Your Past Is Yours

As I've said a squibillion times before, the past is the past. We cannot change it. It's a done deal. All we can do is confront our wrongs and, even though it is one of the hardest things to do, we must let go. 

Every single person has a guilty filthy soul. Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh, but it's kind of true. We have blemishes on our records that can't be wiped away. Since I can't speak for all of you, I am going to speak for myself. There are a lot of things I've done that I wish I hadn't. Things like being deceitful, back stabby, angry for no reason. I've stayed with others because I was afraid of being alone. Hurt people I loved. Committed thievery. Wrecked things that weren't mine. Lied. Cheated. Broken hearts. Been vindictive and spiteful. Blamed others for my actions. Used my past as an excuse for my bad attitude in the present. And I've refused to take responsibility for myself and my own happiness. 

I can't undo those things. And so, unlike a lot of people, I've forgiven myself. But I haven't forgotten. The past is a reminder to us of where we've been and where we don't want to go again. It no longer guides me or derails me, but I see it in my face and hear it in my words. Without it, I wouldn't be the incredibly flawed and odd girl I am today. And you wouldn't be the person you are without your own past. It's been a long journey to get here, and not all of it has been bad, but for some reason we reflect on the wicked far more often than the good. Here is the simplest of truths...I am not perfect, and neither are you. I have never been perfect. I will never be perfect. In this, we are the same. 

We are human. And it is a human condition to make mistakes. In an ideal world, we would tell ourselves to do better, try harder, love more, and be nicer. Then we let go of our pasts and forgive ourselves. It isn't an ideal world, though. People allow their pasts, the good and the bad, to follow them around. They bring baggage into new relationships and grow cynical and bitter over past hurts.  

But sometimes the pasts haunting us aren't our own. 

Lately, I've been wondering over jealousy, relationships, and trust. Yes, people have a hard time confronting and accepting their own pasts, but they have an even harder time accepting other people's pasts, especially if they are emotionally invested in said person. For some reason, it is difficult for people to butt out of what isn't theirs. If I've learned anything over the last couple decades it's that humans are curious creatures. They think they want to know everything when they really don't. 

Then there are those who think they want to share everything, when they really don't have to.

Yes, you have a past. Yes, another person found you attractive. Yes, you've slept with other people. No, I don't care. Why are you telling me all this? What exactly is the motivation behind it?  

I've been in the oddest of situations where people have told me all the wonderful things their ex did for them or the sexual experiences they've had with other girls. These things aren't necessary to share and will only invoke unhealthy feelings of not being good enough or jealousy. Which might just be what the other person wants. Sometimes people want to make you jealous. They want a reaction. And I know that sounds bonkers, but my friend recently told me that it can feel good to have your girl get possessive and jealous. Of course, I just don't think that's healthy. Why on earth would you want someone you care about to feel that way?

Ego. So much comes down to ego. The desire to be wanted. To feel important. And to leave a lasting impression. 

Since we are talking about the past and ego, last week my ex-ex called. (My ex before the last ex) He'd been thinking about me for some reason. One memory in particular stood out for him. We were at the Brickyard watching Mudhoney and this blonde woman was all over him, putting her arm around him, whispering in his ear, caressing his back, giggling like a dippy doodle. I was young and foolish and hot tempered. I went over, pushed her out of the way and told her to back the eff off. To my ex, this memory is awesome and I acted in a fashion that, to him, was ego stroking. 

To me, this memory is horrible. I remember how I felt. The night was ruined for me. And the funny thing? I wasn't even all that mad at the chick, but I wanted to rip my ex's head off. It wasn't my place to push the woman away. He should have done it on his own. At least that's what I thought. It's interesting to me how he enjoyed the way I reacted while I felt put on the spot and disrespected. Strange how we all view things differently. He liked the fact that I was jealous.    

Relationships, both past and present, are tricky.    

A couple months ago, a guy I was talking to kept telling me intimate stories about his ex. Eventually, I said, "Look, I don't mind you sharing, but why are you sharing the dirty Skyping you did with your ex?" Because some things are best left unsaid. 

He told me women have always wanted to know about ex-girlfriends. I actually chuckled, because I thought it was a joke, and he said, "What's so funny?" 

*awkward silence* 

Even odder, I went on a date with this guy and he said to me, "Tell me about your ex." 

"Which one?"

"The one you're going to leave me for." 

Yes, this was a first date. No, there wasn't a second one. And can you say insecure?

I am a firm believer that people don't really want to know about their partners past girlfriends or boyfriends. They might say they want to, because curiosity gets the cat, but what it truly boils down to is whether or not the ex was more attractive, fitter, wilder in bed, funnier, or smarter. Oh, that sounds terrible, doesn't it? But it's true. In the end, people just want a little reassurance, for their lover to tell them they are better. 

Unfortunately, you can't always be better, which is why I don't ask about exes. (Just kidding.) Well, sort of. When push comes to shove, I'm not a jealous person. Not now. I have been in the past. It's hard to hear someone tell you they will never love you fully because someone else still holds a part of their heart. Fortunately, that has nothing to do with the past and everything to do with your boyfriend being a complete idiot. (I think I just over-shared.) Jealousy just doesn't look good on me. It comes from insecurities and, to be honest, I know who I am and what I bring to the table. I'm not here to play the comparison game. Mostly because I don't have the time or energy, but also because I'm one of a kind and it isn't fair to other girls. (That was totally a joke).

When we look at a partner's ex, a crush's past, a lover's seedy history we should simply shrug and say, "whatever", while still respecting it. Because even though it isn't ours it did mould the person we care about. We don't belong wading through other people's intimate moments or old hurts, but we do have to understand they exist. In the end, the only thing we have control over is now and how we move within it. I choose to go without jealousy and worry. 

With all of this said, yes, there are key notes to your partner's past you should be privy to, like if they murdered someone or once ate a ten foot long hot dog. A loose knowledge of their history is a great thing. If you aren't a jealous person, feel free to explore past relationships, but know what is their's and what is yours. Understand how they felt isn't necessarily how they feel. And if you aren't comfortable talking about it, wise up and say so. I talk about my past a lot, because I have no secrets and am a bit of a blabber mouth. That said, I'd hate for the past to ruin a future happiness and so I try to be selective with what I share. And maybe that's the key. Selectiveness.   

In the end, people can't change their pasts just like you can't change yours. I don't want anyone holding mine against me. So why would I hold someone else's against them? It'd be hypocritical. And I ain't no stinkin' hypocrite. 

For The Sake Of Sexy Times

I'm not a size two.

Or even a six, or eight.

When I jump, things jiggle. A lot of things.

Several years ago, I was born two months early and weighed a whopping four pounds five ounces. My mother said I looked like a kitten. That I could fit in her hand. That I was tiny. But something happened. I got bigger. I grew. Until one day, I looked in the mirror and I was a twelve year old butterball.

The interesting part about bad body image is that you aren't born with it. Babies don't look down at their chubby thighs and snivel about how roly-poly they are. They don't care if their thighs chafe. Likewise to looking good. Babies don't pride themselves on how well-defined their arms are, or the poutiness of their lips.

Body image, self confidence, and the lack there of, is learned. It is moulded by the interactions we have with the world around us. Whether we want to admit it or not, we are influenced by what we read, watch and listen to. If we weren't advertising wouldn't be a multi billion dollar industry and name brands would cease to exist.

Thinking back on it, I wouldn't have known I was fat if not for the names my brothers and certain kids in elementary school called me. At first, I thought they were mistaken. Surely, I wasn't fat. I mean, they must have got it wrong. Except, then I started looking at myself. The discomfort and shame started out mildly, but grew over time. When I reached high school, and the deathly period of puberty was in full swing, things changed. I was no longer slightly put off by my ratty hair, Buddha belly and weird little nose. I was obsessed with them. My flaws, or more accurately, my perceived flaws, consumed me. I became this insecure little creature who pulled herself apart every time she passed a mirror. My reflection made me flinch. And I constantly took note of the differences between myself and the other girls prancing down the halls.

Unhealthy.

That's a word people don't often use when they talk about what they look like or how they are. There is mental health and physical health. And I've been wondering how mentally healthy this world we live in is. Sometimes it feels like people are never happy with themselves. Everywhere we turn there is pressure to look better, be thinner, appear younger. But it isn't healthy. Our fixation on this ridiculous idea of what beauty is baffles me. Because this outside of ours, it's just a shell. And I am a firm believer that beauty shines through. If you're pretty on the inside it will reflect in your eyes, your smile, and the lines on your face.

Unrealistic expectations. The media and other people put them on us, but that pales in comparison to what we expect of ourselves. We are our own worst enemies. We pick and nit and agonize over the most ridiculous things. The shape of our eyes, length of our hair, curve of our smile, straightness of our teeth, and the list goes on. In the end, it doesn't matter where our insecurities and self doubt come from, or even what they are. We have to take responsibility for how they overrun our lives, how we let them rule us. More importantly, we need to ensure they don't ruin our futures.

In order for this to happen, we have to let go. Let go of what we hate about ourselves. Let go of what we find ugly. Let go of the expectations we feel the world places on us. And let go of our fear. Because it all comes down to the fear of being found ugly. Unworthy. Unwelcome. And unwanted.

So, let go. For the sake of sexy times.

Wait...what?

There is no room for self-conciousness when you're knocking boots. There, I said it.

Back in the day, when I was a green young thing eager to get some experience and put a couple notches on my headboard, I was horribly self concious. The thought of being naked on my own was enough to freak me out. Don't even get me started on being naked with someone. Meditation and calming scents were needed. In the early years of my adventures, I had a constant monologue in my head about what the other person was seeing or thinking. Most of it revolved around my thighs. My thighs were out of control. Actually, my thighs are out of control. Not were. I mean, I haven't tamed them. They are nearly as rebellious as my arse.

Regardless, sexy times were not sexy for me. They were nerve-racking, uncomfortable, and, while I hate to admit it, unsatisfactory. Simply put, you can't enjoy the moment if you're thinking, "Does he notice the way my tummy jiggles? Is this angle flattering? Oh, God, is that what I look like? Who put that mirror there? Am I being punked? That's not me. That can't be me." Trust me. I was a mood killer.

The truth of the matter is, these days I can't be bothered to waste time and energy worrying about how jiggly my bits are. And being naked is one of my most favourite things to be. Especially with the right company. It isn't that I don't have frustrating moments of self doubt or questionable self-esteem from time-to-time. I do. But for the most part, whatever. Maybe it's because I know my heart is drop-dead gorgeous, but I've let go of my worry and fear, my crippling lack of confidence. Mostly for the sake of sexy times.

But also because I'm happy and healthy. I'm going to enjoy these moments as long as these moments are around to be enjoyed. I refuse to let my thighs stand in the way.

Shark Week Redux

As you all know, I'm a people pleaser.

That was supposed to be met with sounds of agreement. Not crickets.

Okay, fine. I do what I want, especially when it comes to vlog and blog topics. But every-so-often, I am influenced, or inspired, by the people around me. The boys and girls, lovely and unlovely, smart and thick as bricks. Either way, life often delivers unto me all the tools and information needed to craft intelligent, witty and hilarious posts for you all to gobble up. (Sometimes I get hyperbolic)

Well, it was brought to my attention that my last blog topic, titled Shark Week, may have been a bit misleading. To be fair, I did say in the first sentence that it wasn't actually about sharks, which I imagine was very defeating. I mean, I know how amped up people get over sharks. They love them. We are absolutely head-over-heels in love with these amazing creatures. So, I understand the crestfallen feeling when someone looking for an article on sharks actually ends up reading an expose on female pipes and plumbing.

Sharks are way cooler than menstruation. Fact.

And that is why we are here. Again. But this time. I'm talking about sharks.

Yes! IT'S ABOUT SHARKS!

First and foremost, did you know that Discovery Channel's television program, Shark Week, originally aired on July 17, 1987. See, I didn't. I didn't have a clue that this week long extravaganza had been going on for so long. This event is held every year, normally in the summer months of July or August, and was first intended to raise awareness for sharks, as well as respect. These days it's pretty much the highlight of most people's lives. Screw having children and getting a house. Birthdays and Christmas have fallen to the wayside. Life revolves around Shark Week now. It's a phenomenon that has swept the nation. Actually, swept many nations. Did you know it is broadcast in over seventy-two countries? That's the truth. I'm not making that up.

So, what's with all the interest? Why are people so smitten with these razor toothed predators?

That's easy to answer. They are awesome.

But around these parts, I don't like to simply tell people what is awesome and have them accept it. Actually, that is what I prefer, but in the case of sharks, there are so many cool and astounding facts that I can give more information instead of just my word. So, here are ten amazing things about sharks. Are you ready?

1. Sharks don't have bones. I know, right? How weird. They are a group of fish characterized by a cartilaginous skeleton, which is fancy speak for - they are made up of cartilage. You know what that is. The stuff your ear is made out of.

2. These beasts under the sea are fast. So don't even think about entering a race with one of them. For the most part, sharks cruise at an average speed of 8 KPH, which is about five miles, but, when feeding or attacking, the average shark can reach speeds upwards of 19 KPH, 12 miles. The fastest shark, and one of the fastest fish, is the shortfin mako shark and he can burst at speeds of 50KMP. Yep, that's 31 miles per hour. Speed demons, these guys are.

3. The teeth of a whale shark, which is actually the largest in this family, is absolutely harmless. It will actually allow divers to hitch rides on their dorsal fin. Oh, and their teeth are no bigger than a head of a match.

4. One of the most interesting facts I've learned is that some female sharks can retain the male’s sperm in their bodies for use when she is ready to reproduce, even if that does not happen until next season. Can you imagine if women could do this? Well, technically, they can. Just freeze those little guys.

5. Classically, sharks are depicted as solitary hunters, combing the oceans for food. This stereotype only applies to a select amount of the species. And the sharks are sick of it. Even the solo sharks meet for breeding or at rich hunting grounds. The ocean is just one big office water cooler. The truth is, sharks can be highly social and remain in large schools. Sometimes more than 100 scalloped hammerheads congregate together. That happens to be one dinner party I don't want an invitation for.

6. Mother sharks do not feed the embryos growing in their womb. Embryos are expected to eat the unfertilized eggs and, when those are done, each other. If human reproduction was like this there wouldn't be any more octo-moms out there.

7. Apparently, sharks can smell a single drop of blood in the ocean from up to three miles away. If that's not enough to wow you, I don't know what is. Most people I know can't even smell when they've crapped their own pants, let alone someone who crapped their pants three miles away.

8. Much like humans, female sharks are bigger and more aggressive than males. You see what I did there? I made a bit of a joke. Although with the rising climb in obesity and the hormones in our foods, I wouldn't doubt the accuracy of my joke.

9. Most interestingly, sharks have several rows of teeth. When they lose one, another takes its place. A shark can produce up to twenty thousand teeth in its lifetime. They lose a tooth every other day.

10. Some female sharks have evolved so they have an extra layer of blubber to protect them when they mate, as the males like to bite during coitus. Kinky! Is there anyway that I can claim this is why I have an extra layer of fat? Please?

There are far more cooler facts as well. I mean, we would be here all day if I truly nerded out. Sharks are simply mind-blowing underwater dwellers.

Oh, and most importantly, they aren't as scary or aggressive as people like to make them out to be. I suppose we should blame Jaws for this one. Damn you Steven Spielberg for perpetrating the angry shark persona. The truth of the matter is, more people are killed by lightning strikes or coke machines falling over than shark attacks every year. Sure, sharks are highly effective predators, streamlined for speed and equipped with hundreds of teefies to eat you with, but they don't consider humans a delicacy. Unlike humans, who target sharks for all sorts of reasons, including their fins for soup and their skin for leather. Millions of sharks die every year at the hands of humans, but only a handful of humans die every year due to sharks.

Fearing sharks is silly. We should take a page from the Melanesians and Polynesians who revere and worship them, calling them the lords of the sea. I mean, don't get me wrong. Sharks are predators and a lot of them will eat you if they are hungry and you're bleeding in their territory, or three miles away. Still, there's no need to worry about it.

Anyway, I have this video to share. It blew my mind. I hope it blows your's too! The awesomeness is about 35 seconds in:



So, there you go, love. A blog about sharks. Just for you.

Shark Week

This isn't about sharks. Well, not really. But there will be blood.

I don't really PMS.

Yeah, that isn't a great opening to a blog. Ugh. Whatever. Let's get this crimson show on the road.

I know men the world over, and maybe some women, will roll their eyes when I say I don't get crabby during my period. Some may even call me a liar. But I'm not lying. It just doesn't happen. I don't get cramps either. No, really. I don't.

Those women who need cold and hot compresses, a bottle of Midol and a pound of chocolate to get through their seven day sentence have my sympathy, though, because I understand what they're going through. I've had a cramp. Once or twice. It's not fun. Actually, it's the opposite of fun. It's the unfunest. Not to mention the stabbing pain in my ovary a couple days before Haemoglobin-fest begins. It's enough to drop me to one knee and send up an entreaty to God.

But I've never been laid up for days at a time, curled into the foetal position, wishing death upon my uterus.  And even without the cramps it isn't pleasant. There's bloating, breast pain, back pain and the actual joy of bleeding for a week. Oh, and that's not everything, but I don't want to get any more graphic. Mostly because I have a sensitive stomach and don't want to make myself nauseous. Even though I don't experience PMS, I understand it. In my mind, women have the right to be a bit grumpy, if not downright homicidal, because their bodies are overrun with hormones and being put through an obstacle course of ridiculousness.

Some men might think women should get used to their 'time of the month'. They should adapt. I mean, after all, we have it every month from the time we are twelve-ish to about sixty-ish. That's plenty of time to adjust. Except, it changes as we get older. Our diets, exercise, and medications all contribute to our symptoms. So, I might not PMS today, but in a year, I might give bitchy a new definition. Who knows? Regardless, it isn't a picnic.

Which makes me think about Clueless - you know, the 1995 classic film staring Alicia Silverstone. In one scene she tells her teacher that she was surfing the crimson wave and had to haul-ass to the ladies room. Up until a week ago, that was my favourite phrase to describe the act of menstruation. Still, it doesn't sum up the experience accurately. Neither does the whole Aunt Flo visiting nonsense. It isn't a visit! It's an endurance test to see how well we handle gore. To be honest, I hate most of the terms associated with this week long Plasma Party. Period, rag, redwings, red tide - Gross. But none irks me more than the phrase 'that time of the month'.

Have you ever noticed how it's usually thrown onto the table as a snide remark? Like it's a punchline. A joke for everyone to have a good chuckle over. Oh, har-dee-har-har. Suzy's bleeding from her neither region. Has been for five days. Poor girl's boobs are so tender she threw her cat across the room when he stepped on them the other night. Oh, and she needs to change her tampon but there's a line up half a mile long in the ladies washroom because it's that time of the month. So unfortunate her uniform is white.

Why is this phrase tossed about so casually?

First, it's a bit personal, don't you think? I mean, is it anyone's place to comment on whether or not a woman's uterine lining is in the process of shedding? Secondly, the remark is always made in the attempt to explain behaviour people don't like, usually bitchy comments and snide remarks. But just because someone is in a grumpy mood doesn't mean it's 'that time of the month'. It might just mean they aren't exactly impressed with life at the moment. Or how someone is acting.

And lastly,  it isn't like we want to be knee deep in the red tide. No one looks forward to it. Well, unless you've been unsafe in the sexual department or recently switched to a new birth control. Then it's all, "Good news, I'm not pregnant. Bad news, the love box is out of commission." No, I don't refer to my Vagasaurus Rex as a love box. It was just an example.

Now that I've cleared that up. Can we cut this phrase out? It's a pet peeve. And I find it hugely disrespectful. Not just to women in general, but to the miracle of bleeding from our vaginas for a week without dying.

You know, I didn't even mean to go down that route. What I wanted to say was, there are so many terms for the riding the cotton rocket. (That one is another favourite) But none of them accurately sum up what's going on mentally and physically, that is, until some genius discovered that a shark's brain looks very similar to a woman's lady bits.

Thus, in conclusion, a period will be known as Shark Week. Not only because sharks are methodical and intelligent beasts, but because there will be blood. And ruthlessness. Fingers may be lost. Personally, it makes a lot of sense to me. And the best part is it's a phrase I can say without cringing.  Here ends this week's health and body issue. Next week, we'll tackle how to properly wash yourself. Meaning I'll teach you how to rope someone into soaping you up and rinsing you off. Yep, I go above and beyond here. 

If You Go Into The Woods Today

I didn't have the greatest day yesterday. It totally took the wind out of my sails, which sucks because I've been coasting along at full mast for weeks. Wait...that doesn't sound right. I meant to say, I've been flying high, skipping through life, and giving strangers hi-fives. My face hurts from smiling. Some say it is all about balance, so I suppose it makes sense that a down period was coming.

I'm not going to blow it out of proportion. I just got some not-so-great news which left me a worrying ball of irrational thoughts about mortality and guilt over not being the world's greatest daughter. Tears were shed. Yeah, you heard me. I cried. But only when I had to tell Rae-Bots that I couldn't go down to the U.S of A for Mexican food and outlet mall shopping. I really had my heart set on chips and salsa and ravaging the Vans store. 

Because of the bad news resulting in the cancelled trip, I decided to comfort myself with food. Why? Because I'm a fat girl at heart and old habits die hard. Anyway, I opted to make sweet tea biscuits, except I accidentally used baking soda and not baking powder. Four tablespoons of baking soda does not good tea biscuits make. It was disgusting all up in my mouth. The worst part, I hoped it was just the one biscuit and ended up taking a bite of another. I might as well have licked a battery to make myself feel better.

I fully expected the bad day to extend itself into the rest of the week, as bad days sometimes do, but this morning I remembered something that has me laughing. And it isn't even five yet. Usually I only do my best grunting and blinking so early in the morning. But laughing? So, I have to share. 

This last weekend, I took a trip over to the Island. Since some of you might not know what 'the island' is. Well, I mean Vancouver Island, which is home to Victoria, and a plethora of other places. For those of you who aren't aware, Victoria is in fact the capital of British Columbia, which is the province I live. And it's a pretty amazing place. To be honest, I haven't explored the Island all that much. I mean, I've visited Victoria, and their top notch wax museum, but for the most part, up until the last month, I hadn't really explored. So, I went over to do some adventuring with a friend. 

Since he knows all the hot spots, he took me to see the sights, and one stop found us at Elk Falls. I'll say it was spectacular, simply because words never do nature justice, much like pictures never really capture how breathtaking it is. So, it was spectacular and here is a picture:  

   

Of course, this wasn't what had me laughing, so I'll refrain from droning on about all the trees and falls and greenery and junk and get to the story. Before we made it to the falls, we hiked this path that just so happened to be closed with an advisory that it was dangerous. Since he needed to fill his badass quota for the day, we climbed through the fence barring our way and headed out. As we picked our way along, I scanned the surrounding area and what did my eyes behold? 

A pair of underwear. Tighty whities. And they were dirty. Very dirty. 

They weren't even all that far off the path. Just laying to the side, a foot away, all soiled and lonely. 

I never understand how these things happen. It's like when you see a random shoe on the highway. How did it get there? Who's is it? And is there a foot inside? I mean, I can safely say I have never left my underwear out in nature. Even when you make a surrender flag out of them, you take it with you when you leave the woods. Underwear is expensive. Who are these people who can just discard it willy-nilly?

My friend naturally assumed someone had been out enjoying the pristine sights and soothing sounds of Mother Nature when they crapped their pants. His whole 'your outside this shouldn't have happened' comment was what first set me off this morning - just the utter bafflement in his voice. Being the classy lassy that I am, I came up with the theory that the person didn't actually crap their pants at all. They had explosive diarrhoea, squatted in the bush and, after making a mess of themselves, was forced to use their undies for clean up. 

It still doesn't explain why they discarded their underwear a foot from the path, though. Who does that? Put them in the garbage if you don't want them any more. Furthermore, who even wears tighty whities anymore? That was the most disturbing part for me. Well, and the poo streaks. 

And on our way back, when we passed the faecal garment for a second time, my friend said, "Well, I did say I was going to show you the sights." 

No matter where I go in life, when I think about that comment, I will always laugh. A perfect line at the perfect moment. The delivery priceless. And the memory has been made. Even now I can't compose myself enough to finish. 

Screw a teddy bear picnic. If you go into the woods today you're probably going to find discarded skivvies. Let's just hope they aren't dirty. Because let me tell you, that image will never, ever leave your head. You can't prepare yourself for things like this. But isn't that the beauty of life. We roll with the punches and go around the dirty underwear.