Och Aye, Ye Are a Drunken Lusty Lassie!

Good evening, everyone. It has been a long time since my pseudonymous self made an appearance here. I've been busy working, having sex, seeing friends and making a jackass of myself while drunk.

An update. The fellow in my life is now officially title-less. We have emigrated from the land of fuck-buddies, traversed the more genteel county of gentleman caller/ladyfriend and wandered into uncharted territory. However, all the while we have kept a firm grasp on our booty call passports. It doesn't matter if we are planning to spend the weekend together or steal 75 minutes during a weekday lunch hour. We assume that sex will take up a sizable portion of the time spent together. (That old saying is true. When you assume, you get a piece of ass for you and me.)

He looked at me with a concerned expression the other day while I was talking about seeing a galpal, and asked abruptly, “You don't tell your friends how much sex you're having, right?”

“No, not really...I mean, they kind of know, they can tell I'm topped up, if you know what I mean. But I don't get into numbers or anything.”

“Good. We have a lot of sex. There's no point rubbing it in. They won't like you for it.”

I shrug. He may be right. “What about your friends? Do you tell them, the married guys?”

Here he laughs and shakes his head. Apparently I am now absurd. His friends might plot his downfall if they knew how many times he gets off in a week. I get even more. I don't know if it's sustainable, but also don't particularly care. We're going on three months and it has yet to exhaust itself, so onward Christian soldier!

He endears himself further to me later on, in bed. With great sincerity, he raises his head after a long conversation with my better half and sighs, “Wow, I love it that you let me go down on you for so long.”

At this moment, I am tempted to look away pensively, perhaps stifle a sob. Let a tear roll down my cheek. Murmur how I only “let him” because I really, really, really like him. However, I was a) worried I'd start laughing uncontrollably at “let him” and we still had more business to attend to and b) I couldn't spare the moisture.

Jesus, what kinds of sick twists had this poor man been with before, that had granted him this royal favour? And thank you, you dear repressed twats, for he is both overdue and grateful. Quite touching, really.

It's not all fun and games, however. I have breached etiquette. The other morning I was getting topped up prior to getting on with the day, and realized that I had a brazilian waxing booked later that morning. Shit.

Now, my aesthetician Audrey is a lovely gal. She is very down-to-earth, has a great sense of humour. She has confided in me some of the pitfalls in her line of work, including the cardinal sins of clients. Other than the obvious ones of for god's sake shower, and don't scream or have hysterics, she has also mentioned having sex prior to coming in. “I know,” she said, stoic and omniscient. “I just know.”

And now here I am, two hours prior. While it's just been a quick wake-up romp and nothing sploogy or lubey, there is still some...swelling. So home I go, and after a thorough bathe I am clutching an ice-pack against my new black and pink La Senza undies with bum ruffles that say “J'aime les garcons” in silver (thanks mum!) while feeding the dogs.

The ice seems to help, but in the future I shall practise more restraint. Vaginas approached for maintenance purposes should be clean, healthy and unpilfered—in other words, as innocuous as possible. My apologies, Audrey.

To his credit, when my fellow learned I'd been to Brazil that morning the first thing he said was, “Hey, you broke the rule!” When I explained about the ice pack, he asked “Seriously?” and smiled like a sphinx and said nothing more.

His initiation into my weird inner life was further aided by a few drinks together last night. Please note that I don't get drunk a lot, especially in public. I have rules around drinking, obvious ones like Don't drink and drive; and others more specific to myself like Don't drink with people you don't trust. Also too much alcohol affects my sleep and generally makes me feel crappalicious. While feeling deliciously crappy is interesting on occasion, it's not something that bears repetition.

Other than getting loaded with the family at Christmas, the last time I got smashdrunk was at a local Oktoberfest event. Where coincidentally, I had bumped into my current fellow whom I'd met briefly at a music festival in August. With a few drinks in me, I greeted him like a long-lost pal. He was soon convinced that we were going to leave together and have sex somewhere. I was speaking in unladylike tones, on salacious matters. However, it was not to be that night, as one of my rules is Don't drink and have first-time sex. And oh, my boyfriend (remember him?) was there. Anyway, I managed to keep it somewhat together that night, falling onto my back while dancing only once (witnessed, and of course admired, by both current and ex fellow). The point of this digression is that when I drink, I tend to not give a shit about appearances.

Last night I decided that I was going to get drunk. I'd been working flat out. I had not left the house in two days (I work from a home office). It was Robbie Burns Day. My fella was joining me for steaks and scotch. Simultaneously, life was good and I needed to blow off steam.

The evening started with a controlled release. Glass of red while cooking. Tumbler of scotch on the go when he arrived. Then I offer him a drink, and while listing the choices I hear myself exclaim “Hey, I've got a bottle of tequila in the freezer, we should do a shot!” I don't have shot glasses. He gets a mug. I get a ceramic egg-cup. Then more wine with dinner, and still working on my scotch, and the egg cup keeps magically re-filling.

Things get a little hazy. I remember purposely falling off the bed once in a fit of laughter. I do remember thinking I must not be that drunk as I was taking out my contacts, and I slurrily congratulated myself.

I do not remember falling off the bed several times, or exclaiming that we should tie me up!, or even why I got up in the middle of the night thinking the dogs were outside and inadvertently let them outside and then had to corral them back in. I do remember emerging from my walk-in closet buck-naked with a Christmas tree stand on my head, grinning foolishly at my own randomness. I do not remember what compelled me to do such a cool thing.

Luckily, he finds these things hilarious, and I suspect a little cute. Of course, he left early before I got up in Code 3 Crappalicious Mode. I looked like a theatrical mental patient, stumbling around the house wrapped in a blanket with one side of my hair stuck straight up, finding visual clues to my behaviour the previous night (Oh, there are my cowboy boots...what's the Christmas tree stand doing out...did I have a boiled egg last night, what's with the egg cup...).

My mind has moved at a glacial pace for most of the day. Recovery has been slow, and entailed plentiful, beefy leftovers and a surprise afternoon double-header. There's no hangover that red meat and sex can't fix. I think Robbie Burns said that. In homage to his 251st birthday, I leave you with a traditional Scottish toast.

I've drunk to your health in taverns,

I've drunk to your health in my home,

I've drunk to your health so damn many times,

That I've almost ruined my own!

Define Your Connection, Please

Hello dear people, and I hope this finds you well. Another night, another correspondence fired off into the ether. (I refuse to use the word -blogosphere- except in derision. What a grody word.)

The dogs are curled on the floor by the baseboard heater on an old blanket I dragged out of the hall closet. I don't go in there very often, as it is one of the many storage areas filled with the X's stuff. However, as I have arranged to go skiing very early tomorrow I needed to find a few items, so delved into the closet looking for gear. I'm happy to report I found some goggles (although I think they are motocross goggles, but so what, they look the same) and long johns (though they are Mens Large, but so what, who's going to see me sashay around in them?).

Far from sashaying, I am bundled in bed wearing the damn voluminous things and a sweater, baseboard heater on high. Chilly in my little corner of the world; hence the dogs curled on the floor with me in the only warm-ish room in the house. I don't have the heart to kick them to the living room tonight. It's cold and one of them has been wounded, likely in a regular skirmish of the ongoing war with forest creatures that sees them run maniacally over and under logs barking at birds. Daft buggers.

The Mexican dumpster rat has a dime-shaped abrasion on his inner leg, just discovered tonight by accident. It was likely this nasty scrape which had him acting all moribund on Friday morning. By Friday afternoon, he was back to chipper, and both the vet and I missed the cut and proclaimed him healthy. Poor little Jojo had to have a thermometer shoved up his anus at said visit, which he did not enjoy in the least. If only he could talk, he might say Look, you seelly beetches, somehow I scrrrraped my leg so just dejame en paz, claro?

For the record, Jojo is not Mexican, but an American. Rescued from a high-kill shelter in Little Rock, Arkanses, he is a 7-year old whippet/terrier cross who has been with me the last 3 or 4 years. He looks like a cross between Anubis, the jackal-headed Egyptian god of the dead, and Gidget, the Taco Bell chihuahua who passed away last year at the age of 15. RIP, Gidget.

Jojo will live, I think. He licks his wound thoughtfully, almost proprietarily. Yummy. But no sign of infection, and I'm not taking him back to the vet for another $70 visit just to be told a scab should form but keep an eye out for infection. Well duh. For now, he seems content to lick his cut and periodically wedge himself under my bed, the sneak.

In other news, I am woefully under-organized. I had high hopes for the Christmas holidays for getting organized; then visions of Getting It Together this weekend. Instead, I puttered around the house and went to Staples to buy supplies to Get It Together and made tortilla soup and breakfasted both days with friends I hadn't seen for a long time and got my period 5 days early and hung out with my gentleman caller, who faces yet another imminent upgrade in title.

Going on week 11, he is proving to be...well, lovely. We're both in a state of startled and pleased. I don't know the word for that. Happily surprised, enjoyably taken aback. Go figure. Tonight I ventured we be each other's Good Time, as we do have a lot of fun together. I'd be tickled to be known as someone's Good Time, it's a fine recommendation. Anyway, we're both a little facetious when it comes to the Naming of the This Thing. Made queasy by the BF/GF terminology (what are we, 16 and like, going steady?), and chilled by the use of Partner, Companion, Significant Other, and other words that sound like census form categories.

Luckily, we're still a ways away from such pronouncements, as we're not in the display/introduce mode of the relationship. Yet. However, we did a) watch a movie together the other night and b) go for a run together yesterday afternoon. Yes, kiddos, it's getting serious!

However, as he is an intensely private individual, I shall not natter on about him other to say that I like him very much. I hope that we continue happily a while yet, regardless of terminology. He did allude tonight to the shelf life of what we're doing (or have claimed to be "just" doing as we did start out with purely lustful, short-term intent and are now perplexed.)

I know what he means. I planted it there in the original Fuckbuddy Protocols, as the raison d'etre for the bi-weekly chats. Fuckbuddery doesn't last. Being beaus or gentleman caller + lady friend is a temporary state, and calling each other My Good Time might be perceived as flippant, even insolent to others. That's where the terminology becomes important, of course: to other people. They want to know where you stand in relation to one another.

"Ssssso, is this your...?" Expectant pause, head cocked, eyebrow raised, glancing back and forth between the two of us. It hasn't happened yet, but it's coming, and when it does happen I want to have an appropriate word to insert rather than flatly state "Friend." or give a rambling explanation instead of a title ("We'll, we are seeing each other but both find the words 'boyfriend'and 'girlfriend' kinda gay, you see, I mean gay in a gross way...yes, I guess we're together." Cue the uncomfortable giggle and general foolishness. Ugh, how coy.)

Maybe in such a case the thing to do is smoothly just introduce the Other by their first name and refuse to provide such definition. Let them talk amongst themselves, or if need be ambush one of us in the washroom and ask outright for greater detail. No point getting all wiggy about it, I suppose. Whatever it's called, I don't want it to stop just because we can't name it.

On that dazed and confused note, I bid you good night. I have to get up in 7 hours to strap on downhill skis for the first time in several years, good lord.

Buenas noches,
GR

I Am Special, You Are Special...

...Look at me, look at me. I am very special, very very special. You will see, you will see.

This little ditty is sung to the tune of 'Frere Jacques'. I learned it today thanks to a re-broadcast of Ideas on CBC Radio. This one was devoted to anxiety in children. Apparently what is a normal level of anxiety for most kids today was once "normal" for children in pediatric psychiatric wards in the 1950s.

The thesis of the program argued that today's child is simultaneously pressured to excel while being emotionally coddled, as today's parents are most concerned with their children being happy. This seems like a no-brainer, of course, but one of the viewpoints expressed in the program was that parents used to focus on raising a resilient and independent child. One, it was hoped, that would in time become a useful and productive member of society. By contrast to this desire to contribute to the collective, modern children are pushed to become stellar, self-actualized individuals while lacking emotional maturity or empathy.

I don't know if I agree with this good old days versus these days comparison. Then again, I was raised in a parenting style that is likely increasingly rare. A combination of benign neglect and daily small adult responsibilities was probably not uncommon in the 70s and 80s, as single mums struggled to be both mother and father to their kids while being human themselves.

Luckily, my mother was and still is a practising physician, so we never really wanted financially. However, my older sister and I were expected to run the household from as long as I can remember, and get good grades in school (which meant mostly As, some Bs but not below). These were our duties, and they still left ample time to amuse ourselves. As money for small treats or new underwear was provided when we asked, it seemed to be a pretty fair deal.

We were not told we were precious, or cute, or especially gifted in most ways (though I still treasure a Grade 5 shot-put ribbon, never having been otherwise considered athletic). In fact, I was often told I was getting fat, or my sister told she was annoying, and that we both should shut up so as not to wake mum up (the thought of which still fills me with mortal dread).

It was recognized that we were both smart girls, and we were expected to use our smarts though not in identical ways. My sister was gregarious and mischevious and dramatic; I was bookish and did not have friends outside school hours nor seem to care. We were mostly left alone to excel in what interested us, it being trusted that our interests and skills would develop naturally over time. Eventually, they did. In my case, it took a lot of time for the talents to emerge, but all part of life's rich pageant, right?

Well, today's parenting is apparently about preparing your child to S*H*I*N*E in an increasingly competitive world. Toddlers are enrolled in prep school for kindergarten, students of all ages mercilessly inscripted in after-school activities and tutoring and lessons to help them on their journey towards Excellence. The assumption is that this Excellence will be recognized in the real world and duly rewarded; for more modest parrents, they hope their children will reap mere prosperity and stability, while those who are more ambitious keep their fingers crossed for nothing short of worldwide fame and disgusting riches for their offspring.

This radio program was likely meant to elicit a collective eye-roll from middle-aged listeners (I mean, you can't get a more white, university educated and self-described thoughtful group of people than CBC Radio 1 listener--like yours truly). We are meant to scoff, or to virtuously proclaim that we schedule in at least an hour of unstructured playtime per weekday, etc.

I can't scoff. Everyone has a different experience in childhood, with the only similarity being that none is idyllic. The vast majority of parents do the best they can, and get little thanks for the job they do. Kids are generally decent, the parents well-meaning. Both are insufferable at times, but then again so is everyone. It is hard to judge too harshly, and in my case, impossible.

I have no children of my own. If I were to offer advice, it would rightly be dismissed as pertinent only to human nature observed in general, or outright nonsense.

I wonder if I did have kids would my MO be similar to how I treat my dogs. They are well-fed, adequately patted and occasionally played with. I run with them almost every day. They only have a handful of strict rules but most of the time are left to roam. Either they cavort outside in semi-feral play, or sleep or sneak around the house doing amusing and occasionally disgusting things, like pulling used kleenex from the wastebasket and hoovering scraps from the kitchen floor. However, they recognize me as alpha and do not cross me (or the cat) as I can also become an fearsomely stern tyrant given due cause.

It would be interesting to see how this would translate into child-rearing. Perhaps terrifying, so I'd need a good mate (always the thing which has stopped me before). The idea no longer fills me with revulsion, so that's a start. It occurs to me that most women have this figured out well before their 38th year, but oh well. Blame it on my unspecial childhood.

Regularly yours,
Gretchie