Blaaaaaaart! Raaaaaagah! Affff....

The title of this post is meant as a literal translation of my newly expanded vocabulary. Had an adventure in Thai cooking last Sunday, resulting in said ejaculatory statements accompanying a bout of hearty 2am vomiting. The next day I crapped my pjs while trying to get ready for An Important Meeting. But enough about me: how are you? Ha ha, ha ha...

Lessons I have learned from my episode:

• Do not get all Polish when it comes to using slimy pre-washed spinach in a plastic bag. Do not attempt to pick out the "bad" pieces or impatiently just dump a bunch into the cookpot thinking oh well, it'll just cook off. "It" will not.



• Food poisoning is very unpleasant. However, after it has passed from both ends, the system feels completely purged, not unlike the effects of long, elaborate or expensive "cleanses". Want to clear the toxins, dear? Eat bad spinach and watch the toxins fly!



• Want to spice up your relationship? Stagger out onto your driveway when your honey brings you generic Immodium and a gluten-free muffin. Have the following conversation:

He: I brought you this for when you feel better...my, you look good.

She: I crapped my pyjamas. (Sees him glancing down. Adds helpfully:) Not these ones.

He: I wish you didn't tell me that.

She: Honey, you've just brought me anti-diarrheal medicine. We're on a whole 'nother level now. Now how's about a kiss?

He: (After recoiling slightly, he reaches out and pats her head) You're nice.

I am nice! So nice...I think that's the extent of my newfound wisdom from my most recent bi-decadal visit from the Food Furies.

You may have noticed a reference to "gluten-free" muffin in above conversation. Yes, it's true. I have joined the swelling ranks of Difficult People to Feed at Dinner Parties. We are legion!

I know, I know. An exasperated sigh is appropriate here. Go ahead, let it out. I too was until very recently sceptical of all the self-important claims to dietary specialness our ilk proclaims.

Sure, sure, of course you are "lactose intolerant" (you probably just had some of Gretchen's Thai Spinach Delight one night and faulted the post-dinner cappucino, you silly cow); I'm delighted to hear you're now a Raw Vegan (self-righteous, are we?); and of course, the newest members to the food hypochondriac club are self-diagnosed celiacs who moan about the gluten in just everything!

Usually recognized by stricken expressions and eagerness to explain their condition, interrupted only by the occasional longing glance at your turkey sandwich. "Oh, I couldn't eat that," they solemnly claim (not that you've asked), "There's gliadin in the bread and probably traces of wheat flour on the deli meat. No, I shall have my plain little salad, no dressing. Commercial dressings have wheat protein added as thickener, you know."

It's likely you didn't know, and equally probable you didn't/don't care. But self-abnegation is so hard to keep to oneself.

Lordy lordy. I wish it weren't so. After dabbling in all forms of vegetarianism throughout the years, from almost-vegan (whoopdeedoo) to just pork-free (I mean, pigs are awfully smart), I embraced my omnivore nature two or three years ago and relaxed into complacency. I still get the occasional pang of guilt when I buy a fresh steak or order an occasional chop. Like much that ails society, these pangs are obliterated by instant pleasure, in this case afforded by a perfectly cooked steak, or how crispy pork fat is accentuated by braised apples. Honestly, I may think something like this animal lived a life of discomfort at best and torture at worst, and died brutally to end up on my plate...and it's yummy! if I think at all. We are monsters, aren't we?

But now, of course, I am on this gluten thing. Started with my partner (a sensible, no-fuss man if ever there was one) wondering if his chronic eczema may be linked with wheat or gluten; me listening to an interview of the cardiologist author of "Wheat Belly" on CBC Radio 1 (where all white middle-aged yuppie women's hysterical thinking begins) and gamely suggesting we experiment with cutting it out for a week. That was six weeks ago, following the last cold. At the time, I noted that the author said wheat intolerance could manifest itself in chronic inflammation and a weakened immune system, and anemia. Shoot, I don't like having those thing, so why not try it?

Both of us are reluctant converts. One of our favourite meals is a beet and squash ravioli dish made at a local restaurant that still kicks in an instant drool reaction. Both of us have long considered healthy whole grains a part of a balanced diet, love our occasional muffins et al, and are at best bemused by picky, self-diagnosed victims of food allergies and sensitivities. We thought we'd try it for a week or two and see no difference, and then celebrate our mutual insensitivity with a nice pasta dinner.

Alas, his eczema got better and he lost weight around the middle. I noticed a return of my former energy level. Both of us remarked on reduced appetites. I no longer got a mid-morning or mid-afternoon crash that had me usually reaching for a bowl of cereal or some toast, along with another coffee. These were all noted in spite of ourselves. And in spite of ourselves, we couldn't help noticing that it wasn't that hard to cut it out.

My partner has found it more challenging than me, as he was a faithful attendee at the local bar's Wednesday burger night, and being a popular guy, often is handed a beer at said event as a gesture of good will. This is increasingly uncomfortable for him, as the more you refrain from eating a particular food aggravant, the harder it gets to process. My own wussiness on this point makes it easy for me to be abstinent, as the last bout of intestinal cramping and gas from eating tempura reminded me. I have counseled him to wave away the offer of a beer with a cheerful "No thanks, makes me fart!" and eat his burger sans bun without drawing attention to it.

Here's some advice I can give you, food allergy/insensitivity brethren. Unless it's a matter of potential life and death, just shut up about your ailment. Most people will think you made it up to feel important. Yup, it's true. No one cares, and if they ask politely about it, give a short, polite answer back and change the subject unless they seem eager for more information.

Also, get really good at cooking and baking (most gluten-free baking sucks). Host dinner parties, or take people out for dinner. If you go to someone's house for a meal, do not look appalled if offered a dish which contains something you can't eat. Hopefully you've been gracious enough to offer to bring something or just brought it anyways, and you can munch on that if need be.

In short, it's like being religious or a non-drinker. People won't judge you on it if you just practise some discretion and don't force it on others.

With that, time for me to clamber out of bed and make some homemade banana bread. Bon appetit!

Gretchen "It's NOT in my head!" Rutte

The Cat Goes Woof, Woof!

Lord, the onset of another Fall is upon us. By "us", I mean me and the beloved Oscar, the black Siamese cross that has been my companion (some say my familiar) the last 15 years. He and I are sitting in front of the woodstove, being remarkably inert and content. His booming purr and the sound of the automatic blower attached to the stove are the bass lines to the tappa-tappa of my keyboard this dank evening. Oh so cozy to be inside and warm and dry, indeed.

My partner and I have two cats and four dogs between us, plus Alberto the fighting fish. He remarks that if we are ever to move into together to take our adventure to the Next Level, we will have to undertake a mass cull of all household pets. "Kill 'em all, start fresh," he says, deadpan.

I comfort him by pointing out his ancient Wookie Chow is increasingly arthritic and demented, and that my Oscar has outlived expectations by at least ten years. But then the Wookie goes on jaunty evening walkabouts and continues to gain weight, and Oscar continues to thrive in his best "Fuck you, stats!" geriatric rock-star kind of way, and I secretly doubt whether we will be a one-cat, three-dog household when cohabitation happens (we agree at some point in the next year is likely).

It is implausible, as many small realities, that I should be here as we near the end of 2011. Dear Reader, it was almost a year ago that I started the fuckbuddery with the best and horniest of light intentions. I am somewhat bemused--but very, very pleased--that events have transpired as they have the last eleven months.

It seems ludicrous to me, but pleasant, that I have become so cheesily enamoured that I tuck cards-for-no-reason under his pillow, and blurt things like "You know, it is so nice to wake up every morning, think of you and be thankful" and "You make me a better person" and other assorted zingers that have him look at me smiling, both eyebrows raised, waiting for the punchline. Nope, he's released my inner earnest romantic (what I believe used to be called a "gaylord" in days of yore).

I realise sharing this may put you in danger of puking up the tiniest bit in your own mouth, or at least leave you feeling mildly nauseous. I've been there. I don't know what happened to my most excellent jaded self. All I can say in my own defense is that I remain cynical in most other facets of life. I do concede both he and his adorable spawn have captured my heart, though, and introduced me new levels of both joy and hilarity.

For example, the Child has taken a shine to the Muppets. I rented a dvd of original episodes and we've all heartily enjoyed them, except I don't wake up at 3am shouting "MUH-pets! MUH-pets!" over and over and over again. This is funny to me, as I have in my possession some exceptional noise-blocking earmuffs that I keep on the headboard on my side of the bed when I stay over. Apparently the ex--an organic home-canner/itchy ethnic sweater wearer/has studied to be a doola but lost interest kind of gal--finds it less than amusing to be woken pre-dawn to the clarion call for muppets. The two-year old yelling and the rage fits seem quite natural to me. Animal was always my favourite character.

In other news, a couple I know are in the midst of breaking up. Apparently I am helpful in providing advice on How to Get Through a Gutwrenching Dissolution. This strikes me as funny, as a) my ex and I had about as amiable a break-up as can be and b) I've always been grossed out by people eager to share the deep-yet-pithy thoughts they've gleaned from their incredible journey. I consider my own life of relative highs and lows to be remarkably banal, and I'm grateful for it. We all go through shit, and I think I'm becoming more empathetic as I age like a fine, stinky cheese. That's about all the deep thinking I've managed so far.

Otherwise, there continues to be aggravations, stresses, triumphs and grateful epiphanies of the mundane variety. My house has yet to receive an offer from any suitor, though I have found a suitable replacement for her and wonder what I should do about it.

Work continues to be lucrative and pleasant and consuming.

My health is piss-poor, as I savour Cold/Ailment #16 (or so) while gulping iron supplements. The past two days my ears have taken to popping painfully; today I blew my nose for the umpteenth time and could suddenly hear clearly out my left ear.

The Man is wonderful, the Child delightful and demanding, the Ex-Wife problematic. My own Ex is funny and recounts strange episodes from his frequent work-trips to L.A., though he has yet to appear (now Month 28 post-breakup) to collect his possessions.

Guyfriend is visiting in the next week or so with his European girlfriend/Lindyhopper extraordinaire. Thanksgiving is almost upon us. I brined a whole chicken the other day and made a superlative roast, and am now making stock.

In truth, Reader, it is a dull and blessed life I'm leading. I'm grateful to not be lying in a ditch suffering from a bayonet wound and surviving on grubs. I wish I weren't sick so much. And so it goes: in balance, a good life.

G'nite!

A Rose by Any Other Name Would Rebel as Sweet

Why hello, and happiest of holidays to you if you got 'em.

I had virtuous visions of getting up at 7am and plowing through various work-related tasks. Instead, I'm still in my jammies in bed after a solid double-digit sleep. The previous two nights had been interrupted by hollering Kid or cramping Uterus, with sides of various Housepets clamoring to be let in/let out/or just to let you know, something is not quite to my satisfaction. Hence I heard the rumble of garbage trucks this morning and knew I was sleeping in...and luxuriated in it.


So lessee, what's is new? Got the results of my fluids-testing back and pinpointed the cause of my poor health: significant ferritin depletion. The deadly and exotic are ruled out in favour of plain-jane anemia, thank god. Although I am an uneasy omnivore, the frequency and intensity of my periods are the equivalent of constantly nursing a colony of leeches. The occasional steak cannot by itself right this balance, alas. I'm taking my iron supplements now and feeling better by the day.


My record-breaking three periods in July were followed by another record-breaking zero period in the month of August. A stretch of 34 days! It's been 26 years since I had a period-free month. I was not too worried. The Man was alternately relieved and repelled by my reassurances:


Woman: I'm not pregnant, in case you were wondering.

Man: Oh. That's good...took some more home-pregnancy tests, did we?

Woman: Two. Negative. Think I bled out in July.

Man: Oh.

Woman: But I'm not worried. Got some PMS-diarrhea now. The cramping usually starts in the back and moves forward, so we should be good to go in the next few days.

Man: Oh. That's nice. (pause) Can we please stop talking about this now?

Woman: Of course, dear. Say, can I borrow some toilet paper? I'm out at my house.


And so it goes. Sure enough, period arrived with relish (Hey, did you miss me?! Grab your pads and cotton bullets and Advil, I'm back!). It is a rather awesome spectacle.


Prior to bloodletting, we went camping with the Kid on the weekend. Fun one day, trifle hellish and sleepless the next. Par for the course, I understand.


A few days later, took the Man to the city for a midweek getaway: float-planes in and out, stay at a five-star downtown hotel (a plug for hotwire here: Hotwire is good.), concert tickets to Nashville Pussy and the Reverend Horton Heat. Very nice to get away, get a little drunk and eat cheap pizza past midnight. No rushing.

I've realized recently that I truly dislike being rushed. (It's the difference between a good time and a lousy one for me: We gotta go here before it closes! We gotta meet this person across town in 10 minutes! Etc!) I prefer to underschedule instead. (This morning's agenda: Breakfast.)


The Man is coming around to my way of thinking. He has a great zest for living, and likes to pack his schedule accordingly, to squeeze as much as possible out of every day. Whereas I have a great appreciation for living, and like to have empty space to accommodate reflection on whatever needs reflecting. An active versus passive approach to enjoyment, perhaps.

In other news, the Man's Ex-Woman is making her presence known these days. Sigh. I do not understand her. That is the kindest thing I can say. Pointed criticisms would be so typical for a New Girlfriend to make, would they not? Well, take heart that I am neither a younger woman (she arrived in this world exactly one month before yours truly), nor one claiming to be the epitome of the divine feminine, etc. But I'm not a fucking wingbat either (Oops! Does that count as a pointed criticism? More like an instrument of blunt trauma.)

Sigh. However, I am not entirely without sympathy. The Kid, you see, cottoned onto my name right away. She sing-songs it incessantly. She intones it many times a day with an ever-increasing urgency and pitch. She wakes up in the middle of the night shouting it. And O, it gets better: despite consistent correction from both my partner and I, lately she has taken to prefixing my name with a "Mumma".

Even I, soulless childless career-woman spinster wretch that I am, cannot help but feel some sympathy for the mother. I get to be dad's goodtime-galpal, who never has to discipline or change shitty diapers or put up with 24/7 demands for Dora the Whora or things which all sound like "juice" but turn out to be shoes or 'toons or something no adult can decipher, which leads to tiny towering rages and screaming oneself hoarse like a demented midget. It must feel like a kick in the heart to have your two-year old prattle on about some mumma-like woman in her life.

Myself, I try to downplay it to my partner, who does have to put up with the explosively shitty diapers and forced teethbrushing and the rest of grind that is part and parcel of having toddlers. I can detect a little edged bemusement now when he is ordered away by his own flesh-and-blood but I am allowed to stay.

I do feel the compliment, but at times wish that the wee one was not quite so lavish in her attentions. I've taken to withdrawing unbidden from certain scenarios, and making sure I'm not overly-helpful. Ha! What a goddamn saint, eh? If you'd told me last year I'd have a two-year old crushing on me in 2011, I would have thought you dotty. However, so it goes.

My weak reassurance for my partner (and by proxy, I hope it trickles down to the ex in some form eventually) is that the Kid has a surplus of well-meaning and doting adults in her life, and I am lucky to be one, whatever I'm called.

And now I go to beach out on what looks to be one of the last fine hot weekends of 2011.

Anonymously yours,

----

The Bitch is Baaaaack...

Lordy, lordy, lordy. I see it has been 12 and a half weeks since my last post. What can I say?

I suppose I can give various explanations. I've been quite seriously mulling on why the prolonged silence, both in the written and verbal forms. Here's a few plausible reasons:

1. No more for me thanks, I'm full of myself.

As charming as I find myself, even I get sick of me sometimes. This is not a crisis of self-confidence; more like a peculiar state of eye-rolling at oneself. I wasn't particularly conscious of it and it certainly didn't upset me when it did occur to me now and then. It was like, yeah, shut up already for a while. Everyone needs a break from each other once in a while, as in each other part of oneself. Anyway, I'm glad to report both others have firmly re-committed, and after a small ceremony, are happily wedded once again.

2. The Transformer turned out to be a Decepticon

In my last post, I mentioned I'd got a state of the art intrauterine device (code name: Mirena). I'd thought the insertion process was the worst of it, and was looking forward to long, consequence-free soaks in...let me check the last post...hmmm...yes, I believe I coined the word 'jizzcuzzis'. (Little wonder I needed a little break from myself).

Things would turn out not to be so peachy nor so creamy (eeeww!), however. The "negligible" dose of progesterone slow-released into my uterus would be localized, I'd been assured, and soon I wouldn't even notice it. Really? Really? Well, no.

Exhibit a: interminable spotting. Everyday, a tablespoon or two drizzle. My pantiliner budget trebled. My bush grew yeti-wild as I waited for a break to get waxed. I grew nostalgic for (receiving) oral. My period went from frequent and decided statements to prolonged questions ("Is it tiiiiiiime yet...maaaaybe...?).

Exhibit b: occasional penile stabbings. My partner confessed to feeling something sharp once in a while when things shifted, it was turning him off a little...but it wasn't that bad, he reassured me. Well good. I certainly want my vagina to be a not entirely unpleasant experience for my sexual partner.

Exhibit c: general mooniness. It's not like the adult specimen I've become to be withdrawn, undecided and emotionally cautious. While admittedly it was helpful for several weeks while I/my fair handyman fixed up the house (mild depression can focus you on household tasks, I've found), I did not like it one little bit. Nuh-uh. Not one little bit. I lost my drive for exercise, for work, for socializing.

Also, instead of becoming accustomed to the idea, I was getting increasingly creeped out by the little Transformer docked inside of me. Just say it came within a certain radius of four other IUDs? Would they all leap explosively from their lodgings to form one giant IUD? Oh, the carnage! The inhumanity!

I was told: it may take you 2-3 months to adjust to it. One acquaintance recounted that it took her 6 months. I think she meant that it took her 6 months to forget how she used to be before the Thing was implanted. I do not think it unfair comment to say I should not have to get used to anything that negatively affects my personality, when I have the means to rid myself of it.

Thus, after 2 semi-periods in 3 weeks (once on my spa/girlfriend birthday, thanks!) and a particularly petulant time, I made an appointment with my doc to exorcise this particular demon. Luckily, it came out meekly. I instantly felt better. And had another period to celebrate 3 days later, this time for my sister's getaway birthday. Well, fuck you too, Mirena.

Unfortunately, you are not allowed to keep Mirena after removal. I would have liked to donate her to an impoverished woman in a poor country, with 5 kids already, who just needs a break. Or use it as a stocking stuffer! But apparently it takes just one bad apple peddling used/knock-off Mirenas on craigslist to ruin it for everyone else, so the thing was confiscated upon ejection. Good riddance.

The positive news, my doctor tells me, is that I'm likely too old to get knocked up without the help of fertility drugs, a turkey baster and some frozen embryos. She didn't put it exactly like that, but I got the sub-text, eh.

Actually, I think the evil Mirena was the reason for my posting absence, and no further explanation is necessary. I'm back in all my mildly bitchy, skeptical, ball-kickinlickin glory. Here are some ticker-tape updates since last we met:

-Man good, wonderful in fact. I plan on proposing when he's 40, so he's got 4 and a half years to find a really, really good hiding spot.

-Child good, adorable in fact. Maybe it's just because she's got so much of her dear da' in her, but I like her very much indeed. She's taken a shine to me too, probably because I'm the closest she's got to a fun uncle ( "funcle") figure in her life. I tutor her in all the most important aspects of her education (accurate animal noises, making a pop! with your index finger inside your cheek, loud nose-blowing, etc.)

-House sale imminent, almost. Many showings in a short time, and general good vibes about the thing. May have found ideal Next Spot as well, which I'd be able to rent for a while first. Fingers crossed.

-Health still shit. Tonsils may have to come out; got another cold attended by nausea. I leaned over my bathroom sink the other morning and casually puked up my double americano. And no, I'm not preggo (or, according to the package of the home pregnancy test, I can be 99% sure). Apparently it's par for the course with this particular bug.

Oh well. I'm a believer that when most parts of life are going particularly well, at least one aspect goes to shit for the sake of balance. This year my health has been exceptionally poor, but work and friendships and love have been simply exceptional. However, I may have to offer up one of the household pets in sacrifice to restore equilibrium.

Other than becoming a professional invalid (O, for I am consumed with consumption, alas!), I'm quite happy. It's reassuring that an old cynic like me can fall in love, albeit sensibly and with conditions. I'm happy to go slow. I like my space just so, and am not eager to invite someone to join it on a full-time basis. Neither am I inflexible enough to not entertain the notion occuring within the next year or so, but first things first. Relative to my probable life span, we're at the second handshake stage of our acquaintance.

Anyway, I'm almost done singing along to Dinah Washington in my raspy, infected-throat voice. I shall write shortly. Nice to be back.

gRETCHie

Uterine Docking

Greetings.

Here let me wail: where does the time go? Jeepers creepers, it all seems to get sucked in a vortex of sitting and computing and working; or else driving around fruitlessly on "errands" which are more correctly defined as purchasing trips for food and bathroom items and other things, plus the eternal twin Sisyphean boulders of recycling and laundry which relate to the hamster wheel of consumerism we're all on. The third time-eater is of course relaxing, which I cannot wail about. It's more a prolonged sigh of how lucky I am, that helps put the wailing in perspective.

Here is what has happened in the past two-three weeks.

1. Laying in bed feeling sorry for myself with strep throat seemed like the perfect time to update my professional website. Upon arrival, however, it struck me that everything about it no longer seemed relevant to who I was or what I actually do for money these days. Hence, I've decided to re-brand and re-envision myself in the realm of Business. New name, new look, slow building of a new network, one ring to rule them all.

2. After parrying inquiries from friends and family members on what exactly I was planning to do with the house anyway?, it occurred to me that it may also be a good time to re-brand on the domestic front. I live in a rural idyll. I have explored my forested 19-acre swath exactly three times since moving here six years ago. I appreciate the privacy and the de facto bird/frog sanctuary.

It occurs to me, however, as I marvel at the immutability of my mortgage line of credit no matter how diligently I make my payments, that I will never pay off this house. And I don't need all this space for my occasional bare-ass suntanning or for the hounds to run willy-nilly, and I don't need all this house except to store my ex-partner's stuff. My burgeoning collection of antique meat-grinders does not take up very much room at all. In summary, keeping the property is indulgent and even nostalgic, and while I've been easy on myself the last couple of years post-break up I reckon it's as good a time as any to move on.

I'm slapping a new roof on in the next couple of weeks, paying someone to mow my lawn and do the hated year-work in recognition of my stubborn inertia (and the fact that my lawnmower repair-man is an amiable mouth-breather who is treating my little MTB like a life-time rebuild project). I have two friends I'd love to sell it to, but if they prove unserious I will enlist the dark forces of the real estate agency and just get 'er done.

I had planned on then moving to one of two downtown areas within my fair valley, buying a cool old house and fixing it up. It was an even toss-up between the two communities, as they each have their merits. However, I have been asked--at first implicitly, and then explicitly--to consider one of those areas more seriously. Yes, it seems like only a few moons ago we were giggling over the joys of fuckbuddery. Now we are shyly alluding to a time when we will live together. Down the road, of course, but we find ourselves surprisingly comfortable with the notion. He is, always has been, and I trust will continue to be, a spectacular peach of a man. It is a lovely thing to wake up next to someone who instantly puts a smile on one's face.

Anyway. We are two hard-asses with soft hearts, deep within the throes of serious Like. I met the kid and she's quite a charmer. All continues apace.

3. While I have now made the acquaintance of the child, I am adamant that if he and I are ever to make one together, it will be planned. No little accidents to lock one into position, thanks. Nope, if we ever go down the road of contemplating procreation, it will have to be an overt commitment. Hence the IUD now firmly ported into my uterus.

After researching my options, I decided on the Mirena. This small, innocuous object promises to deflect sperm, lessen my period and not make me nutty/fat/moony with hormones. My gynecologist recommended I shop around as it costs $350-$400. I end up in (yes) Wal-Mart last week. Along with the wooden coat hangers (shades of Joan Crawford, t'is true) I was there to purchase I also pick up an ice cream maker and a $358 IUD.

Shortly thereafter, I realize I would have accrued an unimaginable bounty of Optimum points had I got it at Shopper's. The grim-faced Wal-mart pharmacist assistant does not let me return it, as it has left the store.

"How do you know it's left the store?" I ask, thinking it would be quite reasonable to lie and say I've been whiling away the hours in housewares. She dead-eyes me and sweeps the counter, "I mean here the store. We can't be responsible for people tampering with product."

On the one hand, I agree that this is a liability issue. On the other, the Mirena comes in an enormous sealed box. It turns out it is also packaged in shrink-wrapped plastic inside. Tampering would be evident, for Pete's sake. I brood over the defeat of common sense and my foregone Optimum points for the rest of the day.

However, the day approaches for its insertion. Today! I learned a few things: one, IUDs are not traditionally used by women who have not given birth, as their cervixes are relatively tight. Turns out I'm clenched harder than a 'Fight the Power' fist. Two, that the IUD is best inserted during a period, when the cervix is "softer" and there is no chance of an existing pregnancy. Great, except I was only on day 3 of my period, and when my clenched cervix is dilated the very nice, attractive male gynecologist inform me "Hmmm, your cervix was so tight it was, um, holding back...what looks to be quite a bit of what appears to be...quite old blood."

I can only murmur "How nice that must be for you..." by way of a weak apology, as by now I've been induced into a prolonged cramp. Oh. Oh! I breathe a few whistley breaths and tell myself it will soon be over. And it is, it's soon docked deep inside me and I'm free to go. Except it becomes very apparent walking to the car that my fight-the-power cervix and previously unviolated uterus are ganging up on the IUD. I picture an interuterine Wall-E trying to make friends with a hostile environment.

The interminable drive home is spent encouraging myself not to veer into oncoming traffic while my reproductive organs wrestle with the feisty Mirena. I alternately low like an ailing cow and quietly hate-talk fellow drivers slowing my homeward progress to bed/hot water bottle/NOW.

My main thought as I stagger into bed with the trusty hot water bottle is one of dismay. I wake up after a 90-minute nap of the dead and the cramped to find the war is over, and the body has grudgingly settled around the intruder. I hope this is not just a stalemate, but a lasting peace.

I rebound enough to go for a run to celebrate my newfound infertility, and envision long relaxing soaks in jizz-filled jacuzzis. Jizzcuzzis. Actually, no. But it will be nice to not have to worry about where the chips fall; and not to bleed out like a True Blood extra every 24 days.

4. My Mexican Dumpster rat JoJo gashed his thigh. I conceded it merited fixing, as it was deep and the size of a toonie. $287 later (80% of a Mirena) he was given back to me with 5 staples and a head-cone that rendered him immobile and terrified. I was told firmly that it must be left on, and that there were terrible consequences to the dog licking or teasing his wound.

After two hours of watching a mildly sedated JoJo stand stock-still with fear because of the cone, I removed it. After a failed attempt to fashion him a little anti-lick sweater, I now let him cavort around cone-less and unprotected. Today he rolled in wild animal shit to celebrate. Oh well. He looks fine, and is gobbling his twice-daily antibiotic with no hesitation (he also steals pineapple rinds out of the compost and consumes them frantically while I half-heartedly tell him to drop it, drop it...) In short, while prone to abrasions he is indestructible.

5. My car cost me about two and a quarter Mirenas last week. Subarus, while undeniably cool--that's right, UNDENIABLY COOL--are horrendously expensive to repair. And I need new glasses as I'm currently making do with the owly pair I had in yes, university (Class of '95) since one of lenses in my more recent pair popped out and broke in two. Expected cost: two Mirenas.

In short, this leads me to believe that everything costs at least a Mirena these days. Cuantos mirenas cuesta eso? Ah well.

Tomorrow I am attending a full-day of First Aid in my strange odyssey of Becoming a More Useful Person, so good night. May your uterus be at peace.

GR

That's Just the Toxins Leaving Your Body, Dear

A couple of weeks of worldly significant happenings has just happened by: Royal Wedding: the bride wore too much blush, in my books. Collective yawn, please. Osama shot...and buried at sea? Way to put to rest to any conspiracy theories, America. What, no Osama pelt mounted in the Oval Office? A federal election that was decisive, if nothing else.

And tonight, checking my scalp for dandruff (check), a grey hair noted. Eek. I recall having a few whities (blondies?) in my mid-twenties, and then nothing. Each undyed year has seen a deepening of the brown. It had to happen one day, I suppose. This is no silver strand, but a bonafide grey. Irregular kinky, erratic pointy bit of charcoal in ye olde mane. With a slight smattering of dandruff as distraction.

Jesus. I feel like I've aged 5 years these last 5 months. A long haul of rude health for most of '09-'10 evaporated in early '11, with cold after cold followed by fucking-I-shit-you-not strep throat this last week. So much for dodging a bullet at the Easter egg hunt surrounded by kidlets. One of them must have slipped a small infested finger into my fruit salad when I wasn't looking.

I always blame the children, of course. If it weren't for children, no one would be sick. They're just lucky they serve other purposes. Though it pains me to see modern parents not take advantage of their offsprings' malleability. Here you have the perfect opportunity to mold your mini-me into a small indentured servant-creature, at least until the surly teen years. You are totally blowing it, in my opinion, dear we-just-want-them-to-be-happy parents. Go figure. And there's so many of the little dears.

This October, we are expected to tick over to seven billion people. Gee, it just seems like yesterday we were celebrating six...oh wait, that wasn't yesterday exactly, but relative to 3.5 million years of human evolution, eleven years is close.

Before your inner Malthusian starts clutching its cheeks and screaming like a Munchian, however, contemplate that we are now standing in the shadow of the population bomb's mushroom cloud. In 20 or 30 or even 40 years max, we should start to see a decline. And let's say in that time the rate of growth has eased, so that at 2050 we're at 9 billion earthlings versus the 11 billion we could be if we kept replenishing our stock as zealously as we are today. Which we won't. It's already started, and if nothing else it's awesome to think about having absently daily-lifed through so many likely zeniths for humanity: peak oil, peak regeneration of the species, peak income gap (hopefully).

These grandiose ruminations may seem disproportionate to the facts, and nothing but the facts, ma'am. One, tomorrow is mother's day, and set aside the usual treacle of the occasion to pay homage to the women you are and know. The majority of you are doing the best you can under the circumstances, and for that I salute you. I took my mum out to dinner and a movie a day early, because really, no matter how old or cool or quiet your mum may be, all she really craves is a date with her kid(s).

Two, all the pisspoor health and pus-throat and greying locks and one-sided Wolverine growth (over which, armed with tweezers, I now keep a vigilant watch) are making me feel my years, finally. Luckily, I have the chin acne of a 16-year old boy (which prompted my mum to hand me a tube of Prosacea, thanks), so the overall effect is still somewhere between Miss and Ma'am. My window for ever being feted by a natural born on Mother's Day is ever-shrinking, which somehow doesn't phase me (not being the maternal kind nor delusional enough to imagine that I am all of a sudden twinging because I should be) but is still curious, none the same.

Three, I spent this weekend visiting my sister and her two kids, and although they can be whiny, noisy and demanding little sons of guns (not to mention incorrigible communal food-touchers, which I really cannot abide) it must be admitted they can be funny and charming and sweet as well. Whether it's my 7-year old nephew dancing jerkily to Florence and the Machine in his underoos and grandma's fuzzy red slippers (before inevitably sliding out on the slick wooden floor and bonking his head), or my 5-year old niece declaring in the upscale garden store she wants a metallic pink tape measure of her very own...so...so she can measure her head, they can be a tickle.

That, coupled with all my dear friends' eccentric and endearing broods and the Man's own half-progeny now wriggling around town, and it makes me grudgingly declare myself a friend to the little folk, despite their numerous diseases and propensity for ear-splitting orca-sounds. As their friend, I wonder about their future. I hope for them, and hope to even start doing more/anything to make it better for them.

So now that I've declared my intentions to be honourable and the friendship as "on", could you please please please stop making me sick? Or maybe, my little friends, what you're doing is simply prepping me for the pandemic we're apparently long overdue for as a race. In which case, thank you.

Happy momma (& mommaboy) day!
Daughter Gretchen

Gretchen Rutte Is Now In a Relationship

Yes, it's true. I am deeply committed. Rossi: 170 cms, a little more narrow-waisted than is fashionable, challenging and dynamic. After a first date with Rossi, I was hooked. We soared over slopes and ducked through the trees, much like Bella and dead-James-Dean guy in that most excellent Twilight series.

After a long period of abstinence, I have re-committed myself to skiing by purchasing a pair of sick skis. Rossignol s86, Naxo AT bindings so I can back-country and resort ski with the same set-up, adjustable Leki poles, G3 skins and the cutest little yellow Voile shovel. Ooooh, think I may have blown my cred with the last description, but it is the happiest little shovel you ever did see. I can whistle cheerily as I dig my friends out of avalanches, yay!

In other news, I took the whole damn Easter weekend off and skied and ate well and saw friends and easter egg hunted and lolled in bed and cleaned half-heartedly. At the start of the four-day holiday, I made a good list of things I should do, and sensibly set it aside for the rest of the weekend. Carpet cleaning can wait. Time to unplug and relax.

The 2nd annual easter brunch/egg hunt at my friend Marguerite's was terrific. None of the children present apperared ill, the food was high quality, the coffee more than decent and the rain held off till after the chocolates were collected. No one barfed or shat themselves forcefully, and there was only one child bloodied through face-plant. One little girl went into a shrieking fit, but the parents seemed like decent folks and she was at once scooped up and taken onto the deck until she reached the quiet shuddering stage. Awesome.

Taking time off made me realize that I need to take time off...but there's a reason I don't. While I'm no longer on my ten-hour winter sleep schedule thanks to the longer days, I find it very easy to do nothing for long periods of time, interspersed with one or two Important Tasks that take maybe five minutes but give me a sense of accomplishment. I am surprisingly easy to placate when in weekend mode. Favourite panties hand-washed and hung to dry: check. Favourite panties taken off line when light rain falls: check. Two important tasks down! Rock on! See, this might be dangerous territory to slide into.

This weekend was significant for my significant other, however. It may have been one long pantie wash and dry for yours truly, but he had to move the ex into town, study for a mean final exam today, mediate a work crisis and play host to two different sets of house-guests. I, on the other hand, had to get up slightly early on Sunday to make a fruit salad for brunch. Fair dinkum.

I'm bucking the trend of over-achieving women. This superwoman complex has to go. I'm going to use 50's husband as a prototype: home from work to gap out with a glass of scotch and a paper pre- and post-meal. This is slightly challenging as I work from home and have no adoring wife zonked on tranquilizers to serve me meatloaf and candied yams, but I do believe in compromise. I serve myself leftovers (delicious!) in an apron and listen most compassionately to stories of work woes. Have a drink, you poor dear. I don't know how you do it, you big strong thing.

I did fix up my bike last Good Friday (Jesus wants me to ride, oh Lord) and ride into town to vote at advance polls. I was like, democracy AND bike-riding on Earth Day: snap! I nailed it! (I still love snap! I'm hoping it's like rad--never really goes away. However, some expressions need to be put away for good. Case in point: "Whatever." What kind of Big Lebowski nihilist/morbidly horny 15-year old are you to concede a "Whatever"?)

Hmm, my little computer is near-dead. The hometeam has won game 7 of round 1 of the play-offs, which means people are getting drunk for a reason tonight. Woo-hoo! (Also please retire). I've got to be up disgracefully early for a number of disgracefully responsible reasons tomorrow, so good night!

Abruptly yours, G

PS Read Tina Fey's book over the weekend and laughed out loud several times. Best part was the Teat Nazis, hands down. Militant breast-feeders scare me too, Tina.

It Is What It Is, She Sez

To preface: I have no idea why Blogger formatting has gotten so fucking squirelly. My apologies, it's not me, it's the site.

Here's some of what our friend the Urban Dictionary has to say about the modern adage "It is what it is".

Def. 1: Used often in the business world, this incredibly versatile phrase can be literally translated as "fuck it."

Def. 2: A trite, overused and infuriatingly meaningless cliche that is utilized by provincials who think they are adding some deep, meaningful insight during a discussion when all they are offering is senseless, unwarranted repetitiveness to what would otherwise be a far better conversation had they not shown the shallowness of the gene pool they spawned from by using this asininely useless and redundant phrase to begin with.

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=It+is+what+it+Is

(Ironically, I think the person providing Def. 2 is showing themself to disadvantage by their unrestrained rancour--"asininely useless" seems redundant in itself--but then again Urban Dictionary is enjoyable thanks to the general unrestrained rancour of its contributors.)

This existential phrase was recently mocked by no less a person than my very own X. He swooped through town on a swift, almost-surprise visit. Ostensibly this was to get away, see the dogs, hang out. It was also to see me. The visit proved to me that I had grown naive to the lasting effect I have had on my X, and his effect upon me.

Spending time with him was familiar and alien all at once. He was nervous at seeing me, which in turn made me uncomfortable. He made joking references to me taking him back. I made unjoking rebuttals that I hoped were both clear and not wholly unkind. I found myself being frank to the point of humourlessness, however, in part to excise any stirrings of leftover feelings I have for him.

It is hard, if not impossible, to love someone for many years and then let them go entirely. Especially when they are so terribly alone, and seemingly incapable of looking after themselves in a sane and sound manner.

He is also good-looking and incredibly smart, if not self-aware. Seeing this beautiful and gifted man, at once arrogant and fragile, did cause my heart to break just a little. This surprised me. I thought I'd done with that. After all, this visit coincided with our two year anniversary of official breakupdom. I was happy dating a wonderful man, albeit we were taking it slow. I've never been more financially or emotionally grounded, so to be side-swiped, gently, by feelings I thought were dead in the past was curious.

Sigh. I think he brings out my protective instincts. In a sick way, he also makes me feel special, as he has been unable to date. He finds other women lacking. This is discussed at dinner. Holding up one hand with thumb tucked under, he waggles his fingers at me.

"Four times. That's how many times I've left in the middle of a date."

"What do you mean? You mean you just go? You pretend to go to the bathroom or something and just leave?" I ask, half-smiling and half-incredulous.

"Well, I pay the bill before I go," he says in his own defense. "But yeah, I just have to get out...okay, the first one," he goes on, seeing my perplexed expression, "The first one was like, 22 or whatever, she starts talking about getting Botox and a boob job, and I'm like I'm outta here. The second one wouldn't stop talking about her past relationships. See ya. The third..." here he does have the decency to look abashed, "OK, the third one was on me, I admit it. I started drinking and beaking off and that was that. The fourth one wanted to go to this restaurant, and it turned out she knew everyone there and spent the whole time talking to a bunch of people, so I took off."

Later he said he was not planning on dating anyone until he got more settled in his finances and head-space. I said this was probably wise.

My own dating update was much more brief. It had been over 5 months since we had spoken at length.

"Gimme the beta," he demanded. "You got a boyfriend?"

"Yes". I said, thinking once again how much I dislike the word boyfriend. It really is innocuous to the point of vapidity.

"You love him?"

"Getting there." I replied, and gave him a lopsided smile to indicate that was about all I was going to say on the topic.

It is strange talking relationships with the X. We had assumed for so long that we were going to always be together. We could not even imagine what being with others would be like. I don't mean sex or casual dating--that can be very easy to imagine in a LTR, for anyone, and pretty easy to do once the LTR is terminated. No, I mean being with someone else as a partner. This is astonishing to the both of us, still. Two years has passed and we are no longer very close, but we spent almost nine years in close relationship to each other and it still pains us that we are no more.

We both think the other person broke our respective hearts. I think we're both right.

Anyway, although it was unsettling it was also instructive to see him with fresh eyes. While I could appreciate his handsome face and sharp mind, I could also see his recklessness and selfishness. His only criticism of me was that my humour seemed curtailed, and he'd been looking forward to me making him laugh.

As we were in a crowded restaurant in my hometown, I was trying to dial him down, admittedly. He's not the most restrained speaker, and many of his metaphors involve a) sex b) violence c) animals or d) all of the above. For example, on describing his work place culture: "It's like being ass-raped by a chimpanzee, every day." So yeah, call me a kill-joy but I'd rather not banter such phrases back and forth seated three feet away from an intent party of four.

He is a pathological liar, arrogant and flippant. He is tremendously vulnerable, smart and damaged. He also thinks he will never find another person who loved him like I did, and whom he loved to the best of his ability. Sigh again. He could do me a great deal of harm if I let him, so I don't. It is what it is, right?

Meanwhile, my new beau has his own X to deal with, except his mind-fuck has been more recent, and he shares a child with her. It is what it is.

In another sphere, a woman working for the company I currently consult to decided a board meeting was the appropriate place to announce unbidden that I'm paid too much, and that they should replace the execution of some of my duties "once things settle down" with an admin person to save money. I was not there, of course, as startled, I would have immediately kicked out several of her teeth before I could stop myself.

Why on earth a person who is almost wholly ignorant of what I do, and who does not pay me or face any kind of budget restrictions due to my pay (I generate all necessary revenues through my project, including money which allows for the growth of the overall company) should take it upon herself to make such a pronouncement is beyond my full comprehension. It would have been beyond my curiosity as well, except that it resulted in talk of me potentially working for less. I do not encourage such talk, especially when I have been very successful in my contract and made a lot of money for my client.

At any rate, a few days' reflection and advice from wise friends led me to see that this episode was useful. It forced me to assess what value I provided with my services. It reaffirmed my belief in working on contract and having my own business. It even made me see that this woman had only really done harm to herself through her actions. That it is what it is. Etcetera.

I'm happy to retire that phrase permanently. Taking a page from my X, I shall now be using the more colourful "That sucks donkey balls." Hopefully it will pick up and be firmly ensconced in the vernacular before long. Good night!

GR

You are Old, Father William...and So's That Old Broad

"You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "As I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door— Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box— Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "And your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet; Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak— Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw, Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose— What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"

-Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

My thanks, once again, Mr. Carroll. I just gave a copy of your wonderful book to my Ma, who at 65 years old has yet to read you.

I had a week not too long ago where I too, like the delightful and ornery Father William, was tempted to kick something or somebody down the stairs for persistently pointing out "But you're so old!"

Exhibit A: Fertility and Age

After a tardy period and two "I'm-not-nervous-I'm-just-wondering" home pregnancy tests followed by the usual bloody onslaught, I decided to go see my doc to discuss my (limited) birth control options beyond condoms, withdrawal, and blind faith.

I suppose I was hoping she'd have some magic potion that had escaped the notice of Google. No. Birth control has not really progressed much in the last 30 years, it seems. The fact that some women still use diaphragms amazes me. After my last ill-fated attempt to insert an Instead menstrual cup, I do not think this is the option for anyone with feisty kegels.

Hormonal birth control plays havoc with my skin, causing the appearance of a brownish pigment on my forehead. This is sometimes called pregnancy mask. The irony of pregancy mask being caused by birth control pills does not go unappreciated by me, but the fact that it never goes away even when I stop the pills, and am forever banished from exposing my face to the sun is not appreciated.

Then there's the IUD. Copper is not recommended for heavy bleeders. Golly, okay! Then there's the Mirena, which is plastic and releases a small amount of progesterone in addition to physically blocking any squigglers. It sounds like my surest bet, even though it costs several hundred dollars, requires dilation to insert, and there's a tiny chance my uterus could get punctured during insertion/it may result in ectopic preganancy. Pshaw.

My main objections to it are a) having something inserted and then left behind for 2-5 years seems more like a surgical mistake than an intentional procedure and b) there's some awful practical talk of the strings which hang down into the vagina, and that need to be trimmed to the right length, and that need to be checked each month to make sure they are still in place. Etc. Having two strands of synthetic linguine hanging in my pleasuredome puts me off.

Anyway, inevitably the discussion re: birth control leads to well, what are your plans for children, to which I mumble that I don't know, didn't think it was in my cards, but I still hadn't ruled it out...here my doc glances down at my chart, her eyebrows raised.

"Well, you are, what, 37?" she says. "Even, um, younger women take a year on average to conceive. And your chances after 35 of the occurrence of Down's Syndrome goes up like this..." --here she draws a steep arc upwards to show me how precipitous my odds are becoming with each passing year.

Basically, the message transmitted was I understand you don't want to become pregant today, but if there's any desire to become pregant at any point in the future with a healthy child you'd better start thinking about tomorrow. Fair 'nuff. I've always felt so young and vigorous, I'd taken it for granted my eggs were hatchable. That said, one cannot deny 37 clicking over to 38 in a few months has a ring of near-finality to it.

This relates nicely to:

Exhibit B: Coupling Up and Age

I am seeing someone a few years younger than me. What's three years, right? Well, a lot if fertility as a positive is introduced into the mix. A day or two after the raised eyebrows of the doctor, I listened to a CBC Radio program about manchilds, and delayed adolescence in adult males in their 20s and 30s, and how these men tend to prefer younger women so they could have children when they were ready, i.e. when he's 40 and she's 34, for example. This gave me pause for thought. Hmm. Gosh, I think I'm a manchild! This thrill of recognition is followed by a thread of anxiety. Jeepers, my guy should be dating some cute little eggy late-20's babe! At this point, I was bloated, anxious, and about as close to bleaty as someone as stoic as me ever gets. W.T.F? All right, Exhibits. Here's what I offer in rebuttal: Rebuttal I. Science! According to stalwart penpal and Once Upon Good Time Guyfriend, the moon is closer to earth than it has been in 300,000. Ok, literal lunacy ensued, by way of partial explanation. According to my mum, who saw Jennifer "Flashdance" Beals on a talk-show the other night talking about giving birth to a healthy child at 42, I am just like her. Ok, optimism. (My mum thinks I'm an undiscovered celebrity, and we all know celebrities can have babies any time they want.) However, science is on my side. If some 64-year old Sicilian broad can give birth to twins through artificial insemination, then surely I have a couple-three years left in me. Rebuttal II. Indifference!! Now that my odd anxious spell has passed, I've come back to the position I've maintained for years: I don't want children (still). I realised this when I politely asked my 32-year old friend Sinead to explain what wanting a child felt like. She explained with enthusiasm, once she realised I was sincere the question. I heard "little" and "cute" and "fun" and "love". (Nothing new in the mix to entice me there. I saw a bulldog puppy the other day that was so cute I almost wet my pants, but have never had this reaction to a kid yet.) Rebuttal III. Confidence!!! I suspect this uncharacteristic doubt was due in part to the moon and the radio show and blaghblaghblagh (that's the Irish "blahblahblah", in honour of St. Patrick's month). It was also due in part to discovering several mortifying long, fine stray hairs growing along my left jawline. Jesus. I'm turning into Wolverine. Luckily on one side only. Oh goody. I have vague notions that it may be increased testosterone due to working out so much, not some pre-menopausal hormonal seismic shudderings. Of course, I've had some pesky colds too, so am not feeling tip-top physically. Additionally, I've been feeling a little off-centre in my accidental relationship, and wondering if there is something else I should be doing or feeling instead of just humping along and having nice dinners and generally fun times. And in the general wondering it occurred to me that maybe there's something about me that men really like, but just can't love. It sounds dense and insecure of me, but I suspect everyone's thought along these lines. While I wasn't looking for a pep-talk, I must have been emitting some kind of woebegone signal as I had a couple of pals tell me offhand that I'm a Catch. Oh. Yeah! Duh. Lucky for me, I have a resilient (monstrous) ego, that can make a meal out of a few table scraps, so I reckon I'm good for a while now. I also have to remind myself that this man is not a man-child, and is with me because he likes me. He doesn't want some eggy broad ten years my junior, with no fixed opinions on deodorant use or pubic waxing, no dough, and no plans beyond vague notions of being a doolah. Or an art therapist. (And he certainly doesn't want any more children in the near future, so it's off soon to the local hot ob-gyny with my Safeway Pharmacy-purchased Mirena for insertion.) He can also do the math, and so far my 33 months plus on him has not been mentioned as a negative. Now, glancing over, I see that this very grown-up man is almost done his chemistry homework and tea biscuits, so we must be getting close to bed. Signing off, a Hot Old Broad

Hard Core Female Pornification

Hello there, I'm back after yet another hiatus. An explanation by way of apology: as my current contract entails me sitting on my ass thinking and tapping on my computer, after several hours of this a day I am not prepared to think and tap on my computer for fun.

I'm sure you understand that while I do like my job and am not complaining, and derive pleasure from writing here, I also derive pleasure from not having shooting pains in my sciatic nerve which is the result of said sitting on one's ass all day. I'm going to cobble together a standing computer station today, to alternate with my sit-down desk to alleviate some of the pressure on the poor old ass.

At the Mayo Clinic, some offices have treadmill computer stations set to a slow amble, and a network of painted lines on the hallway floors throughout the building indicating meeting times of various lengths. For example, a blue line might take 15 minutes to complete, a green 30, etc. This way you can walk and talk versus sitting around the table. May not be practical for large or all meeting, but a good idea, no? Much like consuming too much animal protein, the luxurious state of sitting has become the norm we are both entitled and enslaved to, and from which we suffer from the consequences.

Anyway, I apparently have no problem with laying down, as I'm in bed at 3:48pm on a Sunday dodging the gruesome task of organizing last year's taxes. I've had two concurrent nights of far less than my usual 9-10 hours of winter sleep, both self-induced.

I didn't see my fellow for a few days, or several days (when does few become several, anyway? I think in this case a four-and-a-half day absence is closer to a few, or severfew perhaps). He had visiting relatives staying at his very small house coupled with studying for a midterm and continued (perhaps fruitlessly) sleep-training attempts of a sick 18-month old daughter. As I was busybusy myself with said-ass sitting and thinking, it was three days before I really started to miss him.

So when Friday evening finally rolled around and it didn't look like we were going to see each other, I decided to get my nasty on. I went to the video store to get something I knew was going to make me feel slightly soiled, repelled, bemused and fascinated. Something I could only watch by myself. Yes, I rented Sex and the City 2 (hence effectively answering my own question as to what PMS depths I might plunge to without a good man's steadying influence).

Saying you rent SATC2 for the fashion is kind of like saying you read Playboy for the articles. (Yes, yes, they are present and often excellent, but I don't know many men who beat off to The Walrus despite the excellent articles. On the other hand, select crusty pages are effective book-marks.) There is much expensive, gorgeous frippery and footwear in this film. There is also the repelling and fascinating underbelly of modern femininity exposed--not in a chaste, peep-show kind of way but in an exultant and wanton fashion.

Here's the story, in as far as it goes. Writer Carrie Bradshaw is now a rich man's wife, and is growing restless with the domesticity associated with marriage. Said domesticity being a man who either cooks or picks up take-out each night after his full-time job, and who would rather snuggle in bed watching old movies with his wife than attend glitzy premieres for bad movies. (For the record, however, I too balk at the idea of having a television in the bedroom for anything else but the occasional movie.) He gets a tv installed in the bedroom in a clumsy show of affection (Now we can watch movies in bed together!). Her reaction is to pout that she'd much have preferred a piece of jewelry. I feel your pain, Carrie. You are entitled to a piece of jewelry to go with one of the outfits you pick up at Bergdorf throughout the course of your exhausting full-time job as professional subsidized shopper.

Her pals lead an equally horrific existence. Doe-eyed village idiot Charlotte has a buxom Irish nanny she worries will seduce her Lex Luthor husband, though he is inexplicably devoted to her. Miranda, now the most sympathetic of characters and that ain't saying much, has an overbearing sexist boss at her law firm. Luckily, her own buck-toothed castrati of a husband gives her no grief since she had him fixed after his adulterous dalliance of SATC1.

The prancing Id which is Samantha is getting older. She is fighting this pernicious malady with the science contained in the literature of Suzanne Somers. This ongoing, Chrissy-led war against aging entitles her to take drastic action, and damn the torpedoes. In one scene, she sits in a glass cube of an office with her panties lowered, subjecting the secretary to the sight of her smearing hormone cream on her vagina while seated at her desk and flirting on the phone. (Decorum aside, all I could think was what manner of bacterium lived on that woman's keyboard. But really. Let us think of say, a Michael Douglas or Colin Firth lathering their genitals with invigorating anti-aging balms in similar circumstance, and you have a much different story.)

The plot thickens when Sam is offered an all-expense paid trip to the United Arab Emirates for her and the three cronies. Off they go to exult in fabulous unearned luxury, thanks to the largesse of an oil-rich sheik and the mostly unseen back-breaking labour of economic migrants. It is a relief to see the ladies glide without any qualms of social justice into an opulent suite, where their every need is anticipated. They parade about in a variety of costumes until Grave Problems present themselves.

Catalysed by a bad review of her book, Carrie applies kohl eyeliner and goads an ex into kissing her, and confesses long-distance to the unimpressed husband. In the meantime, lusty Sam's shenanigans get them effectively kicked out of a situation they realize they can't afford themselves.

However, they do throw some shout-outs to the little people--namely, a literal toast to those women raising children without full-time help (a weak and shameless attempt to pander to the audience); and the oppression of women in conservative Muslim countries. Luckily it turns out those lucky ladies rock their fashion underneath their niqabs and burqas, and are up on their Suzanne Somers, so the gals can carry on without too much worry there. Yay!

The story is meant to be light and frothy. However, it is no harmless cappucino foam to indulge in once in a while. No, it is the sickly yellow froth of a form of vaginitis found in many wealthier regions of the modern world. It signals disease associated with a rampant and thoughtless consumerism, that in its own way is way sicker than anything portrayed in film with regard to modern male ambition. At least Gordon Gekko steals his own money and is tormented by knowledge of his own pathology. These women are not only for the most part amoral parasites, they feel entitled to it as women. This flips the fundamental feminist precept of "Equality for all" into "Sure, but gimme more because I'm fabulous!"

It is, in a word, appalling. And so fucking enjoyable in a sick way! Because these women are so idiotic and repellent and unrealistic that one can't help a) steering clear of any such behaviours oneself and b) having more sympathy with men whose wives, girlfriends, sisters, daughters and co-workers fall for this claptrap and act out diluted versions.

The original SATC series was light and yet ballsy. You wanted to hang out with these gals, they were funny and fun even in their materialistic neuroses. The braying broads they've become, however, are not people you would want to be seated next to in a restaurant, much less associate with. And incidentally, the outfits veered into the comically ludicrous in their high-fashionedness. Anyway, I knew the movie would be a hideous spectacle.

It seemed like a good capper to my failed attempt at reading Eat, Pray, Love. At first I put my game-face on, treating it like satire. Much like American Psycho, this Liz initially seems an interesting monster. Interminably crying on bathroom floors, making rash and immature choices under the guise of a mid-life crisis at the ripe old age of 32 or 34 or whatever advanced number causes her to lose her fucking mind, Liz is a piece of work.

Unfortunately, she is also banal in the extreme, not murderous in a fun Fatal Attraction lunatic way and not a good writer. She chortles on about gelato flavours and Italians that is reminscent of the hysterically adventurous Ms. Lavish lampooned by E.M. Forster in A Room With A View (written 80 or so years ago by a man, it is in its own right a far more interesting look at the constraints of femininity).

Sigh. I could not continue with Eat, Pray, Love. It did not "speak" to me. It did not make me want to fly off on my own journey of self-discovery. I started thinking of it as Eat, Bray, Shove (It), or Eat-Pray-Hurl. Riffing on the title soon proved more satisfying than finishing the damn thing, so I've cast it aside.

One more thing, though. After my break-up (now coming on two years), I'd given serious thought to going to post-graduate school in the Big City, or travelling the world learning martial arts to turn myself into the lethal assassin I'd always imagined myself to become with adulthood.

However, these escapes did not pan out, for various reasons. While I'm sure they would have been interesting, even potentially great misadventures, I came to recognize that I have a good life, with good people in it. Also, day-to-day life is absurd and interesting enough without me traipsing around the planet exposing myself to ringworm or malaria. The idea of my own memoir Fight, Fuck, Flee was a good one, but ultimately a reactionary one natural to the dissolution of Life As We Know It. There's no embarrassment of having had this reaction, but neither is there any glory in it.

There might be some small glory in appreciating a good life. There may be a muted dignity in loving the people in your life, and plunking along grateful for good work and the adoration of pets and a full pantry and a nice bottle of Scotch on your windowsill, despite the myriad small inconveniences of taxes and muscle aches and vehicle quirks. Mostly, there's comfort in being satisfied without being self-satisfied, and growing stronger without becoming a monstrous, shallow asshole.

I plan on doing a ceremonial burn of the Gilbert at the first outdoor bbq of the year. Hope you can make it to the premiere and one-time performance of Eat, Laugh, Burn Motherfucker Burn. It promises to be fabulous!

With matches in hand,

GR

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