Creativity is a fickle mistress, and right now my mistress is screwing someone else.

It’s not like this is some Seussian endeavour of creativity. It’s a blog. It’s not even a fiction-oriented blog. It’s non-fiction. Easy-peasy, really. It’s almost like a formula of sorts.

(My Day + Some Thoughts) ÷ Logic x Reason = Nifty Blog

But aside from the fact that mathematics sucks ass and I failed in my quest for the Ultimate Geekette Award, creativity and inspiration have just not been striking many of my chords of late.

I did, however, minor in Geekology back in school, so I’ll have you know that I’ve been attacking this lack of creativity with a logic as fierce as a cat on a fat mouse. I keep tripping over myself and blaming myself six ways to Sunday for all different reasons about why I feel like some impotent version of myself, but it’s really not that complicated.

There’s the new job thing, for starters. Complex learning curve, but the plus side of that coin is that I’m clearly a driven, hard-working person with extremely high efficiency and a great way with the people, so the Powers That Be have deemed it time to make my lowly part-time office assistant into a full-time one. (I’m the office manager. Yes, I have peons. It was alluded today that I even have a whip to crack. C-r-a-c-k!)

Add to that the rather questionable decision weeks ago to do what might be the worst thing I can do for my creativity but the best thing I can do for my health (quit smoking dope, which had been largely chronic for much of the last eight years), and, yeah, it’s proving to be a humdinger. I’m more foggy straight than I ever was stoned. Jesus, where’s my dealer’s number?

Then there’s the other thing. Money was a big stressor for the last several months. All of a sudden, just as of last Saturday, that’s beginning to ebb away. Jesus, where’s my dealer’s number?

So there’s hope. Really. There’s only one thing I do know. The creativity will surge again. I know it will. My ethic for writing and its importance to me ensures that.

This happens to us all — times fall upon us when we somehow find ourselves just a little less of who we are than we wish we were. It’s deceptive. The proverbial catch-22. When you know you’re not really being yourself, you often are closer to being who you are simply because you know you’re missing the mark.

Times like these are like falling down a big ol’ hill: just because you know how you got to where you are doesn’t mean you can make your way back. Sometimes you need a new way home, and most of the time you’re gonna see some good sights along the way. It’s not a bad thing, just different.

And it’s weird. I feel myself changing. I’m this malleable work in progress and some kind of shape is finally emerging, but I’m so close to it that it’s almost too hard to see. I need to get a little distance, but being so caught up in the frenzy, distance is something I won’t have until I have it. Like driving, the objects whizzing by us suddenly relocate and end up in our rearview mirrors. Perspective’s a funny thing that way.

Y’know, a part of me craves contributing to this blog and another part loathes it — mostly because the act of writing forces me to look inward, and being the logician I tend to be, I’m just constantly at a loss right now as to where my journey’s headed. I suspect, though, that buying a postcard’s in the plans because I think this is one trip I really, really want to remember.

What I’m trying to say is, bear with me. I’m caught in an intergalactic swirlie, and it’s hard to stop the flush. When I come out the other side, though, I know I’m going to marvel over just how far I’ve come. Trouble is, I don’t know how far I’m going, so “the other side” sounds like a fabled Tolkien landscape kids tell each other of in hushed voices as they gesture to a horizon the eye can’t even see.

Some days, though, I can close my eyes and almost touch it. I’m hoping I’ll soon open them and find it all around me. In the meantime, I’m just trying to enjoy the ride, bumpy though it may be.

(If you’re like me, pictureless posts look boring. So, I thought I’d post one of my own for the hell of it. This was taken at the beginning of the month, along the river, not too far from my home. A hundred years or so ago, there were a lot of shipyards and fisheries and such along the banks. Now most of those are gone in these parts, and the occasional bit like that still stands as a throwback to an age gone by. It somehow seemed fitting for this topic.)

A reader sent me some links on incest and asked for my take. There are two cases she indicated that are presently making waves, one in Ohio and the other in Germany.

In Germany, a brother & sister are married with four children (two were born with handicaps) and the law is cracking down on them. Now, they didn’t grow up together. He was an adopted child who finally decided to find his birth mother when he was 23, in year 2000. He then met his birth sister, who was then 15. The particulars of their relationship weren’t disclosed in the story I read, save to say they had the four kids after he began caring for her when their mother passed away and she became an orphan. The guy’s now been found guilty of incest and a 25-month jail term has been doled out to him.

Some are calling the laws against incest legal relics and say this is a new age needing a new perspective on the engaging of sexual relations between siblings.

Then there’s the Ohio case. In that one, a 44-year-old guy’s trying to win the right to continue the sexual relationship that has begun with his 22-year-old stepdaugher.

So, the reader wants my two cents on the whole realm of incestuous relationships.

Uh, they’re wrong?

Sure, it gets complicated when the involved parties pass the age of consent. Or does it? Does the law have the right to get involved? That’s the original sticky wicket, really. Consent is consent is consent, isn’t it? See, in the scenario where “the couple” are married, you might think, “Well, they’re over 18 and kids are involved, so…” But when did it begin?

Same with the step-father/daughter relationship. Who’s to say it didn’t begin with him sneaking into the bedroom when she was 11, whispering sweet-nothings and spending the next decade of his life trying to convince her she couldn’t live without him, as some pedophiles are so slick are doing?

Bear with me on a tangent here. In the Virginia Massacre last week, there was a lot of controversy regarding the discovery that the shooter had been off his rocker for a number of years, yet no authorities had been able to successfully commit him long-term because the right of the individual was being protected instead of the rights of the many. Meaning they followed the letter of the law instead of following the essence of the law — which is that laws exist to protect the many, not just the individual, and sometimes difficult choices must be made. If you bend the laws to commit one guy who really does seem off his rocker, you make it easier to wrongly commit someone else down the road. At what point does lowering the bar leave the masses at risk? It would seem you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

This is somewhat on the same wavelength. The trouble with giving in to a few incestuous relationships because the situations are seemingly working and consensual means that the many will be left more vulnerable in the wake of a more lenient approach to those certain individuals. This is probably why nutbags like last week’s shooter fall through the cracks, because bending the law for one case would leave the average person more vulnerable to a system that’s overexerting its reach in the claim that they’re pursuing the “greater good”. Kantism is a great theory but could lead to some very questionable legal tactics in our society.

I’m sure there must be the occasional incident where it would make sense to allow incest to occur. Maybe it’s sometimes a beautiful thing. But if bending the laws and ignoring the social morals that deem it so unforgiveable means more youths will be at risk of being sexually preyed upon by family members than are at present, then I think we need to stay the course.

I’ve known far too many women and men left fragmented by their family members who thought it their right to force them into sexual unions through simple manipulation or more overt means. They’ve then spent their lives licking their wounds and trying to figure out what they did wrong to bring that abuse upon themselves.

It’s hard enough to win those battles without having the law soften its approach just because a few people have reached an agreement to engage in incest. The scars of love run deep in all of us, and family’s hard enough without throwing more sex, mindgames, and legal conundrums into the mix.

What can I say? I’m an old-fashioned gal.

But how about YOUR two cents, eh?

This Don Imus debate is raging longer than I thought it would. It’s a catalyst for something bigger, or so I’m hoping. It’s interesting, because, being the whore that I am for Oprah’s more insightful shows (not the lame celebrity crap), she’s been tackling the drama from the perspective of just how denigrating (African-American) culture is towards African-American women. The spin is more or less that if they can’t respect themselves within their culture, then how can they ever expect others to respect them?

It’s really the age-old cultural chicken-or-the-egg scenario: What comes first, self-respect or respect from others? Can you respect yourself if no one else respects you? Or can you cause others to respect you by setting the benchmark for them in having respect for yourself, no matter what others say or do?

The thing is, this isn’t an African-American phenomena. Today’s young women in all cultures are regressing to a dumber-than sex-comes-first mentality of “if you’ve got it, flaunt it, ‘cos that’s all you got”. I’ve tackled this topic before in one of my personal favourite (and one of my most-commented & quoted) columns, and it’s an issue close to my heart. I hate knowing that a growing number of young women (but not all, thank god) seem to be of the belief that the only way to get ahead is through tight skirts, tight asses, and bursting bra cups filled with bouncy boobs.

Unfortunately, because they believe that, the reality is shifting, and it is starting to become more necessary for women to have that element of sexuality in order to get anywhere – or, if they’re to really get taken seriously, they have to do the complete opposite and abdicate their sexuality, which is also very unsettling. The trouble with each of these approaches is, if you build it, they will come, y’know? By giving in to the mentality of sexy substituting for smart, or sexy being eliminated in favour of smarts, they’re empowering this perception that women cannot be both. A lie if ever there was one.

There’s nothing wrong with letting your physicality speak volumes, but intellect should not be a mere footnote; it should be the spine, the binding, and the cataloguing in the library of your life. Intellect is everything. Knowledge is power. Articulation and debate can solve all the world’s problems, and women have the insight, the power, and the emotional capacity to contribute in far greater ways than we have ever allowed them to before now.

It’s no surprise that the most powerful women on the world stage – those like Hillary Clinton, Margaret Thatcher before her, and others – have had to almost entirely veto their sexuality in order to have any credibility. It’s because those women who use their sexuality for their success have failed to do so in a way that embraces their mental prowess.

Things aren’t improving. It’s not just a “Black” problem. It’s a “Woman” problem. I am a feminist. I don’t give a fuck that “feminist” has a negative perception to it. Wake up, world. That was then, this is now. Germaine Greer’s dead, people, and there are new voices rising in the dark that speak loudly in real terms applicable to today’s women without disempowering today’s man. There are women like Pink, India Aire, Salma Hayek, Oprah, and others who have found a way to celebrate their beauty while showcasing their minds.

I do not like this old-fashioned trend of women abdicating their sexuality in order to be taken seriously on the world stage, a la Hillary Clinton in her dark business suits and stern facade. I do not like the obsolete notion that a woman must be masculine in order to be strong. I do not believe women must belittle men in order to be card-carrying feminists.

There is a new feminism that embraces the greatness each sex has to offer. Women can offer softness and beauty and sensuality while contributing strength and wisdom and articulation to the world debate.

In this age where violence seems to speak louder than ever, sexuality is being reduced to crassness, and media swims only in the shallow end of the pool, the female soul has so much to offer, so much insight to give, yet it’s being drowned out by more of the cliché stereotyping we’ve seen so much of in all the ages before us.

Men have run the show for long enough, and look at what we have to show for it – shootings in schools, divorce at an all-time high, teenage pregnancy an epidemic, poverty growing by the day. Can women fix everything? Fuck, no. But we can help offer a different point of view, a new spin on things, a new set of values. Men and women truly working together, each showcasing their strength of character, we might just have a chance of turning things around.

But it all has to start with today’s young women believing they have more to contribute to the world around them than just tits and ass. They need to believe that their paths to success don’t lie only in auditioning for The Pussycat Dolls or in being the next 15-minute celebrity bimbo clad scantily with her glitter makeup being the only way she’s able to shine. Like Pink says, sexy and smart don’t need to be oil and water. It’s time to be more.

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!)