Category Archives: Battle of the Comments

Broken: Hearts, Minds, Vows, and Man

One of the things that’s simultaneously good and bad about this gig is that people tell me things from time to time they wouldn’t even tell their shrink.

Just the other day one such letter arrived in my in-box. As is sometimes my habit, I entered into a knee-jerk response and was about to tear the woman apart. Something made me stop and think, and instead of writing something savage, I sent her an email back. Her last question in her initial email was, “Am I a white trash whore?”

My response then was, in so many words, no, but you’re a liar and a cheat. I do stand by that, but with a massive, monumental, intergalactic caveat.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Due to the fact that there’s so incredibly much riding on her admission to me, I’m taking great liberties to change a good deal of the particulars that could identify who this poor goddamned woman is, because her life is filled with enough shit right now and I’ve no business adding to the pile by doing anything that could in any way come back to haunt her.

Here’s the gist of what you need to know.

  • She’s a mother.
  • She’s been married a decade-plus.
  • She’s in her mid-30s.
  • She’s been madly in love with her husband for all the years of their marriage, and still loves him, but things have changed.
  • He suffered a life-changing stroke of great severity that has rendered him child-like and frail. His mental capacity is nothing of its former self and his personality has been completely reformatted. Physically, he needs constant help. Sexually, he functions, but there’s no attraction left for her.
  • She’s been having an affair with a close friend of the family, in which the sex is incredible. Unfortunately, both she and he are married, and neither have the intention of abandoning said spouses.

That’s it, in a nutshell, that’s what a volley of eight emails has yielded to me.

Like most women under great strain, she’s perceived by others to be an incredible trouper. Strong, coping, able, yada, fucking yada.

The truth is, she’s coming apart at the seams. She hates herself for her betrayal of the husband she loved with all her heart, the husband she stayed with even though she learned he had cheated on her. She despises herself for loving sex with this other man. She’s angry about the loss of her love and best friend and the passion that came with. She doesn’t feel she’s able to speak to anyone about it. My guess is, she’s drowning in this life of woe she’s found herself enveloped by.

And my heart goes out to her.

Yes, she’s lying to her husband. Yes, she’s a cheating ho. But ask yourself: What would you do?

I know a lot of people would judge her for cheating on a guy who’s been sent into this horrible new reality by this unfortunate eruption of blood in his brain, but what about her? She’s still among the living. All of a sudden, she’s expected to give up everything that defines her life to provide 24/7 care for a man who can’t care for himself. She’s young, in her sexual peak, and what’s more, she needs an outlet for all the things gone wrong.

When my mother died seven years ago this week, I turned to books on grieving. I went through all the topics on mourning, everything from poetry to prose to essays, and I distilled from it a great deal of information on what to do to get through it all. The thing was, they said “mourning” and “grieving” are misunderstood. They’re not just necessary in times of death; they’re necessary in times of great change and loss of any kind.

For all intents and purposes, this woman’s husband died. When those blood vessels ruptured and filled his head with pools of blood, the soul of him just faded away. He’s but a shell these days, though he lives and breathes and walks and fills the space of their home with a friendly face and eyes that once mirrored the love she showed him.

With every moment in every day, she’s confronted by the struggle of caring for him, of helping him, of getting him through to the next day. Then there are the kids. And the doctors and medical procedures. Then there are the quiet moments. The moments in which she should be able to have the time to think of herself and her needs and the things she ought to do with her life… but that she can’t. Because every waking moment is spent caring for others and forgetting herself in the process, and when she’s not caring for them or coping, she’s formulating plans for keeping that circle rolling. In a life like that, there is no “down time.”

I believe one of the most important things for women (in particular) to do is to remember the them they’re forgetting, and to consciously make themselves more important in their scheme of things. But how does she do this? How is it possible?

I lived with my mother when she was dying of cancer. Any time I thought there was something important for me to do for myself, I consciously remembered that she came first. I couldn’t do that for myself; what about Mom? But then I was let off the hook. She died. My heart shattered to a million pieces, and one day I began to Krazy Glue myself back together. It took time, it took work, it took a conscious remembering that it was her that died, and not me.

This reader has none of that time, none of those options, and as far as I can tell, no Krazy Glue.

What’s the point of all this, of her letter, of this posting? I’m not really sure there is one. There’s no easy answer, no pat solution. It’s broken heart upon broken heart, and no matter what she decides, she’s in for a constant world of hurt because that’s her new reality. She can continue being sexually satiated by her lover, and lie to the man she loved but whose lights are no longer shining, or she can do the moral thing and give up the sexual release in order to do “the right” thing and continue caring for that shell of a man.

Either way, she’s in for a hard life.

So I say, whatever gets you by, sister.

The thing she needs to watch out for, sadly, is the fucking obtuse people out there who think morality trumps reality; those who just don’t get that some kinds of adversity just aren’t the kinds you can put your chin down to and barrel on through. Some kinds stop you up inside and make you hurt six ways to Sunday with no relief in sight, and this is that kind.

She could walk on him. Leave him hanging, and therefore no longer be unfaithful, but then what happens to him? Broken brain, broken body, plus broken heart?

Or she stays with him and gets her pipes cleaned by her new plumber man from time to time, and enjoys the illusion of affection and love, such as she once had with her husband?

I really don’t know. It’s quite possibly the original lesser-of-evils dilemma, and I’ve had some sad moments thinking of what her existence must be like.

I feel badly that she feels so alone, as I know I refuse to be the voice in the night that listens at all hours and says everything’s gonna be all right, baby, ‘cos I don’t even have a voice like that for me right now, so how do I provide it for others?

She’s not alone, though. She sees a therapist, but she’s too afraid of feeling like a failure and a liar in confessing her recent moral choices to him. I say she must. If there’s any one thing I do know, it’s that. She absolutely must confess to him, because he’s not a fucking idiot. He’ll understand, and he might even provide her with the closest form of absolution she’ll ever receive.

This is hard, baby. Harder than hard. It’s diamond-hard. Confess. Take a load off. Print off these emails we’ve exchanged, and this posting, and drop them off at your shrink’s a few days ahead of the appointment with a note saying, “These are a conversation I’ve had with a complete stranger. We need to talk. We really need to talk.” At least it’ll let you know the issue’s finally getting confronted, but it’ll let you sit back while he plays the ball that’s now in his court.

I wish I had a magical Band-aid for you, but all I’ve got is empathy. You do what you got to in order to get through. You may feel like shit and you may feel like a liar and a cheat and trash, but you’ve got my admiration. You’re doing what’s got to get done, and if it so happens that you’re a little human along the way, well… that’s just the way it goes.

But what do you think, readers?

Of Readers and Stalkers

Dear Readers–
I love your comments (when you bother to leave them – grr, lazy days of summer!–typical in blogland) and I love your emails. I love that you trust me with deep, dark secrets, and that you feel some kind of connection strong enough to make you return. It’s awesome.
Now and then, though, someone comes along who gets a little too attached. Emails get too revelatory, proffers of drinks become repetitive, that sort of thing. I doubt any harm is ever meant, and in fact, it’s likely the opposite. It’s flattering, really, but it can be a little troubling.
Now, this applies to maybe one out of a hundred readers who outs themselves to me, so, please, don’t think this is a general rule of thumb!
There’s a tendency at times to forget that you know me (and other bloggers) only through the plug in your wall or your ISP. We’re names, personas, images, and beyond that, we are indeed enigmas to you. Most of us would rather remain that way.
I’m searchable. Hell, you can find my photo if you know where to look. It doesn’t take rocket science. My phone number is unlisted for a reason, though.
I love flattery. I love comments. I love people trusting me. But, don’t forget, I’m a literary chick. I can read. If you offer me drinks, or you invite me out when you’re in town, and you don’t hear from me, the odds are pretty good I’m either not in the mood, or just don’t want to bother. And that’s the prerogative, you know? Sometimes life’s too fucking chaotic to send a note.
Every now and then I surprise myself and say yes and have a drink with a reader. It’s always weird. I always enjoy myself. I seldom would ever do it if I knew it was a single guy hoping he had a chance with me, though, because that just gets bizarre.
But, I’m single now, so who knows.
Am I saying never ask me to do anything? Nah. Don’t take it personally if I’m not interested, though. It’s all whim on my end, and when you’re the person being read, and you’re the person being, well, pursued, it only makes good sense to be skeptical and apprehensive. And, believe me, I can be.
While I like getting emails, and don’t mind at all being offered tough questions that do need resolutions, I cannot be anyone’s mailbox shrink right now. Keep sending Q’s and dilemmas, though. Just keep it within reason. (One email, not five, etc.)
I’ve been hesitant to post anything like this ‘cos I don’t want to ruin a good thing, but what the hell. Let’s say it:
Like me, love me, just don’t expect a lifelong friendship. Blogging is very masturbatory. Without you, it’d be exactly that. With you, it becomes more interactive. I enjoy that. Just know that I just don’t have enough of me to give a little to everyone. And right now, I don’t think I have enough of me to give anyone.
Still, I love my audience, love my comments, love my readers, love my email, but just want to keep these things real. Be like Phil, man, keep it real.
Depress-o-meter: Ah, I plummeted. Closer to a 7.5 or 8 out of 10, with 10 sucking hard, tonight. Just a bunch of stuff in my mind. Read the Ditch if you want more on that.

RANT: On the Rag with The Goddesses

Okay, I’m into the whole love-yoself-sistah feminist self-worship thing and all that, to an extent.
This sort of thing blows my mind. Personally, if I was 12 or 13, and I had a granola-chomping mother who was foisting this “love your period, love your womanhood” crap down my throat, I’d spontaneously combust.
I hate when people take something that’s really inconvenient and annoying and try to exalt some greatness into it. Sure, having a period is a reminder that we’re female and a conscious realization of our ability to create and bear life. Nice, fabulous, wonderful. Will that get the stains out of my bedsheets, too, or is that just a lovely little inconcrete and essentially useless euphemistic piece of bullshit?
Oh, I say it’s the latter. These people are right up there with the fucking naive twits who think a bird shitting on you means good luck. People will tell themselves anything if it means pocketing the cash for another therapy session.
Fuck, man. All I need to remind me that I am woman, ergo I fucking rock, are my tits. That I have a twat is just bonus, okay? My whole fucking body tells me I am woman, ergo I roar. I don’t need to pull a South Park, bleed for seven days, and miraculously stump the odds by living just to know that I’ve got the DNA freebie strand, okay? My period is the bane of my existence. I fucking hate it. I wish I never had to bleed again. I’m presently in the middle of trying to suppress my period for three months at a time, but the three months has been split into six weeks thanks to an unwanted period this week.
Now, a bloody tangent. So, I’m, you know, there on my throne, unwrapping the first of a new pack of pads, and the Always “Wings” adhesive cover tab has “Have a happy period” written all across the fucking thing.
Happy? You want me to be happy about cramps, bloating, irritability, alcohol sensitivity, and the constant risk of staining undergarments, clothing, and sheets for the better part of a week? Yeah, sure, okay, and while we’re at it, you want me to be thrilled about losing my paycheck, crashing my car, and finding my husband in bed with his secretary? Fuck right off.
Goddamned marketers.
But back to the initial topic: I’d like to send a big fuck you out to all the women who try to make me feel guilty about the fact that I think having menses is the absolutely worst part about being female. It doesn’t mean I hate my femininity, it means I hate mood swings and pain and messes and feeling unclean. How is that wrong? Fucking sanctimonious crap is what that is. Get off your high horse and join the rest of us on this little plane we like to call “Reality.”

Oh, For God's Sake!

Okay, to the anonymous who left the comment that has inspired this rant:
It’s okay, I’m not taking it personally, and I understand you were coming from a nice place and being genuine. Still. It ain’t you, it’s society, and I’ve been meaning to comment on this for awhile.

_____________________

I just broke up with someone, and I’m a bit touchy about it, even now, a whopping eight days later. I know, all these hours and days have passed us by, a whopping eight days and six hours, and I ought to certainly be all good and better and fine about it.
But I’m not. I know, I’m hoping to nip this in the bud before a stunning two weeks has passed, but I’m so emotionally stunted that I’m not sure I’ll quite manage that.
Okay, obnoxious mode is off.
Here’s the deal: I fucking hate the western culture of pretending we’re stoic and tough and good and fine just a few days after any kind of adversity befalls us.
It’s like old-school hockey. “Holy smokes! Didja see that hit?! That boy had his bell rung but good. The coach is looking him over, and he’s giving some shakes of his head. Holy hell, he’s joining the team again. This kid’s a trouper — bell ringing and keeps on singing!”
Back in the day, you took your hits like a man and played through, no matter what the cost. Naturally, it turned out the costs were high.
You have to understand, strong and stoic are things I strive to be. I understand life’s hard and comes with challenges, and it ain’t all fun and games. I’ve had some really hard times in the last decade particularly, and I think I’ve handled them all pretty well. Never perfect, but who among us is?
If I just up and dropped the thing with the ex, and all the struggles I’ve hit this week, you know what? You’d stop reading me. Because I would cease to be myself. It’s this overly analytical, detail-focused, mildly obsessive, often compulsive cynical satirist you’ve come to enjoy. That’s who I am. I’m a rebel without a cause, a thinker without a clue, and a poser with no apologies. That’s me. I get lost in the chaos that is my life because I am absolutely unapologetically self-obsessed.
I’m not at all the guru some people have taken me for. (WHY have you done this?) What I am, is a really, really, really good reality surfer.
See, whatever comes at me, I find a way to ride it until it breaks. I’m very good. I’ve had to be. I don’t have a smooth-sailing life in the least. Ahh, I’m so in it for the drama, man.
Anyhow, whatever. The point is, my relationship ended just a week ago. I’m not gonna just drop the topic and be magically healed like I’ve just had a Jerry Falwell moment or something. Anyone who does is just asking to get fucked mentally, because that’s not how to deal with troubles. Own it, experience it, make love to it, and let it go. Don’t just chuck it and hope the garbage guys come.
I’ll be moving on from this, you can bet your ass on that. Soon, too, probably, but it’ll happen after I’ve really come to learn something from the experience. See, my life is lived because I choose to examine it — and now, immediately, not some 50 years down the road as I write my memoirs.
Keep in mind: This week holds a party, a concert, a big social night out, and maybe a couple other things. It’s busy. I’m not sitting around on my ass as much as it might sound. When I am around, I need to learn a little about podcasting.
The podcast looms in the nearer future now. A matter of weeks, for sure, probably three of them. The trouble I now have is that I need to design a new blog. I will be keeping the Cunt alive, and feeding it periodically, but there’ll be a new blog, Smut & Steff, a companion blog to my podcast. You’ll see photos and notes and such about things inspiring me any given week, some postings of mine, and that sort of thing. I intend to have it be a very symbiotic relationship, sort of like blog+podcast=steffness, I hope.
So, a new blog, a new podcast… much looms. In the meantime, deal with my self-involved life — I can’t afford therapy, and you’re a sexy listener, so I’m thinking it’s working just fine for the short-term. Don’t worry, I’ll get some rest and shit sometime this week and my writing will snap back on soonish, I suspect.

How Much Trouble's Too Much?

Oy vey. Here’s a doozy. The short of this reader’s question is:
“How much trouble is one guy worth?”
The long of the question is, she’s your typical non-religious “Christian” whose religious extent is the putting up of a Christmas tree. It doesn’t matter much to her at all. She’s educated, though, and knows a little about world faiths and is a polisci kinda gal. She’s hip.
And she’s fallen for a Jew. This isn’t your standard-edition Jew, either, who likes bagels and matzoh balls. He’s a lived-in-Jerusalem, goes-to-temple-on-Sabbaths, I-can’t-marry-a-Gentile kind of Jew.
SPLAT. Hear that? That’s the sound of our non-religious girl falling painfully for this Yiddish Loverman.
So let’s get back to her question. See, she’s thinking she could convert to Judaism. As a religion, she thinks it’s beautiful. (As do I.) It’s their politics that bother her. An independent Israel? Never shoulda happened. (I agree. Yeah, here’s an idea: Let’s take a bunch of Westerners who have always misunderstood the “Islamic infidels” and have THEM divvy up the land. Fuckin’ brilliant. Oh, hey, just add water! Instant ongoing war! SMART-like. “Paradise Now” is a movie that’ll make you think twice about this whole Israel issue. In every situation there are two sides. Pity we only hear one.)
So, can she swallow her politics, digest a new relationship, and keep this man she’s head-over-heels for? Sure she can. But should she?
Like she says, How much trouble is one guy worth?
Let’s visit my friends at Websters for that one, okay?

trouble
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): trou`bled; trou`bling /’trou-b(le-)li[ng]/
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French trubler, from Vulgar Latin *turbulare, from *turbulus agitated, alteration of Latin turbulentus — more at TURBULENT
transitive verb
1 a : to agitate mentally or spiritually : WORRY, DISTURB; b (1) archaic : MISTREAT, OPPRESS (2) : to produce physical disorder in : AFFLICT; c : to put to exertion or inconvenience eg: I’m sorry to trouble you
2 : to put into confused motion eg: the wind troubled the sea
intransitive verb
1 : to become mentally agitated : WORRY eg: refused to trouble over trifles
2 : to make an effort : be at pains eg: did not trouble to come

Oh, hey, trouble. That sounds like a bitch. Something like adversity, then, is it? Or (gasp) grief? How do you measure trouble? Does it come with a specially-marked cup? Is it metric or imperial? Is it the same in any language?
Trouble is not fun. This we know. It’s filled with challenges, adversity, and more. That’s not the question. We know what trouble is. What none of us wants to admit is, it’s a standard add-on feature in each of our lives. Okay, so the question is, how much trouble is too much?
Depends on the trouble, then, I’d say. And the guy.
What’s the “trouble?”
Well, here it’s accepting a religion you need to buy into as an adult, with all those lifelong skepticisms and questions and moments of doubt. You need to put aside your logician’s mind and swallow a bunch of beliefs for the man you love. Not that hard to do, but it might be difficult to make your peace with down the line. Does it involve compromising who you are?
If not, great. If so, then proceed with caution.
Two, it’s ignoring your strong politics about something you feel is being unfairly portrayed in the media and misunderstood by the common man. Can you do that? Hell, I do that every time I go to my dad’s house. Not too hard. Politics aren’t a conversation one should ever enter into lightly. I generally try to avoid discussions about politics. Everyone’s a pundit, man.
Three, it’s the guy. Does he treat you with respect? Is he honest with you? Is he a shoulder for you when you need one? Does he know how to make you smile? Can you trust him? Do you want to wake up by his side? Can you see a future with him? Is he the first person you want to share good news with? Sounds like a catch.
If he treats you like shit or lies to you or makes you cry and not smile, well, then your answer’s pretty simple: Worth no trouble. Ever. At all.
I’ll go through a lot of grief for a good man. If he’s having troubles, and things are challenging, or things need to be overcome, I’ll try my hardest to ride them out. Good people are hard to find. Good lovers are even harder. I’ve been through hurts, I’ve had my heart broken, and I’ll still do everything I can to make sure a relationship’s not being thrown away for insignificant reasons… like my being too weak to stick out a difficult time. Sometimes it gets real fucking hard, too, having that patience, but I find having regrets a harder load to bear down the road.
We live in a society where everything is instant, and everything is easy.
Need to go to France? That’s an eight-hour plane trip! See you for wine and dessert this evening! Craving a some supper? Two minutes and twenty seconds on high heat in your microwave. Oh, don’t wash your dishes, just throw them out! Here’s new Royal Chinette! You’ll save three minutes of your precious life!
We don’t like adversity. We do fucking speed-dating, for god’s sake, as if 2 minutes is all you need to find the love of your life. We don’t want to go through challenges. We don’t want to take the hard road. When it comes to love and relationships, it’s too easy to walk away and not be there for someone.
The reader asked me about my relationship and said she assumed things have worked out and I’ve decided to stay private about things. Guess what? There’s still some things we’re working on together. Know why? We’re two people on PLANET EARTH, and we don’t live in a fairy tale. Adversities happen. Good relationships can overcome them. And yes, I’m being more private about things. I’m preferring to keep a lid on it these days, but at least the balls are in the air for the moment.
I think girlie, if she’s really in it for this man, needs to decide if she can live with the faith and can handle stifling her politics. I think the price we pay for regrets is too high, and I’d say take a chance and follow your heart.
But I’m a romantic pragmatist, and I’m constantly in conflict with myself. Kinda like the Middle East, I guess.

Putting My Foot Down On You, Dr. Scholl

I’m interviewing at an ad agency or two tomorrow. No, I won’t be doing any of the ad copy work or anything, more of a save-the-sanity support office worker, since I excel at that. But advertising is something I’ve always been very, very interested in.
Remember the movie Crazy People, from years back? Daryll Hannah and Dudley Moore? “Jaguar: For men who like handjobs from beautiful women.” Or, “Volvo: They’re boxy, but they’re safe.”
It was a comedy about truth in advertising that emerges when an ad-copy writer has a breakdown and is sent to an insane asylum. He decides to stop lying to the public and tells the truth. He enlists the help of his fellow nuthausers and they reinvent advertising. (My favourite was the Sony one, where the shortness of Japanese assembly-line folks meant better quality control as they were hovered closer to the microchip boards than the tall, gangly American counterparts who were so tall they couldn’t see the fine melds and such. Heh.)
Every year, I go and I see the film of The World’s Best Commercials for that year. I love good advertising.
But I fucking hate bad ads.
Case in point: Dr. Scholl’s for Her.
There’s this new open-toe gel shoe pad made for stilettos and the like, by Dr. Scholl’s. For some fucking reason, there’s this chick in a skin-tight micro tube dress, wearing strapless stilettos (that magically stay on) as her legs dangle off one side of a bareback horse, and she lies back over the hump of this horse, prostrated.
Because I do that in my stilettos every fucking day. And other things I do in my stiletto, apparently, include walking my dog on a reinforcing dike in the ocean, playing tennis, and more.
Who the fuck is this ad for? Who’s the guy smoking crack who seems to think THIS is what’s gonna sell these shoe pads to a woman?
How about having a real situation? Oh, I don’t know… maybe an intelligent woman with spring in her step as she delivers a brilliant closing statement in a law court case? Maybe you have a group of men, all sweating and nervous, desperately awaiting a job interview in a crowded, awkward office, as this sexy chick who holds all their fates in her hands strides towards them, with a I-Own-Your-Ass, And-You-Know-You-Want-Mine look on her face?
I’m surprised they didn’t just get to the point and have some chick in clear pumps spinning her way down a pole, since apparently we’re all just whores who use our bodies for advancement in life.
How about we move the fuck away from more of this objectifying, lame-ass look at chicks today, and into the realm where women really are becoming powerbrokers? Remember, sexy and smart don’t have to be oil and water.
They’re only oil and water because the media doesn’t want us to forget that it’s our asses that count, not the grey matter in our heads.
I, for one, will never, ever buy another Dr. Scholl’s product. This ad pisses me off THAT much. I’m sick and tired of seeing women whose bodies you can bounce quarters of, with brains the size of the quarter, as being the ideal that I’m supposed to somehow strive for.
My ass is copious. As is my intellect. How about selling to me, you assholes?

(If you’re looking for an update on my employment woes, I’ve been keeping that shit over on the other blog. It’s been one hell of a week for me, emotionally, and keeping it together’s one of the hardest challenges I’ve ever faced. I’m scared as hell, but I’m proud as hell of how I’ve been dealing. I’ll be glad when it’s over. I hope that’s soon. I’ve earned the reprieve. If I know anything, I know that.)

Where's Steff?

Hey, kids. I’m still looking for work. Honestly, it’s just beating the creativity right out of me. Like a fucking dog in an alley, my friends. I don’t feel like writing. Today was a two-interview day, which is great, ‘cos it’s interviews, but I didn’t receive any other responses, so I feel like there’s an insta-wall in front of me. I don’t really have the time to “wait it out.” Either I get a job and keep a place to live, or the fit hits the shan and I run like the wind.
I should be getting greater responses, but there’s a pretty crazy job market and who knows what’s going on. Either way, I’m frustrated, I have nothing of value to say, and there’s not a lot of point in updating unless something good happens. It comes and goes, the goodness. This morning’s interview was good, but the second wasn’t that great. It went well, but they kept me waiting thirty minutes for the interview to begin, and I’m not sure I want to work for a company with so little respect for my time already. Unfortunately, I have no choice. I’ll take the first job that comes.
I didn’t get the job from the other day. They decided to look elsewhere. I decided that was fine by me after I saw them repost the ad before they decided to tell me I wasn’t up for it any longer. Again, it’s a question of basic etiquette and doing the right thing. It’s a pity I seem to be more an anomaly than a common standard when it comes to perception of what the right thing is.
I should tell you about a strange thing that occurred, though. Were one to Google my full name, it wouldn’t take long for this weblog to appear in connection with it. I am a Scribe Called Steff. Shit, it’s on my resume, the “Scribe” moniker. Whatever. I’m not ashamed of what I write here. I toe the line between smut and sexy with aplomb, I believe, so, y’know, “whatever.”
However.
I do NOT publicize a certain email address in conjunction with this blog. There’s an address that is explicitly tied to my resumes, and nothing else. A few friends have it, and some publishers, and that’d be that.
The other day, I got a pretty overtly sexual email (and I have ideas about who sent it) and the person emailed me at my “job” address. This leads me to surmise only one thing, that a potential “employer” has specific designs on what writing about sex means about me as a person. Whoever he is, he has another thing coming.
I have to say, it pisses me off, the judgments that are made on the basis of who we are behind closed doors. I’ve written about it before, and I’ll write about it again, but this recent occurrence has really irked me a bit. The fact that this person sent the email to the board’s email, and THEN my “employer” email as if to say, “Hey, look, I know who you are,” is what creeps me out.
Whatever. Suffice to say that looking for work isn’t as fun as I wish it could be. It’s essentially a prolonged exercise in vulnerability and submissiveness — both qualities I try to endure in very sparing quantities. I want a job. I want this over.
And when it is, I’ll be a better writer. For now: Hi, I’m Stressed-out Steff and I’ll be your tourguide through the jungles of the jobless, where the prey pray for fortune and speedy resolution. Sigh.

Say Something, Dammit

The sky is blue. This I know.
I can be told once in my life that the sky is blue, and I need not be reminded. I may have had three concussions and had bleeding on my brain, but I’m sufficiently clued in enough to be able to recall the blueness of that great big yonder up there. It’s there, it’s bigger than life, and it’s unavoidable.
What I’m not smart enough to remember, however, is just how spiffy I am.
You see, I have these alien invaders in my body that will never, ever go away. They’re from planet Estrogen, and, man, as far as aliens go, they’re a right bitch sometimes.
Unfortunately, there is an entire world filled with people of my ilk who have been invaded by these cosmic cunts, and we’re known as Women. These “Estrogenies” do things to us that we’re not that crazy about. They make us insecure, make us moody, and make us sometimes a little inconsistent. Fortunately, they also make our boobs swell once a month. It’s a give-and-take thing, really.
Guys are pretty low-key. We like that about you. We like the fact that we know we can make you a sandwich, kiss your neck, give you a beer, and you feel like you’re the king of the jungle. Easy-peasy.
We, however, communicate more than you. You, obviously, communicate less. And you’re deceptive. You like to think you’re simple. “I am man. I grunt, therefore I am.” But you’re complicated. You get moody, you get silent, and you internalize. It’s what men do. We understand this.
What we can’t process, though, is the price it sometimes comes at. Men close themselves off, and then by so doing, they also forget to communicate with us about the little things that help to keep relationships moving nice and happy-like.
“You look nice today.”
“Have I told you lately how much you rock?”
We wish we didn’t need to be told that everything’s well and good and we’re still cared about and we still do all the things to you that we did way back when, but we do need to hear these things. And frankly, you need to hear them from us, too. Everyone does.
Compliments and expressions of affection are like yogurt. They have a shelf-life, and while they keep a little longer than you might think, but when they go, man, they go. And then the weird comes down. Insecurities rise, distance ensues, and things get complicated. Relationship mold. Ew.
It’s lame, but it happens. It doesn’t take much to get out of your head sometimes and just remember to say good things about your partner. Keep them secure about how they’re valued, even when you’ve got things going on otherwise. We all get a little too internal, and it’s just not fair to our lovers if we’re all self-involved and failing to acknowledge their worth to us from time to time.
It’s really easy to forget to be communicative about these things when your sex life is going, but at least then you have a physical expression of that affection, and sometimes things can be left unsaid. If you’re not getting physical often, then it’s really important to at least have the communication working, right? Pretty obvious there. 2 + 2 = 4, yeah?
It’d be wonderful if we only had to be told once in our lives that we’re loved, but it doesn’t work that way. The more it happens, the more real it becomes to us. Fleeting suggestions of affection really don’t leave deep imprints on us, and frankly, they often don’t even make a dent. Even worse is, if we’re told how great we are over a period of time, and then time lapses where it ceases to happen much at all anymore, then there’s even greater reason to become insecure.
Put your money where your mouth is, people, and tell ‘em that you dig ‘em. Tell ‘em often, tell ‘em good. If you don’t, you never know, you might just lose what you have, and that’d be a crying shame. Especially if the feelings existed, but your communication simply lacked. The price we pay for these oversights is far too high.
(And, hey, watch out for the Estrogenies, eh?)

We Interrupt The Regularly Scheduled Broadcast…

…to inform you that there’ll be no regularly scheduled broadcast.
Every now and then I’ve been making mention of not feeling well. Truth be told, this has been ongoing for a long time — months. This weekend, everything changes. I’m making some radical lifestyle changes because I’m tired of feeling like I’m drifting through life. As a result, I’m probably about to enter some pretty heady spaces, and postings might be interesting over the next week or so. Most of the lifestyle changes are dietary. No sugar, no dairy, blah, blah. For a foodie like me, you might as well just instruct me to climb on up and nail myself to a fucking cross, ‘cos that’s about how it feels like. Still, I’m excited.
Motivation is hard to come by when it comes to making drastic changes. I used to always joke that, “Well, I’d love to quit smoking dope but I just can’t seem to find the motivation.” Hardy-har-har. Same thing with diet. I’m the kind of person that’d rather haul my fat ass 30k on a bike than give up the brick of 5-year-old cheddar taking up space in the fridge.
[SFX: SCREAMING]: “Not the cheese! Anything but the cheese!”
“Oh, my God, Harry. I never thought I’d see this. Is this what I think I’m seeing? Death by cheese slicer? Shit, man. Hey, can you pass me a cracker?”
But, I’m pulling a Marcellus Wallace and I’m about to get medieval on mah ass, baby. What does this mean to you? A disconnected Steff for a couple days, but ultimately, a new, improved, better Steff! Now comes in cherry flavour, too!
My mind’s been in a fog. Back when I was smoking dope chronically, I could blame the dope. When you quit being chronic, though, and you’re still in a fog months later, you need to ask questions. Me, I’m a crystal-clear kinda gal. I’m used to being razor sharp, able to argue anyone on anything, always ready to go. THIS feels weird. I feel like one of those people you see underwater, trying to talk. Bubbles come out but sound’s a murky mess, just tonal variations, and nothing with any semblance to clarity.
Ever notice that; that how you feel drastically affects all your relationships in your life? You’re less able (less wanting) to communicate how you feel? Less able to put a finger on it? More muddled in your speech? More easily confused? Check, check, check, and check.
I know what’s good about my writing, I think — or at least I know what it is that I like, and it’s my tendency to be open, introspective, and astute. I don’t feel like I’m able to be those things these days, so how I’m feeling is literally changing who I am. And the funny thing is, I’m not falling over sick or anything. I’m not debilitated, I’m not chained to a bed, or taking tons of drugs. I’m just “off.” It’s time to flip the switch.
I guess that one of the hardest things we can do in our lives is admit that we’re not happy with who we are. I’m more or less content with who I am, but these days I’m not happy about it. It’s not a negative thing, this feeling I have now. This is really freeing, actually. Realizing where your problems or lack of satisfaction stem from can be a means of unlocking yourself and promoting change. I feel like I’m on the verge of exciting times. I feel like all this grief I’ve been going through has been solely to remind myself that there’s something better around the corner, but I need to motivate myself to bridge that distance. Like I say, finding that motivation is always a challenge, but when it hits… whoomp, there it is.
And it doesn’t matter what you’re hiding from — maybe you drink too much, maybe you smoke too much, maybe you’re dishonest with friends — who cares. Deep down inside, you know you’re fucking up. You KNOW you’re the source of your own problems, but admitting it’s like stabbing a fork in your eye; you could do it, but why the fuck would you?
Of course, I’m not advising you stab a fork in your eye, but a little honesty with the self’s not a bad way to start a day, you know. What do you least like about yourself? Why? And is it so hard to change that? What’s the obstacle? Is there a way to change the difficulty factor in that?
I like me. I’m a good time to be around when I’m on my game. These days, I’ve been flat and listless and I just feel a world away from the gal I know I am. It’s a diet thing. Tomorrow, a hardcore detox begins for a few days. This means, I’m gonna be unpleasant. Expect rants. Expect grumpiness. And then, I’ll be back in black, back to cool, all that I wanna be, and more. I’ll be like a fucking Army ad, man.
Know what I love most about self-analysis, though? I save myself $120 an hour. Fuck shrinks. I own a mirror. Have an awesome weekend. I’ll be sitting over here, jealous, drinking lemon juice and wishing it was a beer.

Politics As Usual? You Gotta Be Kidding Me

Don’t look now, but the fuckers are coming out of the woodwork.

I make a point of not judging people. Or trying not to. I speak my mind, I say what I really feel, and I let it fall where it may. On this, I can’t pretend to be openminded.
In the Netherlands, a political party has decided to fight for their right to be pedophiles. They want child pornography legalized, they want sex with animals legalized, and they want the legal age for sex to be lowered to 12 years old.
Most 12-year-old girls don’t even own a fucking training bra, all right?
Every now and then I hear about someone who was 11 or 12 when they had their first sexual encounter with an adult, and they go on and on about how it was so great and how wonderful it was to be christened in such a way, and yada, yada, yada. Personally, I shake my head and wonder what the fuck they’re thinking. I know they’re all well and good about their past, but I wonder sometimes if they really didn’t miss out. I wonder, too, if their take on sex is as healthy as they want to believe it is.
There’s the awkwardness most of us go through as we fumble our ways to ecstasy, as we learn about the boys and girls who sit across from us in school, get teased and taunted into sexuality, and so forth. It’s not always pleasant, but it’s a way of life and it’s how we grow.
For an adult to take that away from a child is just wrong, in my books. It’s unfair.
The one thing these “Yeah, I lost it when I was 11” types tend to report is just how long it took to find someone that didn’t disappoint them after all that time. They don’t talk about the confusion that must have ensued when this adult who was interested in them for a fleeting time just up and disappeared. They don’t talk about the strangeness of trying to account for what their daily life really was as opposed to what that surreal encounter must have been like.
Most kids can’t handle the oddness of that mix. Once in a while, someone comes along who truly does grow from a Mrs. Robinson encounter, but it’s not often.
A political party trying to pass all this shit off as moralistic, trying to label the rest of society as behind the times strikes me as laughable, and even as dangerous.
It’s not as if kids aren’t being exposed to enough sex as it is. It’s not as if teen pregnancies haven’t been a problem. It’s not as if the suicide rate for teens isn’t high enough without throwing more complications into their mix.
These laws they’re proposing are not for the good of the kids. They’re for the party members’ benefits, so they can fuck whoever they want, so they can look at pictures of kids looking terrified and scared and exploited. It’s so they can enjoy fucking a goat or sheep.
Who’s speaking for the kids? How do kids even have the emotional makeup to admit that they’re uncomfortable having these photos taken? How do we judge where the line is, who’s mentally stable enough to decide he or she wants this for the right reasons?
We can’t judge it. The kids aren’t emotionally prepared for it. And these fuckers sure as shit aren’t speaking for the kids. If kids want to explore sex, let them play doctor like we did, or have a round of “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” like I did in the forests behind our homes when I was 10. That’s how we learn.
I deplore child pornography. I loathe people who seduce children. I’m not much of an animal rights’ activist, but I sure as fuck bet a sheep would rather have a say in whether some guy’s cock enters its ass.
Yeah, I believe in free speech, but there are some people I sure wish would shut the fuck up.