Monthly Archives: July 2006

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.

Wait a Sec!: Thoughts about Depression

If you think the following post slams my ex in any way, you’re an idiot. Acknowledging someone’s shortcomings isn’t vindictive. And acknowledging that they have good reason to have their faults is also not vindictive.
For some reason, we live in a world where being passive and inaccurate is mistaken for “being nice.” C’mon, none of us is perfect. I burp, you know. I offer advice without being asked (hence this board, heh… gets it a little out of my system. Not entirely, but it helps). I’m opinionated. I’m blunt. I can be moody. I’m bitterly sarcastic. I’m narrow-minded. I’m judgmental.
It’s all true.
So to call me something that’s true is, well, not vindictive in the least. It’s merely right.
I fuckin’ hate how you can’t say anything bad about anything and not be perceived as negative, hateful, or cynical. It’s so fucking stupid. It sucks. They suck. C’mon, grow a fucking spine. Have an opinion. Say what you think. Fuck that, just THINK.
And while I’m all rared up with no place to go, let’s get onto this topic of calling DEPRESSED a “SWIPE” at someone.
Hey, depression’s a fucking ILLNESS, man. Sometimes it can be almost untreatable. It’s a hard fucking road to travel. Calling the stating of a person as “depressed” a “swipe” means depression isn’t a real thing. It’s dismissive of the horrific struggles faced by all those people who can’t understand why they feel the black hell they feel. Don’t fucking disrespect them by suggesting that their clinical state is merely an insult or a swipe, and not the gaping black hell of existence they know it to be, ALL RIGHT?
This isn’t the “wah, I’m having a bad day” depression I speak of, that I know firsthand; this is the “I’m scared to go outside because something might trigger a descent again” kind of blackness that literally puts a fear of God into you.
When I call my ex-boyfriend depressed, I call him that with nothing but tenderness and sorrow. I feel for him. I wish I could help him. There is nothing, not anything, that I can do for him. How I wish I could. I can’t. That’s just the state of depression for you. Somehow you got to find your way out, but this isn’t some spelunking game. This is sinking. It’s a shipwreck of the heart, and shit, man, Lost is going on Season Three, you know what I’m saying here? If you don’t get found, man…
Depression is the bane of my life. I’ve travelled that road too often to feel anything but empathy for its sufferers.
My brother broke my heart last week when he told me he was crying every day these days, missing being a husband and a father, he said. Broke my heart. What do you say to a man who feels so emotionally crushed in the face of his not being able to be the man he wants to be? I believe depression’s harder for men simply because they’re told to not listen to their emotions most of their lives, and here’s this thing of darkness screaming at you every waking moment, or drowing out the noise in your life, and you can’t ignore it. It’s there, always. I think men feel more helpless with it, but women are kind of conditioned to know our body does this to us, and we’re brainwashed to believe we’re the weaker, more emotional sex, so we somehow cope better as a result of it. Men have to bottle it up for pride’s sake, and the price they pay’s just horrific sometimes.
I recommend this brilliant book by William Styron. Brilliant literary take on the journey of depression by one of the best writers in the world. His was chemically induced (though some of us would argue they all, in one context or another, are) and spiralled towards suicide. It’ll wake you up to a more intellectualized and concrete look at the psychosis of depression.
I believe I’ll always be somewhat prone to depression. Now, though, I realize that no matter how dark it gets, I find moments of joy. I need to always remember that.
Anyhow. I wasn’t sniping. This is one breakup where no one really is to blame.
And to the reader who expressed concern that a great relationship could die at the hands of something stupid like a broken leg, well…
…Welcome to the real world. I have been alive for 394 months. This relationship ate up maybe five months of it. And it feels like so much more. The connection went deep, fast, and there it is. Such is life. Broken hearts hurt, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. When it breaks, you can hear it cracking. In fact, they did a study last year that proves for once and for all that you really can die of a broken heart.
Yep, Broken Heart Syndrome occurs when there is a sudden tragedy that hits you. A death, a diagnosis, a theft, whatever. It mimics a heart attack and can require hospitalization, after which (2-3 days) the people can leave in decent health.
Every friend I’ve lost, every lover who left or drifted away, every relative, they’ve all taught me something. Some are dead and gone but remain with me now. Some hurt me in ways I’ll never forgive them for but to this day I remember things they’ve said, that we did, and it will always stay with me.
And that’s life.
There’s a valley in Eastern BC, outside a little town called Nelson. The natives there have a legend that it’s the valley of the lost souls. The belief is, when you’re broken in spirit or body, you go there, by the river, and in time, it will heal your soul. When you leave, you leave whole but for the little piece of your soul that remains, and then heals the next broken spirit who happens by.
And that’s what love and broken hearts are. You hurt, you heal, and a bit of that experience stays behind to make you better, stronger, than you had been before.
So, my heart’s a little worse for wear, as is my ex’s, and that’s how it goes. We are what we are, broken. And there’s no shame in it.

A Fondness for Figments

I’m feeling a little blue. I’m getting a stiff back, so I know my mattress needs flipping. I’ve just done that, and have changed my sheets besides. If anything reminds you you’re single, it’s changing the sheets.
You’re changing them because it’s been long enough. It’s time. Not because you got hot’n’sweaty and did wrong-but-so-right things.
It’s sorta sad, but not because I can’t handle being single. Been here, done this.
What makes me sad is having to remind myself that I’ve made the right move. We both decided to end the relationship, for somewhat different reasons. My reasons are not really ones I wanted to express to him, but that I’m sure he’s aware of. It’s kind of hard for me to admit it, though. I’m getting a little chokey just thinking of putting it down, because it feels like casting judgment, but the judgment’s long been done, so I might as well.
See, the guy I’ve broken up with isn’t good for me. In fact, he’s somewhat bad for me. He’s depressed, he’s self-obsessed, constantly distracted, and inattentive. It’s not good. It’s also not who he really is. But it’s who he is today. And I can’t begrudge it as I know what’s preceded it.
The trouble is, I’m trying to keep alive a memory of who he was before all that shit. A guy who was an upbeat skeptic with weird quirks and a cute smile, who won my trust and a bit of my faith for a while there.
The latter guy’s still around in ever-so-brief flashes, but they’re not the present. They’re animated flashbacks, maybe (hopefully) flash-forwards.
Keeping that memory alive is fucking with my resolve that the right choice has been made. The guy I just broke up with, well, he’s not really good enough for me. I’m a caring, attentive, loving woman, and I need that back. For his own reasons, he couldn’t provide that. I may understand, but I can’t live with that. No one really ought to have to.
I really, really hate having to choose between who a person is versus who they once were, but we all have to make those choices. I don’t believe in staying in a relationship longer than I have to, because if I do, it eats away at me. I’me constantly reminded I’m less attractive to them, for one reason or another, than I used to be. I’m forever wishing we could talk like we did in the old days. A whole lot of thoughts run rampant, all the time. I find when I’m unhappy in a relationship, I don’t live in the present. I get analytical and think of anything but that moment.
At this moment, I hope that old guy makes a return and when we revisit things, it’s a hit. That’s what I hope today. Do I expect it? Um. Hope ain’t faith, ‘nuff said. Get it?
Six months from now, who knows where the fuck I am. Six months from now, what if I’ve landed the job of a lifetime after what is, inarguably, the most challenging time I’ve ever faced? Who is THAT woman, huh? Who’s she? How’d she get there from here? That’s what I wanna know. I ain’t got no answers, and they’re a damned long time in coming.
I just don’t think this shit’s going to keep me down. Nothing’s ever done so before, but I’ve never stood all the way up after a fall-down, you know? I’ve never WANTED it this bad before.
How do I go from who I am today to who I am then, to wanting someone I was with a year before? I don’t know. I don’t know the path to take for that journey, and I don’t know what my life holds.
I know that I feel sad. I mourn for what mighta been, and what now might never be. At the moment, I hope I feel like I can go there again. It was a comfortable relationship when it worked. It was funny, irreverent, open, playful, and good. Then it changed. Sigh. I digress.
Now I’ve gone way off point, so let’s just get out that big ol’ hammer and nail this one down.
If your relationship is shit, and you spend more time thinking about then than you do of tomorrow, then maybe it’s time to admit that the person you’re with isn’t the person you fell for. Put on them boots and walk the fuck on. Life’s too short to live in the past. Don’t be scared of your future. Respect it, cherish it, ‘cos soon it’s gonna be your past. Futures, you can change. Pasts, well, they become baggage or cocktail-party stories. If you’re in love with a memory, you’re making a mistake.
Simple.
I saw my mom die at 57, and the last thing I need to forget is just how short life is. Why spend it doing the wrong things, right? That’s my motto. (I’m also opposed to doing the right things wrong.)
So, this I need to remind myself every time I’m sad I’m alone again: Beats the shit out of hanging out with an almost-boyfriend who’s depressed and can’t let me in. As a friend, I’ll cherish him. As a boyfriend, I was sometimes wanting to smack him good. And the future, well, who knows. I think, either way, some good stuff’s on the road and is headed to me. I’m just gonna keep up the good fight and hang on to the faith. Cogito ergo sum.

Doh, She's a Sneaky One!

If you’re thinking, “Wha– where’d dem posts go?” then you have a keen eye, Grasshopper.
I’ve sanitized the last couple of posts, where I’ve been bitching about work. Why? I let slip that I’m running one of the top 9,000 blogs in the world, according to the goodly folks at Technorati, out of, oh, say, 49 million. Naturally, they were curious, and since I have no shame, in the morning, I’ll pass along the URL.
Like I say, everyone I know knows I write this shit. I have a big mouth. 🙂
I have good news, though. I’m out of my jam for yet another two weeks — my old employers have some work available. Then I have to decide whether to put my eggs in that basket, or in the basket of the temp agency who possibly will have work once they test and assess me on Monday.
You know, if there’s any one thing I’ve learned this past couple years, it’s that pride fucks you up. Need help? Ask for it. Don’t know where to turn? Admit it. It’s amazing where help comes from when you don’t expect to find any.
This morning was a fucking dark time for me. It consciously felt like I had hit “bottom” bottom. I don’t like knowing how that feels. Naturally, it’s not REALLY bottom. I can fall much farther. I simply choose not to. I can’t. Must keep upward. So, we’re back on the up.
And tonight I took receipt of my recording gear. I have one of the coolest fucking mics in the world, baby. And headphones. Tonight, before bed, I lie in bed with the iPOD and listen to some music on my real expensive studio headphones, not those cheap fucking fraying Sony plastic ones I’ve got.
Nice to have my day ending far better than it began. It’s funny, now and then I decide the price of earning money is too high for what the real / physical / emotional costs are. I cancel an appointment or something, knowing money’s too tight to mention, and next thing you know, it appears elsewhere. I guess I always just worry that luck’s gonna run out one day.
But, not today. Whew.
Envy me. I have Swiss Steak cooking in the oven. Fuck, it smells good. Man, I rock. Kiss this, Betty Crocker!

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.

I Got Nothin'

Greetlings, Earthlings.
It’s Saturday. Do you know where you are?
I’m in limbo. Sorta tired. Just rode my bike for an underwhelming ride, gonna make me some curry, then I’m heading out for an odd evening. The city’s Vespa club is doing a “ride-in theatre” tonight at some dude’s house. They’re showing Anthony Hopkins’ film from last year, the World’s Fastest Indian.
Didja know I started a scooter club here in the city? 300+ members? Yep. It’s funny, I whine about not having enough of a life, and here I am with more than 300 people at my disposal. So, yes, I’m going to do something about not having enough of a life. People are shocked to meet me at last. Yes, I’m the elusive Steff. You’ve read me, now meet me! Woot! Ha. Funny. But, beer, hot dogs, a summer night, a backyard, and new people. Hey, sounds like a plan.
What can I say? I’m good with people! I’ll be on my best tonight, me hopes.
I realized just now, on my bike ride, how lonely I’ve been feeling of late, to be honest. It’s sort of embarrassing to admit loneliness, isn’t it? We live in a society where loneliness is supposed to be a sign of weakness, yet I suspect we all know what it’s like. It dawned on me yesterday how nice it was to work in an office full of people I could talk to for the first time in months and months. Unemployment was lonely. Reducing the frequency of seeing friends and lovers and all, that too has been lonely. Add it all together, and I think I realize now how unlike ME it has been. Wow.
It’s amazing how quickly it sneaks up on you, cognization. The “holy shit, that explains it!” epiphanies that hit us all.
Sometimes, it’s hard to be social, even if you’re built to schmooze, like I suspect I am. Back in the day, I was NEVER, EVER home. I’d leave for school every morning at 7, and get home every night at 1, and somehow found a way to work a job in between all my friendships and popularity and all that shit. For a dozen or more reasons, all those people have fallen away — through happenstance, through maturing, through distance, through time. And I guess I got used to it.
I think a lot of us do. We start thinking how hard it is to meet new people. Well, the internet makes it easier than ever. I’m on an activities mailing list for the city, yet I never do a thing through it. I’ve remedied that and have plans on the horizon. I think I’m about to go from never seeing anyone, and feeling like some kind of social charity case, to being back in demand.
And that fucking ROCKS. I’m tired of having fun “sometimes.” I’m a very fun person. Where’d that go? How the fuck did it go? This weekend’s good so far. Looks to be getting better. And tomorrow morning’s World Cup Soccer/Football* on a theatre screen. Woot.
So, here’s my point: Lonely? Fucking do something about it. Yeah, it’s scary. Yeah, it’s a hit on the pride to accept that you NEED to meet new people. But when it clicks, man, you’re gonna love having grown those balls to get out there, y’know.
*I consider it “football,” regardless of the fucking North American sport of the same name, and despite my living in N.A. I mean… they CARRY the fucking ball. It touches a foot maybe 15 times a game! Hundreds of plays, and about 15 foot contacts, yet they call it FOOTball? Hello!? How about… Carryball? Or, pigball? Or, oafball? Maybe thugball? Tackleball? Fumbleball? Passball? Any of these is more accurate. I wish someone somewhere had been just a tad fuckin’ semantic-minded when the unoriginal fuckwads sitting around a boardroom decided on calling it “foot”ball. Jesus Christ. Know what? It constantly touches feet in real football. Now there’s accuracy. The gods of semantics are appeased; you may keep your sport. And for the record, I don’t care who wins. 🙂

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.

Piracy and Perceptions

Ah, me hearties, here I sit, the night wind whipping through me bedroom, as I scheme and plot. How difficult, really, would it be to sneak on over across the way and steal me that surely-leaky rowboat, strap it to my scooter, head down to the mouth of the Fraser, and set sail? How many hours – three, four, a thousand, more? – would it take to finally reach the Caribbean, where I’m sure to not only find Captain Jack Sparrow, but seduce him?
A piece of cake, I’m sure. As good as done, she says.
Okay, all right, so no such lofty plans exist. Ya found me on out. I’m just a big liar/dreamer/whatever kinda gal.
Instead, I sit here in my jammies, my fleece sweater zipped to its very top, my toes curling in the chill of this unseasonal wind, thinking simply that Johnny Depp fucking rocks.
It’s funny, we all have our definition of sexy. Me, it tends to be guys with a little extra around the middle and broad shoulders and baby-ish faces. Can’t tell you how often I fall for that look. It’s just the flavour that suits my tastebuds the best.
And everything in that description is what Johnny Depp isn’t. He’s short, skinny, has a chiselled face, and so forth. But he’s so fucking cool.
Depp’s gotten where he is with little compromise. If there’s anything sexier than someone who makes it on their own steam, their way, with zero compromises, I wish to hell someone would show me. For me, that’s as hot as it gets.
I try to never compromise, but the realities of my life dictate it happens more than I’d like.
Johnny Depp, though, has never, ever compromised, as far as I’ve been able to tell.
I remember my first dose of Depp. It was grade eight and classmate Joyce called me to tell me about the dreamiest new guy on this Vancouver-shot series, 21 Jump Street. She and I differed on the heady topic of men, though. I was more into George Michael and Corey Hart, and she liked the lead guy from A-ha and other skinny people like that. I grumbled and muttered, “Oh, I’m sure he’s hot,” but secretly thought he’d be another scrawny sour-puss type guy.
Well, I was so wrong. I sort of liked him. He gradually grew on me, even though I was more into Peter DeLuise for a while there. But then there was the fraternity of geeks episode, where Depp had to play a pocket-protector type nerd. He just came alive. He was so comfortable playing an absolute outcast that I couldn’t help but love him.
And since then, Depp’s become the iconoclastic outcast. No one but no one identifies with the outside as much as Depp, and even as a millionaire, you still believe that about him. There’s just this air of outsider integrity that he’s never been able to shake. And unlike all the other so-called “bad boys” in the world, he’s absolutely as polite and gracious as can be.
Depp is the new man. A rebel and a sweetie and an artist and an intellect and a politician, all rolled up into one sexy little package. Men who wonder how to show their sensitivity and how much is too much should look at Depp. The guy’s in interviews admitting that he plays Barbie for 12 hours with his daughter and, “It rocks.”
The guy’s in touch with that side of himself. Being vulnerable isn’t the end of the world, men. Letting us know you’re a little broken and a little bent means we can appreciate more of you. Don’t worry, you’re not failing us when you’re not Big Strong MegaMan. You’re just a guy who’s being dug by a girl, and who’s toppled a wall of his to let us in a little.
Hell, Johnny Depp’s getting $37 million for being unabashedly himself. He’s dressing up with necklaces and eyeliner and being called the sexiest man in the world. Do the fucking math.
The “man’s” man isn’t what it used to be. Depp’s the not-so-metro-sexual who’s redefining what makes a man in the 21st century. Tell you one thing, a man of his ilk hasn’t been seen ‘round these parts in many a decade. Hollywood ain’t been makin’ ‘em like Depp. Not ever. Dude’s in that rare air reserved for stars who steal the screen – Jimmy Stewart, Bogey, and Cagney – who can pull off thick, theatrical eyeliner. Oh, that narrows it down to Erroll Flynn, then, doesn’t it? Bogey in black-lined eyes… hmm, no.
Whatever. That rowboat across the way is not long for this world, baby. Get me some rum, some sunblock, and I’m on the seven seas, baby. Arr, matey. Anchors aweigh!

The Ugly Cry

Oprah has coined a phrase I had to throw out yesterday, The Ugly Cry.
Almost every man who has been in any relationship of any consequence with any woman has, tragically, witnessed the Ugly Cry firsthand.
It ain’t pretty, man. That’s why it’s called ugly.
You know the cry I  (/Oprah) mean (/s). Just plain ol’ u-g-l-y. Tears streaming, lips quivering, slobber potential in between monster gasps of woe. You might as well just scream, “I have estrogen! Hear my whine!”
Oh, we hate the Ugly Cry. You guys have no idea. Oh, my GOD. The times we turn around later and go, “What the fuck is wrong with me?’ I’m three sobs away from needing an industrial hanky, but zero sobs away from a complete loss of pride? How wrong is this? Where in the hell is my brain? Is there no override button for this shit? My god, someone get me a penis!”
Almost every chick’s done this thing. It comes up at the stupidest times. Every time we try to get a grasp, we realize again, “Oh, I’m such a loser! Ugly-crying!” and on with the waterworks and gulpfest. Afterwards, it’s just a humiliating realization that, “yes, I really, really am that weak.”
Oh, sure, let’s call it some euphemistic maxim, like, “in touch with my emotions.” Sure, that almost makes me feel like something less of a fraud, but no, not quite. Normally, I try to repress my emotions. I don’t want to be in touch with them, and shit, man I turn down every collect call they throw at me. I’m more the type where I just shuffle around and grunt a little, in between resentfully scouring dishes or meaninglessly shifting things around into less offensive patterns on the counter. I think about things, develop great reasoning for my emotions, what have you, and then, I open my fucking mouth.
“But what I felt…” [honk] [sob] [wheeze] [sob] “was that what you were saying…” [sob] [whine] [sniff] [snuffle] [snort]
Yada-fucking-yada. Like any of it matters.
By the end of it, we’re so ashamed with our all-out girliness in this crazy-ass world of men that we soften or completely bristle, and either way, things don’t progress as they should. You can almost start to understand why those old sexist commercials of the ‘50s had the men doing all the negotiating for big purchases.
“Now, honey, you just let me take care of the big, bad negotiator. You just rest your pretty head.”
And what’s really lame is this ability for absolute stoicism through much of life’s challenges, but then the lips part for some person with whom I wanna talk on a deeper level, where I’m just being honest, and whomp! There it is.
The Ugly Cry.
I know that my “Ugly Cry” tends to come out most often when I’m upset about something with someone I genuinely care about, someone with whom I’ve got an issue but with whom also I feel a pretty solid connection with. It doesn’t make it any easier, it still is something that’s been hurting enough to produce that reaction, or it’s one of those moments where we feel safe enough to really let ALL of our shit go.
I had an Ugly Cry like that last week, and ALL the shit I’d been feeling all rolled into one bad session of expressing how I felt. Man, it got heavy ‘cos I just couldn’t shake the Ugly Cry. There it loomed, on my shoulder, the entire fucking night. I felt like such a loser. I couldn’t get it together, and then I’d feel more frustrated about my lack of control, and off I’d go again.
You know, I think the Ugly Cry sometimes is actually that negative-but-positive sign about the relationship’s strengths sometimes. As chicks, we get so overwhelmed by grumpy guys in our presence and we think (like you) that it’s our job to fix it somehow, by being cute or nice or sweet, and sure enough, it backfires. What we either forget or just fail to realize is that guys being grumpy with us is a sign of how comfortable they feel around us, a sign of trust. It just really doesn’t feel that way when it’s going down. Usually tends to be a 20/20 hindsight reckoning, if anything.
And the Ugly Cry is sort of the same. A chick won’t go Ugly in front of someone she doesn’t trust, really.
Next time you boys are sitting there face-to-face with an Ugly Cry, just keep it together and remember, it’s a sign that she trusts you.
Just like a seagull shitting on you means luck, it’s all good, boys.