I had a letter from a reader a bit ago and I’ve neglected to respond to her until now (my apologies) thanks to the whirlwind of acclimatizing to my new job.

She said:

I have a question. My boyfriend of [several] months just broke up with me [recently] because he said he need time and to be by himself. However he still wants to be friends. I asked him to clarify friends and he actually means friends, no sex. So [a few days later] he has texted me repeatedly, already trying to be my friend. I am angry at him right now because we had a good relationship and I can honestly say I had no idea it was coming, but that being said I think he’s a great person and would like for him to stay in my life. Still reeling from the breakup and a little confused, what’s your take on the situation?

As is always the case, specifics have been changed so the reader doesn’t find her ass in a sling when someone she knows reads it.

Now, to the question. Friends are great, but being friends with ex-lovers is a hard thing to pull off. The transition is a real doozey emotionally and logistically.

There’s the old ‘60s song “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” in which it goes “You say although we broke up, you still just wanna be friends, but how can we still be friends when seeing you only breaks my heart again?”

These songs play so much, so often, so repeatedly that the lyrics just seem trite and overdone as time passes, but it’s cliché because it’s so damned true.

We want to think breakups are easy and life goes on, but the reality is that “Broken Heart Syndrome” is a bona fide medical term. It comes from sudden loss or trauma – be it the death of a loved one, the loss of a valued job, or a breakup, or more. These things have one hell of a cardiac impact, and to belittle how hard it is to transition is just ridiculous. It’s proof positive that our emotions can, and do, impact our physical well-being to the point that death is conceivable.

(Those suffering BHS can actually die of what is essentially a heart attack brought on by emotional trauma. Those suffering the “heart attacks” get admitted and treated as any cardiac attack victim would be, then are released 24 hours later or longer, often in fine shape.)

If you can’t handle being friends, you need to say so. If being friends down the line is something you want but the present isn’t working for you, then you need to say so.

He’s the one that ended the relationship, so you have nothing to feel guilty about. He’s getting what he asked for in the first place. You can’t ask for time and space, then negate that by drawing the person closer after the pieces fall, y’know?

Maybe it’s just because I’m a chick, but I find that guys doing the dumping always want to be friends because it takes the edge off their guilt or something. Sure, I’m a great friend to have and a good person to know, but the cynic in me makes me wonder if it’s just so they can sleep a little better at night under the impression that they didn’t hurt me and they didn’t blow a good thing. And while I’m sure that’s sometimes the case, I know it’s not always.

In the end, your life is all about you. Yes, other people make it richer, but sometimes they make it harder. You never saw this coming and he gave you no inkling that it was looming, and that sucks. Maybe it’s a phase. Maybe he really does need time and space, but if that’s the case, make him take it. You wanted space, bub? You got it. Issue an emotional restraining order and protect yourself.

I’ve made the mistake of going “on a break” and trying to keep things open with a lover. I’ve also made the mistake of thinking friendship was a switch that could be flicked on without a second thought. I was wrong on both counts. It’s hard. It takes work. It takes being ready to let go of what was and accepting instead what is.

When your lover wants “space” and “time”, then make them take it. They can never long for what’s sitting right beside them, y’know? I think the whole “I need space” thing followed by “be my friend now” tends to come from a place of fear that maybe, just maybe, they’ve made a colossal mistake. Unfortunately, by enabling that need to have you around just in case it was all a mistake, you’re helping them to settle for the new lesser you.

And who knows, maybe friendship’s what you’ve really been destined for all along. Maybe it’s worth all the confusion and recalibrating of your heart to have that friendship. Only you will ever know. I don’t think being friends with exes is a bad thing, not in the least. You just gotta be ready for it, and you, honey, ain’t.

All I know is, the next time a man of mine wants space, he’s getting it. I’ll walk away until I’m called for, and then I’ll take my sweet-ass time returning, but I’m not going to sit around and pretend everything’s just fine. The last time I did, all the hurts I suffered were my own. I blame myself because I knew I should’ve been stronger and just walked away and let it all just be, and I didn’t, and the price I paid was high.

Don’t underestimate the pain of a breakup, and don’t let anyone tell you to get over it. Your heart will know when it’s time to walk on, and them joes on the street just don’t know jack, hon. Good luck with that, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed it. I was busy being there for myself, instead. Perhaps that’s a behaviour model for you to learn from.

So, there’s the whole “age gracefully” or “fight that fucker” dilemma that comes rearing for us all, sooner or later.

Recently, I’ve been finding more grey hairs. That is to say, “Saturday”. I think I plucked a good dozen out that afternoon. My mother died of cancer at 57 and was only THEN beginning to go grey. I’m just a bit alarmed. A dozen? Wow. Some part of me is freaked out that the grey hair comes retrofitted with a good dose of cancer, but I’m trying to ignore my inner-conspiracy theorist, thanks.

Granted, I’m not the type who stands there peering into her faults in the mirror. I take a boo here and there, but usually I shrug and move on. But this is grey hair we’re talking about! I stood there angling myself in the light, prying a lock here, toying with some strands there, constantly on the hunt for a new, kinky looking little white hair.

Fortunately, I still have to look if I’m gonna do the finding, but I’m a bit of a worrier. I’m concerned. I’m not even 35. I’m cooler in many ways than I’ve ever been, so what’s with this grey thing?

I suspect, however, that it’s all the jobless-stress and such I came down with in January. I bet these greys have been around for weeks, and it’s only because I was bored out of my mind and saw one pop up that I even noticed. The bad part was when I began tousling my hair in search for more errant strands of grey and pulled my hair aside only to discover a veritable thicket of grey. Five strands! In one tiny neighbourhood of my hair. Good god almighty! Five! Together! Like the Jacksons! Shit! Fuckety-fuck-fuck! What’s next, Geritol? Makes tired blood young!

Unthinkable! Me! Sweet, loveable, rebellious, “fuck-em-all” ME! Grey?! It’s just wrong. That’s what it is.

On the upside, though, I’m no longer jobless and stressed, so perhaps the foray into older, wiser, greyer Steff has been segued into the Continuing Adventures of the Steffchick instead. I think the latter sounds much more appealing.

Or I can kick my own miserly ass and occasionally spend a pretty penny on a dyejob.

And a word to the wise: Sure, it looks sexy, but the President’s Choice deep-dish “Chicago” style chicken & mushroom pizzza is a total write-off. Somewhere in the midst of the second slice, a piece of chicken finally emerged. I think it’s “Repression-era Chicago” style pizza, but I’ll spare you the semantics. Stick to the beef one. There’s beef in them thar slices. The chicken’s clearly on the run.

I can do fancier breakfasts than this — sauces, French Toast, pancakes, crepes, quiches — you name it, I can do it, but this is easy, rich, delicious, and perfect for a lazy rainy weekend morning like I’m having today. If I really want to lay down the knock-out punch, I could throw in hash browns, but they’re just too rich for me in my old age. I’d rather use a little extra butter in this. 😉

The trouble I find most people face when making breakfast is that they don’t know how to time it properly. I dislike nothing more than a time-bungled breakfast.

So… The times are approximate. You always have about 2 minutes grace period… EXCEPT when it comes to eggs. You wanna get them done on time. But, seriously, it’s all just a matter of planning ahead and knowing how long certain things take to do. All meals are the same that way. Plan ahead. Finish at the same time.

Steff’s Caramelized Shallots, Asparagus, & Red Pepper Scrambled Eggs, Honey-Glazed Sausages, and Toast for Two

20 minutes before you want to eat, finely chop 2 shallots and one red pepper. Remove woody end of 3 stalks of thinnish asparagus, then julienne into 1″ long pieces. If, however, you want to use leftover asparagus, just keep that on the counter until the 5 minute mark.Preheat your boiler on max with a rack 4-5″ beneath it.

18 minutes: Melt a tablespoon of butter over medium heat. Add chopped shallot. Saute two minutes. Get your bread out for making toast later.

16 minutes: Add asparagus & red pepper to saute pan. Continue sauteeing for the next 12-15 minutes over medium heat, and when they’re turning golden brown, reduce to medium-low. Stir often. Do not add salt! Not until you’re about to add eggs. Salt extracts juice and they’ll burn quickly.

13 minutes: Butterfly four sausages. Now, if you’re motivated, you can do this part an hour in advance. What happens if you do is, the honey soaks down into the sausages and they plump up with sweetness yet still form a nice glazed crust, but a more even-toned one. Still, doing it right before cooking gives you a thicker, gooier, more candied glaze on the sausages. So, they’re butterflied. Drizzle a tablespoon or so of honey over top of each split sausage (arrange split-side up).

A word about sausages. I don’t like your standard breakfast sausage. I go to my specialty butchers and I tend to buy either chicken-apple or turkey-duck-cranberry. Sometimes honey-garlic or honey-bratwurst. Any which way, you want a larger chub of sausage and you want a savoury-sweet one.

11 minutes: Stick your sausages under the broiler.

10 minutes: Get the coffee going.

8 minutes: This is when I have to get my toast going — the object is to get the toast completely toasted with 2 minutes to spare for buttering, while the eggs are cooking. You know your toaster’s timetable, so figure it out. Keep in mind, too, that if you’re using a bread that’s new to you, it may or may not take longer to toast, so you want to keep an eye on it. I used new bread today and nearly burnt it. God forbid. Breads I love for this: Sourdough light rye, baguette, Ancient grain, 12-grain, Squirrelly (an awesome dark sesame bread here in W. Canada), rye, and more. Changing up the bread changes everything!

7 minutes: If the sausages have browned on top, it’s time to flip them. Then you want to cook them till the skin chars a bit on the other side — 4-6 minutes. Take them out when the skins have charred.

6 minutes: Get cracking. Break 5 eggs into a large bowl. Hand-whisk the eggs for a full minute. (Gets more air in there; fluffier eggs.)

At this point, the times start being a little irrelevant. Follow the signs, get shit ready as is required by doneness. If possible, if you’re getting ahead of yourself and are finishing before the deadline, have a couple large bowls out to cover your plates with so you can keep hot things hot.

5 minutes: Turn the veggies’ heat up to medium/medium-high. Add a tablespoon of butter. If you’re using leftover asparagus, you want to now throw it into the pan with the caramelized shallots & red pepper. This is optional. If you have it, some fresh tarragon takes this to another plane. Mince 1 – 2 tbsps of tarragon. Add the tarragon. Mix well.

4 minutes: Add the eggs to the frying pan. Stir well with the veggies. Add some sea salt and fresh cracked black pepper. Continue mixing.

2 minutes: The eggs should be nearly done. As soon as you see the last bit congealing and cooking, take it off the heat — this could be at any point in the next three minutes, depending on your heat. True French scrambled eggs would mean adding MORE butter just before it all congeals, that 30-60 seconds before it becomes a mass. Fuckin’ great, that, but a little too decadent.

1 minute: Butter the toast. Plate the sausage. The eggs should be off the heat by now.

DONE! Plate the eggs, grab the coffee, and dig in.

One of my new coworkers is facing potential catastrophe with the love of her life. We were just casually talking the other day after I transferred her hubby’s call to her, saying “A really sexy sounding gentleman alleges he’s your husband…”

We got to talking for a few minutes later in the day and I began the small talk, asking how long they’d been married. 28 years, she told me.

I tend to size people up by what they say after the length of the marriage. “Still going strong” is what she then said, with a warm smile, staring pointedly into my eyes. I asked what the secret was and she said the standard, “We’re best friends.” But I could tell when she said it that she meant it, and more than a dozen people today have told me the same thing of her relationship — they’re best friends.

Evidently, she and her husband had been sitting around last night, drinking wine, laughing as he read her a play he’d just finished writing for a theatre production this fall. He got up to go get a glass of water and suddenly began vomiting and turning blue. Next thing you know, he’s in the hospital with a mystery virus, in ICU, hanging on for his life in some inexplicable coma.

I said earlier this week, “Never assume the persons you love know how you feel. Say what you think. Say it often.”

I just think it’s important to remember how life can turn around for you in an instant. Every harsh word you say could be the last those in your life ever hear. We get complacent and take for granted the routines of today will be the routines we endure tomorrow. Complacency, ignorance, optimism, naivety — call it what you will. Every one of those qualities can be incredibly destructive if it leads to you living a lifetime of regret for words that can never be stricken from your past.

Live the life you know won’t leave you cloaked in regret. Say the things you can later be proud you said. Should’ve/could’ve/would’ve… It’s so fucking cliche, yet every day we see constant reminders of how fleeting our lives are. Still, each of us is guilty for forgetting those simple truisms — be it for a moment, or for years.

I have a feeling her husband will recover. But if he doesn’t, the only thing she’ll have to do is mourn him — not regret her choices, her words, or the life they lived together. That’s something, at least. And that’s something I know firsthand from losses I’ve endured; losses that came with great pain, but never regrets.

So, in the morning it’ll officially be one month since I began my new job. I’ve just rushed in from torrential rains, which makes for fun scooter riding, to be sure, and I’m sitting here in my business clothes, a little spent but ultimately pleased with myself.

I’ve been thinking a lot these last couple weeks about the job and just how much it’s transforming me. The term I’ve been thinking a lot of is “authentic self”. I find myself being fully authentic, all day long. I’m flippant, I’m confident, I’ve got bravado and one hell of a cheesy smirk, and I’m the people person I always knew I was.

Over the last seven, eight years of my life, much of that part of me has faded away off and on, depending on the era and the happenstance. My mother died, I almost died two or three times, and all that shit conspires to make it very, very hard for one to be who they are to the core. One can literally get lost in the darkness of their life. I know I did.

I also know I began to emerge a year and a half ago. I was changing and becoming who I wanted to be, but my life wasn’t catching up. Finally, both my life and I are on the same page, and the whirlwind’s not even close to slowing down, but it’s a good whirlwind. I’m still finding my footing, but I’m still also trying to decide how much of this new person I am is just a re-emerging of the girl I was but had lost in darkness.

I normally try to write myself through change, but something about the last few weeks has made writing seem more prohibitive a thought than a realistic tool to use to navigate the changing waters I found myself swimming in. That tide’s turning now, and I’m starting to want to scribe it out and share it for digesting.

The trouble is, I’m not sure how many of you, the readers, are tuning in to see what I have to say about sex and relationships. I have no clue how much you expect me to confine my thoughts to those realms only. Sometimes I care too much about the numbers and the logistics. I’m as conscientious as they come, so it troubles me to NOT be about just those topics. I aim to please. Always. Y’know how I mean?

The reality is, though, that without the self & self-love, you can have all the sex and relationships you want, but they’re never going to be the right fit for you. How much of the sex/relationship is merely serving as emotional Spackle in your life full of holes, y’know?

I am, honestly, trying to bring dating into my life. Oddly, that’s made complicated by the fact that I’m on the verge of what looks to be a truly wonderful year me. I’m optimistic. I’m happy about where I’m going. I’m ready to really throw myself into physical activity and making myself into the rest of the person I’ve been wanting to be for the last couple of years. But I’m not the girl for any guy going through his own crap right now, and it seems every guy I’ve been attracting of late digs me, is interested, but then they lapse into broken-man syndrome and decide they need to hole up and fix themselves.

Whatever. I know I’m sending the right signals. I know I’ll have more interest — I have too much to offer. I’m not worried. But in the meantime, you get what you get.

And in the meantime, I’ve got some good things and I’m grateful to be wise enough to know just how good things are becoming for me. Soon, I’ll find a way to turn all this self-analysis back into words worth digesting.

Ah, yes. My true calling: Dimestore philosopher. But for you… I’ll ask only a nickel.

I’ve been fighting some bug for a couple of weeks and it came raining down with a vengeance on me on Friday. I’ve spent my whole weekend largely being horizontal and lazy, and dreading work tomorrow.

I’ve had nothing to say, either. Such is the whole ‘not right in the head’ thing and all. Hopefully it’s a 48-hour thing and I wake up ready to take over the world Monday. In the meantime, some tea and peanut butter and toast meets my basic energy requirement right now.

And, oh, how I would kill for a massage. Sneeze. Cough. Back to my pressing agenda of horizontalness, blankies, and hydration.

This is a question asked of me a long, long time ago. I kept wondering, “Well, how do you trust?” Really. How? A reader asked that and I never knew what to say. Maybe I never really understood it myself. Shrug. I’m no guru. Just a chick with some time on her hands. So, here’s my kick at the trust can.

Trust is everything. I learn this more and more with every year that passes by. But I’m learning it better after the age of 30 than I think I ever could have before. With age comes perspective, I guess.

I wrote last fall one time (I’d link to it, but I don’t recall which of my hundred or so posts had it, so) about how I believed I had become better at trusting people and able to do it faster. A reader asked me “how”.

There ain’t no “how” in trusting. It’s like breathing, walking, eating, talking. You do or you don’t. You trust or you don’t trust.

I don’t have the trusting thing down pat. Not by a long shot. I’m definitely on Fear’s Christmas card list, and maybe on Doubt’s too.

Therein lies the complexity, though. Every time I’m not trusting, those times when I’m scared or overcompensating, the one thing that the person on the receiving line can never know is the “why”. More often than not, they haven’t much to do with the “why”.

Each of us is the sum total of our experiences. If the worst breakup of your life happened on a pier, maybe you’d have something against piers in the future. A lover wants to take a walk down a pier with you, you snap that you don’t want to leave the promenade, and they think they’ve inadvertently angered you. Instead, what’s really happening is that you don’t want to go there because it’s a flood of bad memories. Maybe, just maybe, you tell them how you had a horrible break up on the pier. Instead of allowing you to walk away from it, they lead you down the centre of it, then plant an earth-quaking, boots-shaking kiss on your lips, and melt you then and there. Trust yields wonderful bounty.

Of COURSE there are times I don’t trust my friends and lovers. Often, it’s a result of baggage I’ve never unloaded from times long past. Hell, I’m just another stupid human. It’s what we do.

It’d be nice if we could get a big disconnect from our emotional receptors when it comes to tripping down memory lane, but that’s not going to happen without a lobotomy and a crack addiction, all right? So, we cope. We brush things off. We don’t allude to the story behind the story. We say “it’s nothing” and we move on.

Little shit like that’s what prevents trust from happening.

What causes it to reverse, though, is when you get into the story behind the story. Remember, then tell. Not only is it a catalyst for release, it’s a catalyst for relationship building, too.

Trust is a verb, man. You gotta just do it. Trust: Brought to you in part by Nike.

But seriously, whether it’s you lying there bound before your relatively new lover in a session of bondage, trying to trust that you’ve made the right choice and they’re going to bring you places you’re wanting to go rather than places you secretly fear, or it’s you trying to tell someone you love the real reason you have a deep and biding hatred for the holidays, it’s about taking that chance and leaping without looking too long.

There ain’t no science, no magical step, no keener’s quickie route to Trusting 101. Stop thinking about your fears and annoyances and uncertainties, and speak to them.

I found far more support than judgment, and those who break my trust are far outnumbered by those who almost seem to cherish it.

I look forwards to seeing what taking more of these chances might lead to. Life’s full of far more surprises than I had her penciled in for and this dance is nowhere near done.

Sigh.

I’m sorry, folks. I’ve really had very little to say this past week or two. Writing is problematic, to say the least. I’m taking a few minutes out before work to share with you as I eat my breakfast, though, in hopes that I’ll be able to crack the nut and figure out what’s goin’ on.

I’m not worried about it, but I certainly feel like Little Miss Bad Blogger, so the guilt’s a bitch.

As you may know, I have a new job. A good one, one I feel confident will be around for a little while. It has been a massive shift in lifestyle for me in so many ways. I’m just trying to find my footing in this new world of mine, and writing hasn’t exactly been helping as I’ve been trying to write for the wrong reasons. Which works out surprisingly often, actually, but just not this time.

Creatively, I’m on pause. I’ve been trying to change that lately. Normally, I’d just go out and take some photographs in the forest or something, but my camera’s been broken. Lately, I’ve been cooking a lot of interesting dishes, including the homemade bread I’m having as toast with my coffee right now.

But Saturday, finally, I took possession of my new camera.* I got home, unwrapped it, began looking at all the sensational specs (10 megapixels, programmable scenes, manual operations including manual focus, et al!) and, I shit you not, I got teary-eyed.

Yes, I almost cried as I looked over my new camera.

You’re probably thinking I’m nuts, or else you’re thinking you get emotional when people throw wicked new toys your way, too. It’s not like that, though.

I’m a writer and a photographer. This is who I am, almost to the core, in that order. I AM a writer. I AM a photographer. I AM all about the details. I AM. When I walk around the world outside, I’m constantly looking for things I can photograph, or things that’ll inspire me with words. I am affected daily by the way things look, how they change in the light, the things people say in passing, the signs I drive by… all these things comprise minor parts in how my world unfolds day in and day out. You can’t shut that off, or if you do, it can be a pretty painful process.

I started working just over two weeks ago, and in a really cool ‘hood with some awesome heritage sites I’ve been dying to get it with a camera. But I’ve had none. (I didn’t know I was getting a new camera; I was told my warranty was rejected and the damage was my own fault, then suddenly, “Oh, you’ve been awarded a replacement” last Wednesday. Woo! Luck’s changing, babycakes. Boy, oh, BOY!)

I haven’t been able to take any pictures since early December. Somewhere in that mix, I stopped looking at the world around me. It seemed cruel to soak in the beauty and weirdness all around if I couldn’t snap a shot of it and record it in my own way. Something about photography feels like taking ownership of the beauty before you. It’s mine, and I’ll show it to you the way I like. By its very nature it’s an act of possession. It’s domineering. It’s me.

But it seems to me that any time we remove one of our loves from the picture, we lose a lot more than we’d like to admit. Tonight, I’m cancelling plans with a friend so I can stay out and take pictures. Oh, and buy a 2-gig memory card while I’m at it. (32MB? Get serious!) Can I tell you how excited I am? How little I care what anyone thinks of the pictures I’ll yield, save me? No. There are no words. Bubbly, giddy, goofy inside… that’s me on this fine morning.

Maybe taking some pictures will return me to my creative self. Maybe it won’t. Maybe I’ll continue doing what I’ve been doing: start writing time and time again, only to die a painful literary death after 400 squalid little words. I don’t know. But I’ll take some pictures and we’ll see where it goes. And then I hope to write about it later tonight.

After all, part of why I’m cancelling plans is because I hope it rekindles my passion for vocab. That’s supposing I’ve lost the passion. I don’t know that I have… but maybe. After all, every now and then it gets a little weird, writing for an audience I know exists. Every now and then I remember I’m just a girl of words and for some reason, you people like reading me. And when the hits start to go up (as they have in the last two weeks, quite a bit) I start getting all panicky about performance.

Then there’s the conundrum of being a girl of words about sex but living a sexless life. Ah, and that bites. I’ve had some dates, though. Only one seemed to be the kind with potential, but the guy in question seems to be going through things at this time and the timing’s the shits, so I’m looking elsewhere. Never denying the potential that something may happen at another time, but this is not that time. Still, my options are open and I’m considering them. And one of the options I’m considering is that sex seems to outrank relationships right now, and maybe the time is ripe to change the plan.

But getting shagged senseless really does seem like only a matter of time, as well. God knows getting laid could do a little good for me. Scratch that, a WORLD of good for me. I need me some lovin’. My timing’s been lousy, but it seems to be looking up.

And in the meantime, you get what you get, I guess. For now, I’m happy things are changing for the better. I wish I was writing more, I wish I felt more comfortable letting people into my head, but, right now, I’m just finding my footing. Stay tuned for MORE befuddling adventures of Steff.

*I am the QUEEN of the Extended Warranty. New couch, new DVD, new computer monitor, new camera, new blender… When they ask you if you want the extended warranty, ask how long theirs is. Hell, I keep getting new shit three years into owning things! Fuck the cynics and their “It’s a scam” musings. I’m proof! Play your cards right, and you too can get free shit three years later! 😉

So, being one of those 300+something-days-a-year scooter riders, it’s not really that often I opt for transit instead of taking my trusty scooter out into the world. (Think Vespa, not Razor.) Today, the weather was shit, it was rainy and windy, and I’d been drinking a little last night.

Decided to leave the scoot home and be a safety-first gal and take the bus for a change. For my conscientiousness I discover this route’s a dollar more than any I’ve ever had to ride, living in the core of the city and now working in a ‘burb. (So, that’s $6.50 to bus for a day, versus $4.50 for a tank of gas that’ll get me to and from work for five days (and insurance is $21 a month). No fucking wonder I ride, eh?)

THEN… tonight’s bus ride home? A speeding car came flying over the line and SMASHED into the bus. Large bits of the car were strewn about.* An hour and a half later, and I’m finally home from my convenient, safe, “dry”, 23-minute bus ride.

Fuck this shit. I’ll brave the elements and wrestle fate. I mean, irony on top of ironies is, when I ride my scooter through even the torrentialist (I’m coining a word!) of rains, I’m always 100% dry under my Goretex outterwear**. I arrived at work wetter today than I’d have done had I ridden there.

*Shockingly, the car waited a couple minutes, then drove away. Wethinks he was driving a stolen vehicle or something. It was a weird, weird fucking case. I should start drinking soon or something. What a headtrip of a day!

**Somebody get this chick an editor or somethin’! Flub of the day: “Outterware”. Doh!

I’m thinking a lot about time today. The right time, the wrong time, the in-between time, never enough time.

I’m about to head down to this little stretch of beach that only the true locals to Vancouver know about. One of the last bits of truly natural foreshore. It’s one of those places I retreat to at the best and worst times of life. Everything seems a little disconnected there.

I’m in an in-between time, but I’m at the curtains-almost-up stage of the right time. Things are on the verge.

But it’s gotten me thinking. See, I’m just a two-bit pop-philosopher. I watch my old DVDs with my lazy Sunday breakfasts and think there’s something divine to be found on the silly discs. You want to know the sad-ass truth of what I’m watching right now? Dirty Dancing. I know, I know. But I’m getting all philosophical because it’s just gotten to that point where Jennifer Grey blurts out, “But most of all, I’m scared of walking out that door and never again feeling in my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you.”

So Patrick Swayze takes a deep breath and, in that I-actually-paid-for-acting-classes kind of way, emotes that he knows this is the wrong time with the right woman for the right reasons in the wrong setting. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, he figures, and then decides to err on the side of the booty call. Ah, love.

But this is the story of my life. I have this wicked above-average likelihood of meeting the right guy at the wrong time. Hell, I’m the Queen of the Shady Timing. I’ve had so many relationships start that coulda been something phenomenal if only they’d happened when the timing was better. One of the two of us always falls into this rut of challenges in life, etc. It’s eerily common. The trouble is, I’ve allowed it to happen. I could have set the example and proved that it was a time worth overcoming. I doubt I ever managed to demonstrate that.

The older I get, though, the more I realize that seas tend to always have a little choppiness to the water. Glass-like surfaces of calm and stillness are truly few and far between. Life’s the same way. The great bits of peace and contented calm come intermittently. We want to believe that’s not the case, that all this struggle we’re going through is someday going to subside and things will get simpler, but we’re all living under delusions. It’s not about ending the struggle, it’s about learning to dance in time with the struggle, and seeing it for what it is… just another challenge to overcome, and a memory in the making.

Yet most of us still want to believe that there’s this magical time for when it’s right to get into a relationship. When it’s the right time to take that chance. I know I’ve been that way. I’m realizing, though, that change requires only one catalyst. Change one thing and you could domino your way to a whole new life.

Matters of the heart are scary. They tell us that the devil we know is better than the devil we don’t, but that’s supposing that all we’re being dealt is devils. Maybe, somewhere in that cosmic mix, we get dealt the card of bliss. Maybe we get dealt a chance that shouldn’t be missed.

If there’s anything I’ve come to love in this life, it’s the power of a maybe. Could be. Might be. So close to a “will be”. One little twist of fate, and who knows. But without a chance being taken, all that’s left will be “might’ve been”s.