Jujubes

Although I am certainly no expert on what makes for a fabulous LinkedIn Profile, I thought that it might be in my best interest to remove the following paragraph from my summary section:

Excellent Speller:  Yes. When I was in grade one, Mrs. Vanden Bosch gave me a jujube every time I got a perfect spelling test.  My mother made me store them in a plastic bag because she didn't want me to eat jujubes every day.  By the end of the year, I had 47 jujubes.  Mrs. Vanden Bosch said that in total, I only made eight errors.  I ate all the jujubes during the year-end movie party.  We watched Rescuers Down Under, Duck Tales, and Bedknobs and Broomsticks. All I can remember is the slow accumulation of jujube acid on the inside of my cheeks.  Then my tongue went numb.  Mrs. Vanden Bosch skipped me into grade three.  Now I have Gifted Child Syndrome, and I never ever make spelling mistakes. 

 



Jujubes



At the Freak Lunchbox, Halifax’s favourite candy store, they sell chocolate covered jujubes in bulk. The chocolate is not even dark chocolate and it could be hiding a jujube of any colour. Probably it is a terrible to consume even one of these chocolate covered jujubes. And yet somehow, whenever I go to Freak Lunchbox, a handful of these questionable items make their way into my clear plastic candy bag. I only buy a quantity that I feel capable of eating in one go without deeply regretting it. So far I have never regretted any of the jujubes I have eaten. In fact, almost every time, I kind of wish I had bought more. 



Jujubes

The End.

Post-Script: 

Andy is a well-travelled teddy bear who has been to the Freak Lunchbox. I do not know if he likes jujubes. 

Andy, the well-travelled teddy bear
Apparently he had a very nice time in Halifax. You can read all about it.



Andy lives in Chicago. This is what he looks like up close

Who is Andy?  From andyeverywhere.com



Photo from Someone's Big Day in Downtown Halifax

The Freak Lunchbox's Bulk Section, where you can buy Chocolate Covered Jujubes

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Twitter:@mypelvicfloor

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Regrets
Rumplestiltskin
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Recycling Day

Monday, February 23, 2015

This morning I was vacuuming the living room as the Boatman was getting ready to leave. I turned off the vacuum cleaner so that he could get ready in peace. He kissed me and said I love you. Then I finished  vacuuming. I went upstairs to hump our rolled up duvet. We haven’t had much sex over the past couple of weeks and it is one of my several complaints. After a few minutes of humping, likely less than three, I arrived at my usual orgasm, whatever that means. And then I sobbed.  And I thought that somehow this sobbing orgasm masturbation scene could begin my next excellent book.

Now I am at a coffee shop called the Smiling Goat. In Halifax, they like naming things after goats. The Stubborn Goat. The Smiling Goat. The Smiling Goat has the most expensive coffee in the city. I came here during my first weekend in Halifax. In the Smiling Goat bathroom, on that rainy Saturday, I discovered that my period had arrived. Since I was on a sex trip, this was somewhat inconvenient. Oh well. We managed.

I am drinking my expensive latte and looking out the window. It is garbage day.  Also, recycling day. Some guy parked a recycling truck in front of the café. He looks a little bit like Simon would if Simon were a little bit fatter and a little bit taller. And alive.

I am not particularly good at seeing or describing what people look like. The Boatman says that I have Face Blindness.

The Recycling Guy is shoving long cardboard boxes into the side of the recycling truck. I open my Linked In profile to see if some sort of magnificent opportunity will present itself.

Someone has posted an inspirational message.

“Stay away from negative people. They have a problem for every solution.”



Inspirational Message



This is how I feel. Like none of the solutions will work. This is exactly how I felt before I wrote “I Let Go.” Exactly like this. Terrible.

Now the Recycling Guy is putting a plastic bag filled with bottles and cans into the side of the truck. Another bag is filled with receipts and empty vitamin pill bottles. The recycling truck rocks back and forth.

A man with a comb-over walks into the café. Across the street, a police officer parks his car and gets out. I am not sure what he is doing. He has avoided the comb-over by shaving his head.

I fuck around on the Internet. By the time I look out the window again, the recycling truck and the Recycling Guy are gone.

The End.

Unlabelled Footnotes:

-Making an authentic life and/or self-satisfaction an emergency won’t help you get there any faster.  

-Everyone says that if you don’t know whether or not you’ve had an orgasm, then you haven’t had one. People say the same thing about yeast infections. I’m not really sure if any of that is true.

-Something about being the party pooper that all the Happy, Successful LinkedIn people are struggling desperately to avoid. 

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook

Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Let Go, All Yours for only $2.99 U.S. or approximately $3.36 Canadian. 

Simon Girard (1979-2015)
Yours Til Ekam Inhales
Deep Unyielding Depression

 

 

Yours Til Ekam Inhales

It is hilarious that I wrote a book called, “I Let Go.” In truth I am rather terrible at letting go of most things. These days, writing has been very difficult. When I was eight and nine years old, this never happened. Without an alarm, I used to wake up every morning at exactly 6:30. If the long hand on my Mickey Mouse watch had somehow crept to 6:35, I would be devastated. Life would only be bearable if I woke up at 6:30. But regardless of when I made it out of bed, as soon as I was up, I would walk the dog to the mailbox, where I would mail the letter I had written to my grandparents the morning before. When I got home, I would eat cooked rolled oats slothered in plain yogurt and heaps of brown sugar. Then I would write a brand new letter. Every single day.

My letters always began with,

Dear Grandma and Grandpa, How are you? I am fine. 

My grandparents lived far away in Manitoba. They seemed incredibly ancient. White haired and wrinkled, they spent their days sitting in reclining lazy boy chairs that had remote controls. I think my letter routine began after my grandmother had a stroke. Her name was Olga and she was in her early eighties. My grandfather`s name was Julius and he was almost ninety.

“It would be nice if you sent Grandma and Grandpa a card or something,” my dad mentioned to me one day.

Never one for moderation, I took up a dedicated daily practice of sending my grandparents all my interesting news .  I told them which songs I was learning on the violin (Variations A, B, C, and D of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Bach`s Minuet in G, Long Long Ago), how many increments of twenty minutes of practice I had completed that week (at least three per day), and how many beautiful shiny stickers this earned me (several). I told them how many lengths I had done at swim practice, and how this converted into kilometers and miles. Every time I had a swim meet, I would tell them about the ribbons I'd won and how much I`d improved on my old times.  Back then, I was quite a big success. That said, in grade five, I didn`t get a main part in the Christmas concert.

December 21, 1994
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

Hi! How are you? I am fine. I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas! We had a Christmas concert yesterday. I had to be a shepherd. I hated wearing my costume because it was to hot. I wore Dad’s bath robe with a towel on my head.

I remember that bath robe. It was a brown, pukey colour.

Quite often I liked to include jokes.

Why did the thermometer go to university?

Because he wanted to earn his degrees.

What goes Ha! Ha! Ha! Plop!?

Somebody laughing his head off!

Rather humorous. Around the middle of grade five, my letters tapered off. I became very busy maintaining my impeccable reputation in academics, swimming and violin.

April 30, 1995
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

It’s been a long time! Aunt Barbra gave me this writing paper... Our class is going to have a science fair. I did my project on what music is best for plants (vacuum cleaners).

I liked to sign my letters, “Yours til” followed by something interesting.

Some examples were:

“Yours til the dew drops,”

“Yours til the banana splits, ”and

“Yours til the jelly rolls.”

And/or I would write, “Gotta go!” in large letters, always ending with an exclamation mark.

Mostly my endings came out of nowhere, or they occurred because I was running out of space on the paper. I guess I have never been particularly excellent at structure. Out of the letters I have, this is my favourite ending,

Oh yah the last letter I wrote at night. That’s why I said, “Yours til I fall asleep.

Yours til the bubble pops,

Erica S.

I always felt guilty for not keeping up my faithful correspondence. One summer when I was thirteen or fourteen, my grandma burst into tears when we said good-bye.  "What happened to those wonderful letters you used to write?" she cried. This made me feel terrible for a long time. Still, it was quite a delight to stumble over these the other day. Hopefully, I will feel the same way in nineteen years when I look back on this blog, and reminisce about my menstrual blood, my kale phone, and my spiritual pants.  

Big love to everyone's ten year old self. 

Gotta Go!

Yours til Ekam Inhales,

Erica.

I used my smelly Mr. Sketch markers to decorate the envelopes with beautiful designs and pictures. My artistic skills seemed moderately promising at the time; however, they haven’t improved much. 

  

Just wanted to say Hi! 
 

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook

Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Let Go, for $2.99

 

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