Dear Vincent, I just had a reasonably life-changing orgasm with a medium-sized yellow zucchini that was on sale in a basket, 5 for $1, on the outskirts of marché Jean Talon.

Dear Vincent,

I just had a reasonably life-changing orgasm with a medium-sized yellow zucchini that was on sale in a basket, 5 for $1, on the outskirts of marché Jean Talon. Now I am waiting for the flowing brilliance to rush out of my zucchini fucked vagina and reveal my soul’s deepest truth, and it’s possible I am not waiting long enough, and am lazily opting to cop out by revealing vague and unnecessary truths about my ZFV, for you and for the Internet.



The idea for fucking a medium-sized yellow zucchini came from my friend Sexy Motorcycle George who passed through town on Friday, June 29, 2018, Day 1 of a 7-day heat wave, and before we cuddled all night and did not have sex, SMG did his laundry and for some reason the washing machine did not drain and on Monday, July 2, 2018, I waited seven hours for the Elvis Appliance People to come and they did not come, unless they stopped by without calling while I was around the block buying strawberries. The washing machine filled with mildewed SMG rinse water is not my greatest hardship although sometimes I fear that a broken washing machine is the first step to an unforgiving and unrelenting spiral down into dire poverty.

Five yellow biodegradable and compostable dildos for one dollar is truly an excellent deal. Larger and more solid than a cucumber. Not much happens in my dreams about you except that you are riding your bike without a helmet, and in one dream you’d shaved your head which is not a look I’d recommend for you, if you have any choice in the matter, that is to say, if you somehow escape cancer treatment that causes you to lose your hair, slash, if you somehow escape the ordinary and generic balding process.

And yet, whatever happens to your hair, in my dreams or otherwise, my undying love for you does not seem to be living a short life.

Before the century long afternoon waiting for the Elvis friends, I cleaned an Acupuncturist’s condo at the ends of the earth, and in fact it was a lovely and chatty time and I got a latte and $100 and three needles and  a lift home, and all seemed reasonable except that as I was getting ready to head out the Acupuncturist said, you look great, you have really big legs, and then the Acupuncturist went on to say something about how deranged everyone who wants anorexic legs is, and instead of my agreeing about how deranged everyone is, a Solid Fat Day ensued and I wondered and still wonder if I am eating too much nut butter and ice cream, though in fact it seems I am not eating quite enough since I periodically wake up at midnight or two a.m. unable to sleep and in need of more cottage cheese and or nut butter and or crackers. 

The morning of Tuesday, July 3, 2018 was again somewhat of a Severe Fat Day (in fact, the whole week was a Severe Fat Week), and I felt and feel so heartbroken that after all these years, I can still barely love my thighs and the rest of my cells for two to seven and a half hours per week. If I were a therapist, I would specialize in people who cannot love their thighs and the rest of their cells for much more than two to seven and a half hours per week. It is as guaranteed a business model as wiping the pubes off busy or lazy people's toilets, and far more lucrative. And anyways, the morning of Tuesday, July 3, 2018, I only did a reasonable amount of exercise given I would be cleaning for six to seven hours, and I sobbed profoundly, however the noise and the duration were both moderate, and I arranged for a reasonably responsible breakfast and lunch. The truth is my thighs are the best I can do. 

Deep love to your thighs and to everyone else's,

Erica. 

Erica and Imaginary Vincent welcome your emails at the secret email address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

My thighs are the best I can do

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Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
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Dear Vincent, Elizabeth Gilbert says that, every time you have sex with someone, some small part of you dies.

Dear Vincent, It seems no matter who I'm having sex with, I ugly cry every other time.

Dear Vincent, How is your headstand going?

Fat Days for Boys

My last two short-term sources of relative sexual gratification expressed a surprising amount of angst and insecurity over the ostensible body fat they perceived around their bellies. It turns out that this is a pretty excellent way to land yourself onto my no-go list, as is saying I kiss like an iguana, and as are baboon jokes.


The way I see it, I am the only one who gets to have body angst in a relationship. I win the Fat Day Monopoly.

You may have heard that on October 29, 2015, I turned 30 years old and cancelled all Fat Days from that day forward.

 

This was a nice thought.

 

In fact, I really try to keep my fat days to myself.  Because even on the days when I fail to get myself into the tiny Asian-sized tie-dye pants, the notion that I am at all overweight, is both ridiculous, and obnoxious and just shut up.

I only caused one hole
in these tie-dyed pants
and it's not
in the crotch.

Just shut up is what I feel inclined to say to my dude friends when they exhibit low-grade symptoms of Manorexia.

 

But just as my angst, self-loathing and food belly feel totally real, I’m sure theirs do too.

 

What the fuck should we do about fat days?

 

Last February I showed up in Mysore, India, ready to eat grilled cheese sandwiches. Triggered by a thali in Varanasi (the holy city of auspicious funeral pyres), 1.5 months of persistent liquid shits and an ensuing eating head trip had made a big chunk of me disappear. And there I was, Erica’s version of Emaciated for the 273rd time in my life. 

 

Here I am in Kerala
looking half dead
on a motorcycle.

“Achieving” my champion adolescent weight always comes with a bag of conflicting and tumultuous feelings.

 

Shame is there: Oh here we are again, 22 years since the first time I tried to burn calories by eating a single boiled egg for breakfast and counting six thousand and one steps as I walked the dog. 31 years old. Not menstruating, and an emotional fuck-job.

Overcome by backpacks
and
radiating diarrhea.
(Bangalore)
Photo by the Stunning and Exceptional Photographer, Maansi Jain

And then the quiet and embarrassing pride: Can you see me? I’m so thin. I both crave and abhor the attention I get at my thinnest: “Oh wow! You’re so skinny. What happened?” This one from a former yoga teacher: “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this thin. This must really be your thinnest. Oh, but you look good!” How helpful, and thank you! Though I had kind of been hoping to evoke a cross between a Holocaust victim and cancer patient. Maybe throw in some AIDS. Damn these biceps, this baby face. Even sinewy and gaunt, they can’t pull off Concentration Camp.


In our culture, weight loss is so coveted that sometimes it feels as though nothing could be more riveting than the conversation about how someone got skinnier.

 

“She looks like she’s starving.

How

fucking

fascinating.”

 

Our world often associates being an emaciated bone rack with glamour and sexy. I can only speak for myself, but countless unplanned studies have shown that for Erica J. Schmidt, dropping more than six or seven pounds under a certain comfortable window totally fucks up my already fragile set of precarious coping skills. And this is why I am somewhat of a strong advocate against anorexia or manorexia or any version of fucking up your eating. I can empathize with your manorexic belly angst, but let me tell you, it really gets in the way of the thorough and life-changing fuck we all need.

Also:

 

Leg humping with

a side of squishy belly

is

some of my favourite.

 

Mysore is an interesting choice of refuge for getting your eating back on track. In 2014, I spent three months in this birthplace and mecca of Ashtanga Yoga. For over seven years, I had devoted the mornings of my life to this highly structured, sweaty, dynamic and time-consuming practice. Ashtanga Yoga brought me deep joy, some serenity, a sense of accomplishment, community and belonging, and eventually some rather persistent and hideous sensations and noises in several of my joints. While my three months practicing with the Guru’s grandson, were beautiful and delightful, not long after the end of my trip, I felt compelled to quit just about every stable facet of my life:

 

The Boatman, my favourite ex-boyfriend,

and the former leading man of this blog,

(Who by the way does not have manorexia);

Halifax; and,

Ashtanga Yoga.

 

I was such a junkie,

This was really quite surprising,

But I honestly
don’t miss it
all that much.   

 

I am happy with the varied, flexible and creative movement practice and meditation I have been able to come up with; my spine feels almost wonderful, almost all the time; I enjoy more reasonable amount of sleep; and I now feel free of the OCD that tended to arise when I had the obligation of performing close to the exact same ritual close to every fucking day.

 

Having said that, in all their neuroses, Ashtangis remain some of my favourite people. Ernest, sincere, hardworking, self-deprecating, although they may be disproportionately committed to their cause, they are often quite fun, funny and lovely. I returned to Mysore for the friends, familiarity and trust that most of the restaurants would not cause cholera. Lucky for me, a beautiful long-term Canadian practitioner and excellent Eating Ally was in town.

 

One time over lunch at the Sixth Main, my friend was talking about the struggle to be a healthy role model for newer younger practitioners and the trend to take up radical non-eating regimes in the quest for lightness, purity and the breezy lithe body that seemingly bends and folds and balances with no effort.

 

Slurping up my bowl of noodles I blurted out, “I just don’t find weight-loss inspiring.”

 

“Thanks,” said my friend. “I’ll gonna make sure I remember that.”

 

Me too, I’m gonna make sure I remember that.

Upon returning to Canada, yet again, my cells bounced back to something stronger. This body, it never deserts me, and I am so grateful. Although I would not necessarily reward myself with a trophy for the Poster Girl of Liberated Eating Habits, life has brought me other lovely prizes, and I do feel entirely committed to cutting through the bullshit and arriving at a deeper love, for your cells and for mine.

 

Friends, your Fat Days, they are not inspiring.

Come on people, what else ya got?

The End.

In honour of this blog post,
I took a picture
of myself
with no pants on.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
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The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
Are You Strong and Are You Skinny?
Finally, and undoubtedly, I feel grateful for my life

What does it mean to be a woman, part Two

What does it mean

to be a woman,

part Two.

In grade five

my science fair project

considered

which kind of music

made bean plants

grow best.

The categories were

Classical - both live and recorded,

Broadway musicals - Les Mis, The Secret Garden, Beauty and the Beast,

The Vacuum Cleaner,

Easy Listening

Pop Music,

And Billie Holiday.

For most of their lives,

the bean plants grew

on the bathroom windowsill

each of them privy

to my sister's singing

and the sound

of the hairdryer.

Back then

I was quite the scientist.

To gain further insight

for my research,

I watched a biographical film

about Billie Holiday

whose name was once

Eleanora Fagan.

This is when I learned that many women

have to change their names

if they want

to be famous.

Judy Garland too.

Judy and the Wizard

of Oz

were my favourites.

I even named

my stuffed orangutang

after Judy

and from a young age,

I drew rainbows compulsively. 

"Them that's got shall get."

"Them that's not shall lose."

Growing up

I was lucky to own

more than one

stuffed primate.

All I remember

from the Billie Holiday movie

was the song, "God Bless the Child,"

and Billie slash

Eleanora

shooting heroine on the toilet

and singing in a bar

where she caught five-dollar bills with her vagina.

"Mama may have.

Papa may have."

At nine or ten years old,

this was the first

I'd seen of such things.

"The strong gets more while the weak ones fade."

The bean plant

that listened to

"pop"

was the winner.

Curated by my sister,

the "Pop" cassette

opened with

"The Leader of the Pack."

Bean plants

it seemed,

responded quite well

to whining

and pining

about dudes.

It's my party

You don't own me

Birds all sing

as if they know.

Billie's bean plant

grew an average height.

Now I might remember

Billie dying her skin white.

Or Eleanora.

Or was that someone else.

My last Fat Day

failed to apologize.

My last Married Man

never climbed up

through my window.

I invited him so many times.

As for me,

when I grew up

I did not become a scientist,

or a singer,

or even a gardener.

Or,

anyone's mother.

It was never clear to me

if Billie got to keep

the five-dollar bills

she retrieved with her

vagina.

Or if that would have made

any difference.

The End.

Good morning
heartache.


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


What does it mean to be a woman, Part One
Not That Kind of Girl
First no boundaries on the Internet. Then Psychotic break.

What does it mean to be a woman

This is just me

menstruating

on some obscure corner

of the Internet

on Mother's Day.

 

I meant for it to be

more groundbreaking

and edgy

than it actually

turned out.

 

Slides of the in-

side of the vagina

don’t look much different

from slides of the larynx.

 

Both appear pinkish

and alive.

 

This is what I learned

from the only speech pathologist

I know.

And I trust her.

 

Once I had a speech pathology.

When I said,

“Menstruation,”

I pronounced it like

a three-year-old would.

 

“Men-

Stuation.”

Very cute.

And edgy.

 

What does it mean

to be a woman?

 

You might have

three to seven

fat days per year.

 

I tried to cancel these

the day I turned thirty,

and had mixed results.

 

The last time I had a fat day

Vincent was on vacation.

As a woman,

I can make

my own choices

about fat days.

 

As a woman

I’ve become

mostly well-versed

in forgiveness.

Phrases that begin with

“As a”

truly help a person

to feel smug.

 

But making a whole list

of such phrases

is annoying

and seems pretentious.

This is just me

wondering if

my eternal tits

have finally grown

and if anyone will notice

and if that makes me more

of a woman. 

As a woman,

I am better off

avoiding coming off

as pretentious.

 

This is just me,

once again hoping

some dude will enjoy

my performance.

 

The first play

I ever wrote

in my life

was called

Back

When I

Used To

Have a Prostate.

 

You don’t need a prostate

to have a urethra.

You don’t need an s,

to have two urethra

at least not today.

 

The Dépanneur Café

no longer serves jujubes

at least not today.

 

This is just me

hoping the dude

will find me delightful,

charming,

witty,

sincere,

possibly good-looking.

Cute.

Edgy.

 

This is just me

Feeling hungry,

But pretending I’m not

Hungry

Or dissatisfied

In any which way

Whatsoever.

 

The End.

This is just me
wearing the blazer
I am trading for Kombucha
Tomorrow
on the Trade Hole


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


What does it mean to be well
This is just me menstruating on so obscure corner of the Internet on Mother's Day
Hi my name is Erica. I'm having thoughts of death.


My Eternal Tits