I’m a big believer in starting with the little stuff and just going with it when it comes to writing because, like building a snowman, it can be surprising as hell when you see it take shape.

I was doing just that just now, writing about the weather and the fact that I’m all cushy, blogging from my big-ass 1830s camelback armchair on my laptop for the first time ever… had it for more than three years and only finally afforded wireless hardware this weekend. Money’s been that tight for that long.

‘Course, I never had the best of priorities, either, but let’s face it, I lost a lot of work over several years, what with several accidents, and insane amounts of illness and injury, and I’ve just never had throwaway money or cash for indulgences.

Until now. Now things are starting to change.

See, I had gotten to this point just now, writing, and it hit me that my (recent/past) lack of money is what’s been keeping me from trying to date. Sure, you scoff when I say “well, I have nothing to wear” but you fail to realize I’m telling the truth. No matter what I do of late, I feel like a loser, and I know there’s only one reason for that: I hate my clothes.

Everything either doesn’t fit right — too tight, too loose — or else it’s thread-bare or torn or about to come apart, and it shows. I’m not saying I need to be wearing Prada, but I need to not look like I just don’t care… and right now, it looks like I don’t care. The truth, however, is anything but.

If there is nothing else I am, I am proud. I’m a fierce, strong, fighting woman, and I’ve got attitude, edge, and personality. I am not a woman who should look frumpy, nor dishevelled, nor out-of-size.

I deserve to match externally to what I feel internally. It isn’t that I don’t have taste, I just haven’t had money, and I’ve not really bought anything new, now, for about 2 years. All I’ve gotten of late is used shit that I must’ve been smoking crack to buy because I can’t get how I thought it worked. One shirt’s like 3 times too big for me, but I fucking love the colour. I’ll never, ever wear it, of course, because a good breeze might pick me up and launch me into a America’s Cup-calibre sail across the Pacific, but I’m making a mental note that wine apparently doesn’t just taste good, but looks divine on me.

I have whittled my wardrobe down over the the last three or four years and there’s been more and more gradually turfed until I got down to what was the essential to keep. Now it’s imperative I replace it all because it’s been in heavy rotation longer than I thought it would be.

But I’m seriously at that point now where I feel I look so awful in everything I wear that I just don’t want to go out anymore. I don’t want to date or meet people. I don’t want to be social. The first day I bought my new coat and pants, I ‘dressed up’ and went for a walk and coffee for no other reason than to be seen. I do like to be admired. I want to feel sexy. I know I can work it. I wanna work it. Lemme work it!

I mean, I had this epiphany moment when I watched “What Not To Wear” on the weekend and Stacy London said something to the effect that it was a terrible thing that someone should allow their clothes to hinder them from experiencing life.

…clothes! Wow. Yes, what a terrible, stupid, dumb thing.

And sitting here, now, in this big-ass chair on a Wet Coast night as I listen to the splish-splash of cars cutting through cascading rivers of rain and snow on the street nearby, I’m filled with a weird contentment that hits me as this — this simple act of being able to type on a laptop, online, in my living room in the ambient silence — is the actualization of one of the goals I’ve had for three or more years now.

And it’s just a start. I can’t wait to see what happens when I can buy a few new pieces of clothing that make me feel like the cool fucking chick I know I am inside. It’s been a long time, and the woman I am now is a whole world away from the girl I was before this endless parade of adversity came beating down my door. I’ll be dressing a woman this time. No girl anymore. And someone who’s got her insecurities in check, and now wants to show off areas she’d always hidden. I’m ready, man.

It’s nice to be ending a year with such a feeling of optism about where the next year might be headed. I’ve no idea what the map heading says, but I think I’ll like the direction.

Now… time to head off in the rain-snow mix and help my friend decorate his Christmas tree as we smoke some ganja and eat a ridiculous amount of tacos before we watch Heroes. May you find a little optimism in your night, too, minions. Have a kick-ass Tuesday.

I’m a film geek.

I once mentioned to a colleague (keep in mind I work in the film industry) that I had finally bit the bullet and seen Casablanca, which I had the good sense to see (and have since loved) at an independent film house that ran in first-run in the Dirty ’30s. He asked me if I’d taken film appreciation in school and my retort was, “No, all my sentiments are my own.”

But I love movies. I just thought I was well-versed but I went out with another geek last year who more or less proved to me that I’ve seen 80 or 90% of all the “best movies ever made”. And a freakish amount of ’em on-screen, too.

So… it’s not that often that I a) don’t hear about a movie or/and b) get surprised by its content or performance. I’m pretty on the ball about flicks and there’s few I’m not at least a little aware of. Geek that I am and all.

But tonight, I got surprised. I have just discovered a terrific flick for both men and women. For women, it’ll be a “my time of the month” classic or something they watch to remind them of their ability to kick ass and take names. For men, it’ll be a reminder of all the reasons women are worth going through the annoyance of knowing. Or something.

It’s called Westward the Women, and it’s from 1951, written by Frank Capra, so of course I had to like it. Capra’s film gold. I mean, he has his own adjective! Capra-esque! Like Hitchcockian. Pretty rare air there.

Anyhow. A Californian town is in its birthing stage. Now it’s just a valley populated by Roy Whitman and his 100+ pioneering men. The only thing missing from this West Coast paradise in the 1800s is wimmin folk. Whitman, in all his “I staked me Utopia, then built it” moral superiority, decreed that these women would be treated like the saints they were to give up their lives and travel west on the promise of a good life in a good land on a good man’s good stretch.

It’s about how 150 women come to decide to make the wagon train trip some 1, 500 miles across the American landscape, and the really amazing tragedies and trials that befall them on their journey. They’re told in the outset that some third of them would die en route as the wagons crossed some of the toughest land any man — and definitely woman — had ever seen.

It’s smart, it’s funny, it’s historically accurate if not a little cheesy, yet witty, well-shot, well-cast, and very, very watchable.

Now, I’ll confess I like the occasional Western. Loved the remake of 3:10 to Yuma bust still can’t get over how well Christian Bale ran for a guy with a wooden leg. Well done, Christian.

This, however, didn’t feel like a Western. It’s just a crazy-assed look at what happened from time to time in the Old West, filled with tragedies and touching stories and funny humour, and very little pandering to women. Tough broads who were women throughout but encountered some great adversity.

I lived up in the Yukon and knew a great story I should rewrite for here, about Diamond Tooth Gertie, who made the death-defying voyage from Seattle to the Yukon for the Gold Rush, succeeded where some 90% of the men failed, in getting to the Gold Rush after all. It filled me with great admiration, just imagining some of the things women like that had to overcome when crossing a continent on foot and wagon.

To see that heroism depicted in a movie like that, where the fact is that dying en route to the West wasn’t entirely uncommon in the 1800s, a century and a bit before 4×4 would be invented. Two words: Wooden wheels.

For something entirely different, go for Westward the Women. Before butch knew what butch was.

And, hey, look at the coinkydink of reviewing a pioneering movie on American Thanksgiving. Happy Yankee Thankie Day, Americans. May all your turkeys be good turkeys. And god stuff us every one.

I’m just rushing out for breakfast but I wanted to check in quickly. I’m in ‘adjusting to world of pain’ mode right now as I’m ramping my fitness up by several degreees, thanks to learning that my knee’s finally able to handle an elliptical trainer at the gym. (I’ve blown it out a few times and “unstable” is the watchword. Elliptical trainers always had my kneecap clicking and wiggling by 5 minutes in. Did 10 minutes the first time ever last Friday and 25 minutes yesterday. Yay!)

And now my horrible right shoulder’s in its own world of pain, but whatever. I’ll swim tonight and then I’ll hurt everywhere, so the shoulder won’t seem so bad. 🙂

Anyhow. I don’t have a lot to say… when I’m trying to focus on one area of my life, it makes the other areas get a little neglected, like blogging. Blogging’s really suffering though because I’m avoiding writing the probing look at How I Got Fat that I’ve promised to write. I really want to get into the emotional issues behind being overweight, because I’m real fuckin’ tired of hearing all these “fat’s catchable” or “fat is genetic” or whatever other new “shocking discovery” du jours I’ve been seeing on the news lately. Simple fact is, if you’re fat, there’s got to be areas of your life you’re not happy with, and food’s filling the void. And you’re probably ignorant about how to eat properly. I really believe that, but I’m apparently in the minority, and because I’m fat myself, I’m probably viewed as a bit traitorial.

Whatever.

Speaking of fat, I wrote this rant yesterday and can’t tell you what provoked it because of non-disclosure agreements and all, but I can share the rant. 🙂 Enjoy.

If I have to see one more movie where the “fat” bad guy just sits around chewing things, his brain entirely disconnected to his mouth, and completely lacking of any kind of grace or dexterity at all, I’m gonna beat someone to death with a goddamned 48-pack of donuts.

Just fucking try me.

I mean, what, you hit 30% body fat and your brain suddenly ceases to function and bubbles instead with sugar-filled foam and vapidity?

And the fat guys always JUST eat. They’re always CSI exhibits of every fucking meal they’ve eaten in the last week. Yep, barbecue sauce crusted in the left quadrant of the (of course) horizontally-striped shirt, there’s cheese sticking out of their pocket, a donut’s surgically attached to the left hand until the guy starts chewing on his knuckles. Whenever he talks, his mouth is spewing food. When he chews, he smacks and sucks and slurps, as if making extra noise somehow conjures cosmic bonus points of tasty goodness.

I mean, how is the cliche fat-guy-who-talks-while-chewing-and-never-stops-eating at all funny anymore? Hasn’t this joke been beaten into fucking submission?

Yep, I can hear the joke over there now — crying out for help and whining about its inadequacy as it languishes in dark corners of unexplored creativity.

And what about the reality that most morbidly obese people tend to do their eating in secrecy because they’re so fucking tired of being stared at and mocked and humiliated? Like they just sit there pounding back their betcha-can’t-eat-just-one Lay’s potato chips or whatever, allowing themselves to be further humiliated and pointed at. Yeah, that’s right, they’re doing their bit to keep the rest of the world entertained as they sit there willfully eating everything ever placed upon this good Earth, oblivious to the snickers and derision being enjoyed by the onlookers in the food court.

Yeah. I’m getting really, really tired of seeing this stupid-ass writing passing as something witty and funny. Come on, writers. Cough up a fucking quarter and send away for that Cracker Jacks “how to be a writer in 17 easy steps” toolkit or something, wouldja?

Get a fuckin’ real job. Cliche-spewing dumb-ass hacks. No paycheques for you.

I’ll have to go back and find this email to share with you all, but a longtime reader sent me a deeply personal email in which he more or less explored the realms of self-loathing as he told me about how he’s gone around fucking up the lovelife of this girl he cares passionately about. His question, more or less, was, what do you do when all you can do is hurt the one you love?

There is a young woman whom I’ve known for over three years, whose smile alone melts away every fear and worry I have. …I knew ahead of time, based on past experiences, that I break stuff. In this case, I was subconsciously sabotaging their relationship. …It’s been quiet and awkward between us ever since. We will stumble upon one another, but the hugs have stopped. The smile is still there, but I don’t know if it’s sincere anymore.

…And this is what I’ve done. For three-and-half years, I have hurt this girl. I have, directly or indirectly, negatively impacted her life. In a way, I want to walk away, hoping, feeling, that maybe, it would be the best for her. …Yet I am deathly afraid of losing her. I’ve come to terms with losing her to another man, but the idea of her being out of my life entirely… scares me. How can you love someone so much that it tears you apart from the inside when they’re unhappy and yet you continually find ways to hurt them?

Well, there you have it. See, he’s hating himself like he’s some kind of monster brought forth from Dante’s Inferno or something. To protect his identity, I’m omitting more specific infractions. But tsk, reader. Tsk.

I wrote him back and just cleared up any misconceptions that I’d be writing something sunshiny in his favour.

Thing is, I can’t go all medieval on his ass, either.

See, love makes beasts of us all, goes some old saying. Let’s update it. You know, a little more politically correct and equality-minded. It should say, “beasts, bastards, and bitches”.

After all, every single one of us has done something duplicitous or slightly unkind in love. Who’s kidding who? One of those dirty little secrets we all keep tucked away in hidden pockets. Me, I’ve occasionally been duplicitous, manipulative, and unkind. I’m human. I have the “fuckin’ up” gene built-in and far too easily accessible, thank you very kindly. Hell, I think the gene’s on auto-pilot at this point. Fuck, man. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, like the Jesus guy once said. We do dumb, even bad shit, but then we learn to do better. You’re done the doing bit, now it’s time to do the learning bit.

Yeah, you’re being an asshole, reader. You are. You deserve a moralistic kick up the ass, but that’s just stating the obvious. We’re better than obvious. We’re intelligent.

So, whilst being an asshole, you’re also being an incurable romantic. And a really lousy little coward. Actually, a really successful coward. Full marks for you, friend.

I too have been a coward sometimes. It is what it is. Easy, is what it is. Easier to somehow never rise up and face the challenge, and decide “It’s better to know now how she feels, and then I can move on… either way.” The irony is, living in fear’s so fucking hard, and it makes us all become the people we’d sooner not be. But we are. When we deceive ourselves in that way, we’re those bitter, sad, underwhelmed people not chasing after what they really want. And it’s all because we’re too cowardly to face the truth and learn a little.

We would rather live with the possibility of there being that chance but living under the shadow of doubt and worry, while we play our little manipulation of keeping them close without having to come clean… because to find out definitively that they’re not interested in us would be devastating.

To know means having the power to move on, either way. You’ve simply never, ever admitted to how you felt, and instead sought to manipulate her life. If you couldn’t have her, then she shouldn’t be able to be happy with someone else. It’s almost like a Hollywood cliche. Dying villain-hero, raging against the world, “If I can’t have you– nobody can!” But you got weird and started insinuating yourself into situations you shouldn’t have entered, and as such are now dealing with The Wrath of Scorned Lovelorn Woman.

Yeah, good one. But you know this. I don’t know, what do you want me to say? You stop hurting people if they matter to you. We all hurt people we love. Most of us don’t do it as a matter of course, though. It just happens sometimes. You think you love her? Stop hurting her. Be honest. Tell her how you feel. Tell her you’ve been an ass. Tell her. Beg her forgiveness. A thousand apologies. And a good gift never hurts. Start the communication and see where it goes. Don’t be surprised if there’s a “Fuck you” somewhere in the mix, but there’s always the chance that the cosmos will align in your favour and love’s swift arrow pierces her offended exterior. There’s always chance. I believe in chance.

But the truth is, you continue doing what you’re doing and you will find yourself both without a lover, and without a friend. That’s almost a certainty. End it, be a man, and there’s hope something better can come of it.

Now go say 10 Haily Marys like you really mean it.

Okay, I just need to vent: What the fuck is wrong with Nancy Grace anyhow? Like, it’s not enough that news is news… there’s always that stupid fucking card at the bottom of the screen that reads– no, not “news”, but “URGENT NEWS”. Yes, all caps.

Jesus. And it’s of a story about an 82-year-old grandma who got Tasered. Shitty, hard to believe, moronic, and a sign of the times, but is it really “urgent”? Does a huge massing of concerned citizens mean she’ll somehow become unTasered? Is there a pressing concern for society at large? Like, “Ohmigod, I gotta get home before I’m Tasered!” Something like that?

Well, then it’s not “urgent”, then, is it? No. It’s really just another day of news. Not that sexy, then, is it? But news hardly needs to be sexy. It just needs to be new. Kinda is what it is. Funny how much the media manages to complicate that. If it’s new, tell us. If it’s important, tell us. But don’t fucking sell it to us. Just report the facts. Just the facts, ma’am. Like the story goes.

Anyhow, just to clear it up for the thick-headed types who can’t separate my opinion from the meat of that sad-ass story: I am completely opposed to the Tasering of 82-year-old women. I mean, what kinda cop are you that you can’t settle an 82-year-old woman down without having to risk inducing heart attacks? Gimme an M! Gimme an U! An S! And gimme a C! An L! And an E! Fuck, man. Get a real job, right? So, BOO and HISS to the dumb fuckin’ cops, but Nancy Grace deserves dollop of common sense– no, brains, period– as well. Urgent my ass.

And people wonder why the public in the know is getting their news from the ‘net.

I’m going to sound like one of those people you hate if I complain right now, because I’ll be honest, I’m still down on the weight. I’ve gone down to 17lbs off this fat ass of mine this month, but I’m disappointed. I thought I could’ve had a far better week. I mean, I’ve eaten chips, like a whole bag, too, and there’ve been those little chocolate bars around… Sigh.

It’s not about the number, it’s really not. If it was, I could sit here smugly and just go “I’m down 17 pounds! Nyah-nyah!” but it’s not about the number. It’s about being healthy. It’s about not eating shit like chips. I know I’m gonna falter here and there, but I’ve faltered too many times this week, AND I’m not eating quite as healthily as I want to be.

However, I’m not going to continue riding my own ass about this. I’m going to let myself off the hook and go “well, thank god for the number!” A little easier to make lemonade out of this, right? But I gotta wonder how much I might’ve lost had I been as healthy as I wanted to be this week. PLUS, I’ve not been exercising. I’m actually pretty pissed at myself for that.

So, there’s next week. Good. And no candy-focused holiday to fuck me up, right? Whew. Oh, and it’s been my time of the month, too. That always helps. Okay, so it’s through no small miracles that I’m still down another 3 or so pounds this week. That no-butter thing is pretty huge. I’m certainly more conscious of what other fats I have, and I’m pretty sparing on it.

I can improve. I will. This is a little reckonings of sort. And sometimes I plan to be bad on purpose, like the popcorn I’m intending to have at the theatre tonight. Die Hard and no popcorn? Good god! The travesties!

But dinner last night was oatmeal and fruit. Breakfast this morning, more of the same, with a side of vitamins. Lunch will be suitably restrained. Tomorrow I do the fun hike up and down from Wreck Beach a couple times, and expect a world of hurt on Sunday.

Tomorrow night I have a hot date with my nephew. Fun. The kid’s staying over for a night of movies, a late sleep-in, and hanging with the aunt on Sunday. It’s been about two or three years since he’s stayed over… but he used to light up like a million watts when he’d show up for sleepovers at auntie’s, and then the divorce/separation began with his folks, and now the only sleepovers he gets are at Dad’s. Add to that that he’s officially a pre-teen at 11, and I’m kind of dreading it and stoked at the same time — I’m so out of touch with hanging out with him that I’m nervous my cachet’s going to drop as he gets exposed to the inevitable truth: I’m just another grownup. But we’ll see.

I still have something on my side that his parents don’t have, though, and that’s punk rock. You never know. That could be just the ticket. 🙂

Have a great weekend, people.