my pink panties

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27 June 2006

Email from an Ex

Earlier this week, my ex-boyfriend admitted (via email) that he was previously aggravated with me. I bit my tongue and have yet to respond, as I have recently and officially transformed into a raging PMS Monster. I am fine with letting bygones be bygones - it's been too long to hold on to anger. The PMS Monster disagrees.

It's been years since we parted. He'll always mean something to me, for good and bad reasons. He was my first sexual partner and I was a late bloomer. He taught me a lot about relationships - especially in understanding what I expect and want out of a partner. Meaning, the very opposite. He was a good lesson, even though at the time I was left with a very spoiled heart and a crushed sense of self. I had to go through that. To him, I was always something. I was too young. I was too thin. I was not intelligent enough. I was not well read enough. I was too emotional. I was not strong enough. I even remember him saying that maybe in ten years I will be the one for him. Combine that with losing your virginity with the dude - I was a mental wreck. He wanted to bring in other girls to our bedroom, other boys. I was new at sex! It intimidated me. He compared me to his ex-wife. Their wedding photo hung on his fridge. Yes, I should have viewed it as a disaster waiting to happen.

At least the sex was good.

He gracefully ended it by cheating on me, with two girls at once. It was a messy situation and one that he denied. I found out after he confessed his true love for me. He was the first man to tell me he loved me. A week later, a friend's boyfriend called him out. My friend's boyfriend was watching the threesome. Busted. I felt like an ass for believing in his words and being as high as the sky during that week.

We tried to remain friends and, thinking back on it, I knew it was a mistake. He was one of those figures of the past that should remain in the past. Being from a smaller city and digging the same music, it was hard not to run into him (sometimes, it would be like an ex-boyfriend reunion - scary stuff!). One Friday, he ran into my group of friends and me. He chatted up a storm with one of my best friends. At that time, she was freshly single. Her boyfriend left her for another woman.

He calls me up the next morning. He's very charming and witty and I can see through it. He wants something, and not a booty call for me. It's my Saturday morning. I was in the middle of making an amazing greasy breakfast and didn't even take one sip of my sacred coffee. He brings up my friend, in a stoic manner. With flowery and poetic words (that never suited him), he asks for my "permission" to "fuck around" with my friend (that is where his poetic words typically crash land). Though I was in my present relationship, I strongly state that I am certainly not cool with that. I barked at him on the phone. He could not understand why I wouldn't "allow" him to play my friend. He could not understand why I would tell my best friend nasty things about him. He thought I was being ignorant, immature, and childish.

Do you think I was? It's funny how it's always the ones who tell you that you need to stand up for yourself and gain a voice - when you finally do, they are shocked and would rather see you as that shy, timid, and silent girl again, who is still not enough.

My goal wasn't a selfish one. I wanted to protect my girl friend. She knew our history and knew better not to mess around with someone who left such a mark on my life. I simply didn't want her to be screwed over again. Girls have their own "bros before hoes" rule too. He could not get this. The only selfish feeling I had during that phone call was his tragic sympathy towards my girl friend's situation. Poor girl, he sobbed. Poor girl? Poor girl!? He screwed me over in nearly the exact same way as my friend's partner. Of course, he could not see this. In his mind, he is perfect. Perhaps, it's because he is an existantialist as he always claimed. Methinks, he does not know what that truly means.

Which brings us up to now. He confessed being aggravated by yours truly. He would refuse to even nod hello in public (I kept on nodding, for the sake of being annoying to him - sometimes, it is more annoying to appear nice and clueless than to be visibly pissy). All because I denied him access to my friend's pussy.

Once again, I feel like he is trying to crush me down. I know it was only a sentence, only an email. I am trying hard not to release that inner PMS monster and viciously lash out.

If you were in my stiletto heels, what would you do?

23 June 2006

Learning to Love - Dealing With Jealousy

We are in a constant learning process, as we go about life. Whether we go through the levels of formal education or the motions to toughen up our street smarts - we are constantly in a learning process. I think a lot of people forget that we are, as well, constantly in a learning process about ourselves.

I am learning about myself everyday. Often, I wonder why I react in certain ways or how to be free of harboring such envious thoughts. I know I am a good person. I know I have a good heart. I'm strong, in my own quiet way. I'm fierce when I truly believe in something. But at the end of the day and with Aunt Flow just around the corner, I do not believe in myself. I do not love myself enough.

How do you learn how to love yourself? How do you believe? I've never been much of a go-getter. Where do I begin?

I know I have issues with envy and jealously. Honestly, they have only occured upon moving to a new city. It was as though I had nothing else to distract myself with, so I might as well cause some inner torment. I became envious that my partner had exciting happenings all about him and because of his long-time circle of friends, when I had to leave mine back home (we were in a long distance relationship). I became envious that he had something to be proud of, when I felt like a loser who holds a telesurvey job. I have learned to control this and express it - eventually, understanding it. I know it's more of a passing, selfish reaction than anything. I have learned to support and accept my partner. He has given me heartbreaking lectures that were full of severe "tough love". Sure, they make me cry and bruise my ego - but his words make sense. I value the fact that he can harshly tell it like it is, rather than treat me like a little girl. He is the first person to tell me I need to love myself.

Currently, I feel very spiteful towards another person. Though I think it is a simple matter of personalities clashing, I can't help but pick apart why I am feeling this way when I pride myself on being not as catty as most girls I know. Here I am, hoping for a spell of utter failure to rain upon this person. I'm sitting here, hopefully this person will understand that life is not perfect when it crushes all their tea party dreams. I'm not proud to admit that, but I'm being completely honest.

Note: I am currently suffering from lack of sleep and P.M.S.

Has this person wronged me? It's a long story. Personalities clashed, from every possible side. I walked on eggshells. I was put in the middle of too many dramas, caused by this person. This person has led a very sheltered life, from matters of sexuality to dealing with people on the street. This person is naive and has never gone through the shit and piss and heartbreak to toughen you up to face life. I accept people for who they are, experienced or not. This person, however, maintains a list of proper manners that everybody should abide to. It is not ideal. When this action is not properly followed, they hold it against you. In my case, they thought I was lying about my broken toe. I could not attend their soiree and they thought it was just another excuse. It snowballed from there, into something unnecessarily dramatic. From then on, I kept my distance but still socialized. Once again, they have gotten out of control. I don't have it in me to grovel and make sure they are not wounded. I'm too old for this brand of drama.

One would assume, since I have discovered it's just a clash of personalities and don't care for their company as of recent, that I would simply cast them out of my mind and life. I can't shake their presense, I can't help but be torturously curious. It must have been a hell of a lot easier to live and let go decades ago when there was no internet to check up on the actions of others! I walk on eggshells again when I view their myspace blogs or bulletins. I teeter on thinking something mean and convincing myself to ignore. I want to just delete their friend profile but I don't want to offend. I wish this person would just delete me already. I don't have the intiative.

Right now, I am envious. I am envious that this person is out there trying to succeed. I have an issue with comparing myself to others and it is truly evident here. I feel like I am the loser just writing a blog for one person to read (and not comment on) while everyone else is being acknowledged. Why do I want acknowledgement? For once, I just want to feel proud of myself...for doing something very cool. I want people to be proud of me. I want to be envied, for once.

I want to fully understand that you cannot compare successes. I want to understand that I should be proud of all that I have done. I want to understand that it's okay to let go of people, regardless if they get their panties in a knot or if they act like nothing happened. I want to remain strong and see all the good sides to me. I want to create. I want positive reaction. I want to not feel second best. I want to be happy, solely for me.

I want to learn to love myself.

My Cousin, Karaoke, and Good Times

**written by a sleepy female, don't hold that against me!**

This afternoon, I was swept away with good memories. Who's kidding who, I love to linger in my past. I like to dance with memory - with all the fun times, through the miserable tears, and with every sweaty moment when bodies were pressed together. I like taking a good ol' dance with the past every so often. I think we all should.

I made a good point to start writing early, so I can make the full use of the day. Instead, I get distracted with moving pictures. I was a little disappointed at how easy I was giving into the art of distraction, at first. I shouldn't be so hard on myself, as a simple browse through a collection of hilarious
80's music videos sparked up some great memories of when I was 18. No, I wasn't 18 in the 80's. One memory sparked into another one - and it has put me in an incredibly happy mood.

I browsed through the list of videos and took a peek at a few. I came across Elvira by The Oak Ridge Boys.



Seriously, if you cannot smile at the happy face of the moustachioed man - you need help. And the deep voiced guy in the suit! You know he had to have used that voice to bed the ladies! Nowadays, a quartet of singing males are usually talentless Justin Timberlake types with flowing white shirts and no substance. Ah, those were the days. Actually, this song reminds me of being a kid. Simple as that.

Another memory led to another. The Statler Brothers. Now, I couldn't find any videos related to the song that crossed my path today. You'll have to remain satisfied with the moustachioed man video and my story.

When I first turned 18, there were only a few others I could go to clubs and bars with. There was the friend I grew up with, but she was busy hating her folks and making babies. Her parents were religious nuts who called me a witch, but that's another story. *cackles* Then, there was my cousin and my sister. We were much more sheltered and submissive than our wild cousin, but we never failed to have a major pissing-your-pants laugh with her. It's been like that since we were small children (except when she pushed me off a motorbike while we were going down a hill).

We used to go on Sunday night cruises. It is a generally tacky gathering of sports cars, hotrods, and jalopies that simply cruise up and down the main strips of the city I am from. You go up Main Street. You turn on Portage Avenue. You go back down Portage to Main. Park your car in some random grocery store parking lot to pick up guys or drool over cars/car stereos(I was never into the car or stereo, by the way). Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Over ten years later, it still happens and I can't believe that I used to take part in such a thing.

Back then, though, Sunday night cruises were fun. We never met anyone or had any thrilling adventures. Driving around for a few hours gave us a laugh, gave us room to talk about this or that, and gave us plenty of sing-a-longs. We drove around. We smoked cigarettes. We made fun of guys who would flex their muscles outside their car windows to get our attention. It was an all around good time. My cousin used to bring binders and binders of cds and cassettes with her. She was, and still is, the kind of consumer that just loves the hits. The only reason she had so many cds was because she liked so many individual songs. Once in a while, an entire album would appeal to her. That is the reason why I still know the lyrics to Snoop Dog and Coolio - I blame her for playing those damned cds over and over again. Yet, I ran into this video today and had to smile! I had to sing along and dance in my living room one more time to this song!



Now, in the middle of all the hip-hop and rap and pop songs she was playing, she pulled out a disc that we least expected her to own. Without warning, she put it in. It was The Statler Brothers hit, "Flowers on the Wall". Of course, we knew this song from childhood so we didn't struggle to sing along. With the power of the three of us, we laughed so bloody hard until we cried. It wasn't only the song and it's lyrics. It was the reaction of all the cookie cutter people driving souped up Hondas and what have you. Blasting this on my cousin's super powerful stereo, didn't really make us cool. However, it became our traditional song to cruise to.

A few months later, my cousin convinced us to go to this small tavern in the middle of nowhere, but somewhat near our town. The kind of place that only consists of locals, that is located in the country near the general store, and the kind of place that hosts the most bored looking strippers every Wednesday (there's nothing more sad than seeing a stripper yawn while "dancing", while a man applauds by using both his flip flops). My cousin wants to sing karaoke and she can convince us to do almost anything!

Before you know it, I am falling off my chair drunk. My sister is drunk, but maintains her composure. I'm talking to old class mates, like I was the most popular kid in school. I slur to my cousin that I love her. My cousin convinces us to sing karaoke - something I vowed to never do. She surprises us with our Statler Brothers staple. One minute I am guzzling gin and the next, I am singing about counting flowers on the wall. Truth be told, within moments I was stricken with a terrible case of the giggles. I am reduced to only singing one part. The word "kangaroo", because I have the deepest voice and the least amount of courage to perform in front of people. Mascara ran down my face, in all that laughter. It wasn't very pretty!

I don't know what the hell my sister was thinking, but liquid courage caused her to do an emotional version of American Pie next. You can't really go from super happy drunken Statler Bros to the super long and slightly depressing American Pie. She insisted on it and there was no more singing I could possibly work up the nerve to do.

I hate to say it, but my sister can't sing that well. And it didn't sound any better when I was hearing with beer muffs on either. I kept my mouth shut. At least she had the balls to do that. I don't know if it was her singing or wounded egos because as soon as she was a few bars into the song - a chair throwing bar fight began! Poor sis, she stood there and continued to sing even though she wore a look of hesistation. An old drunk put her arm around her and started to sing with her. She kept pushing him away, chairs were being tossed this way and that - and we sat there, watching it all! My cousin and I were frozen in our laughter and holding our stomachs because laughing was beginning to hurt. My sister is still the only person I know who started a chair throwing, hillbilly barroom brawl by the sheer power of her singing voice.

I tend to forget what I did after that moment, which was apparently curling up next to the porcelain in the washroom of the local donut shop. Classy!

I danced with many other memories this afternoon. I was reminded of many moments through the simple power of a song. I wear a smile at recollected laughs.

Good times.

21 June 2006

Letting Go of a Friendship

There comes a time when you just have to let go. It may not feel good and it certainly takes away that little sense of security you may have. Even though it's usually for the best, it selfishly screws up your daily routine. I don't like change, unless I have a lot of it and I'm buying a new pair of shoes with it.

I've have been chiseling away at myself this year - for all the right reasons. You see, when I fall into my dark side, I truly break down. I wallow. I dwell. I end up curled up in fetal position on the couch with tears in my eyes while making those around me utterly miserable. I have been working hard at being a better person. One who can see those dark moods on the horizon and understands that it is easier and more positive to do something about it. I'm far from perfect. I think through this personal mission of mine, I have somewhat alienated myself from certain people and I have done that for mostly positive reasons. People don't like change, I suppose, even when it's positive (or, maybe, I'm the only one who views it as positive change). I have to keep on keeping on, keep on being genuine to myself.

I have let go of a few people in my life recently - three of which are moving far, far away and two that I have simply lost contact with. Over all, it's a bit sad.

I'm not good with those tender moments. I'll either clam up or crack a bad joke. My heart is in the right place though. Socially awkward, but I mean well.

To my friend, who is starting a new life in Asia:
I can only wish you the best in your new life. Not only for you, but for your lovely wife and little one on the way. May the slow pace of life be your new high and the fresh fruit be plenty. I will miss your grungy gentleman ways and the way you say "stupidity things". I will borrow your phrase and I will say it in honor of you. You leave genuinely.

To the happily married couple, who are moving across country:
As well, I can only wish you two the best in your new life. I hope the Mrs. regains her sense of home and family once more. It's been a long time since you lived near them. To the hubby, I hope you feel that same sense of home and family in your new and somewhat unfamiliar territory. It will certainly be a big change for you and you are a good man to support the dreams of your woman. I truly wished we could have seen each other before you left. I can't help but think people played a role in that decision, sides chosen. Regardless, your dazzling spirit and witty charm will be awfully missed. Bon chance.

To the other:
To put it delicately, it is a shame that personalities conflicted. We've meant no harm and I doubt you have either - yet, there is an uncomfortable storm between us all. I will learn to embrace this storm and make peace with it. Sometimes, it is better to have people in our lives that truly make us happy rather than people to help us feel less lonely. I have my faults, I know, and maybe I didn't try hard enough. Deep within you, you harbor a great deal of negativity that you mask with polite manners and pleasantries. Deep within you, you are one of the mean girls. I was simply tired of walking on eggshells around you. I needed to heal myself into happiness. You should look into that before judging character.

I suppose you can say letting go is like that uncomfortable storm. You just have to embrace it, make peace with it, and learn from it.

Keytar!

Enough said.

20 June 2006

Biotherm Acnopur & Source Therapie - Product of the Week!


I’ve always had not so nice skin. I’ve tried many different cleansers, products, and dermatologist recommended medications. In my late teens, I drew the line at committing to be on birth control and Accutane. I figured I would rather suffer with bad skin than mess something up within me on a larger scale. That’s not to say I am content with my skin, by any means. In fact, it is the one physical feature about me that I am most self conscious of. I’m close to thirty years old and still suffer from scarring acne – I’m not proud to state that. While the rest of me is quite adult, my skin chooses to stay in the state of self esteem deflating junior high school days. Fun!

I decided to bite the bullet and shop behind the counter for once. Instead of shopping for face soap, I went in search of facial products. It’s about time I tried something new, after too many unsatisfied experiences with skincare products that hurt my sensitive skin rather than heal.

I’m pretty skeptical when it comes to my skin. Not only is it acne prone, but it is sensitive and normal to dry. It seems that most skincare companies have great products for acne prone skin but only if you experience oily skin. Those products are harsh and damaging to skin like mine and to most people with sensitive skin. They are strong and powerful, stripping all your oils from your skin and turning your face into one giant patch of sore and burning dry flakes. These companies make you believe that the only way to solve your bad skin is to use severely harsh cleansers and toners. O! The joys of having problematic skin!

I ended up going with
Biotherm products. I heard the name and nothing negative attached to it. To be completely honest, the Biotherm skincare rep was the first person to approach me in the store and being completely confused about what I should purchase, I went with her best judgment.

Biotherm has a line of skincare products for acne prone skin called Acnopur. They have a pore unclogging purifying foam, a clarifying exfoliating lotion, moisturizer, and a blemish spot treatment. I went with the cleanser and toner from that line as well as a little something extra to help with my slight scarring.

Acnopur Pore Unclogging Purifying Foam was like a sigh of relief for my skin! It was a welcome change from all the powerful products that I have used in the past. It lathers into a rich foam, which I appreciate. The scent is clean, subtle, and pleasant. It does not smell like it’s full of chemicals, like some cleansers for acne prone skin. From the moment I began to lather in between my hands and massage it on my face, I knew there was a huge difference in this product compared to regular over the counter face soap. I was very glad I spent the money on this product. It removes makeup gently and left my skin feeling refreshed and smooth. I felt very confident about putting this product on my face and even more so when I discovered it did not make my face feel tight and dry afterwards.

Acnopur Clarifying Exfoliating Lotion is, apparently, a dual action formula that helps exfoliate the skin, unblock pores, and eliminates impurities. As with the foam, it contains a “tri-active complex” of salicylic acid, an anti-bacterial agent, and white clay. It also contains a pure extract of thermal plankton. What that means, I have no idea. My experience with toner lotions in the past were much the same as with cleansers. I had no faith in them and was convinced the only thing it will do is make my face red, burn, and even more dry. Once again, I was pleasantly surprised! It went on gentle and my skin did not protest afterwards. There was no burning sensation, it did not irritate it, and it left a soothing coolness to my skin. Like the cleanser, it smells subtle and clean.

Biotherm’s Source Therapie is a pure spa concentrate skin perfector. I must admit, I was highly skeptical of this product. I don’t typically fall for lines like, “you’ll feel the difference in 5 seconds!” and “see the difference in 5 days!”



The product itself is a very concentrated and creamy blue gel, with an extremely silky texture. It is pretty pricy but since you are only using it in very small doses, it’s well worth it. It contains regenerating oligo-mineral complex which combines “highly stimulating bicarbonate ions with seven minerals and essential trace elements” – according to the product info. There is more thermal plankton and moisturizing agents as well. First of all, it smells great. It smells a lot like this deep conditioning hair product line by
Rusk - Deepshine. It is a fresh, natural, and softly rich scent that is honestly so hard to describe. Second of all, a little goes a long way. You don’t have to feel guilty for dropping $50 on a small bottle. Thirdly, it works so wonderfully! Like I said, I was skeptical. I didn’t really believe the rep when she said I’ll feel the difference in 5 seconds or see an improvement in 5 days. Just another sales pitch, I thought. I was terribly wrong. Within those seconds, my skin felt so incredibly smooth. I’ve had troubled skin for a long time and it’s been years since I felt such smoothness from my skin. And that was within those 5 seconds. After 5 days, my skin was ideally moisturized – as promised. I’ve always had problems with dry patches due to bad products and weather conditions. This product did wonders. My skin is now stable – it’s not dry anymore, nor is it oily from too much moisturizing. It feels perfect, thanks to this product. It’s a marvelous skincare must for people with dry skin and/or imperfections.

Since I live with my skin, I don’t really know if I can see the difference. It’s also only been a week of using these new products on my face. I can confidently confess that my skin has not broken out since using these products, the state of my skin feels much more stable, and my problem with dryness vs. acne prone skin problems have been solved!

I love these products and was well worth the money. Highly recommended.

19 June 2006

Strong Women, Saying Goodbye, and a Little Bit Bored

Well, another band practise is over and soon I will be a "tour widow". You would think me lucky to be in a room full of shirtless musicians, slapping the bass and twanging away. All in my own apartment, at that! Alas, the wee apartment smells like a drunken boys locker room on such a humid night like tonight - sweaty, stinky, and boozy.

My highlight of the night was receiving my first mosquito bite. That's how exciting I feel tonight! Has the big city softened me? Back home, you swim through clouds of buzzing mosquitoes and only casually complain (all the tourist-y items proudly display our provincial bird as the mosquito. Ha. Ha.). Here I sit, cursing this lonely mosquito and clapping my hands in the air in attempt to kill it. I wear a single bite mark on my naked thigh - for all the wrong reasons. Like that mosquito, I am lonely and need me a thigh to nibble on. Or a nice vegetarian meal.

I have been dreading my duty as tour widow. I don't mind being alone in the days or even in the evenings. It's just at night - I will suffer and whine the most. I have to put on my best female face and encourage away, in support of my partner's job. It's not all about me, anyway. Perhaps, only at night when every little night noise alarms me and those moments where I indulge in every one of my worst habits because no one is there to stop me (from eating junk food, drinking too much, smoking too many cigarettes, staying up ridiculously late, etc). Three weeks alone and many a weekend after that - I hope I don't get too cranky, all by my lonesome. I have challenged myself to either go home or write a book. I cannot make it home, so I will try my hand at scribbling away. It seemed like such a good idea at the time and now, it simply overwhelms me. I envision myself staring blankly at the computer screen, while tumbleweeds roll on by. I'm sure someone would chalk it up to a fear of success.

We are saying goodbye to another friend this week. He met the woman of his dreams in the Phillipines, while on a six month holiday. He got married to her and planted his seed (that term always gives me the no-feeling, but I can't resist saying it!). He has been in Montreal for a few months, tying up loose ends. We'll miss him dearly. This may sound cold of me but since he came back, he has never truly been here. I find talking to him is exhausting. One more story about the Phillipines and I will explode. I can't blame him for being happy and having a little one on the way. In reply to his words about his wife and child, I mentioned he must be very excited. To which he replied, "Yes! I miss the fruit!". Okay...how 'bout smoking another doobie...

There was a time that I would have felt invincible around a large group of male friends. The novelty has worn off - I am surrounded by many male acquantences. I long for that tight knit gaggle of gals. I never understood the importance of having strong women around me until I left home. I need to work on that, methinks.

Never take those great women in your life forgranted - believe me. Some days, I feel so overwhelmed with love (and PMS) and pride at these ferocious females I know back home. I have moments where I want to fall onto my bed and write them letters of gratitude, to tell them how proud I am of them and how much I truly love them for their very presence in my little life. I want to confess to my mother that I finally know that she's not just a mom - but a person. When I finally realized that, I broke down in tears for all the times I treated her like the spoiled brat that I probably was. It is an eye opening moment when you deeply understand that you have underestimated someone's skill at being a human being, a strong woman.

At times, I worry that these strong women that surrounded me once upon a time will forget me.

18 June 2006

The Sorry State of My Bras

It's funny - not ha-ha funny - how things always seem to run out when you are either painfully broke or shamefully unemployed. Such is my story.

I'm unemployed. It's not fun in Montreal, when you do not speak French. When you don't have a specific and higher-up job title, you are screwed and confined to the less tasteful of jobs. Such as, telemarketing jobs or the prestigious title of "webcam girl". Actually, I do have a job - we simply go on extended breaks for the summer. I am the sexy voice at the end of your telephone line, purring to convince you to take part in some important research on behalf of the government. Meeeow! I successfully make telephone surveys about fish sound seductively saucy.

Everything I use is either shortly running out or severely deconstructing. Can I justify buying that tube of MAC lipstick when I should be buying the unexciting rolls of toilet paper? Can I skimp on washing my hair, in order to save that last drop of shampoo? What ever will I do when my black eyeshadow that I artfully use to draw on my eyebrows crumbles into the last bits? Will I go au naturel? Ah, I'm too much of a girl for that!

What breaks my material heart is the sorry state of my bras. I have a small collection of bras. Three, to be exact. And all three are preparing themselves to become retired to the back of my lingerie drawer. It is, indeed, a tragic story.

The formerly saucy red bra, which once made me feel like a cheap whore, doesn't fit so well anymore. I bought it at discount, due to a flaw, at a somewhat pricy lingerie shop for the rock bottom price of $10. It used to provide cleavagy goodness, until the flaw became apparent. Now, it oddly rises and exposes only one breast. Pop! My boob fell out again! It's great at parties.

My super expensive gel bra. It has served me well and was certainly worth the money. My boobs looked huge in it. I'm talking poke someone's eyes out huge. This bra gave me cleavage to no end and was a hit when I managed the music store back home. So much so, I proposed the idea of having "Cleavage Wednesdays" just so us girls could bend over the counter and increase our sales. It never panned out but I proudly sold a lot of unnecessary cds on account of this trusted bra. I loved this bra, even though my boyfriend says "it weighs the equivalent of a small cat". Now, it's age has truly shown. It sadly hangs off of me. It no longer declares, "Boobs!". It just tiredly sighs. Boobs.

Last but not least, my seamless bra that is ideal for t-shirts and is of the push-up variety. There's not much of a story to go along with this one. It was simply tried and true. All American, if you will. Boobs looked great, without the clunky weight of gel. Sexy but practical. A bra every woman should own. The real story is in it's present state. The straps are loose, as though my shoulders have shrunk, and I'm constantly pushing the straps back up to where they belong. The elastic is delicately revealing itself along the back. Lint balls seem to become attached to the cups. Hot. The best part of it is the underwire, which enjoys to stab at my breast. Since this is the one bra that doesn't hang off of me or cause my boob to spontantiously pop out, I wear this one out a lot. The sharp underwire jabs at me, causes me pain, and makes me wince. And because I am shamefully unemployed, I have no choice but to do my own repairs. Far from being savvy with a needle and thread, I have repaired my bra with band-aids.

That's what I have been reduced to!

Actually, it works rather well. I've been stab-free for over a month. It's just looks truly godawful and far from sexy. No longer can I lean over store counters in pursuit of a discount (not like that ever worked in the first place!) without the salesperson getting an eyeful of boobs AND a big ol' "flesh" colored band-aid. Not very appealing, but it does the trick when you are edging towards poor and a sharp piece of metal seeks revenge on your breast.

And that, my friends, is the story of the sorry shape of my bras. I wonder if setting up a direct to PayPal "Donate Now!" button to my bra fund will work here? Heh, it's almost worth a try.

Social Anxiety on a Saturday Night

I may or may not suffer from a dash of social anxiety.

Last night, I forced myself to go out. It was a hot summer night and I wasn't looking forward to being in a crowded room, surrounded by drunks and sweaty bodies (though it used to hold a certain charm). My partner-in-crime and his friend were playing a gig at a small cave of a place. It's been a long time since I saw my boyfriend play - I usually sit them out, giving myself the excuse that I wish to write. I figure that I usually see them practising in the living room and that's good enough to me. Ah, but the real truth is I simply feel nervous to socialize while he is on stage. Gosh, that makes me sound completely co-dependant. Err.

I moved here about two years ago and change. I came from a small, semi-rural community of about 9,000 people. I came from the heart of the prairies into the third largest city in Canada. Ah, the city of love and poutine (cheese curds, fries, and gravy for those who do not know) - Montreal. It's been two years, as I have mentioned, and I have yet to string together a solid set of friends. Sure, I have acquantences and that usually suits me just fine. But I miss that stable group of fun loving females and gregarious guys that used to surround me, back home. Yes, I'm sure it's my own damned fault for seeming so uptight. And it's certainly my own damned fault for not learning French yet - therefore adding to my discomfort when I attempt my hand at the fine art of being a social butterfly. At least I no longer feel utterly alienated as before. It's tough living somewhere new in the first place - try living somewhere new when you have no idea what people are laughing about around you. Needless to say, it can be incredibly lonely and frustrating.

My partner's friends like me and I feel no negative vibes around them - they are all good people. I should be comfortable around them and I should be able to crack out some amazingly vulgar and sarcastic jokes as I do with my friends back home. I don't - I clam up. I sit quiet and subtle. They think I am shy. They think I am "anglo-saxon" which is far from it, being NOT of English background. When they say "anglo-saxon", they mean uptight. They mean far from the so-called life of the party. They mean nice and polite, but reserved and serious. I wonder, at times, if this is how they truly define me. The French, on the other hand, are very crazy. They love to party and make out in the streets. They are in your face and love their beer and are not afraid to show how they are having a good time. I feel so square around them.

Sometimes, it's hard to believe that I used to be that wacky and wild gal. Rest assured, I am. I still enjoy a little boob grabbing from my good male friends out west and I still enjoy dancing in front of a stage during good live music. I can ogle women with my friends and I can cut the proverbial rug. Hell, I used to be the first one on the cheesiest dance floors to dance to Snoop Dog - not because I liked Snoop Dog but just so I can say that I danced to it, while drinking my gin and juice, biatch! Here, I'm just another "anglo-saxon" who is hiding in her shell. I do not know how to loosen up and make it interesting.

I read that the reason a lot of people, who are living in a new city, feel lonely is because they secretly feel that making new friends would betray the friendships that they have back home. I love my tight group of friends there, my wacky bag of all-sorts! They can never be replaced. Perhaps, this is the case with me.

I find myself at that sticky little club. My man sticks by my side but I encourage him to chatter with his buddies. He remains close. Soon, he leaves to set up on stage. Insert social anxiety here.

I find whenever I am feeling the pull of social anxiety, I analyze every little detail about myself. I feel every bead of sweat that drips off my forehead (it was truly a sauna last night). I take notice to my physical gestures, the tone of my voice. I feel my height, amongst all these short folks. Eventually, I label myself socially clumsy and clam up.

For a while, I chat with this girl. No matter where I am or how socially brave I feel, I always seem to attract the people who confess their own deep secrets and stresses. Sometimes, I feel honored. Most of the time, I simply do not know what to say. Before I know it, this girl is telling me about her possessive and stalker-like cokehead father who drives slowly past her house and how she suffered tremendous weight gain due to a stage diver breaking her back. I used to be skinnier than you, she says. I'm left without proper words to heal the moment.

Before, I used the proper social tools to fit in comfortably - a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It worked. Even if I was out alone, I felt like I somehow fit into the crowd. Times are different. No longer do I use these tools as much as I would like to. There are no more smoking in the clubs, as of a few weeks ago (which I'm very glad about, truth be told). There are no more beers to be had, as I believe I am allergic to it now. My limbs feel as though they need some sort of job instead of just awkwardly dangling there!

Before I know it, we are all up front in support of the boys. The heat is getting to me and I am cursing for stepping foot out of my equally cramped apartment. I don't know what to do with my limbs. I can't smoke, I can't drink. If I cross them, I will look like I am very uncomfortable. Where's a wall to lean against when you need one!? My slight nod to the music feels like I am a headbanger gone wild. I begin to wonder if these acquantences can sense my awkwardness. Then, I notice that I am surrounded by short people. Don't get me wrong. I love short people. It's just that when you feel socially awkward, you notice your surroundings and I was surrounded by short people which made me feel like I stood out like a sore thumb. Look at me! I'm the awkwardly tall sweaty girl!

Being the tall girl with hot red lipstick in a sea of short people, in turn, attracts the weird men. And I had me a catch on my hands! The unshaven, older, man-in-stinky-sweater who was absolutely drunk but thought he was hilarious. He kept trying to win my attention by swatting me across my chest (far from sexually appealing). He made these odd gestures with his hands that made no sense whatsoever but, man, was he pissing himself with giggles. He tried to invite me to dance (as it was country-ish and rockabilly) in a hoe-down type manner. I declined and directed him to the drunken girls in front of me. More swatting my chest to get attention. I kept leaning over the 19 year old girl next to me, what do I do? Why can't I just say fuck off!? She confesses that she can relate in that situation. Eventually, the drunken idiot asks me what I was drinking. I tell him I don't. He says something that makes no sense and laughs all the way to the bar - only to get cut off and kicked out of the bar. Thank goodness. Then, a drunken hippy female took his place and began to dance in circles (clearly, to her own inner beat). We narrowly avoid getting her drink splashed all over us and her stinky armpit in her face.

And people wonder why I don't go out very often. Give me a quiet bookstore anyday. I fit in better that way.

16 June 2006

Simplicity

I love finding quotations where I least expect to see one.

This morning as I was making Quaker instant oatmeal, I eagerly read the printed quote. Over the years, they have changed. Instead of the clever quote to start your day with a smile, I was greeted with a trendy health smart quip. A suggestion to take a walk with the family after supper and a goal to breathe deeply to reduce stress. Fuck health! Just give me a whimsical quotation to accompany my morning oatmeal experience.

A short while later, I prepared a bath. I grabbed a new bar of Ivory soap from underneath the bathroom sink. We have enough soap to last us well into the year 2010, thanks for my Russian mother-in-law who frequents bulk grocery stores. As I unwrapped the soap from it's papery package, I noticed a quote.

Simplicity is the essence of happiness.

It was as though some squeeky clean angel was looking over me! I grabbed a handful of bars and each one had a different quote. Not only was I getting clean, I was reminded of basic life facts! Simplicity is the essense of happiness!

At the beginning of this year- my last year in my twenties, I might add - I took on somewhat of a personal venture to become more grateful and essentially more happier. Years ago, a friend (who ended up turning into a bit of a stalker, but that's another story) gave me Sarah Ban Breathnach's Simple Abundance : A Daybook of Comfort and Joy. I am nearly half way through my journey.

Truth be told, my main reason for following this daybook was to push myself to write daily - whether it be good or bad. I figured, the more I write in my "real" journal will mean the more I will feel encouraged to write in general. It has helped greatly. Now, I look forward to writing everyday even if I am just recounting the more boring moments in my life.

Also, I followed this book to help me see the daily happiness a little clearer. You know, those moments that are often disregarded as normal. I know I will always be a work-in-progress but I think I am just a little more grateful, a little more aware of the beauty in simplicity, and a little more personally rich even though my bank account disagrees. Sure, I have bad days. Those bad days where I dislike people and myself but I feel I understand with more clarity. I try my best to see the simple beauty in every day and try my best to do what makes me happy. I try.

My only complaint about this book is that it seems to be designed for busy, career-minded married moms. There is nothing wrong with that, but that description simply isn't me. Often, her suggestions seem ridiculous. Of course, you can stretch them and mold them into what you are all about. I would like to see a daybook for the darker minded, slightly unemployed, unmarried, childless by choice woman because I cannot see myself getting very excited over distributing scented sachets of potpourri in my drawers or lining my kitchen cupboards with ornate lace or decorating my home for seasons. *shudders*

One of her suggestions that make sense is to find your own happy place. This may be reading in a bed covered in blankets or it may be taking a solitary stroll down on a riverwalk. Whatever it may be, this place is yours and no one can take it from you. This book has gently reminded me not to brood in my crap moods as I seem to love to do but rather do something that truly makes you happy.

My place is the used bookstore down the street.

Now, this bookstore isn't the greatest bookstore. I will never find retro pulp novels with seductive cover art and sassy exclaimations. I will never find an out of print, rare jem of a book. What I do find is a simple happiness and inner peace just by browsing rows of books and flipping through well-read pages. The couple that own it are sweet, friendly people who started this shop as a dream away from their day jobs. They have a little happy puppy to keep them company. They smile and ask you how you are doing. In the background, they play classical music quietly. I go there every so often to be reminded of how happy I can be when I slow down to let simple abundance into my life. Today, I did not come home with books but I always make a purchase. I bought myself an old deck of Aleister Crowley Thoth Tarot cards (which, by the way, is selling on eBay for $54 right now while I bought them for $2 - I love finding a deal!) and the Druid Animal Oracle cards/book ($4). I hear it's bad to read from Tarot cards you have purchased yourself, so perhaps these will make good gifts down the road.

We all have our simple, happy places. The key is to find that place and becoming a regular.

15 June 2006

Frustration Rears It's Ugly Head!

We're all allowed to have off days. The purpose of this journal is to celebrate. Simply, sometimes in the midst of celebrating and becoming sassy - you have crap days. I like to believe they are there to remind us to be grateful of all the good days. Well, at least thinking that makes me feel better.

I try my best to keep my blog entries casual, lighthearted, and far from personal (of course, I recently confessed a desire to be called a dirty slut! Hey, it's not hurting anyone!). I've been through unnecessary blog drama previously, albeit mostly on networking websites such as Myspace. I want to distance myself from that. I have learned that the world wide web can be very small. The last thing I need is for people to get their panties in a knot over slightly careless and mostly tired words that flow from my lazy mouth. Oh, I remember the days of carefree blogging and spontanious confessions!

Tonight, I'm tired and I'm frustrated. To chalk it up in a few words, there may be an argument waiting to happen in my humble abode. I have my own set of, perhaps, strange life guidelines. I know what makes me uncomfortable. I went through too many relationships by not standing up to what makes me feel uncomfortable. I shouldn't have to feel uncomfortable in my own home.

At times, I say things without thinking. Even when I design my sentances with fine and non-confrontational detail, I feel I am saying something insensitive and wrong. Though I am learning to stand up for myself, I seem to unsuccessfully get my point across. My words may be wrong, forgive me. My actions, however, are correct in my own mind and heart.

I am frustrated for the words that remain in my head and cannot escape past my fingertips. I have something inside my mind, waiting and waiting. Waiting to be born into something fantastic, as I listen to the fantastic Leonard Cohen. Yet, I sit here in my frustration and tumbleweeds roll. There are no words to be expressed tonight.

I am frustrated for feeling guilty. I feel guilty for living far from home. I feel guilty leaving home, to visit home. I felt guilty talking to my sister when I mentioned I might come visit in August, instead of July. Truth be told, nothing was ever set in stone. Since hearing that my friend will be in town from Asia - I thought it would be perfect timing. Regardless of what dates I choose, someone will give me guilt. I will feel guilt for not being there in July, when my sister takes her holidays. I will feel guilt for not being there to see my best friend after three years, if I do not go in August. I will feel guilt to leave the apartment empty. I will feel guilt to leave my partner. It is as though I have been raised Catholic. The only difference is that I am completely uneducated when it comes to religion. At least I own the uniform.

I am frustrated at my failing memory. I have been re-writing my uncensored blog of yesteryear and there are moments I cannot even remember. I regret not writing them out in great detail. Who knew I was going to leave my history behind to start a new? I remember Jamie saying something to me, in a late night confession. He told me that I was his _____. His angel? His heartbeat? His inspiration? His wind beneath his wings?!

Damn it all to hell!

I remember the moment I heard those words. I broke down in tears as it was such a beautiful thing to hear, such a wonderous compliment. Now, I can't remember a fucking thing. Sure, I know the general feeling he gave to me. That just doesn't cut the mustard. I am sure I have written it in an old journal, which is back home.

Tonight is one of those nights long to be home. Be somewhere - anywhere. My comfort zone. As long as it wasn't here and I wasn't alone. After all, I am my own worst enemy.

14 June 2006

Dirty Talk

I always feel a sense of accomplishment when I wake up early. I may not actually accomplish anything at all, but I feel a great sense that I did. It's a good day, it seems. I feel foxy and kitten-ish. It's an early sunny afternoon, my lips are painted a shiny red, and I have a little Tom Jones on the stereo. Every girl needs a little TJ in their life.

In attempt at making my boyfriend treat me like the naughty seductress that I long to be, I convinced him to dress up for me as I did for him last night. Now, I am not one to get off on typical uniforms (though, I admit to having a fondness for uniforms of the far from powerful. For example, the mailman or UPS guy). All it takes, for me, is a pair of well worn Dickies work pants and an old white wifebeater. To me, that uniform has dirty sex written all over it.

Due to my previous dream and my attempts at pleasing myself (thanks to the constant telephone calls, there was no getting off), I was pretty revved up. I waited anxiously for the man to return, sweaty and exhausted from a day of work. I waited and I waited, until grumpy lined my brow. He did return eventually...with a friend. Would I ever get off?! I gave him a look that would shatter glass and he simply assumed that I was just transformed into the lovely "PMS Monster" again. In the middle of his socializing, he appeared in the kitchen and asked why I was so disgruntled. I came to the conclusion that if I want to hear dirty talk, I have to be the initiator even though I am usually submissive. I gave him the skankiest kiss and bit his lip.

"I want you to fuck this dirty slut," I whispered into his nibbled-on ear.

Needless to say, that got him going. Heh. Mission - almost - accomplished. His friend left shortly after those words.

I came out wearing my Lip Service shirt that proudly claims in sparkly jewels - "SLUT". I'm not really a slut, I'm afraid. I'm fairly innocent. I bought it ages ago when I just lost my virginity, so I thought it was funny. Plus, it makes my average-sized boobs look absolutely breastastic. Along with my SLUT shirt, I wore a short plaid skirt and knee high socks (which, by the way, is not a good outfit to wear on innocent first dates unless you want to be severely fondled). I pointed to my shirt (and boobs) and declared that this way MY role tonight and he would treat me as though I am a whore.

Now, some of you might think that is a little extreme. Every person has their kinks. Every person has that one thing that gets them off, whether it be bondage or public sex or Barry White albums. When you like something that is a little or even very extreme, it's usually understood. Or, it should be. I know I'm not a whore and I know I'm not a dirty slut but that doesn't mean I occasionally desire to pretend I am. Just like my partner who likes to tie me up. In any other regular moment of our domestic life, he doesn't choose to tie me up. Although, I'm sure he'd like to shut me up sometimes, haha.

Once upon a time, I was dating this guy. I confessed that I love it when someone whispers something dirty in my ear when I least expect it. You know, during an uptight family dinner or while I'm at work or wherever. He followed orders and surprised me one afternoon as I was waiting for my bus. And I swear to God, he sounded like a serial killer and I was left shuddering for all the wrong reasons. We stopped dating shortly after that. I found out later that he had the tendancy to become obsessed with girls and not in the harmless kind of way. More like, bring knives to their bedroom window and/or workplace type of way. Errr.

At the end of last night, I got what I wanted. A little feeling like a dirty slut and a lot of love afterwards. And a completely silent telephone!

13 June 2006

Self Satisfaction

Here's an annoying confession:

Whenever I masterbate, the damned telephone rings and it's always the most unsexy people who are calling. Not only am I not self-satisfied, but I am annoyed. At least, it wasn't my ex calling. That happened on several occasions. Talk about a kick in the head and the end to arousal.


Last night, I had this dream that I was making out with a female friend I know from being online. I was sitting in front of her, deep in a conversation about this and that. She, I suppose, became sick of my constant babble about nothing and approached me. She pulled up her chair to face me. She kissed me. We shared this slow, detailed, investigative kiss. I was nervous, as this was the first time kissing another girl. It was certainly a good way to shut me up!

Afterwards, she told me that I was a terrible kisser. I nearly pleaded with her - "But it's my first time kissing a girl!". She would have none of that. She laughed at me and turned away. I was hurt, but at least I got a little bit of girl-on-girl action out of it. I couldn't wait to tell my most perverted guy friend about my experience.

Needless to say, this dream kinda got me a little revved up today. Meow!

I was, what most would title, a slow bloomer in the world of sex. I lost my virginity when I was turning 23. A little later than typical, but I have no regrets. I waited for the perfect time and I believe I would have lost it earlier if only I didn't meet so many brainless idiots and meatheads back then. Sadly, my high school boyfriend pressured me so hard to "do it" with him that it turned me off from sex and turned me towards the enjoyment of the innocent things. Nothing says let's have sex like pleading, begging, crying, and usually a suicide note left at my doorstep for my mom to *almost* read. And people wondered how I could hold off from sex for that long!

After that, I was convinced that I was asexual. Yes, I had functioning sex organs and all that - I just felt no sexual desire for anyone, including myself. Nothing did it for me. No one peaked my curiosity. No one attracted me or appealed to my senses.I was simply not interested in sex and the pursuit of it. I would rather read a good book or fall into a stimulating conversation with a stranger about the weather. It wasn't until my first vibrator and the eventual first sexual partner that convinced me otherwise. I was a sexual being after all!

Sometimes, I still have issues though.

You see, in my mind, I want to be this wild and vicious seductress. I want to turn people weak and powerless - only to challenge themselves to show me who truly is boss. No...I can't be a simple girl who simply loves sex in my imagination. I have to be something crazy and off the wall and anxious to tear you apart to sweaty pieces - and to eventually be torn to pieces myself. I'm far from bineg that wild and vicious temptress, methinks. I'm too shy and always have been. I know there is an inner trampy nympho inside of me waiting to be released.

It's just that the telephone (or something else) always interrupts me. Grrr.

I'm happy with my the current state of my naked affairs. After years of unsatisfactory moments with partners - moments where I was compiling the grocery list in my head instead of enjoying the moment (some brief ones, at that!) - I finally found myself a partner who can actually please this difficult and complex girl. That first-ever orgasm felt unbelievable. It was as though I was balancing the weight of the world on my shoulders and every sleepless night - and *insert moan here* it was gone! Whew! I pretty much thanked him, with tears in my eyes and one shaky leg! He has taken the time to know and understand my body. Now, I just have to work on him to talk dirty to me. I keep playing that Poison song but I think he is more annoyed than actually getting the hint.

I have no regrets, as I mentioned earlier. Just a little "If I knew then...what I know now" - there would be a trail of those torn to shreds left behind me! The only slight regret I hold is the fact that I have only made out with girls in my dreams.

Back in high school or shortly after that, I had many opportunities to play with same sex. I was still shy but the major reason for declining offers was because I figured if I'm going to do what may turn me on, I should be at the very least attracted to this person. Otherwise, I'd have to get real drunk and pretend to be attracted. And if you have ever been in that situation - it may seem like a good idea at the time but somewhere in the middle of it, you sober up and cringe a little. The only thing is serves as is a good story to warn your friends about. Plus, back then it seemed like messing around with another girl was the in thing to do and I was never one to follow a trend.

One day, I'll kiss me a girl. Until then, I have my dirty dreams.

11 June 2006

A Message to the Insecure

Back in junior high, I had a friend named Amanda. She was the kind of girl I longed to be. Her hair was bigger than anyone else, her mom allowed her to bleach her hair to the lightest blonde, and she was of a petite, slender build. Needless to say, tight ass jeans looked amazing on her. All the headbanger boys loved her and her badass attitude of dangling cigarettes and tough obscentities. All I wanted to have was her style and her way with the opposite sex. Instead, I was tall and awkward and had somewhat of a pizza face. I could never be an Amanda.

I remember being at her house and having to help her into her tight jeans. She would lay down on the bed while I pulled one side of her pants zipper to meet the other side, and then she would zip them up by using a fork. Why a fork? I have no idea. I always chose to wear the less stylish stretchy tight jeans. She had many tools to style her hair as well. And boy, if her hair didn't turn out as she liked it - all hell broke loose. From her, I learned that you should listen to yourself when you just know when to stop styling your hair and accept that you are simply having a bad hair day. The more you fuss with it, the worse it will be. If only I could teach that lesson to my better half when he starts playing around with his pompadour and a pair of scissors.

Amanda would use hairspray, several different curling irons, combs, brushes and a straightening iron to work her hair into a headbanger's dream. It was quite the procedure. I attempted my own fan of hair myself but it never looked as cool, in my opinion. It was then I fell into that negative trap of comparing myself to other girls.

Junior high is now long and gone, thankfully. I am pushing thirty. And yet, I have these days where I feel like I am back to fourteen again - for all the wrong reasons.

This afternoon, my boyfriend suggested taking me for lunch at the nearby greasy spoon dive. I rushed about the house, in search of that missing sock and whatever else. I sat down and put on my makeup in a hurry. And boom, I was back in junior high all over again. My makeup did not turn out right. And honest to God, I wanted to throw the biggest Amanda-like, hormonal tantrum as she used to do when unhappy with her hair. I'm talking throwing punches at the wall and smashing ceramic mugs down the stairs and then crying, kind of Amanda-like tantrum. Alas, I suppress my anger. Simply, it was just one of those self conscious kind of days where I wanted to break all the mirrors I looked into.

What do you see when you look at yourself in the mirror? If you were to look into the mirror at yourself and ask "how are YOU today?", what would you reply with?

Today, I saw that gawky and awkward fourteen year old with the tired eyes of a sleep deprived 29 year old. Today, I saw my acne scars that line my cheeks and I felt as though I was back in junior high again - the only difference being the biggest bully picking on me now is myself. Today, I saw a frown. Today, I saw that I should learn to love myself a little better.

Today, I am insecure.

Tonight, I was supposed to go out to see my boyfriend's band play. I declined. I claimed I wanted to stay home to get some writing done. Truth be told, I couldn't bear to see myself in the mirror this afternoon and I wanted to hide in my own scarred skin. It is days like these I feel that this is all other people see in me as well and I didn't wish to be seen whatsoever. It's one of the lamest reasons for staying home, I know.

I guess we all have days when we feel ugly even though our friends reassure us that we are beautiful - inside and out. And it's okay to feel that way, I think. It's all in how you deal with it that matters. If you let it ruin your whole day - there's a problem. And this is what I would like to improve on. I have days where I am my own worst enemy and my partner in crime is the internet. I have innocent intentions at first but somehow I end up on the webpages of these physically striking women who have whatever I don't have that I happen to be insecure about that day - bigger breasts, flatter tummies, flawless skin, stylish hair. I never stop to actually realize the power of a professional photograph and the art of Photoshop, the money to buy the personal trainer or stylist. I just see all that I do not feel I have.

Then there are days where I just don't give a flying fuck. I'm walking on air and I absolutely adore myself. I accept my skin as it is and I am grateful for my healthy body. I feel very stylish and sexy. I'm ready to take over the world! And then I find myself on public transportation and get laughed at by junior high aged kids. Does the bullying ever stop?! Of course, I can brush it off better now but I allow it to ruin my mood at times. I allow these children to continue being mean, forcing me back into my own junior high days. The only reason I don't smack some of them upside the head is that I'll go to jail or get a hefty fine for hitting a minor. Hey, at least I'm sensible!

Here's what I propose:

Let's have more days where we don't give a flying fuck! Let's look into the mirror and love ourselves a little more. We may only see our heavy bags under our eyes or our big bums or boring hair styles sometimes. When those days strike us, accept them! Let's learn to love our big bums and skin that still gets zits at thirty and uneven breast sizes. Let's learn to stand up to the mean people.

And for those who are the mean ones, let's learn to be a little less catty towards the same sex. We're all girls afterall. Let's learn to support each other instead of giving into competition and cattiness.

Let's stop comparing. Learn to love yourself instead. Learn to remind yourself of this.

10 June 2006

Boys of the Week - Push For The Cure

In 2006, an estimated 21,600 Canadian women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. 5,300 will die of it. One in nine women will be diagnosed with breast cancer at some point in her lifetime. Those are the true, hard facts.

Yesterday, I was watching the news and there was a story about four young men who are traveling across Canada for a cause. I have to admit that I thought that this has been done so many times before. However, this touched me and so did their sincerity.

These boys are travelling across Canada, from Halifax to Vancouver on skateboards with the goal to raise $1,000,000 for breast cancer. That's 8000 kilometres! Sometimes people give skateboarders a bad name but these guys prove them wrong. In the interview I saw last night, they stated that they see so many women raising money and awareness but not so many males doing their part. I can't remember the exact quote, but basically he said that their ideal goal is to collect $1 from every man in Canada to show our support and respect to the most important people in our lives - Mothers, Sisters, Daughters, and Friends.

Kudos to Carlos, Benjamin, Aaron, and Rob!

For more information about their journey and to donate, click on
Push For The Cure.

The History of my Pink Panties

Once upon a time, I wanted to please my man.

Years ago, I was with someone who would spend most of his time searching the internet for porn instead of looking for a job. Needless to say, our relationship did not last very long. Other than desperately looking for porn on the web, he often came across lingerie websites. I would look over his shoulder uneasily - at 34, he still lived at home with mom and the last thing I would want is to be caught looking at nearly nude ladies together. One day, he saw a pair of panties that he claimed he would die to see me in. They were pink and ruffly and I simply wanted to please my man. Hell, it was either that or pleasing him with anal sex - suffice to say, this option seemed much more pain-free.

I didn't think I would look very good in these panties. As with most girls, I felt insecure and body conscious of displaying my ass with a small scrap of ruffly material. Not only that, I just thought they would look ridiculous on me(they are the kind of panties that look better on photoshopped models than real women). Against my better judgement, I bought them and didn't look back. I gulped at the cost - do people actually pay $50 for underwear?! Nonetheless, I took out the trusted credit card and charged it. In 2 to 4 weeks, I will proudly (well, more like uncomfortably) expose my ruffled ass for a night of fun and thrills!

They came in the mail 2 to 4 days after he broke up with me. Thanks.

So here I was, stuck with panties I didn't even want in the first place. It's bad enough when you make shopping mistakes when you are on your own but it kind of kicks you in the ass when you make a shopping mistake due to someone else's dirty desires. I still sob for the $50 I spent on those panties. And I won't even get into the fact that he also ripped me off out of good amount of cash. That's another story.

Now, you may think that I am coming off as bitter and jaded - brokenhearted and rejected. Far from it! There was a lesson in this pair of pink panties, believe it or not!

Back then, I went through quite an ugly time. I did not feel good about myself. I felt ugly and insecure. I felt unloved - I did not love me and my ex certainly did not help the matter. It was a messy time that everyone goes through at one point or another. After all the tears and girly emotions, I laughed! I had a handful of sassy pink panty and nobody was going to stop me!

Okay, what actually happened was I was truly embarrassed of my pointless purchase. I showed this pair of pink panties to a girl friend. She said they looked as fancy as an elaborately decorated cake. Then, she remarked that if I wore those out, I would look like a New Year's Eve baby. Sure, I was stuck with these godawful gitchies but I was laughing at loud with a good girl friend over the misfortune of shopping and a really bad break-up!

Years later, these pink panties have become our own inside joke. When an old man checks one of us out, we creepily comment that he wants to see us in our pink panties. If she is down, I will take a picture of myself with them on my head while making a ridiculous face - or vice versa. I threaten to wear them on New Years Eve every year just to put the fear of God in her. These panties have shown me the value in laughing and in having good female friends around me.



Though I have never worn these pink panties out in public nor for my current boyfriend (he thinks they are "something else", for all the wrong reasons), they have accompanied me on my journeys. One one such journey, they were *almost* in the hands of the one and only sex-bomb himself - Mr. Tom Jones. I vow one day they will be...Oh yes! I'm coming for you TJ!

This is a place created in honor of my pink panties that showed me to laugh after a dark time, showed me to celebrate life after feeling down, showed me to feel sexy for myself and no others, and showed me to value and be proud of being a ferocious female - and value and be proud of all the around ferocious females around me, as well.



* And don't worry, boys are allowed here too!

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