The Top 5 Songs of My Formative Years

Some of the songs on this list I would likely never admit to liking, though I cannot deny their direct impact on my life. These songs are different from all the rest because of their ability to catapult me to the past with alarming terrifying—and sometimes fond—accuracy. They take me back to the EXACT time and the EXACT place and the EXACT feeling. They are timeless and forever etched in my mind and heart because I only listened to them for a very short period of time and then never again. The last three I could never get sick of and never have gotten enough of them. The first two make me cringe with awkwardness and roll my eyes with mortification and I will not mind if I never hear them again. The songs aren't on this list necessarily because they are good; they are on this list because they are a map of some of the most painful and bittersweet moments of my life:

1. Moonlight Desires-Gowan: Ach. This song breaks my heart. With all the longing of my Grade 6, pre-teen awkwardness, want and revelation. Before I knew anything about music, let alone *good* music, this is one of the first songs I ever remember listening to in my giant yellow walk-man.

2. Kokomo-Beach Boys: Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna take you. Bermuda. Bahama. Cmon pretty mama. You all know the words. This song is Grade 7 gym class. That’s what this reminds me of. It makes me cringe while simultaneously making me feel wistful. I hated gym. I hated the change room. This song smells of spray-on baby-powder deodorant and reminds me of Mrs. Curtis and her Lady Foot Locker baby-pink cotton braided head-band.

3. Little Lies-Fleetwood Mac: This is a Grade 7 dance and the bittersweet sting of rejection, and mostly in particular of Jason Reinhart. In 1987 or 88, This song makes me think of walking through a gymnasium full of red helium balloons, but is that another FM video? It’s my first experience of total confusion with men. It was my first experience of being aware that looks matter and whatever that look was, I didn't have it. It was first experience of not understanding why guys never did like me. And really, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten any closer to figuring that out.

4. Shout-Tears for Fears: Fast forward about 6 years. It's 1993. This reminds me of a trip back from Edmonton with E. We rewound the song over and over again. The tape broke immediately after I bought it/I lost it and I have never listened to it since. No better song. No better time. And this song will forever be associated with THAT ONE DAY. That moment. I never cared that it was kind of repetitive. It was the finest 6 minutes on tape as far as I was concerned.

5. Hey Man, Nice Shot-Filter: This is a filthy house in Edmonton. Ryan, Grant and Vince. It is feeding all four of us for $17.00 a week. I have yet to encounter a guitar riff I enjoy more or a song which makes my head bob more quickly. This song is ripped-in-the-knee jeans and a false sense of independence with a hefty dose of unnecessary stubborn pride.

I thought about embedding the videos but meh. Too much work.

Handle With Care

I have not been feeling particularly original on this blog these days. Most of my ideas have come from other blogs I’m reading, and the ones that are original seem really whiny to me. Even this post, as I type it, seems to have a whiny tone to it.

I want something fresh! Something original! The other night I was thinking about songs that have made a difference to me, and started compiling a list of the Top 5 Most Important Songs of my Life. It was a pretty good list. Only to go on Facebook and find that it’s all the rage there now. There’s an entire APPLICATION for Top Lists. Top Movies. Top Songs. Top Albums. Top Ways To Get Your Hair Cut.

Well.

Now it’ll just look as if I’m copying again.

But it got me thinking about originality and creativity. And maybe it’s okay if I’m not feeling particularly either at the moment. Maybe the book gives me a pass.

I went out last night and was humiliated by a friend in front of an entire table-full of former co-workers. It was meant to be funny, and totally would have been had it only been the two of us, but in front of 15 people it was humiliating. She threw me under the bus. It really said more about her than it did about me probably, but you know, I have had a couple of really devastating and rough nights out in the last week. For example, I had to go to a hockey game for a business meeting on Thursday. Need I say more?

The truth is, I’m exhausted and have been coming home shattered and in tears every time I set foot out the door. Which really just makes me never what to leave the house again. And it's really not like me at all. See? Whiny.



But here’s what I’ve realized: I am feeling vulnerable and extra exposed because all of my energy is going into the book. So when I go out, I need some TLC. I need kid-gloves. I need support. I do not need all the poor choices of my past thrown in my face; I do not need to be told I will spend the rest of my life alone; I do not need to be pigeon-holed or criticized. Nope, I’m generally pretty tough-skinned. But not right now. And it occurred to me that this kind of compassion and delicacy is what support looks like to me when I'm writing a book.

It’s great if you show up at the Book Launch and all that, but this here? This right now? This is when I need your support the most. The work is done by the time the book launch comes rolling around. It’s like showing up after the baby has been born, you know? And I totally mean that with all due respect. I appreciate those who show up, I do. But I need you the most right now.

If any good is coming from all of this oversensitivity, it is that it is really bringing into a very large and very bright spotlight that I seem to have chosen to surround myself by people who don't have my back. It's interesting as much as it is disppointing.

Like my sister says, there's enough shit out in the world that we don't need it flung at us by those closest to us. And that is my lesson with a bullet and a side of fries.

As The Sacrifice Wheel Turns

So my book writing has been dead in the water for the past two weeks. I hit 10,000 words, and I stopped writing. Getting tired of sabotaging myself and making this book so hard, I tried to chill out and go with the flow. But you know, I have a deadline looming, so there's only so much of that you can do.

Truth is, I am REALLY getting sick of creating all this drama and tired of being the star of my own personal Soap Opera...So my sister sat down with me on Monday night and did a Sacrifice Wheel with me. What is that? Well, it's a way to get to the heart of the matter. I wasn't writing because I felt resentment, anger and guilt. And there can be no creativity in the face of those ugly monsters.

So the Sacrifice Wheel is an itemized list of all the things I feel I am sacrificing for this book (and oh, it's quite a long list---time, freedom, balance, exercise, friendships, my business...it goes on and on.)

I am sacrificing all that with the EXPECTATION that I will get the book done faster.

Which leads to RESENTMENT about a whole schwack of things---no results, money, missing out, living like a hermit, going against my nature, ETC.)

Which in turn circles around to GUILT. I feel guilty about EVERYTHING. I feel guilty if I am not writing, feel guilty if I am doing anything other than writing, sleeping or eating. Laundry? Guilty. Cleaning the house? Guilty. Getting groceries? Guilty. Going to the library. Guilty. Going out with friends? DEFINITELY GUILTY.

So as the sacrifice wheel turns, I am NOT GETTING ANYTHING WRITTEN. And the resentment and the anger and the bitterness and the resistance builds.

So my sister helped me get off the wheel. Say no, forgive myself and Get Back to Work.

In other words, SHUT UP AND WRITE.

Join us again for another episode of As The Sacrifice Wheel Turns.

CHARLIE BROWN SYNDROME

I have a friend who is likening her foul mood to Lucy Van Pelt. But for me, for me it's ole' Charlie Brown. You know that episode where the raincloud is right above him and wherever Charlie Brown goes, that raincloud follows? Everywhere else there is sunshine and crystal clear blue skies, but right over Charlie Brown is a big dark cloud that is pounding down rain.

Hm-mm. The raincloud is my book. And if I took a 'What Charlie Brown character are you' quiz, this is what I'd get: (Hypothetically speaking, of course.)

A Pint of Bitter

Alternate Title: Men are pigs. And I am Angry
Other Contenders: Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting

I can now officially state that I am running in the Bitter Bitch Marathon, and coming in first place.

It has been a long, dark road outta hell, lemme tell you—the journey I have been on this past 15 months or so to really get to the root cause of why I am single. Because you can only blame the men for so long. The only common denominator in my singlehood is me. It’s a battle to be accountable and since November, I have been trying to swallow the bitter, BITTER pill that not only am I accountable, I am in fact creating the situation. Yes friends, I am CHOOSING to be single. I have been trying to come to grips with the fact that I have complete control over my situation despite having felt desperately helpless about it my whole life. Helpless and hopeless, that’s what it feels like. It still scares me and angers me and I regularly shake my fist at the sky in frequent bouts and fits of rage and anger at the injustice of it all. I am long past celebrating everyone else’s Happily-Ever-Afters and do not suffer advice on the matter gladly. If one more person tells me that I should try online dating or I just need to “be myself”, I am going to foist myself onto a stripper pole and make you stuff my string bikini with fivers.

I also have this crippling and embarrassing belief that no one will date me because I’m fat. I actually believe that if I was skinny, that the men would be flocking towards me. Which is why, three years ago, I made it my personal mission to get skinny. And when I did, you know what? Absolutely nothing changed. The joke was on me.

So if that wasn’t it, then what was? If men don’t really care how I look, then why am I still single?

And you know what, I still don’t have any answers to that. If I did, I wouldn’t be single. But I’m clearly not learning the lessons I am meant to and clearly still repeating patterns.

*sigh*

So last year, one of my New Year’s Resolutions was to create and foster more positive male friendships in my life. I was blessed with a flood of really good, decent and single guys my age who practically reversed the damage done by years of dating the slimy dregs of the male species. Yes, I continue to see prime examples of quality men in my work and be surrounded by them—each nice, decent, hard-working guy changing my view on men one at a time. I don’t seem to be attracting any of them, but I have been dealing with that too. I have been honest with my feelings and up-front with men and generally feeling pretty good about the progress I have been making.

Until Saturday night, that is.

I went out with one of said male friends and one of his married buddies completely shattered my spirit.

It was the first time in my life where I’ve actually met the ‘Smug Marrieds’ that Brigit Jones is always referring to: Married Guy A was talking to Married Guy B and I passed by and said “What are you guys talking about.” Married Guy B said: “How great it is being married.” I kept walking.

One of them in particular was very happy to pigeon-hole me and had all sorts of judgements about “the type of girl” I was. Two of them practically took pleasure in telling me that all the good guys are already married and that I am essentially shit out of luck. I am going to die old and alone. For someone whose biggest fear it is to die old and alone, to have two men tell me casually and maliciously over a pint of beer that I am going to die old and alone was devastating. I barely know how I managed to keep drinking. But I did. Married Guy B assumed I was only out looking for a one-night stand and then later labelled me as a Bitter Girl.

Oh, it was fun times.

The worst part is that a) that I put up with it and b) I think he might be right. I realized with HORROR that I am Bitter Girl. I have turned into something I have been fighting so hard against for years.


Let it be said that the guy was an asshole. I know this. He had his own ego issues and obviously his needs are not being met. He accused me of having an AGENDA if I stopped talking to a man in a bar once I found out he was married.

I was drunk, yes. But mostly I was hurt, insulted, offended and angry, but the night left me feeling vulnerable and worthless and really brought out the worst in me.

Other than the anger, I am also disappointed in myself. I took a kind of freakish pride in the fact that I still had faith in men and still believed in love despite all the drama.

It was a horrible night that highlighted how horrible I am feeling about myself, and how much bitterness I project towards men, married or otherwise. And I didn’t realize it until just now.

One thing I know for sure: I am officially on a serious HIATUS from men and from now on, my time is going to be better spent with the women who love me, trust me, accept me and see me for the fabulous Goddess/Diva/Howling Ladywolf that I am. I don’t mind being tested and having my opinions challenged, but it needs to come from a place of love and acceptance. This was coming from a place of small penis/large ego.

I don’t need to go out and spend my Saturday night feeling like shit, thanks gentlemen. Just because you're married, doesn’t mean you have to stop treating others around you with respect.

I’m mad as hell. And I’m bitter. And I am going to hang out here for a while instead of being in such a damn fine hurry to move out of it. My name is Karen and I am going to throw myself a Bitter Party. I am setting sail on the Bitter boat to battle the bitter seas... Bitter, Table for One. Well, you get the idea.

Song of the day: 'Bang on' the Breeders

Would You Get Naked for Art?

I’m not sure if I can write a very long post about this, and there’s still not much to say yet, but I am thinking about participating in the Human Body Project.

Basically, it is a brave, brave soul named Tasha Diamant who stands naked in a room. In her own words, 'the Human Body Project is about understanding vulnerability by sharing an experience of vulnerability.' People are invited to come and look, be, and observe. There are self-expression stations where they can make art, write or speak into a microphone.

So, I am thinking of doing it.

I have been thinking about it for the last six months or so, and if I were to be truly honest, it has probably been on my mind in the two years since I saw Tasha’s show...

So, encouraged by a post from a friend who is drawing herself naked, I emailed the artist last week.

We are in discussions.

I myself am someone who has always battled body issues and think there is something very noble, very cathartic and very bold in pushing boundaries to this extreme. I'm also really sick of being what I perceive to be a slave to my body and my body image, and would like to be freed from those shackles. I see it as a bit of a final frontier for me, in terms of accepting my whole self.


I am curious and intrigued by the project and inspired...and would like to be involved in some way. I have given it a great deal of thought, and I’m still not sure if it’s something I’ll actually go through with.But I do know that contacting her was the first step.

She is going to be at the Edmonton Fringe in August. That’s like, 10 days of nudity.

A Word About Cat Power

Man, that woman is an under-rated powerhouse.

Yeah, dude.

She gets it.

I’m gonna find me a reckless man
Razor blades and ice in his eyes
Just a touch of sadness in his fingers
Thunder and lightning in his eyes.

She may not have written the lyrics, but that smoky, haunting voice? Oh God yeah.

A Whiff of Spring

The longer days and the milder weather have me feeling like I have rediscovered myself, after a long winter dealing with with self doubt and MAJOR LIFE CHANGES. Having been buried by my book and my finances, life somehow seems less crushing when you can put away the Sorels and the scarves and head out without a jacket.Everything seems lighter.

Is it always like this every March?

I also know when Spring is here, because I start wanting to travel like I have never travelled before. The spring winds are making me want to go with them, like a gypsy into some foreign land. I start scoping out seat sales and take pleasure in finding out how much it would cost me to fly to Greece, Africa, Paris or Winnipeg...

Spring is about Optimism and I'll take as much of that as I can get right now.

OMG BOOBIES--Will No one Think of the Children?

Also available on The New West

Ever found yourself questioning the Starbucks logo? No? Well, you might be one of the few...

Last year, Starbucks stores in the US went retro, returning to their 80s logo, a brown, bare-chested split-tailed mermaid.

Say what?

Yep. The original Starbucks logo was a naughty siren chillin’ out with her tails.


Starbucks had to change their corporate logo because shockingly, some consumers found the topless siren too lurid and sexually suggestive. They found it, shall we say, tough to swallow with their morning coffee.

A simplified logo was introduced in 1987, hiding the siren's breasts under waves of hair. Interpretations abound! She has giant pineapples for tail legs! She’s doing a difficult yoga pose! Or yes—it has to be said—she is showing us her vadge.


Starbucks decided to play it safe: the image was cropped and enlarged so the split in the siren's tail (and that scandalous belly-button) would no longer show. The only indication now that the female icon is a sea creature is in the wavy lines. The logo is so squeaky-clean that it kinda looks like she’s holding two scaly fish.


When Starbucks brought the original whore logo back in 2008 for a limited time, you can imagine the controversy and upset it caused in the Christian community:

One Christian group boycotted Starbucks. "The Starbucks logo has a naked woman on it with her legs spread like a prostitute," explains Mark Dice, founder of the group. "Need I say more? It's extremely poor taste, and the company might as well call themselves Slutbucks."

Yes, that’s right. The founder of a Christian organization did in fact just say Slutbucks. Did he coin a new term? Should we encourage him to go to Urban Dictionary and take credit for that savvy and scathing play on words?

Other comments include consternation regarding the mermaid’s size, especially from women. She has in fact, been called “The Chubby Memaid.” (You can hear the collective movement of Disney executives as they begin brainstorming ideas for future cartoon movies.) Ladies, cmon. A little self-respect, please. Have we seriously been that brainwashed and conditioned by Ariel, the “little” mermaid that the Starbucks siren is now our designate Fat Chick?

And why is a mermaid/siren/slut Starbucks’s icon anyway? Well okay, she’s actually called a Melusinea if you wanna get all geeky about it. In ancient Greek mythology, sirens and mermaids were in the business of seducing mariners with songs and promises of sex and then killing them.

One expert believes that “the original logo made quite explicit that Starbucks was using the lure of female sexuality to draw the customer to their coffee, but now you can see that the coffee is linked to the double lure of ultimate wisdom and the pleasures of the flesh.”

Um. Yeah. Okay. Pass the sugar.

If you ask Doug Fast, the logo's designer, he simply says that the woman depicted is based on a Greek mythological siren-half-woman/half-fish. You kinda get the impression that he thought it would be cool. You know, back in 1971 when he was designing it for a little independent Seattle coffee shop.

I find it an intriguing and fascinating social observation that nudity is deemed so offensive in our society, and particularly in the United States. But violence? Hey, no probs. The logo would likely have gotten less controversy had the mermaid been toting a gun. What is everyone so scared of? Fellas, they’re just boobies. And Christians, what’s a little split tail amongst friends?

Counting My Filthy Lucre

I cut up my credit card today. I haven’t actually used it for months. I had it paid off with a $0 balance in August and here I am right back where I started, paying egregious amounts of interest and in general doing myself NO GOOD. So I had a little trumpet ceremony and cut it in four and stared at it for a while, as if I was cutting off one of my limbs. Momentary panic had me running a series of unlikely scenarios in my head and figuring out if taping it back together could undo the choice I had just made. Then I realized what an abusive relationship we had together. He was such a taker. You are as much good to me as my ex-boyfriend. So long, pal.

Since my last post, I have also come into SCADS of money. Well okay, maybe not scads. But enough. And these days, I am really really happy with enough. Scads compared to the crumbs and pittance I have been living on lo’ these past 3 months. Not only did I get paid, but I got my tax return. Nothing gigantic, but enough to get me closer to being out of debt. I am not saying it’s over. But I think insomuch as me being po’, I will not go back. I am not too proud to go and get a job to pay the bills while I still keep writing.

Yesterday, I splurged on three new pairs of socks and three new pairs of underwear (on sale!) and today, I think I might treat myself to a full tank of gas. Yes, these are treats. I’m by no means in the area where I can go and...oh, I dunno...buy clothes or replace my camera or my cell phone. That's crazy talk. But you know, I’m happy to have socks with no holes.

And even better: more money is on the way! A good solid month of subbing under my belt and I may actually clear enough to be able to pay my rent without standing on my head. Hurrah.

So, I can breath and am out from the crushing, suffocating stranglehold of debt. And for that I am grateful.

It’s been on my mind a lot lately. My relationship with money. My friends’ relationships with it. The power it has over us all. The power it has for both good and evil. The power of security and freedom. And the power to dominate, hallucinate and subjugate. I have decided, here, now, in this moment of gratitude and clarity not to give it any more power. I am taking the emotion out of it (or at least I’m going to try.) You see, money is something we trade our life energy for. And I am not going to allow it to suck the life out of me anymore.


My money archetype is Victim, Tyrant and Innocent with a little bit of Creator/Artist thrown in for good measure. I have been burying my head in the sand for years. Even when I was making great money, I was always poor, always robbing Peter to pay Paul, always living beyond my means. Always chasing my mother-fucking tail. And today I stand up, head held high and say NO MORE. No more manipulation, no more emotional spending, no more ego-rubbing, image-fulfilling, crazy-making DEBT.

People have an image in their minds of what POOR looks like. And I don’t look poor, because I happen to have pride. But POOR comes in all shapes and sizes. I may be showered and educated; I may not be pushing a shopping-cart of recyclables down the street, but make no mistake: I am poor.

As with everything I don’t like, I am delving deeper and trying to understand the source. I don’t want to be nor do I like being poor. But here I am. This means there is something in my belief system that prevents me from ever surpassing a certain tax bracket. Being poor supports a belief I have about myself. I’m going to change that.

But before I get there, I have surrendered. Surrendered my emotions, my ego and my credit card. And you know what, it feels really really good. From here on, I will build on that. I will get myself up and out.

This is a promise I make to myself. Here, now, today and always.

By The Way

Three summers ago, I went to Mexico on a Spanish Cultural Exchange. Which means we drank a lot of tequila. Yesterday, I got an email out of the blue from one of the organizers, updating us on what’s new with him. At the end of the email, a sentence:

“We need English instructors, by the way, in case some one wants to spend some time in Mexico.”

There it is. By the way.

So I’m thinking about it.

I’m thinking about it.

I am thinking about moving to Mexico for a year.

Thinking.

Writing Down The Dirty

The worst thing about rock bottom is getting there: the slow, long and painful descent. Because you keep thinking: ‘Ok, this is going to be the worst of it.’ And then it’s not. The truth is, things can always get a little shittier.

So, the one and only good thing about finally reaching rock bottom is that there is nowhere to go but up.

I probably shouldn’t have posted that tirade yesterday and usually don’t, but did so deliberately, not for attention, but for my own memory.

There are a number of things I avoid talking about on my blog. I generally don’t talk about money, my family, my weight or anything that would involve breaching a second party’s privacy.

And generally, anything really, really horrible I prefer to avoid. If I am going through a bad time, I tend to keep on going until it’s over and then I’ll write about it. But I’ll wait until the lessons have been learned or the jokes can be made, and I can wrap it up in a nice neat little bow for y’all.

Because otherwise it just seems really whiny and self-serving. And moderately annoying.

No one needs to read that shit. Except that well, I do. I need to remember. I’m pretty sure that my first book was this hard, but I didn’t write any of it down, so I have forgotten, which means that I have been completely blindsided the second-time around.

And let’s face it, life is not all about the good stuff, no matter how much we endeavour to focus on the positive. It is real and it is true. Yesterday’s post was not a cry for attention or even really a call for sympathy. It was me feeling completely hopeless and talking about it because it has been consuming my life for the past three months and I have been spending great amounts of energy NOT TALKING ABOUT IT. And focusing on the positive, and focusing on Abundance and Gratitude and focusing on Writing and Choice and Cause and Freedom. And focusing, focusing, focusing. Um. Except that by not focusing on what was really bothering me, nay scaring the living shit out of me, I was denying a real large part of myself.

Yesterday’s post was about as vulnerable and emotional as I have been or felt or shown in a really long time. And my finger hovered over the delete button last night for a number of minutes. Can I really handle sharing all of who I am with you, unabashedly, without regret?

Well I guess I can. I believe in the integrity of the truth and the poise that comes with standing naked in a room full of people. That post will stay posted, even though today it makes me cringe with embarrassment a little.

I needed to surrender. I needed to break down, cry, sleep, yell (and boy, did I do some yelling yesterday) stomp around, get angry, get frustrated, and be in whatever range of emotion was necessary to get the hell out.

So thank you for the phone calls, the emails and the comments. They are much appreciated.

I should clarify that after all my bitching and surrendering, I did get down to business and take care of the particular monetary issue at hand. Not only will I live to see another day, but I think I will even make it through the rest of this month, and dare I say? April as well?

And also, to clarify, I work at about 4 jobs already. It’s not so much a matter of not having work; it was a matter of not getting paid for the work I had already done. And, to add insult to injury, I am currently writing an article called ‘Reality Check: Make Sure You Get Paid.”

Oh, the humanity! Yes, the Universe has a colossally large sense of humour. What am I going to be writing about next month? Maybe ‘Reality Check: making Sure You Get Laid.”

Oh. Now there’s something I could really get behind. (you see? See what I just did there?)

This Is What Rock-Bottom Looks Like

I am officially suffering. I think I've done pretty well to manage as long as I have. I've been saying it for months: I'm on the edge of financial ruin. Well, I'm not on the edge any more, friends. I am there.

I have arrived. At the end of my rope. I need money. now. today. yesterday. Or the lights will be turned out, the car taken away, the phone/internet/cable shut off. I lost my house and my car insurance last week. And my Health Care is long gone. Yep. It's that bad. I have a cavity which I can't afford to fill and I gave up wearing contact lenses about 6 months ago, since I can't afford them anymore. I have a roof over my head and food in my belly but for the grace of God. And I never say shit like that.

And I am done being grateful. I just can't be grateful. Not right now. Today I feel like the world chewed me up, spit me out, pissed on me and then--just for good measure--threw me in a meat grinder and pulverized my remains into the pavement with the heel of its shoe. And yes, that's the best analogy I can come up with in these desperate times. It's not particularly writerly or in any way original, but there you have it.

I have never felt more alone, more frustrated or more furious in my entire life. I am working my ass off and have nothing to show for it.

So today, being a freelance writer sucks. Don't quit your day jobs, folks. Stay where the pay is regular, the benefits are locked in and the waters are warm and calm. It's cold and wet and horrible over here on the road less travelled. And I get that I chose this life and most days, it's a pretty good one. Today is just not one of those days.

I'm going to go see if Tim Hortons is hiring.

Cue Rocky Soundtrack

I am at 10,228 words and I feel like I should get some kind of medal. God that first ten thousand is a bear. And like I said last time every single word represents a bead of sweat, a drop of blood and an ounce of crazy.



The next ten thousand is going to breeze by.

I'm Moving

So, I have decided that I will be moving out on July 1st. I'm only about 85% certain that this is the right choice, but I think it's time.

Where am I going, you ask? GOOD QUESTION. I am seriously considering spending my summer as a gypsy vagabond. Then, who knows?

Why am I going, you ask? Because the reasons I'm staying aren't good enough. And because I think that much good will come of it.

That's all, really. Just thought you all might like to know.

On The Throne

Boys: you’ve just gotten yourself comfy in your favourite Barca lounger, the game is on, your beer is cracked and your wife is gone for the afternoon. Does it get any better than this? Well, if you’re a 17th Century French King, it does in fact. Because you wouldn’t even have to get up to take care of your business. Little known fact: there is such a thing as a Toilet Armchair. It was invented by a man.

It’s basically a wooden chair with a hole cut in the seat.

Red Green would have been so proud.

And the next time you complain about your job, think about the long-suffering chair-bearers of the 16th Century. Introduced during the reign of François I (1515-1547), chair bearers carried around His Majesty’s portable toilet and attended to his “Royal needs”. So grown men had potties. Got it. This was actually considered to be a very prestigious career choice, since it meant getting to spend intimate time with the King. One of Versailles’ most esteemed positions was the Gentilhomme porte Coton, (does saying it in French make it sound better?) a man who, armed with little more than a cotton ball and a silver platter, would receive the Sun King’s tragically infrequent droppings and hurry them to the appropriate authorities. Merde, what a job.



No, forget about Versailles, gentlemen; forget about his attempts to transform France into the industrial and intellectual hub of Europe; overlook the new road system, the construction of canals and ports, the organization of a modern police force and the expansion of the navy and merchant marine into major exporters. No, No. Louis XIV should be remembered for popularizing the Toilet Armchair. Louis announced his marriage to Madame de Maintenon while on his “business seat.” Or as he liked to call it, his chaise d’affaires.

And would they have had people leave the room, or was it business as usual?

Louis XIV was known for having a ‘delicate stomach.’ So the toilet armchair would ensure that no opportunity (sorry, can’t help it) passed unexploited. Because although his successor Louis XV was considered the greatest military genius of all time, according to inventory conducted shortly before the French Revolution, he left nearly three hundred toilet seats behind at the Palace of Versailles. And isn’t that the true measure of a man? Isn’t that how we are going to remember him best?

Condolences go to the poor, starving masses of French revolutionists who ransacked and looted the Palace of Versailles after Louis XVI’s reign. To the victors go...the spoils...of three hundred toilet armchairs.

James Joyce Was Addicted to Farts

So, I'm looking up info on my FAVOURITE author, Honoré de Balzac (we share the same birthday, by the way) who was apparently addicted to coffee. He was a man's man. If he was too impatient to wait to brew his coffee, he'd just eat it. Yep. Chew. Right on the beans. Sometimes, if he was poor, he'd eat the grounds. Coffee killed him, in fact. Terrible ulcers. Anyways, so I'm getting the scoop (hehe) and I come across an article about Strange Author Addictions. Not only was Charles Dickens addicted to morgues, but James Joyce, apparently, couldn't get enough of tooting.

"Although they didn’t really diagnose sex addiction at the time, I bet if James Joyce was around today he would be classified as one. He wrote hundreds of letters to his lover, Nora (who later became his wife), and spared no expense in the detail of what he wanted the two of them to do when they were together again. But oddly, he seemed to be most obsessed with her farts. It’s a repeated theme in his letters - here’s one example: “I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have.”

I gotta say: I really didn't see that one coming.

Total.Barking.Uncertainty

I've just realized that my book scares me.
I am terrified of the thing I am meant to be creating.
Maybe I just need to surrender to it; admit that I have no control and I should just stop pretending that I do.

Something that keeps coming up is Julie Cameron's 'The Artist's Way.' And what I've found in my own life is that when things keep coming up three....four...many times over that I am meant to be listening. Except that 'The Artist's Way' scares me even more than my own book.

I have been resisting it with full force, mostly because I think it's way too hard-core for me. I will eventually get around to it, I suppose, but I've heard that the MASSIVE book takes artists on a twelve-week journey, involving daily, risk-taking activities. Sounds great for people who don't have looming deadlines. Plus my whole life is already full of daily, risk-taking activities, so I'm all full up, thanks.

There is something called the Writer's Diet and it's a 'Spiritual Path to Creativity.' Hm. I'll have a plate of bacon with a side of crippling insecurity, please.

She offers advice on how to get over the stiffness or outright paralysis that creeps in when people make writing a "Big Deal." Well I have two words for you, Julie Cameron. And they start with an 'f' and finish with a 'u'.

She wholeheartedly believes that writing is a process that connects us to the divine.

Also, she creeps me out. She looks like a munchkin from the Wizard of Oz. You can't see them, but I bet she's wearing green curly-pointed shoes...

Actually, she looks a lot like that Simpsons episode when Homer puts marge's make-up on with a paint gun.


Which begs the question: Julie Cameron, did you set the make-up gun to whore??

My Motherboard, My Self

I have a boyfriend. I’d like to introduce you: His name is Max. As an Editor’s Note to yesterday’s post about Tori Amos: She may have my back, but does she have my files backed up? I decided to take the fact that I had been listening to that song repeatedly...ad nauseum...to DEATH as a perhaps. SIGN? Yes, I would say a SIGN that I need to BACK UP MY BOOK FILES. I had some ridiculous system for my last book involving saving onto USB sticks and emailing a copy of my manuscript to myself every night before I went to bed. Frankly, it was an exhausting relationship which was doomed to failure. And anyway, his mom never liked me.

We have already had one computer crash on us this year and have had to purchase a new motherboard. Do I really need to go through the prospect of losing every picture I have taken in the last 5 years as well? Do I need to think what would happen if...someone stole the laptop? or it broke? or we had a virus?...or any of the million other things that could possibly go wrong?

No I do not.

Also, I know that none of us have forgotten that horrifying Sex & the City episode when Carrie’s computer crashes and she loses her WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE.

No we have not.

And since there is no Aiden Shaw/John Corbett in my corner to back me up, I will settle for now with Max, or as his parents like to call him, Maxtor One Touch Plus.

I would also like credit a) for knowing what an external hard drive is. b) for figuring out how to actually back the files up and c) for actually owning a hard drive in the first place. I mean, it’s in my home. It took us more than a year to buy a replacement vacuum. I am usually one of those people who thinks that things like lost files happen to “other authors.” An external hard drive? That’s HUGE. And I'm saying it like I've always known what it was. Lookit me with all the fancy lingo. I would like a round of applause for being a girl with the proper equipment. It’s okay: I can see you from here.

P.S. Dear Diary-He's bigger than any others I've ever seen!

P.P.S They don’t call him Hard Drive for nothin’!