Goodbye, Summer

I know, I know ... we're already a few days into the fall. So my goodbye to this summer is a little belated. Forgive me. Maybe it took me this long to devise the proper farewell. After all, this was a very important summer for me. Pretty monumental, actually. I was "single", sort of. I got a taste of what it would be like to be a single mom, and now I know why single moms are so stressed out. It was hard enough for me to cope with one child; I can only imagine what it would be like with two or three. I also met someone very special. You read about him earlier in this blog -- see, I'm Just Another One of His Stories Now. This is what this summer was like for me: sweating in the extreme heat; arguing with my husband; being apart from my husband; meeting the special guy; making out with the special guy, many many times, and talking to him about the situation with my husband; arguing with my mother about what I wanted to do with my life; taking my daughter to High Park pool and trying not to feel monstrous around all the hot bods; emailing the guy, meeting him for coffee, going to his place; being amazingly happy; breaking up with the guy; being terribly depressed and feeling terribly guilty. In short, finding out what it is like to really be me, and what I am all about.

I had the summer I should have had when I was in my early 20's. I went through a real rite of passage this year. But I can't see it ending now. I look at my mother now, in her early 70s. She still looks great, she still has a pretty face and she's in pretty good health. But she has been the same person all her life, as long as I have known her, anyway. The only major change in her life has been the loss of my father. She replaced him with someone else with scarcely enough time to draw a breath and her life simply continued on, in much the same vein. She has her house, her beautiful garden, her crystal, her china, her dishes, her beautiful furniture. It was like when she got married and had kids, she simply stopped evolving. I cannot see myself like that. I cannot imagine myself just sitting back and admiring my surroundings. I'm always thinking of who I want to be, where I want to be, what I want to do. I cannot see myself just placidly gardening, making sure the house is spotless, tending endlessly to my nest. I don't think I will ever be like that. I always have to be thinking about something, working on something or working toward something.

Maybe when I'm 80 I'll get myself a rocking chair. But right now, there's still way too much to do.

Sluts & Goddesses

I started reading the most excellent book the other day. It's called "Spectacular Sex", written by Annie Sprinkle, Ph.D. For those of you who don't know, Annie Sprinkle was a famous porn star back in the day. She has been retired from that line of work for many years, having branched out into photography and performance art. I was thrilled to see that she had become a full-fledged doctor of sexology, having earned her Ph.D. She has now written this book to help those of us not as well versed in sex as she is, and I am just lapping it up, if you'll pardon the expression.

One thing she said that I could totally relate to was that when she was a teenager, she received messages both to be sexually active and to not be sexually active. I'm sure all of us did. Even from my own friends, I got mixed messages. For instance, I have always loved giving oral sex. I think I get almost as much pleasure from it as men do. For me, it is a real turn-on, seeing a man get aroused and erect, being able to caress his whole body at the same time. But my girlfriends were all disgusted when I told them this. They were like, "Ewwwwwww! How can you put a guy's dick in your mouth? They pee from that thing!" Duh. No kidding. But they're not peeing from it when I'm doing it to them, are they? I think they saw it as something that only sluts would do, suck a guy off. Well, if that's the case, then I'm a slut! A big one! :-)

I could also never understand why oral sex is such a derogatory thing. You know, when somebody wants to really diss you, they'll tell you "Suck me off" or "Suck my cock", as if it's the most contemptuous thing imaginable. Yet it's also one of the most pleasurable things imaginable, one of the best ways to bring a man to ecstasy, let him experience a little bit of heaven on earth. Go figure.

Anyway, back to the book. I just got to the chapter called "Create Your Sexpot Profile". In this chapter, one of the exercises is to think of who your inner slut and inner goddess is. You're supposed to think of your role models, who you find sexy, who you admire, who has the sexual qualities you would like to have. Then you find out who your inner slut and inner sex goddesses are. There is a questionnaire regarding your inner slut that I found very enjoyable and intriguing. One of the questions was, what is her occupation? My inner slut, I think, would work in a tattoo parlor. That way she would have access to all the tough, beefy, yummy guys coming in there. Not biker guys, they're a little too scary for me, but definitely the rock and roll guys, with the leather vests, ripped jeans, and clunky black boots. Ummmmmm yeah. I could ask them to come in the back room with me and find just the right colour ink for that bulging bicep.

Oooh boy.

I'll keep you posted on my inner goddess.

Addendum to Yesterday's List

I forgot one very important entry on this list:

Jennifer Lopez
Please, spare me from ever seeing this hoochie bitch in a paper or on t.v. ever again. Por Favor!

Sweet Bird of Youth

This morning as I was coming in to work, when I got off the bus, one of my colleagues, a 20-something guy, fell into step beside me. It's about a five-minute walk across a huge parking lot to get to our building, and he told me he has one more week to go until he's "outta here". He's moving to England. A friend of his lives there and he's going to stay with his friend for a couple of weeks, bumming around, until he starts looking for a job. He plans to work for awhile and tour Europe. "Boy, do I envy you," I told him. "That's always been one of my dreams: to tour Europe." "So why don't you?" he asked, like a typical 20-something. Like the 20-something I was, once. I shrugged and tried to sound casual about it, but the truth is, I felt very bittersweet. "I have a child, bills," I said. He waved his hand around. "The child will understand," he said. I just smiled and said, "Well, maybe someday ..." But what I was really thinking of saying was, "Are you kidding me? Just hop on a plane and tour Europe? Don't I wish." And bringing my child with me? That would defeat the whole purpose, believe me. My daughter is a one-person army. I wouldn't get a chance to catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa or the Sistine Chapel ceiling if she were around, that's for sure.

But I didn't want to sound like my parents. That's what I was always used to hearing when I grew up, every time I mentioned one of my plans, desires, dreams, whatever. I'd get that "Are you kidding me?" look and hear, "You have no idea what the real world is like. You'll find out." There was always that negativity, that dread and pessimism, like there was no hope, or I was painfully deluded to think that life would turn out like I planned or hoped. The truth is, they were right. My life has not turned out the way I planned or dreamed. But it is far from over. I figure if I'm lucky, I have another 40 years left on this planet. Who knows what can happen between now and then? I do have some things that make me happy. That's where the bittersweet comes in. I have a lot of regrets. There are things I know I should have done and there are things I know I definitely shouldn't have done. The one good thing about getting older is that you get wiser. Not in an intellectual way, but by experience. You get knocked around, and you learn from it.

So, in the meantime, I can still dream. Maybe someday I will be there, standing in front of the Mona Lisa, contemplating her famous smile. Or craning my neck to look up at one of Michelangelo's masterpieces, my mouth falling open in awe. And try not to think about those regrets, and try and forget the guy who is unforgettable to me. And move on.

People I Wish Would Just Fuck Off and Die

There are a lot of irritating people in this world, and unfortunately, I am forced to see and read about them all too much. Here's a small sampling of people who really make me want to hurl.

Elizabeth Hurley
Yes, Hurley makes me want to hurl. I read about a comment she made regarding Marilyn Monroe's purported dress size of 16 (which is total bullshit anyway, Marilyn couldn't have been more than an 8, tops): "I'd want to die if I were that big." God, I wish she WOULD die. Right now. The sooner the better.

Posh Spice
A countrywoman of Ms. Hurley, I recently read that Posh was boasting she had never read a book in her life. I totally believe this. But then a day or so later when she started getting badmouthed in the press by people saying it was bad that she didn't read to her kids, she recanted, and tried to say, "Oh no, it's not that I don't read, it's just that I start so many books and just never finish them." Right. Uh huh. You don't deserve a god like David Beckham in bed with you, you moron.

Kate Moss
God, I hate models. Every skinny-assed, cigarette-smoking, famous-boyfriend-in-a-band cocksucking, coke-sniffing lot of them. Actually I couldn't have been happier to read that Ms. Moss had her contract with H&M (this store is on my hate list too) cancelled, because it was reported she was seen doing coke at some club. Awwww, poor Kate. I feel so sorry for you! Eat shit, you skeletal bitch.

Naomi Campbell
Another model on my hate list. The Queen Bitch of them all, who keeps getting arrested for throwing phones at people and clawing them for wearing the same dress. Can you say, Anti-psychotic medication? Get this bitch a barrel full.

Karl Lagerfeld
As long as we're in the fashion category here, I might as well stick with it by referring to the "head" of Chanel. This is the fan-toting fag who supposedly has 100 I-Pods in different colours or something. "Oh, ziss iss so elegant! Elegance is in, darling, really." Go fuck yourself you effeminate goof. Another fat-hater, by the way. I wish I could plant my big ass right on his face and shut him up.

Kirstie Alley
I don't need to stick my fingers down my throat to barf with this broad around. I've always hated her, even way back when she was bald in the first Star Trek movie. What started me hating her was when I read she met her ex husband, Parker Stevenson, by waltzing up to his table at a bar or restaurant where he was with another woman. She stood there and said to this woman, "You might have come here with him, but he's coming home with me." I don't need to say anymore, do I? I think that sums up her personality right there. I would have fucken pounded her if I'd been that woman. My only consolation was when she blew up to 300 pounds and blimped out. Then she got that fucking "Fat Actress" show -- I actually watched one episode, don't ask me why, I must have been temporarily insane -- and her fucking face has been everywhere since. Ugh. I don't care if you have a fat ass, Kirstie, in no way do you represent me. I wish a two-ton weight would drop down from the sky and crush her.

David Spade
I can't even remember where I first saw this little pipsqueak shit. I think he used to be on Saturday Night Live or something, then he did a couple of movies and kept doing more and I was subjected to the sight of his fucken pipsqueak face on commercials. Thank God I've never had to sit through one of his movies, but oh God, I wish he would die. He is so unfunny and such a good candidate for a serial killer.

Britney Spears
Okay, so you had your baby! So fuck off and die! The poor kid. That's all I can say.

Psychics

I love psychics. Anything supernatural, or paranormal, or mystical, I love. I get off on it. When I was a kid, me and my friends used to have seances and used to scare ourselves silly imagining we heard rapping or tapping while we were doing it. But just the idea of communing with something or someone from another plane ... it's very alluring to me.

I have to admit I am easy prey for charalatans. In Toronto, we have two "Psychic Expos" a year. One is coming up in October - I can't wait - and the other one is usually in January or February. The atmosphere at the shows is always really Out There. There are stands selling jewellery and totems, people talking about chakras and auras and meditation and angels. Everyone is always smiling and friendly.

I truly believe that there are some people who are psychically gifted. But the ratio of those people to the out-and-out frauds is probably 1:10,000. There are two psychics to whom I have become a "regular", I guess, whenever I go to these shows. I've even seen them privately, and believe me, it's not cheap. One of them, an Indian guy, charges $200/hour privately, at the shows he charges $75, bargain rates. The other one, a woman, charges about $120/hour privately, at the shows $65. Both of them are great. The Indian guy was the first one I met. He sat there looking very wise and sage-like so I signed myself up for a reading. When I sat down in front of him, he asked to see my palms and when I held them out to him, he started rubbing my fingertips and looking off into the distance, saying, "Oh, we're going to be good friends." He told me things about myself that were accurate. His voice is very nice, he has that Eastern accent and it is very melodious. He has told me time and again that I am going to meet a very "special friend" but it hasn't happened yet.

The other one, a woman, writes a psychic advice column for a local paper. She is very dynamic, forty-ish, with long blonde hair streaked black at the bottom, and she curses like a sailor. She is very straightforward. The first time I saw her, she told me things about my relationship with my husband that were so on the money it completely freaked me out. She told me I was going to make a career change, one I was very excited about, but that hasn't happened. The coolest thing about her was that she told me she is hired to "entertain" guests backstage at rock shows. She's worked for Aerosmith, David Bowie, and she told me she had been hired for the U2 shows here recently. How cool is that?

The danger with psychics is that you can become much too dependent on them. You have to take what they say with a grain of salt. If you are desperate for a change in your life, as I was when I saw them, you will milk every single word they say for any trace of what you're looking for. Are they genuine or not? All I can tell you is that very little of what they told me has "come true". They would probably say, if I confronted them about it, "Life is fluid. Things keep changing. What was accurate for you when I gave you the reading could have changed by now." So much for being able to predict the future.

My husband is a real skeptic when it comes to psychics and the supernatural. He thinks it is all a crock of shit and a total waste of money. He's probably right. But I definitely believe in the "other side". This is a true story: I had a dream once, that I was in an office, sitting in front of a typewriter, typing columns of numbers on a page. I was temping at the time. I knew somehow, in this dream, that when I found myself in that situation, sitting in front of a typewriter typing numbers on a page, that my dad would be dead. I don't know how long after this my dad was diagnosed with cancer. We went through a hellish two or three years as he slowly died of it, and on the morning he died, I was working. We had gotten a call that morning from the hospital where he was that "he wasn't doing too well". My mother hurried over there and I asked her if I should go with her. We had been through episodes like this a couple of times with him and he had pulled through. She told me no, go to work, but of course I was worried as hell and it bugged me all morning. I found myself in an office, sitting in front of a typewriter, typing numbers on a page. The second I remembered the scenario in the dream, and sat there with the realization creeping over me, I "sensed" something coming up the stairs behind me. I was alone in the front office and I could hear people talking in an office down the hall. The office had this big staircase that led up to a glass door and I could sense something floating up the stairs and I heard a little "whoosh" behind me of the glass door opening. I turned around and every hair on my head, neck, arms, must have been standing up. "Dad?" I said. At that second, I knew my father was dead. But he had come to see me and say goodbye and let me know all was well. As well as I had the certainty that he was there, I had this amazingly calm, happy, peaceful feeling just flooding my body, as if he was saying to me, "I'm okay now, you don't have to worry about me." Then the presence was just gone. I felt like running after it, the feeling was so incredible. The experience stayed with me all day and when I got home, I found out my father had died that morning.

I miss you, dad.

The Blair Bitch Project

Throughout my life, I have been subject to much bitchery. Therefore I consider myself something of an authority on it. I have encountered bitches in school, at work, at home, on the street, in the subway, in stores ... they are everywhere. There are all kinds of bitchery. There is jealous bitchery, bitchery just because, petty bitchery, catty bitchery, PMS bitchery (this is partially excusable, but only if I'm not suffering from PMS myself), cruel bitchery, gang bitchery ... in short, there is a bitchery for every occasion. Now, being female, I can say this and not be accused of being a woman-hater because I am a woman myself. And men can definitely be bitches too, or practice "male bitchery". But there is a particular venom, a very subtle and nuanced attack that only women are capable of, and expert at, practicing. Men are just not capable of it because men, in general, are too in love with themselves to sit there and think of ways to really get at someone. Whereas women sometimes revel in scheming about how to "get" someone good. And women can be worse than men when it comes to other women. I know in school, whenever a new girl appeared, if she was really pretty, a lot of girls who I had considered good friends dumped me and flocked to girls like this, ingratiating themselves with her, trying to get her to be their friend. That kind of betrayal is worse than the betrayal of a man for dumping you after sleeping with you. After all, men are men, we all know that most men are morons when it comes to sex. They'll use you and move on without a second thought. But when someone of your own sex dumps you as a FRIEND for someone prettier or "cooler" or whatever, that's really nasty.

The following are a few minor examples of bitchery I have encountered in my life.

Subway Bitchery
One morning I was going to work and the train was packed. Every seat was taken, except two bench seats with a person on either side and a space in the middle. One of them had two women on it, one old and one young, and a large shopping bag in between. I moved to this one and said to the older woman, to whom it seemed the bag belonged, "Excuse me, could you move your bag?" She ignored me. Thinking perhaps her age had made her hard of hearing, I said, louder this time, "Excuse me, could you please move your bag?" She still ignored me, stared straight ahead, wouldn't even look at me. Okay, I thought, and started to move the bag myself, intending to put it on the floor at her feet. Immediately she reached over and grabbed the bag, pulled it to her side, and pointed sharply across the aisle at the other bench seat. I stood there, incredulous. This fucking bitch wouldn't move her bag so I could sit there. "Bitch!" I hissed, and went to the other seat. I felt like pounding her. She glared at me and I glared back at her.

Work Bitchery/Jealous Bitchery
At the company I work for, the big boss bitch who used to run my department was a fifty-ish woman with a face like a frog. She was, however, a lawyer, obviously considered herself extremely sophisticated and educated, and never let you forget it. One afternoon we had a lunch for a colleague who was leaving. I had recently lost a lot of weight and enjoyed wearing clothes that proudly displayed my new body. On that particular day I was wearing a navy blue wool mini-dress (pretty short, I admit, but a couple of inches past my ass) and knee-high tan high-heeled boots. I looked good. That day as we were leaving, we crossed paths with her as she came out of the bathroom. We all said goodnight and immediately I could see the sour look on her face as she looked at me and I knew she was thinking: "Slut!" The next Monday morning when we got in to work, we all got a memo setting out the company dress code: No short skirts, low-cut tops, etc. Right.

I was subject to all kinds of bitchery from this woman. Yet another example: she took a leave of absence shortly after our company went through a merger and there were a lot of changes going on. Personally I think her ego couldn't handle the fact that she had been relegated to a lesser status, so she was inexplicably gone. Then it was announced she had formally resigned, and she sent us an email saying, "I'll miss you all, blah blah blah" yeah sure "and if you want to email me, here's my address." I don't know what possessed me, because I couldn't stand her, but I did email her and asked her, "So what are you going to be doing, do you have another job or are you taking an early retirement?" She sent me back a curt response: "In answer to your questions, no." Fuck, man. What a bitch.

Friend Bitchery
I used to hang out with my best friend in high school every day. We'd see each other at school, go to each other's houses and hang out, smoking and talking. Every weekend we'd party together. After high school, she started going to college. I was still in high school (I was a year behind her) and she met some new friends there. One night I was at her place and the phone rang. It was a friend of hers from college, and as I sat there I could see they were having this really intense conversation. She was saying, "Yeah, yeah, no I'm not busy" and that got my antenna up because the next day was a Friday when we habitually went out and partied. When I left that night, I asked her "So are we still going out tomorrow?" "Yeah," she said, avoiding my eyes, and I knew she had made other plans, but I waited to see what she would do. Sure enough, the next night when I phoned her place and asked for her, her stepfather tells me, sounding puzzled, "Uh, she's gone out for the night." It really made me furious. If she had made other plans, why the hell couldn't she just have told me? But she chose to bullshit me and fuck up my plans instead. When I confronted her about it a couple of days later, she just acted really cold and said, "I don't have to report to you." Nice.

Anyway, those are just a few infinitesimal examples of the bitchery I have encountered in my life. I'm sure you have many of your own.

I'm Just Another One of His Stories Now

Awhile ago, my husband and I were having problems and we separated for awhile. I was scared but excited to be "single" again, and decided to get right out there and start meeting people. I decided to sign up with a dating site (which, ironically enough, I used to work for). I posted a profile on there and waited to see what would happen.

I got a few responses, most of them lukewarm, as far as I was concerned. Until one guy sent me a message with his picture and I was happy. The picture of him attached to his profile turned me on like you would not believe. He was sitting on a couch in front of a microphone and one of those music stands, wearing a jean vest, displaying what looked like thick, strong arms, and his hair was dark and tousled. Plus, he looked pretty cute. This was for me. So I responded, and we began emailing each other back and forth. I soon found out there was a lot more to this guy than his cute picture. The messages he sent me were incredibly passionate. He was a writer too, and believe me, he knew how to use words. We set up a time to meet, which went awry ... I was getting cold feet and his messages became increasingly sexual, which made me wonder if this guy was just another predator, looking for sex only. But we reconnected, and finally did meet, and boy, what a meeting. We went to a little outdoor pub and I had wine and he had pop. He was a former alcoholic, had been sober for 11 years. I felt like a teenager again, the way he looked at me, never let go of my hand, rubbed my arm up and down and told me how beautiful my skin and hair were. He asked me if he could come over and sit beside me and I said sure, thinking, are you kidding me, try getting on my lap, baby ... and we started making out like crazy. We were so caught up in each other and so uninhibited in our kissing and fondling that a waiter came out of the pub and said, "Guys, guys ..." holding up his hand as if to say, woah there! I was embarrassed and I guess so was he. We left shortly after, went to a nearby park and made out some more on the grass.

He told me about all the women he'd met online. He kept referring to them as his "interests", which I thought was a little odd, as interests, to me, are things like movies and books. But anyway, he gave me the whole roster. One of his major "interests" was a woman in B.C. She lived "in the bush", a remote village near the Yukon, was married, and her husband neglected her and was never around. She was in love with him and wanted to meet. She was planning to leave her husband and come to Toronto to stay with him for a couple of weeks. But her mother was in a nursing home where she lived and she was committed to being around to check on her. He said he knew she would never leave her husband.

Then there was another one he'd seen a few months earlier. She was also married, or had been married, but at any rate was still obsessed with her ex, even though he beat the shit out of her on a regular basis. She was frigid, he never even touched her. But he said it was a very close, deep relationship. He realized it was never going to work when they were at a cafe one evening and she kept talking about her ex. He knew she would never leave him, so he moved on.

There was also an assortment of more casual dates, women he'd met here and there. One thing that gave me pause was when he told me he'd met a large woman and had sex with her. "I must have been really bored that day," he chuckled. He said she wasn't attractive, her gut hung down, but he wasn't getting sex anywhere else and he decided to go for it. There was also a woman who invited him up to her place and cooked him a roast. They had sex.

I knew this guy was not a keeper. He was too erratic. He told me he suffered from bi-polar depression and "it's a horrible disease." He even gave lectures on it. But he was unable to work. He was on disability. You would think that this information would have made me run like hell. But the sexual vibe between us was incredible. And we had a lot in common. We were both writers, we both had depression in common, and we were both looking for "The One". At least he said he was. But I soon found out that was total bullshit. It seemed like he could not maintain a relationship for longer than a week. Every week, we'd email each other, see each other now and then, and everything would be fine. Then his restlessness would kick in. I could tell he was getting bored, he needed some new blood, we'd argue, and split up. It didn't take me long to figure out this guy couldn't commit to a houseplant. We went through this process several times until finally, after one weekend, he just cut me off. I'd never stopped feeling guilty about my husband and told him that many times. "I'm getting tired of the guilt, and you're getting tired of my dating," he told me. "I think I'm just going to leave it alone for awhile."

I haven't seen him since. I do miss him and think about him often. But I know, without a doubt, I am now just another one of the stories he tells his new dates. I wonder what he says ... "There was this woman I saw for awhile, she had great tits and was very intelligent and we nearly got kicked out of a bar when we first met each other for making out." Probably something along those lines.

What really kills me is he was the first guy I ever met who knew how to eat pussy. Just my luck.

Paul

I've found that we have a pretty brief window in our lives to make lifelong friends. The best time for it happens when we are young, up to high school. But once we leave school, and move on to adult responsibilities, a whole host of defenses spring up that prevent us from really opening up to other people the way we did when we were kids.

I met someone, however, long after I had left high school, who was one of the coolest people I have ever met. I didn't know him for that long -- maybe a year or two -- but in the time I knew him, we became extremely close, kindred spirits.

I was in my mid-twenties, living in my mother's house, and writing. I didn't have a job, because I wanted to pursue writing, and she was making my life miserable about it. My time was spent fighting with her about not having a regular job, and writing. That's what I did. One day I saw an ad for a small literary magazine in a local paper. I started submitting stories to them, and I became a regular contributor. After a couple of years of this, the phone rang one day. I picked it up and a voice on the other end asked, "Is this Emily?" "Yeah," I said, puzzled. "Hi, my name's Paul, I saw a story of yours in Authors [the magazine I wrote for], and I thought it was really good. I'm a writer too."

That started our relationship. At first, I thought he was just a nutcase, or out to get in my pants. That's the only reason any guy would want to talk to me, back then. But he assured me that neither was the case. He was in his twenties as well, married, with a young daughter. He and his wife had married very young; she'd been pregnant with their daughter and they'd gotten married barely past their teens. He'd had a troubled life. He told me about his dad being an alcoholic, beating his mother, beating him and his brother, being carted off to jail numerous times. He'd been in jail himself. When he was a teenager, "I was a real badass," he told me. But he had just recently turned his whole life around. He'd stopped drinking and doing drugs, and he believed wholeheartedly in God. We talked about religion and God a lot, and writing. We talked on the phone for hours at a stretch. We had the writing in common. I wanted to be the next Margaret Atwood and he wanted to be the next Stephen King -- that's who his hero was. The publisher of the magazine we wrote for chuckled condescendingly when Paul told him this; he was the type of man who turned up his nose at anyone who read books by anyone other than Booker Prize Winners. Paul might have been unsophisticated; he hadn't finished high school and his grammar and spelling were terrible. But his stories pulsed with creativity and a touching sincerity. I thought he was wonderful, and I looked forward to his phone calls. We talked nearly every day when we first got to know each other, then our calls began to dwindle a little.

I guess I'd known him for a couple of years when I really started to lose touch with him. He'd met a guy at his daughter's school who was a computer whiz, and Paul started to lose interest in writing and become more interested in computer programming. I missed our marathon conversations about God and the creative process. He was slipping away from me, and I could feel it, but I knew there was nothing I could do about it. Soon, he began to tell me he'd started drinking again. There were problems with his wife and never enough money and he hated his job. He worked as a cook in restaurants and always complained about how his co-workers looked down on him.

One thing I remember vividly that he always used to tell me, even though he assured me he was not a religious fanatic: "The Bible is like a map for life. Follow what it says, and you'll never go wrong." It sounded strange coming from a confirmed alcoholic, ex-con, party-hardy guy. I remember once he also told me about a near-death experience he had, when he was tripping on LSD.

Anyway, we started to lose touch more and more. Finally we lost touch completely. I haven't heard from him since shortly after my daughter was born, about 6 years now. But I think about him quite a lot. I miss him awful. I hope he's okay, and I hope he's still trying to be the next Stephen King. He was such an awesome person.

The Misfit Magnet

I tend to attact oddballs. Ever since I was a kid, the kind of people who gravitate toward me are not the cheerleader, superjock, typical, generic, stereotypical "normal" person. I don't know whether it's that I have an approachable face, or whether it's because I've always felt like, and been perceived as, a misfit myself.

When I was in junior high, I was a real outcast. I had switched schools, and the new one did not welcome me with open arms. Whereas in my old school I had been popular and the teachers' pet, in this one I was persona non grata, the invisible lump in the corner (invisible, that is, until a few of the boys in my class decided to verbally abuse me). It was a hellish existence. But then along came a girl who was even more of an outcast than me. For the first couple of days, because they were curious about her, the kids were semi-nice to her, trying to find out where she was from, etc. But I knew it wouldn't last. She was about 4'5", extremely thin with dirty-looking, scraggly hair, and really thick glasses. And sure enough, she became the butt of everyone's jokes, overshadowing me as the Class Loser. We became friends. I definitely related to her dilemma, and she was a genuinely nice person. The only thing was, and I'm ashamed to say this, I felt embarrassed by her. Isn't that terrible? You'd think that someone who had gone through the same experiences as her would be sympathetic, and I was sympathetic ... but I was also a normal pre-teenager who wanted to fit in. So sometimes I would avoid her. I hated it, but that's what I did. Eventually she moved away and I never even said goodbye. I've always felt bad about that.

But that kind of set the pace for how things would be in the future. My oldest friend, the godmother of my daughter, I have known since Grade 2. She is also a misfit. She's a couple of years older than me, still lives at home with her mother, doesn't work and likely never will, and has only had one boyfriend, about 20 years ago. She dresses like a nun and has let her hair go gray and done nothing about it. She seems to go out of her way to repulse men. She is also painfully, extremely, terminally shy and I believe suffers from chronic depression but has never been diagnosed or treated for it. That's why she can't work. She is literally incapable of it.

My brother-in-law is another case in point. He is also socially barren and totally inept. He is a compulsive talker. He literally WILL NOT stop talking unless you walk away, and even then, he will follow you until you take the stairs or start to run. He is obsessed with '50s and '60s music, believes that Elvis Presley is the greatest singer who ever lived, the Beatles are the greatest pop band ever but that John Lennon was a crazy drug-addicted asshole, and the Stones are the greatest rock 'n roll band ever, although he despises Mick Jagger. Unbidden, he will start reciting trivia to you relentlessly, unstoppably, about what topped the charts on January 12, 1962, what was #2, 3, 4, 5 and so on. But when it comes to everyday situations, he is lost. He cannot cope. He works part-time as a security guard. He has never had, nor will he ever have, he has told me in no uncertain terms, a girlfriend or wife. He's right. No woman would ever be able to live with him, unless she was just as obsessed and compulsive as he is.

It makes me sad when I'm around people like this, and I'm grateful that I was able to overcome my own frailties enough to meet the guy who would become my husband, have my daughter, get a good job, a house, and have a "normal" life. Otherwise I would be wasting away just like them, gathering dust in my mother's house, waiting to die.

My Pretty Parts

We larger women spend far too much time hating our bodies. We all wish we looked different. I can't deny wishing that, no matter how much I want to rebel and stomp my boots on the countless THIN THIN THIN images that bombard us every day.

But, despite the fact that when I look in the mirror and regard myself as a whole, and wish it was smaller, I also have to admit that there are parts of my body that I like, and that are undeniably beautiful. For example:

My breasts (I have already referred to my breasts in an earlier post. See On Being Large Breasted). Currently, I'm a size 42DD. Scoop neck and V-neck tops were made for women like me. My cleavage is deep and lush and my husband has often joked that he's lost things in there. Plus, I have a cute little freckle on the inside curve of one breast that is absolutely adorable. And I love to see my husband squeezing my naked breasts together, and his mouth dip down to partake of them. It's very sexy. I think I've gotten as much sexual pleasure out of my breasts as have the men in my life.

My calves. I have very shapely, toned, curved calves, thanks to a lifetime love of walking. They look absolutely fantastic in stockings and high heels, although I hardly ever wear high heels. Fat women and high heels don't mesh too well.

My hair. I have long (about to the middle of my back) gold-blonde highlighted hair. My natural colour is ash blonde. I have always taken great pride in my hair, although God knows I've abused it with hair dryers and styling gunk. But it's still nice, although not as thick and lustrous as when I was a teenager. Awhile ago, a guy told me it looked "so dainty" blowing around in the breeze. I liked that.

My earlobes. Hey, they're cute! Especially since I have another cute little freckle, more like a light brown mole actually, on one of them. I've always wished someone would kiss me right on that spot, but they haven't! Damn.

My face. I don't want to sound arrogant or anything, but I have a pretty face. Even though I wear glasses, and I admit I'm getting vain enough to opt for contact lenses despite a deathly fear of having one of them slip behind my eyeball. You know that old cliche about the fat girl who's always told, "You have such a pretty face"? I'm one of the poor girls who's been inflicted with that quasi-compliment.

My skin. I have extremely soft, smooth, supple skin. All the men I've had as lovers or boyfriends have told me how soft I am, and how good my skin feels. I especially love feeling my skin right after a bath, when I've patted myself dry with a towel and put my favourite lotion (Sugar Cane, mmmmmmmm yummy) on. I love being deliciously fragrant, soft and smooth.

So you see, I don't hate myself as much as I think. Nor do you. I'm sure you can narrow down parts of yourself that are worthy of any Cosmo cover or Playboy centrefold (although it pains me to mention those disgusting, albeit extremely profitable and society-brainwashing, publications).

Just remember ... if you're a larger woman like me, no skinny chick can fill up a V-neck like you can. We'll never need implants or padded bras. Hurray for that.

"Say What You Mean" Day

Don't you wish you could say whatever you wanted, to whomever you wanted to, whenever you wanted to? I sure do. I could take such a lesson from my daughter. She's six years old and very expressive, let me tell you. If anything or anyone displeases her in the slightest, she will let you know. For example, she started school last week and has already told me one girl in her class, Shauna, is a "big stupid idiot and I hope she goes to hell". Hey, I feel that way about a lot of people in my orbit, but I'm not allowed to say so, unless I want to a) lose my job, b) raise the turbulence level in my marriage, c) alienate family members and friends, and d) risk getting my ass kicked by an anonymous member of the public.

I might not appear to be so in this blog, but I happen to be one of the most verbally repressed people you will ever know. That's probably why I'm addicted to food. Either to keep it from saying things I don't mean, or to keep it busy chewing and chomping when I SHOULD be saying things I mean, I occupy it by stuffing it full of high-carb, high-fat, junky, sweet, sugary or starchy foods. If I were to say what I mean all the time, I'll be willing to bet I wouldn't have a weight problem. My weight would come off because I'd stop filling it with food and fill it with honesty instead.

I hate hypocrisy. I hate pretending to like people I can't stand, I hate pretending to have a good time when I'm bored to death or feel like screaming my head off. Unfortunately, one of the things you learn when you become an adult is that acting is par for the course. If they gave out Academy Awards for the "everyday" acting ... guess who'd be in line for a nomination?

Let me give you an example. Here's an example of a discourse between me and my supervisor at work, Version 1 (the way it is now) and Version 2 (the Say What You Mean way):

Version 1

Her: Emily, where's that Lawnet?
Me: Ummmm, I'm working on it. It'll probably take me a little longer.
Her: (disapproving stare) Okay.
Me: Okay, thanks!

Version 2

Her: Emily, where's that Lawnet?
Me: Uh, right here on the desk in front of me, bitch. You just gave me the goddam thing ten minutes ago. Why didn't you give it to me sooner if you needed it so bad?
Her: (stunned disbelief) How dare you talk to me in that tone!
Me: I'm not your fucking slave. Go crack your whip somewhere else.

See what I mean? I think a) would definitely come into play here.

So let me officially proclaim this "Say What You Mean" day, even if it'll fuck our lives up. If any one of you out there who reads this gets the opportunity to put the "say what you mean" thing in motion, please let me know so I can applaud you and emulate your fine efforts.

Tom, Shut Up About the Paxil

Basically, I like Tom Cruise. He's one of the few actors I know of who is extremely good-looking and actually CAN act. I loved Rain Man and I loved him in Collateral. But he's been acting pretty weird lately. Ever since this whole Katie Holmes thing, he's been completely bizarre. And when I read about him criticizing Brooke Shields for taking Paxil to help her through post-partum depression, I really had to scratch my forehead.

I never thought I would be sticking up for Brooke Shields, but here I am. Just who the hell does Mr. Cruise think he is, to be able to criticize her on a point such as this? First of all, he's not a woman, so he has no idea what it is like to give birth and what the after-effects are. Secondly, I know everyone is entitled to their religious beliefs, but they are not entitled to impose them on everyone else. Mr. Cruise is a dedicated Scientologist, this has been well publicized, but to suggest that psychotherapy and psychotropic medication is evil is, well ... fucked up.

I, too, am a user of Paxil. I started taking it about 3 or 4 years ago, when I just couldn't handle my depression anymore. I suffered from depression for more than 20 years before I finally bottomed out and decided I would do anything to try and get rid of it. Plus, I also had some issues with panic and social anxiety disorders. This made Paxil the ideal choice for me, because it treats all these problems. For me, it has been an absolute Godsend, and probably for Brooke too. Unless you have been in the abyss of depression, the absolute blackness and hopelessness of it, you can't start lecturing other people about how to deal with it. As far as I'm concerned, anything you do, short of murder, rape and incest, to get rid of it is fine, as long as it works.

And frankly, does he really think that he is the epitome of healthy psychological behaviour? I never saw the infamous Oprah episode where he jumped up and down on her couch, extolling his love for his new galpal. But of course I read plenty about it. Tom ... do yourself a favour. Stick to the acting and cut the pontificating. I like you so much better when you play vampires and aging hit-men.

Annoyances

1. Going to put something in the garbage and seeing that it's STILL full to the brim, that the last person who used it did not remove the old garbage bag and replace it with a new one, which means you AGAIN have to do it. In fact, you ALWAYS have to do it.

2. Brushing your wet hair after taking a shower and crying out in pain when the brush snags on a particularly knotty tangle.

3. Putting on your favourite jeans after going on an eating binge. They just don't look or feel the same.

4. Getting on a crowded bus, you spot an empty seat way way back in the corner, so you hurry over, only to be beaten to the punch within a millisecond by somebody else.

5. Going to a public swimming pool or beach and discovering that, despite the assurances that about 50% of women in the world are "pudgy", as you are (to be nice), not one of them is in attendance except you. Every other woman has a gorgeous body displayed in a skimpy bikini.

6. Having a wallet so crammed full of change that you can't close it properly, it keeps popping open in your bag and spilling change all over the place.

7. Men who eagerly exchange bodily fluids with you, only to tell you later that they are not "attracted" to you ... but, no, wait a second, they ARE, just not THAT attracted.

8. Men who think they are too "good" for you (if you're a larger woman).

9. Co-workers who see you wearing a new top, or sporting a new piece of jewellery and giving you that big, fake smile and saying, "Oh, is that new? It's so nice!", then slinking away to tell another colleague what a "show-off" you are.

10. Period-stained bedsheets.

A Wet Pussy Can Be Pretty Evil, Too

I'm sure you've heard the age-old wisdom, "A stiff dick has no conscience." Well, I'm here to tell you it works just as well for the other half. Women can be just as immoral, ignorant, cruel, and selfish as men.

In medieval times, women were considered to be in league with the devil. They were segregated from men, "held captive" in towers, caged, and controlled. No doubt that's what inspired the romantic fairy tales about brave knights rescuing some imprisoned maiden from her tapesty-laden prison. This kind of thinking also inspired the witch hunts (which also victimized men, by the way, although in far lesser numbers) and the medieval version of the New York Times #1 bestseller, "Malleus Maleficarum", a treatise on the "evil" of women.

While I believe, of course, being female myself, that the denunciation of an entire sex, male or female, as "evil" is bullshit, it still mystifies me why so many people continue to believe the opposite ... that is, that all women are long-suffering saints, with not a drop of traitorous blood in them.

Using myself as an example (and who would I be able to speak more authoritatively about than myself), I can tell you that even though I am married, that my husband and I have a child together, that we have known each other and been in a relationship with each other for going on 20 years, I am no less susceptible to fantasizing about having sex with other men than he, or any other guy, is susceptible to lusting after every attractive women he sees.

Every time I see a guy who is attractive to me (and by no means does he have to look like Brad Pitt, who I think is just a wimpy pretty boy anyway), I automatically think, "Hmmmm, I wonder how big his dick is," and depending on how turned on I am by him, picture us having hot and nasty sex together. For me, it's not the "traditional" good-looking, male model types who turn me on. It's the "everyday" kind of man, especially if he has a hairy chest. That's what does it for me. Oh yeah.

I had a friend in high school who was a very pretty girl. She was the type who had line-ups of guys waiting to ask her out, and she always had a boyfriend. I mean, ALWAYS. She was the type who was never without a man. She was a good friend but I absolutely hated her for this. I was just the opposite, the type who went three months without getting laid. Anyway, one night we were at her boyfriend's place getting drunk, partying, the usual Friday-night thing. He'd passed out on the couch. His brother was there and I said my goodnights and went in another room to pass out. She told me the next morning that she and her boyfriend's brother had had sex right there on the floor mere inches from where her boyfriend was snoring, passed out. She went on to tell me they had done it a couple of different ways, while I listened in shocked stupefaction. I can't remember if I asked her why she'd done it, but if I did I'm sure she answered with something like, "I was drunk." This is the main example of what I mean when people assume all women are saintly, good little girls. This girl was a nurse, very sweet personality, everyone liked her. I'm sure they would have been shocked to hear she'd done something so awful. I mean, screwing around on your boyfriend is one thing, but right under his nose? I think even I'd draw the line at that one.

But there is an evil little devil lurking in all of us, male and female. Most of us manage to keep a lid on it ... but oh does it long to get out. I leave you with the immortal words of the much-missed Michael Hutchence: "The devil inside, the devil inside, every single one of us the devil inside ..."

Yo-Yoing

Binge, starve, binge, starve, binge binge binge, starve starve starve ... I've been doing it forever. Since I was about 10 years old, I've had a weight problem. My mother used to nag me about my weight when I was kid, telling me if I didn't watch out, I'd be fat. Well, I watched out, but I still turned out fat. Looking back on it now, when I look at pictures of myself as a child, I don't see a fat child. I see a plump child, a chubby child, maybe, but still a pretty child. Maybe if I hadn't been hounded about my weight all my life things would've been different. But blaming anyone doesn't do any good. When it comes down to it, you are the only one responsible for your life.

I must've been on about 100 diets throughout my life. And when I've been on them, I starve myself silly. It's like a penance I pay for eating well when I'm not on a diet. But there is a difference between eating well and pure gluttony. Purely obsessive eating. Some people use alcohol, some people use cocaine or heroine, some people use sex ... my drug of choice is food. It always has been. I've gone through periods dabbling in the other addictions, but nothing compares to food. Nothing Compares 2 U, Food.

The most recent starvation diet I went on was the Dr. Bernstein Diet. It worked for the 6 months I was able to tolerate being on it. I don't know how the hell I did it, other than to prove to myself that I could do it. But I lost over 100 pounds in 6 months and was the lightest and "best looking" I've ever been in my life. But then I just couldn't stand it anymore. The sugar centre in me that was so unbelievably deprived started saying, "help, help!" and I went on binges with a vengeance. Up, down, up, down ... my scale is schizophrenic.

I wonder often what it is like to be thin. Naturally thin, the kind of person who could eat a whale and not gain an ounce. People like that might as well be from Pluto, as far as I'm concerned. We live in a whole different galaxy.

The Big Queasy

A lot of people (specifically, Americans) are probably going to be pissed off by what I say here, but I make no apologies. It's regarding the situation in New Orleans. I've been watching what's transpiring on the news, and it truly makes me nauseous. My husband and I were watching the news last night and as I saw the looting, the masses of people huddled together waiting for help that is not arriving, heard about the lack of food and shooting that was aimed at rescue workers, I told him, "That would never happen here." (In Canada.) And it wouldn't. If there were a major disaster here, like a hurricane or a flood or whatever, the first impulse most people would have here would be to survive. Sure, there would probably be some looting or mischief, but nothing on the scale of what is happening in New Orleans. Packs of gangs roaming the streets stealing plasma tvs and whatnot, shooting at people, preventing sick or vulnerable people from being airlifted to safety ... I mean, what the fuck are you going to do with a plasma tv, bro? Where you gonna plug it in? There's no goddam electricity!

And I'd like to know who the hell was in charge of planning for this "relief effort". They knew this hurricane was coming way ahead of time, I'm assuming they had enough people and time to make some kind of contingency plan. But it looks like they were doing nothing but playing with themselves. Where's the food? Where's the buses? Georgie Boy, you've either been too busy jerking off about Iraq or too busy golfing!

Yesterday when I saw on t.v. a crowd of people standing around in raggedy clothing waiting for a bus, I thought I was seeing footage of a village in Ethiopia. I cannot believe that this was allowed to happen.

Tough Guys

I was watching a re-run of The Sopranos last night and started wondering, while looking at James Gandolfini, what it is about tough guys that drives us women so crazy. I mean, James Gandolfini is far from repulsive, but he is balding and pot-bellied. Not your typical male-model type specimen. Yet, there is something about him that is extremely attractive. In the show, of course, he plays Tony Soprano, boss of the Soprano family. He has scores of beautiful girlfriends who adore him and get nuts when he breaks up with them. Let's use Tony as the personification of what I'm talking about here.

My first real "relationship" (to be fair, I couldn't wholeheartedly classify it as that, but it'll do for now) was with a tough guy. He was much older than me, swaggered when he walked, and had been in jail. He boasted about his petty crimes and told me his hero was John Dillinger. He was also extremely abusive to me, verbally. He always told me I was too fat and that I shouldn't be like that, but at the same time he couldn't keep his hands off me ... or mine off him. I don't know why, but something about him just made me crazy. There was something so erotic about him. Maybe it was the fact that he was "bad", the kind of guy who could handle a fistfight no problem ... who maybe even courted them ... yet didn't use that physical aggression on me. Maybe something about being able to tame the "savage beast" with my feminine wiles ... having that kind of power over HIM ... is what turned me on so much.

To this day, I'm a sucker for bad guys. I've heard a lot of guys complain that women never give nice guys a chance and always end up going for the assholes. There is a lot of truth to that statement, and I sympathize with all the nice guys out there who are missing out because the women they crave are in love with an asshole. Personally, I think it goes back to caveman days ... when us women had to rely on our cavemen to protect us from sabretooth tigers or whatever the hell else was roaming the landscape out there. Sure, they'd drag us by the hair and throw us on the ground and have their way with us ... but how much do you think we really fought it, when we saw the firelight flickering off those ropy muscles?