Hiya, goblins and gremlins and ghoulies. Happy (almost) Halloween!
Usually I dote on Halloween like a fat, unhappily married auntie might dote on a favoured nephew. Oh All Hallow's Eve, you are such a clever imp! And so handsome too, in your various face paints and bad wigs and costumes!
I was looking forward to the doting this year. Things seem tricked out in an especially macabre humour, and it is a joy to behold. I was contemplating the purchase of a hopefully red, shoulder-padded power suit and ruffled blouse from the Sally Anne, in which to play 80s Zombie Working Mother/Municipal Politician. Or some such thing. Right now, though, I'm curled in classic protective stance in bed drinking wine and taptaptapping my thoughts onto my absurdly small netbook in the hope of reaching a Conclusion. Then, I sally forth with lease on life #327. Look out, world!
Okay, so this is how it goes. Last few weeks I've been increasingly skeptical as to my participation in a current "relationship". Reluctantly, I conclude I cannot bring myself to call him my Boyfriend. I wasn't seeking a boyfriend when I met him, when I had one foot here and one in my supposed new city of Toronto. Howdy sailor, and how d'you do? I'm booking out soon myself, but let's have a nice time of it in the meantime, shall we?
Agreed. Except as you all know if you've been paying even a bare minimum of attention the last several months, my plans were curtailed drastically and I have not moved to the Big City to pursue a pseudo-intellecsexual way of being. No, I am (quite contentedly) here still, with my huge property and pleasant house and feral pets. The default he chose at the point of my announcing I was staying was well, alrighty then, you are my Girlfriend and hasn't this worked out nicely?
At first, I tried to embrace this. Game face on. He is a lovely man, both physically and in character. I have never been with someone so considerate, easy-going and mature. Would it be so wrong to go with the flow in this case?
Yes.
I can't anymore. I have to face that while I like him (he is eminently likable), I do not love him in the slightest. It's clicked past that 6-month marker where one has to face such truths. I chafe at being Girlfriended, I am tired of the road-trips (he lives two hours' drive away), the regular sex is becoming, well, regular, and worst of all, I'm completely aware of being politely interested in what he has to say.
I know! He's a total fuckin' sweetheart! He's a great dad, a good friend, a dutiful son, etc. Goddamn it, he's boring me to tears, in some respects. No, he's lovely, but I've never been good at coasting. Now I have to figure out how to break up with him. With the ex, I had lots of practise and ample reason at the end, but this one calls for sensitivity and courtesy, and how one does that without sliding into cliche and wounded feelings is a mystery.
Anyway. It's come to this now as I find myself attracted to others. It's come to this as I find myself conscious of the arrogance of indifference. Deep down, I'm terrified of hurting anyone (other than assholes and sparring partners).
It's also come to this as my X has reappeared in the scene, like some warped deus ex machina dropping from the heavens. Suicidal, recently in a car accident that wasn't his fault, indulging in all manner of drugs and alcohol and uncharacteristic aggression, perhaps pushing a big red button I can't see on my back. At any rate, it scared the shit out of me. I convinced him to come here, hid the booze, and talked to him. He's finally gotten to the place where he's scared himself and is ready to do what it takes to survive.
This is weird. Looking at it from the outside, I would conclude there still are Feelings here, there is manipulation occuring, there is sufficient weirdness in the swirl of emotions to call my rationale, if not integrity, into question. To which I shrug, and say (in the words of the immortal Billy Joel): you may be right but you may be wrong.
My X is (still) dear to me. He is isolated and in trouble and wanting to change the trajectory of his life. I feel nothing for him in the romantic sense, but am determined to help him get through a hard time. I would like nothing more than for him to be sober, healthy, with good work and a cool woman. Then I could let him go and be reassured he'll be okay. I've known him a long time and love him to bits, even while feeling dead to him beyond friendship.
In the meantime, I fret and try to help him. I may be royally misguided on this one, but oh well, that's my own damage I need to work through. It does punctuate, however, how indifferent I've become to the Guy I've Been Seeing.
Jeepers. May you live in interesting times, said the fortune cookie. It is interesting. Pulled in all directions. Am I loyal friend? Enabler? Cold-hearted bitch or honest Injun? Wannabe slut, as I eye yet another? Lordy, who knows. I have to pee.
Happy halloween!
Zombie out...
29 October 2010
10 October 2010
Dear Prudence
Prudence is an old-fashioned word, is it not? Meaning discretion, economy, circumspection. Care with regard to one's own interest and providence. A reflective pause. A charmingly quaint notion perhaps, in these days of snap judgements and gut reactions and rampant feeling.
No one has accused me of an excess of prudence. Exactly the opposite, in fact. In recent times, it has been alluded or flatly stated that indeed, I practise what is euphemistically referred to as radical honesty. In more words: blunt, harsh, unthinking. Self-centred and superior. Someone who doesn't trust people, who uses honesty as a means of testing the mettle of her friends and lovers. Hmmm.
This analysis has come unsolicited, angrily and suddenly from two people whom I considered close friends. (So perhaps a distrust of people is not so misplaced.) What has startled me most about these critiques has been the mysterious circumstances which provoked them.
Says the one: It's nothing you've said or done. I think you're an amazing person. I just haven't wanted to hang out with you, or even talk to you, and I don't know why!
Implicit in this is she suspects I'm an asshole, and would like me to join her in speculating on the evidence which may confirm it.
Says the second: You have been offensive to someone I love, and even though that person is not at all offended I've chosen to be hurt on their behalf. I have not told you this for two weeks because I am such a good, sensitive person that I'd rather allude to your defects in pretend conversations about other people or events. I choose to get livid when you say it's illogical to take offense on someone else's behalf who is not offended. I then categorize your exact defects in short order, but don't worry, I really am a wonderful person looking out for you, as evidenced by tearfully repeating how much I really do love you (in spite of you being so unloveable) as a way to end the conversation.
Explicit in this is the accusation that I'm an asshole, and she would like me to join in on the condemnation and of course, seek atonement.
Um. No. I don't think so.
Here, I return (at last) to the notion of prudence. One could say I was prudent by not, for example, telling either of these women to fuck right off with their misguided analyses. Or to respond by cheerfully telling them not to worry, I understood it was likely not me at all but rather some trying, as-yet unidentified circumstance within their own lives that was causing them to act like irrational cunts. Yes, this could be called prudence or tolerance, or perhaps it is just yet another maddening instance of me acting superior.
What I do not call prudent is allowing ethereal feeling to take firm hold of one's reason, and get carried away to the point of making asinine phone calls to an unsuspecting friend, and unloading with either no explanation or else a completely nonsensical one (offended on behalf of another adult who's not offended? Really.) Of course, this imprudence would be totally forgivable, perhaps even endearing, were either party to eventually call back and explain themselves and maybe even apologize for their rash actions.
Oh, but no. You see, this is how they feel. Previously I had been unaware, you see, that by mere dint of feeling something you create a perfect truth. One so immoveable that it's impertinent to speculate it may not be fixed to the ground of reality, and so solid in appearance that to suggest it is hollow is blasphemy.
As Guyfriend succinctly puts it: Just because They are feeling cold does not mean I have to put on a sweater. Or as I even more succinctly put it: Bullshit.
I have felt all manner of inner storms and deluges and volcanic eruptions this past year. This does not mean I was right or wrong to feel these things. Where "right" and "wrong" enter the picture is how I chose to act on these feelings, and in turn chose to react to the consequences of doing so.
And this, if I may, is where I do think I am prudent. Inevitably, my choice in discussing feelings with the person who excited them has led to self-examination as to where this maelstorm may be coming from. Ultimately, it has made me grateful to said person for helping me one step further along the path of self-discovery.
I use the word choice in this context deliberately. You see, I do not think it prudent to lash out with one's feelings at will. Much like I find it distasteful when someone lets go of a long, sibilant fart in my presence because they just did not feel like holding it in or going to the bathroom. I find it misguided to smash someone in the face when I feel they are being unreasonable, or hit them with my vehicle because I feel they really aren't paying attention to where they are going.
These are all choices, and to have a couple of people play "but that's how I feel!" like it's some almighty, inarguable trump card stinks of self-importance. They feel entitled to take a few unprovoked swings in my direction because of a vague feeling that somehow--just don't ask how--I deserve it.
As you may tell, I'm not sorry for these a) mysterious or b) just plain silly intimations of my own impropriety.
I'm affronted, and think both these gals owe me a sincere apology, if not a coherent explanation.
I would advise them that in the future, they may want to consider both the origin and the consequence of feeling before they give into impulse and alienate someone, who in their own past descriptions, was deemed one of their most loyal and generous friends.
I do not appreciate being shat upon, and then being told it is not shit but truth, and I should thank them for their own courageous display of honesty while learning to be more sensitive and positive (aka fake) so we can all get along nicely.
No, thank you. You should learn some control, how to reflect, how to articulate and examine your feelings, and barring all that, you should learn how to be gracious in spite of suspecting you've just made a complete, self-important ass of yourself and learn how to apologize. It would, in my estimation, be prudent to do so.
Economically yours,
Gretchen
No one has accused me of an excess of prudence. Exactly the opposite, in fact. In recent times, it has been alluded or flatly stated that indeed, I practise what is euphemistically referred to as radical honesty. In more words: blunt, harsh, unthinking. Self-centred and superior. Someone who doesn't trust people, who uses honesty as a means of testing the mettle of her friends and lovers. Hmmm.
This analysis has come unsolicited, angrily and suddenly from two people whom I considered close friends. (So perhaps a distrust of people is not so misplaced.) What has startled me most about these critiques has been the mysterious circumstances which provoked them.
Says the one: It's nothing you've said or done. I think you're an amazing person. I just haven't wanted to hang out with you, or even talk to you, and I don't know why!
Implicit in this is she suspects I'm an asshole, and would like me to join her in speculating on the evidence which may confirm it.
Says the second: You have been offensive to someone I love, and even though that person is not at all offended I've chosen to be hurt on their behalf. I have not told you this for two weeks because I am such a good, sensitive person that I'd rather allude to your defects in pretend conversations about other people or events. I choose to get livid when you say it's illogical to take offense on someone else's behalf who is not offended. I then categorize your exact defects in short order, but don't worry, I really am a wonderful person looking out for you, as evidenced by tearfully repeating how much I really do love you (in spite of you being so unloveable) as a way to end the conversation.
Explicit in this is the accusation that I'm an asshole, and she would like me to join in on the condemnation and of course, seek atonement.
Um. No. I don't think so.
Here, I return (at last) to the notion of prudence. One could say I was prudent by not, for example, telling either of these women to fuck right off with their misguided analyses. Or to respond by cheerfully telling them not to worry, I understood it was likely not me at all but rather some trying, as-yet unidentified circumstance within their own lives that was causing them to act like irrational cunts. Yes, this could be called prudence or tolerance, or perhaps it is just yet another maddening instance of me acting superior.
What I do not call prudent is allowing ethereal feeling to take firm hold of one's reason, and get carried away to the point of making asinine phone calls to an unsuspecting friend, and unloading with either no explanation or else a completely nonsensical one (offended on behalf of another adult who's not offended? Really.) Of course, this imprudence would be totally forgivable, perhaps even endearing, were either party to eventually call back and explain themselves and maybe even apologize for their rash actions.
Oh, but no. You see, this is how they feel. Previously I had been unaware, you see, that by mere dint of feeling something you create a perfect truth. One so immoveable that it's impertinent to speculate it may not be fixed to the ground of reality, and so solid in appearance that to suggest it is hollow is blasphemy.
As Guyfriend succinctly puts it: Just because They are feeling cold does not mean I have to put on a sweater. Or as I even more succinctly put it: Bullshit.
I have felt all manner of inner storms and deluges and volcanic eruptions this past year. This does not mean I was right or wrong to feel these things. Where "right" and "wrong" enter the picture is how I chose to act on these feelings, and in turn chose to react to the consequences of doing so.
And this, if I may, is where I do think I am prudent. Inevitably, my choice in discussing feelings with the person who excited them has led to self-examination as to where this maelstorm may be coming from. Ultimately, it has made me grateful to said person for helping me one step further along the path of self-discovery.
I use the word choice in this context deliberately. You see, I do not think it prudent to lash out with one's feelings at will. Much like I find it distasteful when someone lets go of a long, sibilant fart in my presence because they just did not feel like holding it in or going to the bathroom. I find it misguided to smash someone in the face when I feel they are being unreasonable, or hit them with my vehicle because I feel they really aren't paying attention to where they are going.
These are all choices, and to have a couple of people play "but that's how I feel!" like it's some almighty, inarguable trump card stinks of self-importance. They feel entitled to take a few unprovoked swings in my direction because of a vague feeling that somehow--just don't ask how--I deserve it.
As you may tell, I'm not sorry for these a) mysterious or b) just plain silly intimations of my own impropriety.
I'm affronted, and think both these gals owe me a sincere apology, if not a coherent explanation.
I would advise them that in the future, they may want to consider both the origin and the consequence of feeling before they give into impulse and alienate someone, who in their own past descriptions, was deemed one of their most loyal and generous friends.
I do not appreciate being shat upon, and then being told it is not shit but truth, and I should thank them for their own courageous display of honesty while learning to be more sensitive and positive (aka fake) so we can all get along nicely.
No, thank you. You should learn some control, how to reflect, how to articulate and examine your feelings, and barring all that, you should learn how to be gracious in spite of suspecting you've just made a complete, self-important ass of yourself and learn how to apologize. It would, in my estimation, be prudent to do so.
Economically yours,
Gretchen
New Favourite Artist (and Best Name Ever)
www.royalwood.ca/music-TheWaiting.php
Last Friday, I took Honey to a show. In my smallish town, we are blessed with a great old bar/venue whose musical programmer brings in acts usually reserved for large urban areas. In the last several months, we've had shows by tremendous emerging artists in almost every contemporary genre. For the price of a few shekels, I've been uplifted and energized and awed by the creativity and beauty of music, right in my own little corner of the world.
Case in point: Ontario-based Royal Wood, accompanying Hannah Georgas on her recent tour. Alas, I could not stay for Ms. Hannah, as I was to be up at dawn the next day to put in a full day of public speaking on behalf of work and it was growing late. Plus I needed to have sex before sleepytime, and didn't want to leave it too late.
However, I caught opening act Mr. Wood, a dapper, well-spoken gentleman of such poise and good looks that every straight woman present was swooning on the inside. Oh, and he's a damn fine singer and musician, with lovely and well-crafted songs. Seeing an artist of such confidence and purpose made me very, very happy to go out and in tiny part, support the wonderful Canadian and independent music that is out there. For this, I am thankful.
Last Friday, I took Honey to a show. In my smallish town, we are blessed with a great old bar/venue whose musical programmer brings in acts usually reserved for large urban areas. In the last several months, we've had shows by tremendous emerging artists in almost every contemporary genre. For the price of a few shekels, I've been uplifted and energized and awed by the creativity and beauty of music, right in my own little corner of the world.
Case in point: Ontario-based Royal Wood, accompanying Hannah Georgas on her recent tour. Alas, I could not stay for Ms. Hannah, as I was to be up at dawn the next day to put in a full day of public speaking on behalf of work and it was growing late. Plus I needed to have sex before sleepytime, and didn't want to leave it too late.
However, I caught opening act Mr. Wood, a dapper, well-spoken gentleman of such poise and good looks that every straight woman present was swooning on the inside. Oh, and he's a damn fine singer and musician, with lovely and well-crafted songs. Seeing an artist of such confidence and purpose made me very, very happy to go out and in tiny part, support the wonderful Canadian and independent music that is out there. For this, I am thankful.
22 September 2010
I Love the Sound of Smattering Miscellany on my Roof at Night
Hello munchkins. I have no idea what to write today, only knowing vaguely that I should write, but not knowing what on.
Let's see what's been going on lately.
a) I missed my favourite aesthetician last week while she was on vacation, and had to have my pubes pulled by a brisk, humorless gal who gave my beav a slightly crooked cast. I left feeling mildly chastised.
b) After a summer of health, I've caught a cold and am now stuffy and shnorty. Got movies. Am going to revel in 'Step Up' tonight as I have an illicit crush on a young man with the improbable name of Channing Tatum. He is ever so fine. I swear I've seen 'She's All That' about four times, partly for the zany Ms. Bynes but more for the pervy pleasures of the Channing sightings. Sigh and Ha!
c) I went and checked out the BodyWorlds exhibit with my ma, and was like, oh, these old things, I've seen them before, though I liked learning that the human brain takes 20% of our blood flow while only taking up 2% of our body mass. My mum had two glasses of white wine and got all old-school Communist in the line-up, refusing to accept that we were the 7:45pm showing and it was 7:15pm. I abandoned her temporarily and cruised for appetizers.
d) I had an extended conversation with my best friend and her girlfriend about art criticism and its impact on the artistic psyche. It was more fun than it sounds, as it was a Sunday afternoon and we had a bit o'beer and were discussing bad paintings they had executed while stoned. In the end, my girlfriend conceded she was PMSing and made me take one of the more interestingly ugly of the paintings. It goes nice in my house with the colours and all.
e) I saw a singer-songwriter in my town last Thursday and it was unexpectedly magical. Great tunes and performance. Another crush developed, this one a bit shy on both sides. I've told him that he's my new penpal. After many unexpected obstacles to facebooking (I could not for the life of me find the damn befriending button) we are Now Friends. I plot our paths once again crossing even as I chastise myself for being (at least) emotionally slutty.
You like your current beau, I tell myself silently. So why are you looking at other men--and not just looking, no, but imagining romantic walks in the rain and first kisses and hot sex in hotel rooms. You already have hot sex and great kisses and a man who flat-out adores you. You a mad bitch!
To which I reply: And still.
(reflective pause)
Still, there is something missing. As much as I enjoy this man and our time together, as much as I appreciate the ease with which we show affection to one another and the fun we have drinking rye and shooting pool together, as much as I am cognizant of this, I'm also the teeniest, tiniest bit bored. And what a terrible thing to think, but. Still.
Hence, the attraction to the wordsmithy musician and his snappy wit and charisma. The illusion of a happy challenge is an attractive one, no? Or maybe my attraction to men is proportionate to their distance from me (in this case it's the other side of this damn big country; then again Toronto has been good to me in the past).
Ah, Toronto the good. It was one year ago I was conniving with Guyfriend to have our fuckfest extravaganza in that city, booking fancy hotel rooms and not knowing what was going to happen, but hoping for some memorable times. And oh boy. I do feel a little wistful coming up to the anniversary of that time, as it shall not be repeated.
We have a relationship where sex gets in the way of closeness. Now that we are back to regular correspondents, there's nothing I can't tell him and vice versa. His current flame has told him directly she expects to propose to him in December, to which he thinks, Yes, you probably will. It is interesting to have a twin. We've both had/have our share of lovers (well, him especially) but I do believe that we are closest in a way that can't really be quantified, or compared directly to love interests, or even tolerated amiably in person for long periods of time. Twins. Weird but lovely, we've decided.
Anyway, that is all.
Oh, and f) I saw 'Inception' and thought it was a bloody good movie.
T'is all for now,
G-R
Let's see what's been going on lately.
a) I missed my favourite aesthetician last week while she was on vacation, and had to have my pubes pulled by a brisk, humorless gal who gave my beav a slightly crooked cast. I left feeling mildly chastised.
b) After a summer of health, I've caught a cold and am now stuffy and shnorty. Got movies. Am going to revel in 'Step Up' tonight as I have an illicit crush on a young man with the improbable name of Channing Tatum. He is ever so fine. I swear I've seen 'She's All That' about four times, partly for the zany Ms. Bynes but more for the pervy pleasures of the Channing sightings. Sigh and Ha!
c) I went and checked out the BodyWorlds exhibit with my ma, and was like, oh, these old things, I've seen them before, though I liked learning that the human brain takes 20% of our blood flow while only taking up 2% of our body mass. My mum had two glasses of white wine and got all old-school Communist in the line-up, refusing to accept that we were the 7:45pm showing and it was 7:15pm. I abandoned her temporarily and cruised for appetizers.
d) I had an extended conversation with my best friend and her girlfriend about art criticism and its impact on the artistic psyche. It was more fun than it sounds, as it was a Sunday afternoon and we had a bit o'beer and were discussing bad paintings they had executed while stoned. In the end, my girlfriend conceded she was PMSing and made me take one of the more interestingly ugly of the paintings. It goes nice in my house with the colours and all.
e) I saw a singer-songwriter in my town last Thursday and it was unexpectedly magical. Great tunes and performance. Another crush developed, this one a bit shy on both sides. I've told him that he's my new penpal. After many unexpected obstacles to facebooking (I could not for the life of me find the damn befriending button) we are Now Friends. I plot our paths once again crossing even as I chastise myself for being (at least) emotionally slutty.
You like your current beau, I tell myself silently. So why are you looking at other men--and not just looking, no, but imagining romantic walks in the rain and first kisses and hot sex in hotel rooms. You already have hot sex and great kisses and a man who flat-out adores you. You a mad bitch!
To which I reply: And still.
(reflective pause)
Still, there is something missing. As much as I enjoy this man and our time together, as much as I appreciate the ease with which we show affection to one another and the fun we have drinking rye and shooting pool together, as much as I am cognizant of this, I'm also the teeniest, tiniest bit bored. And what a terrible thing to think, but. Still.
Hence, the attraction to the wordsmithy musician and his snappy wit and charisma. The illusion of a happy challenge is an attractive one, no? Or maybe my attraction to men is proportionate to their distance from me (in this case it's the other side of this damn big country; then again Toronto has been good to me in the past).
Ah, Toronto the good. It was one year ago I was conniving with Guyfriend to have our fuckfest extravaganza in that city, booking fancy hotel rooms and not knowing what was going to happen, but hoping for some memorable times. And oh boy. I do feel a little wistful coming up to the anniversary of that time, as it shall not be repeated.
We have a relationship where sex gets in the way of closeness. Now that we are back to regular correspondents, there's nothing I can't tell him and vice versa. His current flame has told him directly she expects to propose to him in December, to which he thinks, Yes, you probably will. It is interesting to have a twin. We've both had/have our share of lovers (well, him especially) but I do believe that we are closest in a way that can't really be quantified, or compared directly to love interests, or even tolerated amiably in person for long periods of time. Twins. Weird but lovely, we've decided.
Anyway, that is all.
Oh, and f) I saw 'Inception' and thought it was a bloody good movie.
T'is all for now,
G-R
12 September 2010
Autumn, What the Fuck?!
This is what my cat just exclaimed. It seems like scant weeks ago we were brushing out his underfur so that he could better endure the 14 hours of sunning he was doing on the back deck. Now, I have my woodstove blazing and he's alternately dopey on the couch, comatose on the floor. Now and then he raises his fine, half-breed Siamese head and rustily belts out a "What the fuck happened to summer?" before collapsing once again into drowsy.
I don't know. I like summer, especially when it's blazing hot and I find myself working in my bikini a lot and dropping ten pounds easily just from drinking so much water. This summer I managed to pack on ten pounds easily and did not work much in my bikini; nay, not even once, if memory serves. Sigh. Last summer was an inferno, and I was celibate and going for long long runs and dreaming of Guyfriend. This summer has been cool, I'm getting more regularly serviced than a Volvo and I'm not really dreaming of men, more focused on bizness and such.
Though...well, let's just say I canny help the horny green eye from roving now and then. I only get laid on the weekends, and I'd like more, and see, I work out at a gym with boxers and kickboxers and MMA guys and some of them are, admittedly, hunky as all heck. There's something about a sturdy, pleasantly vapid man wrestling another to the mat or whaling away on some focus mitts which does make me a trifle weak at the knees. A couple of nice mid/later single thirtysomethings that definitely are easy on the eyes...but then I do have a few cardinal rules governing This Life, and one of them is Thou Shalt Not Shit Where Thee Eats. I love my gym fiercely, and would never do anything to jeopardize my enjoyment of it. Once you start shagging the boys in a place, it's never the same.
I have never slept with anyone I work with, except when I was a teenager in a restaurant (and there it's part of the job description, restaurants being a "glamour" industry as I've been told). I know once you get intimate with someone in a circle, you disrupt the natural order. I don't particularly want the guys I train with knowing how I like to take it, or my extraordinary prowess at blowjobbery, or what my cooter smells like (delicious, I'm assured).
No, I'd rather retain an aura of mystery and seriousness that becomes very hard to maintain once you have sex within that arena. 'Cuz men, they can't keep their mouth shut about getting laid. To anyone. They can't help themselves. I mean, I might celebrate the fact I've gotten royally laid to my friends, but don't get into the gory details. And I don't consider the nice lady I get my occasional coffee from, or the woman I might spar with that I know as a first-name only as "friends". And I consider an anonymous blog a fair forum for the hilarity of dating/sex.
But lordy the boys, don't they love to blab in detail, give a blow by blow account of things, like to parade that shit all over the place, live? Yes they do. It would irk me. So the strapping men are safe from me, at this point. I'll just continue to sneak glances and cart around my pleasant salacious thoughts in secret.
Things are good. Two-thirds of this year has now raced by. I'm not where I thought I'd be, not doing what I thought I'd be doing, not with someone I thought I'd be with. This is all fine. Today I went to the swimming pool with my Honey, his mum, the kid and Kid 2, a vaguely related child of six or so who amuses the lesser kid.
We entered as a Family, though I was grasping my single pass with one . I was discomfited at the idea of paying as a Family. I cling to my cherished ideals about myself as Cool, and hustling into the pool as some shamily unit did not fit that ideal. However, there's a time to be gracious and this was such a time. ''Thank you, husband.'' I said, in my best demure voice.
The pool was loaded with kiddies and parents. I steeled myself...and had a great time. Kid 2 took me on the waterslides. I hadn't been on a waterslide in at least 25 years. I remember them being semi-transparent deals, so you could dimly see where you were going. These were pitch black. I built up what felt to me to be a tremendous amount of speed, hurtling in the dark, screaming ''Holy shit!'' in primitive fear before popping out the end with only a Speedo wedgie and accelerated heartrate as damage. Fun!
Kid 2 was a good sport. She was not embarrassed by the fact that I was wearing water wings. With giant inflated goldfish on them. I thought they were cute, and it so happened they fit me and not the kid they were intended for.
''I'm fashion-forward,'' I tried to explain to the sceptical nine-year old who eyed me askance and asked me why I was wearing those things. ''Like Lady Gaga. You'll see, in a few months everyone else will be wearing these. I'm a fashion pioneer. Do you know what a pioneer is?''
She gave me a repulsed look and turned back to her friend, and together they struck their best whatever Paris Hilton poses. I could tell they were thinking about it, though. Maybe water wings are the next big thing...
Ha! I love fucking with kids' minds. I can tell they don't know quite what to make of me. They know I'm too old to be a teen or someone cool, but I don't act like I'm a mum. I laugh when they get bonked in the head by an inflatable ball, or fall down while running (once it's established there's no injury), and mock them ceaselessly with a straight face. In a word, I'm an uncle.
Anyway, somehow my weekend has passed with a minimum of Tasks. Feels good, two days of sleeping in to 9am and not fussing too much about plans or obligations. This afternoon, for example, I convinced myself a good use of time was watching several Lady Gaga videos on my new netbook, as I'd referenced her earlier. I do believe she's a genius. The lovechild of Elton John and Madonna circa 1979, and with RuPaul as a nanny. And she can sing, and play piano, and dance in stilletos. Absolutely a genius.
Now I hang out on my bum-deadening futon couch (probably older than the Gaga) with my dogs as the fire snaps and crackles and the chat lies like a dead thing in front of it, and I drink the rest of a very nice Spanish grenacha. I'm likely in a small state of recovery.
My X stayed with me last week, for several days. He rode dirtbikes and played with the dogs and drank and rolled us both Drum cigarettes, and a good time was had by all. He's a very good person. However, he phoned me weeping the next day, missing us all terribly.
Lest you think there's something still between us, he agreed he'd be happy to become my adopted son if he just got to hang out at the country estate with the hounds and tinker on his goldurn motorbikes all day. The only thing between us is the memory of a co-dependency that was great for him, an exercise in masochism for me. And so it goes.
It does startle me, however, to remember that once upon a time, I would have done anything for this person. Now, I am wary of getting into the aquatic centre on a family pass lest it speak to a commitment I'm not ready for. It feels natural to be in a state of unknowing, to withhold myself from another person. Not ready to sink into another and trust they'll catch me instead of dragging me down. Anyway, now I go watch movie and veg out in weekend vegematic splendour. Happy autumnal fall!
--Gretchie ''Grey is my favourite colour, so bring autumn on, bitches!'' Rutte
I don't know. I like summer, especially when it's blazing hot and I find myself working in my bikini a lot and dropping ten pounds easily just from drinking so much water. This summer I managed to pack on ten pounds easily and did not work much in my bikini; nay, not even once, if memory serves. Sigh. Last summer was an inferno, and I was celibate and going for long long runs and dreaming of Guyfriend. This summer has been cool, I'm getting more regularly serviced than a Volvo and I'm not really dreaming of men, more focused on bizness and such.
Though...well, let's just say I canny help the horny green eye from roving now and then. I only get laid on the weekends, and I'd like more, and see, I work out at a gym with boxers and kickboxers and MMA guys and some of them are, admittedly, hunky as all heck. There's something about a sturdy, pleasantly vapid man wrestling another to the mat or whaling away on some focus mitts which does make me a trifle weak at the knees. A couple of nice mid/later single thirtysomethings that definitely are easy on the eyes...but then I do have a few cardinal rules governing This Life, and one of them is Thou Shalt Not Shit Where Thee Eats. I love my gym fiercely, and would never do anything to jeopardize my enjoyment of it. Once you start shagging the boys in a place, it's never the same.
I have never slept with anyone I work with, except when I was a teenager in a restaurant (and there it's part of the job description, restaurants being a "glamour" industry as I've been told). I know once you get intimate with someone in a circle, you disrupt the natural order. I don't particularly want the guys I train with knowing how I like to take it, or my extraordinary prowess at blowjobbery, or what my cooter smells like (delicious, I'm assured).
No, I'd rather retain an aura of mystery and seriousness that becomes very hard to maintain once you have sex within that arena. 'Cuz men, they can't keep their mouth shut about getting laid. To anyone. They can't help themselves. I mean, I might celebrate the fact I've gotten royally laid to my friends, but don't get into the gory details. And I don't consider the nice lady I get my occasional coffee from, or the woman I might spar with that I know as a first-name only as "friends". And I consider an anonymous blog a fair forum for the hilarity of dating/sex.
But lordy the boys, don't they love to blab in detail, give a blow by blow account of things, like to parade that shit all over the place, live? Yes they do. It would irk me. So the strapping men are safe from me, at this point. I'll just continue to sneak glances and cart around my pleasant salacious thoughts in secret.
Things are good. Two-thirds of this year has now raced by. I'm not where I thought I'd be, not doing what I thought I'd be doing, not with someone I thought I'd be with. This is all fine. Today I went to the swimming pool with my Honey, his mum, the kid and Kid 2, a vaguely related child of six or so who amuses the lesser kid.
We entered as a Family, though I was grasping my single pass with one . I was discomfited at the idea of paying as a Family. I cling to my cherished ideals about myself as Cool, and hustling into the pool as some shamily unit did not fit that ideal. However, there's a time to be gracious and this was such a time. ''Thank you, husband.'' I said, in my best demure voice.
The pool was loaded with kiddies and parents. I steeled myself...and had a great time. Kid 2 took me on the waterslides. I hadn't been on a waterslide in at least 25 years. I remember them being semi-transparent deals, so you could dimly see where you were going. These were pitch black. I built up what felt to me to be a tremendous amount of speed, hurtling in the dark, screaming ''Holy shit!'' in primitive fear before popping out the end with only a Speedo wedgie and accelerated heartrate as damage. Fun!
Kid 2 was a good sport. She was not embarrassed by the fact that I was wearing water wings. With giant inflated goldfish on them. I thought they were cute, and it so happened they fit me and not the kid they were intended for.
''I'm fashion-forward,'' I tried to explain to the sceptical nine-year old who eyed me askance and asked me why I was wearing those things. ''Like Lady Gaga. You'll see, in a few months everyone else will be wearing these. I'm a fashion pioneer. Do you know what a pioneer is?''
She gave me a repulsed look and turned back to her friend, and together they struck their best whatever Paris Hilton poses. I could tell they were thinking about it, though. Maybe water wings are the next big thing...
Ha! I love fucking with kids' minds. I can tell they don't know quite what to make of me. They know I'm too old to be a teen or someone cool, but I don't act like I'm a mum. I laugh when they get bonked in the head by an inflatable ball, or fall down while running (once it's established there's no injury), and mock them ceaselessly with a straight face. In a word, I'm an uncle.
Anyway, somehow my weekend has passed with a minimum of Tasks. Feels good, two days of sleeping in to 9am and not fussing too much about plans or obligations. This afternoon, for example, I convinced myself a good use of time was watching several Lady Gaga videos on my new netbook, as I'd referenced her earlier. I do believe she's a genius. The lovechild of Elton John and Madonna circa 1979, and with RuPaul as a nanny. And she can sing, and play piano, and dance in stilletos. Absolutely a genius.
Now I hang out on my bum-deadening futon couch (probably older than the Gaga) with my dogs as the fire snaps and crackles and the chat lies like a dead thing in front of it, and I drink the rest of a very nice Spanish grenacha. I'm likely in a small state of recovery.
My X stayed with me last week, for several days. He rode dirtbikes and played with the dogs and drank and rolled us both Drum cigarettes, and a good time was had by all. He's a very good person. However, he phoned me weeping the next day, missing us all terribly.
Lest you think there's something still between us, he agreed he'd be happy to become my adopted son if he just got to hang out at the country estate with the hounds and tinker on his goldurn motorbikes all day. The only thing between us is the memory of a co-dependency that was great for him, an exercise in masochism for me. And so it goes.
It does startle me, however, to remember that once upon a time, I would have done anything for this person. Now, I am wary of getting into the aquatic centre on a family pass lest it speak to a commitment I'm not ready for. It feels natural to be in a state of unknowing, to withhold myself from another person. Not ready to sink into another and trust they'll catch me instead of dragging me down. Anyway, now I go watch movie and veg out in weekend vegematic splendour. Happy autumnal fall!
--Gretchie ''Grey is my favourite colour, so bring autumn on, bitches!'' Rutte
31 August 2010
S/he's Just Not That Into You. Their Loss.
Good Lord, possums. Egad. It has been weeks and weeks and weeks since I last wrote, an anamoly for me. Although I haven't been so regular in my postings in the last few months, I've never gone more than 10 days without throwing out at least a link to a funny video or a snippet of poetry.
The bleated excuse of the 21st century slips from my lips in a murmur: I've been quite busy. Luckily, for the finances; unfortunately, for the writing. Between normal work and extra work (I'm now toting around a Blackberry for one short-term contract in addition to my own brick-like cellphone and deadweight laptop) and new work (a brand new company I'm co-founding, so exciting), and volunteer work (the last two out of three weekends, music festival and mixed martial arts extravaganza, respectively)...well, there's been lots of work in my life recently, and goodness while having a sense of newfound purpose is grand not to mention getting some cash back in hand, it's all taken up a lot of time.
So my apologies. It's rather banal to point the respective digit at "work", but that is the chief culprit. Sigh. I suspect I used to be more interesting than this. Now, despite myself, I'm working away diligently and dating a sweet fella with a goshdarn, occasional toddler. Jeez Almighty. I do have the occasional pang for sexcapades with Guyfriend, as I relate those to fancy/not so fancy hotels and restaurant meals and long, conversational coffees in big cities. This one: equal parts cosy pub, swimholes, rented movies, short roadtrips with a dash of Dora the Explorer. Ooooo.
Actually, for a Daddy-O he's pretty cool, but even he can't help falling into the alternately wheedling/stern tone of parenthood. Last Friday, exhausted and irritable with PMS, I had to rapidly drink a glass of wine and a Lucky lager to calmly endure a six-year old's energy for several minutes while Honey put his own kid to bed. Lordy, Lawdy. Mind you, I do enjoy the company of some children for sporadic, short bouts. I simply prefer the company of most adults.
Ah, adults. Interesting creatures. I once started to write about friendship but got onto lustier or funnier topics. Now, though, it's at the forefront of my thoughts.
In the last five months, I've been rejected three times. Once, sexually by my dear old Guyfriend; next, by the poor Date who just wasn't into me, ultimately; and now by a pretty good female friend who, it turns out, is struggling to come to terms with the fact that she's just not that into me either.
This last is bemusing, to say the least. I should clarify that there is nothing romantic between this gal and myself; nothing, in fact, romantic between me and any woman, past or present. Nope, this is just a friend who really likes the idea of me, and is confounded by the reality.
Here's a summary of our recent conversation, once it was established I did have time to talk and hello, how ya been, etc.
"Well, I've been really wanting to talk to you about something, and I haven't known how." she says.
"Well, go ahead, shoot." I say this jovially, thinking it is something unrelated to myself, of course. "It's hopefully nothing I've done to make you mad." I think this unlikely, you see.
"No, and that's what's so weird. You've probably noticed I haven't been making the effort to hang out with you or even talk to you the past month or so. I just haven't wanted to, and I can't figure it out."
Oh. In fact, I hadn't really noticed (see paragraph 1-3, busy). There had been the odd flash of I haven't seen this person for a while, but I honestly hadn't thought about it past these fleeting thoughts. I'd assumed we'd come together when we could, as friends do.
"Well...I talk a lot about business. Maybe you've wanted a break from that. I talk a lot about work and maybe you're at a point where you're happy with your work, or don't want to think about it in your off-time." I'm trying to be gracious here, and give her an out. She doesn't take it.
"No...that's not it. I just haven't been motivated to hang out with you. I think, 'Oh, I should give her a call, or we should do something...' and then I realize I don't really want to, and I feel guilty. Because I think you're a great person, I really do! I can't figure it out."
At this point, I just start giggling, and remain in a state of giggle for the rest of the conversation. It seems surreal. I like this person, partly because she is so interested in examining her own thought processes and reactions. But in this case, I believe she is overthinking the situation. I cannot and will not persuade her to like me, no matter what merits I may possess.
After drawing parallels to foods I like but have overdosed on in the past and thus needed a rest from, I let her know I'd rather have her not call or see me than build up resentment towards my existence out of friendship guilt.
And that's pretty much that. I'm not going to spend too much time or energy on convincing someone they should be stoked to be friends with me, or in trying to reassure them I'm okay, you're okay, it's all okay. Because it's not that neat, even if it is simple.
People attract and repel. I don't mean this purely in the sexual sense: it happens platonically as well. I've been attracted to people when I should have known better, and repelled by people who meant well but set my teeth on edge. That's that.
I'm learning to take rejection with grace. I prefer to think of it as dissolution, of feeling once imagined or fancies dissolving with exposure and time. My friend likes the idea of me, but not the reality. The Date thought I was hot and a good person, but found we were not as compatible as it seemed at the beginning. Guyfriend...well, he's got his own damage, but I like to think he treasures the friendship we have over the sex.
Lest you think me a trifle saintly, let me be clear. These, I understand, are generous assessments. They are made not so much to sanctify the Other; more to protect my own ego. Besides this, I do like to think positively, or barring this, pragmatically. "What is the lesson I can learn from this pain?" I'm finding is my usual reaction almost immediately following the painful surprise of rejection. And so it goes.
And lest you think me a trifle Zen, I think these people are fucking idiots, to a certain degree. Yes, even my beloved Guyfriend, who is still one of my nearest and dearest friends and is likely to remain so for life; yes, even a man who is so close to myself in temperament and tastes that we frequently and mutually refer to "our twinship"; a person for whom I have enormous respect intellectually and spiritually--yes, even this exalted figure in my life I feel, in this regard, is a complete and utter doofus.
In truth, I occasionally fantasize about him seeing the error of his ways and Developing Feelings for me at some point in the years to come, and blurting out (perhaps in the afternoon rain, oh yes) that he'd made a mistake when he said no to continuing as lovers; and me sympathetically nodding and smiling sweetly and telling him he made the right call, all those years ago. In other words, eat your fucking heart out, chump. Interesting how one can carry affection and vengeance in one's heart simultaneously.
As for my friend, I don't know what to say to her. She's a few years younger than myself, so I think her over-communication springs partly from this, partly from her fiercely psychiatric-intellectual outlook. At any rate, I shrug in her general direction: I'm interested to know you, but won't miss you much if you're gone.
The number of people who are genuinely close to me are few and far between, and even they shift over the years. I'm lucky to have them in my life when I have them, but recognize they can come and go with the currents of their life, which may not necessarily be carrying them in my direction. A Gallic shrug here, and more wine, garçon.
And yes, mostly I am that self-assured. I'm fairly pleased with myself and my own company, and think that while I'm lucky to have my friends and family, why, they're also pretty lucky to have me.
At any rate, I do find it all pretty interesting. Now, I shall go to sleep soon, but apologize again to no one in particular re: my long absence from this space. I've liked the time to be busybusy and mull things over without expression in the corners of my brain, but also am enjoying returning to the act of writing. See you soon, possums.
-Gretchen
The bleated excuse of the 21st century slips from my lips in a murmur: I've been quite busy. Luckily, for the finances; unfortunately, for the writing. Between normal work and extra work (I'm now toting around a Blackberry for one short-term contract in addition to my own brick-like cellphone and deadweight laptop) and new work (a brand new company I'm co-founding, so exciting), and volunteer work (the last two out of three weekends, music festival and mixed martial arts extravaganza, respectively)...well, there's been lots of work in my life recently, and goodness while having a sense of newfound purpose is grand not to mention getting some cash back in hand, it's all taken up a lot of time.
So my apologies. It's rather banal to point the respective digit at "work", but that is the chief culprit. Sigh. I suspect I used to be more interesting than this. Now, despite myself, I'm working away diligently and dating a sweet fella with a goshdarn, occasional toddler. Jeez Almighty. I do have the occasional pang for sexcapades with Guyfriend, as I relate those to fancy/not so fancy hotels and restaurant meals and long, conversational coffees in big cities. This one: equal parts cosy pub, swimholes, rented movies, short roadtrips with a dash of Dora the Explorer. Ooooo.
Actually, for a Daddy-O he's pretty cool, but even he can't help falling into the alternately wheedling/stern tone of parenthood. Last Friday, exhausted and irritable with PMS, I had to rapidly drink a glass of wine and a Lucky lager to calmly endure a six-year old's energy for several minutes while Honey put his own kid to bed. Lordy, Lawdy. Mind you, I do enjoy the company of some children for sporadic, short bouts. I simply prefer the company of most adults.
Ah, adults. Interesting creatures. I once started to write about friendship but got onto lustier or funnier topics. Now, though, it's at the forefront of my thoughts.
In the last five months, I've been rejected three times. Once, sexually by my dear old Guyfriend; next, by the poor Date who just wasn't into me, ultimately; and now by a pretty good female friend who, it turns out, is struggling to come to terms with the fact that she's just not that into me either.
This last is bemusing, to say the least. I should clarify that there is nothing romantic between this gal and myself; nothing, in fact, romantic between me and any woman, past or present. Nope, this is just a friend who really likes the idea of me, and is confounded by the reality.
Here's a summary of our recent conversation, once it was established I did have time to talk and hello, how ya been, etc.
"Well, I've been really wanting to talk to you about something, and I haven't known how." she says.
"Well, go ahead, shoot." I say this jovially, thinking it is something unrelated to myself, of course. "It's hopefully nothing I've done to make you mad." I think this unlikely, you see.
"No, and that's what's so weird. You've probably noticed I haven't been making the effort to hang out with you or even talk to you the past month or so. I just haven't wanted to, and I can't figure it out."
Oh. In fact, I hadn't really noticed (see paragraph 1-3, busy). There had been the odd flash of I haven't seen this person for a while, but I honestly hadn't thought about it past these fleeting thoughts. I'd assumed we'd come together when we could, as friends do.
"Well...I talk a lot about business. Maybe you've wanted a break from that. I talk a lot about work and maybe you're at a point where you're happy with your work, or don't want to think about it in your off-time." I'm trying to be gracious here, and give her an out. She doesn't take it.
"No...that's not it. I just haven't been motivated to hang out with you. I think, 'Oh, I should give her a call, or we should do something...' and then I realize I don't really want to, and I feel guilty. Because I think you're a great person, I really do! I can't figure it out."
At this point, I just start giggling, and remain in a state of giggle for the rest of the conversation. It seems surreal. I like this person, partly because she is so interested in examining her own thought processes and reactions. But in this case, I believe she is overthinking the situation. I cannot and will not persuade her to like me, no matter what merits I may possess.
After drawing parallels to foods I like but have overdosed on in the past and thus needed a rest from, I let her know I'd rather have her not call or see me than build up resentment towards my existence out of friendship guilt.
And that's pretty much that. I'm not going to spend too much time or energy on convincing someone they should be stoked to be friends with me, or in trying to reassure them I'm okay, you're okay, it's all okay. Because it's not that neat, even if it is simple.
People attract and repel. I don't mean this purely in the sexual sense: it happens platonically as well. I've been attracted to people when I should have known better, and repelled by people who meant well but set my teeth on edge. That's that.
I'm learning to take rejection with grace. I prefer to think of it as dissolution, of feeling once imagined or fancies dissolving with exposure and time. My friend likes the idea of me, but not the reality. The Date thought I was hot and a good person, but found we were not as compatible as it seemed at the beginning. Guyfriend...well, he's got his own damage, but I like to think he treasures the friendship we have over the sex.
Lest you think me a trifle saintly, let me be clear. These, I understand, are generous assessments. They are made not so much to sanctify the Other; more to protect my own ego. Besides this, I do like to think positively, or barring this, pragmatically. "What is the lesson I can learn from this pain?" I'm finding is my usual reaction almost immediately following the painful surprise of rejection. And so it goes.
And lest you think me a trifle Zen, I think these people are fucking idiots, to a certain degree. Yes, even my beloved Guyfriend, who is still one of my nearest and dearest friends and is likely to remain so for life; yes, even a man who is so close to myself in temperament and tastes that we frequently and mutually refer to "our twinship"; a person for whom I have enormous respect intellectually and spiritually--yes, even this exalted figure in my life I feel, in this regard, is a complete and utter doofus.
In truth, I occasionally fantasize about him seeing the error of his ways and Developing Feelings for me at some point in the years to come, and blurting out (perhaps in the afternoon rain, oh yes) that he'd made a mistake when he said no to continuing as lovers; and me sympathetically nodding and smiling sweetly and telling him he made the right call, all those years ago. In other words, eat your fucking heart out, chump. Interesting how one can carry affection and vengeance in one's heart simultaneously.
As for my friend, I don't know what to say to her. She's a few years younger than myself, so I think her over-communication springs partly from this, partly from her fiercely psychiatric-intellectual outlook. At any rate, I shrug in her general direction: I'm interested to know you, but won't miss you much if you're gone.
The number of people who are genuinely close to me are few and far between, and even they shift over the years. I'm lucky to have them in my life when I have them, but recognize they can come and go with the currents of their life, which may not necessarily be carrying them in my direction. A Gallic shrug here, and more wine, garçon.
And yes, mostly I am that self-assured. I'm fairly pleased with myself and my own company, and think that while I'm lucky to have my friends and family, why, they're also pretty lucky to have me.
At any rate, I do find it all pretty interesting. Now, I shall go to sleep soon, but apologize again to no one in particular re: my long absence from this space. I've liked the time to be busybusy and mull things over without expression in the corners of my brain, but also am enjoying returning to the act of writing. See you soon, possums.
-Gretchen
06 August 2010
Men Who Hate Women
This, dear Reader, was the original title of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Of course, you know this, as you are likely in the deep end of the trilogy along with several million other Canadians. I am. It took me a few hundred pages to get there, but I'm pleasantly in now.
The joy of getting into a thick, hastily printed paperback is unlike any other joy. Akin to finding a box of fudgesicles in the freezer on a blazing hot day and eat them languorously on the deck naked and staring at the uncut lawn. You didn't know you needed to do that until you did it, and you don't regret it while you're doing it and don't regret it after. Such is the pleasure afforded by Steig Larsson's novels.
There was a humourous article printed in the national newspaper last weekend, fondly lampooning the saga. For example, how everyone is always making coffee and unappealing sandwiches (meat/spread + pickle on rye is a recurring theme).
Or the dispassionate, pragmatic way people go about having (consensual) sex with one another, for no other reason than they want to at the time. Might I add people not only in their twenties, but also in their 40s and 50s. Infidelity is explained matter-of-factly as either being a condition of one relationship or the cause of its end, but provokes no floods of tears or hysterical displays.
Or the level of brandname-itis that runs throughout, not in any overtly commercial way but as mere fact. Lisbeth does not go shopping for a computer; she sets her sights on "the new Apple PowerBook G4/1.0 GHz in an aluminum case with a Power PC 7451 processor with an Altivec Velocity Engine, 960 MB RAM and a 60 GB hard drive. It had Bluetooth and built-in CD and DVD burners." It's the Rainman approach to narrative, every detail noted and shared.
It is curious and even a little tedious until the action picks up, and then you realize you've been lulled into a highly suggestible state. The rythym you've fallen into is thoroughly engrossing, like listening to someone with a calm demeanor and soft voice telling you how they exacted gruesome revenge upon those who had wronged them.
Of course, Ms. Salander is the heart of the novel, a cryptic little heroine with a flat chest and tattoos. Blomkvist is fine, but hardly a character which could drive the series. Nope, it's weird little Lisbeth that we love and identify with and admire for not feeling sorry for herself or being a victim, even as we are allowed to glimpse her self-doubt and fear. We are not told what she feels; we are told what she does and how she reacts and to a certain extent, why. It's refreshing.
She's not a flake nor a victim, not a sidekick or an ass-kicking heroine. I'm only just finished the first novel, but so far she not "on a journey" or had any revelations about who she really is, really. She has not gone shopping to make herself feel better; she goes shopping to get things she needs. And the other main characters only grocery shop, it seems. Message being that you can't make sandwiches from nothing.
Even if the series is several years old by now, it seems a timely antidote to the fictional women that dominate our cinema screens. There's the sexily scowling, invincible heroine taking on all evil-doers with physically impossible (and apparently painless) stunts; the domestically-demanding, skirted Wife/Girlfriend who just loves to go shopping with the gals when she's not berating her Manchild; and her sister, the independent city gal who is supposed to be defined by her job though we never see her do it or hear her refer to it in any detail, as she's too busy gushing on about how all the good men are taken, etc. A jockey-sized, borderline autistic computer-hacker is just what we need.
Having gone to see La Belle Jolie in the instantly forgettable Salt on matinee impulse with Honey the other day, I walked out saying how it'd be nice to see a movie heroine who looks like she's been in a few fights. How about a stocky, fit middle-aged broad with a few scars, maybe even a broken nose or chipped teeth? No make-up, thoughtlessly tied pony-tail, sensible shoes, clothes that allow her to move uninhibited, and most of all, believable fighting chops that leave her sweating and panting and probably too sore to slip into a Galiano gown to drink champagne all night. That's right: someone who looks like a middle-aged, possibly lesbian yoga enthusiast. Why not? It shall have to be my creation.
In the meantime, I'm a trifle miffed that the Swedish movie version of TGWTDT, which I've heard is excellent and had rented to do prime wallowing veg-out to tonight, is not actually in my possession. The wrong DVD was placed in the case, so I can either watch season 1 of Mad Men or start book 2. I start book 2.
Signing off from her place in her 2010 queen-sized, Tempur-Pedic OriginalBed with crumpled white cotton sheets and bright green pillow cases,
GR
ps Holy shit, my bed's Swedish!
The joy of getting into a thick, hastily printed paperback is unlike any other joy. Akin to finding a box of fudgesicles in the freezer on a blazing hot day and eat them languorously on the deck naked and staring at the uncut lawn. You didn't know you needed to do that until you did it, and you don't regret it while you're doing it and don't regret it after. Such is the pleasure afforded by Steig Larsson's novels.
There was a humourous article printed in the national newspaper last weekend, fondly lampooning the saga. For example, how everyone is always making coffee and unappealing sandwiches (meat/spread + pickle on rye is a recurring theme).
Or the dispassionate, pragmatic way people go about having (consensual) sex with one another, for no other reason than they want to at the time. Might I add people not only in their twenties, but also in their 40s and 50s. Infidelity is explained matter-of-factly as either being a condition of one relationship or the cause of its end, but provokes no floods of tears or hysterical displays.
Or the level of brandname-itis that runs throughout, not in any overtly commercial way but as mere fact. Lisbeth does not go shopping for a computer; she sets her sights on "the new Apple PowerBook G4/1.0 GHz in an aluminum case with a Power PC 7451 processor with an Altivec Velocity Engine, 960 MB RAM and a 60 GB hard drive. It had Bluetooth and built-in CD and DVD burners." It's the Rainman approach to narrative, every detail noted and shared.
It is curious and even a little tedious until the action picks up, and then you realize you've been lulled into a highly suggestible state. The rythym you've fallen into is thoroughly engrossing, like listening to someone with a calm demeanor and soft voice telling you how they exacted gruesome revenge upon those who had wronged them.
Of course, Ms. Salander is the heart of the novel, a cryptic little heroine with a flat chest and tattoos. Blomkvist is fine, but hardly a character which could drive the series. Nope, it's weird little Lisbeth that we love and identify with and admire for not feeling sorry for herself or being a victim, even as we are allowed to glimpse her self-doubt and fear. We are not told what she feels; we are told what she does and how she reacts and to a certain extent, why. It's refreshing.
She's not a flake nor a victim, not a sidekick or an ass-kicking heroine. I'm only just finished the first novel, but so far she not "on a journey" or had any revelations about who she really is, really. She has not gone shopping to make herself feel better; she goes shopping to get things she needs. And the other main characters only grocery shop, it seems. Message being that you can't make sandwiches from nothing.
Even if the series is several years old by now, it seems a timely antidote to the fictional women that dominate our cinema screens. There's the sexily scowling, invincible heroine taking on all evil-doers with physically impossible (and apparently painless) stunts; the domestically-demanding, skirted Wife/Girlfriend who just loves to go shopping with the gals when she's not berating her Manchild; and her sister, the independent city gal who is supposed to be defined by her job though we never see her do it or hear her refer to it in any detail, as she's too busy gushing on about how all the good men are taken, etc. A jockey-sized, borderline autistic computer-hacker is just what we need.
Having gone to see La Belle Jolie in the instantly forgettable Salt on matinee impulse with Honey the other day, I walked out saying how it'd be nice to see a movie heroine who looks like she's been in a few fights. How about a stocky, fit middle-aged broad with a few scars, maybe even a broken nose or chipped teeth? No make-up, thoughtlessly tied pony-tail, sensible shoes, clothes that allow her to move uninhibited, and most of all, believable fighting chops that leave her sweating and panting and probably too sore to slip into a Galiano gown to drink champagne all night. That's right: someone who looks like a middle-aged, possibly lesbian yoga enthusiast. Why not? It shall have to be my creation.
In the meantime, I'm a trifle miffed that the Swedish movie version of TGWTDT, which I've heard is excellent and had rented to do prime wallowing veg-out to tonight, is not actually in my possession. The wrong DVD was placed in the case, so I can either watch season 1 of Mad Men or start book 2. I start book 2.
Signing off from her place in her 2010 queen-sized, Tempur-Pedic OriginalBed with crumpled white cotton sheets and bright green pillow cases,
GR
ps Holy shit, my bed's Swedish!
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