Well, I’m single now. We pulled the Band-aid off and decided things just weren’t working.
As far as break-ups go, this was the best I’ve probably ever had.
It’ll be hard for me to be friends, I suspect, since I’m not really the one who quit the relationship. He was trying really hard to keep his shit together after he shattered his leg in March, but losing all your mobility and being introduced into a life where you have near-constant pain and chronic exhaustion tends to take a lot out of you emotionally.
Having been injured far too often last decade, I know this. I relate all too well. That, in many ways, made the past two months even harder. I wanted to be angry at him for pulling back, I wanted to resent him. I just couldn’t. I understand. It’s why I was so broken-hearted when I learned that morning that he’d broken his leg so severely. I knew the guy I was falling for was probably going to disappear for a long time. I’m just surprised it took a couple months to happen.
The relationship started wonderfully. It was so promising, full of future. Then, literally a bad break. Why fate intervenes as it does, I’ll never know. It just does. I can’t sit around in sadness and loss about this, because it is what it is: Dumb fuckin’ luck.
I don’t typically stay friends with exes. I’m making an exception. I also don’t tend to get back involved with exes, but in this case, I’m keeping a very open mind. On paper, we were obvious. Meant to be together. Even after we decided to break up, we were on the phone for an hour, just chatting.
Bad injuries can break a bit of your soul. Life becomes struggle. Too many people have never experienced the hardness brought on by a lack of freedom, lack of mobility, and constant pain. It really robs you of something, and it can really fuck with your psyche, too. This time, it did.
But, hey. He knows I care. I know he cares. We just can’t be what we want to be, and I can’t wait any longer. He doesn’t want to hurt me any more than this already has. It’s a respect thing.
Sometimes, moving on’s the best thing you can do. But I’m glad we’re keeping an open mind. Finding a real, passionate connection’s a rare thing in this shallow fucking world, and writing something like this off because fate played a hand, well, I’m too much of a romantic to just do that. Deciding to move on has been a long time coming.
Part of why I haven’t been writing as well as I’d like to have been doing is because I’ve been biting my tongue. So much of this has troubled me so deeply for so long that I’ve just felt unable to share it, because I knew he was having such a hard time already, and I didn’t want to bring any more negativity to the plate, or make it harder for him. In so doing, I took more bruising than I maybe should’ve done.
But now it’s done. Now the future’s decided, a path of action has been declared.
I was at a thingie last night and had a couple of those “moments” where you can tell the guy’s really digging you, you know? It was strange, because I felt like I was cheating on The Guy even though I’d sort of decided to end it today already. Maybe there’ll be a re-learning curve on this. He says he won’t be looking for relationships in the hiatus, but that I’m entitled to do anything I want, given that I wasn’t the one who pulled up anchor a couple months back. It’s nice to have that understanding expressed.
Having this resolved comes at a good time. There’s a potential that I’m going to spend some money I shouldn’t spend, and get the fuck out of dodge for a weekend. I’ve found out that there’s a scooter rally in Wine Country this coming weekend, and for a hundred or so bucks, I can have a great three days of fun with people who are positive, zany, intelligent, daring, and adventurous. Exactly the qualities I’m looking for in new people.
Am I going to sit around and be celibate as I hope that maybe I’ll get back together with this guy I really like? Absolutely not. I’m not going to sleep around, but I’ll see if some connection can be found somewhere. I have to presume things may never re-ignite, tragically, but I’m also hoping that being back on the market will remind me of what I might’ve had, and keep that desire awake a little.
Man, got to tell you, some days I really miss being six years old. It was all so simple, wasn’t it? Is it any wonder everyone gets felled with an early-20s depression as they realize everything’s just gotten infinitely more challenging?
Pity I have nothing to drink, but that’s probably a good thing. I do, however, have a roach I can smoke. I feel a little toying with dope coming on in my new future. A little bender can’t really hurt.
Author Archives: Steffani Cameron
I Got Nothin'
Greetlings, Earthlings.
It’s Saturday. Do you know where you are?
I’m in limbo. Sorta tired. Just rode my bike for an underwhelming ride, gonna make me some curry, then I’m heading out for an odd evening. The city’s Vespa club is doing a “ride-in theatre” tonight at some dude’s house. They’re showing Anthony Hopkins’ film from last year, the World’s Fastest Indian.
Didja know I started a scooter club here in the city? 300+ members? Yep. It’s funny, I whine about not having enough of a life, and here I am with more than 300 people at my disposal. So, yes, I’m going to do something about not having enough of a life. People are shocked to meet me at last. Yes, I’m the elusive Steff. You’ve read me, now meet me! Woot! Ha. Funny. But, beer, hot dogs, a summer night, a backyard, and new people. Hey, sounds like a plan.
What can I say? I’m good with people! I’ll be on my best tonight, me hopes.
I realized just now, on my bike ride, how lonely I’ve been feeling of late, to be honest. It’s sort of embarrassing to admit loneliness, isn’t it? We live in a society where loneliness is supposed to be a sign of weakness, yet I suspect we all know what it’s like. It dawned on me yesterday how nice it was to work in an office full of people I could talk to for the first time in months and months. Unemployment was lonely. Reducing the frequency of seeing friends and lovers and all, that too has been lonely. Add it all together, and I think I realize now how unlike ME it has been. Wow.
It’s amazing how quickly it sneaks up on you, cognization. The “holy shit, that explains it!” epiphanies that hit us all.
Sometimes, it’s hard to be social, even if you’re built to schmooze, like I suspect I am. Back in the day, I was NEVER, EVER home. I’d leave for school every morning at 7, and get home every night at 1, and somehow found a way to work a job in between all my friendships and popularity and all that shit. For a dozen or more reasons, all those people have fallen away — through happenstance, through maturing, through distance, through time. And I guess I got used to it.
I think a lot of us do. We start thinking how hard it is to meet new people. Well, the internet makes it easier than ever. I’m on an activities mailing list for the city, yet I never do a thing through it. I’ve remedied that and have plans on the horizon. I think I’m about to go from never seeing anyone, and feeling like some kind of social charity case, to being back in demand.
And that fucking ROCKS. I’m tired of having fun “sometimes.” I’m a very fun person. Where’d that go? How the fuck did it go? This weekend’s good so far. Looks to be getting better. And tomorrow morning’s World Cup Soccer/Football* on a theatre screen. Woot.
So, here’s my point: Lonely? Fucking do something about it. Yeah, it’s scary. Yeah, it’s a hit on the pride to accept that you NEED to meet new people. But when it clicks, man, you’re gonna love having grown those balls to get out there, y’know.
*I consider it “football,” regardless of the fucking North American sport of the same name, and despite my living in N.A. I mean… they CARRY the fucking ball. It touches a foot maybe 15 times a game! Hundreds of plays, and about 15 foot contacts, yet they call it FOOTball? Hello!? How about… Carryball? Or, pigball? Or, oafball? Maybe thugball? Tackleball? Fumbleball? Passball? Any of these is more accurate. I wish someone somewhere had been just a tad fuckin’ semantic-minded when the unoriginal fuckwads sitting around a boardroom decided on calling it “foot”ball. Jesus Christ. Know what? It constantly touches feet in real football. Now there’s accuracy. The gods of semantics are appeased; you may keep your sport. And for the record, I don’t care who wins. š
How Much Trouble's Too Much?
Oy vey. Hereās a doozy. The short of this readerās question is:
āHow much trouble is one guy worth?ā
The long of the question is, sheās your typical non-religious āChristianā whose religious extent is the putting up of a Christmas tree. It doesnāt matter much to her at all. Sheās educated, though, and knows a little about world faiths and is a polisci kinda gal. Sheās hip.
And sheās fallen for a Jew. This isnāt your standard-edition Jew, either, who likes bagels and matzoh balls. Heās a lived-in-Jerusalem, goes-to-temple-on-Sabbaths, I-canāt-marry-a-Gentile kind of Jew.
SPLAT. Hear that? Thatās the sound of our non-religious girl falling painfully for this Yiddish Loverman.
So letās get back to her question. See, sheās thinking she could convert to Judaism. As a religion, she thinks itās beautiful. (As do I.) Itās their politics that bother her. An independent Israel? Never shoulda happened. (I agree. Yeah, hereās an idea: Letās take a bunch of Westerners who have always misunderstood the āIslamic infidelsā and have THEM divvy up the land. Fuckin’ brilliant. Oh, hey, just add water! Instant ongoing war! SMART-like. āParadise Nowā is a movie thatāll make you think twice about this whole Israel issue. In every situation there are two sides. Pity we only hear one.)
So, can she swallow her politics, digest a new relationship, and keep this man sheās head-over-heels for? Sure she can. But should she?
Like she says, How much trouble is one guy worth?
Letās visit my friends at Websters for that one, okay?
trouble
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): trou`bled; trou`bling /’trou-b(le-)li[ng]/
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French trubler, from Vulgar Latin *turbulare, from *turbulus agitated, alteration of Latin turbulentus — more at TURBULENT
transitive verb
1 a : to agitate mentally or spiritually : WORRY, DISTURB;Ā b (1) archaic : MISTREAT, OPPRESS (2) : to produce physical disorder in : AFFLICT; c : to put to exertion or inconvenience eg: I’m sorry to trouble you
2 : to put into confused motion eg: the wind troubled the sea
intransitive verb
1 : to become mentally agitated : WORRY eg: refused to trouble over trifles
2 : to make an effort : be at pains eg: did not trouble to come
Oh, hey, trouble. That sounds like a bitch. Something like adversity, then, is it? Or (gasp) grief? How do you measure trouble? Does it come with a specially-marked cup? Is it metric or imperial? Is it the same in any language?
Trouble is not fun. This we know. Itās filled with challenges, adversity, and more. Thatās not the question. We know what trouble is. What none of us wants to admit is, itās a standard add-on feature in each of our lives. Okay, so the question is, how much trouble is too much?
Depends on the trouble, then, Iād say. And the guy.
Whatās the “trouble?”
Well, here itās accepting a religion you need to buy into as an adult, with all those lifelong skepticisms and questions and moments of doubt. You need to put aside your logicianās mind and swallow a bunch of beliefs for the man you love. Not that hard to do, but it might be difficult to make your peace with down the line. Does it involve compromising who you are?
If not, great. If so, then proceed with caution.
Two, itās ignoring your strong politics about something you feel is being unfairly portrayed in the media and misunderstood by the common man. Can you do that? Hell, I do that every time I go to my dadās house. Not too hard. Politics arenāt a conversation one should ever enter into lightly. I generally try to avoid discussions about politics. Everyoneās a pundit, man.
Three, itās the guy. Does he treat you with respect? Is he honest with you? Is he a shoulder for you when you need one? Does he know how to make you smile? Can you trust him? Do you want to wake up by his side? Can you see a future with him? Is he the first person you want to share good news with? Sounds like a catch.
If he treats you like shit or lies to you or makes you cry and not smile, well, then your answerās pretty simple: Worth no trouble. Ever. At all.
Iāll go through a lot of grief for a good man. If heās having troubles, and things are challenging, or things need to be overcome, Iāll try my hardest to ride them out. Good people are hard to find. Good lovers are even harder. Iāve been through hurts, Iāve had my heart broken, and Iāll still do everything I can to make sure a relationshipās not being thrown away for insignificant reasons… like my being too weak to stick out a difficult time. Sometimes it gets real fucking hard, too, having that patience, but I find having regrets a harder load to bear down the road.
We live in a society where everything is instant, and everything is easy.
Need to go to France? Thatās an eight-hour plane trip! See you for wine and dessert this evening! Craving a some supper? Two minutes and twenty seconds on high heat in your microwave. Oh, donāt wash your dishes, just throw them out! Hereās new Royal Chinette! Youāll save three minutes of your precious life!
We donāt like adversity. We do fucking speed-dating, for godās sake, as if 2 minutes is all you need to find the love of your life. We donāt want to go through challenges. We donāt want to take the hard road. When it comes to love and relationships, itās too easy to walk away and not be there for someone.
The reader asked me about my relationship and said she assumed things have worked out and Iāve decided to stay private about things. Guess what? Thereās still some things weāre working on together. Know why? Weāre two people on PLANET EARTH, and we donāt live in a fairy tale. Adversities happen. Good relationships can overcome them. And yes, Iām being more private about things. Iām preferring to keep a lid on it these days, but at least the balls are in the air for the moment.
I think girlie, if sheās really in it for this man, needs to decide if she can live with the faith and can handle stifling her politics. I think the price we pay for regrets is too high, and Iād say take a chance and follow your heart.
But Iām a romantic pragmatist, and Iām constantly in conflict with myself. Kinda like the Middle East, I guess.
Piracy and Perceptions
Ah, me hearties, here I sit, the night wind whipping through me bedroom, as I scheme and plot. How difficult, really, would it be to sneak on over across the way and steal me that surely-leaky rowboat, strap it to my scooter, head down to the mouth of the Fraser, and set sail? How many hours ā three, four, a thousand, more? ā would it take to finally reach the Caribbean, where Iām sure to not only find Captain Jack Sparrow, but seduce him?
A piece of cake, Iām sure. As good as done, she says.
Okay, all right, so no such lofty plans exist. Ya found me on out. Iām just a big liar/dreamer/whatever kinda gal.
Instead, I sit here in my jammies, my fleece sweater zipped to its very top, my toes curling in the chill of this unseasonal wind, thinking simply that Johnny Depp fucking rocks.
Itās funny, we all have our definition of sexy. Me, it tends to be guys with a little extra around the middle and broad shoulders and baby-ish faces. Canāt tell you how often I fall for that look. Itās just the flavour that suits my tastebuds the best.
And everything in that description is what Johnny Depp isnāt. Heās short, skinny, has a chiselled face, and so forth. But heās so fucking cool.
Deppās gotten where he is with little compromise. If thereās anything sexier than someone who makes it on their own steam, their way, with zero compromises, I wish to hell someone would show me. For me, thatās as hot as it gets.
I try to never compromise, but the realities of my life dictate it happens more than I’d like.
Johnny Depp, though, has never, ever compromised, as far as Iāve been able to tell.
I remember my first dose of Depp. It was grade eight and classmate Joyce called me to tell me about the dreamiest new guy on this Vancouver-shot series, 21 Jump Street. She and I differed on the heady topic of men, though. I was more into George Michael and Corey Hart, and she liked the lead guy from A-ha and other skinny people like that. I grumbled and muttered, āOh, Iām sure heās hot,ā but secretly thought heād be another scrawny sour-puss type guy.
Well, I was so wrong. I sort of liked him. He gradually grew on me, even though I was more into Peter DeLuise for a while there. But then there was the fraternity of geeks episode, where Depp had to play a pocket-protector type nerd. He just came alive. He was so comfortable playing an absolute outcast that I couldnāt help but love him.
And since then, Deppās become the iconoclastic outcast. No one but no one identifies with the outside as much as Depp, and even as a millionaire, you still believe that about him. Thereās just this air of outsider integrity that heās never been able to shake. And unlike all the other so-called ābad boysā in the world, heās absolutely as polite and gracious as can be.
Depp is the new man. A rebel and a sweetie and an artist and an intellect and a politician, all rolled up into one sexy little package. Men who wonder how to show their sensitivity and how much is too much should look at Depp. The guyās in interviews admitting that he plays Barbie for 12 hours with his daughter and, āIt rocks.ā
The guyās in touch with that side of himself. Being vulnerable isnāt the end of the world, men. Letting us know youāre a little broken and a little bent means we can appreciate more of you. Donāt worry, youāre not failing us when youāre not Big Strong MegaMan. Youāre just a guy whoās being dug by a girl, and whoās toppled a wall of his to let us in a little.
Hell, Johnny Deppās getting $37 million for being unabashedly himself. Heās dressing up with necklaces and eyeliner and being called the sexiest man in the world. Do the fucking math.
The āmanāsā man isnāt what it used to be. Deppās the not-so-metro-sexual whoās redefining what makes a man in the 21st century. Tell you one thing, a man of his ilk hasnāt been seen āround these parts in many a decade. Hollywood aināt been makinā āem like Depp. Not ever. Dudeās in that rare air reserved for stars who steal the screen ā Jimmy Stewart, Bogey, and Cagney ā who can pull off thick, theatrical eyeliner. Oh, that narrows it down to Erroll Flynn, then, doesnāt it? Bogey in black-lined eyes… hmm, no.
Whatever. That rowboat across the way is not long for this world, baby. Get me some rum, some sunblock, and Iām on the seven seas, baby. Arr, matey. Anchors aweigh!
The Ugly Cry
Oprah has coined a phrase I had to throw out yesterday, The Ugly Cry.
Almost every man who has been in any relationship of any consequence with any woman has, tragically, witnessed the Ugly Cry firsthand.
It aināt pretty, man. Thatās why itās called ugly.
You know the cry I Ā (/Oprah) mean (/s). Just plain olā u-g-l-y. Tears streaming, lips quivering, slobber potential in between monster gasps of woe. You might as well just scream, āI have estrogen! Hear my whine!ā
Oh, we hate the Ugly Cry. You guys have no idea. Oh, my GOD. The times we turn around later and go, āWhat the fuck is wrong with me?ā Iām three sobs away from needing an industrial hanky, but zero sobs away from a complete loss of pride? How wrong is this? Where in the hell is my brain? Is there no override button for this shit? My god, someone get me a penis!”
Almost every chickās done this thing. It comes up at the stupidest times. Every time we try to get a grasp, we realize again, āOh, Iām such a loser! Ugly-crying!ā and on with the waterworks and gulpfest. Afterwards, itās just a humiliating realization that, āyes, I really, really am that weak.ā
Oh, sure, letās call it some euphemistic maxim, like, āin touch with my emotions.ā Sure, that almost makes me feel like something less of a fraud, but no, not quite. Normally, I try to repress my emotions. I donāt want to be in touch with them, and shit, man I turn down every collect call they throw at me. Iām more the type where I just shuffle around and grunt a little, in between resentfully scouring dishes or meaninglessly shifting things around into less offensive patterns on the counter. I think about things, develop great reasoning for my emotions, what have you, and then, I open my fucking mouth.
āBut what I felt…ā [honk] [sob] [wheeze] [sob] āwas that what you were saying…ā [sob] [whine] [sniff] [snuffle] [snort]
Yada-fucking-yada. Like any of it matters.
By the end of it, weāre so ashamed with our all-out girliness in this crazy-ass world of men that we soften or completely bristle, and either way, things donāt progress as they should. You can almost start to understand why those old sexist commercials of the ā50s had the men doing all the negotiating for big purchases.
āNow, honey, you just let me take care of the big, bad negotiator. You just rest your pretty head.ā
And whatās really lame is this ability for absolute stoicism through much of lifeās challenges, but then the lips part for some person with whom I wanna talk on a deeper level, where Iām just being honest, and whomp! There it is.
The Ugly Cry.
I know that my āUgly Cryā tends to come out most often when Iām upset about something with someone I genuinely care about, someone with whom Iāve got an issue but with whom also I feel a pretty solid connection with. It doesnāt make it any easier, it still is something thatās been hurting enough to produce that reaction, or itās one of those moments where we feel safe enough to really let ALL of our shit go.
I had an Ugly Cry like that last week, and ALL the shit Iād been feeling all rolled into one bad session of expressing how I felt. Man, it got heavy ācos I just couldnāt shake the Ugly Cry. There it loomed, on my shoulder, the entire fucking night. I felt like such a loser. I couldnāt get it together, and then Iād feel more frustrated about my lack of control, and off Iād go again.
You know, I think the Ugly Cry sometimes is actually that negative-but-positive sign about the relationshipās strengths sometimes. As chicks, we get so overwhelmed by grumpy guys in our presence and we think (like you) that itās our job to fix it somehow, by being cute or nice or sweet, and sure enough, it backfires. What we either forget or just fail to realize is that guys being grumpy with us is a sign of how comfortable they feel around us, a sign of trust. It just really doesnāt feel that way when itās going down. Usually tends to be a 20/20 hindsight reckoning, if anything.
And the Ugly Cry is sort of the same. A chick wonāt go Ugly in front of someone she doesnāt trust, really.
Next time you boys are sitting there face-to-face with an Ugly Cry, just keep it together and remember, itās a sign that she trusts you.
Just like a seagull shitting on you means luck, itās all good, boys.
Is There Anybody Out There?
Do you ever have those heady weekends? You know the kind I mean. The kind where you realize your life isnāt what you wish it was, and here, now, in this 72-hour period, you will undertake to solve all your issues, and then you will lock-stock-and-barrel the conundrum of Cold Fusion when youāve had your post-issue-solving cold beer. Itās all so fucking easy, after all, isnāt it?
Or is it? Iāve had just such a heady weekend.
Naturally, the Cold Fusion dittyās posing a little challenge to me, but since Iāve solved all the other problems of my life, Iām feeling the checks are balancing all right regardless, yāknow what I mean?
I have to confess: I came as close as Iāve probably ever come to having a nervous breakdown last week. I was so stressed, so fucking tired, and I was just about to snap. I canāt really comfortably express how hard it is to fight against the feeling that your worldās about to crash down around you. Man, was I fightinā. Then I realized something: Iāve been feeling like Iāve had no control over my life for god knows how many months now. This aināt the tip of the iceberg, I thought. This is that big goddamn chunk below the surface and itās about to fell the mighty, mighty Titanic. Sometimes it just takes a while to realize a truth youāve been avoiding for far too long.
Now, though, I know itās like some fuckinā phantom puppet-masterās been toying with the strings all along. And then I realized something else: It doesnāt need to be that way.
So, Iāve been kind of slowly taking back control for the last week. Doing silly little things to step up the action a little. Iām bored, you know. Real fucking bored. See, my friends are all either ensnared in these happy-sunny relationships, or theyāre new parents, or theyāre just totally self-involved. Itās been a long time since Iāve tried to expand my friendship realm, but itās time. Iām sick of being friends with people who are in different places than me. The whole married/but-Iām-just-so-in-love! thing sure has worn thin, at the least. I just need some good semi-single people to chill with, methinks.
The trouble is, Iāve been needing this for awhile. So, when I sort of went and got involved, I allowed that to fill the vacant holes. Bad Steff. Lovers ought never be allowed to serve as putty hole-filler. That relationshipās sort of in a holding pattern, which I donāt plan to explain to you, so because things have slowed a little, Iām getting resentful of being bored. And it dawns on me: My fault. Itās too easy to do this, become reliant on a significant other for our entertainment factor. Thus, we allow them to play the role of hole-fillers a la Spackle. And then when things go a little south, who do we blame? Well, them, but it should be us whoāre faulted.
Now, I love my friends and most of the people in my life. I just have far fewer responsibilities than they do, and much more time on my hands. Iām 32, and I donāt fucking feel it. I wanna be checking out live gigs, getting in at 3am. I wanna do all the shit I used to love to do before my FRIENDS got OLD.
They got old, not me. Iām still ready to go, man.
Suddenly, I have this age crisis. A boredom crisis. I want more fun, more variety, more minds in the meeting, you know? Itās the people we choose to surround ourselves with that contribute the most to our headspace and our lifestyle. Without a change of scenery, things get redundant in a hurry. And Iām stopping at the redundancy station again and again, man. And Iām stopping at the redundancy station again and again, man. And Iām…
My scenery aināt changed in forever and a day. My life was filled with enough chaos and craziness for long enough, that shaking up the social mix didnāt seem wise. You take continuity where you can get it. Even then, I was stuck working in a six-person office for six years, an office where there was always an element of Benedict Arnold under the skin, so I didnāt know how close I could really get to the others. Once you get screwed, youāre always looking to keep the ass covered, if you know what Iām saying.
So, six years of sitting there, my ass tied to a television monitor and a captioning desk, watching TV for a living with headphones on. Not exactly a social role for an outgoing chick like me to play. And every time I tried meeting new people, it was just the same olā thang yet again.
I tell you one thing: Iām too damned funny and outgoing to have a social life dry-spell like this. Iāve had a good weekend, doing my kind of shit my way. Funny thing is, one of the things I did to meet new people a couple years back was to start a scooter club in this city. There I was, a new scooter, and no scooter-type friends to hang with. Started up a club, promoted it, and here we are, a couple years later, and 300 members. So, naturally, I have a pool to dive into for amassing new people, but Iāve been neglecting it. I mean, the name they dubbed me with for so long was āOur Fearless Leader,ā or āSteffOFL!ā (Yes, there are some oddball scooter people out there, but honestly, do I need another stuffed shirt science or business type in my life right now? Variety, baby. Thatās the spice this soup needs.)
I kicked off my personal ānew yearā on the morning of July 1st. It was the annual sunrise ride that Iāve been doing the last couple years on Canada Day. Meet at 3:30a.m., and ride scooters to the top of the 4,000 foot Cypress Mountain on the North Shore, and call it a day by 7 or so a.m. Being as exhausted as Iāve been, it nearly kicked my ass, but I did it with a couple others, and had a good time doing so. Got a few wicked photos, and it dawned on me: No monumental photography days have been had yet this season. Whatās wrong with me? (Iād post this incredible view of the crimson city I shot from those heights, but that would involve installing PhotoShop and using up some of my free time today, so no pic for you.)
We forget ourselves, and far too often. We begin valuing ourselves through others and forgetting that there are things that make us tick. When we forget those things, we start to feel empty, then we resent those around us, but really, itās the fact that weāve not been taking charge and making decisions for ourselves thatās the problem. Itās stupid, it happens to us all, sooner or later, and every time, it kicks our asses.
So, Iām getting life in gear. I donāt know that I need yet another distraction on my plate, but if the price I pay for less distraction is this interminable sense of being sidelined, then maybe a little disruption in my life is exactly what I need. I used to be unstoppable, man. I used to be everywhere, like the wind. What the hell happened? I still donāt know, but I aim to change.
Letās call it an experiment.
Update
Hey, peoples. To those who’ve offered their support to me over the past stressful month, thank you. You know who you are. (As do I.)
Am I completely satisfied with things yet? No. The dust hasn’t settled. Things may still change. (Hopefully continuing towards betterness; I’m optimistic. The jury’s out, as the saying goes.)
Therefore, things are still a little chaotic for me. The dust will settle slowly over the next two weeks, I expect, and as it does, my writing will get more regular. This weekend’s a long weekend in both the US and Canada, and while people may read, there are never comments on long weekends, and face it… we blog for comments. If we wanted to talk to ourselves, we’d hang out in front of the bathroom mirror, y’know? So, as always, my long weekend will be light on postings. I’ll save the good shit for the work week. Meanwhile, I’m gonna do some idea brainstorming.
If you have anything you’d like to see me tackle, then tell me, and I’ll mull that bad boy over.
Have a wicked weekend. Me, I’m having some sleep, some World Cup, and a dose of Superman. Yahoo.
Stopped the Bleeding!
Employment looms, it would seem. Less than three weeks is what it’s taken.
Thank fucking god.
I’m quittin’ this searchin’ gig, Bertha, and headin’ out for a ride!
I still have a couple crazy days ahead of me, but I hope to get back onto a regular writing path in the near future, and with no longer needing to fear eviction and ugly shit like that, my creativity should begin to swell. Stay tuned, my loyal minions. The Steff is BACK, baby.
Every Day I Think About Money
I’ve been thinking a lot about money lately, for obvious reasons. My theme song is the Stereophonics’ live track, “Every Day I Think About Money.” A couple days back I was elated when I was able to pay for 95% of my groceries with the coin I extracted from my piggy bank. (And, yes, it really is a piggy bank. It’s an upscale pottery pig, a high-falutin’ pig, but it’s a clay porker-broker indeed.)
These days, any self-worth I have comes from me. I can’t pad things with purchases. I can’t buy a little somethin’ somethin’ to make myself feel better. Others keep trying to spend money on me, and every time they do, a little more of my pride whittles away, despite the fact that I know they’re just trying to enjoy some time with me and see me satisfied. And, yes, as Marcellus Wallace would say, that’s pride fuckin’ wit’ me.
I’ve always been a proud person. I learned it from my mother. She was broke in the three years before her death, and we didn’t have a lot of money in my teens, either, but through it all, my mother never looked destitute, and she sure as shit never acted it. I try to live up to that. Sure, I falter at times, but such is life.
It’s easy, though, when you have money to spend yourself to a supposedly better state of mind. It’s easier still to try and spend your way out of guilt towards a loved one when you’re not being the lover/parent/spouse/friend you think you ought to be. I think we’ve all done this in the past. It’s too easy to not have done it.
We like to confuse the issue and pretend it’s generosity we’re providing, but it’s really not that. It’s absolution.
Back in the day, the Catholic Church filled its coffers by selling salvation. For a lofty price, you could contact a bishop and acquire yourself a church-sanctioned piece of salvation; as if giving God money could cause him to avert his judgmental gaze from you.
Nothing’s changed. We’re still the same. We “give at the office” so we can justify all our transgressions elsewhere. We buy our lovers gifts because we don’t have the time or energy to be with them, or worse, because we’ve lied to them or betrayed them. Well, it ain’t workin’. It’s the financial equivalent of trying to pull off a Band-aid slowly. What the fuck you thinkin’, Willis?
Money may make the world go round, but it also keeps the shrinks at bay long enough to delude ourselves that things aren’t really what we know they are.
The good thing about being broke like this is that I’m forced to go inside myself more and see what it is I value about me, to try and remember the simple things in life that bring me pleasure. Lying on a sofa on a dark, warm summer night with some music playing and just the streetlight slipping in through cracks in the curtains. Finding a nice bunch of economical ingredients and creating something new and wonderful in the kitchen while still making budget. Taking the long ride home on the scooter while dangling my sandal-clad feet off the side to get a breeze through the toes. Singing to myself and switching up familiar melodies with new phrasing and note combinations. Reading a good book in the bath.
And few of those cost any money, and whatever does cost money is something I’d be spending anyhow, so I just spend it wiser, is all.
I’ve been trying to avoid going into stores for the past few months, because this money-being-tight thing isn’t a recent development — it’s just more intense now than it’s ever been. But stores are made to make us want all the things we don’t have. That’s their nature. What’s worse is there’s a science behind marketing that most people are ignorant of.
Next time you’re in a supermarket, look at how it’s laid out. The meats on one side, the veggies on the other, and to get to either, you must pass all the processed and packaged shit that comes with higher markups. The lighting’s dimmer over the processed aisles, too, by some 30%, so you have to focus more to see what you’re looking for, and in so doing, you’re more likely to purchase something you don’t need. The brightest lighting, though, is over the checkout counters so you’re hyper alert and pay the right money, plus you move and act quicker so they save time on every transaction.
I’m on hyper-vigilant stand-by mode every time I enter stores these days. I’m conscious of my knowledge of marketing and subliminal sales tricks so I can try with all my heart to not spend a dime more than necessary. And I’m also conscious in reminding myself that it’s how I live my life, not what I fill it with, that brings me joy. It’s hard. It’s really hard. I’d love to get new headphones. My toaster oven has a Mensa-issued turn-on switch that requires a secret handshake and multiple acts of finagling just to get the fucker to toast. I’ve lost so much weight that all my clothes hang on me, and my pride’s taking a hit (fuck you, Marcellus; it is what it is).
But in the recent months I’ve acquired something money could never bring me before: Resourcefulness. Self-knowledge. Strength of self. A kind of inner peace I didn’t know existed.
Yeah, I still hate the 28-year-olds driving cars worth 30 times what my scooter’s worth, but I also know the looks of envy I get from them when I pull up at a stopsign in shorts and a t-shirt on a sweltering day, tapping my feet and singing to myself under my helmet. I glance over and a grin spreads on their faces as they nod, wondering why they’ve bought into the myth of the fancy car and the big monthly payments.
We each find happiness in different ways, but I’ll tell you one thing: It ain’t on your Visa bill, baby, nor is it in the cracks of your couch.
Putting My Foot Down On You, Dr. Scholl
I’m interviewing at an ad agency or two tomorrow. No, I won’t be doing any of the ad copy work or anything, more of a save-the-sanity support office worker, since I excel at that. But advertising is something I’ve always been very, very interested in.
Remember the movie Crazy People, from years back? Daryll Hannah and Dudley Moore? “Jaguar: For men who like handjobs from beautiful women.” Or, “Volvo: They’re boxy, but they’re safe.”
It was a comedy about truth in advertising that emerges when an ad-copy writer has a breakdown and is sent to an insane asylum. He decides to stop lying to the public and tells the truth. He enlists the help of his fellow nuthausers and they reinvent advertising. (My favourite was the Sony one, where the shortness of Japanese assembly-line folks meant better quality control as they were hovered closer to the microchip boards than the tall, gangly American counterparts who were so tall they couldn’t see the fine melds and such. Heh.)
Every year, I go and I see the film of The World’s Best Commercials for that year. I love good advertising.
But I fucking hate bad ads.
Case in point: Dr. Scholl’s for Her.
There’s this new open-toe gel shoe pad made for stilettos and the like, by Dr. Scholl’s. For some fucking reason, there’s this chick in a skin-tight micro tube dress, wearing strapless stilettos (that magically stay on) as her legs dangle off one side of a bareback horse, and she lies back over the hump of this horse, prostrated.
Because I do that in my stilettos every fucking day. And other things I do in my stiletto, apparently, include walking my dog on a reinforcing dike in the ocean, playing tennis, and more.
Who the fuck is this ad for? Who’s the guy smoking crack who seems to think THIS is what’s gonna sell these shoe pads to a woman?
How about having a real situation? Oh, I don’t know… maybe an intelligent woman with spring in her step as she delivers a brilliant closing statement in a law court case? Maybe you have a group of men, all sweating and nervous, desperately awaiting a job interview in a crowded, awkward office, as this sexy chick who holds all their fates in her hands strides towards them, with a I-Own-Your-Ass, And-You-Know-You-Want-Mine look on her face?
I’m surprised they didn’t just get to the point and have some chick in clear pumps spinning her way down a pole, since apparently we’re all just whores who use our bodies for advancement in life.
How about we move the fuck away from more of this objectifying, lame-ass look at chicks today, and into the realm where women really are becoming powerbrokers? Remember, sexy and smart don’t have to be oil and water.
They’re only oil and water because the media doesn’t want us to forget that it’s our asses that count, not the grey matter in our heads.
I, for one, will never, ever buy another Dr. Scholl’s product. This ad pisses me off THAT much. I’m sick and tired of seeing women whose bodies you can bounce quarters of, with brains the size of the quarter, as being the ideal that I’m supposed to somehow strive for.
My ass is copious. As is my intellect. How about selling to me, you assholes?
(If you’re looking for an update on my employment woes, I’ve been keeping that shit over on the other blog. It’s been one hell of a week for me, emotionally, and keeping it together’s one of the hardest challenges I’ve ever faced. I’m scared as hell, but I’m proud as hell of how I’ve been dealing. I’ll be glad when it’s over. I hope that’s soon. I’ve earned the reprieve. If I know anything, I know that.)