I’m almost at the bottom of my first coffee at the ripe hour of 12:44 pm and a painting job staring me down, ugly end up, after a morning spent prepping for the event.

My bedroom’s a shithole of spackle, drop cloths, and walls crying out “Get me wet! Paint me!”

Me, I’m thinking “What the fuck have I done?” I’m tired NOW, man. Nonetheless, I’m about 5 minutes and 250 characters away from doing something about it.

Today’s exciting colour is Exotic Grass from the Debbie Travis line at Canadian Tire. It’s a very spring green, that colour you see on grasses by the river in the height of spring, vibrant and fresh. Later this week I buy a new bed and I’ll order the duvet off the net, too. Very exciting stuff. This colour’s both energetic and calming, so it’ll be a great palette for a bedroom, methinks. This will be the first time I’ve redone EVERYTHING about a room, so I’m just so stoked. It’s the boost I need to do what I ain’t got the energy to get done.

‘Cause, my living room… oh, god. Everything’s in here. It’s a disaster. I’m five minutes away from a psychotic break, I imagine. So… if you’re wondering where I am, if I somehow get lost in this self-induced madness (with great payoff, ask me in 72 hours) and don’t pop in for a boo, then you know where I am. Getting a lobotomy, having a hot bath, or painting. Then there’s the party tomorrow night, where I at least get to drink. But the rest of the weekend will be all painting. Fun!

God. Some days I think it’d be nice to be one of those lazy people who just puts things in places and doesn’t decorate. And then there are days like I’ll soon have, where I look around at the home that’s mine, and think how fortunate I am to be me. This is the thought that pushes me through this wearisome toil. Grunt.

Awwright. Lemme at that paint. Time to get it done, man.

As you may or may not know, weightloss is a running theme in my life these days. I’m still drinking beer, having the occasional treats, and still haven’t cut out pizza, so I’m clearly not all kamikaze about it. I’m living a little smarter, but I’m still living. (Beer, pizza? Come on! Moderation, right?)

I’m down 8 pounds since the start of February, back on track with the weightloss I’d began in October, down 23 pounds overall.

The last month of stairclimbing (on hold as I’m semi-sick right now) has been sculpting a fierce ass and has resulted in crazy-good changes in The Bathtub Test. TBT is when you guage how much volume your body has lost via how much water you’re displacing in your tub. A very easy thing to guage in the world’s smallest 1950s bath tub, like your favourite blogger has (and in mint-green, no less). Lovin’ how I’m creating extra room in my itty-bitty tub.

But all is not bliss in the land of slimmin’-down Steffs.

No, there’s the panty issue. It was easier when I was Just Fat and could buy all my panties from the same plus-size girl store. Now, though, the plus-size girl store’s panties are too big, so I’ve been having to shop around.

And now everyone’s got completely different sizing for underwear. I buy large or extra large, and it’s anywhere from skin-cutting-too-tight to fall-down loose. It’s ridiculous.

I’m all for free enterprise, really, but why can’t we have fucking sizes regulated? Make ’em universal! My ass wants nice-fitting panties that feel cute and form-fitting. Is that so wrong? I have a couple dozens of undies in weird sizes, and I swear to god, like, four of ’em fit perfectly. How hard is it to have uniform sizes? A man can go on the moon, but a chick can’t buy undies from different manufacturers without taking a risk?

Today, I don’t want fame, riches, or glory. I want panties that fit my new bubble butt. Damn it.

I was amused this morning to catch a news clip revealing that American Idol‘s curmudgeonly judge Simon Cowell (“if it’s not black, grey, or pale blue, I won’t wear it”) rejected an offer by Viagra to be their new spokesman. Cowell said he was “offended” by the offer.
Good for him. I think Viagra’s too popular. It’s ridiculous.
There are men who really require it and I’m thrilled they have that option. A lot of men, however, simply don’t seem to be properly in control of their penises. It’s a muscle, guys. Learn how to make it stronger.
Christ. One of my friends back when once commented that the greatest thing he ever did for his sex life — and his penis — was to start taking yoga. Yoga* isn’t the sissy exercise it looks like, it’s hard, but it’s a mental thing, too. It teaches you how to isolate muscles, how to mentally focus on tensing and relaxing them — a skill many of us are lacking, even when it comes to things like simply knowing how to relax our whole bodies at bedtime, let alone how to fire individual muscles.
Instead of learning how to master penises, a lot of young guys are running to their nearest doc and trying to score Viagra. They want to think that because their penis is fired up and ready to go for hours that their lover’s somehow going to want exactly that.
Some women will, yeah. But I guarantee you, most women would rather be with a guy who’s naturally ready to go for that length, who can ramp his performance up and down to match the mood of his lover. Those women, when confronted with Energizer Bunny man who wants to fuck for hours just so he can say he did, will probably wind up making mental to-do lists of their chores around the house by the time he finishes his redundant fuckfest, since he’s so focused on just being a longtime lover rather than a good one.
The number of women complaining about “Vaigrafied” men will, I guarantee ya, be escalating in the future. Women physically need more stoking before the sex stage of the game, and given how many women can’t come from intercourse alone, this whole Manly Man How Long Can I Last game just doesn’t compute.
Yoga* is directly related to the ancient art of Tantric Lovemaking. You’ve heard about Sting and his magical penis that can have sex for hours and hours without coming? Sting does yoga, man.
But, no. I guess that’s too much work. Or is it just that? Maybe it’s just another symptom of our I-want-it-when-I-want-it flash-cooking, fast-food Instamatic society of ours.
We live in a society where everything needs to be fixed with pills. Pills should be our last choices. I know taking an anti-depressant was my last choice after nothing else I was doing made a dent in my horrible depression two years ago.
But men are running too easily to Viagra instead of trying to see what else they’re doing wrong with their lives that might be affecting their ability to stay erect. Bad diets can deflate penises. Being overweight can deflate penises. Not exercising can make a penis sad, too.
Is it a simple thing to overcome? No. Yoga’s hard. Eating well is hard. Exercising regularly is hard.
Being a good lover is hard. It is. It’s work. It’s being self-less and tuning in to what your lover needs. It’s ignoring your wants in order to deliver theirs. It takes focus, stamina, understanding, empathy, versatility, flexibility, time, patience, and, shit, even psychic abilities. Being a good lover takes time, man.
It ain’t about a little fuckin’ blue pill. If you’re running to a bottle of Viagra in the hopes that it’s going to save your sex life, the reality is, your problems are probably far more reaching than just a soft-too-soon weenie.
Yes. Some men really need to use it, and it’s recharged their lives like nothing else.
The rest of the men, however, really need to learn how to better use their penises. For that, they need: yoga, KEGEL EXERCISES**, a better diet, regular exercise, and the ability to understand that a woman’s orgasm is about her body and not just about yours.
**Kegels: Many online resources write about them only for women to do post-birth as a way of tightening up their vaginal muscles again, but this is bogus. Kegels are good for men and women of all ages and will help with your ability to control your orgasm. If you’re a woman unable to orgasm, this will help you towards that goal by empowering you to better control your physical reactions. If you’re a guy who doesn’t get hard enough, it will probably help you get harder, plus it helps your endurance (but if your cardio sucks, having a penis stay hard longer isn’t your ticket to ride, friends). Read about Kegels on Wiki, but try the external links at the bottom, or do a Google search for a Kegel method of exercising that works for you. Plus… you can do Kegels sitting at your desk at work. You can get paid to enhance your own orgasms. Lovely thought that, eh? Once you figure out how to isolate and fire your pelvic floor muscles for Kegels, firing the same muscles during yoga will further enhance the effect of Kegelling your way to better sex abilities.

(If you ignore the torment and turmoil suffered by this man for 35 years, that is. Surely he’s not the man he was, and that’s a tragedy, but we’re not talking about such things here, now.)

In Pakistan, an Indian man named Kashmir Singh has been freed after 35 years spent forgotten on death row for a death sentence imposed on long-forgotten charge of spying trumped up in bad times between India and Pakistan. His wife has spent the last 35 years hoping for a change in fortunes, despite the death sentence, and despite never once being allowed to see him during his incarceration.

Now, against all odds, he has been pardonned for everything, and will be reunited with his wife tomorrow.

The couple’s marriage, they both assert, was always a love match, not an arranged marriage. As the wife said, “Why else would I wait?” She apparently has never given up on being reunited with her love… and, I, for one, am thrilled it is working out for them.

Nothing like a little old-fashioned romance to remind us what love can sometime overcome. Very nice. One of the stories is here. Another is here.