Holy Return of the Libido, Batman!

Sex. It’s been a while. Honestly? It’s been two years.
As I’ve written about at length, I went on anti-depressants the summer of ’06, after birth control pills messed my body up something fierce, at the tail end of a relationship that turned to shit in record time, while getting laid off of multiple jobs in a short period with no EI remaining. Oh, good times.
The meds were a necessary evil and I knew I needed ’em to get my body sorted out along with my life — both of which I’ve been accomplishing somethin’ fab. Since the new year I’ve been gradually decreasing the dose (with my doc’s guidance of course) and I’ve been off now entirely for 10 days.
Holy shit do I notice a difference. All of a sudden, like a wild fire in August, my libido’s back and raging. Like, oh, my god, is it back. ZING!
Must. Have. Sex. Orgasm! Now! YOU, SATISFY ME! Rowrr!
So, naturally, I posted myself a Craigslist ad. I posted two, one in the relationships section, and then the other in the casual encounters section, and now I don’t care about the LTR responses because I know I don’t want the complications of something serious yet. My casual encounters ad wasn’t entirely common, though. It began:

“Are you tired of stupid people? Are you tired of having to choose between routine sex and freaky sex, and nothing in between? Does the prospect of casual sex both appeal to you and frighten you? I mean, honestly, there are some skanky people out there. Some of these players have been around more than a 1966 RCA turntable, you get what I’m saying?…”

The responses have largely been of your “I’m a dedicated pussylickr!” type with pictures of penises and hairy bellies. [Delete] Or the most unappealing thong shot I’ve ever, ever seen. From front and back? That was really necessary? [Delete] Or riddled with spelling errors and the bad kind of non-sequiturs with nothing appealing. [Delete] Or obvious form letters that did nothing to address my 750 words. [Delete] Or very much older men with bad teeth and dirty leering looks and an almost palpable air of desperation. [Delete] Or cute guys with not much else to offer, the kind I’d always be smarter than. [Delete]
But there’s a bit of promise to be found. No, really. Like a crack of light at the bottom of a coal mine’s shaft: Surprising. Hopefully a good date looms in the next few days. And sex soon thereafter. Because that’s the whole point, no? Continue reading →

My Dear, Dear Stalker

My would-be-stalker has fucked up.
See, if you ever think your email has been hacked, don’t just change the password — change the display name so that when someone receives an email from you, it says it’s from a new name.
Like, let’s say my emails would show up as being received from Smurfette Davies. Well, this morning, when I changed my password, I changed the display name.
Stalker wouldn’t know this.
So, when I got another email supposedly from my account today — but with my OLD display name showing — I had the proof I needed that he hadn’t hacked my account.
But instead went and broke the law. ‘Cause, faking emails is, like, illegal. Doh!
It’s a real shame, too, that I have his IP address and I know what ISP he uses in his wacky little town out there in the Valley. You grow corn, too, pal, like your neighbours? I even know what browser he uses. Konqueror, no? I guess you’d want to use that… since you need Linux to fake emails.
So, you reading me, Stalker?
Stalker fucked up twice. The second time was trying his stupid pony-show email-faking trick a second time more than nine hours after I changed my password and display name. But the first time he fucked up was by Googling me. I got a fucking stat counter, guy. I got the goods on you.
Whatever you might think of me, make sure “SMART” is at the top of the list. ‘Cos I’m all that, baby.

Cyber Stalker?

Someone replied to my personal ad last night and I normally would have just deleted the email, but I was bored and wrote a one-line thing back telling him to send a picture. You don’t need to know the volley that occurred, beyond that I was pissed off from the get-go and spoke my mind.
Trouble is, you can’t always tell when someone’s joking online, and this guy seemed like a smart-ass at best.
Until my email seemed to be hacked this morning and was filled with disconcerting 12-year-old type emails filled with name-calling and mild threatening tones… sent from myself to myself.
I’ve already changed my password, but since this whole thing has me a little unsettled and it’s so sudden, I’ve changed my comments on this blog so that I’ll be moderating them for a bit, since this guy’s figured out this blog’s mine too.
But I’m apparently a bad attitude bitch who’ll never land a man. Just so you know. Maybe you’re all assholes for reading my blog, since I’m so transparently a cunt with no redeeming qualities.
Blah. It’s a long and complicated story, and I’m not going to get into it because, a) the situation has unnerved me, and b) the details don’t matter.
My Spidey-sense? Usually quite unassailable. My Spidey-sense said “Shut up. This guy shows controlling qualities found in most abusive people” and did I? Nope, nope, nope.
So, you, dear reader, should learn from my sorry ass. If someone makes you go “Oh, that just ain’t right” then back the fuck off. Just walk away. Like I would have 355 nights of the year, but I was bored. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Whatever. Passwords have been changed, comments will be moderated. Colour me a little less naive today.
Oh, and given that this is a case of cyberstalking — but the emails have stopped since I quickly changed my password — and it’s a little freaky, if you want to leave me tips for how to proceed, feel free. I’ve undeleted the emails and put labels on ’em so I have them, should I require them for legal reasons at all or anything.
Some people, man. Here’s hoping he has a life and finds a new way to amuse himself quickly.

One of Those Dishwashing Epiphanies

So, there I am, washing up my kitchen, wishing I could have a barbecue later. My barbecue broke the other day. The valve thing just snapped right off. It confuses me. It looks like there should be a long pokey mount-thing but there’s nothing, so I wonder how it ever held together in the first place. This is the problem with letting men assemble shit: When it breaks, you need them to check it out ‘cos you never did it in the first place and you don’t know what to look for.
That’ll teach me for getting guys to do “guy” things that I know I’m capable of doing, eh? So now I’m all helpless femme (which is just disgusting, and I hate being) and I have to wait for GayBoy to come take a boo at it. If it really is broken, then I need to get in the headspace of chatting with Costco about getting a new one.
And, so, there I am, washing up, thinking “Ooh, I hope it’s fixable. I don’t want the hassle of having to sort it out with Costco. I hate conflict.”
That thought just stopped me in my tracks. I hate conflict? I hate conflict? And I thought about it for a moment. Yeah, you know, I do.
I do conflict very, very well. I argue my case very, very well. I tend to get what I want. I tend to do it without being cruel. I tend to be very shrewd at it, and very tactical.
Yet, I hate it. Like, I’ll avoid someone or something for a good long time, just because I hate to be in that position of needing a victory. I hate to have to do the arguing. I fear losing. Even though I seldom lose.
I was avoiding talking to the cute young guy who works for free on fixing my scooter, in exchange for my baked goods, ha, for instance. My poor wee scooter is still very unhappy. Funny, it goes like stink these days when you get it to the upper register speeds — like, 85 kilometres an hour with the slightest of declines and a tailwind. Crazy. But it’s a slug off the start line and takes blocks to get to a decent running speed. It’s embarrassing. I’m that chick who rides between lanes, has off-roaded with her scooter, and who knows what it’s like to do a 200-kilometre day touring a valley on it — I don’t do “slow” and “annoying. Fuck! When the people behind me are thinking “Move, bitch!” I am, too.
People are not patient. Nor am I. So, anyhow, mechanic boy’s this kid who’s trying to build the world’s fastest scooter and is test-riding his latest generation ride at the Bonneville Salt Flats down in Utah this September. He’s taken a special interest in my ass– err, my case– and is doing all he can to fix my bike for cheap, cheap, cheap. But all his tricks haven’t solved the like-a-slug starts (but sure as fuck increased the top end!) and it’s just killing me. Now we must start throwing money at it. For a few hundred dollars (sigh, ouch) it should be the meanest bitch on the south side, man. But… summer will be over.
And even though I knew what the kid’s answer would be, and I knew he’d be cool with helping me out, I was dreading having the chat. How stupid is that? It’s amazing what we do to ourselves just because there are conversations we’re not really keen to have. What stupid, stupid creatures we can be.
And I have another one of those conversations I dread coming up, even though I’m secretly 90% sure I’ll get what I want: The Money Chat at work. It’s time to show me the love, baby. And though I know I’ve a great argument, and I know I’m likely to get everything I ask for, I’m in a state of dread. (It’s one of those things of timing — the chat’s been in the offing for three months, but first work got slow and I thought it was bad timing, then work got busy, but the two owners have been on back-to-back holidays for going on two months now. The chat will be initiated in 10 days. The wait will kill me.)
Dreading these conversations is killing me, I tell ya. Having them, though, that’s what it’s all about. ‘Cos then results happen. Change occurs. One way or the other, you better know what you got to do, right?
Ahh, the healing power of conversation. Blessed be. Ten days to go. God help me. Of course, you can feel free to donate to my alcohol and foodie fund, to ease the paid of the wait, by clicking here. 🙂

Reader Says:He's Hated Giving Me Oral for 25 Years

Oh, dear, oh, dear. Ohh. Sigh.
So here’s a letter I received today–

We’ve been married 25 years, intercourse has always been great. Hubby has never learned to be good with his hands but orally he’s a dunce. I gave up many years ago. I have dropped 60 lbs and my libido went up, so has my old wish for good oral from him. I printed out “how to eat pussy” lessons I found on the net. He attacks the pussy like it’s diseased. Scrunches up his face and makes it look like he’s going to hate it. The lessons… well, he just couldn’t put it together.

He’s given me a list of “needs” to prepare for this.

1- must shave the area (fine with me, but he won’t assist.)
2- must wash 10 minutes before doing act
3- must be more than 5 days past period
4- must be more than 5 days from getting period
5- must be more than 3 days since last intercourse (we have sex 2 or 3 times a week, he ALWAYS cums inside)

He hates even looking at a vagina, and has had no clue in 26 years what a clit does. All the teaching I attempted in our early years was a waste as he just has no innate ability to figure out what to do, and won’t listen to my body. I am about ready to go man hunting for good oral.

SHOULD I GIVE UP ON HIM?

Shit. See, this is one of those “I’m not going to enjoy this” questions. It happens. Normally I’d remove more of the specifics, but it’s obvious he doesn’t read blogs like this. And even if he did, he deserves to recognize himself.
Reader, you need to say, “Look, I know YOU have a problem with this, but the majority of this country, men LOVE diving into snatch. YOU have a problem with it. YOU are the exception. YOU having a problem with it makes ME feel like YOU have a problem with MY snatch. This makes ME feel like a loser. This makes ME feel like maybe there’s someone out there, in the majority of the country, that feels differently about ME than YOU do. I’m tired of being rejected. It’s threatening our marriage. And the power is in your hands to change it. And if you don’t, I will.” Continue reading →

Bush Rides Again:Birth Control Defined as "Abortion"?

I know I’m Canadian, and I’ve not had to live under George Bush, but as a girl next door, I have spent much of the last eight years comprehensively alarmed by the steady erosion of freedom under this current American administration, and the assault on the sexual choices and options of the voting public, among many other questionable policies enacted over much of this last decade.
But this one takes the motherfucking cake, and it’s not getting enough press yet.
A draft regulation is circulating the Department of Health and Human services in which it seeks to redefine abortion to INCLUDE BIRTH CONTROL PILLS AND IUDs.
That’s right, by taking a birth control pill — just any old 21-days-a-month pill — or having an IUD implanted, you would legally be “participating in abortion”.
Now, this isn’t law, yet. May never be. May never even hit the floor. But it’s out there. And all those little religious-righters are wringing their fingers in glee, hoping like hell it happens, while the rest of a country that supposedly purports to separate church from state may have to pay the price for a motherfuckin’ religion-fuelled dumb policy like this hitting the books.
Now those in the administration are calling the folks (like me) on the left “reactionaries” who are overblowing the whole thing, that it won’t create difficulties for women taking the pill. Oh, really? But it’ll redefine it as abortion. It’ll redefine it as the “taking” of a life, rather than the prevention of life forming.
If the definition doesn’t DO anything, then WHY REDEFINE IT? See, that’s the thing. If you’re not DOING anything, then why are you doing it at all? Right? Because, even if you claim it’s not doing anything, but you’re doing it anyways, then…
Because, psst, you know you really ARE DOING something. Continue reading →

In Vino Veritas: Lord Help Me

So, I’m doing my hump day in brilliant fashion. I’m drunk. Like, flat-out, I’m a 1/2 glass from the bottom of my bottle of Sicilian red wine. Mm, mm, good. Yeah.
What can I say? I was working on a tv show about red wine this afternoon, and I thought, “That sounds good. Sure.” So, that and a 440-calorie deluxe mini-pizza and I’m just as happy as can be. Albeit somewhat wobbly.
Because I’m drunk, heh heh, and happy about it, and in vino veritas, and all that, I’m going to take a moment to not really apologize, but maybe clear the air or something here.
I have been short-tempered of late, probably pretty much clear throughout my life. It has been odd and strange to be on my end of it, because I’m not sure where it comes from. One word springs to mind: hormones.
Two weeks ago, I visited my doctor and said, “You know, I think it’s time I got off the meds.”
If you’re new to this blog, fuck, well, the story’s too long to indoctrinate ya now, but suffice to say my longtime readers know I’ve been on quite the ride the last couple of years, but given that I heavily edit this blog and temper it from my real life, all y’all don’t know jack. Really.
So, long story short, I lost my nut two years ago when birth control pills fucked me up more than I ever could have dreamed. I still think birth control pills are an important tool, and that my experience is probably the exception to the rule, but that, if you do decide to use the pill (and I’d approve that choice, with condoms), you got to monitor your moods and tell those closest to you to help keep you objective about how you’re reacting to life, because I tripped the wire, man. I really tripped the wire.
I am telling you this: I have lost my mother, who was THE most important person to me, after caring for her before her death; I have survived nearly a decade of chronic pain; I have survived nearly dying on a severely injuring motorbike accident… and I have never, ever endured the darkness I endured two summers ago. I couldn’t have written about the darkness I was in. You didn’t want to read that, I certainly didn’t want to actualize it on the page. I couldn’t talk about it. I kept trying to talk myself out of it; intellectually I knew my life wasn’t that bad, so what was it?
The further I get from it, the more I realize it had to be the pills.
So, back to the present. I’ve lost almost 50 pounds, the good old-fashioned way. I’ve not used trainers or clubs or organizations, and I haven’t even had a gym membership. But I’ve gotten it done. I’ve redecorated my place, tackled my debt…
But then in the last couple of months, though I’ve intellectually felt like I’m going someplace awesome, my emotions were just always a little too much on edge for all I KNOW I have accomplished.
So, I chatted with the doc. Because, you know, us women and hormones, man, it’s a delicate dance. I started wondering if maybe it was time to end the anti-depressants, since they’d clearly done their job.
Now, the doc only found out about 3 weeks ago I’d lost 35 pounds, so this 40-pushing-50 thing is news all the better. So, I show up for the appointment, tell him maybe it’s time I move on. He looks at me and goes, “Steff, depressed people don’t lose 40 pounds, and they’re not really into redecorating much. I think maybe, yeah, it’s time.”
But truth be told, I hadn’t really thought I’d been that off-kilter until the last couple days. Coincidentally, I just got off the meds Sunday. A couple days and that stuff starts to clear up, like a long fog in the winter. (Though, ironically, I’m all a-tipsy now. 🙂
In the not too distant past, I’ve written a rant about comments, chewed a few people out, you know. Kinda not-too-fuzzy stuff. It’s out of character for me to throw it out there — politically, I’m as shrewd as the fuckin’ day is long, baby, so I don’t tend to put my foot in my mouth all that often.
But it seems of late I have. I think I was expressing my true feelings, but I normally would’ve put a cork in it and just dismissed it as people spouting off when maybe they should’ve done a little self-editing. Then, ironically, I too failed to self-edit. Funny how that works.
Anyhow. This is me saying I’ll behave more. I’m not saying I’m sorry, ‘cos maybe we all should blow a fuse now and then and get that shit off our chests… heh, after four years of blogging, it was about time I ranted about comments. Hah. It’s like parental advice — sooner or later you just gotta speak your piece.
But I could have done it better. I could have been nicer. Hell, I should have. One thing I’ve never claimed to be is perfect. And I’ve always loathed hormones. Damn estrogenies. So, you know, older, wiser, and on it rolls. Will. Behave. Better.
All right, so I was a bit of an ass. Yes. True. But I wasn’t entirely incorrect. 🙂

(My theory is, with enough time passing for the birth control pills to finally be irrelevant, my weight loss success, my improved diet, a more relaxing job situation, and improved finances, that my body chemistry has become correct all by itself, but by continuing to be medicated, it’s actually been causing a new imbalance. Strange, huh? But it makes sense to me. Ay yi yi.)

Sextoy Review! The GIGI "Pleasure Object" by LELO

My good friends at VibeReview sent me some pretty toys earlier this month, and the one I couldn’t wait to get playing with first was this beautiful toy pictured here.
The Gigi Pleasure Object could also have another name: “Your New Best Friend.”
This thing is to sex toys what the iPOD is to music. No, really.
Sure, you could go for the so-called five-speed turn-the-dial vibrators out there, or you could cross the threshold into the 21st century and try a vibrator powered by a microchip, that offers five incredible sensations, and each of those come in five different speeds. Oh, you have no idea.
But that’s only part of what I love, love, love about this toy. So, let’s slow down and break it down for a second: Continue reading →

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

You can’t get to where you’re goin’ if you don’t know where you’re leavin’ from. That’s one of those truisms said a million ways by a million voices. It’s true of every one of us. Whatever our differences, that’s our commonality.
Knowing from whence you’ve come versus where it is you’re headed is one thing, but knowing how the hell that trip came about is quite another.
Last new year’s eve I finally had a night to myself after several days of being with family and friends non-stop, and I spent some time thinking on the year I wanted to have ahead of me. I wanted to lose at least 50 pounds. I wanted to get a grasp of my finances. I wanted to take writing seriously again. But most of all, I just wanted to become a better self.
I’d spent two years going through one hell of a ringer, as if life was some game show that decided I had a two-year contract of Running The Gauntlet.
“Will she make it out alive? Good golly! Make sure you tune in to see more of the exciting antics as life doles out doozy after doozy to our fair heroine! What a ride this one’s gonna be, Billy! Hoo, boy!”
I decided last fall, in a swirl of overtime and craziness at work, that I’d take serious stock of life over Christmas. I’d had my brother staying with me for a few days over the holidays, for what was completely an exercise in excess. A cousin had heard we were hanging together for the festive week, with no other family nearby, and sent a massive food basket with $200-worth of gourmet regional goodies. We drank and ate and smoked dope and watched half the movies in my extensive library… Continue reading →

My First Time (with a Home Pregnancy Test)

There I was, desperately locking and re-locking the bathroom door in the back of a Subway sandwich shop, panicking that I might be heard, or maybe the Catholic in me felt the location was just morally wrong for that sort of thing, but I didn’t give a shit. The time was nigh, now or never, or at least now-sooner-than-later, as fate might have it anyhow, so I was doin’ it. Continue reading →