Much Obliged, Thanks (But No Thanks)

Merry belated Christmas to you all, and I hope you spent it in whatever manner you found enjoyable. Christmas is an interesting time for a multitude of reasons. Somewhere between the traditional holiday drinks and the intensive meals and the tinseling, underlying pathologies bubble to the surface. Or so they say. In my family, a hybrid family tradition is emerging that is quite fun all in itself.

First off, we celebrate the 24th, not the 25th. The kids all open the presents on the morning of the 25th, but the big feast and wearing of red occurs on the 24th. We eat fish, not turkey, so there is considerably less fartiness and loginess following our big meal. My Czech-Canadian brother in law has brought his dad's tradition of double Manhattans into our family, so needless to say we all managed to get nice and sauced. This was quite hilarious, as we're not big drinkers in my family and haven't all been drunk together in over ten years since my sister's wedding. I staggered off to bed and have no recollection of taking out my contacts, changing into pjs, etc. I just remember having a spirited conversation with my sister one moment, and then passing out in a stupor on the couch in the next.

The next morning we all looked a little worse for wear. Much festive popping of ye olde Advil, my sister retching in the bathroom, much careful sipping of water and slow making of coffee. I was mostly fine, that is until I broke through the jungle gym at the park later that day and sprained my arm. Ow. That's the risk one runs as a childless woman in a playground, I suppose. My lack of recent experience showed in the cavalier way I climbed. Heedless fool!

At the indignity of incurring a jungle gym injury, I retreated back to the couch to nap and read in a desultory fashion and send texts to my dear gentleman caller. Our communications are carefully but surely growing affectionate. We allude to missing one another, contain our excitement about the fun we are envisioning as we plan a weekend Date in the city in the new year, and hasten to objectify the other sexually lest we fear we are growing too sentimental for what we still cling to as "the Arrangement". Both of us are still distasteful of the trappings of a Relationship, but admittedly we are going that way with our long conversations and solicitous check-ins and compliments, etc. As long as the sex is mandatory at our meetings, goes the thinking, we're okay. Fair dinkum.

Anyway, this is a nice obligation in my books. Most obligations are not, and increasingly I grow intolerant of the tension arising from a misplaced sense of duty and attendant flakiness. Case in point: my mother's boyfriend and his 20-year old son were supposed to join us for Christmas.. The son revolted at the last minute, however, and refused to come as he did not feel comfortable. As his mother is playing him an extended mind-fuck as only a Polack mother of a single boychild can do, it is understandable.

His father went into a veritable tizzy about it, while on my side of the family, there was a collective shrug. (Greedily, I at once realized there likely would be leftover prawns resulting from our diminished numbers, and rejoiced accordingly). We are becoming more philosophical as a family unit, perhaps, as we've seens divorces and awkwardness and family secrets come and go. We are not in any rush to have them come again. The kids are older and becoming real humans, I'm no longer coupled to a headcase, and we're all doing pretty well financially and emotionally and physically. Let's celebrate with a good meal and too many drinks in fancy clothes, and by god, let's not have any obligations at the table. Causes indigestion, and who wants to spend precious down-time breaking emotional wind?

With the goal of avoiding emotional gassiness, both mine and that of others, I look forward to the next several days of skiing and working a bit and organizing my physical surroundings so I can enter the new year all shiny and sharp. Enjoy the season! And know that you are under no obligation to check in with me in the new year.

Merrily yours, G

PS Oh, I did have a lovely sleepover with Guyfriend last weekend. Long conversation till the wee hours looking out onto Robson St from our fancy hotel room, eating sandwiches and salad; sleeping together as cosy as cousins in a giant bed, and the usual breakkie and walkabout the next day before he departed for the Interior. Yes, it was bemusing as well, to find myself wishing I had the hotel room with my gentleman caller. To find myself not even attracted to a man I'd once pined for sexually. To find a solid friendship more solid than ever due to this lack of attraction, and be pleased about it while at the same time a tiny bit mournful. The romance between us was delirious when it lasted, but unhealthy and even toxic (much like double Manhattans). Mostly though, I'm pleased as punch to find my twinship intact after the dust has settled, and to be intrigued by this Other Thing.

In Praise of Single Dads

Seasons greetings (or gretchings, as you see fit.) Christmas is growing on me, is it growing on you? As long as I can dodge its more maudlin elements and block out childhood memories of family meals past, this seems like a nice enough time.

I like the growing trend of adults not giving each other presents, or limiting themselves to useful items like wine and books. I'm colluding with my sister to get my mum a new sleep set, however, as she has the rattiest looking duvet and sheets to go with her collection of hideous flannel nighties. The latter I consider her boyfriend's problem, not mine.

Honestly, ladies. I know some of you who look smashing in day-time apparel, but who retreat into grannynighties and enormous pyjama sets and sweat pants (!) with the setting of the sun. Good lord, what's wrong with you? It IS effective birth control, I suppose, unless your mate has a geriatric fetish, but I personally find it disheartening. Is there not a way you can be both "cozy" and sexy? Think more Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, less Bea Arthur in Maude. And let's all get rid of the damn yoga pants already, except for yoga? Camel toes are so 2009.

Anyway, I am here to praise, not censure. I'm digging 30-something single daddies these days. First, an update or a recap, depending when last we met.

The fuckbuddy has graduated to gentleman-caller, and I'm quite gratified to report all is quite good on the sex and conversation fronts. On the emotional front, however, he seems skittish. I think this healthy considering he has not long been divorced. Being easily prone to startling also means I can have a bit 'o' fun with him. Wicked Gretchie can't helping yanking a clanking chain at times, like pretending to be crazy (turning innocent texts into accusations of him calling me fat) or telling him we're getting Facebook-married. I don't do it that much, just enough to keep him pleasantly unsettled.

Why, you ask, would you be so cruel, dear Gretchie? Well, first of all, it's funny (luckily, he shares a deviant sense of humour with me). Second of all, I am irked by the underlying assumption that in the story called At This Age, the He should be skeptical and the She should be pining for a Real Relationship. A reverse chase, of sorts.

I can't really be too harsh, as it does seem to be true in many cases. Usually women my age are wishing for Prince Charming 2.0 to come riding along and ask for directions. Okay, dare to dream. (Maybe not with such determination and level of detail, though, as it is rather terrifying when love is treated with the same joyless zeal as a home-reno project).

On the flipside, I know a few guys recently liberated from LTRs that are celebrating just getting out with their testes intact. I prefer to take a page from their book. I'm still grateful to be a) out of it b) having a personal sexual renaissance and c) conscious of my good fortune. Anyway, I'm happy to not be in love with anyone but pleasantly beguiled for the time being.

So why the praise of the single dad? Well, they are not squeamish, for one thing. Single childless men can be easily grossed out, which is off-putting. My X could not abide creepy-crawlies and never cleaned up after his own dog even once, or deigned to mop up his own dirty toilet. Note 1: I'll never be with another princess-man.

Single dads are not usually easily embarrassed. Once you've had your 9-month old defecate so forcefully in Starbucks that poo comes squirting out from under the collar of her onesie, you become inured to public shaming. If you're wise, you are thunderstruck with awe at the vigour of your child. Dads are more apt to take such small wonders in stride.

Dads have more likely learned to comfort others. They are more comfortable with physical contact meant to soothe and reassure. They are better listeners and generally more attuned to their surroundings.

Most of all, the dads I know (single and otherwise) are grateful for the small people in their lives. They are tickled to find themselves liking being dads, liking the teaching of small and big things, liking spending time with a pint-sized half-version of themselves with the manners of a mostly jolly, sometimes irate drunkard. It can be pretty funny if you're not in a rush, I gather.

I enjoy the company of children more and more these days as well. I'm bemused to find myself being told I'm good with kids, by parents with raised eyebrows and obviously low expectations. Ha! They are likely also surprised by my flashes of sternness. Adults have the authority to reasonably admonish children not their own in my world, which is an old-fashioned attitude. Not for silly stuff, but when it comes to manners I find myself occasionally dropping the goofy schtick and admonishing like some proper old Auntie May. Oh well, hopefully my friends will forgive me in light of my story-reading skills.

I shall be writing on Christmas so wish you a calm and fruitful week for now. I'm en route to the city to see my dear Guyfriend for a platonic sleepover at a fancy hotel and breakfast at my favourite morning joint. This is yet another way I'm asserting my non-clinginess, I suppose: by putting myself in potentially sexual situations. Ha!

Luckily, my period has just arrived with her usual fervour so we're all safe for the time being, not to mention Guyfriend and I have had a few practice runs with the platonic sleepovers. It's still nice to feel a little sneaky, though. In your face, Relationship assumptions!

More soon,
G

In Defense of the Dilettante and the Reluctant Romantic

Good evening,

Gosh, it's been a while. I've been (mostly) happily busy with the new work. In the intervals, I try to squeeze in seeing friends and family and kickboxing and household chores and catching the occasional show amid the time set aside for leisure.

A few thoughts on leisure. Leisure is devalued, or perhaps misunderstood these days. Some people pack their leisure hours with activities, with seems ironic when taken to the extreme. These people do not know how to do nothing, and I do believe if you gave them an entire day without a plan they would get twitchy. My dear mum is like this, though she is learning to thoroughly chew at least a few bites of unoccupied time before bolting the rest.

The twin manias for self-improvement or experience are not ones I consciously pursue. I have a healthy curiosity and occasionally pursue what seem like promising scenarios, but mainly I like being surprised by the sporadic stuff that just happens and my reactions. This is my experience. Maybe I'm placid by nature, or easily amused.

As for mental self-improvement, I like to expose myself to new information to see if it will take. However, pursuing self-improvement without passion for the act or pleasure in the process of learning strikes me as joyless as engaging in intercourse to procreate. Oh, I should do this; or learn that, or I'm obligated to know XYZ. Is there any way to make the pursuit of knowledge more dreary than by making it mandatory?

I'm not talking about life skills, such as basic math or learning to read. These are basics we should learn if we hope to engage in being citizens, as are ethics and etiquette. One should learn how to stifle a large belch on the bus, for example, and know not to park in the handicapped space (though disabled washroom stalls are fair game in my world, strangely enough).

Please note I do not advocate on behalf of those who announce they are "trying to learn how to be a better person". This strikes me as wholly disingenous, not to mention vague. Just be a better person. Begin by not making self-satisfied statements for achievements or behaviour not yet accomplished or even begun, but that are in the dubious state of trying to be learned. You'll be at least more likable, if not better, if you remain zipped on this lofty goal.

Nope, by voluntary knowledge I'm referring to the quirky extras, the inter alia we happen upon and for some reason find fascinating and want more information on. For example, I find nutrition an interesting subject, and the first British foray into 19th century Afghanistan, and Finnish architecture. Etc. I'm not expert on these subjects, or any subject outside my daily experience, but am attracted to intellectual flotsam and jetsam. Dilettantes unite!

I make sure to spend at least an hour or two each night being desultory, i.e. not obligated to do anything or beholden to anyone. Weekends are preferably filled with swathes of scheduled pleasures and satisfying household tasks, interspersed with large chunks of nothingness in which to fill or vacate my mind, as I see fit.

I may read about Zen practise in North American women, or loll in the bath drinking French apple brandy for over an hour, draining and re-heating the water and sending salacious texts. These things seem like good uses of my time, if only for the pleasure they afford me of doing exactly what I want to do plus what is possible given my circumstances at that moment. Like I said, perhaps my disposition (or ego) lends itself to being easily gratified by my own company.

That said, I recognize I'm quite demanding when it comes to the company of others. In this regard I recognize a penchant for intolerance. While never bored by myself, I get bored in the presence of others if it is all required to be too nice. Once my smile feels like an effort I make as quick an exit as possible.

That said, I've never been more grateful for the variety of interesting people I know and get to spend time with on occasion. Friendship is a privilege (especially with family members) and I do remind myself of this frequently.

This extends to romantic friendships as well. I'm delighted, if a little startled, to announce my most recent friendship is exceeding my expectations. My delight is tempered with caution. I think it wise not to allow expectations to swell to unmanageable proportions, or grow giddy on future speculation. This way I can be pleasantly surprised if things turn out better than expected, and at least have the comfort of being mentally prepared if they don't pan out.

This may seem guarded to you, dear Reader. You might recall I prefer the term 'prudent'. Low expectations kept in the present allows for the development of genuine, unforced emotions, for what could be more genuine than growing fond of someone when you had no plans or motivations to do so? Loving in spite of oneself strikes me as infinitely more romantic than announcing one is now ready for a Relationship.

Such declarations are to be dreaded. Usually remarked by someone scanning the crowd with an appraising eye, like an Albertan at auction looking for breedstock. If you're sane and single, this statement or its twin "I'm ready to get back Out There!" should have you sidling for the door. (Maintain a polite, frozen smile and eye contact until a safe distance is reached, otherwise the prey response may be triggered and a chase will ensue. The Relationship-ready are notoriously swift, too, though like black bears I'm not sure on their ability to scale trees. Playing emotionally dead may or may not work, either.)

Anyway, in light of these reluctant feelings in early development I've decided it is no longer appropriate to refer to having a fuckbuddy. While I am hopeful that both fucking and buddery are still the distinguishing features moving ahead, it would be dishonest of me to claim that it's just sex (though that's like saying oh, that's just god).

I've thought about this in my leisurely moments, and have come up with the term "gentleman caller" for him and "ladyfriend" for myself. I'm tickled by the courtliness of these terms in contrast to the word fuckbuddy, as we transition to a mysterious "something else" or fall into a sudden void.

In the meantime, I remain your faithful correspondent from the present,

G

Evil on Earth

Hello poppets. Tonight's title comes to us courtesy of my dear friend Melia. She has recently been on the receiving end of several emails from a sister-in-law clearly off her meds, or perhaps on too many of them. These were group emails, so the whole family could share, and can be summarized thus: a) Why is everyone so mean to me? b) Everyone IS so mean to me! c) What's wrong with you people that you are all so mean to me when I try so hard?

Sigh. To bust out a little old-fashioned ebonics: Dat be one crazy bitch. I find I'm sighing that under my breath with more frequency than usual. And unfortunately, ladies, it is all directed at the Us of the species.

I have been most pleased with the males of the species lately (the Them, in case you are wondering). In general, men, I am finding you most pleasing and transparent compared to a handful of said Crazy Bitches. Please note, I am not castigating the whole of womankind. I am very happy to be a woman and some of my best friends are gals. However, it cannot be allowed to pass when odd behaviour is flaunted for the world's derision.

You would not know it to look at these particular gals, at least not at once. They appear pleasant and rational and all-in-all so together one might be forgiven for thinking, wow, you seem to have your shit together. I think I'd like to know you further. So you proceed down that road, and it is for a while a merry journey.

And then they start sending out "signals". Mysterious non-sequitors dropped into conversations, and then aborted and waved away with a smile and a "whatever...". Okay, whatever. That means I'm supposed to ignore what you just said, right? I'm within my rights not to think anymore about it, correct?

Wrong. Apparently these signals are supposed to beam directly into my brain, preferably the cerebral cortex or whatever part processes language. In goes the signal, out pops the translated summary. It is always very important; however, it cannot be articulated verbally in a rational or precise manner by said signaller. The signal is assumed to be somehow intuited by signallee. Ergo, I just know what's eating at you, lady.

I'm not devoid of intuition, but appear to be missing this signal function. I'm not interested in acquiring it. I like most women, but don't put up with difficult or cryptic ones because, well, I don't have to. (That's the level of effort some guys choose to put into those ones, if they are enticing enough to merit the strain on one's sanity or credulity.)

This no-thanks attitude has put me at an impasse with two women this year. One of them had called me mid-summer to tell me she thought I was amazing, and it was nothing I'd said or done, but that recently she hadn't called or made an effort to see me because she just didn't want to, and what did I think about that? Hmmmm.

This same one phoned me a few days ago. Okay, I thought, seeing her name on my call display, let's see what she's got to say. She must have worked through whatever was eating at her, and I was looking forward to feeling pleased for her. (How generous of me, I know, la-dee-dah. Anyway, it would turn out my precious generosity was not called upon.) After the usual exchange of hello-hello and how ya been, she gets to the heart of the matter.

'Well, Gretchen, I called you before to let you know I didn't want to see you or talk to you. Since this non-event (her word!), it's been a while. I've had some time to reflect....and I still don't want to talk to you or see you or hang out with you. So yeah."

"Huh," says I, and pause. "Did we sleep together and someone forget to tell me?"

General embarrassed laughter. She was quite amiable but firm about it. The conversation was short. I signed off with a see-ya-when-I-see-ya. As soon I put down the phone, however, my real response slid quietly out of my mouth: "And fuck you too, nutjob."

A couple of days later I pressed send on a short, civil email instructing her not to contact me further. Her behaviour is bizarre and verges on the malicious from someone I once considered a friend. While I wished her well, I advised a) she was just not that into me and b) I'm okay with that part but c) she needs to stop telling me about it. And good luck! I erased her from the usual communications portals (cell, Facebook, email address book) and expect I won't hear from her again.

While I was at it, I erased my other friend, who I presume is still in a huff on someone else's behalf who, you may recall, was never offended to begin with. Jeepers. Apparently we just outgrew each other like hand-me-down shoes, and the blisters she never told me about were a bitch. Another "good luck!"

I also get the stories of others.

Jasmine tells me about her own bi-polar babe, She swings from "Let's have a girl's night soon, I miss you!!!" to a dead-eyed "I've realized we have a fatal flaw in our friendship (but I don't want to talk about it)", and then back again, all in the space of a week.

Melia and her two, count 'em, two crazy sister-in-laws, plus an ongoing crazier than FUCK mother-in-law.

Then the stories I get from men. Lovers past and present start these stories carefully, full of wonder. Yes they are puzzled, they fail to compute, because they tell of broads one step away from boiling your pet bunny in a Langostina pot like so much delicious lobster. Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Don't get me wrong. I know dudes can be petty and malicious. However, it's been rare to meet with such men, much less engage with them in relationships. In fact, in 37.5 years there's only been one I look back on and say, yup, that guy was a dick.

Most of them were nice enough. Sure, a few were hapless or deluded. Several were clumsy, or hurtful due to immaturity and a lack of communication skills. , but only one was spiteful. Even he wasn't that bad. Compared to these daft cunts I hear tell of, that baitbaitbait and create petty farces and insipid dramas for their own self-indulgent, self-manufactured (wait for it) Feelings. Oh brother.
I do mean that: oh brother. I feel kinship with the dudes on this one. I've never been more aware that I'm evolving into a chimera: a straight man, who is into other men, travelling in a woman's body and loving it.

Anyway, ladies, for god's sake stay sane.

Cheerfully, zestfully yours,

GR

Sing It, Pig

Ms. Piggy Tells It Like It Is

The Fuckbuddy Protocols, Part II

POLICY 4: DISCRETION

Upon engaging a skilled and enjoyable lover, friends (if not family) will quickly know something is up. Sleep-deprivation, intense bouts of texting and goofy smiles will give away the happy state of fuckbuddery to those within one's close circle. It is therefore natural and plain good fun to share the news of “getting some” with friends. With close friends, even fist-bumping is considered acceptable behaviour.

However, part of the thrill of being fuckbuddies relies on discretion, mainly as to the identity of the lover in question. This relates to the idea of claiming possession to another, which is contrary to fuckbuddy values.

This matter of identification is a serious one. To publicly “out” the fuckbuddy without their permission is considered crass. It may even be seen as a passive-aggressive form of cock-blocking, and a violation of the spirit of sexual liberation underpinning the association.

That said, a situation may arise where one is asked directly if they have a carnal association with the other. It is human nature to pry, especially by those who experience little or no Action in their own lives.

It would be wise for both fuck-buddies to formulate a uniform response that will not blow their cover or pique further interest in such a case. This may require as subtle a tactic as changing the subject, or as overt as outright lying.

Note: Telling the enquirer to mind their own business is not advised, as one one runs the risk of then being harangued to distraction. This type of person will eventually declare themselves triumphant in guessing the identity of the fuckbuddy (rightly or wrongly) and broadcast the news at once. This should be avoided, as being the subject of lurid gossip and idle speculation is distasteful.

POLICY 5: VAGINAL INTERRUPTIONS

It is an unfortunate truth that as delicious and compliant as pussy may be most of the time, it needs time off each month to recuperate. “Plowing through it” violates the romance of fuckbuddery, so it is recommended that the vagina in question be left alone at such times to vent.

Such interruptions to the bootycall schedule must be tolerated by both parties as part of Natural Law, and other arrangements may be made. For example, best practises calls for blowjobs to be offered unconditionally during this time.

POLICY 6: ENDING THE ARRANGEMENT

If either fuckbuddy should choose to end the non-Relationship for whatever reason, every attempt should be made to communicate this promptly to the other, in person, and with tact and affection.

Failure to do so will lead to hurt feelings and general spite. This is to be avoided at all costs as it may sour an otherwise lovely experience. After all, half of “fuckbuddy” is a term for friend. As befits friendship, a graceful exit and friendly feelings are to be striven for when the carnal association is brought to an end.

Please note: it is the firm belief of the author that fuckbuddery is not a viable long-term state, unless circumstances dictate extremely infrequent meetings. In fact, most carnal associations are measured in weeks (maybe a few months, tops).

For this reason, it is recommended both parties review the arrangement together on a regular basis (bi-weekly, for example). At this time, the situation can be honestly assessed to see if continuation is still desirable. One of the following can be verified upon review:

1. The fuckbuddery is splendid, and should continue apace until the next review.

2. The fuckbuddery has peaked, and this is the tasteful wrap-up phase.

3. The fuckbuddery has now waned, and should be ended quickly while both parties still have their dignity intact.

4. The fuckbuddery has become an enjoyable part of life but can no longer be deemed fuckbuddery. Perhaps to mutual bemusement and even chagrin, it has now appeared to have mutated into a form of Relationship.

Please note: It is not the intent of the author to advocate for any of the above options.

Developments of this nature are not within the control of either party, and so advocating for any “preferred” option is disingenuous. It is also a gross violation of the very nature of fuckbuddery. This hallowed union is to be entered into with the purest of motives: to get laid often and well with someone attractive and enjoyable.

If either party loses sight of this, it is the duty of the other to deliver a smack to the head and discuss immediately.

The Fuckbuddy Protocols, Part I

OVERVIEW

This document has been created as a policy guide. It is hoped that by explicitly laying out and the rules of engagement, participants may identify and avoid many of the potential pitfalls inherent in fuckbuddery (also referred to a “having an arrangement”; “forming a carnal association”; the “anti-Relationship”; or acting as each other's “bootycall”).

While deceptively easy to begin a course of carnal association, it is common for many participants to quickly become confused as to the nature of the relationship. It is hoped that the clear and stringent guidelines lain out here will ultimately serve to enhance the joy inherent in properly executed fuckbuddery.

POLICY 1: ON DATING EACH OTHER

This arrangement does not preclude going on dates with one another, but it is not required nor even necessarily conducive to true fuckbuddery. Neither party is obligated to provide meals, concert tickets or any other date-like accoutrements to the other; nor invite them to events normally attended by dates. This is left wholly at the discretion of each party, and exclusion is to be borne without rancour by the other.

Of course, if either party feels that their attendance at an event would be genuinely enhanced by the presence of the other, then by all means an invitation should be issued. If said invitation is not accepted, however, it is not to be borne with any rancour by the other, nor is an explanation to be demanded.

Telecommunication should take the form of flirtation (i.e. sexting) or making plans to see one another (i.e. setting up the bootycall). Just “checking in” on a daily basis is standard practice between boyfriends and girlfriends; thus, fuckbuddies should practise restraint in this matter by limiting their daily communication to texting in the vein of affectionate, horny joking.

A special note here on common pitfalls: invitations to weddings, dinner parties or family/seasonal functions. If either fuckbuddy feels impelled to invite the other to these types of events, it is likely the fuckbuddery in its true form is now over and confusion has set in. The same can be said of public displays of affection, beyond what could reasonably be expected between good friends.

POLICY 2: SLEEP-OVER PROTOCOL

In this author's opinion, sleep-overs are a sweet, natural consequence of a satisfying bootycall. However, if either party feels for whatever reason they do not wish to spend the night, this is to be accepted by the other as nothing personal or none of their damn business. At no time shall either party use guilt to confine the other party to the bedroom (although light bondage and sexual blackmail are to be encouraged).

In the morning, after some sex, it is common courtesy to offer coffee if it is a work-day, and coffee and breakfast if it is a non-work day. It is also common courtesy not to press the offer. The same applies for the offer of a shower.

POLICY 3: ASSOCIATING WITH OTHERS

This is a point of some controversy in fuckbuddy academia. It is the opinion of the author that what fuckbuddies choose to do outside the arrangement is their own business. This includes consorting with others, flirting, dating, etc. It is unacceptable for either party to become jealous or pry into the affairs of the other, with regard to current or past dates, friends, lovers or exes.

This may seem like a severe pronouncement, but emotional or sexual possessiveness has no place in this arrangement. Fuckbuddery is a temporary sexual accord between two parties, entered into with the horniest of intentions. Innately, it is not exclusive nor permanent.

It may be decided by mutual assent, however, to communicate if either party a) dates others or b) sleeps with others. This may be done in advance, for reasons of courtesy and sexual health, or after the fact. Or not at all, depending on the agreement reached.

Part II to follow...

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

Preamble: I was writing this last Wednesday night when I was happily interrupted with a booty call. I am including it now as a lead-up to the next two posts.

It never ceases to amaze me how much a few days can change one's perspective.

I figured I may as well tap out my wisdom here late on a Wednesday night, as for some reason I decided to drink an entire pot of wild raspberry decaffeinated tea following a swim and sauna. Now I know I shall be held hostage to my bladder so there's no point going to sleep, and besides, this topic has been on my mind the last 48 hours or so.

Ok, a summary is in order first. In (somewhat) brief, here's a recent chronology since my last post on Friday.

Saturday, stayed home and drank a few glasses of wine and baked and cooked and danced around the kitchen to the mainly classic rock tunes (G&R 4ever!!!) playing on my SpaceSaver kitchen radio. And engaged in a several hours' long textathon with my new "friend". I've been trying to be virtuous and keep him in the realm of just-a-cool-guy, and even inviting him out in a group to meet my single galpals, but deep down I've been attracted to him from the start, as came out after just a few sexty messages.

Anyway, it did not result in a late night visit, so I went to bed with my virtue intact, as you see, I had not yet had the official Conversation with the nice man I've been dating, aka Honey, aka my Boyfriend. Blast these titles!

Sunday, scheduled a dinner with Honey in a nearby town where he visits his daughter. After a quiet dinner, I suggest a walk through the surrounding suburbia. Scampering trick-or-treaters abound, we walk. After several minutes of me being uncharacteristically silent, I volunteer being weirded out. Weirded out by the X re-visit, for one thing, and feeling like we're coasting, and getting tired of the distance and wondering what it's all for anyway.

To my relief, he's also weirded out by my X situation, though he is sympathetic. It is a uniquely weird situation. Plus he's burned out juggling his house-build and business and child and his own X management, which is a minefield. He does, however, still want to see me on occasion, whatever that means. Anyway, it's a lovely, mature parting of ways As We Were, and I get in my car to drive home much gratified that I've had the chance to be with such a kind, mature man.

Fast forward three hours, and my new friend is sitting in my kitchen having a late night bourbon with me. We yuk it up till 1am, and after some opaque shyness back and forth he decides to stay. He does, however, preface clothes removal with a) you are very sexy and funny as hell but b) I'm really not looking for a relationship. To which I reply c) Awesome! And it was, and the next night was even more epic, and we're quite enjoying this mutual fuckbuddery.

However, I remember in past posts I had claimed to be an insincere fuck-buddy, and that I couldn't do vacation-sex at home, etc. Ahem. I am revising this opinion now. I think I've just needed to establish some rules right from the start. This way, both parties can agree and more importantly, abide by the agreement. Hence, my Fuckbuddy Protocol.

Note: The Fuckbuddy Protocol document has grown sizable over the last week I've been noodling on it. It follows in two parts/posts.

Distraction

Hiya, goblins and gremlins and ghoulies. Happy (almost) Halloween!

Usually I dote on Halloween like a fat, unhappily married auntie might dote on a favoured nephew. Oh All Hallow's Eve, you are such a clever imp! And so handsome too, in your various face paints and bad wigs and costumes!

I was looking forward to the doting this year. Things seem tricked out in an especially macabre humour, and it is a joy to behold. I was contemplating the purchase of a hopefully red, shoulder-padded power suit and ruffled blouse from the Sally Anne, in which to play 80s Zombie Working Mother/Municipal Politician. Or some such thing. Right now, though, I'm curled in classic protective stance in bed drinking wine and taptaptapping my thoughts onto my absurdly small netbook in the hope of reaching a Conclusion. Then, I sally forth with lease on life #327. Look out, world!

Okay, so this is how it goes. Last few weeks I've been increasingly skeptical as to my participation in a current "relationship". Reluctantly, I conclude I cannot bring myself to call him my Boyfriend. I wasn't seeking a boyfriend when I met him, when I had one foot here and one in my supposed new city of Toronto. Howdy sailor, and how d'you do? I'm booking out soon myself, but let's have a nice time of it in the meantime, shall we?

Agreed. Except as you all know if you've been paying even a bare minimum of attention the last several months, my plans were curtailed drastically and I have not moved to the Big City to pursue a pseudo-intellecsexual way of being. No, I am (quite contentedly) here still, with my huge property and pleasant house and feral pets. The default he chose at the point of my announcing I was staying was well, alrighty then, you are my Girlfriend and hasn't this worked out nicely?

At first, I tried to embrace this. Game face on. He is a lovely man, both physically and in character. I have never been with someone so considerate, easy-going and mature. Would it be so wrong to go with the flow in this case?

Yes.

I can't anymore. I have to face that while I like him (he is eminently likable), I do not love him in the slightest. It's clicked past that 6-month marker where one has to face such truths. I chafe at being Girlfriended, I am tired of the road-trips (he lives two hours' drive away), the regular sex is becoming, well, regular, and worst of all, I'm completely aware of being politely interested in what he has to say.

I know! He's a total fuckin' sweetheart! He's a great dad, a good friend, a dutiful son, etc. Goddamn it, he's boring me to tears, in some respects. No, he's lovely, but I've never been good at coasting. Now I have to figure out how to break up with him. With the ex, I had lots of practise and ample reason at the end, but this one calls for sensitivity and courtesy, and how one does that without sliding into cliche and wounded feelings is a mystery.

Anyway. It's come to this now as I find myself attracted to others. It's come to this as I find myself conscious of the arrogance of indifference. Deep down, I'm terrified of hurting anyone (other than assholes and sparring partners).

It's also come to this as my X has reappeared in the scene, like some warped deus ex machina dropping from the heavens. Suicidal, recently in a car accident that wasn't his fault, indulging in all manner of drugs and alcohol and uncharacteristic aggression, perhaps pushing a big red button I can't see on my back. At any rate, it scared the shit out of me. I convinced him to come here, hid the booze, and talked to him. He's finally gotten to the place where he's scared himself and is ready to do what it takes to survive.

This is weird. Looking at it from the outside, I would conclude there still are Feelings here, there is manipulation occuring, there is sufficient weirdness in the swirl of emotions to call my rationale, if not integrity, into question. To which I shrug, and say (in the words of the immortal Billy Joel): you may be right but you may be wrong.

My X is (still) dear to me. He is isolated and in trouble and wanting to change the trajectory of his life. I feel nothing for him in the romantic sense, but am determined to help him get through a hard time. I would like nothing more than for him to be sober, healthy, with good work and a cool woman. Then I could let him go and be reassured he'll be okay. I've known him a long time and love him to bits, even while feeling dead to him beyond friendship.

In the meantime, I fret and try to help him. I may be royally misguided on this one, but oh well, that's my own damage I need to work through. It does punctuate, however, how indifferent I've become to the Guy I've Been Seeing.

Jeepers. May you live in interesting times, said the fortune cookie. It is interesting. Pulled in all directions. Am I loyal friend? Enabler? Cold-hearted bitch or honest Injun? Wannabe slut, as I eye yet another? Lordy, who knows. I have to pee.

Happy halloween!
Zombie out...

Dear Prudence

Prudence is an old-fashioned word, is it not? Meaning discretion, economy, circumspection. Care with regard to one's own interest and providence. A reflective pause. A charmingly quaint notion perhaps, in these days of snap judgements and gut reactions and rampant feeling.

No one has accused me of an excess of prudence. Exactly the opposite, in fact. In recent times, it has been alluded or flatly stated that indeed, I practise what is euphemistically referred to as radical honesty. In more words: blunt, harsh, unthinking. Self-centred and superior. Someone who doesn't trust people, who uses honesty as a means of testing the mettle of her friends and lovers. Hmmm.

This analysis has come unsolicited, angrily and suddenly from two people whom I considered close friends. (So perhaps a distrust of people is not so misplaced.) What has startled me most about these critiques has been the mysterious circumstances which provoked them.

Says the one: It's nothing you've said or done. I think you're an amazing person. I just haven't wanted to hang out with you, or even talk to you, and I don't know why!

Implicit in this is she suspects I'm an asshole, and would like me to join her in speculating on the evidence which may confirm it.

Says the second: You have been offensive to someone I love, and even though that person is not at all offended I've chosen to be hurt on their behalf. I have not told you this for two weeks because I am such a good, sensitive person that I'd rather allude to your defects in pretend conversations about other people or events. I choose to get livid when you say it's illogical to take offense on someone else's behalf who is not offended. I then categorize your exact defects in short order, but don't worry, I really am a wonderful person looking out for you, as evidenced by tearfully repeating how much I really do love you (in spite of you being so unloveable) as a way to end the conversation.

Explicit in this is the accusation that I'm an asshole, and she would like me to join in on the condemnation and of course, seek atonement.

Um. No. I don't think so.

Here, I return (at last) to the notion of prudence. One could say I was prudent by not, for example, telling either of these women to fuck right off with their misguided analyses. Or to respond by cheerfully telling them not to worry, I understood it was likely not me at all but rather some trying, as-yet unidentified circumstance within their own lives that was causing them to act like irrational cunts. Yes, this could be called prudence or tolerance, or perhaps it is just yet another maddening instance of me acting superior.

What I do not call prudent is allowing ethereal feeling to take firm hold of one's reason, and get carried away to the point of making asinine phone calls to an unsuspecting friend, and unloading with either no explanation or else a completely nonsensical one (offended on behalf of another adult who's not offended? Really.) Of course, this imprudence would be totally forgivable, perhaps even endearing, were either party to eventually call back and explain themselves and maybe even apologize for their rash actions.

Oh, but no. You see, this is how they feel. Previously I had been unaware, you see, that by mere dint of feeling something you create a perfect truth. One so immoveable that it's impertinent to speculate it may not be fixed to the ground of reality, and so solid in appearance that to suggest it is hollow is blasphemy.

As Guyfriend succinctly puts it: Just because They are feeling cold does not mean I have to put on a sweater. Or as I even more succinctly put it: Bullshit.

I have felt all manner of inner storms and deluges and volcanic eruptions this past year. This does not mean I was right or wrong to feel these things. Where "right" and "wrong" enter the picture is how I chose to act on these feelings, and in turn chose to react to the consequences of doing so.

And this, if I may, is where I do think I am prudent. Inevitably, my choice in discussing feelings with the person who excited them has led to self-examination as to where this maelstorm may be coming from. Ultimately, it has made me grateful to said person for helping me one step further along the path of self-discovery.

I use the word choice in this context deliberately. You see, I do not think it prudent to lash out with one's feelings at will. Much like I find it distasteful when someone lets go of a long, sibilant fart in my presence because they just did not feel like holding it in or going to the bathroom. I find it misguided to smash someone in the face when I feel they are being unreasonable, or hit them with my vehicle because I feel they really aren't paying attention to where they are going.

These are all choices, and to have a couple of people play "but that's how I feel!" like it's some almighty, inarguable trump card stinks of self-importance. They feel entitled to take a few unprovoked swings in my direction because of a vague feeling that somehow--just don't ask how--I deserve it.

As you may tell, I'm not sorry for these a) mysterious or b) just plain silly intimations of my own impropriety.

I'm affronted, and think both these gals owe me a sincere apology, if not a coherent explanation.

I would advise them that in the future, they may want to consider both the origin and the consequence of feeling before they give into impulse and alienate someone, who in their own past descriptions, was deemed one of their most loyal and generous friends.

I do not appreciate being shat upon, and then being told it is not shit but truth, and I should thank them for their own courageous display of honesty while learning to be more sensitive and positive (aka fake) so we can all get along nicely.

No, thank you. You should learn some control, how to reflect, how to articulate and examine your feelings, and barring all that, you should learn how to be gracious in spite of suspecting you've just made a complete, self-important ass of yourself and learn how to apologize. It would, in my estimation, be prudent to do so.

Economically yours,
Gretchen

New Favourite Artist (and Best Name Ever)

www.royalwood.ca/music-TheWaiting.php

Last Friday, I took Honey to a show. In my smallish town, we are blessed with a great old bar/venue whose musical programmer brings in acts usually reserved for large urban areas. In the last several months, we've had shows by tremendous emerging artists in almost every contemporary genre. For the price of a few shekels, I've been uplifted and energized and awed by the creativity and beauty of music, right in my own little corner of the world.

Case in point: Ontario-based Royal Wood, accompanying Hannah Georgas on her recent tour. Alas, I could not stay for Ms. Hannah, as I was to be up at dawn the next day to put in a full day of public speaking on behalf of work and it was growing late. Plus I needed to have sex before sleepytime, and didn't want to leave it too late.

However, I caught opening act Mr. Wood, a dapper, well-spoken gentleman of such poise and good looks that every straight woman present was swooning on the inside. Oh, and he's a damn fine singer and musician, with lovely and well-crafted songs. Seeing an artist of such confidence and purpose made me very, very happy to go out and in tiny part, support the wonderful Canadian and independent music that is out there. For this, I am thankful.

I Love the Sound of Smattering Miscellany on my Roof at Night

Hello munchkins. I have no idea what to write today, only knowing vaguely that I should write, but not knowing what on.

Let's see what's been going on lately.

a) I missed my favourite aesthetician last week while she was on vacation, and had to have my pubes pulled by a brisk, humorless gal who gave my beav a slightly crooked cast. I left feeling mildly chastised.

b) After a summer of health, I've caught a cold and am now stuffy and shnorty. Got movies. Am going to revel in 'Step Up' tonight as I have an illicit crush on a young man with the improbable name of Channing Tatum. He is ever so fine. I swear I've seen 'She's All That' about four times, partly for the zany Ms. Bynes but more for the pervy pleasures of the Channing sightings. Sigh and Ha!

c) I went and checked out the BodyWorlds exhibit with my ma, and was like, oh, these old things, I've seen them before, though I liked learning that the human brain takes 20% of our blood flow while only taking up 2% of our body mass. My mum had two glasses of white wine and got all old-school Communist in the line-up, refusing to accept that we were the 7:45pm showing and it was 7:15pm. I abandoned her temporarily and cruised for appetizers.

d) I had an extended conversation with my best friend and her girlfriend about art criticism and its impact on the artistic psyche. It was more fun than it sounds, as it was a Sunday afternoon and we had a bit o'beer and were discussing bad paintings they had executed while stoned. In the end, my girlfriend conceded she was PMSing and made me take one of the more interestingly ugly of the paintings. It goes nice in my house with the colours and all.

e) I saw a singer-songwriter in my town last Thursday and it was unexpectedly magical. Great tunes and performance. Another crush developed, this one a bit shy on both sides. I've told him that he's my new penpal. After many unexpected obstacles to facebooking (I could not for the life of me find the damn befriending button) we are Now Friends. I plot our paths once again crossing even as I chastise myself for being (at least) emotionally slutty.

You like your current beau, I tell myself silently. So why are you looking at other men--and not just looking, no, but imagining romantic walks in the rain and first kisses and hot sex in hotel rooms. You already have hot sex and great kisses and a man who flat-out adores you. You a mad bitch!

To which I reply: And still.

(reflective pause)

Still, there is something missing. As much as I enjoy this man and our time together, as much as I appreciate the ease with which we show affection to one another and the fun we have drinking rye and shooting pool together, as much as I am cognizant of this, I'm also the teeniest, tiniest bit bored. And what a terrible thing to think, but. Still.

Hence, the attraction to the wordsmithy musician and his snappy wit and charisma. The illusion of a happy challenge is an attractive one, no? Or maybe my attraction to men is proportionate to their distance from me (in this case it's the other side of this damn big country; then again Toronto has been good to me in the past).

Ah, Toronto the good. It was one year ago I was conniving with Guyfriend to have our fuckfest extravaganza in that city, booking fancy hotel rooms and not knowing what was going to happen, but hoping for some memorable times. And oh boy. I do feel a little wistful coming up to the anniversary of that time, as it shall not be repeated.

We have a relationship where sex gets in the way of closeness. Now that we are back to regular correspondents, there's nothing I can't tell him and vice versa. His current flame has told him directly she expects to propose to him in December, to which he thinks, Yes, you probably will. It is interesting to have a twin. We've both had/have our share of lovers (well, him especially) but I do believe that we are closest in a way that can't really be quantified, or compared directly to love interests, or even tolerated amiably in person for long periods of time. Twins. Weird but lovely, we've decided.

Anyway, that is all.

Oh, and f) I saw 'Inception' and thought it was a bloody good movie.

T'is all for now,
G-R

Autumn, What the Fuck?!

This is what my cat just exclaimed. It seems like scant weeks ago we were brushing out his underfur so that he could better endure the 14 hours of sunning he was doing on the back deck. Now, I have my woodstove blazing and he's alternately dopey on the couch, comatose on the floor. Now and then he raises his fine, half-breed Siamese head and rustily belts out a "What the fuck happened to summer?" before collapsing once again into drowsy.

I don't know. I like summer, especially when it's blazing hot and I find myself working in my bikini a lot and dropping ten pounds easily just from drinking so much water. This summer I managed to pack on ten pounds easily and did not work much in my bikini; nay, not even once, if memory serves. Sigh. Last summer was an inferno, and I was celibate and going for long long runs and dreaming of Guyfriend. This summer has been cool, I'm getting more regularly serviced than a Volvo and I'm not really dreaming of men, more focused on bizness and such.

Though...well, let's just say I canny help the horny green eye from roving now and then. I only get laid on the weekends, and I'd like more, and see, I work out at a gym with boxers and kickboxers and MMA guys and some of them are, admittedly, hunky as all heck. There's something about a sturdy, pleasantly vapid man wrestling another to the mat or whaling away on some focus mitts which does make me a trifle weak at the knees. A couple of nice mid/later single thirtysomethings that definitely are easy on the eyes...but then I do have a few cardinal rules governing This Life, and one of them is Thou Shalt Not Shit Where Thee Eats. I love my gym fiercely, and would never do anything to jeopardize my enjoyment of it. Once you start shagging the boys in a place, it's never the same.

I have never slept with anyone I work with, except when I was a teenager in a restaurant (and there it's part of the job description, restaurants being a "glamour" industry as I've been told). I know once you get intimate with someone in a circle, you disrupt the natural order. I don't particularly want the guys I train with knowing how I like to take it, or my extraordinary prowess at blowjobbery, or what my cooter smells like (delicious, I'm assured).

No, I'd rather retain an aura of mystery and seriousness that becomes very hard to maintain once you have sex within that arena. 'Cuz men, they can't keep their mouth shut about getting laid. To anyone. They can't help themselves. I mean, I might celebrate the fact I've gotten royally laid to my friends, but don't get into the gory details. And I don't consider the nice lady I get my occasional coffee from, or the woman I might spar with that I know as a first-name only as "friends". And I consider an anonymous blog a fair forum for the hilarity of dating/sex.

But lordy the boys, don't they love to blab in detail, give a blow by blow account of things, like to parade that shit all over the place, live? Yes they do. It would irk me. So the strapping men are safe from me, at this point. I'll just continue to sneak glances and cart around my pleasant salacious thoughts in secret.

Things are good. Two-thirds of this year has now raced by. I'm not where I thought I'd be, not doing what I thought I'd be doing, not with someone I thought I'd be with. This is all fine. Today I went to the swimming pool with my Honey, his mum, the kid and Kid 2, a vaguely related child of six or so who amuses the lesser kid.

We entered as a Family, though I was grasping my single pass with one . I was discomfited at the idea of paying as a Family. I cling to my cherished ideals about myself as Cool, and hustling into the pool as some shamily unit did not fit that ideal. However, there's a time to be gracious and this was such a time. ''Thank you, husband.'' I said, in my best demure voice.

The pool was loaded with kiddies and parents. I steeled myself...and had a great time. Kid 2 took me on the waterslides. I hadn't been on a waterslide in at least 25 years. I remember them being semi-transparent deals, so you could dimly see where you were going. These were pitch black. I built up what felt to me to be a tremendous amount of speed, hurtling in the dark, screaming ''Holy shit!'' in primitive fear before popping out the end with only a Speedo wedgie and accelerated heartrate as damage. Fun!

Kid 2 was a good sport. She was not embarrassed by the fact that I was wearing water wings. With giant inflated goldfish on them. I thought they were cute, and it so happened they fit me and not the kid they were intended for.

''I'm fashion-forward,'' I tried to explain to the sceptical nine-year old who eyed me askance and asked me why I was wearing those things. ''Like Lady Gaga. You'll see, in a few months everyone else will be wearing these. I'm a fashion pioneer. Do you know what a pioneer is?''

She gave me a repulsed look and turned back to her friend, and together they struck their best whatever Paris Hilton poses. I could tell they were thinking about it, though. Maybe water wings are the next big thing...

Ha! I love fucking with kids' minds. I can tell they don't know quite what to make of me. They know I'm too old to be a teen or someone cool, but I don't act like I'm a mum. I laugh when they get bonked in the head by an inflatable ball, or fall down while running (once it's established there's no injury), and mock them ceaselessly with a straight face. In a word, I'm an uncle.

Anyway, somehow my weekend has passed with a minimum of Tasks. Feels good, two days of sleeping in to 9am and not fussing too much about plans or obligations. This afternoon, for example, I convinced myself a good use of time was watching several Lady Gaga videos on my new netbook, as I'd referenced her earlier. I do believe she's a genius. The lovechild of Elton John and Madonna circa 1979, and with RuPaul as a nanny. And she can sing, and play piano, and dance in stilletos. Absolutely a genius.

Now I hang out on my bum-deadening futon couch (probably older than the Gaga) with my dogs as the fire snaps and crackles and the chat lies like a dead thing in front of it, and I drink the rest of a very nice Spanish grenacha. I'm likely in a small state of recovery.

My X stayed with me last week, for several days. He rode dirtbikes and played with the dogs and drank and rolled us both Drum cigarettes, and a good time was had by all. He's a very good person. However, he phoned me weeping the next day, missing us all terribly.

Lest you think there's something still between us, he agreed he'd be happy to become my adopted son if he just got to hang out at the country estate with the hounds and tinker on his goldurn motorbikes all day. The only thing between us is the memory of a co-dependency that was great for him, an exercise in masochism for me. And so it goes.

It does startle me, however, to remember that once upon a time, I would have done anything for this person. Now, I am wary of getting into the aquatic centre on a family pass lest it speak to a commitment I'm not ready for. It feels natural to be in a state of unknowing, to withhold myself from another person. Not ready to sink into another and trust they'll catch me instead of dragging me down. Anyway, now I go watch movie and veg out in weekend vegematic splendour. Happy autumnal fall!

--Gretchie ''Grey is my favourite colour, so bring autumn on, bitches!'' Rutte

S/he's Just Not That Into You. Their Loss.

Good Lord, possums. Egad. It has been weeks and weeks and weeks since I last wrote, an anamoly for me. Although I haven't been so regular in my postings in the last few months, I've never gone more than 10 days without throwing out at least a link to a funny video or a snippet of poetry.

The bleated excuse of the 21st century slips from my lips in a murmur: I've been quite busy. Luckily, for the finances; unfortunately, for the writing. Between normal work and extra work (I'm now toting around a Blackberry for one short-term contract in addition to my own brick-like cellphone and deadweight laptop) and new work (a brand new company I'm co-founding, so exciting), and volunteer work (the last two out of three weekends, music festival and mixed martial arts extravaganza, respectively)...well, there's been lots of work in my life recently, and goodness while having a sense of newfound purpose is grand not to mention getting some cash back in hand, it's all taken up a lot of time.

So my apologies. It's rather banal to point the respective digit at "work", but that is the chief culprit. Sigh. I suspect I used to be more interesting than this. Now, despite myself, I'm working away diligently and dating a sweet fella with a goshdarn, occasional toddler. Jeez Almighty. I do have the occasional pang for sexcapades with Guyfriend, as I relate those to fancy/not so fancy hotels and restaurant meals and long, conversational coffees in big cities. This one: equal parts cosy pub, swimholes, rented movies, short roadtrips with a dash of Dora the Explorer. Ooooo.

Actually, for a Daddy-O he's pretty cool, but even he can't help falling into the alternately wheedling/stern tone of parenthood. Last Friday, exhausted and irritable with PMS, I had to rapidly drink a glass of wine and a Lucky lager to calmly endure a six-year old's energy for several minutes while Honey put his own kid to bed. Lordy, Lawdy. Mind you, I do enjoy the company of some children for sporadic, short bouts. I simply prefer the company of most adults.

Ah, adults. Interesting creatures. I once started to write about friendship but got onto lustier or funnier topics. Now, though, it's at the forefront of my thoughts.

In the last five months, I've been rejected three times. Once, sexually by my dear old Guyfriend; next, by the poor Date who just wasn't into me, ultimately; and now by a pretty good female friend who, it turns out, is struggling to come to terms with the fact that she's just not that into me either.

This last is bemusing, to say the least. I should clarify that there is nothing romantic between this gal and myself; nothing, in fact, romantic between me and any woman, past or present. Nope, this is just a friend who really likes the idea of me, and is confounded by the reality.

Here's a summary of our recent conversation, once it was established I did have time to talk and hello, how ya been, etc.

"Well, I've been really wanting to talk to you about something, and I haven't known how." she says.

"Well, go ahead, shoot." I say this jovially, thinking it is something unrelated to myself, of course. "It's hopefully nothing I've done to make you mad." I think this unlikely, you see.

"No, and that's what's so weird. You've probably noticed I haven't been making the effort to hang out with you or even talk to you the past month or so. I just haven't wanted to, and I can't figure it out."

Oh. In fact, I hadn't really noticed (see paragraph 1-3, busy). There had been the odd flash of I haven't seen this person for a while, but I honestly hadn't thought about it past these fleeting thoughts. I'd assumed we'd come together when we could, as friends do.

"Well...I talk a lot about business. Maybe you've wanted a break from that. I talk a lot about work and maybe you're at a point where you're happy with your work, or don't want to think about it in your off-time." I'm trying to be gracious here, and give her an out. She doesn't take it.

"No...that's not it. I just haven't been motivated to hang out with you. I think, 'Oh, I should give her a call, or we should do something...' and then I realize I don't really want to, and I feel guilty. Because I think you're a great person, I really do! I can't figure it out."

At this point, I just start giggling, and remain in a state of giggle for the rest of the conversation. It seems surreal. I like this person, partly because she is so interested in examining her own thought processes and reactions. But in this case, I believe she is overthinking the situation. I cannot and will not persuade her to like me, no matter what merits I may possess.

After drawing parallels to foods I like but have overdosed on in the past and thus needed a rest from, I let her know I'd rather have her not call or see me than build up resentment towards my existence out of friendship guilt.

And that's pretty much that. I'm not going to spend too much time or energy on convincing someone they should be stoked to be friends with me, or in trying to reassure them I'm okay, you're okay, it's all okay. Because it's not that neat, even if it is simple.

People attract and repel. I don't mean this purely in the sexual sense: it happens platonically as well. I've been attracted to people when I should have known better, and repelled by people who meant well but set my teeth on edge. That's that.

I'm learning to take rejection with grace. I prefer to think of it as dissolution, of feeling once imagined or fancies dissolving with exposure and time. My friend likes the idea of me, but not the reality. The Date thought I was hot and a good person, but found we were not as compatible as it seemed at the beginning. Guyfriend...well, he's got his own damage, but I like to think he treasures the friendship we have over the sex.

Lest you think me a trifle saintly, let me be clear. These, I understand, are generous assessments. They are made not so much to sanctify the Other; more to protect my own ego. Besides this, I do like to think positively, or barring this, pragmatically. "What is the lesson I can learn from this pain?" I'm finding is my usual reaction almost immediately following the painful surprise of rejection. And so it goes.

And lest you think me a trifle Zen, I think these people are fucking idiots, to a certain degree. Yes, even my beloved Guyfriend, who is still one of my nearest and dearest friends and is likely to remain so for life; yes, even a man who is so close to myself in temperament and tastes that we frequently and mutually refer to "our twinship"; a person for whom I have enormous respect intellectually and spiritually--yes, even this exalted figure in my life I feel, in this regard, is a complete and utter doofus.

In truth, I occasionally fantasize about him seeing the error of his ways and Developing Feelings for me at some point in the years to come, and blurting out (perhaps in the afternoon rain, oh yes) that he'd made a mistake when he said no to continuing as lovers; and me sympathetically nodding and smiling sweetly and telling him he made the right call, all those years ago. In other words, eat your fucking heart out, chump. Interesting how one can carry affection and vengeance in one's heart simultaneously.

As for my friend, I don't know what to say to her. She's a few years younger than myself, so I think her over-communication springs partly from this, partly from her fiercely psychiatric-intellectual outlook. At any rate, I shrug in her general direction: I'm interested to know you, but won't miss you much if you're gone.

The number of people who are genuinely close to me are few and far between, and even they shift over the years. I'm lucky to have them in my life when I have them, but recognize they can come and go with the currents of their life, which may not necessarily be carrying them in my direction. A Gallic shrug here, and more wine, garçon.

And yes, mostly I am that self-assured. I'm fairly pleased with myself and my own company, and think that while I'm lucky to have my friends and family, why, they're also pretty lucky to have me.

At any rate, I do find it all pretty interesting. Now, I shall go to sleep soon, but apologize again to no one in particular re: my long absence from this space. I've liked the time to be busybusy and mull things over without expression in the corners of my brain, but also am enjoying returning to the act of writing. See you soon, possums.

-Gretchen

Men Who Hate Women

This, dear Reader, was the original title of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Of course, you know this, as you are likely in the deep end of the trilogy along with several million other Canadians. I am. It took me a few hundred pages to get there, but I'm pleasantly in now.

The joy of getting into a thick, hastily printed paperback is unlike any other joy. Akin to finding a box of fudgesicles in the freezer on a blazing hot day and eat them languorously on the deck naked and staring at the uncut lawn. You didn't know you needed to do that until you did it, and you don't regret it while you're doing it and don't regret it after. Such is the pleasure afforded by Steig Larsson's novels.

There was a humourous article printed in the national newspaper last weekend, fondly lampooning the saga. For example, how everyone is always making coffee and unappealing sandwiches (meat/spread + pickle on rye is a recurring theme).

Or the dispassionate, pragmatic way people go about having (consensual) sex with one another, for no other reason than they want to at the time. Might I add people not only in their twenties, but also in their 40s and 50s. Infidelity is explained matter-of-factly as either being a condition of one relationship or the cause of its end, but provokes no floods of tears or hysterical displays.

Or the level of brandname-itis that runs throughout, not in any overtly commercial way but as mere fact. Lisbeth does not go shopping for a computer; she sets her sights on "the new Apple PowerBook G4/1.0 GHz in an aluminum case with a Power PC 7451 processor with an Altivec Velocity Engine, 960 MB RAM and a 60 GB hard drive. It had Bluetooth and built-in CD and DVD burners." It's the Rainman approach to narrative, every detail noted and shared.

It is curious and even a little tedious until the action picks up, and then you realize you've been lulled into a highly suggestible state. The rythym you've fallen into is thoroughly engrossing, like listening to someone with a calm demeanor and soft voice telling you how they exacted gruesome revenge upon those who had wronged them.

Of course, Ms. Salander is the heart of the novel, a cryptic little heroine with a flat chest and tattoos. Blomkvist is fine, but hardly a character which could drive the series. Nope, it's weird little Lisbeth that we love and identify with and admire for not feeling sorry for herself or being a victim, even as we are allowed to glimpse her self-doubt and fear. We are not told what she feels; we are told what she does and how she reacts and to a certain extent, why. It's refreshing.

She's not a flake nor a victim, not a sidekick or an ass-kicking heroine. I'm only just finished the first novel, but so far she not "on a journey" or had any revelations about who she really is, really. She has not gone shopping to make herself feel better; she goes shopping to get things she needs. And the other main characters only grocery shop, it seems. Message being that you can't make sandwiches from nothing.

Even if the series is several years old by now, it seems a timely antidote to the fictional women that dominate our cinema screens. There's the sexily scowling, invincible heroine taking on all evil-doers with physically impossible (and apparently painless) stunts; the domestically-demanding, skirted Wife/Girlfriend who just loves to go shopping with the gals when she's not berating her Manchild; and her sister, the independent city gal who is supposed to be defined by her job though we never see her do it or hear her refer to it in any detail, as she's too busy gushing on about how all the good men are taken, etc. A jockey-sized, borderline autistic computer-hacker is just what we need.

Having gone to see La Belle Jolie in the instantly forgettable Salt on matinee impulse with Honey the other day, I walked out saying how it'd be nice to see a movie heroine who looks like she's been in a few fights. How about a stocky, fit middle-aged broad with a few scars, maybe even a broken nose or chipped teeth? No make-up, thoughtlessly tied pony-tail, sensible shoes, clothes that allow her to move uninhibited, and most of all, believable fighting chops that leave her sweating and panting and probably too sore to slip into a Galiano gown to drink champagne all night. That's right: someone who looks like a middle-aged, possibly lesbian yoga enthusiast. Why not? It shall have to be my creation.

In the meantime, I'm a trifle miffed that the Swedish movie version of TGWTDT, which I've heard is excellent and had rented to do prime wallowing veg-out to tonight, is not actually in my possession. The wrong DVD was placed in the case, so I can either watch season 1 of Mad Men or start book 2. I start book 2.

Signing off from her place in her 2010 queen-sized, Tempur-Pedic OriginalBed with crumpled white cotton sheets and bright green pillow cases,

GR

ps Holy shit, my bed's Swedish!

Hebrew Mamita

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tc0c-n5PTJo&feature=related

Check out the kosher sizzle of spoken wordster Vanessa Hidary. Hell yeah.

A Male Taxonomy

Good evening. I am laying in bed about to watch a movie, the tiniest bit fretful as I pulled something small but painful in my knee today in my warm-up skipping. I was hobbled during class and could only punch from a static position and bear the brunt of my sparring partner's kicks.

I'm hoping when I wake up tomorrow it will be healed. This sort of optimism made me laugh at my own maleness--optimism being inherently male, dontcha know. And then I got to thinking about some of the men I have known, and how one goes about categorizing them.

Guyfriend once remarked on there being two types of single women in our age group in his city.

"There's yoga ladies and pet ladies, Rutte. That's it. Sure, there are women our age apart from those, but they're all married or divorced and with child and struggling to stay afloat or career gals, so they're not wanting to date. Not exactly looking for yuks, as they say. That leaves pet ladies and yoga ladies."

At the time, I'd smugly pointed out that I did not yoga, I box and kickbox. Guyfriend stared pointedly at my two dogs, one which was fixated on its frisbee, the other joyfully trying to plant his front paws deep within Guyfriend's groin. On the deck, the cat yowled rustily.

"You're so a pets lady. No question about it."

Point taken. In my defense, none of the animals are allowed to sleep in my bed any longer. This is truly the mark of a pets lady, a bed filled with fur and muddy paw imprints.

Anyway, this conversation about the ladies begs the question: what about the two categories of men? Guyfriend sidled away from this conversation, perhaps not wanting to be studied and classified. (Too bad.)

Let me just say that I believe there are two categories of people in general: those who categorize people in one of two categories, and those who do not. Buh-whum-BUM! But seriously, folks...there are two categories of males. Caveat, caveat: I've added several sub-categories to the first one.

It is my hope you will recognize some of the classification information as pertinent to your species of lover/brother/friend. Whether you ultimately choose to shoot, gut and tie the creature to the hood of your car is up to you.

Category 1: The Manchilds

Subcategory a: The Obsessive Collector/Hobbyist

Ah, perpetual youth! Mischevious imp, gleam in your eye as you survey toys and candy and material promises, oh my. Understandable when you're four, off-putting in 30 years time.

This type has either been over-indulged as a child, or cruelly denied all his callow heart ever desired. The result is the same, however: an obsession as an adult with amassing things. Tools, outdoor gear, ATVs, traditional bows, dirtbikes, mountain bikes, boards for surf and snow and skate. If you're attached to one of this ilk, you likely have one or all of these items in your home.

I do, as the X was this. Fifteen months after official break-up, my house still contains welders and large tool boxes and climbing gear and wheels for all manner of bikes and a skidoo...and...let's see, there's even a two foot half-built model airplane made of balsa wood with a little gasoline engine. I kid you not.

It's all still here because he lives in a city where he cannot afford to store it, but he's working on it. And I'm a goddamn patient woman. Anyway, he's this type. Entitled to pursue as many hobbies they can (or cannot) afford money- or time-wise, addicted to instant gratification. (This type, of course, is not native to the male of the species, as evidenced by these head-scratching SITC women of yore who shop compulsively for shoes/tchotchkes/whatever. But I date men, so reserve comment for them in this post.)

Subcategory b: BroMan

This closely-related sub can be easily identified by their referring to friends as "bros" and near constant fist-bumping. And beer orthodoxy (here it's Lucky lager or else).

They're usually a minor Collector or Dedicated Hobbyist, but live on the verge of poverty as all those wicked trips to Vegas and baggies of weed really add up. Chances are they feel most comfortable running in a tight cluster of other Manchilds, watching hockey together and opining on their dream boats (like, really, these guys tend to love boat engines).

Women are generally desired but unsettling. Females their own age are at best uninterested in long conversations which invariably start with, "Hey dude, d'ya remember when we...", so they gravitate to much younger women who have yet to form strong opinions or interests of their own. These gals are deemed easy-going. Sigh. Often these Manchilds are quite attractive, but are fatally paralyzed by a lack of empathy and imagination.

On a side note, the only close female relationship they typically have is with their mother. Yes, they're live-out mommaboys. To paraphrase Waylon Jennings: Mommas, don't let your babies grow up to be mommaboys. It's weird. My first boyfriend was a mommaboy, poor guy. I mean, she was unironic English as well, how rough is that?

Subcategory c: The Naughty Boy

Okay, the Collectors and BroMan may be expensive or perplexing, but they are at least fun if you pick up some of their lingo and roll with it. Not so the over-ripe Naughty Boy, most repellent of creatures.

A boyish manner may be tolerable or even a little cute when a man (and yourself) is floating through the 20s. Once the behaviour creeps into the 30s, however, it should be stamped out without mercy. Have you ever squirmed in the presence of a whiny man in his 40s or even 50s with his face set in a secretly delighted I've-been-a-bad-little-boy moue? Gross.

The only thing grosser is when mummywife is also present, and they bicker back and forth on some banal topic in a nightmarishly placid way that lends credence to the Freudian theory of the Oedipus complex, and she ends the conversation by sighing and smiling and rolling her eyes patiently boys-will-be-boys and he smirks and minces yes-we-shall and I puke a little in the back of my throat. For. God's. Sake. People. And this is what passes for "light conversation" with them. My stars. Personally, I'd be mortified to act this way in public, and I once danced topless on top of a semi-truck at a bush party. In my defense, I was 18 and drunk, but you people, you're perpetually, agelessly fucked.

Subcategory d: The Lost Boy

This sub is trixie, as he can be devilishly charming, sophisticated, intelligent, sexy, a stout friend and gifted conversationalist. (In a word: Guyfriend.) Be vigilant, as they are the most dangerous Manchilds of all because they have so much to recommend them, and initially appear so very interested in the women they choose. Beware.

Allergic to responsibility, the Lost Boy equates it to conformity and complacency. Don't try to tie these bohemians down with your staid concepts of stability, maturity and commitment. They're living the dream, man. I admire their adherence to this dream, but look askance upon their fickle and misguided emotional manoeuvres.

I object most to the self-deception. They avoid love by speaking of it most highly, and are practising Romantics in the worst sense of the word. Such lofty ideals allow them to run through women at a fast pace: Oh, she's great! She could be the One...oh, she slightly irritated me, or looked a little flustered this afternoon, or misprounced the word "hegemony"--there bursts my bubble. Next!

Discarding women and justifying it on the pretext of feelings-just-not-there seems cold, until you realize just how thick a protective shell they've created for themselves. They're terrified of mature, imperfect, occasionally inconstant love. It can be hard. There's always the chance it will dissipate or shift into neutral for a while, or that the things you prized about yourself or herself are eventually called into question. Romance is so much simpler. Dizzying passion, while fleeting, can be very certain. So that's their fall-back position: sexual adventure, emotional cowardice.

In old-fashioned times, these men were called rakes; later playboys; in not so distant times, players/playahs. However, as they age they deteriorate into slimy, deluded old sluts clinging to an outdated notion of self while still searching for (youthful, angelic yet intellectual) female perfection. Dreaming the dream, man. Bitterness, regret, bad teeth and chronic back pain result from not taking proper care of themselves in their youth, so they're best avoided.

I think that exhausts my knowledge of the Manchilds. On a simpler note:

Category 2: Men

Men are not macho, tyrannical or overly stern. They don't pout to get what they want. They're not control freaks, or abusers, and they don't have all the answers or know how to do everything. And they're not pussies, either.

What they are (and I've had very limited exposure, mind you) are patient, kind, interested in people and fallible. And they don't pretend to not know how to clean a kitchen or bathroom.

They don't automatically withdraw into icy silence, get furious or curl into fetal position when challenged, preferring to ask questions instead to determine if they have just cause to be irked, or if they misinterpreted or misheard a comment.

If you're at a party together and he's getting tired, he looks to see if you're having a good time; if yes, he decides that maybe you should both stay a little while longer without him shooting pained, desperate looks or visibly sulking in the corner.

I know, it sounds crazy. But I've met one, honest. I think. Keep you posted.

Pet lady out--

Revenge of the Sithren

Hiya folks. I write to you feeling a mite creaky, following a weekend of cavorting with children and man. A BBQ I went to on Saturday was going on regular pleasant enough. I was managing to appear normal in front of my Honey's acquaintances and friends, for a while at least.

Then Honey started refreshing my drink for me, and handing me large amounts of Crown Royal on ice, and I started to get a mite feisty. Then two small boys appeared with plastic light sabres, and I was like, no way, and they were like, yeaaaaah, uh-huh it's STAR WARS TIME, and I was like woo-hoo, bring it bitches!

We then proceeded to chase each other around like maniacs. The older one had honour, but the smaller one would just huck his plastic haft at my legs when I wasn't looking. To be fair, to be only given a haft and not a full sword is mega-lame. I might be angered, were I a small child trying to scowl convincingly like a Sith.

Unsurprisingly, I now have giant, light-sabre shaped bruises on my right thigh and a constellation of smaller ones on my shins. I wonder what the worthy adversaries look like. I was careful not to actually strike them but laughed loudly every time they accidentally hit their own hands or fell down. I will be World's Best Mother, if it ever comes to that.

As a party-goer, I likely became a little obnoxious. I demanded cake as the evening drew to a close. Everyone else had forgotten about it, but I could see that damn ice cream cake every time I opened the freezer to get more ice. Everyone else was on beer, had no need of ice, but I would reach in for a handful and have that cake mock me in its plastic dome. On outing the cake, I think the others were grateful, at least they tore into it with the alacrity of starving wolves. Luckily, my date and I went home after only one round of "Sippy-cup: the Drinking Game!" I was already lickered up nicely, I didn't want to get punchy. At least not in public.

Apparently, when I drink rye I like to practise Brazilian jujitsu as a means of foreplay. Ooooo, I feel frisky, why don't you get your sexy ass over here and let me leg-lock you for, oh, 15-20 minutes? I do not recall the particulars, but apparently I was being coy. Honey apologized profusely for the thumb-sized bruise on my forearm the next day; I dead-eyed him.

"Look, babe, I wanted to be dominated. Look at my legs (covered in huge kickboxing and plastic light-sabre bruises). I can take a litle tussle. I was begging for tussle. And I got me some fine tussle. I just can't believe you let me go on for 20 minutes...Did I really leg-lock you that long?"

Apparently yes. Purrrrrrr....Later, on my beloved CBC radio, I heard Bonnie Raitt talk about seeing Howlin' Wolf play live and going ga-ga for him in spirit because he was a magnetic mountain of a man. "Every strong woman wants to be dominated by a strong man," she rasped, and chuckled at her pronouncement. I agree with Ms. Bonnie. On occasion I like to feel overpowered by my loving, sexy, good-humoured mate. Not always, not even often, but once in a while it is incredibly hot to feel physically out-matched by someone strong that I trust with my body. Of course, in my case I like to make them earn it.

I couldn't figure out why my neck hurt on one side, either, until Honey demonstrated how hard I was pressing one side of my face against his cheek. At one point he just had to grab my head and push it to the other side. He recounted this with a mix of awe, pleasure and mild confusion. He is so good-natured I'm in a state of constant rut, just to see if he'll oblige.

Apparently, it's too late to play demure so I figure I'll keep going full steam-ahead. You see, I started the relationship completely by accident. I was convinced I was leaving town to go to school far away, and was likely not coming back, so heyo-hiya, let's just have a good time. I could let it all hang out because I wasn't invested in the outcome, beyond getting laid and having some summertime yuks. Then my departure got called as a bluff, and here I was two months into dating the sweetest man, and durn if I wasn't a girlfriend when I'd swore an oath not to be this year. And damned if I didn't mind it after all.

In short, acting like one is leaving town shortly freed me up to be myself, both with Honey and my friends. I've never had better friendships nor a better mate. So go figure. Carpe fuckin' diem! Now I go to rest my weary, sated, bruizied bones.

Buenas noches, chiquitas
Gretchita

Be-YOO-ti-ful, Bouncy, Birthday, Girl!

Greetings and blessings, my children. Still swollen, to the point where any moment I expect a small geyser of crimson tidings to come shooting out my snatch: Why, hello there!

But it is not unpleasant, or rather it does not bother me, as I've had such a good weekend. Say it with me, pets: gooooooooood. So what has been good about it, you ask?

1. Expected visitor

My Honey came up for the weekend. Since we met on April 25, we've been trading weekends back and forth. Two hours' drive apart is not an insurmountable distance and a pleasant journey.

On a side note, I find it interesting how this man is steadily sneaking his way into my affections. I went from "You'll do, sailor..." to "Okay, I like you." to "Hmm, I actually don't want to 'see' other people, isn't that funny?" in the space of about 7 weeks. Now in Week 10, gosh darn it if I ain't getting happily earnest. Borderline corny. But he's so fuckin' sweet! I'm finally old enough to appreciate a kind hearted man (who is also tall, good-looking, sexy, funny, etc.).

2. Unexpected visitors

A Danish family of five landed on my front door this weekend, with a day's notice. My X's old pal Lars arrived with his wife and two-year old son and his inlaws in a giant RV, and darn if they ain't the nicest folks. Lars came to sort and pack up a big box of his stuff we'd been storing for him the last 6 years, and has promised to inspire the X to do likewise.

Honey's pal also came by. I like Honey's friends, they are part of the Genteel Redneck genus native to this Island. Today, this one and I wrestled out an old ATV the X had gotten stuck in some swampy section of our land a few years ago. Into the truck it went to get fixed up for Honeypal's child, and I breathed a sigh of relief to have it off the property. Mutual benefit.

I also narrowly avoided falling flat on my face in the swamp mud helping to hump the quad over logs, for which I am also grateful, though my wellies did inevitably overflow. Later on in the day, we went to the lake and drank cool beers in Honeypal's speedboat and jumped in and out of the water, all in moderation. Lovely.

3. Missing visitor

I usually have my period whenever there's fun to be had. Not this time, it's decided to hold off a couple of days later than usual, so thanks! See you tomorrow.

4. Presents and tidings

Tomorrow your little Gretchie is officially All Grown Up. I'm turning 37, which is decidely an adult age. No messing around in the mid-30s any more; I'm joining the cohort of late-30s now. In truth, it feels puzzling (like the Talking Heads song As Days Go By: How did I get here/This is not my beautiful wife!?) but also quite fine. I'm surrounded by good people and beautiful surroundings, and while I may be a bit beefier than usual I'm also as strong as a small milk-fed ox. Plus, I don't recall ever being happier.

And if that weren't enough, imagine my cup runnething over when Honey and a Dane carried over a giant cardboard box and placed it on the lawn in front of me. My heart skipped in confusion--was this an outlandish, vulgar television? (I quit 8 months ago and don't miss it). Then I realised it was a shiny new BBQ, and oh yay! My old beast is small and destroyed and aggressive, as it's missing a hinge and tries to bite the chef every time its mouth is pried open. Bad tempered old beast, time to put you down.

Summers, I subsist entirely on the holy trinity of the season: steamed vegetable, fresh fruit and barbecued meats. Mmmm, salty fleshproduct searing in the open air. This is good present from man.

Honey then achieved another level by not only assembling the damn thing right then and there, but doing so without losing his mind/temper over the course of two hours. This is good man. We then had a jolly big BBQ right away, me and the Danes and Honey and Honeypal, and wasn't it the nicest time?

I also got a camera from my ma, so I can start recording my present happiness before my life achieves cosmic balance and veers into a giant vat of shit. Knock on woodish night-table.

It is funny how things change from week to week. For example, several days ago I received a small, soft package in my mailbox. I noted it was from my longtime old friend/penpal turned sexyback lover turned into what is this now?=Guyfriend.

Inside was a maniacally triumphant note, proclaiming he had found my missing panties while cleaning out his van, and here they were, and I should be chuffed! I was instructed to take it as an omen that now my summer was going to really take off! Woo-hoo!

Sure enough, here was an item of clothing matching a description I'd once given of panties gone missing during one of our steamy encounters. These were: black-check. Lacy-check. Mine-nrrrrrrrrrrh! (buzzer sound)

I burst out a horrified laugh. I checked to make sure they were clean, which they were, mercifully. Guyfriend's mother must have laundered them. Then I got offended, and set them aside, and proceeded upon my business for a couple of days. Take a few days before responding, I counseled.

Of course, the only thing that happened over a couple of days was I got more offended. Was I that generic an experience for him? Did he not pause to think about why my panties might be in his van when all our escapades were in hotel rooms? Did he not recall how fabulous my panties were the night we first got together, versus this bagged-out skankycheap thong likely belonging to some forgotten twentysomething dumpy artslag he'd fucked in his van following some show or happening? Was it all a blur of cock-sucking hilarity for him? Answers to those questions: Yes, no, no, yes. Naturally, I found this offensive.

I banged off a long biting email to him. My internet connection kept failing, so I saved it in a word file to send later. I didn't. In the end, I kept it short. On the back of his note, I scrawled in bold black Jiffy marker: No, thank you. Not mine. WOW.

I think this makes the point quite succinctly. I mailed off the note and panties to Europe, to his new artist-in-residence home. Good riddance. I then blessed the occasion.

See, despite myself, I'd harboured a few shadowy feelings for him. Despite his eventual, outright rejection of me as a lover and occasional act of insensitivity since, I'd pocketed away fond memories of him and even the faintest of hopes that maybe one day, who knows...This, however, was Fate knocking me up one side of my head and the other. Ah, I see. Yes, I get it. Not for me. Oh. Thanks!

It is not so good to feel foolish for having cared for someone who didn't care back. But it is good to be disburdened of that caring, and to shrug my shoulders and say, well, it was what I needed at the time. I still have fond memories, but I am finally freed of any desire or hope for creating new ones.

In conclusion, to feel foolish and be somewhat amused by it is not a bad place to find oneself at the age of 37. To feel foolish and be somewhat amused while surrounded by considerate friends and supportive family and a kind-hearted beau who thinks I'm Triple-A Champion, hands down, well this the best place of all.

Tomorrow, I shall eat my cake and toast past folly and present luck, and thanks my lucky stars to be alive yet another birthday. Not bad at all!

Adieu, Gretchie

Fat 'n' Happy

Hullo my friendly freaks, and I hope all is well in your land. Myself, I'm feeling...well, I'm taking up too much space in my current manifestation. Every inch of my being has decided to extend itself outwards another inch. My clothes do not fit. My skinny jeans mock me from where they lie crumpled on a corner. I am an engorged pupa, ready to split. I'm hoping it's PMS.

Other than feeling like the ominous, giant Mr. StayPuff from Ghostbusters, things are well. Perhaps too well. I frown to think that me content equals me portly. Last year at this time I was pouring my sexual frustration into long runs, and had little appetite due to emotional chaos and desire and searing heat. I was a lithe, lean, sarcastic machine.

Nowadays, I'm borderline placid. Part of me misses my reliably caustic view on things (although my sister has obliquely indicated she does not). Being regularly serviced has also apparently awakened my other appetite, hence the cheerful stuffing of one's face...Dear Reader, I fear I am growing dull and lumpen.

I do believe this is a common terror facing most of us at this stage of our lives, when our days are enlivened by such things as picking out a different scented Method hand soap at Shoppers or trying on an uncharacteristically garish bathing suit. Crazy!

Of course, not having any children I am spared the heartbreaking banality of parenthood, the horrid songs and platitudes and attention to bowel movements and competitive mummying. For this, yes, I am grateful.

You, mothers, you have my sympathy. Never before in history has there been a time where so many women were this emancipated and educated, and yet felt compelled to join a cult of mummyhood that appears, frankly, moronic to an outside observer.

Observe: female with Masters in Comparative Literature breaking into a light sweat trying to find tickets online to the Wiggles (oh, monstrous). See: lady who once ran a successful small business employing 12 people now rapturously sermonizing on the dangers of BPA in sippycups while breastfeeding her 3-year old. Oh yes, you see them too--perhaps even are one.

What is wrong with you, I think. Do you feel guilty about having it all, and so invent fresh stresses, new challenges to rise to and measure yourself against? Cut yourself some slack. I fully intend to, if ever I procreate.

Hark back with me. When I was a child, I wasn't treated as a little treasure whose every whim must be tended to, or at least considered. On the contrary, I was made to work as soon as I can remember. Being put to work, aka given responsibility for manual labour, was probably the best thing to build my self-esteem while not losing sight of my own relative unimportance in intellectual or emotional matters. Why the heck would my mum ask me for my thoughts on moving to another town, or my opinion of her new boyfriend? I didn't know much of anything because I was a child.

Rather than be made ashamed of my own ignorance and insignificance, I was allowed to enjoy it. As long as I fulfilled my duties, did well in school and didn't hurt myself or others grievously, I could do what I pleased. As far as mum was concerned, that was my business. She might warn me not to do X or to make sure I did Y; if I chose to ignore that advice, well that was just too bad for me.

Mostly though, I got to figure out childhood physics like gravity and friction by myself. Note to self: do not fall out of tree. Reminder: tie up shoelaces before sprinting down gravel road. Etc. Valuable lessons I got to learn firsthand, with little or no interference.

An adherence to ignoring one's brood as much as possible was Parenting not too long ago, or maybe just my experience. It certainly seemed like those were more lackadaisical times when children (bless their hearts) were not taken so damn seriously, and mostly ignored, and everyone seemed the happier for it.

I know the response: you don't understand! You don't know what it's like these days, the other parents are CRAZY. Um, no, I do see that. In fact, perhaps the greatest obstacle to me wanting children (other than the obvious mess and expense and totality of it) is the fact that I find many parents completely gross and off-putting. The thought of joining their cult fills me with sheer terror.

If I overcame my other reservations and bred, I'd probably just choose not to hang out with these batshit crazy A-types, highly educated white ladies who attended Lilith Fair once upon a time and never recovered their senses. I'd befriend immigrant Chinese women, as they don't seem to take any shit from their kids and have an admirable work ethic. Who knows?

Such are my thoughts on modern parenthood. I intended to write about something completely different, of course, but got lured onto this tangent. Next week, I shall share the tale of Panties in the Mail. Oh, boy.

Cheers, Gretchie