Cat Skinner Club

Face Value

As cliche as this sounds, with New Year’s Eve approaching, I’m thinking about resolutions for the coming year. I’m proud to say that I’m generally good about sticking to the ones I make, and I think that this is because I really try to give them some thought.

One of the biggest issues that I’d like to tackle in 2010 is my inability to live in the moment. The happier I am, the more I find I’m looking over my shoulder to see what kind of bad is coming my way. In fact, I don’t think it would be a stretch to say that sometimes, hopefully subconsciously, I create problems because the peace and calm scares the bejesus out of me. I fear settling deeply into happiness in case it should suddenly come bursting apart at the seams.

Ridiculous, right?

I don’t want to allow fear and self-sabotage into my love life. I’ve been mostly successful at forbidding these things from clouding my professional life, and I’ve realized some pretty incredible success as a result.  After wishing so hard for this kind of happiness, I would like to receive it gracefully, and graciously.

So, resolution number one:

I will endeavor to be present each day, and accepting of the love I am given, free of doubt and fear.

On Faith

Christmas day. Last year, I made a silent wish that in a year’s time I would be sharing the holidays with someone I love. That wish came true, but I find myself unable to completely immerse myself in the joy of such a thing without worrying that I won’t have this kind of happiness next year.

Yesterday I had to explain to a six-year-old why, after the cruel tutorial from a classmate, Santa does exist, and some people just chose not to believe in him. I asked her to look into her heart and decide what she believed in, and she nodded solemnly and said “I believe in Santa.” Of course her affirmation was made real by the collective efforts of family and grandparents, and the magic unfolded before us all in a way that made me believe again too.

What good is faith without people to share it with? People to add their collective hope and dreaming into the well, to fill it with possibility and imagination? I believe this collaborative effort is required to breathe anything into life. To take dreaming and hoping and make these real, you need a community of dreamers, feverish in their dedication and their faith.

Faith;

1. Confident belief in the truth, value, or trustworthiness of a person, idea, or thing.
2. Belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence.
3. Loyalty to a person or thing; allegiance: keeping faith with one’s supporters.

I have an abundance of faith that the path I am on is exactly where I need to be. I have faith in its possibility and ability to survive whatever the world throws at us. I have faith in the power of love. I have an “It’s A Wonderful Life” sized abundance of sweetness and real, pure love in this relationship. Enough that I brought everyone to my extended family holiday celebration, and introduced them to nearly all of my people.
This entry continues on Boxing Day morning, at my parent’s home. My family home, where I lived my entire life before venturing out on my own. We’ve crashed here, and my mother is now busy in the kitchen, putting together an epic brunch. I’m battling guilt over all of the bad-for-me things I’ve eaten in the last week, but I know the onslaught is not over yet, and so I’m steeling myself for more over-indulgence.
After my last relationship ended, I decided not to bring anyone home to my family until I knew it was the real deal. I didn’t want my poor parents to have to bond with anyone, only for it not to work out again. I realize there is no way to predict the future, but as I watch my mother, and more remarkably my father, filled with delight I feel a little knot forming in my belly, that is the product of so much hope and fear.
I want this so badly. Not just because of the love I feel, but also because if we can succeed at this, we will inspire so many people. We are like pioneers, forging our way across uncharted land, making our own rules as we meet new hurdles. To witness the love and acceptance and inclusion over the last three days has only further convinced me that this IS possible. That despite some complication and difficulty, there is a way that all of this can work, especially with a loving community to support us.
However, if we don’t believe in this ourselves, there isn’t very far to go at all.

Plucky

That’s my word for the week.

I like it. I want to use it to describe myself, but I think that’s one of those words best left to others to use.

It always makes me thing of those busty, lipstick-wearing sexy chickens that used to roll with Gonzo from the Muppet Show. If I haven’t said it lately, I love Jim Henson. If I had magical powers, I would raise him from the dead to help Les Coquettes create the most ridiculous burlesque cabaret ever witnessed by people-kind.

Plucky. Like a sexy chicken.

If you haven’t seen our shows, this may sound ridiculous, but people are really moved by what we do. On the surface, it’s a cabaret packed with lots of skin, and sexy young performers, but beneath this surface, it’s a world of passion driven by intelligent, inspired women. Those are our fantasies we’re acting out, and our imagination coming alive. Women come and see us, and then email me about classes, men come and see us, and are permitted to feel sexual AND human. At this weekend’s show, two of my dear friends were there with their husbands. Both are new moms and for each of them it was their first night out in a long, long while. I didn’t even have to speak to them to know that everyone in each house was in for a big treat when they got home. I love that. I love how we grant permission. How we make it safe and fun to feel alive in such a way. How we can laugh at and celebrate sex, which is so warped in our mass media. Taken so seriously, taken for granted, taken out of context, taken away from us every single day.

It’s our life force. It drives us on a deep, primal level, and when we separate ourselves from this essence, or if we are forced to separate from it, sad things happen.

Plucky.

I’m challenging you to look at your relationship with sex. Not just the act, but the deeper sexuality that lies within. How has your own sexuality evolved? What is your relationship like with your sexuality? Do you need a long overdue date with your sexual self? Have you been honest about your feelings? Are there things you need to get out in the open?

My wish for you, this holiday season – celebrate your life force. Define what it means to you, and embrace it warmly ‘neath the mistletoe.

Deck your halls, if you will.

Why I Hate Chris De Burgh

The other day, “The Lady in Red” came up on a random list of tunes on our Apple TV.

This song always makes me nauseous.

When I was eight, I began to wear glasses, and life changed radically. I believe that my new four-eyed state became the excuse that the other kids needed to make fun of me. It was the perfect explanation for my funny big words, my weirdo imagination, and my incredible advocacy for the underdog. I was a nerd, a geek, and a goof, and now the glasses were the evidence my classmates were looking for.

My self-esteem changed radically, and I discovered a whole new level of self-consciousness. I HATED my glasses and this feeling has carried over into my adult life.

In my first year of high school, I finally worked up the nerve to go to the Christmas dance after skipping the other two that came before. I decided to be festive and wear a red velvet tunic, black tights, and the pointiest shoes that I owned. I teased my bangs into the most brilliant peacock I could manage, and of course wore my glasses. My stupid, red, Sally Jessie Rafael glasses, which by the way, those goddamned hipsters have brought back into fashion.

I hung out awkwardly with my small group of friends, and during a pit stop in the cafeteria to use the bathrooms, the football coach, Mr. Bullard, approached me.

“Hey, what’s your name?” he asked. He was my gym teacher, and should have known my name.

“Um, Schnoo.” I replied.

“Schnoo” he said “I need your help. We’ve told Mario* that he has a secret admirer here, and that she is going to reveal herself to dance with him for a special song, and I need you to be that girl.”

I was confused, and skeptical, but I went along with this. Mario was the quarterback who I had a fairly huge crush on, and I figured this might be the only way I would ever get to dance with him.

Fast forward to later that evening. I hadn’t danced with anyone all night long. Then, suddenly, Chris De Burgh’s “Lady in Red” comes on. Bullard is there, tapping me on the shoulder. He says “This is it.”

The D.J. announces “Mario, this song goes out to you from your secret admirer.”

I walk tentatively to the crowd of jocks that Mario is in the centre of. I ask him to dance. He turns crimson, and all the other dudes start smirking. One of them is already doubled over. He reluctantly accepts, and we start to dance.

Missing the point entirely, I’m actually enjoying this. He smells so nice, and he’s so handsome, and just for a moment I allow myself to pretend…then I feel hundreds of eyes on me. I look up and the ENTIRE football team and ALL of their pretty, perky girlfriends are laughing. Laughing at Mario. Laughing at me. I realize then that I AM the joke. Mr. Bullard picked the dorkiest “Lady in Red” he could find to round out their stupid prank, and god only knows what kind of fabricated love notes came before this moment.

I die a little inside, but I carry on until the end of the song. Mario (dick head) starts hamming it up for his pals. He’s stroking my hair, and dipping and twirling me. My 14-year-old brain decides to see this through because it might be my only opportunity to ever dance with a boy so handsome. And popular. When the song ends, he makes a big show of bowing to me and all his friends crack up again.

After that, I call my mom for a ride home. I pass Mr. Bullard in the hallway. All the other kids love him. He’s so funny, and he really “gets it”. I decide that he too must have been a big dork in high school and is making up for lost time now that he’s finally in charge of all the jocks. I hate him. This doesn’t change over the next four years.

It’s a long time before I go to another school dance. The next one I appear at, I FINALLY have my long-awaited contact lenses. I have an ok time. I’m still an outsider. I’m still not one of the popular kids, but I don’t want to be anymore. I’ve carved out my own world with the drama geeks. I still don’t dance with anyone, as I recall, until the very last song, which is always the same song – “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin. I feel someone tap me on the shoulder and I turn around. It’s Eric, the Asian boy with Down’s Syndrome. He wants to take me for a spin. I glare at the jocks, who are all staring and guffawing, take him by the hand, lead him to the dance floor and endure his teenage hard-on for the entire eight minute tune. I do this because I know what it’s like to be different, and how much it sucks to be laughed at for that.

Then, I decide to never go to another school dance again.

This lasts until graduation, when my seventeen year old self decides to bring my 24-year-old local indie rock-star boyfriend as my date. Three people ask me if he is actually my uncle, and he hits on every girl he gets the chance to talk to, and one or two of the boys.

I hated high school, and I hate Chris De Burgh, but whenever I hear “Stairway to Heaven” I think of Eric and I wonder what he’s doing now.

*Mario may not have been the name of this quarterback but at a Catholic High School in Stoney Creek, it’s a pretty safe bet.

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Morning Pages

Picture 2

I’m trying to post something here every day, but sometimes when I wake up in the morning, my head is so full of cobwebs, I have nothing really to say.

This morning, we’re listening to music that is slightly too loud for my morning ears, our three year old is laying on the sofa looking up adoringly at her daddy who is trying to get her dressed, our six year old is very slowly eating her cereal, my girlfriend is unloading the dishwasher, and all five of us are drinking kale smoothies.

“K for kale.”

The little one has been home from school for three days now, if we include today, due to a runny nose and a nagging, liquidy cough. Despite these symptoms, she seems her usual self – just as much energy, and I learned yesterday that if you don’t want to be bombarded in the shower, you must lock the door. I didn’t even have a lock on my bathroom door at The Fortress.

Our older one is looking forward to a big event at school tonight that involves the children exploring a magically transformed classroom in the dark, on their own. It’s supposed to be quite magical, but I have to miss this because I have a meeting this evening.

It’s slightly overcast, but I can see lots of blue sky, and I’m wondering if I should ride my bike today. I’m also trying to decide if this is physically possible because my boyfriend switched up my workout yesterday, and I can barely move. I think I’ll decide to push myself anyway. I have no clothing that fits me anymore.

Sometimes I sit here and marvel at how much everything in my universe has changed.

I went from being a lonely, single girl who took the occasional solace in her dog, to a girl who is constantly surrounded by people who love her, who no longer sees her dog because of the petty nature of his other owner, who is in the best shape she’s ever been in, and who is watching every single thing she’s ever wanted fall into place.

I miss my dog. I miss living close to the park and the trees, particularly because I know how much the girls would love that, sometimes I miss my things, and every once in a while I’m aware that I need a quiet place to retreat to. I imagine we all do. Our current home has no walls. The rooms are divided with a series of sliding glass doors, and you can hear everything around you. When I’m not at home, I hear everything around me in a different way. This dam-bursting amount of change, and joy, and love has me casting a critical eye at all of the things that are wrong in my own head, that have been preventing me from feeling such joy all along.

This weekend will be about family. (I’m looking at my girlfriend right now who is talking to our six year old from the fridge. Her hair is all tied up and she is wearing a fitted oatmeal sweater. She looks so gorgeous and delicate this morning. I love how fairy-like she is.) Last weekend, we hit the dollar store and bought a whole bunch of craft stuff and spent the day working on home made decorations for the Christmas tree. I’d love to do more of the same. We were hoping to get in a visit with my friend Ming and her new baby, but I think with a sick little one, and the rest of us exposed to those germs we’ll have to forego that.

Tonight we’re cooking dinner for two of my friends who have been so generous lending their talents to my cabaret company. They will get to meet the girls for the first time, and I’m always delighted by this because they are so utterly charming with new people.

Sunday I’m hoping to connect with my aunt who I haven’t seen in a while, and Sunday evening we’re descending en mass to the Muslim equivalent of a baptism or baby naming ceremony. Oh yes. There’s the element to our relationship that I haven’t shared yet. It’s going to be a big one, I think. A whole new world to discover and negotiate my way through. I’m looking forward to this. I love ceremony and religion.

The sun has gently pushed aside some cloud cover, and is streaming over my shoulder to illuminate my hair in a fiery halo. Our littlest one has been released from her first time-out of the day, my girlfriend is finished packing up lunch (which is supposed to be my job), my boyfriend is hard at work, and I’m off to fold some laundry and send our six year old off to school.

See how normal life can be? We’re not so different, you and I.

From our three year old: “Daddy, can you put rock and roll on?”