Kale Phone

Kale Phone

Friday, 29 July 2016

Mythological Unconditional Love

Some people say that happy romantic relationships depend on the beautiful lies couples say to each other.

“You are unbelievably perfect for me.”
“No one could ever be as wonderful as you.”
“I was miserable before I met you. I’m so glad the moon told me to kiss you. You’re the best kisser of life.”
Etc.

Yesterday, I felt deprived of such beautiful lies. And I wrote this Haiku:

Haiku: M.U.L.
 
Mythological
Unconditional Love is
Something I’m missing.

Some of the 12-step people invented something called Sexual Addiction. S.A. I did not feel like researching all that much about this condition, but my understanding is that Sex Addicts (also referred to as S.A.’s) seek out sex and love to remedy their low self-esteem. Or maybe they are lonely.
 
I did the twelve steps a couple of times for my eating disorder. For step three or four or five, I had to compile all of my character defects. I wrote each character defect on a little slip of paper. The first time I compiled my character defects, I threw them all into the Lachine Canal, near Griffintown. That was in 2009. I imagine that the Lachine Canal must be full of character defects. In 2011, I wrote out my character defects again. This time, I put them in my homemade God Box. Before I moved to Halifax, I gave the God Box to Simon, my ex-ex boyfriend who I wrote a mediocre epistolary novel with. The novel was called, The Little Savage and the Hermit. Simon was the Hermit. I am trying to refrain from referring to Simon as my ex-ex boyfriend who jumped off a building on January 4, 2015, and this is going not that well.   
 
I don’t know what happened to the God Box. It was covered with splatters of paint. I used to be quite artistic.
 
Beautiful lies are the best cure for character defects.
 
“I love you even though you get peanut butter all over the walls.”
“I love you more than spelt bread.”
“Your vagina makes up for your obnoxious meltdowns, even though you have questionable groin welts from misguided attempts at pubic hair removal.”

As I mentioned, I am missing the Beautiful Lies. Perhaps I am an S.A.
 
R.S.A. equals Recovering Sex Addicts and such people do not seek out sex and love as remedies for low self-esteem and loneliness. I wonder what they do instead.
 
I think it is a bit dumb to pathologize loneliness into a vague disease or unflattering label. Probably the S.A.’s and R.S.A.’s are the same as everyone else. They’re just bad liars. I can relate:
 
“Everyone wishes they were my duvet.”
“My crooked do-it-yourself haircut is spectacular.”
“I am the funniest writer in the world.”

The End.

 
Selfies are the ultimate beautiful lie.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook.
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, a self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

Why I am like Jane Fonda
God Box

Memoirs of a Brief Affair
Performative Crying in Alleys
Performative Text Messages

Still Me

Wednesday, 27 July 2016

Prozac Made Me A Better Dancer

Prozac made me a better dancer.
It also did wonders for my fashion sense.
Some might say the same about my haiku writing capacities.
And haircutting skills.
Prozac did wonders for my fashion sense.
So glad I decided this outfit sparked joy. A Winners Special.

Also, I clean like a madwoman
Which is excellent for Roommate Relations. I think.
Although this morning I got molasses on the floor.
Besides that, my closet radiates order
Filled with clothes that rejoice in their origami folds.

The Tidying Festival Never Ends.
All the Prozac induced bouncing
Stimulates my lymphatic system.
Surely this prevents cancer. And ulcers. And back pain.

Here is a haiku I wrote about Prozac:

Prozac is like a
Big orgasm all the time.
It’s a fucking blast.

(In case you were worried about the sexual side effects.)

If you work for Prozac, and need a poster girl, I am not beyond this.
Prozac, Probiotics, Kumbucha.
I can advocate all of these things.

Prozac gives me an open mind.

The End.

Fun Drug Combinations, by the Exuberant Bodhisattva

Prozac + Caffeine:  this goes without saying.
Prozac + Caffeine + High School Reunion:  You will say the most surprising things.
Prozac + Caffeine + Neon Shorts + Daybreaker Morning Dance Party:  Oh Boy!
Here I am post-Daybreaker. Glistening.
What a delightful and outstanding event.
Stay tuned for the next one!
#Daybreaker
Prozac + Caffeine + Glute Camp Montreal:  The Butt Ledge has never looked better.
Family Glute Camp on Lakewood Road, with Sister and Dog-Niece.
 You and your Butt Ledge are welcome to join me this evening at 6 PM in Parc Laurier
Over the Hump Glute Camp: Tomorrow (Tomorrow = Today) 
Prozac + Summer in Montreal: One of the best combos ever.

Hope to see you soon!
 
My Grandma and I practicing our Interpretive Dance Moves. She just turned 90. We have generously offered to perform at my cousin's wedding. Prozac made me more generous. Grandma comes by her generosity and spectacular-ness naturally.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, a self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

Prozac Made Me A Better Person
High School Reunion
Deep Unyielding Depression, Part One
Deep Unyielding Depression, Part Two
Memoirs of a Brief Affair
 

Sunday, 24 July 2016

High School Reunion, Part One: Small Talk

Ten Conversation Starters for Transcending Small Talk at Your High School Reunion
 
1.       So good to see you. Are you married? Do you think you married the wrong person?

2.       You have children? Congratulations! How many? What has been your biggest parenting mistake so far?

3.       Wow! Your job sounds really boring! (Insert vibrant smile.)

4.       Who out of high school do you regret not hooking up with? Who do you regret hooking up with? Let’s discuss the circumstances that led to both outcomes.

5.       Are you estranged from any family members? How’d that go down?

6.       What issue tortures your brain at 3 o’clock in the morning when you can’t sleep?

7.       Describe your level of sexual fulfillment. Would you say you are very well fucked, sort of well fucked, underfucked, or not fucked at all?

8.       Have you uncovered any childhood trauma that causes you to repeatedly sabotage your romantic and/or professional life?

9.       What major health challenges have you encountered over the past ten years?

10.   Have you ever tried a threesome? Do you swing?

Bonus Haikus: Raising the Devil.

High School Reunion.
Prozac Reverberation.
I plucked my chin hairs.

I’m glad my roommate
Gave me this lovely blue dress.
Ready for small talk.

My mother worries
About my dress's sweat stains.
This is exciting.

Bonus Letter from my Grade Nine Boyfriend of Three Weeks

We both had braces and on a picnic when he tried to make out with me, I shoved a bun in his mouth.  Today, this boyfriend is exceedingly handsome and possibly rich. His letter is written inside one of the hundreds of handmade cards I used to give to just about everyone in high school in honour of any holiday I could think of.  I was especially good at drawing blue and purple elephants.
Grade Nine Boyfriend of Three Weeks: Erica UR cool. You shouldn't do all that crap for others. Doing some stuff is okay but you shouldn't do all that stuff you do or people will depend on you too much. Keep it real. And be a little selfish.
Grade Nine Boyfriend of Three Weeks just might be in this photo.
Thanks for the wonderful advice!
Bonus Haikus, Part Two

Preamble - I am in search a new haiku/texting boyfriend to replace and/or supplement the Married Man. Here are some thoughts on this matter:

I need a new muse.
The guy who tied me up last
Summer wrote to me.

He said he would not
Make much of a haiku friend
At least he’s honest.

The End.
 
Happy High School Reunion, PDCI! It was wonderful to see you all!
 
Bonus Photo from Mr. Wilson's 1992 Grade Three Class:
Guess who?!?



Drama Club Peeps!
I see glitter.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
Erica's Self-Help Book: I Let Go

Mother's Bunion
Prozac Made Me a Better Person
Memoirs of a Brief Affair

The Kiss Test
What a Beautiful Face
Performative Crying in Alleys

Wednesday, 20 July 2016

Memoirs of a Brief Affair

RH stands for Radical Honesty and might make you think of the hemorrhoid cream. Hemorrhoid is one of those ridiculously difficult words to spell. A lack of hemorrhoids is a source of gratitude. Some people make a case for lukewarm honesty. Instead of the radical kind. I am not that kind of people.

A couple of friends suggested I start a new Haiku or poetry blog. Marriedman.com.

Haiku One. Memoirs of a Brief Affair.

In meditation,
I heard your wife say please stop
texting my husband.

I'd rather not stop.

It is super addictive.
What should we do now.

My dream was about
You guys getting a divorce.
She told your family.

I sat there, listened
as Susie crawled on my lap.
Jeremy said nothing.

I wanted to text
"You didn't try therapy."
Like you said you would.

"It's too expensive."
That was your excuse. But it's
cheaper than divorce.

End of Haiku one.

Seeking redemption,
I fold all my underwear
To look like a rose.


If you’re wondering how Facebook Rehab is going, well, between haikus to the Married Man, I am now posting selfies of myself wearing plush elephant masks and talking to owl puppets. They get tons of likes.

 

Plush Performances
My deepest fear is
I’ll still be sending haikus
To you in ten years.

Tonight at 6 p.m., I get to spark joy in the house of some banker/kundalini yoga instructor. Yesterday, on my way to Butt Club, I texted my most darling friend and mentor (MMDFAM) who generously invited me to my first threesome last spring in Toronto.   

Yesterday, 5:12 PM:  MMDFAM! How’s it going? I tried to get closure with the married man in person, since the haikus did not work. But nor did seeing him. We didn’t make out but I could not can it. I like him. He will never make me a well-fucked woman. What am I doing? Why can’t I channel all this energy into something useful? I feel addicted to the drama and the constant affirmation. It is so hard to focus on life. The Facebook Rehab is a bust. Soon it will be Butt Club. I love you. I’m sure your butt looks phenomenal. XO.

MMDFAM suggested that we raise a toast to INCREMENTALLY BETTER and the Baby StepsTM method. But having said that, sometimes closure is overrated. Like folding your underwear into the shape of a rose. Butt Club was an enormous success. Four Participants. World record. The Married Man sent his congratulations. He remains in massive haiku debt.

When are we gonna
Bother with integrity
This just needs to end.

I finished translating the novel excerpt about terrorists on a luxury cruise ship. Several sentences needed to die. For example,

“Each of their faces displayed a victorious smile and the entire group exuded a nearly infantile excitement.”

Nobody got to exude a nearly infantile excitement or display a victorious smile. Also the vanishing box did not get to bid farewell with a foamy bluish whirlpool. I am giving the sentences closure.

“Though the men appeared curious at the time, their interest quickly faded as the vanishing box bid farewell with a foamy bluish whirlpool.”

And the love affair between the ex-marine and the captivating cruise ship acrobat didn’t seem to work out either. It died in chapter eight.

“Instead of answering, Charles stopped walking and sadly watched Bella’s figure gradually disappear, like a dream that tortures the heart as it fades into the distance, beyond reach.”

There’s no narrative
Closure is overrated.

The End.
 

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Crackbook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

Prozac Made Me A Better Person
Performative Crying in Alleys
The Tidying Festival
 
 

Wednesday, 13 July 2016

Prozac Made Me A Better Person

Prozac made me a better person.
I think it awakened my crown chakra.
I feel more beautiful on the inside and the outside, and the rest of the world is not so irritating.
Also, the orgasms came back.
A joy and a Fucking Relief.

The above lines do not form a Haiku,
That said:

It seems I missed my
calling. Writing haikus to
tortured Married Men.

Haikus provide an excellent format for performative text messages.

Did I scare you off?
Oh well. Go deal with your shit.
I’ll be waiting here.

On the stove, I’m steaming broccoli right in the middle of the heat wave. Sometimes the dress does not match the day, and vice versa.

In other news, I am translating two different documents for money.

A novel excerpt about terrorists on a cruise ship, and a riveting manual about project management. Sometimes I have a tendency to make my sentences choppy. Like the waves on the ocean in questionable literary device. The novel is top secret. As for the manual, all I will say is that sometimes project management involves hierarchical decomposition.

In other other news, I have acquired a Facebook Rehab Coach to help me quit my habit of perpetually checking Facebook when the hierarchical decomposition bores me.

Today is Day Two. I am allowed to check Facebook three times. So far, I have only checked it once. For those of you who are also attempting a Facebook cleanse or any kind of cleanse, beware of the Secondary Vice.  Twitter is not adequate. Espresso has its limits, as does humping the duvet. And haikus to the Married Man run the risk of canning the whole thing.

Haiku Interlude:

I think the problem is.
I need too much attention.
Not sustainable.


I need too much attention. Hence, the Bananas.
Sentences I wrote to my Facebook Rehab Coach Interlude:

I agree about it making me feel terrible pretty much every single time. Jealous, inadequate, underachieving, FOMO, guilt, there are so many negative sensations I can associate with Facebook, and yet I plunge into the black hole over and over again. I have somewhat of an addictive personality. Also, when I'm stressed out, my brain likes to do a whole bunch of things all at once, even though this rarely resolves the source of stress and often makes it much worse.

A couple of weekends ago I went to a cottage and didn't check my phone for two days. It was so easy. I thought I'd evolve to a brand new Erica and yet as soon as I got home, I was masturbating all over my phone all the time all over again. Self-forgiveness is so important.

I like narrating my life, and having virtual audiences. I want my life to be affirmed. Maybe that is why I like Facebook. There is maybe the possibility of having people affirm my life.  Also, I am translating this jargonny manual about project management and it so boring.

Recently I read somewhere that everyone needs a base level of food, money, power and sex. Due to social media, there is also a base requirement for attention which is actually quite high.
 
The Project Management document is talking about subtracting actual competencies from expected competencies. Guess I should get back to it.

Wink, Grin, Pear = Tell me I'm cute
End of Sentences I wrote to my Facebook Rehab Coach Interlude.
I really like my new dress. It matches the day.

The End.


The Dress that Matches the Day
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Crackbook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

Performative Text Messages
Performative Crying in Alleys
The O's in the Toto have Hats

Why I am Like  Oprah
Deep Unyielding Depression, Part Two
 

Friday, 10 June 2016

The Tidying Festival

Cleaning is masturbation for the people on Prozac.

M.D. friends, I am due for a consult.

In the meantime, my apartment looks spectacular. The floors and the windowsills glimmer and beam.
The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, by Marie Kondo.
On Amazon.
tidyingup.com
konmarie.com
Essential reading for eager cleaners is of course, Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Marie Kondo’s unrivalled passion for keeping immaculate house began at the age of five, when the kindergartner felt compelled to devour housewives magazines. By junior high, she had embarked upon an “earnest” study of tidying, and each afternoon she’d come home from school, infused with enthusiasm and the resolve to tidy a different location. The fifth of every month was “living room day.” Another day would be, “pantry cleaning day.” Or perhaps she would “conquer the cupboards.” This woman has devoted an unimaginable number of hours devoted to creating a magical, clutter-free home. Her zealousness has led to the invention of the KonMari method, the key to abolishing mess and disorder for the rest of your life. Marie Kondo promises that her technique works for everyone, and even her laziest clients who suffered the most extreme cases of hoarding did not experience the dreaded “rebound” back to a disastrous living space. Her steadfast conviction fills me with such hope. As though life can be solved through fancy folding techniques and giving away your extra Mason jars you don’t need.

The heart of the KonMari method lies is determining what you should discard and what you should keep. After gathering all your items from a single category, you must handle each item lovingly, one by one. With careful consideration, you must ask yourself, “Does this spark joy?” According to Marie Kondo, everything you own must spark joy. If it doesn’t spark joy, it doesn’t belong in your home. Good luck with the toilet brush, folks!

For objects that don’t pass the joy sparking test, Marie Kondo recommends expressing gratitude for everything they once brought you. You might also wish them well as they embark on their new journey, to the dumpster or to the Salvation Army.

In my new room, the sparks are a little sparse, not due to a hoarding problem but because I am down to about three and a half suitcases worth of possessions. At the risk of being spark-less, and/or nude, I figured I couldn’t afford to throw out too many objects. I did, however, part with the threesome tights on my last moving day. Strangely enough, I saw some woman wearing them down the street from me. I hope they spark deep joy in her heart. But all this is to say that I did not spend that much time considering the joy-sparking capacities of my few possessions. I feel rather joyful about my new room slash Erica Museum.  That said, as I proceeded with my Tidying Festival, I discovered I had an enormous amount to learn about folding.

Perhaps like the old me, you believe that folding is no fun. To this Marie Kondo insists that “you have not discovered the impact of folding.” Folding must be done with great heart. As we fold, we should thank “our clothes for protecting our bodies. Folding is really a dialogue with our clothing.”

Marie Kondo believes that, “Every piece of clothing has its own ‘sweet spot’ where it feels just right – a folded state that best suits that item.” She maintains that, “There is nothing more satisfying than finding that ‘sweet spot.’ The piece of clothing keeps its shape when stood on edge and feels just right when held in your hand. It’s like a sudden revelation – so this is how you always wanted to be folded! – a special moment in which your mind and the piece of clothing connect.”

In Kondo’s mind, “to go through life without knowing how to fold is a huge loss.” At the same time, I can testify that spending Sunday morning talking to your clothing in attempts to discover how each item would prefer to be folded is somewhat frightening. Even more frightening is trying to master KonMari folding without first watching the Youtube video. I tried this and my clothes ended up spending four days in fat vertical rectangle shapes instead of in the way they always wanted – micro-thin and horizontal. My poor clothes were not grateful. Fortunately, I was able to make it up to them yesterday. The result is impeccable. Each item exudes comfort and appreciation. Having never been a neat freak, this is one of the most unlikely things I have ever done.
My Grateful Clothes
Also unlikely, last Wednesday a lovely pregnant woman hired me to clean her house.  I was really excited because she has a darling big black dog. For new friends and fans who haven’t read the archives, I used to have a Big Black Dog when I lived in Halifax. His name was Eliot and for a solid two years, he was a big star of the blog, and a highlight of my life. 
Eliot, the Old Big Black Dog. 
Although I derive immense delight from dusting and mopping, I expected that the pregnant lady’s adorable big black dog would be the highlight of my day of housework.

As it happened, the day turned out to be quite performative.

One of my friends who is writing a novel wanted to know what it’s like being a cleaning lady. I would say that it is similar to cleaning your own house except you don’t know where anything is. And if you are the sort of person who feels disgusted by your own mess, other people’s dust usually feels less personal.

People always say that children are easier when they’re your own. I’m not sure I believe them. But mess is usually easier when it’s other people’s. Unless you are on Prozac, in which case all forms of cleaning can serve as your new masturbation replacement.

I am on Prozac, and last Wednesday, I was ready to be invigorated via dust eradication. With exuberance and determination, I prepared myself to tackle the dust and the corners and the big black dog hair. My serotonin leapt at the kitchen counter’s newfound luminosity. Windex in hand, at around 11 o’clock, I went outside on the patio to conquer the dirt on the glass table.

(In truth the best technique for cleaning glass is vinegar and newspaper, but in a pinch, Windex will do.)

The Big Black Dog, whose fake name is a toss-up between Michael and Jeremy came outside with me. He promptly lay down to bask in the sun on the patio shingles. Before I finished with the table, I thought I saw MJ return to the house. Summer is sweltering for big black dogs. Once the table was done, I went inside to scrub the bathroom sink. Soon it would be time for vacuuming. I felt highly satisfied with my level of efficiency. I transferred the sheets from the washer to the dryer, and threw in a load of curtains.  It suddenly occurred to me that I had not seen Michael-Jeremy for some time.
 
To protect Michael-Jeremy's anonymity, photos of the old Big Black Dog 
have been used to evoke canine images in your head.
“Michael slash Jeremy?” I called out. No answer. The apartment was not enormous and it took me seven and a half minutes to make three thorough searches and realize that Michael/Jeremy the Big Black Dog was nowhere to be found. Had I forgotten him on the patio? Nope, not there.

Now I had lost the lovely pregnant woman’s dog. Worst fail ever. I imagined him jumping off the side of the terrace, and his injured body being lugged away by horrified animal rights activists. Or he had simply slipped away, soon to fall into the hands of irate city inspectors.

I happened to have a picture of M-J on my phone from a picnic the previous weekend.

“Mile End,” I posted on Facebook. “Has anyone seen this dog? Let me know.” I messaged my phD friend who is always drinking decaf lattes somewhere in the neighbourhood. No answer. I like to call my phD friend, The Mayor of Mile End. Calling out for Michael-Jeremy on the way, I went to Chez Boris CafĂ© to see if the Mayor of Mile End was taking advantage of Boris’s excellent doughnuts, and if he had come across the Big Black Dog. But alas, my phD Mayor of Mile End Friend wasn’t there.

I felt quite devastated. It was the first of June. June was supposed to be a month of explosive and transformative creativity, and now I was failing as a maid. Even though I am a thirty-year-old grown up, I decided to call my mother and shed some performative tears.

My mother recommended calling the pregnant woman despite my fear that this would result in long-term trauma. Maybe the pregnant lady would have an idea of where M-J had gone. I called and left the most serene message I could pull off on the answering machine. Highly performative.

For the next twenty minutes, I wandered around alleyways and asked random people if they had seen a big black dog. Nobody had. Finally the pregnant lady called back.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “It was the dog walker. I forgot to tell him you were coming. You must have missed each other.”

My life is an ecstatic adventure. Tidying up is a special event. The rest of the afternoon involved rather extensive wars with the vacuum cleaner and its multiple fancy attachments. For fear the machine was not to be conquered, I went back to my apartment to get our dirt devil.  I hope the sight of me in my short shorts hauling a bright red dirt devil through Mile End sparked joy in several people’s hearts.

Eventually, at least the bottom half of the fancy vacuum became willing to suck dirt up. Victory was mine.

If you’d like me to be part of your Tidying Festival, let me know.

The End.