Well, it’s Saturday morning and it’s a fiercely sexy morning of… yes, housecleaning.

Then I have to do the requisite girlie-bath thing with a facial and all the fussin’ ‘cos I have me a coffee date this afternoon, and while there’s pretty much no chance of him getting the goods this evening, I still want to feel like I’m ‘all that’.

Dating is not something I’ve enjoyed in the last couple years. I had a great time dating a great mix of men from ’04-06, then committed too early to someone and that went badly in ’06. Late that year, I dated The Worst Date Ever, and, since then, every single man has been a screaming disappointment and I haven’t felt like sharing.

The Worst Date Ever: It’s a Tie!

1. This guy had over-Photoshopped his photo and lied about everything and claimed he was an art photographer. He turned out to be an “date booker” for an “escort service” who was answering “business calls” on our coffee date. I guess Saturday’s a busy night for him. He was totally skirting around his job until I dusted off my fucking journalism creds and pressed him for the truth. Sheepishly he told me of his job and how he was always of “assistance” to the escorts. He was also four inches shorter than he claimed and about 10 years older than he claimed, so. Yes. Shortest date ever on both counts. What, I was gone within 45 minutes, and getting drunk with GayBoy within 90? So, yes, colour me always-skeptical.

Icing on the cake was when I was at work about two months later, working on a documentary about the sex trade, and he was a central storyline, going with the escorts to get their STD tests done, taking photos for their ads, and being their legal problem solver. Yeah. That was a weird day at work. Nice enough guy, but just so wrong for me given his profession and how I’m a little more vanilla than most writers who tackle sex. I spent several hours at work, thinking, “I’m so glad I went home. I’m so glad I went home. Yay! I went home!”

2. The guy who drank five beers in one 90-minute meal. Our first (and only) date, which was over in 90 minutes. “Thanks for dinner.” ‘Nuff said. Don’t do this, guys. Distilleries hold very little sex appeal to us women who can do better. Think about it.

Bad dates are very demoralizing, aren’t they? At some point, you have to wonder how much it reflects on you. ‘Cept I wasn’t wondering because I was plain unhappy with life, and I’m sure it showed.

Life feels like it’s in a bold new place, so maybe this will be a good thing this afternoon. I’m cautiously optimistic, but making myself be prepared for total disappointment. That’s just my recent track-record of men speaking, though.

That was then, and this is now. Rather, five hours from now is the new now, right?

But it’s nice to feel the guarded hope one gets before a date that has a smidge of promise. “Could this be a connection?” has to wander through your mind.

When dating works, it’s that one new thing you can add to your life that makes everything better. It improves meals, days at work, nights in bed, everything. Nothing else you can acquire can have such an all-over impact in improving your life than finding a good connection with someone.

Unfortunately, it’s getting there that’s such a struggle for most of us. Wading through the endless “What was I thinking?” dates and the badly-timed sparks with others when one or both of you isn’t in the place for a relationship. Sigh. It’s such a drag sometimes.

I haven’t dated since the New Year, when I more or less stood someone up for the first time ever. Last second case of the heebie-jeebies and a total questioning of my wisdom caused me to not get on the bus to the date. Yep, I was dressed up and everything. Even shaved my legs. Standing there, at the bus stop, I see the bus pull up. It opens its doors, others start boarding. I just thought, “Mm, no. I don’t think so.”

It happens. It was really informal plans, anyhow, so it wasn’t the worst time to just not go. Though I think I made the right choice, I would handle it differently now, and it’s part of why I’ve totally begged off of men since the new year. It was time to focus on me. Boy, have I ever!

That won’t be happening today. Today I actually want to go. Fine day for a neighbourhood coffee date. Anyhow, I have predate rituals to tackle, muffins to bake, and a nap to take.

Kickin’ Ass & Takin’ Names Update: Slow week for the Steff. I haven’t weighed myself because I’ve behaved badly this week after having one of the most frustrating weeks in months, which drove me into the fluffy folds of baguettes, plus a resurgence of an old hand injury that made writing and cycling nearly impossible for a couple days. NOT cool. Hand’s much better today, ergo my mood is as well. I’ll screw up the courage to weigh myself this week and see what’s what. But I’m still making muffins. 🙂

I wasn’t going to post something today. My hand’s reacting from too much cycling and other events of late, and typing sucks, and cycling’s out for a week (maybe more) but hey… I just found out I was selected as a top pick in the Sugasm this week.

So, aw, shucks! Thanks for anyone who took the time to select my post, Fuck the Pope.

But what I really wanted to talk about for a second was this big-ass special they’re going to have on CNN’s Showbiz Tonight about why men cheat on beautiful, successful Hollywood women. They’re bringing out the big experts and tackling it like you wouldn’t believe.

I’ll give you four reasons so you can save that precious fucking hour of your life for something more significant than their bullshit.

1. “Sexy” doesn’t come down to just looks. Sure, they’re hot, but, really, what are they like in the bedroom? Are they good lovers? Are they passionate? Do they have healthy libidos? Are they squirmish about sex? You can have rock-hard abs and a body that doesn’t quit for days, but it doesn’t mean you’ll ever know how to earn an orgasm out of your lover. That’s whatcha need skills for, baby.
2. Which brings us to why guys like Hugh Grant’ll get with a prostitute over someone like Elizabeth Hurley: Because sex will often extend beyond the borders of what’s publically deemed to be tasteful. (I have no idea the particulars of their situation, so this has nothing to do with them): How do you tell a woman who likes only variation of the Missionary Position that you want to be spanked or dominated or even just spoken really, really dirty to? There are too many people who cringe and react negatively when they hear their lovers’ true fantasies. Shame is deadly in our lives, and being made to feel shame over what are supposed to be carnal desires, not sanitized preferences, is pretty sad. When you’re someone famous and that shame could be used as a weapon to take you down, it might be a lot easier to trust a professional prostitute than another tabloid beauty.
3. People who aren’t perfectly Hollywood beautiful can be as sexy as the day is long. I’ve known people in my life who haven’t been “hot” but who’ve been sexy six ways to Sunday. I knew this one guy who went against everything I considered attractive, but I often wanted to just pin him against the wall and do dirty, dirty things. He oozed sexuality. With people like that, all you need is the wrong mood and the wrong time and you could cave in somethin’ fierce.
4. Because even beautiful people can be shitty in relationships.

I mean, fuck, like it’s rocket science? If infidelity’s happening, something’s rotten in Denmark. Conversations are being left unsaid, sex isn’t happening the way one or both fantasize about it happening, or the camaraderie’s totally gone and someone who’s more of a friend can be a turn-on in a lover scenario.

But, hey. Everyone wants you to believe it’s always the cheating person’s fault. They want you to believe that being beautiful and successful is enough to make a relationship work, which is about as fucking moronic as it gets. Relationships rely on everything from the way someone smells after a workout to the furrows they make reading the newspaper, right on up to how they’re there for you when you need them and whether they make you moan and shudder.

I disagree with infidelity, I disagree with cheating as an “out” in a relationship that’s going bad… but I understand it happening.

But that’s another posting for another time.

For now, here, eat some Sugasm. You’ll feel better. Since this posting’s too long as-is, I’ll truncate the list. For more of the week’s Sugasm postings, visit the Sugasm blog.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks
Fuck The Pope.
“The Church would have you believe that abstinence should be sufficient.”

Good Boy
“Despite my outward appearance, I still felt sexy as hell knowing what was underneath those misleading garments.”

May Masturbation Challenge: Progress Report day 10
“At the Dee & Apollo household, it’s early on Day 10 of the May Masturbation Challenge. ”

Mr. Sugasm Himself (one from the vaults)
The US Constitution Erotic Coloring Book

Editor’s Choice
UK Criminal Justice Bill Clause 63 – but what is “extreme”? – A Beginners Guide

Like most bloggers, this is my not-so-secret other life. I get paid to work for a living, but because I’ve opted for a cushy job that keeps life simple for me, it’s not exactly keeping me in luxury. Blogging’s what I turn to for kicks, for fun, for community.

But I don’t live under the delusion that any of you are my “friends”. You’re not. Let’s keep it real, right? You like reading what I have to say, but beyond that, you really don’t know me. That’s how it works. You see what I want you to see, but not a thing more. It’s fabulous, from my end.

And that’d be great if we could skate through life riding only on the surface, allowing others only to see the bare minimum of who we are, but it’d sure make for a pretty plastic existence. Who we are shines through in all the little things we do each day; picking up a piece of litter instead of walking past, holding a door open for someone 15 feet behind ya, not saying “thank you” when someone does something for you… all these things reveal who we are, but you’d never see any of that on the web, so what do you really know about web personalities after all? Not fuckin’ much, my friends.

So, it’s because of my rather strong feelings on the notion of taking web “friendships” and “communities” a bit too far that I’ve been avoiding answering a particular reader’s letter of late, but how’s about I take a kick at it now?

It’s a huge email, and I sort of have to pick the things you need to know, ‘cos not all of it’s getting tackled today. First of all, the reader wrote in after reading this posting called “When Relationships Falter” on this trusty blog o’ mine. So, here’s whatcha need to know:

1) This is a friend writing in with a question about someone he calls a close friend, but who he’s never met, and who’s really only an internet connection.
2) He’s never met the spouse/partner in question, but has made his acquaintance online on the odd occasion, so he has some knowledge of a somewhat misogynistic views held by the Husband.
3) His friend, the Woman we’ll call her, is a relatively new mother. Her relationship ain’t what she’d hoped it’d be. He’s working all the time, there’s never any sex. It’s frustrating and it’s very much not a partnership, if we’re to believe her side of things. She claims she sees him for 2 hours a week, on average.
4) The Husband, not my letter-writer reader, has told The Woman that she is not to masturbate just because he’s not there to fuck her, even though she’s apparently caught him masturbating of late. My reader wants to know if this is fair.
5) The Reader thinks she should be moving out. He’s got the husband pegged as probably having an affair. Etc.

Oh, boy. Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy. Boy!

Let’s tackle the easiest thing first. Number 4. Of course it’s not fucking fair! She can masturbate any time she wants, so long as her conscience is clear on the matter that it’s her choice and her prerogative. And if he is in fact masturbating and she’s being told not to, then he’s a fucking hypocrite. Open and shut. Simple. Read my Why the 40% of Women Should Masturbate that you’ll find under my sidebar.

Now, is the husband having an affair?

Holy fuck, let’s just back the hell up here, all right? An affair? Sorry, reader, but you’re some guy about 1,500 miles away, or whatever. You’ve never met either of these people. You’ve never lived a moment in their lives, let alone in their shoes. You’re going ENTIRELY on her word. You can’t be jumping to conclusions here, it’s ridiculous. And you should NOT be getting involved.

It’s crazy, this internet thing. It’s this big ol’ community and we all feel like pals. But it’s as fake as the day is long. In ways, it’s brutally real. Some of the things I’ve published on here felt like I was scraping the walls of my heart and smearing it all up for the world to see. But how do you really know it’s real? You don’t. You just assume I’m telling the truth. Thankfully, I am, but not everyone does. I learned my lessons the hard way a long time ago, and now I’m pretty guarded when it comes to buddying-up on the ‘net.

We’ve all heard of the internet hoaxes — videos of people supposedly held prisoner, people faking personals on Craigslist to mock and expose others. We really can’t trust anything anyone says.

We can get alarmed at times. ILike when had an email from someone in response to a personals ad 18 months ago, one that just terrified the hell out of me because this person was going on about suicide and hurting others. Did I wade into that? No fucking way! I forwarded the email to professional counsellors at a crisis line and made sure they looked into it, and I washed my hands entirely of it. You can’t go meddling in people’s lives because it can be downright fucking dangerous at times. Seriously!

So that’s one reason I say to pull back and stop getting involved — you just don’t know. Maybe she’s a nutbag in real life. Maybe she’s possessive and jealous. Maybe they have more money problems than you know. Maybe the baby just provided the classic huge shock young couples aren’t read for, and as a result she’s battling post-partum depression and he’s done the classic “guy” thing and thrown himself into work. Maybe it sorts out all by itself because, instead of dumping all her problems on some “safe” and “non-threatening” guy a couple thousand klicks away, she starts telling her husband how she really feels. Maybe they get counselling.

Maybe a million things could, might, may happen that you, in your fish-eye distorted and limited view of their world you can’t possibly conceive because you’re listening entirely to her point-of-view and you’ve already convicted him as being the only one doing something wrong here.

But she’s doing something wrong, too. She’s not talking to him, not as far as we know. She’s not talking to the real people in her life — people who can see both sides — that may or may not be able to help her reach a real resolution.

Now, there are times when the internet is a cry for help. Yes, this is true, it happens, and those cries for help need to be heard. But another unhappy woman in another unhappy marriage isn’t a cry for help that needs to be heard, not yet. Shit happens. Relationships come apart. We need to suck it up and learn to get through it, but we really need to try hard to resolve relationships before we give in, or start displacing our energies onto others by way of dumping on friends and failing to communicate. She needs to stop complaining to people who can’t solve her problems, and she needs to fucking confront the person she believes can change it all: Her Husband. They need to sit down, have the “Wow, so that baby really changed everything, huh? I totally didn’t see THIS coming” chat that is probably at least half, if not way more, of their problem.

The thing that someone like me, who’s very cautiously opted out of the Baby Game, even though a small part of me wants a kid, understands is: A child changes EVERYTHING in your life. Not all for the better, either. Yeah, sure, there’s the cool shit that comes down when they hit 18 months and totally plug into the wonder of the world and just baffle you at every turn…

…But then there’s that very needy, not-too-interesting-yet, hard-to-predict, awkward-to-learn-about itty-bitty baby that pops into the world and requires your attention for 24/7 for at least the first six months. And there’s the hormones. And the constant exhaustion that comes with it. And the never, ever being able to press “pause”.

A lot of new parents don’t communicate about how, yes, it’s a beautiful baby, but holy shit did it change everything about life. There can be a romanticizing of one’s past when that kind of upheaval comes and lands on you. And when you realize it’s a “rest of your li
fe” change, it’s bound to be a little overwhelming for people who didn’t really have an eyes-wide-open look at the commitment truly required in having a baby.

I think they have a communication problem. How do you have sex when you can’t admit to your partner that you’re too tired and frustrated to be happy? How do you talk about not understanding why this thing you wanted so much leaves you feeling so empty inside? How do you talk about your discontent without making it feel like you’ve made the wrong decision? It’s a HARD conversation to have, so naturally people will avoid it.

If you go meddling in this beyond saying “You NEED to keep talking to him. You CANNOT just give up before finding out if this is just post-baby-blues felt by both of you” then you might go irreparably damaging a marriage that might’ve survived if they both just held on a little longer through the tough times that sometimes follow when a baby comes into the world.

She needs to understand that it’s okay to be depressed and empty and tired when she’s caring so much for this baby all by herself. She needs to understand that post-partum depression can linger for a long time, and that it needs medical attention. She needs to be made to see that she has to talk to her husband and him know the urgency behind how much change needs to transpire in the relationship.

When all of THAT occurs, when they’ve exhausted everything, THEN comes the need to realize that, maybe, just maybe, the union was wrong and she should move out.

But that’s a long fucking ways off.

And BEFORE it gets there, you need to pull the hell back and stop being the dumping grounds for this woman’s emotions so that she can have the conversations required. If those conversations fail with her husband, and conditions continue to worsen, then she needs to have a long hard look at the financial costs and requirements, and whether she can make that work, of being a single mother — long, long before she goes boldly crashing out the door to rent her own place.

Support her but do not coddle her. Do not allow this steady stream of her negatively complaining about her life yet failing to take actions to change it. You’re being an enabler, not a friend. Tell her to start being constructive and making firm choices about how to deal with her problem. She needs to chat with him, and if he doesn’t listen or change during a trial period, then she needs to figure out what her life is going to require as a single mom — and she needs income besides child support because far too many ex-spouses are deadbeats on payments (mothers, too) and she can’t just willy-nilly expect money to work out and society to pitch in and help. She needs to really understand what’s at stake if she goes it alone.

But she needs to make those decisions on her own, and you have no business getting involved in it with opinions, what have you, since you don’t really have a view of the full picture. Tell her the path to take, but leave the specific advice for the “real” people in her life.

Harsh but that’s how I feel about it. What do you other readers think? Am I being too hard? Do you agree with my take?

I had an active day with a friend yesterday. We cycled about 25km, came back to my pad, made some souvlaki to go with my gazpacho, and got stinking drunk. A decent girl’s night, and a departure from my safer, quieter nights in of late.

We somehow got to talking about her childhood. Atypical Japanese, she was raised by really trusting parents who wanted her to celebrate her independent feminist self, and she’s been travelling the world and enjoying life with their stamp of approval. They even got her drunk when she was younger, on sake of course, to teach her that alcohol wasn’t that special or worthy of fussing over.

Got me thinking a lot on my childhood. Crazy, how far we come, isn’t it?

It’s funny, I don’t think I ever really thought much on who I wanted to be as a kid. I think I just felt like I was a certain way, and that was that. Stoic, opinionated, funny girl who always marched to a different drummer. What about you? Did you ever really look at life in that big way and try to decide who you wanted to be within it?

I mean, god. There are strange things that happen to us all that have profound impacts on who we are, whether they’re stupid things that never really measure up to what the impact they dealt was, or whether they’re suitably profound moments that shake you to your core. It’s astounding how much some things do, you know?

Take the night I almost decided to opt out of my high school prom altogether. All my friends lived in the city, and the friends at school mostly weren’t into the prom either. Wasn’t our scene, mostly. Yet at the last minute I decided to go to the dry grad after-party with two friends, a poker party in a train caboose. Next thing you know, my name’s called and I won a car. Dang! I was so stoked! A CAR!

Turns out it was a 1979 Chevy Monza. (There’s a reason you’ve never heard of it.) “That’s okay,” I thought. “I’m not that proud. It’s a car! Cool. If it runs…” And I was all positive about it.

I head out to HALLMARK FORD, THOSE CHEAP MOTHERFUCKERS, in Surrey and I picked up my Monza. Which was literally obliterated by a dog-hair shag carpet laid thick upon the upholstery. Fuckin’ dog reekage lingered long and bad. The fuckers never even vacuumed the car they’d donated to the Rotary Club after one of their “Drag, tow, or push your wreck in and we’ll give ya $1,000 towards a new car!” sales, ceremoniously dumping their shittiest trade-in ever into my lap with the bellowing of those fateful words, “You’ve won a new(??) car!!”.

(?? call it semantics, but, really, “new?”)

Still, I got home and thought “So what? I’ll vacuum it!” Six hours and two vacuum bags and one box of baking soda later, I had it spiffy and happy, and only ever so faintly did the eau de chien linger. Even if it was still shit brown, ugly, and unsaleable. That was all right. I loved it for its unsightliness.

I transferred my insurance from my old Dodge Colt to the Monza, figuring what the hey, I’ll drive it and enjoy it.

For three days.

It broke down on the Queensborough Bridge because the dealership didn’t even put any oil or water in the fucking engine. I was 17! I didn’t think “Oh, I should make sure this car I just picked up from a professional car dealership has oil and water.” I made a stupid assumption, and screwed the pooch as a result.

The engine block cracked right through. Nice. On a bridge. In rush hour. During a heatwave. On a Thursday before a long weekend. In the afternoon. It was like the perfect storm of “how can we fuck Steff over? Oh, HEY, I know” conspiring by the cosmos, man.

I made a real big fuss about it, too, since I thought the HALLMARK FORD dealership was about as fucking cheap as could be. Like, pay your motherfucking lot boy $15 for two hours to vacuum my motherfucking car, you know? I thought the Rotary Club were wankers for not checking out the donation before giving it away. I wrote the city’s paper and said so. I also said I was glad it happened to me and not some kid who really needed such a generous prize. At least I didn’t get the ultimate bitter disappointment they’d experience, and I had my old beater to drive as a consolation. I wanted to make sure it didn’t happen to anyone else.

Turns out the Rotary Club got a new president, who then turned out to think the outgoing prez was a dick, and that I had a point. Together we came up with a plan for the next year. The club would secure the donation of a car by the year’s end, and donate it to the high school mechanics’ class so it could be completely overhauled before the next kid would even know they’d won a car, and thus it’d never happened again. So, for the last 17 years, kids have been winning good-running, well-maintained used cars that probably got them all through college because I got pissed off enough to raise a shitstorm about what happened. Funny how that works. I’ll never know any of those kids, but it feels cool to know it’s the case.

But as a thanks for speaking up, and a consolation prize, they sent me off to a leadership weekend for teens. One of the guys I met that weekend has become one of my two closest friends over the years. We stayed up for almost the whole long leadership weekend, stole a van for a little road trip, and just generally had a great, insane experience that involved a lot of hot chocolate powder mixed into Pepsi as a STAY-THE-FUCK-UP energy drink. We’re still best of friends and keep the spark alive with concerts, despite him entering the land of the boring dad with two kids, a mortgage, and all that.

It’s crazy, who we’ve been, who we became, who we’re moving toward. All of us. We get so caught up in the mechanized lives we adopt that we forget how who we are really stems from all these crazy individual moments we experience that jumble together into the patchwork of our lives. We get so lost in the routine of our grown-up lives sometimes that we forget how breaking our routine by the tiniest bit can result in the most unexpected things happening.

Life gets safe, predictable, when we let it. That’s something I’m trying to break away from this year. I’m slowly getting there. I like my change to come slowly and consistently so I can digest it and keep myself from changing too much all at once. What can I say? It’s my Type A half clawing out some control.

Routine can be good. When you like what you’ve got, why fight it? But it’s nice to shake up the mix and let the hands of fate have a spin at the bottle, you know?

Sigh. I was just sitting here, thinking quietly about how it’d be nice if we had a veritas serum (truth potion) to induce the public before conducting massive polls to see into the deeper darker part of all our psyches to see how many of us have fallen drastically short of who we wanted to be as a kid, and who’s living that dream they had in grade 6, you know?

And none of this politically correct qualifying of opinions and dreams. “Well, of course I saw myself as more than just this Dad guy with a paycheque. I at least wanted a muscle car. But… things change and I’m happy. No, really, I am…”

Obviously we can’t all live the dream. Life does change, and things are weirder than they are normal most times. That’s just the way the cosmic cookie crumbles.

And what makes those crumbs so damned satisfying, of course, is how flavour-packed they are, even in their smallness. Like those little moments that dot our lives. Showing up to an overhyped poker party to win a car covered in dog-hair that resulted in what looks like it might well be a lifelong friendship? A fine crumb, that, even if was a strange journey.

That’s life. From little moments that lie lurking in wait to spring upon us with no warning, to unexpected profound events that transform the landscape of our lives. That’s life.

It’s too big and ever-changing to have ever foreseen it
all from childhood. Sure, we probably wanted greater, bigger things, but it looks like we never understood the satisfaction that can come from the simpler things. The simple, overlapping wonders that are day to day life for the majority of us.

But, hey. Isn’t it a great day to take a different route to work, maybe have lunch somewhere new? Who knows. Maybe it’ll be the start of something good. Say yes to chance today. You might just like it.

One of my all-time favourite funny songs is Stuart by the Dead Milkmen, an old post-punk classic. The lead singer has an insane monologue he rants, and that’s the whole song. I’ll be cycling and it’ll come on, and I’ll be ranting along with him, laughing at different parts. The song just never gets old for me.
Anyone without a sense of humour might think it’s anti-gay, but what it really is, is anti-stupid-fucking-redneck, and it’s satire. Here’s the end of the song’s rant:

A few days after that, I open up the mail. And there’s a pamphlet in there. From Pueblo, Colorado, and it’s addressed to Bill, Jr. And it’s entitled, “Do you know what the queers are doing to our soil?”Now, Stuart, if you look at the soil around any large US city, there’s a big undeground homosexual population. Des Moines, Iowa, for an example. Look at the soil around Des Moines, Stuart. You can’t build on it; you can’t grow anything in it. The government says it’s due to poor farming. But I know what’s really going on, Stuart. I know it’s the queers. They’re in it with the aliens. They’re building landing strips for gay Martians, I swear to God!
I like you, Stuart. You’re not like the other people here, in this trailer park.

The whole point of the song, I guess, if you could consider it to have one is, stupid people believe stupid things. Like, gays are mutants and horrible people in the eyes of god. That’s stupid.
I know, I know, I’m supposed to respect other people’s beliefs. Really? When they’re STUPID? Am I? Yeah, right. Get back to me when you have a better idea, eh?
Today’s a big day for the gay boys and girls of America. The California Supreme Court cleared the way for gay marriage in that state by declaring the ban against it to be unconstitutional.
Watch out, there’s gonna be landing strips everywhere for aliens, and be careful what you’re growing in that soil.

I’m potentially getting back into the dating game shortly. Might have a coffee date lined up over the next few days. Whatever the uncertain status in those realms, it has me considering birth control in my future, and the questions that arise are not fun ones to tackle.
Having come so far in my life of late– like my now-34 pounds lost and the fact that I’m officially at my college weight for the first time in 15 years, and all the other accomplishments going on in my life– the notion of fucking with my estrogen makes me highly wary.
I went completely nuts in ’06, largely caused by estrogen chaos and birth control pills, then exacerbated as life itself spun out of control. Would I have been better in control had I not been on the pill? I really don’t know for sure, but a large part of me says YEAH, NO DOUBT. Do I have clinical proof? No. I’ll never do period suppression by way of pills again, though. Should I take it at all, though?
The pill’s important, even if one’s using condoms. No birth control is 100%, that’s why we smart folk double-up. I don’t know, I’m thinking about it. I never raised the issue with my doctor today, but I’ll see him when it’s time to act on things.
In the meantime, here’s a great clip from SNL about a once-a-year period-suppression birth control regimen. I found more than just a little truth behind the “fiction”.

I have just one very important question.

When is someone going to make a dry ice that’s not so dry?

I mean, I go to a concert, the music’s just pounding and throbbing, I wanna shout another witty comment to my buddy, the fuckin’ dry ice is spewing in, my throat closes up, I get all hoarse, my eyes get sore, I hack, I cough. Bah! The only good thing about dry ice is it provides cover to disguise in-concert pot-smoking. Which we do appreciate.

Here’s to the fine, fine art of not getting caught.

Can’t someone invent semi-arid ice? No? Bah!

The band was The Kills. Not the Killers, no, The Kills. Came out at the same time, but The Kills are dirty, dirty lo-fi garage rock with very little retro throwback. Edgy, hot, just sweaty, sexy, good, fucking relentless. That’s The Kills in concert. There’s a guy and a girl, and they ooze dirty raw sexuality. They were the first band I found at age 30 that made me feel like 30 was a great thing to be. Keep on Your Mean Side, No Wow, and Midnight Boom are the albums, and all are worth having. Someone asked me a long time ago about good sex music and I kinda dodged the question ‘cos it’s so incredibly subjective, but, y’know, dirty sex and The Kills go hand in hand, man. Why I just love seeing them live. (Three times now, and as many times as they’ll have me.)

Their song Kissy Kissy, which they played tonight and was as fucking hawt as ever, was my inspiration behind a rare work of fiction not-so-originally also called Kissy-Kissy, which I posted way back when I wasn’t sure how I wanted this blog to go, so it was one of the first things I posted. (Then I decided there were enough good erotic fiction authors out there without throwing my hate in that ring, so you got what you got, babycakes.)

You can check The Kills out on their site, which is here, and there’s an MP3 of Kissy-Kissy on the main page, so check that out, too. Their tour is almost over, so I’m sorry if you’ve missed them. Sucks to be you.

Allison and Jamie, thanks for leaving it all on the floor. Another fab gig. And I hurt, all over. Good times. Just what the doctor ordered.

Somewhere in England sits Sue Tilley, a hefty 51-year-old woman, smiling happily, knowing that someone has paid a record $33.6 million for the painting of her lying naked on a couch for artist Lucian Freud.
It’s the most ever paid for a living artist’s work.
And it’s by far the most ever paid for an artwork of a morbidly obese woman.
The way I see it: You’re either a fan of big women and you’re into it that way; You’re repulsed by her and you like it for the shock value; or You’re that rare person that sees it for what it is, a woman unashamed to be herself, as open and vulnerable as the day is long. Then again, maybe you completely dislike it.
Personally, I kind of like it. I doubt I’d pay more than $500 for it, but I like it. $33.6 million? Hey, Mark Rothko makes mondo paint chips that sell for $72.84 million, man.
And I’m all excited when I can afford to spend $60 on a frame for one of my 11x14s. Fuck. Crazy.
Oh, right, we were talking about the proverbial eye of the beholder.
It’s interesting, isn’t it? That this would sell for that? Scandalous, would you say? Here’s what the story on CNN had to say:

The painting challenges modern notions of beauty and elicits a reaction from everyone who sees it. That may have been precisely the aim of Freud, who told London’s Tate Gallery in 2002 that he wanted his paintings to “astonish, disturb, seduce, convince.” Though some regard the painting as shocking — ugly, even — that is also the appeal for collectors, said Michael Hall, editor of Apollo Magazine in London.
“There’s a reaction against art that’s regarded as too pretty,” he said.
Hall said he thinks a more conventionally beautiful painting would not be able to fetch such a large amount.
“It’s the sort of thing that everyone immediately wants to voice an opinion about,” he said of the painting. “It challenges conventional taste … and people do find that rather exciting and interesting to talk about.”

It’s an awful lot to pay for a conversation, don’t you think? But it’s great.
I think the vulnerability is what’s so striking about it. A beautiful woman lying there isn’t taking much of a chance, but an obese woman like that, exposing herself and relaxing, it’s a really unexpected image in this day and age. She knows, we know, that people will be (and are) offended at the site of her.
And who’s got the last laugh this time, hey?
It’s refreshing to know that obesity– something television, magazines, and movies think is too horrific to put on display –has fetched $33.6 million from a single itty-bitty buyer.
Put that in yer pipe and smoke it, Hollywood chumps.

Being the ever-watchful eye I am, I’ve noticed a disconcerting trend amongst the circles I travel in. Like most issues I tackle, this too is neither black nor white; instead, it’s many varying shades of grey…

…Hairs, that is.

My friends and I are now clearly showing we’re older, more damaged goods. Specs of grey appear weekly, like has-beens at the clubs we once frequented.

Now and then I avenge myself, pulling out the tweezers, I pluck the weathered-looking straggling greys out. I’ll usually max out at about 5 or so hairs, which tends to be all I can find (so this is no epidemic here) and then I wander off, pleased with myself that yet again I’ve turned back the hands of time.

Age: Foiled by the sneaky Steff once again! Tune in next week when we see what crafty devices our ever-youthful heroine employs against the dreaded arch-nemesis “Age”!

Weeks will pass before I notice new grey hairs. Conspicuously always in the same region…

Don’t kid yourself: If, in fact, once a hair goes grey, it will always come back grey, thanks to evil-grey follicles, then I don’t want to know! Don’t tell me the truth. Don’t rain on my mostly-non-grey parade. My ignorance is my bliss and I’m coddling it fiercely.

On the flipside, though, part of me is steadfastly thinking “Fuck dye! I’m not dyeing my hair, even if it is going grey!” Me, I like the idea of a little salt-n-pepper action. Sexy sage still-naughty librarian, that’s me.

Ahh, I’m torn… as, I suspect, are all who start finding that they, too, are slowly being turned toward The Grey Side.

But maybe I can put the tweezers away after all.

Last month, the good folks at the University of Chicago released a study that says people get happier with life the older they get. Except for the baby boomers, who are all apparently about 7.2 minutes away from a bell-tower with a shotgun. They’re discontented and too driven, it would seem, them baby boomer types.

The secret to getting happier with age? The old folks say it’s pretty simple: Appreciate what you have, and worry less about what you don’t. Hang out with people, take life easy, and you’ll find it’s good.

Huh. Who’d have thought it was as simple as that? Yeah, right, simple.

Overthinking stuff’ll getcha every time. Cut out the overthinking thing and we’ll all just be hunky-dory. Consider it. People stop overthinking things, just accept things, and see what it does to society.

• All of a sudden traffic accident numbers will radically decline.
• Women will stop being distracted in sex and will orgasm better, easier, and every time. Ch-ching!
• Politicians will just do their jobs instead of trying to work every angle.
• We’d start doing what we want instead of “what’s best”. Fast-food stoner jobs will become the rage with over-40 types, a la American Beauty.
• Dr. Phil could simplify his show even more to a blurb about someone’s stupidity, then he confronts the guest with, “That’s just dumb! What the hell are you doin’ that for?” and the guest could say, “Because I’m dumb?” Phil would blurt, “Well, stop!” “Okay.” Then the show would be over.

But that’s just ludicrous… People no longer overthinking? Ending the distraction? Accepting things? Being content?

It’d be terrible for reality television, and that’s just for starters. Think what could happen to my wee blog! No, I think the art of overthinking is too advantageous to our society. A happy world? What a droll, dull idea. People will never buy it. Just the old and feeble types will fall for such a silly notion. Happiness. Silly fools. What next, pride?

In keeping with yesterday’s pope-fuelled rant against the Catholic Church, let’s talk some more about religion.

I was thrilled on May 2nd when I read an article revealing that there’s a new movement within America’s evangelical religious types to call for a return of separating church from state. They believe the evangelical’s insistence toward ingratiating itself into America’s political landscape during the Bush years has caused harm to the country and even to the faith itself.

CNN’s story on the drafting of this “manifesto” these leaders want Americans to be familiar with included this excerpt:

The statement, called “An Evangelical Manifesto,” condemns Christians on the right and left for using faith to express political views without regard to the truth of the Bible, according to a draft of the document obtained Friday by The Associated Press.

“That way faith loses its independence, Christians become ‘useful idiots’ for one political party or another, and the Christian faith becomes an ideology,” according to the draft.

The declaration, scheduled to be released Wednesday in Washington, encourages Christians to be politically engaged and uphold teachings such as traditional marriage. But the drafters say evangelicals have often expressed “truth without love,” helping create a backlash against religion during a “generation of culture warring.”

“All too often we have attacked the evils and injustices of others,” the statement says, “while we have condoned our own sins.” It argues, “we must reform our own behavior.”

Yes, THANK you. Many of us have been standing, pointing, and shouting “hypocrisy” a little too long. Our voices have grown hoarse and tired. Put your actions where your words are, and let your walking do your talking. GOOD plan. I, for one, applaud.

CNN has another story on there today, about how the evangelicals appear to even be warming to the Democratic party. Fantastic. Here’s an excerpt from there:

A group of influential Christian leaders are declaring they are tired of divisive politics, tired of watching fights over some issues trump all the good they could be doing.

“Our proposal in [our] manifesto is to join forces with all those who support a civil public square. … a vision of public life in which people of all faiths — which, of course, means no faith — are free to enter and engage public life on the basis of their faith,” said evangelical leader Os Guinness.

What? All people, all faiths should be welcome in the quest to make a new, better country for all to live in as one community? What kind of radical conversation is this, and coming, of all places, from the evangelicals?

It is sensational. It’s fantastic. It’s the voice of reason we’ve been waiting for, a voice to stand up and oppose the hypocrites like Sally Kern, Larry Craig, Tom Delay, and all the other lying bastards who claim they’re religious just to get some votes, then live under very, very unChristian ideals, compared to a Democrat like Obama who really did, at the grassroots, get very involved with his church’s on-the-street ministry.

It is time that we as a world see people for how they act, their generosity, their respect towards others, and the lives they lead rather than for what belief system is tattooed on their forehead, or what their sexual or religious persuasions might be.

Oh, there are no tattoos? Then how have we gotten this culture of intolerance? Hmm. Puzzling.

Sadly, it’s only a fraction of the evangelical leaders getting behind this “Manifesto”, but it’s a start. It’s a wonderful, praiseworthy start. A hope towards inclusion and community and unity taking new hold in America.

Just plain hope. Hope is good, I like hope. But, like yesterday, I still say fuck the pope.