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Wild Muse – Stevie Nicks

“Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?

Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?”

~ Stevie Nicks, Landslide

***

My bio on my About page starts off with this line:

“The only child of Stevie Nicks + Han Solo, I am gutsy, unconventional and fumbling towards ecstasy.”

That pretty much sums me up.

For my 49th birthday in September my #girlgang got together and gave me tickets to see Stevie on Dec 9th. I was speechless at first, and then promptly burst into tears and cried the ugly cry.

It took three months for me to decide what to wear to her concert. I have been channeling her for so long I was having trouble pulling the right outfit from a Stevie inspired wardrobe. I actually considered writing her tour manager to see if they could arrange it so *I* had time to change between songs.

It started to snow really hard that day so that was an annoying consideration, but I ended up in skinny black jeans, pointed toe suede boots, a black silk top, a cropped velvet kimono, my silver rock n roll necklace, and the most outrageous white faux fur coat there ever was. I was so ME that night.

Fitting because that was the night I got to meet the woman who helped me become me.

Metaphorically of course.

If I had literally met Stevie I would spontaneously combust and would not be here writing this letter.

I love her that much.

Today, May 26 2017, is her 69th birthday and I want to tell you why she is a Hall of Fame Wild Muse.

The first memory I have of her I was 10 years old. Sitting on the floor in our family room watching tv. My dad always had control of the remote and he flipped past a show and there was Stevie.

It was 1977 and Rumours had just come out so I had heard Fleetwood Mac on the radio but had never SEEN her. He stopped to watch it and I was hooked. Smitten. DONE.

There she was. All magic and witchy. Blond hair curling in the weirdest way. And that voice……

Holy fuck. Her voice. It reaches a place inside of me that always seems empty and her words never fail to fill me up.

I wanted to be her so badly.

I wanted to be famous.
I wanted to be able to sing.
I wanted to have powerful love affairs and I wanted to write about them.
I wanted to wear fringe.
I wanted to wear all black.
I wanted to be draped in velvet.
I wanted to get high and live to tell about it.
I wanted to be a witch.
I wanted to be free.

Stevie lives in me.

As most wild muses do.

She lives in a place that there are no words for.

A place of magic and wonder and going your own way that are things that I will always pay attention to in my life.

When she was on stage that snowy night in December I was in awe.
I was in tears.
I was with 3 of my best friends.
I was in an altered state in my velvet and suede and fur, wrapped in her voice.

It was fucking MAGIC.

I remember her leaving the stage and me clutching Niki’s arm and asking “is she changing”?  And then jumping up and yelling because she came out in a shawl and told a story about it and why she wears them.

I know I listened to her stories but I was in another dimension and 6 months later it has yet to surface. Actually it took 6 months to even write about that show at all.

Happy Birthday Stevie.

I WILL love you forever and if you want to adopt me I am 100% open to that.

You remind me that I am made of magic and I can make my own rules.
You remind me that clothes can tell your story.
You remind me that it is never too late to do what I want to do.
You remind me that I can be that rock n roll woman I always wanted to be.

There is a song by Buffalo Springfield called ‘Rock ‘n’ Roll Woman,’ and the first time I heard it, I was like, That’s me. That’s who I’m going to be. I remember walking through a room, going, ‘Do you know who I am?’ It’s like, the Red Sea is definitely going to part here. My mom used to always say, ‘You paint the picture and it will happen.’ I believe that if you close your eyes and see yourself up on that stage, being bigger than life, you become that person with that big, really good attitude. You’re gonna be that rock ‘n’ roll woman that’s gonna make people happy and take them out of their miserable lives for two hours . . . and they’re going to want your music. And then, girls . . . at 66 years old, you can be starting a year-and-a-half tour that sold out its U.S. dates — in the first week.” ~ Stevie Nicks

I hope to see you in Kentucky with Misty at the end of September. Right after I turn 50. I will pack my shawls…

Sisters of the moon forever, and forever my hall of fame Wild Muse.

Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.

Wild heart. Tender soul.

“Such wounds to the heart will probably never heal.
But we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever.
We must stand up and move onto the next action.”

~ Haruki Murakami

****

I tell my truth.

As you have probably gathered if you read my Sunday Sin love letters, or connect with me on social media.

I keep many things private but I do tell the stories that need telling after I have made my way out. Because if I am going through something the chances are high someone else is too, so I figure the more you know the better off you are.

When we know that other people share our experiences it is communion.

And confession.

And absolution.

In the past few months I have learned a lot about myself.

There are corners of my being that have never seen the light that are suddenly lit up like an interrogation room.

One bare super bright bulb shining directly over my feelings as they are being mercilessly drilled with question after question. No matter how much torture I inflict on these shadowy bits I can’t get to confession. Let alone absolution.

Sometimes you can do all the work in the world on yourself and things will still fuck you up.

I had a situation last week where the fuckery in my brain was taking over and I was starting to fall.

My heart was involved, and so was my vagina, and those two together are guaranteed to lead me down the road to crazy town.

For most of my life I felt like I was the consolation prize. My brother was the golden child and while I was wanted, and very much loved, there have always been different rules for us.

This extends outwards into relationships beyond my sibling one, and there are a thousand stories, and piles and piles of evidence to support this belief about second place.

I can usually talk myself out of it before it gets a hold of me, but last week, not so much.

I could actually SEE myself about to sabotage something I have been actively coveting.

Something I really, really wanted. So I drove my friends nuts yammering on about it trying to sort it out, and at just the right time (because timing is everything) I ended up talking to my brilliant friend Matthew and said “I need help. I am going to fuck this entire thing up.

I filled him in on all the micro details and he gave me three very important pieces of wisdom that have changed me forever.

First I told him how I was struggling. How nothing I did was making this better.

And he said “This is where it happens. The struggle and the work. Not the only place of course but your willingness to proceed in the face of such improbability is no small thing.

Cue my first deep breath in a week.

Then I told him how I was falling. Spiraling. Going down deep. Well on my way to crazy town.

And he said “Perhaps you are ascending, or stepping into, or climbing, rather than falling.

My shoulders that have lived around my ears for a week started to drop.

Then I told him how I didn’t want to be second in this thing I was dealing with. I said because it means I don’t measure up. Ever. No matter how hard I try.

And he said “Right. But you ARE second. And second doesn’t mean less. It means…second. It doesn’t mean you are not enough or you won’t measure up, it just means next. Second is just NEXT.”

And I started to cry.

Language can do funny things to us.
Reframing the language can save us.

The struggle is because I am willing to risk my wild heart and tender soul. Every time. No matter what.

He said “May it break. May it never heal. May it break again.

I am not falling. I am climbing.

He said “There is more to climb. Continue to get wrecked and ramshackled by this.

Second is not less than. It is what is next. I am next.

He said “Honour the first. There are more behind you and many more than the ‘first.’ It’s glorious.”

My own interrogation of feelings led to nothing.

Confessing those feelings to someone who cared led to absolution in 15 minutes.

One of my core values is community. There is absolute fucking magic in community and I know I sound like a broken record because I say that ALL THE TIME.

But I refuse to believe that we are meant to do this thing called life alone.

We need each other as we fumble towards ecstasy trying to shake off all the shit that weighs us down.

We need witness.
We need love.
We need blunt honest truth.

We need a girl gang (and some very good men) to say don’t fuck this up. You want this.

And then we need to listen and get the fuck out of our own way so we can allow for more.

Sometimes, it is as easy as that.

Tell your truth.
Listen to those you trust.
Get out of your own way.
Allow for more.

Communion. Confession. Absolution.

I can’t tell you any more details because the details are not mine to tell. Not yet anyway. Maybe not ever. I am really not sure what will come of all this new knowledge.

But I am sure of this…

“I’m not single, I’m next.”

Take me to church.

Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.

Bastard Saints

“Music has always been a matter of Energy to me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel. I have always needed Fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio.”

~ Hunter S. Thompson

****
I posted the above quote on my friend Fabeku’s facebook wall today and we had a great convo about how both of us would not hesitate to go on a spontaneous road trip with Hunter S Thompson, even though it would probably result in our death.

Both of us had probably very different reasons for wanting this. *ahem*

The fab Aidan Wachter (maker of magic and a good guy) jumped into our roadtripping conversation saying “Agreed on all of this. One of the Bastard Saints.”

One of the Bastard Saints.

Holy fuck.
That made my nipples hard.

Aidan just coined a term I have been looking for most of my life.

Bastard Saint is what I have ALWAYS been attracted to when it comes to men.

Fictional or otherwise.

All of the men I have ever dated have a Bastard Saint quality to them.

All of the men that get me high have a Bastard Saint quality to them.

Han Solo.
Hunter S. Thompson.
Charles Bukowski.
David Duchovny as Hank Moody.
Ryan Hurst as Opie on Sons of Anarchy.
Jon Hamm as Don Draper

Basically most of the men I wrote about in this old spring crush blog. (I should make this an annual thing)

Seriously it would be a no brainer. I would call shotgun in a millisecond if I was offered the opportunity to get in a car with these dudes. Their words, and ways, kill me slowly so why not go all in?

I am soooooo an “all in” kind of gal.

I am intense and full of muchness and I want what I want, and I love what I love. Without apology. So “all in” is really all I know how to be and truthfully it’s one of the things I love most about myself.

When I decide I want something it usually stays wanted.

I have always been loyal to what I love and this loyalty mostly works in my favour and sometimes, not often, to my detriment. But I digress…

I love these kind of men.

I love that deep down they are probably (trying) to be good guys.

I love that they are fucked up beautiful messes who live and love and fuck and want and try and fail and don’t care and do care and keep going.

I love that they are – as Fabeku aptly called them – renegades.

Bastard Saints.

I one hundred percent believe that every girl loves a bad boy.

I know I do.

I am attracted to anything with an edge.
I love a shady past.
I love a man with stories.

I am at a point in my life where I want a really good man but honestly, I want him to have a smidgen of dirtbag left in him.

Not the type of dirtbag that means he will cheat, or lie, or not take me seriously.

The OTHER kind like:

The ability to throw down.
Bawdy, flirty, naughty humour.
A great ride like a Harley or a truck.
Great tattoos.
Words that make me wet.
Simple and completely sure of who he is.
Laid back, easy going, but knows what comes first and what is important to him.
Sex, love and rock ‘n roll culture. (you can leave the drugs, been there, done that, never again.)

I want just enough dirtbag left in him that I know if anything hurt me he would not hesitate to murder them.

I want just enough dirtbag in him that my nether regions quiver when I think of him.

I want just enough dirtbag in him that he leaves me spent but craving more.

I want just enough dirtbag in him that I would gladly call shotgun for any spontaneous road trip.

I want just enough dirtbag in him that I can trust him even though he fits the category of Bastard Saint.

Because he and I together, would be sexy AF.

Bastard Saint.

My kind of fella.

I may have met such a beast. And as Misty loves to say “a man like that will ruin me.

In the best fucking way possible.

But that story is for another sunday.

‘Til then…

“I’m not single, I’m lying in bed reading Bukowski and smiling about him.”

Take me to church.

Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.

Dress for the life you want.

“I want to do with you what spring does to the cherry trees.”

~ Pablo Neruda

****

I broke up a few months ago and here we are mid April and I haven’t seen the sun in years.

I feel damp and mouldy right through to my bone marrow. Ayurvedically (is that a word?) I don’t think I suit this climate.

I took a selfie the other day that made me realize I have been gathering the wardrobe for a life lived on a tropical island. Or a retirement community in South Florida.

Depends how you look at it. Also, I am only 49.

Remember that old saying about dressing for the job you want.
I am dressing for the life I want.

I own 28 pairs of open toe shoes. Sandals, platforms, flip flops.
None of which I can wear 8 months out of the year.

I have discovered I hate boots. And socks. And out of the 4 pairs I own I basically lived in trainers all winter and didn’t wear them at all.

All my clothes are sheer and flowy and perfect for bathing suit cover ups, mindless wandering, and warm summer evenings drinking gin and tonics on a patio while watching the sun set.

Most of them are also black but I don’t care. I wear black year round and no 32 degree sunny weather will stop that.

I must move.

I have lots of linen and silk and the thinnest softest cotton imaginable. Big sunglasses and caftans and kimonos.

Obviously I will keep my velvet because I hear in some places it gets cold at night, and I will keep my fabulous winter coats for when I come back to visit everybody. Yes. I have gorgeous winter coats and no rubber boots because I am insane.

I miss having a tan. God I look so much better with a tan. Right now my skin is the colour of mashed potatoes. Lumpy mashed potatoes.

I am fading into the walls.

Clearly my new island life will include travel. So when I am not touring with the girl gang, or doing Adorn sessions, or writing my best selling book I’ll visit Vegas to shop vintage and people watch and hit the all you can eat buffet in sneakers and cropped pants and a sweatshirt. With full makeup and lots of diamonds.

Then I will go to Palm Springs where I will hang by the pool in giant floral Balenciaga inspired caftans and obnoxiously large sunglasses. I will be a lady who lunches in this outfit.

I will rent an airstream and drive through the southern US and in New Orleans I will wear my most vintage and magical kimono with cut offs and a tank top and I will reclaim my magic.

I apologized to my man at brunch yesterday for bitching about the weather. I said I don’t bitch about the weather but all I do lately is bitch about the weather. The jury is still out whether there will be another date because, again, I am insane.

I used to be so fed by Vancouver.

Now it just makes me hungry.

Hungry for more.
Hungry for different.
Hungry for cash flow.
Hungry for simple.
Hungry for sun.

I love this city.

For the first time in 22 years I don’t think it loves me back.

I have been working towards a location independent business. It still seems soooooo far away though. I have my job at the vintage store. I love my job at the vintage store.

I wish I didn’t NEED my job at the vintage store.

I want more.

Pink skies. The sound of waves. Big floppy hats. Afternoon delights. Hot hot heat. And living mostly naked but for the softest fabric on my skin.

Len will come with me and I will buy him a little cat sized portable fan in case he gets hot.

So I will do what I always do. Dream big and out loud. Work hard MY way to build up my business. Up my self care. Keep the faith. Love hard. Covet.

And build my talismanic wardrobe around the sunny life I want, not the rainy life I am living. I have 4 outfits to get me through 8 months of winter. That’s enough right?

It’s raining as I write this and I have the heat on. Oy.

‘Til then…

“I’m not single, I’m looking at islands for sale in the Caribbean.”

Take me to church.

Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.

The girl gang.

“She longed for porch friendship, for the sticky,
hot sensation of familiar female legs thrown over hers in companionship.
She pined for the girliness of it all, the unplanned, improvisational laziness.
She wanted to soak the words ‘time management’ out of her lexicon.

She wanted to hand over, to yield,
to let herself float down the unchartered beautiful fertile musky swamp of life, where creativity and eroticism and deep intelligence dwell.”

~ Rebecca Wells

I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of motorcycle gangs. I really love the idea that if you think that there is no one like you, and you don’t belong, you can join a gang and find your people.

I love everything a gang represents.
The patches.
The camaraderie.
The leather.

I love the late 60’s counterculture of freedom and non-conforming.
The sense of belonging.
The magic of community.
The outlaw attitude.
The fact that no matter where you are in the world there is always a chapter ready to welcome you.

I love it all except the fact that they are traditionally men only.

Which is why I have a girl gang.

Wicked, wild, hilarious and the most supportive chicks on the planet.
Bad ass, bold, and full of fucking magic.
Bombshell babes with wild hearts and tender souls.

We are like the Sons of Anarchy without the motorcycles, racism, and misogyny.

This girl gang is inclusive.

One of the VERY best things about the girl gang is the “girl hang.”  (a term coined by Misty)

A girl hang is just you and your chicas.

Talking about everything and nothing.

Caftans & Gin styles.

No agenda.
Lazy and on the move.
Quiet and loud.
Virtual and in person.

The delicious randomness of truth telling, wild musings, and pure acceptance.

Where else can you start every story with “this is not a good side of me but…” and have those revelations – those CONFESSIONS – met with love, grace and laughter?

Or an appropriate amount of rage.

If anyone is pissed off FOR you, and has your back, it is your girl gang.

“Start the car and bring a shovel. I will MURDER them.” 

The “girl hang” is life’s elixir.

We back you up, talk you up, talk you down, pour the drinks, make the tea, fix your bangs, hand you tissue, tackle you, spoon you, rub your back, laugh out loud, bring you soup, give you a smoke, take your phone away and tell you what you need to hear.

All truth. Only love.

We NEED each other in a world where people are so unkind to each other.

We NEED each other in a world where so many people feel all alone.

We NEED each other in a world where we think no one could possibly understand what we are going through.

We need witness.
We need love.
We need randomness.
We need magic.
We need laughter.

We need each other. 
A girl gang…to girl hang with.

Right now…

“I’m not single, I’ve got my girls.”

Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.

 

 

 

PS: Check out the Caftans & Gin Seven Sins Tour. It starts April 16. Get hot & holy with the girl gang. xo

I should be hanging from a charm bracelet

“Sometimes the easiest way to solve a problem
is to stop participating in the problem.”

~ Jonathan Mead

In one of my Sunday Sin newsletters I told the Wild Ones about a musician I dated briefly who said “since we are getting things out in the open and you want honesty, I am usually more attracted to women who are closer to their ideal weight.”

He was a total fucking asshole who thought nothing of commenting on my weight as a way to get back at me because I told him to start respecting my boundaries around all his talk about his ex.

What I didn’t tell you is that this guy was my age and actively trying to lose 40 pounds.

Let that sink in.

He was 49 and was ACTIVELY trying to lose a significant amount of weight but thought NOTHING of commenting on MY weight. With intention to be hurtful.

Hypocrisy much?

He is a stupid little bitch but I am not gonna lie, it shook me to my core.

I would never say anything like that to him. Ever. Because I know how harmful that can be.

I have always thought I was fat.

Even when I wasn’t.

For my mother the worst thing a woman could be was fat.

I remember her saying that she couldn’t understand why my father left her because she had a 26 inch waist. That was what she shocked her. Not that he was a womanizer who was deep in a mid life crisis could possibly have anything to do with it.

She couldn’t understand it cause she still had a 26 inch waist. She is from a time when a women’s worth was measured by her waist size.

I remember modelling and being told I could only go farther than I already was if I lost 10-15 pounds. I weighed 112 pounds.

I remember how my mother would always remind me “no one will love you if you gain weight.” I weighed 118 pounds.

I remember lying on my bed in my stomach reading and her peeking into my room and saying I needed to watch what I was eating because my ass was getting big.

I remember that guy leaving and one of the reasons was because he said my “health” was worrisome to him. We all know “health” meant “weight.”

I remember the first thing my brother said when he came back to town was “you have lost weight since I saw you. Keep going.”

No comment on my apartment that he had never seen, or my business he knows nothing about, or my job at the vintage store, or how fucking rad Leonard is.

His only compliment was on my weight and the fact I had dropped some since he saw me last. Which was right after our mother died. Go figure. I didn’t look my best.

Unintentional because he is uniformed, but still the first thing to be noticed.

I believe that the worst thing I could be was fat and then have had it reinforced by the people who loved me, were dating me, or wanted to hurt me.

For years I have wanted to be loved in spite of my weight.

When I was at my perfect weight, when I was 10-60 pounds overweight, and now when I am hovering around 40 over.

There hasn’t been a time in the last 20 years, maybe my entire life, that I haven’t been acutely aware of my weight.

I (used to) like food and I like eating. Sometime in the last 20 years I became an emotional eater. Food instead of feelings.

I know what gaining weight feels like.
I know what losing weight feels like.

Erma Bombeck once said “In two decades I’ve lost a total of 789 pounds. I should be hanging from a charm bracelet.”

I totally get that and find it hilarious.
But lately I start to lose weight and then I sabotage it.

My excuses.

No sports bra.
No membership.
No groceries.
No money.
Can’t cook.
No time.
No energy.

blahblahblahblah

Some of it is valid on many levels.

The fire was raging after all but life was going on.

My best friend embarked on a fitness program last year and she did it because she was tired all the time all the time and wanted more energy.

She said as her fitness picked up, and her energy skyrocketed, there were moments when she was scared. Because she knew what it felt like to be in the body she had, she didn’t know what it felt like to be in the body she was creating.

That resonates deeply and she is fucking brilliant.

I know what it feels like to be where I am now with my weight. I don’t know what it feels like to be in a different place with it. Not in the space I have been in.

So many things over the last two years have felt unfamiliar and this feels like one more place I won’t recognize myself. Even though I DON’T recognize my BODY right now.

Weirdly body and weight are two different things. A lot of the time I feel like I have a smoking hot body and I am really comfortable with my weight AND a lot of the time I feel like my weight is too much to do anything about. The and/and again. It’s constant.

This is not a letter on body positivity. There are people doing amazing work in that field. Check out Star Monroe and Melissa Toler because they are killing it.

This is about my own becoming. The power up procedures for my re-entry. The allowing for more. The fuck you to the past way of thinking about my weight.

I ran into my yoga instructor on the street the other day. He usually hugs me and gently says “when are you coming back?”. This time he hugged me, pulled away, looked at me, and bluntly and directly said “come back.”  Oy.

He is right.

It’s time to stop the cycle that holds me hostage.

It’s time for elegant surrender.

It’s time to remember what my body feels like when I feel most like myself.

It’s time to manage my weight.

It’s time to remember what my energy feels like when I fuel it.

It’s time to change how I think, feel, am, and want to be physically in this phase of almost 50.

I rock the fuck out of my emotional, mental and spiritual wellness (mostly and over time). The physical has always been on and off kryptonite it seems. I feel ready though. Change is good.

As always I don’t know what that looks like yet, but I will keep you posted.

Til then,

“I’m not single, I am looking up the Bikram schedule.”

Take me to church.

Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.

Holy Rebellion

“Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish – a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow –
to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested . . .

Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.”

~ Hunter S. Thompson

Every week I send out a love letter.
It starts like this:

Chapel. For girls who join gangs.
Welcome to Sunday Sin.

Why do I use that particular introduction?

The simple answer…

I like things with an edge that don’t make sense.

People have asked me where the “sin” thing comes from.

My grandmother was Catholic and was educated by nuns in Belgium, but I was not raised in organized religion. I have no baggage from that, good or bad, so I have nothing to unpack there which makes it easier for me than it might for others.

When my uncle Emile fell in love with Roseanne, who was a protestant, the priest at our Lady of Holy something or other told my grandma that they would not recognize the marriage if Roseanne didn’t convert.

My auntie Roseanne didn’t want to convert to Catholicism. So my grandmother told the priest that if her new daughter-in-law was not good enough for them, then she wasn’t either.

She never went to Mass again. She was Catholic. Until she wasn’t.

My aunt and uncle were married for over 50 years and in the eyes of the church they lived in sin that entire time.

Think about that.

A long lasting love was considered sin.

My grandmother loved being Catholic. But she didn’t love the judgement, so she went her own way and did what she wanted.

I am from that lineage.

I collect religious symbology because I am full of longing and it gives me a sense of something I desperately need. The rosaries, Mary statues and Jesus paintings are magic to me.

I have chameleon soul so these items exist with pin up culture, indulgence and wildness. Part 70’s porn set and part medieval cathedral.

I am in love with the idea of church.
Going to chapel weekly to worship at the altar of your faith.

My faith, and my chapel, just looks a little different.

I pray to full moons and pink skies and the perfect whiskey sour.
To vintage glamour, and sex, love and rock n roll.
To St. Felicia, the patron saint of no fucks to give.

In every Caftans & Gin tour I have done I have had a “take me to church” weekend. Orgasm and prayer.

Seeing God.

I connect deeply and spiritually to the raw and real conversation that results from those prompts. I loved that seeing God can come from prayer AND sex and it is so different for each person.

It is in such contrast to all the dogma that surrounds women.

Not just in religion but in general.

How we are supposed to show up.
How we are supposed to act.
How we are supposed to look.

All that stuff that keeps women from themselves and keeps them down.

The so called “sin”.

I fucking love the idea of being bad.

Bad in defiance of the cultural norms expected of women.

Bad. In chapel. With the girl gang.

Where there is no such thing as too much and all sins are forgiven.

Holy fucking rebellion in compatibility, complication, and contradiction to what being a women is supposed to look like.

We sin as we want.
We respect each other’s faith.
We believe in each other’s experience and support that.
We are inclusive.

Community WITHOUT prejudice.

Celebration. NOT condemnation.

A place of sanctuary, worship AND confession.

Let’s face it. Life is fucking hard.

We are always a work in progress.
We go from one evolution to the next and float in between.

Sometimes we need professional help and sometimes we need a priest.

But other times, we just need to go church and let the good times roll.

Right now…

“I’m not single, I am sinning with the girl gang.”

Take me to church. Seven Sins Tour. Starts April 16th.

Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.

The Cocktus

“Now go to bed you crazy night owl!
You have to be at NASA early in the morning.

So they can look for your penis with the Hubble telescope.”

~ Tina Fey

 

Welcome back to Sex, love and rock n’ roll.

I am dating.

Well, I am trying to date. I am not gonna lie. It’s a challenge.

I wrote about my adventures here and here, and then with complete and utter shame I went to confession here. (don’t judge me)

I realize those were written a while ago but I am still trying and I am still online.

But it’s the fucking Sahara out there. My dating pool isn’t a pool. It’s not even a puddle.

It’s a mirage.

I think I see someone interesting but when I get there it’s bone dry and I end up drinking the sand.

That is not the only thing that is bone dry *ahem* but I digress.

I have tried all the free sites.

Tinder. POF. OKCupid. Bumble.

And it’s the same tired old dicks. Literally.

I refuse to pay to be offended.

Which brings me to today’s sermon.

I want to discuss the phenomenon of receiving unsolicited dick pics.

Yes.

I said phenomenon. Because it is.

Phenomenon is defined as:

  1. a fact or situation that is observed to exist or happen, especially one whose cause or explanation is in question.
  2. the object of a person’s perception; what the senses or the mind notice.

I will NEVER understand the psychology of this behaviour.

First of all most of these dudes can’t manage to take a selfie of their FACE but somehow have mastered the art of photography when it comes to their penis.

I have received ones edited with filters, ones taken from what I can only imagine are completely uncomfortable contortionist positions, and ones in beginning, middle, and *ahem* end phases (like the moon, but not really). I refer to those ones as the trifecta.

I even received the SAME photo a week apart from a guy. When I called him on it he said “no, I was just thinking of you, it’s real time.” So I sent him a screen shot of the previous week and said “really?

He called me a fucking bitch and I never heard from him again. Aw. Poor me.

Fortunately I have been spared any video but I know it has happened to my friend Carly. She showed me. You can’t unsee that.

My friend Misty received one with just the tip. Barely visible at the bottom of a still life photo. It was like a x-rated version of Where’s Waldo. But again, once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.

Some of these masterpieces have been accompanied by such titillating prose as, “ur so hot“, and “you want“, and “you like how big I am.

The last comment I actually responded to and said “I have no idea how big you are. Send me one with a ruler for scale.”

He told me to fuck off. Again, poor me.

But most were with no comment at all.

Just a text alert and you look down and there it fucking is.

Some random guy’s penis that makes you want to bleach your eyeballs.

No warning. None.

I mean really.
It’s just rude.

So what do we do?

If men feel that it is perfectly acceptable to send a photo of their dick to random, unsuspecting women, then I believe I have a moral obligation to make sure as many women as possible see it.

Which brings me to a project I hope to find time for this year.

My intention is to gather these images from the girl gang nationwide and make them into a lovely book.

A coffee table book.

Done in black and white on matte paper.
Large enough to display but not offensively so.
A conversation piece.
Classy and elegant.

I am going to call it:

TEXTUALLY FRUSTRATED – A collection of unsolicited dick pics.

Redefining junk mail in the world of online dating and how one prick can ruin a perfectly good two minute relationship.

You find out life’s this game of inches.
~ Tony D’Amato, Any Given Sunday.
I will need your help. I know a lot of you are out there dating and you have friends who are dating. There will be a submission form and I want your stories.

It’s not ready yet but don’t delete those photos.

Save them.

I need them. And the background story.

Most of mine go like this.

Him: “Hey.
Me: “Hi.”
Him: DICK PIC.
Me: *headdesk* Annnnnnnd it’s over.

So go out there and date. Keep the book in mind.

We are all in this together. #girlgangforlife

Because I love you I have included a few photos at the end of this letter that you can send in response. They are totally PG because this IS chapel after all. And, I am a lady.

Also, you’re welcome.

I will leave you with this.

Let it be known that tonight is Chinese New year and it is the year of the rooster.

A rooster is known as a cock.

What sound do roosters make at the break of dawn?
“cock-a-doodle-doo”
No coincidence it’s also the same sound made by, at the same time of day, that tiny hands Voldemort is usually on twitter.

See what I am getting at.

We are surrounded by pricks.

What is happening in the U.S. is beyond terrifying and I am aware. I am not sure what my role is in this but you all know where I stand. I am not dismissing any of it by writing about dick pics. There are many great voices who are speaking about what is going on far better than I can (watch my FB shares if you want to know who I follow).

Maybe my role in all this is to make you laugh a little bit so you can keep fighting. I don’t know exactly but I am trying. I am figuring it out and will be writing about this when I do.

But, as always I have faith.

In resistance.
In not settling.
In fighting back.
In demanding more.

In all ways and always.

But until then….

“I’m not single, I am writing a book.”

Take me to church.

Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.

Lipstick and a book.

When I was in my mid teens I read somewhere that you should “always wear badly applied lipstick and carry an obscure book”.

I can’t remember where I read it exactly. Probably in an issue of Sassy Magazine but either way I never forgot it.

Great advice though.

30 some years later and that quote is still with me.
I can FEEL her.

Imagine this woman.

What is the book she is carrying?
What is she wearing?
Does she know that she turn heads every where she goes?
What colour is that lipstick?
Did she flirt with the barista she got her coffee from that morning?
Does she sleep naked?
Did she show up for breakfast with her girl gang in the sequins she wore the night before?
Can she still feel him between her thighs?
Is she hungry for more?

Of everything.

I know I am.

At this time last year I was barely conscious.
The flames were sky high and I was waiting.

For the call. For the moment. For the next beginning.

And it fucking sucked.

Summer has always been my favourite season.

I love the heat, the long days, pink skies and the lazier mood.

There is something gorgeous about stripping down.
Literally and metaphorically.

A part of me remembered that feeling of summers past.
I craved it so I decided to seek it out again.

Instead of waiting passively in the heat of the flames I embraced the fire and felt the heat in a different way.

Even though my skin didn’t quite fit I needed ways to feel more like me.

So I channeled that imaginary woman with the lipstick and the obscure book because I imagine her to be bad ass and sexy as fuck.

To me that quote meant,

That it is time to not give a fuck.
That a walk of shame is bullshit and is really more of a walk home from a great night out.
That women are a little mysterious.
That sexy is a feeling not a look.
That the waiting is over.
That I need new lipstick.
That it’s time to get my flirt on.

I ended up owning last summer.
I intend to own this summer.

Partly by wearing badly applied lipstick and carrying an obscure book. 🙂

Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.

Renee_signature

 

 

 

Want to be a Faster Pussycat and go on tour? Check this kittens. x

Captain’s log…

Thursday morning I woke up to my phone in a pool of water.

I FREAKED OUT.
CUE MAJOR PANIC.

I was practically breathing into a paper bag.

I take my phone everywhere. I never turn it off.

This clutching attachment to my phone is from years of living 1000 miles away from my mom.
It is from knowing she was terminally ill and always waiting for that call.
It is from getting that call and getting on a plane.
It is from being with her there and still clutching my phone because my loves are texting to see how it’s going.

I am naked without it.
I think I have space madness.
Nothing makes sense.
I am in unfamiliar territory.

Captain’s log – day 1. Thursday. I remember when I got home from Calgary after my mom died. It was so quiet. No cat. No that guy. No mom calling twice daily. Nothing was familiar. Except my texts from friends. And from Skittle. Then I got Leonard and it was not as lonely. And I was still seeing the welder…sporadically. #overandout

Captain’s log – day 2. Friday. Phone is at repair shop. Literally feel as if I have lost my life line. Because it was. For so many months in the year of fire it WAS my life line. Feel I MUST wear my grandmothers rosary. Where am I? Who am I? #squirrelinaspacesuit

Captain’s log – day 47. Friday night. I feel as though it has been days since I had contact with the outside world. Acutely aware of how dependent I am on my phone. Have decided to leave curtains open and bathe in the light of the full moon and allow Leonard to be the big spoon. #thinkofmefondly

Captain’s log – day 69. Saturday Morning. The silence is deafening and the coffee tastes different. No word on when comms will be back up. Feeling deep in the throes of space madness. #thespacebetween

Captain’s log. – day 84. Saturday afternoon. Emailed repair shop. Phone is not repairable. I repeat. PHONE IS NOT REPAIRABLE. Space madness closing in. My life is on that phone. Heading to shop to retrieve. It’s sunny but I am in all black. Mourning my loss yet it feels like completely normal attire. Life is a mystery. #hotafinallblack

Captain’s log – day 135 – late Saturday afternoon. Walking to shop seems like it takes forever. Stop at yard sale and buy vintage tupperware jello mold for a dollar. Remember when my mom made lime jello with mandarin orange bits every holiday. Vow to make sugar free jello and eat with kool whip. #jello

Captain’s log – day 142 – still Saturday afternoon. Arrive at shop exhausted. Employee says phone is fried and not recoverable. Burst into tears as the entire outline for the Faster Pussycat Tour and all of the last photos of mom and every text from Skittle is on that phone. Employee looks uncomfortable in the face of my crying. Don’t give a shit. Pay for diagnostic and leave. Wander east van crying behind gold aviators. Still stylish. Even in trauma. #madstyle

Captain’s log – day 167 – Saturday evening. Overwhelming urge to eat my grief. Cannot order Chinese as no phone to do so. Cry more. Put on vintage caftan. Pour wine. Space madness is taking hold. Connect with Kiki and Carly and they commence talking me down. Breathing. But not into a paper bag anymore. #girlgang

Captain’s log – day 189. Now. Not everything happens for a reason and you are not always where you are meant to be. Sometimes shit happens. You lose all the notes you have on your work. Work that is brilliant and sexy and so fucking hot. #fasterpussycattour
You lose all the last images of your mom that you have been too fragile to look at in the last 6 months, so what does it matter. You never looked at them anyway. She is all around you. The life line is cut. There are other ways. You decide to ride it out and see what that looks like. Payday in a week will bring new comms. Relieved the welders number was deleted weeks ago so you have that. Because you are not a consolation prize and are worth more. No anxiety there. You know that for real. Space madness is a thing that is chaotic and beautiful and raw and real. #beginnings

Amazed at what can happen in 189 days. #gritandgrace

Still wearing the rosary. #letitbe

I will be ok. It’s a whole new world now. #thisismylife

Stay gold wild ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.

Loves,

Renee_signature

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