Tired of feeling like a relative of the Pillsbury Dough Boy, I’ve begun an exercise program after a few months of slothyness. My whole body’s in the Total Hurt postal code (zip code for the Yanks) these days. (I think it’s code O0H 0O0 for the postal fanatics out there.) My vocabulary may not be entirely reduced to “Ouch, oh, wah, gah!” but it’s on the verge. I’d like to see what happens to this blog if I go that way. Snicker.

They say exercise is the new anti-depressant, kind of like pink being the new black. Or did I miss the memo on black being the new black? Whatever. You know what I’m saying. Fuck Prozac, embrace jogging. And pain, as the case might be. (Ow.)

But in honour of my new exercise program, for you: a word about Kegels.

AKA: Getting more bang for your orgasmic buck.

Me, I’m a spendthrift. I certainly want more for my buck — orgasms included. I mean, hey. Life’s short, yeah? Go big or go home, honeybunch. Go… OH. There you have it. Big!

If you’ve been on a desert island for the last several decades of your life and missed the memo on Kegels, WELL, thank god you have me!

Kegels: Named for a guy called “Arnold Kegel” (now, how many orgasms could a guy with that name really have had, anyhow?), the Kegels are your gateway to better control over orgasms. How, then, do you master Kegels? Any number of ways, really.

But what in the hell do they do, you must be wondering. Well, they strengthen the pubo… blah, it’s a big long word that means “pelvic floor muscles”. You know, the muscles that help you control your orgasms. For you boys out there, that means you can make yourself last longer and prevent yourself from blowing your load before she blows her top. Yeah, NOW you’re interested.

For the women out there, it’s a way of making your love canal come with a vice grip that’ll have him swearing you fit him like a glove. You love him long time, baby. Imagine being able to squeeze him tighter every time he thrusts himself deep inside of you… you better hope he’s doing his Kegel homework too, so he can hold out in the midst of all your hard work. It’s also whatcha do when you’ve gotten all stretched out like the Gumby of sex goddesses post-child-delivery and all.

How do ya do it then? Easy. When you’re peeing, stop yourself mid-stream. Those are the muscles you’re looking to exercise. Once you’ve figured out how to isolate them, just lie on the floor while you’re watching Oprah or American Chopper, and flex and release… oh, say 50 or a hundred times. Do it every day or two, and watch your sex life get better. It’s that easy.

If you’ve been doing Pilates or yoga, you probably already know how to isolate and work those muscles. For the guys out there, the men I know who’ve done either Pilates or yoga swear it’s the best thing they’ve ever done for their sex lives. License to be the Energizer Bunny of lovemaking is what I’ve been told. Rumour has it you can go five orgasms in a row without being introduced to Mr. Softee. No, really!

One of the tricks I use is, I make sure I need to go to the washroom before I start exercising. I deprive myself and hold it in, then I exercise — lifting weights, cycling, whatever. All I knows is, it works.

Are you link crazy? Here. And here. And here.

But, HEY, if you’ve been Kegeling and know first-hand their benefits, do tell! Share, and spread the good word! What say you?

Ah, oral sex. Nothing like a mouthful, huh?

I’ve had a guy email me a couple of times about his partner’s ambivalence and distaste towards receiving oral sex. He loves to perform it, she hates to receive it. They’ve been married a while, and it seems she can’t get past her hang-ups, whatever they may be, and he’s feeling quite deprived as a result.

Part of the problem, he thinks, is that she dislikes tasting herself on him when they kiss post-delivery.

Let’s backtrack a minute. In a moment of complete hypocrisy after my last posting, I decided to post a personal ad in an “intimate encounters” section online, figuring it couldn’t hurt if I was to perhaps find a nice ongoing sexual exchange with someone who’s on the same get-some/stay-independent page as I am.

As a result, I’m all of a sudden being deluged by men who profess to love giving oral. They’re all apparently geniuses at it, too. Sigh. Of course they are. I found myself in a conversation regarding the love-of-delivery, and I asked the rhetorical question of, “Why does almost every guy profess to love delivering oral?”

I began wondering if maybe, just maybe, men love it because it means not having to worry about whether their cocks are going to behave the right way for the right length of time. After all, there’s an awful lot of pressure on men to perform at a certain level every single time they let their hound out of the gate, so to speak. (Of course there’s the up-close visuals as she gets further and further aroused, and men do love their eye-candy of all sorts.)

I’m sure it’s not that simple, though, but I certainly have to wonder if the pressure thing is a factor. Any guys want to chime in on that one?

I do digress. We’re talking about this guy and his woman. I’ve written about oral in the past, here, and probably in dozens of other spots that I’m too lazy to seek out. I think probably every woman’s a little self-conscious about whether she’s tasting the right way for her man of the moment. I could certainly understand why a woman might despise tasting herself on her guy after delivery, too. Personally, I don’t have that hang-up. I certainly have had it, though.

I remember being rather self-conscious about it a couple years back and the guy I was seeing at the time simply decided to go down on me, came back up, kissed me, and said, “So, how do you taste?” I was taken by surprise, but it was one hell of a kiss, and suddenly I just wasn’t concerned anymore. Salty, but sweet. Nifty.

But that hasn’t worked for this guy. The only thing I can really suggest is, keep mouthwash by the bed and a bowl to spit it into. If she can’t handle her tastes on you, then maybe a little minty goodness will go a long way to circumventing that issue.

Guys need to appreciate, though, that there are a lot of times women will have different infections or odor issues that can really impact how they feel about what juices they might be secreting. Unlike men, who pretty much only secrete upon orgasm, we start pumping fluids out as soon as we’re aroused.

Couple that with the reality that there are marketing machines at work in every media imaginable, trying to force us to feel shame or embarrassment over scents that are actually biologically built to attract men, and it’s not surprising women can have hang-ups about a guy nuzzling his face into our twats.

What’s the secret? How do you get past that? Beats the shit out of me. This isn’t a t-shirt, there is no one-size-fits-all solution that’ll enable you to push a magic button and nix all her anxieties.

This is also about trust issues. She, for whatever reason, doesn’t trust you’re telling the truth when you say you can’t get enough of that salty scent and taste of hers. A lot of women aren’t into swallowing cum, either, and for that reason they can’t fathom why you’re wanting to gobble their juices up instead of being repulsed by it.

All you can do is try and get her perspective on it. When she’s saying she doesn’t like it, you ask why. There’s a fine line between pushing and really wanting to know, and good luck to you in trying to toe that line.

Finally, how do you know she hasn’t got some oral sex nightmare story in her closet? I’ve known a couple of guys who’ve told me how they responded with utter disgust upon getting their first real whiff of a woman’s vagina, and they’ve told me how they high-tailed it outta there (and felt riddled with remorse later, but wouldn’t have changed a thing on their reaction, oddly). I even had one guy friend tell me about how he tried going down on his girlfriend and vomited between her legs shortly after he began to tongue her. Turned out it was food poisoning, but it was the end of that relationship. So, who knows their history?

All you can do is keep on trying. Always ask them “what can I do to make it a more comfortable experience for you?” But sometimes there’s just going to be no solution that’ll make you happy. Some of those hang-ups are legion, man. It’s a rough thing to overcome for some women. All I can say is, good luck with that. Keep trying. It ain’t an easy problem to solve, and I’m at a loss for suggestions. Anyone have anything they’d like to suggest?

(Drinking tropical fruit juices, like papaya and pineapple, is great for changing the flavour of ejaculate, and might give just the right twist to her juices so that a post-delivery kiss may change the reaction she has. You can certainly try that, too.”

welcome to spring, aka: rainy season redux, here in vancouver. today’s forecast is some 80mm of rain, give or take a little. (that’s about four inches for you Yanks.) the alleyway behind my place is a veritable river, an inch or two thick of water streaming downhill without end where the lane dips down in the centre.

i awoke to discover my time of the month had begun, which accounts for why i’ve felt like such a cunt for the last three days. gotta love PMS and the license to bitch it grants. but the Red Tide on the Rise means i feel like being lazy in the face of the inevitable cramps that come with. i tackled dishes and made some homemade toast with fried eggs and a French press full of coffee, which i enjoyed while beginning the movie i’ve had kicking around my kitchen table this past week. i’ve paused it for now because there was a bitter-sweet moment of beauty-cum-tragedy, and i know the tragedies are only just beginning… fitting for this world awash in tears today.

it’s a Chinese film with subtitles, Kekexili, “Mountain Patrol” in English, about vigilantes trying to protect the sacred Tibetan antelopes that had been senselessly slaughtered for a couple decades but are beginning to rise again (if you can call a recent headcount of 150,000 versus the former millions that once ranged those high Chinese/Tibetan plains a “rise”). the movie’s pretty beautiful and tragic at the same time, but it’s nice to be enjoying a quality foreign film. some days Hollywood’s fare feels a bit too much like an enema for my tastes.

i posted something earlier this week that’s had me thinking a lot: the photo in which Kim asks, “so why not be the best Kim i can be?” and i began to wonder, “am i being the best Steff i know i can be?”

the answer’s a glaring no. i’m doing better than i’ve been in a while, but i know the distance that lies between here and there. some of it’s very superficial — my clothes aren’t fitting right (getting loose, which is good), i need a haircut, and i want to get out to the gym. i also want to be a tidier person, too. aside from that, i’m somewhat pleased. being more social would be good, too, but i know that i’m social with the seasons. it’s hard to have positive thoughts about waiting in the rain for 20 minutes for crowded buses or hopping on a scooter to rage through rain and get to where the action is, versus enjoying a quiet drink on a comfy sofa in my beautiful home (see the inset for a photo of my sweet pad).

this new job thing takes a lot out of a girl, though. i’m performing very well, and i know it, but it’s draining, and i’ve made the mistake of overcommitting to my old job, too, and it’s all adding up to be very thieving of my time. when i’m too busy, i like to slack off and enjoy my solitude. tomorrow i’ll work at my old job for the last time for an indefinite period. i will instead work overtime at the new job (snicker… how defeatist is that?) in order to bank time and then i’ll work banked days off at the old job. it postpones the arrival of riches but might ultimately be more rewarding. as i wrote in an email to a friend just now, “it comes down to deciding that my loyalties must lie with my present and my future, and not my past.”

this is a good time of year to be overworked in Vancouver, though. the rain comes in waves, but it’s here more than it’s not. soon i will cease working extra altogether in order to enjoy life and meet new people. my gameplan is to join a couple social clubs — a film group, since i’m a cinematic junkie, and who knows what else. the granola girl deep down inside would like to join a drum circle (i have a djembe that is woefully underused, and i won’t even tell you about my guitar!) so i’m considering the merits of drumming on beaches as the sun sets and weather warms, and the merits seem aplenty.

but i figure that if i’m swearing off this e-dating thing, it needs to be replaced with something else: socializing for the fun of it. i haven’t really tried to meet new people in a long time. my last attempt last year wound up being rather freakish and weird since i met a few people that seemed to want to know me for all the wrong reasons (long story there and one i’m too polite to share) and were very ingenuine with me. i decided i wasn’t in a place where i could handle that weirdness, thanks to the depression i was battling and all of that melodrama that has now faded away from me. they wanted me to be someone i’m not, and the trouble with depression is you forget who you are. i decided to rediscover myself instead of trying to be what others wanted back then.

i tried the e-dating thing during the winter and met some guys who were in the right place at the wrong time, as well as a couple of wackos, and now here i am — about to kick the can one more time, but in a different way and for all the right reasons rather than the wrong ones.

meeting people is an interesting dilemma for me. i’m seemingly good at it, because i have a heck of a personality and a razor-sharp witt, i’m told, but i’m also an intense girl with a lot of strong opinions, and i sometimes don’t know how to water myself down for greater public consumption. i’m also apparently quite inimidating to some, which is not something i try to be and i’m surprised to find that i am. my e-dating tag used to be “an acquired taste… entirely worth acquiring”, but not everyone likes tapenade, tripe, or sushi, so it stands to reason i have select personal appeal as well. which is fine, but sometimes frustrating.

i also have very high standards for the people in my life, and it may sometimes seem somewhat unforgiving, but it is what it is, and what it is is something i deliver on. any standards i have for others are standards i meet and beat at my end. my demands of others recently caused a friendship to fail when the other person couldn’t accept that i needed more from the friendship than they were able to provide. (silly things like communication and actually doing shit together is apparently too much to ask of some people. c’est la vie.) and while i might pay the price from time to time, the friends i do have, i keep for years and years and years. i’m quietly yet fiercely loyal, and they know it through my actions and my words, i suspect.

so, am i the best Steff i can be? hmm. as i sit here in my soiled housecleaning t-shirt and Joe Boxers, the answer’s a dubious “sort of”. i’m the best i can be today, but not the best i will be. and i guess that’s all a girl can do… know who she is at the present and where she’s gonna be in the future, and love ’em both. easier said than done but worth trying to do.

I was reading Vancouver Magazine a moment ago and almost laughed out loud before I found myself nodding and pondering a statement by the always-quoteable local music magnate Bruce Allen:

Oh, I so hear ya, Bruce.

Bruce, though, was talking about civic politics. Me, I’m talking about dating.

Today’s the first day of Spring and it’s oh, so very welcomed by yours truly. But with this season comes this renewed ambivalence and nonchalance towards dating. If I was to meet some hot guy on the street tomorrow and the flirting ensued, then great. I’d be all for that. Hell, I had a cute bald insurance boy hitting on me before dinner tonight. Oh, if only the boss wasn’t with me!

E-dating, though, has really begun to lose its allure. It’s so full of bullshit.

Fortunately, as I said, Spring is here and soon the weather will also be arriving. With that comes a great deal of freedomin the world of Steff, and being alone becomes a GOOD thing.

I wasted most of my spring and summer last year on a relationship that went nowhere and met a bad demise, not to mention also spent it working in a job I hated, with no windows and in the poorest part of town where there was always a scent of warm piss on the ocean breeze, and I found myself angrily resenting the shit out of it all.

Now, though, I’m working near the ocean and love the job, I’m single, and the season of freedom’s on the verge. So why waste my time on some of these fucking dimwits who aren’t even worth the words I can screw together?

You see, e-dating has its place, but there’s this highly disposable, impersonal nature to it, and the players within seem to just not care at all about the persons who may or may not reside behind the profile they’ve just blown off. Everyone’s in it for themselves, and there’s very nearly no karmic backlash, it would seem, for shitty behaviour. Emails get exchanged, and for whatever dumb, small reason, the recipient then decides there’s no sense in responding to the person, so instead of doing the polite thing and saying, “Sorry, but I think I’m not interested,” they do the dickhead thing and just not respond.

I’ve done this e-dating off and on for, what, five or six years now, and I’ve noticed a downward spiral. More and more it’s becoming this dehumanized, inconsiderate, and almost degrading way to seek companionship. Sure, it works, some of the time. Now and then you’ll luck out and meet someone great, someone who might even be worth latching onto long into the future. The trouble is, you need to be patient enough and have enough of a thick skin to wait it out… because there are an awful lot of shitheads out there you’ll need to get past before you find the gold in the dark mine you’ve been digging through.

Oh, and trust me, it’s not just one gender being afflicted by this lack of empathy out there. For some reason, the computer screen and this sense of anonymity almost seems to give license to behaving in ways that society once wouldn’t tolerate.

And Bruce is right: There are no consequences. There’s no Ghost of Christmas Past who’s going to float down your chimney and scare the sense from you and guilt you into better behaviour. There’re no social police who’ll come and imprison you for your crassness. There’re no fines, no “human decency” penal code, nothing.

The trouble is, the people getting shat on say nothing and do nothing. The people who do get pissed tend to fly off the handle and have nothing constructive to add to the mix. It’s a world full of self-indulgent people with senses of entitlement, and being gracious and kind to others, it would seem, just doesn’t pay.

Am I cynical? No, I just believe I can do better. I believe good people are out there and I believe they’re sick of the online shit like I am. I may be tough enough to do the online dating thing, and while I’ve had nothing I’ve cared to report to you of late, since I don’t like slagging people, I’ve had some pretty awful dating experiences since last fall and the whole thing seems like a waste of my time. Ironically, before I got into my relationship last year, I’d been dating up a storm and getting some action and having a great time doing it. This past winter has been a bust.

One of these days I’ll have to share.

But Allen’s right. There are no consequences for being an asshole. Yet. So here’s my request to you:

Tomorrow, start making people accountable. If they’re an asshole, call them on it. But, at the same time, you got to give props to those who make life a more pleasant place to be. Sure, there are no consequences for being an asshole, but there seems to be little pay-off in being kind, too. It’s up to you to make sure both occur. Then we’ll finally have balance.

This outspoken, brazen chick you see on here’s the same fucking girl I take into the world, you know. If anyone’s out there exacting checks and balances, it’s yours truly. I tell people when they’ve done right, and I make sure they know when they’ve done wrong. It’s not worth my time in e-dating because being alone isn’t the nightmare sitcoms and date flicks would have you believe, and, besides, being alone’s starting to feel nice again for the first time in a long, long while.

Please, for the love of life, start living like you believe in karma. Start believing there are cosmic consequences for your behaviour. It makes the world a better place to be, and god knows it could use a little improvement in this shallow age of the new millenium.

I found myself catching the end of the Nature 25-year retrospective on PBS tonight, with a story about Shirley the elephant. Confined for her past 22 years in the small, but caring Louisiana Purchase Zoo, Shirley was absent the companionship of her kind.
Finally, upon realization that they were doing her more harm than good, the caregivers at the zoo decided to free her to a wide-open sanctuary two states away in Tennessee, where Shirley was coincidentally reunited with a friend, Jenny, from a circus some four decades previous. Against all probability, the two recognized each other. The force of shared emotion in the reunion was so great that the two spent that first night trying so hard to get to each other that they bent the massive steel bars of the gate that separated them, something none of the caregivers had ever seen nor heard of in all their years.
At long last, a sanctuary worker managed to pry the gates apart and the two collided upon each other with great adoration and showering of physical affection. Images followed of the two walking step in step across the sprawling fields, lying and splashing in the small ponds dotting its landscape, and generally just being happy in each others’ company.
Goes to show you, as much as we might think moments are deep in our past, there are moments, places, and others that simply never escape our recall.
I’m not much of an animal lover, but I’m a lover of love, and that was as powerful a display as any I’ve seen.
Sadly, Jenny passed away in October of last year. Found on the sanctuary’s website was this portion of the eulogy on her passing.

At 6:35PM CST, on October 17, with her family at her side, Jenny’s breathing slowed and became shallow. She released a deep guttural sound from the base of her trunk, bringing Bunny and Tarra immediately to her side. Shirley had moved away, painfully sensing that Jenny’s death was very near; her sorrow was heavy. To lose Jenny for a second time was more than Shirley could bear.

Wow, so here’s a week of friendships with exes! On top of that, I had a conversation with a coworker yesterday in which she was saying the old Harry Met Sally line about how men & women can’t be friends, and that you certainly can’t be friends with an ex-lover. Then this posting happens. Ooh. Spooky things afoot!

My ex wanted to be friends after we broke up even though I wasn’t crazy about the idea but promised to try. But the weird thing is, we’ve only seen each other once or twice in the last year since we broke up. We had “soft” plans this weekend since he seems to be totally non-committal about making plans of any kind, and at the last second, sent me an email saying “I have to bail. Maybe next weekend.” Again with the “maybe”!

So I emailed him back saying the ball was in the court, I was tired of making all the effort to get together. After all, he’s the one that dumped me! I’ve already been rejected once and in a huge way, so yeah I’m tired of making the plans! I emailed him back, saying it felt like I was the one making all the effort. I said even when I do get a response of possibly doing something with him, his responses are non-committal and not very enthusiastic. Then I told him the ball was in his court now.

He emailed me back “Have a nice life” and that’s it! I think the friendship is dead. I’m pretty pissed about it and I just deleted all the emails and I think I’m washing my hands of the whole thing. The question I have is, am I overreacting? Is he? Is it too much to ask that your friends make an effort to see you, too?

Ha! Yeah, like it’s so much to ask that both people in the relationship make an effort to make plans. You say this guy dumped you, so I can certainly see how you’d feel awkward about making plans in the first place. It sounds like he never initiates making plans, so I’m not so sure he’s really comfortable being your friend anyhow.

Maybe he doesn’t even know how uncomfortable he is with it. Maybe he fell harder for you than he ever admitted, and the friendship was harder than he thought after he broke it off. Maybe he has regrets about that decision. Maybe he has more going on in his life than you’re aware of, but there again, if he’s not communicating with you, how are you supposed to know?

Personally, I’ve had a few friendships where people just don’t carry their weight. They don’t make plans, don’t suggest them, don’t contact me, yet they seem to really value me. Like my mother always said, “You sure have a funny way of showing it.”

In my life, I’m an avid blogger, so this puts me at a greater disadvantage. Everyone in my life can read my blogs and knows exactly where I’m at on almost any given day. (I have this blog and my more personal one, the Last Ditch, where it’s more of a daily journal and the goings-on in the life of Steff.)

This means they can fall under the delusion that they’re really plugged into my world, ergo it must go both ways. My friends often say “I think I told you that X happened to me at Y”— but the truth is, I don’t know jack. It’s frustrating. They often don’t clue me in. I have one friend who’s awesome at dropping me update emails. He’ll comment about things he’s read on the blog, give me props or offer support, depending what he’s read, then he’ll tell me everything going on in his life with him, his wife, and baby boy. It’s no substitute for the real thing, but it’s an effort, and I love it.

So, yeah, I make some effort to see people, but I get frustrated at times. I think this guy of yours just doesn’t get it. Friendships need to be give and take. One person can’t be making all the plans or doing all the talking or calling especially if there’s been a relationship between you and he’s the one that ended it in the first place. How often can you possibly sign up for rejection? Sounds to me like, in this case, rejection’s an ongoing status quo for you, honey, so sooner or later you need to decide you’ve had enough.

There’s a possibility, however, that something big and bad has happened when people disappear. I have a doozey of an example. I’d just gotten into communication with one of my old best friends from when I was 13-17 recently. Funny story – she and my brother met on an online dating site and had a date and realized they’d both had connections to me. They loved it, laughed about it, and had an awesome time together. She got in touch with me by email when my brother clued her in. We exchanged some emails, began making plans, and then she disappeared. I was wondering if I’d pissed her off when I brought up how insensitive I was in my teens when she lost her mother to cancer. Later, I tried again (twice) to email her. No response. Well, my brother was in the same boat. Last weekend she finally gets in touch with him and says, “Yeah, well, a week after our date I was diagnosed with cervical cancer.” Oh, fuck.

Normally my advice to my brother would’ve been “Forget about it, she’s not into you” but wow. My teen best friend has cancer. Her mother died of it. My mother died of it. And now she has it. My head’s been trying to wrap around that. But it’s a big reminder that sometimes people just disappear for their own reasons and that we can’t just stop trying to contact them.

But you’ve had a year of non-committing, non-responsive friendship with your ex. It sounds to me like you’ve been making an effort, and for some reason this guy’s feeling all martyred now that you’ve called him on it. He’s pissed and is washing his hands of it because he fails to see that he’s actually in the wrong this time. Sure, you can try to placate him and beg to be his friend again, but sometimes people just need to accept that they should have done more.

The question is, can you live without this person in your circle of friends? Oddly, it’s actually a trick question. The answer is, you already are. Grieve for the final loss of your friendship, have a drink, and move on.

Bloody hell, people. I’m sorry! I forgot to update you.

All right. My coworker’s husband pulled through. He had been tragically ill years ago and his adrenal gland has never really worked since. Thus, if he gets ill at all, bad things can happen — or so they’ve now discovered.

The doctors told him late Saturday night that his blood pressure was so abysmally low for so long that they felt he couldn’t survive it. Then, suddenly, presto! He began to improve. They’d given him nine bags of saline in the first day, and pumped him full of some form of adrenaline.

He’s been lickin’ the curb all week with zero energy, and the wife’s had the flu and a stomach bug. We chatted today and she complained how she’d been wanting to go to the hotsprings over spring break. I suggested her and the hubby get out and shop for some nice foods, have some breakfast, go for a walk, and hire a maid to clean the house top to bottom while they have a relaxing morning. Then they could be homebodies all week and rest up. She loved the notion, so it looks like a plan.

It was apparently one hell of a weekend, though! Monday she told me he had originally wanted to go to work and she told him what a fucking idiot he was, heh, so he stayed home. We told the story to another woman and she commented, “Men! They won’t go to a doctor, but they’ll go to work!”

Ahem.

Oh! And if he ever even gets the sniffles again? He’s to immediately go to emergency. Apparently he’s left with nil as far as an immune system goes. Sucky, to understate things drastically.

I had a letter from a reader a bit ago and I’ve neglected to respond to her until now (my apologies) thanks to the whirlwind of acclimatizing to my new job.

She said:

I have a question. My boyfriend of [several] months just broke up with me [recently] because he said he need time and to be by himself. However he still wants to be friends. I asked him to clarify friends and he actually means friends, no sex. So [a few days later] he has texted me repeatedly, already trying to be my friend. I am angry at him right now because we had a good relationship and I can honestly say I had no idea it was coming, but that being said I think he’s a great person and would like for him to stay in my life. Still reeling from the breakup and a little confused, what’s your take on the situation?

As is always the case, specifics have been changed so the reader doesn’t find her ass in a sling when someone she knows reads it.

Now, to the question. Friends are great, but being friends with ex-lovers is a hard thing to pull off. The transition is a real doozey emotionally and logistically.

There’s the old ‘60s song “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” in which it goes “You say although we broke up, you still just wanna be friends, but how can we still be friends when seeing you only breaks my heart again?”

These songs play so much, so often, so repeatedly that the lyrics just seem trite and overdone as time passes, but it’s cliché because it’s so damned true.

We want to think breakups are easy and life goes on, but the reality is that “Broken Heart Syndrome” is a bona fide medical term. It comes from sudden loss or trauma – be it the death of a loved one, the loss of a valued job, or a breakup, or more. These things have one hell of a cardiac impact, and to belittle how hard it is to transition is just ridiculous. It’s proof positive that our emotions can, and do, impact our physical well-being to the point that death is conceivable.

(Those suffering BHS can actually die of what is essentially a heart attack brought on by emotional trauma. Those suffering the “heart attacks” get admitted and treated as any cardiac attack victim would be, then are released 24 hours later or longer, often in fine shape.)

If you can’t handle being friends, you need to say so. If being friends down the line is something you want but the present isn’t working for you, then you need to say so.

He’s the one that ended the relationship, so you have nothing to feel guilty about. He’s getting what he asked for in the first place. You can’t ask for time and space, then negate that by drawing the person closer after the pieces fall, y’know?

Maybe it’s just because I’m a chick, but I find that guys doing the dumping always want to be friends because it takes the edge off their guilt or something. Sure, I’m a great friend to have and a good person to know, but the cynic in me makes me wonder if it’s just so they can sleep a little better at night under the impression that they didn’t hurt me and they didn’t blow a good thing. And while I’m sure that’s sometimes the case, I know it’s not always.

In the end, your life is all about you. Yes, other people make it richer, but sometimes they make it harder. You never saw this coming and he gave you no inkling that it was looming, and that sucks. Maybe it’s a phase. Maybe he really does need time and space, but if that’s the case, make him take it. You wanted space, bub? You got it. Issue an emotional restraining order and protect yourself.

I’ve made the mistake of going “on a break” and trying to keep things open with a lover. I’ve also made the mistake of thinking friendship was a switch that could be flicked on without a second thought. I was wrong on both counts. It’s hard. It takes work. It takes being ready to let go of what was and accepting instead what is.

When your lover wants “space” and “time”, then make them take it. They can never long for what’s sitting right beside them, y’know? I think the whole “I need space” thing followed by “be my friend now” tends to come from a place of fear that maybe, just maybe, they’ve made a colossal mistake. Unfortunately, by enabling that need to have you around just in case it was all a mistake, you’re helping them to settle for the new lesser you.

And who knows, maybe friendship’s what you’ve really been destined for all along. Maybe it’s worth all the confusion and recalibrating of your heart to have that friendship. Only you will ever know. I don’t think being friends with exes is a bad thing, not in the least. You just gotta be ready for it, and you, honey, ain’t.

All I know is, the next time a man of mine wants space, he’s getting it. I’ll walk away until I’m called for, and then I’ll take my sweet-ass time returning, but I’m not going to sit around and pretend everything’s just fine. The last time I did, all the hurts I suffered were my own. I blame myself because I knew I should’ve been stronger and just walked away and let it all just be, and I didn’t, and the price I paid was high.

Don’t underestimate the pain of a breakup, and don’t let anyone tell you to get over it. Your heart will know when it’s time to walk on, and them joes on the street just don’t know jack, hon. Good luck with that, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed it. I was busy being there for myself, instead. Perhaps that’s a behaviour model for you to learn from.

So, there’s the whole “age gracefully” or “fight that fucker” dilemma that comes rearing for us all, sooner or later.

Recently, I’ve been finding more grey hairs. That is to say, “Saturday”. I think I plucked a good dozen out that afternoon. My mother died of cancer at 57 and was only THEN beginning to go grey. I’m just a bit alarmed. A dozen? Wow. Some part of me is freaked out that the grey hair comes retrofitted with a good dose of cancer, but I’m trying to ignore my inner-conspiracy theorist, thanks.

Granted, I’m not the type who stands there peering into her faults in the mirror. I take a boo here and there, but usually I shrug and move on. But this is grey hair we’re talking about! I stood there angling myself in the light, prying a lock here, toying with some strands there, constantly on the hunt for a new, kinky looking little white hair.

Fortunately, I still have to look if I’m gonna do the finding, but I’m a bit of a worrier. I’m concerned. I’m not even 35. I’m cooler in many ways than I’ve ever been, so what’s with this grey thing?

I suspect, however, that it’s all the jobless-stress and such I came down with in January. I bet these greys have been around for weeks, and it’s only because I was bored out of my mind and saw one pop up that I even noticed. The bad part was when I began tousling my hair in search for more errant strands of grey and pulled my hair aside only to discover a veritable thicket of grey. Five strands! In one tiny neighbourhood of my hair. Good god almighty! Five! Together! Like the Jacksons! Shit! Fuckety-fuck-fuck! What’s next, Geritol? Makes tired blood young!

Unthinkable! Me! Sweet, loveable, rebellious, “fuck-em-all” ME! Grey?! It’s just wrong. That’s what it is.

On the upside, though, I’m no longer jobless and stressed, so perhaps the foray into older, wiser, greyer Steff has been segued into the Continuing Adventures of the Steffchick instead. I think the latter sounds much more appealing.

Or I can kick my own miserly ass and occasionally spend a pretty penny on a dyejob.

And a word to the wise: Sure, it looks sexy, but the President’s Choice deep-dish “Chicago” style chicken & mushroom pizzza is a total write-off. Somewhere in the midst of the second slice, a piece of chicken finally emerged. I think it’s “Repression-era Chicago” style pizza, but I’ll spare you the semantics. Stick to the beef one. There’s beef in them thar slices. The chicken’s clearly on the run.

I can do fancier breakfasts than this — sauces, French Toast, pancakes, crepes, quiches — you name it, I can do it, but this is easy, rich, delicious, and perfect for a lazy rainy weekend morning like I’m having today. If I really want to lay down the knock-out punch, I could throw in hash browns, but they’re just too rich for me in my old age. I’d rather use a little extra butter in this. 😉

The trouble I find most people face when making breakfast is that they don’t know how to time it properly. I dislike nothing more than a time-bungled breakfast.

So… The times are approximate. You always have about 2 minutes grace period… EXCEPT when it comes to eggs. You wanna get them done on time. But, seriously, it’s all just a matter of planning ahead and knowing how long certain things take to do. All meals are the same that way. Plan ahead. Finish at the same time.

Steff’s Caramelized Shallots, Asparagus, & Red Pepper Scrambled Eggs, Honey-Glazed Sausages, and Toast for Two

20 minutes before you want to eat, finely chop 2 shallots and one red pepper. Remove woody end of 3 stalks of thinnish asparagus, then julienne into 1″ long pieces. If, however, you want to use leftover asparagus, just keep that on the counter until the 5 minute mark.Preheat your boiler on max with a rack 4-5″ beneath it.

18 minutes: Melt a tablespoon of butter over medium heat. Add chopped shallot. Saute two minutes. Get your bread out for making toast later.

16 minutes: Add asparagus & red pepper to saute pan. Continue sauteeing for the next 12-15 minutes over medium heat, and when they’re turning golden brown, reduce to medium-low. Stir often. Do not add salt! Not until you’re about to add eggs. Salt extracts juice and they’ll burn quickly.

13 minutes: Butterfly four sausages. Now, if you’re motivated, you can do this part an hour in advance. What happens if you do is, the honey soaks down into the sausages and they plump up with sweetness yet still form a nice glazed crust, but a more even-toned one. Still, doing it right before cooking gives you a thicker, gooier, more candied glaze on the sausages. So, they’re butterflied. Drizzle a tablespoon or so of honey over top of each split sausage (arrange split-side up).

A word about sausages. I don’t like your standard breakfast sausage. I go to my specialty butchers and I tend to buy either chicken-apple or turkey-duck-cranberry. Sometimes honey-garlic or honey-bratwurst. Any which way, you want a larger chub of sausage and you want a savoury-sweet one.

11 minutes: Stick your sausages under the broiler.

10 minutes: Get the coffee going.

8 minutes: This is when I have to get my toast going — the object is to get the toast completely toasted with 2 minutes to spare for buttering, while the eggs are cooking. You know your toaster’s timetable, so figure it out. Keep in mind, too, that if you’re using a bread that’s new to you, it may or may not take longer to toast, so you want to keep an eye on it. I used new bread today and nearly burnt it. God forbid. Breads I love for this: Sourdough light rye, baguette, Ancient grain, 12-grain, Squirrelly (an awesome dark sesame bread here in W. Canada), rye, and more. Changing up the bread changes everything!

7 minutes: If the sausages have browned on top, it’s time to flip them. Then you want to cook them till the skin chars a bit on the other side — 4-6 minutes. Take them out when the skins have charred.

6 minutes: Get cracking. Break 5 eggs into a large bowl. Hand-whisk the eggs for a full minute. (Gets more air in there; fluffier eggs.)

At this point, the times start being a little irrelevant. Follow the signs, get shit ready as is required by doneness. If possible, if you’re getting ahead of yourself and are finishing before the deadline, have a couple large bowls out to cover your plates with so you can keep hot things hot.

5 minutes: Turn the veggies’ heat up to medium/medium-high. Add a tablespoon of butter. If you’re using leftover asparagus, you want to now throw it into the pan with the caramelized shallots & red pepper. This is optional. If you have it, some fresh tarragon takes this to another plane. Mince 1 – 2 tbsps of tarragon. Add the tarragon. Mix well.

4 minutes: Add the eggs to the frying pan. Stir well with the veggies. Add some sea salt and fresh cracked black pepper. Continue mixing.

2 minutes: The eggs should be nearly done. As soon as you see the last bit congealing and cooking, take it off the heat — this could be at any point in the next three minutes, depending on your heat. True French scrambled eggs would mean adding MORE butter just before it all congeals, that 30-60 seconds before it becomes a mass. Fuckin’ great, that, but a little too decadent.

1 minute: Butter the toast. Plate the sausage. The eggs should be off the heat by now.

DONE! Plate the eggs, grab the coffee, and dig in.