Where’s the “smut”, you ask? Good question.
I just haven’t been in the mood to write about sex. I’m not getting laid. It’s been far too fucking long for no fucking. Gah! Poor me. Woe is me. That I should be NOT having sex is truly a disservice to mankind. Truly.
I’m on the verge of the dating scene but I face that classic conundrum: Meeting the Man of My Dreams. My job’s about as anti-social as it gets: I sit at a desk with headphones on as I pore over television shows frame-by-frame-by-frame. Yeah, I don’t meet people through work. This past year has been spent just trying to keep up with the speed of life, so, no, I haven’t been meeting new people through activities or clubs or anything like that. That’s about to change. Big time. (I’ll tell ya all about it as that unfolds.)
Someone said what happens before the date? How do you meet ‘em? Well, sorta fucked if I know, you know? My city’s known for being hard to tap into new groups. It’s a strange town, man.
But, yeah, for me, I’ve been putting ads up on dating sites, which is pretty fucking pointless thus far. I’ll probably resort to Craigslist when my life’s settled with finding a new job and all. Joining clubs and such is a great notion, but it can be an expensive prospect and doesn’t always yield the results you want. Making eye contact and smiling at strangers is great, but then that’s just a lookie-see method of attraction and doesn’t speak to who you are, what you love, and things in the mental/emotional categories that really need to be clicked upon for a true connection. Me, I’m too smart to not include mental acumen as a primary attribute in a mate. Smart cookies only need to apply, thanks.
No matter how you slice it, meeting someone new takes risks. Whether it’s the risk of taking a chance and asking them out on the spot in a café or something, or whether it’s the risk of meeting some new stranger off the internet. It’s a risk. Yes. You may very well fail, you’ll probably get hurt and rejected, and that’s just the way that goes. Will you spontaneously combust and become a fragment of yourself after rejection? Only if you let their “no” matter.
I was terrified to start dating after a prolonged period of abstinence after my mother’s death. I’m talking years of licking my wounds and only one sexual encounter in all that time. I went and placed an ad on Lavalife eons ago, and then I went and used an 8-year-old photo because I had such low self-esteem and thought I was completely unwantable. I don’t know where that headtrip came from – probably from all the drinking and drugs and self-isolation that I put myself through. I really don’t know.
Then I had a date. A date with a guy who drank five beers in 90 minutes. Nice, but way wrong for me. I went home and realized that it was an okay date, I had a free meal, nice guy, wasn’t right for me, and, you know what? I was all right with that. I did it again. Another date. Not bad, not right, so I moved on.
I suddenly realized it wasn’t such a big deal to date. I could head out, meet new people, and if it didn’t work out, it didn’t work out. Yeah, I’d get fucked over by dishonest guys and all, but it ultimately didn’t matter. Me, I will actually accept more dates than I probably should, because I’ve learned a long time ago that there might be more than meets the eye. If I was looking for friends, for instance, and read some kind of profile on my best friend, GayBoy, and saw his grammar and spelling and all that, I’d just walk away. “Not my type,” I’d think. Not a reader, etc. But he’s my best friend – 15 years strong now.
I’ve heard certain people claim you should never turn down a date. Do I agree? Nah. But I think there’s no harm in taking the chance. Who knows when it’s going to work, you know? Besides, my motto in life is “why not?”.
And I’m pretty shy in real life, I have trouble with the whole meet-a-strange-guy-in-a-café thing, but once I’m in an environment where everyone’s communicating, I’m in there like a dirty shirt. Bound to make you snort your drink or choke on a cracker at some point or another ‘cos I’m funny without trying IRL. One of my New Year’s Resolutions is to start smiling more at sexy guys who I find checking me out. Must be more brazen. Note made.
But, y’know, with the online thing, I’m not too scared to contact guys. I do it. They don’t respond? Who cares. They do? Great. Let’s see how that shakes down.
It’s funny. Six billion people in the world, and most of us are sitting around trying to figure out how to meet ’em. And they’re everywhere. Loneliness, I find, is one of the greatest ironies ever, but it’s a symptom of our society – our society of walls and distance and noise. We’ve created a culture of disconnection, thanks to all our electronic gadgets and time constraints and the cars that keep us hostage and separated from others, and now we’re trying to find out how to reconnect. It’s a bump-in-the-night, lucky-if-you-get’em scenario, and it’s all about keepin’ on tryin’, and keepin’ it real when you meet ’em.
Roll them dice and see where it gets ya.

Dating! I was peer-pressured into posting a “dating tips” thingie last month and, ever since, I’ve been sort of avoiding posting a continuation. Why? What, you want the loaded answer or the honest one?
So happens, the answer is both.
Dating tips are bullshit. Anyone who tells you there’s a sure-fire method to snag the one your heart desires is so full of shit they ought to open a Port-a-john franchise, all right?
Don’t believe ’em! They’re trying to sell their book, themselves, what the fuck ever, but what they ain’t selling you is the truth.
It’s all about personality and instinct and timing and chemistry. It’s about things we’ll never grasp. It’s about the other person and you, how the clickage transpires, or whether it doesn’t at all. And it’s also about luck and how willing you are to look past the little things that might be tempering the encounter — a bad day beforehand, distressing news about a loved one, an upcoming payment they’re short for. Who knows.
And the worst thing about dating tips is, they’re unrealistic. They’re never going to work for everyone, and if they do work, they could be doing you more harm than good. So, you go out, you follow “the Rules”, and they like you. Then comes the hard part. You have to stick to what they liked in order to keep them. Meaning, you have to be something you’re not. How realistic is that? You want a future with them, yet you’re trying to craft yourself into something that will mesh better with them, just because you think you need that person? Yeah, there’s some smart thinking. Fuck, man.
Like I said, it’s bullshit. The trouble is, most relationships are doomed. “Dating tips” and their like tend to just allow you to postpone the inevitable with someone who’s not even seeing the real you in the first place.
I don’t exactly get a lot of second dates. Why? Because a) I’m real, and b) I’m pretty in your face. I don’t tend to watch what I say, I don’t flatter the male ego, I don’t try to pretend I am what I’m not, I don’t try to make myself all girlie-girl and demure. (Though I have my moments.) I am what I am, and if they don’t like it, they’re not right for me, and I don’t want to bother with that. Simple.
Dating tips are like recipes. They’re great for people who don’t know what to do without ’em. If you need them, use them, but remember to keep it real or you’re never going to be able to maintain what you’ve begun.
Statistically, most relationships fail. Be it because of communication, sex, money, whatever, it ultimately comes down to reality and odds. Somehow, some way, the media makes us feel like failed relationships are a reflection of us. We failed.
Or did we? As if saying the right things and doing the right things could keep a relationship together. If that was the case, there wouldn’t be a staggering 50% divorce rate or a 90% likelihood your relationship has a limited shelf-life before you even make out on the couch. If there was an easy solution to relationships, don’t you think someone woulda figured that out by now?
So, yeah, dating rules? Bullshit. Take from them what works for you, what you think are good standards. A lot of these have worked for me. But they’re not one-size-fits-all like a ballcap. They’re adjustable, flexible, and even expendable. Don’t marry the rules. Don’t marry any sort of a credo society tells you is a cure-all. There are none in any realm of this existence. Life is a figure-shit-out-as-it-goes deal, and the more you’re willing to be flexible, the better your experiences will be, in dating or out.
So, now, if you really need some kinda dating enlightenment, then here’s the continuation of my last posting, found here. If you think it’s all crap? Fine. Won’t hurt me none. I told ya to go by your instincts in the first place, and I stick by that. Fuck my rules, and fuck anyone else’s. Be yourself.
Oh, and I had planned to add more to these, but now I can’t be bothered. See above if you have issues with that. 🙂

• Remember, this is someone new in your life. Don’t expect them to be your Spackle when you’re feeling blue. If you’re feeling empty, find the filling of life elsewhere. It’s too much to ask that anyone, even a lover, make you feel whole. God knows it’s killed relationships for me, coming and going.
• Women, women, women! If you’re on a dinner date, don’t order a fucking salad. What, you think that he’s going to suddenly see you as being 15 lbs lighter because you ordered a salad?! Eat healthy, by all means, but don’t just order a salad for dinner. Some guys really love seeing a chick actually eat food, let alone enjoy it! It’s a cliché for a reason. Food is sensual. Allow it to help set the mood for your evening. Share it.
• Men, men, men! Watch your drinking! I once had a date with a guy who had five fucking beers during our dinner. As far as I was concerned, the date was done long before the cheque arrived. Have a drink, maybe two. Anything more, and you’re looking to get judged silently.
• Always treat the wait staff or any employees anywhere with respect and be friendly with them (but not too much so, it’ll look phony or effusive). This lets your date see that you’re a good person with a friendly personality.
• Remember, on a first date in particular, you’re going to get judged for anything you do. We’re all looking for signs that our date’s right or wrong for us. Don’t let stupid things take you out of the running – don’t be an aggressive driver, don’t be a messy eater, don’t be cheap, don’t swear too much (if at all), don’t be loud, don’t be rude. Et al. Save your flaws for later, eh?
• If it’s a “You had to be there” moment type of story, then save your breath. It’s just going to fall flat, and you’ll feel like an ass.
• Body language is everything. Don’t cross your arms. If interested, lean forward towards your date, not away from them. Touch them in ways that doesn’t cross boundaries – a brush of the hand, sitting closer than you maybe ought to… little things.
• Make eye contact, particularly when you’re saying something revealing or personal. It works great to meet their eyes as you’re sipping your wine, leveling them over the rim of your glass. After all, you’re using your lips and tongue, and tasting – all rather sensual things. Eye contact brings them into the moment.
• Don’t interrupt. It’s an annoying habit. (One I’m personally trying to break. Ha.)

There’s a stalwart Vancouver band who’ve been bringing music to Canadians for a couple decades now. A few years ago (meaning more than a decade in over-30 speak) they released a rock anthem called “Love You All”.

(It’s off the CD “Trusted by Millions” and it’s a highly energetic, positive, pop-rock number that’ll have ya wearing out the fibres in yer rugs when you get a groove on.)

And right now, in my mind, I’m playing that for you people. You people who’ve kept reading me through all my shit, all my drama, all my chaos. Thank you.

I suppose, to some extent, that’s part of the draw of this blogging thing: Real people living real lives enduring real things and taking the time to say something real about it. Some tend to be more real than others, but I suppose that’s what we’re all looking for, one way or the other — authenticity.

I try to be real. I try to reveal everything I’ve got going on inside. This past month has been hard for me to do that. Somewhere in the midst of everything that’s transpired in the last year, I lost track of who I was as the year wore on. I’ve been struggling to refind myself before the calendar met the dustbin, and now I suspect I’m on that path. I probably never really left it, but there had to at least be a fogbank in my way.

Ever since about the end of November, I’ve been pulling punches and trying to come to terms with some of who I am and some of what I want. I suppose you could be punny and say too I’ve been considering the sum of who I am and the sum of what it is I want. Either or.

But who I was wasn’t working for me anymore. Who I was was someone from my past, and I realized something needed to change. I was treading water in the cesspool of life, and I wanted to break into a solid swim. I just didn’t know how to recalibrate myself. And I sure as shit didn’t want to let you people in on the messy bits.

So, as the month wore on, I shut myself off from the world. I smoked a little too much dope, played the records of my life on the turntable of my mind, and decided how I’d set about breaking that stale record in the days and weeks and potentially even years to come.

And I still don’t know that I’m sure of where I’m going. I’m still not sure I even know I have a destination. All I know is Where I Wanna Be ain’t Here, and somehow between now and there, I’ll have to find my way back on track.

Today, though, it feels like I’m on my way. I’ll try to be more open about the journey I’m about to undertake than I’ve been in the last month or so.

Metaphorically speaking, I had a sign on my door that said “Finding self. Be back after lunch.” And no, I haven’t yet found myself. Probably never will. But looking’s half the fun. I do think I found a change of address form, though, and that’s promising. At least the mail will get through. 😉

So. Thanks for sticking around. Come back for more. Here’s hoping happy anticipation has come your way, as well. Happy 2007, my good peeples. Enjoy the new template, by the way.

I am an incurable romantic. That I am also an incurable pragmatist poses some significant challenge.

But don’t let me digress.

I cashed in a gift certificate today. Ah, holiday bounty! You sexy, sexy thang. The yield? An on-sale collector’s edition of The English Patient. I love romance but wish it was done better most times. In this movie, though, my god. Be still my beating heart.

I’ve been wanting this on DVD for years. I remember seeing it by sheer fluke on opening day back in 1996. It was Vancouver’s Park Theatre, where it would play for weeks and weeks. I went in thinking it’d been good, but came out thinking I’d seen one of the best depictions of love ever filmed. What a splendid use of a torrential rain Thursday afternoon after a day of pasting up the college newspaper. I couldn’t have designed a better day.

But, again, digression. It’s romance I wish to address. I emerged from that feature head-over-heels in cinematic love. Now, a decade later, it reminds me of some of my own “here, now, forever” sinful moments, against which all other encounters will forever fail to rank. (Don’t worry, my pragmatist disagrees and thinks a few others are in the making. The mind is a powerful thing. I think I can, I think I can…)

A couple relationships back, it was a torrid, furtive thing. A smattering of days, a series of bodily collisions. Dirty things done often in confined spaces. I needed many showers. I haven’t really written about that encounter yet. It was too short to amount to much, but, boy, could it have amounted. I’m loathe to write about it. I crave a second chance. Doubt it’ll happen. Doubt it should, too. Hoo-boy.

Despite that, every now and again I sit back in my 30-something body and I give some serious thought to “what am I gonna know then that I don’t know now, and how the fuck can I get around that?”

Seriously. I’m 33, and I know I’m smart six days to Sunday, but I gotta wonder. How much smarter do I get? What’s the coolest tidbit I pick up, and how the hell long am I done gone gonna be waitin’ for that to transpire, huh?

The sex with this guy was something to never, ever write home about. Nuh-uh. Some things just don’t have to be known by those near and dear, you know? Thanks to a healthy combination of pillows, Vellux-brand blankies (there’s a reason they’re in motels everywhere), and a cushy wool rug underneath, much use was made of the living room floor. For more than a couple days of seclusion. Locked indoors, overpaying for delivery, you know how it is. Who needs vacations anyhow? All I need is my dirty mind, a playmate, a clear schedule, and a variety of surfaces.

Sigh, but it was a classic too much/too soon scenario. Oh, a tragic demise! Fuck, makes me want to sing that trashy old teeny-bopper Tiffany’s song. “Coulda been so beautiful. Coulda been so right.” What’s next, Debbie Gibson?

But, yeah… I’ve made me a lot of mistakes in my time. Something about trusting my heart and going with the flow tends to get me in whole lotta-lot of troubles. Do you hear me griping? Fuck, no. Reminiscing something fierce, you bet.

See, I have this feeling I get it about kids and why they’re so upset when we send them to bed early. I think they’re all too aware of just how much life they’re missing by going to bed early. I kind of feel that way about having lived much of my life so cautiously. Now and again, I get the chance to stop saying “what if” and instead lunge for a “why not”. So, I do.

Why the fuck not?

No, no, none of this “carpe diem” crap. Put your prep school English-teaching idols back in the archives, where they belong. I’m talking about why the hell not?

I’m not the first to make this argument, and I’m damned if I’ll be the last. Bears repeating, it does. If you play it safe and you’re little cautious person, sure, you’ll live a nice safe life. Long one, too. Taking too many risks, why, that’s just fucking with the oddmakers and you know your books are gonna bust. But, you do your homework right, read the signals right, and hey. Maybe you cash in for a change. It’s about calculated risks. Sometimes, right? That’s why they call it playing it safe. You’re trying to be safe, but at least you’re playing. Good deal.

(Which reminds me. I owe you part deux de Dating Tips and my little intro rant about why you should ignore everything I’m saying instead. I had forgotten. Yes. Busted. Doh. Etc. Fuck off. Now I remember. Will make good. 😛 )

But, yeah, I’m a sucker for romance. Throw some fluke occurrences (or well-crafted ones together) and I’ll be sworn that it’s “meant to be”. Maybe not “meant to be forever” but at the very least, “meant to be experienced”. And why not? Indeed.

I wrote once of when I kissed a boy, or rather, he kissed me, sitting on a little footbridge, in Vancouver’s Queen Elizabeth Park. Just then, the lights in the park shut off simultaneously, and poof! Awash in the light of a full moon. That kiss melted into forever, our tensing and embraced bodies falling back on the 1×2 slat wall, a stream trickling beneath us, the dampness of a dew-fallen spring night enveloping us.

To this damn day, I walk there and get the shivers. The kiss of a lifetime. Or, as it turns out… one of many. But when you have moments like that, it’s so hard to turn away from the “this seems so right” mentality that can overtake us. Sometimes I never want to turn away from thinking thoughts like that. I like having my “let’s pretend the world is ending in 23 minutes and this is the LAST GUY I’m ever gonna get to make shiver!” There’s a good inspiration. (And yields good results. Wonder if they ever realize that’s one of my “Go Steff!” motivational tools? Huh. Betcha “no” there.)

And the English Patient is the perfect example of seizing those moments of random possibility and making the best of it. I’m not a fan of adultery, never have been. (Busted a guy once. Had it happen to me at least once that I know of.) But, I tell you, if I ever have one of those “here, now, forever” potential loves-of-life just suddenly appear out of nowhere, well, I don’t know if I’d have the wherewithal. Passion does downright crazy things to some of us. Not sure I ever want to stop it taking over me. What a sham of a life that’d be.

So. What was my point? Did I mention I bought a bottle of red wine, too? It’s a killer good surprise I’ve found for the ridiculously low price of $13.99. It’s French. La Something-or-other. Sometime, when gravity isn’t such a foe of mine, I’ll tell you what it was. Tasty little beast of a red. Mreow.

My point: The English Patient. Makes me swoon and swoon and swoon. ‘Cos it reminds me of all those little moments in the past when the world outside of me and that guy of the moment just melted the hell away. It was a sense emporium. Far too good to be believed. Too lofty to maintain for longer than those furtive moments, hours, days.

And even if it couldn’t have been, at least it was, even ever so briefly.

I propose a toast to all my imperfections and my ever so wondrously good lack of judgment. Without it, life could never be so sweet. And, in keeping of the night that’s upon us and the start of the new year, may you find a way to embrace all your judgmental lacks and imperfections, too. And god bless us every one. Ahem.

(And no. I did not get my job. That’s another story for another time. And look, I’m happy and having fun despite it. ‘cos that’s how this life thing’s done, boys and girls. Or it’s something to strive for at the very leastestest.)

I’ve got the post-Christmas hang-over. The get-me-the-fuck-away-from-those-stores blues.

I’m that breed of individual that shops because it takes care of necessities. I don’t need the latest gadgets. I do spend more than I should because I’m also a snob – about just about everything. Still, I hate shopping.

The problem with shopping is simple: People. A lot of them. The kind that missed the brief lessons spent on things like “Excuse me” and “Thanks for holding the door”. I know, I’m a geek, but I was in class those days. I’m so polite it hurts. I’m also blunt, unapologetic, brash, and unexpected, but with a nice air of manners about me. Yes, I know, a catch!

Snicker.

Shopping. Oh, dude, I’m so burnt out from people. I’m sick of the masses, tired of the shoving, and fed right up to here with the stupid people who keep standing in the middle of my fucking aisle, staring at some unlikely object, as if some trance is going to unveil for them whether or not the 40% off sticker price compensates for the absolutely total LACK of reason to buy the fucking useless thing.

I’m at that point now where I find myself standing around and looking at my kitchen in the hopes that some unwitting culinary masterpiece lies in wait behind those doors. A-ha! With just ever so slightly the right combination of “Gee, I wouldna thunk it!” and “In an alternate universe, this would be the bomb!” I might just be able to concoct a mystery dinner and not have to go to the store. Sure, I’m out of bread, eggs, milk, cereal, and vegetables of all kinds, but I swear to God, there’s enough for a meal in there… somewhere. Isn’t there?

There’s no fucking way I want to step into another store today. So, today I will not. Instead, I will bravely – no, brazenly – attack Foodland Canada, aka the Granville Island Public market, tomorrow morning in order to whip up something delectable for dinner tomorrow.

Grudgingly. I know: What was I thinking? Invite people over and actually cook for them? Not many, just three, but still! I’ve not had a dinner party of any sort in months… or at all in 2006. Holy shit. At all? My bad. See, deep down inside me lurks a combination of Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray and punk rock, but I’m much cooler than either of them. I can put on a dinner party like no one’s business. I’m a terrific hostess ‘cos my mommy raised me right. I grew up in a house where my mother would single-handedly throw a party for 40 and not even break a sweat. And the dishes would be cleaned before bed!

Now, I know, tis the season for socializing and public love-ins, but really, it’s also the season of the remote control, all right? And I’m torn between wanting to be social and wanting to curl up in a ball under a bunch of blankets and hide from the remainder of the year.

A friend of mine was going through the whole “oh, god” fear that sets in shortly after your first kid, when you realize how much of your life you’ve signed away, except he’s bought the house, the car, the wife, the kid, all within three years. Happy, yes, but a little longing for the simple times of old crept up on him. I wrote him an email that said, “Sure, I’m sitting around in my boxers and a t-shirt, my feet up on my coffee table, a giant bowl of Chinese on my lap as I watch whatever the fuck I want, but, really, it leaves a little to be desired.”

But I lied. Sitting around in a t-shirt and some boxers with an endless supply of leftovers, noplace to go, a stack of DVDs for the TV, and the phone turned off sounds about as sexy a night a girl like me can handle right now. I’m in an Atwoodian “woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle” phase. I’m on the cusp of a new job, a new phase of life, a possible relationship might loom, and things seem on the verge of drastic change. You’re fucking right I’m enjoying slowing this train down long enough to be chained to the couch with a remote in hand. I’m loving it.

It can’t go on, of course. A life needs to be lived, and this is no way to live it. But it’s a fucking great way to spend a week!

I’m thinking. A lot. And I’ve nothing I wish to share with you. As I see it, my life may possibly be drastically changing in the very near future. I’m taking a page from Ferris Bueller and stopping to drink it all in. Very, very privately. However, as is usually the case with dinner parties around this neck of the woods, much of that will likely come tumbling out during a good, smart, open dinner conversation tomorrow night. I suspect I’ll be needing to write afterwards. I wonder what I’ll have to say. As of now, I wouldn’t even know where to begin… probably why you’ve seen so little from me in the past couple of weeks.

I have that sensation of standing completely still and having the world spin around me. Sort of the opposite of finding your land legs at the end of a long sea voyage. Everything’s moving so fast that I just can’t believe I was ever able to keep the pace. Now, though, it’s starting to feel even odder. Like I’m on a train and it’s starting to take off at a nice speed, while the world’s starting to slow down, and soon, I think the speeds will match, and I’ll be lost in the motion again. It’s a nice thought. For now, though, this train’s still at the station and everything is before me. I know how rare these moments of “yet to come” are, and I’m enjoying this while I can.

December 6th passed by without my noting it. Dreadful.

On December 6th, 1989, Marc Lepine, a disgruntled man of 25, let his rage overtake him as he stormed through the halls of Montreal’s Eqole Polytechnique, slaughtering 14 women and injuring 13 others.

He had once applied to the school but was rejected for reasons not listed.

He entered a classroom and separated the men from the women, sent the men running, and before he opened fire on the women that remained, he screamed “I hate feminists!”

It took 45 minutes to burn itself into my brain for what will be the rest of my life.

I knew then that I could never, ever let the struggle for women’s equality fade away from my mind. What has had so high a price paid for us to have the lives, education, opportunities, and freedoms we have now, that needs to be remembered, honoured, and upheld.

So that then leaves me with two problems.

One, that I absolutely deplore, despise, and loathe girls of the generation coming up today (and I thank god there are exceptions) who persist tossing away ambition and smarts, or at the very least playing down their smarts, in an attempt to be seen as sexy, and in an attempt to get by. As Pink said, “sexy and smart don’t need to be oil and water.”

You wanna sleep your way to the top? You go, sister. But at least take your five-dollar, five-syllable vocab with you and get prepared to intellectually throw down if you must. C’mon, fucking be someone more.

And two, I want to assert right here, right now, that I can indeed be a feminist while celebrating the best parts of what masculinity is. (C’mon, there are aspects of being female I think I could do without, and there are aspects of masculinity I absolutely know I could do without, all right? I call ‘em as I see ‘em.)

I despise feminists who seek their power through the erosion of masculinity. If you need to tear someone down in order to build yourself up, I assure you – you are building on shaky ground. It’s not right. It’s not something I’m cool with. I love strong, conversant, brash, assertive men. It’s hot. It’s sexy. I don’t need some quivering metrosexual so I can feel more secure in my quest for presence in the world. You know what I’m saying?

But, hey, be what you want to be. Just don’t demand others be less of who they are so you can feel accommodated. That’s penny ante bullshit. Raise the stakes. Be all you want to be and respect them for their best attributes, too.

Sure, we could all use a little changing. Let’s just ensure it’s happening for the right reasons.

All I know is this – the sexiest kind of woman I know is one who’s secure in who she is, knows what she wants, can articulate it, and can celebrate it while celebrating those around her.

It’s a rare breed, and I wish it wasn’t.

Fourteen women died, 13 more were injured, and countless other lives were lost because someone thought chicks had it easier. This isn’t about quotas, though. It’s about hoping one day we’re all going to be able to see the best in each other and accept it, regardless of gender, of sexuality, of race, of class.

I think there’s good to be found in remembering what was lost that day, especially in proximity to Christmas, a time of joy and rebirth. I try to remember that in the smoke of that gunfire was borne a new kind of feminism. I like to think some part of me is a product of that day.

It’s the only way any of it can ever make sense.

Hey, Boys & Girls!

Just checking in to say howdy. Life’s hit the “I’m insane, are you insane?” pre-Christmas madness phase. Tonight’s the only night I have to myself until next Tuesday, and I’m not so sure much writing’s going to happen in the next few days. I’ll pop in, to be sure, so stay tuned. And I’m gonna try, darn it! I’ve been getting life in order — I’ve gotten my Xmas gifts sorted, my house organized, and all that’s left on the to-do list is assembling gifts (which can’t happen until next Thursday) and decorating for the holidays. I need me some Christmas lights!

I have part II of the me-guide to dating tips that I’d like to post, but I want to add a bit more to it before that happens, so I’m holding off. I may have some time to write Friday night as I think my plans aren’t going to happen. (Which is a good thing.)

After that, though, I suspect my condition will be none so good. Three words: Staff Christmas Party. Uh-huh. Yeah, my one time per year that I get unequivocally drunk off my ass. I’ve reserved Sunday for a hang-over.

[record scratches]

Or did I?

No, no, it seems that in my INFINITE wisdom, I have arranged a date for Sunday night. Unlike most dates I go on, I’ve actually talked to this guy for a bit and such, so my fingers are crossed. I’m sure I’ll be tres sexy, tres hot in my hang-over phase. What have I done?

But, yeah, this week and next week: insanity inducing. Oddly, I have Christmas Day all to myself as family things are happening beforehand, and Christmas Eve is my night to celebrate with friends. A strange year this is, indeed.

I’ll be popping in soonish, and I hope to have the dating thingie up with an addendum of WHY DATING GUIDES SUCK to introduce it. Talk about shooting oneself in the foot! But if anyone can shoot to hit, baby, it’s me! I’m deadly at the air-gun “saloon” at the amusement park. Oh, yeah. All those years of lusting after Clint Eastwood as a young girl have paid off handily.

Have a good one, boys and girls. And don’t you go doing something silly, now, like behaving! Tsk!

Sorry, boys and girls. Has it really been four days since my last posting? I became Suzy Homemaker this weekend and have been making sense of my chaos. No longer will I loathe writing — my writing desk is a sexier thing than it has ever, ever been. And I’m plum knackered. I wrote this a few days ago… I think I’m somehow becoming a profound anti-abuse activist, but I’ll try to keep my postings on it to a minimum, hence this is packed with a lot of resources for those who need it. Another thing I’m becoming an activist about is AIDS, but I missed posting for World AIDS Day. Kind of deliberately, as I assumed all the other media was focusing on it enough. I’ll bang that drum when there’s more silence on the matter.

In the meantime, you get to read this. More on dating notions later in the week. (Most of the “rules” get broken by me, and I aim to share a little on why I think they don’t apply to me… and why they probably shouldn’t apply to you, even though I’ve taken the time to write them. It doesn’t make me a hypocrite — just aware that what works for some will never work for all. Like I sez, stay tuned for that.)

Domestic abuse is the leading cause of injuries to women between the ages of 18 – 49, more than the total caused by car accidents, muggings, and rapes combined.

[Stat provided by the Oprah Winfrey Show. Sue me, it’s easier than finding the actual source!]

Since I wrote about violence in relationships a few weeks back, I’ve had a couple of my own friends come forward and admit they’ve been abused. I sometimes wonder why I’ve never been told before, but I think it’s because they know I’d never stand for abuse, and maybe they felt that meant I wouldn’t understand. How sad that is. And, unfortunately, on some levels, they were right.

No, I don’t understand abuse. I don’t understand how someone can claim they love you, then raise an arm to you. I don’t understand how they can claim you are their world, then proceed to insult, ridicule, and demean you, let alone violently attack you. I don’t understand it. I never, ever will.

There simply is nothing to understand, save this: It is wrong. It is unforgivable. It is unthinkable. It is intolerable.

But there’s another thing to understand, too… and that is that, as much as we wish it wasn’t so, it is not uncommon.

I consider myself a romantic realist, as I’m sometimes a little too idealistic for my own good. But I believe in humanity. I believe that good can triumph over evil, and that good can even come from evil. I’d like to think that, in the face of the worst that can befall us in our lives, people will emerge who will help recalibrate our perceptions of humanity as a whole. Good people. Caring people. People who would do anything to help us if only because they think someone needs help, and help should be given. Selflessness is not a myth.

And sadly, neither is abuse. The most horrific thing about abuse is that it’s the destruction of trust. The person we’re supposed to trust the most is the person that hurts us the most. I think victims of abuse believe they’ve nowhere to turn. And almost every single time, they’re wrong about that.

Then there’s the shame. Signs of violence are often covered up by victims. The smart abusers know to never hit the face, so the victims don’t have a lot they need to try to hide.

If you’re the victim of abuse, I implore you to try to trust others around you. Allow them to see the signs. Do not be a victim in silence – you cannot be protected, nor saved, if you’re silent. Should that day come when you have the courage to leave, if there’s no evidence, you may have a harder time leaving, let alone creating protection for yourself.

You must let others know of your suffering, but you must also exercise caution. A person capable of hurting you is a person capable of killing you, and it’s not a stretch to think it could happen. More than half the murders committed on this continent are committed by spouses and partners. How many of them should have seen it coming?

Signs you’re likely in an abusive, or soon to be abusive, relationship:

• Jealousy
• Name-calling and demeaning behaviour
• Threats against you, your family, or pet
• They try to isolate you from friends and family
• Controlling behaviour

If this sounds like your partner, you need to consider your options and your exit strategy. You need to confer with people who understand the risks that you’re facing. See the below resources at the end of this posting.

It’s so hard to give advice about these situations because some are so incredibly volatile and dangerous. You can’t listen to some amateur like myself. You must enlist the help of support services. Even if/when you leave, you cannot assume the danger has passed. One never knows when something might snap and everything change in a moment.

The New Year is around the corner, and everyone everywhere is starting to think of resolutions – lose 10 lbs, find a better job – but if you’re abused, you must try to find a way out of your situation. You must believe that this is the year a fresh start can be found for you. You must believe you deserve better. Every living person deserves to know what love and safety feel like, so why not you?

I was raised to believe something that shapes my worldview even now: Don’t just accept apologies. “Sorry” is just a word, and the saying of it means so little. Believe the actions, not the words. Ensure that attrition is proven to you, not just given lip-service. But don’t wait around and provide them with another chance to shatter that easily-given apology. Create a plan of action. Accept that you deserve better, and strive to attain it.

I pride myself on being able to see through situations and see through people, but even I’ve been surprised at learning just who is abusive to whom of late. And it breaks my heart because I know my friends never needed to suffer in silence. I’d move heaven and earth to be the kind of friend a friend in need deserves, but if I’m not given that chance, if I’m not trusted with those shameful, dark secrets, I can never be that friend I wish to be.

Neither can your friends or your loved ones if you don’t give them the chance. After all, what have you got to lose, considering?

(But you must exercise grave caution if you’re thinking of leaving an abusive situation. There are unimaginable things which occur daily, and having a knowing, strong support group around you – including professionals who understand the potential for catastrophe and how to avoid it – is essential. I don’t for a minute think I understand in the least what kind of precautions to take. You must be brave and contact support services. Enlist a friend for help if need be, but you must contact someone.)

If you’re an American about to do some Xmas shopping and wish your expenditures could do more for others, you can shop at the “mall” at IGive.com and a percentage of your purchases will go to help the Domestic Abuse Hotline. Give the gift of freedom this holiday season.

If you’re one of the many who’ll be capitalizing on deals for new cellphones this season, consider donating your old phone to The Wireless Foundation, who provide cellphones that are reprogrammed for emergency calling only to victims of abuse for the means of protecting themselves. Who knows, that old cellphone of yours could just save a life. Click here to learn more.

Some resources for you:
A bi-lingual National Domestic Violence Helpline here in Canada can be found at: 1-800-363-9010.
The American national Domestic Abuse Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE — they can put you in touch with real resources in your region. Call for further information.
The American Domestic Abuse Hotline on the web is Here.
Learn more abought domestic abuse of all kinds at EndViolence.org.
Still not sure if you’re in an abusive relationship? This QUIZ might clear up the matter for you.
A terrific site including domestic abuse resource links for over 70 nations. HotPeaches.net.
A good list of North American, English, Australian, and a few other nations’ domestic violence contact numbers are here at the Domestic Violence International website.

Remember: Abusive relationships often start beautifully, then deteriorate to wars of words and belittling, then the violence follows. Don’t doubt early signs. Don’t think you deserve to be treated that way. Don’t wait for more. Don’t let it happen again. You deserve more. End the cycle now.

Well, after being pressured (oh, the pressure!) into doing a dating guide, I gave it some thought and decided Yeah, I have thoughts. I have a lot of thoughts. You want my take on dating? I believe in a kinder, gentler dating world, and in my world, everyone would follow my common sense take on things. This is at least two parts, possibly three. I’m too lazy to organize it, though, so it’s coming out as I wrote it.

Stay tuned for the next part, sometime next week, but here’s part one. First, my credo:

• I don’t believe there are do-or-die rules.
• I don’t believe in systems.
• I don’t think you should ever try to ‘snag’ a person – they’re right for you or they’re not, and if you need to change yourself, well, keeping them in the longterm is unlikely ‘cos you’d be changing for the wrong reasons.
• I believe every date is an entity in and of itself – focus on the moment ‘cos the future’s just a question mark.
• I believe in being true.
• I believe in going with the flow.
• I believe in following your instinct.
• I believe in chemistry, and I don’t believe it’s conjureable. It’s there or it’s not.
• I don’t believe those who say “only call once” – I say go ahead and call a second time or follow up with an email. I agree that it can be pushy or perceived as aggressive, but if they’re not interested anyhow, another call isn’t going to hurt your chances, now is it? But what if? What if your message got dropped along the way, or they accidentally deleted your number, or toasted your email? It would suck if you’d jumped to conclusions. Give it time in between, but if you don’t hear back the second time, yer done. They’re not into you.
• Don’t be late, or at the very least, call in ADVANCE when you’re running late and tell them. If they’re rushing to get ready on time and then you show up late, they’ll wonder why you didn’t make the same effort they did. Strike one.
• If you’re a chick and the guy’s picking you up, be ready. I’ve never once met a man who enjoys waiting for a woman to get ready. Break the stereotype, girls. That means having your coat and shoes ready, your keys in your purse, your makeup done. It means being ready to walk out the door.
• Don’t be nosier than you have a right to be. What they make, if they own their place, whether their car is paid for, what level schooling they have… none of these really matter, and for you to make them a central issue indicates you’re probably more hung up on status than you are about who they are under the skin.
• Don’t ask boring questions. Find out what makes them tick. Ask about happy memories. What’s a great Sunday. Are they enjoying life. Books, movies, music, dreams, goals, best laugh ever.
• Don’t talk about exes. You might be over them, but your date doesn’t know it.
• Don’t talk about your troubles. Your date’s not your shrink. Most people, most of the time, don’t give a shit about your problems. They’d rather talk about the movies. Let ’em grow fond of you, and then they’ll naturally care about your problems. Give it time.
• Don’t talk on your cell phone. It’s rude. Turn the thing off.
• Hold the door open for your date – even if you’re a girl. It’s classy and it’s just plain good manners.
• If you’re on a dinner date, know your etiquette. (I wrote something on it a while back. Part one here, part two here.) Eat slowly. Take your time. Spend more time looking at your date than you do your food. Eat small bites so they don’t have to wait awkwardly for a minute or two while you’re mashing your honking bite to bits before you can answer the question they just asked you.
• If they ask you a question that cuts too close to home on a difficult subject for you, and you’re into them, be honest. Smile, look them in the eye, and just say, “That’s a great question, but it’s a hard topic for me. Can we save that for next time?” They’ll appreciate your honesty, and you’ll show them you can be vulnerable yet composed. It’s an attractive balance.

Part two’s done, but I go by whim ’round these parts, so it may be posted tomorrow, maybe next week. Depends on many things. 🙂 Stay tuned.

Whatchoo think about these ones so far, though? Any thoughts?

This debate is heating up in the comments, where he who has been (albeit ever so briefly) mentioned here took issue to me not posting his whole email for you people to look at. Gee, I respect privacy. I’m such an evil wench. Check out the comments for more fun-filled flamethrowing.

So, I got an email on a dating site that really pissed me off. It’s from some reader who found me through my Craigslist ad way back when.

See, he’s reading me rather religiously, whatever, and has sent me some longwinded emails saying he feels “guilty” for reading me and “sorry” that I spend so much of my time writing blogs.

So, lemme just clear this the fuck up right now.

I type fast and I write even faster than I can type. Writing is not hard for me. I’m not being arrogant, just stating facts. It means I let a lot of crap go that I should probably be more selective about when I’m editing. But I don’t care.

See, if I edited more, if I took it slower, you’d get less content, but I’d also have less of a life. I don’t instant message people. I don’t send long, meandering, ponderous emails to people. I don’t surf the net. I don’t read blogs, even. What I do on my computer is WRITE. That’s all. The rest of the time, I do what I do.

And, no, I’ll never be Little Miss Social. I’m not built that way. I can certainly work a room, but I need my alone time, too.

For some of us, writing is like breathing. We have to. We must. If we don’t, we wither and waste away. I know what that feels like — I felt it for six long, hellish years — so I grab tenaciously at this gift of writing now, and I’m never, ever letting go.

You want to feel guilty for compulsively reading? That’s your prerogative. I don’t give a shit. I’d like to hear from readers, but I’d be writing even if no one was out there. Because I simply must do it.

There is a quote I can recite by heart without even blinking. It’s on my wall. It’s tattooed on my brain, really. “Writing for a living is a privilege, not a god-given right, as the opportunities are few, though sought after by many. Years of rejection serve as a crude winnowing process, after which those left standing are those who simply must write.” Richard Ford.

I must write. But I don’t need to accept pity. I don’t need to spend more than one moment longer than I wish to doing this. And believe me, I don’t.

I do this for me. Luckily, I’ve allowed you all along for the ride. The same gift of luck is extended to you by any blogger whose work you love. We do it for ourselves, and when we find ourselves with an audience, it makes us smile simply because we discover that through our voices we have somehow tapped into the universal condition and found an echo of familiarity among others.

I’ve been writing some guidelines for the dating masses, having been peer-pressured into it, and having realized I do have a thing or four that I think are applicable. I’ll get that up next time. Had to get this off my chest. ‘cos, like, I do it for me. 😉 (This took me 12 minutes, for those with enquiring minds.)