My condolences go to anyone from Virginia Tech.

I deal with grief with humour sometimes and can be wholly inappropriate, but it gets me through. I had a few things to say on the other blog about the terrible shooting. It’s a pity the gunman is dead. I happen to think the whole Mussolini Method’s a great way to send evil fuckers to the grave: Hang ’em in the own square and let the villagers flog the corpse. That way you save money on everyone’s therapy and the villagers get a little exercise.

But, really, a terrible thing. And I’m already curdling at the thought of how the NRA’s going to spin this as “all the more reason to carry a pistol”, and some people will almost certainly be left in agreement. Me, I’d rather we do the Dead Milkmen take on Rodney King and “Can’t we all just smoke a bong?” I say we bring back the love-in, man. We could all use a little more love on a night like tonight. Let’s hope you’re getting yours.

It’s a big bad sad world out there some days. But on the upside, sometimes you lose a camera and a perfect stranger turns it in. Don’t forget, there’s good out there too, no matter what some fucker like this wants you to believe. Don’t let ’em convince you. Believe in good.

I haven’t been writing a lot lately. You may have noticed. Jotting down a few ideas is a far cry from “writing”. When I’ve “written”, you’ll know it.

I don’t know if my writing’s any good on the cosmic scale of literary ass-kicking, but I know it’s usually honest, and that’s something I can be proud of.

Lately, though, I haven’t been feeling like I’ve been being honest with myself, so how in the fuck could I possibly be honest here? It’s been sort of a conscious choice to pull back a little, I guess, for want of protecting myself from admitting how unpleased with myself I’ve been and the lack of personal honesty I’ve had.

I still like my job, a lot. That’s been a really positive change in my life. It’s not about that. It’s not about my home, either, which has been just two steps away from full-on “rustic American crackhouse”, but which is now passably clean (and that was no small feat).

It’s about my body image. That’s the deal. That’s the problem. I’ve been really angry at myself for a while now. I’ve tried a couple different exercise routines, and they were both very problematic, but I could have prevented the problems had I been more practical in the outset. Now I’m onto something I think is working for me, and has worked for me in the past. So, that’s a start.

The thing is, I’m sure I have this reputation that you’ll pick up on if you go and read my backlog, in which I propose we should all love our bodies whether we fit in the mold of the “right” look or not. Every body’s a good body, you know what I’m saying?

But that’s also bullshit to a degree. That’s like latching onto some positive thinking methodology like “The Secret” and figuring that just thinking about it will bring you all you desire. Like I said, bullshit. Part of it is the thinking, but most of it is the doing.

Loving yourself and your imperfect body only works if you know you’re at least trying. You exercise some, and you eat reasonably well. If what you’re really doing is trying to convince yourself that you’re entitled to love and affection and physical respect because you’re a “good” person, and you don’t give a shit about what you’re putting into your body or doing with your body, then you can think all you like about being deserving of love, but you’re likely still gonna secretly hate yourself, no matter how you slice it.

So I know I’ve been eating badly and not exercising much beyond the last 10 days or two weeks or so. I hate what I was doing to myself. I’m also coming off a long, miserable winter of “stay indoors” weather and I’m about as seasonally affected as one could be. (See “seasonal affective disorder” aka SAD by clicking here.) But I’ve begun pushing myself, and I’ve talked to one or two friends to tell them the enabling of each other’s shitty eating habits stops now.

It doesn’t change the fact that I know I’ve been dishonest with myself — pretending I’ve not been eating badly, trying to tell myself my itty bits of exercising were a positive change — and it’s been keeping me from writing, from coming clean. Denial’s a pretty deep, dark corner to back oneself into, and it’s hard as hell to claw one’s way out of it some days.

So, I’m starting to like my behaviour again. It’s improving. Baby steps, but it’s improving. But what I’m really digging is the being honest with myself thing. I can’t believe how much loathing and disdain comes with lying to oneself about anything, even something as seemingly pathetic as a diet or exercise plan.

Honesty, though, in its most brutal forms is one hell of a powerful tool. Got to love it.

*(I’ve now taken my bicycle home from work [about 17 km] once this past week, but I’ve had three or four good rides in two weeks, and I plan to be able to cycle the 34-km round trip three times a week before “bike to work week” kicks in next month, followed by “bike to work month” in June. And, I got to tell you, cycling is incredible for my creativity. Stay tuned for that. And, no, cycling isn’t just another fleeting attempt — I’ve been very successful with it in the past.)

I’m off to be a good Samaritan to my big brother. In keeping with the cashing of my karmic cheque earlier this week when some kind, honest people turned my swanky camera in to the transit authority, restoring my faith in both Good Karma & Good People, I’m being more generous than I can afford to be, and setting my broke brother up with great food for the next two weeks. In my goodie bag — ham, a roasting chicken, eggs, milk, and tonnes of other good stuff. Weirdly, instead of being stressed about spending the money on him, I’m enjoying the act of being generous and helping him out, so I’m buying nice stuff that can go a long ways.
Being good to others feels good, y’know?
In other karmic news, a woman left her credit card on the counter in front of me and the clerk never noticed it. Nonetheless, I chased her down to return it today. Wow, I’m stocking up on good citizen points all over. Figure I pushed my luck earlier this week, and now I have to restock my karma account.
***
Flying Angus said he was surprised I admitted to having made racist comments in the past. I think the surprise is somewhat ludicrous, personally. I think there can’t be a person on this planet who hasn’t made some kind of prejudiced, ignorant, or racist comment at some point, and most of us have done it more than a few times. It doesn’t take much — a crack about Asian drivers, a quip about “fags” or “queers”, a snide comment about a “fat guy”, scoffing at women and their shopping, a cynical comment about “Jewing” a merchant down. They’re all generalisations, and all are borne from ignorance or judgment. We’ve all said the comments, but few of us really realize just how much power that one flippant comment carries.
I own my faults and shortcomings. I’m pretty fucking far from perfect. Hell, “perfect” is nowhere on my radar screen. I’m conscious of crossing the line. There are comments we all make that are racially akin to the power of ‘white lies’ — it’s shit that’s been said so often it barely carries weight anymore. In a perfect world, we’d all get over it and start looking at each other truly as equals. But it ain’t a perfect world and while we might live in the Information Age, there seems to be more stereotyping and ignorance as each day passes. The question is, are you honest with yourself regarding your shortcomings? When you find yourself accountable for every word you say, then you come do your pot-kettle-black routine with me. Until then, my eyes are wide fuckin’ open.

Wow. So, there you have it: The public voice of dissent can actually affect big business.

Don Imus got a slap on the wrist, and after advertising dollars listened to the voices of outrage clamouring over the warhorse deejay’s comments about the “nappy-headed hos” on a college b-ball team, he’s been uncerimoniously canned, without even a final chance to say goodbye.

I see it from two POVs. One, the right to freedom of speech. Two, basic decency.

I’m proud to live in the most multicultural country in the world, and I’m a staunch feminist. I’m as open-minded as the day is long, and I’m partial to ethic foods as well as foreign cultures. It’s what makes us Canadians who we are, after the floodgates opened in 1971 (thanks to P.E. Trudeau –R.I.P.– the same PM who spearheaded the policy to keep government out of the bedrooms of adults and made it legal to be homosexual) to your tired, your hungry, your poor — what the US has purported to be, we have become: the single-most multicultural nation in the world, one that believes in a “cultural mosaic” and not the proverbial “cultural melting-pot” of our neighbour to the south.

What’s that mean? It means we encourage our immigrants to keep their culture but also to celebrate those cultures of their neighbours. We are a nation of cultures — the plural, not the singular — and we’re pround of it.

Does it make us less likely to get loyalty and a pursuit of Canadiana from our immigrants? I don’t think so. In fact, I used to teach ESL (English as a Second Language) and I remember my eyes getting misty last summer when an 8-year-old boy I taught told me of his family gaining their Canadian citizenship the weekend prior. He looked at me, this tough little stoic manly-man boy, and in his broken English, told me that he cried when they became Canadians, and that it was “the most proud day of my whole life!”

By celebrating their cultures, we celebrate our own.

That said, I’ve made racist comments and racist jokes. A staunch feminist, I routinely scoff “women” when talking things over with others. I’m off-colour more often than I’m on, and it’s part of what makes me such fun to know. Thing is, the people around me know that these flippant comments I make are jokes, not seriousness, and they know I’m beyond tolerant — I’m the original “mosaic” Canadian, and always will be. Hell, it’s like George Carlin and my buddy GayBoy always joke, “I’m not racist — I own a colour TV.”

So, Don Imus fucked up. Clearly. But he kept arguing how he was a good person who said a bad thing, and I absolutely believe that. Did he deserve to get fired? I guess he did. Shit happens to us all, and it’s how we respond that makes us who we are. And because he’s a good person, as he claims, I’m certain he will better himself and improve his worldview as a result… should the world be willing to forgive and forget, which I would hope they will do.

But I guess that what bothers me about it all is that I’d like to not live in a world where we’re to be accountable for every word we utter. We live in an age where our thoughts and feelings are ushered out to our fellow man without a moment’s hesitation — be it by blogs, podcasts, letters to the editor, YouTube, and more — and the blowback can be legion. I always joke that what I love about blogging versus real life is simple: The Backspace Key.

Oh, to delete and forge on! What a thing of beauty! But radio, live, to boot, is an entirely different beast. We all sputter things daily without fully thinking them out, but because broadcasters are given the “dead air is death” mantra — fill, fill, fill!– they’re accountable for every syllable they muster. But stream-of-consciousness broadcasts sometimes lead to the very offense committed by Don Imus. And now he needs to pay the price.

He’s right, too. There’s a difference between his utterance and the vitriolic venom spewed by Michael Richards, who unleashed an angry tirade against African-Americans in the club he was performing in, who’ll probably never work in Hollywood again. Context and emotiveness are huge when it comes to uncivilised utterances. We need to respect that.

Granted, I’ve never heard the broadcast, thus I spew smoke from my ass, but still. I don’t think he should be on the air. I’m pleased the people have spoken and action has been taken. I wish the same venomous public opinion could be rallied behind the War in Iraq, but god forbid I should be asking so much.

For now, I’m quietly happy that blacks have spoken out in angst and exacted some change in society. The Million Man March may have been four and a half decades ago, but from this Canadian’s point of view, so much still needs to transpire in the US. One small victory for black rights, and an earful from big business, is something to be praised, even if someone who is a “good person” like Imus should be caught in the crossfire. Collateral damage is expected.

Your thoughts?

I’m about to take leave of my inner sanctum, venture out into my big fat world on my big fat knobby tires and soak up all that’s round me on my bicycle with my lens, and see what comes of it all. It’s a holiday Friday and there’s three more days just like this, waiting to be sucked dry of their marrow.
I’m planning my morrow today: Up before the crack of dawn to finally go and photograph some of the damage inflicted by last December’s hurricane-strength storm that ripped many of our centuries-old trees up from their roots, clearcutting a swath of destruction through some of the sacred lands of this city, reminding us how insignificant we are in the face of the force of nature. I figure the irony of loss and destruction will be mesmerizing against morning light, if we’re lucky enough to find ourselves with a sunrise tomorrow. And even if there’s no rise, maybe there’ll be something special in the light, something playful and delightful, that I’ll only find if I take the chance and get out there regardless of what it looks to be delivering from my bedside window shortly after five, before the dawn.
I like to plan and scheme in life. There’s a lot to be said for spontanaeity, but also a lot to be said for the power of anticipation and hope. So, I’m anticipating getting up at 5:15 and heading out on my little scooter with my camera in hand, chasing sunbeams and downed trees and all that combines to make this land such a stunner. It’s days like these that make my life far richer than it might otherwise be, and when the principle players in my life are me, myself, and I, then so much the better for finding self-fuelled richness.
Sometimes, though, I’d rather the riches be coming by way of another. Companionship is seldom what we dream it to be, though. Most people wind up undeserving of all we offer. Most shouldn’t make the cut. Each of us is an acquired taste worth acquiring, but that’s not to say that most others have the palate with which to properly acquire us. So, we search, we hope, we hang on for more, always hoping someone worthy walks through that door. But for now, we wait and want and wish on more.
So, off I go, me, myself, my fat tires, and I. There ain’t nothing coming through that door today. Tomorrow, though, perhaps a grand entrance gets made. Who’s to say? Suspense is a thing of beauty some days.
I stumbled upon this photographer’s site, and it sort of got me thinking. Hence the above entry. This photographer‘s interesting. His take on relationships and physicality is one of anonymity and facelessness, which is nice and different. After all, when the lights go out, we can be anyone we want to be.

One more day. Then, gratitude to be Canadian & have a four-day weekend. Hurray for Easter! Long live the bunny.

My last weekend was a stupidly emotional one. My fault. Bad attitude and I let my fears get the best of me. My head’s screwed back on good and proper, and my coming weekend is going to be a self-love fest. Highly masturbatory in mostly the figurative sense, but let’s hear it for literalism, too.

Friday is a hot date on which I get to straddle a favourite friend. My bicycle, you dirty people, you. I’ll ride it long and hard and be reduced to a puddle of sweat, but I’ll be spent in the second-best way, and it’ll kick-start a great four-day weekend.

Some new-to-the-shore Asian guy asked me out today, but English is barely even his second language, so I smiled politely and declined. He was quite the sweetie, but I have a thing about being able to converse with suitors. Call me old-fashioned. It was cute — he came back to the school four times and finally sputtered his mangled invite on the fourth visit. Still, it gave me a nice grin and made my day. Very adorably flustered, this boy. It’s been awhile since I’ve gotten to fluster someone to such ends.

Seven years I was at my last job and never once was I asked out. Chained to a monitoring desk and wearing headphones doesn’t exactly render one well to the public. So, a nice change. Things are looking up there.

Hmm. The guy was kinda cute though. I should’ve considered his offer longer. Ha. Plenty of time for play in the months to come. No fear on that one.

Another 19 hours and I’ll be off for four days. Plans include: Bike, Irish pub with friends, A Day To The Self (Schedule as yet unknown — a photography & forest day, perhaps), Easter ham with the fam, and a lazy day of housecleaning and such. And in the midst, plenty of writing. It’s been a while since I’ve had a writing weekend. And, frankly, you deserve a little extra of me in light of my time off, don’t you think? (Mm. Ham!)

Hey, say “hi” or something. It’s been a long week. A little of the old readerly love couldn’t hurt any. 🙂 (Happy long weekend, fellow Canucks!)

Curse you, Cosmos!

I’ve been caught somewhere between depressed and wracked with performance anxiety these past few days. All of a sudden I look at my numbers and I’m doing 4,000 plus hits a day. Makes me feel like you people expect something or something. Good lord! You people are like termites — just crawlin’ outta my woodwork, man! Hey. Welcome to the party. I’ll have a martini.

But I’ve been blue, confronted with seemingly stupid things like scooter repairs that need doing. I probably have a thousand dollars worth of repairs to do to my beloved ride after a couple years of barely getting by, thanks to slow times in the notorious film industry and all, which I have forsaken for more stabler times.

The first reaction one (IE: me) has to the news of serious repairs needed or “silly” things like that is, “Why doesn’t my life ever improve? What’s this vicious cycle?” But I’m forcing myself to remember that these troubles I’m facing are, in the large scheme of things, relatively insignificant, and most of the negatives are cumulative damage from my last two years — just coming home to roost now that I’m facing my reality and living my life properly again. So, there’s something new in the equation: Suddenly I’m almost of the means to deal with these things instead of having to just pretend they’re not there.

I spent the weekend feeling sorry for myself and yesterday coming to terms with my bad attitude, and today I went to the gym and worked it out. Now I’ve got way-too-spicy Thai green curry with chicken cooking on the stove and I’m making a vat of Thai sweet black rice, so soon I’ll be kicking it back and enjoying myself after what’s been a tough but good day. (I also had a mini-review in which the boss’s burgeoning love for me was expressed in very clear terms. Money should follow when I have my formal 3 month review, since I pretty much told them before I was hired that I would work for less if rewards followed — and fast! Here’s hoping honesty literally pays.)

But I find it interesting how quickly we can be thrown for a loop. One little thing comes up to bite us in the ass and our mood can go spiralling out from under us. It can be hard to remember just how little a blip on the radar of our lives that little conundrum truly is, but re-finding that focus and the ability to dismiss it for what it is — momentary — is the key to finding balance and equilibrium in the midst of the tumult.

So, yes, I’m bogged down with repair woes and challenges right now, but I suspect by June I should have it easier. In the midst of all this, I’ve noticed my complete lack of interest in dating sites and the whole online bullshit. I figger I’m needing to appreciate myself right now, and I doubt anyone else can deliver what I need. The focus is entirely back on me, myself, and I. The world will follow.

Tonight I rejoined the land of gym rats and made it into the community centre. I’ll be heading in the next two nights, and Thursday night my bicycle comes back all tuned up by my cycling guru friend, Whipped Boy, and things should begin looking up again. Normalcy, and spring, and goodness. If you’re gonna be broke, be broke in the warm-air months when there’s a world of fun outside your door. Timing IS everything.

Anyhow. Back to the regularly scheduled program over the next few days — two reader emails await tackling: The young girl who’s all stressed out that she hasn’t had an orgasm six months into her relationship and her boyfriend’s all hell-bent on making sure he brings her to one. Take a wild guess at what I’m gonna say. Or don’t, and read all about it next time. Then there’s the woman who demanded an apology and was surprised when she didn’t get one. I gots me some thoughts on that one, too!

Just full of thoughts! But most have been truly self-obsessed of late, but stay tuned for the rather interesting visual of Steff yanking her head out of her ass! Truly a Kodak moment! Thanks for your patience, boys and girls. Thai green curry, anyone? (Me! ME!)

Tired of feeling like a relative of the Pillsbury Dough Boy, I’ve begun an exercise program after a few months of slothyness. My whole body’s in the Total Hurt postal code (zip code for the Yanks) these days. (I think it’s code O0H 0O0 for the postal fanatics out there.) My vocabulary may not be entirely reduced to “Ouch, oh, wah, gah!” but it’s on the verge. I’d like to see what happens to this blog if I go that way. Snicker.

They say exercise is the new anti-depressant, kind of like pink being the new black. Or did I miss the memo on black being the new black? Whatever. You know what I’m saying. Fuck Prozac, embrace jogging. And pain, as the case might be. (Ow.)

But in honour of my new exercise program, for you: a word about Kegels.

AKA: Getting more bang for your orgasmic buck.

Me, I’m a spendthrift. I certainly want more for my buck — orgasms included. I mean, hey. Life’s short, yeah? Go big or go home, honeybunch. Go… OH. There you have it. Big!

If you’ve been on a desert island for the last several decades of your life and missed the memo on Kegels, WELL, thank god you have me!

Kegels: Named for a guy called “Arnold Kegel” (now, how many orgasms could a guy with that name really have had, anyhow?), the Kegels are your gateway to better control over orgasms. How, then, do you master Kegels? Any number of ways, really.

But what in the hell do they do, you must be wondering. Well, they strengthen the pubo… blah, it’s a big long word that means “pelvic floor muscles”. You know, the muscles that help you control your orgasms. For you boys out there, that means you can make yourself last longer and prevent yourself from blowing your load before she blows her top. Yeah, NOW you’re interested.

For the women out there, it’s a way of making your love canal come with a vice grip that’ll have him swearing you fit him like a glove. You love him long time, baby. Imagine being able to squeeze him tighter every time he thrusts himself deep inside of you… you better hope he’s doing his Kegel homework too, so he can hold out in the midst of all your hard work. It’s also whatcha do when you’ve gotten all stretched out like the Gumby of sex goddesses post-child-delivery and all.

How do ya do it then? Easy. When you’re peeing, stop yourself mid-stream. Those are the muscles you’re looking to exercise. Once you’ve figured out how to isolate them, just lie on the floor while you’re watching Oprah or American Chopper, and flex and release… oh, say 50 or a hundred times. Do it every day or two, and watch your sex life get better. It’s that easy.

If you’ve been doing Pilates or yoga, you probably already know how to isolate and work those muscles. For the guys out there, the men I know who’ve done either Pilates or yoga swear it’s the best thing they’ve ever done for their sex lives. License to be the Energizer Bunny of lovemaking is what I’ve been told. Rumour has it you can go five orgasms in a row without being introduced to Mr. Softee. No, really!

One of the tricks I use is, I make sure I need to go to the washroom before I start exercising. I deprive myself and hold it in, then I exercise — lifting weights, cycling, whatever. All I knows is, it works.

Are you link crazy? Here. And here. And here.

But, HEY, if you’ve been Kegeling and know first-hand their benefits, do tell! Share, and spread the good word! What say you?

Ah, oral sex. Nothing like a mouthful, huh?

I’ve had a guy email me a couple of times about his partner’s ambivalence and distaste towards receiving oral sex. He loves to perform it, she hates to receive it. They’ve been married a while, and it seems she can’t get past her hang-ups, whatever they may be, and he’s feeling quite deprived as a result.

Part of the problem, he thinks, is that she dislikes tasting herself on him when they kiss post-delivery.

Let’s backtrack a minute. In a moment of complete hypocrisy after my last posting, I decided to post a personal ad in an “intimate encounters” section online, figuring it couldn’t hurt if I was to perhaps find a nice ongoing sexual exchange with someone who’s on the same get-some/stay-independent page as I am.

As a result, I’m all of a sudden being deluged by men who profess to love giving oral. They’re all apparently geniuses at it, too. Sigh. Of course they are. I found myself in a conversation regarding the love-of-delivery, and I asked the rhetorical question of, “Why does almost every guy profess to love delivering oral?”

I began wondering if maybe, just maybe, men love it because it means not having to worry about whether their cocks are going to behave the right way for the right length of time. After all, there’s an awful lot of pressure on men to perform at a certain level every single time they let their hound out of the gate, so to speak. (Of course there’s the up-close visuals as she gets further and further aroused, and men do love their eye-candy of all sorts.)

I’m sure it’s not that simple, though, but I certainly have to wonder if the pressure thing is a factor. Any guys want to chime in on that one?

I do digress. We’re talking about this guy and his woman. I’ve written about oral in the past, here, and probably in dozens of other spots that I’m too lazy to seek out. I think probably every woman’s a little self-conscious about whether she’s tasting the right way for her man of the moment. I could certainly understand why a woman might despise tasting herself on her guy after delivery, too. Personally, I don’t have that hang-up. I certainly have had it, though.

I remember being rather self-conscious about it a couple years back and the guy I was seeing at the time simply decided to go down on me, came back up, kissed me, and said, “So, how do you taste?” I was taken by surprise, but it was one hell of a kiss, and suddenly I just wasn’t concerned anymore. Salty, but sweet. Nifty.

But that hasn’t worked for this guy. The only thing I can really suggest is, keep mouthwash by the bed and a bowl to spit it into. If she can’t handle her tastes on you, then maybe a little minty goodness will go a long way to circumventing that issue.

Guys need to appreciate, though, that there are a lot of times women will have different infections or odor issues that can really impact how they feel about what juices they might be secreting. Unlike men, who pretty much only secrete upon orgasm, we start pumping fluids out as soon as we’re aroused.

Couple that with the reality that there are marketing machines at work in every media imaginable, trying to force us to feel shame or embarrassment over scents that are actually biologically built to attract men, and it’s not surprising women can have hang-ups about a guy nuzzling his face into our twats.

What’s the secret? How do you get past that? Beats the shit out of me. This isn’t a t-shirt, there is no one-size-fits-all solution that’ll enable you to push a magic button and nix all her anxieties.

This is also about trust issues. She, for whatever reason, doesn’t trust you’re telling the truth when you say you can’t get enough of that salty scent and taste of hers. A lot of women aren’t into swallowing cum, either, and for that reason they can’t fathom why you’re wanting to gobble their juices up instead of being repulsed by it.

All you can do is try and get her perspective on it. When she’s saying she doesn’t like it, you ask why. There’s a fine line between pushing and really wanting to know, and good luck to you in trying to toe that line.

Finally, how do you know she hasn’t got some oral sex nightmare story in her closet? I’ve known a couple of guys who’ve told me how they responded with utter disgust upon getting their first real whiff of a woman’s vagina, and they’ve told me how they high-tailed it outta there (and felt riddled with remorse later, but wouldn’t have changed a thing on their reaction, oddly). I even had one guy friend tell me about how he tried going down on his girlfriend and vomited between her legs shortly after he began to tongue her. Turned out it was food poisoning, but it was the end of that relationship. So, who knows their history?

All you can do is keep on trying. Always ask them “what can I do to make it a more comfortable experience for you?” But sometimes there’s just going to be no solution that’ll make you happy. Some of those hang-ups are legion, man. It’s a rough thing to overcome for some women. All I can say is, good luck with that. Keep trying. It ain’t an easy problem to solve, and I’m at a loss for suggestions. Anyone have anything they’d like to suggest?

(Drinking tropical fruit juices, like papaya and pineapple, is great for changing the flavour of ejaculate, and might give just the right twist to her juices so that a post-delivery kiss may change the reaction she has. You can certainly try that, too.”

welcome to spring, aka: rainy season redux, here in vancouver. today’s forecast is some 80mm of rain, give or take a little. (that’s about four inches for you Yanks.) the alleyway behind my place is a veritable river, an inch or two thick of water streaming downhill without end where the lane dips down in the centre.

i awoke to discover my time of the month had begun, which accounts for why i’ve felt like such a cunt for the last three days. gotta love PMS and the license to bitch it grants. but the Red Tide on the Rise means i feel like being lazy in the face of the inevitable cramps that come with. i tackled dishes and made some homemade toast with fried eggs and a French press full of coffee, which i enjoyed while beginning the movie i’ve had kicking around my kitchen table this past week. i’ve paused it for now because there was a bitter-sweet moment of beauty-cum-tragedy, and i know the tragedies are only just beginning… fitting for this world awash in tears today.

it’s a Chinese film with subtitles, Kekexili, “Mountain Patrol” in English, about vigilantes trying to protect the sacred Tibetan antelopes that had been senselessly slaughtered for a couple decades but are beginning to rise again (if you can call a recent headcount of 150,000 versus the former millions that once ranged those high Chinese/Tibetan plains a “rise”). the movie’s pretty beautiful and tragic at the same time, but it’s nice to be enjoying a quality foreign film. some days Hollywood’s fare feels a bit too much like an enema for my tastes.

i posted something earlier this week that’s had me thinking a lot: the photo in which Kim asks, “so why not be the best Kim i can be?” and i began to wonder, “am i being the best Steff i know i can be?”

the answer’s a glaring no. i’m doing better than i’ve been in a while, but i know the distance that lies between here and there. some of it’s very superficial — my clothes aren’t fitting right (getting loose, which is good), i need a haircut, and i want to get out to the gym. i also want to be a tidier person, too. aside from that, i’m somewhat pleased. being more social would be good, too, but i know that i’m social with the seasons. it’s hard to have positive thoughts about waiting in the rain for 20 minutes for crowded buses or hopping on a scooter to rage through rain and get to where the action is, versus enjoying a quiet drink on a comfy sofa in my beautiful home (see the inset for a photo of my sweet pad).

this new job thing takes a lot out of a girl, though. i’m performing very well, and i know it, but it’s draining, and i’ve made the mistake of overcommitting to my old job, too, and it’s all adding up to be very thieving of my time. when i’m too busy, i like to slack off and enjoy my solitude. tomorrow i’ll work at my old job for the last time for an indefinite period. i will instead work overtime at the new job (snicker… how defeatist is that?) in order to bank time and then i’ll work banked days off at the old job. it postpones the arrival of riches but might ultimately be more rewarding. as i wrote in an email to a friend just now, “it comes down to deciding that my loyalties must lie with my present and my future, and not my past.”

this is a good time of year to be overworked in Vancouver, though. the rain comes in waves, but it’s here more than it’s not. soon i will cease working extra altogether in order to enjoy life and meet new people. my gameplan is to join a couple social clubs — a film group, since i’m a cinematic junkie, and who knows what else. the granola girl deep down inside would like to join a drum circle (i have a djembe that is woefully underused, and i won’t even tell you about my guitar!) so i’m considering the merits of drumming on beaches as the sun sets and weather warms, and the merits seem aplenty.

but i figure that if i’m swearing off this e-dating thing, it needs to be replaced with something else: socializing for the fun of it. i haven’t really tried to meet new people in a long time. my last attempt last year wound up being rather freakish and weird since i met a few people that seemed to want to know me for all the wrong reasons (long story there and one i’m too polite to share) and were very ingenuine with me. i decided i wasn’t in a place where i could handle that weirdness, thanks to the depression i was battling and all of that melodrama that has now faded away from me. they wanted me to be someone i’m not, and the trouble with depression is you forget who you are. i decided to rediscover myself instead of trying to be what others wanted back then.

i tried the e-dating thing during the winter and met some guys who were in the right place at the wrong time, as well as a couple of wackos, and now here i am — about to kick the can one more time, but in a different way and for all the right reasons rather than the wrong ones.

meeting people is an interesting dilemma for me. i’m seemingly good at it, because i have a heck of a personality and a razor-sharp witt, i’m told, but i’m also an intense girl with a lot of strong opinions, and i sometimes don’t know how to water myself down for greater public consumption. i’m also apparently quite inimidating to some, which is not something i try to be and i’m surprised to find that i am. my e-dating tag used to be “an acquired taste… entirely worth acquiring”, but not everyone likes tapenade, tripe, or sushi, so it stands to reason i have select personal appeal as well. which is fine, but sometimes frustrating.

i also have very high standards for the people in my life, and it may sometimes seem somewhat unforgiving, but it is what it is, and what it is is something i deliver on. any standards i have for others are standards i meet and beat at my end. my demands of others recently caused a friendship to fail when the other person couldn’t accept that i needed more from the friendship than they were able to provide. (silly things like communication and actually doing shit together is apparently too much to ask of some people. c’est la vie.) and while i might pay the price from time to time, the friends i do have, i keep for years and years and years. i’m quietly yet fiercely loyal, and they know it through my actions and my words, i suspect.

so, am i the best Steff i can be? hmm. as i sit here in my soiled housecleaning t-shirt and Joe Boxers, the answer’s a dubious “sort of”. i’m the best i can be today, but not the best i will be. and i guess that’s all a girl can do… know who she is at the present and where she’s gonna be in the future, and love ’em both. easier said than done but worth trying to do.