Barely There? A Rare Photo of Me...Or, My Body Parts, At Least

Today, it seems, was the last day of summer for us Vancouverites. A Pineapple Express is forecasted to begin Thursday. (The dreaded "Pineapple Express" is any rain-bearing system that wanders up our way from the Hawaiian Islands. Usually packed with days and days of hard rains.)

Knowing it's the end of something good, I decided today was the ideal day to wear a short skirt on the scooter for the last time this year. There's something about careening at high speeds with warm fresh air breezing straight between your legs.

I waxed poetic about how lovely it would be on Twitter, and started getting peer pressure to post a photo or two.

I've never been the type to post photos of myself, mostly because of my stance on appearances being somewhat dubious in general, and also because I want to be read for my words, not because someone thinks it's cleavage-shot-day or whatever the fuck. Enough people are on that train, why should I jump on too?

But I suppose it's something of webevolution, you know? If one dug through archived pages of this blog, they could probably find a picture I posted a long, long time ago before I decided I wasn't going to go down that road.

Today, though, like I say. I felt like acquiescing to some peer pressure. I wouldn't start expecting this of me. It's just not my style. Everyone changes, though, so I'm not ruling it out, either.

I thought this was a better angle that it's turned out to be, but here's what you get -- me and my legs on me scoot before the last sunshiney warm day of summery bliss before the onslaught of a long, wet Vancouver winter.

Let's call it Half-Naked Tuesday, shall we?

What If Our Lives Were Movies?

I'm officially 35 today. Time flies when you're having fun.

As a result of my birthday, though, I've been thinking a lot about life and love.

I still haven't been bothering getting back into the dating after taking this month off of it, thanks to a persistent yeast infection that has me pretty frustrated (but is starting to take its leave of me), and some other things. But I want to get back into dating in the coming month and will probably start lining things up soon.

There's an assortment of men I've been sort of stringing along (for all the right reasons), and probably half have fallen away (not a bad thing), those who remain are a varied batch indeed. I may already have a favourite in that batch, but right now's not the time to be hedging bets, I feel. I need my life to get past this short chapter so I can enjoy myself again.

It had me thinking last night about real life versus the movies, and I thought how much simpler my life would be if it was a movie. Edit out this boring bit with infections and fatigue, splice together all the fun and crazy dates, skip past the lame ones that don't even offer comic relief, and then focus on the best of the good stuff when it finally comes down, and have all sex scenes be well-lit with great angles.

In the span of well under two hours in When Harry Met Sally, for instance, we skim over 20 years of preamble to their relationship, and finish with "Happily ever after?"

In real life, though, they'd have had to go through all those years, with all those days of wondering, "When will I meet someone that really excites me? How many more underwhelming people do I have to sift through?" They'd have to have the loser nights where they eat straight from take-out containers and drink out of the milk carton, all because they know just how "alone" being single really means sometimes.

Real life gets mundane for most of us. Romance and sex often offer more hassle than reward. But like addicts chasing that high, we keep going, we keep looking, we keep trying, if only because of the possibilities that exist.

As much as I'm not getting laid right now, I'm not worried about it. I'm confident in what I offer, what I can do, and what lays ahead. But I have a yeast infection, and that just doesn't mesh well with a dating life.

But they don't get yeast infections in movies. They don't deal with complicated schedules and conflicting lives and inopportune moments.

They get edited.

These days, my life needs editing. The boring and unsexy needs to fall away, the drama needs its big return. The soundtrack needs to swell and boom. The budget needs to get inflated in my favour. Orgasms need to appear and jump me from around dark corners, brandishing gifts and affections I can't imagine. "Climax" needs to occur in more ways than one.

I also need me some big investors. I need a producer and an expense account. I need the catering of craft services wherever I go.

There are so many ways my life could improve if it could only be a movie. Instead, I'm just another girl trying to make her way through a complicated life in a complicated job with complicated challenges to overcome, as I try to figure out just exactly how to get my mindset back into getting shagged by boys who'd probably really like to be providing me with that climax. But, of course, it's "complicated."

But, that, my friends, is the challenging conundrum of chronology. Unlike movies, however, we don't have to worry about the two-hours-to-resolve dilemma. No, we have months and years, requisite dry-spells and the raging rivers of a fast-moving life, through which faces and happenings interweave at unexpected intervals. And we have a complicated ensemble cast that even Hollywood could never comprehend.

Who's to say what will come our way in the weeks and months ahead? Unlike movies, we never have teasers about our future. There aren't obvious plot points that lead to obvious conclusions.

And I guess that's half the fun.

Is it Possible?: Sex in the White House? Without Infidelity?

Something I absolutely love about the Obamas is the intensity of their attraction to each other. It's so obvious. He lights up when he sees her. She totally adores him. But it's bigger than that.

Probably the best footage I've ever seen that represents their relationship was this footage shot behind the scenes while they both were seated on stage during some other talking-head's speech, and Barack and Michelle were holding hands. But it was different. He had this shy boyish smile, the kind teens will have when they're ogling someone they've got a mad crush on, as he looked down at her hand and kept tracing his thumb over it, outlining her fingers, playing with her ring, and squeezing it here and there. And he just kept having this little shy grin as the moment stretched on and on, totally unaware the camera was on him, just having this seemingly private-yet-public endless moment with his wife in front of thousands of people, while someone else apparently had the camera and the limelight on 'em.

And I just thought, you know, you don't see that in politics. You don't see romantic gestures with intimacy and immediacy. There's a reason so many political marriages are called marriages of convenience, or political unions. Passion doesn't seem to have been their primary motivation, most of the time.

I mean, it's awesome to see a 14-year marriage with passion, and in public. They've publically admitted they have a great sex life. They still have "date" nights, and regularly, even during the campaign. He's religious about getting home for family Sundays, even during the heated campaign he's been waging. Their two kids giggle and laugh, openly admitting that they love it when their parents cuddle and kiss in front of them, and they're not ashamed at all about their parents' romantic life.

Michelle Obama said it pretty great when asked if she was worried about fidelity in politics: "I never worry about things I can't affect, and with fidelity ... that is between Barack and me, and if somebody can come between us, we didn't have much to begin with."

Spoken like a woman who believes in her relationship. And seeing the adoration in his eyes when he speaks of her? Why the hell shouldn't she?

In a day and age when the standard relationship is being redefined by 90% of society because they largely can't make them work, or don't think they CAN work, it's fucking stellar to see someone, anyone, in the public eye have a real, true, obvious love affair that's been going on for well over a decade.

I'm tired of hearing of people who've made their marriage work after a decade but only because they opened their beds to open relationships. I understand that, but I want to believe that one doesn't need to compromise in that way, that the "one true love" isn't just some illusory fairytale we tell our children to keep them from shagging before they're ready.

I don't want to be married. I don't want kids. But I want to believe THAT love is possible, with or without legal union. The kind of love where two people stay charged and passionate and in love with each other in every way they can be. I believe in that love. I always have. I think it's rare, I think it's something few of us will ever be lucky enough to find, but I love the dream of it. And I love the possibility, even the reality of it, as demonstrated by this amazing couple.

Seeing it there, real-live-in-the-flesh, and maybe even in the highest office in America, on the news, every day... what a positive thing for love as a whole.

We, as a people, as lovers, as romantics, we need to see that. We need to know it's possible, it exists, and it can be perpetuated. That it can last in the face of one of the most challenging jobs in the world. That work and responsibilities can be overcome by love and communication when they're done right.

Because god knows no one else has really been demonstrating the possibility of that of late, not really. Especially since Paul Newman, who was never accused of infidelity, and who loved and lived with Joanne Woodward more than 50 years, has now left this realm.

I say, let love win. I would love nothing more than to see THAT relationship in the news, and often, over the next four (dare I say eight?) years. And for far more reasons than just because it'd be "nice".

[That it'd come with sound economic and social policy? Holy icing on the cake, Batman.]

The End of An Era: Godspeed, Cool Hand Luke

Paul Newman died overnight at the ripe old age of 83.

When it comes to Hollywood stars, they just didn't get better than Paul Newman. The best of 'em, he never let it go to his head. Probably more famous for his salad dressing and tomato sauce, the guy was a different kind of idol.

In a vapid, pointless society like Hollywood, where it seems weight and fashion matter more than anything, Newman never subscribed to being ordinary. He had a Porsche 356 engine put into his VW Bug, for god's sake. He wore a beer bottle opener as a necklace.

He was a bad boy who wasn't bad. He gave $150 million to charity. He helped kids. But he celebrated antihero and loser roles in his movies, rather than pursuing the roles of perfect goodlooking people (like Tom Cruise often does, for instance). He embraced that side of him and we loved him for it.

If there's a Hollywood guy I wish could be emulated more often-- from the blue eyes and the incredible ass to the heart of gold and the mischievous smile-- it's Paul Newman.

Later, Paul. It's been real.

Some Pre-Birthday Thoughts on a Busy Friday Morning

After a couple months of everything in life feeling like it was a little harder than it needed to be, and life just throwing one sucker punch after another, it feels like the proverbial clouds have parted and ease is raining down upon me.

My week has been busy, as will the next few days be, too. My mind's not on sex, not on writing, so I'm just taking a moment to share before the craziness comes down.

Some family's coming to visit me this weekend, as I secretly suspect my aunt wants to shower a little money on me after having lost 45+ pounds this year. I was laughing on the phone with her last weekend, saying how I've suspended my weight-loss campaign (before McCain's "suspension madness") because I can't afford the clothes I need for my new body, let alone a skinnier one, so I've pushed the pause button for the last couple months. All of a sudden I get this phone call last night saying they're coming to town and seeing me for the first time in two years. I can't help but smell a shopping trip. (Please, Cosmos?)

Monday I turn 35. Wow! The end of an era. The end of being in that coveted 18-34 demographic. I will officially be out of the realm of cool. And I couldn't care less.

I've never understood these people who lie about their age. Why? Weren't they there for every waking day? Didn't they earn their age? Don't we all accrue our months and years? What's with the age shame? How many ways can I say "stupid"?

Come on, people, own your shit. I am a cool, cute, sexy, fun, youthful 35, and I fucking love it. 40 doesn't scare me either. I look younger than 35 and could easily get away with saying I'm 30 or even younger, but why? I've endured a lot of shit, seen a lot of things, in my 35 years. I wear my age with pride.

I do feel regret when I consider my age at times. I wish I was further in life. I wish my finances were better. I wish I'd travelled more. I wish, I wish. But that's the way life goes, full of surprises. Detours. While all my friends were getting their financial shit sorted in their 20s, in the midst of dealing with the death of my mother, I dealt with years and years of stupid, bad injuries and near-death accidents that left me for years in chronic pain, throwing money after pain management and treatment like you wouldn't believe-- thousands and thousands of dollars each year-- money that would never do anything to lay the foundation for a successful life that someone in their 20s should be laying.

Friends spent thousands on trips and toys, cars and homes, and I spent my money on trying to get to the other side of a world of pain. And I'm there. I don't live with pain anymore. I'm strong, I'm healthy, and I'm still improving. And I'd spend my money the same way if I had to do it all again. I'm still dealing with money, but I'm at the almost-end of all the financial catching up I've had to do, and I know it.

Our lives take the most unimaginable detours from what we would expect sometimes. And as hard as some of my detours have been, I'm still really pleased with where I'm at. I've done the best with what I've had, man. I've done the best I could. The best I could, for whatever that's worth.

So, I'm staring at that big 35, and I don't mind one bit.

Me, I think it'll be a fabulous year. Just fabulous. Here's wishing everyone a great weekend.

PS: After two years of my scooter underperforming, I think a friend finally solved the problem when we threw a new muffler and rollers into it last night. It finally goes fast, I finally have power, and I can finally stop feeling like a victim on wheels. I cannot tell you the combination of joy and relief that fills me with. You just have no idea. I'm so looking forward to riding to traffic court this morning. Yes, fighting the man, man! We'll see if I get my ticket & towing from May tossed out. Scooter running happily? One of the best birthday gifts ever!

Call for Gifts! Call for Gifts!

You people realize you only have four days left to get me a birthday present before I turn 35, right? I mean, SNAP, SNAP, here.

Time to get crack-a-lackin'! I mean, the ripe age of 35? Gifts cushion the blow, I'm told!

If you're having troubles choosing what to appease my voracious appetite for life with? Books are a great start. Or clothing store certificates. Or booze. We loves the booze. And PayPal is willing to accept your credit cards.

Sure, there are worthy things to contribute your money to... but why would you do that when you can give to me?

Oh, and confidential to Clay Aiken: Wow. I would have never guessed! Except for the fact that you totally epitomized "flaming closet boy" forever. Just saying.

[And if you think this posting is crass or selfish, come on, have a sense of humour. Or just click through to my PayPal account.]

A Little Political Round-Up: Good News!

I definitely get into the politics on this blog but you wouldn't believe how much I'm often restraining myself.

Lordy, have I got me some opinions.

But tonight I'm going to bed with this odd little thing. It's there, niggling. Deep, deep down, burrowed in the base of my belly, there it is: Possibility. A little thing called hope.

Here, in one of the darkest political weeks I can recall, like, ever, a niggle of hope. Maybe even a wiggle?

The Washington Post has announced, for the first time since Clinton's win for the White House, a Democratic candidate has broached the 50% mark in polls in the weeks leading up to the election. Obama has snatched a considerable lead -- nine points -- over McCain. 52% to 43%.

Colour me elated. Let me repeat: No other Democratic candidate, not Gore (who nearly took the thing) nor Kerry, has had more than a 50% standing in the weeks directly before the election since Clinton, and before Clinton? Well, how far back does modern memory extend, anyhow?

This is promising.

Add to this good news something else? Now, it might just seem like a great soundbite from an anchorwoman who's had just about enough bullshit, but what this is? It's a brilliant ploy to invite exactly what the McCain campaign fears, an unleashed Palin, into the fray. She had the audacity to say it was the "Palin-McCain" ticket. The veep's name never goes first, dude. I smell regret for an opportunistic and ultimately unwise choice for second-in-command.

Maybe I'm wrong. The coddling format of the debate to come with Biden certainly suggests she's on a leash.

So that's why I love this clip (and great article) of Campbell Brown ripping the McCain campaign a new one to "stop treating Sarah Palin like she is a delicate flower that will wilt at any moment." But then she throws down the gauntlet.

"...You claim she is ready to be one heart beat away form the presidency. If that is the case, then end this chauvinistic treatment of her now... Free Sarah Palin. Free her from the chauvinistic chain you are binding her with. Sexism in this campaign must come to an end. Sarah Palin has just as much a right to be a real candidate in this race as the men do. So let her act like one."

_________

This one's for all those college-aged kids who read this rag of mine. You guys probably all want Obama to win. They say college students always get stoked about campaigns, but their turn-out at the polls never meshes with the hype generated on campus.

You gotta put your vote where your mouth is, man.

Everything is at stake in this election. More than any election, really, in American history. What you do will literally affect the rest of the world. Every country in the world is waiting with baited breath for you to do your thing.

In a truly global economy, if the wheel that turns America goes off track, well, we're all ultimately fucked. Sadly, though: You're fucked the most. Don't get fucked. Not like this.

Put your vote where your mouth is.

Never has an election come at a more pivotal, immediate, here-and-now, do-or-die moment than this election now. Hollywood couldn't write this script. A war going on six years, encroaching 5,000 dead. An economy on the verge of a once-a-lifetime total failure. An energy crisis threatening your entire way of life (look at the gas shortages this week).

It's all so very now. You have change, the chance to effect a totally new course of action for your country...

And half of you college kids who say you're going to vote won't show up. Why? Shit happens. But you need to fucking commit. It's one day in your life, a day that can change your country's future for the incredibly positive if you do the wise thing and vote Obama.

It's a day you've known was coming for four years. And, what, something's gonna "come up"? You got a paper to write? Fucking take a notepad. Write it. But get there!

You need to talk to your friends and organize Voting Trips. Make a plan. Travel together, stay entertained. Plan ahead. Make it an event.

In 2000, every fucking vote counted. You don't think yours matters? Where's your head? Commit to voting. It's your future. Thank you.

(Click the image for a larger version so you can read the cartoon. :)

Sex-Toy Review: The Stubby G!

Let's talk sex toys today. Specifically, I'll be reviewing The Stubby G.

First, I want to explain how a few things work for all y'all, since I know sex-blog readers see these reviews all the time, and, personally, I see that 95% of them are positive, so I could understand how review-readers might skeptically dismiss us one and all as rabid sex-toy fans who love everything that comes our way.

What you need to understand is, there are a couple different ways sex toy companies operate. Some will contact bloggers and go, "Hey, want to review toys?" and when our broke asses reply, "Dude! Yeah! I need me some O's!" they'll send us a box of toys, it gets opened, and inside is a bunch of shit they couldn't sell and now the poor sucker who opened the box is on the hook to review hundreds of dollars of piece-of-shit toys. I threw out the toys One Company To Remain Unnamed sent me a couple years back -- they weren't fit for my body, for reviews, for nothing.

There are two or three Big Companies, though, like Vibe Review, who don't operate under such stupid methodology, considering a sex toy isn't just something you foist on someone. Instead, these better companies, like VR, they'll say "Hey, wanna review toys? Choose what you like, and we'll start there!"

So, instead of getting some random-ass box of toys to review, folks like me are lucky and we receive toys that we actually WANT to review. See how that works? Toys we WOULD buy are the toys we are sent, so, you know these are toys that are up our alleys, at the very least. Hence why we're more likely to like than pan the products we receive.

Because, like you, The Purchasing Public, we too can log on to Vibe Review, see that there's 15 well-written four-star reviews that routinely have joyous glee peppered throughout, and think, "Hey, that looks good!"

Personally, I've been broke off my ass for a few years. Money's not something I take lightly, and I take my reputation seriously, too, so I won't be telling you to spend hard-earned dollars on toys I think aren't worth it.

In short: We luck out, get sponsorship, and if we're lucky, they send us a custom-ordered shipment of toys appropriate for us -- our tastes, and our bodies -- then we share our discoveries with you, and if you like what you see in our reviews and buy something by clicking through our review, we might even get a few bucks commission.

So, is that clear now? You get how this works?

_______

Today's pleasure-causing object for review? The Stubby G.

From the esteemed Fun Factory brand, The Stubby G's a g-spot toy that delivers. It gets four-stars on its Vibe Review page, and I think they're well-earned.

This is one of those good-to-go toys that arrives with batteries and lube in the box. Once you clean it, you're ready to rock.

I find that most toys who boast "ribbing" can be scoffed at quite easily. You'd think sex-toy makers thought every woman was the fairytale princess who could feel the pea under the stack of mattresses. "Oh! My lord! That microscopic ribbing will make such a difference in my orgasm! Yay for microscopic barely-there ribbing!"

Who's kidding who? Most ribbing is pointless. NOT, however, on The Stubby G. I mean, lord, look at this thing! When you pull it out or push it in, imitating thrusting, you KNOW something's moving in and out of you.

Which is kind of the point, isn't it?

Its curve is perfect for angling up and questing for your g-spot, and it's easy to rotate it for better contact. Outside, the fluted flange at the base provides great exterior stimulation, so when you're in deep, you're getting it in all the right places -- on the g-spot, the clit, and everywhere in between -- because the width and shape and design is just perfect for multi-pleasing fun.

The Stubby G is splash-proof, not waterproof, so you can toy about in the shower if you're into waterplay, and is made of phthalate-free silicone so it'll clean up well.

The vibrating power isn't anything wildly new or different. But it's strong. It vibrates. It's a graduated dial, so you seamlessly move through the several varying speeds, instead of clicking through, and that's always nice.

A word about the dial itself. There are women who write reviews lauding how great the dial is. Really? When I first opened The Stubby G, I liked the dial. I thought, "OH, that'll be easy to turn and use during play!" because the flower design on the dial is slightly raised, so you think "cool, traction" for lube-y fingers, right?

Wrong. I found the dial sort of frustrating, myself, when my fingers were all covered with lube and I was trying to toggle through speeds. I had to figure out the grip. Since I sometimes have problems with my right hand where it might get sore or seize up after too much working out, I find the dial pretty frustrating with wet well-lubed fingers, which are generally the case when we girls have to take care of bizness. I found this could be easily dealt with by having a box of Kleenex by the bed or something.

All in all? Definitely a toy that'll be living bedside in my Chosen Toys Box, for sure. Apparently I'm the only person who thinks Fun Factory dials can be improved, but hey. The rest of The Stubby G makes for good times, and that's what we're after. And it's what I've certainly had in playing with this stubborn little G.

Let's recap toys I've reviewed in the last while:

*I quite liked, and rated as a "buy", the economy-priced cousin to the Rabbit, the "Lovely Rose", and you can read my review here.
*Lelo's Gigi is a toy I love (still!)-- madly, truly, passionately, debauchedly. Read my review here. If you don't own a Lelo toy yet, you DON'T know what you're missing.

Click here for a Vibe Review 10% off coupon that expires at election time, but can be used without limit until then!

Don't Mind Her; It's Just Hormones

Men may balk if they see this is about periods, but they really should read it, methinks, for a little perspective.

Yesterday, during the afternoon of my Shitty, Shitty Day, I got my period. In the space of about 30 minutes, my eye infection suddenly started flushing itself out, and my emotions just totally took a chill pill. It was an amazing emotional about-face within about 90 minutes.

It's not that often that I get all homicidally tense with my PMS, but I was getting there yesterday as just one thing after another added up into a really crappy day. After I wrote my whining post, for instance, my website wouldn't load for me (making me think it was down) and I discovered I had a big (like 2-inch radius) infected bug bite on the inside of my knee. Plus an eye infection? Plus my just-verified cockroach infestation? Plus my yeast infection?

My friend was visiting and I literally looked skyward and just bellowed at the rhetorical gods, "REALLY? I really needed THIS too today?"

My friend cracked up, as did I, but I sure as hell meant every word. Then he left, I got my period, and I suddenly felt mellow again. Poof. Like that.

So I think the only analogy a guy might understand about that is, "Take the exact opposite of the release from an orgasm, and that's that." Like, instead of a build-up of pleasure you can't take anymore, with PMS, it's a build-up of angst and depression and rage and confusion that can't be taken anymore. (Not by all women, and not all the time. But it can happen. Me, maybe 2-3 times a year?) And the release of the tension provided by the orgasm, the bliss that comes with, that's the emotional equivalent of what happens when the period arrives. Both literally and figuratively, after one of the high-pressure, volatile PMS episodes.

I've had times when I've been so angry and didn't know why, and then I've gotten my period and mentally go, "Yeah, okay, now I get it. Now it makes sense. [beat] I need chocolate."

And men, they sit around and flail hands at women on periods and go, "We don't get it!" Well, we do? We understand why we go completely mental? We understand why something as stupid as this invisible, intangible concept of hormones can be used as a justifiable defense against murder? We understand why we get needy and insecure and short-tempered?

We don't fucking get it. It baffles us. We spend our whole lives, practically, at the mercy of these stupid hormone things, batted about like toys in a toddler's hands, and we never, ever really understand how it can affect us, Sane Strong Women, to the extent that it does.

But we learn to accept it and even recognize it when it's happening. If I see I'm headed down Bitch Lane, I just try to clear the path a little, you know what I'm saying?

Maybe, just maybe, if more men stopped trying to understand periods and women's hormones, and just started realizing that it pisses us off and baffles us too, and just cut us a little slack when these phases transpire, life would be simpler for both of us.

See, this is when it's good to be single. Or else I'd probably be apologizing to someone today after a day like yesterday. Ha.

Fucking hormones. (But, then again, I had hormones with a side of staccato-fire reality. Never really a good combination.)

Today, however? Much, much better. Funny how that works. See? I'm not trying to understand it, just accepting it, and now I'm going to go make a frittata. Happy weekend, minions.

It's good to be On the Other Side.

My Bad, Bad Week:More Information Than You Need To Know

I couldn't possibly feel more unattractive than I do today. Except maybe if I had an 8-inch goiter growing out of my neck and crumbling teeth or something.

I have an eye infection that has my left eye with this just-throttled-by-Rocky swollen-bloodshot look going on. That's fun. Really.

Because that wasn't fun enough, I've also come down with a vaginal yeast infection. (I'm so not even thinking about men right now, or sex, or arousal, or orgasms.)

Throw in the fact that I've just found out these ARE cockroaches in my apartment -- German ones.

(My Twitters upon learning this were: "But it's official. They were cockroaches. German Cockroaches. SS cockroaches. Brownshirts. Bad! They should have been gassed. Karma!" Followed by, "Snell! Snell! Achtung, roach! Achtung! At least now I know their language. "Ich liebe gas!")

Fortunately poisoned-food has been dotted about my cupboards by a Professional Murderer of Bugs to help eradicate the vengeful little motherfuckers. Die! Die! Die! Don't even think 'bout comin' back 'round here!

Every now and then it's hard not to feel like life has decided to use you as a punching bag for a few days. "You like that one? Here, try this on for size! Suckah!"

But I'm laughing about it. This is shitty. I mean, it's comic-book shitty. It's comical. How can I not laugh? I've busted a gut over this.

And I assure you, humour's something I have. For the next 40 years of my life I'll remember that week I had cockroaches, an eye infection, and a yeast infection, all at once, and no money to deal with any of it. ($9 for cleaning supplies, $17 for prescription, and $17 for Canesten. There's the $40 I was taking to Value Village to find jeans and a sweater. Thanks.)

But the attractiveness thing? I'm living in a home infested with cockroaches, I have a yeast infection that's making me itchier than any human being should ever be, and I have an eye infection that leaves me sensitive to light and unable to do anything that makes blood rush to my head because the throbbing leaves me feeling like daggers are poking in my eye.

Sex is about the last thing I could give a fuck about today. Really. Arousal? I scoff at the notion! Take your orgasm and go, chump, because we're not on the clock 'round these parts, I'm afraid. My god.

And in a week I turn 35. I mean, could you LAUGH harder at this? Holy shit. I couldn't write it better than this.

It's like they say, though. This too shall pass. What's the big deal? One shitty week in a lifetime. A shitty week that comes with an "Oh, my god" gutt-busting story that'll let me rake in the laughs from folks for the rest of my life. I love telling stories like this.

Living them, however, is never as much fun. But that's the thing. Without living it, you get no story. It's the original catch-22, I'm afraid.

And this, this week, is how my cookie crumbles. What can I say? Fire the writer. A completely implausible combination of events. And to happen to such an unlikely protagonist? And you call that writing?

Pfft. Sadly, no. "Reality."

[insert weak chuckle here]

Grey! Grey! Grey!: Can't Wait!

Can I just say how much I'm looking forward to the start of Season Five of Grey's Anatomy?

Has Shepherd ended it with Rose? Are the sparks officially back with Grey? Has acclaim for their major medical breakthrough yielded exciting new times at the hospital?

Is George a resident, or is he yet to take the test?

Callie and Dr. Hahn? Sizzling. Do they take a pity fuck with the lonely, "growing" Dr. McSteamy?

And so much more! Man, I've loved this show from the first commercial I saw before the pilot. I was so stoked when this first started airing. I'm glad to say it's never disappointed me yet.

One week, girls, one week!

A Little Reflection in the Morning

A year ago this week, I was hanging on with the grimmest, thinnest of threads, as I completed the last week on a job I probably never should have accepted.

I worked in close quarters with one of the most negative, depressing people I've ever known, for six long months. By the end of it, I'd gained 20 pounds and found myself being a constant complainer, just like that toxic person I was working with. I hated who I had become.

My old employers offered me my old job back, which was nice of them since I'd been a bit of a flake in the two years preceeding, but I guess I'm more charming than I know.

I promised myself, upon returning to my old job, that I'd take it with the intention of improving every area of my life.*

I've done that. Yesterday I was a bit down, thinking how much I've blown the last couple of months, fit-wise, and how much more I could have accomplished. This morning I'd been trying to tell myself that, sure, I could have accomplished more, but what I have accomplished is pretty darned good.

But remembering this week last year, that really put a grin on my face. The closer I got to my last day on the job, the more and more I realized how much I was doing the right thing. I just up and realized how much I hated being around that toxicity, and how much I loathed feeling like my life was owned by work. My entire life had become devoured by my job.

In fact, that was true even to the point that they had found out about my blog, and not once but twice said, "Well, we know you blog about sex. This isn't good. We're not sure what we think yet. Don't ever write about work. And be careful what you write about."

The first time they said something, I thought, "Well, I need the job... I'll see what happens." But the second time they said something, I thought, "Gee, I wonder if the old job still wants me back." Within 10 days I gave my notice.

There's something hugely empowering about opting to leave a situation that's hurting you, and immediately getting into a situation that helps you, regardless of what that situation may be.

So it's a year later. I'm still broke, but I got a token raise on Tuesday, which is great considering I've been only an average employee for about three months now as life has been pretty stressful off hours and all, but hey. Finances are sorting out, I'm back on page fit-wise, and I've completely eliminated all the toxic people from my life. This is good.

It's nice to sit back now and then and realize just how far you've come in a year. Change, day-to-day, feels slow and tedious. Baby steps don't seem like much until you get to the end of the block and turn around for some perspective, right?

It's been a good year. And, again, I feel the winds of change stirring. Dating's getting interesting, money's sorting out, a bit of freedom's coming my way. And I'm actually happy to be turning 35 in 12 days. I'll finally be out of the 18-34 demographic. It was so much pressure being so coveted by the marketers. ;)

Gonna be busy the next couple days. New stuff'll be up on the weekend. Check back.

*My job offers only security. No promise of advancement, no possibility of big money, no changing of responsibilities, ever. But when I walk out that door, work stays at work. I go there when I feel like it, have flexibility not only in when I work but how much I work, and can completely make work fit my life. They don't even ask for overtime, except for leading up to Christmas, and it's paid overtime, so how good is that? I'm incredibly fortunate. It's like being self-employed but without all the worry. When I quit there two years ago after five years of the same-old, my friend said "Well, I can see why you'd quit... but I can't see why you'd quit." It's one of those jobs. You could change... but why would you? Fortunately, I came to my senses.

The Business of Unhappiness

Body image. Stand any one of us in front of a mirror, ask us to reveal what we dislike about ourselves, and an unhesitating list would be quickly forthcoming.

Industry knows this. They count on it. All the way to the bank.

If you're happy about yourself, why would you ever spend all that disposable income on beauty products, clothes, and other distractions that keep you from looking inside, where true self-image resides?

I read a fascinating Huffington Post article on the economy of waif-thin models. It spoke of how having models thin is benefitting someone, somewhere, and until the public starts demanding differently, designers will kowtow to those in the industry who have everything to gain from keeping women thinking they need to be a size zero to four for any real chance at happiness in life. (I've written about anorexic models before and, as an overweight feminist, it's always been an issue for me.)

You ask me, I think that fashion will never show real women for the same reason that science will probably never really "cure" cancer. There's too much to gain from the downside -- illness and our discontent. The upside means people become healthy and well. If they're healthy and well, they'll be happy. If they're happy, they won't want or need as much. If they don't want or need as much, then how in god's name will industry get their hands on all that tasty money in people's pockets?

Your insecurities, people, are keeping industry going strong. Your insecurities are helping you contribute to the overall good of society. Productivity, consumer confidence, retail bottom lines -- they're all fed by your insecurities.

Why in god's name would you want to feel better about yourself? Is that really the Modern Way? C'mon! Don't smile on one another, don't love your brother, don't even love yourself! Piss, moan, whine, and feel shitty in the morning. That way, you'll feel like you need to "treat" yourself and swing by Starbucks for a Venti Caramel Macchiato, and why the hell not one of those tasty apple fritters? Then, you'll feel like shit for being so bad, you'll beat yourself up at work, and say you need to go to the gym. That'll cut into your day more than you'd planned, you won't have the time to cook properly, so now you got to go blow your wad on take-out. But the take-out's all cooked with oils and fats you can't even imagine, so what would be 450 calories if you made it at home's actually closer to 1,000 in take-out, and now the workout you just did's completely pointless. But that's okay, you're planning to buy a new pair of jeans and shirt on the weekend anyhow.

See? It's a cycle. It seems to work for you, it sure as hell works for industry, so why would we ever want to start feeling like it's all right to be a few pounds overweight with a grabbable ass?

Personally, I'm losing weight. Most of the time, anyhow. Lately I've gone off the hook and have eaten badly and not exercised, but I'm back on track.

I'm doing it because I don't like feeling fat. I don't like having little to no energy. Or not feeling strong. And not meeting goals. I didn't like movie theatre seats cutting into me. I didn't like my doctor looking at me with grave concern as he told me I was toying with the odds on diabetes. I don't want to be THAT way.

But I sure as hell don't want to be skinny.

All I want is to be happy. It may have taken a lifetime to realize it, but it occurs to me that Happy doesn't come off a shelf in a store.

Too bad there's a few billion consumers who've missed out on that epiphany so far. Which keeps industry wringing its hands with glee.

This brilliant image is by a San Francisco photographer named Cheryl McLaughlin and you can find her here. This image is for sale.

And Then It Was Monday

Hi, kids. We haven't had a catch-up chat for a while, have we?

I'd love to have something brilliant to write for you today. Really. I got nothing. So you can leave now if it's profundity you seek. For you, good lasses and sirs, I offer a serving of vapidity.

See, I spent my whole weekend huffing Lysol, questing to kill bugs, and doing one of the deepest apartment cleans ever (but there's still more work to do -- the storage unit, cleaning the oven... does it ever end?). Mental faculties? Not so much.

I do, however, have a faint eau de sterilized green apple Lysol-ly scent wafting off me this morning. I'm fresh AND germ-free! And I think I still hear braincells popping off to their chemically-induced deaths in the back of my cerebellum. "No, Lenny! Don't jump! The air's clearing, really!"

Curse you, bugs, for the damage thou hath wrought upon me!

And despite wanting to turtle naked and lazily under my blankie as the warm sun beats down on me in bed as the should-be ease of this day washes over me, the reality is, I'm pretty close to hopping on my bike to suffer another 45 minutes of labour as I moan and groan my way up the steep-ass hills of this town on my way in to what will finally be some PAID work. For seven hours. Followed by more cycling.

Today could well be the last hot day of the year. Hopefully not. But it'd be wrong to let it pass by without sucking the marrow from it and enjoying every last bead of sweat I can muster out of this late-season gift .

My "kicking ass and taking names" summer became derailed after July 17th, when I came down with bad bronchitis that kept me from cardio for nearly a month. I had one valiant week then where I cycled four times in mid-August, but then I got insomnia, where I had 40 hours sleep in about 15 nights, followed by a week at work with overtime. Needless to say, I haven't found my rhythm in weeks.

I did get a good cycling week in last week but had aimed for four days of it, but saw Mr. Cockroach on Thursday night and resolved to do the Molly Maid/Rambo thing this weekend instead. Again, derailed. Three's good, though, and I can make this week a second in a row.

It's Monday now, a whole new week, and no matter how much it kills me, it's on, baby. Music's recharging, cycle bag's packed, sun's stoking the fire. It's a great day for it.

I found myself thinking a lot about when I did a cleaning frenzy like this in March, though, when I totally gutted and cleaned my place, and resolved to spend the next six months being very active. I did a pretty good job of it -- the cleaning and the six months. So I found myself perceiving my weekend as a setting of the stage upon which the next six months of life will unfold.

It's a pretty great way to get perspective on blowing away one of the nicest sunny September weekends I ever recall in Vancouver.

Vancouver, for those who don't know, vacillates between a sunshiney Eden and the downpours of the most urban rainforest in the world. Surrounded by impressive mountains yielding insane snowboarding within 10 minutes of downtown, the local geography hems in any rainclouds -- the weather amassed from the long journey over the Pacific, usually up from Hawaii, falls down on this often-soggy urban jewel before the clouds weaken and leave the for the Prairies, which will be left arid, on their travels eastward. "September" is often something not to be banked upon in this town -- make sure your travel agent knows. Summer ostensibly ends August 25th because the rain can come early and hard, and stay for months. If you think that's writerly hyperbole, then go look up the definition of "temperate rainforest", by which should be a picture of southwest British Columbia.

Today? Sunny and 24/80 degrees. Tomorrow, a little cooler. By Thursday, rain. Will sun return? A Vancouverite never knows. Hope, however, we collectively practice.

So, today I ride. Carpe diem.

I'm consciously getting my game back on over the next couple weeks. My 35th birthday's on the 29th. You should donate a birthday gift to my PayPal account so I can buy some wine and panties. Priorities being what they are and all. :)

Love your blogger! Feed her! Get her drunk! One reader claims to be sending me BDSM toys. I say, bring it on!

I do digress! Anyhow. Dating: I actually have more men in the wings these days, about four or five, and with this great late September weather, I'm not interested in dating at all. I want to get my mojo back, feel like I'm back on my path to fitness. But the question is, can I string 'em along? Should I? Dare I? Usually doesn't work well. But perhaps I'm not the only one not wanting to squander these last days of summer.

It's a shame I've forsaken such a blissful 48 hours in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But I feel like this place I'm in this morning, this verge I'm on with what seems to be another exciting chapter of life about to unfold, is a place I'd have gladly paid money to get to. Instead, admission was a fevered weekend of cleaning. C'est la vie.

And if you're wondering where I'm at with weight? No clue. I don't care. Once I'm back on path, I'll check it out. I don't feel like I've gained or lost. I think I'm in limbo. Considering all the chorizo and goat's cheese I enjoyed on the weekend, "limbo" has been working for me. :)

Happy Monday, y'all. Why don't you, too, try to suck the marrow out of your day in some way? Take five to do something you deserve. Life's too fucking short. Even on Mondays.

PS: Unfortunately, people really are THIS stupid.

RIP, David Foster Wallace:Some Thoughts on Suicide & Depression

David Foster Wallace committed suicide this weekend. 46. Hung himself.

The guy had made a career out of being brilliantly insightful and funny. Yet he somehow ended up on the dark side from which suicide seems the only out.

I've tried to write about depression over the last couple of years, because I know a fair bit about what it feels like to be on the wrong side of it. I've lived with others who've been suicidal. I understand depression in a whole slew of ways.

I'm on the other side of it these days, and think I'll stay on the other side a while yet. I still struggle with being all happy-sunshiney, because, let's face it, that works for demure screen sirens of old, but for the rest of us on Planet Earth in the here-and-now, happiness not some ubiquitous state we tap into with the flick of a finger or a "Hey, I know!" notion in the morning, as much as Dale Carnegie wants you to believe happiness is always a choice.

Even now, the quasi-adversities that pepper my life temper my glee-factor something fierce, but that's humanity for you. I'm in touch with my moody glory. I can often think my way into better moods, though, as much as I like to mock the notion.

I mock it because depression is when the ability for levity and "opting out" of moods takes its leave.

"Real" depression is a whole 'nother beast than the "normal" depression. I can shake my depressions these days because they're just that: normal. I know it might all be better again tomorrow. I know bad days are just part of the mix, just like finding surprise bad produce in the midst of your seemingly selectively-chosen product when you get home from the veggie store. Shit happens.

But not to severely depressed people. Even trying to "think" your way out of it doesn't work. I wrote this posting on August 15th, 2006. What you don't see is, that even though I talked a good game on the night of the 15th, the 16th became the first and only time in my life that suicide seemed like a good choice. There was a point in the day when I came apart. I came wholly apart. I worked alone in my office that day and had a complete breakdown to the point that I had an "emergency" call placed to me by my old therapist I hadn't spoken to in years. A 45-minute conversation talked me down from that fever-pitch of suicidal thoughts, and things were a little better in the morning.

I remember that blackness now, and even thinking about how I got to be from the person I loved earlier that year to the woman I was that day just sends shivers up me still. Because I know, as much as I loathe the easy way out that suicide is, as much as I pride myself on taking on any challenge and usually winning... I know I was ready to give it all up. And I have no idea how I got to that point.

That's the terrifying thing about depression. When you're no longer yourself, how can you possibly act in ways that are right for you? When you have no logic, how do you make the logical choice?

Depression isn't something that occurs to the weak. I'm here to fucking tell you I know more about "surviving" than most people of my age, and I almost didn't survive my depression, despite having survived so much else in my life.

(As I've said in the past: My suicidal depression was as a result of trying to suppress my period through birth control pills. I'm not sure I will ever take birth control again. I still recommend it for the average woman, but believe me I do so with massive caveat emptor attached. However, my life went off the rails at the same time, for what was pretty much the existential "perfect storm", and perhaps the hormones were just the straw on the existential camel's back.)

Weak is not a word people ever, ever, ever describe me as in real life. Not in any definition of the word.

Yet somehow the stigma of depression = weakness endures. It's why I'm so hell-bent on writing about it, because *I* have no stigma about the depressions I've had. Why should I?

And someone like David Foster Wallace just inexplicably disappears from the planet one day because he's committed suicide. Was he depressed? Probably. Maybe we'll find out. Either way, William Styron's incredible Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness is something I think any moody creative type should read. The look that brilliant novelist takes at his own suicidal depression and the links he explores, believing his suicidal tendencies perhaps had to do with his creative nature, is something that has stayed with me over the years.

I'm obviously a highly introspective writer. I do it well, it's my schtick. That said, there are dark and dingy places in the recesses of my mind that require stoicism and fearlessness, but particularly tempering, before I go trekking through them, and I find it healthy to remember just how much toying with the shadows of our psyche can unsettle us at times.

Styron quoted the book of Job from the Bible in the opening of Darkness Visible, and it's something that anyone who has truly, truly endured depression can understand.

"For the thing I greatly fear is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came."

~The Book of Job

In depression, the trouble always comes.

Because, when you're depressed, being around life itself reminds you of everything you once had and feel has now become lost to you. It's the inability to connect your reality with what your perception is, no matter how much you may be aware that it's your perspective that's the problem. It's like looking at life through a cracked, distorted mirror. No matter how you try to defragment the view, it's your perception and not the image that is broken.

Depression makes no sense. Suicide can never be understood. Unless, for the briefest of moments, it once seemed to make sense to you.

And even though I had that moment of clarity when "out" seemed better than "in", I still don't understand the choice of suicide. I don't understand how life can make death seem appealing. I don't understand having the courageous mix of fear and foolishness required to take that easy, all-too-permanent out, since all I had was the notion and not yet the motivation to make it so.

All I really understand about depression is that it's not about weakness. It's about something that we as a race still don't understand, and we still can't control. But we can at least try to talk about it. We can help remove the stigma that comes with a diagnosis of depression or mood disorders. We can make it easier for people, however brilliant and famous they are, to admit they're powerless over this thing that's come from the shadows only to choke all the light.

All I really understand is that it's a crime, in this age of information and knowledge, that such rampant ignorance and judgment still exists regarding depression.

Because it's why people like David Foster Wallace often think a rope over a rafter or a bullet in the head is easier than trying to end that chokehold of darkness over their light.

There Can Be Only One: Steff Versus the Roach

If I ever needed me a man-slave, tonight's the night. He could do me a little cleanin'.

My ever-so-brilliant landlords are this major conglomerate from back east. "Back east" is what we disenfranchised forgotten West Coast Canadians call Ontario, which is sort of east but hardly East, since a couple thousand kilometres of country flank it... on the east. We also call it "The Centre of the Universe" in a sardonic kind of way.

A little Canadiana for you. You'll take it and you'll like it.

These stupid conglomerate asswipes hired this dumb-ass bimbo to be the property manager. I've made it my mission to kind of get her fired, but they just never bothered. Until she illegally broke into a neighbour's place to look for his drug stash to implicate him. (An accountant. A neurotically perfect accountant who's as quiet and respectful as they come. Who smokes pot. And drops ecstasy to get freaky with his girlfriend. Yay, freaky! Otherwise... he's an accountant. With a treadmill. Ooh, lock him up! Beast!)

My complaints about the millions of shortcomings didn't go far. Neighbour's complaint packed a little oomph. But the final straw, it would seem, came when they had to evict this strange, strange old stanky man she had rented to, despite the fact that he wore horrible old clothes, had one of those wispy "you should shave that thing" beards that never has enough hair to qualify as a "beard", who smelled like trash... because he LITERALLY was a dumpster-diving guy who carted everything home with him and had an apartment literally full of garbage within the month.

He was evicted within six months. And a monster 15-yard disposal bin was needed to cart away the shit he left behind.

I'm three-and-a-half floors up and behind him. The bugs have reached my place just a few weeks after his eviction. Nine years I've been here, and the first time in my life I saw a cockroach was last night. On my kitchen counter.

I may be a dirty girl, but I'm not that dirty.

I've cancelled my plans. It's quality time now for my friend, Lysol, and I. We're tearing apart my kitchen, washing every single dish (but not with the Lysol! and I have an eight-piece setting because I could once afford to throw dinner parties, sigh) and cleaning the cupboards, and huffing chemicals...

Because I LIKE LIVING ALONE, MOTHERFUCKER. I WILL pay this price. You are univited, Mr. Roach!

Back off. You encroachin' dis girl's space. Yo ass is mine!

Meanwhile, since I'm quite the nervous nelly around bugs (but once I go Clint, man, there's no turning back) I'm fuelling my death-search and sterilization quest with rye and coke.

In the meantime, I just want to say:

I guess there's about eight or ten people who normally comment on this blog, and then no one else ever. I like comments. More importantly, I like to hear from readers that there's a point to all these unpaid hours I spend blogging for the fuck of it, so when I had a new reader write me to say they heard of me in this posting tonight, and I read it, it made my roach-searching heart go pitter-patter and feel all warm and fuzzy. And I don't think it's the chemicals.

So, if you like my writing -- or any blogger's writing -- you really should say so sometimes. Writing sometimes is like oral sex. Sure, it's usually appreciated, but it can be awfully dark and lonely work, so a little encouragement goes a long, long ways.

Now. I have a little going-Clint to do here.

So you gotta ask yourself one question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well, do ya, roach?

When Fighting Gets Fun

I love wrestling with lovers. The not-so-grudge match.

And while I put up a hell of a fight, and even like to win sometimes, the truth is, losing ain't so bad at all. You have to admit, this is one time that losing really isn't losing.

There's a little incentive to suddenly just not resisting anymore. Smirking as you issue the challenge: "You win. You're on top. Now do something about it."

Those are the losses I could stand a little more of in this life o' mine.

I'm a loser, baby.

When We Were Kids: Thoughts on BDSM

Experts will tell you that who we are in life is defined by the age of seven. Our ethics, our play, our work habits, it's all laid out as part of who we are, and will continue to be, by seven.

There are those who've taken this a step further and will tell you also that who you are sexually is defined, as well, by seven. But we often spend our lifetimes trying to make sense of that definition.

Take me, for instance. I've been out of the getting-laid world now for a couple of years. After not having had sex for 26 months (but have since) thanks to a totally disappearing libido because of meds I was on, and experiencing the incredible rush of libido-arising all of a sudden after such a long dormancy, I've found myself in some very, very new and different headspace.

After not having wanted sex at all, barely ever masturbating for months on end, I've suddenly found myself craving a different brand of sex. Something rougher, more primal. Perhaps even a little less democratic. Power plays. Teasing. Even a little pain. Certainly with discipline.

Not that I've ever sat around fantasizing about rose petals on the bed, silk sheets, and soft, feathery kisses and all. That's never been my kind of imagery anyhow. I fantasize about sex on floors, against walls, in public places, getting rugburn, and always have. But this takes things to another level.

And with that comes the reckoning of how much of that is just "Fuck, I need me some" versus evolution of a new kind of desire.

So, when I was out for drinks lately and my date mentioned how experts think our sexual-play selves are defined in childhood, it was like I'd been hit by a truck. I suddenly had this monster out-of-the-blue flashback of my brother and I always playing Wild West and tying each other up as part of our hijinks. The tying was always my favourite part, whether I was the one tied who had to escape, or the one who got to do the tying.

I hadn't thought of that in years. I could suddenly remember the smell of my brother's carpet as I was tied on the floor, the way the light shone in his big-ass window, how amused I was when we came up with new knots, listening to his Elton John and Billy Joel records as we laughed and goofed off, probably until I was 10 or so. And it was just play, people, nothing sexual, so stop yer dirty thoughts.

Then everything changed. I had to be more ladylike, he had his guy friends to abuse with their stupid Jackass-style stunts in the yard, and I sort of forgot about that girl who loved the roughhousing.

Until that drink. And now I can't stop thinking about whether this "new" direction I'm wanting to amble in is just me coming home to who I truly am after all.

And, I guess until I find a partner I can trust and who inspires in me the will to explore these directions, I won't really know.

You can count on me writing more about this journey I plan to take. I think the "how I became a BDSM person" thing needs to be written about more, but in much more articulate and philosophical ways, and less focused on the "how to be spanked" technical side of things, since anyone can learn the physical/technical side of it all. Doing things are easy, but understanding why you want to go there, that can be tricky. And I won't go blindly. I think there's a real internal struggle many of us have to overcome before we can embrace the so-called "lifestyle" of BDSM.

Moral brainwashing is strong, young grasshoppers. Even I, your lowly smuttress of choice, have a myriad of hangups to get past on this journey I plan to take. Don't we all? In keeping with my blog-style, it'd be wrong of me not to share.

And I have no fucking idea what to expect. I guess that's the beauty of it all. An open mind is all I've got.

If you have some pearls of wisdom you think I ought to know, have at 'er. Like I say, I'll be the newbie in this big, bad world of BDSM, and I've no illusions on that. Enlighten me, comment away.

Hi, I'm Steff, I'll be Your Blogger. Some Ideas I'm Considering... & Sugasm

So, I suck. I'm totally behind the times with Sugasm, and it would seem I was the top pick in week 144. Cool. To anyone who voted, thanks so much. :)

We'll get back to that later.

I'm kind of in this whirlwind with a mental list of a thousands things to write about and I just can't pick which one to run with.

In the next while, though, some of the things you can expect to see from me are a little more on my recent efforts in pursuing men. Like, why, after a veritable Sahara desert of dating for the last two years I suddenly decide I'm interested in dating, and I land 10 first dates in a month? I mean, is there something to the old wisdom of our ability to project our needs when we're ready to really go there? What's the deal? Why now, why so easily? Why? Not that I'm complaining.

Well, okay, I'm complaining: I still haven't had good sex. I could've probably shagged, easily, half the dates I had, but why would I? None of them really smacked of being my type. So do I have the right to complain about not getting laid if I'm the one who's opting out of charity fucks when they're there for the taking?

And I'm turning 35 in a couple weeks. With it comes a lot of soul-searching about who I've been, who I'm transitioning to, what I've lived without, and what I think I need for the years to come. And, amongst all those ponderings, comes a rethinking of what sex means to me, and what sex SHOULD mean to me.

That means I'm starting to get very curious about pushing past some of my old boundaries when it comes to BDSM. Not that I think of myself as a domme-in-the-making or anything. Just that, if sex is a smorgasbord, why am I limiting myself to the same old-same old with all that variety? If I've got 40 years of sexuality left in this body of mine, perhaps even more, then why not give myself more options for expression? What am I so concerned about?

Then, of course, there's my big, big hatred for Sarah Palin and all the pandering, right-wing mentality she stands for.

AND naturally there's another bunch of sex toys I not only need to play with, but share with you my thoughts on. My thinking is, once a week you'll be hearing about my latest play session. Maybe Monday will be sex-toy review day. After all, you could order it and get it in time for your weekend, if the gods smile upon you.

And there's more, more, more aswirl in this noggin of mine. I need a roulette wheel with topics on it so I can spin and go, "Okay, I'll start there!"

Any thoughts of where I should go first, oh minions mine?

Here's my out-of-date Sugasm, and then I'm caught up--eat some, you'll feel better:

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them.

This Week’s Picks
Bush Rides Again: Birth Control Defined as “Abortion”?
“The reason you tweak laws, redefining them or broadening their definitions, is to create the opportunity for a legal climate in which challenges may better succeed.”

First Time For Everything: A Polyamorous Relationship
“The only real trouble with being a triad came from the world around us.”

Sex Work And Compassion: Panty Tree
“I will never feel shame for being a sex worker.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
I Meet the Business End of Citibank’s Anti-Adult Business Policy

Sex Toy Review: "The Lovely (and lamely-named) Rose"

I'm sorry, but I often really, really hate the name of sex toys. And this is no exception.

From Emma's Passion Garden comes the Dual Rose aka "The Lovely Rose." Jesus, people. Fire the marketing department, because this toy deserves so much better. Really.

Nonetheless, when a guy was recently given the choice of what toy to invade my personal space with, this is the toy he thought looked most up to the job. 20 minutes later and we were both in agreement that his choice was a good one, and since the rest of the sexual encounter was a total waste of my time, I was pleased I'd had the foresight to give the bad loverman some tools toward pleasuring me.

The Dual/Lovely Rose is a Rabbit-type vibe that aims to give you a double-dose of the feelin'-goods.

Obviously I have a hard time getting past bad product names or lame packaging, and I felt that the Rose came with both. And that's why I was so pleasantly surprised that the toy itself is actually quite good. I mean, it succeeds in getting my knees shaking.

I've checked out the reviews of this product on Vibe Review, one of the great reasons you should be checking their site out, and found that all the reviews sort of found the same things I did -- that the design of the tapered, dare I say "blooming," head of the vibe is a great saving grace. It's narrower closer to the base, but the head is of a nice size. When you throw in the 360-degree rotation of the head, and the fact that you can reverse roatating directions, plus the reasonably powerful vibing action, and it's a damned fine toy. It's got wide clearance with a narrower shaft, so it hits a lot of really great happy spots on every turn. This is helped by the fact that the toy's every so slightly tilted upwards on an angle in its "resting" position, by the way, so it's intended for g-spot pleasure, too, and it succeeds handily.

Something I also like is The Rose's easy touch-sensitive speed selection. I really think more sex toy makers need to ensure their hands and fingers are all covered with lube when they're trying to adjust the speeds on their toys because I sure as fuck don't find it easily done on some of these toys. Tragically, we have to get messy before playing, and it'd be nice if lubes didn't get in the way of more fully exploring our toys. This one, however, is very easily adjusted with slippery fingers. So, thank you to Emma and her Garden for making this an easy one to toggle through speeds and modes with.

Speaking of speeds and modes: There's three speeds of rotation in either direction, and all you need to do is push the middle button once and it'll flip on the fly. (Unlike most men you know.) It also has three speeds of vibrating. But you can also opt for no vibrating, and just rotating, or vice versa, which is nice if you're in a take-it-or-leave-it mood.

The thing really worth noting, though, is that this is one of the most affordable Rabbit-style vibes out there. It's a great budget toy, since it comes in at about 30% cheaper than most of the other Rabbit-type vibes, but it's really effective. I haven't had the pleasure of using other Rabbit-style vibes (long story there) so I don't know if the noise volume's excessive or not, but it's definitely more audible compared to single-stim non-rotating vibes, but that's not a big shocker.

Much to my surprise, I think The Rose will be one of my go-to toys. The rotating's powerful and effective, and the clit stimulation is highly effective. The trouble with the clit stim head is what's also listed in all the VR reviews -- that it's not a very big clit-stim head and gives only regional clit stimulation instead of hitting all the pleasure spots all the time.

And what do I have to say about that? Well, I think that's going to be a bigger problem for some women than others. Everyone's body design is a little different. For me, this toy works well.

Even better? It's waterproof. Not splash-proof, but water proof.

And even better? It's phthalate-free.

So, if you're looking for a budget vibe that does double-duty, is waterproof for bathtime playing, and is easy to operate and use? Go for the Lovely/Dual Rose . Ignore the stupid name, and go for it.

And, hey, I know it's a cheap-enough toy already, given the stiff pricing of its competition, but why don't you click here and use this coupon and save 10% off?

By the way, if you buy anything through Vibe Review (the Rose or anything else) by clicking on any of these links in this review, I'll never know YOU bought anything, or what, but you'll be putting money in my pocket. It's like magic! You get happy, I get happy. Oh, my pockets would be so grateful.

A Quickie Hello

I spent my Saturday slacking off but tidying, then launched into the mother of all cooking nights*.

Now's a cycling and visiting-people day, for which I've got to rush.

Tune in tomorrow when I'll be reviewing a couple sex toys. Tuesday I'll be running a little something that ponders how rough I liked to play as a kid and maybe how that influences who I am today. Bondage, anyone?

Meanwhile, hope everyone's weekend finishes fab. We've got a late-season burst of beautiful sun and warm temperatures, and I'm fucking thrilled a bike figures into my day's plan.

*I made my highly sought-after sundried tomato-basil-garlic butter that I do every August and give to close friends and family, who all gobble greedily. I roasted a bohemoth of a kosher chicken that'll be the basis of everything I eat this week. And I grilled a dozen sweet-tooth red peppers for a nice bruschetta of the peppers, garlic, and good olive oil for appies when I visit some goodly folk today. Wanna make my butter with the end-of-season harvest? Approximately a pound of sundried tomatoes in olive oil [oil drained] with a pound of butter and a half head garlic, as well as a couple cups of fresh basil, for which you can use the stalks too. Good salt. Pureed. :) Keeps for months in a cold fridge, about three months or so. I doubled the batch to split between three people for the season.

Steff the Singing Fool

Opera Man always makes me smile.

There are a few Vancouver characters that the locals who've been here for years know about. Like the Rock-Art Guy. Or Opera Man.

Over the the 12 years I've lived in Vancouver proper, once in a truly blue moon the cosmos aligns ever so fortunately, and I luck out and happen upon Opera Man taking a stroll. Nowadays in his 60s, he's a shorter, smaller, slimmer Italian man who shuffles casually with his hands clasped behind his back and just belts out baritone operas at will. He oozes joie de vivre.

I've seen Opera Man when I was depressed as I've ever been, and when I heard him and his spontaneous operatic bliss, I couldn't fucking help but grin. Big. I love that man. Big love. If there's a "Dude, you rock, and make Vancouver Vancouver" award, he gets one.

Me, I love to sing. But I've always been a coward. I have an all right voice. Took voice training back in the day. I'm deeper-voiced, with a throaty, sultry rattle, and smooth power when I want it... but I'm shy.

One of the many "Making Steff Rock" projects I've undertaken in this year of conscious changing-of-self is that of trying to force myself to be a bit bolder, less afraid of being spotted for being myself out loud... in all my trouble-making or bold ways that I usually keep somewhat under wraps amidst the general populace.

So, tonight, cycling home along one of the more travelled bike routes, I decided to sing out loud.

At first, just the odd phrase escaped my lips, as often happens, as I headed out of downtown and over the bridge, but by the time I was mounting the massive climb home, I'd gotten to a really slow and haunting cover of Bowie's Man Who Sold the World and put it on repeat.

And then I got louder, and more consistent. And I lost myself in it as I was killing myself to make it up the steepest part of the ascent, breathlessly gasping in-tune, "...you're face... to face... with the man who..." and I caught this mom's eyes as she was walking with her son down the hill, both of them previously obscured to me by a couple vans, and she was grinning her fucking face off and nodded approvingly to me.

Just like I always do to Opera Man.

So, then I sung louder, and even more consistent, and I really got into it. And, you know, I had a fucking blast.

It's funny. It wasn't really a conscious decision to force myself into the singing-out-loud thing, but by the time I sort of got a little caught in the act on the bridge and felt all awkward and shy about it, I found myself thinking back to 45 minutes earlier, when my boss's three-year-old daughter was twirling in our office and singing at the top of her voice, and I had thought, "Aww. She's having so much fun."

By the end of my ride, it was pretty apparent I was having much fun. I caught more grins along the way.

And maybe it's just a girl on a bike, singing a song but, to me, it's a huge, huge thing. It's actualizing who I am on the inside with who I'm showing on the outside. That's maybe something I do a lot more these days, with more ease, but considering how much more of "myself" I have inside that doesn't often tend to see the light of day or come out from behind locked doors...

Well, it's a journey I think I'll enjoy, however inconsequential these things might seem. Even if it's just belting out Bowie on the best bike ride ever, it's all good.

And I'm still singing.

Psst. You. Yeah, you. You know I'm on Twitter?

To Dabble or Not to Dabble

I'm all torn these days. The more I consider relationships, the more I realize I don't really know what I want, nor what I can handle. I've accepted a date for sometime next week with a poly guy. I'm curious as to whether I can process such a relationship.

I'm not concerned about my ability to take more than one lover, if I'm open about it and don't have to juggle or lie or anything. I can't do the duplicity thing.

My concern is whether I'm too jealous or possessive, whether my insecurities will get the better of me, whether my competitive nature makes me unlikely to play well with others in the picture. I really don't know. Am I built for the variety and openness of a poly relationship?

I got told I gotta get off the fence and figure it the fuck out. Hence the date.

I know I don't have a "regular" relationship in me. I'd love a friends-with-benefits situation, but I know, inside, I'm kinda wanting to taste my way through a few male specimens. I want variety. I want to consume men instead of food. But I don't want to go sleeping around. I figure 2-3 lovers could be fantastic.

But then can I deal with the flip of men having the same variety on the side?

Well, there's really only one way to find out.

Celebrities & Smut: Mirren on Date-Rape, Duchovy on Sex Addiction

Late last night I put a cutesy "Helen Mirren rocks!" kind of posting up, and I woke up to see a message from Abby Dabby pointing out that Mirren has gone on record as saying date rape isn't really something the courts should be involved in.

In an article coming out in the UK's GQ, she's said:

The actress also stated in the candid interview with British magazine GQ that it would be hard for women to press charges against someone they had planned on being sexually active with.

She told the publication, "I was (date-raped), yes. A couple of times. Not with excessive violence, or being hit, but rather being locked in a room and made to have sex against my will."

"I don't think she (a female rape victim) can have that man into court under those circumstances."

Every single time I have sex, it is a choice. Every single time I choose to be active, my partner's receiving a gift from me. If I don't say yes, it's not a choice. If there's no choice, it is arbitrary and a situation of force.

Force means rape.

Rape is wrong. I don't give a fuck if I know someone, had planned to be active, think he's cute, flirted with him -- if I haven't made the choice and consented, it's rape. Period. This is what "no means no" means.

If Mirren didn't have the balls to stand up against men who've forced her to have sex, then that's a shame. She's not alone. Until more women are strong enough to say, "You know what? I didn't ask for sex. I didn't want sex. He took it. He forced it." and protest, then the fight will remain as hard and unbalanced as it is.

That said, I think charging for date rape is a pretty extreme action, and one must really consider just how strongly they protested. I think a whispered "No" is different than a forceful "No", and if it's going to be a date rape charge that can ruin a man's life, then a woman needs to know she protested in a clear and direct manner.

Perhaps Mirren doesn't think she protested adamantly enough. Maybe she just resigned herself to sex. Maybe this is why she thinks of it differently. I don't know.

I'm on the side of women in this situation, but the only thing that concerns me about date rape are the number of men who've been accused in situations that seemed a little shades-of-grey. It's so fucking tricky to be balanced on this, but I think the important thing is, making it very plain that the answer is "No." Be heard. Speak loud. Shout. Say it like you mean it.

And if they choose to not hear, they deserve to be charged by law.

_______________

David Duchovny has released a statement to say he has checked into a facility to deal with sex addiction.

Duchovny's one of these guys who lost his virginity at 14 and was sexually involved with a married woman at 16. He's always oozed sexuality. He plays a sex-addicted writer in Californication. He voiced-over the sex-filled Red Shoes Diary erotica series. The guy's been all about sex for a very, very long time now.

Unfortunately, sexual addiction still isn't taken very seriously. Most people think, "Hell, go for it. If you can get laid that much..." Someone like me, writing a sex blog, and talking about sex addiction is probably about the stupidest topic to write about. How many of my readers fall into that category? How many sex bloggers do? Or do any? How common is it, really? Do we even know?

I often look at sex blogs and wonder, "How healthy is your relationship to sex? How much does it command your life? How many relationships has sex destroyed? Or has it been a problem at all?"

I'm sure a few sex bloggers fall into the sex-addicted category. I'm sure someone in your day-to-day life does as well. I know I don't.

But when you live in a society that sells sex everywhere, yet has a very Puritanical approach to sex, just how do you straddle both while celebrating your sexuality in a sex-positive way that doesn't lead to unhealthy behaviours? With great difficulty, I guess. But most people won't have that difficulty. Sex is an aspect of their lives, not the majority thereof.

Sexual addiction, like any addiction, is a progressive disease. Over time, the search for sexual highs begins requiring more and more risk and ante-upping to receive the same reward. This is a great explanation of the disorder.

A reader wrote me long ago about sexual addiction. Her long, long letter was heart-breaking as she detailed her inability to act in ways that stopped hurting her life. She told of how sex had destroyed almost all her relationships and continued to have her acting in ways that she found were highly destructive in all areas of her life, even engaging in unprotected high-risk sex when she didn't have the control to delay for a few moments. She was the extreme, the other end of sexual addiction. The heroin junkie of the sex world.

My response was here.

I think, though, in light of the Duchovny scenario, it might be wise to take another kick at the can and define anew the difference between extreme enthusiasts and addicts. Because just because someone's getting laid a lot, loves it, and seems compulsive about it doesn't mean they're an addict.

They could just be really, really lucky. It's the nature of the behaviour that defines it.

In the meantime, Duchovny's one of the coolest celebrities I've ever met. Funny as fuck. He used to come into my bookshop every Tuesday morning when he was shooting X-Files here in town. He'd buy a book, a copy of the New Yorker, would shoot the shit at the counter for a moment, always made us laugh, then he'd collect his dog outside, go get a venti drink from Starbucks, wander down to Kits beach, and walk his dog, read, and drink. Does that sound like an evil sex-addicted bastard to you? A lech?

Just another guy with a difficult time on his hands and a compulsion for something he'd clearly rather be doing a little more without. I hope he sorts his shit out. He rocks. I'll ponder the sexual addiction conundrum in the coming weeks.

The Most Annoying Conversation

I had a chance to go to a huge party Saturday night, but I decided I wasn't very much on my social game, and that a simple one-on-one conversation would be better suited for the day I should have after a long week, so I made plans for a drink with someone instead.

Well, so much for being on my social game.

It was my first time meeting this guy. I figured, smart conversation and some drinks, a nice mellow time, right?

And maybe that's how it would've felt if I could have gotten a word in edgewise. But I didn't. So, no, not so nice, not so mellow.

While I'm often excessively articulate and pretty quick-thinking about it, I go through phases where I'm thinking more than speaking, and when I do talk, I'm a bit more measured and slow about it. I often like to do crazy things, like think before I speak, so I've been known to take something like 5-10 seconds to formulate my comment.

But apparently hesitation kills and no one should be allowed such time before speaking, if my night was any measure of that. My drinks-date interrupted me every single time I spoke. Not once could I naturally finish my thought. Every. Single. Time. I even got pissed off now and then at him interrupting, and CONTINUED speaking, despite him not stopping his interruption. Still, didn't take the hint. I even said, "You talk too much" and made a couple comments that way, and, nope, didn't slow him down a stitch.

And then the other thing was, any thing I did manage to say, he either turned it into a statement about him and his life, or else he just flat-out said he didn't like my opinion. (I said, "I want to go to New York soon" and he goes, "I hate New York, it's all concrete." Well, I'm not fucking visiting there for a park, now, am I, when I live in a rainforest surrounded by ocean, mountains, and amazing land? Like New York's competing with THAT? I'm going for a concrete jungle and "the city that never sleeps". Fuck. Stop making me justifty myself.)

I gradually just stopped giving a shit and phoned the conversation in. Why fucking bother? Like anything I said mattered anyhow? Every time I spoke, I was interrupted, or informed that my opinion wasn't at all correct. Way to make a companion feel like they matter and have something to contribute, huh?

I wanted to bitch-slap myself yesterday when I realized I was doing the story-trumping thing myself. You know, say someone goes, "I just climbed a mountain!" and you go, "Wow. Which one? Oh, I've climbed that seven times. It's pretty shitty. Next time you should--" and it's all right when we do that once or twice, it happens, right? But I think I did it a few times yesterday and I thought, "Wow, you arrogant cunt. Shut up." So I shut up and listened then on.

This guy needs that inner voice to do a little shouting, methinks.

The irony of all this is, I recognize I've become too internal and too into myself of late, so I've been working to try and make myself a better listener and a more measured and gracious speaker. I was never, ever as bad as this fellow is, but it certainly serves as a reminder of why I'm trying to take myself to a new level as far as the give-and-take of conversation goes.

If people tell you that you talk too much, you probably do. Maybe you should listen.

If you like interrupting people because you think what you have to say is so brilliant, maybe you need to understand that it's rude and it's offensive, and it's essentially saying to people, "I don't give a shit what you have to say, because I'm wittier and better than you."

Next time I want to feel not smart enough or not appreciated, I know who to call.

But, you know, I'm gravitating toward people who know how to make others feel appreciated and liked. It feels good. Who knew?