http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tc0c-n5PTJo&feature=related
Check out the kosher sizzle of spoken wordster Vanessa Hidary. Hell yeah.
Check out the kosher sizzle of spoken wordster Vanessa Hidary. Hell yeah.
29 July 2010
28 July 2010
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'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--
19 July 2010
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
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
11 July 2010
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
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
06 July 2010
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
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
24 June 2010
Lordie, Lordie, Lordie
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.
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.
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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