does sex make the relationship or does the relationship make the sex?

antiquated (adj.) continued from, resembling, or adhering to the past; old-fashioned

ice queen - a woman who refuses sexual advances; frigid

I was listening to the radio last week when the discussion turned to relationships and sex…asking what comes first – the relationship or the sex. Sort of like the chicken and egg conundrum.

For those that know my antiquated views, know, for me sex has meaning, emotion and blah, blah, blah. I’m not into one night stands, drunken encounters and let’s just say at the end of the day…sex can’t just be willy nilly. For me, it is mutually exclusive with respecting myself…but I won’t bore you with my rhetoric.

For others sex is just an act with no real meaning…at least that is what I’m told. This notion leads me to believe that sex is a lot like spin class…take a few layers of clothes off, sweat a little, maybe feel light headed…all that’s left to do is take a lazy drag of that cigarette.

In university I may have been known as some what of an ice queen and that was fine by me (maybe that’s still how people perceive me – and at 32 years old – that’s a complete whatever). I did a good job of keeping my ice queen title until 4th year when a simple 5 second, completely public, interlude cost me my title.

Just to clarify, this guy wasn’t a stranger…he apparently had haboured some “attraction” towards me (whatever that means)…but those 5 second made it fair game for an invite to have “sex in the bushes.” Right then. Right there. Seriously? No, seriously?

So could sex in the bushes have led to a potential relationship?

At that point I’d rather just arm myself with rabbit the habit …why go through the effort of having to kick some guy out at 2 in the morning….that and I have free porn.

If sex does make the relationship, then how quickly do you have to hit it? Does the 3rd date rule still apply? Or in this day and age when it seems like the pool of eligible mates is fast drying up – do you have to test drive all that you can in hopes of a winner?

Here’s another thought – what happens when the intent was a relationship and the result was great sex but the problem is that you are no longer together. Is it okay to just keep the sex but lose the relationship? I have an acquaintance that a few years ago broke up with her BF via a text message no less. She lasted less then a week before she found herself texting him again asking if they could just keep the sex. Other then the obvious question this brings up, i.e., why are we texting him this kind of info, if the relationship didn’t make the sex and the sex didn’t make the relationship – then maybe sex is just an act.

However in my world, this is just a shade of gray that I have no interest in understanding. In case you haven’t figured it out - my answer is that the relationship makes the sex. It’s not about getting into bed quickly – just so you can rate the sexual chemistry…because your thought is why tolerate the relationship if the sex is bad. Chemistry isn’t always about instantaneous combustion – sometimes it is a work in progress. if the relationship is right – then there is no question that the sex will be great as well. In MY world we have,

Jack and Jill sitting in a tree,
T-A-L-K-I-N-G
1st comes getting to know each other
Then comes more getting to know each other more
Then comes the feel (and I don’t mean the cheap kind, if you don’t know what I mean then you may want a new relationship)

my metamorphosis…

serendipity (n) an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident, good fortune; luck

metamorphosis (n), a complete change of form, structure, or substance

…by the time it is all said and done – I will have made it a little over a year. Actually it will have been 13 months and 13 days to be exact. That equals out to about 408 days or 587,520 hours. I suppose that is a long time – but unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your outlook) it did not feel like a long time.

To be honest, I am not sure all that I did in those 408 days but I’m quite positive that I did plenty and I am happy I did the things that I did – even though for some reason I can’t remember all what I did other then be part of the unemployment statistic.

Fine I guess I could go out on a mental limb…I spent a quarter of that time or about 100+ days in India and I have some great and some not so great stories. For example,

• as a result of a car accident I ended up in a hospital where the dr. concluded that I did not have a concussion because I wasn’t paralyzed.
• i was essentially violated by two woman during an ayurvedic massage
• oh yes, there was the ‘fabulous’ 300km bike tour through Rajasthan, which by the way is a desert
• i was part of a state election campaign. This meant going door to door campaigning for the candidate (who was my aunt) by pretending I was her daughter. Apparently Indians are more inclined to vote for a candidate if they feel the candidate showed them some “personal” attention.
• i went to the pharmacy located in the hospital to buy medication….for the dog.
• i traveled by plane, train, automobiles, rickshaws, scooters, horse drawn buggies, bike, boat and the dreaded camel
• and the list does go on…

Anyhoo – I also traveled to Cuba, to San Francisco and few other places. I got leaner but not meaner. I got myself a mangetar. And I suppose I exorcised some demons, got some perspective and I did that wishy washy thing of finding myself.

All of that has now come to an end - I wasn’t even looking for a change but sometimes it is just serendipity…which means I now have a job.

Now, I can no longer go to the gym leisurely at 8am and spend hours there, I can’t watch back to back episodes of ER in the morning, or keep abreast of General Hospital or even find out what Dr. Oz had to say on Oprah. I can no longer visit Michaels (that would the Arts and Crafts store) every Friday afternoon (and I thank all of the people who continuously passed along their coupons my way) and more importantly – it is the end of ghetto lunches.

I have been my own boss for so long that my biggest supporter sleeps on my left side and my biggest critic snores peacefully on the right. I was pretty content with the situation but all good things must come to an end so I grabbed my pillow and prepared myself to jump into bed with someone else.

For those that remember – I had defined my “ ZOPA” last year, which resulted in me leaving my job. I had said that my previous employer had lost out on me and I had won because I was about to embark on this journey – that no job could equal. And I was right and I can’t help but be a little smug.

Just to keep life interesting, my new employer was once a client/competitor of my old employer. From the rumours that I have heard – that relationship ended on a sour note and there are still a few residual effects of that. As a side note, I was very honest with the people who had agreed to be my references in letting them know which company I intended to work for. However, I was naïve in thinking that all of my trusted people who had chosen to help me – would in fact help me. Unfortunately, someone did have a problem with the company I was associating with and chose not to support me. I just fail to understand is why. After all isn’t a reference - a character endorsement of ME and not a reflection of an industry rivalry that may continue for years? It never ceases to amaze me what you can learn about people.

In any case, I am now officially employed and not only was I hired by them but they created a position for me…CREATED. Whether they hired me for all of the secret information that I possess (wow I could just be like chuck bartowski) or because they feel I could actually be an asset to their mgmt team is irrelevant – the fact is my old employer lost out and this is why I can’t help but be a little smug.

So now I have to answer to someone else. I’ll have to deal with people I may not like since I can no longer just turn around and walk away (which is quite a fabulous thing to be able to do). I’ll have to pay taxes. I’ll have to do all of the things that I guess we have to do in life…but this time it’s on my terms...well more or less :)

The sad part is that one day of employment has quickly erased 13 months and 13 days of unemployment – overall I may be in a better place but I’m right back into the dreaded routine. But there is good news – I have located a Michaels nearby ….only 0.98miles away…get the coupons ready…

i am not the biggest loser….

fat (adj.) - having too much flabby tissue; corpulent; obese; plump; well-fed

rationale (noun) - the fundamental reason or reasons serving to account for something

…I wasn’t even close. I was about 12 lbs away from being the biggest loser. 12 lbs. That’s 12 sticks of butter - imagine that. No really imagine that -12 sticks of butter.

I have spent the last 8 weeks and over $300 being part of The Biggest Loser at my local gym. It’s similar to the T.V. show just without the big weight scale and the commercial breaks.

I have spent more hours in the gym then I care to admit, I have spent time logging every single morsel of food that goes into my mouth so I can keep track of my caloric intake. I have spent a lot of time running on the treadmill, the elliptical machine, the bike, the stair master, the arc trainer and the damned rowing machine, which gave me calluses beyond belief. And I have spent a lot of time being tired.

The last eight weeks have certainly been hard - a lot harder then downing that junior whopper burger with extra pickles, poutine and a coke.

I have always loved weight loss stories. I love watching them and I love reading them. I can sit and cheer-on these people who I have never met but am buoyed by their stories. Maybe I love them because I can relate to them – although I always think that if I am watching a successful weight loss story on TV – then there’s got to be more to it then meets the eye. There has got to be a conspiracy by the network and that’s why the person has lost weight – clearly the person could not have done it on their own.

I know there are people out there who can’t understand the concept of being FAT. I mean why don’t all of us FAT people just stop eating so much – why don’t we just put down the damn fork? And it should be that easy but instead over the years, we’ve made our real (or perhaps no so real) emotional and mental issues the rationale as to why we’re FAT (thanks Oprah).

It is not all Oprah’s fault, after all there is always an excuse for not trying to lose the weight. I am busy. I am tired. I have a headache, I have no time. I have to work. I have to look after my children. I have to eat that tub of ice cream because it is there. I have to do my laundry. Actually I have no clothes to wear to the gym so I can’t go. It’s never going to work so why bother. I’ve lost 2lbs in 4 weeks – why bother. I’ll start on Monday. I’ll start next week. I’ll start on the 1st of the month. I’ll start January 1st.

The point is, I did the hard work but even when I was doing the hard work I really didn’t think it was going to work - at least not without heroic measures. Remember I have a lifetime of learnt behaviour and 8 weeks wasn’t going to change that. It is probably the hardest work I’ve done in a long time and the reality is there is no other way. At the end of the day I’m 15.6lbs lighter, there’s 20cm less of me and I have a BMI of overweight instead of obese. Sadly enough, that still doesn’t make me a believer.

excuse me ma’am, have you seen my fertility?

antediluvian (adj.) - very old, old-fashioned, or out of date; antiquated; primitive

mental (adj.) - pertaining to intellectuals or intellectual activity

Have you ever noticed that most rights of passages can only be only attained after passing a test of sorts?

- We are graded right from junior kindergarten (yes, Tommy exhibits exceptional art skills with his finger painting) all the way to high school (unfortunately. we have had to suspend Tommy because graffiti is not part of this curriculum)
- Some of us are then tested for four years in University just so we can obtain another coveted (?) pretty piece of paper (I think mine is in the basement)
- We are now tested several times in order to drive on the highway (back in the day – there was only one test to pass…you either did or you didn’t)
- You even have to take a test and answer questions about Canadian history in order to become a Canadian citizen (albeit you can take this test in several languages (other then English and French) which is beyond me because I can’t remember the last time I had to vote and the ballot was in Punjabi unless perhaps you live in Brampton…but I won’t even get started on that)

Now don’t get me wrong, I do believe that these and all the other plethora of tests are needed but what I fail to understand and what gets me slightly enraged is wondering why there are no tests that women/parents have to go through before they can have a baby and just to be clear I am not talking about a medical test to ensure the safety of mom/baby.

I am talking about a series of tests that women should have to go through just like their adoptive counterparts. Individuals wanting to adopt a child have their lives (and bank accounts) turned upside down - yet no questions are asked of women who can conceive…a psychological evaluation, pay stubs, a SIN number, reference checks – something, anything other then – well I have an ovary or two therefore I am a good candidate or better yet – it is the next thing to check off on my “life’s to do” list.

I am speaking specifically about those people who can perhaps materially provide for their children but other then that they’ve got nothin’ to offer…nada, zero. Just because you are in a perfect union (or not) with an income that allows you to support a child DOES NOT mean you should have a child. Be honest – we all know someone who has a child and we always walk away wondering why…

This goes out to those parents who don’t understand that the problem is not their children - the problem is the parents themselves and their own behaviour. When little Mary is running around the coffee shop licking the pastry display cases – this would be time to perhaps get off your ass and try something new – like stopping her vs. shaking your head and hoping she will grow out of it while you continue with your coffee. Or maybe your “me” time will have to suffer because using the TV as a babysitter – just doesn’t work. Again I fail to understand that if you have one child and realize that there is something amiss (let’s suppose little Johnny has the propensity to kick and scream at you…everyday) then perhaps you should think before having child number 2 but instead you have child number 3 AND 4. It is just unacceptable. If you don’t think these are your children – check out Nanny 911 – you may be surprised what similarities you find.

I know I know – life is a bitch and there are those that are less fortunate then others and are unable to provide certain things for their children. But I am not talking about material items – I am talking about nurturing your children, which perhaps naively in my mind has nothing to do with your background, culture, economic status, social status and any other excuse you want to use – because that is what it is - an excuse.

While a child may be a product of their environment they are more so a reflection of their parents.

Just to state the obvious – yes, I do think that I am the perfect parent. Why am I the perfect parent? Because I don’t have any children. So yes, I may not know the dilemmas that parents go through to raise children, but I was once a child and I know what was acceptable and what wasn’t – and that was because of my parents. It wasn’t because of some TV program and it wasn’t because my parents thought ‘freedom of expression’ was a better mantra then discipline. We’re talking about 4 year olds not 40 year olds.

So I have an easy solution to this debacle - a woman’s fertility should be kept under lock and key until she passes some sort of test and once successfully passed – then and only can they take their eggs with them. Brilliant isn’t it? Yes I thought so too.

Think of it as a library – once you have passed the requisite tests and have your fertility approval card, you can locate your eggs via the dewy decimal system, proceed to the self checkout (which naturally has a fingerprint verification system) - swipe them through – and off you are to fabulous parent hood.

To all the feminists out there who are thinking this is an inventive antediluvian plot to jolt womankind back to the days where we didn’t have the right to vote – fear not because that is not the intent. Although as a side note – 42% of Canada’s population is made up females aged 15+, in the last Canadian election approximately 40% of the entire population voted – I wonder how many women voted? I don’t have the time or the mathematical inclination to sort that out – but what I do know is 100% of all eligible women did not vote but the more important question is why do we have to be 18 in order to vote yet I can be a baby mommy when I am 15. Deep breath.

Anyways, as I was saying - having a child is not your “right” - it is a privilege. Yes it is your body but if you don’t have the mental capacity to raise a child – then you shouldn’t. We do not have the right to take our own life in the name of medical necessity thereby denying ourselves the self respect we deserve at death – yet we can procreate at any time, age, place – whatever wherever. Think of how ridiculous that is - just imagine - you are terminally ill and withering away and the only thing “it’s my body and I can do what I want” will warrant you – is a baby.

So excuse me ma’am, have you seen my fertility because…

I cannot find it in my box,
I cannot find it among his rocks
I cannot find it here or there.
I cannot find them anywhere.
I do not see it in my house
I do not see it with my spouse
I cannot find it here or there
I cannot find it anywhere

…and that may not be such a bad thing.

sometimes in life you should let the ice cream truck pass you by….

facebook n. a publication for an organization, such as a school or business, which helps members identify each other; also, an online version of this, with profiles including a picture, name, birthdate, interests, etc.

….and that is what I wish I did when I got the invite to join Facebook. I really blame the whole thing on my curly haired recently engaged former work colleague who decided to send me the invite. But before I get fully embroiled in my rant I do have to point out that I was really surprised to find that there was actually a definition for Facebook in the dictionary dating back to 2004. And as a side note, the incredibility of the whole thing led me to see if “ FTLOG” was defined in the dictionary….and clearly the lesson I learned is - I should have had the word patented.

Okay back to Facebook, I was pretty hesitant about joining Facebook – not quite sure what it was but decided why not. Not one of my smarter decisions. So not only did I join but I pushed some magic button and all of my email contacts suddenly became my “friends” on Facebook. We think twice about entering our credit card information into a portal but think nothing of putting our name, birthday, address, phone number and place of employment on the web for anyone to see. Oh wait that information is restricted – well I’m sure that will keep the bad people out.

By the way - how do some people have over 100 friends?? I just don’t buy it. Is it a status thing? Oh no, I only have 10 friends, I better add my entire grade 3 class who I haven’t spoken to since 1983, that way I’ll have 15 more friends (class sizes were much smaller in the 80’s) and ohhhh let me start a group called “East York Ghettoland” that should get me a few more….hmmm I wonder where Tara is now – but I digress.

Anyhoo – I’ve been on Facebook since the beginning of April and have been pretty cautious; e.g., I have not displayed my high school or university name because really – if I haven’t kept in contact with you then chances are - well I don’t really want to. Although I have to admit – that isn’t quite true. Over the last few weeks I have been wavering in thinking that perhaps I should “poke” (Facebook lingo…you know how that it is)…anyways I should poke a few people that I wouldn’t mind hooking up with. But other then the obligatory “hey how have the last 15 years been?” what more is there to say?

So the point is – I became deranged and decided to add both my high school and university name to my profile. I mean - what the hell – what’s the worst that could happen?

Well at 11pm that night I found out. I see an email come in and I quickly go to log onto Facebook because god knows what important message could be waiting for me. Oh wait I am already logged onto Facebook (since I am slowly becoming an addict) so no need to sign in…great that saves me 5 seconds and brings me that much closer to the coveted email.

I read the email and I think WTF. It is from someone that I once knew and I use the term “knew” very very loosely. Let’s say - someone I used to drink with – why I have no idea, even then I had no idea why and I was perfectly content never speaking, seeing or hearing from him ever again. But is life ever that easy?

This guy can be nice but has the tendency to creep people out – just what one should look for in a drinking buddy. And that was probably because most of the time he was drunk and his beady little eyes were always slightly glazed over trying to focus but never quite making it there. Oh and he was always trying to bed my friend – yuck. I think he was generally harmless (can you believe I just said that) - but could one really be sure? My professional assessment would be that he is not as confident as he would have others to believe so he puts on this bravado – but the question is – how does this really affect me? I’m not here to rehabilitate him.

Anyways – I see the email come in, I read it and it gives me the heebie-jeebies. It reads:

Where is XXXXX....I still want to bang her, even after 10 years...

WTF. That email should make me run very fast in the other direction but the sad part is that I’m not sure I can give up Facebook or even if I want to give it up. So I am bound by a moral obligation to save the non-believers by saying fight the power and DO NOT succumb to Facebook - just because the creators were once a part of Harvard – that makes them smart – not us for joining.

I have nothing more to say other then I should have let this one go…but noooo now I have to go to a therapist in order to extract myself from the world of Facebook. Problem is that I have taken an early retirement – so who’s going to foot that bill? Wonder if I can find that old friend, you know the one who had some extra cash back in the day…hmmm I wonder if I can find him on Facebook….gotta go…

i’ve lost my mojo…

mojo n. self-confidence, self-assuredness. as in basis for belief in ones self in a situation.

….it’s not so much that I have lost it but more so that it has been misplaced – sort gone astray. After almost four months in India – all I have, other then no mojo, are two diametrically conflicting thoughts:

- Am I an Indian woman in India?
Or
- Just another tourist, who happens to have a vagina, traveling through the spiritual land?

Actually if I wanted to I could also add to the mystery by asking - am I a CBI (Canadian born Indian), POI (person of Indian origin) or a NRI (non-resident Indian)…but why get into such details.

After much soul-searching – I’ve realized that there is simply no answer. I am Canadian by birth but my culture, religion and family values are upheld by my Indian roots and the only way I can see to reconcile the two, in India, is to simply get myself a strap-on penis.

Laugh all you want, but I truly believe that the answer too many of my problems in India would be solved by a strap-on penis. At least if I had one, it would not matter if I were an Indian woman or a female tourist because if I “accidentally” made eye contact with a man – he would not have to wonder if a) if I was a prostitute (because the only Indian women who would even consider making eye contact with a ghar mard (strange man) would be a prostitute) or b) if I was just another easy woman from the west (because apparently all women from the West are easy… take a look at porn…how many times have you seem an Indian woman moaning in “ecstasy” on screen).

If I had a penis I would be able to urinate in any public place – be it on a busy street corner in Delhi, on a random tree, against a wall and generally anywhere. And until you’ve seen a women’s public washroom in India – you don’t know how liberating that would be.

Can you even believe that to be allowed to climb a tower in one of India’s most well known mosques – I need a penis? It’s not that the mosque is being “sexist” but in order to keep my vagina safe – they insist on it being accompanied by a penis.

If I had a penis, there would be a 0% probability for me to be part of the current statistic which states 10 million female fetuses have been aborted in the last 20 years…and that’s only what is “reported”

If I had a penis, I as a female, wouldn’t have to feel second class

Correction - if I had a penis, I as a female, would not be second class.

Essentially if I had a penis in India – well, I would be God.

I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that MY vagina is not equivalent to a penis. As I righteously give hail to my vagina and blame a country for my missing mojo – I realize that the mistake I’ve made is to equate the inequality I see before me as being specific to India, when in reality it does exist all around us – just in varying degrees. Wasn’t there a time in the 70’s when women were all about bearing and burning? Now we have articles about Hillary Clinton and her “one-way trip to the sexual scrap-heap…with a fast rusting vagina.”

Clearly I am the only one that can reclaim my mojo – so to ensure that it doesn’t disappear altogether – I have decided that I am a…Canadian born, person of Indian origin who is a not residing in India - doing the tourist thing while traveling through the spiritual land and most importantly of all – a proud owner of a vagina

There - that should do well for my mojo…that and I have no idea where to find a strap-on penis in the homeland.