An Ode to Spontanaeity and Terrible Judgment

I am an incurable romantic. That I am also an incurable pragmatist poses some significant challenge.

But don’t let me digress.

I cashed in a gift certificate today. Ah, holiday bounty! You sexy, sexy thang. The yield? An on-sale collector’s edition of The English Patient. I love romance but wish it was done better most times. In this movie, though, my god. Be still my beating heart.

I’ve been wanting this on DVD for years. I remember seeing it by sheer fluke on opening day back in 1996. It was Vancouver’s Park Theatre, where it would play for weeks and weeks. I went in thinking it’d been good, but came out thinking I’d seen one of the best depictions of love ever filmed. What a splendid use of a torrential rain Thursday afternoon after a day of pasting up the college newspaper. I couldn't have designed a better day.

But, again, digression. It’s romance I wish to address. I emerged from that feature head-over-heels in cinematic love. Now, a decade later, it reminds me of some of my own "here, now, forever" sinful moments, against which all other encounters will forever fail to rank. (Don't worry, my pragmatist disagrees and thinks a few others are in the making. The mind is a powerful thing. I think I can, I think I can...)

A couple relationships back, it was a torrid, furtive thing. A smattering of days, a series of bodily collisions. Dirty things done often in confined spaces. I needed many showers. I haven’t really written about that encounter yet. It was too short to amount to much, but, boy, could it have amounted. I’m loathe to write about it. I crave a second chance. Doubt it’ll happen. Doubt it should, too. Hoo-boy.

Despite that, every now and again I sit back in my 30-something body and I give some serious thought to “what am I gonna know then that I don’t know now, and how the fuck can I get around that?”

Seriously. I’m 33, and I know I’m smart six days to Sunday, but I gotta wonder. How much smarter do I get? What’s the coolest tidbit I pick up, and how the hell long am I done gone gonna be waitin’ for that to transpire, huh?

The sex with this guy was something to never, ever write home about. Nuh-uh. Some things just don’t have to be known by those near and dear, you know? Thanks to a healthy combination of pillows, Vellux-brand blankies (there's a reason they're in motels everywhere), and a cushy wool rug underneath, much use was made of the living room floor. For more than a couple days of seclusion. Locked indoors, overpaying for delivery, you know how it is. Who needs vacations anyhow? All I need is my dirty mind, a playmate, a clear schedule, and a variety of surfaces.

Sigh, but it was a classic too much/too soon scenario. Oh, a tragic demise! Fuck, makes me want to sing that trashy old teeny-bopper Tiffany’s song. “Coulda been so beautiful. Coulda been so right.” What’s next, Debbie Gibson?

But, yeah… I’ve made me a lot of mistakes in my time. Something about trusting my heart and going with the flow tends to get me in whole lotta-lot of troubles. Do you hear me griping? Fuck, no. Reminiscing something fierce, you bet.

See, I have this feeling I get it about kids and why they’re so upset when we send them to bed early. I think they’re all too aware of just how much life they’re missing by going to bed early. I kind of feel that way about having lived much of my life so cautiously. Now and again, I get the chance to stop saying “what if” and instead lunge for a “why not”. So, I do.

Why the fuck not?

No, no, none of this “carpe diem” crap. Put your prep school English-teaching idols back in the archives, where they belong. I’m talking about why the hell not?

I’m not the first to make this argument, and I’m damned if I’ll be the last. Bears repeating, it does. If you play it safe and you’re little cautious person, sure, you’ll live a nice safe life. Long one, too. Taking too many risks, why, that’s just fucking with the oddmakers and you know your books are gonna bust. But, you do your homework right, read the signals right, and hey. Maybe you cash in for a change. It’s about calculated risks. Sometimes, right? That's why they call it playing it safe. You're trying to be safe, but at least you're playing. Good deal.

(Which reminds me. I owe you part deux de Dating Tips and my little intro rant about why you should ignore everything I’m saying instead. I had forgotten. Yes. Busted. Doh. Etc. Fuck off. Now I remember. Will make good. :P )

But, yeah, I’m a sucker for romance. Throw some fluke occurrences (or well-crafted ones together) and I’ll be sworn that it’s “meant to be”. Maybe not “meant to be forever” but at the very least, “meant to be experienced”. And why not? Indeed.

I wrote once of when I kissed a boy, or rather, he kissed me, sitting on a little footbridge, in Vancouver’s Queen Elizabeth Park. Just then, the lights in the park shut off simultaneously, and poof! Awash in the light of a full moon. That kiss melted into forever, our tensing and embraced bodies falling back on the 1x2 slat wall, a stream trickling beneath us, the dampness of a dew-fallen spring night enveloping us.

To this damn day, I walk there and get the shivers. The kiss of a lifetime. Or, as it turns out… one of many. But when you have moments like that, it’s so hard to turn away from the “this seems so right” mentality that can overtake us. Sometimes I never want to turn away from thinking thoughts like that. I like having my “let’s pretend the world is ending in 23 minutes and this is the LAST GUY I’m ever gonna get to make shiver!” There’s a good inspiration. (And yields good results. Wonder if they ever realize that's one of my "Go Steff!" motivational tools? Huh. Betcha "no" there.)

And the English Patient is the perfect example of seizing those moments of random possibility and making the best of it. I’m not a fan of adultery, never have been. (Busted a guy once. Had it happen to me at least once that I know of.) But, I tell you, if I ever have one of those “here, now, forever” potential loves-of-life just suddenly appear out of nowhere, well, I don’t know if I’d have the wherewithal. Passion does downright crazy things to some of us. Not sure I ever want to stop it taking over me. What a sham of a life that’d be.

So. What was my point? Did I mention I bought a bottle of red wine, too? It’s a killer good surprise I’ve found for the ridiculously low price of $13.99. It’s French. La Something-or-other. Sometime, when gravity isn’t such a foe of mine, I’ll tell you what it was. Tasty little beast of a red. Mreow.

My point: The English Patient. Makes me swoon and swoon and swoon. ‘Cos it reminds me of all those little moments in the past when the world outside of me and that guy of the moment just melted the hell away. It was a sense emporium. Far too good to be believed. Too lofty to maintain for longer than those furtive moments, hours, days.

And even if it couldn’t have been, at least it was, even ever so briefly.

I propose a toast to all my imperfections and my ever so wondrously good lack of judgment. Without it, life could never be so sweet. And, in keeping of the night that’s upon us and the start of the new year, may you find a way to embrace all your judgmental lacks and imperfections, too. And god bless us every one. Ahem.

(And no. I did not get my job. That's another story for another time. And look, I'm happy and having fun despite it. 'cos that's how this life thing's done, boys and girls. Or it's something to strive for at the very leastestest.)

Slowing Down the Seasonal Speed of Life

I’ve got the post-Christmas hang-over. The get-me-the-fuck-away-from-those-stores blues.

I’m that breed of individual that shops because it takes care of necessities. I don’t need the latest gadgets. I do spend more than I should because I’m also a snob – about just about everything. Still, I hate shopping.

The problem with shopping is simple: People. A lot of them. The kind that missed the brief lessons spent on things like “Excuse me” and “Thanks for holding the door”. I know, I’m a geek, but I was in class those days. I’m so polite it hurts. I’m also blunt, unapologetic, brash, and unexpected, but with a nice air of manners about me. Yes, I know, a catch!

Snicker.

Shopping. Oh, dude, I’m so burnt out from people. I’m sick of the masses, tired of the shoving, and fed right up to here with the stupid people who keep standing in the middle of my fucking aisle, staring at some unlikely object, as if some trance is going to unveil for them whether or not the 40% off sticker price compensates for the absolutely total LACK of reason to buy the fucking useless thing.

I’m at that point now where I find myself standing around and looking at my kitchen in the hopes that some unwitting culinary masterpiece lies in wait behind those doors. A-ha! With just ever so slightly the right combination of “Gee, I wouldna thunk it!” and “In an alternate universe, this would be the bomb!” I might just be able to concoct a mystery dinner and not have to go to the store. Sure, I’m out of bread, eggs, milk, cereal, and vegetables of all kinds, but I swear to God, there’s enough for a meal in there… somewhere. Isn’t there?

There’s no fucking way I want to step into another store today. So, today I will not. Instead, I will bravely – no, brazenly – attack Foodland Canada, aka the Granville Island Public market, tomorrow morning in order to whip up something delectable for dinner tomorrow.

Grudgingly. I know: What was I thinking? Invite people over and actually cook for them? Not many, just three, but still! I’ve not had a dinner party of any sort in months… or at all in 2006. Holy shit. At all? My bad. See, deep down inside me lurks a combination of Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray and punk rock, but I’m much cooler than either of them. I can put on a dinner party like no one’s business. I’m a terrific hostess ‘cos my mommy raised me right. I grew up in a house where my mother would single-handedly throw a party for 40 and not even break a sweat. And the dishes would be cleaned before bed!

Now, I know, tis the season for socializing and public love-ins, but really, it’s also the season of the remote control, all right? And I’m torn between wanting to be social and wanting to curl up in a ball under a bunch of blankets and hide from the remainder of the year.

A friend of mine was going through the whole “oh, god” fear that sets in shortly after your first kid, when you realize how much of your life you’ve signed away, except he’s bought the house, the car, the wife, the kid, all within three years. Happy, yes, but a little longing for the simple times of old crept up on him. I wrote him an email that said, “Sure, I’m sitting around in my boxers and a t-shirt, my feet up on my coffee table, a giant bowl of Chinese on my lap as I watch whatever the fuck I want, but, really, it leaves a little to be desired.”

But I lied. Sitting around in a t-shirt and some boxers with an endless supply of leftovers, noplace to go, a stack of DVDs for the TV, and the phone turned off sounds about as sexy a night a girl like me can handle right now. I’m in an Atwoodian “woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle” phase. I’m on the cusp of a new job, a new phase of life, a possible relationship might loom, and things seem on the verge of drastic change. You’re fucking right I’m enjoying slowing this train down long enough to be chained to the couch with a remote in hand. I’m loving it.

It can’t go on, of course. A life needs to be lived, and this is no way to live it. But it’s a fucking great way to spend a week!

I’m thinking. A lot. And I’ve nothing I wish to share with you. As I see it, my life may possibly be drastically changing in the very near future. I’m taking a page from Ferris Bueller and stopping to drink it all in. Very, very privately. However, as is usually the case with dinner parties around this neck of the woods, much of that will likely come tumbling out during a good, smart, open dinner conversation tomorrow night. I suspect I’ll be needing to write afterwards. I wonder what I’ll have to say. As of now, I wouldn’t even know where to begin… probably why you’ve seen so little from me in the past couple of weeks.

I have that sensation of standing completely still and having the world spin around me. Sort of the opposite of finding your land legs at the end of a long sea voyage. Everything’s moving so fast that I just can’t believe I was ever able to keep the pace. Now, though, it’s starting to feel even odder. Like I’m on a train and it’s starting to take off at a nice speed, while the world’s starting to slow down, and soon, I think the speeds will match, and I’ll be lost in the motion again. It’s a nice thought. For now, though, this train’s still at the station and everything is before me. I know how rare these moments of “yet to come” are, and I’m enjoying this while I can.

Seasonal Slacking with Steff

I’m in the middle of Bridget Jones’ Diary. That should tell you a lot about my Christmas.

I’ve had a traditional Christmas. Too much booze, at least one requisite drunken family member, chaos around the house, an excess of gravy, an abundance of slack.

In the morning, I’ve got to go see about a job. Right now, I feel anti-human. This could be a challenge. Or at the least a very big pot of coffee.

I don’t know what to write about. I’ve found myself stuck in a moment I just can’t end. I’m waiting on a job. It’s a very strange scenario and I can’t really explain it to you. I was given the impression that the meeting’s a lock and I’m being offered the job, but the problem is that it wasn’t said so much as it was implied, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t tend to think implications are worth the paper they’re printed on. Somewhere inside I’m trying to convince myself to believe this, though. A job would be the best Christmas gift I could get.

Not just a job, though… one that’s truly right for me for the time of life I’m in right now. I couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate job if it up and bit me. And they approached me. Including myself, three people were interviewed. I know my references got a real grilling.

And I know, there’s this great big world around me and the heart of the best time of the year, but all I want right now is a job. I don't want another fucking thing. Just a job. This job. I’m at the end of the suspense with this one. Somehow, I’m still believing in myself as much as I was two weeks ago, if not more now.

But I’m finding it so hard to think about anything else. I just want security and a place to call my own for a little while.

In old-timer speak, I’m a real pistol. When it comes to real life, I’m pretty fearless in what I say. If I think something, I’m 80% liable to say it. I am the very definition of living out loud. And it’s not exactly appropriate for a lot of jobs out there. I’m strong-willed, creative, very versatile in the skills department, and capable of leading. I’m not exactly the docile little happy-to-be-here-thank-you-sir kinda gal certain places are looking to hire. You wanna know what I think? Don't worry, you're gonna. Sure, some people value honesty, but the truth is, honesty's a hard sell most of the time. Life's easier when we hear what we want, not what people really think. But I didn't get that memo. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it.

I had the job experience from hell this summer. I worked for a man I later found out had been taken to the Labour Relations Board for our province by a couple former employees who were citing him for psychological abuse. Every day I came home hating myself a little bit more. I stood up to the dick more and more each day, and found myself get isolated more and more daily. Unfortunately, I needed a job and stayed as a result. I had a hard time respecting myself when working for such a belittling, domineering man, and getting fired became a gift when I got to go back to my old bosses – two women who’ve contributed a lot to who it is I’ve become over the last six years.

As a result, I’m pretty fussy about the environment I want to work in these days. This would be an incredible environment. An alternative health clinic filled with antiques and good vibes. I could handle that.

This Christmas and this question of a job have both been hanging over my head these last couple of weeks. Money’s been tight, as per usual over the last year, but I managed to get a few little gifts while catching up with some of my bills. It’s given me a lot of time to think about the things I have I’m grateful for, but also the things I wish I had and know I’ll be grateful for when they come my way… like a job that’s right for me and offers me the kind of security I need so I can return to writing and other creative pursuits.

Don’t think I’m kidding myself – I know this blog is missing a certain je ne sais quoi. Well, I’m missing a lot in my life, too, so it’s only natural it should be obvious here. It’s kind of unfortunately, because security’s pretty much the only thing I can’t sort out on my own. God knows I’m trying. I've been getting frustrated at writing lately – my life is one giant question make of late and the uncertainty has been wearing me down. I'm proud that I've made it work for this long, but "making it work" just isn't working for me anymore.

There’re probably three out of five people reading this, thinking “Oh, there are jobs everywhere. She should quit her bitchin’ and just take something to pay the bills.” There’s a notion. Not one relevant in the least to my life, unfortunately, but it’s certainly a notion. I can’t just settle in and take some random job. I've tried to squelch who I am so I can complacently eke out a living working for the man, but I'm too fuckin' old and set in my ways to sell out now. Fuck that.

I’ve never worked in a job I hated until this year, and I’m going to avoid that now. Knowing first-hand what having one's soul sucked through a cocktail straw feels like, I'm gonna try to avoid the whole soul-suckage thang this time 'round. I’m the kind of person that needs to believe in what I do, and I’ve reached the point where I don’t think that it’s too much to ask that that be the case.

So, I’m down to the crunch. Twenty-four hours from now, I’ll know if it’s the right job for me, and whether it’s mine. Or, I think I’ll know. It’s technically a second interview. But, like I said, it’s complicated. And I’m confused.

Wish I had something else I felt like posting, but I don’t. I’m looking forwards to knowing more tomorrow. It dawns on me now that I’ve been in a state of varying shades of unknowing for 17 months now. No wonder I’m feeling a bit antsy. All this time, and this is the first job I’ve really wanted. This anxiousness suddenly makes sense. But hey, how often do we really get this feeling of wanting something this badly? I’m going to try and enjoy it while I can. Whew. Got the nerves somethin’ fierce, though! I take solace in one thing right now: This time, I really think I know what I want. If I get it, I'll know I was right. Let's see now.

And then it was Christmas

Hey, my good people.

It's the verge of Christmas. I'm not done, my home is a shambles. I have this morning to make that right. Tonight's the family dinner, starting a little after two. Tomorrow's the dinner I cook for my friend and I. It was to be plural, but we've decided to head to mass, and that excludes others. Oh, well.

Monday is Christmas day proper, and I have the day off. It's weird, this is the first year since my mother's death in '99 that I haven't dreaded Christmas. I haven't been jumping up and down because it's coming, either, but I'm not dreading it. So I find it ironic I should have the day to myself after all.

I decorated, you know. I bought the world's smallest living tree, about 2 feet high, and decorated it as well as my monster jade tree. Heh. First time decorating in three years. The baby tree's going to my friends when I'm through with it -- they bought their first home this year and have a little baby. I thought it'd help be a reminder of this Christmas when they go and plant it in their yard. Aww, thoughtful of me, I know. :)

I had a date last week, and I have nothing to report. Two busy people colliding for a meal in the middle of two insanely busy weeks. Nothing bad to say, nothing great to say, worth checking out one more time. Promising, possibly. Nothing much to say yet. That's all.

I had a job interview last week and next week will have rendezvous de deux, in which I'm hoping to be offered the job. I'm not sure about the money they're offering, but finding that out will be a big factor in whether I take it, too. Hoping it's a liveable wage. Looks like a great job. I think they like me lots. But if I get this, it's a great way to wrap up a tough year.

I'm in a holding pattern, boys and girls. Another couple days and everything gets decided.

Here's a Christmas card I made. Happy season to you all. (And if you're alone and you don't want to be, I recommend popping into a mass or something. There's many different kinds, and it might just take the edge off.)

Love Steff.

Remembering Ecole Polytechnique

December 6th passed by without my noting it. Dreadful.

On December 6th, 1989, Marc Lepine, a disgruntled man of 25, let his rage overtake him as he stormed through the halls of Montreal’s Eqole Polytechnique, slaughtering 14 women and injuring 13 others.

He had once applied to the school but was rejected for reasons not listed.

He entered a classroom and separated the men from the women, sent the men running, and before he opened fire on the women that remained, he screamed "I hate feminists!"

It took 45 minutes to burn itself into my brain for what will be the rest of my life.

I knew then that I could never, ever let the struggle for women’s equality fade away from my mind. What has had so high a price paid for us to have the lives, education, opportunities, and freedoms we have now, that needs to be remembered, honoured, and upheld.

So that then leaves me with two problems.

One, that I absolutely deplore, despise, and loathe girls of the generation coming up today (and I thank god there are exceptions) who persist tossing away ambition and smarts, or at the very least playing down their smarts, in an attempt to be seen as sexy, and in an attempt to get by. As Pink said, "sexy and smart don't need to be oil and water."

You wanna sleep your way to the top? You go, sister. But at least take your five-dollar, five-syllable vocab with you and get prepared to intellectually throw down if you must. C’mon, fucking be someone more.

And two, I want to assert right here, right now, that I can indeed be a feminist while celebrating the best parts of what masculinity is. (C’mon, there are aspects of being female I think I could do without, and there are aspects of masculinity I absolutely know I could do without, all right? I call ‘em as I see ‘em.)

I despise feminists who seek their power through the erosion of masculinity. If you need to tear someone down in order to build yourself up, I assure you – you are building on shaky ground. It’s not right. It’s not something I’m cool with. I love strong, conversant, brash, assertive men. It’s hot. It’s sexy. I don’t need some quivering metrosexual so I can feel more secure in my quest for presence in the world. You know what I’m saying?

But, hey, be what you want to be. Just don’t demand others be less of who they are so you can feel accommodated. That’s penny ante bullshit. Raise the stakes. Be all you want to be and respect them for their best attributes, too.

Sure, we could all use a little changing. Let’s just ensure it’s happening for the right reasons.

All I know is this – the sexiest kind of woman I know is one who’s secure in who she is, knows what she wants, can articulate it, and can celebrate it while celebrating those around her.

It’s a rare breed, and I wish it wasn’t.

Fourteen women died, 13 more were injured, and countless other lives were lost because someone thought chicks had it easier. This isn’t about quotas, though. It’s about hoping one day we’re all going to be able to see the best in each other and accept it, regardless of gender, of sexuality, of race, of class.

I think there’s good to be found in remembering what was lost that day, especially in proximity to Christmas, a time of joy and rebirth. I try to remember that in the smoke of that gunfire was borne a new kind of feminism. I like to think some part of me is a product of that day.

It’s the only way any of it can ever make sense.

Ixnay the Lanpay, eh?

So, the plan todat was: Write at some point.

Doh! No! Not happening! Or almost didn't.

Y'see, I've been quite the social butterfly this weekend. Keepin' it social, keepin' it real, and not hanging about chained to my desk, pleasing my minions. Oh, my poor minions! Be still your crushing, beating hearts!

Forsaking you is not one of the things I'm pleased with. Getting out, chilling, being one with the world? All good, baby! But forsook you. Oh, tragedy of tragedies.

We've been embroiled in insanity here in Vancouver of late. Hurricane-strength winds blew through early Friday morning and tore this city apart. One of the greatest parks in the world, Stanley Park, has been all but decimated. (Not such good weather for scooter riding. Can Santa hack it?)

It's a fitting metaphor for my life of late -- a whirlwind of tumult and unrest. I'd kill for a 12-hour sleep. Soon. Know how soon? Christmas day.

This year, unlike any year in the last several, I have sweet fuck all to do. (Whole dam fam's on the 23rd, my friends join me for dead bird on the Eve, but on the day? Solo!) Hear that? That's choirs of angels singing my praise. Ah! Sweet, sweet bliss! Alone, at last, and on Christmas, no less!

You see, I'm perfectly fine for being alone on Christmas. My landlady and I were both discussing how fabulous keeping to yourself can be on Christmas day. Both her and I have met with strange looks from others. "Alone? And you're happy about it?"

Yo, just because you have anxieties about being left alone doesn't mean the rest of the world's sympatico, my friends. Some of us thrive on it. Leave us!

But, there are indeed people who are alone and would love not to be. In Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City, Michael says that there's no day that sucks more than Christmas Day to wake up single. 'cos you wake up alone, single, and the day -- the most magical day of the year -- feels just like any other.

[shrug] If you want it to, that is.

Later this week, I'm going to tackle a few stores, and I'm going to fill my Christmas stocking with things I love. In fact, I've even printed some of my photography as a gift to myself. And I'm going to wrap it and place it under my tree. I'll open it all on Christmas day.

The day proper, though, is down to three possible things I'll do: 1) a hike (sounds awesome -- an empty forest) 2) a flick (is it wrong that I'm dying to see Rocky Balboa?) or 3) I'll finally paint my hallway the cranberry colour it's been in my mind's eye for two years now.

Any way you slice it, I'm having a banner day. The day will start with a long sleep in, and then a luxurious brekkie, and more.

Thing is, being single can suck every fucking day. Being single is a hard thing for some people. This morning, I had an old, dear friend in for breakfast -- we just recently became reacquainted after more than a decade out of touch; it seems she stumbled on this bloggie and couldn't contain herself -- and she loved the feast I served: my over-the-top hash browns made with elephant garlic and too much butter, the chicken-apple sausages butterflied and broiled with a honey glaze, the scrambled eggs with carmelized shallots and peppers. So, she looked at it and said, "Well, you'd never go through all this just for yourself, right?"

Fuckin' right I would, I said. Why save the best for others? Don't I deserve it? Sure I do.

Being single's hard, and I'm as human as you are, and sometimes I wish I weren't a party of one. But the days when I roll out the red carpet and treat myself like the royalty I deserve to be, well, being single's feeling pretty fucking fab those days.

So why not Christmas, too? I'll have eggnog, great food, do something special for myself. GayBoy will probably come by and misbehave a little in the late, late hours, and that's just fine, too.

Point is, Christmas looms. Are you alone and hating it? Fucking do something for yourself. Do something you love. Plan it out. Put the plan in action. Anticipate it. After all, you only have to count on yourself -- odds of being let down? Pretty itty-bitty, don't ya think? Or, if you're really hating it, try and get yourself invited out. I know of a few events here in town for single people -- like a Christmas eve dinner at the infamous Sylvia Hotel (at ten floors, was the tallest building in the city a century ago, and became a hideaway for booze for both Heming way and Dylan Thomas during the evil prohibition years down south). All ya gotta do is look. Besides, if you're really stuck for company -- there's always an assortment of masses to attend, and some have great sermons, some great music, and some even have both.

Now. I need to decide what to put in my stocking. I think a few mini-bottles of booze might be a good start, and a bath bomb or two. And chocolate. Ooh. Decisions, decisions!

Dear Santa,
I don't know if you can do this, but for Christmas, I'd like for my mommy and daddy to get back together. Please see what you can do.
Love, Teddy

Dear Teddy,
Look, your dad's banging the babysitter like a screen door in a hurricane. Do you think he's gonna give that up to come back to your frigid mom, who rides his ass constantly? It's time to give up that dream. Let me send you some Legos instead.
Santa

Seizing My Moment In Time

I don't have the time to write. A busy day lies ahead. But I'll never have this moment again, and I don't wish to see it pass me by. So, I'll use my time-bending skills and stop my world ever so briefly to share this moment with you.

I feel powerful. Unstoppable. I feel like everything is about to come my way. I don't know that I have any evidence of that. In fact, it's probably evidence of the opposite, if I had a negative mindset. Someone backed over my scooter last night and fucked some of it up. I could focus on that, if I wanted to. Instead, I'm choosing to embrace how fortunate and lucky I am that the man was honest and sought me out in the store I was in, and grateful that the young homeless man by my scooter took notice of me and helped the car driver find me. Good begets good, and I know I've sown my karma over the years. Perhaps the reaping has begun.

And I'm excited that I have a job interview tonight, some celebrating with people I care about this weekend, a date on Sunday, and a breakfast with someone I cared a great deal for in my youth on Monday. I feel like life's turning the page on what was, without a doubt, the hardest, most gruelling year of my life -- surpassing even that of the year my mother passed away.

You may not know it, but I have been without secure employment since June of 2005. Through all that has come my way, I've managed to make ends meet month after month, trial after trial. I came within days of losing my home this year, but I overcame that and all that followed. And now I feel invulnerable. Now I know how strong I can be, how resourceful I am. I feel I'm equipped to tackle the next forty years of my life.

And I cannot wait. Bring it, baby. I'm so on, so ready. My new life has already begun, but the rewards have yet to tumble in. But they will. Without a doubt, they will.

I'm a student of life, of the world, of you, of me, of time, of places. Of anything I want to be. And I'm grateful for every lesson I have learned these past 27 months -- because learn is exactly what I have done. (The nine months preceding my loss of work in 2005 and the journey I've been on since includes when I nearly died from a motorbike accident and spent months recovering my post-concussive mental faculties and overcoming my bodily injuries. That, too, was a hard journey.)

I may not get this job tonight. And that would be all right. If there's anything I no longer have, it's fear. I feel like life can throw nearly anything my way, and I'll stand victorious at the end of it. I am Steff the Conqueror!

But I'm not exceptional. More people than me have gone through adversity and come through it triumphantly. The only exception is that I've been openly documenting it all for you. If I had to pinpoint, though, the most important lesson I've learned, I would have to say "smallness."

I'm aware of how small my place in this world has been. I've always known that. I'm aware also of how little a fraction of my life these times of woe really possess. I once thought that knowing that made me more able to deal with hardship, but I was looking at it wrong. I was demeaning my time here on this planet instead of celebrating it. Instead of saying, "Oh, 20 years from now this'll seem like a blip on the landscape of my life", I've been acknowledging how much power I have right now to shape and change the person I am into the person I want to be. I'm aware that the brief moments in time I have present me with the opportunity to drastically alter my future.

We belittle our present time by thinking it's a blip on the radar screen of our lives. Sure, you can tell yourself that if it makes you feel better. But owning it and saying that this is the moment, this fraction of time, that is going to profoundly bring you closer to who you are, why, that's some powerful stuff. It may pass by quickly, but its impact can stay with you for the remainder of your life. What would you like that impact to be?

I've known since June of this year that this would be the year that defines the rest of my life. I don't have proof yet of that, but I know it deep into my core that, yes, this is the time that I am becoming more myself than I've ever been. I am grateful for every bit of adversity I've faced this year, and proud of my achievements. I'm not done yet, not by a long shot, but I've got a greater sense of what my challenges are than I've ever had, and I'm up to them like I've never before been.

You're the one who assigns value to your life. Your experiences mean nothing to anyone else. Your growth means nothing to anyone else. But who you are, that means everything. By choosing to value your hardships and growing in spite of them, others will see you as a different person. That'll mean more in your relationships than you can ever know. But mostly, it'll make that proverbial love affair with self a much more fulfilling experience.

My all-time favourite quote is Oscar Wilde, "To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance."

And, believe me, baby, I'm head over heels today.

Welcome to My Madhouse!

Hey, Boys & Girls!

Just checking in to say howdy. Life's hit the "I'm insane, are you insane?" pre-Christmas madness phase. Tonight's the only night I have to myself until next Tuesday, and I'm not so sure much writing's going to happen in the next few days. I'll pop in, to be sure, so stay tuned. And I'm gonna try, darn it! I've been getting life in order -- I've gotten my Xmas gifts sorted, my house organized, and all that's left on the to-do list is assembling gifts (which can't happen until next Thursday) and decorating for the holidays. I need me some Christmas lights!

I have part II of the me-guide to dating tips that I'd like to post, but I want to add a bit more to it before that happens, so I'm holding off. I may have some time to write Friday night as I think my plans aren't going to happen. (Which is a good thing.)

After that, though, I suspect my condition will be none so good. Three words: Staff Christmas Party. Uh-huh. Yeah, my one time per year that I get unequivocally drunk off my ass. I've reserved Sunday for a hang-over.

[record scratches]

Or did I?

No, no, it seems that in my INFINITE wisdom, I have arranged a date for Sunday night. Unlike most dates I go on, I've actually talked to this guy for a bit and such, so my fingers are crossed. I'm sure I'll be tres sexy, tres hot in my hang-over phase. What have I done?

But, yeah, this week and next week: insanity inducing. Oddly, I have Christmas Day all to myself as family things are happening beforehand, and Christmas Eve is my night to celebrate with friends. A strange year this is, indeed.

I'll be popping in soonish, and I hope to have the dating thingie up with an addendum of WHY DATING GUIDES SUCK to introduce it. Talk about shooting oneself in the foot! But if anyone can shoot to hit, baby, it's me! I'm deadly at the air-gun "saloon" at the amusement park. Oh, yeah. All those years of lusting after Clint Eastwood as a young girl have paid off handily.

Have a good one, boys and girls. And don't you go doing something silly, now, like behaving! Tsk!

Domestic Abuse: Redux -- And Resources

Sorry, boys and girls. Has it really been four days since my last posting? I became Suzy Homemaker this weekend and have been making sense of my chaos. No longer will I loathe writing -- my writing desk is a sexier thing than it has ever, ever been. And I'm plum knackered. I wrote this a few days ago... I think I'm somehow becoming a profound anti-abuse activist, but I'll try to keep my postings on it to a minimum, hence this is packed with a lot of resources for those who need it. Another thing I'm becoming an activist about is AIDS, but I missed posting for World AIDS Day. Kind of deliberately, as I assumed all the other media was focusing on it enough. I'll bang that drum when there's more silence on the matter.

In the meantime, you get to read this. More on dating notions later in the week. (Most of the "rules" get broken by me, and I aim to share a little on why I think they don't apply to me... and why they probably shouldn't apply to you, even though I've taken the time to write them. It doesn't make me a hypocrite -- just aware that what works for some will never work for all. Like I sez, stay tuned for that.)

Domestic abuse is the leading cause of injuries to women between the ages of 18 – 49, more than the total caused by car accidents, muggings, and rapes combined.

[Stat provided by the Oprah Winfrey Show. Sue me, it’s easier than finding the actual source!]

Since I wrote about violence in relationships a few weeks back, I’ve had a couple of my own friends come forward and admit they’ve been abused. I sometimes wonder why I’ve never been told before, but I think it’s because they know I’d never stand for abuse, and maybe they felt that meant I wouldn’t understand. How sad that is. And, unfortunately, on some levels, they were right.

No, I don’t understand abuse. I don’t understand how someone can claim they love you, then raise an arm to you. I don’t understand how they can claim you are their world, then proceed to insult, ridicule, and demean you, let alone violently attack you. I don’t understand it. I never, ever will.

There simply is nothing to understand, save this: It is wrong. It is unforgivable. It is unthinkable. It is intolerable.

But there’s another thing to understand, too… and that is that, as much as we wish it wasn’t so, it is not uncommon.

I consider myself a romantic realist, as I’m sometimes a little too idealistic for my own good. But I believe in humanity. I believe that good can triumph over evil, and that good can even come from evil. I’d like to think that, in the face of the worst that can befall us in our lives, people will emerge who will help recalibrate our perceptions of humanity as a whole. Good people. Caring people. People who would do anything to help us if only because they think someone needs help, and help should be given. Selflessness is not a myth.

And sadly, neither is abuse. The most horrific thing about abuse is that it’s the destruction of trust. The person we’re supposed to trust the most is the person that hurts us the most. I think victims of abuse believe they’ve nowhere to turn. And almost every single time, they’re wrong about that.

Then there’s the shame. Signs of violence are often covered up by victims. The smart abusers know to never hit the face, so the victims don’t have a lot they need to try to hide.

If you’re the victim of abuse, I implore you to try to trust others around you. Allow them to see the signs. Do not be a victim in silence – you cannot be protected, nor saved, if you’re silent. Should that day come when you have the courage to leave, if there’s no evidence, you may have a harder time leaving, let alone creating protection for yourself.

You must let others know of your suffering, but you must also exercise caution. A person capable of hurting you is a person capable of killing you, and it’s not a stretch to think it could happen. More than half the murders committed on this continent are committed by spouses and partners. How many of them should have seen it coming?

Signs you're likely in an abusive, or soon to be abusive, relationship:

• Jealousy
• Name-calling and demeaning behaviour
• Threats against you, your family, or pet
• They try to isolate you from friends and family
• Controlling behaviour

If this sounds like your partner, you need to consider your options and your exit strategy. You need to confer with people who understand the risks that you're facing. See the below resources at the end of this posting.

It’s so hard to give advice about these situations because some are so incredibly volatile and dangerous. You can’t listen to some amateur like myself. You must enlist the help of support services. Even if/when you leave, you cannot assume the danger has passed. One never knows when something might snap and everything change in a moment.

The New Year is around the corner, and everyone everywhere is starting to think of resolutions – lose 10 lbs, find a better job – but if you’re abused, you must try to find a way out of your situation. You must believe that this is the year a fresh start can be found for you. You must believe you deserve better. Every living person deserves to know what love and safety feel like, so why not you?

I was raised to believe something that shapes my worldview even now: Don’t just accept apologies. “Sorry” is just a word, and the saying of it means so little. Believe the actions, not the words. Ensure that attrition is proven to you, not just given lip-service. But don’t wait around and provide them with another chance to shatter that easily-given apology. Create a plan of action. Accept that you deserve better, and strive to attain it.

I pride myself on being able to see through situations and see through people, but even I’ve been surprised at learning just who is abusive to whom of late. And it breaks my heart because I know my friends never needed to suffer in silence. I’d move heaven and earth to be the kind of friend a friend in need deserves, but if I’m not given that chance, if I’m not trusted with those shameful, dark secrets, I can never be that friend I wish to be.

Neither can your friends or your loved ones if you don’t give them the chance. After all, what have you got to lose, considering?

(But you must exercise grave caution if you’re thinking of leaving an abusive situation. There are unimaginable things which occur daily, and having a knowing, strong support group around you – including professionals who understand the potential for catastrophe and how to avoid it – is essential. I don’t for a minute think I understand in the least what kind of precautions to take. You must be brave and contact support services. Enlist a friend for help if need be, but you must contact someone.)

If you're an American about to do some Xmas shopping and wish your expenditures could do more for others, you can shop at the "mall" at IGive.com and a percentage of your purchases will go to help the Domestic Abuse Hotline. Give the gift of freedom this holiday season.

If you're one of the many who'll be capitalizing on deals for new cellphones this season, consider donating your old phone to The Wireless Foundation, who provide cellphones that are reprogrammed for emergency calling only to victims of abuse for the means of protecting themselves. Who knows, that old cellphone of yours could just save a life. Click here to learn more.

Some resources for you:
A bi-lingual National Domestic Violence Helpline here in Canada can be found at: 1-800-363-9010.
The American national Domestic Abuse Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE -- they can put you in touch with real resources in your region. Call for further information.
The American Domestic Abuse Hotline on the web is Here.
Learn more abought domestic abuse of all kinds at EndViolence.org.
Still not sure if you're in an abusive relationship? This QUIZ might clear up the matter for you.
A terrific site including domestic abuse resource links for over 70 nations. HotPeaches.net.
A good list of North American, English, Australian, and a few other nations' domestic violence contact numbers are here at the Domestic Violence International website.

Remember: Abusive relationships often start beautifully, then deteriorate to wars of words and belittling, then the violence follows. Don't doubt early signs. Don't think you deserve to be treated that way. Don't wait for more. Don't let it happen again. You deserve more. End the cycle now.

Oh my goodness! A damsel in distress!

HALP! HALP! I need template help! I've only recently become aware that this page SUCKS ASS in Internet Explorer! The sidebar disappears and loads beneath the main page content. Can anyone haaaaaaaaaaaaaaalp? Drop me a line here, if you can! Thanks!

Dating: My Way -- Some Reasonable Tips, Part One

Well, after being pressured (oh, the pressure!) into doing a dating guide, I gave it some thought and decided Yeah, I have thoughts. I have a lot of thoughts. You want my take on dating? I believe in a kinder, gentler dating world, and in my world, everyone would follow my common sense take on things. This is at least two parts, possibly three. I'm too lazy to organize it, though, so it's coming out as I wrote it.

Stay tuned for the next part, sometime next week, but here's part one. First, my credo:

• I don’t believe there are do-or-die rules.
• I don’t believe in systems.
• I don’t think you should ever try to ‘snag’ a person – they’re right for you or they’re not, and if you need to change yourself, well, keeping them in the longterm is unlikely ‘cos you’d be changing for the wrong reasons.
• I believe every date is an entity in and of itself – focus on the moment ‘cos the future’s just a question mark.
• I believe in being true.
• I believe in going with the flow.
• I believe in following your instinct.
• I believe in chemistry, and I don’t believe it’s conjureable. It’s there or it’s not.
• I don’t believe those who say “only call once” – I say go ahead and call a second time or follow up with an email. I agree that it can be pushy or perceived as aggressive, but if they’re not interested anyhow, another call isn’t going to hurt your chances, now is it? But what if? What if your message got dropped along the way, or they accidentally deleted your number, or toasted your email? It would suck if you’d jumped to conclusions. Give it time in between, but if you don’t hear back the second time, yer done. They’re not into you.
• Don’t be late, or at the very least, call in ADVANCE when you’re running late and tell them. If they’re rushing to get ready on time and then you show up late, they’ll wonder why you didn’t make the same effort they did. Strike one.
• If you’re a chick and the guy’s picking you up, be ready. I’ve never once met a man who enjoys waiting for a woman to get ready. Break the stereotype, girls. That means having your coat and shoes ready, your keys in your purse, your makeup done. It means being ready to walk out the door.
• Don’t be nosier than you have a right to be. What they make, if they own their place, whether their car is paid for, what level schooling they have… none of these really matter, and for you to make them a central issue indicates you’re probably more hung up on status than you are about who they are under the skin.
• Don’t ask boring questions. Find out what makes them tick. Ask about happy memories. What’s a great Sunday. Are they enjoying life. Books, movies, music, dreams, goals, best laugh ever.
• Don’t talk about exes. You might be over them, but your date doesn’t know it.
• Don’t talk about your troubles. Your date’s not your shrink. Most people, most of the time, don’t give a shit about your problems. They’d rather talk about the movies. Let 'em grow fond of you, and then they'll naturally care about your problems. Give it time.
• Don’t talk on your cell phone. It’s rude. Turn the thing off.
• Hold the door open for your date – even if you’re a girl. It’s classy and it’s just plain good manners.
• If you’re on a dinner date, know your etiquette. (I wrote something on it a while back. Part one here, part two here.) Eat slowly. Take your time. Spend more time looking at your date than you do your food. Eat small bites so they don’t have to wait awkwardly for a minute or two while you’re mashing your honking bite to bits before you can answer the question they just asked you.
• If they ask you a question that cuts too close to home on a difficult subject for you, and you’re into them, be honest. Smile, look them in the eye, and just say, “That’s a great question, but it’s a hard topic for me. Can we save that for next time?” They’ll appreciate your honesty, and you’ll show them you can be vulnerable yet composed. It’s an attractive balance.

Part two's done, but I go by whim 'round these parts, so it may be posted tomorrow, maybe next week. Depends on many things. :) Stay tuned.

Whatchoo think about these ones so far, though? Any thoughts?

Why, Is This a Friday Before Me?

Yesterday's posting is about to get heated in the comments. I was going to update you all on the depression I fought this summer and where it all is these days, but I'll hold off in the attempts that the flame-throwing will get even more fun. C'mon, people! It's a good ol' flame-throwin' session! Who needs therapy when you got a flamethrower, baby?

The quick answer as to how my battle with depression is going? Victory! I smoked that bastard. Life's still stressful, but I'm not an emotional wreck anymore. In fact, I daresay I'm fun sometimes. Oh, and you KNOW I am. But, yeah, my keel's pretty darned even these days. None of this numb shit people panic about when they talk about meds, tho.

More next time, kiddies. And a happy weekend to you, too!

Some Thoughts on Us Bloggers

This debate is heating up in the comments, where he who has been (albeit ever so briefly) mentioned here took issue to me not posting his whole email for you people to look at. Gee, I respect privacy. I'm such an evil wench. Check out the comments for more fun-filled flamethrowing.

So, I got an email on a dating site that really pissed me off. It's from some reader who found me through my Craigslist ad way back when.

See, he's reading me rather religiously, whatever, and has sent me some longwinded emails saying he feels "guilty" for reading me and "sorry" that I spend so much of my time writing blogs.

So, lemme just clear this the fuck up right now.

I type fast and I write even faster than I can type. Writing is not hard for me. I'm not being arrogant, just stating facts. It means I let a lot of crap go that I should probably be more selective about when I'm editing. But I don't care.

See, if I edited more, if I took it slower, you'd get less content, but I'd also have less of a life. I don't instant message people. I don't send long, meandering, ponderous emails to people. I don't surf the net. I don't read blogs, even. What I do on my computer is WRITE. That's all. The rest of the time, I do what I do.

And, no, I'll never be Little Miss Social. I'm not built that way. I can certainly work a room, but I need my alone time, too.

For some of us, writing is like breathing. We have to. We must. If we don't, we wither and waste away. I know what that feels like -- I felt it for six long, hellish years -- so I grab tenaciously at this gift of writing now, and I'm never, ever letting go.

You want to feel guilty for compulsively reading? That's your prerogative. I don't give a shit. I'd like to hear from readers, but I'd be writing even if no one was out there. Because I simply must do it.

There is a quote I can recite by heart without even blinking. It's on my wall. It's tattooed on my brain, really. "Writing for a living is a privilege, not a god-given right, as the opportunities are few, though sought after by many. Years of rejection serve as a crude winnowing process, after which those left standing are those who simply must write." Richard Ford.

I must write. But I don't need to accept pity. I don't need to spend more than one moment longer than I wish to doing this. And believe me, I don't.

I do this for me. Luckily, I've allowed you all along for the ride. The same gift of luck is extended to you by any blogger whose work you love. We do it for ourselves, and when we find ourselves with an audience, it makes us smile simply because we discover that through our voices we have somehow tapped into the universal condition and found an echo of familiarity among others.

I've been writing some guidelines for the dating masses, having been peer-pressured into it, and having realized I do have a thing or four that I think are applicable. I'll get that up next time. Had to get this off my chest. 'cos, like, I do it for me. ;) (This took me 12 minutes, for those with enquiring minds.)

The Dating Guide? (Snicker)

So, I had a question yesterday in the comments. Here's the short and sweet of it.

Spicy Little Pi apparently has an explosion of men in her life and wants to know what the REAL rules of dating are.

You wanna know? You really wanna know?

Fucked if I know, honey.

Here's the thing. I wouldn't know how to play games if the rule book dropped heavy as a rock on my head. I know one thing and one thing only -- myself. I figure you can play as many games as you want, stick to as many rules as you want, but in the end, it's either a fit or it's not. And if it's a fit, wouldn't you rather it be a fit with you being yourself, instead of having to live up to an unrealistic ideal you set because you were trying to be something they'd like better?

I am not a serial dater. I don't have it in me. I know what I like when I see it, and the rest of it I leave for others. I used to follow "rules" and not a one ever worked for me. Sometimes I ask guys out, sometimes I don't. When I do, sometimes it works, sometimes it seems to be a deal breaker. There's no one-size fits-all approach here. Trust your instincts, that's all you can do.

The thing about "rules" is that it's insulting from the outset. It implies everyone's a cookie-cut-out and that one set way of doing things ought to apply to the masses. Bullshit. Maybe, just maybe, they work for the lowest common denominator. Maybe they work for people who like their news spoon-fed for 'em and who can't dress themselves, but methinks not. You try to handle me with your rules and I'll probably see through you like a clean window on a sunny day.

All I know that works is:

Don't be clingy. Be patient. Don't expect a call the next day, because most guys are stupid enough to believe it's uncool. If they do call, and you're happy about it, make sure they know they know you're pleased to hear from 'em. Don't gush. Be real. Be honest. Be open. Be yourself. Look good. Smell nice.* Make a lot of eye contact. Smile. Watch your body language and be sure you initiate touch (touching a hand or forearm or shoulder is a great thing). I still believe guys should pay on the first date, particularly if they do the asking. You can offer to split the check if you like. Don't complain. Don't be negative. Don't talk about your problems. Don't be bossy. Go with the flow -- if things go sideways (meal takes too long, gig's sold out), then get over it and have fun despite it.

And if you wanna kiss on the first date, I approve. Much more than that and you're liable to not see or hear from him again, regardless of what he tells you. Like him? Hold off. I've had more than one promising venture go up in flames because of too much, too soon, because no matter what they tell you, guys don't like girls who put out. Fuckin' men are ideal candidates for the "careful what you wish for" adage. Some say wait until the 10th date. Noble thought, but jesus. That's hard work!

Aside from that, I say fuck the rules. They've never worked for me, and anyone anywhere who tells you there's a "right" way to date probably has a used car lot they're trying to hawk off as well.

It comes down to you and them. Do you listen? Do you smile? Are you genuinely interested? Are you flattering them? Are you fun to be with? Hell, it's basic charm school, that's all.

Yeah, fuck the rules. Be charming. Be real. Be open. That's all I try to do. And yes, I still fail, but then again, I fail with the ones I don't like. Funny how that works. I'm serially single, mostly by choice. What the hell are you asking me for?! Ha.

I'll likely try to tackle this with more thought another time, but I'm interested in what YOU think. Well? Are there real rules? Meanwhile, I got a dayjob beckoning me. Oh, boy.

*Best lesson ever on perfume came from my aunt, who bought me some expensive perfumes when I was 13. "Spray the air, and walk through it." Cologne and perfume are teases to get the person closer to you -- it's not a fucking early warning system. Me, I'm allergic to too much of it, and I'd be repelled, not attracted, by anyone wearing much of it. And I ain't alone.

Found on the Internet

(Click on it to see it larger / readable.)

And this is why living out loud's a good way to go. That whole mind-reading thing is a bitch when it comes to dating, y'know.

Taking a Dip in the Shallow End: My Latest Crush

I LOVE smart men. Love love love. But they're better when they're sexy. They're even better when they have a bad boy streak (that's under control, of course).

So it's no big surprise that my latest crush is the incurably sexy, smart, funny, witty, and engaging host of Canada's CBC's "The Hour", George Stroumboulopoulos. Pity about the name, but still.

This guy's so yummy he's about to officially be declared a food group by Health Canada.

I'll show you an hour, George. Or two. I'm all about losing track of time, tho. Lemme atcha. I'll show ya a sound bite or three.

I figure I don't have nearly enough eye candy on my site, so here's a sexy smartie for all you girls out there. I dunno about the USA, but the news has been getting sexed up with George here in Canada. He's been around a couple seasons now, but now he's becoming huge. He lands some wild interviews with incredible names. This guy's gonna be around a few decades, but he's in his prime now. Good god, is he.

On Becoming Myself & An Update on the Podcast

The calendar month has flipped for the last time this year. 2007 looms. Yay, 2007.

In 1999, my mother died. New Year’s Eve that year was a night to remember, as everyone was running around, scurrying like scared rats on a ship going down at sea. Everyone thought the Y2K bug was going to shut down the world. Chicken Little was our mascot. Things heated up even more when, days before, a would-be terrorist was found pretty close to my home, who had ambitious plans on trying to do something to Seattle's Space Needle. All of those things conspired to make me just wish the year would come to a close in a hurry. My friends and I gathered for a movie about the last night of the world (Last Night, a Canadian indie apocalyptic flick in which the end of the world has been known for six months, and it’s a look at how the last night is spent amongst a handful of people) and for the requisite shit-faced drinking that comes with the end of a calendar year.

Me, I wrote a poem for the occasion, and then we went and took an aerosol can and used it as a flamethrower to ceremoniously end the year as I read the last line of my poem to my friends: “the millennium dawns in minutes mere, so let’s burn this fucker and have a beer.”

Something tells me my 2006 calendar’s going up in flames in 29 days. If nothing else that night, the calendar's getting torched.

You hear talk of “lost years”, the years in which people sign out of their lives and discover who they are, etc. I’m calling 2006 my Lost & Found year. Hence the photo I've included here, which I shot in November, and I cheekily call "Finding Myself". (Blogger's not cooperating. The photo will be added later.)

You people have had a bird’s eye view on my life, and those that have been dedicated readers for the entire duration know a few things about what’s all gone down, but you’re nowhere near completely informed. I keep a lot to myself as well, but suffice to say, in all the turmoil and angst and struggle, this blog has been a right bitch to keep alive. But it’s been worth the fight and I know that, in the coming months, a new era of blogging will be dawning for me.

I’m looking forwards to 2007. My Lost & Found year has redefined me in many ways, but it’s also awakened me to all the things I’m not that I wish I were. I have a song running through my mind, an old Canadian indie hit from the early ‘90s, “All the Things I Wasn’t” by a defunct band called The Grapes of Wrath. I’m trying to focus on all the things I am but haven’t been.

This year has woken me. I know who I was, I know who I ought to be, and I think I know how to get from here to there, even without GPS to aid me.

At 33, I’m becoming more of myself on a daily basis. I’m realizing that there are things I do I dislike – that of trying to always be the nice, generous, good girl. That of allowing my insecurities to change how I am in front of others. That of conforming when the last thing in the world I really want is to fit in - I want to stand out, be someone different, someone worth watching. And I know I can be. There are so many things I want to change, and I’m taking a long, hard look at how I want to be in the years that come.

But that’s the thing. We’re all learning how to be ourselves. I don’t care if you’re 16 or 82, the path to who you are is never one that ends. Unless you want to stop the growth and change. It’s you who decides what to take from this life. And I’ll tell you, I’m taking every little fucking thing I can from it. I want it all, man. I want it all.

I like the challenge of changing myself. I like the struggle of growth and maturity and not only gaining wisdom, but understanding it. I love living the examined life. I’m astounded at how much there is to learn about myself and my world, and how little it seems I really do know. Sometimes I grow cynical and believe it’s just the same shit every day, packaged in another way, but then I have these moments of child-like awe and wonder… That, no, it’s not the same. It’s not even the same ballpark, unless I want it to be. I assign value to the passing moments in my life, and sometimes I even get it right.

I’ve been thinking a lot about goals and values and who I am. I’ve been thinking a lot about my dreams and where I wish to be. I’ve been thinking a lot about me. Nowhere in that picture do I worry about there being a man to hold me and comfort me through it all. It’s funny, I was walking down the nearly empty street last night, on my way home, when the old Eurythmics song “I Need a Man” spun into play on my iPOD. I began dancing and singing my way home, laughing my ass off at Annie Lennox’s comical and fun vocals in that track. I may need a good shagging, but I need no man.

I find myself reflecting on my last relationship with a lot of regret these days, not because of anything that really happened, not because of him, none of that. I regret that I wasn’t who I ought to have been. I regret that I tried to make another person happy instead of appeasing myself. I think that in finding happiness within ourselves, it just spreads. Joy spreads. Happiness spreads. Love spreads, as the Stone Roses sang. When we pursue any of those for the wrong reasons, things just tumble out wrong, I find.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. I’ve made a lot of them this year. And that’s just fine, because I learn from them, as well. Much of how I operate in this world is “do it” then I either fuck it up or I succeed, but either way, I learn, and that’s all I can ask.

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THE PODCAST...
Well, I think there are some heady postings to come about this Steff-in-progress life of mine these days. But you need to know that I’m beginning to focus on doing my podcast. I know I’ve taunted you for a long time about the podcast, but let’s just clear a few things up right now.

First of all, I could never figure out a goal for the podcast. Now I have one. I’m not going to spill the beans about what the focus on the podcast is going to be, but suffice to say that it “fits” me and my life at present. I think it’ll be a great revealing look at who I am and the struggles of being single and all that comes with. I think you’ll like it. In the coming weeks, I’ll even document it as I get it made, and this is where the documenting will occur. I have ideas for how to keep you clued in to the creation of this thing, and I’ll enjoy making that happen, too.

Second, I have a sponsor for the podcast, in case you didn’t know. I’ll be doing the podcast for RedLightCenter.com, a massively multi-player online game of sex and debauchery and a virtual world in which there are theatres, clubs, and more, where I'll have an avatar who hosts the show for the public. The good folks at RLC generously bought me most of my equipment, which is scattered about my desk here. When I launch, it will be there. It will be made available shortly thereafter to the general public, but if you want first dibs on me, you’ll need a membership at RLC.

Third, they’ve been incredibly patient and understanding about all my dilemmas. I’m tired of making them wait, and you. But I have high ambitions for this podcast. It’s not going to just be another yammering low-fi podcast. My quality is top-notch. My gear’s top-notch. The end product sounds great. My editing skills? Getting there, too.

I have tried to make myself comfortable with the idea of delivering a lower-quality podcast just so I get it out the door. Not gonna happen. I don’t compromise on some things and I was wrong to think I could on this.

Fourth, I’m speaking with the good folks at RedLightCenter.com again, and we’re getting some balls back in the air during all this juggling. The podcast WILL happen. And when it does, it will be a product I’m proud to stamp my name on.

Fifth, the blog stays. The blog will be here indefinitely. I’m not giving up blogging for podcasting. No worries. It’s just going to be a Steff of a different kind – more stream of consciousness, more entertaining, more focused. Each will have its differences.

My dear people, your patience is appreciated. I will not be rushed in delivering this to you, though, as much as I know some of you wish to hear it. But I have a real live goal for it now, and a plan, and a focus, and I know I can make it happen. And that’s new. Before, I was thinking “what the fuck have I gotten myself into?” Now, I’m looking forwards to the challenge.

I don’t have an end date in mind. Soon is all I can tell you. But I have a plan now, and starting this weekend, it’s on the go.

(Found here www.bevarfildeling.dk by way of ebaumsworld.com.)