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It’s a special kind of sadness.
One that I’ve shared for months and months.
But then it gets tired. And I get tired. And I suspect everyone around me gets tired of it.
So the logical thing to do is pretend that it doesn’t exist.
But it always does.
It’s now a secret sadness.
Even in the brightest moments or on the best of days.
Even when your memories seem impossible to access in my mind.
Something will come along and make it so.
And I won’t tell a soul about it because I was supposed to get over you.
Last month. Last year. Or whenever that was.
You aren’t just one person.
But getting over someone is never as easy as advice suggests.
I rarely get a clean break.
Others do and I envy them.
The ability to sever all connections in the brain or at the very least to numb them.
I don’t have this ability.
I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
Instead, I drive past your highway exit and my mind turns to you.
I’ll know you’re probably at home.
I’ll know what you’re doing because we are all creatures of habit.
And I don’t forget silly details.
Though, ffs brain, could you learn how to for once?
Your most favourite band will play on the radio.
And I’ll break down if I’m alone.
Or my smile will turn fake if I’m with company.
Secret sadness surrounds me.
It’s in my autocorrect.
It’s in my eyes that you told me you loved.
It’s always waiting for a moment of joy to infect.
It’s always ready to fill me with regret.
And it will live behind closed doors until it eventually gives up.
Or I do.
Sometimes I imagine what non-monogamy looks like to an outsider, though I can’t really remember what I used to think when I was one myself. I suspect that polyamory, or whatever form of non-monogamy someone is living, looks chaotic to the outside eye. When held up against the pristine perfection that is supposed to be monogamy, us “deviants” must look broken and dishevelled, searching for happiness as we hop from heart to heart or bed to bed.
It makes sense to me, when imagining that viewpoint, that there are those in non-monogamous communities who want to defend themselves against monogamy, to say that it is in fact monogamy that is broken and we who are enlightened. These people like to shame, and I think it’s not fair, on either side.
The truth is, at least in my humble opinion, that there is nothing wrong with monogamy as a lifestyle choice (yes, it can be a choice, and not just a default). If two people choose to be together forever with only each other, they aren’t making any more the right or wrong lifestyle decision than you are (though I’ll allow for the argument that they’ve chosen a shitty partner). The problem doesn’t lie in the relationship set-up; the problem lies in the expectations that surround it.
Monogamy rarely allows for people to want for more in their relationships. It’s like we reach a certain achievement in life and that’s it. You’re simply expected to be happy forever. “Oh, we’re married now! I guess everything will be wonderful forever!” You’re not supposed to miss dating, miss first-date butterflies, miss sex with strangers, miss the single life, miss not having kids, miss new adventures, miss flirting with someone new, miss being able to look at whoever you wanted without worry, miss being with multiple partners, miss your ex, or miss not sharing a bank account.
But you do.
Maybe not all the time. Maybe some things more than others. Maybe you haven’t felt any of them yet (there’s still plenty of life to live, my friends). Or, maybe you’re someone who never feels those things, ever. If so, congrats! But that’s not the point.
The point is that those feelings are often still there for a lot of people, but society’s presentation of monogamy has us pretend that they’re not. You’re not allowed to wish for a lustful affair with the delivery guy, or for romance with your dental hygienist as she pokes at your molars and you hope she doesn’t notice that you’re staring down her shirt.
But you do.
Societal expectations of what monogamy should be would like you to keep those thoughts to yourself, thank you very much. And I would, very much, like to challenge those expectations because I believe they contribute to at least a portion of monogamous relationships ending in hellfire.
It’s bullshit to think that you’re not going to have moments of not wanting to be with your partner. It’s bullshit to expect you to have “everything you’ve ever looked for” at home, though kudos to you if you actually do. It’s bullshit for us to have no system in place for communicating feelings of outside want / desire or internal unhappiness, without destroying your partner’s self esteem because they can’t “fulfill all your needs”.
We need to all put on our big people pants and get freaking real.
The most perfect relationships I’ve ever seen are the ones that confront their imperfections. The happiest people I know are the ones that own up to their unhappiness. It might seem like on the surface these people are more miserable than all the others who float along pretending that nothing is ever wrong, but an obvious hangnail isn’t nearly as painful as internal bleeding.
If you want to be truly happy in your relationships, monogamous or not, you’ve got to dig deep and rip those bandaids off. You’ve got to confront the things that you want, that you miss, that you long for, that you hate, that drive you crazy. And you’ve got to be prepared to hear the lists belonging to the people you love. You don’t have to provide all the things they want. I’ve seen it happen; sometimes just being able to talk openly and honestly about your personal desires, without having to hide them, is enough. Guilt and loneliness can do more damage to your happiness than many other things.
You see, the truth is that we all have things going on beneath the surface. We’re all a little fucked up. And we all need love to survive.
Monogamy isn’t broken. But we are, and that’s ok.
That’s right. Sponsors of both my orgasms and the recently successful Playground Conference, Ohhh Canada has recently opened up their very own boutique store in downtown Toronto. Why should you care? Well, Katrina and the Ohhh Canada staff put everything they have into creating an atmosphere that’s welcoming, non-judgmental, and full of knowledgable stuff plus great products.
The neighborhood is one of my faves, being just a little west of Bathurst and Queen. There’s plenty to see and do in the area, but you’ll probably get lost looking at fun things in the shop!
Ohhh’s CEO, Katrina has always been a big supporter of mine, having reached out to help with year 3 of Playground Conference just to help keep us afloat, and I couldn’t be happier that Ohhh has taken this next (logical) step in their growth.
I’m going to be hitting the beach in Puerto Vallarta, so I can’t be there, but you should go in my place and check out Ohhh’s Grand Opening event, tomorrow, November 16th from noon until 8 pm at their second floor location, 721 Queen Street West. Come and visit their boudoir-like space for complimentary treats, sexy sales, holiday shopping, special guests and giveaways.
Or, if you can’t make it, you can always visit Ohhh online and shop in your undies!
If by suggesting that it’s not anybody else’s place to police someone else’s body, that makes me a radical, I’m ok with that.
If my existence on the planet makes other people angry because they can’t bear to look at me or accept their own personal demons, I’m ok with that.
If I make moderate people who aren’t interested in speaking up against hate, bored or annoyed by my insistence on fighting the fights I choose to fight, I’m ok with that.
If you don’t want to date me because of how I look or things that I say, I’m ok with that.
If you insist that no one wants to be with me, despite my happy 13 year relationship and multiple side relationships with wonderful men and women, I’m ok with that.
If you want to judge me for taking a break from my actually very healthy lifestyle, thank you very much, to eat something oh so deliciously bad for me, I’m ok with that.
If I’m not exercising enough to meet your “standards of beauty”, I’m ok with that.
Because here’s what I know.
- At the end of the day, you think that being mean makes you fun to be around;
- You confuse genuine help that people ask for with horrible cruelty;
- You know nothing of the people who love me and lust us; what size they are, how attractive or not you might find them;
- Your voice is being met with a thousand other voices, that don’t have to hide behind new fake accounts, that are all standing up against you and the vitriol you speak.
Here’s what we both don’t know:
- I don’t know what happened in your life to make you such an asshole;
- You don’t know that I already exercise and eat well and am very informed about the choices that I make and what I need to do to feel stronger for ME;
- I don’t know if you have a small penis, and honestly I don’t think it’s right to assume that because I know plenty of nice guys who do;
- You don’t know that people you’re attacking are not suicidal, and that your words might’ve been the last ones they read before giving up;
- I don’t know how to change your mind, but I do know that I can change the mind of the bandwagon jumpers;
- You don’t know anything about people’s personal struggles, nor do you have the right to suggest they are having one.
What we both do know is simple:
Yours is a message of hate, and in reality, your life isn’t actually affected by fat people. You try to believe that it is to make up for whatever wrongs you feel you’ve been served. But those are your issues, and yours alone. You may have a lot of friends and buddies who support the message you’re trying to get out there, but they could turn on you should fat become your next descriptor. You may even genuinely believe that you’re helping by being as cruel as you are.
Our message is a message of love, support, and acceptance. We don’t want to shame people for making healthy OR unhealthy choices. If they want to ask for help and we might know the answer, then by all means, we will give it to them. And if they don’t want to, then keep on keeping on.
We will fight this fight. We will wear our battle wounds proudly. And we will win.
On Monday, Return of Kings, a blog “for heterosexual, masculine men,” announced it would devote its space that week to fat shaming. And it seems that tonight on Twitter, things have really taken off.
I’m often a walking combo of someone who both adores humanity and finds myself disappointed in it at every waking moment. I’m used to the things that people find “shocking”. I accept that there’s an asshole on every corner, a bigot in every shop, and a misogynist just waiting in every shadow to take away my right to just … be.
And shit, I’m used to being fat shamed. It was my high school experience with some bullies who had nothing better to say. It was even my experience as a 7 year old child, as we sat in my private school English gymnasium reading the Lord’s Prayer in our before-school assembly and the older kids pointed out and mocked my chubby arms. I’m pretty freaking aware of the fact that I’m fat, guys. I’M the one that can’t fit into the clothes I really want and have to deal with that on my own, without someone telling me that exercise would help. Calling me fat isn’t an insult, it’s an observation.
Here I am in all my fat ass glory
But just because I’m used to it, does that mean a bunch of assholes (mostly men, with the occasional woman thrown in for good measure) need to do everything in their power to try and make me feel bad about my fat ass or big tummy? Because they simply cannot bear to look at overweight people and want to pretend that we don’t exist? Or because they believe that my weight means that I require extra medical attention which their taxes will have to pay for? (For the record, my blood pressure, cholesterol and all those other things are actually in great condition because, oh, being larger doesn’t always equate to being in bad health. The only thing it really means is that I don’t really have the tolerance to run that far / fast.
WHICH MEANS THAT THE ZOMBIES WILL GET TO ME FIRST AND YOU’LL HAVE A BIT MORE TIME TO ESCAPE BEFORE THEY EVENTUALLY RIP OFF YOUR MISOGYNISTIC, HATEFUL SKIN, YOU IGNORANT, MORONIC WASTES OF SPACE.
Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right. #FatShamingWeek. My friend Andrea sent me a wonderful, drunk rant tonight about this whole situation. I don’t mean to age shame, and I love my younger friends, but still, she makes some great points:
We must take into consideration that this fat shaming bullshit is most likely being brought to us by the mindless, media-led 20 something crowd that has yet to develop their own opinions on beauty. When you’re a 22 year old male you’re pretty much incapable of fucking a woman with her best interests at heart and when you’re a 22 year old female your main concern is how you LOOK while fucking, not on the actual act itself. Your mind is not yet your own. You base your beliefs on what you see and read through social media. You base your idea of beauty on what is spoon fed to you through the internet and through crap reality television and through bullshit media ads.
I believed this stuff for a while when I was younger. I believed that being overweight meant that I wasn’t worth anything. In high school I’d eat a plate of lettuce for dinner, stick my fingers down my throat and throw it all up, and then go and do jumping jacks for 2 hours straight. I lost 100 lbs because of it and was thinner than I am now, but OH MY GOD I WAS SO UNHAPPY. I was a size 32 jean but still believed that no one would ever love me. That no one would ever want to really be with me and that I was destined for a life alone. Sure, a lot of that was teenage angst, but it was all connected with the idea that I was fat, even after all my “effort” to drop all those oh-so-hideous pounds.
And now, sure, I’m not particularly happy with my body the way that it is, but why do these horrible people think that if they tweet something mean to me that it will be that ONE thing to make me go and make a change. As if I’m not familiar with exercise, have never worked out with a trainer, and don’t make the healthiest choices MOST of the time. As if being CRUEL to someone is going to turn them around and make them have their big lightbulb moment that says “Ok, I’m going to treadmill today! Thanks, Internet!”
We get it. We’re fat. Exercise would help and a lot of us do it (myself included), but some of us physically can’t for whatever reason. Eating differently might also help and a lot of us do that too (myself included, I hate most fatty foods and barely eat anything bad for me,EVER) , but some people have trouble making healthy choices because poverty doesn’t help make healthy food that accessible. We know that there’s a large portion of society that might not be attracted to our bodies, just like we know that we’re not attracted to everyone’s bodies either. WE’VE HEARD OF DIABETES AND HEART DISEASE AND ALL THOSE OTHER SCARE TACTICS YOU’RE TRYING TO USE. Despite what the douchenozzles believe, we haven’t actually been lying around on Donut Island for 20 years, oblivious to what this asshole culture thinks of our existence.
And also despite what the douchenozzles believe, we ALL have people in our lives who think we’re worthy of their love and affection. And these folks aren’t delusional for enjoying the company of their fat friends or lovers. Maybe we’re awesome people or they love the extra feel of our curves or maybe they’re just GOOD people who don’t believe in shaming someone for the beautiful belly they picked up after childbirth or the cute little double chin they get when they laugh, or that beautiful big ass that jumps up and down when they’re being fucked.
Because guess what else. Us fatties get fucked too, and by ALL sorts of people. I love a whole bunch of different body types, but even I get to have amazing, loving, hot sex with both men and women that other people envy me for, saying “Daaaaaamn girl, I wish I had me some of THAT.” (I might be paraphrasing, but you get the idea. MY body doesn’t restrict me from getting to be with other bodies, small, big, medium, or whatever.) OH AND I HAVE A SKINNY, HOT HUSBAND WHO LOVES ME AND MY BODY, AND I’M PRETTY SURE HE ISN’T DELUSIONAL.
I don’t know why I’m really writing this post. I know there’s absolutely zero chance of making a difference in the mind of someone who’s already deemed me a waste of space because I have a big tummy. I know that those people will continue to say hurtful, horrible things behind the comfort of the internet, without thinking of the ramifications that they might have on others who perhaps don’t have the thick skin, haha get it…, to deal with this bullshit like I do. I know that they’ll say hateful things about me for writing it because that will make them feel good about themselves. Tomorrow they’ll wake up and forget that it happened, while us fatties will have yet another scar to add to our battle wounds in our continuing fight to just live our lives without ridicule and shame from others for being who we are and not fitting into “beauty standards”.
Maybe I’m writing it for the rest of us fatties because we need to hear it more. Whether you’re the same size as me, smaller, larger, it doesn’t matter. You could be as skinny as a rake and still be affected by the hatred that is #FatShamingWeek. You’re allowed to be angry right now. You’re allowed to be disappointed in humanity. You’re allowed to want to and to actually eat your feelings if it makes you feel better. You’re allowed to be loved and be adored. You’re allowed sexual pleasure. You’re allowed to eat salad or to eat cake. You’re allowed to leave food on your plate or have a second helping. You’re allowed to stay the size you are, grow larger, or be smaller at any point in your life. And you’re allowed to not be ridiculed should you decide for yourself, and no one else, that you want to make a change and ask for help in doing so.
And in case you’re worried about “being the better person here”, while I will disagree until I die with the idea that anyone is allowed to say you don’t belong on the earth because of how you LOOK, you are more than entitled to at least wish that these hateful wastes of people weren’t allowed on earth so that you could be free to just, fucking, be.
In short, I don’t care what size you are. Just don’t be a dick.
(PS, my favourite moment in #FatShamingWeek was when someone who’s totally shaming fat people told me on Twitter (obviously before seeing my full body picture) that ‘I’m hot so they don’t have a quarrel with me’. Gee, buddy. Sorry about my fat ass that you couldn’t see in my avatar.”)
(PPS: You douchenozzles might contribute to somebody thinking they’re fat and actually killing themselves because of it. What if that was your mother, your best friend, your brother, your sister, and so on? THINK A LITTLE HARDER AND GROW THE FUCK UP.)
(PPPS: If you want to actually make a difference, be nicer to people, start researching the food choices that get put into our schools and do something about THAT, learn about poverty and how it affects people’s diets and try to make changes in government to deal with that issue, learn about disability and how it affects weight, learn the actual facts about weight and health, and READ A FUCKING BOOK FOR ONCE, HOLY FUCK I JUST WANT TO YELL AT YOU SOME MORE GAAAAAAAAHHHH)
I realized something today while cutting my toenails. (Not my normal place for epiphanies, but I’ll take it.) For a little context, I don’t really bother much with my feet. I wear flip flops all summer and into as much of fall as possible. I paint my toes maybe every few months, and sometimes just reach down quickly and throw another coat of polish on if I’m heading out and they look a little peely.
Really though, I don’t care. Sure it feels great when they look all polished and tidy, but it doesn’t affect my quality of life whatsoever. I realized this morning though, that if Steph cared, I’d probably paint them more. It’s the same with anything, really. If I knew that he really, really liked when I painted my toes, or my fingernails (which I do, for me all the time), or that he went insane with lust every time my hair was straightened or I wore red lipstick, I’d probably do it a lot more. It’s the same as when I go on a date with someone else and I put a little extra into my hair, my face, or perhaps my cleavage. It’s fun to do that for someone else’s enjoyment.
If my husband really, really had a thing for sandwiches, I would completely indulge that too. And I wouldn’t be doing it because of the patriarchy or misogyny or because he’s keeping me down, I’d be doing it because I wanted to. The same reason that sometimes, not always, I’ll freshen up before he comes home from work. Putting effort into something, whether it’s my appearance or a meal brings me joy first and foremost. But the joy is always much stronger when there’s another person there to experience it with me.
I know it probably seems a little silly. I’m about to write a blog post about my cat, Pandora, who we had to put down yesterday due to a large cancerous tumor that was slowly killing her. But this is my place on the internet to share my feels, and boy oh boy, do I have a lot of feels about this.
To start with, I’d be lying if I said that Pandora was just a cat. She was the first of three cats that we’ve ended up owning, coming into our lives just a few months after we first got together in 2001. Pandora is very much at the core of our family identity, more so than the other two. (Sorry guys. It’s pretty handy that you can’t read right about now.)
When we picked her out at the Humane Society she was instantly our favourite. A feisty loudmouth with the cutest tuxedo on and big, wide eyes. On the drive home across the city, she pooped in the box (typical Pandora) and then started to freak out a bit in the cardboard carrier they gave us, so we ripped a little hole in it so that she could see. When we arrived home to our apartment on Dovercourt, she tore out of the box as soon as the car door was open and ran down the street. We thought that our time together had ended before it began. Steph took off running to catch up with her, in and out of neighbour’s yards, until somehow he brought her back in his arms. We instantly named her Pandora, for escaping her box. It just felt right.
She became the cat that everyone knew. All of our friends would ask about Pandora because she made herself quite known. Over the years, she’s done so many things to show off her weirdo character. Here’s a bunch of them.
- In her youth, she would jump up at least a meter to catch some silly toy on a string;
- When we got Stella to keep her company, Pandora made it known quickly that she was the boss lady, continuing to boss her and Penny around until her cancer took away her energy to do so;
- She would eat ANYthing. She was like a dog in that way. It didn’t matter what you had, or if she was already eating something amazing. If there was the chance that she could get access to more food, she’d take it;
- This fat kid personality is probably what led to her being 16 lbs at her heaviest;
- We used to call her Fatty and Fatso as terms of endearment, even when she got down to a sickly 5lbs only;
- Her belly rolls used to be so big that they would drag on the floor, and from behind looked strangely like testicles;
- When she was younger, she went through a long period of OCD. She would lick her tail, back, and tummy raw until she had sores. For years, her belly was pink because she’d lick off any fur that would try to grow there. We were scared and didn’t know what to do. The vet concluded that she was simply a weirdo with a personality disorder and eventually she stopped doing it;
- Her kingdom for a box. Or a pile of paper. Or the holy grail, a box filled with paper in it. If only Maru hadn’t beaten her to the punch;
- During the day, while the other two would sleep, Pandora would always be the one awake keeping me / us company. It’s no wonder she was always hungry; she wasn’t letting herself sleep enough to get energy. Silly girl;
- Her squawk would usually be the first thing we’d hear in the morning and the last thing we’d hear at night. If we had to make a phone call, the person on the other end of the line would always get a squawk unless we closed the door and hid from her. She’d squawk while eating because she loved food so damn much. Even though cancer made it so that she was less vocal over time, the house is ridiculously quiet without that squawk, as the other two barely make any noise;
- I can’t remember a time when she didn’t poop on the floor. Pandora has been synonymous with “shitty and stinky” for years now, though I suppose it wasn’t always that way. She was just a super picky pooper. We tried everything from different litters, one on every floor, alternative shapes; it didn’t matter. If she wanted to poop on the floor, she was going to poop on the floor. And she often liked to do it when sexy company was visiting too;
- The only time she’d ever run was when chasing treats across the floor that Steph would throw for her;
- Her chin rubs on the stubble of Steph’s beard in bed is one of my favourite memories.
Pandora first started getting sick last year. We determined through tests that she had some sort of super sensitive bowel issue that was causing her to not absorb nutrients. We did everything we could to adapt to this new normal, but cancer was right behind. And with me being unemployed this year, spending thousands of dollars on the cats (all three had issues of some sort this year) was a huge weight on our shoulders. But we did what we could for Pandora, outside of surgery and chemo that we simply couldn’t afford.
It happened quickly, when she started to go downhill. She lost 9 lbs in one year (we foolishly thought it was due to exercise) and 2 the next. It felt strange to still call her Fatty but there was a nostalgic comfort in it. It was just in the past 3 – 4 months when her behaviour noticeably changed. When she seemed to be having a particularly bad series of days this summer, we took her to the vet on June 27th only to be told that she had a massive tumor, and it was cancerous. The vet at the time said we should put her down then and there, but we knew that she was just having a bad few days and had plenty more good time in her.
That decision would weigh on us for the next / past two months, though we were definitely right at the time. Every day we’ve been monitoring her, knowing that her end would be coming soon. Whenever she’d have a bad moment, we’d make mental notes to see if they were happening more frequently. It was unbelievably stressful to keep having the “Maybe it should be next week ..” conversation. And for me, being home alone with her all the time has weighed on me heavily because it would just be she and I all day long until Steph came home. I stopped making plans, day or night, to spend as much time as I could with her. I wasn’t there for my dad in his last days with ALS. It seems silly to compare my father to a cat, but I know now, after caring for Pandora and giving her everything I could of me for the past two months, that I wouldn’t have been equipped to deal with being there in person for my dad’s death when I was 24.
Watching someone you love slowly get sicker is a horrible experience. I never knew how much denial I had inside of me until I realized that a part of me was convinced that magically she’d just get better one day. That she’d be the one cat to face a massive tumor head on and destroy it. Because of course she would. She was tenacious and strong and full of character. What’s a little cancer going to do when up against THAT?
But in reality, I knew. I knew that it would happen soon and that it made sense. I know that it’s the humane thing to do. That keeping her around longer is selfish. All of the “euthanasia rhetoric” was stuff that Steph and I would repeat on the daily. We’d talk about the guilt we felt for keeping her alive. We’d talk about the guilt we felt for putting her down. We’d talk ourselves in circles while still feeding her a diet of anything she wanted, including cream, bacon, and butter. What was it going to do … kill her?
And the worst part is that I know that we could’ve kept her around for longer. She seemed to go downhill for the last week but then perked right back up for the last two days. Even though I felt at peace that her last day and night were comfortable and happy, I felt like we were murderers, hiring the vet as a hitwoman to take her out. I felt like a liar when I hugged her. When we put her in her box for the last time, it killed me that she didn’t know it was the last time she was leaving. I wanted her to get a chance to say goodbye to the other kitties, her family for so many years.
But I had to remind myself, (and still do), that she was a cat. Cats don’t fear death or illness. They don’t need to say “Goodbye House” or care about what their last meal is. She went to the vet knowing that she was loved, totally unstressed, and surrounded by family. She didn’t know what happened to her and if somehow her spirit ever found out, I’m sure she’d be grateful.
The hardest part was hearing the vet say that we didn’t have to do it yesterday. We’d been preparing ourselves for months, seriously prepping for days, and then she said we could take some more time to think about it if we wanted. Pandora wasn’t really suffering yesterday at all. She was actually doing a lot better than she had been, kneading and squawking and having a good time. I wanted SO badly to bring her back home, but what would it have accomplished? She’d have maybe a week or two or a month or two of more time, living a sick existence, not very happy, but at least happy enough to know she was loved. But we’d be stressed, sad, and constantly worried and then she’d have ended up suffering. The tumour would’ve gotten her eventually and the loss we’re feeling now wouldn’t be any less then. Selfishly, we wanted her to suffer visibly just a little bit more so that we could feel justified in our decision, but we knew it still had to happen anyway.
So we went ahead with it. Strangely it helped knowing that I’d told everyone on Facebook already. If I hadn’t done that, giving myself a way to be held accountable, maybe we’d have brought her back home. And that would’ve been ok, but like I said … what would it have accomplished? I wish now that we’d stayed with her until the end and not walked out while she was still alive. Crossing the street to the car was the hardest thing as I felt the strongest magnet pulling back in, so that maybe I could stop them somehow. Maybe I could find some way to keep our girl still with us. Like a movie where someone runs through airport security to hug their partner (that happened to me once, pre 9/11), but this time much more tragic and strange.
Yesterday was an absolute write-off mentally. I don’t think neither Steph or I realized how hard we’d be hit by this. The relief mixed with the guilt mixed with missing her and the sadness. We know we made the right decision and yet we still question it constantly. I’ve honestly never been through anything that came with this many emotions and I wish we’d had someone else to make the decision for us.
Our house is a little emptier now. When we go into the kitchen, we’re not followed by that squawk. There’s no more poop on the floor or dirty tail to wipe. But I would deal with that until the end of time if there was a way we could’ve kept her here.
My little atheist heart firmly believes that her spirit is floating around somwhere. I hope she’s kicking some ass, eating some bacon, and squawking her pretty little head off.
The vet gave us this cheesy poem as “words of encouragement” (in addition to sending a beautiful bouquet of flowers over). It’s super cheesy, but it helped me yesterday. And also made me cry. If you’re going through something similar, I hope it helps you.
“If It Should Be”
If it should be that I grow weak,
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then you must do what must be done,
For this last battle cannot be won.
You will be sad, I understand,
Don’t let your grief then stay your hand,
For this day more than all the rest,
Your love for me must stand the test.
We’ve had so many happy years,
What is to come can hold no fears,
You’d not want me to suffer so,
The time has come, please let me go.
Take me where my need they’ll tend,
And please stay with me until the end,
Hold me firm and speak to me,
Until my eyes no longer see.
I know in time that you will see,
The kindness that you did for me,
Although my tail its last has waved,
From pain and suffering I’ve been saved.
Please do not grieve, it must be you,
Who had this painful thing to do,
We’ve been so close, we two, these years,
Don’t let your heart hold back its tear.
Normally I don’t pay much attention to our wedding anniversary. Out of the three that we celebrate – yes, we are those people – it doesn’t compare to how we feel about the time we first met, or the day we decided to open up our relationship. Sure we got married because we wanted to, but also because my dad was dying, and it was important to me that he be there. September 24th is not always the best reminder for me, seeing as how my dad passed away just over a month later, on Halloween. But today, on our 9th wedding anniversary, something feels different. It seems more important to me to celebrate the fact that we’ve made it 9 years married (and almost 13 years together). As I’ve been working it through, attempting to pinpoint exactly why that is, I’ve come to a few conclusions.
To start with, it seems we’ve reached that age where a lot of people we know already have ex-husbands and wives. While we’ve only witnessed it as it happens to a few close friends, we’re meeting more and more people who’ve been through it themselves. I sometimes feel that we’ve dodged the proverbial divorce bullet, but then I know that we work harder than you’d believe to stay here.
Next, while we’ve certainly faced some large obstacles that could have torn us apart – think “If you don’t want to have kids, we’re getting divorced” or “If you want to be with him instead of me, I’d support you.” – it feels like we’re past all that now. The ground beneath our feet has solidified over time to support us as we go through life. Of course, that’s not to say that we won’t have problems to come that will test us, but there is some comfort to be found in already passing so many tests together.
And, when talking about other people, I think I’ve just about worn myself out when it comes to love. I know it’s possible that I’ll meet someone else who will sweep me off my feet with his (or her) intuitive nature, intense blue eyes, and strength of hand. I know it’s possible that I will find myself riding the wave of oxytocin, or as it’s more commonly known in the poly world, New Relationship Energy. I know it’s even possible that I’ll meet someone that I’ll start saying should be the one to make us an official triad. Maybe I’ll even go so goo-goo ga-ga over them, like I did with The Boy, that I’ll want them to raise a child with us. Then again, maybe not?
My last loss really forced me to look at how things have gone for me over the past few years. The idea of caring so deeply for somebody new, only to possibly lose them, isn’t a path I’m very excited to travel on again. And an unexpected benefit of that terribly sad thought is that it’s somehow made me more excited for all the paths I’m going to travel with Steph. Of course we have our issues and lack of compatibility in some areas that make other people occasionally extra appealing, but we know how to work with what we’ve got now. We didn’t before.
This final realization might seem a little tragic, but it comes with so much good that I’m not worried about it. As unemployment has caused me to spend so many of my days alone, my interactions with Steph have greatly increased in value, as they’ve made up an even larger majority of my daily human contact than usual. While I have no doubt that in another life I could function perfectly fine as an independent woman on my own, I have no qualms in saying now that my husband is my world. Yes, there are a ton of other people, places, and things that also make up that world, but he certainly owns the most square footage.
It’s been a tough year. Shit, it’s been a tough few years. People have come and gone from my life, some abandoning me completely. But one thing has remained an absolute constant, and that’s the unconditional love and support my husband has offered me.
He loves me when ..
- I’m being an irrational hypocrite and whining about him dating;
- I’m gushing about a new crush or getting easily distracted flirting;
- I’ve gained weight or lost weight or changed shape or stayed the same shape;
- I’m depressed and withdrawn, even though he doesn’t understand it, he tries;
- I’m unemployed or pursuing my dreams. He gives encouragement, not criticism;
- I complain in bed instead of just going with the flow, because sometimes I’m super terrible at communication;
- I burp, loudly, repeatedly;
- I fart. Even when I fart.
I don’t know what the years to come are going to bring. I know there will be good times, and there will be bad times. I know life will be at times simple, and at others very complicated, because that’s how non-monogamy can be. I hope that life will finally include a well-paying job that makes me happy, and a mini-human for us to raise, down the road. I hope that we continue to work hard every day to make our lives together better.
But for now, I simply hope that my hair cooperates as I get ready to celebrate 9 years of wedded something something with my bestest friend in the whole wide world.
It’s a hard life, but someone’s got to review all these sex toys that Lelo keeps sending me. This time, I had the choice between the Liv 2 and the Gigi 2 and since I already have the first Liv, I thought I’d switch it up and go for the Gigi. Also, it comes in this gorgeous bright blue colour that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. Just the colour alone was enough to hook me!
So many pretty colours, but look at that beautiful blue!
Even the gray version looks great and check out that coordinated scarf!
The great thing about the Gigi 2 is that with its flattened tip, you can turn it around and get your g-spot or flip it back use it on the clit. It’s two vibrators in one awesome bright and powerful package. Unfortunately for me, no vibrator besides this wonderful purple gnome that I own (yes, seriously), has ever been able to really g-spot it up for me, but the Gigi 2 comes close and that’s saying a LOT for me.
While it’s certainly no Hitachi (which I really need to replace, considering that Steph left mine in Mexico last NOVEMBER), the Gigi 2 is a great choice when I’m looking for something that’s a bit easier to hold than my favourite Lelo, the Insignia Soraya, and it’s a great choice for someone who might find the Hitachi to be ridiculously terrifying and, let’s face it, about as pretty as R2D2 in drag.
I love how the Gigi feels in my hand, not to mention, in my bits. The gamer in me loves that it gets the red ring of death when it dies, but that’s actually rare because its rechargeable battery offers a minimum of two hours of continuous use. This fact is great for me considering that it can sometimes take me something stupid like 40 minutes to climax, as a very cute, patient lady friend learned the other day for the first time. (Sorry!)
If you’re looking for your first Lelo, or even your first vibrator, the Gigi 2 is definitely an excellent place to start.
I give it 8 coordinated scarves out of ten.
Grab your Gigi 2 anywhere Lelo’s are sold, or directly from the masters themselves.
And in case you’re looking for some more sales language, here’s the facts straight from Lelo themselves, some of which are AWEsome (like the fact that you can completely submerse it in H20!)
- Unique Shape
LELO’s GIGI is famous for its flattened tip that gives an intensifying G-spot effect, which can also be turned to offer exceptional clitoral stimulation. It’s TWO vibrators in ONE!
- Powerful & Discreet
Double the vibrations means double the power for GIGI 2, but it stays whisper quiet – meaning there’s no disruption when enjoying those intimate experiences.
- 8 Adjustable Vibration Modes
Unique to LELO products, you can actually change the speed intensity of any vibration mode, adjusting to suit your personal taste.
- What’s in the award-winning packaging?
GIGI 2 Personal Massager // Antibacterial Satin Storage Pouch // Personal Moisturizer Sample // Charger // LELO Authenticity Card 1 Year LELO Warranty
- 10 Year Quality Guarantee
(Relevant charger provide according to country of sale).
- 100% Waterproof
Submersible to 1 meter, the charging socket is sealed internally, making it easy to clean and fun to use in the bedroom and bathroom!
- 100% Rechargeable
A more eco-friendly choice compared with battery operated vibes, a minimum of 2 hours continuous use – with 90 day standby and lockable design, so no need for continuous charging.
- 100% Safe & Hygienic
GIGI 2 is made from FDA approved body safe silicone, making it among of the smoothest and most hygienic products on the market.