Clean and Elegant

Clean and Elegant
Showing posts with label The Boatman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Boatman. Show all posts

Tuesday, 11 April 2017

What I think about when I think about brand-named q-tips.

What I think about
when I think about
Brand Named Q-Tips.


Every time I clean out my ears with olive oil, I think of this training I did about how to take care
of someone with Alzeimer's. (In French they call training, formation, and I find this quite poetic.)
The training's presenter was a former nurse who made the commitment to live in a L'Arche home, I think in Trois-Rivières, where she shared her life and helped take care of people with intellectual disabilities. In her home lived a tiny woman in her fifties who had both Down Syndrome and Alzeimer's. Early Alzeimers is quite common for people with Down Syndrome, and for them being fifty or sixty is rather old.


The former nurse taught us about the best order for washing body parts. That is to say, feet, armpits and buttholes last, best case scenario, with many fresh wash cloths. As for Q-tips, these she did not recommend, brand-name or otherwise. Instead, she said you could stick a damp clean wash cloth inside the person's ear and gently faire la tour. Make the rounds.


I also remember her suggesting that you take the person you are caring for out for walks whenever you could. Some people need two extra arms on either side to help them balance. Others only need one. In any case, it is usually best to walk slowly.


"Ce n'est pas du cardio pour nous autres."
Not the cardio
for us. 


I never met the tiny woman with Alzeimers who lived in Trois-Rivières. Almost certainly by now she is dead.


But I can picture her, walking slowly, being beautiful, and not using Q-tips. 


What I think about
when I think about
Brand Named Q-Tips


The Drugstore Date
with my ex-love-of-my-life
The Boatman.


I invented Drugstore Dates in February of 2012. Drugstore dates involve going to the drugstore at any pre-determined hour, with your loved one, or by yourself if you're trying to master self-compassion and/or radical self-reliance. During the Drugstore Date, you can do romantic things such as take your own or your loved one's blood pressure. You might discuss your results with your loved one, or with the pharmacist. Try not to get to competitive about something that is always changing. After the blood pressure is over, take your time perusing each aisle. From podiatric health to Family Planning, each drug store aisle offers something potentially exciting. Be sure to make a stop in the row of greeting cards where you can read a festive and heartfelt message aloud, no matter what holiday it is or isn't. Almost always you will be able to find an obnoxious musical greeting card which will be thrilling and liberating to open in a public space.


No one should leave a Drugstore Date without making some sort of non-regrettable purchase that can serve as a thoughtful and non-regrettable gift, either for yourself or for the Loved One.


The greatest thing about the drugstore is that it abounds with items you won't regret purchasing. Examples are dandruff shampoo, a nail file, Grapefruit Perrier and Brand name Band-aids. In French they call band-aids, les pansements.


No one regrets buying any of these items. You will walk out of the drugstore with a full heart and absolutely no regrets.


On the very first Drugstore Date, the Boatman bought me some purple sparkly eye shadow. Maybe he also bought me some other contraption such as a nail file for my disgusting toenails. I know for sure, I bought him a large box of brand-name q-tips. I'm not sure if he stuck them in his ears. Definitely they were useful for applying cold sore ointment.


What I think about
when I think about
Brand Named Q-Tips


On Sunday, April 9, I saw a toddler lying back in his stroller and clutching a box of brand-name q-tips.


The fresh blue plastic-wrapped box,
his earnest clutching hands
evoked so much.
Gifted with brand-named q-tips so early in life,
this boy ,
I do not
intend to forget.


The End.


Hi.
Thanks for reading.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)
Instagram: montrealhippiethreads



The Drugstore Date
All the Lonely People, Rainbows, the Big Black Dog, and Sex
Regrets


How I am violent, by Erica J. Schmidt



Thursday, 2 February 2017

They smile at the sidewalks even though it's cold as balls and they must remain on leashes.

Places where you had the true joy.
Or saw it.

Beautiful Neurotic.

There is something to be cherished
in those who are so serious.

On February 11, I will ask the Boatman to send me the bottles of castor oil I brought back from India in 2014.
Unless he already threw them out.

Included in my update, I will mention that I ordered my first full basket of French Fries.
I ate the whole thing.
With ketchup, and even some mayonnaise.
Survived the ordeal
free from both obesity,
and heartburn.

Vincent would be proud of the risk.

Groundhog Day, 2017

Today I might write a letter
To my old Expensive Friend David.
Vincent is subsidized,
but David cost
one hundred and seventy bucks per hour.
He was worth it.
Halifax is
a torturous place
to find friends.

I never got to learn very much about David,
except that he had more than one kid,
and however many children he had,
they all preferred texting
over talking on the phone.

David was generous with his time.
David also seemed to love purple.

Dear David,

I really like purple too.
Really, really, really like it.
Even more than I did in Halifax.
 I really really really love purple.
Tips for Surviving Life:
Prozaac, and Underemployment.

The Big Blue Sky is still not up.
My room smells like a stuffy sleepy person.
The duvet failed to get me off this morning.
Where are the buzz kills,
and who.

Dear Married Man,
It has occurred to me
that I might consider
crawling out from under the table
and re-emerging with some of my dignity.

Next time I'm gonna try
Not to knock all the dignity over
in the first place.

This would be such a fabulous Country Music Song.
Another missed calling!
Alas.

You know all about these.
I love you and don't worry about it.

Unrestrained enthusiasm or joy.
Thinking about this again
And all the people at vipassana
who have been observing the breath below their nostrils
and scanning all their body's cells
as the state of the world unravels.

My computer fan
is evoking the sound
of a low-powered chain saw.

All we've got left
for the pure sanctioned joy
is the babies being born.

Even with the blood
And violence
And fecal matter,
we are allowed to be ecstatic.

I used to be too jaded for this.
But now,
the sight
or the softness
of a onesie
fills me with such hope.


I also see a massive revolution
in the small people
trudging passed Café Olimpico
In vibrant snowsuits twice the size of them.

They do not feel burdened like oversized marshmallows.

They smile at the sidewalks
Even though it's cold as balls
And they must remain on leashes.

The End.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:
 
Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)

Instagram: montrealhippiethreads


My Ego Throws Up When I Won't Believe It
Hour of God on a Friday
The Vipassana Diaries: Why I Like To Pee Outside

Exalted
 


Friday, 27 January 2017

Hour of God on a Friday

Hour of God on a Friday.
My body cannot release you.
Vincent says, "Some fucks are like empty calories."
Vincent never tells me what to do.
 
Everyone wants
to tell you
how hard
writing is.
 
But sentences
that start
with Everyone
are easy.
 
I also like
to talk about
my bunions.
 
Robbie always hated poetry,
going to bed,
and mornings.
 
I always hated science fiction,
formatting,
and catching the bus.
 
Toddlers we knew
wrote tributes to the moon.
"Moon up!" called the twins.
"Lune, lune," chanted Isaac.
 
Is the moon an official
stage of development?
Like seagulls and bulldozers,
learning to share,
and apple juice.
 
A full moon began
our beautiful delusions.
I menstruated twice in three weeks.
 
We carried on the myth
by talking like the two year olds.
 
Every language has its expiration date.
 
At this point it's hard
not to think about yogurt.
 
That's one of the reasons
I struggle to move on.
 
Because every time I
 see yogurt,
I think of you.

Yogurt,
and avocadoes.
I tend to forget to take off the stickers.
You kept having to remind me.
 
Together, we learned
to store avocadoes
in paper bags.
 
Sentences containing
avocadoes
are also very easy.
 
Almost every time
I see citrus
somewhere in
Vincent's office.
 
He might get the flu,
or a death in the family,
or a cold sore.
 
The End.
 
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures
Slash
Free Spirit Dharma:
 
Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)

Instagram: montrealhippiethreads


The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
Why I am like Jane Fonda
Mythological, Unconditional Love

Thursday, 11 June 2015

How I am violent, by Erica J. Schmidt

Since May, I have been taking an online course called, Embodying Ethics and Vows. It is with Michael Stone and Elaine Pierce. This week, our assignment was to write about how we are working with the precept of not causing harm (ahimsa) in our lives. Here's what I got:

How I am Violent, by Erica J. Schmidt

Instead of non-violence, I am thinking about violence. This makes me think of my relationships, especially with Simon and with my body, but with the Boatman too. Everyone saves their violence up for someone, for something. Actually, I have no idea what everyone else does.

It is hard not to tell the same old story over and over again. The story of Simon, my ex-boyfriend who I fucked at the Granola Party, on the biodegradable yoga mat. I was really drunk, and he wasn’t. Perhaps this should have been the last time. Instead, there was a big saga of alcohol, vomit, both passionate and ambivalent sex, and name calling. We wrote all this down in letters that were supposed to be published in brilliant books that were supposed to allow me to quit my three and a half low-paying jobs.

Simon used to say that I was like an eight-year-old sore loser tennis player. And I was always losing the match and so being with me was unbearable. He didn’t understand how the Boatman was able to stand me. Simon was probably more right about this than I was when I wrote,

Sometimes I think that it would kind of be ideal for you to die.

Then our book would be a huge success.  I could feel somewhat sorry for myself, because a guy I fucked died and that is always traumatizing.  Everyone would look at me with odd sympathy. Especially if you committed suicide.  The sympathy would be immense.  Oh poor poor, Erica.  You slept with a sick and twisted soul.  Scarred forever.  How terrible.

Highly mediocre writing, and unkind. This was from the second volume of the Little Savage and the Hermit. I wasn’t really into writing this book. Simon wanted the plot to be about how I finally got an orgasm. I felt like this was a dumb plot.

I am not the reason Simon jumped off his apartment building. I can just hear him say, “I would never jump off a building for you, you stupid fucking cunt!” His voice carries a tinge of love.

Simon’s most recent girlfriend gave me pictures and memorabilia from the funeral. When I first put the pictures on my meditation alter, I told myself that after a week, I was allowed to take them down. It has been awhile. They are still there. One of his photos is in a disposable coffee cup that is covered with the stream-of-consciousness poem I wrote during my French Literature Class in 2009. Simon kept this cup all the way until he died.  Those cups don’t biodegrade.

The alter, with spectacular lighting.
Simon once said that based on a study they did on rats in the 1970’s, I will never ever get cancer. The rats who expressed their stress by freaking out didn’t die or get any diseases. At this rate, I will live until I’m 98.

Not every day can be fulfilling and lucrative and productive. Some days are for melting down. Yesterday was a meltdown day. It was the first time I had woken up at 5 a.m. for a while. That could have caused the meltdown. I also don’t think I ate properly the day before. All the trivial and banal things tend to matter. Alas. I was stressed because I had this assignment to write, and Thursday is also blogging day. I thought that maybe I could combine the two activities, although I wasn’t sure whether or not the world should know that I told Simon it might be better if he died. As a creative practice, I have vaguely committed to myself and my four and a half fans that I will blog every Monday and Thursday. It started off being fun. Now I am starting to crap out.

Writing, with all its potential for redemption can also be violent.  Same thing goes for meltdowns.

My favourite person to have a meltdown with is the Boatman. No one can console and contain my eight-year-old sore-loser-tennis-player-self better than him. Plus I don’t really want to really want to impose this self onto anyone else. Some friends say that I should limit my contact with the Boatman. Otherwise, how will I possible get over him, move on. The idea of getting over anyone is so silly.  How can we possibly get over anyone?

Well, I suppose I am over the Vegan Life Coach. God bless the Vegan Life Coach, and his spirulina powder.

The Boatman and I talk once or twice a week. I try to make sure each time is not a meltdown. I try to ask him about his life. That was one of my goals when I began the ethics course. To ask people about their lives.

Yesterday, I called the Boatman in tears. “I can’t keep calling you like this. I will keep doing this forever.” For the rest of my life, for the rest of the world, I will compartmentalize myself to resemble a manageable and acceptable human being. Then when the eight-year-old tennis player appears, I will excuse myself to call the Boatman. I’ll be eighty years old, forty-nine years into a marriage, with seventeen grandchildren. Some blogging drama will emerge. “Excuse me, honey,” I will say to my geriatric husband. “I need to melt down to the Boatman.” The Boatman will be eighty-eight.

“It’s okay,” the Boatman told me yesterday as I fretted and wept about my lack of meltdown autonomy. “You can just call me.” Maybe they can make a special Boatman Meltdown App.

As for my body, well, I cannot believe the violence I have imposed upon it. Sri W. Ham Wrap was right. My yoga practice was super violent, and  I cling to things until they die.

People always say, “My poor body,” and/or “My body is not happy with me,” and/or my body is angry with me. I know what they mean, but I wonder who they are talking about.

Or what about, “my back was killing me?” My back was killing me the day I went to meet Simon’s girlfriend. Earlier I had spent two hours on my bike, to visit a friend. Now I was walking. I felt that if anything in my clicky, crooked eighty-year-old spine were to shift .035 mm the wrong way, the whole thing would surely collapse. Someone would have to wheel me and my body away.

"Jesus," I thought. People think about Jesus when their backs hurt. I remembered listening to Ashtanga teacher Tim Feldman talking about his herniated discs. He could barely move, but he thought about his guru, Pattabhi Jois, who said, “You taking your yanus.” So Tim started squeezing his anus like nobody’s business. Somehow this helped. Seemed a bit simplistic to me, or rather, perhaps too complicated. But what else could I do? As I walked, I brought my awareness to my anus and pelvic floor. I didn’t squeeze, I just thought about it. I considered how it was all connected to my feet that were touching the ground. And how my sitbones were also somewhat connected to my nostrils. And how the crown of my head sort of balanced on top of everything. There was still pain, but by the time I arrived at Simon’s girlfriend’s house, it felt like maybe things had shifted 0.035 mm away from me being in a wheelchair.

It is a good idea to try and keep your body happy.

This afternoon I’ll be taking a stab at my dream job. I am going to help a three-year-old learn how to use the potty. Very little is more grounding than helping someone else to take a shit.

The End.
The cup with the biodegradable poem on it
Follow me on Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook

My name is Erica, and I love coffee
Simon Girard, 1979-2015
The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
Not Separate From All that Is 
The Real Me 

Michael Stone Teaching



Simon


Monday, 27 April 2015

God Box

Thursday, February 19, 2015

On Tuesday, I translated three sentences about barley.

With its varying hues, the barley gives this dish a two-toned appearance. This colouring is due to the fact that the hulls are still wrapped around some of the grains. This dish makes a wonderful accompaniment to chicken, fish, or pork.

On Thursday, I translated a letter for a bank that is firing all its employees and switching to automated machines.

In 2009, I drew my body in the shape of a small gingerbread man. I drew a circle in the throat area and inside the circle, I wrote green. My old psychologist Dr. Henderson used to teach me how to colour code my day. Pink meant happy. Orange was average. Okay or mediocre but not horrendous. Green equalled shitty. While she was explaining the code to me, she used smelly markers on her big chart paper. As I went through the day, I was supposed to rate my mood. Whenever there was food or eating disorder symptoms, I would automatically say that it was green, even though sometimes puking something tasty into your mouth felt soothing. Other times, it was just disgusting and it made me feel ashamed. My fear for you, Dr. Henderson said, is that the eating disorder will continue to insert green into moments that would otherwise be pink or orange. She explained that it was important to leave room in your life for orange moments. Sometimes life is just orange, she said. Not terrible or catastrophic, but also not spectacular. You don’t need to let the eating disorder add green and make it bad. This makes her sound dumb, but she was actually quite a good psychologist.
The gingerbread man with green in his throat
I always felt pressured to rate my eating disorder times as green and unpleasant and terrible. Except that the vomit wasn’t always particularly unpleasant. Sometimes it felt better than faking it. More honest. The insides matched the outsides.

Dr. Henderson told me that eating disorder or not, I would probably always be a fairly anxious person. I found this news to be remarkably disappointing. I had the vision that once I stopped puking in my mouth, I would transform into someone exquisitely calm. Someone who remains impressively unphased by life’s whims. A Chill Chick. Alas, this is not quite me.

Back when I tried to do the twelve steps for overcoming alcoholism in attempts to overcome my eating disorder, I made a God Box. It was in the shape of a long rectangle. I covered it with sheets of paper which I decorated with splatters of pink, yellow and purple paint. Maybe there were also other colours. Naomi, my friend and roommate at the time, called it the Allah Box. We wanted to be inclusive of all religions and cultures. Probably we were also being a little bit obnoxious. The Allah Box was for putting all your problems and worries into. I wrote down my problems on small square sheets of paper, folded them in half and slid them through the rectangular slot on the top of the Allah Box.

The A.A. people recommend writing all your character defects down. You can make a list or write them down on small squares of paper, and put them in your God slash Allah Box, or throw them in the Lachine Canal. I think I tried all of these things. I have a list of all the character defects I put in the God Box and on a list and in the Lachine Canal. It is not that interesting. I think I got a bunch of my character defects from the sample list on the A.A. website. Oh well.

Erica’s List of Character Defects

Easily discouraged                                                   resentments

Give up easily                     tendency to create drama

Hypochondria                                   disorganization                                        prejudice

         Perfectionism                                        distractedness

                         INTOLERANCE                                     selfishness

Judgementalness                          carelessness                                        jaded facetious skeptical

Pride                  greed            seeing the negative all the time

Defects isn’t the kindest word.
Before I left Montreal to live with the Boatman in Halifax, I gave the Allah Box to Simon.  Even though we didn’t get along that well, Simon kept the Allah Box until January 4th. Then he jumped off a building and died. Maybe it wasn’t very nice to give someone a box filled with my character defects.

On my bedside table, there is a dusty lamp that doesn’t work. There’s something wrong with the plug, and perhaps also the lightbulb. Not sure. The Boatman and I are terrible at following through with stuff like that. We could spend the rest of our lives looking after shit like that. Lightbulb after plug after leaky shower head.

Saturday, 18 October 2014

Peanut Butter, Pubic Hair

Somehow I have made it through three and a half years of blogging without inflicting friends and strangers with my long elevator speech about pubic hair. Pubic hair used to be my Designated Issue. A Designated Issue is a matter you deem to be of such utmost importance that should you succeed at dealing with it, then all of your problems will disintegrate. Common designated issues include paying off your mortgage, finding a life partner, or perhaps finally achieving a sought after yoga posture. Once you cross the Designated Issue finish line, the whole world becomes easy. In my early twenties, this is how I felt about pubic hair. A good friend of mine from high school shared in my misery. Because we had thick curly hair on our heads, we were certain that the hairy reality down there was much worse than everyone else’s. The roots ran deeper and our razors left behind itchier, redder and more hideous bumps.

Also, I’d been traumatized by the Vegan Life Coach who had once complained that the hairy abundance on my nether regions was “not aesthetically pleasing.”

One summer I was back for a visit to my home town, when my friend and I decided that enough was enough. It was time to get our bushes ripped off professionally. We found a newly certified aesthetician who raved about the sugar wax she used to complete her full Brazilians. I have yet to find anyone quite as cheerful and enthusiastic about ripping out pubes.

“It won’t hurt that much at all,” she promised.  The cost was 35 dollars. We considered drinking beforehand but our appointment was at noon and we decided that maybe this was too early. My friend popped a couple of advil and I went in sober.

“This will be so easy. You’re so flexible,” said the Cheerful Ripper. Then I took off my underpants. “Wow.” she said. Our sessions took about 45 minutes each. I tried not to make too much noise. My poor friend cried out profusely and consistently. It was the closest I have come to witnessing a birth.

“You guys are hairy beasts,” the Cheerful Ripper exclaimed. When it was all over, my fellow Hairy Beast had sweat stains down to her waist.

“You’re going to feel so great though,” the Cheerful Ripper promised. As fate would have it, we felt okay.

Back in Montreal a few days later, I walked up the stairs to my apartment after biking home from the yoga studio. Something felt a bit off. In the bathroom, I found a large pinkish bump along my groin.

Even though I hadn’t had sex in ages, I felt absolutely certain that I had herpes. I walked across the street to the hospital where I begged for a spot at the walk-in clinic. Three and a half hours later, the doctor on call said that herpes was highly unlikely. She took a swab anyways and suggested I might come to the hospital’s anxiety workshops.

My herpes scare provided no cure for my Designated Issue. I made room in my poor student budget to get my pubes waxed off every four weeks or so. I also had to budget for alcohol since going sober was far too painful and humiliating. In the metro, I sipped Mason jars filled with fruit juice and vodka. Mostly I went to little spas run by Asian women. Alas, none of them had sugar wax and I often hobbled away with a burning, pockmarked crotch.

“Oh. Very hairy,” said almost every single aesthetician I went to.

“The ass?” one lady asked after forty five minutes of seething torture. I rolled over and spread my cheeks.

After a few months of this, I found a lady in Old Montreal who used sugar wax. Everything in her spa was maroon and felt very exotic. Even so, aggressive ripping was still involved and my pubic area continued to suffer from its fair share of blood and pock marks. At least I was pretty sure it wasn’t herpes.

One time the ingrown hairs were particularly bad.

“You have infection,” said the Exotic Sugar Lady. “You are touching. Don’t touch!” Through my vodka buzz, I tried to promise Exotic Sugar Lady that in fact, I didn’t spend my spare time rubbing my ingrown hairs. She didn’t believe me. Cheerful Ripper suggested using a dry brush. This brought only moderate success, and as my student loans dwindled away, I felt it was harder to justify the 50 dollar monthly expense.

I gave home waxing a try and managed for about a year. This practice left me patchy and blotchy. It also became less sustainable as my tolerance for drinking during the day consistently decreased. I asked my fellow Hairy Beast how the pube situation was going, and she reported, “I just shave the sides and call it a day.”

In preparation for my Sex Trip to go see the Boatman in Halifax, I decided I would try for a similar tactic. I used a combination of the sketchy toxic smelling nair, a new razor and some tweezers. The Boatman had no complaints, but within a few days I was itchy and pockmarked. Despite this, the Boatman still invited me to move in with him.

When I arrived in Halifax a week later, we obviously got into the habit of having sex every day. Eventually, the Boatman noticed my red marks that had become worse from persistent shaving.
“You know, babe,” he said. “You should just let yourself heal. Let it grow.”
Over the past three and half years, there have been a multitude of signs that the Boatman and I are meant for each other. The “Let it grow” speech is one of these signs. From a bare waxed vag to a seventies bush, the Boatman is happy with all of it.
“It’s all about variety,” he says. What a saint.
Judging from models at the Boatman’s life drawing nights, it seems that almost all adults around my age have joined the “Hairless Generation.” Although zero pubes can be fun, exhilarating and exfoliating, it should definitely not be obligatory. To be repulsed if someone lacks the bald crotch of a seven year old seems highly questionable.
 

Caption: Life Drawing Model from the Hairless Generation
Drawing by the Boatman
 
That said, I hear that in India, you can get yourself waxed for pretty cheap. I thought maybe this would be a relatively interesting experience for the blog. Since I don’t wear Kino shorts, I was all set to let my pubes grow for the occasion. Then my friend invited me to a secret silent pool for the afternoon. I decided that this would be an excellent opportunity to chat while attempting to even out the farmer’s tan that I’ve developed from constantly covering my shoulders. Of course I would come. With bells. Despite my sincere efforts to have a fully liberated crotch, I had mixed feelings about letting stray hairs poke out the sides of my red two-piece bathing suit. My waxing excursion would have to be postponed. So I shaved the sides and called it a day.

Probably red bumps appeared within approximately 27 and a half minutes.

Oh well. At least it looked like I tried.

The End.
 

The Kino shorts that got lost in the mail, giving me a pass on grooming.
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
My $2.99 self-help book, I Let Go

Menstrual Blood, Peanut Butter
I cling to things until they die
Everything You Need To Know About Butt Club
Spiritual Beard, Secular Vagina