Cat Skinner Club

The Birthday Phone Calls

mydad16944

Randy Mantooth

I can’t recall which birthday this happened on, but one year when I was a little girl, my mom thought it would be really funny to have my aunt and my grown male cousin call me and pretend they were various characters and celebrities that I admired.

I received birthday wishes from the following:

The Wicked Witch of the West
Dorothy
Miss Piggy
My Imaginary Friend Jenny (I was not fooled by this one. I knew Jenny only spoke in my head.)
Bo Duke
Luke Duke

And this last one, which really rocked my (maybe five year old?) world:

Johnny Gage from the show Emergency

I must have had a wicked crush on Johnny Gage, because this is the very first time I ever felt butterflies. I didn’t want to come to the phone because I was too nervous. My mother had to coax and cajole me. Then, when finally on the phone, I uttered a few words and had to give the receiver back to my mom. I think I remember crying because I was so upset and embarrassed.

I couldn’t understand why someone so handsome and awesome would call me, and I felt incredibly confused and unspeakably shy. I remember allowing myself to feel very special for about one minute before completely caving under the weight of my own nerves and tossing the phone at my mom.

Today if some handsome celebrity crush were to call me (heh) I would feel the same butterflies, but now I would have the adult ability to picture him in his boxers (or briefs? I’d bet on boxers…) and this would give me the edge I needed to carry on a semi-intelligent and definitely witty conversation. Celebrities are people too, right?

What the hell was my point in all of this?

Oh, right.

Briefly today, I allowed myself to reflect on my ideal man-mate. He looks a bit like this:

Stylish in a very casual, effortless way that makes a statement about his personality
Mad about music. If he can sing or play an instrument, this is a plus. Also, his musical knowledge should span several decades, and he should have a thing or two to teach me
Passionate about his work
Eager to share the things he loves with people he gets excited about (imagine late night vinyl listening-parties interspersed with fierce make out sessions)
Hungry for the world
Independent – values the hell out of whomever he decides to love, but has his own very full life, circle of friends, favourite motorcycle routes (he’ll go for really long rides and come home smelling like sweat, leather, and road dust)**
Thirsty to experience as much as possible
Active in arts and culture
Healthy
Vibrant sex drive
Humble
Grateful
Slightly rough around the edges – bad boy with a heart of gold
Smart – not necessarily book smart, but quick witted, clever, and hungry to learn more about interesting thing and people
Loves animals and nature
Healthily (mostly) in touch with the Dark Side of the Force

** I still firmly believe that men who love motorcycles have a deep, restless spirit, and this should be seen as a flag, because I believe part of them really wants to just take off and never return. I secretly love motorcycles, but they also terrify me.

So, the above list is great, huh? Well, here’s the thing. It occurred to me today (and not really for the first time) that although it would be great to be happy-ever-after with such a dude, it would be even better to BECOME that dude. Obviously, I’m not talking in the literal sense. I quite enjoy being female, thank you very much. What I’m suggesting is that by using this as a checklist of things that I myself wish to embody, I will likely end up feeling more fulfilled.  I mean, I’ve got a real handle on most of those things. It will just take a little bit of focus to really fine tune, and beef up some of the others.

I’m going to embrace my own inner dude. My own XY who is kind of aloof, and sometimes complicated. Who prefers to be alone, but likes to share his space with someone every now and then. Who can date any chick he wants, so is in no hurry to settle down because there is no ticking of anything except the engine of his (insert bad ass motorcycle brand here) as it cools after a long ride chasing the sunset. I’m adjusting my package, cracking my neck with a good shake from side to side, and jumpin’ into the ring.

I’m not going to date you. I am going to BE you.

Muwahahahahahah!

Monday Poem:

Myself
Edgar Guest

I have to live with myself, and so,
I want to be fit for myself to know;
I want to be able as days go by,
Always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don’t want to stand with the setting sun
And hate myself for the things I’ve done.

I don’t want to keep on a closet shelf
A lot of secrets about myself,
And fool myself as I come and go
Into thinking that nobody else will know
The kind of man I really am;
I don’t want to dress myself up in sham.

I want to go out with my head erect,
I want to deserve all men’s respect;
But here in this struggle for fame and pelf,
I want to be able to like myself.
I don’t want to think as I come and go
That I’m bluster and bluff and empty show.

I never can hide myself from me,
I see what others may never see,
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself- and so,
Whatever happens, I want to be
Self-respecting and conscience free.

Sunday Poem (Freestyle)

Paperback Writer

Paperback Writer

Stop asking for feedback.
Stop speaking of loneliness.
Stop inviting us to engage in discourse,
Share our ideas,
Hear your voice.
Stop sharing snippets of your world.
Stop referencing your single status

If you are going to be
So cool
So aloof
So detached
So disinterested
So abrupt
So completely ambivalent

When someone who is amazing decides they want to poke you.

Hot Cross Buns

picture-4

At Easter, I don’t celebrate the Resurrection. I find it hard to buy into. Instead, I turn my thoughts to rebirth, rejuvenation; coming into the light again after a period of darkness. I suppose you could say that I postpone my Spring Equinox festivities to a later date when I can celebrate with family and friends, who I am sure are also not celebrating the Resurrection; at least not in a literal sense.

(I’m experimenting with semi-colon. Please let me know how I am doing.)

I ran some errands in Bloor West Village yesterday. I saw not one but two men wandering down the street dressed as the Easter bunny, with truly frightening giant plush heads. Why, oh why? I was terrorized by these “mascots” as a child. They never, ever fooled me either.

The Easter Bunny has nothing to do with Christ. Or Hallmark.

Did you know that the Great Mother Goddess of the Saxon people in Northern Europe, and similarly, the “Teutonic dawn goddess of fertility [was] known variously as Ostare, Ostara, Ostern, Eostra, Eostre, Eostur, Eastra, Eastur, Austron and Ausos.”

The roots of the people in the early days of Europe when the Christians first arrived shaped all these holidays that we celebrate today.

Our roots shape and inform the way we celebrate at present, and the way we tell our stories and celebrate our tradition moving through future generations. A finger is always dipped in the pie of the past.

I’ll bet it took a long, long time for the early Christians to convince the Pagan tribes to adopt their new mythology. I know they had to create some parallels, for sure. How else would these people ever relate to this strange new culture?

As I understand it, during that time, things could be relatively peaceful too. There are stories of peaceful Christian monks living alongside Druid Priests, sharing knowledge and ideas (and no doubt enjoying all the meade and bonfire-lit revelry.)

I bet things didn’t start to get violent until someone in Rome started to loose patience, and felt threatened by the idea that there was a whole pantheon of gods who were vibrant long before J.C. and his big daddy.

Then the people were forced to leave their tradition behind, in ways that shan’t be described here, on such a nice, sunny spring morning.

I am embracing my past. I am honoring the stories that have shaped me. I am closely examining the pain and the pleasure, the sorrow and the triumph so that I can move towards a place where I can incorporate the rituals and customs that brought me the most joy into celebrations that involve new mythology. Without my dark and sometimes chaotic Pagan Dieties, I will never be able to appreciate this new god of Light and Love. In a perfect world, all the archetypes of my lifes’ mythology will enjoy a meal together someday. With a pile of brightly coloured eggs in the centre of the table, just so we always remember what came before.

Saturday Poem:
(not mine.)

Bells For Her (Tori Amos)

And through the life force and there goes her friend
On her Nishiki it’s out of time
And through the portal they can make amends

Hey would you say whatever we’re blanket frinds
Can’t stop what’s coming
Can’t stop what is on its way

And through the walls they made their mudpies
I’ve got you mind I said she siad I’ve you voice
I said you don’t need my voice girl you have your own
But you never thought it was enough
So they went years and years
Like sisters, blanket girls
Always there through that and this
There’s nothing we cannot ever fix I said

Can’t stop what’s coming
Can’t stop what is on it’s way
Bells and footfalls and soliers and dolls
Brothers and lovers she and I were
Now she seems to be sand under his shoes
There’s nothing I can do
Can’t stop what’s coming
Can’t stop what is on it’s way

And now I speak to you, are you in there?
You have her face and her eyes
But you are not her
And we go at each other
Like blankets who can’t find
Their thread and they’re bare

Can’t stop loving
Can’t stop what is on its way
And I see it coming and It’s on its way

Erasing My Honesty Box

Finally – Rosiehardy – Flickr

I spend too much time on Facebook. The iPhone didn’t help with this problem. As I grapple with this, I’m trying not to judge myself too much for it. Hopefully it will lead to greater communication skills and meaningful relationships. Yesterday, while chatting with someone (Facebook chat) I realized that I had somehow installed an application called “Honesty Box”. This disturbed me.

First, because I had no recollection of installing such a thing. Second, because the very principal behind it is ridiculous; the idea is for people to anonymously post what they really think of you. I deleted the application this morning.

To say that I don’t care what people think about me would be a lie. Of course I do. I think we all do to some extent. The fact is, I already know the opinions of the people I most care about. I don’t need people to scrawl secret messages to me and leave them in my inbox. Also, I would hope that if someone has something to say, they will think enough of themselves, and their opinions to not hide behind a veil of anonymity (I’ll be spell-checking the hell out of that, “anonymous” is a word I can never spell.)

In semi-related topics, my friends are incredible. I feel really fortunate to have such giving, loving people in my life. Collectively they are all intelligent, creative, kind, hilarious, and entertaining. The inspire me to be a better person, and hopefully a better friend.

I think the people we keep close to us are a reflection of who we are, or who we aspire to be. Never underestimate the restorative powers of a quiet dinner in, with good people, good wine, great food, and a giant, three-legged dog snoring peacefully on your lap.

Friday poem:

Alright team, here’s the mission at hand:
It’s still in development, but here’s what I’ve planned;
I’m setting my sights on an interesting prize,
Past goals haven’t really been goals of this size.
Your help will be needed, your thoughts and ideers.
Your love and support, to fight through all my fears.
Since the thought first occurred, I believe it’s expanded,
The stakes are now higher, I could leave empty-handed.
And perhaps once in motion I’ll be let down;
By bad social skills, or by the buzz in this town.
Perhaps I’ll be bored, or perhaps be offended.
Perhaps expectations should be open-ended?
I know on some levels, this idea is crazy,
And I know in some ways it’s just me being lazy,
But the whole big idea speaks to a theme,
Of setting your sights and daring to dream.
So if I get shut-out, if defense is tight,
I will say that I tried it with all of my might.

Camel Toe Ballet

Solitude – Rosiehardy – Flickr

It has indeed been a Good Friday, so far.

I hatched a hilarious plan before bed last night, and look forward to hashing it out with some friends over dinner this evening. If properly executed, it could be a source of endless hijinks and amusement. At this point it’s a secret, but you can bet I’ll be writing about it on my own.

Hatching this plan made everything seem a little lighter today. I didn’t sleep very well. The full moon made me crazy, and then the ass of a friend accidentally called me from a bar somewhere at 3am. My cat was enthusiastically trying to paw me into consciousness by 8:00, which I fought to sleep through, and then at last when my aunt called at 10 am to see if I wanted to go for a coffee-fetching walk, I got up.

I enjoyed coffee, and good conversation. Back at the Fortress of Solitude, I showered and got dressed, and pulled my favourite crazy shoes out of winter storage. These shoes illicit mixed responses. People either love them or they evoke a feeling of vague nausea. They are blue satin, with a Japanese style pattern. Flat, and rubber soled, they have blue satin ribbons to tie them on at the ankles (like ballet slippers) and the toes are cleft. I have to wear toe-socks with them. They make me look like I have a hoof. Or that I am a Ninja. They have set the tone for my entire day. I am a fleet-footed ninja ballerina with the gracefulness of a plains-grazing herbivore. Rock and roll…

I had great shuffle results on my way downtown to meet my friend Lenni for Indian lunch on Queen street (try Little India. It’s fantastic and cheap!). All the songs were the right songs. People smiled at me everywhere, clearly not nauseous at all. A cute boy I haven’t seen in a while got on the subway, and we chatted. He told me I had pretty hair.

Lunch was grand. Lenni was great. We walked the entire length of Queen to Trinity Bellwoods. From Trinity Bellwoods, we headed north to College, where we were trapped in the Good Friday procession. This is where we parted ways.

The streets were full of people, the air was filled with somber music, and everyone was quiet, and still. I poped my earplugs back in, and walked all the way home, admiring the multitudes of swarthy Italian boys. It felt like I was back in high school.

I’m off now to dinner. I feel like I need a glass of Merlot and quiet conversation. It’s been an interesting week, and I’m incredibly grateful for a day or two with nothing to do.

I burnt a perfect triangle into my forearm.
I met a stranger who isn’t a stranger, who I’ve been wanting to meet for many months.
I made a choice based entirely on instinct.
I had my heart broken by news from a friend.
I didn’t sleep. Twice.
I got a phone call from an ass.
I counted the vertebrae of my increasingly skinny house cat.
I was inspired by Facebook, and the recent addition of an exciting new friend, to try something entirely ridiculous.

Jesus didn’t have to die for my sins. I’m kind of ok with them. Plus with shoes like these, who WOULDN’T forgive me?