Who's the Bigger Tyrant: Parent or Child?

The screaming child has just been carried out of earshot, much to my relief. Kids can be such self-indulgent little shits, can't they? Though they are naturally generous: every time a spark of annoyance ignites in their brains, they feel compelled to share it. Whine, whine, whine. Often I openly mock the child into submission, then act brisk and change the subject. It confuses her enough that nine times out of ten, it succeeds in re-directing her attention and mood.

The only sound which equals a whining child in hideousness is an adult assuming the All-Powerful role, and using the Voice. Stern and terrible, it makes pronouncements like "If you don't pick that up, there will be no vanilla yogurt with honey" and "There is no more juice until you eat these three pieces of chicken." Sometimes it gets followed up with appeals to the child's rational side, i.e. you must eat protein so you will grow big and strong like dad, etc. Usually, it works. Sometimes, the kid really doesn't give a shit, countering with the inarguable: "But I don't want to."

Faced with such logic, there is only one thing to do: up the consequences. So it's no longer "Come away from there, you might fall down the hill" or "Stop at the end of the sidewalk, please!" It's better to describe in a grim, world-weary voice what will really happen. You will break both legs falling down the hill and roll into a prickle bush, where we won't be able to find you for days and days and you will have to to drink your own pee to stay alive. Or you will run into traffic and no one, nobody will stop, and a truck will roll over you and squish your guts all over the road and we'll have to get a spatula to scrape them up. Gruesome consequences worked for the Brothers Grimm and it works for me.

Making up horrible ends for a three and a half year old's Choose Your Own Adventure story breaks up the monotony of looking after a small child. At its best, silence is granted for a brief period of concentration during make-believe with stuffed animals or drawing or trampoline time. The only noises they might make at this time are breathy little songs of narration ("Now I'm jumping on this foot...now I'm jumping on that foot..."). This is the golden time, when one can sneak a glance at the absorbed child and allow an inward spasm of affection and feel like a good parent. Most of the time, it isn't like this. It's a maze of tiny chores, each branching into dead ends of failure or just another intersection. Respite occurs when the child falls asleep or gets dropped off at daycare aka being made someone else's problem.

The frequent ascents into towering kidrage further break up the monotony. It's like the scene in Sleeping Beauty where the evil queen transforms into a giant dragon. Nothing to do but either run, if it's not your kid, or get clinical. If you panic, you're done for. I pried the screamer off my partner the other day when the house-painter showed up (our crime: waking her up from a nap in the car) and took her for a walk. She had two options: stand up and cry, or be carried and stop. Up, down, up, down. I made her take a deep breath at every sign or hydrant. She calmed down in under ten minutes and was shortly as chipper as ever. I have none of the maternal pangs of guilt other women report, just an icy resolve to get 'er done. Could be because I'm a step-mother and thus biologically removed, or merely because I'm as emotionally stunted as a bonsai tree. Tomayto, tomahto.

Must work now, pumpkins.
GR

Ahem

The last year has been tapioca pudding. Bland substance filled with little bubbles to make it interesting enough to keep eating.

I was pregnant and quickly unpregnant back in September. True to life, I miscarried through a week-long project management course in Victoria. It had its comic moments to be sure, as I was staying at an absent acquaintance's place and my biggest fear was bleeding all over her bed. I slept on a small tarp, in jeans stuffed full of towels and maxi-pads. There were equal parts of regret and relief. Too soon, too soon is my first response every time my period is late--but perhaps there is never the *perfect* time. And perhaps at 39.8 years old, the perfect time is any time I can actually merge an egg and sperm in my crabby old uterus (or wherever life takes place).

Soon to be 40! Calloo, callay. I don't plan anything past a BBQ, maybe a bike ride or hike with some pals. A boob job, having the fat from my ass injected into my lips. The usual.

Work has been sporadic but now looks promising. The downside to having long-term contracts is that they (of course) do end eventually. I was confident to the point of cocky last spring, as it had been a good couple of years and I assumed the good times would keep rolling. I suppose learning a modicum of humility has been A Good Thing. I've thrown myself at various initiatives in the last several months, hoping something would stick, a connection would be made, etc.

Being a consultant/contractor/temp is a leap of faith...that keeps getting longer and longer. Wil E. Coyote, running in place off a cliff until he looks down. Maybe he could get to the other side if he just didn't look down. Who knows? The lack of consistent work/$$ has been the most stressful thing the last year. Inevitably, I've embraced the idea of going back to school to get a designation as a Something. Inevitably, I've toyed with relocation and entertained the idea of doing something completely different and tried my subtle hardest to drum up more work from existing clients. As the pseuddhists say, the Universe has not provided what I am asking. So I ask for different.

The Man has been very patient, but is more disposed to talk about it than I am. I am by turns withdrawn and dismissive on the subject. My rationale being what's the point of talking about it beyond the odd rant or moan? I've been in dry spells before, though never this long. By a certain age, one would hope to be past these droughts. Ah well. Being withdrawn has also meant I have not written a word for fun in almost a year. It's like I've thought about it as a reward which can only be granted once I've achieved the goal of busyness or sustained fecundity. I've realized now that the strange iron grip I've had on myself the last several months has mostly just left me tired and dispirited. Asking for help has been the first step. I've even done some yoga. Ain't I humbled enough yet, O Universe?

GR

Knocked Down, Just the Way I Likes It

Ahhhhhhhhh...


I have been away so long from the blogbog that {blogger} has changed its format. It seems to be on a whole radical simplicity kick. So much white. It's like freakin' Space Odyssey in here.


So what's new with you, kittens?


Since last I monologued, there have a few changes here. Let me rattle them off by way of conversation.


1. I did sell the estate, after all! Man-child came and got his stuff in several shifts. It required a dumpster rental and much effort on my part (sure, unfair but whatchagonnuhdo?), but we did get it out. Then much cleaning and packing and moving and volia, I am homeless, mortgageless and temporarily rich! Didn't last.


2. I bought a new place! Yes, not that it hasn't been cozy living at my partner's place, and it has been generous of him to share his dwelling with me. But I am too old not to require my own territory. We got first dibs on abso-fuckin-lutely cool character house here in the Village, and leapt all over it like stink. We move next week. 


3. I'm unemployed! Though not in any tragic way, really. Earlyish days yet. With the move out and another move pending, it's been hard for me to set up an office in my partner's ex-workshop. It's filled with his shit and my shit and household shit, and is only heated by woodstove. You think this would be a problem in June coming on July, but it is because it is Junuary here and 15 degrees more often than not. 


Another factor in my jobless state is I went on vacation, and if you've read past posts you know everything goes to pot when I leave my duties for more than a few days. I went on Eurotour 2012 for three weeks in May--which was lovely but well-behaved to the point of narcolepsy--and I chanced fate by not doing any work-related activity while abroad. Sure enough, a new business partnership that had looked solid when I left went off the rails while I was away, and since my new partner a) did not tell me until asked and b) did so only grudgingly and yes, rudely and then c) did it AGAIN a couple of weeks later,  I figured it was best to abort this particular experiment sooner rather than later. Jeesh. I cannot abide unnecessary rudeness. 


Anyway, I felt much like a bewildered boyfriend who gets manipulated into a break-up, and finds himself blamed by a crazy ex. Honestly, I was like dude, what just happened here...? Ha! Yet another classic Bitches Be Crazy moment. Dang.


At any rate, it's not too bad. For once, I've got a nice bit o' savings to get by on. I've dusted off my shelved company and am launching a new website/company next week and starting the work-hustle-shuffle in order to procure consulting work by early fall, I hope. If not, I may have to overcome my morbid fear of sewing machines and and work in my honey's shop stitching together odds and sods. Who knows?  Life is a highway, I want to ride it. All. Night. Long! Yeah...


4. I've found a new sport to harm myself in! Kickboxing has been on hiatus during the moves and vacation times, but I've taken up mountain-biking since moving next to the trails. A few weeks ago, I gored my thigh on a log stub (12 stitches). Yesterday, I arced over my handlebars and drove my face into the (luckily soft) forest floor. I think I have the tiniest of concussions today as I'm spacey as heck, plus generally sore. Add a constellation of bruises and scrapes to those incidents, and you can see why I am growing to love the sport. I'm not very extreme but I like sports that kick the shit out of you if you're not careful, go figure. But no downhill or BMX for me, thanks. 


5. I'm not pregnant! Had a few days of growing unease recently where I was like, oh no, it's too soon, too soon! Only to have the menstrual express arrive a few days later than usual. The partner is more enthusiastic about the idea of an offspring than I am, but even he was worried at this early juncture. Me, I'm pretty much divided at the prospect ever materializing. Part of me is like Ew + Sounds Like a Lot of Work, the other part is like Aw! + Could Be Somehow Rewarding in Mystical Way Sleep-Deprived Parents Allude To, and He Seems Keen, Etc. Hardly a ringing endorsement, I know, but a long way from where I once was. 


The He refers to childless/child-free couples as being "kinda weird", whereas I see them as being a little eccentric in a lovable, independent way. They have time to take pottery classes in their 40s! They have nice furniture (if they're not into petspetspets). They talk about things other than children. All these things, apparently, make one seem "kinda weird" to people with kids. Sigh. He must be persuasive, as I've gamely thrown my old and depleting eggs into action as needed. If they don't take, well, we may adopt. Or not. Who knows? Not this spinster (I'm reclaiming the word). 


Now I must go broil meat and prepare to be agreeable. Hope you are well!


Spinster out --

In Which Gretchen and the Brood Ponder a Move

Good afternoon, all. Here it is west coast wet and grey. The cat lies in his usual narcotic state on the edge of the desk while one of the dogs dozes unsuspecting below. We are all huddled around the baseboard, not because it is particularly cold but because the humidity tends to settle into the bones, and none of us are that young anymore.

In people years, I am still the youngest. The Mexican dumpster-rat is enigmatic about his age, having come to us from a high-kill shelter in Little Rock, Arkansas. He doesn't like to talk about his time on the streets or his upbringing, but is suspected of being in his mid-fifties.

The Spanish bastardo, on the other hand, has been with me over 15 years. Since I got him as a wee black exclamation mark of an eight-week old kitten, I know him to be well-advanced into his 70s. I still encourage him to make the leap up and down the bathroom counter for his food-dish, a trip he still mostly makes solo.

We are all showing signs of age. The dumpster rat is sprightly, but has the yellowing teeth of a Dunhill-smoking senior. The cat is greying and has the slow, arthritic walk of an aging gunslinger. Me, I pulled out a long, black hair from the side of my neck the other day. It was one of those gross-but-fascinating moments, like squeezing a ripe blemish or marveling at the size of one's own bowel movement (a few I've saluted on their downward spiral).

Ah well, we're doing pretty well, all things considered. We do our little runs and eat well and get plenty of sleep. Still all making the counter-top solo, mostly.

We are now considering a move, dear readers. After many, many months of dallying with the real estate market, a Serious Offer has now come in. A Serious Counter-Offer has been made, and apparently I shall know more this afternoon. We may make one more pass, or the dance could already be over for all I know. (As I write this, a slow-moving SUV drives past, occupants' heads craned towards the house. The would-be owners? Potential stalkers?)

If they walk away, I have renters at the ready. I am moving to a nearby village in May, come hell or high water.

First, a note of explanation: I live in a Valley, composed of four distinct areas and governments. We have a rural regional district (where I currently live), a city which forms the commercial core, a seaside town and a village. The village is a former coal-mine hub in the foothills of the Valley, with a shabby-quaint main street and no perceptible industry. It has a kick-ass live music venue, good mountain-biking and character homes in various states of distress and resurrection.

My partner--yes, we have graduated to the stately and staid "partner" from fuck-buddy and gentleman caller, there's really nowhere left to go at this stage until we get hitched--lives in said village. He lives in an 830 sq ft house, but refuses to leave.

The Village claims people in this way. Once they move there, it is an imposition to cross the highway into the other parts of the Valley. Villagers only leave to forage for food, as they are limited to gas station pantries and a small, natural food store with prohibitive prices.

Relationships that Villagers build with outsiders end in either dissolution ("You're, like, 20 minutes away!"), or with the outsider moving into the Village. Hence, my inevitable move.

There are other reasons for the move, mind you. Mainly, it is unsavory to move in together into a house that one half previously shared with another half. I bought this place with my Ex, and although it is very nice and the animals enjoy the estate, it would be strange to live here with another. I also need to flip the Ex several thousand dollars, as per our settlement agreement, and he needs to remove his possessions, as it has been almost three years since our break-up. And so it goes.

Options are a) for me to move into my partner's hobbit-hole, putting some of my stuff into storage and transforming his detached workshop into an office or b) he and I to buy a place together. The latter would be preferable.

We've been eyeing a huge character home in the Village for some time now. Lucky for us from a price perspective, it is ugly and cold from the outside. Previous owners have raised it and sheathed it in vinyl siding. It squats on the edge of the street, a sulky giant retard of a house. One one side, a crude white church juts illegally into the side yard.

It has, however, that magic quality of potential. It has an unfinished ground floor which could convert to a two-bedroom rental suite. It has high ceilings throughout, original wainscoting, a good-sized fenced yard. (Together, we have four dogs and two cats, plus a part-time child and a fighting fish names the Godfather. We need some space.) It has three bedrooms (plus a good-sized office and a strange, narrow little den), and a huge unfinished fourth-floor attic with expansive views. Each floor is larger than my partner's entire house. There are two bathrooms. Very important, this.

We dare to dream. The church could burn down, one day, allowing our side yard to be re-instated. We could finish the downstairs and have a mortgage helper, finish the attic and have a cool hang-out zone/library/arty-place. We could build a cat door to the laundry room so the blasted felines could have entry and egress. Hell, if I have the eggs to spare we could even have a kid ourselves, we'd have room to put it.

All these things are very exciting. They outweigh the mild anxiety I have with regard to sharing my space with another. He is still, fourteen months in, the best man ever. And let's face it, none of us is getting any younger. We're both experienced enough to be truly appreciative of the other, and to know when something is good versus just good for a while. Besides, if my neck hair keeps growing I'll soon be shaving daily, and we can share lather and razors.

Will let you know how it goes, or doesn't.

Fingers crossed,

GR

And What is Up With the Blog?!!

"...And what is up with the blog?!!", was the second question from my dear friend last week.

My articulate reply was a hand-wave, swooping between helplessness and defiance. I dunno, I dunno, I dunno. There is nothing in my defense other than the usual stuff about the state of busy. For I do have things to write, not a day goes by without an observation that could use some remarking upon. Of course, the worst thing I can do as a producer of wordstrings is to make a mental sticky-note for later. Falls short of perfection as a system.

However, here are some random thoughts I remember:

i. There is a certain breed of person who mistakes making others uncomfortable with impressing them, or even worse, interpreting their discomfort as attraction. (NOTE: I've been guilty of this myself in the past, with much inappropriate humour to show off my tomboy coolness. For the most part, I've outgrown this tendency, and am happy to just alternately amuse and mortify close friends.)

There are at least two gents of my acquaintance that fall into this category.

One is a stiff-necked engineer who fancies himself to be a wild-and-crazy hipster kind of guy. He insists on prolonged hugs and robot-like cheeriness. His attempt to pull off suave is foiled by being an engineer (a Forrest Gumpian genus if ever there were one), and an unfortunate propensity to titter.

The other one is a Three-Named Thing Which Does Social Media. He tweets and facebooks and exhorts others to join the convo. I don't know how he makes a living. He is also a photographer. For municipal ribbon-cuttings, he lays on the ground full-length channeling Mapplethorpe and directs his models/town councilors in front of the new pump house, highway median, etc. I could enjoy him as a mere eccentric if he did not also stare, and ask ever-so thoughtful questions to show off his Active Listening skills. Creepy.

These two men make me uncomfortable. They ask impertinent questions. They mistake my unease for coyness, and whatever answer I stammer out as proof of our intimacy. Even if I mock the engineer mercilessly, he interprets this as sassy flirting. Yech. Luckily, my encounters with both men are sporadic and infrequent.

ii. The default for human behaviour is to follow the same negative pattern again and again until something breaks. It can be something relatively harmless, like making excuses for not exercising or eating better, etc. because of one's hectic life. The day of reckoning may be something innocuous, like hulk-shredding the ass of your jeans, say; or more serious, like a diagnosis of pre-diabetes from a solemn doctor. Whatever the wake-up call, it's up to each individual to heed or ignore it as they see fit.

Ignoring it leads to a curious schism, what Orwell referred to as double-think. It's the ability to hold two opposing ideas in your head--the one you know to be true and the one you know to be convenient--yet operate at will, according to the social context. Predictably, politicians and economists are masterful at this and vilified/admired accordingly. This is a societal cause for concern, or perhaps just a meta-indictment of human nature.

However, on a personal and moral level, we can control how deeply we sink into hypocrisy. Going in deep is a matter of choice. The danger of double-think as an M.O. is that it eventually turns in on itself, in a neat trick called cognitive dissonance. This is the risk one takes for the short-term rewards of suspending one's conscience.

Yes. All this serious talk of "one" doing something is my way of grappling with a friend's actions. While I have never thought her an especially profound or thoughtful person, I've always defended her as good-hearted. I've believed she tried to do the right thing, even when the results of her actions harmed others. Now I'm not so sure, or rather, I'm almost sure she is too far gone in moral relativism to understand or care about the results of her actions.

I'm raw on this point. My fellow's Ex's also has a pattern: meet someone/move in four months later/get him to buy a house instead of just paying the rent/get pregnant right away. It's helpful that she keeps the same four-digit phone number suffix wherever she goes, and decorates each house identical to the last. This has the distinct whiff of the black widow. It might only be cause for black humour, were it not for the existence of their wee and lovable daughter. It causes him great stress and uncertainty.

Well, if she holds true to her pattern she will explode her current relationship soon enough, and be on the move once again. Messy, messy, messy.

Other than those flashes of profundity, my other thoughts are along the lines of I'm so happy I'm back kick-boxing and I like skiing and I'm glad I deleted my facebook profile, I hate that shit and being gluten-free isn't that hard when you like to bake. Deep thoughts, indeed.

Another thought is that I like to write, and part of the reason I haven't written is wondering if it is frivolous and self-centred to write as I do, when I could be doing things like work and kid-time and book-keeping, etc. You know, grown-up stuff. Stuff that is satisfying on one level.

I do like to write, though. So as long as there's a person out there who likes to read, I suppose I should keep on a-bloggin'. For what it's worth.

Adieu for now,

GR

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