Dearies, I am not quite dead. I have just been dormant from the written word as a means of expressing myself, for several reasons.
1) I've been getting banged silly and sideways every weekend for the last several weeks. This is draining, especially in conjunction with 2) a sinus infection which enabled yet another cold. Made me a trifle mental and reckless, as it seemed unfair to have been sick on and off since the onset of the Fever Blister (11 Feb 2010).
Anyhoots, though I expect you have no sympathy for my sexfatigue, spare a sympathetic "Awwww..." for the thought of my snuffly, snotty self. Honestly, congestion makes blow jobs sooooo hard. Two streamers of snot forming a mucusy moustache mid-fellate is not hot, according to the latest research. However, it is hilarious. At least thrice this spring I've started cracking up during the Act, had to excuse myself snuffling and chortling and covering my face as I bolt to the bathroom to honk my nose with much gusto. Se-xy!
Where was I? Oh yes, 3) I've been in the midst of making a gut-wretching, life-altering decision that will have a ripple effect upon the rest of this life, and perhaps a portion of the afterlife as well. However, the decision looks like it has been made for me, and Authentic Drama Queen language aside I'm a pretty hardnosed realist.
I was supposed to start my fabulous new life this fall studying something called "Integrated Design Strategy" in Toronto. The idea being: I cast off the shackles of my West Coast small-town living, flip the bird to the past and conquer the big city with my downhome sass and streetsmarts and kickboxing-tightened bod. Learn, connect, blossom, hold forth in coffee shops, take in undiscovered bands, plus do a whole lot of urban fuckery while pursuing a fab-O career.
Flash forward five years: I recline on modern furniture in a loft in an undisclosed metropolis. Wearing elegant and understated clothes, I purse my lips while managing a nervous, insomniac client in Barcelona. A glass of cold white wine sits beside me, as it is almost end of day. I anticipate my gorgeous husband will be home within the half-hour. I can't remember if he's an architect or a commercial photographer or a vet to the ultra-rich, but he's adoring, handsome, tall and zitless. We are elegantly, understatedly rich. He's fabulous, I'm fabulous. It's all ever so fabulous.
Only problem: I need roughly 40k right now to attain this higher plane of fabulous, for tuition and living and etcetera. And I ain't got it. It's all tied up in my property and house, which sits, charmingly, still unsold. And as I, amazingly, still somehow manage the shitload of debt resulting from my past relationship and my own pisspoor judgement, the chances of acquiring more debt in sufficient student loans are nil. So be it. Eat the rich!
Really, as much as I mock my own vision of What I Want, it really has been true. I'd get these vague flashes of fabulous, and go, all like, oooooo, that's what I want, and that was that. If my house had sold and I had money in hand, I'd be slapping down my first tuition installment tomorrow (the deadline for payment, coincidentally).
However, referencing that hardnosed pragmatist (who is typing in bed, wrapped in her old kimono, by herself in a comfortable three-bedroom house in the countryside with feral pets gallumphing outside--somewhat unfabulous but admittedly cozy), I am blessed with the ability to accept reality with reasonable cheerfulness.
The Vonnegut approach: And so it goes. Or as the people here are fond of saying "It is what it is." The say this half-sagely, half sardonically. And it's true, it IS what it motherfucking is. Truer words never were spake.
I might not be so laissez faire were I not cognizant that my life has, in fact, taken a recent turn for the better. My health has returned, after a stint of antibiotics (quite useless, jeer my doctor friends--to which I retort, well, you have all proven useless otherwise).
I'm already shedding some of the 9 (nine)(!) pounds I packed on in stress and PMS and illness time away from the gym.
Work has picked up on several fronts, including the big, juicy, exciting venture that had been forestalled indefinitely in the early spring.
The house will eventually sell, and I may never have to look at my ex's stuff ever again.
And importantly, I have never had so many good relationships on all fronts before. Family, friends, lover--all are close to my heart these days as reassuring presences. No nasty undermining, no evil co-dependency, no oblique criticism to poke at me. Good vibes. I am not ungrateful. Blessings are counted, roses are smelt, silver linings noted every damn day.
In summary, my final excuse for not having written sooner was that I needed some time to figure this one out,and consult the people around me, and come to terms with what staying put might mean for the present. Now I'm finding life is fairly relaxing and interesting and hilarious once again. Plus it's summer (sort of) so people are frequently half-naked in public, which always lifts my spirits. Stay tuned!
G
PS Always the optimist, I am pleased I no longer have to try to explain what "Integrated Design Strategy" is to people who are polite enough to enquire. Conversely, I had been hoping to find out the first week of school, and now I'll never know...alas. And so it goes.
24 June 2010
01 June 2010
There Will Be Blood--So What Are You Going to Do About It?
Epilogue: I sat down tonight to pontificate on the topic of friendship. Instead, I have written about sex during menstruation. The scatalogical wins over the abstract, once again.
I've been charting my period the last several months, mainly for sexplanning purposes. My reproductive organs are flattered by the ongoing scrutiny, as their response seems to be a) prolong the bloodshed and b) shorten the bloodfree intervals.
My typical period now lasts a full week. I was bemused to find this entry scrawled in my day-timer from a couple of months ago: "9 fucking days?!!" Two days heavy, two days moderate, followed by one-two days light, and then another two-plus days of spotty not-quite bleeding. More like a pinch-flat leak versus a hemorrhage.
The conventional wisdom for period-tracking is to count from Day 1 of your last period to Day 1 of your next. For most women, this is 28 days. For myself, it varies from 21-26. From the last day of Period A to the first day of Period B, however, the interval is more like 14-19 days. Jeesh. So I don't "get" my period every 28 days. I "have" my period (in some measure) half the month.
This leads me to two conclusions: one, this blog should be sponsored by Always and Tampax; two, it is little wonder I have such a raging libido when I only have two weeks a month to Make It Happen.
Let me qualify Make It Happen. This refers to sex without a colourful mess. Though at times inconveniently moist and sticky, ejaculate doesn't really count; indeed, it is a badge of honour for work well done.
Menstrual blood, on the other hand, stains vindictively. Also, at its onset it may be attended by black clots of cervical material. Yum! In addition to the sloughing of one's womb, there's the distinct scent of the abattoir to contend with. Cunnilingus is not desired at such times by either party, which is a sorrowful state of affairs in general. (When encouraged to paint a sign at a recent event celebrating love & positivity & good vibes, I daubed "Eat More Pie" on a piece of bright corex board. I then added a clumsily drawn pastry, replete with steam curls and a piece cut out of it. In my defense, I was a) uncharacteristically drunk in public and b) it was an event attended by nice, middle-class hippies. I'd just come from watching the UFC fights at the local redneck bar, so was discombobulated. But I digress.)
On the plus side, menstruation provides excellent lubrication. There's also the getting-to-know-you factor. The determination and grace with which a mate pursues a bloodfuck speaks volumes about his character and ability to plan.
Some defer the hard-on, or politely request a blow-job. This is usually fine by me, as I may be feeling self-conscious and sexually disabled.
Others push on, but are silently squeamish or distracted. Some are impractical or helpless to contend with it. Faced with a dismayed or frankly grossed-out man after the fact, it's tempting to make like the oozycoozy swamp creature you now resemble in his eyes and slither back to the slough, thanks.
However, if a man suggests the shower stall as an alternative bedroom (easy clean-up!), or procures a dark towel or voluminous, seldom-worn sweatshirt for the bed like it ain't no big thang, chances are he's a Keeper. And if he admires the post-coital swathes across his groin and hips and abdomen, and laughs at your observation that he resembles the Joker from the Dark Knight film, then chances are you and I are dating the same man. He's a peach, isn't he?
Regardless, the prow and stern of a SuperLong maxi-pad jutting from either end of one's granny/period panties is an offputting visual. As is the mysteriously long string of a tampon snaking forth down one's inner thigh like some lost dental floss.
I try to arrange things with more discretion, but am limited in my menstrual aids. Sadly, I didn't have any success with the Instead option, which I was told by a friend could be left in during sex. I've concluded my kegels are too argumentative to even admit this weird little dog frisbee-like object. And though I like the idea, the DivaCup is messy to insert and remove. If I can somehow assume the right lunge position to stuff the thing inside, it insists on poking me to remind me it's still there. Yes, I know. Christ, you're a pain. Plus you leak. The DivaCup now resides permanently under my bathroom sink.
No, there's not much to be done about the blood catchment options available, nor the fact that I appear to have sprung a semi-permanent gush as I approach the cusp of my late 30's. (At this rate, I'll be completely anemic by 40.) Growing philosophical in my dotage, I've finally accepted it, even shrugged off the injustice of not having feminine hygiene products paid for by our fine medicare system (well, why not?).
I'm just happy to be with a man who doesn't give a shit if I've got my period, as long as I don't. I repeat myself from a couple of posts back: it is gratifying to date a man with long-term relationship experience, versus a manchild with little to none. The latter fears the unknown mysteries of the female form, while the former knows it all too well and is just grateful for occasional attempts at delicacy. Amen to that, sisters. He agrees that the ideal couples' house is one with separate bathrooms; I'm one step closer to love. So it goes.
May your periods be short and pain-free,
Gretchen "Gusher" Rutte
I've been charting my period the last several months, mainly for sexplanning purposes. My reproductive organs are flattered by the ongoing scrutiny, as their response seems to be a) prolong the bloodshed and b) shorten the bloodfree intervals.
My typical period now lasts a full week. I was bemused to find this entry scrawled in my day-timer from a couple of months ago: "9 fucking days?!!" Two days heavy, two days moderate, followed by one-two days light, and then another two-plus days of spotty not-quite bleeding. More like a pinch-flat leak versus a hemorrhage.
The conventional wisdom for period-tracking is to count from Day 1 of your last period to Day 1 of your next. For most women, this is 28 days. For myself, it varies from 21-26. From the last day of Period A to the first day of Period B, however, the interval is more like 14-19 days. Jeesh. So I don't "get" my period every 28 days. I "have" my period (in some measure) half the month.
This leads me to two conclusions: one, this blog should be sponsored by Always and Tampax; two, it is little wonder I have such a raging libido when I only have two weeks a month to Make It Happen.
Let me qualify Make It Happen. This refers to sex without a colourful mess. Though at times inconveniently moist and sticky, ejaculate doesn't really count; indeed, it is a badge of honour for work well done.
Menstrual blood, on the other hand, stains vindictively. Also, at its onset it may be attended by black clots of cervical material. Yum! In addition to the sloughing of one's womb, there's the distinct scent of the abattoir to contend with. Cunnilingus is not desired at such times by either party, which is a sorrowful state of affairs in general. (When encouraged to paint a sign at a recent event celebrating love & positivity & good vibes, I daubed "Eat More Pie" on a piece of bright corex board. I then added a clumsily drawn pastry, replete with steam curls and a piece cut out of it. In my defense, I was a) uncharacteristically drunk in public and b) it was an event attended by nice, middle-class hippies. I'd just come from watching the UFC fights at the local redneck bar, so was discombobulated. But I digress.)
On the plus side, menstruation provides excellent lubrication. There's also the getting-to-know-you factor. The determination and grace with which a mate pursues a bloodfuck speaks volumes about his character and ability to plan.
Some defer the hard-on, or politely request a blow-job. This is usually fine by me, as I may be feeling self-conscious and sexually disabled.
Others push on, but are silently squeamish or distracted. Some are impractical or helpless to contend with it. Faced with a dismayed or frankly grossed-out man after the fact, it's tempting to make like the oozycoozy swamp creature you now resemble in his eyes and slither back to the slough, thanks.
However, if a man suggests the shower stall as an alternative bedroom (easy clean-up!), or procures a dark towel or voluminous, seldom-worn sweatshirt for the bed like it ain't no big thang, chances are he's a Keeper. And if he admires the post-coital swathes across his groin and hips and abdomen, and laughs at your observation that he resembles the Joker from the Dark Knight film, then chances are you and I are dating the same man. He's a peach, isn't he?
Regardless, the prow and stern of a SuperLong maxi-pad jutting from either end of one's granny/period panties is an offputting visual. As is the mysteriously long string of a tampon snaking forth down one's inner thigh like some lost dental floss.
I try to arrange things with more discretion, but am limited in my menstrual aids. Sadly, I didn't have any success with the Instead option, which I was told by a friend could be left in during sex. I've concluded my kegels are too argumentative to even admit this weird little dog frisbee-like object. And though I like the idea, the DivaCup is messy to insert and remove. If I can somehow assume the right lunge position to stuff the thing inside, it insists on poking me to remind me it's still there. Yes, I know. Christ, you're a pain. Plus you leak. The DivaCup now resides permanently under my bathroom sink.
No, there's not much to be done about the blood catchment options available, nor the fact that I appear to have sprung a semi-permanent gush as I approach the cusp of my late 30's. (At this rate, I'll be completely anemic by 40.) Growing philosophical in my dotage, I've finally accepted it, even shrugged off the injustice of not having feminine hygiene products paid for by our fine medicare system (well, why not?).
I'm just happy to be with a man who doesn't give a shit if I've got my period, as long as I don't. I repeat myself from a couple of posts back: it is gratifying to date a man with long-term relationship experience, versus a manchild with little to none. The latter fears the unknown mysteries of the female form, while the former knows it all too well and is just grateful for occasional attempts at delicacy. Amen to that, sisters. He agrees that the ideal couples' house is one with separate bathrooms; I'm one step closer to love. So it goes.
May your periods be short and pain-free,
Gretchen "Gusher" Rutte
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