It’s a gorgeous, sunny Friday night, and I’m at home, contemplating life with my broke ass, after paying $106 out of a very meagre, very-tight-already paycheque from which rent’s supposed to come, too. (Read this morning’s rant for more on that.)

I had generously invited a couple friends over for hamburgers tomorrow, before we see the Von Bondies’ gig, the burger-fixin’s for which I already had, but have now sent them emails informing them that, should they want actual “cheese”burgers, they must supply their own cheese. Now that’s just sad. But that’s my broke ass. Frozen patties for you, friends. Ixnay the reshfay, adlysay.

I’m scheming to consider an assortment of fine bean dishes to get me through the next month, since beans are the broke person’s breakfast of champions and I’m so athletic these days that I can’t forgo protein, but sure as shit can’t afford meats or fish. And I’m a little worried, wondering if anything unexpected lingers that will hurt me financially even more, which is not anything I can actually handle at this point since all I’ve got is enough for very, very cheap eats and enough to do a couple loads of laundry.

And that’s life sometimes. Or life, that is, for those of us who “just get by” on a day-to-day basis, for whatever that reason is. Me, I had the bad luck of being born in a city that has shockingly managed to become the second most expensive one in North America to live in, but it’s my home and it’s my heart, man. Lean times come ’round for most of us Vancouverites at times. (Note to spellcheck, Vancouverites is a real word.)

Despite all that… despite the uncertainty and the deep, niggling concern, I’m kind of wearing a silly little smile this evening, and I’m not entirely sure why.

Maybe because life’s pretty spectacular even if wallets are empty. Because nature’s beauty is free and all around me. Because I know I’m not long off from work getting busy and my hours puffing up and the dollars following, as the busy season is nigh. Because it’s sunny. Because I’m creative. Because my friends are empathetic. Because I’m funny. Because I’m getting cuter by the day. Because my health’s improving. Because I feel strong and powerful. Because all my clothes are getting too big for me. Because life’s too short to look only at fear.

Or maybe because I stepped off the bus this morning, turned left, and saw that a pedestrian had been mowed down on the sidewalk by a BMW. The emergency services hadn’t even arrived yet and the streets and sidewalks were littered with concerned onlookers watching the injured man, who I tried not to look at, get tended to by good Samaritans.

And I remembered what my life was like from ’03 to ’06 as I was rehabbing from two very serious vehicle accidents and constant, chronic pain and ongoing injuries. I remembered how bad every day was, regardless of how “good” it was, because pain enveloped everything, always. And I thought of how that man would be challenged in the months to come.

And maybe because I was afflicted with such terrifying hand pain last week, which plagued me in ’98 & ’99, I had a little too good a reminder of how difficult it is to enjoy life when you’re always in pain. It’s hard to be in harmony with the world when you’re not even in harmony with yourself, when you can’t be in harmony with yourself.

My hand’s pretty much back to normal now (which it never really is, but this is its normal, so…) Yeah, already. Something snapped into place on Wednesday and it’s been night and day. Unbelievable. How blessed am I?

Despite how challenging money is now, and has been since March, it’s that old saying, “This too shall pass.” And it’s always darkest before dawn, right? June is going to suck, because I’ll be broke the whole time… but the weather’s awesome, and I’m crazy fit, and I haven’t been sick at all this year, and I have an awesome apartment, a scooter that runs, friends who put up with all my bullshit, and a job that fits into my life better than any I’ve ever had before. Is my life ideal? No. But I think, somewhere along the line today, I realized that it’s better than it’s been in a really, really long time. I’m better than I’ve been in a really, really long time.

All things considered? I’m not that guy on the sidewalk. And beans are versatile. And 30 days from now might be an entirely different scenario. This I know. God knows every single month this year has been packed with a madcap swirl of the unexpected, good and bad. Anything else my year has been, “boring” is not apt.

So maybe that’s why I smile. Or maybe I’m just enjoying being myself tonight. Either way, it suits me. And I do so hope your weekend suits you.

Of course, if you think my life deserves something more enthralling than beans in all their many-splendoured, cheap-ass glory for the next few weeks, feel free to show me some PayPal donation love by clicking here. Or just send me psychic lovin’ vibes and wishes of good. We loves the good vibes. It’s all good. 🙂

In the last three or four years, I’ve purged at least a half-dozen large boxes of books that spanned every genre you could think of. Even today, with my gutted and scaled collection, it’d take you some time to scan my shelves.

You’d notice, though, a penchant for dark fiction, strange and obscure history, and a terrific assortment of essays and non-fiction anthologies of great journalists and other not-so-fiction writers, ranging from everyone from Norman Mailer and H.L. Mencken, to Hunter Thompson and Lester Bangs.

Right now, I’m reading a strange batch of work. The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde, the occasional bit by HST, and what really has me intrigued from time to time, How I Got to Be This Hip by one of the best journalists of the ’60s and ’70s, Barry Farrell.

Farrell was writing from California at the end of the ’60s when the Manson Family did their handiwork in the Tate and LaBianca murders that changed Hollywood forever.

I didn’t realize there were articles in this collection of Farrell’s that dated back to the weird days that followed the murder, when speculation ran rampant about who, what, or why those baffling murder transpired, but their contemporary before-the-trial coverage offer an interesting glimpse in the knee-jerk judgment that became rife with the revelation of the sensational crimes.

The execution, for lack of a better word, of the Manson murders are the stuff of legend now. Words scrawled on the walls in victims’ blood, the pregnant Tate butchered, each victim stabbed more times than any coroner should ever have to count… just for starters.

Not buying the mythical degeneracy under which the A-list friends and wife of Roman Polanski lived,
Farrell starts off In Hollywood, The Dead Keep Right on Dying pretty succinctly.

“You wouldn’t believe how weird these people were,” the detective said, not for the first time.

(…)The detective, in fact, could almost find a parable for law and orfer in the killings: “If you live like that, what do you expect?” Sharon Tate, Jay Sebring, Abigail Folger, Wojciech Frykowski–these were not people, these were weird people.

They were weird because they used drugs and “messed around with sex,” weird in all the fashionable ways, weird as in the new movies. Their circle may have been friendly enough to protect them in their lifetimes, but now, in their posthumous notoreity, rumour had revealed them to all as connoisseurs of depravity, figures torn from a life that was pure de Sade, with videotape machines in the bedrooms.

In respect for the dead, and for Roman Polanski, Sharon’s husband, it should be said that the truth is disappointing–that their wild dope parties usually ran to endless evenings spent boring each other into such a reach of mindlessness that it would finally seem a brilliant idea to watch the test pattern on colour TV.

(…)But the truth in such affairs is only so many entries in a detective’s notebook. What counts is the folklore, the expanded, popular version that everyone believes. The victims could have been any kind of moral vagabonds, but in fractured, menaced Hollywood, people can think of any number of good reasons for killing whatever they were.

Keep in mind, that was written in the fevered weeks right after the now-notorious murders. As time wound on, the victims were remembered more as innocents, but only because the true baffling reasons behind Manson’s fucked kill-’em-all Helter Skelter anarchy plan made it clear that the victims happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Between the Helter Skelter Manson murders and soon-to-transpire went-so-wrong Altamont concert, 1969 brought a swift and inarguable end to the proverbial “Summer of Love” that’d been lingering in the air since ’67. The ’60s were over with bang. Or, more like a stab.

In its place came a startling reminder that evil lived, but there was something less obvious, and possibly a little more insidious… That people would probably always think the worst of you before being given a reason to do otherwise.

Judgment and fear preceded sympathy and justice for the Tate Killing victims. Because a perception existed that they lived outside the norm (hey, Polanski directed Rosemary’s Baby so naturally he had to have occult connections, right?) the belief was they must have deserved a karmic backlash.

Kind of like some preachers said the Hurricane Katrina victims deserved for living in a city of sin. Or like Islamic terrorists think the United States of America deserves for living such gluttonous, sacrilegious, smutty lives. Or like Sharon Stone talking about Chinese earthquake victims getting a karmic check from Tibet. Or like right-wing Christians, like Sally Kern, think about gays afflicted with the plague of AIDS.

It’d be nice if every now and then people could ask “What’s deserve got to do with it?” when tragedy befalls others. It’d be nice if we could say that, in the 40 years that have passed since Manson orchestrated his little spree, we could say things have changed. But not so much.

With folk like Sally Kern alive, well, and keeping their public jobs, it seems judgment doesn’t really come with a shelf-life.

Yesterday I caught up with a friend. We tackled my nemesis, The Stairs, but I went easy on her as it was her cherry-popping session. Only a mere 15 floors. When I saw my healthy, thin friend doubled over, huffing and puffing to beat all hell, at the top of 15 flights, I was so ecstatic. Made me feel like “Hey, this shit really is hard. I AM all that, baby!”

This morning I did 25 floors. Maybe knowing that translates to 650 steps means more to ya, since stair flights are always different. Plus walking 10 blocks, and in less than 30 minutes. I feel great. My right leg is still twitching, but I feel great. Ha.

Now it’s reward time. Muffins! Blooberry muffins made by yours truly.

Muffins are funny. Everyone thinks “healthy” when they think “muffins”, but most muffins, if they’re commercially bought, are about as evil as a slice of cheesecake.

I was dumbstruck when I saw that a blueberry muffin from The Breadgarden had something like 650 calories and god knows how many grams of fat. In fact, the average bakery muffin tends to have 550 calories or more… the ones I’ve been looking into, anyhow. Like, Starbucks.

That’s the equivalent (or more!) of a Big Mac! (I’d rather have a burger then!)

These muffins of mine are heavily modified (don’t try that at home, kids!) from a Cooking Light magazine recipe. I’ve always added flavoured yogurt to my muffins for flavour, less fat, and moisture. By adding a fat-free fieldberry yogurt, I get to cut down on the sugar in the muffins as well, so my muffins are 170 calories and 4 grams of fat for an average-sized muffin. (Which is only about 1/2-2/3 the size of a commercial bakery muffin, but… still!)

These muffins freeze great, and they don’t taste like they’re the high-fibre muffins that they are. I serve mine with slices of a nice tart Granny Smith apple and some mature English cheddar.

Steff’s Flavour-Packed Low-Fat Oatmeal-Blueberry Muffins

In a food processor, put:
1 2/3 cups quick-cooking oats

Quickly pulse oats until they look like coarse meal.

Put oats in a large bowl, and combine with:
2/3 cup all-purpose flour (about 3 ounces)
1/2 cup ground flax seeds
1/3 cup whole wheat flour (about 2 1/3 ounces)
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1.5 teaspoons baking powder
1.5 teaspoons baking soda
3/4 teaspoon salt

In a medium bowl, combine:
1 cup milk (or soy milk)
3/4 cup blueberry, fieldberry, strawberry yogurt
1/4 cup canola oil
2 large eggs

Mix liquid ingredients into dry ingredients, stirring as little as is required to get it mixed. (My home ec teacher taught us to stir 17 times — the more you mix, the heavier your muffins get, so never, ever overwork it. This step is crucial to light, fluffy muffins!)

When it’s almost completely mixed, stop.

Take 2 cups blueberries and toss with a couple tablespoons of flour to prevent from staining the batter purple. Mix into batter.

Fill pre-greased muffin cups with the batter, and bake in a preheated 400-degree oven for approximately 20 minutes, or until you can poke them with a finger and the muffin springs back to its shape. (If your finger leaves an indent, they’re not done.)

Makes 16. Enjoy!

(It’s just shy of 12 hours later, and my hand feels better tonight than this morning, and that’s after a day’s work and a yoga routine that was heavy on the downward-facing dog. This is good! I’m confused, but this is good! But I’ll leave the post up ‘cos I’m still taking some time off my cycling. Oh, and what a horrid typo I found there on this revisit… Ugh. For shame!)

A white explorer in Africa, anxious to press ahead with his journey, paid his porters for a series of forced marches. But they, almost within reach of their destination, set down their bundles and refused to budge. No amount of extra payment would convince them otherwise.

They said they had to wait for their souls to catch up.

Bruce Chatwin
1940-1989

My acupuncturist tells me my Qi is weak. My lifeforce is waning. No, this doesn’t mean I’m being sized for a pine box just yet, no worries.

Makes me wonder if I’ve been cycling so much, so far, lately that my soul has yet to catch up with me. Like my soul’s 20 blocks behind me, musing, “Why is she racing so hard up that hill? We’re going to spill our martini.”

Last week brought the resurgence of an old hand injury that has me terrified to my core. Perhaps it was just too much cycling, perhaps it’s more. My acupuncture docs are on the case, but tell me I’m not to cycle in the short-term. I’ve pulled back entirely without much argument at all.

Writing, these days, is everything to me. One needs hands to write. That this should arise and make it possible that the thing which gives me greater fulfillment than anything in my life should become a constantly painful excercise of endurance is something that should be unspeakable. Curse you, hand injury. Not on my fuckin’ watch.

I’ve spent the last few days in a mental funk, angrily playing over scenarios that might unfold in the coming years should my long-term hand injury of old return. It’s not been a fun mental journey, and I’ve been spending this morning shaking it off.

Yoga, it would seem, might be the perfect new exercise for me. Something to allow my soul to catch up. Something to help spurn me mentally into the here-and-now of consciousness while making my body strong but balanced.

Qi isn’t the easiest of notions to understand. I’m not sure if it makes sense to me yet, but I plan to look into it over the next while. Do me some self-edumacatin’. My somewhat lay understanding of Qi goes like this:

If life is a river of energy, constantly flowing and moving, lifeforce/Qi is the ability to harness that energy and flow with it. Those of us who fight and struggle, like salmon trying to spawn upstream, we lose too much in the battle, and our lifeforce wanes and flickers, and struggle begets struggle. A vicious cycle. You can stop and rest, but if you’re going to continue swimming against the current, what’s the point, why bother?

Surviving life isn’t that hard, is it? Just like surviving when you’re fighting a current: just keep breathing in and out, overcome the immediate obstacles, and get through it. That’s the secret.

It’s not a very good life, but that’s what you get when ‘survival’ is your only goal. This is something I’m slowly becoming aware of. I’m starting to realize that my intentions deep down inside of recent years have all erred toward surviving. For a while, that was good. Now, though, I’m tired of survival.

I’ve always fought against the current. Life required it for many years, but I think the time to fight is over for me. Now it’s time to yield to the flow, to see where it takes me. Stop surviving and, instead, start celebrating.

It’s difficult, getting thrown curve-balls by life and learning to handle them. This was one of the biggest curve-balls I’ve been tossed in some time, this hand issue, but to face it and overcome it would give me a new measure of what I can handle in the years to come, literally too. I’m mindful of how overcoming this hopefully-temporary hurdle would be for me. It’d be a monumental achievement. Not having to face it would be fantastic, too.

For now, though, this week is the week my soul catches up to me. A week of consciously remembering the self. I suppose we could all use a little catch-up from time to time.

Enjoy your Monday, minions.

Photo: Taken by yours truly on a cycle ride around Vancouver’s Stanley Park last month.

My evil Scrabulous Nemesis M. on Facebook told me a great joke the other night.

An egg and a chicken are lying in bed. The egg’s all balled up on her side while the chicken’s propped up with a grin on his beak, having a smoke. The egg fumes and mutters, “Well, I guess that answers that age-old question.”

So, on behalf of all women:

We understand that you may sometimes need to finish first. Why, we can be downright chores at times when it comes to the proverbial screaming O.

But, please, if you must finish first, and it’s apparent we want more, we would like to extend to you an open invitation to use manual (ie: fingers, hand) techniques, oral mastery, and possibly even toys to deliver us the same orgasmic bliss we’ve willingly been your vehicle toward. For god’s sake, don’t stop for a cigarette. We should be a priority. Get to work. And, hey, patience, grasshopper. We’ll get there when we get there… and you’ll take it, and like it.

(However, if we’re indifferent, please, just take your orgasm and run, will you? Consider it on the house and let us have that bath we’re thinking about. Have fun using your psychic powers. You can do it. Or… you could ask. We’ll only bite if we know you like it.)

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming. Sorry about that. Come back tomorrow.

Well, it’s Saturday morning and it’s a fiercely sexy morning of… yes, housecleaning.

Then I have to do the requisite girlie-bath thing with a facial and all the fussin’ ‘cos I have me a coffee date this afternoon, and while there’s pretty much no chance of him getting the goods this evening, I still want to feel like I’m ‘all that’.

Dating is not something I’ve enjoyed in the last couple years. I had a great time dating a great mix of men from ’04-06, then committed too early to someone and that went badly in ’06. Late that year, I dated The Worst Date Ever, and, since then, every single man has been a screaming disappointment and I haven’t felt like sharing.

The Worst Date Ever: It’s a Tie!

1. This guy had over-Photoshopped his photo and lied about everything and claimed he was an art photographer. He turned out to be an “date booker” for an “escort service” who was answering “business calls” on our coffee date. I guess Saturday’s a busy night for him. He was totally skirting around his job until I dusted off my fucking journalism creds and pressed him for the truth. Sheepishly he told me of his job and how he was always of “assistance” to the escorts. He was also four inches shorter than he claimed and about 10 years older than he claimed, so. Yes. Shortest date ever on both counts. What, I was gone within 45 minutes, and getting drunk with GayBoy within 90? So, yes, colour me always-skeptical.

Icing on the cake was when I was at work about two months later, working on a documentary about the sex trade, and he was a central storyline, going with the escorts to get their STD tests done, taking photos for their ads, and being their legal problem solver. Yeah. That was a weird day at work. Nice enough guy, but just so wrong for me given his profession and how I’m a little more vanilla than most writers who tackle sex. I spent several hours at work, thinking, “I’m so glad I went home. I’m so glad I went home. Yay! I went home!”

2. The guy who drank five beers in one 90-minute meal. Our first (and only) date, which was over in 90 minutes. “Thanks for dinner.” ‘Nuff said. Don’t do this, guys. Distilleries hold very little sex appeal to us women who can do better. Think about it.

Bad dates are very demoralizing, aren’t they? At some point, you have to wonder how much it reflects on you. ‘Cept I wasn’t wondering because I was plain unhappy with life, and I’m sure it showed.

Life feels like it’s in a bold new place, so maybe this will be a good thing this afternoon. I’m cautiously optimistic, but making myself be prepared for total disappointment. That’s just my recent track-record of men speaking, though.

That was then, and this is now. Rather, five hours from now is the new now, right?

But it’s nice to feel the guarded hope one gets before a date that has a smidge of promise. “Could this be a connection?” has to wander through your mind.

When dating works, it’s that one new thing you can add to your life that makes everything better. It improves meals, days at work, nights in bed, everything. Nothing else you can acquire can have such an all-over impact in improving your life than finding a good connection with someone.

Unfortunately, it’s getting there that’s such a struggle for most of us. Wading through the endless “What was I thinking?” dates and the badly-timed sparks with others when one or both of you isn’t in the place for a relationship. Sigh. It’s such a drag sometimes.

I haven’t dated since the New Year, when I more or less stood someone up for the first time ever. Last second case of the heebie-jeebies and a total questioning of my wisdom caused me to not get on the bus to the date. Yep, I was dressed up and everything. Even shaved my legs. Standing there, at the bus stop, I see the bus pull up. It opens its doors, others start boarding. I just thought, “Mm, no. I don’t think so.”

It happens. It was really informal plans, anyhow, so it wasn’t the worst time to just not go. Though I think I made the right choice, I would handle it differently now, and it’s part of why I’ve totally begged off of men since the new year. It was time to focus on me. Boy, have I ever!

That won’t be happening today. Today I actually want to go. Fine day for a neighbourhood coffee date. Anyhow, I have predate rituals to tackle, muffins to bake, and a nap to take.

Kickin’ Ass & Takin’ Names Update: Slow week for the Steff. I haven’t weighed myself because I’ve behaved badly this week after having one of the most frustrating weeks in months, which drove me into the fluffy folds of baguettes, plus a resurgence of an old hand injury that made writing and cycling nearly impossible for a couple days. NOT cool. Hand’s much better today, ergo my mood is as well. I’ll screw up the courage to weigh myself this week and see what’s what. But I’m still making muffins. 🙂

I wasn’t going to post something today. My hand’s reacting from too much cycling and other events of late, and typing sucks, and cycling’s out for a week (maybe more) but hey… I just found out I was selected as a top pick in the Sugasm this week.

So, aw, shucks! Thanks for anyone who took the time to select my post, Fuck the Pope.

But what I really wanted to talk about for a second was this big-ass special they’re going to have on CNN’s Showbiz Tonight about why men cheat on beautiful, successful Hollywood women. They’re bringing out the big experts and tackling it like you wouldn’t believe.

I’ll give you four reasons so you can save that precious fucking hour of your life for something more significant than their bullshit.

1. “Sexy” doesn’t come down to just looks. Sure, they’re hot, but, really, what are they like in the bedroom? Are they good lovers? Are they passionate? Do they have healthy libidos? Are they squirmish about sex? You can have rock-hard abs and a body that doesn’t quit for days, but it doesn’t mean you’ll ever know how to earn an orgasm out of your lover. That’s whatcha need skills for, baby.
2. Which brings us to why guys like Hugh Grant’ll get with a prostitute over someone like Elizabeth Hurley: Because sex will often extend beyond the borders of what’s publically deemed to be tasteful. (I have no idea the particulars of their situation, so this has nothing to do with them): How do you tell a woman who likes only variation of the Missionary Position that you want to be spanked or dominated or even just spoken really, really dirty to? There are too many people who cringe and react negatively when they hear their lovers’ true fantasies. Shame is deadly in our lives, and being made to feel shame over what are supposed to be carnal desires, not sanitized preferences, is pretty sad. When you’re someone famous and that shame could be used as a weapon to take you down, it might be a lot easier to trust a professional prostitute than another tabloid beauty.
3. People who aren’t perfectly Hollywood beautiful can be as sexy as the day is long. I’ve known people in my life who haven’t been “hot” but who’ve been sexy six ways to Sunday. I knew this one guy who went against everything I considered attractive, but I often wanted to just pin him against the wall and do dirty, dirty things. He oozed sexuality. With people like that, all you need is the wrong mood and the wrong time and you could cave in somethin’ fierce.
4. Because even beautiful people can be shitty in relationships.

I mean, fuck, like it’s rocket science? If infidelity’s happening, something’s rotten in Denmark. Conversations are being left unsaid, sex isn’t happening the way one or both fantasize about it happening, or the camaraderie’s totally gone and someone who’s more of a friend can be a turn-on in a lover scenario.

But, hey. Everyone wants you to believe it’s always the cheating person’s fault. They want you to believe that being beautiful and successful is enough to make a relationship work, which is about as fucking moronic as it gets. Relationships rely on everything from the way someone smells after a workout to the furrows they make reading the newspaper, right on up to how they’re there for you when you need them and whether they make you moan and shudder.

I disagree with infidelity, I disagree with cheating as an “out” in a relationship that’s going bad… but I understand it happening.

But that’s another posting for another time.

For now, here, eat some Sugasm. You’ll feel better. Since this posting’s too long as-is, I’ll truncate the list. For more of the week’s Sugasm postings, visit the Sugasm blog.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks
Fuck The Pope.
“The Church would have you believe that abstinence should be sufficient.”

Good Boy
“Despite my outward appearance, I still felt sexy as hell knowing what was underneath those misleading garments.”

May Masturbation Challenge: Progress Report day 10
“At the Dee & Apollo household, it’s early on Day 10 of the May Masturbation Challenge. ”

Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
The US Constitution Erotic Coloring Book

Editor’s Choice
UK Criminal Justice Bill Clause 63 – but what is “extreme”? – A Beginners Guide

Like most bloggers, this is my not-so-secret other life. I get paid to work for a living, but because I’ve opted for a cushy job that keeps life simple for me, it’s not exactly keeping me in luxury. Blogging’s what I turn to for kicks, for fun, for community.

But I don’t live under the delusion that any of you are my “friends”. You’re not. Let’s keep it real, right? You like reading what I have to say, but beyond that, you really don’t know me. That’s how it works. You see what I want you to see, but not a thing more. It’s fabulous, from my end.

And that’d be great if we could skate through life riding only on the surface, allowing others only to see the bare minimum of who we are, but it’d sure make for a pretty plastic existence. Who we are shines through in all the little things we do each day; picking up a piece of litter instead of walking past, holding a door open for someone 15 feet behind ya, not saying “thank you” when someone does something for you… all these things reveal who we are, but you’d never see any of that on the web, so what do you really know about web personalities after all? Not fuckin’ much, my friends.

So, it’s because of my rather strong feelings on the notion of taking web “friendships” and “communities” a bit too far that I’ve been avoiding answering a particular reader’s letter of late, but how’s about I take a kick at it now?

It’s a huge email, and I sort of have to pick the things you need to know, ‘cos not all of it’s getting tackled today. First of all, the reader wrote in after reading this posting called “When Relationships Falter” on this trusty blog o’ mine. So, here’s whatcha need to know:

1) This is a friend writing in with a question about someone he calls a close friend, but who he’s never met, and who’s really only an internet connection.
2) He’s never met the spouse/partner in question, but has made his acquaintance online on the odd occasion, so he has some knowledge of a somewhat misogynistic views held by the Husband.
3) His friend, the Woman we’ll call her, is a relatively new mother. Her relationship ain’t what she’d hoped it’d be. He’s working all the time, there’s never any sex. It’s frustrating and it’s very much not a partnership, if we’re to believe her side of things. She claims she sees him for 2 hours a week, on average.
4) The Husband, not my letter-writer reader, has told The Woman that she is not to masturbate just because he’s not there to fuck her, even though she’s apparently caught him masturbating of late. My reader wants to know if this is fair.
5) The Reader thinks she should be moving out. He’s got the husband pegged as probably having an affair. Etc.

Oh, boy. Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy. Boy!

Let’s tackle the easiest thing first. Number 4. Of course it’s not fucking fair! She can masturbate any time she wants, so long as her conscience is clear on the matter that it’s her choice and her prerogative. And if he is in fact masturbating and she’s being told not to, then he’s a fucking hypocrite. Open and shut. Simple. Read my Why the 40% of Women Should Masturbate that you’ll find under my sidebar.

Now, is the husband having an affair?

Holy fuck, let’s just back the hell up here, all right? An affair? Sorry, reader, but you’re some guy about 1,500 miles away, or whatever. You’ve never met either of these people. You’ve never lived a moment in their lives, let alone in their shoes. You’re going ENTIRELY on her word. You can’t be jumping to conclusions here, it’s ridiculous. And you should NOT be getting involved.

It’s crazy, this internet thing. It’s this big ol’ community and we all feel like pals. But it’s as fake as the day is long. In ways, it’s brutally real. Some of the things I’ve published on here felt like I was scraping the walls of my heart and smearing it all up for the world to see. But how do you really know it’s real? You don’t. You just assume I’m telling the truth. Thankfully, I am, but not everyone does. I learned my lessons the hard way a long time ago, and now I’m pretty guarded when it comes to buddying-up on the ‘net.

We’ve all heard of the internet hoaxes — videos of people supposedly held prisoner, people faking personals on Craigslist to mock and expose others. We really can’t trust anything anyone says.

We can get alarmed at times. ILike when had an email from someone in response to a personals ad 18 months ago, one that just terrified the hell out of me because this person was going on about suicide and hurting others. Did I wade into that? No fucking way! I forwarded the email to professional counsellors at a crisis line and made sure they looked into it, and I washed my hands entirely of it. You can’t go meddling in people’s lives because it can be downright fucking dangerous at times. Seriously!

So that’s one reason I say to pull back and stop getting involved — you just don’t know. Maybe she’s a nutbag in real life. Maybe she’s possessive and jealous. Maybe they have more money problems than you know. Maybe the baby just provided the classic huge shock young couples aren’t read for, and as a result she’s battling post-partum depression and he’s done the classic “guy” thing and thrown himself into work. Maybe it sorts out all by itself because, instead of dumping all her problems on some “safe” and “non-threatening” guy a couple thousand klicks away, she starts telling her husband how she really feels. Maybe they get counselling.

Maybe a million things could, might, may happen that you, in your fish-eye distorted and limited view of their world you can’t possibly conceive because you’re listening entirely to her point-of-view and you’ve already convicted him as being the only one doing something wrong here.

But she’s doing something wrong, too. She’s not talking to him, not as far as we know. She’s not talking to the real people in her life — people who can see both sides — that may or may not be able to help her reach a real resolution.

Now, there are times when the internet is a cry for help. Yes, this is true, it happens, and those cries for help need to be heard. But another unhappy woman in another unhappy marriage isn’t a cry for help that needs to be heard, not yet. Shit happens. Relationships come apart. We need to suck it up and learn to get through it, but we really need to try hard to resolve relationships before we give in, or start displacing our energies onto others by way of dumping on friends and failing to communicate. She needs to stop complaining to people who can’t solve her problems, and she needs to fucking confront the person she believes can change it all: Her Husband. They need to sit down, have the “Wow, so that baby really changed everything, huh? I totally didn’t see THIS coming” chat that is probably at least half, if not way more, of their problem.

The thing that someone like me, who’s very cautiously opted out of the Baby Game, even though a small part of me wants a kid, understands is: A child changes EVERYTHING in your life. Not all for the better, either. Yeah, sure, there’s the cool shit that comes down when they hit 18 months and totally plug into the wonder of the world and just baffle you at every turn…

…But then there’s that very needy, not-too-interesting-yet, hard-to-predict, awkward-to-learn-about itty-bitty baby that pops into the world and requires your attention for 24/7 for at least the first six months. And there’s the hormones. And the constant exhaustion that comes with it. And the never, ever being able to press “pause”.

A lot of new parents don’t communicate about how, yes, it’s a beautiful baby, but holy shit did it change everything about life. There can be a romanticizing of one’s past when that kind of upheaval comes and lands on you. And when you realize it’s a “rest of your li
fe” change, it’s bound to be a little overwhelming for people who didn’t really have an eyes-wide-open look at the commitment truly required in having a baby.

I think they have a communication problem. How do you have sex when you can’t admit to your partner that you’re too tired and frustrated to be happy? How do you talk about not understanding why this thing you wanted so much leaves you feeling so empty inside? How do you talk about your discontent without making it feel like you’ve made the wrong decision? It’s a HARD conversation to have, so naturally people will avoid it.

If you go meddling in this beyond saying “You NEED to keep talking to him. You CANNOT just give up before finding out if this is just post-baby-blues felt by both of you” then you might go irreparably damaging a marriage that might’ve survived if they both just held on a little longer through the tough times that sometimes follow when a baby comes into the world.

She needs to understand that it’s okay to be depressed and empty and tired when she’s caring so much for this baby all by herself. She needs to understand that post-partum depression can linger for a long time, and that it needs medical attention. She needs to be made to see that she has to talk to her husband and him know the urgency behind how much change needs to transpire in the relationship.

When all of THAT occurs, when they’ve exhausted everything, THEN comes the need to realize that, maybe, just maybe, the union was wrong and she should move out.

But that’s a long fucking ways off.

And BEFORE it gets there, you need to pull the hell back and stop being the dumping grounds for this woman’s emotions so that she can have the conversations required. If those conversations fail with her husband, and conditions continue to worsen, then she needs to have a long hard look at the financial costs and requirements, and whether she can make that work, of being a single mother — long, long before she goes boldly crashing out the door to rent her own place.

Support her but do not coddle her. Do not allow this steady stream of her negatively complaining about her life yet failing to take actions to change it. You’re being an enabler, not a friend. Tell her to start being constructive and making firm choices about how to deal with her problem. She needs to chat with him, and if he doesn’t listen or change during a trial period, then she needs to figure out what her life is going to require as a single mom — and she needs income besides child support because far too many ex-spouses are deadbeats on payments (mothers, too) and she can’t just willy-nilly expect money to work out and society to pitch in and help. She needs to really understand what’s at stake if she goes it alone.

But she needs to make those decisions on her own, and you have no business getting involved in it with opinions, what have you, since you don’t really have a view of the full picture. Tell her the path to take, but leave the specific advice for the “real” people in her life.

Harsh but that’s how I feel about it. What do you other readers think? Am I being too hard? Do you agree with my take?

I had an active day with a friend yesterday. We cycled about 25km, came back to my pad, made some souvlaki to go with my gazpacho, and got stinking drunk. A decent girl’s night, and a departure from my safer, quieter nights in of late.

We somehow got to talking about her childhood. Atypical Japanese, she was raised by really trusting parents who wanted her to celebrate her independent feminist self, and she’s been travelling the world and enjoying life with their stamp of approval. They even got her drunk when she was younger, on sake of course, to teach her that alcohol wasn’t that special or worthy of fussing over.

Got me thinking a lot on my childhood. Crazy, how far we come, isn’t it?

It’s funny, I don’t think I ever really thought much on who I wanted to be as a kid. I think I just felt like I was a certain way, and that was that. Stoic, opinionated, funny girl who always marched to a different drummer. What about you? Did you ever really look at life in that big way and try to decide who you wanted to be within it?

I mean, god. There are strange things that happen to us all that have profound impacts on who we are, whether they’re stupid things that never really measure up to what the impact they dealt was, or whether they’re suitably profound moments that shake you to your core. It’s astounding how much some things do, you know?

Take the night I almost decided to opt out of my high school prom altogether. All my friends lived in the city, and the friends at school mostly weren’t into the prom either. Wasn’t our scene, mostly. Yet at the last minute I decided to go to the dry grad after-party with two friends, a poker party in a train caboose. Next thing you know, my name’s called and I won a car. Dang! I was so stoked! A CAR!

Turns out it was a 1979 Chevy Monza. (There’s a reason you’ve never heard of it.) “That’s okay,” I thought. “I’m not that proud. It’s a car! Cool. If it runs…” And I was all positive about it.

I head out to HALLMARK FORD, THOSE CHEAP MOTHERFUCKERS, in Surrey and I picked up my Monza. Which was literally obliterated by a dog-hair shag carpet laid thick upon the upholstery. Fuckin’ dog reekage lingered long and bad. The fuckers never even vacuumed the car they’d donated to the Rotary Club after one of their “Drag, tow, or push your wreck in and we’ll give ya $1,000 towards a new car!” sales, ceremoniously dumping their shittiest trade-in ever into my lap with the bellowing of those fateful words, “You’ve won a new(??) car!!”.

(?? call it semantics, but, really, “new?”)

Still, I got home and thought “So what? I’ll vacuum it!” Six hours and two vacuum bags and one box of baking soda later, I had it spiffy and happy, and only ever so faintly did the eau de chien linger. Even if it was still shit brown, ugly, and unsaleable. That was all right. I loved it for its unsightliness.

I transferred my insurance from my old Dodge Colt to the Monza, figuring what the hey, I’ll drive it and enjoy it.

For three days.

It broke down on the Queensborough Bridge because the dealership didn’t even put any oil or water in the fucking engine. I was 17! I didn’t think “Oh, I should make sure this car I just picked up from a professional car dealership has oil and water.” I made a stupid assumption, and screwed the pooch as a result.

The engine block cracked right through. Nice. On a bridge. In rush hour. During a heatwave. On a Thursday before a long weekend. In the afternoon. It was like the perfect storm of “how can we fuck Steff over? Oh, HEY, I know” conspiring by the cosmos, man.

I made a real big fuss about it, too, since I thought the HALLMARK FORD dealership was about as fucking cheap as could be. Like, pay your motherfucking lot boy $15 for two hours to vacuum my motherfucking car, you know? I thought the Rotary Club were wankers for not checking out the donation before giving it away. I wrote the city’s paper and said so. I also said I was glad it happened to me and not some kid who really needed such a generous prize. At least I didn’t get the ultimate bitter disappointment they’d experience, and I had my old beater to drive as a consolation. I wanted to make sure it didn’t happen to anyone else.

Turns out the Rotary Club got a new president, who then turned out to think the outgoing prez was a dick, and that I had a point. Together we came up with a plan for the next year. The club would secure the donation of a car by the year’s end, and donate it to the high school mechanics’ class so it could be completely overhauled before the next kid would even know they’d won a car, and thus it’d never happened again. So, for the last 17 years, kids have been winning good-running, well-maintained used cars that probably got them all through college because I got pissed off enough to raise a shitstorm about what happened. Funny how that works. I’ll never know any of those kids, but it feels cool to know it’s the case.

But as a thanks for speaking up, and a consolation prize, they sent me off to a leadership weekend for teens. One of the guys I met that weekend has become one of my two closest friends over the years. We stayed up for almost the whole long leadership weekend, stole a van for a little road trip, and just generally had a great, insane experience that involved a lot of hot chocolate powder mixed into Pepsi as a STAY-THE-FUCK-UP energy drink. We’re still best of friends and keep the spark alive with concerts, despite him entering the land of the boring dad with two kids, a mortgage, and all that.

It’s crazy, who we’ve been, who we became, who we’re moving toward. All of us. We get so caught up in the mechanized lives we adopt that we forget how who we are really stems from all these crazy individual moments we experience that jumble together into the patchwork of our lives. We get so lost in the routine of our grown-up lives sometimes that we forget how breaking our routine by the tiniest bit can result in the most unexpected things happening.

Life gets safe, predictable, when we let it. That’s something I’m trying to break away from this year. I’m slowly getting there. I like my change to come slowly and consistently so I can digest it and keep myself from changing too much all at once. What can I say? It’s my Type A half clawing out some control.

Routine can be good. When you like what you’ve got, why fight it? But it’s nice to shake up the mix and let the hands of fate have a spin at the bottle, you know?

Sigh. I was just sitting here, thinking quietly about how it’d be nice if we had a veritas serum (truth potion) to induce the public before conducting massive polls to see into the deeper darker part of all our psyches to see how many of us have fallen drastically short of who we wanted to be as a kid, and who’s living that dream they had in grade 6, you know?

And none of this politically correct qualifying of opinions and dreams. “Well, of course I saw myself as more than just this Dad guy with a paycheque. I at least wanted a muscle car. But… things change and I’m happy. No, really, I am…”

Obviously we can’t all live the dream. Life does change, and things are weirder than they are normal most times. That’s just the way the cosmic cookie crumbles.

And what makes those crumbs so damned satisfying, of course, is how flavour-packed they are, even in their smallness. Like those little moments that dot our lives. Showing up to an overhyped poker party to win a car covered in dog-hair that resulted in what looks like it might well be a lifelong friendship? A fine crumb, that, even if was a strange journey.

That’s life. From little moments that lie lurking in wait to spring upon us with no warning, to unexpected profound events that transform the landscape of our lives. That’s life.

It’s too big and ever-changing to have ever foreseen it
all from childhood. Sure, we probably wanted greater, bigger things, but it looks like we never understood the satisfaction that can come from the simpler things. The simple, overlapping wonders that are day to day life for the majority of us.

But, hey. Isn’t it a great day to take a different route to work, maybe have lunch somewhere new? Who knows. Maybe it’ll be the start of something good. Say yes to chance today. You might just like it.

One of my all-time favourite funny songs is Stuart by the Dead Milkmen, an old post-punk classic. The lead singer has an insane monologue he rants, and that’s the whole song. I’ll be cycling and it’ll come on, and I’ll be ranting along with him, laughing at different parts. The song just never gets old for me.
Anyone without a sense of humour might think it’s anti-gay, but what it really is, is anti-stupid-fucking-redneck, and it’s satire. Here’s the end of the song’s rant:

A few days after that, I open up the mail. And there’s a pamphlet in there. From Pueblo, Colorado, and it’s addressed to Bill, Jr. And it’s entitled, “Do you know what the queers are doing to our soil?”Now, Stuart, if you look at the soil around any large US city, there’s a big undeground homosexual population. Des Moines, Iowa, for an example. Look at the soil around Des Moines, Stuart. You can’t build on it; you can’t grow anything in it. The government says it’s due to poor farming. But I know what’s really going on, Stuart. I know it’s the queers. They’re in it with the aliens. They’re building landing strips for gay Martians, I swear to God!
I like you, Stuart. You’re not like the other people here, in this trailer park.

The whole point of the song, I guess, if you could consider it to have one is, stupid people believe stupid things. Like, gays are mutants and horrible people in the eyes of god. That’s stupid.
I know, I know, I’m supposed to respect other people’s beliefs. Really? When they’re STUPID? Am I? Yeah, right. Get back to me when you have a better idea, eh?
Today’s a big day for the gay boys and girls of America. The California Supreme Court cleared the way for gay marriage in that state by declaring the ban against it to be unconstitutional.
Watch out, there’s gonna be landing strips everywhere for aliens, and be careful what you’re growing in that soil.

I’m potentially getting back into the dating game shortly. Might have a coffee date lined up over the next few days. Whatever the uncertain status in those realms, it has me considering birth control in my future, and the questions that arise are not fun ones to tackle.
Having come so far in my life of late– like my now-34 pounds lost and the fact that I’m officially at my college weight for the first time in 15 years, and all the other accomplishments going on in my life– the notion of fucking with my estrogen makes me highly wary.
I went completely nuts in ’06, largely caused by estrogen chaos and birth control pills, then exacerbated as life itself spun out of control. Would I have been better in control had I not been on the pill? I really don’t know for sure, but a large part of me says YEAH, NO DOUBT. Do I have clinical proof? No. I’ll never do period suppression by way of pills again, though. Should I take it at all, though?
The pill’s important, even if one’s using condoms. No birth control is 100%, that’s why we smart folk double-up. I don’t know, I’m thinking about it. I never raised the issue with my doctor today, but I’ll see him when it’s time to act on things.
In the meantime, here’s a great clip from SNL about a once-a-year period-suppression birth control regimen. I found more than just a little truth behind the “fiction”.