Doing My Bit to Curb Surplus Forests

One of the things about suddenly becoming single -- in the midst of a harrowing depression -- is that I tend to begin to neglect myself. I ran out of hair removal stuff about six weeks ago and have continuously forgotten to buy it every time I'm in a drug store. Finally, yesterday, I remembered.

Thus, I have taken to my bush like Weyerhauser in the Amazon, my friends. Clearcut, baby. (Okay, I lie. I favour the landing strip. There are some things I just won't do to my clit, you know?)

There's something nice about going to bed all sexed up even when I know it's just a solo show this evening. I don't care.

I know there are some guys who favour the bush look, but ugh. No. Just can't do it. The funny thing is, I've never been into ridding all the hair beyond the bikini line until the last couple years. Now I love it. It feels cleaner. There's nothing like hair down there, and panties, and a pair of jeans, and SITTING on it all to make you feel like you've got some groin-area sweatbox going on. I love a shorn twat in a pair of jeans. It feels great. Much, much better. It also makes sleeping naked a little more fun 'cos I'm more susceptible to breezes and such.

Yeah, I used to be a very Amazonian woman. Strange how drastically I've changed that way. I guess the moral is to never presuppose something's not for you until you've tried it.

Anyhow, I have nothing more to say. I'm naked, ready for bed, and things are liable to get much more entertaining than if I were sitting here tapping out words for you to digest.

Which brings to mind a great saying from one of my favourite writers, Truman Capote: The good thing about masturbation is that you don't have to get dressed up for it. (And Steff ads: Or make dinner, or wash the sheets, or sleep on the wet spot, or pay the bill, or say the right thing, or laugh at jokes you've missed the punchline on, or make sure you're not caught eyeing some sexy beast across the road, or... or... or...)

My bed no longer beckons. It bellows. So, adieu.

RANT: God's Asked Me to Whale On Yo Ass, MoFo!

There's a lot of attention being paid to polygamy and bigamy at the present, thanks to the arrest of that uberFucker, Warren Steed Jeffs. I know there are a lot of polyamorists in my audience, so I'm going avoid starting a war of words just because I disagree with the lifestyle.

(Disagreement does not equal judgment, so spare me the sanctimony, thanks! Do what thou wilt; just don't invite me to the party.)

I want to say one thing, and one thing only.

CNN's been showing these slighted polygamists who feel the world is up against them. (I may not agree with it, but I don't think it should be outright outlawed, but that's another argument for another time.) Naturally, the butthead I saw was excusing or justifying his lifestyle because he believes he lives that lifestyle in praise of God or as a means of being closer to God, or even because God wills it as such. Insert the justification you like best.

I am sick and fucking tired of everyone justifying their actions because it's "God's will." No, people, it's not God's will. If you are religious, then you understand the simple premise of the belief that God gave free will to man so that man may choose and thus ultimately secure his own fate. You have chosen your lifestyle -- whether it be that of a polygamist or that of a bake-sale/PTA mom. Don't fucking tell me you're doing it for God. Do it because you choose to, and have the balls to own up to choice, public opinion be damned.

I could turn around tomorrow and buy stakes in the best Belgian chocolate company in this city and scarf cocoa up my fucking wazoo, turning myself into some 400-lb ball of flab and say, "But God made the beautiful cocoa bean and I am simply choosing to respect the beauty of his creation by indulging in it! I'm doing it for God! My rolls of fat are a testimony to his greatness!"

Nuh-uh, sweetums. I'm doing it 'cos it tastes so fucking good and I'm not getting laid so if that means I indulge, then I indulge. But it's my choice, and that's enough justification. "Because I want to!"

I'm really goddamned tired of people not taking responsibility for their actions. You've chosen. You live it. Be proud of it. Don't tell me it's for a God you've never had the privilege of sharing a beer with. You don't fucking know what He wants, if in fact He even exists, so don't presume to excuse your actions through Him.

A nation of pansies, that's what this is. Fuck, man. God wills it, therefore it must be so. If that's the case, then know this: God gave you a spine, but you CHOOSE not to use it, you fucking amoebas. Get with the program or check the fuck out, but spare me more of this bullshit.

(This goes for anyone on any side of the "God wants it" argument, whether Poly or PTA or Pro-Life or whatever. I'm just sick of the argument. Personal responsibility's like some distant figment of the land over yonder or something. I, for one, think it's time we remember what the hell it once meant.)

Lightning Crashes... Or Something

There is a world of difference between saying what needs to be said and saying what you want to say. Words get taken the wrong way and intentions are often lost in the mix.

Hi, I'm Steff. I'm a compulsive foot-in-mouthist, and thinking before speaking is a lifelong fantasy I've yet to make true.

And you know what? Honestly, I just hope I keep on failing.

It's so goddamned much fun when I get to actually say what I think. I do curtail it day to day, but not as much as you might think. I'm not one of these secret-other-self type bloggers who has a total alter ego they only bring out to play on a CPU. I don't have to hit the bong or scarf a tab or guzzle a 2-4 in order to tap into that inner self. I just have to bite my fucking tongue sometimes so I can yield to convention. But, trust me, most people I know have known me to say incredibly crass things sometimes, and I've no qualms about playing a fool.

If there's anything I miss about my old job, it's that they'd long ago labelled me as "flippant" and knew me to be an absolute yutz at times, and, in fact, they embraced those moments of utter irrelevance. I miss that, and I miss the fact that I'm not feeling as comfortable being myself as I once was. I chalk it up to the oddities of the recent past: the lack of sex drive, the in-orbit levels of estrogen, the sub-terranean depths of depression, and all that shit. But I feel it coming back to me now. I'm waiting, like a lover in the night, I'm waiting for my own arrival, naked yet comfortable.

And that's the thing, man. Being yourself. It ain't just about saying what you're thinking, it's about feeling comfortable in your own skin and knowing, without a doubt, that the things you're doing and thinking are all about who you are. It's far easier said than done, and far harder to actualize than any of those fucking self-help gurus would have you believe.

Why's that? Well, 'cos we live in a shrink-wrapped society that thinks image is everything. Hell, it's apologies-on-demand in our day and age. (I wrote a little ranty thing about just that on the other bloggie-poo of mine earlier today.)

Y'know, there's two ways I write best: One, with music driving the cadence of everything I tap out, and two, like I am now, seated in unnatural (to you) silence -- my little hearing aids turned off, or not even inserted in my ears. I find that if, one way or the other, I drown out the world, that all that's left is the rat-tatty-tat of my heart and my fingers on the keyboard. Gone is the judgment, the cynicism, the self-doubt, the angst, the bafflement, the groan'n'drone of the world beyond my far too thin windowpanes. I can give in to autolatry and isolation, and, for once, being myself is just a little easier.

I have the misfortune of working at a company with nice people, but with extreme political aspects to them. And with politics comes correctness, and with correctness comes a realization that I might not ever fit in as I'd like to. But, then, I haven't been there long, and it took me more than a year to gain the unequivocal fondness of my last employers. (But I was in a bad, bad place when I started that job -- borderline alcoholic and drug addict, really.) I suspect I'll beat the living shit out of that time-lapse this time around, but OHMIGOD does it feel like forever.

And I've been thinking about this for a little bit today, how weird it all is when we lose touch with ourselves. It's like trying to dial up a friend and stoke an old relationship. It ain't gonna be all love'n'kisses as soon as that cup'o'joe settles on the table between you, you know. Takes a little massagin' of egos and checking in and tuning up and all, don't you find? Yet we think that because we're all of a sudden aware of the distance between who we are and who we're being that there's some kinda mental Band-aid we can slap on that gaping psychic wound and suddenly be our uber-ally self all over again. Not gonna fuckin' happen, sweetcheeks -- try though you might.

So, that's where I am. I know who I am but I know who I'm seeming to be, and who I'm seeming to be's just gotten her eviction notice and I want her ass on outta here, but I know there's a holding period before that's gonna happen. Meanwhile, just call me Marcellus Wallace, 'cos I'm about due to get medieval on that waste-ass tenant if she ain' packin' in a friggin' hurry, baby.

I'm trying to remember when in the hell it all shifted for me. When was it I lost touch with all the little bitty bits o' Steff that make me grin when I'm alone? At some point during my recently RIP'd relationship, to be sure, and no, I'm not about to blame the ex for causing me to go AWOL. Sure as shit weren't his fault, not one iota. He liked the chick I am, not the chick I became, and that's fact that I don't doubt. The problem was never him, the problem was that I, like most chicks have a tendency to do, managed to fall into that trap of being what I thought was the right thing to be in a relationship, and somehow, that coupled with the estrogen depression and the prevalence of strife and upheaval in my oh-so-tumultuous little dramatic life somehow sent this kick-ass, fun to be with, always witty, always snappy chick somewhere way the hell out into the stratosphere.

And, dude, it sucked!

There's nothing (NOTHING!!!) worse than waking up with the side of you that you just don't like. There's nothing (NOTHING!!!) cooler than waking up with a grin on your face 'cos nothing turns you on better than liking who you are at 6:53 am, all right?

And you don't get to be that person if all you're ever doing is kow-towing to convention and appeasing all the little perfect (read: no fun, dry, unenviable) people around you. You get to be that person when you say things that catch yourself and others off-guard and you bring a grin to their face. You get to be that person when that gleam in your eye sparkles and you find yourself walking down the street with an unwarranted grin.

Ah, well, I don't know why I'm writing this, and I don't give a fuck about it, either. I just felt like it. That's reason enough, no? I wish like nothing else I had Live's Lightning Crashes somewhere on this harddrive, but no. I do not. If you read this in the next couple of hours, (say, before 2am PST) perhaps you could email me the song and I can rock-the-fuck-out before work in the morning. Not that I'm condoning piracy. Okay, fuck it. I'm condoning piracy. Sign me up, matey, and watch me rock and roll on the pitch of those waves.

All right, people. Let's have us a little contest, shall we?

Well, not really a contest, more of an ongoing thing. I'm going to have a segment on my podcast where I play an audio clip of an orgasm. I want you to send me clips of no longer than, say, 30 seconds, of a climax with yours truly. It can be a solo orgasm or a shared orgasm, but either way, someone's getting off. Capische?

Send it to the email addy you'll find on the sidebar.

The winner gets to close out my podcast in glorious fashion. That's about all you get as a prize, unless you opt to receive a signed photo of my eyes that you see in the sidebar, and then that can certainly be arranged, if you're willing to cough up a mailing address.

Somewhere down the road, we may enter the realm of better prizes. Me, I'm the kind of voyeur that I'm just happy to know I'm being heard. Which brings me to the next point: The orgasm-provider will remain anonymous, unless you want a name of your choosing divulged.

Again, 30 seconds in length, so edit it down to the meaty bits. (Max 40 seconds for a real gusher, as they say, all right?)

There are to be at least 12 podcasts, therefore 12 potential winners. If you don't get picked the first time, don't re-submit, because I'll be keeping a list of who's nicest when naughtiest, and chronology will have nothing to do with who gets airtime. I'm a woman of standards, you know. Only the greats get playtime. Just call me Fussy Britches.

And for all those who assuaged my hurtin' little ego with comments: Kisses! Thanks!

Two Things: Sex Drive, and Say What?

One, this whole barely-getting-comments thing is a drag, people. It's like writing for an empty room, and it's sucking the joy out of things. I'm surprised my hits didn't take more of a hit during the whole depression thing, but I'm glad those of you who've stuck through it have stuck. But can we say hi once in a while? Does a blogger good! Comments are the bloggers aphrodisiac, you know!

Of course, it's probably just a product of everyone fucking off on vacation, too, so I figure a return to school is good for us lowly little bloggers, too. Yay, Labour Day!

Two, say hi to my sex drive! What I've not been writing about, just because it's been too depressing, is that I've noticed a total absence of sex drive since about February or March. Now wait and let me qualify that. As you know, I was going out with someone from that time on. No, there's no coincidence. The only time I ever had ANY sex drive was around him. If he wasn't around, I had none. What can I say? I've got a child inside: I see a toy and I play with it. I just can't help meself!

Now, two weeks off the pill and I'm as randy as all get out. Coincidence? I think not.

What this means for YOU is that I might finally give a fuck about writing about sex again soon. This should roughly be translated as to mean that, yes, I've been faking it, people. But you couldn't tell, could ya? Well, actually, you probably could. I've been blander than vanilla lately. Yeesh.

Anyhow. If I start feeling a little desired by way of comments, you never know what might conjure. Not that I'm begging for comments. Just saying. It's like there's a friggin' echo in here!

You asked? Some thoughts on "cuckolding"

(I had forgotten to add the hyperlink to one of my favourite rants below. It's been added now.)

I was asked a while back what my take on cuckolding is.

I didn’t ask what the reader’s interpretation of the word is, but there’s a historical definition of it meaning that the male in a relationship is faithful while the woman can do whatever or whomever she likes. It’s, I guess, a sample of “reverse” sexual dominance played out in a social manner.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m old-fashioned. I’m a one-guy/one-gal kind of chick and I don’t foresee that changing. Relationships are hard enough for me without throwing potential mind-fucks into the equation.

That being said, whatever the hell gets your rocks off, man. If you’re in a relationship and you’ve set ground rules that state Sunday nights you have mashed potatoes, Mondays are for football, and, oh, yeah, you can fuck whoever you want as long as it doesn’t interfere with your plans as a couple, then so be it.

I don’t really see where my opinion matters one damned bit. I’m sure there are people who make lifestyle choices and then feel awkward for living outside the norm and that they’d like someone like me to come along and say “Hurrah for individuality!” but the fact is, you got to find your approval from within, and what I think, or anyone else for that matter, shouldn’t impact you in the least. So don’t take offense but I think it’s all bullshit, myself.

I will never buy into polyamory as a lifestyle. I don’t think I could ever forgive a man for cheating on me. I have never cheated on a man – not even a kiss or a flirtatious email has passed from me when I’m dedicated to a lover. I will do everything in my power to ensure I remain faithful in any relationship I’m in. I believe in monogamy, and I think monogamy fucking rocks.

That being said, relationships are hard. There are times when they cause nothing but heartbreak, and times when being with that person can take you lower than you’d have thought possible, but that’s just more of what life really is. It’s adversity that’s occasionally peppered with greatness.

I think swinging, polyamory, and all that shit are ways people have conceived of to take the sting out of the difficulty that comes with monogamy. I believe they probably truly do love the primary person in their relationship, but that the hard times overwhelm them, so incorporating others into the relationship is their way of minimizing the emotional intensity. I think some people have issues with monogamy. I think some people simply have what society deems as loose morals. I think some people are just scared to be with one person, ‘cos if that person ups and walks, then what would they be left with? And naturally, some people are just scared of being alone.

Am I oversimplifying things? Oh, probably. But that’s what those of us who’ll never, ever understand it do. Am I judging them? I suppose you could make the argument that I am, but I’m not. I simply don’t understand those lifestyle choices and never will. I don’t think I need to apologize for my lack of comprehension, and I certainly won’t pretend to understand it when I can’t.

I’m no idealist. I don’t believe there’s only one person who’s right for me. I’m sure that with a little compromise and a lot of understanding that there are a lot of men I could make a life with. There is no one kind of man I fall for, and there’s not just one fit for me. I’ve fallen hard for more than one man in my life, but that doesn’t mean I can’t commit to just one.

I think monogamy’s a pretty sexy journey – getting to know the little things that make someone tick can be a fun and interesting trip to take. And I’ve had my heart broken. Some days I feel like my heart’s been broken so often that I’m simply broke, and other days I feel like I’ve somehow Krazy-Glued it back together enough that it’s got some bounce in it. And yet I’m still willing to put all my eggs in one basket. I’ll take that chance.

I’ll tell you one thing, though. It bothers me there’s a term for a relationship in which a woman is the one who sleeps around and not the man. I was talking about the duplicity of women’s sexuality the other night with a chick and we reached consensus about just how much we both despised the word “cougar,” for example.

If you’ve been locked in a closet these many years, a Cougar is said to be a woman who seeks out younger men. I think it’s bullshit. Men are seldom ever called “dirty old men” unless they more than double the woman’s age. Otherwise it’s accepted practice that an older man sees a younger woman.

When I was aggressively playing the dating game last summer, fall, and winter, I definitely hooked up with some younger guys. (The funniest account is here.) I’m 32 for a few more weeks, and I got it on with a couple guys in their mid-20s, and I was labeled a cougar. What the fuck? A five-year age spread and I’m somehow some amoral woman with little regard for age?

Fuck you and your urban dictionary, buddy boy. I’m sick of sexual terms that distinguish women as being somehow amoral for engaging in the same acts that men have been committing for centuries.

Equality’s come a hell of a long way, but some things still need to change. This is the first and last time you’ve heard the words cuckolding and cougar on this site, people. Women are sexual creatures and it’s time we stopped apologizing for it.

My Night & The Dubious Nature of Anonymity

I'm home early, but I don't care. I actually planned to walk out of BarCamp registration the moment after I signed up, but then I honed in on Cute Men, and like any fan of the aesthetic, I like scenery. No, I'm not looking for a relationship, but dammit, I will (and do) look. Or, at least I don't think I'm looking for a relationship, but that's another posting for another time.

I'm at BarCamp looking for people to connect with so I can come up with innovative ways of creating money, and no, I don't mean starting up a counterfeiting operation in the dungeonish basement of my apartment building.

There's gonna come a time when I sell out, people. I needs to make me some money off this stalwart blog o' mine. Time's a knockin' hard, too. And, you know what? The 20 bucks I've spent for this weekend's likely some of the best cash I've ever spent. I'm excited to see where it goes. Instead of walking out right at 6, I stayed two hours -- long enough for two glasses of beer and some great productive conversations. Good things might be coming.

________________

Speaking of getting out into the public, I've had an email or two that has asked what I think about bloggers getting outted and shit like that.

I got outted last year. My name is Steffani Cameron, all right? I really don't give a fuck who knows, 'cos anyone with a nickel and half a brain can run my handle through Google and tap into an interview I did last fall in which the bonehead ran my name and unwittingly destroyed any chance for anonymity that I might've had. Jesus, if you have half an iota of ingenuity you could probably even find a photo of me, 'cos there's at least three of them accessible. Besides, back to the "my name is known" thing -- when I did Sex with Emily on FreeFM, I gave 'em permission to use my name. And the CBC used my name in promoing my blog on Zed in February.

I recently did a job search in which I know for a fact at least one of the employers knew of my blog and its content. I almost know for certain that one of those employers sent me a sexually explicit (and very creepy) email to an uber-private email that is NOT in any way associated with this blog, and which no one who has ever contacted me through this blog has ever had the privilege of knowing. That's the only time I've ever been creeped out about my lack of anonymity.

Both my last employer and my present employer, and every parent of every student I've ever taught, has known that I write sexual content. My father, brother, and every friend, family member, and longtime acquaintance knows about this blog.

As far as being a public blogger of sex goes, I'm ALL that, baby.

And that ain't about to change.

My phone number, however, is unlisted. I have caller ID blocking on my phone as well. And that ain't gonna fuckin' change either. Last thing I need is anyone deliberately reaching out and touching me.

What do I think of the recent spate of bloggers that I've heard about who have up and vanished in the night because someone leaked who they were? It's too bad. It's really a shame we live in a society where people can be judged on these bases, but the fact is, we do. I'm doing my part to fight the fuckin' power, 'cos I think it's flat-out wrong. I'm doing my part to prove that a good person can like getting shagged senseless. Sex is a sin if you want it to be. Sex is a shame if you allow it to be. Sex is a stigma if you let it be.

Sometimes people are powerless about the bigotry and the judgmental POV that peppers our society. That's reality, baby, and it's the cold fuckin' light o' day.

I was having this discussion with my coworkers last week, since I work with highly political people who are well-connected and who have political aspirations that will build on their political histories, and I jokingly said, "Yeah, well, politics is likely out for me." The web designer guy was commenting how he thought that might not necessarily be the case. He commented to the effect that we're on the cusp of this era where everyone's dirty little secret is about to stop being so secret. Just look at PostSecret.com and how hauntingly real all those unthinkable sentiments are. Suddenly we know people's dirty little thoughts. Suddenly we understand that our own dark and cobwebby little corners aren't as unspeakable as we might've thought, because they beat us to the punch and said it first.

The information age makes everyone Googleable, and the fact is, those skeletons YOU think are in YOUR closet might just be behind far more transparent doors than you suspect.

One day, and that day's coming soon, we're going to realize that everyone has moments of shame and degradation. Everyone's done something they'd rather not have exposed. Everyone's cozied up a little too close for comfort with shame. We're all fallible, we're all products of the same erroneous genetics, but a lot of folks just haven't the a) balls or b) fortitude to admit their dubious pasts.

Me, I'm honest to a fault, always have been. Why hide my shit? I've fucked up, damn right I have, and yeah, I like my sex with a side of dirt, but so what? Who the fuck are YOU to judge me? No one perfect, that's who you are, so let it go, man. Let it all go. I've never met a person I couldn't find a fault in, so I've given up my quest for perfection. Good is good enough. Bad is good enough. I'll take what I got, man. It is what it is.

So, to those beloved bloggers who've been outted and don't feel they're in a place where they can be honest and be who they are without retribution, well, I don't feel their pain, but I understand their reservations. We're on the cusp of a new era of honesty, but for now we're still mired in lies, and I understand. Hopefully more people like me'll come out of the woodwork and be what they gotta be to get this show on the road, but in the meantime...

You got me, baby. You got me.

It's weird being honest about this shit. It's odd meeting new people and having them be clued in, either by yours truly, or just because they just know. It's a little surreal. I get fun grins out of people, but you know what? No one has ever recoiled. No one has ever judged me. Most of the people are impressed, actually, and they're usually taken quite by surprise, something I really enjoy. They're amused, they want to know more. It's awesome. Honesty's freeing. They may say it's the best policy, but, dude, it's one hell of a ride, too, y'know?

Having Sex When Positive for HIV or AIDS...

...What do you people think?

We have a controversy brewing in Vancouver 'cos the coppers have released the information about a hooker who's having unprotected sex when she's AIDS-positive. Some activist types are all raising a fuss that she's not been "tried and convicted," so the press is having a field day with it.

Not too long ago, a Canadian football player (from the Roughriders team -- all puns are on hold) was found guilty for having sex without disclosing that he was positive. I think he's doing time, but since I'm having wine and waiting for GayBoy to feed me lambchops, I'm not going to research it.

I have strong opinions on these topics, but let's hear yours. You'll hear mine late tonight or tomorrow. Probably tomorrow. Or Saturday. Small matter of a life and all.

Here, read this. It'll give you some insight on Canadian sexual jurisprudence.

Oh, it's so hard keeping my opinion mum! But it's LAMBCHOPS, PEOPLE! And corn! In SEASON! Omigod!

Of Trappings and Traps

So, I was watching Oprah for the first time in a long while, which is nice, and the Big O had Dave Chappelle on. I suspect it's a re-run, so I'm probably behind the times, but ask me if I care.

For those who've been on a desert island, Chappelle baffled the world at large when, just after signing a contract for $50 million and two years more of his show, he up and disappeared, just fucked off to Africa for a sojourn, and didn't tell anyone but a family member where he'd gone.

To hear him talk of it, there were dozens of reasons, but most of all, it was simply that even $50 million wasn't worth the hassle he was facing or the pressure he was under. Some people out there probably think it's clear he's a fucking nutbag for walking from a steaming pile of cash like that, but I applaud it.

In order to protect my rep and all, I won't tell you about the situation that occurred when I was 15 that left me thinking often about the phrase "Money isn't at the end of the rainbow."

Every time my life gets out of control, every time I start working too much or forgetting about myself, I step back and remind myself that it's not about money. It's never, ever about money.

Recently I was in the situation where I went from possibly losing my apartment because I was about two weeks away from running out of money as I needed to get a job ASAP (one of the scariest experiences I've ever been through, and something I wouldn't wish on anyone) to suddenly being so in demand it hurt. I had the opportunity to work full-time at my new job, part-time at my old job, plus do some private work on the side, WHILE trying to keep this blog and my other blog afloat, WHILE trying to learn podcasting, WHILE trying to come up with a new website, WHILE trying to stay present with friends and family.

Is it any fucking wonder then I went off my nut?

It was early last week when I just snapped. I lost it. Totally without question mentally AWOL, or the closest I've ever come. Then and there, I cancelled all extra work. Forty hours a week is all the soul I can offer to the gods of social productivity.

Money's nice. God I wish I had more of it. I'd be an exemplary rich person. My taste in the aesthetic dance of life is hard to beat, and I understand what's worth a mighty dollar and what is not. Funny thing is, I'm not sure I ever want to be rich. I'd be happy with a hundred grand a year. That's all I ever need. I kind of want to be famous, but only if it's the "Yo, Steff, you rock!" kind of fame and not the stalker "Oh-My-GOD-it's-STEFF!" kind of fame. That'd be fucking whack. Thank god I'm just a chick with a blog, man.

If you were ever in my apartment and I wasn't around and you wanted to play Det. Snoop, you'd sooner or later find this small pewter book charm on my bookshelves, hidden away, on which a Virginia Woolf quote can be read that says, "If you are losing your leisure, look out, for it may be that you are losing your soul."

In the battle between my self, my soul, and my leisure, money will always, always come last. A couple years back, I read this book called "In Praise of Slow" by Carl Honore, all about the Slow food, Slow sex, Slow life movement in which people deliberately choose to take a different path in order to slow down the speed of life and enjoy the moment. Then and there, I chopped just 3.5 hours off my work week, worked one hour extra a day, and managed to have three-day weekends every week. Smartest thing I ever did. Too bad that job started to slowly kill me, 'cos now I'm stuck in the 9-5 M-F hell that most of the rest of the world lives in.

We live by the clock and we live in the age of irony.

For a century or more now we've been fed the lie that technology would make our lives easier. Maybe it did, once. It doesn't now. Now we have no time. We have no silence. We're constantly in a race against time because we've bought the myth of the sands slipping through the hourglass and we stupidly believe that the more we work, the more we live. I don't subscribe to that, but sometimes I forget just how much I disagree with it. With palm devices, laptops, cellphones, DVD players in cars, and more, we're so wrapped up in the digital age that we forget there's organic life around us.

Life's crazier than ever before. Makes me remember the line from that brilliant philosopher Ferris Bueller, "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it." Ever ridden on one of those bullet trains? I haven't. I probably will, for the novelty of it one day, but then I'll never do it again. What's the point of going anywhere if you can't see where the fuck you're leaving?

You know something? I don't own a microwave. Every year someone offers me a free one. Every time, I say no. You know why? Because I figure that if my life ever gets so fucking maddening that I don't have ten minutes to make a meal or reheat leftovers, that I'm gonna use my third-floor balcony as a springboard to the afterlife, all right? Fuck, man. Life's short and I wanna be present for every goddamned minute of it, come grief or come glee.

I want nothing more than to be able to make a living off my writing and my spoken word. A living. Not a killing. What comes with the killing is a loss of self, most times. You see it all the time, celebs who reach the pinnacle in their professions and then come toppling down from the heights. They have breakdowns, they collapse into drug abuse.

It's strange how high the price can be for success.

I have nothing but admiration for a man like Chappelle who decides that he can't play by the rules of those in power, and doesn't want himself to become just another commodity traded by those with little or no respect for the price he's paying.

Yeah, I like money. I like the trappings of success, but I'm wary of the trap. I'm staying the fuck away from the trap, man.

Can I Get an "Amen"?

(More help needed: Started new blog, but can't figure out the setting up in the Blogger dashboard so that I can publish via FTP to my hosted URL. If you know how to do this and can provide assistance, drop me a line and I'll send you my screen shot, and maybe you can help. Thnx!)

We Now Return You To Your Regular Programming

Hey, people.

I'm proud to announce that I think the worst is over. I know, without a doubt, that I bottomed out last week. Given the events that occured, I should have been somewhat upset, but given who I am, I shouldn't have been anywhere near the ballpark I was in, let alone the same fucking postal code.

My three-month dose of birth control ran out nine days ago. I got my period last Wednesday. Ever since then, I've been steadily improving in mood. Today, I daresay I feel almost normal. I suspect I'm heading to a whole new place now.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still filled to the brim with stress 'cos I've got a lot to do, but it's suddenly not weighing me down quite as harshly as it had been. It's... stress. It's not the end of the world.

I'm sure I'll have a few dips yet, I doubt I'm completely out of the woods, I'm sure that beast called depression still has eyes on me, but I'm pretty jazzed 'cos there's this chick I know and like kinda peeping around a corner at me, and I finally feel a little like smilin'.

Which rocks.

And rocks.

And rocks.

So.

I'm gonna start tackling topics again. Not tonight; it's hot at there's this vat of TAR (see photos for evidence) under my window thanks to a roofing job occuring, and sitting here at this desk has me gasping for air right now. Tar not good for asthma, it would seem. And the roofing continues until Thursday. Oh well. I have lots to do, I'm sure I'll pop in with brief postings, or I'll write late at night.

Don't look now, but methinks I be back.

Baby.



This is the lovely scenery from my living room.



This is my deck.



This is the culprit causing all the dust and stink in my home -- the one week I've cancelled all my plans to stay in and be productive. Glad I refilled my asthma prescription as soon as I saw the roofing begin! (I'm a smart cookie. You know it, baby!)

Gettin' a Groove On

Over the next week or so, I'll be putting the spit'n'polish on a new template for a new blog that will be the companion blog for my podcast. It is very likely that I will slowly, slowly begin moving my efforts to that blog as opposed to this one.

Let's talk about that for a minute, but first I want to ask if there's anyone out there who'd be happy to help me do a couple tweaks that I know will likely be needed on my template, so someone skilled at HTML, and if they would be willing to help merely for the good feeling that comes from helping, since I don't have the deep pockets to reward such endeavours just now...? Email me if you're down with helping a girl out. Thanks.

Now, here's the deal.

No, the podcast will not replace blogging. I will always, always, always want to write, and I will always appreciate an audience, so, yes, I expect I'll be blogging at the minimum of three times a week. What will be different about the new place, though, is that in addition to usual posts, I'll also be posting visuals (ie: text docs and photos and such) that give you some insight on where the coming week's podcast might be going. I won't be writing posts that tell you what the upcoming content is, but instead I'll be giving you visuals that should likely clue you in.

My vision for this new place will be reverting closer to the polish and snazz that had defined this blog in its early months. The look and feel will be quite important to me. It's not going to have flash and shit like that -- it'll be basic, stripped-down, standard-issue Steff. I'm not a high-tech and flashy chick, and my blogs sure as shit won't be, either. But they'll be classy, straight-up, and accessible. Just like me.

In addition to that, there are plans to reopen my Cafepress store but with only a few select items, as opposed to the inundation I'd tried before.

So, if you've had your heart set on a Spankworthy shirt, stay tuned, 'cos they're coming back.

These are the things I plan to accomplish within a month. Yes. You heard me. There's a deadline. I'm actually hoping to have my first podcast aired on September 7th, but there's a lot to get done before then. If the podcast airs before the new blog is up, then so be it (but I may not have a place for you to download it from, without, though).

In case you don't realize, the podcasts are initially being broadcast on www.redlightcenter.com, the kind people who've bankrolled the whole project. Once they've aired there, they revert to being my property, and I can disperse of them as I wish. Which is to say, share them with you.

Anyhow. These are my plans. If you can help with a couple tweaks of my HTML code (which I hope to generate in the next week) then let me know. Thanks! Yep, the day is drawing nigh, folks. Soon, you'll hear me. God, I'm nervous!

Of Groundhogs and Loathing

I just finished watching the last 30 minutes of Groundhog Day with Bill Murray, and, well, this is a weird one, but I think it's one of my favourite romantic comedies.

Right now, I long for a little kissing and lighthearted fun. That'd be nice. Not to be had, but it'd be nice.

Something about Groundhog Day hits the spot today. I'd realized earlier this week that I'd sunk about as low as I've ever sunk. I'm not accustomed to being cruel or mean or angry, and I've been feeling that way too much of late. I really, really hate feeling negative things, but acting on them, why, that's just as low as it gets.

I'm not above fallibility. Wish I was, but I come with the full range of human emotions, from dishonesty through to loyalty, they're all nestled within me. Normally, my moral compass overrides the bad shit 'cos I'm typically a very good person. Lately, it's felt like night and day, depending on my mood.

I seem to be starting to stabilize more. I've made the choice that I'm getting off birth control after a couple friends have suggested that this week, which, for some reason, just totally escaped my consciousness as a choice. Throughout ALL the shit that has come down, I've been on the pill, and while I consider myself one of the toughest, most resilient people I know, I've been anything but that of late. I want to have something to blame, and maybe the pill's a good thing to use in that capacity. Maybe, though, it really is to blame.

(And while I'm being all hard on myself, don't think for a minute I'm not impressed with my ability to get through certain things that came my way since June... I'm quite proud of myself in some regards, but I'm disappointed that, in the end, I did start to sink beneath myself.)

I'm supposed to resume the pill tonight, but I'm not going to. Instead, I'll take a break and let it flush out of my system. Once fall passes and winter dawns, I might decide to resume the pill.*

At the moment, I'm not sexually active, but I still consider going off the pill to be a major pain in the ass because I typically get first-day-of-period cramps that leave me fetally balled on my couch, wincing in agony as my body proceeds to fully explore the potential of cramps. I get the world's worst first-day cramps. I was once in enough pain that I thought of going to the hospital to get a sedative. I'd really rather not return to those cramps...

...but if the alternative is beginning to hate myself, then I know the choice I need to make. It's been a week since I've had a pill, and since then, I've slowly started to climb out of the depressive cesspool that has been home for the last three months -- which is coincidentally the length of my last cycle, thanks to the brilliance of trying to suppress my period.

Today's to be a cycling day peppered by a four-hour stint of work. I have a project to do, and when I'm done, I'm gone, even if that's less than four hours. I don't care. Right now, I'll do what it takes to enjoy myself, because that's where I find the self-love. If I can have a good time on my own, I can enjoy myself anywhere, any time, and hopefully with anyone. It's that simple.

Groundhog Day's great because Bill Murray also hits self-loathing bottom in that movie. He does everything destructive he can, and then, when that's through, he seeks to improve himself. Me, I've been pretty destructive this past month. One ANGRY woman, man. I'm glad I've done nothing drastic because there were moments I was a little nervous for myself. The further I get from it (and I'm not that removed from it yet), the more dark I realize things had been for a while there. I too now wish to improve myself. Steps are being taken and I suspect positive results are already beginning to show in small, inconsequential ways.

I'm sure there are people out there who are forever on an even keel, and I hate them because I'm jealous of them, because I'm not one of them and likely never will be. I tend to be a little more even than this, but there's often a potential air of volatility to me. That's a negative, but I often overcome my negatives with my positives -- of which I like to think there are many. I'm starting to embrace this difficult time instead of loathing it, because I think I'm heading down the right path -- setting up counselling, lowering my expectations, focusing on the little things that need doing so the big things don't loom so large.

Right now, everything's worth doing if only it means I stop seeing shadows, you know? Whatever you do, don't call me Punxsatawney Steff.

*Don't ever just stop in the middle of a pill cycle or you could fuck yourself over worse than the pills have done to you. Always consult a doctor. I finished my cycle; I'm just choosing not to resume. Despite knowing that I can indeed do this, I'm still seeing my doctor Monday to clue him in and touch base on the evil shit that's come down in the last few weeks.

Willing the Way to Happiness

I woke up in a shit mood again. That's hard, when you roll out of bed and it might as well be night 'cos you're feeling so dark, you know? BUT.

I sat on my couch, feeling like a loser, looking at the filthy table, seeing my flaked-off toenail polish, and just felt myself sinking further into loserville. THEN.

"Fuck THIS," I thought. "And fuck THAT." I jumped up, lit a fire under my ass, cleaned all my dishes, swept my floor, showered, and did my toenails. Suddenly, the day's looking better.

Depression is often associated with the feeling of being overwhelmed, and although I long ago learned you overcome it with accomplishment, I'm now starting to force myself to be motivated, even though I feel nothing of the kind. I feel better now, and it's friday, and if I can make my day at work an accomplished one, that's one more thing to build toward. If this really is a mind-over-matter situation, then sooner or later I'll be the victor. Patience has never been a strong suit. Determination, however, has.

Single?

Look no further.

Oh, no you don't, beyotch. I saw him first. You can have THIS GUY.

I'm bored. I need topics.
Feed me.
You knows what to do.

A Strange Piece About Rockstar, Writing, and Small Children

It’s Rockstar night again. Elimination. Starts in a few. I pick Patrice. I think Storm gets a shakeup.

I cannot tell you how much I weirdly relate to this show. I don’t know why. I just want to be in that situation where I get chosen, you know? But this is one of those rare reality shows where the contestants have really earned the right to be there. They’re pretty solid. They’re street-wise and street-smart, though, because they’ve all played the circuit. They’re tough people, man.

Unlike the car-wash kids and farm boys and hoods and all that over on that Idol show.

But, you now, I’m street-wise and street-smart. Girl is hip to shit, you know? For real, like. Sorry, fell into hip-hop mode there for a sec. Y’all.

I’m professionally doomed. Really. Just, kaput. As a writer, I will never, ever, ever, ever succeed. (Okay, so it’s part reverse psychology, but work with me here.) All right, there’s a chance. It’s just slim. Real fuckin’ Jenny Craig slim, you know what I’m saying here?

Why, you ask? Pretty simple. Love the writing, hate the whoring. I mean, all that whoring, and no orgasms? I think not. Whoring, bad! Money, good! Not wasting precious hours of my life giving it to the man? Good! So, yeah, I never write for publications, ‘cos I can’t stand the bullshit, right? Life’s short. Time’s precious.

I’ve tried it a few times. I hate conforming my style. I hate doing rewrites. I’ll do a little, right? I can definitely edit better than this, this is on the fly. It’s just that I’m a little too ADD for the process, is all. I’d love to have a syndicated column, though. That’d be awesome. I just need to one day get my shit together and figure it out. Working on that.

Wouldn't it be really cool if suddenly there was a Blogstar tournament or something and you could blog your way to fame and fortune? I’d knock back a thousand coffees for that. Shizzwang!

But I do digress. I, uh, hit bottom today, folks. I was a fucking mess until this afternoon. Long goddamned day. I kept breaking into tears. I’ve just had a shitty couple of days – PMS struck like an evil flying monkey from a Wicked Witch. Goddamn it’s vicious! Is it too late to ask for the penis model? Yes? I mean, I’d pay extra some days if I could have a penis.

Stop the presses, though. I think I’m on the up-swing. I think I’m returning to land of the mildly depressed. That’d be fucking SUPERB, man. And I’ve made a counselling appointment. I’m so stubborn. The auto-speller corrects my "UK" spelling of counselling by removing the extra L, and I go back and UK-it again. Fuckin’ Americans and their changing of the rules. C’mon, English (as opposed to “American” English) rocks. It’s Harry Potter’s language, for Christ’s sake!

Back to the important bit, that up-swing thingie-thing. I called it, man. I said I’d probably start to improve in the evening today. Yep. I’ve done the reaching-out thing and my counsellor (+l) gave me a call and we spoke about 20 minutes, and I finally heard someone who knows their shit telling me it sounds like I should’ve been melting down sooner. Nice to hear. Goodie. Instant validation. Just like the thrill of fresh credit, but I don’t hurt for it for years down the line.

Okay, so, Patrice, and Zayra, and Magni have all performed. Judgment looms. Yes, I’ve written this in commercials. I’m realizing how much my body is perpetuating my stress in the form of real bad tension. Thus, I’m pretending to know a thing or two about Pilates type stretching and shit, so I’m not sitting down for the show. It’s helping. My neck and shoulders have been badly knotted. I’d frickin’ harm small children for a massage right now, I shit you not. I should watch a surfing DVD and think about the wonderful movement of the ocean. Yeah. Happy shit, like. But this is good, the mood is improving. I got rid of all my evening work until September (and likely beyond). Some semblance of a life is now possible. As is rest. Things are looking up.

Huh! It’s Zayra who’s gone. I thought that the band’s fondness for her bravado would keep her around a week or two, whereas Patrice consistently is in the bottom three. Wrong call, evidently. Damn that fallibility.

I have succeeded in having fun. Writing this was fun. You see, earlier, I was having one of these tragic god-it-sucks-to-be-single moments and thinking how I had nothing. I was low person on the totem pole again, single, tired all the time, blah, blah, blah! And then, aha!, a thought! I had something. Something indeed. Something just for me. My writing. No, I don’t get paid. No, the world at large doesn’t really get a glimpse of it. No, I’ve never had that moment of seeing someone on the bus reading me. But I get to do it.

And that’s pretty fun sometimes.

(This is my writing equivalent of a game of ping-pong. Highly cut and kinda hard to watch. Heh. Looks cute in shorts, though.)

The Middle-Earth Blues

I'm at that point of my depression that I'm realizing I have become the worst version of myself.

Of that, I am absolutely certain.

I'm self-involved. I'm angry. I'm negative. I'm not being thoughtful of others. And the thing that really, really hurts is, I know it, and no matter how much I know it or fight it, I continue reverting back to this Steff I'm not too glad to be around.

And that's the kicker, because I usually really dig being who I am. No matter how fucked life gets, I can usually make myself laugh pretty hard a couple times a day -- in private, even. These days, no. This isn't recent. I've been sort of moving in this direction for three weeks now, and I fear I'm hitting bottom with it. Well, I don't fear that; I'm aware of it, and grateful. I want this to change. Wanting it is a good start. The ability to do so is probably not far off.

I have emailed a woman I once received counselling from. I haven't heard back, but hopefully she'll drop me a line, and if not, then I'll call tomorrow. I figure four or five counselling sessions would be good. Any time I've had troubles in the last seven years, when life just got to be too much, I'd visit her a couple times, and she just created this ability in me to find the reserves I needed to fight a little harder, a little longer. She's this really down-to-earth woman with a strong but inoffensive personality, warm eyes, and a brassy laugh. It'll be nice to see her again.

I don't know where this anger's coming from, but there are a lot of things that have been said and done to me in the last six or eight weeks, and a lot of adversity and drama and craziness, and I just kinda need to lay it all down for someone who's objective. Counsellors can provide a lot of guidance. Like, you tell 'em what's stressing you, and they'll generally take you through it so you at least begin to understand why. Anger and depression, to me, are like mysteries I'll simply never understand nor solve. If I can at least have a concept of where it's coming from and maybe even why, it gives me the ability to find a way to shift things so that the invading negative mental state can be better managed until it's eventually simply overcome or ousted.

Climbing out of depression is like trying to climb the spiral staircase up the Statue of Liberty or St. Paul's Cathedral, and you're half-way up, gasping, out of breath, and you look down and think, "Fuck, I've come a long way!" and then you look up, your heart falls, and you silently groan. "Fuck." Just gettin' this baby started, honey.

Yeah, well, I'm gasping, groaning, and my heart's all shrunk down. I'm a little worse for wear primarily because PMS has hit with a vengeance. I'm being logical about it all, though. Intellectualizing my angst and trying to find a way to make blame symmetrical so I can at least remain objective about what it is I'm angry about, and not just start finding Evil Bastards to lay all the blame on. That is the kind of action that merely results in leaving me feel like a victim. Heh, this course thingie I went to last summer was talking about self-victimization and just said, "What would you rather be? A victim or a warrior?"

Call me Conan.

I'll tell you the worst thing about depression. Are you ready? The worst thing is that you're a fucking hero, the way you're fighting this mysterious fucking beast of a thing. I mean, truly, it's so damned hard. If you're up and out in the world, you're winning. Any day you're breathing and not lying in bed is a good, good day. That's all it takes to beat depression: Do not let it win. Just keep going out, tell people, be real about it, you know? But the bitch of it, this clinical illness, the bitch of it is that no matter HOW WELL you are doing, you will always, always feel like a loser. It's so fucking Catch-22 it hurts.

So I was conscious today, all day, of just how much my self-esteem is suffering right now. Holy SHIT, batman. It's just subterranean, it's so low. I got the subterranean blues, I do. And believe me, I know what I offer, I know my talents, and this is not how I should be feeling about myself. I should have a little mojo, man.

But I am doing everything I can to keep it going. I am reducing my hours of work -- working more was a big mistake. There's no sense making more than what's paying the bills if it's just taking me to the edge of a breakdown, now, is there? I didn't realize how exhausting depression is until I began to challenge it. Now I know there's a limit to what I can do, and I'm working within it. I'm optimistic I'll be at a more even keel in a week or so. Plus, my social life is going all right. I have more plans. I have a major tech-geek weekend at the end of the month, going to this... oh, I dunno, indie sub-culture tech-conference type weekend dealie-thang. Should be interesting. I'll network for connections. I'm at the stage now with this blog's readership that there has to be something I can do to make money off it. It's just ridiculous to be in the top 8K on Technorati and not have a dime off it, you know? Maybe I'm just totally clueless (and I suspect that is indeed the case) but I'm hoping to learn a little.

So, I'm going to be social, but only, say, a couple nights a week. I need to keep a limit on my social activities and try to focus on the things I need to do for myself, for this place and the podcast and all the things that make ME feel accomplished. I got shit to prove to myself, you know? It's time.

Once I get my grasp back on all this shitstorm whirling around me, and I suspect that's in the next four to six weeks, actually, I believe I'll be in one hell of a different place. I hope this to be the case, and I'm doing all I can to make it happen. I don't know if my output on here will be all that great during this time, but we'll see. But when it's done, I'll be in one of the best headspaces in my life. I know there'll be a change coming. I just do, I know it like I know my social insurance number. Etched.

Anyhow, I have wanted to be more open about my depression, but there are days lately when it's winning. And they're hard. Hard fucking days, man. But, like I say, I'm fighting. It's just painful realizing I'm acting in ways I don't particularly like, feeling ways that I absolutely hate, and wishing like hell time could pass a little faster. It's difficult KNOWING just how fucked up my perception of the world is right now. The logical, intelligent, articulate part of me tells me I'm getting it all wrong, and this is the way it oughta be, but this nutbag alter-ego of mine, she's a persistent little bitch, you know? God. Frustrating to KNOW this much about depression and to be able to understand every bit of it, but to have it be so damned dominant nonetheless.

It's times like this that one could really get to doubting the old adage "Knowing is half the battle," you know?

[Ed. note: After I wrote this, I was sitting on my couch and watching Rockstar, my island of bliss, when a thought occurred to me that almost completely eradicated all my content woes related to my inaugural podcast. Hurrah. And for those who keep thinking I'm quitting blogging, get yer heads out of yer arses! Not gonna happen. You're stuck with me. Content will be a little less, blog-wise, maybe every second day a posting, but I'll also be posting images of my notes and plans for my podcast in between it all, so you'll get this sorta interactive thing going on with how my podcast evolves. You could even comment on it and possibly help me enhance my plans. I think this is gonna be a fun new era for me, I'm pretty jazzed, and I think that if it turns out how I want it to, you will be, too. It's just hard to bring it all together. It's just little ol' me, I ain't got no staffers. Be patient. When it happens, I'll revert back to my full-of-bravado missy you miss, and things will be fun and interesting and new. You'll see. Soon.]

Mojo Missin'

You know what it is, don't you? I've lost my mojo.

Life has just had too many surprises these past six months and I feel I've grown years. My birthday's next month and for the first time, I'm really having one of those pre-mid-life crises. Like, the reality that everybody I work for is younger than me. Nice reality check there. Here, I'll take two.

But here I am, staring this podcasting thing in the face, and I'm just a total puss. I don't have any fight. It's just that time where I wanna go on in and lie on my couch awhile between rounds.

You know, I'm just constantly brimming with anger of one sort or another and I just CAN'T get it out. I think something needs to snap, something seriously needs to snap. And then WHOOSH. It will all come tumbling. Always does. But I want it NOW. I need it NOW.

I'm working on the podcasting, people, I am, but I just haven't found the right voice yet, you know? With writing, there's a vibe I can usually kind of find. I know there's a certain key of Steff, so to speak, a key of me, a certain sound -- almost any writer has one. You just got to read 'em long enough so youse knows it. That's all.

And deejays are like that too. They have their voices. Me, I KNOW what my voice is, okay? I have the perfect mindset in mind. It's just like writers block -- somewhere between my brain and my mouth, the vibe gets absconded. Poof! Away wit you.

It's a fucking CRIME, baby. A travesty! A good word -- nay, a good idea should NEVER fall to waste! Not ever. Nevah. Nev-uh. Evuh.

Okay, enough redundancy, but you get my drift. Fuck, man, to have a good notion and see it all fizzle before you! That's what's happening in front of the mic for me. Bah! I'm angry about it and it's causing me problems.

Well, fuck it, says I. Tomorrow, I'm going to look for a pair of jeans. Yep. Fuck it. I'm going shopping. A new pair of jeans that fits like a glove will be a sign that the cosmos is taking sides, and it's looking like the favour's on me. Let's hope.

Incidentally, even though my shitstorm continues at full boil (I've been a 7 out of 10 with 10 sucking badly very consistently of late on the depress-o-meter. I'm so depressed I don't want to think about it, so I'm not bothering. Incidentally, and all.) ...I still have not taken the beautiful, shiny 2006 penny I found on the sidewalk out of my wallet. It's taped there. It's a reminder that there's still enough time left to make this year become a positive.

The odds might be getting mounted, but I'm still in a fighting stance, you know? I have goals before my 33rd birthday as of yet, and that's just six weeks from today.

I tell you, I'm getting right fucking fed up with life picking on me, and I'm a-thinkin' it's time I pick back. Enough. You know, it figgers that I was a big Ann Landers fan as a kid -- always Ann, not Abby. I thought Abby was common and lowbrow -- and she used to say that no one could walk over you unless you let them. Right now I'm starting to feel like I've been just lying down for this shit. I haven't, but it feels that way, 'cos I know I'm tougher than that. It's been a lame-ass time of things, and I'm about to flip the switch.

Okay, knowing me: Tomorrow will be a mediocre day. Wednesday will likely start a little down, but my chiropractic adjustment will fix me up, and by nightfall, I'll finally be feeling a little electricity for a change. I'd probably come home and write, and I could, 'cos I wouldn't work the next night. Nice. Tomorrow's a me day (after my work day).

And a jeans day. Snug, like.

Myspace is gay!

This is nasty and mean but it's funny.

According to this, what you can surmise about me for having a photo of just my eyes up here:

Beware: Quite possibly a ninja.

All I can say is: Ichiban.

And this is a perfect time to mention this great ad from a friend of mine's excellent adult social network.

Actually, you'll find that site's a part of RLC, the people who have bought me all this lovely podcasting gear with which I will soon be speaking directly to you. We're gonna be broadcasting originally on RLC, and then a couple days later my files will be made free for your enjoyment. To catch me on the original airing time, though, you'll need a membership to RLC, otherwise you're waiting a couple days.

I already have some plans for the companion blog I'm working on. Over the course of this week, I'll be trying to design a site. This is what's eating my time, my other playstuff. Starting next week, I work a little less. Less than 50 hours, anyhow. Yay.

Stay tuned, boys and girls.

Great Moments in Movies: The Rocky Kiss

I'm feeling a little like an underdog today, like the odds are stacked against me, so I thought I'd have some quality time to myself this morning before I head into the world for the sixth day of work this week. I'm feeling like I'm losing my leisure a bit, and Virginia Wolf states that to be akin to losing one's soul, so I'm taking it back by force. I'm watching Rocky. My coffee's almost cold, but it's still strong and good.

Rocky has just kissed Adrien for the first time. I think this should really go down as one of the finer cinematic kisses ever done. It's all so unlikely, like a kiss between Harold and Maude. She's pushing 30 and she's never been kissed. The absolute vulnerability portrayed by Talia Shire in that scene's just as sexy as any of the va-va-va-voom shown by Hollywood's vixens non-pareil.

It's pretty easy to go too long without being kissed. It's awful to be in the middle of the kissless times of life, but there it is. There's something about a kiss that always makes you miss it.

This scene is how a great kiss feels after you've been stuck in a dryspell of Saharan proportions. Whatever's wrong in the world, the naive part of me believes it could be fixed by great sessions of smooching. I'm such a fool, I know, but it's a nice belief to keep in the back pocket. I'm not a dreamer, but I have my lapses.

I'm at the point where I no longer miss the recent relationship, but I'm certainly wishing I could break up all the tension that is my present life-status with the odd makeout session. I wonder why I'm not thinking about sex? Maybe sex, for me right now, symbolizes far too many complications and struggles. I really don't want the complication, I want the carefree abandon that making out on the sofa symbolizes for me. Days with the parents out at a card game and the boyfriend sneaking over. The good old days. Yes, we've hit nostalgia. How can you tell another birthday is looming? I feel like I'm devolving, but my vital stats are continuing to argue that assessment. Damn them anyway.

And this is what that one kiss brought up for me. And yet I'll continue watching the film.

Okay, wait a second: I'm specifically remembering being at a party in my teens, and sneaking out back with a boy who thought I was hot 'cos I was wearing ox's-blood Doc Marten 9-hole boots. We sat on the stairs, lit from above, as we necked and necked and necked for what seemed like hours. Every time his hand would try to cup my breast, I'd bat it away again. Later, he spread the rumour that it was he and I who'd been making the camper rock'n'sway. I assure you, I made his life hell. But the kissing, man, at that moment, there was noplace better to be.

Sadly, I gave the boots as planters to a chick I once loved who totally flaked out on me. Now I have the tattered remains of my Aussie Boot Co. boots.

This girl needs some boots fer walkin' all over some boys. That's what she needs. I should start a boot fund, then go on a shopping quest and keep a photographic record for blogging about my quest for the boots and the fall-out of owning said boots. I mean, really, I'm a eurotrash girl on a scooter. I need a cool new coat for winter scooting and boots. If you want me to get the Walkin'-All-Over-You punk-rock eurotrash girl boots and keep a record, then PayPal me and put "boot fund" in the subject field. We shall stomp together.

Webhosting, suggestions?

I'm discovering the dangerous world of acquiring hosting, and would like to have recommendations for good providers of webhosting that can handle potentially objectionable content. Email me about people you've had good experiences with. I need the help, and I want to go with someone "safe." I'm starting up a new site for the podcast, because, frankly, I don't feel safe on an uncontrolled domain, like Blogspot. Over time, the new place will replace this, but have no fear, I'll be the same old boring Steff. No worries. I'm just beginning to cover my ass.

It's the only way to fly, man. So, send me webhosters who don't have their panties in a bunch. Thanks.

(FUNNY ENOUGH, now having an email exchange with my webhosting provider, and it seems my sort of content's fine with them. See? Talking solves everything. I'll still take referrals, though!)

The Fine Art of Schmoozing

I have the rather freaky-ass opportunity to run with a different crowd now.

The people I'm working for are politically connected. It's an entirely different world. I once fancied the idea of running for politics. I was probably 16 or 17 at the time and was volunteering for the Liberal party as a member of the Young Liberals. I helped campaign for an East Indian guy in a Vancouver suburb. I, I'm sorry to admit, was part of a Burma Shave.

(Kind of marketing done in pieces at roadside. Originally, billboards that would write out one well-developed sentiment over several clusters of signs. In politics, a bunch of yahoos standing roadside, wearing sandwich-board signs for any given politician. Hi, I'm Steff -- resident yokel and yahoo.)

It's fuckin' 'zarro, man.

Whew. Deep breath in, strong breath out. Yeah, it's a real headtrip. I once wanted to run, y'know? Now I'd be the fringe freak candidate, though. I'm in the right fuckin' city for it. Enter: The Sex Party. Oh, yeah. I want their convention to have the acronym O.R.G.Y. Hey, if it's a bonus anywhere, this is where redundancy works. "The Sex Party's convening now. The O.R.G.Y. aspires to take things to an entirely new level, but they say they'll have to sweat it out this weekend if the right climax is to be found."

Yeah, okay, you caught me: I also always wanted to be a news copy writer. Ah, well. Chasing ambulances proved to not be my thing. Nothing like showing up on the scene of an accident because it's your fucking job when some gaping onlooker turns and calls you a "sick bitch" for liking that kinda thing. Nah, dude, it's the grade for glass, y'know? Report from scene of an accident? What's yer fucking excuse, bub? Whew. So, yeah, I learned to not like that one in a hurry.

Point is, there was a time when my life could've gone a couple other directions. Like, seriously different directions. It fucking STUNS me, BAFFLES me to be this person now, writing about the things I have, considering the type of aspirations I've always had. I'm outed, man, my name is OUT there. I can be Googled. I can be found. I can be deciphered -- piece by bloody little piece. Like, it's over for me. There are jobs I will never, ever have. There are positions I will never, ever have. It sort of disappoints me to know I can probably never get it on merit -- like I damned well should. I can schmooze, man, but I can't live that life, I don't think.

There's so much carefulness, you know? There's been about a dozen times now in work-related (including tonight's party) situations where I've said really politically incorrect things, like calling the entire Middle East sexist when I'm surrounded by Iraqis and other folks in that region. (I qualified it quickly by saying it was an easy dismissal by people who didn't understand the culture so much -- which is true, to an extent, as they do adore women, but I think that's in the same ballpark as saying you love the kid and that's why you hit them, to teach them... I don't think it's meanspirited, but I still think it needs updating).


Anyhow. Schmoozing. The fine art of.

Schmoozing, in essence, is the art of faking sincerity. Now, you can be sincere and schmooze, but it's just easier to not give a shit, because then it keeps you neutral, all right? Keep it current, keep it simple, and keep it neutral. Don't get involved, just have an opinion and a well-timed smile.

Eye contact. Need I say more? Fuck, man. Eye contact. All about the eye contact.

You gotta learn to listen with your eyes. You wanna focus on them so intently that they can tell you're really being drawn in. It forges an intimate bond. You lean in ever so slightly. Tilt your head slightly to one side, and just soak 'em in. Be attentive. Listen, and more importantly, hear.

When you talk, think about what you're saying. If you're short on an idea, don't hem or haw, or um or uh, 'cos it makes you seem like a bubblehead. Do a simple "I don't know" hand guesture as you try to find the right word. Focus then. Silence, good. If five seconds passes, it's "I've lost my thought," and you move the hell on.

If conversation falters, just tell them you're just going to make the rounds but you'll check in a bit later. Thank them for the chat, nod, and move off with a toast of the glass and a slow, searching stride.

When you're speaking, don't talk politics or religion, if you can help it. Don't discuss money problems, ever, when you're schmoozing. It's about impressions, not bad ones. Ask where they're from, who they know, and if you think they want to tell you, ask about their job.

You need yourself a 10-second introduction. "Hey, I'm Steff from Vancouver, born and raised. I fancy myself a writer, and when I need to pay the bills, I work in a consulting firm. The rest of the time, I blog, photograph, ride a scooter and a bike, cook, and slack."

When someone tells you what they do, you have an in for asking for their business card. "Oh, I'd like to hear more about that sometime" or "Hey, I've been in the market for one of you" or "Oh, great. Say, can I get your card?" I favour straight-up, but in case you're feeling pussy... you know.

You can touch if you get the sense they're into that, but understand that different people have different personal space issues, and to assume that everyone's cool with being touched is foolish, and in the case of some cultures, flat-out wrong.

Limp handshakes are creepy. Lose it. Be firm. Never more than three seconds for a handshake. Clammy hands? Find a way to dry them. Nerves are for pussies.

So, there's a good introduction to the world of schmoozing. It works well for picking people up, too. Instead, you lean closer and closer. When you take a sip, always make eye contact over the rim of your glass. It's sexy. When they can't hear you, don't speak up, lean into their ear and speak more clearly and maybe even softer, so they have to also lean in. It's sexy. If you're trying to pick them up, then definitely touch them, but just on the back of the hand or forearm, or possibly the elbow. Anything else can feel forward, I find. (Taking the elbow's a bit more sensual, though.)

And that's how ya do it. Go off, my minions, and schmooze this weekend. In my part of the world, we call it networking.

And The Hits Keep Coming

This is the kind of posting I would instinctively run carte-blanche on The Ditch, but I thought I'd say hi. Hi!

I'm having a horribly pseudo-Monday Tuesday that just keeps packing punch after punch. Waking up was all wrong. I woke up, And Something Felt Wrong.

But I, a true trouper, forged ahead. Sure, my jeans were worn a couple times already, but they would do. The laundry could wait. Breakfast, I decided, could not. I made myself ham, some supah-dupah² strong java, toasted me some baguette (bad, but so good!), and made a couple over-easy fried eggs.

One which I dropped immediately on the floor.

The floor I cleaned last night. Thus, egg was partially salvaged, and if you judge me, man, you're gonna hafta walk a mile in my shoes of the day, I shit you not. You just don't know, man. You just don't know.

I got to the office and realized in total fear that I had forgotten to set the VCR (we don't got no stinking TiVO yet, so keep that yap closed) to record the all-important, life-altering episode of Rockstar due to air this evening. MY GOD, I thought! I'll have to do without lunch break, and no supper break, and rush over to job 2 ASAP apres job 1, I decided.

And then I worked like a demon. Sort of.

Work was a n0-brainer until someone raised up the gates of hell about five hours into my shift, and whazzo, there it went: Hell in a handbasket. Suddenly, fires burned that needed putting out, rivers boiled, and phones rang. It was, I assure you, evil very incarnate². Oooh, evil.

But I coped. I coped and I coped and I coped and I got out of work two minutes late, hopped on the now-rain-soaked scoot and zipped across the downtown core to the plastic 'hood of Yaletown. I scuttled my little hiney up to the TV monitoring station and threw myself onto the documentary with a vampiric intensity. Then, felled by the evils of a poorly written, badly edited script, I was forced to spend the next 105 minutes editing the mockery of a language called English, written by someone who'd clearly been a jester earlier in this life or last's.

I rushed out, three hours to the minute, in the hopes of getting home just in time for Rockstar. And I did. It was 7:53. Then I learned it was on at 9, not 8. Doh. My bad. I still have 32 minutes left now.

A month or so ago, I couldn't really get any work. WELL, that was then, this is now. My old job wants me, my new job wants me, my ESL students want me. (And presumably you people might even want me.) I can't say no fast enough! I'm too tired for this shit -- why can't the money folk rear their ugly-ass heads next month, HUH? (And some will. This is something I'm anticipating, and I may make good on it.)

In between all that is this podcasting shit that needs to be taken to another level next week, now that I knows me how to record and all. And a website needs building. Blah, fucking blah! Oh, the chaos of it all! (See gear here.)

But next week will be more sane. I will cut back evening work to just tutoring, about four or so hours, and then I will work one weekend day. Presto, instant fascimile of that elusive thing called sanity.

Of course, I'm medicated, so what the hell do I know about sanity anyhow? Hi, I'm Steff, and this is my Fog.

(Heh.)

No, minions, I'm here to tell you that, despite Their Best Efforts, still I stand. Bitter and needing a stiff drink, but stand I do, and stand I shall. And, one day, I shall spend money I have earned on toys and things that I covet.

(I'm drooling over a 160gig external drive being advertised at Best Buy. Me wants. Me wants! Rowr. But I'm adding it to the list I have that keeps on growing a la Jack-&-the-Beanstalk. Magic!)

Oh, hey, and here's a couple photos for you. Podcasting gear (shweet!) and the crazy centaur guy I saw at the Luminares festival this year (a celebration of light; which explains why he has a huge, glowing, red penis. I had asked him to pose for me, but he kept wiggling his glowing ember of a penis in my face, so it naturally looks motion-blurred. Yes, that's one quick dick).

Dealin'

Here's where we're at people. I just learned me making MP3 files this morning, and I now know how to record. Now, I need to learn how to edit podcasts, and I also need to make the design layout of my new podcast's companion blog. (This place will still exist, but I'll slowly be changing over to posting at the new blog, for a few reasons, but mostly because the irony of choosing this blog's name "Cunting Linguist," did work to get me larger numbers of readers in the earlier days, but now that I have a large readership, cannot be mentioned in mainstream 'cos the name itself is censorable. Nice, huh?)

Anyhow, I've registered my domain, need to pay for webhosting, and design the new site, plus learn the podcasting, and in between there, work the six days a week I'm working the next three weeks. In short.

So, somewhere in that formula, something's gonna give. And it might be writing. I'm saying: Lower your expectations. Payout will be good eventually, but for now, lower them. :)

I'm tired and I ain't even fucking left the house yet, and I have an 11-hour workday. Shoot me now.

Podcasting and Sugasm #41

Sigh, me and a big, hard mic staring me in my face. Whatever shall I do.

I'm experiencing some performance anxiety, but I'll keep at it. Now I'm going to play with some editing features. A snip here, a tuck there. Here, read something. You'll feel better.

(I'm gonna be distracted a bit, kids. Podcasting is a new focus. I'm designing a new website that'll become my primary focus [a new, improved take on this place as well as a companion blog for the podcast] and have already registered the domain and tried a first attempt at a new banner.

Now, if you make music, and you're interested in maybe having your music be my theme song (I can't pay you, but you'll get exposure, and you'll get credit on-air and on the blog) then you let me know. Send me MP3s!

(As for when to have the podcast up: Well, I want to have the site ready and a store ready before the podcasts go live. I think I could have something listenable in 10 days, but I think it'll be three weeks. No fear -- I have a fire under my ass now.)

This week’s best of the sex blogs by the bloggers who blog them.

Mr. Sugasm himself
73% of American’s Hate Porn (http://sugarbank.com)

NSFW Pics (and a Podcast)
Amanda (http://hotboxbabe.thumblogger.com)
It’s Thursday! Happy HNT! (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
Nora Marlo self portraits (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Splish Splash (photos/podcast) (http://bedroomradio.blogspot.com)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Does Size Matter? (http://sexeteria.blogspot.com)
Insatiable: How to Date a Nympho (http://sabrinainstockings.com)
Oh Kegels, How I Love Thee (http://blog.babeland.com)
On My Way to Sex Rehab (http://theholidaylife.blogspot.com)
Rockin’ – Not Humpin’ – In the Free World (http://cuntinglinguist.blogspot.com)
Straight, Male, Talking About My Sexuality (http://www.realadultsex.com)
Take Naked Pictures of Your Girlfriend (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)
The thinky and the kinky: qualities of attraction (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)

Humor
Film Fridays 33 - Internet Dating (http://shayssexcolumn.blogspot.com)
The Top 30 Most Annoying Things About Porn (http://www.msnaughty.com/blog)
Why Don’t I Ever See Porn Stars On the Golf Course? (http://sugarjoy.com)

Sex Work
Crossover Fetish Subs are Twice as Weak (http://www.ladyevilsdungeon.com/evil_domme)
Dumb Ass white boi! (http://www.spoiledebonyprincess.com/princess-blog )
Smoking Fetish (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)

Sex News and Sexy Reviews

August Contest - Story Time (http://sin.typepad.com/shauna_by_night)
Half-Nekkid and Loving Himself (http://www.TarasNaughtyShop.com)
Review: The Wolf Summers By ElSol (http://anawtymouz.blogspot.com)
Straight Porn Review: Briana Banks… a.k.a. Filthy Whore 3 (http://blog.johnqafterhours.com)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
8/1 by Rex: That Wonderful Ass (http://rexandroxy.blogspot.com)
Aerosmith (http://totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
Clothing Optional (http://tangysweet.blogspot.com)
The First ‘Threesome’ (http://lumpesse.com)
F♥ck Bunny (http://femmefataleteen.blogspot.com)
Last night (http://orgasmcurious.blogspot.com)
A Most Proper Text Message (http://damnjezebel.com/diary)
No Niceties (http://fourstate.blogspot.com)
Statuesque (http://www.asstr.org/~gentlebutfirm)
Through the Green Door (www.TaraTainton.com)
Voyeuristic Dream (http://dawnndirty.blogspot.com)
Yes. I Like Girls. (http://xantasia.blogspot.com)

BDSM and Fetish
The Honeymoon Part I (http://redvelvetropeburn.com)
Introducing people to rubber kink (http://www.dangerousfemme.com)
Open Panties (http://natalieslingerie.blogspot.com)
Pain Slut- A Fantasy (http://designingintimacy.blogspot.com)
Webcam Session with an Old Man (http://www.caramelvixen.com/vixen-blog)

Lift-Off.

Okay, so now I can record. I've created my first WAV file. Ooh, boy! Fun. Now I need to learn me some editing. Then I can begin my devious mission of total world domination. Raping, pillaging, all those fun times. Fear me, minions. There is much to fear. Much.

[Insert maniacal laughter here.]

Total. World. Domination.

Stumbling Through Sunday

Do you ever have those days when something hits you and you begin to think that, this day, for whatever reason, will come to be an important one in some grand scheme of things?

I'm having one of those days. I feel like it's a day on which my mindset's going to shift in a new direction. I don't know why, but I just feel like I'm learning something new about myself this weekend. It's not really hitting just yet but it's there.

See, it's one of those days I'm going to remember for good or bad, anyhow, 'cos it's the seventh anniversary of Mom's passing. I'm in a pretty good mood today, though. It's not like I'm down at all, I'm not. I'm feeling pretty good about things. I'm thinking a lot, though. I was out all night last night and fell asleep on a couch, made my way home at 5:30 in the morning, timed to catch the sunrise, then I slept another four hours at home. I think riding home on a quiet Sunday morning with a late summer sunrise was a pretty contemplative start to my day, and sleeping on it a bit wasn't such a bad thing, either.

I may never be the book-smartest person anyone ever knows, but when it comes to just thinking, I'm a great thinker. I love to ponder my life and the things that go down in it. There's that saying, A life unexamined is a life unlived. I cannot tell you how profoundly I associate with that sentiment. It's in reliving my life through my thoughts and recollections that I really glean the meaning of it all. I guess it's why I'm most saddened when I see people scouring the newsmedia for interviews with their idols or gossip on the stars because I just feel there's so much more each of us can learn from our own lives that we choose to bypass simply because the western world feels it's best to "move on" after any life experience had. Why in God's name anyone should feel the need to live vicariously through others is something I'll never, ever understand. Fucking weird.

And moving on, that's just silly. I mean, hell, people come and go all the time, but no matter how impermanent we feel things to be, it's only that way when we choose to have it be that way. I reflect on my mom from time to time, though she's falling further away with every passing year. There's an echo to memories now as if they're almost due to fade away. Slippage, that's what it is. One little bit more, and poof! Gone they'll be.

But at least I've had another dance with them, you know? And it's all written down now. I feel good about that. I wrote this on Friday and it really tripped my head. I have been so angry -- so angry, so long -- at the amount of writer's block I had. I still am, too. For six years! And look, LOOK at all I've written in just 21 months! More than a thousand postings, probably a couple hundreds drafts, and hundreds more private writings. My GOD, imagine what I've missed out on recording! Six-- six years, all that block!

I just never realized why the loss of that was so important to me, but this weekend, I get it. I understand. I'm angrier about the writer's block that I am my mother's death. How strange is that? But I guess it's just that I realize what it is I've lost of my mom, but I'll never know what I lost in writing. Know what I mean?

Strange realization, that.I have book ideas, you know. A movie idea, children's books... So much to write, and all that time lost.

Still, I'm glad. I'm still in a good mood. Now I've got a reminder of why I write. For awhile there, I was beginning to wonder why I bother. I was bitter. I was a little too caught up in depression and in turn was realizing that I simply didn't feel like having a record. The thing is, that's only in the moment. For a moment, I feel like this shouldn't be recorded for posterity, but down the line, now I know how much I wish I'd been recording more... You know? Life passes so quickly. It's a shame to have wasted any. It's tragic to forget any.

You see. I have to start podcasting now. That is my Sunday night. I'll be heading in for about 3 hours work today, and when I do, I'm buying an expensive steak, then a bunch of quality veggies, and I'll make a nice supper later, but in between all that will be finally playing with my podcasting stuff. I've cancelled everything I had going. It's podcasting time.

I've been avoiding it. I'm scared, truth be told. Feeling a little shy, am I.Yes, I get performance anxiety, too. A lot. I'm also having a "Gee, I mean, what have I really got to say after all?" moment. I'm just some girl who grew up in a big black seaside house throwing her two cents into the cosmic mix. I ain't all that, baby. It's hard to reconcile who you are on the inside to what the world sees of you. So what have I really got to say? God, all I have to do is go back and read some then, haven't I?

Anyhow, I don't want to do the podcasting, but I know how much I'll hate myself if I don't, and I also know it's nothing more than fear, so I gotta just kick my own ass and get it down. Tonight, like I say, it's gonna go down. No, that still doesn't mean there's a firm airdate. Soon. But hopefully all the problems I've had with Dell and my new computer have run their circle and now there'll be no more external delays. If it's all on me, then it's gonna come together quick. It's like fucking for the first time -- there's that heavy mix of anticipation and fear of failure. When you're finally done, the orgasms's not awesome because the sex was great, but because it's done, it's over, and from now on, you know each other and you don't have to worry about the unknown element causing any grief. The dance has been danced, and the game is on. I wanna get myself to that stage: fuck and be done with it, and then the cherry's popped and the game's in play.

Like I sez -- soon. (I've been moaning about my Dell grief on the other blog for weeks now. Seems I've been explicit enough with Dell about HOW MUCH I FUCKING HATE THEM RIGHT NOW that they've become a lover with something to prove: I've just received an email saying that should I be running into anymore technical problems, I'm to notify them with my case number and a tech will be sent ASAP. Right, okay then. We'll see.)