and block your access to content often, even if your account is in good terms. A frequent topic for me with TW reps on their 24-hour hotline.)

I recommend this film if you're cringe-factor is quite resilient, both to violence and Jean Cocteau-esque European cinematic excess. Also, I recommend you put your child down to sleep for the night or a very long nap.