How I Am Old

28 years ago today, I was cut out of my mother’s stomach. I was headed out the vagina feet first, which isn’t usually recommended.  Legend has it that my father turned white as a ghost. My mother said that after she knew I was okay, she thought that she might die, but that it would be okay because I was already born. 



Mother, Sister, Me. All of us born.



I heard of a pregnant lady who’s getting a planned c-section this Thursday, on Halloween. A Halloween Caesarean. I feel like if it were my caesarean, I’d pick another day.

 

Today, I am overwhelmed with Facebook, text, and other digital birthday love. Even Google seems to know that it’s my birthday. There are colourful cupcakes and cakes on the homepage. Thank you Google, but thank you more to all the other real people I’ve met in real life and who remembered me.

On the bus this morning, I decided I would make a clichéd list about things that make me old.

1.  A small bunion is growing on the inside of my left foot. Despite years of diligently spreading my toes barefoot or wearing devastatingly practical shoes. Also, I think spider veins on my legs are in my near future. So be it. My short shorts aren’t going anywhere.

 



Long Live the Kino Shorts

 



2. I like to go to bed at 9 P.M. Even better is to go to bed at 8 P.M. and read library books until I fall asleep. Conversations after 9 P.M. exhaust me. Parties are the worst. No part of my body can make peace with why I am upright, awake and speaking.  My bedtime is geriatric.

3. I hate the people on the bus who blast horrible music through their headphones with the arrogant assumption that I might like to hear their lyrics word for word. One afternoon I asked some dude on the 80 if he might like to mute the video game music that was massacring my ears.  He looked at me with enormous disdain and called me a stupid fucking c-word. So now, on the bus, I say nothing. I sit, sighing, glaring and shaking my head like a seething eighty-year-old woman.

And that’s it. Otherwise, I am not very old. I look back on words and photographs from every year of my life, and even from last week, and I think, what a baby, you’re so young. As though the person looking back is so wise and aged. A week later, a year later it will be the same thing. Me looking at me, so young. 

 



Me, taking action, getting action, 27 years old.





Me nasal-flossing in Miami, 26 years old.



Me and my sister at the Halifax Harbour. 26 years old. Very sophisticated.



Me, 16, reading Amelia Bedelia at summer camp.


Me, Darby and Joanne, singing Kirtan, the first year I started Mysore, 22 years old.



    

Rocking the houla hoop, and tie-dye, on Mary Street in Perth, Ontario, 7 years old.

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What the fuck should I do with my life? Part One
What the fuck should I do with my life? Part Two
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What People Really Need

The mug Jadwiga made me was blue on the inside, white on the outside, and covered with strange creatures. A mixture of  humans, cats, and bunny rabbits, the creatures had long oval faces, dots for eyes, a round nose, crescent shaped lips, and eyebrows. Human half-circle ears at the sides and pointy ears at the tops. Behind the heads were large, half-circle bodies, supported with tiny hoofs and concluded with a round tail. Between the creatures, Jadwiga (pronounced Yad-Vee-Ga) had painted small flowers with yellow centres and five or six red petals. For my birthday, my boss Nathalie had ordered the cup from the L’Arche workshop where Jadwiga worked. It was supposed to be from my entire L’Arche house of people with intellectual disabilities. On the bottom, Jadwiga wrote, “To Erica, from Jadwiga.” Jadwiga loved to write her name on everything she created. And if anything had her name on it, she hated to throw it out. In the mail, she’d receive membership offers from credit card and insurance companies.

 



To Erica, From Jadwiga



“Well it is for me,” she would say. “Jad-wi-ga, it says. Jad-wi-ga Lukasik.  That’s me, Er-i-ca.” Often she’d take the scissors and cut her name out of the envelope, storing it amongst piles of paper in her desk. Every morning for breakfast, Jadwiga ate a small bowl of Cornflakes with milk, a piece of toast and jam, a glass of orange juice and instant decaf coffee poured into a mug. Always she used the same dishes. A bowl that would hold only the permitted amount of Cornflakes, (our restrictions, not hers), a small spoon to measure the jam and eat the cereal with, a small white plate, a short juice glass, and her special mug.

 

“That is my cup,” she’d say. “With a cat on it. The cat was black and on the white cup was patterned floral designs and calligraphied letters. Regularly, Jadwiga would sound out the words.

 

“What. People. Rea-lly. Need. Well what it says, Erica?”

“You can read it,” I’d tell her.

“What Peo-ple Rea-lly Need. Is. A Good. Listening to.  Okay. That’s very interesting.”  She’d look at the cup for a moment. “Well, Erica, one day, it will be gone. Broken. My cup. With the cat on it.” Every time she heard something shatter in the kitchen, she’d say. “Well, it is my cup, proba-blee. With the cat on it.” When she discovered it wasn’t her cup, she’d say, “Well, one day, it will be my cup. Gone. Broken.”

One day, Jadwiga’s cup did shatter. I think someone dropped it as they were drying the dishes.

“I knew it,” Jadwiga said. “It was my cup. Gone. Broken.”

I lived with Jadwiga for two years in the L’Arche community, from when I was 19 until I was nearly twenty-two. Now I am almost twenty-eight and I live in Halifax with my boyfriend.

The other morning as I was getting ready for work, I’d left my empty coffee cup with Jadwiga’s strange creatures on it on the ledge at the top of the banister. As I reached for it before heading downstairs, I knocked it over and it shattered, the strange creatures’ amputated limbs and divided bodies spread all over the upstairs hallway. My cup. Broken. The one thing that Jadwiga had made for me. She likely won’t make me anything else. She is old now and can’t remember who I am. I should never have been so careless, leaving the cup so precariously at the top of the staircase. Then again, even if the cup had been spared that morning, another morning, it would have been gone, broken.

All the broken pieces

On September 20, I called Jadwiga to wish her a happy 74^th birthday. She is used to receiving phone calls from her sister Lucy and she began to speak to me in Polish.

“It’s Erica,” I said.

“Oh, Erica,” she said, confused. “Well, Erica, you will prepare yourself and supper, and eat it alone. I tried to explain that I wasn’t alone. I was in Halifax. I had a boyfriend, and at that time, a dog.

“Well, I’m not feeling very good,” Jadwiga said. “But it’s okay. You too, proba-blee. Not feeling very good.”

“Oh, I’m okay,” I said. “Sorry, you’re not feeling well.”

“Well, Erica, thank you for your call. I won’t keep you. You will prepare yourself a supper and eat it alone.”

“That’s okay, Jadwiga. I’m not in a hurry.”

“I said I won’t keep you. Goodnight.” And she hung up.

When you have a cup, the Buddhists says that you should see it as already broken. Because soon it will be. And then you won’t be disappointed.

The cup is broken. The bus is broken. The relationship is broken. This body, this life. My body, my life. Gone.

I put the broken pieces of my cup in a plastic bag in the basement. I never bothered rinsing off the coffee residue.

Now I am taking a picture of the broken pieces. After that, I will throw them in the garbage, and then they will be gone. 

Jadwiga's Strange Broken Creatures:





The Image on Jadwiga's Broken Cup with the Cat:



What People Really Need Is A Good Listening To.

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

My Life's Purpose
A Broken Body is Not a Broken Spirit
Not Separate From All That Is
 

 

 

 

 

Obituary: Eliot, the Big Black Dog

Robbie and I are heartbroken to announce that Eliot, our Big Black Dog, died on Friday, September 27. Eliot was the very first underdog of the Underdog Club, a Montreal-based dog adoption program that finds homes for hard-to-place shelter dogs. The handsome young man was placed into the loving and dedicated hands of Underdog Club founder Fern Breslaw and Robbie Cameron, also known as “The Boatman.”



Eliot, the Very First Underdog (Photo: Jamie Leblanc)



Eliot even got to be in an art show on. (Photo Jamie Leblanc, Design Fern Breslaw)


Soon after his adoption, Fern brought Eliot along to work with her at Cossette, one of Canada’s top ad agencies. Cossette employees have fond and vivid memories of Eliot’s charm, exquisite good looks, and the time he got diarrhea all over the carpets of the production office. As a Cossette employee put it, “we all get the shits. Good for Eliot for reminding us of our humanity.” Over the years, Eliot would regularly provide his caregivers with such reminders. Cleaning up Eliot’s myriad excretions was known to relieve back pain, creative blocks, and financial angst.

Following his stint at Cossette, Eliot returned home to accompany his pitbull boxer brother and fellow underdog Charlie through his emotional struggles. With both dogs and humans, Eliot always played a bit hard to get, but Charlie loved him dearly and the two were good friends.



Charlie and Eliot, fellow underdogs

 In 2009, Robbie and Eliot moved to Halifax, where Eliot was embraced by the Cameron family, who bought him a luxurious bed, invited him to many parties, and treated him very well. Eliot used to love to raise hell in Point Pleasant Park. One morning, to his great delight, Eliot found and chased a raccoon into the woods. An extended period of screeching and unpleasant noises ensued. By the time Robbie could get to the scene, the raccoon had perished and Eliot stood in immense self-satisfaction, his tongue dragging down to the ground.

Horrified, Neighbour Malcom saw to it that Eliot was banned from the park. The Wildlife Protection Services said that he could return upon successful completion of obedience school.  Despite our attempts with a private trainer, we felt quite certain that Eliot could never be trusted with a raccoon or anything equally tempting. He never returned to the park; however, he continued to adore his walks during which he chased after sticks and barked at every dog he passed. 

Throughout his life, Eliot was always excited to get to his “next thing.” He loved the transitions that would lead him to the subsequent item on the agenda. Getting into the car, and out of it. Arriving at the party, and then leaving. Walking up the stairs to go to bed. Although he was not a particularly affectionate dog, he seemed to take comfort in the predictability of his routines. And he always seemed to like having us around.

Last Christmas was a wonderful time for Eliot. He got to celebrate with the Camerons and open lots of presents. Then he got to go on a big long car trip to Ontario. Car rides were one of Eliot’s favourite activities. The trip to Ontario entailed thousands of stops and starts and exciting next things. Eliot probably had more fun than me and the Boatman combined.  



Eliot loved the trip to Ontario, except for the bath.



On the way home from Ontario, we stopped in Montreal so that Eliot could reunite with his dear friends Fern and Charlie. Due to Charlie’s emotional problems, the visit was not a big success. Charlie was inexplicably terrified of his old friend and Eliot had to stay in a kennel.  That said, we are happy that Eliot had a chance to return to his roots before his passing. Also, we are so grateful to Fern for starting the Underdog Club and adopting Eliot with Robbie so that he could enjoy his great life.

For Eliot, the ageing process was difficult, but thankfully quite brief. Plagued with arthritis and fragile hips, his legs gave out one by one. Over the past month or so, we treated the pain with various pills and remedies. Just a couple weeks ago, we took him to the beloved cottage one last time.  Sadly, not long after, it became clear that Eliot’s pain and discomfort were too severe to manage and that his life, once full of joy and excitement was now miserable. In respect for this majestic young man, we made the heartwrenching decision to put him down.

Eliot enjoyed one last car ride to the vet’s. We had to carry him out of the house. On his way into the trunk, he tried to leap out of our arms. He looked excitedly out the window for a few moments before lying down. At the vet’s, he lay down again and we pet him and said goodbye. As the vet opened her needles, Eliot perked up, always interested in a package or present. It took the vet a long time to find Eliot’s vein. While she was looking, Eliot got calmer and calmer. Right before she found it, we could hear the vet’s front door open and another dog walked into the vet’s office.  Eliot lifted his head, let out a final soft “woof,” and he put his head down.

We miss him so much.

Thanks to everyone who loved him.



So long to our dear and wonderful friend.

Poopy Mango Baby Wipes and the First Day of Christmas
All the Lonely People, Rainbows, the Big Black Dog, and Sex

The Boatman Invents a New Word

Most of the world is familiar with the verb, "to shart." Sharting occurs when you think you have to fart, and being in a somewhat appropriate location, you let loose. Go "balls out," as Nobel at the Yoga Dragon Den puts it. It isn't long before you realize that the fart comes with a wet, brown stinky surprise.

I had a roommate who once threw his pyjama bottoms in the garbage. I asked him why and he said, "Ya know when you drink too much beer and then you fart and it all runs down your legs?" He was talking about a shart.

It recently occurred to me and the Boatman that sharting had an opposite,  but it didn't have a name. The opposite of sharting is when you think you have to take an enormous shit. Your tummy's brewing and bloated and you know it's going to be huge. Maybe you have to go so badly that you cut in front of the old lady with a walker headed into the stall with her pink-shoed grandchildren. When you finally sit down and it's time for the beautiful explosion, all your poor anus has to offer is gas. The contours of the toilet bowl magnify both sound and odour so that the person who comes to relieve his or herself afterwards will be promptly armed with adamant accusations.

Until just a few days ago, there was no word for this tragedy. The Boatman and I considered the possibilities for at least 3 and a half days. Finally, last Wednesday, just before noon, the Boatman was on the can passing leftover breakfast gas when a breeze of inspiration came upon him and whispered into his ear the perfect word for farting on the toilet.

And the word was: Foop.

Definition: Farting on the toilet, when you think you have to poop prolifically.

Usage: "I was ready to crap out all the Harvey's poutine, but when I sat on the toilet, it was just a foop."



The Boatman, founder of the word, "foop." Once the Boatman wore a Maxi Pad, and it was a big success.
Now he has invented a new word. He's just one big success after another.

If you're a dog, fooping usually occurs on the grass.  For everyone else, it only counts as fooping when you're on the toilet. Just in case you're having a contest and/or keeping track.

The Big Black Dog has had many foops and sharts in his life and we love him very much.



Eliot,the Big Black Dog, pre or post foop or shart

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

Snow Day (contains more invented words from the Boatman,
but do not read if anything about miscarriages is triggering for you)
All the Lonely People, Rainbows, the Big Black Dog, and Sex
Poopy Mango Baby Wipes and the First Day of Christmas 

 

No fucking good for anyone: Me and McGill Frosh

I arrived in Montreal for McGill Frosh Week a seventeen-year old relative kiss-virgin. Never had I ever seen a grown man's penis. It had also been over two years since I'd had a drink. One weekend when I was fifteen, I'd drank three glasses of white wine and proceeded to hotbox a shed out in the country with some friends. The evening led to hideous oversharing of deep psychological issues and how-to bulimia sessions. I ended up traumatizing my friends as well as vomiting several times. Subsequently, I renounced all alcohol and drugs, convinced that I was a raging alcoholic. I have since changed my mind on this matter several times. That said, at seventeen, I was fervent in my angelic ways. An aspiring Christian, I was going to study English Literature and Religion, determined to become a famous writer and find God and/or Jesus. At university I believed that I would study amongst likeminded young people like myself. I was ready.

The McGill student frosh experience began on the campus grass. After taking the subway by myself for the first time in my life, I walked up McGill College, wearing black clogs, a jean skirt and a little pink t. shirt over my La Senza hydralift bra that was meant to augment my ostensibly pre-pubescent breasts. (At the time I did not yet believe in the eternality of my tits.) It was barely 11 a.m. Music was blaring and hundreds of froshees were scattered across the field wearing baggy fluorescent green t. shirts and drinking out of tall plastic fluorescent green cups. I knew that my group was supposed to meet in the far corner of the field at the bottom of the hill. I imagined that we would begin by sitting in a circle, sharing our names, our majors, and perhaps our deepest dreams. This may have all already taken place, but when I got there, the party was well underway. My frosh leader with shaggy blonde hair and smudged make-up stood at the front of a scattered crowd.

"Hey Froshees! I'm Kelly. I'm your leader! Who's ready to get DRUNK?" Everyone except me screeched and screamed. I sat down carefully in my jean skirt so that no one could see my underwear. A guy was walking around applying red facepaint underneath everyone's eyes. I prepared myself to awkardly decline. I was not a warrior. But when he got to me, he went right to the next person.

"Who's going first?" Kelly screeched. She decided that she would go first to show us how it was done.

More cheering.

The guy with the facepaint came to the front and started clapping his hands. A pitcher of beer appeared from the crowd. These memorable words filled the air.

"Here's to Kelly! Here's to Kelly, she's a horse's ass.

Why was she born so beautiful, what was she born at all?"

I watched, horrified and wondering how everyone else seemed to know all the words.

"She's no fucking good to anyone, she's no fucking good at all.

Everyone seemed so delighted except for me.

"So.... drink motherfucker, drink motherfucker, drink."

Kelly started chugging the litres of beer as everyone screamed and clapped. With a quarter of the pitcher to go, the chant went on.

"What are we waiting, she must be masturbating."

At that time in my life, masturbation had never occured to me. On my fifteenth birthday, a few months before I'd written myself off as an alcoholic, I'd gotten drunk and announced to my friends that I'd never really made out with anybody and needed some practice. Lewis, the only single guy at the party (who also ended up in the hot box) volunteered. We made out enthusiastically for much of the evening and apparently I wasn't horrible at it. But we'd kept our clothes on and for me, the practice session hadn't evoked much thought of my genitals or anyone else's. I had been fairly certain that my sexless tendencies were the majority.  I didn't realize that almost everyone around me had spent a great deal of their adolescence considering their own genitals and everyone else's. And this wasn't over yet.

Kelly finished her pitcher and a skinny froshee named Brendan stood up to be the next motherfucking horse's ass. After watching the ingestion of at least seven more pitchers, it was time to go to the Peel Pub. I thought that maybe I would be saved from this, being only seventeen, but Kelly was all ready with a pile of fake ID's. Someone handed me the driver's licence of some overweight 24-year old with long black curly hair and darkish skin.

I felt my face get red and flustered and my heart pound as I imagined myself getting arrested at the Peel Pub for this poor attempt at fraud.

"Don't worry," said Kelly. "It'll work. I've been getting into bars here since I was 14." I considered asking Kelly what she was studying and then opted against it. Peel Pub was dark and crowded. I doubt the bouncer would have been able to see my ID had he decided to look at it. Inside Peel Pub it was more of the same beer pitchers and drinking songs. Someone pulled out a funnel. One by one everyone got pulled up to be sung into oblivion. Everyone but me. Clearly, I wasn't the motherfucking masturbating type. If only they'd seen me in the hot box. (Is that even the right way of referring to it?) I stayed at the Peel Pub for 10 minutes and then I went pee. The bathroom floor was saturated with vomit. It was not yet noon. I went home to my residence where I decided to take a nap. The drink mother fucker song permeated my head as I lay down and for the next seventeen days, at least.

I spent the rest of Frosh week napping, getting ahead on my course readings and exploring grocery stores. I wrote all this because although I am no longer an aspiring Christian who self-righteously abstains from alcohol, I feel that much of Frosh week is obscene and disgusting. People are outraged by the St. Mary's frosh scandalizing sex chant and rightly so. But as reports on the issue have admitted, the distastefulness has been going on for years and years. While the horse's ass motherfucking drinking song doesn't explicitly promote rape, it is hardly empowering for anyone involved. In both 2010 and 2011, students have died playing their drinking games. This is a tragic, shitty, and embarrassing way to go. No fucking good for anyone. As we reflect upon how those involved in the sex chant should be held accountable, I think that we should think beyond the Saint Mary's student union and beyond this isolated incident.

The End.

My Friend, Chuckie.

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

My Eternal Tits
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Slow Dance

The Third International Mammal Day

The First Annual International Mammal Day occurred on September 4th, 2011. It began with the Hedge.





The Boatman trusted me with the hedgeclippers. I am as happy as I look.

Mammal Day is reserved for Mammal Time. Mammal Time is for engaging in all of your favourite mammal things: sleeping, eating snacks, lying on top of your loved ones, and possibly licking them. That's what mammals do. Traditionally and paradoxically, on International Mammal Day, the Boatman and I give ourselves fully to one Strictly Human Task. On the first International Mammal Day, we clipped the Hedge.

On the second International Mammal Day, we painted shelves. First we scrubbed them because they were very dirty. Here I am scrubbing the shelves. I am working very hard. And I'm wearing the same shirt as on the First International Mammal Day.  Like the shelves, it was very dirty.





 
Today is the Third Annual International Mammal Day. I don't think I have that shirt anymore. The Boatman and I and the Big Black Dog are lying around, eating snacks and licking each other. We are no longer fundamentalists, and so we are going to forgo the traditional Stictly Human Task. No hedge to clip, no shelves to paint, no deck to build. Likely, we are even too lazy to bother with a picture.

The End.

 
 

Happy International Mammal Day to You

More on Mammal Time, and the other Six Kinds of Time

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
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I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt ($2.99)

Performative Text Messages

Ocean Invertebrate Personality Quiz

Three Easy Strategies for Feeling Smug and On Top of Life

 

77 Ways I Failed All the Internet Lists

Yesterday every blog post and Facebook status I came across seemed to marvel and mourn over the passage of time. Tempus fugit. The time, it is flying. Look out.

Thinking that every moment is immeasurably precious and irreplaceable is way too much pressure.

I also stumbled over Forbes' ten most important things that 20-somethings should know. And Forbes' twenty things that 20-somethings don't get. In two months, I'll be twenty-eight. Judging from my life so far, despite being more than halfway through my 20's, it seems I don't get or know any of the most important things. I have not devoted myself to a lucrative career or made a very decisive choice about what the fuck I want to do with my life. I have not fretted over my waning fertility. I have tried to calculate my hours of expertise in various things and I am nowhere near 10 000 hours in anything.* Before moving in with the Boatman, I did not vacillate over the implications of co-habitation. After one month of skyping and phone calls and one weekend visit, the Boatman said I could come stay with him as long as I want, and (I wanted to fuck his soul) so I did. More than two years later, we are still together, co-habitating and living in sin. But according to Forbes' ten most important things list, I may have made a huge mistake.

I am failing all the internet lists.

Hate that.

I need to read lists about things that I never fucked up. Things that I will never fuck up.

"50 reasons I regret starring in bestiality porn."

"33 unusual things I wished I'd known before I opened my cocaine business."

I can read these lists and feel no regrets.

Success.

I've mentioned this before but every month just as my vagina is ceasing to bleed, I feel overcome by all the babies I never gave birth to. All the books I never wrote. All the ten thousand hours I never put in.

This is something I call the Vag Time Death.

It is the One Thing I Invented During My Twenties.

The End.

(*For yoga, I have somewhere between 4000-5000 hours depending on whether or not you count meditation, teaching, reading, and geeking out on Youtube and other parts of the internet. Since it has been scientifically proven that getting up a 4 a.m. for a two-hour plus practice results in me lashing out irrationally at other sentient beings, I must reconcile myself to a maximum of 1.5 hours of relatively daily practice. Which leaves me with 12-15 years before I become a 10 000 hour expert... Oh well.)  



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

What I Learned in India
The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
Three Easy Strategies for Feeling Smug and on Top of Life