The Second Coming

Last night, I went out for dinner with one of my oldest and dearest friends, Kristen. Together, we laughed and commiserated about romantic foibles of the past, (mostly mine). I came to the conclusion, as I looked back through the halcyon years of my serial dating adventures, that a lot of the time, I became involved with dubious men, or accepted invitations for dates with them, purely because I knew that the situation was bound to end either in disaster or hilarity, and thus, would make for an amazing story in years to come.

One such story, which we recounted last night at some length, has to do with a brief and wholly-regrettable romance that occurred betwixt myself and a born-again Christian named Nathan.

It was late in the year 2009, a year which proved to be the hardest one of my life. Following the collapse of the closest thing to a marriage that I'm likely to ever experience, I suffered a phenomenal emotional breakdown, culminating in the loss of my job and apartment, various hospitalizations and myriad meetings with therapists and counselors of all stripes. I was, in a word, fragile. Enter: Nathan, a Bible-thumping, Dudley-Do-Right sort of guy with whom I had been casually acquainted for several years.

 His story was an intriguing one: A tall, affable and handsome lad, Nathan grew up in Nelson, B.C. Like most of his peers, he was a hippie wild child who drank to excess, partied all night at outdoor raves and regularly indulged in psychedelic drugs. He was clever, charming and popular, and never suffered from a shortage of friends or female admirers. One day, presumably in the thick of some sort of acid trip, Nathan was out wandering in a field, when he claims that a light beamed down from the heavens, and that he heard the voice of God, commanding him to renounce his promiscuous, partying ways and seek instead the straight and narrow path of Christ. From that day on, he did just that. He took a vow of celibacy, stopped imbibing in substances of any kind, and joined the church.

Nathan was a good pal of a close family friend, who happened to bring him by my parents house over that Christmas holiday of 2009. During that visit, my woeful nervous condition was apparent to all. I was frail, having had lost almost 30 pounds that year, withdrawn, anxious and ashen. Nathan, Good Samaritan that he was, instantly took pity on me, and we had a brief, private discussion about the challenges I had faced that year.

A prolific and extremely-talented musician, he also asked if I might bring out my guitar. He played a few songs for all of us and then took it upon himself to restring the instrument. I appreciated this kind gesture and Nathan's willingness to lend an ear in a time of darkness.

The next thing I knew, Nathan and I were hanging out a lot. He would call me to see how I was doing; he would offer to pick me up from parties, after I had drank in excess, despite the directives of my psychiatrist to avoid the consumption of all alcohol. This worked out well for me, since he worked graveyard shifts as an orderly at the hospital, and was usually finishing up work at the time I was winding down for the night. I didn't even so much mind his occasional religious diatribes, (although they sometimes strayed dangerously into right-wing propagandistic territory), since the rest of the time, he was incredibly witty and kind.



One January night, after he had collected me from the bar, we went back to his modest apartment to watch a movie. We joked and laughed, and kissed a little bit. Suddenly, I found myself passed out and snuggled under the covers of his bed.

Nathan hadn't had sex in eleven years. Several girls had tried and failed miserably to convince him to break his vow of chastity, so I felt extremely confident that nothing would transpire in that bed, aside from a drunken slumber. How wrong I was.

 Suddenly, and without warning, a completely naked Nathan was in bed beside me, touching and caressing me with an abandon most unfitting for a man of God. Naturally, I went with it, and although not necessarily satisfied by the event, I was at least impressed with the eagerness with which His Holiness approached a performance eleven years in the making.

The Second Coming, indeed.

Immediately after the enthusiastic flailing came to an end, Nathan rolled over onto his side and looked at me with large, brown, limpid eyes. I figured some sort of sweet, post-coital pillow talk was about to ensue.

 "Stef?" he whispered. "Do you mind if I pray?"

My first reaction to this horrifying proposition was laughter. Surely he was just being funny, attempting to break the mildly-uncomfortable silence with levity. However, the stone-cold seriousness in his eyes told me that this was anything but a joke.

The prayer commenced. Nathan sat up in bed, clasped his hands together like St. Francis of Assisi, rolled his eyes heavenward, in beatific adoration, and began thus:

"Dear God. Thank you so much for this beautiful experience that Stephanie and I have just shared..."

Several thoughts flashed through my mind as I lay there, covers drawn up tightly under my chin, petrified and motionless. How far was it to the front door? How quickly could I get there? Would it be worth the humiliation of running naked through his apartment building, if only to escape what seemed to be some sort of impending Baptismal ritual?

As the pontiff droned on, I rolled over, eyes wide as saucers, and caught sight of a large tome on the nightstand, open to a page titled, "The Age of the Antichrist". Indeed, young Nathan. Indeed.

The next day at work, I received a text message:

"Hello, Stephanie. How are you today? Do you think you might be pregnant? If so, I want you to know that I will take full responsibility. There are not enough children in the world who are being raised in God's Holy Way. We must raise our children to walk the Pathway of Christ!"

"Umm.. I think we should see other people?", I responded.

Heartbroken and troubled by his overriding conscience, Nathan immediately sought the sanctuary of his place of worship. He confessed the hideous sins of the flesh I had forced him to commit to his horrified pastor. The holy man told him that I was, without question, a wanton woman, more than likely some sort of succubus from one of the seven layers of Hell, and at the very least, a True Jezebel of the sort that had led unsuspecting men to their fiery and torturous deaths, ever since Eve offered Adam the apple.

A few days later, a small plastic bag appeared in my mailbox. It contained some of my personal effects: Earrings left on Nathan's nightstand; a lighter; a tube of lipstick. The bag was neatly and hermetically-sealed, presumably to avoid any contact with or contamination from my Original Sin. Included along with these items was a small, handwritten note:

"I should have never listened to you. This is what happens when you trust other people, instead of the Word of the Lord. May God bless you."

Ah, men.

Stef's Super Dramatic Teenage Poetry Corner - Volume IV

 Lament

A thousand years the wind has seared

All down the glitt'ring quay;

A thousand more

Shall pass before

My love return to me.

The merry chime doth peal the time

In steeple-bell decree;

But long shall bells

Ring fun'ral knells

Ere he return to me.

O! Ninety days of doleful lays

Shall mete my sorrow's fee,

And ninety years

Of bitter tears,

Ere he come home to me.

Roleplay

 Fresh on the heels of my latest ill-advised dalliance - a tryst which, despite its casual intentions, has nevertheless left a pesky and tenacious residue of sentimentality and mushy girly feelings clinging to the inner walls of my heart - I am thinking again about the life path I have chosen. Or rather, the one that seemingly chose me, and pretty well from birth.

As a toddler and a young child, I displayed an appalling lack of interest in baby dolls, or in "playing house". My preoccupation was chiefly with fantasy, glamour, prettiness, aesthetic perfection: My Little Ponies and assorted fantastical unicorn figurines; Barbie dolls, for which I crudely stitched together specially-designed garments; plastic play jewelry and my own little pink vanity mirror that lit up, and into which I would stare fixedly while combing my reddish-brown, child-thin hair, ( "100 strokes a day," my grandmother once told me. "A woman's crowning glory is her hair").

Being preoccupied with appearances did not prevent me, however, from gradually becoming one of the ugliest children this side of the Rocky Mountains. At my worst, during the early years of elementary school, my thick eyebrows and eyes perpetually ringed with dark shadows betrayed the less-desirable qualities of my Mediterranean pedigree. Not only that, my strange, pointed, lobeless elf ears, which stuck hopelessly out from the sides of my too-narrow skull, were afforded nothing in the way of camouflage, thanks to my mother's concept of a "hair cut" . None of this mattered too much to me, though, since by this point, I was hopelessly entrenched in the world of books.

I read voraciously from the time that I could; even before I could, I would demand that my books be placed in my crib, so that I might sleep beside them. Learning to read came easily to me, and once I had mastered it, I did little else. I lived, thus, in a waking dream, a gauzy veil under which I moved through my childhood world. When I couldn't read, I told myself stories. I lived an entire life as a character known only as "The Princess". I would tell myself these sorts of narratives while walking home from school, or attending to mundane daily tasks -  "The Princess rode her white palfrey through the dappled, late Autumn afternoon", etc. So for the most part, I was happy in my insular, imagined world, and the attention or admiration of others was of no concern.

Suddenly and quite rudely, puberty happened. My heretofore unnoticed nipples became swollen and itchy; I developed two horrific lumps of jiggly flesh on my chest. My forehead and nose shone with the incandescence of a mysterious oil; and surely, most surely, this could not be the hair of which grandmother spoke as a crowning glory. Oddly enough, while my body seemed to be betraying itself, I began, for the first time, to notice that boys were looking at me. Often it was with pained, confused expressions, barely-concealed angst that resulted in insults or playground balls hurled in my direction. But my goodness - they certainly did look! By the eighth grade, the insults ceased, and I found myself, most unexpectedly, with a train of moony-eyed admirers. And for the first time, I felt the heady rush, the hit off the proverbial crack pipe, that came along with being showered by ardent attention from clumsy boys.

It took me some time to realize that the type of attention I was receiving was, for the most part, anything but romantic. I had developed, by several twists and turns, into a nubile and presumably-fertile birthing member of the human race, with all the appropriate features designed to conceive, deliver and suckle infants. Moreover, a potent combination of Russian and Italian heritage combined to create an appearance which was seemingly viewed as exotic, foreign and probably ultimately dangerous. I was no apple-pie, rosy-cheeked approachable girl next door, of the sort who "went steady" and held hands in the park. I was, instead, a dark eyed, black haired temptress with an acerbic wit and an intense emotionality, an intriguing distraction from Kelly or Jennie or Sarah, something to be fanaticized about, something to be indulged in, to be made out with with reckless abandon behind the school, after a mickey of vodka, but ultimately, something to be regretted and abandoned for the safety and predictability of girls with non-threatening, Aryan coloring, pliable personalities, and soft, uncomplicated minds.

And thus, with certain exceptions, I have played this role to its fullest to this very day. I was never meant to be Mrs. So-and-So. the little wifey, or Mommy Dearest. I am, as I have always been destined to be, a Good Time Girl, a Bit of Fun, the Other Woman. Bold colors, sharp edges, a whirlwind of meaningless passion. Distraction, chimera, wet dream, pretty bauble, quickly dropped, probably shattered in the process, but easily swept under the rug. I know this and I play it well. I play it by heart.

Thus, my latest experience, and the sudden sadness and emptiness I feel, is beginning to irk me. I have brought this on myself, because it is the only soliloquy I've ever been suited to reciting. I know how this play ends; I've performed it a thousand times. I was never going to be cast as the ingénue, but I've certainly made for an intriguing plot twist in many a pantomime.

Born Free

It's been an interesting sort of week; albeit, not interesting enough, necessarily, to spark any sort of inspiration for me in terms of tending to this blog. Occasionally, I feel a weird pang of guilt that I have let my writing fall, once again, into a spectacular state of neglect. More and more, though, guilt affects me much less than it once did. This last Tuesday evening, for example, definitely proved this to me. 

After not having seen him for nearly twenty years, I had the pleasure to reconnect with a former school chum from my elementary and high school days. Always and ever the studious brainiac who inhabited the dim Apple II computer lab through most of our elementary school days, the gentlemen in question has grown up to tear the academic world a new one. 

Currently holding several post-secondary degree titles and lecturing at a prominent university in a large American city, my friend has proved himself in every way the sagacious, studious and overachieving adult I always knew he would be. Through the conduit of facebook, we have talked and flirted on and off over the years, and while he is currently here, visiting his parents for a week, he asked me to join him at the local pub in our childhood neighborhood, for libations and reminiscing.

Even as far back as the first grade, his formidable intelligence always made me weak in the knees. What can I say? Does anything else matter, save for grey matter? Now, it seems, the gentlemen also happens to have grown up tall, strapping and decidedly gorgeous, with eyes as beautiful and blue as a shipwreck.

I'm sure you can tell where this is going.

Although initially feeling a little awkward and taken aback by seeing him with facial hair, I quickly relaxed into our conversation, which veered merrily and effervescently around our favourite topics: mood stabilizing pharmaceuticals; WWII Germany; serial killers. We even spent a majority of time picking out bar staff and patrons that we would consider killing and eating. Let's face it: Does it get more magical than that?

  At some point in the interaction, he flashed his pretty blues eyes at me and apologized for not having told me, through the course of our extended facebook flirtation, that he actually has a pretty serious girlfriend. Old Me would have probably been pretty heartbroken, since she would have assumed that this man was destined to be her One True Love. New Me, however, instantly realized that I don't live in an Elizabeth Barrett Browning sonnet, and that, no matter how initially magical a connection seems to be, it's all simply smoke, mirrors and a bit of alcohol for good measure. I simply smiled and said, "Well, that's nice." Besides, there was no actual formality to our proposed hangout, other than simply seeing one another after such a long time.

My friend then confided in me that he had felt "inspired" by a recent facebook status I had posted, in which I gloated that living single and alone meant that I could do whatever I wished at any moment in the day. So many of his friends, he said, were living traditional lives, with wives, children, real estate and other heavy responsibilities, that he often felt as though he needed to do the same. He conceded that it was nice to see someone like me, content at having chosen 'a different life path', and that I was in some ways a positive model of this situation for him. 

I was confused and asked him why, with all his superior intelligence, wit and genetic perfection, he cared at all about models of behaviour. Why couldn't he, as all of us should, simply decide what it is he most wanted, and how he most desired to live his life, and just do it? Although he mumbled something about "pack mentality" and "inherent need to be accepted among our peer groups", I could see the conflict flashing behind his devastating eyes.

Seeing as I felt it vitally important to teach him that we all should live free, the way we want, I later, after six beer for each of us, put my enlightened social theory into practice in his parents' guest bedroom, from which, in an amusing throwback to grade 9, I crept on stealth, breathless tiptoe at 2 a.m., and disappeared into the night.

The Relic - John Donne

Since I'm bored at work, but not bored enough to compose a proper post... And since I'm sitting here, drooling over images of bejeweled saints' relics cloistered away in dim European cathedrals, here is one of my favourite poems:

The Relic

     

When my grave is broke up again

       Some second guest to entertain,

       (For graves have learn'd that woman head,

       To be to more than one a bed)

         And he that digs it, spies

A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,

       Will he not let us alone,

And think that there a loving couple lies,

Who thought that this device might be some way

To make their souls, at the last busy day,

Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

         If this fall in a time, or land,

         Where mis-devotion doth command,

         Then he, that digs us up, will bring

         Us to the bishop, and the king,

          To make us relics; then

Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I

      A something else thereby;

All women shall adore us, and some men;

And since at such time miracles are sought,

I would have that age by this paper taught

What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

         First, we lov'd well and faithfully,

         Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why;

         Difference of sex no more we knew

         Than our guardian angels do;

    Coming and going, we

Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;

     Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals

Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free;

These miracles we did, but now alas,

All measure, and all language, I should pass,

Should I tell what a miracle she was.

Botanical Bitch

This past weekend, my mother and I made the two hour trek up the coast of Vancouver Island to visit the tiny fishing village of Port Renfrew. For any reader considering visiting this remote little get-away, let me provide you with a valuable travel tip that will save you both time and money: Don't bother.

The trip, ostensibly, was meant as a short getaway to celebrate my mother's birthday, as well as to visit our good friend Andrei, former co-director of my Doukhobor choir and now manager of the Renfrew Pub. Mom had some whimsical notion in her head of a seaside resort town that would provide a lovely mini holiday and facilitate some bonding time between us. I'm not quite sure why she thought this was going to work, since my mother and I can't be in the presence of one another for longer than half an hour without wanting to rip each others' heads off. Nevertheless, in the interests of feigning some sort of familial normalcy, we packed up the SUV and off we went.

Now, let me not decry Renfrew altogether; the natural wonder and beauty of the surroundings are quintessentially West Coast and majestic. The harbour itself is a picturesque sight to behold, with a long wooden pier, dotted by quaint guest cabins, that juts out into the waters of the Juan de Fuca strait. The cabins are pretty and boast their own little fire pits and enclosed patios. It would have been lovely to stay in one of them, but due to some misinformation and a booking error, Mom and I instead ended up in "the Lodge", a sparse yet serviceable building located up a gravel road from the Renfrew Pub.

 In true Virginia fashion, Mom wasted no time in criticizing the accommodations, the lack of decor - "Couldn't they just put up a picture or two, here?" - and the general mood of the entire place, which we quickly discovered to be a distressing mixture of apathy and affability. When Mom asked, "What time is check out?", the old man at the desk shrugged, looked confused and replied with a grin, "11, I guess?" We were provided with our room number, but had to return to the office to confirm it, since all of the rooms appeared to have two numbers on the door. Even the owners, congenial and welcoming as they were, couldn't be sure if room 105 was actually 105, or if it was 106.

Aside from a brief hike to explore the tidal pools and their strange, nautical inhabitants at Botanical Beach on Sunday afternoon, the majority of our time in Renfrew was spent at the only place to go: the pub. This actually proved to be a fairly life-affirming activity for me, especially on Saturday evening, after Mom (being wholly unaccustomed to day-drinking) had passed out, and the place was brightly lit and packed to the rafters with rugged men of the woods and tipsy fishermen in flannel shirts, drunkenly swaying to the palatable strains of a cover band.

 I walked into the place in my standard "going out" pleather leggings, and with a bit of cleavage showing, and immediately felt like a Kardashian. Free drinks were thrust at me, left and right; when I stepped outside on the porch for a cigarette, three lighters were immediately held up to my face. "Tee hee," I tittered.

Sure, most of these men probably had IQ's comparable to those of the fish they caught for a living, and all of them were cross-eyed with liquor, but I'm not ashamed to admit that being an exotic new prize among primates was more than sufficient to bolster my oft-wilting self confidence. When I decided to leave, one of the kitchen staff, who was somewhat conversant through his beer buzz, chased me out of the pub, and stumbled like a drunken zombie in front my vehicle, blocking my path for three or four minutes in the hope that I would concede to going home with him. Eventually, he tired himself out, staggered away, and I drove off up the road to the Lodge and the sanctity of my bed.

While a jolly seaside, mother-daughter bonding trip was not in the cards this time around, I did nevertheless come away from my night in Renfrew with a few good stories and a shameless feeling of validation.

This is the End, My Only Friend

August has at last arrived, with more golden, searing days looming ahead. Still, the air has already begun to hum the first faint strains of September. It seemed to me that July came screaming in like a headstrong youth, full of dizzy joy and unfulfilled promises. Now, like Dickinson's "certain slant of light", there is a slow heaviness and a change to the season. A slight tinge of introspection can be found in August, a mellowness and a resignation that comes from the knowledge of one's eventual end.

Speaking of the end: I have decided that my sojourn into the world of Tinder, while ofttimes amusing, must come to an abrupt terminus. This is not necessarily because I didn't meet anyone - on the contrary, I have talked with quite a few men, and met one or two people of seeming quality, during my brief stint as a serial swiper. The trouble is that, in 95% of these cases, the individual in question lived on the mainland, or in Seattle, or some location that was equally-troublesome to get to. I've just recently experienced the frustration and eventual heartache that comes from attempting to forge a long-distance relationship. At this point, I simply can't go through with it again.

A further complication and impediment to my recent attempts at dating also proves to be something much harder to shake: Myself. More to the point, it is my own indolence and complete apathy toward the process that prevents me from making any real attempt at it. In any recent situations in which I have made plans with men who actually live in or are visiting our fair island city, I end up cancelling at the last minute, in favor of the perfect solitude of my apartment.

Case in point: Tonight, I was to meet up with what seemed to be a very decent chap for some beverages and a walking tour of Ross Bay Cemetery, (which, as a card-carrying member of the Old Cemeteries Society of Victoria, I would have been pleased to lead). Said individual is currently visiting from London, Ontario on tour with his band. He is completing a PhD in something or other, and at least seemed articulate enough to hold a conversation, as well as legitimately interested in my knowledge of the world-famous Victorian cemetery. So, what was the problem, then? 

I couldn't put my finger on it, but the more I considered the impending evening, the more I began to panic and over-analyze the possible scenarios. Firstly, was it weird to go on a date with someone I didn't know from Adam? What if we hated each other? What if only one of us disliked the other, making for some supremely awkward hug goodbye situation at the end of the evening?  Could this even be considered a date at all? Perhaps it was merely a friendly, historic visit to one of my favourite haunts. But then, was HE thinking it was a date? What was he expecting to come of this, since he didn't live here and was leaving town on Thursday? Did he think we were going to have sex? And like, where?? On top of the Whittington family plot?? And what if he didn't have that expectation, and we both ended up liking each other, and he just took off back to Ontario and I was stuck trying to forge a bond again with someone who was never there??

After fifteen minutes of this, I looked around at my comfortable bed, my bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz and my copy of Jasper Ridley's "The Tudor Age", and felt my anxiety melting away. I picked up my phone and I cancelled on the poor lad, who despondently told me that he would be drinking wine alone in the cemetery, should I change my mind. I didn't write back. Instead, I made a big bowl of pasta, painted my nails, changed the sugar-water mixture in the hummingbird feeder and had a most self-indulgent nap.

I know now that the pursuit of relationships, dates, flings, etc is something that is truly no longer a priority in my life. I used to think these things were all that mattered, or that I was somehow deficient and unworthy since I didn't have someone in my life. I used to feel an enormous jealousy and bitterness as I listened to the girls at work talk about their husbands, about the holidays and home renovations they were undertaking together, about the funny or cute or endearing thing He said last night.

 I used to think that a relationship or a marriage was some sort of grand achievement, a prize that I was too "fucked up" to ever achieve. Something has changed in me, now, something almost as imperceptible as the shift in the light as the summer wears on. For the first time in my adult life, I have begun to ask myself just how great of an achievement a relationship actually is. In fact, when I ponder this question in greater detail, I realize that  "having a boyfriend"  or "getting married" is as mediocre, pathetic and perfectly ordinary a life goal as they come. Anyone can do those things. Why not do something that no one else can? Why not aim for something loftier than a pinterest wedding board and arguing over the position of the toilet seat?

I think I'm finally figuring out that I can go on a date, or hook up with a man, whenever I want. But most of the time, if I really consider it, I realize that I don't want to at all.

Taming of the Schumer (MOVIE SPOILER)

 "This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper."

                                                                                               - T.S. Eliot

   *   *   *   *   *

In what I assume will be a welcome departure from one of my usual posts, where I expound upon my icky feelings and emotions and the general shittiness of my life, I've decided to write a little review about the film "Trainwreck", which I took in last weekend. I had high hopes for the Amy Schumer vehicle, which seems to have at last made her a household name. I've been an ardent fan of Schumer's for years. I don't want to say, "I loved her before anyone knew who she was!", but it's pretty much true. My facebook friends can attest that I have inundated them with clips from her Comedy Central show, "Inside Amy Schumer", since its premiere.

I have always found Amy to be so delightfully-relatable, so candid, brave and honest. I saw so much of myself in her comedy, with its many references to body image issues, dysfunctional family dynamics, romantic disasters, drinking binges and aversion to traditional constructs of marriage and child-rearing.

Witness, if you will, her "One Night Stand" skit, in which a giggling woman with tussled hair leaves a man's apartment of a Saturday morning. A split screen shows how each of their respective days play out: Hers, involving meeting her friends for brunch and gushing over her new beau, sending him a flirty text message, then opening a joint bank account for the two of them and checking out possible wedding venues. He, in the meantime, whiles away the day nursing his hangover and playing video games, and tells his friend, over beer, that he "didn't get up to much" the night before. He also takes a prolonged nap and has a good wank session to the image of a busty Italian mother on the side of a pasta sauce container. When she calls him, asking what they are doing that evening, he doesn't even know who she is.

Schumer's comedy is thoughtful and obviously born of past foibles, heartaches and regrets. Self-effacing, gutsy and instantly endearing, she's been one of my favourite comediennes since I first became aware of her on the stand-up circuit.Thus, last weekend, with a heart full of hope and a purse full of beer, I entered the darkened theatre and hunkered down for what I hoped was going to be a satisfying dose of Schumerian sass.

For the most part, I was not let down. Amy served up her usual shock-value based hilarity, somehow managing to make a life of functional alcoholism and meaningless, unprotected sexual encounters look pretty damn glamorous in the process. The reason, of course, was that, just like in her TV series and stand up routines, she (and her character) completely owned their questionable life choices, giving not one single fuck about what anyone else thought. As I happily popped the hissing tab on my can of Stella Artois while deftly ignoring the admonishing glare of a fellow movie patron in my row, I thought, "Yeah. Giving no fucks, indeed".

Since "Trainwreck" is, of course, a story about romance, it stood to reason that Amy's leading man,  a sports physician named Aaron Conners (played by Bill Hader), would be introduced fairly early on in the film. As expected, Amy and Aaron are opposites in almost every way, yet somehow manage to form a pretty solid bond. He is conservative, he loves sports, his favourite song is "Uptown Girl".  He even asserts that he "doesn't mind" the fact that Amy's slept with a lot of men, or that she smokes weed and drinks excessively.

At one point, Aaron takes Amy to a Knicks game, where they sit courtside, and she observes the pregame cheerleading routine with obvious discomfort and disdain. To mask her insecurity over half-clad women prancing around in front of her boyfriend, she makes snide comments and heckles the cheerleaders with, "You're going to lose us the right to vote!" Aaron suggests that maybe she doesn't like cheerleaders because they are "positive, and bring people together". Barf, Aaron.

Eventually and inevitably, things go off the rails for the unlikely pair. At about 77% of the way through the movie, (the approximate time at which this is supposed to occur), we come to the Low Point, at which Amy's family isn't talking to her and Aaron, who finally reveals that he does indeed have a problem with her lifestyle, has walked out. While we are shown a montage of both of the characters struggling through depression and loss to get on with their lives, it is, curiously, only Amy's character who decides to make some huge life changes in an effort to win Aaron back.

We see her flying about her apartment, collecting every half-drank bottle of alcohol ((I highly doubt her character would have left that much untouched)), as well as her formidable bong, and handing it all to a homeless man who hangs about outside her building. While the changes the character is making are probably healthy ones, the underlying message that disturbed me was that positive life changes should only be made to impress or win back the affection of someone who doesn't like you for who you are.

The final disappointment comes at the end of the film, when Amy dons the skimpy costume that she decried as sexist not an hour before, and performs her own peppy, 15 minute cheerleading routine alongside the Knicks cheerleaders, for an astounded and impressed Aaron. Of course, he immediately takes her back. And with this final scene, my worst fears were confirmed. The message here was glaringly-obvious: Change everything about yourself, your lifestyle and your beliefs, to suit someone who isn't going to make a single change to compromise with you, or else you'll end up an old spinster. Thus, "Trainwreck", although at times completely hilarious, proves to be nothing more than a modern-day "Taming of the Shrew". How disappointing a message to independent females everywhere, especially coming from a comedienne of such unapologetic veritas as Schumer.

a/s/l?

 Periodically, I look around my dim, witchy apartment, full of history tomes, antiques and Victorian mourning art, and I think, "I should probably go out and interact with other humans, before I myself am an antique. Hell, maybe I should try going on a DATE. I used to go on those." Trouble is, it's mighty hard for a gal like me to meet eligible bachelors in the real world.

The sleepy town in which I live is partially to blame. There are very few events that appeal to me in this town, other than the occasional party or show, and the scene in which I move is woefully-small and decidedly picked-over. Another issue is probably my job, where the only interaction I have with single men involves handing containers of cremated remains to teary-eyed widowers who, although occasionally attractive, would probably not appreciate the funeral home receptionist slipping her number into a deceased wife's urn. So what's a single, mid-thirties goth gal to do? Why, turn to the miracle of modern technology, of course.

Over the years, I have had a reasonable degree of success in the arena of online dating. Back in 2001, for example, I met a guy named Mike over the internet. This was well before the days of Plenty of Fish, but in the heyday of a television show called "Blind Date". The premise was simple: two romantic hopefuls were paired up and followed around for a day by TV cameras, then made infinitely more entertaining through the post-production addition of asinine cartoons and "thought bubbles" indicating what the hapless singles might possibly be thinking about their interaction. Check this link for some retro "Blind Date" goodness:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8pS6K9Dkdw&list=PLA0BAB4214EA0DC86


In addition to the show's painful hilarity, it also offered, by way of its website, a chance to meet up with and go on your own awkward blind dates with people in your area! (The reader will remember, of course, that in these pre 9/11 days, this was something innovative, indeed). And thus, after perusing "Blind Date"'s website for eligible hunks, I met Mike.

Bonded by our mutual love of karaoke, marijuana and professional wrestling, we decided to meet in person. I was immediately physically repulsed by him. We went to Milestone's, drank Bellinis and talked about Chris Jericho and the Hardy Boys. Although I never once touched him, Mike and I ended up developing a very close friendship that lasted for several years.  He took me to all manner of shows and events, and even bought me a tiara which, for some mystifying yet secretly-gratifying reason, I wore whenever I came over to his house. Eventually, he figured out that I wasn't ever going to sleep with him, at which point, he cut me off entirely and subsequently married a husky girl with a mustache, by whom I'm told he sired two unfortuate-looking children.  Thanks, "Blind Date"!

Another online fairytale romance occurred for me exactly ten years later, as I trolled the fetid waters of Plenty of Fish. In early 2011, while checking out the site, I came across a handsome, 6'3" government worker named Clinton. We arranged an initial, innocuous meeting at a coffee shop. Although he did not offer to pay for my latte, I liked him. He was definitely intelligent enough, and possessed of a biting, sarcastic sense of humor that I found intriguing. I assume he didn't think I was a moron or something.

 Once assured that we could tolerate one another, we arranged a second date, this time at a pub. We both became so inebriated that, although I went home with him in a cab, we ended up merely passing out on his bed. In the morning, since I felt obligated and grateful that he picked up the tab, I succumbed to the indignity of awkward, hungover first-time sex, in the stark, unforgiving morning light that poured in through his bedroom window. I did at least get a conciliatory Tim Horton's breakfast sandwich out of it, which I chewed ponderously while we sat in the parking lot of the restaurant.

Surprisingly, Clint wanted to see me again! And thus, our courtship began. And what a courtship! He was SO GREAT! And we had SO MUCH IN COMMON!... Except that he loved reggae, and I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon than listen to Bob Marley tell me to "no cry"... Well, and except that I was a smoker, a fact that dismayed and repulsed him... Oh. And for the fact that he was an avid golfer and surfer, and my main hobbies included shopping and couch surfing... Thinking back on it now, I think Clint and I always kind of hated each other. The two crucial points on which we DID connect, though, were a) we both loved to drink, and b) we both REALLY REALLY wanted to be in love with someone.

Clint was older than me (38 to my 31), and thus, operated largely in a world of married couples with toddlers and mortgages. He wanted more than anything to be one of those couples, and I always got the feeling that any girl on his arm would do, so long as she could fit into the mold and facilitate that reality for him. The few parties that he took me to were depressing, macabre affairs. I didn't even know that people like that really existed, until I attended events at which I was expected to sit primly in a party dress with the rest of the Stepford Wives, cautiously sipping Pinot Grigio and talking about Gymboree and tea lights, while the men retreated to the "man cave" in the basement, to crush beers and play Rock Band. Invariably, and to Clint's dismay, I'd end up down there with the dudes, belting "Livin' On a Prayer" at top volume, Lucky beer in hand, before retreating to the patio to smoke cigarettes with the one cool friend among the ranks of Basic Bros and realtors.

Yep, it was pretty grand, being in love. Sure, we fought constantly, and I refused to go on his stupid Wild Rose cleanse. He'd tell me that I wasn't "wife material", and I'd snap back that he was an egocentric idiot to whom I would never consider getting hitched in the first place. Slowly but surely, I came to see him less as a sarcastic intellect and more of a complete and total bastard. After six months of this bliss, we both looked at each other one day and said, "Meh". I left and we never spoke again. Word around the internet is that he did eventually find his Stepford Wife and they rode off together into the sunset on a golf cart, while the mellow strains of The Wailers carried on the June air.

2015 is upon us, and the future is now. Enter: Tinder, a dating ap for your smart phone. In many ways, this incarnation of online dating is the most ingenious yet. You can basically avoid trudging through all the meaningless "I like this, I do that, I hope for this and dream about that" nonsense, and just cut straight to the fun of judging people based solely on a single photograph. Choose your picture wisely, lovelorn iPhone owner! A poorly-executed selfie in less-than-ideal lighting can mean the difference between being approved of or being cast aside with the swift, merciless swipe of a thumb. 

But never fear if you are less-than-sublime in the looks department. The most gratifying feature of Tinder, as I've discovered so far, is the empowering feeling of quietly and ruthlessly judging others for yourself. A photo pops up, you examine it for two seconds, make a snap, unfounded judgement and, with the haughty detachment of a Roman emperor dooming a gladiator to his bloody demise, you swipe left. A delicious, giant red sign that reads "NOPE" stamps itself over the reject's photo, and whoosh! He or she is banished from your sight. Poof, begone. #deadtome.

I've been using this ap for a couple of days, mostly at the behest of my bestie, who has had some recent good fortune with it. While minding his own business one day, he was suddenly "liked" by one of the mythical creatures I call "The Unicorns". These apparitions are most easily identified by their aloof, cool beauty, stick-thin thighs, perky, pierced nipples, and their prolific Instagram profiles. They are also most certainly listed as being about 27 years old, about 5'8" and fully open to shooting "nudes" on Modelmayhem.com. Anyway, GVS found himself a unicorn and has been having what he describes as many a "blissful" weekend, often culminating in some sort of outdoor sexual escapade.  With this ringing endorsement, I thought I'd see what all the fuss was about.

So far, the only pleasure I've derived from the use of Tinder is the enjoyment of rejecting people without bothering to spend any time determining who they actually are. But hey, hope springs eternal. Mr Right Now could be only a swipe away. And at the very least, I might get a Tim Horton's breakfast sandwich out of it.

Planet of the Apes

 Perhaps because the past few days at work have been exceptionally quiet - "dead", even - a lot of strange little quibbles and quarrels seem to be happening, mostly regarding whose responsibility it is to do A, B or C. Most of this maelstrom has been occurring around me, while I sit stoically at the front desk, in the eye of the storm, placidly sipping a cup of tea. I remind myself on days such as this, a combination of mind-numbing boredom and annoying nattering, that I am constantly collecting prime fodder for my TV pilot.

I'm not sure why, but I seem to be feeling better in the past few days. I am relieved that I seem to have managed to weather this latest dysthemic, chemical brain storm without completely plummeting into a pit and losing the ability to function, as has been the case several times in the past. It may be because I am older, now, and have been through this cycle so many times that I am able to objectively observe this episode and predict, with the accuracy of a meteorological forecast, its manifestations and processes. It seems that now, I can mindfully sit with the unpleasant sensations caused by my overactive brain, instead of engaging with them and thus, launching into a full panic.

The past week has also seen me finally able to begin to let go of my latest disastrous attempt at a relationship. Now, I'm not claiming to be completely rid of the ghosts of it - They still hang about in the corners of my mind like dusty old cobwebs. There are things about this person, and our interaction, that I still miss greatly: when I hear certain songs, or want to share certain stories with him, or text him during the day just to say hi, etc. The many long, late-night hours that we spent talking seemed at the time to imply some sense of true camaraderie and emotional connection.

 However, as I recover from my latest disappointment, I also come to the realization that I take everything far too seriously when it comes to dating. I see "emotional connections" and "romance" only because I want to see them, and the majority of disappointments that I feel are caused by my own unrealistic expectations. As my ex boyfriend-turned-best-friend-in-the-whole-world, GVS, often reminds me, men will engage in any sort of dialogue, or adopt any type of flowery rhetoric, in order to get it in. A lot of what I have perceived in the past as "romance" has been nothing more than calculated, goal-oriented dialogue that I have not been able to properly decipher from behind the extreme rose tint of the glasses that I don when I consider the intricacies of human interaction.

 I don't even feel angry about this fact, anymore. I realize that, for the most part, the need to penetrate vaginas is such a strong, primordial urge in heterosexual men that they themselves don't even realize the lengths to which they will go, or the ridiculous yarns and fables they will spin, simply to achieve that precious moment of penetration. I used to think, bitterly, "But he said he LOVED me! We were planning a trip! We talked all the time about going to [insert exotic destination here]! He used to call me his little [insert nauseating name here]. He LIED TO ME!"  I know now that, in 99% of situations, things like this weren't said with the explicit intention to deceive. It's really just that, in the incredibly basic and predictable wiring of the male brain lies a surprisingly-agile mechanism that immediately assesses and responds to the style of conversation that is most likely to lead to the final, coveted prize.

Now that I know this, the whole thing is laughable. I have basically expected far too much from creatures incapable of providing it. You can't very well hand a monkey a copy of "Twelfth Night", then get upset when he fails to recognize the subtle nuances of the dialogue, and instead merely flings some shit in your direction.

The Days That Are No More (repost with edit)

 I had initially deleted this post, because I wasn't thrilled with the quality of the writing and found the subject matter totally pathetic. I didn't think anyone would notice, but good old David, my only fan, did. In the absence of something else to say, and with the intention of keeping up with this practice, I resubmit it. Besides, who really gives a shit if the writing sucks? This whole thing is supposed to be for me, anyway.

   *   *   *   *

' Dear as remember'd kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more!'

                                        - Tennyson, from "Tears, Idle Tears" (excerpt from "The Princess")

 The above quote is from my favourite Tennyson poem. I think about this excerpt a lot and it often rattles around in my mind. I seem to be perpetually-haunted by "the good old days". 

I don't really understand half of what is going on with me these days, but I can say for certain that most of it is not good. As my readership ((all two of you)) are well aware, unfounded and inexplicable gloominess is nothing new for me. Most of the time, I can wear it with pride, like a tattered yet noble old coat, covered in faded patches that once were bright. It is only rarely that I actually become frightened by my emotions. In the past two weeks or so, this seems to be the case. More and more, I've been feeling that there is little in the way of relief from the sadness I feel, aside from the blessed escape that is sleep and my vivid dreams. Not only that, I feel so terribly lonely, so isolated, that I don't even know who I am anymore.

Let it not be assumed that I do not have friends and family around me. My isolation is of my own volition. People still invite me to do things, from time to time, but I rarely follow up. Sometimes, I will make plans and just not show up at all. By doing this, and by making little effort to arrange any activities, my isolation only feeds into itself, a snake biting its own tail.  I know that I need to get out of the house in order to break the cycle, and I attempt to make plans and set small goals with the intention of finding some sense of purpose.. but I always feel so exhausted by the end of the day, from having to "put on the hat and do the dance", as my friend Kevin likes to call it. My occupation is inherently-social in nature. I answer phone calls all day in a chipper-yet-calming voice, I take messages with the gentle acquiescence of a secretarial robot, I type obituary notices and print death certificates like one possessed. Then I go home and just collapse.

A long time ago, I had a fantastic social life. In the halcyon years of 2006-08, I was seemingly never without something to do. I think back on those years now as an endless ticker tape parade of theme parties, BBQ's, camping trips, beach days. Think of it: Me. At the beach. IN A SWIM SUIT. I went to the gym all the time, in those days. I used to joke that I was "in training to party", to look fantastic at every event.  I even sheepishly admit that, in order to look my best in the sun in the summer of 2007, I tanned in a tanning bed to achieve a golden glow. 

My social circle in those years was broad and consisted of a collection of about five different couples. We were all young, beautiful, fearless. We arrived at parties and bars, fashionably late, in ironic, aggressive fashion that we pieced together from our Saturday afternoon trips to thrift stores. I myself was the unofficial party photographer of the group. Inspired by the decadent, hipster fashion exposes of The Cobrasnake, I would roll up to parties in my neon Nike Dunks, capturing with perfect poignancy the many moments of hilarity, of glittering indulgence, of youth.

 My boyfriend at the time, Morgan, a gangly, bespectacled lad with a wry sense of humor and a penchant for parties, would take over the stereo, and everyone would dance far into the night. We were the couple everyone wanted at their parties, the couple whose house everyone always wanted to visit. We were fun. We were hilarious. We were young and perfect. Nothing was ever wrong, in those days. We simply didn't believe in sadness.

When I think back to those days, to the Stef I was, I don't recognize myself anymore.

Urning a Living

Most folks who know me in the 'real world' already know that I work at a funeral home. It is indeed a shame that the dictates of personal privacy and general good taste prevent me from relaying the details of daily events, there - in just over two years, I have amassed a collection of personal tales from work, ranging in themes from the bizarre to the hilarious to the heartbreaking to the darkest of dark. I keep all of these little gems close to me, hoping that perhaps one day, I'll be able to publish a book. I often joke that I am writing my own t.v. pilot about the place - but honestly, I think it would make for some compelling watching.

One of the more common questions I get, when I mention where I work, is something along the lines of, "Do you put the makeup on the dead people??" No, of course I don't. You don't just waltz back there, MAC brushes in hand. "Putting the makeup on the dead people" is just one of the many steps in the process of preparation or embalming, the execution of which requires many years of schooling and certification.

 I am an administrator at the funeral home. Thus, I deal very little with the dead, aside from perhaps helping to move someone surreptitiously from one room to another without anyone in the building seeing, the process of which always seems like a classic English farce to me, with one door opening, while another closes, etc. Usually though, the majority of my day is spent  buried in paperwork, and fielding myriad phone calls, inquiries and general absurdities from the living relatives of the deceased, who consistently prove themselves to be far more frightening and difficult than the folks having a nice long sleep in the cooler.

A comment that I detest hearing from the uninformed regarding my job is, "Oh, a funeral home. That must be so nice and quiet." See above. Yes, dead people are quiet. Living people are not. The office has six phone lines, all of which can be lit up at any point in the day with constant calls from the public with inquiries ranging from service times to general advice to prearranging their own final dispositions; a staff of about twenty people in the building at any given moment and a slough of internal calls coming in all day from our three other affiliate locations on the island, to say nothing of random people who walk in off the street.

I believe the thing that's kept me around the joint for as long as I have - many interpersonal and professional difficulties not withstanding - is the polarity of the place. For someone like me, prone to feeling immensely and profoundly about a lot of things, an environment such as the one in which I work really provides a certain outlet to explore the gamut of human emotions. On any given day, I may witness a full emotional breakdown from a family after  viewing their deceased loved one, only to walk into the directors' office immediately thereafter and find myself in stitches, laughing at a coworker's antics. 

Although it sounds selfish to say this, I must also admit that being around the grief of others all day is in many ways a great relief for someone like myself. In my work world, tears are an everyday occurence, weeping and wailing are expected and encouraged as part of the process of coming to terms with loss. As a sufferer of chronic depression, being around the bereaved provides me with comfort, too. It provides me with the surety that we all suffer some times, and that every day, people are dealing with excruciating heartbreaks and losses.

Recently, I returned the cremated remains of a woman to her elderly father. Usually, I don't perform this function, but if other staff members are busy, or if I just want to, I can do so. In this case, the man in question and I had a definite rapport. I had dealt with him several times over the phone and in person, and my heart ached for his loss.

Secretly, returning cremated remains to families is my favourite part of the job, probably because it is the most raw. There is something unbelievably sacred about the process of handing a small container to someone, that represents what is left of the mortal remains of their husband, wife, parent, child, etc. There are often tears, but I take a special pleasure and privilege in participating in this final rite, and in providing some sense of closure and comfort to our families. 

When I returned this particular urn to the man, he suddenly threw his arms around me and hugged me tightly, as if he could somehow hug his daughter one last time through me. And I hugged him back, even more tightly, and felt a strange energy and warmth exchanged between us, something that I carried with me for the rest of my day. 

Whenever I doubt the existence of love, I simply get up and go to work.

Cracks in the Light

I live in a creepy, Craftsman style home, built in 1913. I've been here for just over three years now, and I do love the aesthetic of the place, with its high ceilings, hardwood floors, brick fireplaces, stained glass accents and gabled porch. 

Across the hall from me lives a girl named Claire. When Claire first moved in, I immediately disliked her. This was mostly because she moved into the biggest and most beautiful suite in the house, a suite that I had always coveted. Since the house was originally built as a single-family home, the suite in question was clearly designed to be the main living area. It is spacious, with a full, functional fireplace, a sliding wooden door that separates the living room from the kitchen, plenty of storage space and a glassed-in porch area. My own small suite, merely an afterthought, was likely the place to which the men would retire for brandy and cigars after dinner.

 When the big suite in the building became available, I did the math and realized with a sinking heart that I couldn't quite afford to live there alone, since the rent was about $200 more dollars per month. It sat empty for some time, until one day, Claire came.

Claire was the kind of girl I knew I could never be. She was pretty, blonde, and fit. She worked at a gym.  She had a thigh gap. She wore a lot of Lululemon clothing. She owned Ikea furniture. She had a handsome boyfriend with manly biceps, who drove a 2013 Ford Explorer with leather seats. Claire was gentle, soft, uncomplicated. She was like the sun coming up. Even her name was perfect: "Claire". "Clarity, light". 

People like Claire have always brought out my insecurities. They represent the person that I should have been, the girl who would have met the approval of my extended family, who would have made my parents even prouder of me than they were.  The sort of person who didn't live in an apartment filled with an assortment of antiques and religious art and taxidermy, who didn't spend the majority of her time alone, watching WWII footage and reading true crime novels. 


One day, just over a year ago, I was home from work, on a "forced hiatus", of which more may be said in the future. As I wandered about my bedroom that April afternoon, I suddenly heard a sound through the paper-thin wall. I knew it was coming from Claire's bedroom -  I had lain awake many nights, listening to the vigorous sounds of her boyfriend's ejaculations, punctuated by Claire's small, bird-like squeaks, through this very wall. The sound I heard on this afternoon was very different. It was guttural, low, half-way between a sob and a scream of pain. It sounded like a wounded animal, struggling in a trap. The sound was ugly. It couldn't be coming from Claire.

My preoccupation with true crime stories dictated my next move. I reasoned that something unpleasant was going on in Claire's apartment. I didn't know what it was, or if she was alone, but if she was being attacked or needed help, I couldn't very well ignore what I was hearing. I had read enough Anne Rule stories. It was always the same: the neighbour "heard something strange", but decided to mind his or her own business. If only said neighbour had knocked on the door, Maryann or Suzy-Jane would still be alive today.

Assuming that there was some sort of attacker in Claire's apartment, I then concluded that I couldn't very well show up at the door with a plate of cookies. I needed some sort of method of defense. I looked about my own apartment for something with which I could defend myself, or Claire, if needed. Knowing that time was of the essence, I found the first thing that looked painful: A six-inch stiletto heel covered in metal spikes.

I crossed the lobby, spiked shoe in hand, and knocked tentatively at the door of Suite No. 1. The screaming sobs suddenly ceased. I stood, breathless, on the doorstep for several moments, listening. Suddenly, the door opened. There stood Claire, but unlike any manifestation of her I'd ever seen before. Her pretty face, streaked with mascara, was swollen and red from crying. She eyed me and the shoe in my hand with total bewilderment and confusion. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I'm being so loud." "I... I just wanted to make sure you were okay..", I answered.

It turned out, after I'd calmed her down, that Claire's life wasn't anything like how I had expected it to be. She told me about her parents, how they had pretty much disowned her, how her father refused to continue to help her pay for her university tuition, how he wouldn't invite her to his wedding to his new wife. I realized then that, even people who represent the archetype of perfection still struggle with insecurity, with rejection. Maybe I didn't have all the things that Claire had. But I did have parents who loved and adored me.

I still get jealous of Claire, from time to time. Just today, as I stood in my living room, I saw her and her boyfriend leaving the house, walking hand in hand up the stairs in the slanting afternoon light. Claire's perfect, size 2 frame was draped in a white sundress. She and the boyfriend paused beside the lilac bushes, giggling. She smiled up at him. They kissed. I quickly looked away, pretended to be incredibly interested in something on the table. 

As I returned to the silence of my bedroom, feeling the familiar knife of loneliness twisting into my chest, I reminded myself of the sound I heard that day through the wall. And I recalled the valuable lesson of that day: That there is always some darkness, even in perfect light, and that we are all screaming in some way, even if it's just on the inside.