Category Archives: relationships

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?

RANT(ish): Fuck that Couch!

My couch is gone. My piece of shit, black vinyl couch is gone. In its place is a new, black-and-blue cloth (presumably piece of shit but thus far unproven as such) couch that I was given as a warranty replacement.
Also gone is its history.
All those nights spent cuddling with cute guys, the dirty s-e-x, the nakedness, the hinge-testing activities, the massages, the naked nibbling of foods and sipping of wine, the fumbling for protection hidden in the coffee table, the whispered jokes, restrained moans, gasping – all of it, gone.
My slate, and my couch, are clean.
I’m entering into this, “Fuck you, I’m single?” phase now.
I’m too fucking cool to be single. I’m good in bed. I’m cute. I’m a fucking fab cook. I’m doting. I’m expressive. I’m clear in what I say. I listen well. I empathize. I intellectualize. And I know how to laugh.
Single? Fucking hell, men!
I’ve been through the denial and the sadness, and now I’m into anger. Not at him, not really, but maybe a bit. It’s really, though, just “it all.” At myself, in particular. I shoulda fucking walked sooner. Now, here I am, the middle of summer, and no one fun to play with. The beginning of the relationship, great. The last 8-10 weeks, I was already practically checked out emotionally as I was certain it would end. I knew what was coming, I understood the mindfuck of healing, but he didn’t. Yet I was stupid enough to stick around, hoping, like an idiot, things would change. I knew better then, and I know far better now. But it is what it is. And now, here I am.
Single. Again.
I’m the original “love yourself, love singleness!” cheerleader, but, fuck, man, getting together with someone’s pretty cool too, and I was right to be optimistic. So, yes, thrown for a loop, collecting myself, and doing a bit of a mess of it, but I’ll get my shit together. I always do.
What really pisses me off, though, about singleness, is society.
It screams at you SO fucking loud. You’re only as good as the company you keep. You’re only as good as the company you keep. You’re only as good as the company you keep. You’re only as good as the company you keep.
It’s a mindless fucking droning that is echoed by film, tv, ads, and music. Everywhere you look, it’s about “the one you love” and “forever.” Without someone, you might as well be nothing.
Me, I like dining out. Have you ever gone to a decent restaurant and eaten alone? I have. It sort of feels like the time I was in a wheelchair back when I had a leg injury and had to get around an amusement park for the day. Half the people eye you with respect and empathy, and the others eye you with some kind of sympathy and pity.
“Oh, she must have been stood up. No one eats alone.”
Yeah? No one, huh? Fuck you and your lame-ass stats keeping, buddy. I eat alone, and I like it. Catch up on my reading, you know? These days, I just do it in the kinds of places that “lonely” people are acceptable in – diners, coffee shops, the like. That’s a money thing, not because I’m letting the bastards get me down. But, these days, I don’t really enjoy fine dining without company. I can cook that well at home, and get great satisfaction in it, so if I’m spending the dime, I want some flesh on my arm and an ass by my side, you know?
I’m liking the new couch. I’m glad I no longer think of any of the guys I’ve been with on that couch. I’m glad the memories are, in a way, purged. I’m really fucking happy about that.
Along with the couch, I’ve also rolled up my area rugs and put them in the storeroom for the season. I figure there’s greatly reduced probabilities of rolling around in pursuit of carpet burn as I have dirty, naughty sex on the floor, so why deal with vacuuming and mustiness in the middle of a heatwave. Hardwood floors rock.
Yeah, fuck all this. I, too, dislike being single in a society that thinks I’m wrong to be this way. Being single takes time to adjust to, it takes much love of oneself, and a love for independence and spontanaeity. Going through hard times is not conducive to any of those things. As my life settles down, my love of being solo will return, if I don’t find me some masculine specimen before that.
I don’t want a relationship, I don’t think, right now, but I wouldn’t mind a little play time, if you know what I’m saying. So, I’m hatching a plan and continuing what I started a couple weeks ago in regards to getting back out into the world.
Life’s fucked right up, but it ought to settle on down soon. And then, I’ll be back.
Depress-o-meter: I’m, what, a 6 today? Got through the night with no dope, no drinking, not too much attitude. (Not like I’ve been drinking much, or that I ever do, but I have certainly been smoking dope. Waaaay too much!) That first night of “good behaviour” usually is sleepless, but I got six hours. The worst is over. That’s good. Now to keep keepin’ on.

Beginner's Fun with Role Play

In Cronenberg’s A History of Violence, we’re given a great beginner’s demonstration of how to perform low-stress, low-prep role playing games.
In that scene, Viggo Mortensen’s character is seduced by his wife, who says, “We never got to be teenagers together… I’m going to fix that.”
She abandons him in the bedroom for an uncomfortable length of time as she vanishes into the washroom to prepare for her antics. Finally, she emerges in a high school cheerleading costume and stands there in the doorway, toying with her oh-so-short skirt to reveal a pair of girlie white cotton feminine briefs, complete with a little frilly ribbing.
Just standing there, hiking her skirt up enough to show these oh-so-innocent little panties is enough to drop his jaw.
The fact is, role playing may seem stupid and weird, but why should it? As children, we grow up pretending to be other people and we think it’s fun. “You be the patient and I’ll be the doctor. Open up and say, ahhhhhh. And maybe a little oooooh.”
When does the switch get flipped that tells us pretending to be someone else is bad? Why do we feel so silly? What’s so absurd about remembering to play over the age of 18, hmm?
The thing about sex is that it’s supposed to be that one time — that one time — when we let our guard down enough to be utterly vulnerable. We’re there, naked, in every sense. Splayed and ready for enjoyment. And then, we lose a little control. For the good? For the bad? You decide.
Men and women tend to be pretty different in some regards, outside of the obvious, I mean. For instance, the reliability and comfort factor of a relationship tends to be really important to a woman’s sense of security. Men can get a little nervous about that, and they like to have things shaken up sometimes so they don’t begin to feel trapped. Don’t get all silly and think, “Oh, my man doesn’t feel trapped.” What, YOU never feel trapped? Admit it. You KNOW he does. It’s primal. Who we are. Get over it, but bloody well accept it. Everyone knows what feeling trapped is like.
So, it’s simple — you just change things up. Cook a different meal, wear a different perfume. Wear a wig, even, on a playful night in. Or, adopt a costume. (Change the decor of a room to be more masculine and dark for the night. Anything that adds new elements or airs will make the experience richer for the guy. Just cleaning up and tidying it will make a woman happy, sadly.)
And why shouldn’t variety make it richer? Variety is the spice of life.
One of the things I always loved about sex in the car was that it meant never having to have sex in the same place twice. Nothing quite like a game of strip Monopoly come rent time in the back of a hatchback, you know what I’m saying? One time by a river, another on a lonely stretch of rural dirt road, another in the abandoned car lot on a full moon night. It’s almost worth the handle imprint on the ass, the rug burn, and the crick in the back, you know?
There’s a digression for you. (Hi, I’m Steff, and I’ll be your tourguide tonight.)
What I loved about the role play scene in A History of Violence is how incredibly simple it is. It’s realistic. It’s easy to do. It doesn’t take a whole night of arranging and wooing. It’s reasonably spontaneous on one partner’s part, and is almost like a gift. Or, you can plan to play in advance. Set a date on the calendar… “Saturday, July 29th, 6pm: RP Games.”
Role play ain’t just for dungeons nor dragons, you know.
The advantage in booking the night and time in advance, where you explicitly say “This is what we’ll do” is that you get this wonderful goodness that comes in the form of committing to be together in every way… and the anticipation it brings. Guys LOVE to know they’re getting laid at a certain time. Let them look forwards to it with a little idea of what the night is to bring them, and man, you could find yourself with a pretty eager guy. Don’t you agree, boys?
If you’re a newbie to this shit, there’s nothing to be concerned about. You’re playing dress-up and having a cheap evening in, okay? That’s about the size of it. The pay-out is a little no-holds-barred fun that allows you to forget about who you are for a little while and adopt a fantasy life. It’s not stupid or childish, it’s just fun. Let your pride take a walk, and have a little fun, will ya?
If you’re a vixen-wanna-be, then check out the beginning of the movie (15 minutes in, give or take — I haven’t watched it all yet, so I’m not giving a whole-movie review; just scene approval!). Watch the scene where she seduces him, and pick up cues from that. The “Let’s go, Wildcats!” jump was a little much for me — after all, do you really want to risk jumping on your loverman’s mid-section when you’re about to try to get nailed? And another point, if you’ve taken the time to get a costume and have an idea in mind for playtime, take a moment and clean the kid’s toys off the bed! Jesus Christ! Get them out of sight. That happens at the beginning of this scene, when Viggo’s cleaning the toys off his bed, and that’s not really the cool thing to have happen. You’re about to get shagged — who wants to think of their kids? Again, Jesus!
It’s not rocket science, people. It’s fun. It’s carnal, it’s biblical, it’s illegal in some states, but it’s just downright fun. Why, someone oughta charge some admission.
Photo from filemag.com.

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.

Thoughts On a Monday

I wonder sometimes if not being alone with our thoughts is why Becoming Single is often so hard for us. We finally feel like the scary silences are broken by this voice of this Other who has acclimatized themselves to becoming a part of our lives. And, one day, they go. For good, for bad, for now, for all time, they simply go.
Then, silence. And in that silence, questions of doubt, of your worth, of your import, they all start to whisper and wail in the walls of your mind, and then where are you? In a storm of your making. A thought storm whirling around your newly deserted cerebellum.
It doesn’t matter that I don’t think it’s me that caused my recent break-up. It doesn’t matter that I believe myself to be a good person to know and a kindred heart. It doesn’t matter that I know what talents I have an all areas of my life. What matters is, I’ve suddenly found myself single again. Naturally, the next step is to wonder what’s wrong with myself and why it didn’t work.
I’ve done a little of that this past week, but not nearly as much as I would have expected. Probably one of the least likely questions for me to ask myself, actually, is “why me?”
I once wrote a rant about how much existentialists piss me off, and how much I hate that question, “Why me? Why me?” I think I said, “Why you? Because it’s your fucking turn!” Maybe that’s as simple as it really is. I don’t ask why I go through adversity. I know why, ‘cos shit happens, and this shit is my shit, and trying to figure it out beyond that is gonna give me an embollism.
Sitting around after a week like I’ve had and wondering “Why me?” isn’t exactly productive. I do it, though, but to a different end.
I don’t remember how much I’ve said, but the people who laid me off on day two of employment have offered to have me back to the job on August 1st, and I’ve agreed. To tell you the truth, when I first started that job, I was expecting to be hired for another on my very first morning with them. I wound up catching my prospective new employer at a bad time, tried calling later, and remain in the dark about that job to this day. The point is, I walked into my “new” job with a really bad attitude. I didn’t want to be there, and wanted to be hired for another job by noon.
In short, I was a fucking spoiled brat who was living anywhere but in the present. WHAT IF I lost that job to get reminded of how appreciative we ought to be about everything that comes our way? What if I lost it to be shown just how wrong negativity and cynicism can be? I thought I would hate the job, because my perception was that it was 80% bookkeeping. Know what? That’s the last dude’s incompetence. In my world, it’s 6-8 hours a week, and that’s after having been around for a week. In fact, now that I’ve been there a week, I know the job’s a good fit for me. What’s more, I’ll be awesome at it.
So, this week and next week, I’m working for my old employers. (Never burn bridges.) Then, I’ll return. It’s nice, it’s the first job I’ve had in a long time where I’ve been able to walk in, figure out what needs doing, and not have anyone on my back micromanaging me. Some of us folk have motivation and a sense of work ethic, you know, and we work better without being told what to do. That’s me! If there’s anything I felt at the end of my day Friday, I’d have to say empowerment would be the word.
In the end, I’m glad to be single this week. I’ve been through the ringer, and while it’s awesome to have someone around to be a support and all, there’s also something to be said for enduring adversity on your own. This has been the second worst summer of my life. Hands down. Only the summer when my mother died was worse than this. And I’m so proud, I guess, that I’ve kept it together to a degree. I’ve not let all of you in as much as I could have about all the things I’ve been feeling. Those who read The Ditch probably know more about that side of my life of late, but either way, I’ve been stifling some of the fear.
I had a boyfriend once who fancied himself a philosopher. We were talking about insanity and Catch-22. If you think you can go insane, does that mean you’re more sane, or already insane? I believed then, as I do now, that it means you’re probably less likely to go insane if you realize the potential you hold for becoming insane, if that makes any sense.
After this past month, I can tell you unequivocally that I think it’s possible I could one day lose my sanity. I don’t think I ever will, but I could. This past six weeks felt pretty fucking close to it, but it never did happen.
I’m finally in silence, though. Not only am I single again, but the constant bickering going on at the back of my mind has ceased – the insecurities, the worries, the wonders. For now, it’s ceased.
There’s the old saying, “Why do I keep hitting myself in the head with a hammer?” The answer? “Because it feels so good when I stop.” Welcome to my life. And this, this is “stopped,” and it feels so-o-o good.

And then there was None

Well, I’m single now. We pulled the Band-aid off and decided things just weren’t working.
As far as break-ups go, this was the best I’ve probably ever had.
It’ll be hard for me to be friends, I suspect, since I’m not really the one who quit the relationship. He was trying really hard to keep his shit together after he shattered his leg in March, but losing all your mobility and being introduced into a life where you have near-constant pain and chronic exhaustion tends to take a lot out of you emotionally.
Having been injured far too often last decade, I know this. I relate all too well. That, in many ways, made the past two months even harder. I wanted to be angry at him for pulling back, I wanted to resent him. I just couldn’t. I understand. It’s why I was so broken-hearted when I learned that morning that he’d broken his leg so severely. I knew the guy I was falling for was probably going to disappear for a long time. I’m just surprised it took a couple months to happen.
The relationship started wonderfully. It was so promising, full of future. Then, literally a bad break. Why fate intervenes as it does, I’ll never know. It just does. I can’t sit around in sadness and loss about this, because it is what it is: Dumb fuckin’ luck.
I don’t typically stay friends with exes. I’m making an exception. I also don’t tend to get back involved with exes, but in this case, I’m keeping a very open mind. On paper, we were obvious. Meant to be together. Even after we decided to break up, we were on the phone for an hour, just chatting.
Bad injuries can break a bit of your soul. Life becomes struggle. Too many people have never experienced the hardness brought on by a lack of freedom, lack of mobility, and constant pain. It really robs you of something, and it can really fuck with your psyche, too. This time, it did.
But, hey. He knows I care. I know he cares. We just can’t be what we want to be, and I can’t wait any longer. He doesn’t want to hurt me any more than this already has. It’s a respect thing.
Sometimes, moving on’s the best thing you can do. But I’m glad we’re keeping an open mind. Finding a real, passionate connection’s a rare thing in this shallow fucking world, and writing something like this off because fate played a hand, well, I’m too much of a romantic to just do that. Deciding to move on has been a long time coming.
Part of why I haven’t been writing as well as I’d like to have been doing is because I’ve been biting my tongue. So much of this has troubled me so deeply for so long that I’ve just felt unable to share it, because I knew he was having such a hard time already, and I didn’t want to bring any more negativity to the plate, or make it harder for him. In so doing, I took more bruising than I maybe should’ve done.
But now it’s done. Now the future’s decided, a path of action has been declared.
I was at a thingie last night and had a couple of those “moments” where you can tell the guy’s really digging you, you know? It was strange, because I felt like I was cheating on The Guy even though I’d sort of decided to end it today already. Maybe there’ll be a re-learning curve on this. He says he won’t be looking for relationships in the hiatus, but that I’m entitled to do anything I want, given that I wasn’t the one who pulled up anchor a couple months back. It’s nice to have that understanding expressed.
Having this resolved comes at a good time. There’s a potential that I’m going to spend some money I shouldn’t spend, and get the fuck out of dodge for a weekend. I’ve found out that there’s a scooter rally in Wine Country this coming weekend, and for a hundred or so bucks, I can have a great three days of fun with people who are positive, zany, intelligent, daring, and adventurous. Exactly the qualities I’m looking for in new people.
Am I going to sit around and be celibate as I hope that maybe I’ll get back together with this guy I really like? Absolutely not. I’m not going to sleep around, but I’ll see if some connection can be found somewhere. I have to presume things may never re-ignite, tragically, but I’m also hoping that being back on the market will remind me of what I might’ve had, and keep that desire awake a little.
Man, got to tell you, some days I really miss being six years old. It was all so simple, wasn’t it? Is it any wonder everyone gets felled with an early-20s depression as they realize everything’s just gotten infinitely more challenging?
Pity I have nothing to drink, but that’s probably a good thing. I do, however, have a roach I can smoke. I feel a little toying with dope coming on in my new future. A little bender can’t really hurt.

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.

Is There Anybody Out There?

Do you ever have those heady weekends? You know the kind I mean. The kind where you realize your life isn’t what you wish it was, and here, now, in this 72-hour period, you will undertake to solve all your issues, and then you will lock-stock-and-barrel the conundrum of Cold Fusion when you’ve had your post-issue-solving cold beer. It’s all so fucking easy, after all, isn’t it?
Or is it? I’ve had just such a heady weekend.
Naturally, the Cold Fusion ditty’s posing a little challenge to me, but since I’ve solved all the other problems of my life, I’m feeling the checks are balancing all right regardless, y’know what I mean?
I have to confess: I came as close as I’ve probably ever come to having a nervous breakdown last week. I was so stressed, so fucking tired, and I was just about to snap. I can’t really comfortably express how hard it is to fight against the feeling that your world’s about to crash down around you. Man, was I fightin’. Then I realized something: I’ve been feeling like I’ve had no control over my life for god knows how many months now. This ain’t the tip of the iceberg, I thought. This is that big goddamn chunk below the surface and it’s about to fell the mighty, mighty Titanic. Sometimes it just takes a while to realize a truth you’ve been avoiding for far too long.
Now, though, I know it’s like some fuckin’ phantom puppet-master’s been toying with the strings all along. And then I realized something else: It doesn’t need to be that way.
So, I’ve been kind of slowly taking back control for the last week. Doing silly little things to step up the action a little. I’m bored, you know. Real fucking bored. See, my friends are all either ensnared in these happy-sunny relationships, or they’re new parents, or they’re just totally self-involved. It’s been a long time since I’ve tried to expand my friendship realm, but it’s time. I’m sick of being friends with people who are in different places than me. The whole married/but-I’m-just-so-in-love! thing sure has worn thin, at the least. I just need some good semi-single people to chill with, methinks.
The trouble is, I’ve been needing this for awhile. So, when I sort of went and got involved, I allowed that to fill the vacant holes. Bad Steff. Lovers ought never be allowed to serve as putty hole-filler. That relationship’s sort of in a holding pattern, which I don’t plan to explain to you, so because things have slowed a little, I’m getting resentful of being bored. And it dawns on me: My fault. It’s too easy to do this, become reliant on a significant other for our entertainment factor. Thus, we allow them to play the role of hole-fillers a la Spackle. And then when things go a little south, who do we blame? Well, them, but it should be us who’re faulted.
Now, I love my friends and most of the people in my life. I just have far fewer responsibilities than they do, and much more time on my hands. I’m 32, and I don’t fucking feel it. I wanna be checking out live gigs, getting in at 3am. I wanna do all the shit I used to love to do before my FRIENDS got OLD.
They got old, not me. I’m still ready to go, man.
Suddenly, I have this age crisis. A boredom crisis. I want more fun, more variety, more minds in the meeting, you know? It’s the people we choose to surround ourselves with that contribute the most to our headspace and our lifestyle. Without a change of scenery, things get redundant in a hurry. And I’m stopping at the redundancy station again and again, man. And I’m stopping at the redundancy station again and again, man. And I’m…
My scenery ain’t changed in forever and a day. My life was filled with enough chaos and craziness for long enough, that shaking up the social mix didn’t seem wise. You take continuity where you can get it. Even then, I was stuck working in a six-person office for six years, an office where there was always an element of Benedict Arnold under the skin, so I didn’t know how close I could really get to the others. Once you get screwed, you’re always looking to keep the ass covered, if you know what I’m saying.
So, six years of sitting there, my ass tied to a television monitor and a captioning desk, watching TV for a living with headphones on. Not exactly a social role for an outgoing chick like me to play. And every time I tried meeting new people, it was just the same ol’ thang yet again.
I tell you one thing: I’m too damned funny and outgoing to have a social life dry-spell like this. I’ve had a good weekend, doing my kind of shit my way. Funny thing is, one of the things I did to meet new people a couple years back was to start a scooter club in this city. There I was, a new scooter, and no scooter-type friends to hang with. Started up a club, promoted it, and here we are, a couple years later, and 300 members. So, naturally, I have a pool to dive into for amassing new people, but I’ve been neglecting it. I mean, the name they dubbed me with for so long was “Our Fearless Leader,” or “SteffOFL!” (Yes, there are some oddball scooter people out there, but honestly, do I need another stuffed shirt science or business type in my life right now? Variety, baby. That’s the spice this soup needs.)
I kicked off my personal “new year” on the morning of July 1st. It was the annual sunrise ride that I’ve been doing the last couple years on Canada Day. Meet at 3:30a.m., and ride scooters to the top of the 4,000 foot Cypress Mountain on the North Shore, and call it a day by 7 or so a.m. Being as exhausted as I’ve been, it nearly kicked my ass, but I did it with a couple others, and had a good time doing so. Got a few wicked photos, and it dawned on me: No monumental photography days have been had yet this season. What’s wrong with me? (I’d post this incredible view of the crimson city I shot from those heights, but that would involve installing PhotoShop and using up some of my free time today, so no pic for you.)
We forget ourselves, and far too often. We begin valuing ourselves through others and forgetting that there are things that make us tick. When we forget those things, we start to feel empty, then we resent those around us, but really, it’s the fact that we’ve not been taking charge and making decisions for ourselves that’s the problem. It’s stupid, it happens to us all, sooner or later, and every time, it kicks our asses.
So, I’m getting life in gear. I don’t know that I need yet another distraction on my plate, but if the price I pay for less distraction is this interminable sense of being sidelined, then maybe a little disruption in my life is exactly what I need. I used to be unstoppable, man. I used to be everywhere, like the wind. What the hell happened? I still don’t know, but I aim to change.
Let’s call it an experiment.

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?)

Q & A: Dear God, Stop that Already! PT. 2

Meatloaf has been neglected. But if your name was Meatloaf and you were a big, chunky singer with bad hair and a sweat problem who portrayed a man with giant breasts named Bob in a movie like Fight Club, it stands to reason you might find yourself a little neglected as well.
We’re here to fix that. Meatloaf’s on the table now, man.
Dude’s having issues. There’s an angelically moaning neighbour, a neglected girlfriend, and a completely lacking sex life, all while his hormones are raging.
In a perfect world, we’d flip the switch, the neighbour would shut the fuck up, the girlfriend would get hot and bothered and wouldn’t be able to get enough of him, and he’d be able to keep his mind on the task at hand, while suddenly having the kind of sex life he really wouldn’t want to write home to Mom about.
Unfortunately, it’s not a perfect world, and things don’t magically change. I wonder if Meat’s had a chat with girly-girl about Moana next door? If not, he should. To not talk about the sexaholic, constantly moaning Moana would be akin to ignoring that big fucking white elephant over there in the corner, and since the Laz-E Boy is now out of the question, squooshed as it is under that big white bastard, it might be time to have that conversation after all.
“So, um, she’s at it again.”
“Who?”
“You know, Moana. The neighbour. It’s getting pretty randy over there.”
“You can hear her having sex?”
“Can’t YOU?”
“Well, yeah, okay, I’ve heard it.”
“Doesn’t it get you a little hot?”
“Why, does it get you hot?”
“Well, I’d really, really like to throw you down and have some pretty wild sex right now, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You would?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you every time I hear that woman, but I always feel a little odd, like she’s having sex and for me to come in and just take you then and there would be a little too connected to that, and I always worried you’d have a problem with it, so I’ve just stifled myself.”
“Well, that’s a shame. I’m a little underutilized around here, you know.”
I mean, that’s the ideal “If Hollywood Wrote My Life” way that conversation would go, but it’d be nice, wouldn’t it? The nice thing about talking about this shit is that you can really sort things out. Conversation may not be a cure-all, but it sure as hell isn’t just a Band-aid, either.
You need to talk to her, let her know this neighbour’s causing arousal problems because you’re a guy with a creative imagination. Tell her she’s (girlfriend, not Moana!) on your mind constantly, and that you want to know what you can do to better fulfill her sexually, so that sex is something she’s more geared to enjoy.
Besides that, you need to put your money where your mouth is. You need to constantly start being present physically, without having sex on the mind. Touch her when you pass. Kiss her often. Snuggle when it’s TV time. Put down the newspaper during breakfast and really focus on her. Listen to what she says, make eye contact. You also have to make sure that it’s her entire body that you touch – not just ass or boobs or twat. Touch her belly, her ample thighs, her lovehandles. Anything she’s insecure with, ignore her protests and prove that you find it sexy, too, via light touches and kisses. After a bit of this, it should really help to make her feel sexually secure in the relationship, and some of her hang-ups should begin to drop.
I wrote something a while back that I think deserved a little more attention, and for relationships like these, where one person has hang-ups and doesn’t like talking about sex, it’s something that can take you to a new level. In this game, the point is to take sex books and underline passages that turn you on, that you wish your partner would do for you more often, and in another colour, underline all the things you enjoy doing or wish you could do for your lover. Exchange books, and get to know more about your lover as you read corresponding chapters, and rendezvous later in the evening.
If my math is right, your loverwoman’s in her late 20s, ie: 27/28, Meatloaf, and this is a great age for her to begin getting over hang-ups. It’s really around then that most women start coming into their own for the next five years. A supportive man who loves all areas of her body and makes talking about sex a safe thing by not judging what she says or scoffing in response to revelations is bound to make her feel more secure, and a secure lover’s a better lover. Always.
As for you and your mastur-ba-thon, well, there’s nothing wrong with masturbating, but if it’s getting in the way of your sex life, much less your work or other matters, then yes, you have problems. It is about willpower. It is about knowing when to turn your attentions where they need to be. Maybe you have a sex addiction, but you claim you’ve made positive strides, so I won’t take it that far just yet.
The thing about the neighbour, if you wind up discussing it, making light of it, and acknowledging that it happens a lot, then you have the potential to having a trigger for sex in the relationship. You hear it during a smoke break, you could come in, tell girlie that Moana’s making friends again, and just seduce her then and there. Who knows, it could work out in your favour, if you finally confront the fucking issue and open up to the woman who deserves to know what’s going on in those two heads of yours.
You absolutely need to talk about it. You need to focus on your girlfriend. You need to repress some of your urges so the sexual frustration drives you to repair your relationship. If that doesn’t work, go borrow a cup of sugar and see what happens.