Category Archives: Etiquette

RANT: Entitlement & Lack of Gratitude

This is for anyone who’s asked me for ANYTHING in the last three years in social media and|or Life and who hasn’t said thank you. If that means you, you’re seeming like an entitled asshat, and here’s why.
Let’s have a chat.
If you have a question about cooking, something you need help on or want my input with, or you want an invite to Google-plus, or whatever the fuck you’re asking for, well, that’s great, go ahead and ask.

Can I give you a little advice though?
My time isn’t yours. I have a job, and that’s who gets to expect stuff from me without saying “Thank you.” You? Not so much. Not at ALL, actually.
I want to be helpful and kind, I really do, but all the entitlement out there is turning me into the kind of bitch who wants to say no simply because I can.
Why?
Because almost every time I give my time in response to what I’ve been asked — whether it’s actual physical effort or just a reply, I don’t get told “thank you.” Not anymore.
People EXPECT assistance, answers, help. You know what? They’re not entitled to any of it. It’s actually a self-serve world, but we’re lucky people feel tribal and help us out.
I don’t want money, riches, or fame, but I want to know you fucking appreciated the 20 seconds I took out of my VERY busy life to give you my attention merely because you asked for it, and that’s ALL I want in return, a simple “thank you.”
The entitlement I see out there daily is really disheartening.
No one owes you a goddamned thing. Not their time, not an answer, not a nickel,  NOTHING.
Like them, I don’t owe you a FUCKING THING.
When anyone assists you, EVER, thank them.
If you don’t, then people like me are taking notes about who’s appreciative and who’s not. The ones who aren’t, they don’t get my time ever again, because time’s the thing I never have enough of, and it certainly shouldn’t be co-opted by people who don’t deserve it.
It’s the little things in life we can, and do, judge you by.
Rightfully so.
Pay attention, people, and express gratitude to EVERYONE in your life for what they do for you.
Sooner or later, not doing so is liable to bite you in your ass. It’s not just good manners, it’s shrewd thinking.
For me, I’m officially at the point where failure to thank me for my efforts, at the very least, means I’m pretty unlikely to do so for said person again. Real fucking unlikely.
I’m sure I’m not perfect and I sometimes forget to say thanks, but I usually do. It’s a pretty goddamned small thing to ask of anyone.
Wake up, people.
(That bumpersticker up there can be bought at Zazzle: http://goo.gl/dNQ6E)

Twitter: 7 Annoying Behaviours

Problems with Twitter exist on a few levels.
Most of them occur because it’s high school all over again. It’s popularity contests and bragging and teasing and everything else you thought you’d left behind as a grown up. Turns out? The high-school-asshat-inside never really grows up.
Unfortunately — it’s a high school that is AWESOME for promoting businesses and personalities. This makes for a whole world of fuckery.
Over Christmas I think I might try to drastically alter who I follow. Want to make sure you’re not on the list? Don’t be guilty of classes 2 through 7.
In the meantime, what are Twitter things that piss me off? Oh, I’m glad you asked.
Continue reading

RANT: Guilt-Tripping: What Friends Don't Do

I had a classic big ol’ Twitter fight with an insensitive fuckwit last night, who I haven’t blocked because I’m not in Grade 5 anymore, but it basically came down to me saying, “No, I’m not coming out because I need some time to myself.”
Long story short: I’ve been up at 5 the last four days, have worked in four days what I usually work in 5, still have to work today, am trying to get back onto a fitness regime & healthy diet, and have slept far too little all week. Add to that that today I should get my period and was therefore a grumpy cunt last night, plus I worked 10 hours during the day on a very mentally-draining couple of projects, then, yes… I thought staying home was a good plan.
Asshat, however, thought he should keep pressuring me on Twitter to come out. I kept saying no, then got more forceful about it. Asshat finally got the point. I said “Toldja,” and asshat got offended that I was such a smug bitch about it.
Oh. So, you, in your insensitive and fuckish way, get to bang a drum that’s totally self-serving, because your cock somehow seems to think it’s necessary I attend a party, but when I bang any kind of a drum, I’m suddenly a cunt. Uh-huh. Ass. Continue reading

Why I Don't Follow You On Twitter

I tweet incessantly on Twitter. Most of us know this by now.
I also, inexplicably, will hit 1,300 followers probably before the weekend is through. I follow little over 300, quite a few of whom don’t follow me. Whatever.
So why don’t I follow you? Well, it’s not about you, is it? It’s about me getting the most out of the experience for me. It’s about me enjoying my time on there. Not making you happy in Nantucket or whatever. This is my gratuitous fun time, nothing more. Continue reading

Oh, Mr. President.

Take note men. Even the President gives his coat to his woman when she’s a little chilly. In this cute shot taken by the White House photographer on the way to a ball Inauguration night, Michelle’s given his coat because she’s a cold. I love this shot. Love, love, love.
Chivalry might be dead, but maybe, along with civic service, old-school national pride, and a possible economy, maybe it’ll be yet another thing given a healthy boost by Obama. Enter: The Era of Cool.
Sure as fuck beats the era of Blowhard we’re just exiting.
I like my men old-fashioned when it comes to etiquette. I want please and thank you. I want eye contact and a heavy dose of gratuitous complimenting when I put a tasty plate of pot pie before him. I want the door held open, and I want all the old-school manners I was taught in private school.
I want him to be able to be a little bad, too, but only after he’s held the door open for me, y’know what I’m saying? A nice well-timed dirty leer in the middle of a long night goes a long way sometimes.
Oh, Mr. President. I swoon for your community-organizing, big-word-speakin’, coat-givin’, wide-smilin’ ass. This is gonna be a lovely four years. I imagine it’ll be a while before I tire of the contrast between him and W.

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A Frank Posting about Giving Head

I refused to give my “partner” head last weekend. This came as a shock. Having been somewhat drunk on good red wine, I had a good excuse. Truth is, it was an excuse.
Somehow, in all my writing, I’ve apparently made it sound like sitting around with a penis in my mouth is about the best thing I could imagine doing. Like my thoughts are along the lines, always, of “Oh, GOLLY! A cock in my mouth! I’ll take two!”
While some people are that type, and I wish ’em all the power, I’m not. I’m unaware of how this perception that I am has come to be, so let’s clear that up for a second.
I am penis-positive. It’s not the penis, it’s me. More on that after.
Here’s the deal. There seems to be more or less three schools of thought out there on giving head. One is that it’s the best thing ever and having a penis in the mouth is like life coming up all sunshine and roses albeit on the salty side of it all. The second is that it’s a necessary evil, and something one partner does for the other, because that’s just how things are done. The third is that it’s an icky-icky thing to do, and not gonna happen on some people’s watch. (Silly people.)
I don’t fit in any of those categories.
I’m not crazy about a penis in my mouth. Honestly, I’m not. I’m not adverse to it, either. (Well, sometimes.) It’s just not one of those things for me.
However…
My “aversion” is physiological. I mean, I’ve always been one of those people who’s not crazy about taking pills and has to fight the gag reflex at the dentist, so sometimes a blowjob just isn’t that fun… other than what I get out of it — providing that little something for a partner that you just can’t get out of any other sex act. And it’s worth it, for that. Absolutely, without a doubt. Even if it means fighting the gag reflex.
That said…
I really, really enjoy giving one of those detail-focused, drawn-out blowjobs to a guy I’m genuinely into. But it’s not about the blowjob as much it’s about what I’m doing to HIM. It’s about the pleasuring and teasing and taunting, taking to the edge and backing off, and doing it again and again until I’m through with him. That’s quite fun. Yes, it is. It’s power and generosity and control and gift-giving and dominance and wickedness and affection and play, all bundled up into one awesome thing.
I know that blowjobs are something I’m really, really good at. Like, really. There’s a reason my three-year-old Good Girl’s Guide to Giving Great Head [part 1 is here, part 2 is here] is a hugely plagiarized blowjob-giving sex-tip writing on the web, you know.
I believe, if you’re going to do something, you better goddamned do it well. Being a Brownie, Girl Guide, going to Catholic school, and being a librarian and bookseller* has served me well. I’m a keener to perform my services to the best of my abilities, I have a powerful work ethic, overwhelming guilt when I fail, but I’m well-read enough to get it done right the first time.
Having said that? I’m not keen to bring out my number one trick, something I consider the most intimate thing I can do to a man, for any old shag. I’m liable to casually sleep with a man before I’ll give him head, if that makes any sense to you at all.
Nothing like keeping some surprises around about just how far you’ll go to please someone. Always be improving, right? Never stagnate.
Or at least that’s my motto, as old-fashioned as this lay-first, head-later mentality of mine sort of seems.
But I think it’s important to distinguish that, for some of us, it’s not about the penis, it’s about the act and the gift of the action. Maybe that’s not ideal in some mens’ minds, I don’t know, but it’s certainly worked all right in my endeavours.
Any thoughts you’d like to share, dear reader? Femmes, you relate at all, or…?

Where are the manners?

Every now and then an email comes in that’s the exact right email for what’s going on in my life. That happened Friday. I’d had an incident earlier in the day that had me seething with rage, and his email hit right home. So, first, the email, then I’ll tell you what happened, and then you’ll get my two cents. Sounds like a plan, no?

I was wondering if there was a certain age where teenagers or adults realise that manners are important and can learn to appreciate them? Because I’ve been trying my whole life (I’m still a teenager, but still) to be a gentleman (opening doors for others, asking if the elderly need help, speaking politely, etc.) and to be helpful as much as possible, but it seems that it is not appreciated at all. So far throughout a few years of high school, I’ve tried to help others boost their marks with assistance on their homework, but they can’t seem to understand that others have morals and won’t cheat for them. (again, turning into a rant i suppose..)
I guess I’m really just sending this email to ask another’s opinion about manners and whether or not it is truly appreciated in today’s society. I’ve asked a few teenage girl friends and they say that it is good to have manners and it’s something important they look for, yet I see them going out with lowlife guys who are despicable and need to learn manners. Is this just a teenage thing to do that you overcome later on and realise it’s importance and learn to be grateful for it? Or is it completely dependant on the people’s standards they’ve set.

Now, what happened to me the other day was when I was riding over to my brother’s place. He and I live in absolute opposite ends of the city — he in the most northeastern section, I in the most northwestern section. I work smack dab in the middle, downtown, and between there and my brother’s is 30-square blocks of what’s essentially some of the poorest and most underprivileged in Canada. If you know where to avoid, you can go without ever seeing any of these people.
I don’t try to avoid it, I just go through. I always see really tragic things when I do and it keeps me appreciating the little I have. This time, though, I was stopped at a light and this old guy, about 70, was in a wheelchair, completely unable to use his hands, and could only pull himself forward using the toes on his right foot. He was literally moving about 2 feet a minute. Naturally, the light turned red with him in the middle of the street, and I got a solid green light to go. Meanwhile, he’s stopped, looks like he’s about to cry from exhaustion, just can’t go any further, and all these fucking people are walking past, ignoring him.
I was in a RAGE. I pulled my scooter over, got off, cursed, “You people ought to fucking help! Where the hell are manners gone?” Then I leaned over to the man and said, “May I push you across the street, sir?” And he went soft with relief. He just sighed, “Please?”
I had a bit of an argument with a couple punks on the corner after that, who seemed to think I was flaming them, and yeah, you know, I was. Just fucking standing there, doing nothing.
When I got over to my brother’s place, I saw my nephew standing there, and I sat him down. I said, “If you ever see a little old lady or a little old man who can’t get across the street or they’re taking too long, you HELP them. You hear me?”
I made sure he knew the distinction between “stranger danger” and helping a senior citizen who really does need the help. After all, that’s how I was taught.
In MY world, I was raised to help people. I was raised to give a hand and do the right thing. I was taught to say please and thank you, and I was told to hold doors open for others.
And I KNOW life moves fast, and I KNOW people are more rushed than they used to be. You know what? I don’t give a fuck. *I* find the time to still be polite. I find the time to thank people and make pleasant small talk. Why the hell don’t they?
So, kid, I say keep going. The thing about being a polite person and not behaving politely just because you’re not getting it in return is that you start to get bitter about it. It changes you. Cynicism finds you and apathy makes a home in you. Stay true to the person you are. Help others, be polite. You’ll one day be surrounded by a better class of people, by people who appreciate that in who you are. It will be a deciding factor on the kinds of engagements you’re invited to and the kinds of experiences you have. You’re still a kid, you’re in high school, and you’re stuck in a social world you have little say in. In a few years, that all changes.
I know I will not date a man who has no manners. I will watch how he behaves and treats others, and I’ll note whether he expresses gratitude for the little things I say and do for him, and if I don’t like what I see, I will walk.
Life’s too short to be with people who just don’t understand basic human decency. I figure that eliminates about 60% of the world from eligibility for my bed, but whatever. I’m fine with having high standards. Are you?

The Fine Art of Schmoozing

I have the rather freaky-ass opportunity to run with a different crowd now.
The people I’m working for are politically connected. It’s an entirely different world. I once fancied the idea of running for politics. I was probably 16 or 17 at the time and was volunteering for the Liberal party as a member of the Young Liberals. I helped campaign for an East Indian guy in a Vancouver suburb. I, I’m sorry to admit, was part of a Burma Shave.
(Kind of marketing done in pieces at roadside. Originally, billboards that would write out one well-developed sentiment over several clusters of signs. In politics, a bunch of yahoos standing roadside, wearing sandwich-board signs for any given politician. Hi, I’m Steff — resident yokel and yahoo.)
It’s fuckin’ ‘zarro, man.
Whew. Deep breath in, strong breath out. Yeah, it’s a real headtrip. I once wanted to run, y’know? Now I’d be the fringe freak candidate, though. I’m in the right fuckin’ city for it. Enter: The Sex Party. Oh, yeah. I want their convention to have the acronym O.R.G.Y. Hey, if it’s a bonus anywhere, this is where redundancy works. “The Sex Party’s convening now. The O.R.G.Y. aspires to take things to an entirely new level, but they say they’ll have to sweat it out this weekend if the right climax is to be found.”
Yeah, okay, you caught me: I also always wanted to be a news copy writer. Ah, well. Chasing ambulances proved to not be my thing. Nothing like showing up on the scene of an accident because it’s your fucking job when some gaping onlooker turns and calls you a “sick bitch” for liking that kinda thing. Nah, dude, it’s the grade for glass, y’know? Report from scene of an accident? What’s yer fucking excuse, bub? Whew. So, yeah, I learned to not like that one in a hurry.
Point is, there was a time when my life could’ve gone a couple other directions. Like, seriously different directions. It fucking STUNS me, BAFFLES me to be this person now, writing about the things I have, considering the type of aspirations I’ve always had. I’m outed, man, my name is OUT there. I can be Googled. I can be found. I can be deciphered — piece by bloody little piece. Like, it’s over for me. There are jobs I will never, ever have. There are positions I will never, ever have. It sort of disappoints me to know I can probably never get it on merit — like I damned well should. I can schmooze, man, but I can’t live that life, I don’t think.
There’s so much carefulness, you know? There’s been about a dozen times now in work-related (including tonight’s party) situations where I’ve said really politically incorrect things, like calling the entire Middle East sexist when I’m surrounded by Iraqis and other folks in that region. (I qualified it quickly by saying it was an easy dismissal by people who didn’t understand the culture so much — which is true, to an extent, as they do adore women, but I think that’s in the same ballpark as saying you love the kid and that’s why you hit them, to teach them… I don’t think it’s meanspirited, but I still think it needs updating).
Anyhow. Schmoozing. The fine art of.
Schmoozing, in essence, is the art of faking sincerity. Now, you can be sincere and schmooze, but it’s just easier to not give a shit, because then it keeps you neutral, all right? Keep it current, keep it simple, and keep it neutral. Don’t get involved, just have an opinion and a well-timed smile.
Eye contact. Need I say more? Fuck, man. Eye contact. All about the eye contact.
You gotta learn to listen with your eyes. You wanna focus on them so intently that they can tell you’re really being drawn in. It forges an intimate bond. You lean in ever so slightly. Tilt your head slightly to one side, and just soak ’em in. Be attentive. Listen, and more importantly, hear.
When you talk, think about what you’re saying. If you’re short on an idea, don’t hem or haw, or um or uh, ‘cos it makes you seem like a bubblehead. Do a simple “I don’t know” hand guesture as you try to find the right word. Focus then. Silence, good. If five seconds passes, it’s “I’ve lost my thought,” and you move the hell on.
If conversation falters, just tell them you’re just going to make the rounds but you’ll check in a bit later. Thank them for the chat, nod, and move off with a toast of the glass and a slow, searching stride.
When you’re speaking, don’t talk politics or religion, if you can help it. Don’t discuss money problems, ever, when you’re schmoozing. It’s about impressions, not bad ones. Ask where they’re from, who they know, and if you think they want to tell you, ask about their job.
You need yourself a 10-second introduction. “Hey, I’m Steff from Vancouver, born and raised. I fancy myself a writer, and when I need to pay the bills, I work in a consulting firm. The rest of the time, I blog, photograph, ride a scooter and a bike, cook, and slack.”
When someone tells you what they do, you have an in for asking for their business card. “Oh, I’d like to hear more about that sometime” or “Hey, I’ve been in the market for one of you” or “Oh, great. Say, can I get your card?” I favour straight-up, but in case you’re feeling pussy… you know.
You can touch if you get the sense they’re into that, but understand that different people have different personal space issues, and to assume that everyone’s cool with being touched is foolish, and in the case of some cultures, flat-out wrong.
Limp handshakes are creepy. Lose it. Be firm. Never more than three seconds for a handshake. Clammy hands? Find a way to dry them. Nerves are for pussies.
So, there’s a good introduction to the world of schmoozing. It works well for picking people up, too. Instead, you lean closer and closer. When you take a sip, always make eye contact over the rim of your glass. It’s sexy. When they can’t hear you, don’t speak up, lean into their ear and speak more clearly and maybe even softer, so they have to also lean in. It’s sexy. If you’re trying to pick them up, then definitely touch them, but just on the back of the hand or forearm, or possibly the elbow. Anything else can feel forward, I find. (Taking the elbow’s a bit more sensual, though.)
And that’s how ya do it. Go off, my minions, and schmooze this weekend. In my part of the world, we call it networking.

Pop Psychology: "The Little Things"

My Sunday mornings are something I greatly enjoy. Typically, it involves rolling out of bed sometime around 9 or later, then some lazy TV until I get up the energy to make a nice breakfast. Then, I’ll take my nice breakfast, my coffee, and settle in to watch one of my many movies (if nothing worthwhile’s on telly, and usually nothing is) until the urge to write has struck.
Guess which part of my morning I’m at now? Well, to my right sits too-strong coffee with a bit of milk, and in the VCR is one of my really old videotapes – An American Psycho. My breakfast was eggs scrambled with caramelized red onions and red peppers with sundried tomatoes and basil, and back bacon, and good toast. I’m pretty much in my happy place now. A shower eventually looms, and then a trip out into the world for a Solo Day of Fulfillment.
The movie, a psychological classic, has got me thinking. If you’ve never seen American Psycho, it’s a remarkable study of the psychosis of the Type-A serial killer, chillingly portrayed by Christian Bale. The writing is top-notch (as most of Bret Easton Ellis’ work tends to be) and the acting makes it pretty surprising that Christian Bale ever got another job after that movie, since he became the killer, which generally slays an actor’s commercial appeal. (Much like how accurately portraying Ted Bundy put Mark Harmon’s career in the toilet for a decade.)
As I said, the movie has me thinking. There’s the old cliché, “How well do we really know anyone?” Not very, not usually. We think we know people, but we tend to go on face-value more than any real criteria. There’s a segment at the beginning of the movie when Bale’s character, Patrick Bateman, goes on at length about his skincare regime. The inference is, his face is the only thing people have to go on, and its perfection is his façade, covering his whirlwind of anger, insecurities, and need for approval, all of which drives his merciless, brutal killing of women.
We find “love” by comparing likes. Ooh, we like the same movies, the same books, we have fun the same way, we laugh at the same jokes; it must be love!
The thing is, even the most stark-raving lunatic enjoys culture and movies and has favourite foods they can’t live without. Likes and interests are superficial, at best.
When it comes to people in my life, be it friends or family or lovers, I watch The Little Things. The insignificant things that we often brush aside are the greatest tells as to who and what the people around us are like. It doesn’t take me long to assess a person’s character, and it tends to make me fiercely loyal when I see them behave in respectful, goodly ways.
Ignore the big picture and turn on the macro lens. Do they respect people providing them service in stores and establishments? Do they come to the aid of someone in need? Are they helpful when someone asks them for info on the street? Can they chat amiably with a perfect stranger? Do they ensure they’re including you in conversations with friends? Do they arrive on time, or let you know when they’re going to be late? Do they drive aggressively, tail-gating every car they come upon?
You get the picture. I’m not saying a person should be dumped for any of the above transgressions, but you sure as hell ought to be taking note of it. For instance, one could assume that I have a very quick temper by the way I get so snappish when riding my scooter, or one could at least assume I’m very quick to get on the defensive. And they’d be right. It’s true, I get very defensive. It’s one of my worst qualities. It also speaks to the fact that I’m a perfectionist who overthinks things, so when someone begins to point out a flaw or an error on my part, I might well put up a wall to protect myself. I know this to be my character weakness, and I at least have the guts to own up to it with those around me. It doesn’t make the flaw go away, but at least I’m accountable about it. As flaws go, it could be worse, but it’s still a character flaw.
I’m forever astounded, though, by people who seem to blatantly ignore endless flaws and attitude problems in partners, all because they have ‘so much in common.’
So many of us hide a great deal of who we are. We’re fools if we fail to suspect others might be doing the same. We have insecurities, fears, hatreds, weaknesses, and they all combine for a lethal cocktail at times. How we behave in the Little Moments is indicative of our character at its deepest levels. Yes, we have flaws, but are we inherently good and kind people? Look deeper than the surface. Our daily insignificant actions are the only true evidence we provide – the things we do so naturally that we don’t even think before we act. These are the moments when who we are comes through, and those are the moments to take note of who’s at heart of the person you think you know.

Some thoughts on relationship "firsts"

Tonight’s a family dinner, my dad’s 64, and I think his health is beginning to fail. I wonder sometimes how long he’ll be around, and being the monster-sized man that he is, coupled with diabetes and heart conditions, it’s anybody’s guess.
The Guy was supposed to join us for dinner – something he claims he really wanted to do. I believe him, but I say “claim” because I can’t fathom why he’d be looking forwards to meeting my folks. I think most guys run from that, but since he’s the one who started it by inviting me to meet his father (didn’t happen), I figured I’d invite him over. Unfortunately, his leg’s being a bitch today (surgery/broken leg) and with his sick days rapidly vanishing on him, and 11 months left in his calendar year, playing it safe at the start of the week is the wiser way to go. I can’t fault that, and even support his choice.
Besides, I’d rather him save his energy for me alone. I doubt my dad’s expiration date looms that closely, but I’ll be happy to have them meet sooner than later. It’s strange having a guy around who flies in the face of the stereotypes for a change.
I’m still the one being a tad more cautious about the things I say, et cetera, but I’ve been thinking of late about the beginnings of relationships, such as when one embarks on different “firsts,” like this “come meet the folks” invite extended by each of us in the recent past.
For example, the inevitable Toothbrush Debacle. When is it the right time to bring a toothbrush and leave it at your new partner’s? Is there a good time? Is it the first time you’re formally invited for the night? I don’t have to worry about that, since the Guy bought me a toothbrush for his place about two or three weeks ago, and deposited his own here rather unceremoniously a couple weeks back. (I’ve been avoiding opening the brush he bought for me, to be honest, as if it was the Sign of Serious Things or something. I’m still a tad apprehensive that way, but I’m thinking about forcing myself to crack that bad boy open the Next Time I’m Over.)
Then, testing for STDs, such as AIDS. How do you approach the subject of getting tested for your partner, especially if neither of you are the Lifestyler types who dismiss testing with ease, given it’s part of your routine? Again, the Guy brought it up first. “I think we should get tested,” was about the gist of his simple-but-good approach. Ironically, he was planning on going for a full work-up after work on the day he busted his leg. Thus, testing’s been delayed. I’ve just made myself a post-it note to get my ass in and take care of my end of things. Not like I have a broken leg for an excuse/reason.
I think there’s no delicate way to say, “Hey, you better get tested.” I think, if you’re looking at a commitment, the incentive of condomless sex is about as good an incentive as anyone needs. Condoms = Mood killers, but necessary evils. With a commitment, not so necessary anymore – provided you’re both toting a clean bill of health and other forms of birth control are in use. I think it comes down to taking a moment after sex or at some other point and simply saying, “What are your thoughts on getting tested for STDs? I know I’d prefer it if we’d both go ahead and do that, and I’m wondering if you think now’s a good time to go ahead and take that action?” Or, the simple-but-good Guy approach worked well for us.
Another issue is that of unwanted pregnancy. If you’re getting into that committed, yet condomless point of a relationship, I think it’s just pragmatic to discuss what a course of action would be if you suddenly were accidentally to become pregnant or get her pregnant. An opportunity arose for me to make my sentiments known (I would abort, with absolute certainty – I have no interest in having children at all, and that’s probably something worth writing about on its own) and I did so. Now he knows where I stand, and he’s relieved, since he’s of the same non-childbearing state of mind. Obviously, guys should let the chick state her stance first. If you force the issue with “I think an abortion would be appropriate,” you may never hear her true feelings on the matter – feelings which might well be contrary to your own, and this is not a subject to dismiss lightly.
It’s awkward, these beginning things. Coming to conclusions on each of the above certainly makes for getting on page a little quicker. There are some conversations that just need to happen. There’s no right way to go, unfortunately. The Guy buying us both toothbrushes might have fallen flat with another girl. Me, I thought it almost seemed like a statement of intent, and I sort of liked the way he took charge and simply made that decision. Another woman might not feel so warmly about it. Ditto with him inviting me to meet his father within about two weeks of the start of our relationship – something that actually did freak me out a tad, to be honest.
Like sex, like taxes, like navigating a new furniture layout after dark, it’s learning by bump-in-the-night, and there’s no simple way. What works once for you will likely fall completely apart the next time. Humans are an unpredictable beast, and you takes your chances every single time. You need to use your instinct, and you need to keep all these situations light by not making a big deal of them. Just simple, matter-of-fact comments and actions go a long ways to taking the edge off of what can be a pretty intense moment (yes, even toothbrushes can be intense).
I still get my moments of total apprehension and weirdness, but I keep them at bay by keeping conversations open with the Guy. He volunteers much in the way of feelings and communication, and I reciprocate both in person and through this blog. Together, we’re making it through the minefield of discovery, and the future looks interesting, if even a tad promising.
Meanwhile, if you want an absolutely incredible recipe, this is what I’m making for din-din this evening. Don’t you wish you were invited? 😉