Impenetrability! That's What I Say!

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less."

"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean different things."

"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master – that's all."

Alice was too much puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again.

"They've a temper, some of them – particularly verbs, they're the proudest – adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs – however, I can manage the whole lot! Impenetrability! That's what I say!"

-Lewis Carroll

The more I pass through life, the more relevant I find Alice's wanderings in wonderland and through the looking glass.

Exhibit A: Impenetrability & coherence.

I've fancied myself as fairly deft with language these last 20-plus years, since coming out of my own humpydumpy teenage shell and giving voice to the thoughts coursing through my head like so many ginger-bottomed greyhounds.

I've been glib enough to be a minor hit at dinner parties, piss people off at times, and even be called "insightful" on occasion. (This last is a Ha! moment for me, as I usually feel fradulent and alien on a daily, if not hourly basis.)

As fradulent or insecure as I may be feeling, I've always been able to compose my thoughts and spit out something approaching coherence. A neat stream of baccyjuice banging into the nearest spittoon with a resounding Twaack!--ayuh, 'notha zinger.

Nowadays when I open my mouth, what is likely to fall out is a lump of cold congealed spaghetti, strands fused together in an impenetrable mess. It does not Twaack! pithily. It's like, I dunno...hmmm...I think maybe what I'm doing is...ummm...aka PLOP.

I conclude it's okay not to have a conclusion handy at all times. It's passable not to know what one is feeling or why, not to dissect every nervous flutter or anxiety immediately and stick little pins into every part, naming it Thus and So and Opinion. And of course, examining the underlying pathology and discussing prognoses with emphatic certainty. Gosh, no. It sounds like a lot of work.

Comparatively, PLOP is a pretty little sound. Kind of lazy and reassuring and human. So I'll keep plopping and chugging, and maybe one day I'll just shut up for a while and smile serenely and people will think I'm wise. Yah, a plan it sounds.

Exhibit B: Impenetrability & trauma

An acquaintance has suffered a small hemorrhagic stroke. Thankfully, she continues to astound everyone with her progress. A remarkable woman, only 47 and very physically fit.

It is not comforting to think a genetic twitch may result in sloppy wiring of one tiny section of a brain, and that all the healthy living in the world can't prevent it from one day misfiring. However, perhaps the consequences would've been graver for her if she were not in otherwise supreme health.

The stroke occured in the part of the brain which governs the use of language. Think about language stored inside your skull in a pantry: here's a bin of verbs, a box of adjectives, a tasty stack of adverbs (eat those slow/ly, they say).

She has misplaced her nouns. Apparently, this is not uncommon when damage occurs in the parietal lobe. Construct a simple sentence, like "This juice is refreshing, and I like it." But you can't connect a word to the juice you hold in your hand, and have to ask someone for the name of the object. Imagine re-learning your own native tongue like you were a foreigner in your own head. This is real impenetrability.

I don't know how she and her family are dealing with this. I can only imagine they are all grateful she's doing as well as she is, and dealing with noun-loss with grace and humour. Surely it must be perplexing, frustrating at times...but surely it could be much, much worse.

Exhibit C: Impenetrability & penetration.

On a lighter note, a word or several on dating norms. I am not fluent in norms. I was never an orthodox dater even when it was what I was supposedly doing all those years ago. I either just fooled around with someone in a liquored-up state and that was that, or became (self) anointed as someone's Girlfriend very quickly.

The last 10 years (10!) have seen me in LTR mode, and more recently, scratching a long-time itch with a buckfuddy in sporadic, linen-degrading bursts of hotelling in the GTA.

However, if you've been paying attention, I have recently embarked on a series of Real Dates (when not hiding in purdah with a fever blister). It is nice (oh, making out is so nice) but a bit startling in its newness to me, especially in the many rules governing when to call and how to make plans and of course, the sexual roadmap. I'm navigating it in leaps and bounds.

There's the added complication of an urban reunion very shortly with my lover, the question mark. We recently became peevish with one another over email before declaring a truce, and have been friendly but circumspect since. I'm curious to see whether intellectual jousting, emotional recrimination or sexual confirmation (or a combination of all three) ensues when next we meet.

I don't know the etiquette of messing around with two men, albeit in different degrees and in separate cities (which surely counts for something, like allotting them each territory is a sign of respect or something, sigh). The good girl is dismayed, the real girl says why not? At this point, the Talk (you know the Talk, I don't have to explain it) has occurred with neither. Surely this lets me off the hook; as long as I remain cryptic all penetration is fair game. But I'm a little uneasy with this logic.

Luckily, I'm not left alone to stumble around like freshly unearthed mole-rat; I have friends to advise me.

"Don't give it up too soon", cautions my 24-year old friend on the sex in dating (who also tells me her perspective is changing now that she's "getting older"--yes, she is sincerely adorable).

"Go get what you want, do whatever you want as long as you play safe!" urges another gal, this one in her early 40s and fully supportive of my confused, naive, slutty longings.

"What does your heart say?" asks the dear best friend, giving me the lesbian perspective.

Hmm, did I hear a PLOP? I dunno.
Keep you posted as I fall down this hole,
Gretchen in Wonderbra

I Claim Thee, Mancold.

Hello everyone. I have a mancold. In the final stages of my fever blister, I'd been feeling hopeful, if a little run down and pleasantly delirious. I'd been avoiding re-booking date #3 until I could be sure there was no trace of contagion upon my face. Now I have a nose which alternately stuffs and runs, a bit of a scratchy throat and general malaise.

I'm throwing myself into the spirit of the thing, and claiming the Mancold as my own. I bleat most pathetically and stubbornly. I eat chocolate cake out of sheer spite for myself. I had a bath this evening in which I dumped a shot of Vick's VapoSteam, and now feel like a greasy lozenge. Playing the invalid is perversely fun, if mainly for my own benefit.

I'm dosing myself with rented movies, and have seen many good ones; even the iffy ones have been interesting. And of course, I love watching trailers. Have you ever rented a movie with someone who skipped the trailers? Or who wanted to go late to a movie theatre to miss them? So shocking, it's like skipping adolescence. It disrupts the natural order. Even the bad trailers--no, especially the bad trailers--are incredible. The Voice, for one thing, that one dude who does all the trailers. Ah hello, my old friend...

Last night I watched "Away We Go", which was good. It's rare to see 30-something couples portrayed with humour and realism and affection, and who don't have all their shit together, not by a long shot. Makes me feel in the company of misfits, albeit fictional ones.

This is a very dull post, as it's been a dull week, full of tedious things like car trouble and aggravated finances and laundromats and cleaning kitchen cupboards. (Old pans, I resolve to recycle thee! I'm claiming "Thee" as well, apparently.)

My Valentine's was unlovely, I was in full scab mode and perhaps chose unwisely in watching Ashley Judd succumb to suicidal paranoia in "Bug". Jeez. I got a V-Day email from my lover, but even that I couldn't really enjoy, as it came late in the day and with the whiff of duty versus inspiration. Better than nothing, though, that I do recognize.

It is testament to my boredom that I took a bath tonight. Frankly, I usually only do this if I am truly cold or filthy, and can have a nice glass of wine and an interesting chat to keep me from feeling like I'm making soup with myself. I used to have a ritual with the ex, who loved baths. I would always join him in the bathroom, sitting fully clothed on the covered toilet reading the paper, bantering, just keeping him company. Funny the things you miss.

Maybe instead of looking for the One, I should look for Ones that suit certain rooms in my house. The x would be my bathroom boy; my lover could take up residence in the bedroom, a date or two could hang out in my kitchen or living room. And a psychoanalyst in my crawlspace to complete me.

On that note, snuffle and good night. As I am almost completely healed, I intend to have a mildly romantic weekend which is sure to lift my spirits.

Adieu, G

Take that, Ms. I Heart Dating!

Quick update. By all rights, I should be out smiling seductively and looking thoughtfully and "accidentally" touching knees with a hot rugged man. However, after that self-satisfied post about how greeeeeeeat it was to date, the Fates took note. They looked up from their weaving, dour bitches, and agreed I needed some balance. A plague 'pon the Gretchie, in the form of facial ulceration!

Egad, a cold sore. A small one, mind you, tastefully tucked in the corner of my mouth. But definitely not a beauty mark, decidedly not a mere angry blemish or an ingrown hair. A yucky, nasty cold sore. Date off, a flu invented to give me suitable time to heal. Too soon to present myself as one of the Infected, don't you think?

Euphemism alert: I am henceforth to refer to this as "a fever blister", as there's something dirtysexy about that synonym, whereas "cold sore" brings to mind some plain dirty old man with a runny nose trying to kiss all the girls at Christmas dinner (by way of explanation, I grew up half-Polish).

It started last night, while I was at the movies settling down with popcorn. The obscene salt count took me from ominous tingle to out-and-out blister in about 4 minutes flat. After the movie I wrangled a prescription for Valtrex and paid a visit to my local pharmacy (thank you Shopper's, for being open till midnight).

Incidentally, the young, nerdycute pharmacist was the same one I'd picked up fluconazole from a couple of months earlier. Wow, a persistent yeast infection and some form of herpes, what a catch! At least he wasn't there when I picked up the Nix during the headlice yuletide invasion. All I need now are my hemorrhoids to flare up. The next date I can bring one of those little inflatable pillows to sit on most daintily, tee hee.

I find it amusing that women are traditionally considered the more delicate sex. Let's see: in addition to the ear waxing, snotting, vomiting, pissing, shitting and farting we share with the bros, we bras also are prone to ovulating (discharge, whadafuck?), menstruating, bloating, yeasting (cottage cheese, whadafuck whadafuck?) and bladdery infecting (pissing blood, ow holy fuck!). Plus many of us get preggo and give birth, with all the attendant nasties that come with that. So buddy there, with the lame "some times I get a boner at bad times; sometimes I have sexy dreams and make a little messytime" don't even start with the woman in your life. We're pretty gross.

Anyway, as according to my sources fever blisters take 7-10 days to heal, I am plotting date #3 for sometime late next week. Yay, just in time for my period. I'll be happy to get my mouth back, however.

Big wet kisses to you,
G

Year of the Tigress

Gretchie Greetings, hope everyone is slipping and sliding through the last of the ox shit into the year of the tigger (are we there yet?). May he bounce on his tail most pleasingly and purr and meow for you.

So far, things are looking up. You may recall several weeks ago a rant on the various ephemeral males in my life, and how golly gee wouldn't I just like a date with a physically present man who was neither prepubescent nor decrepit.

Well golly gee, didn't I get my date? Two, actually. Third on its way.

As you might imagine, the concept of dating for me is like looking at a periodic table. Old but strangely familiar; full of baffling symbols and polarities. In the last decade I've had one long-term steady relationship with very little romance (even by LTR standards), and in the last year a couple of mad hotel trysts with a longtime penpal (hothothot, but very little quaint). No dates.

I attribute that to several factors, not the least that my small town is rife with the very old and the very young, and not the very middle as is yours truly. After being asked out a few times by the dude who asks everyone out (to no avail, he projects an air of desperate nonchalance), and a hilarious miscommunication with an old man who really should've known better, I resigned myself to not having much luck with 100-mile dating. I'd get my male pheromone fix at the boxing club, invest in batteries, wait for my peripatetic lover to come through my time zone, etc.

Yes, I also recognize that a kickboxing entrepreneur with a sarcastic sense of humour and fastidious tastes might be a little intimidating to most men...but, well, fuck them anyway. If I wanted to date a pussy, I'd date pussy.

So lo and behold, I was pleasantly surprised to encounter and (after what I'm told is an appropriate interval of 3 days) be asked out by a dude around my age, taller, full head of hair, displaying an ability to hold a conversation, earthiness, wry sense of humour, great shoulders and promising body. Good face. Very good. I'm catholic in my tastes, and am attracted to rugged men. I'll take a Clive Owen or Daniel Craig over a pretty boy any day. I'm probably the only gal who developed a crush on ear-chopping psycho Michael Madsen in Reservoir Dogs.

Anyway, the verdict is that I like this dating. It's fun. It's quaint and cute and has a tickle of anticipation to it. It's the promise of dawn, or the dawn of promise, or whatever makes sense in that things are unknown. You get to discover a person, and in turn be discovered.

I understand this may be a very optimistic spin on things, and that one may get jaded fast after awkward or dull dates. But with two under my belt, all I can speak to is the fun part.

It's like watching a good audition, one that gets progressively better as the night goes on. Waiting for the red flags, shoes to drop, etc. and instead becoming intrigued as attitudes and manners and tastes are revealed that not only are respectable, but downright cool. More so because they're not feigned, nor echoing mine to impress me. A natural ease with one's self is dead-sexy.

So much so that I was compelled to kiss him, and kiss him I did, and it was good. I've grown wise enough in my advanced years to truly appreciate what all's contained in a good kiss.

Half of you might already have skipped ahead many chapters and married me off happily ever after; the other half (the married gals) may just be giddy with the prospect of new romance (don't fuck it up, follow the rules!). Me, I've decided to take a different tack.

After many years of wanting to define and predict and control, getting emotionally wrought with little return, being a Do-Right Woman and getting downright obsessive over lovelovelove and Making It Work--well, I've decided the tiger year is one of relaxed pleasure.

A tiger is just a large cat, after all, and if any of you are fellow spinsters then surely you also possess a cat. My own is completely selfish, gives love-bites to get attention, sleeps two-thirds of the time, and is supreme at being comfortable. In return, he gets well fed and patted and adored and his freedom. Not a bad role model.

It may seem risky or just morally perverse for me to go after what pleases me without protecting others (we girls are indoctrinated with Be Nice so early). I certainly don't want to harm anyone, or be deceitful or cruel.

I do want my own pleasure. This doesn't automatically equate monogamy or a Relationship, nor does it negate it; however, it won't be determined unilaterally by me. If someone wants to make me exclusive to himself, then he will have to articulate and demand that all on his very own i.e. without careful or insistent prompting.

In short, I want to be pursued. It may sound regressive but I wonder how well being straightforward and relentless has served me in the past (conclusion=not so well).

Sisters, I've made it too easy for men to take me for granted in the past. They sense a relationship is wanted, which gives them the confidence or indifference to play dumb and get their good times in until the Conversation is initiated. It's a very smart play, actually. (Contrary to popular belief, boys ain't dumb.) I'm going to try it out for myself.

I'm interested to see what happens when I restrain my impulses and refuse to grow a set on their behalf. It takes balls to demand a commitment, and I admire cojones these days more than any other attribute.

In the meantime, wish me luck in Tigerland. I'll avoid the packs of hyenas and lionesses and wild pigs, and try not to choke on my own hairballs. Purrrrrrrrrrrr.

Let's Get Metaphysical, Physical!

You have to belt that out to the '80s gem from Olivia Newton-John. Let us pause a moment and silently praise the ON-J, for appearing both in Grease and Xanadu. Amen.

Rather than write the usual sex and love ramblings, topics on which I verge on the obsessive, I'd like to try and articulate some thoughts I've been having on time. Namely, how we interpret time as a linear phenomenon. (Disclosure: I'm a half-assed intellectual, so don't expect any revelatory thesis to be explained clearly. I'll likely dead-end, stop and start a few times as I explore this topic.)

This topic came up several days ago with my most faithful conversationalist on abstract topics, CBC Radio 1. The program 'Ideas' had interviews with two physicists from Oxford on the notion of space-time. I admit much of what was said went above and beyond my head, as I can only understand complex ideas through metaphor.

Usually when time as a concept is articulated, the metaphor of a river is used. Time is described as a continual flow, starting at the headwaters of the past and stretching into the horizon of the future. The present is like the river we are standing in, the waters swirling around our legs and pulling us with unseen hands in one direction or the other. Always changing, never stopping.

This image, like all metaphor, is how we make sense of things we can't see. As it makes sense, I've always accepted it and thought the experiences I've had with time that differ were just anomalies. Now I'm not so sure.

One of the Oxford professors posited that instead of a river, we should imagine time as a landscape. I like this image very much. When we take in a landscape, we see the entire vista, right to the corners of our peripheral vision. There can be several seconds where we just take it all in, before our focus narrows onto one object or feature. This tendency to focus has evolved as self-preservation. Our early ancestors would not have lived long wandering around the savannah dreamily taking in the gestalt while a lioness crept up behind.

Time as a landscape. First off, where are the intersections between the past and present and future? They are not clearly demarcated. We may artificially create boundaries to give ourselves definition, plant a border of flowers here to indicate now, clear a patch of scrub over there and name it the past. But unless we are rigorous in our maintenance (and who has the time?), nature starts to take it over again, and the lines become blurred.

Next, how do we explain that all of us have experienced time shift? It may be when we've been exceptionally tired or stoned, or that may just be when we notice it most. It occurs in small ways and we call it coincidence; it occurs in repetition and we call it deja vu. If we imagine time laid out not as a single track, but as parallel ones that at times intersect, at times diverge out of sight, then I think these phenomena begin to make sense.

While we may feel we exist in an understanding of ourselves here now (go ahead, pinch yourself and proclaim yourself Present) it may be that we also simultaneously exist as ourselves in the past and future. Imagine an infinite number of yourself, at all stages of life and dying, all chugging along the time track thinking This Is It, Life. Then think about them multiplied by the number of choices they could make in every moment, and how it splits them further, veering each one onto a different course. It boggles the mind.

Last weekend I had the experience of time convergence. My past from 20 years ago (almost to the day) entangled with the present in a number of odd small ways over the course of two days. I could physically sense the collision between the past and present, much like room temperature or hunger or pleasure. It was a very strange sensation, and a constant tug-of-war between my rational, primitive brain and my sensory perception. It's disconcerting and curious, Alice in Wonderland. It left me physically off-balance, coincidentally. I needed to rest a couple of days afterwards, even missing one of my beloved workouts.

So why ramble on about this topic, without the benefit of a story of white rabbits and red queens? Why think about this at all, when the sensations can be unsettling. Some of you mothers may be impatiently shaking your heads, "Who has the time to think about time? Get to the sex and the humour, get to the goods."

Well, I think it's a sticky topic. Both perplexing and reassuring. As someone who is trying to take action these days without necessarily seeing the outcome, someone who has been terrified of making mistakes and who has been hard on herself for failure, it's comforting to think I'm not alone. An infinite number of possibilities stretch on either side of me, and I don't have control over when we may overlap each other. One decision doesn't necessarily obviate the other outcomes or possibilities.

As put in the Robert Graves poem I posted a while back: I'm in a new understanding of my confusion. Trippy.

I'm stoner-talking but sober. I know.

In other news, I think I have a date tonight. Yes, a real date with an unknown person, not a tryst with an old, maddening friend or a international conference seduction. Just a plain old let's get to know one another, try it out date. I'll let you know how it goes.

Cheers,
Ms. Rutte