I wrote a posting yesterday that took me by surprise because I found it to be more personally oriented than I thought it’d be. It was one of those writing things that starts with “Well, I’m having eggs for breakfast” and after 250 words turns into a treatise on the human condition of hope and the political cures for it.
Yeah, all right. So this is why, even when you think you have nothing to say, you start with what you know: I just had eggs, I feel warm and fuzzy inside. And, hey, I just read this speech…
I don’t know, I found writing that post to be somewhat jarring emotionally, which is what surprised me, and greatly.
In this historic speech of his, Obama talks about how this change he envisions for the country will not be an easy road; it’ll be long, hard, and fraught with emotionally challenging reckoning.
At the start of this year, I sort of laid down a mental list of things I felt I needed to work on in order to make my life into something that is an ideal that works for me and allows me to achieve the work-life balance I’ve longed for, with a big focus on the health and home parts of life.
I knew it was going to be hard, and I knew it’d involve a lot of headtrips for which I’d be packin’ a whole lot of mental baggage, and I figured the journey would be pretty bumpy with a lot of stop-and-go.
I was bang on. There are moments when I’m feeling really overwhelmed by the mess I’ve gotten myself into this year and it just keeps feeling like the work to do is so much greater than the work that’s been done. Which is true. It will continue to be long and hard. Probably for at least another year.
Now and then it pays out for a short while. Like, this weekend, as the literal mess around me is coming to the beginnings of a close. That’ll keep me happy for 24 or 36 hours, and then I’ll realize I’ve more to do to get myself out of not only this rut that defined my life in recent past, but most of the life that preceded it.
Most of what goes on behind closed minds isn’t really yet fit for publishing, so you’ll have to content yourself to know only that the mental turmoil is great that one goes through in revisiting every thing about one’s life to decide what parts of one are worth keeping as-is, but also what parts need major updating.
It’s a endless flashbacks through a lifetime of moments that might’ve been, should’ve been, and even great ones that were. It’s a kaleidoscope of yesteryears, but it ain’t all pretty and going into the light. Some is dark, dark, dark.
And it’s really, really hard to remember that, beneath all the areas that require work, lies one hell of a frame befitting of such a remodel. The parts that are worth keeping are the parts so deserving of this work now. That’s the thing that’s hard to remember, the thing that’s worth repeating every single day. Everything is worth this outcome. This is worth that.
There are no magical red shoes you click three times and say matter-of-factly, “There’s no one like me” to mystically propel you into the idealized dream self you hold deep inside.
No, instead, the phrase “only human” comes up time and time again as one battles their way to a better self. Weakness and temptation rear their heads constantly. And there’s that horrifically skewed perspective.
Daily we stand before mirrors scrutinizing ourselves, with millions of synapses firing, more thoughts than we’ll ever even know are thought in a blink of an eye as we stare at our sleep-weary morning or nighttime faces. So many of the thoughts well beyond our control, many not to our advantage. Like Oasis sings, “All your dreams are made, when you’re chained to your mirror with your razor blade….” So too are our judgments.
Every moment we live, we judge ourselves a little. “Oh, I should have done this.” “Next time, I’ll do it this way…”
And every little fuck-up, shortcoming, failing, they add up, stuffed into little drawers in the recesses of our minds. Filed under headings like “whoopsies-daisies” or “colossal screw-ups”, ‘cos we’ve all been there, we’ve all had the inner groan in which we wish we could’ve had a three-minute do-over ‘cos that never shoulda happened, right? “If only.”
Usually, though, after a little while, our psyche leaves that filing room, turns off the light, and that moment’s never unearthed again. But when you’re going through a process of evaluating yourself, it’s like a board of review of your existence being conducted; all the evidence should be reevaluated, and, unfortunately, most of it is.
In my older, wiser self, I’m cutting slack on certain things in the past. I’m consciously remembering life is fluid, and far more flexible than our fears would have us believe. I’m holding to certainties like hard work pays off and desires can be actualized. I know my failings in the past have made me who I am, and will so greatly temper who I become, adding depth and understanding. All for the greater good, right? (And, thankfully, my life has had great deals of good in it, too. Living for the moment really has advantages.)
It’s a strange and turbulent time for me, though, and I’m wising up pretty quickly in the process. I’m also proving very quickly to myself that I can in fact make all the change I’m dreaming of become a reality. I’m doing it week by week, accomplishing more of my vision, and the feeling is an aphrodisiac for itself; doing it makes you want to do more of it, despite the ordeals that may lead up to the payoff.
It’s a wearying toil sometimes, and an emotional road. Like any epic roadtrip, rest stops are required. This weekend’s a rest stop. I’m at the end of another phase of the reinvention of Steff, and a little quiet time is needed so I can mentally map the next segment of this journey of mine.
Having a clear idea of the real, constructive steps I must take to make my dreams become reality is by far the most important part of my battle. I couldn’t do this every week if I didn’t know the real steps I can take that will always yield real results, results that add up into moments of change.
And I guess when I was sitting there yesterday thinking of why it is Barack Obama’s tremendous speech on race and the struggles that must be faced to conquer demons of the past in order to actualize a nation held in the ideals of its very own framework, the constitution, I couldn’t help but think of how much it is I feel I am entitled to but have not yet earned, and how much I need to understand where it is I’m coming from before I can truly know where it is I’m going.
I cannot say how great it feels to be able to reference a political speech as a thing of inspiration. These have not been inspiring times to live through of late, and to find such a thing of hope and realism on the political landscape was and is a jarring experience, but one I’m beginning to hope there’s a lot more of.
Meanwhile, for me, it’s back to the musings of a closed mind. Enjoy your day, good people.

I’ve now both read Obama’s entire speech on racism in America today and watched it, and, boy, I like this guy, man. I like him a lot. I think he’s the politician I’ve waited a lifetime for. I don’t think anyone could run on a platform of complete change and not achieve any. I don’t think you can articulate what’s so wrong with a country today and not have had ideas for a lifetime on what to do to fix them if a chance ever comes.

I have, for a while now, believed that Obama is, in some respects, a master manipulator, but I believe he does it for the right reasons — to make himself a viable candidate. By not polarizing people too greatly earlier in his career, he can stomp his feet a little louder now and achieve more through it.

He’s far from perfect and I have no illusions, but you gotta understand where I’m coming from.

I never pursued my journalism career for any number of reasons, but mostly because of what Stevie Cameron said to me over drinks after a conference she spoke at. (And I mean “said to me”, it was a private chat.) Stevie Cameron’s the journalist who exposed Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney to be a duplicitous thieving hack back in the day and blew open the Airbus scandal. She’s up there with Barbara Frum when it comes to awesome female Canadian journalists, man.

So, she says to me I seem like a nice kid (I was 22). She had recently quit the mainstream political journalism beat and was now editing a women’s lifestyle magazine instead. She began to speak about how a career in journalism means committing to a life of finding fault in everything and everyone. It’s about finding problems and covering tragedies and wars and more often reporting on the worst of mankind than the best of it.

And I mentioned how I wanted to be the kind of old-school journalist that lasts out the ages, you know? Mencken, Murrow. Men of meaning and agenda. I wanted to call the world on what was going wrong, point it out, and be a part of the change that ensues. I was then and am now the sort of journalist that believes neutrality is overrated. I’m objective, not neutral. Then, I was an idealist, totally. I wanted to help change the world.

So she says, “And when it doesn’t change on your watch? What then?”

She pointed out the rates of addiction and alcoholism amongst the journalists she knew, and said that was often “what then”, so if change was my mandate, I should be prepared for stagnation and cycnicism.

Wasn’t the most heartwarming bit of encouragement I’ve ever received, no.

And I thought about it. I knew the writer I wanted to be, the kinds of things I wanted to do, but what if I fell short and I was some chick on a beat in the city, constantly exposed to the same shit all the time, never seeing change… who would I become then? Would I like myself? Would I like my life? Or, would I, as I suspect, feel vapid and empty inside?

Ironically, I’ve yet to become that writer I wanted to be, but I guess I’m working towards it.

When it came to shaping the writer I am, I was a huge Hunter Thompson fan, early Hunter, you know. Sharp as a tack politically. Fear & Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72 stands as one of the best political books last century. Hell, he was the only writer on the campaign to call every single primary in the ’72 election, nailed ’em all. Whatever that tells you about his political skills, it should really tell you how well he knew his country.

He loved America but hated what was happening to it. Thompson, more than anyone alive, wanted to believe the American Dream. He spent his life waiting for the next voice that would cry out that a change would be a-comin’. He wanted to believe that someone else not only believed in the American Dream but would fight for it with the fight it deserved.

And Carter tried, but pretty much failed, but beyond Carter, that change never did materialize. Clinton looked like the next great white hope, but that ended in a disaster of cigars, blue dresses, and denials. More business as usual, more corruption, more disappointment.

The greatest tragedy of this race to lead the Democrats is that, man, Hunter woulda loved this one. God, how I wish he hadn’t put a bullet in his head that February day two years ago. I suspect he figured “Superbowl’s over, and Bush has two fuckin’ years to go, AND it’s February. Fuck, I’m done.” Pow. Tragic.

And here comes this guy who says America’s really, really broke, but if we all pull together, we can fix it again. He’s preaching change. He’s raising money on the web, running a clean campaign, chanting words like “we can” and “change”.

Business as usual ain’t going to fix America. Voting outside the box, though, just might. Obama ain’t perfect, but he’s different enough to be promising.

…And in a life filled with business as usual and disappointing politicians, I’m being given a few short months to believe that, yeah, maybe things can be different after all. I’m enjoying it. If he wins, it’d be incredible to see an optimistic America again. I don’t think Americans realize that the America of the American Dream is the nation the rest of the world really does long to see. We wanna see a country with its “best” at its forefront. It’s been a long, long time since we’ve seen that. America was built on dreams… having a few more right now certainly might not hurt.

I don’t think I’m an idealist to believe in a platform of change. I think of myself as a realist… I know we have it in us to have a better world. I prefer to believe in that part of us that finds cures for diseases, sends men to the moon, and creates global vehicles like the internet to unite us all through the miles that would appear to separate us. I believe that everything great about who we are, the world we have, and the people we can be all begins with a single dream by a single person at a moment in time.

If we waited for perfect people and perfect opportunities, we’d never achieve anything. Instead, we look for the best people of those available and the best opportunity that avails itself to us; that is how success is found and had.

So I’m going to go on the record here and now that it’s Obama I want on Pennsylvania Avenue.

(And here’s hoping that his comments on racism will do what Hurricane Katrina almost did, but failed to do: ignite a real, meaningful discussion of what’s wrong between the races in the United States today. It’s a problem we see very clearly up here in Canada, something that is very much a difference between our nations… our inner cities are racially blended. Sure, there’s poverty, but it gets spread around more. In the US, the colour blocks are a startling thing to behold, and something I would love to see changed in my lifetime. But it’s a huge topic for another time.)

I had a comment left yesterday on my posting from last Friday, in which I flippantly lauded “Steak and Blowjob Day”.

To save you from doing actual work, I’ll excerpt Virago’s well-written comment, and the ensuing comments from yours truly (and HER last reply) here:

Virago:
“Steak and Blowjob Day”? Because sex in relationships isn’t about mutually consenting, loving sexual acts (including oral), it’s about tricking your girlfriend into sucking you off while you watch TV and eat a MANLY chunk of dead animal. Just as VDay is about forcing your man to buy you poorly-made consumer capitalist crap to ‘prove’ how much he cares.

VDay and ‘S&B Day’, enforcing the gender roles that women only put out when plied with gifts and diamonds, and that all men really want is a housewife/mother and a sex slave.

Me:
You know, it’s funny. I’m totally torn on Steak & BJ day. On the one hand, I agree with you. On the other, I think it’s entertaining. I guess it would totally come down to the guy I was with, whether I’d think it could be fun or not.

Unfortunately, there’s probably a lot of men out there who wouldn’t see it as something amusing… as soon as a sense of “entitlement” enters the picture, it stops being a fun thing.

Virago’s reply:
I think you’ve hit the nail on the head there. If it was part of a jokey ‘hey hun, it was Chocolate Ice Cream and pussy eating day last week, now it’s steak and a blowjob day’ thang then it’d be fine, just a bit of fun. Sadly I think a lot of guys, as you pointed out, would see it as “hell yeah, I’m entitled to a blowjob, because I’m always doin’ shit like listening to her and not hittin her around so much as I used to”, in which case it is to be rigorously opposed. If necessary with baseball bats 😉

Here’s the deal. When I write about “guys”, my somewhat shallow notion of men in general by way of the ones I’ve known, loved, lost, forgotten, what have you, I’m generally coming from a good place.

Most of the men I’ve known, hell, all of them, have known “please” and “thank you”. I’ve never been insulted or run down, mistreated in any really cruel way. I’ve never been hit or slapped. Things that have gone wrong have been pretty run-of-the-mill things, things that are complicated to explain and that I barely even understand now, years after the fact, except the infidelity, which is pretty easy for anyone to relate to.

No man I’ve ever been with has ever had a sense of entitlement to me or my time. Because I’d never, ever, ever settle for that kind of guy. I wouldn’t settle for the kind of guy who’d put me down, abuse me, demand things of me, or disrespect me.

I don’t demand good behaviour, I just expect it. There’s a difference. I behave how I expect to be treated: I show respect, I’m generous, I’m open, I listen. And I expect all of that in return. I don’t get it, then I know where the door is.

[FYI: This doesn’t mean I feel fluffy and warm towards my exes. Visit me here where I live, Planet Earth, where past + relationships seldom = thumbs up.]

Yet, there are assholes out there. Not so much in my life, but they’re out there.

Unfortunately, I choose not to preface all my statements or postings with qualifications because some fuckwits have to go complicating my storytelling. I mean, really: “This following posting, when speaking of “men”, is actually referencing a select 57.6% of men who don’t think of spouses as glorified beer-fetching units.”

Assholes suck. Pricks with senses of entitlement deserve neither a steak, nor a blowjob. I’d rather not incriminate myself by suggesting what some of these men do deserve. But I have a really, really creative imagination and I love “dark” movies.

And, yes, it holds true that the always constant of pricks in the male race should be omnipresent in females as well. Where there are assholes, there are wenches.

So, I say this to you now: Mean people suck.

They do. Bumperstickers prove it. Polls are overwhelmingly showing that mean people are really, really disliked.

Therefore.

Therefore, only truly, truly nice guys who don’t think they really even deserve a steak and a blowjob, but, boy, they sure could use one, should be given a steak and a blowjob.

But since those are generally the only kinds of guys I tend to date (and they usually really, really enjoy steaks and blowjobs, I’ve found, albeit rather separately) then, you know, yeah, I’m not opposed to the gifting of said elements of delight.

Were I dating fuckheads who thought I existed only as a beer matron and blowjob-giver, I’d have one hell of a different perspective. Rightly so. In fact, the one guy I was with a long while ago who always “expected” blowjobs as part of the package stopped getting them. Hmm. Go figger.

I was raised to never settle, to never allow others to hurt me, and to never allow anyone to speak down to me. I try not to hurt others or speak down to them, and should hope I never cause anyone to settle. Living by these things hasn’t failed me yet, and I prefer to live a life where I think they won’t ever fail me. I’d rather believe the best in others than suspect the worst.

So, being a little vulnerable and making a gift of a steak and a blowjob might be something I’d do for a guy I knew saw the humour in it, but I’d probably do it out of the blue and not on a restricted “day”, because I’m non-conformist like that and it’s just how I roll.

But in restrospect, it was a stupid, flippant posting, and I shouldn’t have posted it without a little more insight, but I haven’t really been in my right head of late, as you may have gathered. 🙂

Mean people suck. No blowjob for you, meanie, and I’m keeping the steak. Behave, be nice, and the possibilities are endless.

Aw, minions. Someone call the office and tell ’em I’m never coming in again.

Okay, that’s just the kneejerk Monday reaction. Why? Because I can’t even begin to believe how much I’ve gotten done this weekend. I’m clearly indestructible. Obviously those Borg implants have made me into a tower of force.

I mean, I even assembled tricky Ikea things this weekend, man. I came, I painted, I reassembled, I tidied, I conquered. And now I’d like to die, but instead I’m chowing down on Shredded Wheat with strong coffee chasers, dreading 7.5 hours of work flanked by rainy scooter rides wearing my no-longer-waterproof riding gear. Perfect Monday morning.

But I’m almost done around the house, man! Yeah! (Okay, not even close, but… Hey! Serious progress! “Day” projects remain, but no more “weekend” projects.)

And the things I’ve come across. Finally I can end the all-consuming hunt for the Babysitter’s Certificate I lost 22 years ago. It’s been located. Whew, what a stress off my mind. Wow. I can resurrect my long-lost babysitting career after two decades of hiatus. Hell, I even found my “Cooking with Mom” cookbook I made my mom when I was in Kindergarten (1979). Let’s make cookies!

Nothing like completely rearranging your home, painting everything, swapping out furniture, and going through every little thing on the way to give you the world’s biggest glimpse at what has been your life. Man, I felt like a beaming white spotlight was going to land on me and a big voice would boom, “Scribe Called Steff, THIS is YOUR life!”

“Remember this rock? You found this on Nye Beach in the spring of ’99 and turned it into a pen holder! You industrious girl! Remember the promise you made your maker as you stared out on the rollicking Oregon ocean? That’s right! Say it with me…”

Very, very, very weird weekend. This is what happens when you spend too much time alone. Way too many lapses into yesteryear remembrances this weekend. Weird, weird times.

The good news is, my self-imposed isolation is over. Now I start peeling back the layers and start having a life again. And now that the gruelling physical labour’s done around my house, I need to bring the stairclimbing back in. Plus, the exciting experience of cooking food. Real, healthy food. One more fucking frozen pizza and I’ll take a fillet-knife to the stockboy, man.

By the end of tonight my kitchen will be clean and the Spackle dust and grime will finally be eradicated. A cook-worthy kitchen could be had! Maybe even as soon as tomorrow, a salad could loom! Green! Fresh! No cheese! No Spackle dust! WOW.

The hard part now will be continuing the weight loss and muscle-building. Hence why I need to get the food thing solved quickly, and why, despite bone-weary exhaustion, cleaning the kitchen’s the only thing I care to achieve tonight (and why I’m splurging on my all-time fave takeout for fuel to do just that). I mean, 10, 12 pounds down during a three-week beer and pizza binge? Granted, I counted some calories, but still, on general principal, it’s just wrong to lose weight when beer and pizza is involved. Now come the trick of actual weight-loss through lifestyle. 24 pounds and counting? Blah. 😛

And, in the next day or two, all the paint fumes might finally subside and my brain’s synapses may start firing again, yielding possibly interesting blogging.

But… thank you all for hanging in and letting me bore you with my adventures in decor. Y’all rock.

Soon, back to life amongst the living, and photographic evidence of all I’ve achieved around Le Pad du Steff. Enjoy your Monday.

I had a realization recently. I have never, ever lost weight in the winter. Until this year, of course.

I weighed myself yesterday morning. I’m down 10 pounds since the middle of February, but I’ve gained a lot of muscle too, so I’m now told I look “markedly fitter” since my friend WB last saw me mid-February. I showed him my driver’s license, taken on my birthday, September 29th last year, in which my face was way, way fatter.

He did a mini-jawdrop and smiled. “That’s quite some difference over a winter!”

I felt awesome. Still do.

The numbers:

The “goal jacket” I bought before Christmas, 3 inches tight on me, pretty much fits me now but could be looser. 🙂 I’ve lost 24 pounds since mid-October. I’d lost 18 a couple weeks before Christmas, but thanks to receiving 3 HUGE food baskets as gifts for Christmas…

Okay, who gives food baskets to fat people for Christmas? How is this a good gift? Would you give a heroin junkie a bag of smack and tell him “Hey! It’s only once a year”? What the fuck? Not one basket, but THREE.

Caramel popcorn! (Don’t get me started. Hull-less, kernel-less caramel popcorn? [shudder] A local product you’d kill for, man.) Nachos! Nuts, nuts, and, yes, nuts! (And nuts, nuts, and…) Cheese, salami, and everything else you can think of. One of the baskets was easily $150. Beautiful.

…I gained eight pounds in about 3 weeks. But it was so good, and I knew it’d hurt.

So I’ve lost 14 pounds in 6 weeks. Not bad. And, lately, I’ve had too much pizza and even a few McGriddles, thanks to all the painting, and beer almost nightly, but I’ve still lost 3 pounds. Heh. ‘Cos while I’m painting my apartment, I make it as strenous as I can, squatting to paint trim, not sitting on the floor. Reaching as far as I can, things like that. Toning up something fierce. Also, I’m always conscious of the calories, which is huge in this. When I’m “blowing out” a day, I’ll even still try to keep it to 2,600 or so calories, nothing too insane, and I have to either have worked out or been doing physical work, so I think it’s self-negating. Not healthy, but self-negating.

And the spring’s coming up. I lost 35 pounds over the summer a few years back, and all my weight loss was from exercising. (Meaning I never, ever counted calories back then and really had no idea how to do it. Now I’m much more informed. MUCH.)

I only ever gained 10 of that back, which is pretty good. But I’ll lose much more this year. My goal, 40 more pounds by my birthday. Here’s willing. Never mind hoping.

I’m now 5 pounds from my weight in college (15 years ago now that I started college), which’ll be a wickedly good landmark to hit, hopefully the next two weeks, and I got another weekend of painting. Plus, it’s Spring now, and I can begin adding cycling to my highrise-stairclimbing routing (which is what’s responsible for this fabulous ass I’m beginning to get. Bubbly!) so I can’twait to see what my fitness is like in six months!

In short, I’m having a nice moment. 🙂

This October will be the 10th anniversary of the Mathew Shepard fatal gay bashing, in which a young man from Laramie, Wyoming, was beaten nearly to death and then strung upon a fence in rural Wyoming and left so that time could finish him off.

Because he was gay.

First, I thought “Wow, 10 years.” Then, I thought “Man, only 10 years?”

I guess, then, that it’s no surprise that a clip has gone viral on YouTube of Okahoma State Rep. Sally Kern denouncing homosexuality as a plague and instrument of destruction far worse than terrorism or Islam.*

[Click here for the Victory Fund’s anonymous whistle-blowing original posting of the clip, with bad quality audio, or click here for a boring version but edited with normalisation ie: good audio.]

It’s so fucking weird. Isn’t it? I mean… Ohh. I only now listened to it, and I have to say I had something that I really only rarely get: the heebie-jeebies. Damn! This woman gives me the heebie-jeebies!

It’s like discovering cockroaches in your house. Oh my god. How’d they get here? Gasp. Just when I thought we were safe.

How has this woman gone unexposed this long? She actually thinks this shit? Un-fucking-real. Trouble is… just like the cockroach analogy, you know she’s not alone.

It ain’t “she”… she’s just a symbol for “they”. She’s the one who got caught. Things like this get said. You better believe they do. They just get said where there are secret handshakes and double-talk. Every now and then someone slips up and somebody else exposes it. And thank god they do. (Way to go, Victory Fund.)

You expect to hear political hacks spout this shit in countries that missed the “separating church from state” lesson at dictator school, like fucking Nigeria or Saudi Arabia, not in the USA.

I’m sorry, man, but I’m never, ever gonna buy that hating someone’s a good way to live. I disagree with beliefs, lifestyles, personalities, fads, and pundits, but it doesn’t give cause to do a whole lot of hating. I mean, I even think George Bush is a likable guy. I’m a sucker for a goofy grin.

But these people… these so-fucking-called religious types, be they Islamists or Christians or whatever, who claim they love their maker then seek to hate something he/she/it created make me sick. Physically ill. That, I can hate. That’s hypocrisy. That’s living a lie. That’s flat-out bullshit.

And I can sit here and call it names all day, but there’s nothing I’m really able to do to fight hypocrisy. It’s one of the only things that’s an easily unwinnable war. All you can do is keep telling the truth, saying it like it is, demonstrating the harm in their behaviour, and hope like hell the day they see things in a real light comes sooner than later. ‘Cause, man, sooner or later everyone winds up on a deathbed and most, if not all, will lament having lived a life in which they loved too few people.

These guys, natch, are at the head of the list of lamenters. You can’t hate someone for electing to choose who they love. As if homosexuality was something as simple as a choice, which it’s not. You can’t hate someone for being born with a desire to love their same sex counterparts, especially if you believe your god did in fact make all men in his image.

It’s bogus. Worse, it’s a hate crime. What this woman said is an offense against all homosexuals. It is a call to action. It is a cry for a revolt. She accuses gays of “infiltrating” city councils and all levels of government. Assures her listeners that any society to have ever embraced homosexuality openly was doomed to end in horror within decades. Homosexuality, she says in far less intelligent ways, is the doomsdayer of civilisation and the slayer of empires. I’m sure she feels the rallying cry of gays everywhere is just what Bin Laden would say, “Death to America”.

But Kern fights charges that she’s hate-bashing gays by saying it’s only the RICH ones, the ones with the AGENDAS that she takes issues with. Kinda like back in the ’50s when it was only the “uppity” blacks they’d have a problem with, huh? The ones who, I dunno, maybe thought they deserved to be treated equal in a country claiming to be founded on the principal that all men are equal?

Yeah, agenda. Agend this, Kern.

Fucking redneck political hack. And she’s been voted in? Yeah, this should be entertaining.

The only reassuring thing is, Will & Grace had 8 hit seasons, and ain’t no fuckin’ Okie taking that away. I’m no Nielsen’s expert but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t only gays watching. For eight years. And the show went on air the year Mathew Shepard died… and ten years isn’t that long after all. But, psst… it’s not just a sitcom, it’s a sign we’re starting to win this. Ignorance can be overcome. We gotta believe.

America needs to talk about this. This needs to be an issue. This is a hate crime in the guise of a political discussion. It’s 2008 in the land of “the free”. It’s time to fuckin’ decide: Free — A principal, or just a friggin’ buzz word to sell flags?

If it’s a principal, then it involves love too, baby.

(Oh, and, Oklahomans, if you’re insulted I mention Okies derisively here, then do something about it and get this fucking redneck off your state’s slate NOW, not in fuckin’ November. Create a movement. I’m just saying. Money and action where mouth is goes a long ways on this here issue. Here’s an article in the Tulsa World paper, though. Apparently she’s unleashed a shitstorm of discussion down there in Oklahoma and is on quite the defensive. Goodie.)

My living room: Chaos personnified. Everything in my bedroom is being changed, so every drawer has been emptied upon my floor. Laundry is piled in the corner. Painting dropcloths are everywhere. Empty bottles of Anchor Steam beer mark the landscape like roadsigns for a weary worker. Walking across the living room is impossible, but instead requires yogic contortioning to squeeze through awkward openings and a watchful eye so as not to step on anything fragile.

In short, my world has literally been turned upside down, and the remaining hours of this day are to be used to reverse that… Until I get my new bedroom furniture Tuesday and become Miss Ikea-Assembler WunderWorker, and, Friday, begin painting my hallway in a screaming crimson red. Work, work, work.

So, you have some idea of what I’m going through, and soon it’ll all come to an earth-quaking stop as I finally have about 2/3s of the painting done I’ve been wanting to do for the last couple years, and have one more four-day weekend to make sense of it all. (There’s the living and kitchen spaces I plan to paint sometime in the next three months, but girl needs a fuckin’ break, so, I’m divvying up the conquering a tad, and the rest can get done in a couple days when I wrangle friends for a painting party.)

Here’s the thing, though.

There was a time a couple years ago when I thought I could never do this mad-cap painting stunt again. I mean, I had serious whiplash twice in a year, two serious concussions, and I fucked up my right shoulder twice, also, that year. I spent the better part of the next two years getting past those injuries, but never imagined that I’d have the arm and neck strength to do work of this calibre again.

Obviously those fears died down over the last year or so, but I’m still shocked as hell that, not only can I do all this painting, but I no longer get the after-effect migraines I used to get from over-exerting my neck/shoulders.

In short, I’m bone-tired, weary as all hell, but I feel all right. I feel like I know, finally, that every injury I had is almost completely non-existent these days. There’s a mental freedom that comes with finally realizing “You know, I’m okay” that can’t be explained in words. It’s one thing to be grateful to survive an accident you should’ve died in, but it’s hard to cultivate that gratitude when you spend day after day for two years in constant pain. To finally be free of all that pain, and to finally have all the abilities back I once thought I lost… I don’t know. A wave of gratitude rushed over me last night as I felt the last of all those burdens lifting. Now I truly feel the gratitude of surviving. Now I’m excited for all that’s before me.

But another thought also occurred to me yesterday. The last time I decorated this much was right before I broke through six years of writer’s block for once and for all (I have a lot of interesting notions on writer’s block and I disagree with those who say “there’s no such thing” but agree that it’s always something that can be overcome)… and, I got to thinking about what this colour-splurge might mean to me.

And I can’t help but think it’ll mean splendid things for my writing. I know I can write. I know I can write really, really well sometimes. Most of the time, though, my writing’s pretty run-of-the-mill, because, for the longest time, I’ve been bored to tears. Bored, bored, bored. Bored with my life, bored with my home, bored with myself. Bored.

Pushing the envelope with some painting around the house doesn’t seem like a radical move, but it really is. By consciously choosing to live with big colours and drastically reinventing my home, I’m creating a major new creative environment. I’m consciously telling the world that a) things need to change, and b) I deserve better, more, anything I want. That I’m still organizing more as I go not only means I’m culling the chaos in my world, but I’m forcing myself to confront memories of my past that I may have wanted to ignore a while longer… something every writer should be forced to do, especially if writing really is the perennial quest for truth.

It’s a huge self-defining endeavour I’m in the midst of here, and while my writing might be somewhat boring “Oh, she’s painting again” right now, I guarantee you, I’m on the verge of a creative goldmine here. I know I am. I know what’s happening inside of me, the percolating bursts of creativity, the wanting to have more to say, the wondering of where and how to seed those notions and make them grow.

You can’t physically change your world and your surroundings to the degree I am, and not have that somehow redefine who you are.

I guess all I’m saying is, I know I’m a somewhat redundant blogger right now, and that’s just weariness and too-much-work-no-play resulting in the obvious, but, I’m telling you, people, you just wait. Things will get much better around here very, very soon. I’m painting the boring out of my life, and everything else will follow. I don’t know much about the world but I know a lot about myself, and I’m tellin’ ya. Creatively, I know I’m about fit to burst. Should be a very fun spring for my freshly-sprung mind.

Thanks for your patience. Now, back to Labour Steff and her Domestic Endeavours.

I’m almost at the bottom of my first coffee at the ripe hour of 12:44 pm and a painting job staring me down, ugly end up, after a morning spent prepping for the event.

My bedroom’s a shithole of spackle, drop cloths, and walls crying out “Get me wet! Paint me!”

Me, I’m thinking “What the fuck have I done?” I’m tired NOW, man. Nonetheless, I’m about 5 minutes and 250 characters away from doing something about it.

Today’s exciting colour is Exotic Grass from the Debbie Travis line at Canadian Tire. It’s a very spring green, that colour you see on grasses by the river in the height of spring, vibrant and fresh. Later this week I buy a new bed and I’ll order the duvet off the net, too. Very exciting stuff. This colour’s both energetic and calming, so it’ll be a great palette for a bedroom, methinks. This will be the first time I’ve redone EVERYTHING about a room, so I’m just so stoked. It’s the boost I need to do what I ain’t got the energy to get done.

‘Cause, my living room… oh, god. Everything’s in here. It’s a disaster. I’m five minutes away from a psychotic break, I imagine. So… if you’re wondering where I am, if I somehow get lost in this self-induced madness (with great payoff, ask me in 72 hours) and don’t pop in for a boo, then you know where I am. Getting a lobotomy, having a hot bath, or painting. Then there’s the party tomorrow night, where I at least get to drink. But the rest of the weekend will be all painting. Fun!

God. Some days I think it’d be nice to be one of those lazy people who just puts things in places and doesn’t decorate. And then there are days like I’ll soon have, where I look around at the home that’s mine, and think how fortunate I am to be me. This is the thought that pushes me through this wearisome toil. Grunt.

Awwright. Lemme at that paint. Time to get it done, man.

As you may or may not know, weightloss is a running theme in my life these days. I’m still drinking beer, having the occasional treats, and still haven’t cut out pizza, so I’m clearly not all kamikaze about it. I’m living a little smarter, but I’m still living. (Beer, pizza? Come on! Moderation, right?)

I’m down 8 pounds since the start of February, back on track with the weightloss I’d began in October, down 23 pounds overall.

The last month of stairclimbing (on hold as I’m semi-sick right now) has been sculpting a fierce ass and has resulted in crazy-good changes in The Bathtub Test. TBT is when you guage how much volume your body has lost via how much water you’re displacing in your tub. A very easy thing to guage in the world’s smallest 1950s bath tub, like your favourite blogger has (and in mint-green, no less). Lovin’ how I’m creating extra room in my itty-bitty tub.

But all is not bliss in the land of slimmin’-down Steffs.

No, there’s the panty issue. It was easier when I was Just Fat and could buy all my panties from the same plus-size girl store. Now, though, the plus-size girl store’s panties are too big, so I’ve been having to shop around.

And now everyone’s got completely different sizing for underwear. I buy large or extra large, and it’s anywhere from skin-cutting-too-tight to fall-down loose. It’s ridiculous.

I’m all for free enterprise, really, but why can’t we have fucking sizes regulated? Make ’em universal! My ass wants nice-fitting panties that feel cute and form-fitting. Is that so wrong? I have a couple dozens of undies in weird sizes, and I swear to god, like, four of ’em fit perfectly. How hard is it to have uniform sizes? A man can go on the moon, but a chick can’t buy undies from different manufacturers without taking a risk?

Today, I don’t want fame, riches, or glory. I want panties that fit my new bubble butt. Damn it.

I was amused this morning to catch a news clip revealing that American Idol‘s curmudgeonly judge Simon Cowell (“if it’s not black, grey, or pale blue, I won’t wear it”) rejected an offer by Viagra to be their new spokesman. Cowell said he was “offended” by the offer.
Good for him. I think Viagra’s too popular. It’s ridiculous.
There are men who really require it and I’m thrilled they have that option. A lot of men, however, simply don’t seem to be properly in control of their penises. It’s a muscle, guys. Learn how to make it stronger.
Christ. One of my friends back when once commented that the greatest thing he ever did for his sex life — and his penis — was to start taking yoga. Yoga* isn’t the sissy exercise it looks like, it’s hard, but it’s a mental thing, too. It teaches you how to isolate muscles, how to mentally focus on tensing and relaxing them — a skill many of us are lacking, even when it comes to things like simply knowing how to relax our whole bodies at bedtime, let alone how to fire individual muscles.
Instead of learning how to master penises, a lot of young guys are running to their nearest doc and trying to score Viagra. They want to think that because their penis is fired up and ready to go for hours that their lover’s somehow going to want exactly that.
Some women will, yeah. But I guarantee you, most women would rather be with a guy who’s naturally ready to go for that length, who can ramp his performance up and down to match the mood of his lover. Those women, when confronted with Energizer Bunny man who wants to fuck for hours just so he can say he did, will probably wind up making mental to-do lists of their chores around the house by the time he finishes his redundant fuckfest, since he’s so focused on just being a longtime lover rather than a good one.
The number of women complaining about “Vaigrafied” men will, I guarantee ya, be escalating in the future. Women physically need more stoking before the sex stage of the game, and given how many women can’t come from intercourse alone, this whole Manly Man How Long Can I Last game just doesn’t compute.
Yoga* is directly related to the ancient art of Tantric Lovemaking. You’ve heard about Sting and his magical penis that can have sex for hours and hours without coming? Sting does yoga, man.
But, no. I guess that’s too much work. Or is it just that? Maybe it’s just another symptom of our I-want-it-when-I-want-it flash-cooking, fast-food Instamatic society of ours.
We live in a society where everything needs to be fixed with pills. Pills should be our last choices. I know taking an anti-depressant was my last choice after nothing else I was doing made a dent in my horrible depression two years ago.
But men are running too easily to Viagra instead of trying to see what else they’re doing wrong with their lives that might be affecting their ability to stay erect. Bad diets can deflate penises. Being overweight can deflate penises. Not exercising can make a penis sad, too.
Is it a simple thing to overcome? No. Yoga’s hard. Eating well is hard. Exercising regularly is hard.
Being a good lover is hard. It is. It’s work. It’s being self-less and tuning in to what your lover needs. It’s ignoring your wants in order to deliver theirs. It takes focus, stamina, understanding, empathy, versatility, flexibility, time, patience, and, shit, even psychic abilities. Being a good lover takes time, man.
It ain’t about a little fuckin’ blue pill. If you’re running to a bottle of Viagra in the hopes that it’s going to save your sex life, the reality is, your problems are probably far more reaching than just a soft-too-soon weenie.
Yes. Some men really need to use it, and it’s recharged their lives like nothing else.
The rest of the men, however, really need to learn how to better use their penises. For that, they need: yoga, KEGEL EXERCISES**, a better diet, regular exercise, and the ability to understand that a woman’s orgasm is about her body and not just about yours.
**Kegels: Many online resources write about them only for women to do post-birth as a way of tightening up their vaginal muscles again, but this is bogus. Kegels are good for men and women of all ages and will help with your ability to control your orgasm. If you’re a woman unable to orgasm, this will help you towards that goal by empowering you to better control your physical reactions. If you’re a guy who doesn’t get hard enough, it will probably help you get harder, plus it helps your endurance (but if your cardio sucks, having a penis stay hard longer isn’t your ticket to ride, friends). Read about Kegels on Wiki, but try the external links at the bottom, or do a Google search for a Kegel method of exercising that works for you. Plus… you can do Kegels sitting at your desk at work. You can get paid to enhance your own orgasms. Lovely thought that, eh? Once you figure out how to isolate and fire your pelvic floor muscles for Kegels, firing the same muscles during yoga will further enhance the effect of Kegelling your way to better sex abilities.