Dear Vincent, During my month-long hiatus without you, I invented the Shiny Chrome Orgasm. And I basked in my Nun Friend's soothing and maternal bosom of unconditional love, and I got a cleaning buzz. I think I am going to make it. Welcome home

Dear Vincent,

During my month-long hiatus without you, I invented the Shiny Chrome Orgasm. And I basked in my Nun Friend’s soothing and maternal bosom embrace of unconditional love, and I got a cleaning buzz. I think I am going to make it. Welcome home.

Childhood memories equal, the fairy tale, The Princess and The Frog. I remember the frog, crouched on the Princess’s dinner table, and lapping up peas from on the Royal Family’s golden plate.

 Are we able to accept all the ugly things without the promise that deep down the ugly things are actually beautiful and that one day they’ll transform out of being an ugly frog or an ugly toad?

Toads, in my opinion, are a little bit uglier than the frogs.

Can we love the things that are

inherently and likely

ugly forever?

For example, the toads, or else the thick and cakey fungus under certain people’s toenails?

A Shiny Chrome Orgasm is when you polish the chrome of the faucet of your sink to the point that the sight is orgasmic.

Shiny Chrome Orgasm

A friend pointed out that combined with the taps, the whole thing is rather phallic, and isn’t that a little bit exciting?

Childhood memories equal Mrs. Vanden Bosch’s Grade One Halloween Concert. I am dressed up as a beautiful princess, but our song is about a field full of pumpkins. My best friend Ellen gets to be the special pumpkin with the solo. Of this, I am exceedingly jealous. The song is about some special pumpkin who has some special magical way of singing the words, the Boo-Hoo-Hoo. Maybe this turns frogs into handsome princes. Or maybe it burns the whole field down. In any case, I am devastated that I don’t get to sing the Prestigious Pumpkin Boo-hoo-hoo solo. Even before I skipped grade two and was irreparably labelled the Strange and Gifted child, I felt that surely I deserved all the main parts.

And the Princess, she felt like she did not deserve to have to go to bed with the ugly frog. Except the ugly frog had rescued her precious golden ball from the bottom of the pond, and in return he’d convinced the princess to make quite an elaborate promise.

“Promise me,” said the ugly frog. “That you will love me. That you’ll let me be your friend and play with you. Make me a place at your table where I will eat from your plate and drink from your cup. Then, take me to your bed and we can sleep peacefully together.”

Some people might say this qualifies as a little bit of coercion. The Princess was crying very hard when she lost her ball, and the frog sort of pounced upon her vulnerability. And it was in the olden days, and once she’d already said yes, she was not allowed to change her mind about taking the frog to bed.

So first the poor princess was helpless because her golden ball had fallen to the bottom of the pond.

And then she was helpless because her heart’s desire depended upon an overwhelming and impossible promise.

This story does not leave me feeling very equipped.

Place your ugly frog upon a silky and exquisite pillow, and there will emerge your dashing tender-eyed prince.

And

Or

Ever since I went off Prozac, my brain’s been invaded by a voice.

And the voice comes ready with a hand.

And the hand is ready to slap.

The voice really wants to be the main part. Sometimes the voice won’t shut up until the hand wacks me on the face over and over again. The voice wants everyone to hear and know its rage and how excruciatingly disappointed and disgusted and at the end of it rope that it feels with, well,

I guess me.

And the hand keeps slapping because it’s so set on the belief that no one will ever understand me, and this is what I deserve.

Main Special Gifted Pumpkin sings, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

All the Generic Pumpkins sing, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

I still cannot remember the line about why the Main Special Gifted Pumpkin was so special and gifted.

All the palaces in the fairy tales look exactly the same.

My nun friend has the softest cheeks and the most soothing bosom. I saw her at a funeral, and she said so many nice things to me. It was like I was at my own funeral.

“Oh, Erica,” she said. “It is so good to see you. You’re so beautiful. Don’t ever change. Stay just the way you are.”

I cannot repeat what my Nun Friend said without weeping, if somewhat delicately. Her words, they shut up the voice and they canned the hand for one whole week. And I got a cleaning buzz, and I invented the Shiny Chrome Orgasm.

I forgot to say that the princess was the youngest of the seven daughters. The youngest and the most beautiful. And she loved to throw her golden ball up in the air and then catch it. Once she got married, I wonder if she kept throwing her golden ball up in the air. Throwing it up in the air, and then catching it.

Main Special Gifted Pumpkin sings, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

All the Generic Pumpkins sing, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

Welcome home, Vincent!

There is probably something symbolic about the golden ball falling to the bottom of the pond.

Our golden balls are falling to the bottom of the pond all the time.

Main Special Gifted Pumpkin sings, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

All the Generic Pumpkins sing, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

Oh Erica, you’re so beautiful. Don’t ever change. Stay just the way you are.

In therapy, I always get to have the main part, and surely, this is one reason why I like it.

Welcome home, Vincent.

Love, Erica.

P.S. In fact, once she married the prince, the princess kept her golden ball safe and sound on a purple cushion, under a glass dome. Cause what if the ball fell into the pond again and some better frog prince showed up. The End.

Please send your imaginary emails to Vincent to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.



Grade One. Surely I deserved all the main parts.

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Rumplestiltskin


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


On Thursday, January 4, 2018, I did not end up flying to the edge of Newfoundland and embarking on a long westward frigid and impossible walk across Canada in my boots that tend to become damp and cold within seven to 98 minutes of putting them on for the benefit of everyone’s mental health which feels like an emergency and also chronically neglected and in memory of Simon Girard who jumped off the roof of Sherbrooke Street’s le Tadoussac on Sunday, January 4, 2015.



Cardboard Box

Inhaling chocolate covered pomegranate berries, I watched Michael Stone as he talked on my i-Phone screen and told me about the wise use of sexual energy.

“Sexual energy is not personal,” said Michael Stone. Apparently sexual energy doesn’t belong to anybody. This is an interesting way of looking at it. My sexual energy feels very personal. And if I’m not the one who wants to hump the bed, who is? Michael Stone says that despite living in a world where sex is everywhere, few people are willing to talk about it. I tend to be one of those people. Along with shit, masturbation, and menstruation, sex is one of my favourite topics. 

“You are different from anybody I’ve ever met.” People tell me this all the time. Either the phrase triggers my Special Person Syndrome or it makes me feel uncomfortably odd. How come everybody says that?

Odd? Me?

“Well, you are different from everyone else,” a friend told me over coffee. “Most people have boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” I thought. “Should I look into getting some of those?”

 

My 60-year-old Jewish therapist from Westmount used to describe some of my sexual endeavours as “Sport Fucking.” “So you’re just using each other for sex,” she'd say. In English, they call this a Fuck Buddy. My Quebecois roommates call it un ami d’oreiller. A jPillow Friend. Sounds kind of nice.  People say that it is easy to treat your Pillow friends like objects. But I wonder if sometimes it is easier to treat a person like an object within the context of an official relationship. Now that you are MY boyfriend, shouldn’t we have sex whenever I want? 

One Sunday morning last April, the Boatman picked a civil war documentary over having sex with me. He made a valid choice, and yet, it took me about three and a half weeks to get over this. If the Boatman had been a Pillow Friend, I feel like it would have felt less personal. With Pillow Friends and Fuck Buddies, whoever it is has no obligation to you. You have to respect what they’re willing to give or take. Pros and Cons.

Michael Stone says that every sexual relationship builds something, even if you don’t make a baby. What are you building, and with who?

Simon used to say, “We’re not writing a book, we’re writing our lives.” Well, the book is done. He’s dead. I’m not. I love writing letters. It is one of my favourite kinds of writing. As a child, I was an excellent pen pal. So far I have already had at least three romantic relationships that were based almost entirely on writing letters. It is so fun. But sometimes I am too charming, too creative. I send too many locks of hair. (One is far too many.) I also tend to send stickers. Who knew that grown men adore stickers? Me. When I turn thirty, I will stop sending grown men stickers. I will look into getting some boundaries.  

Exciting Whale Stickers


Dollarama Gold

It’s like we can’t get close enough.” In bed, I have noticed that many people say this. Our tummies fuse together. Still we want to be closer. We may as well just write letters because we’ll never get close enough anyways.

 

This is a letter to Simon from “The Little Savage and the Hermit.” I wrote it one third of the way into the book, at which point Simon thought it would be a good idea if we flipped the narrative on its head by turning ourselves into squirrels or airplane seats or something similarly groundbreaking. I didn't turn us into anything and the letter was supposed to help set boundaries. It didn’t exactly work. The Wise Use of Sexual Energy also means treating all beings with dignity. The year or so I had with Simon was not my best era for treating all beings with dignity. Poor Simon got the brunt of it. But he really liked this letter. It is called, “Cardboard Box.”

Cardboard box

Dear Simon,

I am eating salad again.  These days, I am eating a lot of seaweed.  It goes right through me.  I know that you find my digestive system tiresome.  I find it tiresome too.  I’d apologize, but there are more important things to say.

 No self-respecting person would read your last letter, mix gin and energy drinks and then appear at your doorway to fuck.  Turns out I’m not a very self-respecting person. Sure, it counts, even if I was drunk, but it will never happen again.  I’m sorry that I set shitty boundaries and pissed you off.  Now it’s my turn to use Italics. 

             I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore.  Unless it’s in a letter, I never want to hear from you again.

Perhaps you were trying to inspire me to turn myself into a cardboard box and drastically redirect the narrative.  Not necessary. I am already a cardboard box.  I always have been.  The reason I didn’t want to continue the narrative was...  I can’t tell you, it’s against the rules.  Too self-absorbed.  So you don't get to hear the story about the park bench and the man with the hole in his liver.  This summer, emotionally dependent guys came in packages of two, and my solution was to throw both of them out at the same time.

I saw a picture of you on Facebook with Marcel, the man who drives a power wheelchair who I got you a job with. Marcel's giving you a low five.  He looks a little dazed and delirious. I can tell he loves having you on his team.  Did you coordinate your black shirts and blue pants on purpose?  Your smile is large and goofy and ridiculous and your eyes are bright.  You have a long beard, as though for the last two weeks you’ve rolled out of bed without having time to do anything except run to the metro to get happy with Marcel.  I’m glad I gave you that job, even though now I’m financially desperate and essentially unemployed.  My job at the swimming pool has been put on hold due to a leak.  Throughout my frantic job hunt, I’ve applied for a few adult gigs on Craigslist. Dominatrix, Threesome, Cleaning Lady in Lingerie.  I don’t own any lingerie. Only yoga clothes.  The Threesome man just got back to me.  He asked if I had a friend who could join us.  No, I don’t.  No friend.  No friends.

I’ve been teaching yoga to weightlifters.  That’s probably about all you want to know about that.  I also wrote some articles for a website that would pay me if enough people read my stuff, but not enough people do.

My last bad news is I’m seeing a new shrink.  He says I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Madonna Whore Complex and Gifted Child Syndrome.  I sort of hate him so I drink vodka cocktails out of Mason jars before our sessions.  That’s the good news.  Also, I am about to roll up my duvet and hump it.  But before I do that, I want to make amends.  You’re probably right that it’s best we never see or hear from each other ever again, except for in letters.  That said, I don’t want to be that girl you never talk to anymore, who you pretend not to see when you run into her on the street.  I don’t believe in that.  I never want to be that girl, and you’re not that guy for me.  If I ever see you again, I will smile and say hello.   

Erica.

The End.
Besides exciting whale stickers, Dollarama has all kinds of titillating outlets for your sexual energy.

Jane Fonda's Biography
About Me and Jane





Hot French Fiction: Mercedes vs. the Tractor

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Follow me on Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

What The Fuck Should I Do With My Life, Part One
Yours 'Til Ekam Inhales
Lizzie
Soul Fucking 

Michael Stone on Brahmacarya

 

 

Never Has This Job Application Received Any Response Until Last Saturday

Recently, I came upon an job posting looking for a publicist for high-end art events.  I have approximately zero experience being a publicist and have attended approximately seven and half art events in my life. For this reason, I pulled out all the stops on the application. The Jujube Speech made an appearance. To my surprise, I actually landed an interview.  

This is what I sent. It may or may not be as inspiring as my Lululemon application, but since the interview didn't make me cry, I feel like the whole endeavour was quite a success.

About Erica Schmidt:

Name: Erica J. Schmidt.
Twitter Handle: @mypelvicfloor
Blog: exuberantbodhisattva.blogspot.ca

About Exuberant Bodhisattva:  Likely, you already know what exuberant means. Bodhisattva means “an enlightened being who, out of compassion, forgoes nirvana in order to save others.” I am only a moderately serious bodhisattva. My policy is to try and do the best I can with what I have at the present moment.

University Degree:  Yes. 2007-2010. B.A. from Concordia, with all the happy artsy people in Montreal.  Did a double major in Translation and Creative Writing.

Excellent Spelling:  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.  

Day Job:  In January, I returned from a three-month trip to India. Since then, I have been earning my living doing freelance translation contracts (French-English).  Just this week, I relocated to Montreal. In addition to translation, I will happily mop, babysit, teach yoga, write and/or BE A PUBLICIST upon request. Before India, I worked at a Montessori School from January 2013 until August 2014.  There, I told pre-school children to push in their chairs and put the blocks away in French.  Going back to pre-school was fun, but I definitely missed semi-colons. My former bosses rave about my mopping, composting and toileting skills. To quote them, “Erica's toilet conversation with toddlers and bum-wiping skills are ‘without parallel.’” Everyone is good at something.

Other Selling Points:  Bilingual, Interesting Hair, Flexible Spine

Portfolio of Creativity

(Please see links and attached files. I have also attached a regular old C.V.)

WASHROOMS (attached) - copy for the bathroom walls of a Montreal restaurant. I did this as a favour for my friend Fern, former Art Director at Cossette. Now Fern is in Delhi working for Wieden+Kennedy. Life is very exciting.

 

 

I read “Choose Yourself” by James Altucher and my oxytocin levels increased immediately – An enthusiastic article promoting business guru James Altucher’s empowering book, “Choose Yourself.”

Excellent Dieting Advice: Are you strong or are you skinny? 

What to do when you’re bored in India: Brand New Mysore Clubs

Feel free to read about my other ecstatic adventures at exuberantbodhisattva.blogspot.ca.

Please note that although I am partial to irreverence, I can also be deep, meaningful, and sincere.  And though I love to talk and write a great deal, upon your request, I can be impeccably succinct.

 I LET GO (attached) - a quirky and digital self-help book that provides unconventional yet life-changing suggestions on how to let go.  It used to be on sale for $2.00 but I raised the price to $2.99 when the price of coriander in India went up 300%. In an act of spontaneous generosity, I have sent you a free pdf copy.  The illustrations were done by my good friend and fellow yogi Sara E. Enquist.
It would be wonderful to meet you in the near future. I would love it.

 I LET GO, by Erica J. Schmidt, Illustrated by Sara E. Enquist
$2.99 on Amazon

I am grateful for your time. Thank you, Name of Job Poster. 

Sincerely,

Erica Schmidt

In her reply, the job poster said, "I agree. Everyone is good at something." She wasn't sure that I would be good at being a publicist, but kindly helped me to arrange an interview anyways. At the interview, the first thing the company director said was, "It doesn't look like you have ever done anything like this." I agreed with him but did my best to compensate with charm and good looks. We had a rather nice chat. He seemed moderately enthusiastic, although I have yet to hear from him. I guess we'll see. In the meantime, I will happily translate, write, mop, potty train, compost, walk dogs, walk people, teach yoga, lead butt exercises and/or be a publicist upon request. Feel free to hit me up.
 
The End



High-end Vagina Art Pin
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
I Let Go

People Walking/Letter Writing Skills


How I Will Elevate Lululemon
The Group Interview
Applying for a Job at a Bra Store (excuse to talk about My Eternal Tits) 
Job Interviews, Plus Why I Am Different From Margaret Atwood and What I Don't Gain From Humping Duvets (Excuse to talk about Margaret Atwood and Humping Duvets
The Potty Party

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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Buy "I Let Go"

Regrets
Rumplestiltskin
Lululemon Group Interview