I’ve had an email or two that has asked what I think about bloggers getting outted and shit like that.
I got outted last year. My name is Steffani Cameron, all right? I really don’t give a fuck who knows, ‘cos anyone with a nickel and half a brain can run my handle through Google and tap into an interview I did last fall in which the bonehead ran my name and unwittingly destroyed any chance for anonymity that I might’ve had. Jesus, if you have half an iota of ingenuity you could probably even find a photo of me, ‘cos there’s at least three of them accessible. Besides, back to the “my name is known” thing — when I did Sex with Emily on FreeFM, I gave ’em permission to use my name. And the CBC used my name in promoing my blog on Zed in February.
I recently did a job search in which I know for a fact at least one of the employers knew of my blog and its content. I almost know for certain that one of those employers sent me a sexually explicit (and very creepy) email to an uber-private email that is NOT in any way associated with this blog, and which no one who has ever contacted me through this blog has ever had the privilege of knowing. That’s the only time I’ve ever been creeped out about my lack of anonymity.
Both my last employer and my present employer, and every parent of every student I’ve ever taught, has known that I write sexual content. My father, brother, and every friend, family member, and longtime acquaintance knows about this blog.
As far as being a public blogger of sex goes, I’m ALL that, baby.
And that ain’t about to change.
My phone number, however, is unlisted. I have caller ID blocking on my phone as well. And that ain’t gonna fuckin’ change either. Last thing I need is anyone deliberately reaching out and touching me.
What do I think of the recent spate of bloggers that I’ve heard about who have up and vanished in the night because someone leaked who they were? It’s too bad. It’s really a shame we live in a society where people can be judged on these bases, but the fact is, we do. I’m doing my part to fight the fuckin’ power, ‘cos I think it’s flat-out wrong. I’m doing my part to prove that a good person can like getting shagged senseless. Sex is a sin if you want it to be. Sex is a shame if you allow it to be. Sex is a stigma if you let it be.
Sometimes people are powerless about the bigotry and the judgmental POV that peppers our society. That’s reality, baby, and it’s the cold fuckin’ light o’ day.
I was having this discussion with my coworkers last week, since I work with highly political people who are well-connected and who have political aspirations that will build on their political histories, and I jokingly said, “Yeah, well, politics is likely out for me.” The web designer guy was commenting how he thought that might not necessarily be the case. He commented to the effect that we’re on the cusp of this era where everyone’s dirty little secret is about to stop being so secret. Just look at PostSecret.com and how hauntingly real all those unthinkable sentiments are. Suddenly we know people’s dirty little thoughts. Suddenly we understand that our own dark and cobwebby little corners aren’t as unspeakable as we might’ve thought, because they beat us to the punch and said it first.
The information age makes everyone Googleable, and the fact is, those skeletons YOU think are in YOUR closet might just be behind far more transparent doors than you suspect.
One day, and that day’s coming soon, we’re going to realize that everyone has moments of shame and degradation. Everyone’s done something they’d rather not have exposed. Everyone’s cozied up a little too close for comfort with shame. We’re all fallible, we’re all products of the same erroneous genetics, but a lot of folks just haven’t the a) balls or b) fortitude to admit their dubious pasts.
Me, I’m honest to a fault, always have been. Why hide my shit? I’ve fucked up, damn right I have, and yeah, I like my sex with a side of dirt, but so what? Who the fuck are YOU to judge me? No one perfect, that’s who you are, so let it go, man. Let it all go. I’ve never met a person I couldn’t find a fault in, so I’ve given up my quest for perfection. Good is good enough. Bad is good enough. I’ll take what I got, man. It is what it is.
So, to those beloved bloggers who’ve been outted and don’t feel they’re in a place where they can be honest and be who they are without retribution, well, I don’t feel their pain, but I understand their reservations. We’re on the cusp of a new era of honesty, but for now we’re still mired in lies, and I understand. Hopefully more people like me’ll come out of the woodwork and be what they gotta be to get this show on the road, but in the meantime…
You got me, baby. You got me.
It’s weird being honest about this shit. It’s odd meeting new people and having them be clued in, either by yours truly, or just because they just know. It’s a little surreal. I get fun grins out of people, but you know what? No one has ever recoiled. No one has ever judged me. Most of the people are impressed, actually, and they’re usually taken quite by surprise, something I really enjoy. They’re amused, they want to know more. It’s awesome. Honesty’s freeing. They may say it’s the best policy, but, dude, it’s one hell of a ride, too, y’know?
Author Archives: Steffani Cameron
Of Trappings and Traps
So, I was watching Oprah for the first time in a long while, which is nice, and the Big O had Dave Chappelle on. I suspect it’s a re-run, so I’m probably behind the times, but ask me if I care.
For those who’ve been on a desert island, Chappelle baffled the world at large when, just after signing a contract for $50 million and two years more of his show, he up and disappeared, just fucked off to Africa for a sojourn, and didn’t tell anyone but a family member where he’d gone.
To hear him talk of it, there were dozens of reasons, but most of all, it was simply that even $50 million wasn’t worth the hassle he was facing or the pressure he was under. Some people out there probably think it’s clear he’s a fucking nutbag for walking from a steaming pile of cash like that, but I applaud it.
In order to protect my rep and all, I won’t tell you about the situation that occurred when I was 15 that left me thinking often about the phrase “Money isn’t at the end of the rainbow.”
Every time my life gets out of control, every time I start working too much or forgetting about myself, I step back and remind myself that it’s not about money. It’s never, ever about money.
Recently I was in the situation where I went from possibly losing my apartment because I was about two weeks away from running out of money as I needed to get a job ASAP (one of the scariest experiences I’ve ever been through, and something I wouldn’t wish on anyone) to suddenly being so in demand it hurt. I had the opportunity to work full-time at my new job, part-time at my old job, plus do some private work on the side, WHILE trying to keep this blog and my other blog afloat, WHILE trying to learn podcasting, WHILE trying to come up with a new website, WHILE trying to stay present with friends and family.
Is it any fucking wonder then I went off my nut?
It was early last week when I just snapped. I lost it. Totally without question mentally AWOL, or the closest I’ve ever come. Then and there, I cancelled all extra work. Forty hours a week is all the soul I can offer to the gods of social productivity.
Money’s nice. God I wish I had more of it. I’d be an exemplary rich person. My taste in the aesthetic dance of life is hard to beat, and I understand what’s worth a mighty dollar and what is not. Funny thing is, I’m not sure I ever want to be rich. I’d be happy with a hundred grand a year. That’s all I ever need. I kind of want to be famous, but only if it’s the “Yo, Steff, you rock!” kind of fame and not the stalker “Oh-My-GOD-it’s-STEFF!” kind of fame. That’d be fucking whack. Thank god I’m just a chick with a blog, man.
If you were ever in my apartment and I wasn’t around and you wanted to play Det. Snoop, you’d sooner or later find this small pewter book charm on my bookshelves, hidden away, on which a Virginia Woolf quote can be read that says, “If you are losing your leisure, look out, for it may be that you are losing your soul.”
In the battle between my self, my soul, and my leisure, money will always, always come last. A couple years back, I read this book called “In Praise of Slow” by Carl Honore, all about the Slow food, Slow sex, Slow life movement in which people deliberately choose to take a different path in order to slow down the speed of life and enjoy the moment. Then and there, I chopped just 3.5 hours off my work week, worked one hour extra a day, and managed to have three-day weekends every week. Smartest thing I ever did. Too bad that job started to slowly kill me, ‘cos now I’m stuck in the 9-5 M-F hell that most of the rest of the world lives in.
We live by the clock and we live in the age of irony.
For a century or more now we’ve been fed the lie that technology would make our lives easier. Maybe it did, once. It doesn’t now. Now we have no time. We have no silence. We’re constantly in a race against time because we’ve bought the myth of the sands slipping through the hourglass and we stupidly believe that the more we work, the more we live. I don’t subscribe to that, but sometimes I forget just how much I disagree with it. With palm devices, laptops, cellphones, DVD players in cars, and more, we’re so wrapped up in the digital age that we forget there’s organic life around us.
Life’s crazier than ever before. Makes me remember the line from that brilliant philosopher Ferris Bueller, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.” Ever ridden on one of those bullet trains? I haven’t. I probably will, for the novelty of it one day, but then I’ll never do it again. What’s the point of going anywhere if you can’t see where the fuck you’re leaving?
You know something? I don’t own a microwave. Every year someone offers me a free one. Every time, I say no. You know why? Because I figure that if my life ever gets so fucking maddening that I don’t have ten minutes to make a meal or reheat leftovers, that I’m gonna use my third-floor balcony as a springboard to the afterlife, all right? Fuck, man. Life’s short and I wanna be present for every goddamned minute of it, come grief or come glee.
I want nothing more than to be able to make a living off my writing and my spoken word. A living. Not a killing. What comes with the killing is a loss of self, most times. You see it all the time, celebs who reach the pinnacle in their professions and then come toppling down from the heights. They have breakdowns, they collapse into drug abuse.
It’s strange how high the price can be for success.
I have nothing but admiration for a man like Chappelle who decides that he can’t play by the rules of those in power, and doesn’t want himself to become just another commodity traded by those with little or no respect for the price he’s paying.
Yeah, I like money. I like the trappings of success, but I’m wary of the trap. I’m staying the fuck away from the trap, man.
Can I Get an "Amen"?
We Now Return You To Your Regular Programming
Hey, people.
I’m proud to announce that I think the worst is over. I know, without a doubt, that I bottomed out last week. Given the events that occured, I should have been somewhat upset, but given who I am, I shouldn’t have been anywhere near the ballpark I was in, let alone the same fucking postal code.
My three-month dose of birth control ran out nine days ago. I got my period last Wednesday. Ever since then, I’ve been steadily improving in mood. Today, I daresay I feel almost normal. I suspect I’m heading to a whole new place now.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still filled to the brim with stress ‘cos I’ve got a lot to do, but it’s suddenly not weighing me down quite as harshly as it had been. It’s… stress. It’s not the end of the world.
I’m sure I’ll have a few dips yet, I doubt I’m completely out of the woods, I’m sure that beast called depression still has eyes on me, but I’m pretty jazzed ‘cos there’s this chick I know and like kinda peeping around a corner at me, and I finally feel a little like smilin’.
Which rocks.
And rocks.
And rocks.
So.
I’m gonna start tackling topics again. Not tonight; it’s hot at there’s this vat of TAR (see photos for evidence) under my window thanks to a roofing job occuring, and sitting here at this desk has me gasping for air right now. Tar not good for asthma, it would seem. And the roofing continues until Thursday. Oh well. I have lots to do, I’m sure I’ll pop in with brief postings, or I’ll write late at night.
Don’t look now, but methinks I be back.
Baby.
This is the lovely scenery from my living room.
This is my deck.
This is the culprit causing all the dust and stink in my home — the one week I’ve cancelled all my plans to stay in and be productive. Glad I refilled my asthma prescription as soon as I saw the roofing begin! (I’m a smart cookie. You know it, baby!)
Gettin' a Groove On
Over the next week or so, I’ll be putting the spit’n’polish on a new template for a new blog that will be the companion blog for my podcast. It is very likely that I will slowly, slowly begin moving my efforts to that blog as opposed to this one.
Let’s talk about that for a minute, but first I want to ask if there’s anyone out there who’d be happy to help me do a couple tweaks that I know will likely be needed on my template, so someone skilled at HTML, and if they would be willing to help merely for the good feeling that comes from helping, since I don’t have the deep pockets to reward such endeavours just now…? Email me if you’re down with helping a girl out. Thanks.
Now, here’s the deal.
No, the podcast will not replace blogging. I will always, always, always want to write, and I will always appreciate an audience, so, yes, I expect I’ll be blogging at the minimum of three times a week. What will be different about the new place, though, is that in addition to usual posts, I’ll also be posting visuals (ie: text docs and photos and such) that give you some insight on where the coming week’s podcast might be going. I won’t be writing posts that tell you what the upcoming content is, but instead I’ll be giving you visuals that should likely clue you in.
My vision for this new place will be reverting closer to the polish and snazz that had defined this blog in its early months. The look and feel will be quite important to me. It’s not going to have flash and shit like that — it’ll be basic, stripped-down, standard-issue Steff. I’m not a high-tech and flashy chick, and my blogs sure as shit won’t be, either. But they’ll be classy, straight-up, and accessible. Just like me.
In addition to that, there are plans to reopen my Cafepress store but with only a few select items, as opposed to the inundation I’d tried before.
So, if you’ve had your heart set on a Spankworthy shirt, stay tuned, ‘cos they’re coming back.
These are the things I plan to accomplish within a month. Yes. You heard me. There’s a deadline. I’m actually hoping to have my first podcast aired on September 7th, but there’s a lot to get done before then. If the podcast airs before the new blog is up, then so be it (but I may not have a place for you to download it from, without, though).
In case you don’t realize, the podcasts are initially being broadcast on www.redlightcenter.com, the kind people who’ve bankrolled the whole project. Once they’ve aired there, they revert to being my property, and I can disperse of them as I wish. Which is to say, share them with you.
Anyhow. These are my plans. If you can help with a couple tweaks of my HTML code (which I hope to generate in the next week) then let me know. Thanks! Yep, the day is drawing nigh, folks. Soon, you’ll hear me. God, I’m nervous!
Of Groundhogs and Loathing
I just finished watching the last 30 minutes of Groundhog Day with Bill Murray, and, well, this is a weird one, but I think it’s one of my favourite romantic comedies.
Right now, I long for a little kissing and lighthearted fun. That’d be nice. Not to be had, but it’d be nice.
Something about Groundhog Day hits the spot today. I’d realized earlier this week that I’d sunk about as low as I’ve ever sunk. I’m not accustomed to being cruel or mean or angry, and I’ve been feeling that way too much of late. I really, really hate feeling negative things, but acting on them, why, that’s just as low as it gets.
I’m not above fallibility. Wish I was, but I come with the full range of human emotions, from dishonesty through to loyalty, they’re all nestled within me. Normally, my moral compass overrides the bad shit ‘cos I’m typically a very good person. Lately, it’s felt like night and day, depending on my mood.
I seem to be starting to stabilize more. I’ve made the choice that I’m getting off birth control after a couple friends have suggested that this week, which, for some reason, just totally escaped my consciousness as a choice. Throughout ALL the shit that has come down, I’ve been on the pill, and while I consider myself one of the toughest, most resilient people I know, I’ve been anything but that of late. I want to have something to blame, and maybe the pill’s a good thing to use in that capacity. Maybe, though, it really is to blame.
(And while I’m being all hard on myself, don’t think for a minute I’m not impressed with my ability to get through certain things that came my way since June… I’m quite proud of myself in some regards, but I’m disappointed that, in the end, I did start to sink beneath myself.)
I’m supposed to resume the pill tonight, but I’m not going to. Instead, I’ll take a break and let it flush out of my system. Once fall passes and winter dawns, I might decide to resume the pill.*
At the moment, I’m not sexually active, but I still consider going off the pill to be a major pain in the ass because I typically get first-day-of-period cramps that leave me fetally balled on my couch, wincing in agony as my body proceeds to fully explore the potential of cramps. I get the world’s worst first-day cramps. I was once in enough pain that I thought of going to the hospital to get a sedative. I’d really rather not return to those cramps…
…but if the alternative is beginning to hate myself, then I know the choice I need to make. It’s been a week since I’ve had a pill, and since then, I’ve slowly started to climb out of the depressive cesspool that has been home for the last three months — which is coincidentally the length of my last cycle, thanks to the brilliance of trying to suppress my period.
Today’s to be a cycling day peppered by a four-hour stint of work. I have a project to do, and when I’m done, I’m gone, even if that’s less than four hours. I don’t care. Right now, I’ll do what it takes to enjoy myself, because that’s where I find the self-love. If I can have a good time on my own, I can enjoy myself anywhere, any time, and hopefully with anyone. It’s that simple.
Groundhog Day‘s great because Bill Murray also hits self-loathing bottom in that movie. He does everything destructive he can, and then, when that’s through, he seeks to improve himself. Me, I’ve been pretty destructive this past month. One ANGRY woman, man. I’m glad I’ve done nothing drastic because there were moments I was a little nervous for myself. The further I get from it (and I’m not that removed from it yet), the more dark I realize things had been for a while there. I too now wish to improve myself. Steps are being taken and I suspect positive results are already beginning to show in small, inconsequential ways.
I’m sure there are people out there who are forever on an even keel, and I hate them because I’m jealous of them, because I’m not one of them and likely never will be. I tend to be a little more even than this, but there’s often a potential air of volatility to me. That’s a negative, but I often overcome my negatives with my positives — of which I like to think there are many. I’m starting to embrace this difficult time instead of loathing it, because I think I’m heading down the right path — setting up counselling, lowering my expectations, focusing on the little things that need doing so the big things don’t loom so large.
Right now, everything’s worth doing if only it means I stop seeing shadows, you know? Whatever you do, don’t call me Punxsatawney Steff.
*Don’t ever just stop in the middle of a pill cycle or you could fuck yourself over worse than the pills have done to you. Always consult a doctor. I finished my cycle; I’m just choosing not to resume. Despite knowing that I can indeed do this, I’m still seeing my doctor Monday to clue him in and touch base on the evil shit that’s come down in the last few weeks.
A Strange Piece About Rockstar, Writing, and Small Children
It’s Rockstar night again. Elimination. Starts in a few. I pick Patrice. I think Storm gets a shakeup.
I cannot tell you how much I weirdly relate to this show. I don’t know why. I just want to be in that situation where I get chosen, you know? But this is one of those rare reality shows where the contestants have really earned the right to be there. They’re pretty solid. They’re street-wise and street-smart, though, because they’ve all played the circuit. They’re tough people, man.
Unlike the car-wash kids and farm boys and hoods and all that over on that Idol show.
But, you now, I’m street-wise and street-smart. Girl is hip to shit, you know? For real, like. Sorry, fell into hip-hop mode there for a sec. Y’all.
I’m professionally doomed. Really. Just, kaput. As a writer, I will never, ever, ever, ever succeed. (Okay, so it’s part reverse psychology, but work with me here.) All right, there’s a chance. It’s just slim. Real fuckin’ Jenny Craig slim, you know what I’m saying here?
Why, you ask? Pretty simple. Love the writing, hate the whoring. I mean, all that whoring, and no orgasms? I think not. Whoring, bad! Money, good! Not wasting precious hours of my life giving it to the man? Good! So, yeah, I never write for publications, ‘cos I can’t stand the bullshit, right? Life’s short. Time’s precious.
I’ve tried it a few times. I hate conforming my style. I hate doing rewrites. I’ll do a little, right? I can definitely edit better than this, this is on the fly. It’s just that I’m a little too ADD for the process, is all. I’d love to have a syndicated column, though. That’d be awesome. I just need to one day get my shit together and figure it out. Working on that.
Wouldn’t it be really cool if suddenly there was a Blogstar tournament or something and you could blog your way to fame and fortune? I’d knock back a thousand coffees for that. Shizzwang!
But I do digress. I, uh, hit bottom today, folks. I was a fucking mess until this afternoon. Long goddamned day. I kept breaking into tears. I’ve just had a shitty couple of days – PMS struck like an evil flying monkey from a Wicked Witch. Goddamn it’s vicious! Is it too late to ask for the penis model? Yes? I mean, I’d pay extra some days if I could have a penis.
Stop the presses, though. I think I’m on the up-swing. I think I’m returning to land of the mildly depressed. That’d be fucking SUPERB, man. And I’ve made a counselling appointment. I’m so stubborn. The auto-speller corrects my “UK” spelling of counselling by removing the extra L, and I go back and UK-it again. Fuckin’ Americans and their changing of the rules. C’mon, English (as opposed to “American” English) rocks. It’s Harry Potter’s language, for Christ’s sake!
Back to the important bit, that up-swing thingie-thing. I called it, man. I said I’d probably start to improve in the evening today. Yep. I’ve done the reaching-out thing and my counsellor (+l) gave me a call and we spoke about 20 minutes, and I finally heard someone who knows their shit telling me it sounds like I should’ve been melting down sooner. Nice to hear. Goodie. Instant validation. Just like the thrill of fresh credit, but I don’t hurt for it for years down the line.
Okay, so, Patrice, and Zayra, and Magni have all performed. Judgment looms. Yes, I’ve written this in commercials. I’m realizing how much my body is perpetuating my stress in the form of real bad tension. Thus, I’m pretending to know a thing or two about Pilates type stretching and shit, so I’m not sitting down for the show. It’s helping. My neck and shoulders have been badly knotted. I’d frickin’ harm small children for a massage right now, I shit you not. I should watch a surfing DVD and think about the wonderful movement of the ocean. Yeah. Happy shit, like. But this is good, the mood is improving. I got rid of all my evening work until September (and likely beyond). Some semblance of a life is now possible. As is rest. Things are looking up.
Huh! It’s Zayra who’s gone. I thought that the band’s fondness for her bravado would keep her around a week or two, whereas Patrice consistently is in the bottom three. Wrong call, evidently. Damn that fallibility.
I have succeeded in having fun. Writing this was fun. You see, earlier, I was having one of these tragic god-it-sucks-to-be-single moments and thinking how I had nothing. I was low person on the totem pole again, single, tired all the time, blah, blah, blah! And then, aha!, a thought! I had something. Something indeed. Something just for me. My writing. No, I don’t get paid. No, the world at large doesn’t really get a glimpse of it. No, I’ve never had that moment of seeing someone on the bus reading me. But I get to do it.
And that’s pretty fun sometimes.
(This is my writing equivalent of a game of ping-pong. Highly cut and kinda hard to watch. Heh. Looks cute in shorts, though.)
The Middle-Earth Blues
I’m at that point of my depression that I’m realizing I have become the worst version of myself.
Of that, I am absolutely certain.
I’m self-involved. I’m angry. I’m negative. I’m not being thoughtful of others. And the thing that really, really hurts is, I know it, and no matter how much I know it or fight it, I continue reverting back to this Steff I’m not too glad to be around.
And that’s the kicker, because I usually really dig being who I am. No matter how fucked life gets, I can usually make myself laugh pretty hard a couple times a day — in private, even. These days, no. This isn’t recent. I’ve been sort of moving in this direction for three weeks now, and I fear I’m hitting bottom with it. Well, I don’t fear that; I’m aware of it, and grateful. I want this to change. Wanting it is a good start. The ability to do so is probably not far off.
I have emailed a woman I once received counselling from. I haven’t heard back, but hopefully she’ll drop me a line, and if not, then I’ll call tomorrow. I figure four or five counselling sessions would be good. Any time I’ve had troubles in the last seven years, when life just got to be too much, I’d visit her a couple times, and she just created this ability in me to find the reserves I needed to fight a little harder, a little longer. She’s this really down-to-earth woman with a strong but inoffensive personality, warm eyes, and a brassy laugh. It’ll be nice to see her again.
I don’t know where this anger’s coming from, but there are a lot of things that have been said and done to me in the last six or eight weeks, and a lot of adversity and drama and craziness, and I just kinda need to lay it all down for someone who’s objective. Counsellors can provide a lot of guidance. Like, you tell ’em what’s stressing you, and they’ll generally take you through it so you at least begin to understand why. Anger and depression, to me, are like mysteries I’ll simply never understand nor solve. If I can at least have a concept of where it’s coming from and maybe even why, it gives me the ability to find a way to shift things so that the invading negative mental state can be better managed until it’s eventually simply overcome or ousted.
Climbing out of depression is like trying to climb the spiral staircase up the Statue of Liberty or St. Paul’s Cathedral, and you’re half-way up, gasping, out of breath, and you look down and think, “Fuck, I’ve come a long way!” and then you look up, your heart falls, and you silently groan. “Fuck.” Just gettin’ this baby started, honey.
Yeah, well, I’m gasping, groaning, and my heart’s all shrunk down. I’m a little worse for wear primarily because PMS has hit with a vengeance. I’m being logical about it all, though. Intellectualizing my angst and trying to find a way to make blame symmetrical so I can at least remain objective about what it is I’m angry about, and not just start finding Evil Bastards to lay all the blame on. That is the kind of action that merely results in leaving me feel like a victim. Heh, this course thingie I went to last summer was talking about self-victimization and just said, “What would you rather be? A victim or a warrior?”
Call me Conan.
I’ll tell you the worst thing about depression. Are you ready? The worst thing is that you’re a fucking hero, the way you’re fighting this mysterious fucking beast of a thing. I mean, truly, it’s so damned hard. If you’re up and out in the world, you’re winning. Any day you’re breathing and not lying in bed is a good, good day. That’s all it takes to beat depression: Do not let it win. Just keep going out, tell people, be real about it, you know? But the bitch of it, this clinical illness, the bitch of it is that no matter HOW WELL you are doing, you will always, always feel like a loser. It’s so fucking Catch-22 it hurts.
So I was conscious today, all day, of just how much my self-esteem is suffering right now. Holy SHIT, batman. It’s just subterranean, it’s so low. I got the subterranean blues, I do. And believe me, I know what I offer, I know my talents, and this is not how I should be feeling about myself. I should have a little mojo, man.
But I am doing everything I can to keep it going. I am reducing my hours of work — working more was a big mistake. There’s no sense making more than what’s paying the bills if it’s just taking me to the edge of a breakdown, now, is there? I didn’t realize how exhausting depression is until I began to challenge it. Now I know there’s a limit to what I can do, and I’m working within it. I’m optimistic I’ll be at a more even keel in a week or so. Plus, my social life is going all right. I have more plans. I have a major tech-geek weekend at the end of the month, going to this… oh, I dunno, indie sub-culture tech-conference type weekend dealie-thang. Should be interesting. I’ll network for connections. I’m at the stage now with this blog’s readership that there has to be something I can do to make money off it. It’s just ridiculous to be in the top 8K on Technorati and not have a dime off it, you know? Maybe I’m just totally clueless (and I suspect that is indeed the case) but I’m hoping to learn a little.
So, I’m going to be social, but only, say, a couple nights a week. I need to keep a limit on my social activities and try to focus on the things I need to do for myself, for this place and the podcast and all the things that make ME feel accomplished. I got shit to prove to myself, you know? It’s time.
Once I get my grasp back on all this shitstorm whirling around me, and I suspect that’s in the next four to six weeks, actually, I believe I’ll be in one hell of a different place. I hope this to be the case, and I’m doing all I can to make it happen. I don’t know if my output on here will be all that great during this time, but we’ll see. But when it’s done, I’ll be in one of the best headspaces in my life. I know there’ll be a change coming. I just do, I know it like I know my social insurance number. Etched.
Anyhow, I have wanted to be more open about my depression, but there are days lately when it’s winning. And they’re hard. Hard fucking days, man. But, like I say, I’m fighting. It’s just painful realizing I’m acting in ways I don’t particularly like, feeling ways that I absolutely hate, and wishing like hell time could pass a little faster. It’s difficult KNOWING just how fucked up my perception of the world is right now. The logical, intelligent, articulate part of me tells me I’m getting it all wrong, and this is the way it oughta be, but this nutbag alter-ego of mine, she’s a persistent little bitch, you know? God. Frustrating to KNOW this much about depression and to be able to understand every bit of it, but to have it be so damned dominant nonetheless.
It’s times like this that one could really get to doubting the old adage “Knowing is half the battle,” you know?
Great Moments in Movies: The Rocky Kiss
I’m feeling a little like an underdog today, like the odds are stacked against me, so I thought I’d have some quality time to myself this morning before I head into the world for the sixth day of work this week. I’m feeling like I’m losing my leisure a bit, and Virginia Wolf states that to be akin to losing one’s soul, so I’m taking it back by force. I’m watching Rocky. My coffee’s almost cold, but it’s still strong and good.
Rocky has just kissed Adrien for the first time. I think this should really go down as one of the finer cinematic kisses ever done. It’s all so unlikely, like a kiss between Harold and Maude. She’s pushing 30 and she’s never been kissed. The absolute vulnerability portrayed by Talia Shire in that scene’s just as sexy as any of the va-va-va-voom shown by Hollywood’s vixens non-pareil.
It’s pretty easy to go too long without being kissed. It’s awful to be in the middle of the kissless times of life, but there it is. There’s something about a kiss that always makes you miss it.
This scene is how a great kiss feels after you’ve been stuck in a dryspell of Saharan proportions. Whatever’s wrong in the world, the naive part of me believes it could be fixed by great sessions of smooching. I’m such a fool, I know, but it’s a nice belief to keep in the back pocket. I’m not a dreamer, but I have my lapses.
I’m at the point where I no longer miss the recent relationship, but I’m certainly wishing I could break up all the tension that is my present life-status with the odd makeout session. I wonder why I’m not thinking about sex? Maybe sex, for me right now, symbolizes far too many complications and struggles. I really don’t want the complication, I want the carefree abandon that making out on the sofa symbolizes for me. Days with the parents out at a card game and the boyfriend sneaking over. The good old days. Yes, we’ve hit nostalgia. How can you tell another birthday is looming? I feel like I’m devolving, but my vital stats are continuing to argue that assessment. Damn them anyway.
And this is what that one kiss brought up for me. And yet I’ll continue watching the film.
Okay, wait a second: I’m specifically remembering being at a party in my teens, and sneaking out back with a boy who thought I was hot ‘cos I was wearing ox’s-blood Doc Marten 9-hole boots. We sat on the stairs, lit from above, as we necked and necked and necked for what seemed like hours. Every time his hand would try to cup my breast, I’d bat it away again. Later, he spread the rumour that it was he and I who’d been making the camper rock’n’sway. I assure you, I made his life hell. But the kissing, man, at that moment, there was noplace better to be.
Sadly, I gave the boots as planters to a chick I once loved who totally flaked out on me. Now I have the tattered remains of my Aussie Boot Co. boots.
This girl needs some boots fer walkin’ all over some boys. That’s what she needs. I should start a boot fund, then go on a shopping quest and keep a photographic record for blogging about my quest for the boots and the fall-out of owning said boots. I mean, really, I’m a eurotrash girl on a scooter. I need a cool new coat for winter scooting and boots. If you want me to get the Walkin’-All-Over-You punk-rock eurotrash girl boots and keep a record, then PayPal me and put “boot fund” in the subject field. We shall stomp together.
The Fine Art of Schmoozing
I have the rather freaky-ass opportunity to run with a different crowd now.
The people I’m working for are politically connected. It’s an entirely different world. I once fancied the idea of running for politics. I was probably 16 or 17 at the time and was volunteering for the Liberal party as a member of the Young Liberals. I helped campaign for an East Indian guy in a Vancouver suburb. I, I’m sorry to admit, was part of a Burma Shave.
(Kind of marketing done in pieces at roadside. Originally, billboards that would write out one well-developed sentiment over several clusters of signs. In politics, a bunch of yahoos standing roadside, wearing sandwich-board signs for any given politician. Hi, I’m Steff — resident yokel and yahoo.)
It’s fuckin’ ‘zarro, man.
Whew. Deep breath in, strong breath out. Yeah, it’s a real headtrip. I once wanted to run, y’know? Now I’d be the fringe freak candidate, though. I’m in the right fuckin’ city for it. Enter: The Sex Party. Oh, yeah. I want their convention to have the acronym O.R.G.Y. Hey, if it’s a bonus anywhere, this is where redundancy works. “The Sex Party’s convening now. The O.R.G.Y. aspires to take things to an entirely new level, but they say they’ll have to sweat it out this weekend if the right climax is to be found.”
Yeah, okay, you caught me: I also always wanted to be a news copy writer. Ah, well. Chasing ambulances proved to not be my thing. Nothing like showing up on the scene of an accident because it’s your fucking job when some gaping onlooker turns and calls you a “sick bitch” for liking that kinda thing. Nah, dude, it’s the grade for glass, y’know? Report from scene of an accident? What’s yer fucking excuse, bub? Whew. So, yeah, I learned to not like that one in a hurry.
Point is, there was a time when my life could’ve gone a couple other directions. Like, seriously different directions. It fucking STUNS me, BAFFLES me to be this person now, writing about the things I have, considering the type of aspirations I’ve always had. I’m outed, man, my name is OUT there. I can be Googled. I can be found. I can be deciphered — piece by bloody little piece. Like, it’s over for me. There are jobs I will never, ever have. There are positions I will never, ever have. It sort of disappoints me to know I can probably never get it on merit — like I damned well should. I can schmooze, man, but I can’t live that life, I don’t think.
There’s so much carefulness, you know? There’s been about a dozen times now in work-related (including tonight’s party) situations where I’ve said really politically incorrect things, like calling the entire Middle East sexist when I’m surrounded by Iraqis and other folks in that region. (I qualified it quickly by saying it was an easy dismissal by people who didn’t understand the culture so much — which is true, to an extent, as they do adore women, but I think that’s in the same ballpark as saying you love the kid and that’s why you hit them, to teach them… I don’t think it’s meanspirited, but I still think it needs updating).
Anyhow. Schmoozing. The fine art of.
Schmoozing, in essence, is the art of faking sincerity. Now, you can be sincere and schmooze, but it’s just easier to not give a shit, because then it keeps you neutral, all right? Keep it current, keep it simple, and keep it neutral. Don’t get involved, just have an opinion and a well-timed smile.
Eye contact. Need I say more? Fuck, man. Eye contact. All about the eye contact.
You gotta learn to listen with your eyes. You wanna focus on them so intently that they can tell you’re really being drawn in. It forges an intimate bond. You lean in ever so slightly. Tilt your head slightly to one side, and just soak ’em in. Be attentive. Listen, and more importantly, hear.
When you talk, think about what you’re saying. If you’re short on an idea, don’t hem or haw, or um or uh, ‘cos it makes you seem like a bubblehead. Do a simple “I don’t know” hand guesture as you try to find the right word. Focus then. Silence, good. If five seconds passes, it’s “I’ve lost my thought,” and you move the hell on.
If conversation falters, just tell them you’re just going to make the rounds but you’ll check in a bit later. Thank them for the chat, nod, and move off with a toast of the glass and a slow, searching stride.
When you’re speaking, don’t talk politics or religion, if you can help it. Don’t discuss money problems, ever, when you’re schmoozing. It’s about impressions, not bad ones. Ask where they’re from, who they know, and if you think they want to tell you, ask about their job.
You need yourself a 10-second introduction. “Hey, I’m Steff from Vancouver, born and raised. I fancy myself a writer, and when I need to pay the bills, I work in a consulting firm. The rest of the time, I blog, photograph, ride a scooter and a bike, cook, and slack.”
When someone tells you what they do, you have an in for asking for their business card. “Oh, I’d like to hear more about that sometime” or “Hey, I’ve been in the market for one of you” or “Oh, great. Say, can I get your card?” I favour straight-up, but in case you’re feeling pussy… you know.
You can touch if you get the sense they’re into that, but understand that different people have different personal space issues, and to assume that everyone’s cool with being touched is foolish, and in the case of some cultures, flat-out wrong.
Limp handshakes are creepy. Lose it. Be firm. Never more than three seconds for a handshake. Clammy hands? Find a way to dry them. Nerves are for pussies.
So, there’s a good introduction to the world of schmoozing. It works well for picking people up, too. Instead, you lean closer and closer. When you take a sip, always make eye contact over the rim of your glass. It’s sexy. When they can’t hear you, don’t speak up, lean into their ear and speak more clearly and maybe even softer, so they have to also lean in. It’s sexy. If you’re trying to pick them up, then definitely touch them, but just on the back of the hand or forearm, or possibly the elbow. Anything else can feel forward, I find. (Taking the elbow’s a bit more sensual, though.)
And that’s how ya do it. Go off, my minions, and schmooze this weekend. In my part of the world, we call it networking.