New Goal: To Stop Dressing Like A Transsexual Named Bif

Prior to moving to Red Deer, Alberta, my mother forewarned me about Red Deerian fashion.

"The people here . . . they . . . they wear sweat pants . . . in public," hissed the woman who had spent the majority of her adult life collecting outfits specific for shopping excursions, the woman who once rocked a deep purple trench coat with two inch high, power diva shoulder pads, the woman who had sat in a lecture hall at the U of S surrounded by a cloud of cigarette smoke while adorning a fur coat prior to society realizing that the fur trade is ethically fucked, the woman who, since the age of seventeen, had been with a man who would not leave the house without changing into his "good slacks", the woman who could remember exactly what she wore on that random day in 1964 when she peddled down Lansdowne Avenue in Saskatoon on her bicycle with her dog, Fuzzy shoved into the front basket like drooly infant with a developmental disability.

Mom was right. Upon moving to Red Deer I discovered two things: plastic testicles that hung from the back of large trucks, and a flacid sense of fashion.

Mom and I assured each other that we would not succumb to the blah fashion that plagued our new home. But as Mom settled into retirement out on the acreage, and I became swept into the routine of my dirty night shift position and a lack of having a life, Mom and I gradually faltered. Although me more than her. Five years have passed, and not only have I become fashionably lazy, I now dress like a bull dyke.

Dressing like a bull dyke has its perks. It's efficient, easy, cheap, and enthusiastically celebrates bleached band shirts and plaid. But it's not flattering, or creative, nor is it much of an expressive outlet. As much as I wish I were a bull dyke, it's just not me. Or at least not me in the holistic sense. Okay, maybe it's a little me. But if you experienced the last 10 years of my dating life, you'd be a bit of a bull dyke, too.

It's been hard to stay fashionably inspired during my five years of living in Red Deer, again, largely due to the nature of my job, and borderline inexistent social life, but also as a result of shifts in my figure, which have required me to retire some of my much loved pieces. More than anything, this city isn't warm to expressive fashion. Back in Saskatoon, particularly during my college years, I wore pretty much whatever I wanted. The bitches swooned over my 1970's coat with the fur collar (GOD, it was vintage. LAY OFF!) that I wore with an equally retro, oversized broach, and the bros high fived me when I wore my mini skirt with knees high socks and a pair of Vans. But now all my cool shit is packed away in my closet in a plastic Rubbermade container, partially because a lot of it no longer fits, but also because if I went out on the street in Red Deer rockin' it like I once did, I don't think anyone would get it.

 They just wouldn't understand.

Red Deer has impressive shopping for being a small metropolis, and has excellent access to larger cities, too. But in Red Deer, fashionable expression tends to peak around mainstream , and I mean really mainstream. When it's not defined by overdone trends, it's defined by a Trailer Park Boys kind of casual. I'm not saying that Red Deer has completely flat lined in regards to inspirational fashion, I'm just saying that the Sartorialist won't be visiting any time soon.

Now that the hot weather has arrived, the girls are wearing Those Shorts again-- the ones that allow the labia to be worn inside the garment or outside of the garment, and the men have taken to removing their UFC affiliated shirts altogether in a last ditch effort to, well, make people look at them. Yesterday I stumbled upon a douche bag convention in the parking lot of a Tim Hortons and witnessed a topless man laying on the roof of a truck. When he failed to receive the attention he desired, which I can only assume was to have other closeted, and ironically, homophobic men throw coins at his waxed nipples, he began gyrating his groin against the surface of the truck's roof as if he were a paid dancer working at a club called Man Hole.

This is what happens when fashion conformity becomes too restrictive in a modestly populated area and the eco-system of style falls out of wack: douche bags publicly hump inanimate objects. And that's not okay.

I am planning some life rejuvenation for the upcoming year, and to begin this new chapter, I would like to encourage myself to stop dressing like a bull dyke. Or like someone who resides in a trailer park. Circa 1994. I am not inviting myself to wear my labia majora on the outside of my shorts, or to rock a pair of $200 white sunglasses. But maybe I could . . . you know . . . try. Putting together cute outfits and demonstrating a little self pride used to be fun, after all.

A New Season

Not to BRAG or anything, but I live a pretty exciting life.

Crime and crack! Risk and raids! Messes and mysteries! Gore and glocks! Bros and hos!

That's right. I watch First 48 every. single. day. So take a step back social scenesters and world travellers and know your place among the hierarchy of thrilling lives.

I watch so much First 48 that I pretty much am a homicide detective. At minimum, I have acquired the skills necessary to commit a murder and probably get away with it. Or, if I witness a murder and want to lead the detectives in the right direction without having to make an appearance in court and lose my impeccable street cred or get shot  in a drive-by, I know how to do that, too. NO PROBS, BOBS.

As usual, my summer was thrilling. Like a beer commercial but with hotter chicks drooling over my (imaginary) limp dick. I even left the house a few times to go on Sunday drives with Bear. I also spent a lot of time working (it was our busy season, afterall), and staring out the window of my condo as I watched the family across the street load up their boat for a day out at the lake. Again, and again, and again. And again.

The Summer: An Overview

The summer started out with me getting raped by my condo company, which you can read about here.  Discussion roused in regards to selling the condo (not directly as a result of the raping-- this has been debated and prodded for awhile now), and I temporarily shopped around for a suitable rental to call home. Ultimately my folks and I decided that it wasn't a feasible time to renovate and sell, but this wasn't decided before I discovered that even though the rental market here is currently soft, that doesn't mean that landlords will not demand $1100 a month (utilities not included) and a year lease for a basement suite with shared laundry. AND NO! ABSOLUTELY NO PETS ALLOWED! AND NO GOING NUMBER TWO IN THE TOILET, EITHER!

NO SOUP FOR YOU!

NO PETS! EXCLAMATION POINT! BECAUSE THEY MIGHT WRECK SOMETHING.

Conclusion? I'm staying put for awhile.

I also geared up to potentially sell my car before it starts drastically depreciating or requiring major repairs. I toyed with the idea of replacing it with a vehicle that is cheaper and more practical. Ultimately the toying got dropped and was pushed onto the back burner. Again, I stayed put. Or at least my car did.

In June I won the Super Person of the Month award at work. It's fulfilling in itself to know that I work for a company that has a Super Person of the Month Award equip with a proud photo of the winner that hangs on the wall (yes, I refuse to have my photo on the wall), but actually winning it? Wow, dudes. And for the third time, too-- last time I won a clock radio. It broke before I got it home, but whatever. A CLOCK RADIO. So, there you go, Mom, my university education really did pay off.

My Grandpa is now in a home and in July his estate was sold off at an auction. I wanted to go for a visit at the time of the auction, but I didn't feel like I could take that much time off from work. So, instead I now savor the smell of the towels I was given from his estate, an irreplicable smell that reminds me of my Grannie and Grandpa and the farm, and every time I grab one before hopping into the shower, I bring the towel up to my face and deeply inhale at least two or three times. Really creepy-like. And I find myself never wanting to wash them in fear that the scent will be gone forever.

Although I am sure I will reconsider when they start smelling like "ew".

Of course, I participated in the Sits Girls 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge, but since I've already beaten that dead horse, then shot it five times and analyzed the blood splatter, I will leave it at that.

Throughout the summer, Bear experienced major problems with his truck. As a result, I am now on first name basis with the guy at the transmission shop. And Bear and I have been instructed to come back to the shop to have coffee with the guys. Soon. Like, AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. Evidence that not only do I live an exciting life, but I am also popular.

In August an Orb spider made a hell nest on my patio. THE HORROR. So horrific that I didn't even give this one a name. Thankfully it only blessed me with it's presence at night because during the day it would transform into a razor toothed clown and lure kids into the sewer.

"THEY ALL FLOAT DOWN HERE."

At the end of August the smoke from the forest fires in British Columbia rolled in and smothered our last remaining weeks of summer with an eerie, apocalyptic haze. Kind of what I would assume Los Angeles looks like on a muggy day. Total bummer.

Reporting on my extraordinarily exciting life would not be complete without mentioning my cats. I ended the summer by getting my Flat Faced Purrtards their first Big Kitty Beds. Very luxurious Big Kitty Beds at $30 a piece. And they refuse to use them. Obviously.

REJECTED.

"Some kitties don't have beds, or homes, or even families," Bear reminded them in a scolding tone. They responded by flicking their uncensored, Persian bum holes at him and stood their ground.

I have also introduced the girls to cat nip, and while Snorticus Maximus really can't be bothered, Sophie now understands the phrase, "wanna get higggghhhh?" and responds to it by bouncing around the room like an excited colt on a spring day. Bring out the green shit, human, and lets hit it! Since introducing her to drug use, she has crawled into an empty duvet cover and gotten "lost" inside of it, and she has also close lined herself by misgauging the height of the bath tub lip. Obviously the good ole' philosophy of "everything in moderation" will have to be enforced.

All in all, the summer definitely stuck to a particular vibe: The Snow Ball Effect, as Bear calls it, or the sensation of being on a seemingly never ending treadmill. Obviously I've been feeling a bit shitty lately, so to help incite some inner page turning, I bought Danielle Laporte's Firestarter Sessions, which is, more or less, a work book to help artists, writers, whoever tap into their passions and ignite their entrepreneurial drive.

Like most things, I went into it feeling skeptical and worked through the first module with only half assed interest. Yes, you're right. I was watching First 48 at the time. But the further I dug into it, the more it pulled me away from my pseudo career as a homicide detective and/ or gun slinging gang banger and demanded my purest of intentions.

When I completed all the sessions I felt as though I had experienced some really good therapy, and much of the inner confusion I expressed in my recent, somewhat muddied post, Life After Rehab, was clarified with answers and insight. Which was beyond valuable, especially after receiving such suggestive and supportive responses to that post. THANKS, GUYS.  The Firestarter Sessions was exactly what my soul needed to put on it's power suit with two inch high shoulder pads, say "fuck it" to the unnecessary, negative static, and regain my focus. 

September has arrived and settled. The Orb spider has disappeared, my first installment to the Condo Nazis has been paid, and I am looking into better ways to organize the condo to improve our experience while living here. Bear has flipped the bird to gambling on older vehicles and should be picking up his new, transmission-healthy vehicle next week. I think we're both relieved that a new season is starting and we're feeling more optimistic about the possibilities ahead. Not to mention, season three of Mad Men is currently airing and totally kicking ass.

Last but not least, I did make a monumental decision: I would not sell my car and downgrade. I would not ignore my heart or the soft voice of my inner girl douche bag that whispers, "do it". Fuck practicality and fuck rationalities. And so, with my loan in check and my father's superior deal digging, car shopping skills, I have bought myself a new car.

And it's absolutely beautiful.

Part III of Detoxing From 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge: Life After Rehab

I grew up in a middle class, suburban home and experienced luxuries growing up that have leaked into my adult life. Like not carrying any student loan debt. Many of my peers did not have such luxuries, and for these blessings, this casual avoidance of major life hurdles, I am grateful. Oh, so very grateful.

My struggles have always seemed to revolve around where I fit among the landscape of. . . well. . . life. Granted, this is more of a "luxury problem" than anything, like enduring a rank 'bout of intestinal cramping after consuming a five star meal. Those who are simply struggling to survive are not typically in the head space to wallow over questions like, Who Am I?! No. Those kind of things are for people like me (and quite possibly you, too). Although there is a chance that if I hadn't grown up with overbearing parents who had high expectations of me, I might be sitting in a motel room right now shooting heroin and picking at open sores.

Just saying.

Strange Little Girl. Cute, but Strange.

Growing up I always had a bizarre fear of life. I mean people. In Kindergarten I spent what must have been an hour banging a bottle of liquid glue against a craft project because the pin my teacher had poked into the rubber head hadn't gone all the way through and no glue would come out. I spent the period stewing in terror as tears welled in my eyes and a lump sat in my throat. When the bell rang for recess, I finally mustered the courage to tell her that my glue bottle didn't work and I hadn't completed my project. She assured me that I needed to tell her when things like that happened. But for some unknown reason, that's just the way I was. I was strange. I was sensitive and intuitive-- a thinker-- which seems to be more of a hindrance in childhood than anything. According to my five year old self, my peers were obnoxious and evil, strange adults were exploitative and evil, and all I really wanted to do was go home and hang out with my Mom. And pet kitties. All. day. long.

An Awkward Fit.

My shyness and irrational fears followed me through most of my youth. When I hit puberty I began to revolt against my peer group as I developed some of my own critical perspectives. At this point staying true to myself meant rebelling against certain institutions and I chose non-conformity. But at the same time, I always yearned to belong, to find a place to fit and rest my head and subsequently thrive. This has been and probably always will be a life long struggle for me. Naturally, this struggle has transcended into my career life.

The Pull Between Passion and Practicality.

I've written about it before, the pull between developing my passions as a viable career and following an area that is more concrete and practical. I chose a middle ground when I earned my degree. Unfortunately, the working world is a sphere that demands expertise, not roundness. And despite thinking that I was taking a relatively safe route, I ended up in a not-so desirable position for employability.

Since I was seventeen years old, I have been on the look-out for more practical education that could prepare me for a tangible, hands on career that pays enough so I could sustain myself. I just never found a place where I thought my personality and skills would fit. And I still haven`t.

Successful people often say that if something isn't working for you, you need to try something different. That is the point I reached in my attempt to secure a professional job. Whether it was unreasonably low pay, blatant rejection, or interviewers who took one look at my youthful appearance and talked to me like I was an eighteen year old girl who had done Jello shots before the interview, it just wasn`t working for me. It got old. Really old. And severely fucked with my self esteem.

Cold Hearted Bitch. I mean The Working Sphere.

Recently my mom saw an ad for a career opportunity to work as a career counselor. "If only you had a little more education. . . ," she preached, "just a little more education."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Like a specialized course in career counseling."

The only course I know of that specializes in career counseling is an online course through Athabasca University and the classes are all wishy-washy theoretical ones, similar to the education I already have.

Like most career oriented jobs, this one asks for three to five years of experience that I don't have. Years ago I asked my own career counselor what I might do to try to get experience to work my way into such a position. She suggested trying a local organization that does career placement for disabled people.  It was a low pay position, and all around a little bit shitty, which was apparent by it's high turn over rate. I had also liaised with some of these employees when I hired disabled people while working my glorified HR/ recruiting job, and I know that many of them were disgruntled and stressed out. But whatever. They were constantly advertising online, so I gave it a shot. I sent them two resumes. Then I talked to them at a job fair, which, ironically, I was working at, again, for my recruiting job, and the women representing the organization wouldn't even look me in the face-- just told me to drop off a resume.

Career Counseling is one of those areas where my mom boasts, "but you'd be so good at it!" I know from my short lived career as a recruiter that it is something I'd be potentially good at-- I get along with people from all walks of life, have a counselor-esque style to my personality, and I've endured my own struggles with finding my place in the working world. Plus it's in line with my degree, but like employers care about that. I've learned the hard way that it doesn't really matter what position, I, as a person, may thrive in.  It's all about credentials, and years of experience, and, as my boyfriend often says, "who your father knows and who your mother blows." Even though the higher ups at my recruiting job thought I was the shit and did what they could to help me progress, no opportunities came up and eventually I went back to my night job so I could resume working full hours and earning a reasonable pay cheque. All in all, I've never come across one of those open door opportunities where I could apply myself and prove my capabilities. It just hasn't happened for me.

I look at a position like career counseling and I can't help but assume that I was/ would be competing with people who have HR backgrounds or educational backgrounds and are looking for a lighter alternative to years of working high responsibility, stress enducing jobs.  Or that employers will take one look at my youthful appearance, like the last horrible interview I had, and assume that I am unfit to play the part. Or am I wrong?

Am I taking my realistic approach and going too far with it? Or am I just being practical and saving myself the heartache of of following another murky path that is so heavily based on politics and luck? Are the compromises of pursuing something like this worth the opaque possibilities it may entail? Or am I second guessing myself and lacking perseverance? Have I become too bitter?

When it comes to a nine to five career, this is my constant, inner battle. I just don't know. And the costs seem high. Literally. All in all, digging into this sphere makes me feel like shit.

I've abandoned seeking work in the professional sphere due to these frustrations. But when my current job gets so mind numbingly stupid or politically smothering, like the two painful years I endured with a toxic Geny Y'er from hell who busied himself by playing mind games and doing everything he could to drive me crazy so I'd lose my shit and strangle him and get fired, my mind returns to ugh, maybe I should go back to school. Or when I start doubting the realism of developing my passions due to new hurdles, like the ones that have come to my attention via the 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge, I start freaking out and regressing back to the would of, should of, could of mind fuck of the nine to five, working world.

Trying to Find a Place to Thrive.

The thing that scared me the most about the 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge is realizing, as I already stated in Part I, that creating a successful blog isn't really about the art of writing, but is more about selling a commodity. This is why the most successful bloggers around are those who teach others how to make money at blogging. Or people who offer consulting services. Or offer advice about a commodious niche. All these areas are like a self serving machine. They feed themselves. And advertisers like that.

But what if you're doing it for the sake of mere expression, or art? Sure, some bloggers have made money at selling their personalities through their writing, but the days of the Heather Armstrongs seems to be over and done with and the experts don't seem to hide that fact. If you think you're going to achieve financial success simply selling your words on a website with nothing commodible attached to them, well, good luck, but it probably isn't going to happen.

Starving artists have been long criticized for their inability to market themselves and actually make money at what they do, and some of the hugely successful bloggers regularly discuss this. But none of those bloggers are artists, or true writers. They're business gurus who sell a product, usually revolved around self-help marketing techniques. They preach the importance of "meeting a consumer need" when establishing a blog with the intention of making money.  But the thing with art is that it doesn't really fill a need. Sure, it might be esthetically pleasing, or make us feel good, or make us think outside of the box, but we don't need it.

From a marketing perspective, the most obvious service I could offer with my writing is freelancing. So, what sets my writing apart from others?

According to some of the comments I've received, I write candidly and administer verbal body slams. And obviously I write from a bit of a sociological perspective. I also like to throw humor into the mix. I also like the word "douche".

Sounds like I have something there. Except not really. Because most of those characteristics are the antithesis of marketable. Clients typically want freelancers to help them sell something. Of course, I could always sell my writing as entertainment that may adhere to a certain style and reader demographic. It's plausible. But again, narrow. Like the little garage attached to my condo that resembles a straight man's prostate-exam-phobic anus.

I have so much to figure out.

And I haven't even mentioned the additionally complex angle of potentially bringing a hell spawn into the world, which, if all goes well, Bear and I would like to do before our genitals wrinkle and start spending afternoons at the Legion sharing stories about their failing functions.

I know in my heart that I need to tell my neurotic mind to be quiet. Like in my high school math class when the goth girl who was upgrading told the Paris Hilton of the class to shut up or she would sodomize her with a rake. I need to commit myself to perseverance and approach these hurdles like a mind ninja and sink into faith and absorb it until it flows through my blood. I've realize that when it comes to following my passions, I do need your help (you meaning my friends, acquaintances, and anyone who reads my blog, for that matter), so I graciously ask you for any input you can offer me, whether it be the topics I write about that you most enjoy, what you enjoy the least, what you would like to see more of, what you would like to see less of, or any other feedback regarding marketing, niche, or possible angles that I may not have considered.

If there is one thing I've learned in my adult life, it is that I am not special. I am not talking about my personality, or worth, or MIND BLOWING cat whispering skills. What I mean is that I am not special in the sense that I am not safe from pain, or numbing disappointments, or failure, or the uncertainties of the universe.  I do not blindly deserve anything just because. And maybe if I had come out of my debtless, university years and immediately fell into a satisfying, status snazzy entry level position equip with open doors and a comfortable reassurance that I was special, I would now be a total douche bag with only a fraction of the life experiences I have under my belt. In other words, my adult life, thus far, has been extremely humbling, and at the end of the day, it's the awkward challenges that I continue to navigate that have not only made me a more interesting, dynamic person, but a better one, too.

Detoxing From 31DBB Challenge: Part I

So I didn't complete Feel Good Week 2010. I have been too busy experiencing my 100th relapse into quarter-life crisis.

And all I can muster the energy to do is eat gummy sours and watch HGTV.

I blame the Sits Girls 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge, which wrapped up last week and left me with an uncomfortable case of creative constipation.

And a temporary sense of doom.

The challenge was based on a really positive premise: complete the 31 Day Better Blogger work book within a community of women with a focus on networking and supporting each other's blogs. It sounded really great, and for many women it was really great. Unfortunately the sign-up page should have noted to proceed with caution if you are not a stay-at-home mommy. Or Tipper Gore.

Here is some back story.

I am a frustrated writer-- a true, rebellious creative type, with a job-market unfriendly arts degree and numerous years under my belt working the graveyard shift at my glorified retail warehouse job.  In retrospect, my education has made me a better writer, and my job is perfect for writing, and for those things I am grateful. Nonetheless, I don't exactly feel like I have reached my potential.

A few years back, after half a decade of failed attempts to score a professional career, I also abandoned the notion of getting more practical education, mostly because I couldn't clearly decipher an area I would excel in that would require low-committal upgrading and would be a positive, financial alternative to my current work situation. So I took it as a sign and decided that I would pursue my passion, which is something that has always played a dominant role in my life, anyway, and that passion is writing.

At this point I had already done casual freelance work for local newspapers, and I had no idealisms regarding a legit writing career. Writing about shit you don't care about just for the sake of writing sucks geriatric elephant balls. And you can't even write things like "geriatric elephant balls". WHAT'S THE POINT? I knew I would be happier putting energy into my own writing, even if it were only as a hobby, instead of writing piece after piece of mindless dribble for a wage that is on par with a monthly welfare cheque. Bottomline, I discovered that my desire to write is based on expressing myself through written word, not simply the act of writing itself.

Since I had already been blogging for years, I made the decision to treat blogging with more seriousness and to learn whatever I could in hopes that maybe someday I could use my blog as an entrepreneurial starting point for making money through my writing. The Sits Girls 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge was a huge learning experience for me, and strangely, the work book took a back seat to the lessons I learned from participating within the community. Unfortunately, the lessons I learned sucked.

When it comes to the blogosphere, networking is everything. And networking is largely dependent on belonging to a niche. The ability to network within a niche is also key to scoring advertisers and actually making money.

What's your niche?

Good question.

It became apparent to me that the majority of the women in this challenge had blogs based on pretty narrow, stereotypically feminine niches: motherhood, parenting, cooking, organization, crafting, home decor, fitness, nutrition, fertility, infertility, house wifery, etc., and the fuel behind their momentum were each other. Due to this challenge, my Twitter account has become Female Domestication Cyber-Hell, and I have about 250 people I need to delete before I can free my account of tweets marketed towards 1950s housewives and resume reading communications that are actually relevant to me. Those of us whose blogs did not adhere to specific, stereotypically feminine topics were left floundering on the forum posting threads like, "Help! I can't figure out what niche I belong to!"

It has been hard to accept the now obvious reality that successful blogging isn't based on attributes like quality, originality, or even interesting writing. Just like the real world, selling a blog has more to do with whoring a commodity or commodifiable lifestyle, or ideally to do both in conjunction. However, what has truly disturbed me is what is commodifiable among these women in the blogosphere, which is predominantly house wifery.

Unfortunately, I've been putting a lot of weight on this blogging stuff. And I've gone from feeling like I was ascending up a very steep hill in a wheelchair to battling Mount Everest without legs. While riding a skate board. And at this point, I don't have a plan B.

Over the next week I will be discussing my detox from the 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge in more detail with Part II: Overcoming the Urge to Douche My Vagina, and Part III: Life After Rehab.

My First Spiritual Cleansing With an Aura Ninja

A few weeks ago Mom got her aura read at a neighborhood party.

The Reiki master, AKA Aura Ninja, came back last week to administer another healing, and my Mom was like, Oh My God, WANT TO? I was like, Oh My God, YES.

So I got up early before work to go with Mom for a spiritual rub down. We walked into my mom's friend's yard and was greeted by her kids, four canines. The friend's husband warned me that the German Shepherd had been abused, so I was cautious as I tried to slip by him. But of course my mother, the dog whore, had to pet them all, and rub them behind their ears, and talk to them in her retarded dog voice, which is simply a more mature version of my retarded cat voice, and while I awkwardly lingered and waited for her to pull it together, I felt the German Shepherd's nose ascend up my ass.

Do I need to remind you why I am a cat person?

You will all be comforted in knowing that my womanly schedule has resumed its normalcy back to a 28 day cycle. LOOK HOW INTIMATE WE'VE BECOME. So when Patches, the German Shepherd, had his nose up my ass, all I could think about was that Pop Up Video for Madonna's Like a Virgin that included some factoid about Madonna being asked if she was menstruating before she shot the scene with the lion because lions are attracted to the scent of blood and have a high likelihood of eating menstruating women.

I anxiously anticipated being mauled by Patches, but instead the husband scolded him for his intimate explorations and he withdrew. You know what's worse than having a dog's snout journey up your personal atmosphere? Having other people publicly notice.

When it was my turn to have my reading done, I followed the Aura Ninja, a petite, pleasant man who wore a hippie shirt, into the back room of the house. Two of the dogs followed me. Naturally. Always popular in all the wrong ways. I laid on the rub down table and the Aura Ninja tried to gently shoo my fan club out of the room, causing the alpha dog to whine in detest.

He shut the door and comforted me by telling me that he would not be touching me -- not like the shady chiropractor with the office on 32nd street who stroked my face and told me I was pretty, and then had me put on a gown and contort my legs into pornographic positions as he pretended not to stare at my vaj-j through my lace panties. Or the manager at my work who grabbed my head while I was on my knees and humped it in front of my seventeen year old co-worker and then got fired. No, he would just be moving his hands above my body, conducting positive energy flow.

"Do you know how to ground yourself?"

I said no. He said he'd do it for me.

I tried my best to go to my happy place, a room of white overlooking the ocean with open windows and soft linens. A desk. A pen. A stack of crisp paper.

The Aura Ninja's tummy gurgled. I began to think about farts, the ones you don't let out and then they pop and groan inside your intestines. I wondered if he had to fart. Maybe he had to fart and it was giving him a tummy ache, and here he was trying to fill a room full of suburban jerks with positive light (at no charge) and all he wanted to do was let a good one rip. "It's okay if you need to fart," I wanted to say. "My boyfriend does it in front of me all the time." But that's the type of thought I only verbalize when I am drunk, so I kept my mouth shut.

I was wowed by how fast the Aura Ninja got into the zone. Anyone who knows anything about meditation knows that getting into the zone is not an easy feat. I don't think I have ever successfully gotten there by conscious choice. Aura Ninja's breathing changed as he began the spiritual rub down at my feet.

My college boyfriend poses in a banana hammock to demonstrate the multi layers of his aura.

I reminded myself to focus. I shot back to my happy place and closed my eyes. Take my negative energy, I thought to myself, take it, Ninja.

When he got to my abdomen, his breathing became more tired. He moved his hand over my uterus in a fast motion, as if trying to clean three month old marker off of a white board. He had found my period. I wondered if my low iron was making him feel spiritually fatigued. Is he experiencing menstrual cramping? Oh God, the poor guy already has to fart. I started to feel bad.

Right. Focus. I was struggling. I thought about all the negative energy I had stored inside of my body escaping and floating up towards the ceiling. I was trying.  

After enjoying a relaxing swim at the local pool, two women compare the auras shining from their lady parts.

As he made his way up towards my head, he heaved and sighed as if dragging a 500 lbs boulder up a hill. I wondered if this was normal or if I had a high maintenance aura. Once again, he vigorously rubbed as if working a knot out of my brain. By this point I could feel the energy from his hands. Now, just so my Atheist, science devoted, University of Saskatchewan friends know, I am not saying that I could feel the rub n' tug of God, or that I was absorbing some sort of supernatural power from the heavens. So calm down. All I am saying is that I could sense his bodily energy, which felt like certain parts of my body were being weighted under pressure, somewhat resembling the sensation of water pressure.

When he was done he stood back and said, "wow!"

"What is it?!"

"Boy, is there ever a lot going on inside your head."

I laughed. "I know."

"You're constantly thinking and analyzing everything. I haven't experienced someone who thinks as much as you do in months."

"That doesn't surprise me." I told him that I am a writer but refrained from telling him that I am a sociology grad who is constantly creating and critiquing thesis ideas in my head-- I didn't want to scare him.

"That explains a lot. If you shut off your mind a bit and just be, your creativity will soar. You will do many great things."

I nodded. Over the past couple of years I've come to realize this, albeit in bits and pieces, and I've hinted towards it in past blog posts, but the line between writing and thought control is blurry. Sure, shutting off your mind as a visual artist is easy. But as a writer? I have yet to figure out how to do that.

"What are your thoughts on dreams?" I asked him.

"Well, sometimes our dreams offer us guidance when we are unable to consciously sort through issues on our own. Why do you ask? What have you been dreaming of?"

The week before I had dreamt about Satan watching me at a distance, the type of grotesque, demon creature that even horror movies can't create, and then there were the maggots and the flies. The day prior I had a horrible dream where I was sexually assaulted in a particularly humiliating way. I had an audience. They were laughing at me.

"Oh, nothing in particular," I responded. "But I have certain dreams that I perceive as guidance dreams, and I was just wondering if that was familiar to you."            

"Very much so."

"I do have some pretty disturbing dreams though." Cough. Cough.

"Disturbing dreams are nothing to be alarmed by. Some dreams come to us as a way to work through issues from past lives. You don't have much baggage from this life, but you have a lot of baggage from past lives."

Most rational people would be rolling their eyes, putting up walls, and thinking, holy shit, this guy dropped a lot of acid in the 70's, but his mystical, outer-limits-like comment reflected something that I've thought for a long time. There are reasons, but they're personal and I am probably already being scoffed at, so I will end the past life discussion there.

My mom had her aura rub down after I did, and when we were on our way home, I told her about my experience with the Aura Ninja.

"He said something about you to me, too. I asked him if I could tell you and he said yes."

"What did he say?"

"He asked me if you had a boyfriend and said to be careful."

My heart sank a little as I prepared to hear some sort of premonition about how my current relationship is doomed for heart ache, and then I'd have negative, psychic bullshit whispering, he's not the one, or you still suck at life, Lojo, you still suck at life, thus causing me inevitable mind fuck.

"Oh no," I said, "why did he ask?"

"He said he could feel a powerful energy coming from you and he thinks you're very fertile. So he said to be careful if you're not wanting a baby right now."

"I AM ON MY PERIOD. FIRST THE DOGS HAVE THEIR SNOUTS UP MY PRIVATES, THEN DUDE TRIES TO TWIDDLE AN IMAGINARY FIRE ABOVE MY UTERUS, AND NOW I AM SUPPOSEDLY IN TURBO BABY-MAKING MODE. CAN'T A WOMAN JUST HAVE HER PERIOD?"

My Mom laughed and agreed that possibly the uterine contractions I was experiencing-- the uterine contractions that were so gnarly that I was popping codeine every four hours-- was why he had sensed a surge of energy radiating from my lady parts.

Oh, life. It's just not as romantic as it is in the movies. Or new age spirituality. Nor is it as attractive.

And as for why he mentioned this to my mother and not me, who knows.

All in all, I greatly enjoyed the experience and I look forward to going back when my uterus isn't throwing dogs, Aura Ninjas, and energy from alter plains off course.

And I promise my male readers that I will not mention my period for at least three months. So let's chug a beer and bump chests.