cunting linguist

2008-04-18T10:26:00.000-07:00

If you don't know, this blog doesn't get updated anymore. I'm still writing it, but under a new name: Smut & Steff. You can read most of the significant archives from this blog over there, plus the almost-two-years' worth of new content... Check out Smut & Steff, click here.

Female Circumcision

2007-09-21T09:22:00.000-07:00

I dunno what the fuck's going on with my hosting company over @ SmutandSteff.com. They've installed new servers and have been migrating shit over. Apparently this post posted just fine, but it's not showing up on my site, and I haven't heard sweet fuck all about how they intend to fix the hosting.

Meanwhile, I'll post this here until things improve.

____________________________

Work's a bitch, kids. Long days, long days. Tomorrow, however, a short one, then beers, then a concert, then apertifs, then getting to know the local transit. Then Stage Anew in my life officially kicks off with a three-day weekend. Colour me giddy.

But I wanted to pop by because I just found this article to be so good. I really dig The International Herald Tribune, and every now and then an article comes along and just pushes a button or two.

So I thought it was appropriate to share this story about girls who no longer have their buttons. Pardon the pun, but in all seriousness, the act of female circumcision is one of the most barbaric, ass-backward fucked-up "traditions" still going. This whole freedom-of-religion thing is great and all, but to go and cut out a woman's clitoris (which often can result in fatalities) for some dated, stupid, superstitious reason goes a little too fucking far.

Yeah, all right, so now I'm some pigheaded Westerner dogging Islam. Uh, no. I actually think Islam's pretty cool and that most Muslims I know are about the most decent you can imagine. It is one of the most giving faiths there is. Terrorists suck, but they ain't all Muslims. And the American religious right is just as full of shit as anyone.

Heh. Gotta love a tangent. And all I was gonna do was post a linkie.

When Ibrahim was 11 years old, she said, her parents told her she was going for a blood test. The doctor, a relative, put her to sleep and when she woke, she said she could not walk.

The memory haunts her now, and though she says that her parents "will kill" her if they find out, she has become a volunteer in the movement against genital cutting, hoping to spare other women what she endured.

I've had a lot of Muslim friends over the years so I really hate seeing stories like this that paint such a hardcore picture of their faith. Whatever, man. But here's what the IHT had to say about this barbaric tradition's links to Islam.

...the Ministry of Religious Affairs also issued a booklet explaining why the practice was not called for in Islam; Egypt's grand mufti, Ali Gomaa, declared it haram, or prohibited by Islam; Egypt's highest religious official, Muhammad Sayyid Tantawi, called it harmful; television advertisements have been shown on state channels to discourage it; and a national hot line was set up to answer the public's questions about genital cutting.

Yet still the tradition continues. It's a strange thing, but boy can men get intimidated by a teensy thing like the clit. But there's hope yet. Here's another bit:http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif

...But now, quite suddenly, forces opposing genital cutting in Egypt are pressing back as never before. More than a century after the first efforts to curb this custom, the movement has broken through one of the main barriers to change: It is no longer considered taboo to discuss it in public. That shift seems to have coincided with a small but growing acceptance of talking about human sexuality on television and radio.

For the first time, opponents said, television news shows and newspapers have aggressively reported details of botched operations. This summer two young girls died, and it was front-page news in Al Masry al Yom, an independent and popular daily. Activists highlighted the deaths with public demonstrations, which generated even more coverage.

2007-08-07T21:11:00.000-07:00

DO NOT FEAR,
MY MINIONS!

All will be fine shortly. I fucked up and didn't pay the domain registration in time. I must get a daytimer.

The boo-boo le bad will be rectified in, like, 24 hours or something.

Go ahead, throw something at me. This screen thing's bound to protect me. ;)

Meanwhile, I have honey garlic chicken marinade that needs making. Coming soon over there at smutandsteff.com I'll post, um, oh, right! DRAG Queen pictures and just general gay-yness from the Pride parade.

...Ten minutes later.

Ah, fuck it. Took ten minutes out of my busy night. Here's some pics. The stupid story behind the fucking domain registration? I don't have a credit card thanks to my get medieval-on-my-spending plan from a couple years back, and the fuckwits with the domain registration don't take PayPal. They did LAST year. Motherfuckers. So, my friend tried logging in to pay for me and I had the password wrong. He tries four times, and BLAMMO, they lock the joint down on him. 24-hour suspension on the account. Tomorrow he tries with the CORRECT password.

Like the blind leadin' the blind, I swear, but we'll make it there, kids.

YES, these ARE my pictures. Took 'em my own damn self. :)

Go to My New Home, Peoples!

2007-01-30T14:19:00.000-08:00

Hi! Just checking in again!

You know I moved pads, right? I'm at shiny new digs over at SmutAndSteff.com! (After all, today's posting is about everyone's favourite bio-degradable toy, the penis!) I know, I know, you LIKED it here. My bad, really.

You see, I had to move. I was on the VERGE (the teetering brink as it were!) of fame and fortune when I got interviewed on a fancy-pants radio show last summer, and much to my chagrin, they couldn't say "Cunting Linguist" on air! But it's so cute and original, I wept. But the FCC will eat our asses, they said.

So, sooner or later I had to appease the man if I do indeed want people to be able to say where the hell I am on the internet, right?

But you know what? Same great taste! Now less filling! It's Steff... but still Steff! Who knew?

Add to all that is the fact that I've finally fixed shit at the new home. You can read my best-of in the archives and actually go to the place you were wanting to go to. Ack! WHO KNEW? Sadly, there's some other 300 posts here that aren't archived there, but there's only so many hours in a day, even if you're an underemployed cute little sprite like myself.

But if you're wanting the latest, funnest, greatest of Steff on a daily basis, then you're gonna need to go THERE. Yep! That's right! Making you work for your entertainment now. But you can do it. I know you can! Click that bu--

[CLICK]

Just Checking In. You Know I've Moved, Right?

2007-01-05T19:01:00.000-08:00

Hi! Long time no see, or is it?

I have a new home, and would love it if you visited me there. IF you're one of the scores of people who saw my new site when it wasn't working for half the browsers, you should know that it's been fixed!

Come on over, siddown, have a drink, peruse me. :)

Smut And Steff.

Why, a Damsel in Distress! Oh no!

2006-12-11T12:06:00.000-08:00

Previously unbeknownst to me, my new webpage is malfuncting. [Insert Mel Blanc]: "Why don't nobody tell me these things?!"

If you can help me conquer the HTML problems, I would be your number one fan for, like, ever! Please drop me an email (see sidebar) if you can help!

NO, THERE REALLY IS A NEW BLOG! Show Me the Pussy!

2006-11-15T00:19:00.000-08:00

Yes. Go read it over there. There's a new column. One of my favouritest in quite some time. It's a rant. I love a rant. Like an emotional enema. Keeps me regular.

Oh, I'm sorry. Breakfast? Apologies.

It's called Show Me The Pussy, and it's about William Shatner and a bunch of scantily clad women. You know you want it.

Of Vampires and Lovers: A Halloween Posting

2006-10-30T18:47:00.000-08:00

It's Halloween and I'm a little neck-obsessed just now, craving a middle-of-the-night visit from a Transylvanian count, but you'll hear none of it if you just sit here. It's over at Smut and Steff.

Getting Laid, Getting Tested, Getting AIDS

2006-10-26T23:55:00.000-07:00

There's a new posting over at Smut & Steff about new relationships, getting tested, and then some pretty mind-blowing stats on AIDS/HIV that every sexually active person needs to know.

Check it out.

And the time's a-comin' when this place ain't gonna get updated anymore. Adjusted your bookmarks yet? Your Feedburner/RSS service? Hmm? No? Whatcha waitin' for, Willis?

Didja Miss the Memo?

2006-10-25T20:00:00.000-07:00

There's a couple new postings over at Smut & Steff. Whatcha doing HERE and not THERE anyhow? Sillies.

The first, yesterday's, is potentially a downer, but something I think needs to get talked about more often. I wrote about my experiences walking in on my mother attempting suicide, and I spoke of how important it is to not keep some secrets.

The second is from tonight, where I've written about the importance of communication... again. I'll say it till I'm blue in the face, because, until the shame of talking about sex is gone, bad sex is gonna keep on happening. And that's bloody intolerable! Bad sex? NYET. Not on my watch!

Go, now. Shoo. Vamoose. Click here. C'mon. Ya know ya wanna. In case you TOTALLY missed the memo... this blog's now an archive. ALL NEW POSTINGS WILL BE AT SMUT AND STEFF. ADJUST YOUR BOOKMARKS and shit, eh? :) Thanks! (Seriously!)

They Like Me! They Really Like Me!

2006-10-24T08:43:00.000-07:00

I'm thrilled to announce that I've just gotten a glowing review from the incredible Jane's Guide. I feel like a proud mama! Woot!

They said:

This journal is sort of a combination of personal diary entries and how-to articles related to sex. Steff is a confident woman that approaches sexuality in a pragmatic and mature fashion, but doesn't let that lead to a lot of stuffy language. Some of the most worthwhile advice I've ever seen about being a good lover is here, "Being a good lover is: A) Knowing what you like, dislike, and love. B) Knowing how to express your needs. C) Being open-minded without compromising yourself, whatever that might mean for you. D) Not judging your lover’s desires, but being true to yourself so you’re not going to resent them after the fact." Great advice! She has many other articles with titles like "Kissing: Oh So Telling" and "Bondage for Beginners". I recommend this one wholeheartedly! - Vamp

This has been a great start to my day!!

Now, if you're coming here by way of Jane's and Vamp, please note that I'm just in transition and all my postings (except the "lesser" archives) are getting transferred to their new home at my new site -- www.smutandsteff.com. This site's going nowhere, though. Please add S&S to your bookmarks as that's where all my new postings will be showing up.

Also, I'll soon be launching a new podcast, too. So keep an eye out for that.

Tee hee... I'm a happy girl. I've been trying to get Jane's to review me for a while. Thanks, Vamp!

Sugasm #50

2006-10-23T13:44:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my headache. I'm transferring all my "best of" posts to the Smut site, so if you're being redirected, don't freak out. Advertisers care about hit counts, so, I'm being pragmatic and putting my archives where it counts: in the future, and not my past.

So, no worries, everything will be preserved. You can still delve into my dirty past. I think I have a lot of work ahead of me, but the mountain's getting climbed. Meanwhile, this is the most recent Sugasm for ya.

The best of the sex blogs this week by the bloggers who blog them.

This Week’s Picks
Dear Diary - Part One (http://wetbeyondbelief.blogspot.com)
The Lure of Darkness (http://www.easilyaroused.co.uk)
Flash (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)

Mr. Sugasm Himself
50 Simultaneous Bloggasm’s… (http://sugarbank.com)

Editors’ Choice
Let go, just let go (http://sugarbutch.blogspot.com)

Sex News and Sexy Reviews
Anastasia Probes the Pornos of Michael Ninn (http://blog.johnqafterhours.com)
Doc Johnson Dick Rambone Cock (http://www.orgasmarmy.com)
Free whores of warcraft video (http://sultry.naughtyblog.net)
How to invent a sex toy - week 4 (http://sextoysinsider.com)
The Secret Porn History of Mahna Mahna (http://www.quirkysex.com/blog)

NSFW Pics
Cum Shot HNT (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Crazy Bitch HNT!!! (http://texasspitfire.blogspot.com)
Half-Nekkid Hottie (http://www.tarasnaughtyshop.com)
HNT 31 - Are You Paying Me For Sex Edition? (http://everythingoze.blogspot.com)
Lingerie Battle (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)
Nora Marlo Nude (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Pornstar Legends (http://www.internetisforporn.com)
Thick booty with a wedgie (http://phatbootysolos.ilovejulienight.com)
Valia - Vision (http://hotboxbabe.thumblogger.com)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
50 Ways To Leave Your Lover (http://saphirsatya.blogspot.com)
The “backdoor”, I went in. (http://wanklog.blogspot.com)
Big Dicks (http://www.model-chat.com)
Celebrity Sex Tapes (http://www.teen-porn-site.com)
Cock size & male ego size… a balancing act? (http://faltenin.blogspot.com)
Cocktoberfest - Day 9 (http://shayssexcolumn.blogspot.com)
From Working The Fields To Working The Streets (http://virtual-sex-tourist.com/index.php)
The Girl Inside the Steff (http://smutandsteff.com)
Longing for a Woman’s Touch Part II (http://www.taratainton.com)
The next best thing to hotel sex… (http://hard-and-fast.blogspot.com)
Of fluffers and cake frosting (http://www.jessicagoldharalson.com)
Perfect Porn Part (http://alwaysarousedgirl.blogspot.com
Sexual Thoughts–I’m “Coping!” (http://totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
Somebody not too bright but sweet and kind… (http://lumpesse.com)
Wrap Around (http://www.seskuality.com)
You Say Pain, They Say Play (http://cuntinglinguist.blogspot.com)

BDSM and Fetish
Are you sure? (http://www.blog.sex-mad-witch.com)
Boris called me this morning (http://thediaryofanenglishrose.blogspot.com)
Darth Vader spanking (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
How does that ass feel after Me raping you??? (http://www.caramelvixen.com)
I Need A Spanking! (http://accidentalmistress.blogspot.com)
The Importance of Correct Attire (http://adelehaze.com)
Knots (http://ourdreaming.blogspot.com)
Mecca-Streisand of Traffic (http://spankingkatiespades.blogspot.com)
My Tiny Dick Poll Question (http://www.spoiledebonyprincess.com)
Next day (http://bratmaster.blogspot.com)
Nothing Says Innocence Like…… (http://aliceinawonderbra.blogspot.com)

Sex Work
L.A. Trip Part 2- Mismatched Whores (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)
Stimulating me…..the right way (http://www.justcalllauren.com)
A Whore By Any Other Name … (http://lipstickexplosion.com)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Actually wanking outside (http://orgasmcurious.blogspot.com)
Almost in real time… (http://dontwakethekids.blogspot.com)
Beachside encounter (http://skyoto.blogspot.com/)
The Beauty of the Beast (http://principles-of-lust.blogspot.com)
Birthday Gift (http://confessions112.blogspot.com)
Claiming A Friend’s Pussy (http://dirtydetails.blogspot.com)
Cowboy Cocksucker (http://theholidaylife.blogspot.com)
Desperate (http://pick-up-pieces.blogspot.com)
Goose Bumps (http://masterenigma.blogspot.com)
Home cooking, part 1 (http://erotischism.blogspot.com)
Island Love (http://mandyseroticlife.blogspot.com)
Joint: The Cyber Seck Convo (http://totalgeeklust.blogspot.com)
Mr Henry is a voyeur (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
My First Taste (http://talktovanessa.com)
Nature Hike (http://wantonyou.blogspot.com)
Sugar Stick (http://makemycopcome.blogspot.com)
There’s Something About Tristan (and Dana) (http://lustylady.blogspot.com)
Who I Wished It Was (http://nyc-urban-gypsy.blogspot.com)

The Ugly Side of E-Dating

2006-10-23T08:43:00.000-07:00

There's a new posting on Smut and Steff. Go find out about some of the dickheads responding to my Craigslist ad. If only I wasn't so nice and had the lack of scruples that would allow me to expose them. But, sadly, ethics get in the way of that.

WHY must I be born Catholic? WHY must guilt be as prominent a part of me as my social insurance number? Yeesh.

Go this way, Frodo.

The Craigslist Experiment... Steff Style

2006-10-21T15:54:00.000-07:00

So, it's official. My hat is back in the ring. I posted a personal ad today. You can read all about it on Smut and Steff.

Just a Few of My Firsts: Part the Second.

2006-10-21T08:36:00.000-07:00

Hey, boys and girl. I'm a bad blogger and didn't put a pointer up here for the second part of my firsts, which was posted at Smut & Steff yesterday. Here's the link for ya. It's getting dirty.

Part three will be up early next week. I'll break up the mix a little with some other kind of posting likely tomorrow. Hope everyone's having a good weekend. I'm off to see the Gomez concert tonight, so a little steam will be blown and fun will be had.

Just a Few of My Firsts: Part 1

2006-10-18T19:55:00.000-07:00

If you've missed the bulletin, I have a new blog which is due to be replacing this one. Please update your links accordingly -- it's much appreciated. It's found at www.smutandsteff.com. Most of the content from here will gradually be moved over to there. It'll take a while, though. (If anyone's written a program to simplify the chore, let me know... there's about 400 posts!)

For the time being, I'm shadow posting here. I'll tell you what I've written, and send you over there. One day, that'll stop. So, update your links and bookmarks, and know that I love you so for it. Thanks!

The latest posting over there is part one in a series I'm calling Just a Few of My Firsts. In it, I'll share some details about first kisses, first fucks, first flings, and more. We're starting off slow and letting things heat up. Check it out.

Announcement!

2006-10-17T20:19:00.000-07:00

You can now subscribe to the new Smut & Steff RSS feed. Go there to do so.

(Hi, how's it goin?)

"Taking a Look Behind the Packaging"

2006-10-17T07:53:00.000-07:00

Hey, folks. I've posted a new thingie-thing over at Smut and Steff.

It's a look at Dove's popular Campaign for Real Beauty. I'm not "just another fan" of the campaign and have been on the fence about publicizing it for a while. But, finally, I have. Take a lookie look.

I'm inspi(red) to act

2006-10-13T20:40:00.000-07:00

I am a stark-raving liberal. I care about my fellow Earth citizens. I think "luck" plays too great a role in the human condition. Why am I not some rural African dead or dying from AIDS? Why I am not subject to the ludicrous conditions and threat of rape in modern day South Africa? How did I luck out, born middle class, white, and reasonably happy in free North America?

Couldn't tell ya. Is what it is. I'm grateful daily for who I am and where I am.

But, also, I am apalled by the western world's lack of involvement in the African condition. After all, if it's just luck, then why is theirs so goddamned bad?

It was about 120 years ago that the first-ever human rights campaign began. The birth of photography made it possible to document horrors happening, and it was first used to document the horrors of the rubber massacre at the end of the 19th century. The Congo was being obliterated by King Leopold and his Belgian bastards because of the discovery of rubber trees there (the birth of the auto made rubber, for tires, a highly prized natural resource until a synthetic form was invented much later). It was an attrocity that became the basis of Conrad's Heart of Darkness, upon which the movie Apocalypse Now was based. Head-hunting was a sport, one could claim. Nearly 10 million Africans were murdered in what became the first modern genocide... greater than the Holocaust.

In that 120 years, incredible tragedy has consistently clouded the continent. From genocide after genocide to drought and starvation and racial cleansing and horrific rape statistics, the continent serves as a reminder of just how much can go wrong when political instability is inflicted on a region. Throw into that mix a little climate intensity and general social unrest and you have the hottest hotbed in the world.

**

Y'know, Africa's a part of the world I'd like to get lost and never found in. Something about that part of the world makes me wanna weep inside, the good way and the bad way. The cradle of civilization, indeed. If the earth is an animal, Africa is its pulsating heart. I wanna go, and bad.

But I really want to see it start to heal some. Believing in manifest destiny, white Europeans landed on Africa and decimated it for its bountiful and enviable natural resources. They brought firepower when Africans had only fire. The place has never recovered. Can't we at least atone a little for the sins of our fathers? Just a bit?

So, I'm going to make a point of it in the next week to go to the Gap and buy a (Red) t-shirt. Bono of U2 fame and pal Bobby Shriver have come up with the idea. A (Red) brand shirt* will mean half the money goes to buy drugs for AIDS victims in Africa. Oprah bought shirts for her audience of 300, and that profit alone was enough to pay for the drugs to inhibit transmission of AIDS from a mother to her unborn child for 14,000 women.

More than providing cold hard cash for a problem that is more economic than it is anything else, though, is that it proves people care. It proves that western people WANT their governments to contribute to the global human condition in a positive, lasting way. It proves that we think they deserve to live, too.

I mean, you agree, don't you? Then why doesn't your government react? Buy a shirt.* Become a number. Become evidence. Become a powerful political platform. Become part of a movement that's proving it feels good to give a shit. It really, really feels good.

Like that $20 was gonna go to something better, anyhow. Do it. Get (Red).

*Or shoes. Or blue jeans. Or an iPOD Nano @ Apple. Or a cell phone @ Motorola. (Red) is an entire line of products. All fall under the (approximately) 50%-to-AIDS-prevention/treatment guidelines for African charity proceeds.)

The Girl Inside the Steff

2006-10-12T08:53:00.000-07:00

There's a new posting, but it's at the new blog. Today I've written about trying to reconfigure my image, trying to do things a little more feminine, and the mental trip it's taking me on.

Here's an excerpt.

Doesn’t it make sense, though? You want to feel and look the way you think “hot” is defined, don’t you? I’m never, ever gonna be hot in the Britney Spears sort of way, and never do I want to be. I’m more turned on by the girl next door from your childhood who can really kick your ass now. You know the type. You're secretly really wishing to lose a wrestling match with her? Yeah. That’s my style. I’m working towards that.

And if you want to read the whole posting, then click here!

The birth of the New Blog

2006-10-11T08:28:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm launching the new blog today. It's not done. It's not ready. It's ready enough. "New" as in "about to replace this blog forever" type of "new".

I need to make the stupid unfinished thing public or I won't actually do what needs to get done. I'm too lazy. I love to procrastinate. I see fun things to do them, and the crazy part of me inside says, "Yes, I'd rather have fun than do boring shit like transferring over 200 old postings, Steff!" Go figger.

So, having it up and open for biz will help me get my shit together. This is the first posting. Slowly, I will move all the important archives here to there, and will cease updating this blog. One day, this blog will be nothing more than a solitary satellite adrift in the gaping space that is the cyber universe. For now, both will be updated.

Don't worry, baby, I know you don't like change. We'll do this real gentle-like. Trust me.

I'm an Enthusiast!

2006-10-11T08:02:00.000-07:00

Surprisingly, I don’t get as many negative comments as I would have expected, considering the volume of comments I get through here. Now and then, though, someone does leave something dick-ish, or just plain stupid.

The other day was one such day. Someone left a bit of a rude comment accusing me of wanting to be the Dr. Ruth of the BDSM crowd and how my advice was not expert advice, ergo a grain of salt should be consumed by anyone taking my advice.

Well, duh. Thanks, genius.

I have indeed said it before and I will say it again: I am NOT an expert. NOTHING I say should be taken as “real” advice. Any tips I give are from MY EXPERIENCE only.

I am not an expert. I am, however, an enthusiast.

And I’ll tell you something else: I have no wishes of being the Dr. Ruth for the BDSM crowd. I am utterly removed from the BDSM crowd. I’ve never really done any serious toying there, but the older I get the more curious I’m finding myself. Still, I know nothing, not really. My “intro to bondage” is actually the piece that raised this dude’s rancor, so let’s tackle that for a second.

My “intro to bondage” is perfect for people who are entering that area completely ignorant of what to do. Dude took issue with my saying how *I* will go and run off to the kitchen to get a few things with my submissive fellow all tied up. Dude said no one should ever be abandoned when bound. Strictly speaking, dude was right, and the content of that comment was pretty spot-on, but the delivery left a lot to be desired. And that's why comments are enabled -- so others can weigh in.

So, yes, I’m a bad little bondage girl and I abandon my bound subs. However, my kitchen is literally 15 feet from my bedroom, and any man lucky enough to find himself tied up in my world winds up under my constant supervision, even if I’m 15 feet away. And everyone should take heed to ensuring their submissives are being watched good and close.

If you want an intro to all things BDSM, this is probably not the spot to get it. I’m thinking about tackling more topics in that realm, but not just yet. Like I say, I’m not really big on that whole world.

But let’s get back to the “enthusiast” bit. I’m not an expert. I’ve never taken any courses in psychology or human sexuality. I’ve never gone sleeping my way around town for better working knowledge. I’ve not read every sex book ever written. I have no real credibility for writing about any of this shit.

It’s a blog. Get a fucking grip, right? And that goes for anyone who takes me too seriously. This is a blog. I take great pride in it, but it’s not a job. Not yet. I don’t have the time to edit every posting perfect and make sure things I post have no flaws. That’s just reality. Sometimes, I come up a little short. C'est la vie.

Whatever I say, I say it only as a natural response. I’m smart, I’m well-read, I’m open-minded, I’m thoughtful, and I have a pretty good cause-and-effect meter. Therefore, I write about things from my POV. If you missed the “You are entering the world of Steff’s rant and whimsy” sign upon entry, then take another look.

I suppose the next step is that I’m going to post a legal disclaimer on my new bloggie. You know, just in case anyone’s silly enough to think my advice should trump a medical professional’s. Sheesh.

And to the 90% of you who seem cool enough to know it’s just a blog, thanks!

I Need A Hug

2006-10-10T07:19:00.000-07:00

It was a Canadian long weekend -- I think the States had one too -- and turkey was had by all. Happy belated Thanksgiving, my fellow Canucks.

The holidays tend to depress me. I've got one parent dead and six feet other, and every holiday reminds me how, sooner or later, that number's changing to two. It's looking sooner than later by the looks of my dad, so I'm feeling a little sad and scared, really. I feel like his counter's officially counting down now as his diabetes looks like it's winning the battle they've been fighting. Suffice to say, I'm in the right mood to have found this website.

I don't really have a lot to write about today, though, as it's been a busy weekend.

I've thinking a lot of my dad and taking the chance that he doesn't read this blog at all, by posting here, but if he was to read it, that'd be fine too. I love my dad, even though we're cut from very different cloths. I'm much more into culture and I'm more worldly than he his. He's more of a bingo player than anything, really. But I still love him, even though we've got nothing in common.

I tell him I love him and have tried to make him see that I'd like to ensure he's around down the road for me. If I do marry, I'd like him to see it happen. If I do become the success I'd like to be, I'd like to have a shoulder squeeze and giddy smile from my pop.

But he eats horribly. He will eat any and all things, and he'll even have wine, though he's been told his heart can't handle it. He's diabetic, and he has weeping ulcers on his leg, and worse. And, me, I remember I'm not that far off from being a little girl after all. I saw him yesterday, and I would be surprised if I was very wrong about how long he might be around. I'm scared, I'm sad, I'm feeling a little alone.

Worse is, I remember the day I looked at my mom and knew she wouldn't be around for another year -- long before a doctor's diagnosis ever confirmed anything.

I've gone through some phases with some anger in the last week, moments when I feel terribly guilty, as if my mother's death was my fault as a result of my inaction after my suspicions began. My father, though, has long known of my concern and chooses to ignore it. I now avoid him a bit, but mostly because it breaks my heart every time I go over and see how much he's not doing to improve his health. I can't sit idly by as someone so obviously decides not to choose life in front of me, you know?

All things considered, I'd rather have a hug. What can I say? Holidays suck when it means you're constantly realizing that parents won't be around much longer. Yeesh. It's hard to watch someone slowly lose a battle to a disease. The five-minute cancer death of my mother's was easier, in some respects. Sigh. Well, one major holiday down, one to go.

Only The Lonely

2006-10-05T10:16:00.000-07:00

(I wasn't meaning to write two posts today, so, hey. Lucky you. Seeya on the weekend.)

The greatest gift the internet provides us with is universality. Through it, we have become Hillary Clinton's Global Village. Through a series of microchips and fibre-optic wires, a person in Nantucket can wake up and realize they're having the exact same kinda day as their favourite blogger in Guayana. Suddenly the human condition isn't caught in only brief snippets in plays and movies. Now, it's all over the world wide web.

It's with great irony that blogging has become such a public way of revealing the private self. Anonymity allows for nearly anyone to open up the wellsprings and let it flow for the world at large to be a part of. The anonymouses of the world, aware of just how little voice they have in day to day life, are speaking pretty loud and clear these days.

Every now and then, someone comes along who's able to tap into the darker currents that course through their innerselves. Every now and then, someone captures that elusive truth of what makes the human condition such a mesh of experiences -- the highs, the lows, the sub-terranean depths of it all. And it's all free. With an ISP, you can log into the wired world and tap into someone feeling, experiencing, being everything you relate to. And that's a good thing.

It's an even better thing when we realize just how much some people need to find that commonality. I've been through some pretty dark times, and that does not make me exceptional. It makes me pretty plugged into that universality I mentioned earlier, the proverbial Matrix. Of course our pains and loves and triumphs and losses are things we understand only up until a certain point. It's so mysterious. Such a muddled mess to wade through. When others can express what we feel, well, suddenly it's like we've had a light shine onto us. Wow, that's my sentiment exactly. And there you are, in your own skin, feeling just like I do. Why, we're not so very different after all. Thank God, it's true: I'm not alone.

Loneliness is quite possibly one of the worst feelings I've ever endured. Hopelessness is hard, too. So's plain old fear. I've been there, done that, didn't want the ugly ass t-shirt.

I got to spend just under three years with my mother before she died. I'd left town, moved to the Yukon, fell in love with Northern Lights and wide-open spaces and that silence that bludgeons you dumb (as Robert Service once said), but the expense of living in the great white north just about crippled me. Too dumb to live within my means, I came home to Vancouver at 22, my tail between my legs, and some $35,000 in debt, sans job. I moved back home and stayed there, at first because I had no choice, and then because I realized something was wrong with my mother (though it would be some time before the cancer was diagnosed; take it from me -- if you suspect something's seriously wrong with a loved one, do not follow the complacent course I took -- get them to a doctor. Get involved. I wish I had).

But when I arrived home, late one night my mother had had a couple glasses of wine and said to me, "Don't ever leave me like that again. I couldn't bear the quiet." And I never left her again. I would have, but she beat me to the punch.

Being alone is hard. There is nothing I feel more empathy and understanding towards than people who fear aloneness. And while it would seem to be an easy fix -- it's a big world, getting bigger every day, billions of others walk this terrain, just like you, and all you seemingly need to do is step outside your four walls -- nothing seems harder when you're on the other side of it.

The walls seem thicker, others seem happier, things just keep happening, and all the while, you're experiencing none of it. An outsider peering in. It's like some puppetmaster is holding strings and keeping you back from it all.

Unfortunately, that's often your choice.

I write from time to time about all the injuries I experienced over the last few years. In one year, I was on crutches for more than 20 weeks. I've never felt as alone as I did then. There were a lot of long, quiet nights, and I felt pretty abandoned by the world at large. It was during all that that I first turned to blogging. A lot's gone down since then, and while I'm often playing the solitary game, it's pretty much by choice these days. I'm single now, but I've had a couple recent chances to change that status and have passed on 'em. Partly because I wasn't ready, and partly because I really don't mind being a party of one. It works well with the writing gig.

But being injured did force me to learn that others were there when I wanted them, and, more importantly, when I needed them. All I had to do was speak. Out of all the lessons I've learned in my life, learning to ask for help has been the one I'm most proud of. Learning how to admit that I need someone or something has been one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I'm a proud, proud woman, and I have been reduced to fucking dust at times in the last few years. I've realized something, though, that it's in that dust that something new in me began to grow. I realized that reaching out, asking for help, allowed others to give. It allowed them to be there when I needed it, and allowed them to feel like they were really contributing to me and my life. It profoundly changed my closest relationships, and the friends who stood by me then, I know they'll always be there.

So many of us never really let our friends and family be there for us. We let our pride fuck with us and we tell ourselves our loved ones are too busy. We fail to realize that most people hang around the peripheral, waiting on us to speak up and tell them what we need -- because they know we'd be there for them if the tables were turned.

So, if you're among the lonely and you feel you've been abandoned, well. You might just be surprised. It's more that people are busy, they get involved in their lives, but somewhere in the back of their minds, they're waiting for you to speak up, to tell them they're wanted around, or that you just plain need'em. What are you waiting for?

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy [Insert bleeding here]

2006-10-05T08:26:00.000-07:00

Every now and then, I get reminded of how dumb corporate America really is. This is the tab on the Always Slim Maxi with Wings. You pull this off, and you adhere it to your panties. I've mentioned this before, but now I've photographed it for proof. Dumbasses.

Have a Happy period? And what part of it is supposed to be the happiest -- the cramping, the irritability that has successfully been used as a defense in murder, the occasional staining of sheets and underwear, the fact that it costs $10 a month in products, the inability to play/do certain sports, like swimming? Which part is supposed to make me happy, huh?

Here's a memo, Corporate America: I bleed because I have to. I bleed only because biology deems it necessary. I've tried to suppress the bastard through drugs, but when I became a murderous, depressed bitch, I decided that bleeding was an only slightly better option, because then my murderous depression would at least be on the clock.

And you fucking know this slogan was written by some mama's boy who's always the first to show up on holidays and who tries to constantly please every woman in his life.

Happy ain't part of the gig, man. I'd be more loyal to a product that called it like it is. How's this:

Your period sucks, and we know it. That's why we've made the best product we can. Here's hoping it makes things just a little better for you today. Oh. And don't kill anyone. Here's 50 cents off your next bottle of Midol.

You Say Pain, They Say Play

2006-10-03T19:53:00.000-07:00

As a little girlie, I was as tomboy as they come.

In my ‘hood, back in the day, the girls (there were three of us) were outnumbered by the boys at a 3:1 ratio. One of the girls, my mother told me quite certainly, was “beneath” me, and I was encouraged to either play with the boys or the other girl.

To me, “play” meant getting pretty physical and doing whatever the boys were doing. We fancied ourselves “police kids” and made ourselves uniforms and badges and ran down the street yelling at and feebly trying to throw Nerf footballs at cars driving too fast for our domesticated side street. We climbed into the ditches and crawled through the huge pipes. We painted our faces for no reason at all. We dug through our parents’ shit and played “dress-up” for the sheer hell of it.

Sometimes “play” involved projectiles and violence – since I’m from that generation born on the cusp of actually having cool shit to play with before people figured out things were dangerous; lawn darts, for instance, became illegal in my 15th year, back in 1988. We played with slingshots and broke windows in abandoned buildings. We tied each other up and left each other for “dead” in the middle of the “enchanted” forest. We nailed apple crates onto skateboards and rode down the steepest hill in the ‘hood. We’d climb (and fall down) cliffs by the beach. We dared each other to venture into the rat-a-tat “haunted” house around the corner.

Getting hurt was par for the course, and most of the time we barely noticed the pain.

Out there in the world, a number of you readers are nodding and grinning, remembering summers spent pitching lemonade stands and jumping fences, throwing stones and jumping off piers into water too cold yet for swimming, and winters spent hurtling iceballs at each other and crying out in pain. We took our chances and we lived with the consequences, because, for us, it was fun. Fun at any and all costs.

Somewhere along the way, we learned about pragmatism and all the things adults do to lessen risks of danger and lost limbs. We toned it down, we learned the rules, and we played safe. In adulthood, “play” means sports and board games, and little else.

Unless, of course, you belong to the BDSM community.

One could argue that, in ways, BDSMers are just children at heart. They want to play, be told what to do, often dress up in silly things, and need to have rules to follow or else things come apart at the seams.

Suggest this to the religious right and anyone else who gets creeped out at the thought of grownups in leather and ball-gags with whips at the ready, and you’ll be unceremoniously turfed faster than you can shout your stop word of choice.

Not too long ago, a big kerfuffle was raised and I have yet to really comment on it. A fuckwit by the name of Jason Fortuny took a very, very sexually explicit posting of a slave woman seeking a very aggressive male master through Craigslist and he reposted it in Seattle, using his email address as the letter through which any masters would be responding.

He then took all the responses from the males and posted them publically in an attempt to mock, humiliate, and out them. I haven’t really followed the whole mess, but I think he’s an asshole who deserves a little of the treatment the original woman was begging for. I think this for about a million and ten reasons that I’m not going to bother getting into, save for one –

What pisses me off most about the whole debacle, I think, is what the woman who originally posted that email must have felt when she discovered that she had unwittingly become the eye of this cyberstorm.

Sadly, we live in a society that deems fit to judge others for what they do in the privacy of their own homes. Only now are gays starting to really own who they are, but every now and then one gets beaten to death for no good reason. BDSMers have a fucking long ways to go before they get accepted by the mainstream.

It’s happening, in bits, but if a woman was to walk out into regular society and announce that she wished to be urinated on, called names, slapped around, and forced into submission regarding everything from doing the dirty deed right on down to doing the dirty dishes on demand, then she’d be besieged by women telling her she deserved better.

The point that they’re missing is, she doesn’t want better. She wants to be treated that way. I have no right to judge her, and neither do you.

Yet here’s this Craigslist woman, who probably debated for a good long time about taking her desires semi-public (because just admitting shit on paper’s hard enough to do some days). Now she’s being used by this post-collegiate fuckwit, who thinks he’s God’s gift to bloggers, who then goes and bastardizes everything she’s gone through to get to this point where she feels safe asking to be abused.

Funny thing is, she’s asking to be used and abused, but the number one rule in BDSM, basically, is that the submissive has all the power. They stop the play. They control what happens, because if they’re not a willing participant, it ends then and there. But she never asked Jason Fortuny to use her or abuse her. She never got to say stop. And that’s wrong six ways to Sunday, man.

If you don’t GET BDSM, then so be it. It’s not for you to appreciate or understand. Their rights, though, to do as they like, as two (or more) consenting parties, behind closed doors, ought to be protected in the constitution. Here in Canada, it is. (More or less.)

I own no dog collars, nor paddles, and I don’t know if I’ll ever go that way. But I own an open mind, and as a tax-paying member of a supposedly free society, I want the fucking right to explore whatever crosses my dirty, filthy little mind. After all, playing keeps the heart and soul young.

(Speaking of playfulness [in general] and Craigslist, allow me to introduce you to my brother. Seriously. He's single, cute, and a little weird, but in mostly good ways.)

[Photo courtsey of Wikipedia.]

Nothin' Like an October Surprise

2006-10-03T08:25:00.000-07:00

Republican Representative Mark Foley's knee-deep in the shits after having exchanged dirty emails with 16-year-old boys.

He's resigned and now the Republican party is flailing like a drunk guy in a pool. Oops. Who knew that filth and debauchery could be exhibited by their own kind? Gosh!

I'm thrilled Foley's been exposed. I hope the FBI investigates him as thoroughly as they would anyone else. I hope they examine his computer. I hope he's prosecuted for whatever tidbits they might find in his computer. The dude's chaired the Congressional Missing and Exploited Children's Caucus, for God's sake.

Of course he purports to never have done anything to a minor before. Of course it was his "first time" being this way. Yeah. Right.

I'm pretty strict about the definition of the legal age. I think kids can engage in sex with others, if they like, of their own age. I think adults have to fucking know better. Maybe that makes me square. But Foley's a pedophile, whether he's acted on it beyond these emails or not. Let's see how concerned the courts really are about protecting kids, shall we?

Talk about the privilege to serve when you're a page or an intern, huh? Geez.

Fat or Phat, It's All that

2006-10-01T23:27:00.000-07:00

Though I’m overweight, I tend to pride myself on the fact that I’m often a fairly athletic person. Of late, I have not been. My pride, too, has been ebbing away. It’s starting to come back, and so is some anger. I’m mad that I have been so neglectful of myself. Every now and then, I realize how little I seem to care for myself just by how I’m failing to exercise or eat well.

I may never be a thin girl. That’s entirely possible. It doesn’t mean I can’t try to get there.

What you probably do not know about me is that The Last Ditch, my other blog, was not my first. No. My first was called Beyond Fat Girl. Nowadays, I’m really pissed that I deleted the blog without backing any of it up. Think twice before you do some dumb shit like that. Today, I would be proud if it were up there. After all, I began that blog in an attempt to finally admit to myself that I had to do something about my weight. Since then, I’ve lost near 50 pounds.

I’m pretty vocal about the media’s attention to heroin-thin being some kind of beauty standard. I think that’s bullshit. I think life’s hard enough without setting unrealistic goals for thinness. There are skinny people out there, and good for them, but most people carry a few pounds extra. I say that’s just peachy. (I’ll write more on why fat is phat later this week, but today’s just a personal reality check. Stay tuned.)

But what I won’t get behind is the idea that morbid obesity is a good way to live. It’s not. It’s unhealthy. It’s unattractive. It’s just plain hard – mentally, spiritually, and physically. That’s not being prejudiced against fat people. That’s using common sense.

I’m fat. I’m overweight. I know it. No shit, Sherlock. But I don’t sit around stuffing my face 24/7 and I don’t eat fast food often and I don’t buy chips often and I don’t drink pop (not even diet pop). I’ve had three hamburgers this week and I think that’s the most I’ve had in a week since I was a kid. I don’t have cookies in my house, nor do I buy baked goods.

If you’re one of these fucking twits who thinks every fat person is some slob sitting on a sofa with a fist full of chips, then you’re a little too prone to stereotyping. Looking fat doesn’t necessarily mean being unfit.

I know exactly why I’m fat. I’m ignorant. I don’t know enough about nutrition. I know far more than I once did, but I could learn a little more. I’m also overweight because I was a profoundly ill child. I had medical tests every week and by the time I was 11, suspected I wouldn’t live to see 20, thanks to what was then a pretty serious kidney disease. I was always sick and physical activity was hard on me. I got excused a lot and honestly never learned to like any kind of activity until my 20s. And then there’s just fat genes.

I also know I can be pretty cute. I’m overweight, and I can and will get thinner, because I know I can improve on what I’m presently doing. Accepting myself as I am, though, is a delicate balance. I don’t loathe myself. I loathe the fact that I feel like a pudgy lazy oaf, but that’s because I’ve been inactive. 10 hours from now, I’ll be in a swimming pool and the proud new owner of a 6-month Fit Pass with the city. Normally, I can do a pretty decent bike ride. Probably the most ever was 65km in a day while packing 45lbs on the bike when I rode Vancouver Island a couple years back. Sometimes I hike, and so forth. And I’m strong, too. I’m good in the gym.

But if I only ever lose maybe another 3 or 4 inches (I’ve lost about six or so already) then I’ll be all right with that – as long as I know I’ve put my all into it, you know? Besides, my body’s a little cuter when I exercise, and I get this little shuffle in my step / ass, and that’s never a bad thing.

I had this bad moment earlier, though. I’ve been having neck and shoulder problems this week, so I’m all hunched over, plus I’ve not been exercising, plus my period’s around the corner, so I’m all bloated anyhow. Well, naturally, I was shopping and I took a sideways glance at myself. Boom, that was it. Self-esteem bottomed right out. “Fuck, man.” I decided then and there the pool was happening in the morning. Good lord, did I.

I think we’ve all had those “Holy shit, has my mirror at home been fucking lying to me or something?!” reality moments when shopping for clothes. It’s enough of a reality smack in the face to send you home early without any new clothes, huh? It’s the lighting. Bastards and their cheap-ass fluorescence.

The point is, it’s not about what you look like compared to others. Do you look better than you did? Do you do your best to look nice? Does it look like you have pride? Great. There you go. Comparing yourself to Brad Pitt or some heroin-tweaked runway goddess is probably not the sane way to go, y’know? Just sayin’.

Saying Something

2006-10-01T13:02:00.000-07:00

A now-dead Canadian literary icon once said, “One ought not write until the thought of not writing becomes unbearable.”

I’m guilty of the exact opposite. So, I’m holding back a little, hoping that I at least get out of the habit of writing and somehow return to the wanting to write. I forget what that hunger to write feels like. I’m bored, tired, and fed up. I’ve got a lot of stress in my life, and I still have some traces of my depression. It hits me in that I find it really hard to get motivated, so everything I do still feels like an effort. Writing, these days, feels like an almost constant reminder of the things going wrong in my world. Most things are all right, but… The things that aren’t are really proving to be thorns in my side.

Soon, I’ll be launching a podcast. I keep saying “soon” because every time I set a deadline, life inadvertently seems to topple it. First, technical problems, then mojo problems, then more technical problems, then I get sick, then I have the solution to all my technical problems, it would seem, then I buy the product with which to solve those problems, and then I can’t install the bastard.

So, today is the can’t-install day, and I’m frustrated yet again. It’s this frustration that prevents me from caring about writing, because all my thoughts are preoccupied with how can I overcome the obstacles in my life, and what is it going to take to do so?

But given that it’s an install issue, ergo a product issue, and both the technical department of the manufacturer and the store at which I purchased the product are closed today, there’s not much sense in sitting around and trying to overcome it all, huh?

Today I’m calling it quits on pissing around and I’m recharging my battery for my camera. I love taking photographs, so why have I not been doing so? That changes this afternoon. I’ll be heading to the Commercial Drive area for some autumnal photos of the popular ‘hood. I think I might just capture the kind of whimsy and zest for life that will translate into inspiration for later.

Another reason my writing’s been lacking of late again is the recurring absence of sex drive. Whee, how fun. I’m starting to suspect it’s my sudden sedentary lifestyle that’s the problem there. (Probably some stress, too.) I might be overweight, but I’m always somewhat active, except for of late. I’m just realizing how inactive I’ve been, and it’s pretty surprising, actually. But exercise causes blood to flow and you gotta have the blood flowing in order to get aroused, eh? Anyone who doesn’t think their level of exercise affects their sex drive needs to check their heads.

And yet another reason my writing’s been lacking of late is probably a result of my not listening to music. With this piece-of-shit soundcard provided by Dell as a stock item, I can’t listen to anything on here, and I never think to listen to it elsewhere in my pad. Music’s a huge factor in creativity for me. Funny that I should be so without it these days.

Then again, all this shit can be a result of depression, too. I’ve been doing really well, but maybe I’m just used to feeling it, you know? Ah, life’s a complicated wench.

In an hour, I pounce on the east side with my camera. Should be a fun departure. Then, hockey. If young, virile, energetic men can’t kickstart some hormones for me tonight (especially hanging out with a gay male in that arena) then I’m officially declaring myself a eunuch.

I shall report. Down with eunuchy. Let us end the exiling of horny Steff. Yeesh. Hockey, indeed.

(*On the music front, I turned on the soundtrack to the Killing Fields, and I'm feeling it for the first time in a while. Fantastic.

And about the podcasting thing -- there's nothing I want more in my life right now than to get past the first show. This has been one of the most trying experiences of my life, but I refuse to give up on the fucking thing even though almost everything in me wants me to do so. I cannot possibly convey to you how utterly conflicted I am within about it all. I'm so angry and frustrated and exasperated, yet something else tells me that it's all going to be worth all this angst. That, also, I can't explain to you. Some knowledge is intrinsic, you know? I'm just tired of feeling like I have something to prove... which I know I do. I'm ready to prove it, but nothing else is ready for that yet. And that's the problem. So, there you have it. A bit more context. How can I possibly be having this much trouble with technology? Oh, right. Dude's got a Dell. Fuck, man.)

In Praise of Older, Better, and Definitely Wiser

2006-09-29T09:02:00.001-07:00

It's my birthday. OH, YEAH. Love me!

I'm 33 and better for it in every conceivable way. I know who I am more than ever before, know I'm equipped to handle nearly any adversity more than ever before, and I appreciate the days that are mine more than I ever have before.

Age isn't the enemy. It's a good thing. Forty's the new 30, and people at 50 look better than we'd ever have imagined when I was growing up.

I've known some pretty amazing people in my time, but one of the coolest ones taught me that age was a matter of the heart a long, long time ago.

When I was 13, we were paid $50 to spend the day helping one of my mom's real estate clients move into her new townhouse. Mrs. Chapel was 82 then and had just gotten her blackbelt in karate. She was signing up for a skydiving lesson at the time.

I remember when my mother died and a customer of mine from the bookstoke I once worked at, an incredibly great contributor to the Beat Generation, poet and professor Robin Blaser, asked me how old she was when she passed. I said 57. He looked at me, shook his head, and simply said, "That's too fucking young. Too fucking young."

Even if I die at her age, I've still got a quarter of a century in my favour. I'm 33 and I've grown up in that perfect point of time where I'm old enough to remember the way shit was before technology grew a head of its own, and young enough to understand how fucking cool technology is today.

A couple funny things say exactly how old I am. I was talking to some kind about six or seven years ago, and explaining how great I was at making mix tapes. "Mix tapes?" Fucking kid had never had a tape in his life. Not long after that, I was riding the bus when a couple stupid teenaged girls were yammering about music. "Oh, I heard the COOLEST new band last night! They're called the Doors! They're gonna be HUGE, just HUGE!"

Yeah, with some fucking smelling salts and a Ouija board, sweetcakes.

I'm "old" now. I don't pay attention to the new music, I'm just like anyone "older and wiser," I'm sure that good music stopped being invented somewhere around year 2000. Please, don't burst my bubble. I don't want to discover I'm not as hip as I think I am.

But THIS is my day. And it's Friday. And I have a three-day weekend. And and and. Love me. :) Say hi! I'll be doing a lot of writing in the coming days. I feel it bubbling up in me, like a pot coming to boil. It's almost there now. Stay tuned!

33 rocks. Rocks and rocks and rocks! Fuck numbers. I'm young at heart.

In Praise of Pink Slips

2006-09-26T11:00:00.000-07:00

(There are topics I wanna get to, and I will, in the coming days, but for now I'm going to indulge myself.)

What a difference a day makes. 24 hours ago, I was sitting there sullenly at my desk, kind of loathing my existence. Today, I've got a paid day off, and tomorrow I return to the only job I've ever known that made me feel like I was part of a family.

It has been 12-13 years since I had a job with an asshole employer. This was the first time since that I'd had an employer that I felt was, well, unfair. I'm not going into specifics. It is what it is, and I have too developed a readership to go slagging anyone. But let's face it, not everyone knows how to manage. There are people who have such great personalities that they get overlooked for how they sometimes treat others, and they can be hell to work for.

I'm a big believer in learning from life as it happens. You can just dismiss things and say "shit happens," or you can ask "why does shit happen?" Everything I ever needed to know I learned from Philosophy 101. Why?

For me it makes life so much better when I assign value to all the things that go down in my life. For every failure, I try to learn something. And whether I want to accept it or not, I was fired. I failed in some capacity, and while I consider myself fortunate to have been uninvited from that particular party, there's a part of me that knows what rejection feels like again.

Do you ever sit back in your comfy arm chair, watching some talk show, on which is some woman telling of all the abuse she endured through her many years of marriage, and sit there, thinking, "Jesus, honey! Why didn't you leave?! At what point do you finally clue the fuck in and say, 'Gee, I think this might be a bad situation?' Fuck!"

Yet how many of us work every day in jobs we hate? Jobs where you know it's just a paycheque, baby? How many of us tolerate rude, belligerent employers who don't know how to sit the fuck down and trust us to do the jobs we're supposed to be hired to do? It's psychological abuse, really, when you work in a situation like that. But because they sign our paycheques and keep the roofs above our heads, we somehow feel like they've got permission to treat us like they do.

And I don't give a fuck what kind of job it is, what kind of pressure it is, it's not too goddamned much to ask that employees everywhere get treated in a reasonably professional manner. I'm not so sure that's how I was treated of late. Two people there were good, though. Pity about the unbalance.

So, uninvited from the party, I have to tell you that today's the first time since about... February of this year that I've woken up without this palpable fear of whether all the bills are going to be paid and whether I'm gonna have my integrity intact at the end of the day. In the spring I was just financially insecure. Of late, I was underpaid and treated somewhat questionably. Different scenarios, but similar results.

I feel like a fucking mammoth weight has come off my shoulders, is what I'm trying to say. And I'm also trying to suggest that, if you're one of those people working a job you hate, you really need to start asking yourself if the cost benefit ratio of going through THAT every single day is worth it. I mean, shit. I feel like I've just broken the water's surface and am finally breathing again. I had no idea those many months were taking the toll they've now so obviously been taking.

I always said I was lucky to never have really had to work in a bad situation. Now I have. I'm one of those freaks that likes having difficult experiences because then I always grow. It's my choice to gain from the situation, ain't it? So I'm having a good day. Friday's coming and so's that 33rd birthday. Older? Wiser? Fucking right I am.

I wouldn't have had the guts to quit without another job to go to. Getting fired was the only way that situation was gonna get resolved, unless one of the headhunter positions worked out. So my perfect record gets smeared. Whatever. I'm glad I'm moving on to potentially better times.

It's one of those times where you, the reader, gets to sit back and ponder your own life's satisfaction. Is it really going the way you want? Is it worth it to keep compromising? Think about it. Then remember one of my favourite sayings: Life's too fucking short.

Hallelujah. I got fired. Uninvited. Ha. And look, it's sunny out. Go fuckin' figger.

Good news! I got fired!

2006-09-25T19:07:00.000-07:00

Heh. Yep, you read right. I'm happy I just got fired.

I hated the job, or more accurately, one of the bosses. Worse yet: It sucked the will to write right out of me.

Putting words on a screen's pretty fucking easy most days and I can do it in my sleep, but the GOOD writing, well, that comes from places that machines can't mine. When the mix is off, it's really, really difficult to get things gelling again. And, honestly, something about that job just killed my creativity.

And, being such an affable and good chick as I am, the folks I worked the last six years for are taking me back without even thinking twice. Not permanently, but "for a while" at the very least, and "for a while" is what I need.

And the moral of this story, boys and girls, is that when adversity happens, don't think about the fucking adversity. Think about overcoming it. Within 10 minutes I went from losing a job to getting another one, in essence, and that comes from acting, not fretting.

I'm a happy camper. I lost a job I hated. I'm going back to one that had me, for some weird reason, writing better than I've ever written before. Methinks I've come out ahead.

But the good news for you is, soon I'll be back to writing well. Don't think I don't know this blog's been off-kilter for some time. I know it all too well. I already have a couple fun things planned for postings.

I'd kill to hear "Ding, dong, the witch is dead" right now, 'cos it sums up how I'm feeling pretty nicely.

Reader: Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

2006-09-25T00:05:00.000-07:00

All right, well, I'm kinda AWOL these days. Part sickness, part sick of it. Just needing a bit of a slow-down with things in all areas of my life.

I had a reader question a week or so ago. Pretty short and sweet:

I was wondering what your take is on couples who have a peaceful, mutual breakup (stay good friends) and continue living together until their lease is up.

What, in a nutshell?

"Good luck with that" is about what I think. Good fucking luck.

Yeah, okay, somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds sing and rivers are made of chocolate, and couples who break up really truly can be friends. Yes, Toto, they can! Even in Kansas!

In my twisted little worldview, though, friends after breakup is a whole lot easier said than done. There's all those weird little remembrances you have to get over. Like, "watching a movie" means a whole other thing if you're "just friends."

"You mean I can't start nibbling your torso when there's a boring bit?"

Well, there's always popcorn, honey.

We're human beings. We're silly things with opposable thumbs and convoluted ideas on what constitutes civilization. We want to pretend we're all smart and brilliant when it comes to problem resolution. The problem is, this ain't no problem to resolve. The death of a relationship is, well, a death.

It dies. Six feet down, all bets off. It's not a simple change of state. It's a change of being. You used to fuck in frenzies. You told each other everything. You had dreams and goals and plans. And then, one day, it all went poof in a little whisp of smoke. You sorta saw it coming, yet there you stood still in a state of utter disbelief.

Because that's how it all goes.

Now you want to think that a little piece of paper that says you have a lease is going to be enough to keep it on an even keel. Let's hope you're right. In my world, it just doesn't tend to work out that well.

I'm a smart person with big brains and long memory, and pushing aside a past in order to have a present seems to be one of those equations I have a difficult time solving. Not that I wouldn't try to solve it.

But surprises happens. Luck tends to play its hand. And sometimes odds get defied. Me, I err on the side of probability and statistics. Numbers meaning what they do and all.

And Then It Was Sunny.

2006-09-22T08:51:00.000-07:00

Y'know that old cliche, "I felt like I had a new lease on life"?

Welcome to my Friday morning. I rolled out of bed, bitter about a bad night's sleep, got up, grabbed a glass of water, and realized: Wow, I feel almost normal. Yep, the flu / cold that sunk its teeth in deep has finally given up some of its grip.

You know, being sick isn't all bad. Catching a three-week thing sucks, but a four- or five-day bug? Not a bad thing at all.

We're all so stuck in our gotta-do's that we tend to forget about choice. We get caught up in these lives of supposed obligation and occupation that we forget there's a bigger picture out there.

I've slept a lot, excluding last night, since Sunday. Probably 50% of my week was spent under covers, out of commission. Had you asked me Saturday if I was planning on sleeping in Sunday, I'd have told you "I don't have the time." I'd have said I was planning on having late nights all week long -- and that I was planning on getting into the habit of setting my alarm clock for earlier than necessary, too. I felt my days weren't my own. Obligation engulfed me from every angle.

And then I got sick. Necessity is the mother of action, too. I turned off the alarm clock, stopped cleaning up after myself, ignored the chaos of my universe, and became still.

Last night I had a moment. I had turned off the TV early, thinking an early night necessary to make it through my day. Then it was dark. My whole place, just dark. And silent. I sat there in the blackness for a while, trying to remember the last time I felt something peaceful like that. It's been a long time. A long, long time.

Some days a little time can feel like a lot of forever. That 10 minutes of utter silence helped me stumble upon a remembrance of another cliche. "Why do I keep hitting my head with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop."

And that's been my problem: I've been hitting so hard I've been forgetting to let up. I've always believed that illness was kind of life's way of forcing us to take notice of something we're neglecting -- ourselves. Reminders are valuable. The trouble is, our memories are short.

I'm not quite sure what it is I've learned this week. It's not entirely clear to me yet. But I feel as if something has changed. Some little bit of me has had an inkling of what it wants, needs, can do. I'm really not quite sure what, though. It's strange to know I feel different, but I'm not sure how or why. I just do.

Next Friday, I turn 33. I have one week left to achieve a couple goals of mine. Then I can say I did everything I wanted to when I was 32. It might be the first time in years I've actually accomplished my primary goals... And I don't mean professionally, working for the man, and shit like that. I mean things that are, deep down inside, important to who I am as a person. Things that ultimately will mean I believe in myself. Risk-type things.

And that's a pretty good start.

Y'know, I know that my mother died at 57, and if anyone should feel like the clock is ticking, it's probably me. But, the thing is, she might've died young, but she died on her terms, after finally starting to live her life her way. It wasn't until she was 47 that her life really began. She got her realtor's license, learned to sail, captained a yacht in the Mediterranean, climbed mountains in China, fell in love with an adventuring guy and had the love affair of her life, and really, really became the woman she always wanted to be.

I'm lucky that I learned young that life's not over until you want it to be. You can always have new experiences, you can always become the person of your dreams. The clock's only ticking 'cos you've let it. Every now and then, you have to remind it who's calling the shots. Prioritize. Get rid of the stupid obligations. Do what's necessary. And always, always have time for you, because it's in those precious moments that life really lives.

I may have to go to work today, but I suspect it'll continue in this pleasant way. Today I feel like a contributor. A good morning to end a long week.

Encore Steff: Jazz Up the Sex Life with a Four-Letter Word: TALK

2006-09-21T17:21:00.000-07:00

Ah, I'm too tired to write again. Damned sickness. Soon.

In the meanwhile, this is one of my older posts and one I think missed a lot of people's radars since it was right at Christmastime last year. I think it's a good one to repost, and hope you agree.

* * *

Still not convinced that better communication will up the sexual ante? All right, then read on.

Imagine you get a job. You're excited about it. It's dynamic, exciting. Oh, the possibilities, you think. So, you show up, wing it, and you think, "Hey, it's okay, after I've been here and they've seen what my stuff is, they're gonna wanna invest in me. They'll want to really school me and get me groomed for something better. I'm a contributor. Yeah, they'll tell me what they really want, when they're ready to."

And the management's over there, across the way. "Wow, you know, he may have something to offer. Hmm. We could use someone like that around here. I know what we'll do. We'll wait. When he's ready to know more, he'll come to us. Then we'll really know he'll be able to deliver. We'll let him... acclimatize, for now. I mean, hey, he's doing just fine for now."

Trouble is, "for now" doesn't have a shelf life. Do you know when "for now" expires? I sure don't. And "just fine," well, it never really makes the cut, does it?

The employee in this scenario? Fucked. Rightly. Right fucked. Proper fucked, even. Why? Pretty simple. Without clear direction, without a clear understanding of how he should perform his duties, he will never have the confidence to take risks that might better his performance, he'll never really know where he stands, and he'll never put his all into it. Worse yet, he won't know how to do his job better, nor what management desires him to do.

If you have a relationship where you're not telling each other how to satisfy you, you're going to be like the players above. As a receiver, you'll be the management -- getting loyal, dedicated service that suggests potential and even possibly alludes to brilliance, but always somehow slightly misses the mark, or even worse yet, is highly inconsistent because the areas of excellence go unspoken.

As the giver, you're just a lowly employee, and you'll never really know what your strengths or weaknesses are, nor what areas the management perceives most essential to get done. You might just never really know what you should deliver, and maybe, just maybe, you won't ever really fill the order, if you know what I'm saying.

So, if you manage to get things sorted and discussed, here's what I propose: Bi-weekly run-downs. Or however often you might enjoy a performance review. Have a conversation over dinner -- a private dinner -- and discuss the things you've enjoyed, the things you're feeling more of a craving for these days.

Sex is so much like food it's crazy. We all have cravings, and many of us go through a two-week period where we're eating Chinese every couple days. Well, maybe sex doggy-style's fitting the bill this week. It'd be nice to share that, wouldn't it? "Hi, dear. I want you to ride me like it's the Kentucky Derby finale."

We foolishly seem to talk about fantasies only in absolutes. I'd frickin' love a Mercedes conververtible from the late '60s, y'know, but this week I've been feeling a little more like taking the bus since the weather's so dodgy and the traffic so frantic. We go through flavour stages, and it's there in our sex lives, too, but often in such small, almost inconsequential ways that we often sooner ignore it than address it.

This conversation doesn't need to be clinical. In fact, I say nay to that notion altogether. I say make it dirty, irreverent, sexy, fun, coy, suggestive, romantic, passionate, perfunctory -- whatever gets your rocks off. I say do it over a decadent meal you cook together, and then eat it together in various states of undress with a fine bottle of red wine. (May I suggest throwing some really suggestive footsy into the under-table games? Footsy may not be the most sexually satisfying act, but Jesus, it's erotic, isn't it? Mm!) Or skip the food and sit naked on the couch, sipping wine, as you perform demonstrations on each other's body of what it is you're discussing / wanting.

You get the idea. Play with it. Play is fun. Play doctor like you did in the bushes as a kid. Hmm. I wonder how Tyler's doing these days, anyhow. Been a while. Ah, nostalgia.

So, here's your relationship homework: Periodical sex reviews. No negatives -- only constructive criticism, but really, really try to focus on positives, and try to go with the moment. And never, ever shy away from demonstration... or narration. And if you narrate, be suggestive and coy -- this can really add a little of the sizzle bang-bang I'm always talking about. It's one of those things that sounds ludicrous if you think about it, but in the heat of the moment, narration's a fun thing to toy with.

[Ed. Note: It's official. I need to get laid. Geez.]

Stumbling through Sickness

2006-09-21T08:45:00.000-07:00

I'm just popping in, since my rather fun yet caustic rant of a couple days ago still sits front and centre. (Those of you who take my "rage" seriously need to lighten up. Rants rock. Love'em.) I'm a sickie Steff, but we've all known I've never been quite right in the head. Hardly a shocker there.

In the 82 hours since Sunday at 11, I've slept nearly 50 hours. You know what pisses me off most about sickness? What a waste of time it is. But that's all right. I'm constantly saying how everyone needs time to themselves, and I guess this is my downtime. Whatever. It just irks me to sleep so much, have lame dreams, and still feel tired. Blah!

I'm valiantly heading into the office today. (Boo! Hiss!) But it's the first time this week I've had the remote semblance of energy. (Yay! Huzzuh!)

Anyhow: On the horizon sits some time to write, probably tonight or tomorrow night, but we'll see. I may no promises.

What I want to write about, though, is this article. So, have a little read. My tentative working title? "In Praise of Fat." A-yup. Draw your own conclusions, but I reserve the right to surprise you. As always.

Have a day, people.

(PS: Starting this morning, a slow shift is occuring: I'll be moving all my best of archives to my new blog. Over the coming couple of months I hope to move most of the content here to a new home... Blogging will still happen. The same feel will still exist on the new blog, but I hope to have slightly higher standards for posting. So, a little less, but better when it happens. Hey, everyone's got a dream, man. I'll give you a heads up when I feel the new site's ready to go. For a while, things will be posted on both blogs. Then, one day, I'll simply make the switch. Stay tuned. Thank you, DH & JMb, for your assistance re: said blog!)

Go Away, World. Ain't No Welcome Mat No More.

2006-09-19T19:00:00.000-07:00

AGH! I'm sick! Motherfucking bug-ass virus thing has bit me but good. Like I have any time at all for this shit? What's the most valuable part of your body when it comes to podcasting? Ding! Your head! You're absolutely right! Your prize is the all-new Sweet Fuck All! Now comes in cherry flavour!

I sound like I was bred by frogs.

And raised by smokers.

Yeah. You heard me. I's sexy. So sexy. [Croak.] I'm cursed. There will never be a podcast. Ever.

At least I have my sense of humour, and opposable thumbs. That's not too shabby. I can make shadow puppets. And laugh. There. All one needs for a decent life.

Head colds suck. Soon it will move into my chest. Then, bronchitis. Then, laryngitis. Let's hope we skip steps two to four. I could do without that shit.

Motherfucking bug-ass virus. Why, if I wasn't sick, I'd kick yo ass back to whatever fucked-up science lab of a human emitted you. Fuckety-fuck fuck.

Snicker. My rage is just so hilarious because I'm the one inside this body who knows, without a fucking doubt, that there is zero energy in my stores. I ain't goin' after nuffin' or noone for a spell yet. It's gonna be a wait.

So, it's 6:51. I'm going to bed. Possibly to sleep all night. I'm hoping I wake up for an hour or so, but that's about it. Fuckety-fuck fuck. Mmf. I don't want to miss the best part of fall, you know? This better be a couple days at best, man.

Sleep. Sleep, perchance to recoup. Vive la Steff?

Just Popping By

2006-09-18T07:18:00.000-07:00

What up, my good people.

I'm just having a few days to myself and taking the pressure off of myself regarding posting. I said things might slow down around here for a bit and that looks to be happening. Mostly, I don't want to bother posting unless I have something I really want to say, as opposed to just generally slapping some words onto a posting, like I sometimes do. Like I'm doing now.

I've been spending my weekend caught in a weird headspace, and it's, um, well, weird. I haven't wanted to write about it, and still don't.

I just wanted to check in. To tell the truth, I think I'm getting sick. Gah. We're having a massive shift in weather, and I'm all sniffly. I hate sickness, both in me and in others. Grr.

I will say this: If you like intelligent television, watch Studio 60 tonight. I watched the pilot last night on Canuck TV and loved it. (Either 9 or 10pm on NBC Mondays.)

It's Aaron Sorkin's new show, and if you took his other two series, Sportsnight and West Wing, and mixed it with a cross between Gary Shandling and SNL, you'd have Studio 60. Smart, quick-paced, and good dialogue. It's good, not great, but it's early in the game yet. It is, however, good to see Sorkin back. When the best writer in television isn't writing for it, there's something wrong, even if he does like his nosecandy a smidge. There is sense to the world order again. And Amanda Peet's looking sexy in a smart role for a chick. Sense, meet world order.

Did I mention I hate sickness? I better not be getting sick! I don't have time for this shit. Grr!

On Freedom and Fallacies

2006-09-15T22:54:00.000-07:00

This is take two on this topic. I’m starting fresh a couple hours later, after a glass of wine and, um, two helpings of my homemade chicken pot pie. You only wish you could make pot pie like mine. In yo dreams, suckah.

It’s the second take because this topic is really important to me and I don’t want to fuck it up.

Thank god I have quality guidance like that of Fame. Yes, you heard me, the ‘80s arts school drama. It’s on, and I’m chilling. Defragging my mind, as I like to say. Fluff is exactly the right fit.

Funnily, a girl in the episode scoffs at the notion of writing her private thoughts and dreams in a diary. “If I wrote down my dreams,” she says, “I’d get arrested.”

Yeah. Funny dat. About that, take note of the week that was in the world of the wide web. Proper fucked, indeed.

A Montreal guy writes some shit in a forum then figures rifle + college = a good afternoon. Like the motherfucking coward he was, he went out and tried to kill a bunch of people. Realizing he couldn’t even do a massacre right, he deprived us of the fun of letting cops kill him. The coward took his life. Fucking better off dead, anyhow. But he wrote in forums. We shoulda seen it coming.

A dickhead in Seattle decides he’s going to act like a fucking 13-year-old and reposts another city’s craigslist ad by some dirty-minded femme, and gets a couple hundred responses or something, then figgers he’s got rights to publish that private correspondence in an attempt to expose those apparent sickos to the world. But they answered a public ad. They shoulda seen it coming.

A young mother in Florida writes her secret other self dark thoughts on a public blog, and then her child goes mysteriously missing, improbably snatched from their window. Young mother kills herself 16 days into the toddler’s absence. But she wrote dark shit on blogs, then her kid vanishes. We shoulda seen it coming.

A video diarist on the world wide web is exposed as a professional actress working off a script. The show is produced, directed, and written, yet has duped the majority of its viewers, primarily through YouTube.com, into believing the so-called lonelygirl15 was a teenaged girl looked in her bedroom and homeschooled by orthodox religious parents. Doh. She’s a fake. Like ohmigod. But she, like, really talked to us, man! You shoulda seen it coming.

It’s happening. It’s really fucking happening. You know what I’m talking about. For some godforsaken reason, it’s starting to occur to people that this, like, internet thing might just be a way of seeing what’s really going on in the noggins of little people everywhere.

And, um, uh-oh, but what’s going on in those little people's noggins everywhere is something that’s not very pretty. Some people, it would seem, are angry. Some of them even feel disenfranchised. And, look. They’re acting on this shit.

Yeah, well. When the odds are stacked, you ought not be surprised at the outcome. Probability and logic being what they are and all, yes?

I’m part of the generation that got schooled in Orwell’s classic 1984. We were raised to believe that someday, one day, the government would hear every word we would utter, and freedom would be a thing of the past.

I'll be honest, the digital age scares me. The ease with which people can access information about me is frightening. It should frighten you, too. Unfortunately, the time is coming nigh where voices on the web are not just an anonymous blur with little impact on the real world. Now, we’re not so anonymous, and now this world is more real than it is virtual.

There’s coming a time where what you say here is going to come home to haunt you. This is the age of insinuation, and anything you say can be manipulated and used against you. Decide now if you plan to live in fear of that, or if you have the balls to play the game my way, and own your ability to say what you think and how you feel.

In forums such as this, someone such as me might decide to write a little bloggie in which the entire contents of our deepest darkest other selves are posted up on virtual walls for the world at large to indulge in. In essence, it’s a voice. I have a voice, you have a voice, we all have voices. It’s idyllic. A virtual Utopia in which we’re all given voices and identities, something that ironically clashes with our seemingly democratic lives – lives spent living in societies that claim to be governed by the people of the people for the people.

Only they're not like any people I've ever known. And I don't feel like I belong. And I'm tired of feeling this small because I'm just an ordinary gal. I thought I'd take my voice and use it. I'm not alone. You're doing it too. And him, and her, and hey.

We all took our existences online, where we thought we’d have the right to say what we think whenever the fuck it pops into mind.

Unfortunately, when such vocal freedom is enjoyed by a world at large, some of those voices will be beyond dissent. They will be voices of rage and fury and vengeance. Or maybe they’ll be coolly quiet. And that’s a risk we take by allowing open dialogue. Every now and then, though, those voices will be warning signals. Intervention might occur, and it might segue to prevention.

Just because assholes and the disenfranchised like these can use the web to serve their fucted means doesn’t necessitate that the rest of us should have to watch our words.

Sadly, the voice of reason doesn’t seem to resonate these days. I fear that the talking heads of today might soon decide that there is such thing as too much free speech and they will indeed succeed in legislating the internet.

In which case now might be the time to, like the good hunter Elmer Fudd suggests, be vewwy, vewwy qwiet.

Only we’re not hunting rabbits.

Ann Richards?

2006-09-14T22:53:00.000-07:00

I don't generally like to admit my ignorance in matters. After all, your ignorance of my ignorance is my bliss. But allow me to fess up.

A reader wrote me today to ask my thoughts on Ann Richards. Well, the name rang a bell but I couldn't remember who she was. George W.'s predecessor as governor of Texas. Right.

Honestly, I don't know enough to comment. What little I know, she was admirable. Any woman who competed in the male-dominated world pre-1986 is a pretty cool chick in my mind, and she's by proxy about as cool as it comes, in that case.

Found a great quote of hers, talking about Georgie's daddy. "Poor George, he can't help it...He was born with a silver foot in his mouth."

But, yeah, all I can say is that there are women who go down as feminist role models, and she's got a great place on that list, for sure.

Still intending to write about the blogosphere. Friday night's a write night. After 9, anyhow. Must have drinks. ( :) Whee! Friday!)

What Wicked Web We're Weaving

2006-09-13T22:44:00.000-07:00

It's been a rough week or two in the CyberGalaxy. At one end of the connectivity cosmos, a fraud in the Emerald City, Jason Fortuny, who duped the Craigslist sex-starved masses into sending to him graphic and revealing personal emails that were then splayed accross the world wide web for mockery and exposing.

Then, at the seeming other end of the sticky web, Lonelygirl15, who similarly duped the masses, but this time into believing a series of well-developed and elaborate hoaxes revolving around her as the poor disenfranchised trapped little daughter of overly religious parents.

And tonight we've heard the news that an avid blogger mother has apparently committed suicide while her child has been snatched from his crib. Missing, dead, who knows. Her blog reveals disturbing and dark imagery in her writing.

All in all, it's been a rough few days for the blogworld. There are repercussions out there in the real world for what we do in this one. It sometimes seems a rude awakening to some bloggers, but it is what it is. I've had my last employer sending me emails about postings I've been doing. We discussed my perception of their firm. It's been interesting getting that delayed reaction.

I plan to tackle these above topics in a single post over the next few days, but just to lay the groundwork, there's the outline up there. If you have any opinions about the strangeness of these three varied examples of cybersecrets go boom, please do share.

THE MOTHER WHO HAS COMMITTED SUICIDE as a result of her toddler being snatched (but some suspect she had a hand in it, given the nature of her blogging) is this woman.

Sorry, people. Been working hard and haven't had a chance to update.

Oddity of the Day

2006-09-13T19:12:00.000-07:00

I may get around to writing late tonight, but that's not as likely as I'd sort of like it to be. I think I'm sorta taking a mental week off, in a way, in an attempt to recharge. There IS something I have to weigh in on, a story notion fed to me earlier in the week by x-Guy, but it's a time-v-life issue. It'll be a big, big story when I post it between now and Saturday, tho. I'm looking to be a little controversial with it, and something else happened today that ties in, so hence the post-poning thingiething.

MEANWHILE: Ever noticed how the Joy of Cooking has "how to skin a beaver" in it? Something tells me they ain't talking about Canadian girls, but whatever.

ANOTHER MEANWHILE: While checking out at a store last weekend with GayBoy, both of us were having a hard time keeping comments to ourselves when being served by this guy with the most chapped lips I've ever, ever seen. For the love of god, people, three words: Blistex Lip Conditioner. It's the best stuff ever.

Nothing's less sexy than lips that don't beg to be kissed. Soft, pouty, sexy lips that deserve nibbling and sucking and toying with for hours on end.

Chapped lips don't make the grade. EVER. Some people, like this guy, probably can't do much about it, but even if they're chapped or dry or whatever, a little Blistex gives a little shine, and that at least improves the appearance. Besides, it tastes nummy-yummy-ish. Or maybe I've just acquired the taste. Whatevah.

Now, the aforementioned and much-loved GayBoy is coming over to be fed. Not if I don't get cookin'!

Sugasm and Stupidity -- Together at Last

2006-09-12T22:48:00.000-07:00

I have no brain cells. None. The alien mind probe clearly did its job.

I'm tired, frazzled, want to sleep more than I can afford to, and really want to eat more blueberry jam on some baguette. But I won't. No, I will not. But it's blueberry!

Anyhow. Seeing as I clearly have nothing of any value to share with you, I thought I would do two things.

One, finally get off my ass and post the Sugasm. Here you go: People with things they said on purpose. Not just mindless meaningless drivel of little consequence like this (but it's blueberry!), but actual thoughts. In, perhaps --dare I say it?-- logical order! Without ado, the Sugasm.

(Oh, and two, well, you'll have to scroll to the bottom of the post, then, won't you? It's down there. I promise!)

The best of the sex blogs this week by the bloggers who blog them.

This Week’s Picks
Body Image & Sex Work (http://lipstickexplosion.com)
“Then, I thought about myself in that playspace, obsessing over how to present my body, while the client, evidently, was enthralled.”

The Fever is Real (http://theholidaylife.blogspot.com)
“This was Dior’s way to lay down the gauntlet for Matthew… ‘I’m ready. I’m hot. I’m panting with desire. I’m gorgeous and sexy - come fuck me.’”

Just What You’re Missing (http://sabrinainstockings.com)
“That’s when I lean forward and kiss along your jawline… slow hungry pressings of soft lips and hot breath with just the barest hint of tongue.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Book Review: ‘Fresh: Girls of Seduction’ by Dave Naz (http://sugarbank.com)
Editors’ Choice
Having Myself All to Myself (http://www.TaraTainton.com)
Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Second Week Without a Functional Computer Of My Own…..
Where are the manners? (http://cuntinglinguist.blogspot.com)
Would you sleep with a virgin? (http://edinerotica.blogspot.com) (http://totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
Sex Work
Panty Tree (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)
Sex News and Sexy Reviews
Clone A Willy Moulding Vibrator Kit (http://www.orgasmarmy.com)
The Man With Two Penises (http://www.quirkysex.com/blog)
Sex Toy Designer Spotlight: Lelo Interview (http://sultry.naughtyblog.net)
The Three Best Girl-on-Girl Pornos of All Time (http://blog.johnqafterhours.com)
Erotic Writing and Experiences
Back in His Arms (http://designingintimacy.blogspot.com)
Fare Amore (http://confessions112.blogspot.com)
Grrl’s Night Out (http://xantasia.blogspot.com)
Guest blogger: “Dessert” (http://emergingontheotherside.blogspot.com)
How we spent our Anniversary! (http://dontwakethekids.blogspot.com)
Just for the taste of her…(part one) (http://dirtydetails.blogspot.com)
The long hard weekend f*ck (http://dirtyandthirty.blogspot.com)
More Hot Wife Memories (http://marriedtoahotwife.blogspot.com/)
Need (http://www.kingdomofmean.com/sheets/)
Shower in the shower (http://solostories.blogspot.com)
NSFW Pics
Blonde Bombshell Jurgita Valts (http://www.thesexbox.com/blog)
Cowgirl HNT (http://texasspitfire.blogspot.com)
Gauge (http://www.internetisforporn.com)
Half-Nekkid in the Bible Belt (http://www.TarasNaughtyShop.com)
Happy naughty panties HNT! (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
Sexy upskirt in kitchen (http://upskirtr.blogspot.com)
BDSM and Fetish
Back School, Back To Books, Back to “SchoolGirls’” Dirty Looks
Dishonourable discharge (http://assistantmistress.blogspot.com)
Fiction: Grocery Dom (http://erotiterrorist.blogspot.com)
How to make her body betray her… (http://everythingoze.blogspot.com)
On Shade45 With DJ Whoo Kid and Crew (http://www.caramelvixen.com/vixen-blog)
Playing hookie (http://redvelvetropeburn.com)
Sassy me (and domesticity) (http://aliferestarted.blogspot.com)
Spanking and Brass Bands (http://www.spankingwriters.com)
Tales From Under The Desk, Part 11 (http://thebinside.blogspot.com) (http://shayssexcolumn.blogspot.com)

(And if you'll notice, the bottom of the sign reads: "Spongebob Squarepants Fan Club meets in Tyrone's Mom's Basement every Wednesday, 7:30pm.")

Storybook Time with Smutty Steff!

2006-09-11T23:52:00.000-07:00

Taken from my parents' 1969 (the summer of love, don'tcha know?) edition of Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Sex*

With this on the shelves, in the living room, for my entire childhood, is it any wonder this didn't have some sort of impact on me, as if by osmosis or something? Yeesh.

Should children be kept from masturbation? Is masturbation harmful?

The only thing harmful about masturbation is the guilt that is drummed into children who admit masturbating, by parents who may themselves masturbate but don't admit it. Every human being, at one time or another, in one way or another, has masturbated. Most of them feel overwhelmingly guilty because of it. Most of them have continued masturbating.

Some of the terrible things masturbation is supposed to cause are pimples on the face, loss of manhood, pollution, and weakness. Of these afflictions, only pimples are a recognized disease. All children at the time of puberty develop pimples. Virtually all children are actively masturbating at the time. It would then be more accurate to conclude that pimples cause masturbation. No minister, moralist, teacher, or scientific researcher has ever showen any evidence masturbation is harmful in any way.

Comes from the Latin masturbari, to pollute oneself.

Oh, yeah, and: Halle-fucking-lujah!
Steff endorses masturbation.
Take two and don't call me.

*(But Were Afraid to Ask)

Management Requests Your Patience

2006-09-11T09:32:00.000-07:00

Hey, folks. Bear with me. I'm finally recording the first podcast -- but have to rerecord 90% of my work thanks to corrupted files. But there's movement! There's progress! I had hoped to have it ready for this Thursday but there will be a delay now. One thing after another, man. But that's okay. I'm copin'. But it also means I don't have as much time to write, so this blog will suffer this week, I'm sure. Stay tuned anyhow.

Speaking of podcasting...

Is there anyone out there willing to guide me through the process of how to stream my feed on my new site when I'm ready to go? I'll give you my MSN account and we can tackle it sometime over the next week...? All you would get is my undying love and affection, and maybe an amusing sticker as a thank-you, me being lowly underpaid writer girl and all. I'm looking forwards to getting this up and running, and now it's down to the crunch. Sometime soon, for sure.

In Praise of Fall

2006-09-10T23:26:00.000-07:00

It's almost autumn. This is beginning to please me. I want to go hiking in fall colours and do some photography.

This summer plum tuckered me out. I never really did get to enjoy it, so I say bring on the fall. I'm suddenly getting two-day weekends, and they seem so much longer than they used to, now that I've been deprived.

I'm also beginning to enjoy my company more. On the down side, I've been having podcasting difficulties, but I think I've sorted it all out now. It's not going too badly!

I had some generous help from the x-guy today, which has resulted in a couple funny snippets for the podcast, and I think GayBoy's seeking an audio track out for me; something ludicrously cliche, and a totally gen-x opener for my podcast. It's a movie clip. I could give you a couple hints and anyone over 25 and under 45 would probably get it. I guess that's 26-44. Fine, then.

It's cool, it's retro, it's obnoxious. Hey, it's me. Fuck, yeah.

* * *

I had a semi-big epiphany (but then epiphanies are kinda like big by nature, yeah? well) in the last month or so. I really, really hate becoming single.

It's hard. Whether you're the dumper or the dumpee, there's a loss in the death of a relationship. If you have a heart, there is.

When I found myself having to become single again, it was a rude awakening. Somehow I stopped being myself in my relationship. I did the ultimate chick thing. I forgot about self. Suddenly, I was kinda like a ship without a rudder. Kinda figured I should be going somewhere, but had no idea how to make it happen.

Slowly, I began doing things solo and enjoying myself. Yes, that includes masturbation. But, yeah. It was sorta a rediscovery of self. Quite cool, honestly. This is called being single. Being single, when you're really truly there, is really fucking cool. It rocks. (And there's no fussing over who sleeps on wet spots. Wicked.)

And I'm not totally there yet, but I'm starting to get in touch with myself again. I'm probably 50% there. Lotsa work left, but there's a light now. Is good. Me likey. Oof.

* * *

When I was in college, in my journalism lab, we had a sign on the wall that read:

"The management regrets to inform you that,
due to financial restraints,
the light at the end of the tunnel
will be turned off
until further notice."

So, Here We Are Again

2006-09-10T21:36:00.000-07:00

The whole 9/11 thing is feeling weird. Reminds me of when five years had passed since my mother's death. Has it really been so long? Boy, was that all it was? Five years?

Grief gets weird when you live with it for a long time and then -- poof -- it just vanishes, like. Guilt can come on, then. "I should be more depressed. Shouldn't I?"

I'm watching some of the retrospective stuff. I think it's important to remember it all, but I just don't want to face any marathons. I forget sometimes, though, how fucked up it must have been to live in NY in those early days.

I've been thinking about that day. The weather today was very similar to the weather then -- clear, sunny, warm, with just a hint of fall on the light wind. I remember the silence that morning. I never found out until I got to work -- I never saw the news or anything that morning. I was enjoying coffee, sitting barefoot in my deck captain's chairs, curling my toes around the metal railing.

I remember walking into the office, my closed captioning office, and the radio was turned on for the first time (and last time) ever. All the employees had no headphones on and were numbly editing files that probably needed no more editing. I knew something huge had happened.

"What?" I asked.

"Someone's flown planes into the two World Trade Centre towers. Thousands of people are dead. They think it was terrorists. And someone hit the Pentagon, too."

And like that I knew life on the continent had changed. No longer were we untouchable. Quite the opposite.

I didn't think I could lose any more innocence after that day, but I was evidently wrong. I grow more jaded and disenfranchised with every passing year.

For a time, 9/11 made us all better people. We found the commonality. We had community. We had a cause. And something happened. A chasm. Conflict. Chaos.

Strange how quick that tide turned. Sad, too. Sigh.

When Will It Change?

2006-09-08T12:57:00.000-07:00

I work a couple blocks away from one of the nastiest parts of my beloved city, Vancouver, Canada. It's like a whole other world when you stumble into the Downtown Eastside, just two blocks east of my office, a place that held, in the early '90s, the highest urban rate of AIDS and HIV infection on the globe.

People like me who've lived in this city our whole lives know more about the disenfranchised in that area, and I have my own speculations on how it's gotten so out of hand, but I've never looked into it all that much.

Suffice to say that at that two-block point east of here, it's like an invisible wall has gone up. People sleep on streets, heroin is shot in alleys, fights break out over drugs, and everything's out of control.

This area houses most of the prostitution and all of the meth and heroin junkies in the city. The mentally ill who are deinstitutionalized run rampant in this hood, and I'm faced daily with heartbreak and hopelessness when I see how much work is left to be done to help all these impoverished, seemingly forgotten members of our city.

We're beginning to get a reputation internationally for what's largely gone unchecked in this city, and that saddens me, considering all else this city has to offer -- the natural beauty, the unforgettable cuisine, the multicultural population, the sports, and more. What the world doesn't see and doesn't seem to understand is how stacked against success the odds really are in dealing with this travesty.

This city is a magnet for the nation's homeless -- even for America's homeless. They all want to be here because the climate is so tolerable year-round and because the cops tend to empathize rather than penalize these impoverished people. After all, if you're homeless, where would you rather be in the winter, the snows of Toronto and Montreal, where it can go far below freezing every winter, or in the temperate climes of Vancouver?

Add to that the fact that so many drugs land here in Vancouver, where an average of 150 million massive cargo freights pass through annually, where we barely have the staff to search them, and where drug laws are so much more relaxed than in America, and you have a ticking time bomb that no easy solutions will patch.

The world's about to hear more regarding this harrowing part of Vancouver, though, with the release of a controversial new "fictional" horror film by Australian filmmakers that focuses on one of the most legendary bastards ever to live in this province. Robert "Willie" Pickton is facing trial for the brutal murders of 26 Vancouver-area prostitutes, but is suspected of killing more than 125 of these women over the course of 20 years. A pig farmer by trade, Pickton covered his ass well by having his pigs devour the corpses of these women. As a result, little DNA evidence was recovered by what was the largest criminal investigation in Canadian history.

I'm saddened by the news that the families of these missing and dead women will have to endure a film that will probably sensationalize these brutal murders. And while I'm further saddened by the continuing downward spiral of this incredible city's reputation, perhaps international attention will finally convince both the British Columbian and Canadian governments that this absolutely is NOT a problem that can be solved by Vancouver's government alone. Our cops are stretched as thin as cellophane and there's no money to be had.

In less than four years, the world will be on our doorsteps when the 2010 Olympics unveil. And what will have happened to the disenfranchised and forgotten by then? God only knows, but many, including myself, suspect they'll be shifted out of the downtown core, pushed off to the side just to become some other neighbourhood's problem. Out of sight, out of mind, and, possibly, out of hope.

Why I Think I'm a Feminist

2006-09-07T18:58:00.000-07:00

Because I never thought they meant it when they said “no.”*
Because I don’t define myself according to the men in my life.
Because I think I can do anything I want to do.**
Because I got back on my bike after I was thrown off.
Because I’m tougher than the day is long.
Because my mom raised me right.
Because I’ve never thought being a woman was holding me back.
Because, despite periods, being a chick rocks.
Because it’s better than the other option.
Because I gotta be.
Because it’s cool.
Because I am too.
Because.

(*Um, the comments explain this one!
**With the right work ethic, of course.)

In A Jam, And I Need Help

2006-09-07T07:40:00.000-07:00

My deadline on my podcast delivery is a week a way and I've got talker's block. As my readers, can you give me opinions on which of my writings here (or on the other blog even) you most want to hear me talk about and expand? Please, none of the sex-tip/how-to's. I'm not comfortable going there on air yet. Anything else is fair game. I've been trying to do all-new content, but it's killing me, so I'm gonna head for my safety zone. What postings most interest you, and why do you want to hear it? Post comments sooner than later, please, 'cos I gotta get cracking tonight. THANKS.

Fine, Let's Bang That Drum Again: Change

2006-09-06T22:17:00.000-07:00

So, earlier I asked if you have the right to ask a risk-taker to tone down their lifestyle once you get hooked to them.

My opinion? No. You do not. And if they tell you you can go ahead and tell them how to change; don't. You'd fucking with what oughtn't be fucked.

In a nutshell.

My posting was inspired by the death of Steve Irwin. There are those who apprently think he should've "settled down" since he had kids. Yeah, as a kid, the first thing I wanna know is that my father gave up almost everything he loved so he could raise me -- sit in a fucking armchair with a remote and tell me how he "used to be like that" once.

Terri Irwin got a precious gift that most of us might never, ever, ever receive: She fell in love with someone who kept all the qualities that made him so loveable as the person he was when they first met. Bloody sweet, that. And she had it for a while. And then it got snatched. Love happens, death happens, it all is what it is.

Life's a truckload of hurts some days and there's no getting around that.

The point is, it's hard enough to be ourselves in the face of everyday life. It's harder still to remember who we are when we get lost in the arms of someone else. To be able to hang on to your identity despite your love for someone else and your wish to be with them, why, that's as downright admirable as it gets.

To hell with those who think otherwise.

_________________

In other Croc-Hunter news, let me go on record to say that, while Germaine Greer periodically says something intelligent, I:

a) think she can be a complete twat who has done as much to hinder feminism as she has to further it. She's arrogant, dismissive of men, flighty, inconsistent, hypocritical, and far too militant for my tastes. (Despite my believing I'm a feminist, thank you very much. Ain't no fucking eunuch here, baby.)

b) think she's a far bigger bitch than I'd thought before now that I've read her comments on the death of Steve Irwin.

I do not believe that to be a strong woman I need to demoralize men. I believe that, as a strong, independent chick, I can exalt men in my life and cater to them as I wish, because I fucking well know who I am when I go to bed at night (most of the time; we all get a little too lost in our relationships some of the time). I take no backseat to any man. But I'll hold the door open for 'em if they'll let me, because I have nothing to prove. I'm empowered by the mere fact that I don't need to seek power, all right?

I'd get into my whole beef about how feminism has been executed, but I'm too tired and it'd take too damned long. Suffice to say that while I fight for my equality, I don't think it needs to come at the cost of emasculating men. There's room enough for us both, and I don't think chicks like Greer understand that concept, but then I don't like her enough to read her work. I listen to others gripe about her and praise her, so I'm ignorant, but by choice.

A Debate! We Loves a Debate!

2006-09-06T09:49:00.000-07:00

Okay, a moral debate for you.

I made the off-hand comment on my other blog that I was surprised to be taken so aback by the Crocodile Hunter's (Steve Irwin) death. I said, "well, it computes. Play with dangerous animals, die at their hands."

A reader then commented, "All I can say is I hope he has a large insurance policy for his wife and child. There's a point where self has to take a back seat to the others in your life."

And I guess it just had me thinking. How true is that statement? How much can we expect a lover to yield to us after the pact between us has been made to share our lives? If you're someone like Terri Irwin, and you fall for this wacky, crazy guy who does more with dangerous animals in any given day than the average person can expect in a lifetime, are you right in expecting them to dial back the nature of who they are in the interest of ensuring longevity in your relationship? Is the relationship even worth it, if it means removing the element of danger from their life changes them into a different kind of person?

And don't try to confuse the question by factoring into the argument his two children. The trouble with children is, they take everything hard. The trouble with life is, it's hard. The trouble with parents is, they don't ever want their children to learn this inrguable fact.

So, what do you think? When you get involved with someone who's a risk-taker, is that risk-taking an intrinsic part of who they are, and you, as their lover and with a vested interest in keeping them alive, do you have any right in asking them to change their ways solely for your benefit?

_______________________

In other news: I still need MP3 files of your fun-filled orgasms, people. I've received a couple VERY porn-type ones that, frankly, I'm not interested in. Let's just have normal gasps and shudders of ecstasy, can we? The first one goes to air in the next two weeks, so I need these files coming in lickety-split, peeps!

Also, coming soon is a contest I'll be having where your most embarrassing sex moment could land you a free copy of one of the best sex-advice books in the biz. All yous needs to knows.

On Why the Saga of J is Doomed to Remain Incomplete

2006-09-05T18:30:00.001-07:00

One of the first things I ever began writing on this blog was The Saga of J. (Part one, part two, and part the third.)Not a month goes by that someone doesn't email me or ask me to finish the fucking thing. I've kept thinking, "Oh, maybe I'll get around to it," but you know what? I won't. I simply will not. Now it's a choice, not an inevitability. Ain't gonna happen, boys and girls.

When I was writing the story last summer, I was in a course that had me fired up and remembering the Gloried Days of Old. I began to realize I was living in the past with some idealized memory of something that wasn't necessarily all I was touting it to be.

The thing with memories is that they're always stronger than they probably ought to be, and the thing with the present is it's always less appreciated than it ought to be. At the time, when I hooked up with J, it was pretty intense. What I didn't know then was, he was lying. He wasn't single. He was going out with a friend of mine and having some relationship issues. He told me they'd been done for some time, and since I hadn't seen her, I believed him. But then things were complicated by the fact that he'd been casually pursuing me for two years by then.

"BUT WHAT HAPPENED, STEFF?!" What you probably need to know is, within the next five minutes after the point where Saga of J Pt. 3 ends, an errant ice cube found its way between my legs and inside me just as J was leaning in for a kiss, me still bound and blindfolded, and I reacted with my whole body. I sprung up, my head rocketing forward, me all shocked and cold, and our mouths collided. I chipped a tooth, and he bloodied his lips where I cut him.

The sex pretty much ended then, since I'd been so jarred out of the moment with the errant ice cube. He untied me while we had a good laugh, then hung out examining my injuries in the bathroom before we playfully headed into the shower and lathered each other up. That was that.

We had a few more sexual encounters that week, both our parents being out of town, and by the end of it, well, it was the end. A lot of sex, a short period, a good friendship. We were never friends again. I've spoke to him once in probably the 12 - 13 years that have lapsed since then.

When I was writing parts 3 and the never-gonna-hit-daylight part 4, I had just ended a tawdry and short-lived relationship that really evoked a lot of what I'd had with J. This was a brief and intensely sexual affair I had last October. The sex was fucking incredible, and probably remains the best of my life. We both had had a hard year or so of being sexually denied and we took it out on each other time and time and time again, in very, very good ways.

That short-lived relationship ended rapidly after one particular orgasm when he was kneeled looking down at me on the floor with this blissed-out grin, and -- WHAM -- I could've sworn I was looking up at my brother. Spitting fucking image, man. It creeped me right out and I lost all attraction towards him. Then came another guy on the heels of him, someone I had an intellectual connection with but couldn't get passionate about, despite wanting to feel that way towards him. Suddenly, I was lost and confused in the realm of sex again. So, I wrote more about J, living out an old "safer" and "less complicated" part of my life.

But, suddenly, I felt it was unhealthy, and I really couldn't give a fuck if people all over the place want the end of the story.

And finally, another reason is, I just don't want to reveal exact particulars about my sex life to you people ever again. No offense. It just feels wrong. I don't mind alluding. I don't mind mentioning brief snippets, but to lay out a whole tale from start to finish just feels incredibly violating. It really does. I can't do it. I won't. Prices get paid and lessons get learned.

(No, I'm not swearing off writing about sex again. How I've been writing since December's right on target with what I'm comfortable with. The Saga crosses the line. Very much so. I have repeatedly considered deleting it, but on principle will not do so.)

Whatever you may think of me, there are aspects of myself I've probably never told anyone and probably never will. This is a challenging forum -- being open but not splayed is a hard balance to attain. Somewhere along the way, writing that story, a boundary became apparent that I no longer wanted to cross. And when it comes to boundaries, you get to decide which ones to respect. Well, I have chosen.

And now it doesn't help, either, that an old friend has crawled out of the woodwork who happened to be J's longtime ex-girlfriend (and not the one he cheated on to be with me, thank god) and who happens to have been reading me for some untold length of time now. It's strange to learn of that.

So, moral of the story? You know what you need to know, and no, that story is not being written for you, but aside from the few details I've shared, is kept locksafe inside now. I'm just not that kind of girl after all, it seems. There's only so much kissing and telling I'm willing to do. Who knew?

School's Back and Other Shit

2006-09-05T07:49:00.000-07:00

All the boys and girls are back in school today. All the mommies and daddies are weeping with joy. All the university students are ready for dorm games and hijinks.

It's that time of year again.

My fond memories of college bring back copious recollections of sex in cars and the great outdoors. Ah, the good old days. Now living dangerously means fucking on the floor, carpet burn be damned. Well, when the delicious act of fucking avails itself to me again, that is. I really should get around to writing about all the reasons I love having sex out in the world. Not like I've done it in, oh, the last six or so years, but hey. I DID. A LOT. ONCE.

I say seize the moment, kids. Relish your college years and enjoy the sex that crops up everywhere, because it's a time in your life that you'll always look back on and miss, no matter how shitty it felt when you were in the midst of it.

And if you're in high school and reading me, well, shame on you. I have a sign that says you're supposed to be 18. I mean, shouldn't the Tooth Fairy and Santa be explaining sex to you? Since that's as much of a reality as your parents explaining it, right? Whatever. Just don't have sex 'cos you have NOTHING BETTER to do. Sex is too full of mindfucks and headtrips to use as a replacement for Spongebob Squarepants and Britney Spears, all right? Okay. Now party on.

Where are the manners?

2006-09-03T09:29:00.000-07:00

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

I was wondering if there was a certain age where teenagers or
adults realise that manners are important and can learn to appreciate them?
Because I've been trying my whole life (I'm still a teenager, but still) to
be a gentleman (opening doors for others, asking if the elderly need help,
speaking politely, etc.) and to be helpful as much as possible, but it seems
that it is not appreciated at all. So far throughout a few years of high
school, I've tried to help others boost their marks with assistance on their
homework, but they can't seem to understand that others have morals and
won't cheat for them. (again, turning into a rant i suppose..)

I guess I'm really just sending this email to ask another's
opinion about manners and whether or not it is truly appreciated in today's
society. I've asked a few teenage girl friends and they say that it is good
to have manners and it's something important they look for, yet I see them
going out with lowlife guys who are despicable and need to learn manners.
Is this just a teenage thing to do that you overcome later on and realise
it's importance and learn to be grateful for it? Or is it completely
dependant on the people's standards they've set.

Now, what happened to me the other day was when I was riding over to my brother's place. He and I live in absolute opposite ends of the city -- he in the most northeastern section, I in the most northwestern section. I work smack dab in the middle, downtown, and between there and my brother's is 30-square blocks of what's essentially some of the poorest and most underprivileged in Canada. If you know where to avoid, you can go without ever seeing any of these people.

I don't try to avoid it, I just go through. I always see really tragic things when I do and it keeps me appreciating the little I have. This time, though, I was stopped at a light and this old guy, about 70, was in a wheelchair, completely unable to use his hands, and could only pull himself forward using the toes on his right foot. He was literally moving about 2 feet a minute. Naturally, the light turned red with him in the middle of the street, and I got a solid green light to go. Meanwhile, he's stopped, looks like he's about to cry from exhaustion, just can't go any further, and all these fucking people are walking past, ignoring him.

I was in a RAGE. I pulled my scooter over, got off, cursed, "You people ought to fucking help! Where the hell are manners gone?" Then I leaned over to the man and said, "May I push you across the street, sir?" And he went soft with relief. He just sighed, "Please?"

I had a bit of an argument with a couple punks on the corner after that, who seemed to think I was flaming them, and yeah, you know, I was. Just fucking standing there, doing nothing.

When I got over to my brother's place, I saw my nephew standing there, and I sat him down. I said, "If you ever see a little old lady or a little old man who can't get across the street or they're taking too long, you HELP them. You hear me?" I made sure he knew the distinction between "stranger danger" and helping a senior citizen who really does need the help. After all, that's how I was taught.

In MY world, I was raised to help people. I was raised to give a hand and do the right thing. I was taught to say please and thank you, and I was told to hold doors open for others.

And I KNOW life moves fast, and I KNOW people are more rushed than they used to be. You know what? I don't give a fuck. *I* find the time to still be polite. I find the time to thank people and make pleasant small talk. Why the hell don't they?

So, kid, I say keep going. The thing about being a polite person and not behaving politely just because you're not getting it in return is that you start to get bitter about it. It changes you. Cynicism finds you and apathy makes a home in you. Stay true to the person you are. Help others, be polite. You'll one day be surrounded by a better class of people, by people who appreciate that in who you are. It will be a deciding factor on the kinds of engagements you're invited to and the kinds of experiences you have. You're still a kid, you're in high school, and you're stuck in a social world you have little say in. In a few years, that all changes.

I know I will not date a man who has no manners. I will watch how he behaves and treats others, and I'll note whether he expresses gratitude for the little things I say and do for him, and if I don't like what I see, I will walk.

Life's too short to be with people who just don't understand basic human decency. I figure that eliminates about 60% of the world from eligibility for my bed, but whatever. I'm fine with having high standards. Are you?

They Really Are Telling the Truth!

2006-09-01T08:08:00.000-07:00

I have finally found a lipstick that doesn't lie. Actually, it's more of a gloss, or possibly a science experiment. Outlast by Cover Girl comes with the colour at one end and the sealing clear gloss at the end. It promises 10 hours coverage. In the past, I've tried many of these so-called marathon lip colours, and I note the time of when it goes on, and I check the progress during the day.

WELL, Cover Girl Outlast went on at 8:30 am and had to be washed off at 11! Fabulous! And the colour never faded during the day. I'm sold. Now to buy one or two more for some colour range. Now, had I been kissing some cute guy, maybe it'd have worn off sooner, but I'm a bit of a lip-nibbler anyhow, so I think I've tested its range pretty well, and 15 hours is pretty astounding for colour-lasting time. Let's hear it for a product that does what it says it'll do: Woot!

Doing My Bit to Curb Surplus Forests

2006-08-31T22:51:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-08-31T11:08:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-29T22:32:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-08-29T08:13:00.000-07:00

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"

2006-08-27T14:02:00.000-07:00

(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

2006-08-25T20:26:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-08-24T19:42:00.000-07:00

...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

2006-08-23T10:10:00.000-07:00

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"?

2006-08-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

2006-08-21T23:24:00.000-07:00

(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

2006-08-21T19:22:00.001-07:00

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

2006-08-20T10:51:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-19T11:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-18T09:06:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-08-17T22:41:00.000-07:00

Look no further.

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

2006-08-16T22:07:00.000-07:00

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

A Strange Piece About Rockstar, Writing, and Small Children

2006-08-16T21:10:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-15T20:45:00.000-07:00

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'

2006-08-14T22:49:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-08-13T23:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-12T10:57:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-08-12T10:41:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-11T04:57:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-08T20:15:00.000-07:00

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'

2006-08-08T07:10:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-07T12:24:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-08-06T16:32:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-06T12:02:00.000-07:00

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.)

Finally! Armageddon! Bring it on, Motherfucker!

2006-08-04T12:06:00.000-07:00

"Welcome. May I take your order, please?"

"Sure! I'll have a half-order of debauchery, two orders of ethical abandonment, four simultaneous orgasms, a complete absence of scruples, and a double-chocolate shake, please. That'll hold me over till four. What time's your drive-thru open till?"

"That all depends on the shelling, and the heavy barrage of bullshit on CNN, but we're thinking 3am. If Anderson Cooper's not too busy taking it up the ass in the backroom, that is. That silly queer! Tricks are for hos!"

...................................

Okay, so I caught a few minutes of the Daily Show and had to laugh since they brought up what's been on my mind for days now, only I've had no sense of humour so nothing was coming as far as writing goes.

CNN's on an Armageddon watch. I mean, they're literally "checking" with their sources to see if the end of times is nigh. "If you don't accept Jesus," said one of their religious sources, "You'll be in for some terrible times. Terrible times!"

If you're gonna get some sinnin' in, you best be doin' it soon, is almost what I'm gleaning from their no-I.Q. broadcasts of late. Some of the reporting's pretty good, but as soon as you get into the talking heads back in Atlanta, they're pandering to the religious bullshit that makes me think all the Secret Service guys on Bush's detail really ought to ALL go for coffee at the EXACT same time every single day so some fucker with an NRA membership can load up and take potshots.

[WhiZZ-BaNG!] [sCHWing!]

"Goddamn, George Walker Bush took one in the ass! Jesus Christ, where's that whizz of a head-shot, Dick, when you really need the fucker? Probably tweaking that goddamned pacemaker again deep in the caverns of his bombraid bunkers while he gnaws on a cellar-aged chub of salami."

I don't know what's making me laugh so hard I wanna cry more -- the religious fanaticism about this war (a war that even has me concerned, I'll admit) or fucking Mel "Fuck the Jews!" Gibson. I'll tell you What Women Really Want -- an anti-semetic drunk millionaire with seven kids who looks fucking incredible in a pair of Levis. Oh, wait, I guess he's more a Strauss man. He'd go for the Kraut half of them jeans before he'd settle for the Jew bit, no?

Ah, fuckin' hell. Who needs amusement parks when we've got CNN, where real news goes to die, eh?

Is it the end of times? Is it the end of the world? Oh, probably. The only question now is, what advertising agency is Jesus gonna go with to get the good word out, huh? And does he really decide to smite the Jews after they smote him? A little eye-for-an-eye action?

Hell, I should hope we get something watchable -- a little eternal damnation, rivers of blood, skies going black. It's another month until the fall season of telly reappears, for Pete's sake! I guess there's always watching my Ghostbusters DVD for the end-of-times shit, at least.

Be like Tricky Dick. Do whatcha gotta do to get your rocks off before the good lord turns into the big bad judge and our eternities are decided for once and for all. Just don't get caught.

Remember: Jesus is coming. Look busy. (And don't get caught!)

I Got Nothing (But Good)

2006-08-03T22:17:00.000-07:00

Far be it for me to declare myself as "back," but the she who is me certainly played a starring role in the evening that has passed.

Consider this: I worked 11 hours today, got just shy of three hours of activity in, shot about forty good photos, ate one of my favourite comfort meals, and have essentially thoroughly enjoyed myself as a Single Woman for the first time in months. During my workday, I had to walk around downtown Vancouver running quick errands for an hour and a half, and tonight I might've taught two kids for just shy of three hours, but I also fit a great 95-minute bikeride in between the two jobs and afterwards. Yep. It's a fine day. (And yes, I hurt, and yes, I have saddle ass. Grr!)

Well, a fine day except for my shirt breaking. The zipper decided to rebel. Funny, too, given that back when I first started dating the Guy way back in early March the shirt (which has spandex in it) was tight on me (and I mean tight). Now, it's practically hanging off me. Yet still the zipper malfunctioned and it's been pronounced DOA. I guess I'll do a few extra hours OT on the weekend and shop me some new duds, then. Fuck it. Time to do up the Steff, sez I. Cuteness-factor must be attended to!

Anyhow, I just thought I should report on a good day -- a day on which the depress-o-meter simply bears no rankability. I wouldn't say I'm over the moon with glee or anything like that, but I feel good, and good is good enough. Good is good, you know? I'll take that.

Now, the dilemma: Do I make the muffins tonight, so they do definitely get made, or do I take the chance that tomorrow will really be when they finally get made, huh? Sticky wickets! Damn them all.

Oh, and something else good happened today, but I can't tell you. Nay, I shan't. I fear the jinxing of goodness, and this goodness shall not be jinxed. Not by the likes of you, nor by some bumbler like myself. I shall keep the morsel private until further notice. Suffice to say, I'd like to have more days such as this. Just have your fingers crossed for me next Wednesday morning at 8:30 Pacific Standard Time, wouldja?

And these are two of the photos I took on the way home tonight. Pity I didn't realize I had my camera set at such low quality. Bah! Back to RAW format now, dammit. For what they are, they're nice, but it sucks to be below archival quality. Still, I get to share a bit of my day with y'all. And now... for ice cream!

Broken: Hearts, Minds, Vows, and Man

2006-08-02T21:48:00.000-07:00

One of the things that’s simultaneously good and bad about this gig is that people tell me things from time to time they wouldn’t even tell their shrink.

Just the other day one such letter arrived in my in-box. As is sometimes my habit, I entered into a knee-jerk response and was about to tear the woman apart. Something made me stop and think, and instead of writing something savage, I sent her an email back. Her last question in her initial email was, “Am I a white trash whore?”

My response then was, in so many words, no, but you’re a liar and a cheat. I do stand by that, but with a massive, monumental, intergalactic caveat.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Due to the fact that there’s so incredibly much riding on her admission to me, I’m taking great liberties to change a good deal of the particulars that could identify who this poor goddamned woman is, because her life is filled with enough shit right now and I’ve no business adding to the pile by doing anything that could in any way come back to haunt her.

Here’s the gist of what you need to know.

She’s a mother.
She’s been married a decade-plus.
She’s in her mid-30s.
She’s been madly in love with her husband for all the years of their marriage, and still loves him, but things have changed.
He suffered a life-changing stroke of great severity that has rendered him child-like and frail. His mental capacity is nothing of its former self and his personality has been completely reformatted. Physically, he needs constant help. Sexually, he functions, but there’s no attraction left for her.
She’s been having an affair with a close friend of the family, in which the sex is incredible. Unfortunately, both she and he are married, and neither have the intention of abandoning said spouses.

That’s it, in a nutshell, that’s what a volley of eight emails has yielded to me.

Like most women under great strain, she’s perceived by others to be an incredible trouper. Strong, coping, able, yada, fucking yada.

The truth is, she’s coming apart at the seams. She hates herself for her betrayal of the husband she loved with all her heart, the husband she stayed with even though she learned he had cheated on her. She despises herself for loving sex with this other man. She’s angry about the loss of her love and best friend and the passion that came with. She doesn’t feel she’s able to speak to anyone about it. My guess is, she’s drowning in this life of woe she’s found herself enveloped by.

And my heart goes out to her.

Yes, she’s lying to her husband. Yes, she’s a cheating ho. But ask yourself: What would you do?

I know a lot of people would judge her for cheating on a guy who’s been sent into this horrible new reality by this unfortunate eruption of blood in his brain, but what about her? She’s still among the living. All of a sudden, she’s expected to give up everything that defines her life to provide 24/7 care for a man who can’t care for himself. She’s young, in her sexual peak, and what’s more, she needs an outlet for all the things gone wrong.

When my mother died seven years ago this week, I turned to books on grieving. I went through all the topics on mourning, everything from poetry to prose to essays, and I distilled from it a great deal of information on what to do to get through it all. The thing was, they said “mourning” and “grieving” are misunderstood. They’re not just necessary in times of death; they’re necessary in times of great change and loss of any kind.

For all intents and purposes, this woman’s husband died. When those blood vessels ruptured and filled his head with pools of blood, the soul of him just faded away. He’s but a shell these days, though he lives and breathes and walks and fills the space of their home with a friendly face and eyes that once mirrored the love she showed him.

With every moment in every day, she’s confronted by the struggle of caring for him, of helping him, of getting him through to the next day. Then there are the kids. And the doctors and medical procedures. Then there are the quiet moments. The moments in which she should be able to have the time to think of herself and her needs and the things she ought to do with her life… but that she can’t. Because every waking moment is spent caring for others and forgetting herself in the process, and when she’s not caring for them or coping, she’s formulating plans for keeping that circle rolling. In a life like that, there is no “down time.”

I believe one of the most important things for women (in particular) to do is to remember the them they’re forgetting, and to consciously make themselves more important in their scheme of things. But how does she do this? How is it possible?

I lived with my mother when she was dying of cancer. Any time I thought there was something important for me to do for myself, I consciously remembered that she came first. I couldn’t do that for myself; what about Mom? But then I was let off the hook. She died. My heart shattered to a million pieces, and one day I began to Krazy Glue myself back together. It took time, it took work, it took a conscious remembering that it was her that died, and not me.

This reader has none of that time, none of those options, and as far as I can tell, no Krazy Glue.

What’s the point of all this, of her letter, of this posting? I’m not really sure there is one. There’s no easy answer, no pat solution. It’s broken heart upon broken heart, and no matter what she decides, she’s in for a constant world of hurt because that’s her new reality. She can continue being sexually satiated by her lover, and lie to the man she loved but whose lights are no longer shining, or she can do the moral thing and give up the sexual release in order to do “the right” thing and continue caring for that shell of a man.

Either way, she’s in for a hard life.

So I say, whatever gets you by, sister.

The thing she needs to watch out for, sadly, is the fucking obtuse people out there who think morality trumps reality; those who just don’t get that some kinds of adversity just aren’t the kinds you can put your chin down to and barrel on through. Some kinds stop you up inside and make you hurt six ways to Sunday with no relief in sight, and this is that kind.

She could walk on him. Leave him hanging, and therefore no longer be unfaithful, but then what happens to him? Broken brain, broken body, plus broken heart?

Or she stays with him and gets her pipes cleaned by her new plumber man from time to time, and enjoys the illusion of affection and love, such as she once had with her husband?

I really don’t know. It’s quite possibly the original lesser-of-evils dilemma, and I’ve had some sad moments thinking of what her existence must be like.

I feel badly that she feels so alone, as I know I refuse to be the voice in the night that listens at all hours and says everything’s gonna be all right, baby, ‘cos I don’t even have a voice like that for me right now, so how do I provide it for others?

She’s not alone, though. She sees a therapist, but she’s too afraid of feeling like a failure and a liar in confessing her recent moral choices to him. I say she must. If there’s any one thing I do know, it’s that. She absolutely must confess to him, because he’s not a fucking idiot. He’ll understand, and he might even provide her with the closest form of absolution she’ll ever receive.

This is hard, baby. Harder than hard. It’s diamond-hard. Confess. Take a load off. Print off these emails we’ve exchanged, and this posting, and drop them off at your shrink’s a few days ahead of the appointment with a note saying, “These are a conversation I’ve had with a complete stranger. We need to talk. We really need to talk.” At least it’ll let you know the issue’s finally getting confronted, but it’ll let you sit back while he plays the ball that’s now in his court.

I wish I had a magical Band-aid for you, but all I’ve got is empathy. You do what you got to in order to get through. You may feel like shit and you may feel like a liar and a cheat and trash, but you’ve got my admiration. You’re doing what’s got to get done, and if it so happens that you’re a little human along the way, well… that’s just the way it goes.

But what do you think, readers?

A Rant, Because I'm Bitter

2006-08-01T19:07:00.000-07:00

I'm in a bitter mood after fighting yet again with my cocksucker of a new computer; at this rate I'll never have a fucking podcast to air. I'm pissed. Badly pissed.

Anyhow, so I decided to take a swing through Craig's List personals for the hell of it, though I don't really want a relationship, maybe just a nice friend with benefits more than anything at this point. No time for head games or confusion, no heart available for breaking. You know how it is.

And what do I see? "If you're a your-pic-gets-mine, go away -- I hate shallow people."

Put a cork in it, whiney.

Jesus Christ. "Shallow." SHALLOW? Fuck that. Anyone who thinks physicality and the need of pictures is shallow is someone who's just five minutes away from the playground, all right? What are you, some little kid who's tired of being picked last for soccer or something?

Me, I'm not looking for the next Johnny Depp or Tom Cruise. Not in a long shot. I don't want some muscle-bound adonis able to leap fenceposts in a single move, nor do I want chiselled features and a rock-hard ab. What I do want is someone with that little je-ne-sais-quoi appeal that maybe only exists for my benefit. Maybe no one else in the world finds 'em sexy, but if I do, that's enough for me.

Me, I gotta have eyes I can fall into and lips that make me wanna kiss 'em. I gotta have a face I can stare at and talk to for hours. Without those, what's the point?

It ain't shallow to acknowledge that there is, to an extent, an importance when it comes to physical features. I'd be a hypocrite if I said I don't expect him to need to find me attractive, and I'd be a fool if I thought all men would indeed find me attractive. More than half probably wouldn't. I'm overweight, gots ze cushion for the pushin', subscribe to the bonus-lover plan, have tits that could be larger, a gap between my teeth, and a crooked eyebrow. Me, I think it works in its own kooky way. The guys who like me, they like me. Then I have the personality and the sexual vivaciousness, and it all combines rather decently.

But it isn't everyone's cup of tea. I'm not going to get all broken-hearted 'cos a guy doesn't find me to his liking. Odds are pretty good that's a mutual finding. It ain't shallow.

It's chemistry.

Grow the fuck up and get your idealism out of your ass, is what I have to say, all right? Silly kids, brain cells aren't optional. Opt in or get out. Simple.

Now, because I do not have a friend with benefits to take my frustrations out on, I'm going to straddle a bike seat and give it a good, hard riding instead. I feel some punk music comin' on.

If You Got To Choose...

2006-08-01T07:31:00.000-07:00

...a posting or a topic for me to take on during my podcast, what would you want to hear me talk about?

I'll probably be revisiting postings of old for the first couple podcasts, with some new material that's more timely, but there needs to be a filler or it'll never happen. You get to choose. Tell me what you've most enjoyed reading or what you think would benefit most by having me tackle it orally (and don't be an idiot and say, "My dick," thanks).

Tonight I plug my podcasting shit in for the first time and see where it goes. It's playtime.

Now, I warn you, people, aside from having a life and all that, I'll be working about 60 hours a week for the next several weeks. Like I said, I couldn't find work and now I can't turn enough of it away. Not fun. I need the cash, so for the foreseeable future, I'm working extra.

That means this place may suffer. You've been warned. But soon there'll be a podcast, too.

Hoping for a Good Humiliation

2006-07-31T17:10:00.000-07:00

I've been begging GayBoy to nominate me for a complete makeover and wardrobe overhaul by way of the good folks at What Not to Wear. My clothing's so wrong, man. So wrong. I have three, maybe four shirts that look decent, one pair of semi-decent jeans that are barely decent now after the X-Guy manhandling them all the time (which he deserves an ass-kicking for from yours truly), and I have, sadly, no leather jacket. No skirts. No good shoes. I'm a fucking mess, and the sad thing is: I have fashion sense! There's no reason in the world I shouldn't look cool, except for the small fact that I've been broke for far too long.

(I've been underemployed for a year and a half or so, and I should've done something about it sooner, but I didn't, so that's life, and here we are.)

I would kill for the makeover. I want to be nominated en masse, but that would mean telling you people all my private information. Not gonna happen.

Sigh. I want to get a makeover. Self-esteem is everything, man. Clothing's important. My stuff's all out of date 'cos I've lost weight and it all looks ridiculous on me now. My hair looks pretty decent since I splurged and got copper & gold highlights on the weekend with a funked-up new punk'do, but there's still the clothes. The sorry-assed, too-big-on-me-now, all-cut-wrong clothes.

Another problem is, they seem to think any chick who's plus-sized is big-boobed. Well, I'm not. I got a handful or so, but that's about it. No monster headlights on this engine, I'm afraid. Do you know how silly some of these shirts look, with darting where there are supposed to be Amazonian boobs of no compare? Tres silly, I assure you.

I deserve to get picked. I want to make an ass out of myself on national television at prime time.

For a $5,000 wardrobe, a trip to New York City, and a top-notch makeover, the list of what I WON'T do is pretty fuckin' short, man.

What sex is your brain?

2006-07-30T17:10:00.000-07:00

I don't usually post quiz things, since they're typically relatively lame, but this one's interesting and confirms what I've always thought, which is that I tend to see the world through pretty masculine eyes. Check your brain here.

I scored 18 out of 20 for "angles" under spatial abilities, which is far higher than the average woman, and higher than the average man, as well, and I scored 50% under "spot the difference" in the same category, higher again than the average woman (46%) and the average man (39%).
The hand-clasping thing says I'm left-brain dominant, which is probably true.
For empathizing, I scored 9 out of 10, which puts me smack-dab between the average man (8) and woman (10.5).
Systemizing, I'm a 12 out of 20, higher than the average woman by 4, but below the average man by a piddly .5.
On the reading-eyes-for-emotions test, I blew the competition out of the water with 8 out of 10, and both men and women averaged 6 on that test.
My fingers ratio indicates I'm female. (Surprise.)
On my facial preference, I apparently prefer men with more masculine features, which is in keeping with my tastes in reality.
On 3-D shapes, I rocked the casbah with 11 out of 12, compared to 7 and 8 for the average woman and man, respectively.
On the words testing, I scored 16, higher than both the average man and woman.

The ultimatum tells me sweet fuck all, really. I asked for half, since I'm a pragmatist, and I'm just happy to get what I get. Apparently asking for less than half is typically female, but I think it's just weak, so I figure I've got backbone and self-esteem. Possibly. ;)

Cool test, though.

FEED ME!

2006-07-30T15:26:00.000-07:00

Tired of having to let your fingers do the walking? I finally got my shit together and signed up with Feedburner. If you want to subscribe to my RSS feed, just get friendly with the button by my hits counter, and then feast yourself upon me.

Getting Nailed

2006-07-30T11:18:00.000-07:00

I aspire to write something good today, but for now my head's in other spaces. This morning's just getting started after one of my best sleeps in months. I've been so tired so long I've forgotten what good sleeps felt like. Fucking awesome is what they feel like.

Watching Weeds this morning, and it's a great episode with lots of sexual innuendo, but the one that had me cracking right up has to do with Mary Louise Parker introducing her black ("African-American") drug connection friend, Conrad (played by the oh-so-hot Romany Malco) as her "carpenter" for what will soon be her new front business for her drug-dealing escapades, to her uptight-bitch suburban-mom friend, Elizabeth Perkins, who's about to lose her breasts to breast cancer and wants one last night on the town with her Girls.

Perkins's character is seeing Conrad as being a potentially fun night of diversions and convinces her friend and Conrad to head out for a night of clubbing. During the evening, she turns to Conrad and says:

"Is it true that once a white woman's had... a carpenter, she never goes back?"

"Damn right," says Conrad. "When I nail something, it stays nailed."

I need me a carpenter. Incidentally, I've never had a black man, or a carpenter, but they're on the list. That long fucking list. Sigh. Ethnic guys are hot, but I'm not really into Asians. In my world, Persian guys are sexy and African guys are really sexy. I've had an Asian, but not Persian or African. The Asian was nothing to write home about, but I'm not holding that against the whole race, just him.

Fortunately, my sex drive's been out of commission for a while. For some odd reason -- okay, maybe it was reading about a sex scene peppered with drugs and illegal moves -- the one time my drive fired up was yesterday when I was sitting with foils in my hair and my ass in a hairdresser's high chair. How inconvenient is that? Nothing but pretentious hair chicks around and gay men. How bad of timing do my hormones have, anyhow?

And I can't get oral sex -- giving and receiving -- out of my head this morning. Gah!

Depress-o-meter: You know, I'm evening out and think I might stop the depress-o-meter. The stress-o-meter's on fire, but the depression's mellowing. The pills are beginning to take effect, even though they shouldn't be for a couple weeks, and I'm finally sleeping, which is a great tool for fighting this shit. Let's call today a five or a four, then.

For Christ's Sake, Stop the Bleeding!

2006-07-28T09:57:00.000-07:00

As you may or may not know, I've been trying to change / suppress my menstrual cycle through the use of prolonged exposure to the Pill. Unfortunately, it's not going as well as I would have hoped.

For those who haven't been exposed to what "period suppression" entails, it's basically the choice to use birth control pills for 12 weeks, then you take a week off. There's a new one coming out called Seasonale, but I don't know how that differs from just staying on any old pill, and I doubt the additional hype is really necessary, since I suspect they're just playing on the ignorance of the public... as most marketers like to do. One can simply take their pill of choice uninterrupted for 12 weeks and achieve the same end. (Now, don't be a moron and do this shit without medical supervision, all right? Get approval from your doctor, talk to them about what to look for, then go bravely forth, young bleeder. Now your shit before you act; don't listen to me or some other person who has no medical training and knows fuck all about the big picture.)

I've been on the pill, now, for 9.5 out of my new "12-week" cycle. I've already had a full-blown, long period that began 2 weeks ago and lasted 8 days, and today I've gotten it again. In between, I was still spotting. So, maybe I'm the odd the one out. Maybe I'm the freak who can't adjust to the hormonal change. I don't know. All I do know is, this really blows.

I did, however, ask the Good Doctor about it and he said it's just my endometirum rebelling. Yeah, well, I wanna get fucking medieval on its ass and quash its little rebellion.

I mean, if I was in a sexually active relationship, this would be really fucking annoying. Fortunately, it's just me and Fingie these days, so we have an understanding and things are going smoothly, no feelings are hurt, but still. Biology blows, man. I thought so in high school and I still think so now. This fucking ranks up there with dissecting frogs, for god's sake.

I wanted to cycle to work today, but now I feel like shit, so yet another day is passing without exercise. In retrospect, 2.5 cups of coffee was a bad plan, since coffee really fucks with cramping, but at least I'm awake.

I took my first anti-depressant pill last night, and that was weird. It's supposed to double as a sleep-aid, so you take it before bed.I had only a half a pill as you're supposed to start slow to minimize the onset of side effects. Still, it conked me right out. I vaguely remember getting out of bed to go to the washroom, as I'm one of those people, and I staggered there with my head bent down, and slammed into the door jamb. My first reaction was, "Not another fucking concussion," (I've had three) as I stumbled backwards, my head smarting, leaving me feeling like I'd suffered a cartoon injury, with the pain lines radiating out into the darkness.

Naturally, I woke up this morning in a fog. I really hope this isn't an indicator of what's to come, because now that I'm on these pills, I'm supposed to remain on them for the next year. That's just the rule of thumb. (Where in the hell did the saying "rule of thumb" come from, anyhow? Ever wonder? I mean, having opposable thumbs is one of the highlights of my life, to be sure, but I don't expect my thumb to be the sovereign entity of my life, so I don't really see it ruling, but perhaps my ignorance is impeding my ability to comprehend this. Hmm.)

On the Depress-o-meter, I'm probably a 6 or 7 out of 10, but I blame the fucking period. There's nothing fun about bleeding seven days, man. It's really, really lame. On a happier note, hung out with the X-Guy last night as "friends" and it was a little awkward but good, and I suspect we'll stay on that path. Oh, and the awkwardness was apparently only on my side of the equation. Whatever, it was there. I'm not that experienced at being friends with exes.

(Oh, feel free to keep the one-year anniversary congrats coming in, they're making my blah-I'm-bleeding-again! day a little better.)

Oh, come on!

2006-07-28T08:03:00.000-07:00

Not ONE Happy Anniversary wish for this blog? Sup with that, people?

Well, Well, Well, Happy Birthday to Ze Cunt!

2006-07-27T17:36:00.000-07:00

This little rag's one year old today.

For the blog's anniversary I bought myself a treat: Anti-depressants and the first season of Weeds. Redundant gift, I know, because Weeds is so fucking funny I shouldn't even need meds, but hey. I'm a fan of overkill.

I'm feeling more like reading than writing now, but expect I'll feel introspective when I get home later, and will probably post around bedtime or something. Or not. Who knows.

Depress-o-meter: Up and down. Between a four and a six for most of the day; I've been working in television captioning for the last two weeks (a return to my old job of six years, and not as glamourous as it sounds, but a nice place to be for a spell) and I was working on a show all day about the abduction and molestation of children, so I have good reason to have been up and down. Life itself is more of a four today.

Rockin' – Not Humpin' – In the Free World

2006-07-26T23:36:00.000-07:00

There was a lover’s quarrel on tonight’s episode of Rockstar: Supernova, and presumably on last night’s episode, as well, which I missed due to catching the fun of Clerks II at the cinema.

Jill is a pretty hot runt, she’s like 4'10 or something, but boy, you get her Italian angst firing and she might as well be six feet tall, man.

She won the rights to sing the Stones’ Brown Sugar with Supernova member Gilby Clarke (formerly of Guns’n’Roses, Heart, MC5, etc.) shredding some guitar. In her infinite wisdom, she thought it wise to, well, hump Gilby from behind while performing.

Gilby, and this fucking rocks, walked away from her antics. He strode towards the catwalk and got the hell outta there.

Then, the post-song comments were exchanged. Gilby said, “The only thing that really bothered me was the humping... Women in music today have sex, like that’s the only thing they can use. You have more than sex. I think it’s cheap, and it’s weak.”

Overnight, Jill commented that, “I think Gilby’s used to having Axl Rose up there, and it’s a totally different dynamic with a woman on the stage.”

She claimed that she did the humping as a means of getting her emotions out in her vocals.

Gilby retorted, “I played with Heart, two women, and Ann Wilson never had to stoop so low as to hump me to get her emotions out.

The next take from Jill was, I think, incredibly lame, but stay tuned for my opinion after the rehash. She said, “It’s rock and roll. Why is there a double standard where a woman can’t be up there and show her sexuality, but you guys can? You rip your shirts off and stuff like that.”

Gilby scoffed. “All the moves were predictable! I’ve seen it at the Holiday Inn, I’ve seen it everywhere!”

Gilby Clarke gets MY vote for feminist of the year, all right? Bang-fucking-ON, Gilby.

Any mainstream chick out there in rock and roll or pop or whatever is using their booty and boobs as much as their voicebox, all right? Don’t give me this “double standard” bullshit. There’s no double standard.

What he’s saying, honeybunches, is that he’s sick and tired of chicks who think they need to fuck their way to success. He wants talent to speak, not a twat. I’m pretty sure he also doesn’t want to be in a band with a guy like Tommy Lee and a chick who thinks grinding one out’s the only way to extricate her emotions.

If you have talent, brains, a body, and the whole fucking package – and she does – then let that speak. Let it wail. Let it send a blood-curdling scream into orbit. Don’t dumb it down or cheapen it by throwing some suburb blonde bubblegum “here, let me hump you now” bullshit into the mix. It’s trying too hard.

Since when was it only a display of sexuality when you reenacted sex? And why did I miss the bloody memo, huh? No one ever tells me dick.

Oh, right, because IT’S NOT the only display of sexuality! Fuck. That’s like suggesting the only way to be heard is to shout.

sub·tle (sŭt'l)
adj., sub·tler, sub·tlest.
So slight as to be difficult to detect or describe; elusive: a subtle smile.
Difficult to understand; abstruse: an argument whose subtle point was lost on her opponent.
Able to make fine distinctions: a subtle mind.
Characterized by skill or ingenuity; clever.
Crafty or sly; devious.
Operating in a hidden, usually injurious way; insidious: a subtle poison.

Dilana, who I'm a secret lesbian for (okay, well, no, but she's got a fan here, man), can be as on-edge as anyone's ever been, but she was at her sexiest when she was her subtlest, during her performance of Nivana's Lithium a few weeks back where she just stood there, fucking STOOD there, staring straight ahead, and raging out the lyrics, her eyes emanating everything they had to, and her body doing nothing. It was so goddamned hot, man, so intense. Yet, subtle, baby.

Ain't you ever fucked someone with your eyes? Ain't you ever been fucked by someone's penetrative gaze? Don't you remember how goddamned HOT that felt? Yeah, well.

And that's what Clarke's saying. Let yourself do your talking – your talent, brains, eyes, pouty lips, the way you wiggle your ass. Don't think you gotta fuck or hump or grind your way to whatever achievement you're after, because if you start down that path, there's not really any other route for you. Respect is a very tenuous thing. Do not be fucking with the respect you have; you may never see it return to you.

It's really bloody cool to hear a guy get on a soapbox about that sort of thing, and I'm thrilled to see it in an arena like dirty, sexy rock and roll.

Have I mentioned how much I dig this show? Huh? It's like crack, man. One hit just ain't enough.

(Depress-o-meter: I forgot to include it! I'm doin' spiff. Holdin' at a 4 or so. Bought some new shirts today, thanks to some anonymous generosity I forgot to report last week, which is good for the old self-esteem, and in my wiley brilliance, I've managed to snag a hairdressing appointment with the chief instructor of a school owned by one of the best, most expensive, most glamourous hair salons in town, and I'll be able to get a rockin' dye job and cut for about $50, instead of the $200+ they charge in their salons. Yeah, all this and brains, too. Tomorrow/today, it's the good doctor and the onslaught of meds. I'm thrilled I'm progressing on my own, and as much as I dislike some of the sacrifices to come via being medicated, I'd rather have the insurance that my good nature will remain for the longterm, and not dissipate in a week, like it has been for the last year. Every time I get happy, I follow it with getting sad. Sick of the cycle. This week, baby, we're cycle-smashin'.)

The Brave New Single World

2006-07-25T23:17:00.000-07:00

I got out tonight, off my single ass, and met some new people.

The trouble with this city is just how entrenched everyone is and how hard it can be to meet new people.

I joined a social organization a year and a half or so ago, when my self-esteem was only beginning to be picked up off the floor, and tonight I finally made it out to my first event.

Meetup is a place where you can go and find “meet-up” groups that do things you like. Kayaking? Sure! Hiking? Sure! Photography? Sure! D&D? Sure! Dining? Sure! They’re all there. And unlike joining a group where you do varied events all the time, you can go to as few or as many different Meetup groups that you can find to appeal to your sensibilities. (The only fees tend to be a $1 - 2 drop-in fee, since the groups cost money to run each month. Pay and be quiet.)

(The organization is worldwide. Check the website out. More than 2.5 million international members, and more than 14,000 groups.)

The folks there tonight were all in their 30s and 40s, and were all smart, good conversationalists, funny, friendly, and so forth. It wasn’t just one of those things where you know the underlying thought is “who’s coming home with me tonight?” It’s genuinely about just meeting people.

But, hey, betcha some sex happens. I ain't no bookie, but I know a thing or three 'bout odds, baby.

Naturally, I somehow managed to mention I wrote this smutty blog, so maybe they’ll say hi or something in the comments. (Hi!)

The point being: If you’re stuck in single, annoyed at your now-married friends, tired of seeing the latest “adowable!” stream of drool pouring down their kids’ faces, wishing your college friends had managed to evolve by now, or anything like that, then this is an awesome way to meet new people.

When you sign up, sign up for the email as well, so that you get the weekly digest that lists all the events happening that week. That way, you don’t just get notices about the Meetup group you joined, but about everything happening in your city, and on what days. That’s how I saw the listing for Clerks II when I shoulda been working and not checking email, and decided to get off my apathetic ass and head to the flick. (C II rocked, by the way. I'll be writing about the pussy troll sometime. Laughed my ass off. Great fun.)

I’m not a joiner. I don’t wanna join a fucking team or take an art class or do some pottery, because it’s redundant. Same shit every time. I like variety. This way I have it.

Anyhow, some people have asked in the past how you meet new folks and how do you Be a Good Single Person. Well, not by hanging out in bars, not by sitting on your ass at home, but by doing something that allows you to engage with others in a safe environment, and this is that.

I would actually DISSUADE you from just joining a class or something. Couple reasons: One, you don't liek the people, you're fucked. No variety, same thing every week, no change in people, and it probably costs a lot more. This is an endless array of meets that occur on a plethora of topics, with a wide variety of people. Can't beat it.

Check it. You might like it. I did.

Depress-o-meter: I said it well on The Ditch, but I’m at about a 3 tonight (outta 10 with 10 blowing bad). There is life after relationship, and I’m optimistic about mine. Yes, I will still go on the meds. This is chemical, my fuctedness, so I want to fight it for once and for all. But I have ALL the pieces in place and all the tools with which to fight this – (been watching my diet, exercising, sleeping, etc) and I shall be a victor! The spoils will be mine!

RANT(ish): Fuck that Couch!

2006-07-25T05:46:00.000-07:00

My couch is gone. My piece of shit, black vinyl couch is gone. In its place is a new, black-and-blue cloth (presumably piece of shit but thus far unproven as such) couch that I was given as a warranty replacement.

Also gone is its history.

All those nights spent cuddling with cute guys, the dirty s-e-x, the nakedness, the hinge-testing activities, the massages, the naked nibbling of foods and sipping of wine, the fumbling for protection hidden in the coffee table, the whispered jokes, restrained moans, gasping – all of it, gone.

My slate, and my couch, are clean.

I’m entering into this, “Fuck you, I’m single?” phase now. I’m too fucking cool to be single. I’m good in bed. I’m cute. I’m a fucking fab cook. I’m doting. I’m expressive. I’m clear in what I say. I listen well. I empathize. I intellectualize. And I know how to laugh.

Single? Fucking hell.

I’ve been through the denial and the sadness, and now I’m into anger. Not at him, not really, but maybe a bit. It’s really, though, just “it all.” At myself, in particular. I shoulda fucking walked sooner. Now, here I am, the middle of summer, and no one fun to play with. The beginning of the relationship, great. The last 8-10 weeks, I was already practically checked out emotionally as I was certain it would end. I knew what was coming, I understood the mindfuck of healing, but he didn’t. Yet I was stupid enough to stick around, hoping, like an idiot, things would change. I knew better then, and I know far better now. But it is what it is. And now, here I am.

Single. Again.

I’m the original “love yourself, love singleness!” cheerleader, but, fuck, man, getting together with someone’s pretty cool too, and I was right to be optimistic. So, yes, thrown for a loop, collecting myself, and doing a bit of a mess of it, but I’ll get my shit together. I always do.

What really pisses me off, though, about singleness, is society.

It screams at you SO fucking loud. You’re only as good as the company you keep. You’re only as good as the company you keep. You’re only as good as the company you keep. You’re only as good as the company you keep.

It’s a mindless fucking droning that is echoed by film, tv, ads, and music. Everywhere you look, it’s about “the one you love” and “forever.” Without someone, you might as well be nothing.

Me, I like dining out. Have you ever gone to a decent restaurant and eaten alone? I have. It sort of feels like the time I was in a wheelchair back when I had a leg injury and had to get around an amusement park for the day. Half the people eye you with respect and empathy, and the others eye you with some kind of sympathy and pity.

“Oh, she must have been stood up. No one eats alone.”

Yeah? No one, huh? Fuck you and your lame-ass stats keeping, buddy. I eat alone, and I like it. Catch up on my reading, you know? These days, I just do it in the kinds of places that “lonely” people are acceptable in – diners, coffee shops, the like. That’s a money thing, not because I’m letting the bastards get me down. But, these days, I don’t really enjoy fine dining without company. I can cook that well at home, and get great satisfaction in it, so if I’m spending the dime, I want some flesh on my arm and an ass by my side, you know?

I’m liking the new couch. I’m glad I no longer think of any of the guys I’ve been with on that couch. I’m glad the memories are, in a way, purged. I’m really fucking happy about that.

Along with the couch, I’ve also rolled up my area rugs and put them in the storeroom for the season. I figure there’s greatly reduced probabilities of rolling around in pursuit of carpet burn as I have dirty, naughty sex on the floor, so why deal with vacuuming and mustiness in the middle of a heatwave. Hardwood floors rock.

Yeah, fuck all this. I, too, dislike being single in a society that thinks I’m wrong to be this way. Being single takes time to adjust to, it takes much love of oneself, and a love for independence and spontanaeity. Going through hard times is not conducive to any of those things. As my life settles down, my love of being solo will return, if I don’t find me some masculine specimen before that.

I don’t want a relationship, I don’t think, right now, but I wouldn’t mind a little play time, if you know what I’m saying. So, I’m hatching a plan and continuing what I started a couple weeks ago in regards to getting back out into the world.

Life’s fucked right up, but it ought to settle on down soon. And then, I'll be back.

Depress-o-meter: I'm, what, a 6 today? Got through the night with no dope, no drinking, not too much attitude. (Not like I've been drinking much, or that I ever do, but I have certainly been smoking dope. Waaaay too much!) That first night of "good behaviour" usually is sleepless, but I got six hours. The worst is over. That's good. Now to keep keepin' on.

Of Readers and Stalkers

2006-07-24T19:27:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers–

I love your comments (when you bother to leave them – grr, lazy days of summer!–typical in blogland) and I love your emails. I love that you trust me with deep, dark secrets, and that you feel some kind of connection strong enough to make you return. It’s awesome.

Now and then, though, someone comes along who gets a little too attached. Emails get too revelatory, proffers of drinks become repetitive, that sort of thing. I doubt any harm is ever meant, and in fact, it’s likely the opposite. It’s flattering, really, but it can be a little troubling.

Now, this applies to maybe one out of a hundred readers who outs themselves to me, so, please, don't think this is a general rule of thumb!

There’s a tendency at times to forget that you know me (and other bloggers) only through the plug in your wall or your ISP. We’re names, personas, images, and beyond that, we are indeed enigmas to you. Most of us would rather remain that way.

I’m searchable. Hell, you can find my photo if you know where to look. It doesn’t take rocket science. My phone number is unlisted for a reason, though.

I love flattery. I love comments. I love people trusting me. But, don’t forget, I’m a literary chick. I can read. If you offer me drinks, or you invite me out when you’re in town, and you don’t hear from me, the odds are pretty good I’m either not in the mood, or just don’t want to bother. And that’s the prerogative, you know? Sometimes life’s too fucking chaotic to send a note.

Every now and then I surprise myself and say yes and have a drink with a reader. It’s always weird. I always enjoy myself. I seldom would ever do it if I knew it was a single guy hoping he had a chance with me, though, because that just gets bizarre.

But, I’m single now, so who knows.

Am I saying never ask me to do anything? Nah. Don’t take it personally if I’m not interested, though. It’s all whim on my end, and when you’re the person being read, and you’re the person being, well, pursued, it only makes good sense to be skeptical and apprehensive. And, believe me, I can be.

While I like getting emails, and don’t mind at all being offered tough questions that do need resolutions, I cannot be anyone’s mailbox shrink right now. Keep sending Q’s and dilemmas, though. Just keep it within reason. (One email, not five, etc.)

I’ve been hesitant to post anything like this ‘cos I don’t want to ruin a good thing, but what the hell. Let’s say it:

Like me, love me, just don’t expect a lifelong friendship. Blogging is very masturbatory. Without you, it’d be exactly that. With you, it becomes more interactive. I enjoy that. Just know that I just don’t have enough of me to give a little to everyone. And right now, I don’t think I have enough of me to give anyone.

Still, I love my audience, love my comments, love my readers, love my email, but just want to keep these things real. Be like Phil, man, keep it real.

Depress-o-meter: Ah, I plummeted. Closer to a 7.5 or 8 out of 10, with 10 sucking hard, tonight. Just a bunch of stuff in my mind. Read the Ditch if you want more on that.