Can someone please hold me?

Flipping through the September issue of Jane this morning, I came across the usual assortment of folded pages containing perfume samples – the sort where you open the fold and can sniff the product, or rub it on your wrists or tuck it into your lingerie drawer or whatever the hell people normally do with them. (Me, I try not to breathe deeply while flipping past. Heh.)

Among the various pages was an ad that featured a white-fluffy-dress-clad woman posing in a half-yoga, half-seductive pose on a shimmery, watery surface. There was no product identifier – and the text read, “Beguile your senses. Succumb to the freshness.” I flipped the page and discovered it was an ad for Tampax “fresh” – which is apparently, “the new cardboard tampon with a light clean scent”. Of course, I pried open the page and sniffed. Perfumey-powdery-ick.

I have issues with this ad. Several, in fact.

1. “The new cardboard tampon” – umm, please tell me you mean “cardboard applicator” and not cardboard TAMPON.
2. There is no smell from your period until the blood hits the air. There is no reason to scent tampons – once they’re removed, they’re disposed of. Most people I know don’t wave them around in the air before they flush/dispose of ‘em.
3. Why do we need to convince women – of any age – that their cooter should be scented like anything OTHER than cooter?

Grr.

Thank God I finally sent him his “congratulations on being born!” gift a month ago. His one-year birthday present should arrive somewhere around the birth of his own first child at this rate. Sheesh.

Is everyone properly nauseated yet?

I’ve been back in the Hamilton area for a few years now – since 2000, in fact, where did the time go? – and it still amazes me how many questions I can’t answer. Questions like: If I wanted to order Chinese food for delivery, what would be the best and cheapest place to call? In Toronto, where I spent my young adulthood, I knew the answer. Around here, I’m left leafing through the phone book or struggling to remember the name of the place my Dad once ordered from. It makes me insane sometimes. I cannot be bothered to start calling up local friends and relatives.

Back to the story.

A few nights ago, we ordered Chinese food. Along with the spicy szechuan noodles and spring rolls, they threw in enough fortune cookies for both of us to have three (which is either a statement about the quantity of food we ordered or their generosity – heh). One of mine seemed particularly profound: Our first and last love… self love. My husband believes that I can make ANYTHING seem profound and dripping with meaning – and he’s absolutely right. I decided the fortune was suggesting that I purchase some new sex toys and prompty began investigating all the new and interesting products on Come As You Are‘s web site.

After much discussion, debate and after checking every web site known to man, I tentatively settled on the “LAYAspot” from Fun Factory. Being practical people, however (and realizing that vibrators are generally not returnable – thank god and ew ew ew!) we didn’t buy it online, and instead got in the car and ventured to Lovecraft in Mississauga (the nearest store carrying them for a reasonable price) so I could test the various strengths and speeds and ergonomics of all the “hot new vibrators”.

Hamilton’s best offering for sex toys is the Stag Shop (due to some fucked up bylaws) and it’s a place that I equate with the high school mentality on sex. In other words, crappy products meant solely to titillate (“Ohhhh, a mug shaped like a PENIS! hehehehehe!”), with no quality control, and no one knowledgeable on staff to help you make your decision. I’ve never been happy with anything I’ve purchased there – it’s either been crappy to use or broken almost immediately.

Lovecraft is a nice, neat, clean store. I used to do all of my shopping at the Yorkville location when I worked around the block – I don’t even try to deny the fact that I was totally spoiled living in Toronto. While I lived there, I had a world of toys and accoutrements at my doorstep, and so it became the default to expect good service and “grown up” sales staff. Since that’s where I visited my first “sex shop”, I assumed every city was blessed to have such a great place to go. Lovecraft, like Come As You are, is well-lit, well-organized, and has a huge variety of product – including the obligatory “joke” section – and staff that have no qualms about giving their opinion. They’ll happily pry open a package to put in some batteries so you can feel how something works (erm, on your hand, I mean!) and offer their suggestions as to what would be a good ‘fit’ for your needs. They don’t pressure you, though, into purchasing what you’ve tested.

It’s the sort of shop that I like – chock full of deviant ideas and healthy sexuality and videos and books and toys and lingerie and lube and condoms, and strap-ons and toys I’ve never seen before. Walking in doesn’t make you revert to teenagehood, and you don’t feel like whatever you’re about to ask will make the sales clerk blush. It’s suitable for teenagers and grandmothers and everyone in between. Come As You Are is similar in style, but less stocked and somehow a bit disappointing in person.

Back to the product review portion of this post.

The LAYAspot rocks.

I mean, people, if I was wealthy I’d send one to each and every one of you. It’s small, it’s comfortable to hold (though Melle made fun of me for enjoying the ergonomics of the item – something along the lines of, “What kind of death grip do you normally HAVE on your vibrator that ergonomics is such an issue?”) and the highlight is the multiple settings. This puppy goes beyond “low/medium/high” settings and features seven different speed/pulse options. It has two simple buttons (on and off) and is completely waterproof. I’m in love.

And now I’m even more determined that my business needs to make money NOW NOW NOW dammit, because I’m jonesin’ for the entire Sue line and about 30 other new toys. (What’s that? You were just thinking how much you’d like to buy me sex toys? Why, you go right ahead! Can we start with the Royal Surfer? ;) )

As much as I appreciate a day or two filled with Google Talk messages with Melle, and afternoon road trips to sex stores in Mississauga (story to come shortly, I suspect), none of these endeavours pay the bills – in the literal sense. Doing it this way, however – slowly and methodically – helps me feel considerably more confident. I’m able to see, for myself, that all the “i”s are dotted and the “t”s are crossed – and that’s very important to me. I’m not presenting a half-assed business to people. There are few things I hate more than finding myself halfway down a road and realizing that I forgot to take care of something. Like remembering to shut off the coffee machine, if you will, before leaving the house for the day, or forgetting to charge GST on an invoice to a client.

A lot has actually been acomplished, despite my warblings. I have already done some client work – including a second project for one of them. I have a PO box, a GST number, a phone line, a web site that’s being constructed, and all the basic office supplies have been procured (and you KNOW the office supplies were the highlight of that list!). I’m still waiting for my logo to be finished, and for my business cards to be created, and once the web site is done I shall market myself like nobody’s business. I’m really looking forward to telling people about what I’m doing now that I’ve left the corporate world – finally, a business doing things that I’m really really good at, instead of trying to fit my square-peg self into a round corporate-hole.

Tomorrow afternoon I have an appointment to set up my bank account (which is good, since I have a cheque waiting to be cashed!) – and then I have some final editing to do on some of the web site content. I’m pretty sure I can work in an hour of Tetris, too.

Must treasure these quiet days – I intend to put an end to them soon enough.

Favourite toothpaste: I love toothpaste. I love floss. I love anything that I get to put in my mouth for more than a few seconds. Yes, anything. Currently sitting beside the sink in my bathroom – for me, and me alone – are five tubes of paste. There’s one of “Lemon Ice” and one “Vanilla Mint”, thanks to the good people at Crest. There’s also a tube of Burt’s Bees Lavender-Mint, and one of children’s orange-flavour paste. There’s also some organic cherry that tastes a lot like red NyQuil – I love NyQuil. My favourite – all time, hands down – is the lavender mint. It’s soothing, it’s tasty, and it leaves my mouth clean and tingly. My good friend Karen brought me two tubes of the lavender when she and her husband came up for the wedding in June. Mmmmmmmmm….

Singer that will most likely make me cry: I cry all the time, for all sorts of reasons, but it’s generally certain ‘magic’ notes, chords or lyrics that get me bawling. In the past, U2′s Bono could get me to weep by singing, “Red Hill Mining Town” – the part where he launches his voice to bellow, “Love, slowly stripped away..” gets me going in about a second, flat. In high school, I’d sit with my finger on the rewind button of my walkman, listening to him sing it over and over and over and over.. Thom Yorke from Radiohead (in addition to being hot) can usually find a way to make his voice low and whispery and dramatic enough to make me well up. And there’s something about a strong, unwavering voice – male or female – that makes my heart plunk a few times. I think it’s that my own voice is so incredibly terrible when I sing, that hearing someone’s voice just explode into the air makes me overwhelmingly wistful.

Most life-changing experience: Realizing I was in love with my husband. I was already married to someone else when it happened – I had the sudden realization that my lack of happiness in that marriage wasn’t just because I was the sort of person for whom ‘comfort’ can sometimes be a bad word, but because the relationship itself wasn’t right. I spent a solid month feeling parts of my life shift and my perceptions change before I acted on it, and holy crap, my life has changed.

Favourite colour of socks: Bright colours! Orange and yellow are my favourites – I call them “sunshine socks”. Heh. I’ve called them that since I was a kid, and have firmly believed that wearing such socks contributes to the overall mood of the day. You can’t stay mad or sad when your feet are radiating sunshine, right?

Most annoying thing about sidewalks: They aren’t enough. I want sidewalks that also have room to be bike paths. I want sidewalks that don’t just.. stop randomly. And I sincerely believe that when the concrete for a new sidewalk is poured, the people who live in front of it should be allowed to carve their initials and the date into it with a stick.

Favourite soundtrack for a movie I’ve never seen: I’m not sure there is one. Hrmph. I suppose one answer could be the soundtrack for “Garden State.” We watched it as a rental from Zip. A coworker met me in the kitchen a few days after we watched it and kept telling me how it was a fabulously uplifting movie, how chipper and upbeat and inspirational it was. I stood there, feeling my brain bubble and wondered if there was ANOTHER movie called “Garden State” and if somehow I had watched ‘the wrong one’. I still haven’t rewatched it to see what the hell she was talking about.

Reason that i would survive if I lost everything I have: I have never lost “everything” but I’ve certainly felt as though I have at times in my past. I survived that, and short of being run over by a bus I’ll keep suriving. What other choice is there, really?

Favourite neighbour: Our neighbours are worth a thousand demented blog postings of their own, but I will say that I am reasonably fond of the guy who lives next door – he’s rarely home, doesn’t complain about our dogs, doesn’t invade our privacy and he drives a great big dump truck (which gives him instant points!)

Best experience on a rooftop: After a certain age (9? 10?) my parents would allow me to climb up the TV antenna on our house and .. sit on the slanted roof for as long as I wanted. It was unspeakably cool to be there – above the world – by myself. I’ve never lived in a building with a rooftop that was accessible (like a rooftop patio or garden or whatever) nor have I ever known anyone who did.

A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.
A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.
A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.

You scored better than half in all three, earning you the title of: Outcast Genius.
Outcast geniuses usually are bright enough to understand what society
wants of them, and they just don’t care! They are highly intelligent
and passionate about the things they know are *truly* important in the
world. Typically, this does not include sports, cars or make-up, but it
can on occassion (and if it does then they know more than all of their
friends combined in that subject).

Outcast geniuses can be very lonely, due to their being
outcast from most normal groups and too smart for the room among many
other types of dorks and geeks, but they can also be the types to
eventually rule the world, ala Bill Gates, the prototypical Outcast
Genius.

Congratulations!

Also, you might want to check out some of my other tests if you’re interested in either of the following:

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 55% on nerdiness You scored higher than 98% on geekosity You scored higher than 96% on dork points

Link: The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test written by donathos on OkCupid Free Online Dating

]]> http://miserablebliss.ca/blog/2005/08/25/outcast-genius-indeed/feed/ 0 http://miserablebliss.ca/blog/2005/08/25/karen/ http://miserablebliss.ca/blog/2005/08/25/karen/#comments Thu, 25 Aug 2005 15:13:26 +0000 violet http://miserablebliss.ca/blog/2005/08/25/karen/ Karen’s mom had several weiner dogs – or, if you’re all fancy, dachshunds. A redhaired one, a long-haired one, a black one. I believe one was named “Heidi”. That’s the end of my recollection of these dogs, other than the fact that even then – as a kid – I found them unspeakably hilarious. They’re the best form of Prozac ever invented.

This is a very, very long story. But I think I just saved myself about 400 therapy sessions.

Karen and I were friends (weiner dogs aside) from near birth – playing in the same preschool, riding the school bus to elementary school together, even sharing a crush on the same grade 5 boys. In sixth grade, however, her parents divorced and Karen and her brother moved with their mother to live in a town about 40 minutes away from where we grew up. Not a huge distance, but for ten year olds it was like she moved to another country. We cried and wailed and wrote letters and .. eventually made new friends as ten year olds do.

When grade nine rolled around, I found myself attending high school in the same city Karen was living in and, sure enough, within a few days of starting classes I ran into her in the hallway. There was much shrieking and hugging and girly giggling as we reaquainted ourselves. Three years apart is a very long time when you’re a kid – you go from wondering about periods and whispering about boys to making out at school dances and having long discussions about blowjobs. In truth, when we re-met, we were very different people. Karen had suffered through moving, divorce and parental fighting. I had, well, just grown up a bit. She introduced me (a shy, terribly socially inept girl) to her fabulous new friends – Tara and Mel in particular -and the four of us settled into a reasonably comfortable friendship. It was nice to have these “city girls” to show me the way, save me a seat at lunch and teach me how to apply eyeliner without stabbing my eyeballs out.

Over time, I grew closer to Tara – we had a lot in common (and she had gorgeous red hair that she let me brush and braid and otherwise fuss with). We had sleepovers at her Dad’s house, playing Guns N Roses “Anything Goes” over and over, trying to understand all the not-very-subtle sexual lyrics. She was the first person to show me “good porn” on her Dad’s VCR, while he was out with his girlfriend one evening. We had nicknames for each other and little inside-jokes, and of course (as an adult) it made perfect sense for Karen to become jealous as time went by. As I saw it, though, Karen and I just didn’t have anything in common anymore. No hard feelings, just the way the world works.

Karen, however, wasn’t happy about my new-found relationship with Tara – feeling left out, maybe, or feeling like I had betrayed her by befriending HER friend. Between classes, one day, she confronted me in the hallway – telling me that she didn’t want me to be friends with Tara anymore, that I was HER friend. I looked her in the eye – with no malice or anger – and said, quite calmly, “Then I don’t think you and I should be friends anymore. I mean, we don’t have anything in common, really.”

I can vividly remember the look on her face, and the sudden feeling in my gut of, “Oh fuck.”

She grew red in the face, and leaned closer. Karen was not a tiny person – she was pudgy as a kid, but grew into plain-ol’ chubby when high school rolled around – and I was, well, average. She leaned in, put her face up to mine, and said, “I’m going to fucking kill you.” I stepped back, trembling and shaking and trying to figure out what the best move would be.

“But, I.. we .. I don’t think we have anything in common. And I want to make new friends, too, and you’re getting mad about that.”

She turned, quickly, and stormed away. I grabbed my books and ran to class, with my heart pounding like mad. I felt somewhat relieved, though, having been honest with her. Relieved, that is, until I saw my locker door when I returned to pick up my coat before catching the bus home. Written in big black magic-marker letters was some sort of threat (which I strangely don’t remember) and I turned to see her standing a few feet away. She caught my eye, and shouted, “I’m going to kick your ass when we get outside.” She walked out the door.

Being a rural kid, I had to wait for a school bus to arrive in order to go home. At times, the wait between the end of class and my bus arriving was more than 30 minutes. There was no vantage point from inside the school from which to wait and watch, and I was forced to go out and stand at the front of the building where all the other students milled around. I crept out the door, relieved that Karen was nowhere in sight. Like the mighty ninja, however, she appeared suddenly at my side and put her face right next to mine. “Don’t want to be my friend anymore? FUCK YOU.”

I am an only child. My sole experience with hitting someone, or fighting in general, was purely academic at that point. I watched WWF on occasion. I read books. I watched television. I had never, in my life, thrown a punch. So when she grabbed my hair, I grabbed hers. We clung for a moment – long enough to garner the attention of every other kid in the school. They crowded around us, and started the “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” chant. I wanted to die. Instead, I clutched her hair in my hand and wondered what the fuck my next move was supposed to be. My arms were weak and trembly, my legs felt as though they’d give out. And she growled, “LET GO OF MY FUCKING HAIR.”

So I did.

She laughed at me and yanked my hair again. Then she dropped the fistfull and stepped back. I opened my mouth and said, “I don’t want to fight. I just.. I don’t want to be friends anymore.”

“I’m going to punch you in the face.”

I looked around, panicked, at the crowd. It was like a gladiator movie. Screaming boys, screaming girls, the majority of whom didn’t know me (or Karen) but were giddy at the prospect of watching two girls slap the crap out of each other.

“Go ahead then. Punch me. I have to catch my bus.” I had no other option. If I missed my bus, I’d be forced to endure another hour of standing there until my mother could come and pick me up. I knew I wasn’t going to punch Karen – I just wanted to end the friendship. I didn’t hate her. I didn’t dislike her. I just wanted to GO HOME.

She hit me. Slammed her fist into my eye, chipping my cheekbone in the process. I stepped back, holding my hand over my eye and put my chin up, “Are you done? Can I go now?”

She started to taunt me, “That’s right, run home to your Moooooooooommy. Go home to your Daaaaaaaaaaaaddy.” I picked up my backpack and walked toward the bus that had just arrived, climbed up the steps and threw myself into the seat. She stood outside the window giving me the finger, and shouting. The other kids on the bus crowded around, “Are you okay? Why did she hit you? What was that all about?” and I sat in silence. Not crying (despite the pain) and not saying a word. What could I say? I had no idea why she hit me – it made no sense to me. How could I explain it to anyone else?

I arrived home and my mother freaked out at my now-black eye, and then, in fast-forward: there was a doctor’s appointment, a meeting with the principal, a meeting with Karen and her parents, Karen was suspended, I was detentioned (though never attended it), the next week of school was terrifying (but ultimately not a big deal).

I recount this story because last night, just before bed, it struck me that I frequently lean toward silence when I am unhappy in a friendship. (And when I pondered this story, I then kept saying, “Holy SHIT! It makes sense! HOLY SHIT!” – much to my husband’s bemusement.) There are several facets to this story that have impacted on me in some big ways.

I don’t expect, of course, that my adult friends will show up on my doorstep and punch me in the head if I tell them I am not interested in continuing our friendship for any reason, but my body goes into panic-mode at the very thought. I swallow my concerns and I feel cornered and antsy when confronted. When my feelings are contrary to what other people think, I hesitate to say anything at all. For something that I thought was a good move – telling Karen I didn’t want to be friends anymore, without malice or anger, and being honest about my feelings – it had a really shitty and (to me, at least) unexpected outcome.

Although it was solely Karen and I in that fight, the crowd was on her side. Not because they had the slightest idea what the fight was about, or agreed with her, but because it was a glorious fight in a public place. And that’s how a lot of fights go, even when they’re not physical. People like to hear about messiness and ugliness and get outraged and take sides. I always have the feeling that the public favour (so to speak) will not be in my favour, no matter how “right” I am. For the most part, I don’t want to tempt it – so I avoid it. I’d much rather have someone say, “Man, D is acting strangely!” than start recruiting their friends to make my life miserable.

On one hand, perhaps I don’t give people enough credit.

On the other hand, I had an experience a few years ago that was so incredibly similar – though not physical – that slammed me right back into that same place. I disagreed with a friend’s actions, which had some big potential repercussions for her, and I told her outright. Shortly thereafter, I got a phone call from a woman I didn’t know – telling me how I was a horrible person, a terribly nasty bitch who was a terrible friend and that I had NO RIGHT to tell my friend I disagreed because I didn’t know X and Y and had never experienced Z and how COULD I say those things and what kind of a bitch AM I? I stammered that I was only speaking my mind, that I was concerned about the friend (just like she was) and that I couldn’t sit back and NOT express my concerns. The woman got more and more angry with me. The call ended with the phone being slammed down. It was like being punched in the face all over again.

That friendship didn’t end, but my god, it’s been painful in a lot of ways ever since. I bite my tongue in half, at times, to not upset her – to not incur the wrath of her friend(s). In the end, much of what I said was true – and there were things I didn’t know, as well. But the reaction – the “ganging up” on me – scared me right back to not wanting to say anything to anyone.

On ‘discovering’ this connection – between my current behaviour and my experience with Karen – I lay on the bed muttering to my husband. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Oh god, it DOES make sense. Maybe that’s part of why I avoid ugly ‘relationship’ conversations with friends..” He snuggled up to me, wrapped his arms around me and listened to me go over it and over it and over it again. The connections being made. I’m not sure how this realization will impact me now. I’d like to say that I’ll try to be more brave and more open about things – that I’ll speak up more often with my friends when things aren’t going in the right direction – but not much has changed since grade nine as far as human interaction principles go. I still don’t want to get punched in the head.

Last night, for dinner, we had meatloaf with a really yummy mustard sauce. As is our habit, we fed the dogs a small slice, since it seems rather cruel to subject them to the meat-scented air for an hour while it cooks, followed by the sight/sound of us eating the meat, and then not share a little with them. (We are all members of the same pack around here.) The moose (as we are calling our plural mice) had a little as well, being as they are omnivores.

And then came the question: do hamsters eat meat?

We did a quick Google search (all hail!) and discovered that hamsters do, on occasion, eat live crickets and mealworms and other meaty creatures. We placed a tiny chunk of meat into Weet’s cage and watched. He approached, sniffed, tentatively licked, and then got exceptionally manic and buried the meat with two quick kicks of his feet before running away VERY quickly to his wheel.

We stood there for a second, and then started laughing (and uncovered the meat and removed it, of course, before it became a stinkymeat experiment in a hamster cage).

Poor Weets. First we refuse to get him a female hamster so he can get his freak on, and now we’re tossing carcasses in.
I wonder how we can torture him next.