I’m giddy! I’m leaving in mere minutes to go camping on one of BC’s Gulf Islands. Sand, smoke, and sea. All good!

I haven’t been camping in 10 or 12 years, and it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long while. Yay Steff.

Anyhow. I’ll be back Saturday night and will spin a tale for all sometime Sunday. Have a terrific weekend, my minions!

Owen Wilson’s recent suicide attempt is really dominating the headlines right now. Too bad for Owen, but great for us.

I’ve suffered depression off and on since my teens. Sometimes it gets really bad and debilitating, but most of the time it’s just omnipresent in the back of my mind, kinda like my social insurance number. God knows I try to fight it, but I know I make my mistakes, too.

One watches these shows like Oprah and sees all the “happiness” experts parading through, telling us that happiness is a choice, and one can be left feeling pretty malfunctioning in a world of efficient and bubbly personas, you know?

Someone like Owen Wilson, who’s perceived to be this laissez-faire, lowkey comedy hottie, goes and tries to kill themself, and, yeah, the world starts to realize that your typical psych case isn’t necessarily always that anti-social asshole who has the corner office on your floor.

Me, I admit my depression history and I see immediate shifts in facial expressions, like I’ve just announced I have a bedwetting problem or something. It’s amazing how quick the shift occurs. The thing is, depression isn’t some icky-gross malady that can turn a stomach. I mean, it’s not some ginormous goiter or oozy weeping ulcer that most people try to avert their eyes from, but it’s still a strangely taboo subject. It’s the kind of thing yuppies still mutter over their martinis. Mm, you heard about his breakdown last year? He spent six weeks rehabbing in Oompa-Loompaville. I bet he’s having cocktail de valium as we gab.

Those of us who’ve been proverbially alone in the dark with depression get how debilitating it can be, how hard it can make day-to-day life. We know how incredibly isolating it is. We’re flooded with endless self-doubt and morose thoughts. Not always, thank god, but there are certainly days and months and even years of bleakness barraging us.

It is what it is, though. We carry on. It’s kind of like suffering from chronic pain. Sooner or later, it just becomes a new normal. Usually you can just get by on it. Every now and then, though, some bit of contrast comes our way and we can compare our lives with those of people who actually seem to enjoy every moment and have carefree existences. Then one of two things happens — either you’re okay with the reality but you commit to changing or at least keep fighting the good fight, or you feel overwhelmed by all you don’t have, all you’ll never feel (or so you think) and you want to just end the suffering now, because if living 10 years longer means living 10 more years like this then why fucking bother, you know?

But that’s the thing. That’s where depression and other disorders win. Fortunately I’ve never felt that way. I have noticed periods where I forget what I love about life. Like these past few months… I feel like I’ve lived in some vapid disconnect. I don’t get how I got here from there, and I’m just a little disoriented. It’s clearing up now for me, but it’s been a troubling year, and nothing like what I expected.

Am I depressed right now? Yeah, a little. But I have an action plan and I have hope and faith, so that’s everything. I also try to be open about it. I haven’t been that open about it this time, because I haven’t been writing, but it’s clicking into place now and I feel like I’m on the right path. Writing shit down: the best therapy ever.

I digress. Owen Wilson’s suddenly-public battle with suicidal tendancies is going to have a huge impact on people being willing to admit more of this. People like Brooke Shields, Halle Berry, who’ve admitted suicidal actions in the past, they’re different. A) They’re women, and gee, aren’t all women overemotional? (I’m parroting stereotypes. Bullshit!) and B) They’re women. Ha. Or they’re your typical angry-at-the-world loner types that seem to be a round peg in a round hole. It was only a matter of time with him, y’know?

Owen Wilson’s this funny, affable, easy-going guy with a penchant for porn and a million creative outlets. Brilliant, rich, single, good-looking… and yet suicidal? This is no Kurt Cobain here. The guy didn’t write a song called Lithium before putting a shotgun in his mouth. He wasn’t married to whack job like Courtney Love. This guy’s got the dream life, and yet he wanted an exit plan.

It’s nice to have the world’s best example of money solves no problems and fame is not an antidote to pain. Everybody hurts. Maybe now we can cut the crap and start talking about something real. Here’s hoping Wilson knows how to turn this into a positive that impacts others. Here’s hoping we all start dialoguing a little more about what’s beneath the surface.

Last November, I was in a difficult place. My dad was, for all we knew, dying in the hospital and nothing in my life was certain. I got the news about my father right after running a Craigslist personals ad, and I was going to just turf all the respective “applicants” when I thought it might be nice to get my head off my life and go on a coffee date.

So, I made date plans with this one guy who seemed kinda like my type. Baby-face-ish, cool but not, seemed sympathetic and open about himself. We decided to rendezvous at a downtown coffee place, close to all the shops and places to wander.

I knew I’d return to the hospital and my reality the next day, but I thought I might just have a nice conversation, and maybe that’d make all the difference, you know?

I got there right on time to find my date seated with a hot drink for me. Nice touch (but if I’d been even a couple minutes later, it’d have been cold and awkwardness would’ve ruled the evening, so maybe not a wise plan, the ordering of a hot bevvy for a not-yet-arrived date). Too bad he looked about 15 years older than his photo (airbrushed, obviously) revealed.

We did the requisite small talk and discussed how fortunate he was to make a living from photography. After all, I really admire anyone who can make a living off their loves.

“So, how do you do it?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, beginning to turn a little pink, “I just lucked into a really good social network and now it’s mostly word of mouth.”

I remember my petty internal dialogue, along the lines of “Mmf, some people have all the luck.”

Sure enough, the guy’s cellphone then rings. He looks at it, pockets it again, but conversation comes to a standstill with the interruption. A couple minutes pass and we’re only just getting chatty again when the phone rings once more. Now, anyone who knows me knows I think cellphones are rude in almost any setting, but DEFINITELY are beyond rude on a first date. I suspect my face conveyed this line of thought.

“Geez, sorry,” he mutters. “A friend of mine… my ex, actually– is out of town and I’m handling her business calls this weekend.”

“Oh. Maybe having coffee was a bad plan this weekend, then?”

“Well, no, I kinda always handle some of her calls, so… I’m kinda always getting lots of calls after hours. I’m just getting a little more than usual this weekend.”

“Ah. And what kind of business is it that you get calls for work on Saturday night?”

He started skirting the issue, so I pressed for more information.

“Um. Well. She’s an escort.” Insert amused pause here. “She owns an agency, actually.”

“And you just take calls?”

“Well, I’m kinda the odd job guy, too.”

“What kind of “odd jobs” does one do in an escort agency?”

Needless to say, he began ducking questions an awful lot while fidgeting with packets of sugar. He tried to explain that sometimes there might be legal issues, or safety concerns, and any number of other things that might come up during a routine week handling the escort agency.

Now, I have no issues with anyone working in the sex trade, but I just choose not to date them. This guy put himself out there as a “photographer”, but it turns out he was doing the pretty-much-porn shots of the escorts for their marketing materials and websites. Okay, whatever, that’s fine.

Then it turns out he’s officially an “appointment maker” for an escort agency. Well, all right. The trouble is, this guy just kept downplaying his roles. He tried to make it seem like he was a cog on a wheel, and nothing more.

That, however, was nothing further from the truth. All of a sudden, it went from him pretending he was just answering calls on this one weekend to him revealing that he was working almost full-time for the escort agency as a “liason” or something.

Our date came to a fast and furious end in the bookstore when I seized the opportunity to make a rather pointed and provocative remark about a book on the sociology of porn. I commented that although I was a big fan of personal freedoms and access to anything your little heart desires, that I thought porn might be having negative effects on relationships today, just thanks to the endless stereotypes of how sex should be done, etc. I wanted a little more creativity and felt a lot of class was lacking, and that sex was more than just action, and then there was the issue of redundant stereotypes and all…

…needless to say, we made our separate ways pretty quickly, our Saturday night date coming to a screeching halt at all of 7pm.

But that’s not the end of the story. How it turns out is, about three weeks later, I was working on a documentary on Vancouver’s sex trade at my former job in the film industry. Guess who was in the show? My would-be date. Turns out he was the guy accompanying escorts to doctors’ offices for tests, helping them with visas, and so forth. The dude was a major player in the documentary, and clearly in the local industry as a whole.

Now, the funny thing was, the guy seemed like a really great guy. Never judged the escorts or their actions, always was there to help in any way. Admirable, that. The trouble is, when you choose to live your life in a more questionable realm than others might dwell in, you more or less have to deal with the consequences of your choices. This guy, unfortunately, wanted to date “regular” girls, but everything about his life was anything but regular.

Someone like me, from the more vanilla side of the road, is probably never going to hook up with a guy like that. Why? Because while I might be a good little girl who likes to play a little less than cleanly, I’ve never engaged in risky behaviour, and no matter how “safe” sex can theoretically be, statistics aren’t perfect and anomalies happen far too often. I’m not going to get involved with someone who’s had a far riskier past than I have. Why up the odds against me? Fate will have a hand in my life without me giving it easier access to my weaknesses, right?

Does that make me narrow-minded? I dunno. It’s a good question, isn’t it? Does it make me guilty of believing stereotypes? Probably. But then it’s likely an Ockham’s Razor argument — the simplest explanation is likely the best, don’t you think? He’s lived a risky life, lives in a risky part of society, ergo he is a risk, right?

It’s difficult, the negotiating of the seas of safe sex. Who’s more likely to be a danger to you, and why? When is a risk too great to be taken? Does one’s behaviour reflect their morals, or are actions too often associated with morality?

It’s interesting. I’ve been asking these questions of myself for a while now, and plan to write a great deal on this in the coming months… how we are perceived versus who we actually are, and the prices we might pay for perceptions.

But why don’t you weigh in? What are your thoughts?

Ed. note: I’ve never been back in touch with this guy. Do I feel bad about it? Nah. We both knew where we stood that night. The difference is, I was honest from the get-go about who I am, while he tried to skate around anything to do with who he was. That alone went against everything I was looking for in someone. If you can’t own up to who you are and what you do, maybe it’s time to question your actions. If you can’t believe in yourself, who else can? But, yeah, there are also the judgmental assholes out there who’ll negate you at every turn, no matter how upstanding you might be.

Hey, good people. I’m one day away from 10 days off, and boy am I excited. I have a lot planned for my time off, but mostly I just intend to do What I Want To Do. A lot’s rushing through my head, and I can tell you about none of it right now, but hopefully soon I can share.

In the meantime, I’m making notes about things I want to write about. Lately I’ve been so overtired that I just don’t have the creativity to sit down and write — I was pretty sick last week and was hangin’ on by a thread. This week I’m just Getting Shit Done so I can relax when I’m off.

I was reading the news this morning, though, and saw a great story on the BBC. An American study, it seems, says that more than half the people surveyed in a large poll were still getting laid into their 70s, and almost 30% of people polled still had an active sex life in their 80s.

Which has someone like me, whose sex life has recently become the Sahara, thinking there’s hope for the future. (Snicker.)

First on tap for the next week are some stories about the absolutely horribly weird mix of first dates I’ve had in the last year. Ever get the sense that the universe has you perma-starring on candid camera? Wait’ll you hear about the date I had with Pimp Man. That’s one for the record books.

But I’ve been holding back A LOT about my life for the last year and now I say fuck it. I’m gonna tell you just how last year’s relationship came apart, more of the details, I’m gonna revisit some of the happenings and put my “older, wiser” spin on things. I’m over the sense of being nice to others and keeping things private right now. You get involved with a writer, a writer who openly admits to having a sex blog, well, you gotta expect some divulging, eh?

So, stay tuned. I’m challenging myself to write every day on my holiday. That starts Saturday. Thanks for bearing with me. 🙂

Welcome to autumn, Vancouver style. Bah. We’ve had a pretty mixed bag summer here on the Weird Coast. Fortunately a heat wave is rumoured for next week, and that’s the start of my time off.

I’ve been working hard this week and today I’ve settled into Chill Mode after getting up and cleaning the pad like a busy little beaver (ahem) this morning. Yes, we still use that phrase here in Canada.

The air does, however, have a hint of autumn on it. Perhaps it’s just that I should take the garbage out and there’s a breeze. Hmm.

I had a nice day yesterday, though, and meant to write about it, but I got a little involved in watching that sadly disappointing Peter Jackson version of King Kong. (Although I did like the overplayed love affair between the beauty and the beast, but I’ve always been a bit of a sap.)

I headed out to the public market yesterday and got myself a big fat chicken to roast and decided it was time to finally try some figs. Bought a couple, and tonight I’ll have my first ever fresh figs. Something tells me Fig Newton’s got nothing on the real deal. I also bought some purple peppers I plan to serve myself in a balsamic crema with fresh capari tomatoes and fresh torn bocconcini with some slivers of shallot.

It sounds indulgent, doesn’t it? But it takes all of about five or so minutes. I’ll also make a nice pastry-crusted roasted chicken, brocolli and peppers bake. It’ll be the first time I’ve really cooked nicely for myself in quite some time.

It’s easy to start coasting through life when you’re single. That has been the case with me for a while now. I’ve been in a rut, such as the one I wrote about a week or two ago. I’m content but not, y’know? I’ve grown complacent. I take the slightly easier way out. I forget to plan interesting and creative new dishes for dinner, and I just get by.

The funny thing is, if I’m cooking really nice, healthy, fresh but indulgent “slow” food for myself, I feel a whole lot less of that lack you get sometimes, being single. Yeah, sure, it’s nice to cook for other people, but who says saving your A game just for them makes any sense at all? Why not take the time to makes yourself a couple antipastis to enjoy with a glass of wine?

I more or less did that last night when I roasted my bird. Threw some fingerling potatoes in with the bird halfway through, they came out caramelized and popping with nice fluffy insides. Some grilled asparagus, parmesan toast, and a tomato-bocconcini salad. After a week of working real hard, it felt great to stay in and dote on myself on a Saturday night. I’ll do the same again tonight, but with the house all clean, I can take an evening stroll and people watch a while.

I’ll have another gruelling week this week, ‘cos I have a lot of projects to wrap up before I take my 10-day break from work. I have a lot of “nature” plans during my 10 days off — I’ll be camping, catching up with copious friends, hiking, cycling the city, and packing a whole lot of summer into 10 short days. It’ll do me a world of good. I’m sure to have much to report.

Let me tell you a story about a girl I know who held on by a bare thread while sick for a long and demanding week at work. She came home on Friday night at the ripe hour of 6:12 and, arms weighed down by things brought home after that long week of work, she stood staring at her door, fumbling to fit key in lock as she heard the phone begin to ring behind the number 10 staring her hard in the face on the frontside of that door.

Finally able to unlock the door, it springs open and she drops her meaningless crap to the ground and finds the phone amidst her crowded dining table. O-ho! A fine thing indeed! At the other end is a dear friend inviting her over to share a casserole.

“Funny that,” she thinks and tells the friend how the next plan of attack was actually a visit to the liquor store for some good but affordable merlot. They scheme, and with the 37 minutes of cooking remaining for the dish, she drops everything and heads in search of that affable red.

It’s some many minutes later and friend and she find themselves fork-deep in Noodle Caboodle and bargoon merlot. A fine Friday night to be had amongst friends.

Inevitably, she found herself in need of facilities, and upon her bold return, she kicked the crystal glass she’d previously sat upon the floor some three or four feet, shattering it underfoot of the pudgy-ass cat slinking about the hardwood floor. He then decided she was in no shape to travel road-side home and stated he’d walk her to the curb. “You’re walking,” he more or less decreed, and so she did, knowing he’d whale upon her ass should he leave for work at 4 a.m. and see her scooter missing from his curb.

So, it’s again many minutes later when we find her seated comfortably, if not a little breathless, upon her futon with An Inconvenient Truth playing in her DVD player and an unsettled beer settling before popping the top.

Who watches An Inconvenient Truth while drunk? Why, our trusty protagonist, she of impeccable standards and fizzy beer.

And the same she now realizes that while this might be well-written, it doesn’t necessarily seem to have a point.

Except perchance to say this… Hearing from friends on short notice, with generosity in the offing, and a bottle of drinkable red, followed by really taking some time to think about how incredibly fortunate and strangely blessed we all are to live on this oddly hospitable ball in space might just be a really terrific way to spend a week that’d been spent a little on the harsh side in the preceding days.

In other words, have a great weekend, y’all. Certainly in my plans. Now… is that beer settled? Is popping the top safe? Will good beer be wasted? Tune in next time as we answer those exciting questions, AND MORE, on Smut & Steff!

(ooh!)

Why, is this a Friday I see before me?

Ho! It is! It is!

FINALLY!

I’ve been sick all week and have held on by SHEER WILL, my friends. Finally my congestion is clearing up and for the first time in many years, it looks like I might just duck the bronchitis doozey I normally get any time a sniffle finds its way to me. YAY ME. YAY ROBITUSSIN DM!

I had to get a few things from GayBoy and because my home looks like Rustic American crack den coupled with the Kleenex-everywhere/shamelessly sick spread adopted by Meg Ryan at the end of You’ve Got Mail, we decided to meet at the pub at the end of my street, so I’ve had a couple beers, which I think I’ve completely earned this week.

Anyhow, the weather gods have deemed that we shall once again have Shit Weather this weekend, so you know what that means, people: I have a hot date with YOU. I’ll get some writing done this weekend.

Anything burning you have to ask? I totally forgot about some poor bastard’s question last month so I’ll go digging through email and drop him a line to see if he’s getting laid yet, and maybe I’ll report back to you on that. In the meantime, anything nifty I should tackle? Hmm? Hmm?

DO TELL. And happy weekend, Minions!

“Lightning kills five at funeral.”

You know the old ‘can’t take it with you when you’re dead’ saying? Yeah, well, if you play your weather cards right, you might just get to take a few out with you. Gee. Remind me to turn down more rainy-day funerals.

So, the moral of the story is, put away your beauty products when you’re done with them.

I’m sick with a nasty headcold this morning and can’t call in sick to work for a few reasons, so I’m being a trouper and heading in anyhow. There I was, getting my makeup ready to put on, but first I needed moisturizer. I’m out of my preferred brand, so I’m defaulting and using the Vitamin E cream that comes with a hair removal product.

I’ve had no coffee yet, so I’m muddling through my morning the best I can, planning to delve into a pot of French press java at work. Meanwhile, there I am, rubbing cream all over my hands and into my face. Even with my stuffy nose I noted “man, this stuff smells like shit… you’d think the cream would smell better than the hair removal stuff.”

And that’s when I noticed that I’d rubbed hair remover all over my face.

My pride’s down there in the puddle of water that’s left over from me freaking out and spraying water all over myself in record land-speed time.

Boy, do I love being sick.

I’m 33. Next month, I’ll be 34. I have a date-ish thing this afternoon with someone my age, but I found myself pondering last night whether the option of older men is something I’m thinking more towards these days or not. I’m as yet undecided. Of course, there’s the possibility I’ll hit it off with this fellow today, then I won’t bother continuing the pondering just now.

But in the meantime, here’s something a friend on Facebook posted, and I quite liked. Personally, I’m a fan of Andy Rooney, even if he’s 107 and constantly putting his foot in his mouth. He’s still as honest as they come, and that’s important criteria in my world (given I’m constantly putting my foot in my mouth and am as honest as the day is long, heh).

So, Mr. Rooney’s thoughts on women over 30:

As I grow in age, I value women who are over 30 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:

A woman over 30 will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask,”What are you thinking?” She doesn’t care what you think.

If a woman over 30 doesn’t want to watch the game, she doesn’t sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And, it’s usually something more interesting.

A woman over 30 knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of 30 give a damn what you might think about her or what she’s doing.

Women over 30 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won’t hesitate to shoot you, if they think they can get away with it.

Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it’s like to be unappreciated.

A woman over 30 has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn’t trust the guy with other women.

Women over 30 couldn’t care less if you’re attracted to her friends because she knows her friends won’t betray her.

Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 30. They always know.

A woman over 30 looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women or drag queens.

Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 30 is far sexier than her younger counterpart.

Older women are forthright and honest. They’ll tell you right off that you are a jerk if you are acting like one. You don’t ever have to wonder where you stand with her.

Yes, we praise women over 30 for a multitude of reasons.

Unfortunately, it’s not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed, hot woman of 30+, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year-old waitress.

Ladies, I apologize.