Promise, promise

I'm coming back to the blog.

I swear.

I promise.

Brace yourselves.

30 Day Challenge - Day 1

So

Stiff

So I am starting yet another 30 day challenge, this time at the Moksha studio in Calgary. My first time here, so it's kind of exciting. I plan on making the lisping, balding French instructor my new BFF.

But this challenge is a bit different aside from the new location. This time I'm going in, not having practised much lately. It's a bit zero-to-sixty of me. I have been a little yo-yo with my nutrition and exercise lately. My new job and it's schedule, which has me working when I should be eating (that's the nature of serving I guess), just has had me all over the map. I'm drained after work, my gym partner has just gone through the midterm ringer, and the responsibility of a menagerie at home (more on that in a future post, I promise) just has meant that I haven't been getting to the gym or studio lately, and that when I get home from work, not having eaten in 6 hours, I've been tending to overeat.

Whine, whine, whine, bitch, bitch, bitch. Basically what I'm saying is that I'm being inspired by Spartan Warrior's declaration that it's No-Excuses November, and I'm jumping in with both feet.

And today, I felt it. Gym this morning, followed so necessarily by yoga. Between no yoga, no gym, and walking about in 4 inch heels at work, my hamstrings are the worst they've been since I started practising yoga.

I'll let you know how walking goes tomorrow.

Reason Not to Live With Your Parents: #4

That Damn Computer

My parents use computers. They aren't relics of the 60s. Fuck - they both have iPads while I still slog on with a PC. But despite their acceptance of computer technology into the fold of their own lives, cancelling their newspaper subscription in favour of internet news sources, for instance, they still look on young peoples' dependence with disdain.

Ok, my computer dependence, in particular.

This is really an extension of Reason #2 - I can spend your time better. My parents labour under the assumption that, if I'm sitting at my laptop, I'm not really doing anything. Particularly when contrasted with my younger brother, also living at home, who spends very little time on the computer, my parents just can't see why I return to my computer whenever I have a free instant. I can't possibly be doing anything important. Having seen me waste my youth on ICQ, webpages of dancing hamsters and dead stickmen, and that animated rabbit that chased your mouse, they just assumed the internet continues to be a way I procrastinate doing useful things.  And, let's be honest, it's not an entirely groundless assumption.

But, accepting all the ways that Facebook or Twitter are used for inane, time-filling purposes, even those sites serve practical purposes. Facebook, after all, started as a networking site, and I hardly use it for anything other than staying in touch with long-distance friends. I have most recently been chatting with other law school hopefuls, some of whom I haven't otherwise spoken to for years. And for every Proenza Schouler or ManRepeller tweet I check out, I read a New Yorker article.

And these are pure "time wasting" websites - let's not forget the pure pragmatic purposes I put my computer to. Online banking, checking my work schedule, and online law school applications all require a fair amount of time on this little machine. And they are essential chores which can be accomplished no other way. 

Then again, I have been playing the Sims. Oh for shame.

Reason Not to Live With Your Parents: # 3

"So, what exactly happens if you don't do well on your LSATs?"


"Uh, well mum, I don't get into Law School. And I continue waitressing and living at home with you and dad and my cat until my wounded pride heals enough for me to write them again and Reapply."

No one can doubt your abilities and throw your future into a shadowy abyss quite like your parents can.

Reason Not to Live With Your Parents: #2

"You're not doing anything today, right?"

The question that does not get asked in my house. It is just the assumption made. Because if I don't have work and I haven't made plans with my friends then I must be available at their beck and call (and I should note here, only plans which my parents find valid are considered binding. Read; gym dates can be rearranged). Studying? Working out? Heaven forbid, blogging? These things are all irrelevant if one parent or the other thinks they have a legitimate claim to my time. My mother was actually irritated that my work schedule was such that I only had one full day to help her run errands this week. And I should emphasize that dropping my frivolous non-plans occurs based on if they think they have a legitimate claim to my time, not whether any rational person would.

Example a)
     After a weekend of 5:00 am wakeups, Monday afternoon rolls around and I take a much deserved nap. My mum calls, wakes me up, asks me to defrost fish. I go promptly back to sleep, and my cell phone becomes buried by my ample array of pillows. This is crucial here, because if you own an iphone, you will know that the slightest obstruction of the speaker muffles the ringer with astonishing efficacy. So when my dad calls, I don't answer. Until, of course, he's called three times, and I've managed to track down the source of the mysterious vibrations in my bed. He needs me to read him his Aeroplan card number, which was left on his dresser. And he's angry with me that I haven't made myself available so as to do this. "You answered when your mother called. Why the hell are you so tired anyway??"

Justifying my energy levels and sleeping habits because someone forgot something they needed and it lies within my immediate vicinity... not really my thing.

Only a parent would assume that your mere existence entitles them to your help. And I am not so thankless as to say that it doesn't - as far as I'm concerned, it has to be one of the greatest incentives to having children, the production of little future slaves. But it is the assumption that my plans are either non-existent, irrelevant or flexible if they are inconvenient to the aims of either parent. If I'm given a days notice that "Sydney, we need to do _____________ tomorrow," I will be slightly more amenable than when I'm told, mid-To Do-list-construction, that I am at the whim of whoever for the day. 

Falling for Autumn Ensembles

I've been really MIA lately. I know. I have been lsat cramming and training for my new job. And with a new blog which has a slightly wider appeal, I am feeling like this blog is even more aimless. But rather than give up, I think the answer is more pretty pictures. Right?

So do you know what a new job and a determination to put up some more pretty pictures results in? More "I want" albums. Because what is prettier than clothing? Clothing that I could, possibly own. And I think fashion blogs the Northern Hemisphere round have been lusting for fall outfit opportunities. Fall in Alberta, while not as visually stunning as autumn out East - our trees don't turn red here, just yellow and brown - is beautifully temperate. Ok, ok - that sounds lame. But it means that it doesn't pour, and it isn't so humid that you go from too hot to too cold like it did in Montreal.

not entirely deprived of beauty though, right?

I also find that Alberta does have a certain charm this time of year. Maybe it's because I was raised with Golden Retrievers, and Golden Retrievers are always most charming in fall...

so charming, right?

 But my aim is not to convince you Fall is the best. It just is, dignified old dogs or not. I am here to share with you my dream Autumn outfit. After a tempting trip to Holt Renfrew and a thorough perusal of ShopBop, I bring you what I intend to buy with my first three pay checks.

Falling for Autumn Ensembles by sydneyrobyn featuring boyfriend jeans

EQUIPMENT silk blouse, £230
3 1 Phillip Lim long cardigan, $795
True Religion boyfriend jeans, $490
Rag & Bone leather boots, $490
Kate Spade leather shoulder bag, $445
Rag Bone fedora hat, $150
Etro Silk Bow Tie Purple One Size, $110

 Ok. So this outfit would cost me approximately 3'000.00$. Give or take. Divide by minimum wage, carry the nth... It will be February before I don this ensem...

Diet Shame

Team! It's been forever! How are you? Awesome. Me? Oh I've been busy, you know. Ok - small talk aside, I've really been trying to identify what exactly it is about Calgary that saps my desire to post. I think I'm growing increasingly accustomed to a life of mediocrity - my nights have consisted of watching my parents' appalling television choices and tucking myself into bed with an audiobook by 10:30. Last night we ate chocolates and had a glass of wine, making it the most exciting night I've had in about two weeks. I am determined, however, to not be ok with this. While a cozy night in is, honestly, great most of the time, I would like to actually have plans. And I haven't. Or have, and bailed, because leaving my suburban cocoon just sometimes takes more effort that I feel willing to expend.

Project "Fun Calgary" will commence next week. Why next week? Because I start making money next week. Ye haw Calgary, ye haw.


Ok, so none of this has to do with diets, though shame of my premature middle age is hopefully apparent. Another reason I haven't been posting is because I've been really back and forth in my mind about whether I wanted to admit to the blogosphere what I am going to admit to you right now: I am on a diet. And I don't just mean casually watching my calories or trying to eat healthier - when I'm doing that, I say that. I'm on a honest to goodness, book-written-by-doctor type diet. I didn't buy this book, by the way, nor would the diet have been something I would have done on my own accord - it is a by-product of living with my mum, but I'm doing it, baby.

So, I'm not actually going to get into the diet - the 17 Day diet (a total misnomer, by the by) - at this particular junction. I am more curious about the fact that I debated even mentioning it. Intrigued by the fact that, when it comes up in conversation, which it somehow, inevitably and painfully always does, I always try to pass it off as something I'm doing in solidarity with my parents, rather than something I started before, and have continued to do more faithfully, than either.

It is exactly that difference between "watching what I eat" or "eating a bit more healthy" and being "on a diet." If you follow fitness blogs they will almost all abhor diets; their authors' insist that they just eat a healthy, balanced diet and, my least favourite phrase ever, "just listen to what their body needs." My body insists that it needs a sugar boost after every meal. It insists that sugar be in the form of chocolate. My mind-body connection is not so hot - my mind is a dictator who likes chocolates and dislikes my pathetic, complaining knees. I don't know that I'm all that unique in that regard though - how many people do you honestly know who can say "my body just really wanted something green" or "I just needed some protein," who aren't utterly full of bullshit? My mind tells my body those things using logic and research: "Yo body, you will get scurvy if you don't put spinach in you" or "You just worked out - protein builds muscle - eat it." Before my inner monologue totally derails me from my point here, I will make it; to admit that you are on a diet points to a flaw in your will power. You can't just intuitively do something good for you, it has to be dictated and formulaic. And this paints you as a weak person. But following a clear set of guidelines is what I need. And the same goes for a lot of people. Because, guess what, a lot of people are overweight. Most people, in fact. I'm not even overweight, but my impulse control is negligible unless I can give myself a very concrete reason why refusing one more chocolate or a glass of wine will make a difference. And a diet does just that.

Despite the fact that most people have a hard time making the right choices when it comes to nutrition, and particularly weight loss, there is some very bad vibes that get directed at those who take the route of a prescribed diet. Yeah, it is a consumerist thing, making doctors richer for writing books full of things that should be mostly common sense, blah, blah, communism, blah. I get that. But why do people always give you a look like, "Oh...?" as though your diet is actually a second head growing out of your armpit? I like to tell myself that it makes them re-evaluate their own dietary choices and feel insecure, but I really don't think that's it. That's just what people on diets tell themselves: "they're just jealous because I'm doing something about my weight." Uh, no - they're eating cake and ribs. They are not jealous of your baked chicken breast, wilted spinach and soda water. It's because they've suddenly realized that your are vain and insecure and don't have a) the strength to change things for yourself without a book or support system holding your hand or b) you aren't imaginative enough to come up with an excuse that doesn't open you up to such scrutiny. "Oh, yeah, I'm not drinking beer right now because I've been casking my own Irish whisky all day and I'm basically drunk already," or "you know, I heard that they found a human heart at the Lilydale factory in Glenridge" would be responses that would certainly debunk judgment much more effectively than "oh, I'm on this diet."
 
But guess what else - diets can work! Most diets today come with weening phases where they admit "yeah, we've changed what foods you can and can't eat, but by doing so we've also changed the foods you crave and the way you approach your meals." Which is really just a long road to getting to the "I just eat a healthy, balanced diet," phase which elicits no societal sneer. I have been on this bad boy diet for 20 days, and I have lost an inch and half from my waist and weigh less than I ever have in my adult life. So when I tell you I'm on a diet, it is not an invitation for you to comment on my weight or evaluate my body perception. If I tell you I'm not having a beer because I'm on a diet, I don't want to hear "You don't need to be on a diet! You're crazy!" Shut up. I'm on a diet because I have goals, man! And those goal include looking really sexy while I still am at an age where that is relatively easy to accomplish.

So viva the diet - haters, go hate elsewhere. With fries if you like. They look tasty.

The New Love of my Life

Again, fret not - this love is certainly not a strapping young Calgarian boy who has swept me off my feet. No no - though I bet she could perform just that feat. Literally.

I'm in love with Tracy Anderson.

digitally.

And while the rare, eccentric few some of you may be humming the strains of 'N Sync's single-that-wasn't Digital Get Down, but it's not like that [that being "digital, digital get down - just you and me. You may be  Twenty thousand miles away but I can see ya, and baby, baby you can see me," should you not be acquainted with this Aught-pop seminal classic]. I am in love with Tracy Anderson, personal trainer to the stars, and her workout webisodes.

So I have obviously been down in the dumps lately about my knee. I have constrained myself to the bike and eliptical, I have taken a pass on the injury inducing culprit, yoga, and my chances of performing worth a damn in my upcoming race has taken a severe hit, and accordingly, so has my self esteem. So I've been looking for some fitness solace. And it came to me in the weirdly-disproportionate-yet-angelic form of Tracy Anderson.

My friend K had purchased the trainer's rather pricey (and very intense!) Metamorphosis program - it consists of a cardio-dance DVD (which after one attempt I staunchly refused to ever do again), a nutrition plan, and 9 workouts of increasing difficulty that should carry you through 90 days of work outs (you take off one day for every ten). K brought it down with us to my cabin and we gave to it the old college try. And holy shit. For a workout DVD, it was fucking hard. I actually felt incompetent and ill-equipped to own legs. So with a sense of my own mortality, I trolled the internet for any online work out vids from Tracy. And lo and behold, there are some. They aren't as tough as the DVD, naturally (chick's gotta make a profit, yo), but they are very worth doing. Doing either the 9-minute ab video or the 16-minute butt one leaves me dripping sweat. Dripping I say!

So check her out. Her method is to attack the smaller muscle groups to try to tighten where ever it is you believe you need tightening. So expect it to feel weird and to burn (but on the plus side, because they aren't muscles you use that much, you wont be all that sore the next day).


And before I leave you to the clutches of Ms Anderson, I want to give a big thanks for the support I've had for the newly emancipated Sexual Cynic blog. A blog with a consistent theme and humorous content? Who'd have thought that would go over well? Maybe some day soon I will get to hang out with the Man Repeller, ostracized by alpha males who we'd openly mock the bedroom prowess of anyhow.

Laid Up

But not knocked up! But still, not pleased.

This little knee twinging that I was all ready to write off as nothing, turns out to be kinda something. As in a reinjury of my miniscus. I am super bummed out right now. It's sore and unsteady and clicking. And at the worst time! I am so unprepared for this run and can't get out, and I just bought a month-unlimited membership to yoga. I am just feeling like my body is not going to let me return to the athleticism I had obtained before this injury.

I want to cry.

"Things I learned About Running: Week 1" And Other News!

Hey team. So lots of new and exciting stuff going on in this chilly Cowtown as of late. First, however, let me regail you with the findings of a week's worth of 5k training (read: two whole runs...)

Running requires diligent toe nail maintenance. It didn't dawn on me when the woman at the Running Room told me that most people buy their running shoes almost a full size larger that the reason was "because otherwise your toenails will fall off." Don't worry - that didn't happen! But after my first run, my second (or middle?) toe ached for days (yes, I am one of those blessed with second toes longer than their big toe). Clip clip clip.

Everyone in Calgary waters their sidewalks at 8:30 am. After making the mistake of running too late in the morning and subjecting myself to the blaring 30 degree heat, I opted for an early morning run. Well everyone in my community uses the same logic when it comes to lawn watering. Except their automatic spinklers aren't aimed wholly at their lawns. I had to dip, dodge, and eventually just subject myself to a face-full of cold water.

Mind over matter. I received what would be runner-up for the worst wax of my life this week. The girl (Ria at Frilly Lilly, if you're curious) was lovely and sweet, and we chatted up a storm, but this apparently distracted her from the task at hand, explaining why she ripped off some 2-inch square layers of epidermis from my legs. And not just my legs. Leaving it there. What does this have to do with running? Well Ria was telling me that she is training for a half-marathon, and spoke about how running was just so much mind over matter. Well, while panting and making plans to stop early, or walk longer on my second training run, I thought "my mind has GOT to be stronger than this chick's." And I shaved 7 minutes off my first 5k time. Thanks Ria.

Nurse Injuries. So if you were thinking "2 runs in one week?" I know. I skipped Saturday's run. I had opted to have Friday as my day off, but was lured back to yoga. I figured it would be recooperative! But alas, I left with a rather wobbly right knee, which, if you remember correctly, I had torn the miniscus of pretty much exactly a year ago. So I took the advice of one and all (nope - could not find a single person who thought I should push through it) and took Saturday's run off. I hit the gym yesterday, did the bike and performed my inaugural T Band stretch, bought a brace, and will be hitting the pavement later today.

Ok, so in addition to these running revelations of mine, I have an exciting announcement: The Sexual Cynic has graduated into its own blog! Now, my last foray into blog-juggling didn't turn out so well (Being and Burgs, alas, never really took off), however, I have high hopes. And for those of you who check here periodically hoping to mock sex positions only to see me complaining about running or my parents or pining over shoes, well, bookmark the new site baby!

Sexual Cynic: Women's Health, Always Looking Out For the Little Guy

So the blog has been very fitness-centric lately. Run, run, run, yoga, yoga, yoga, blah, blah, blah: let's talk about sex (baby) already! And it's true - it is high time I turn my attention away from my lady crush on Tracy Anderson, and towards the potential benefits of doing her sadistic butt and thighs workout. I mean, living at home with my parents has doubtless killed my mojo, but what is the point of losing weight and getting in shape if no one is going to see these almost-abs of mine? And as you know, I am a very modest young lady, which means no torso bearing garments for me - the only answer is full frontal nudity. Hopefully in a consensual-for-all parties environment. Though the prospect of becoming a baffling female flasher does have its appeal.

And one more brief aside: when I type "Women's" into my search engine, it first pops up the link to the Women's Health "Best Sex Positions Ever!" site - second is shopbop.com. What does this say about me? It says I am the worst feminist ever.

So here is a true story - it happened to a friend of a friend of mine - and I call it...

Flatiron

Holy shit - a sex position named after a hairstyling tool that I want nowhere near my vagina - please, for the love of God, tell me more Women's Health. But wait, hold your horses, before we delve into the glory of this toe-curling-orgasm-waiting-to-happen, you need to know how Women's Health guided me to this position. It turns out that you can set a series of criteria to help WH generate the position best suited to you and your man's abilities. And so, because I thought it would be funny, but also maybe realistic, I set my standards low: Flatiron is the position recommended for completely inflexible women having sex with poorly endowed minute men. Enjoy! But how?

You lie facedown on the bed, legs straight, hips slightly raised.

I am not against the idea of sex on your belly per-se - I'm as lazy as the next girl, so positions that transfer as quickly as possible from sex to nap are bomb in my books - but I really wish it showed us her face. You know, so this looked a little less smothery, rapey, found-you-taking-a-naked-nap-and-went-to-towny. I don't know if I'm just being a prude (ok, yes, I do know I'm being a prude) but there is something about this that doesn't scream consensual sex. But now, flushing images of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo out of my awful mind, what exactly are our benefits-a-plenty that we shall reap from this particular tantric foray? 

This position creates a snug fit. Your guy’s stuff will seem even larger.  

His stuff? What, like his car keys and day's receipts? You construct an entire manual on sexual positions and you can't throw out words like member, shaft, or even, dare I suggest it, penis? (The Sexual Cynic would like to take a moment here to clarify that she in no way approves of the use of the word member outside of trashy harlequin romance excerpts found in the back of Cosmo. It's use should be limited at all times, if not out-right prohibited. Thank you.) So here we go though! If you aren't taking time out from your Cirque du Soliel doubles training with your massively endowed man-friend to have sex, here's an alternative! But again, the "snug fit" thing screams "not supposed to be having sex in this position" which screams "non-consensual sex." Just a bit? But at least your guy's STUFF will seem larger while you're shaking away mental anxiety about a possible penchant for rape fantasies. What bonus should we add into this sexy and considerate mix, WH?

Some shallow thrusts and deep breathing will help him last longer.

I don't even know what to say. Thank you. Thank you WH for realizing that the owness for good sex isn't based solely on a woman's in-depth magazine research - there's (sometimes) a guy there too. And he's gots to work, damn it. I must admit here that reading this suggestion makes me snigger a bit. And I feel awful. I get that this is a problem, but it really feels like WH staff sat around and thought "ok - let's come up with a position for guys who suck in bed." This position really is crafted for a guy with a minuscule penis who just doesn't have longevity. I'm shocked the bonus doesn't include doing 2-4 shots of tequila (but no more, for the love of God!) - I hear that makes it nay-impossible to, cough, arrive early. But for all the flack I give WH for holding us to unrealistic sexual standards, they finally realized that sex in real life, sadly, sometimes involved small penises and premature ejaculation.

A toast to you, Women's Health - Looking out for sexual underdogs since this lone position was unearthed and was christened the Flatiron.



ohmyGod - is Flatiron a small penis joke?  

My First 5K

I did it kids! I logged my first 5k! Notice I said "logged" and not "ran." This bitty needs to do some serious training if I am going to pull off running all 5k in, oh,  26 days time. OhGodohGodohGod. Frightening! I tried to run for 2 minutes and walk every third. And that was painful but working until I got kinda lost. The park behind my house has become decidedly overgrown since I last jaunted around it, so I missed the turn that I had mapped out for myself. Realizing this, I knew I wasn't up for running MORE than my allotted 5.1K, and so walked my way back, only to find the hill path overgrown and unrunable. But still steep and tiring. Conclusion: I'm pooped. Pooped kids, pooped. In fact, I recorded the moment of my triumphant return for posterity's stake

 

Gosh - aren't I pretty. My face looks much less red, given the maroon background, but trust me, I was a tomato. That look of concern is "twenty.six.days????"



My game plan is to attempt the 5k every other day, with yoga/gym on alternate days. Sunday as a rest day, perhaps. I refuse to look like this at the end of the run!

Which reminds me, thanks very much to the (albeit few) of my lovely friends who have donated on my behalf. I still have a bit to go to reach my goal, so if you haven't donated, please do! Seriously, 5$ would mean the world, and think about all the ways you've spent 5$ that were far less honourable.

Fit Fit Hooray

Oh so cheesy. Naming posts is the worst. Anyhow, with this new resolution to run I have also been embarking on some healthy eating and general fitness, and therefore to the internet for research. I found this lovely photo on Strive to Be Healthy's tumblr, and thought it was kind of perfect.

I am all about trying to reappropriate the parts of your body you take greatest issue with and trying to see them for their positive qualities. My thighs are definitely my achilles heel (uh...can I say that?) when it comes to body image. They just don't seem to conform with the rest of my body, which is fairly trim and athletic. Each thigh is only 5 inches smaller than my waist - the definition of pear shaped. ugh. 

But - they are also mad strong. At my peak strength training I could squat just shy of 400lbs. And when it comes to rugby, my thighs were invaluable. Check me out, gettin' all slow and takin' this girl out;
 

Also - cool thing I was just reading. About water. So as cool a thing about water can be. Apparently doctors are starting to realize the limitations of the old "drink 8 glasses (8oz) of water a day" rule of thumb. According to Dr Mike Moreno, physician behind the 17 Day Diet, the better rule of thumb, which takes into account different body size, is to take your weight, divide it in half, and that is the number of ounces of water you should be drinking a day. So while the old wisdom would have me, and everyone, drinking 64 ounces of water, according to Moreno I should in fact be drinking 71 ounces. Kinda cool, yeah?

And So It Begins...

Aside from the challenge of fundraising for the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation it is dawning on, nay, looming over me that I also will have to actually run. Five. Kilometers. Which also means I will have to take this brand new, shining month to train so that I can actually feasibly run 5k.

This seems like an alarming amount of running.

Furthermore, I am going to have to be doing some serious injury-preventing yoga during all this. I did a leg workout two days ago, and already my problematic hamstrings are reminding forcibly of their limitations.

So, to make sport of this overwhelming amount of lung-shredding, leg-aching, red-faced exercise, I thought I would track my evolution as a runner.

First, the physical:

As of September 1st I weighed in at 144 lbs, with the following measurements:

Bust -35 34.25 inches
(hallucinated/dreamed up that 35...)

Waist - 28.5 inches

Hips - 35.5 inches

Thighs - 23.5 inches

The fitness:

I managed to do 24 minutes on the treadmill, running (6) 3 minutes on, 1 minute walk (4), and made it 2.5 kilometers. Oh GOD!

The Gear:

I have a pair of two year old crosstrainers, an ipod touch, all my yoga spandex and the newly acquired and entirely requisite pink running jacket.

Finally, how it feels:

some panicky lung-burning after about 16 minutes, and some really sore hamstrings. It isn't quite fun yet...

So with my pride now hanging on this rather publicly, I had better start mapping out some kind of training schedule. One that works around my LSAT course and my as-of-yet-pending job schedule.

Running and Cancer are Two of My Least Favourite Things

So oddly enough, I am using the former against the latter.

That's right kiddies - I have done it, I am registered to Run For the Cure. A 5k run on October 2nd.

This gives me one, that's right, a single, read it, one month to a) learn to run 5 kilometers and b) raise some money for cancer research.

So I am shamelessly going to use this platform here to help me with the latter. And probably the former. But right now, at this instant, the latter. I am trying to raise at least 150$, which is an amount I have spent on shoes. Nay, shirts. Nay, skin care products. So really, if every single lovely person who reads these words donated 5 meagre dineros to the cause, I think it is totally doable. Yeah? I may be overestimating this blog's popularity a touch, but seriously, think about the last time you spent 5$. Did those 5$ righteously kick cancer's inconsiderate, life-ruining, nauseating, puppy-stomping, generally-surly ass? Unlikely. So how about the next 5? Or 10? Come on big spender! If I know you, I'll buy you a coffee. Or sign a photo of myself collapsed just shy of the finish line and mail it to your place of residence.

You get the satisfaction of knowing your righted your karmic imbalance and also ensured that I am obligated to run fivefuckingkilometers. How could you resist? Seriously? You can't. So you had better donate on my snazzy website here and feel like a fucking rockstar.

Evil Ways

My darlings.

As I far too often feel compelled to do, I apologize for my blogging absence.

Un

For

Give

Able

But this is not the only evil to which my title refers. Last night the ultimate perk of living in Calgary reared it's head - that's right boys and girls, I gots to go to a concert. And not just any concert. A Santana concert. Holy shit. I wont pretend I knew every song, or could even understand a lot of his inspirational, peace-promoting message (I felt like I was at Woodstock. Seriously. "We've got to think and put out positive energy and love. It's not that far out, man." Direct. Quote), but he was truly sensational. So skilled. Great show.

I am also tackling a third evil (ok, this analogy is beginning to wear thin, but bear with me) - I am going to finally tackle my running demon. Yule, who has also moved to Calgary - hooray - and I have decided that goal oriented running is our best plan to get in shape. So she and I are starting today to train for the Robert Hamilton Memorial 5 mile run on October 22nd.

I am quaking in my booties.

Fun posts will abound in future, I promise - this was basically to assure you that I am still alive.

Hi.

Reason Not to Live With Your Parents: #1

This is not the ultimate reason not to live with your parents; no, the ultimate reason is probably that you are someone who lives with their parents, and that is reason enough. But, as I do find myself in this unfortunate position, I foresee a trend in my posts, mulling over the myriad of reasons why I wish I didn't have Arts degrees. So this is the first of many reasons not to live with your parents.

Your personal regimen comes under public scrutiny.

I am used to living by myself, or at most, with a very uncritical cat. So having my grooming habits observed by anyone, let alone a 60-year-old man who lives to tease me, is unwelcome. And when I say my personal regimen is becoming public, I don't just mean that my mum and dad realize that before bed I wash my face, apply a mask, tone, apply a serum, followed by an anti-aging oil, eye cream and thick night cream - no, no, I mean that this perhaps obsessive dedication to skin care is being documented. As in photographed. Which means it will soon be shown off to any even mildly interested person my dad encounters when he has his camera in hand. And this complaint is not limited to skin care of course; size and regularity of meals, waking and sleeping hours, exercise routine, regularity of laundry - everything will be noticed and open to unwanted commentary.

I want my relatively silent cat back.

Au Revoir et Bonne Nuit, Montreal

Tonight I am tucked back into bed in the room I grew up in. The baby blue with pastel splatter paint was painted over years ago, a warm chocolate brown, but the denim curtains and bed spread still remind me of a time when blackout denim curtains were ideal for sleeping until 2:00 or 3:00 in the afternoon. There is a lava lamp on my desk.

I am uneasy about being back here. Almost started crying in the car ride home from the airport. But I am taking the opportunity for a little reinvention. Or more of a restart. I need to get back into yoga and exercising, which ceased entirely in my last couple weeks in Montreal. Furthermore, I am going to overhaul this room, which is full of white, 25-year-old furniture, almost all of which is scarred with mostly and poorly removed X-Men and Spice Girls stickers. A closet purge, a diet, and job hunting all lie in my future. I need to keep looking on the bright side of Calgary. Here are the things I'm actually looking forward to:

not being treated like shit by serving staff
no PST
Frilly Lily, the best waxing salon in the world
not being the biggest/plainest girl in a room
free laundry
not being scared of speaking English
spending time with my friend Kirstin
being reunited with SheRa! (this weekend!)


I will indulge my nostalgia soon enough with a list of my Montreal favourites. Sleep tight Montreal. I miss you already.

Moving Anxiety

Spanish poet Juan Ramon Jimenez comes so close to capturing the stone which has settled in my stomach as of late:

Sharp nostalgia, infinite and terrible, for what I already possess.

I feel this horrible anxiety about moving away from a place where I am comfortable and happy to somewhere I actually fear I will lose myself. I am feeling increasingly like I have no will of my own to stop it. I am on a precipice and I feel paralyzed by fear; there are hands on my back and I can only move over the edge where they will me to go. And then I wonder if it is just cowardice of change. Some say nostalgia is weak, a denial of the human condition of perpetual change and growth. But is moving home growth? Is it not a regression? I am packing up a life I built on my own and am taking it back to the four walls where I was sent for punishment after temper tantrums, where posters of bands had sat on my ceiling over my bed, where I cried over boys who didn't love me. There is none of the excitement of a new adventure, a new challenge - only an old and stale city who I had been running from before I even knew myself. Am I defined by place and space or time? I am scared, and my stomach is in knots as I pack boxes and throw away things I forgot I had once had such silly enthusiasm for. A holographic card, scented soaps, kind notes on a paper whose depth I forgot I was capable of. 

And time moves on as a I sit, breathless. 

Childlike.

Elegance is not the prerogative of those who have just escaped from adolescence, but of those who have already taken possession of their future.

Coco Chanel

Mama and Papa B arrive!

My parents just landed. They are in town to help me pack up my brother and I's apartments.

I will record every hilarious comment. Don't worry.

Stop Shaming the Ashamed

Shamey Shame Shamed.

Ok, but brace yourselves, because this is actually a serious post that I have been thinking about for a while. I wrote up some thoughts on the topic a couple months ago, but Kathy's visit, which brought with it a number of serious chats about body image, gave me the impetus to actually proclaim what has become a cultural taboo as of late:

I do not love my body.

Typing that, having it written, seeing the words, I feel this urge to clarify, "I mean, I don't hate my body" or "I respect my body's physical abilities," but these urges get right to the heart of the problem that I think really needs to be addressed.

We are bombarded with what are, from most arenas denounced as unattainable bodies, published in magazines and sashaying on television. It has become so pervasive that we often times don’t even realize how horrifically thin an actress is unless a tabloid points it out.  Surrounded by air brushed bodies and an elite who can devote unending time and money to their physical upkeep, there has developed a defensive coping mechanism amongst so-called average women. Women have begun to proclaim that they should not compare themselves to that standard of beauty. True beauty is to love yourself, cellulite, love handles, arm hair and all. Instead of prosecuting the fashion and entertainment industries, your average North American woman has opted to denounce the women who let this impossible standard of beauty make them feel badly about their bodies. We start writing off women who order salads, "side dress, hold the cheese and croutons," as shameful and shallow and perpetrating a body type which is so difficult to attain and fraught with frightening implications for young women.

This mechanism, which my friend Kathy so appropriate posed as the question "Can a feminist go on a diet?" has the potential to do almost as much damage as the industry which has lead to unhealthy body images and mass body dismorphia amoungst young women. When I told Kathy that I just had no perspective on my own body, and that it scared me that I perhaps had some sort of body dismorphia, she responded "I'm pretty sure all girls our age have some form of body dismorphia." Sometimes I am truly repulsed by my body, particularly when I am in cobbler’s pose in yoga, where my impressive flexibility allows my forehead to touch the soles of my feet, providing a panoramic view of my folded-in-half gut: I shudder in revulsion at what is going on with this body of mine. Self-depricating? Perhaps. But honest. And not, given all the images that pervade our social consciousness, unreasonable or inexplicable. I don't consider myself ugly, there are just times, lots of times, when I wish my body were different than it is.

My friend Claire confessed to me a while ago, “Sometimes I just wish I was rail thin. I mean, I love being curvey, but I wish I could wear a sack sometimes and have it look stylish.” I was kind of shocked by this statement for two reasons. One, I considered it to be a self evident fact that most people would rather be thin. If you disagree, I am sorry, but you’re a damn liar. This society privileges the svelte. It is easier to live in Western societies if you are blessed enough to be thin – this point is not up for debate. The second thing that surprised me was how instantly Claire felt guilty about having confessed this, and felt the need to amend her statement with a retroactive prologue - "I mean, I love being curvey..." - to assure me that she still was content with the body she has.

Why are we so ashamed about not liking our bodies? We have started to feel bad about the fact that we do, in fact, feel bad about our bodies. It is a perpetuating shame. Why?

We are told that if you are strong and confident, that those qualities are what make a woman sexy. That only the truly naive would believe that what they see in media is an achievable standard of beauty for average women. There is even an unspoken accusation of laziness; if a woman was really so unhappy about her body, wouldn’t she do something about it? I think it needs to stop.

We hate the women who hate their bodies. We condescendingly pity them and their obvious lack of insight and maturity.

Maybe it's because we see these insecure girls as the remnant which holds us back from being gloriously self-indulgent. As long as you have one friend who asks for dressing on the side of her salad, you will be nagged with guilt for eating a pint of Hagan Daaz. That girl with her dry greens is a bitch, making you feel bad about yourself. Bitch, bitch, bitch. And so we concoct self aggrandizing slogans about acceptance and comfort in one’s own skin, natural beauty, etc, etc. I even read in the February edition of Elle Miranda Purves explaining that “In your teens and early twenties many – I dare say most- women have days, or just PMS strained hours, when something about their appearance strikes them as intolerable, monstrous...By your thirties, hopefully your body has been loved by someone over the longer haul, and other priorities take precedence.” The implication of these lines is that a) unhappiness with one’s body is an immature, even teenaged, phenomenon which we grow out of once b) someone else loves our body or c) we just figure, “fuck it.” 

It is being forced on us that we have to be happy with who we are or else we are immature and shallow.

Sorry, but fuck that.

I am not going to feel guilty that I don’t like my body anymore. It’s too hard. The shame of admitting to your friends “yeah I wish I was thinner,” just makes that longing you have for a fitter frame even more painful.  It is as though if we admit displeasure with our body it will immediately lead to concerns about psychological health, the dreaded worry your friends will start whispering about “ssssp psssp ssssp...eating disorder...” And it does drive women who feel unhappy about their bodies to make it a battle they deal with when they are alone in the dark, out of fear that their friends will write off their complaints; "oh shut up, you look beautiful," or "you just need to be comfortable with the weight you're at when you're at it." Really? Thanks. If I could do that, I may not have confided to you that I loathe my saddlebags and think they are repulsive. But yeah, totally, mind over matter. 

I don’t think I am alone in wishing I didn’t have cellulite and that my thighs were slimmer and my butt were rounder. Why do we ostracize ourselves from each other by refusing to admit it and turning into pariahs those who do?

An interesting website, which I am not entirely sure I support as a wholly healthy body image promoter, despite their mission statement being to give women perspectives on their bodies is My Body Gallery. Us average girls upload body shots and give our dress sizes, weight and height, and you can go forth from there to see what women with your proportions actually look like. It could be helpful for gaining insight and perspective (though it was really just disheartening to find that there were no images of women whose proportions matched mine...).

I think we just need to create an atmosphere where we can discuss our insecurities openly and without judgement, rather than hide them away like dirty little secrets. When we shame people about their negative thoughts, those thoughts just get perpetuated when they are alone, creating an even worse stigma and closing off the possibility of fruitful and healing discussion about feelings which naturally arise given what we face as the beauty standard in North America. So when your friend tells her she thinks she's fat, don't just try to tell her she's wrong.

Group hug guys.

Luckiest Girl in The World

Hey team. So, I'm feeling pretty blissful right now, obnoxious summer cold be damned.

Firstly, my amazing friend Kathy came to visit me up in Funtreal this past weekend. Kathy has basically inspired me to be a lawyer. She isn't one, but she's workin' on it. We will start a kickass law firm and battle evil foes and injustice together. And make some mad coin. But Kathy has transcended her place as eternal inspiration as the pinnacle of all things scholarly, which she has been ever since my third year, when we actually started to get to know each other (though we were both petrified of the other - I, because Kathy was so clearly staggeringly brilliant, and Kathy because I was so clearly aggressive and without tact/sympathy). Kathy also has been getting in AMAZING shape. Her bod is like whoa. Like. Whoa. We had lots of great talks about body image, weight loss, fitness and the like, but I think that deserves a post of it's own. She's a really insightful young lady that one. And I love her lots and lots.

In addition to this, I am bringing my tenure in Montreal to a bittersweet close. It seems that right when you're about to leave a place is when you feel least able to. I have already voiced the frustration of moving on this blog a year ago when I moved from Halifax to Montreal. I had a great community of friends, a manfriend interest, a trivia night and an esthetician and I was not excited to reestablish those things in a new city. And it really was hard: I find it interesting that most of my friends comment on how hard this year was for me. And it was. I just don't find myself thinking of it in that way I guess. But now, in the sunshine and the freedom of school-less unemployment, and a growing network of wonderful people who I didn't get to know well enough when I had the chance, I love Montreal and am sad to say goodbye. I have just in this past month met so many phenomenal people, one of which is a boy who I really like for the first time in what feels like a very long time, and it just seems like a cruel joke that I am leaving in a mere eleven days.

So this post is somewhat bittersweet, because as I acknowledge all of the wonderful things that I do have here in Montreal, or joyously near Montreal, waiting and willing to visit my sorry ass, I also know I'm leaving them soon. It weighs very heavy on my heart and I find myself always wanting to release a heavy sigh. I wonder what a life without transience would be like...

My Cat is Trying to get me Pregnant

And it's not how you'd think!

There was that one time, when she was a kitten, and she made the sharp realization that I had scaled up versions of the milk-delivery system she'd enjoyed as an infant, sure. But only once does one let their cat molest their sleeping body. If you're one of the people who has ever asked why I bother wearing pyjamas when I live alone in the hottest city in Canada, the answer is cat mouth-to-nipple related. My darling She Ra has moved on to more nefarious ways of ruining my sex life than scarring me emotionally. That is: condom tampering.

A big thank you to Kathy (check out her blog and leave lots of comments insisting she get back into it - seriously girl, it's been too long and you're too lovely): my compadre noticed that, "uh...there is a rip...puncture? Sydney. She Ra has been chewing on your condoms." Six. Six condoms had been bitten. Only one or two punctures each, so nothing conspicuous enough to draw attention, had we not been specifically looking closely at the condoms (reason below). That cat is lucky I have been getting none. Whatabitch.

yeah. she looks like a villain.

Which also explains why I was showing Kathy my condoms in the first place: they expire in two months. Dear. God.

Sexual Cynic: Wait...I Was Doing It Wrong?

It has been ages since the Sexual Cynic has emerged, and for that, I am truly sorry. I actually gave my number to a guy recently, a guy I actually kinda like (whoa!) so I may have been resistant to reminding myself of the horrors that could lie in store if said guy picks up phone to call me, date(s) go well, and we end up in a bedroom  confronting the baffling array of positions which people who have sex more than once annually are engaging in. So overwhelming. But, as a lover of audiobooks, high waisted leopard print shorts and cats, I am also a huge proponent of self-love. And guess what. The folks at Women's Health Magazine have that covered...

 Couch Grind

I hope we are all having the same reaction here: "people need to be told how to masturbate?" followed swiftly by "And Women's Health is telling them to masturbate using a picnic blanket on an armchair???"
This is not the only "solo" position that WH recommends though - it's simply one of six helpful  suggestions(I would have said "handy suggestions," but puns aren't really my thing). Others include a bubblebath and looking into your own eyes with a hand mirror! I cannot even explain how horrified I am by that suggestion; you may recall my resistance to extended eye contact during coitus, so you can only imagine how I feel about self-eye-contact. I feel creepy. And I am a narcissist - that is just taking things too far. But I digress from the position at hand. Ok WH, how do I get myself off in this instance?

Ride the arm of a stuffed chair or couch, or the edge of a table or desk with a thick towel or blanket folded over it. Start with a small movement of the hips, and slowly build momentum.

Um. This may be a bit too American Beauty but my mum has never even let me sit on the arm of a couch, let alone make sweet love to it. It just doesn't strike me as a structurally sound endeavour, though I do appreciate the clarification that the arm should be stuffed (but tables and desks?). Do not try this with Ikea furniture ladies, lest you have some awkward explaining next time your dinner guests start asking why all your furniture resembles kindling. Really, unless you're fulfilling some deep-seated Beauty and the Beast fantasies - for which I would strongly recommend counselling over towel-chair masturbation - I just don't think it's necessary to associate all your living spaces and furniture with your own uncontrollable horniness which no man can/will satisfy.

my sentiments exactly

So why, oh why, would you do this?

Great if you like solid, steady pressure on your clitoris.

Fair enough, but I think that someone misunderstood their harlequin romances when they talked about the solid steady pressure of wood against our heroine's clitoris...

Ok, ok, so what, if not simply clitoral orgasms, is the added benefit we can mix into this equation?

Grip the arm with your thighs and have your guy enter you from behind like the Doggy Style position. Just make sure not to break any furniture.

Ok, I feel very betrayed right now. Even in a guide about solo sexual acrobatics, WH suggests involving a second party? That shit wouldn't fly in singles figure skating and it don't fly with me. It gives the impression that the women for whom WH is writing are sexually satisfied yet adventurous women in relationships who just also require self-induced orgasms. For the glow or whatever. They could involve their partner at any point if they wanted. The alternative that some women masturbate because dearGodsomanymensuck does not really seem to occur to our charming writers.

That said, it does provide a convenient out if a gentleman you're willing to have sex with does catch you dry humping your sofa: "Oh...I was just waiting for you to join me..." That said, you're still stuck without a paddle if a parent or superintendant or most people with eyes catch you instead.

Why can't we just get off by hand, battery operated penis-simulacra or removable showerheads like in the good ol' days?

Big Fat Yoga Crush

If you don't do yoga, I will probably seem like a creep, but if you do, I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about. A yogacrush. When you basically fall in love with a certain, or many, yoga teachers whose classes you frequent. You may remember a previous post about my yogacrush on Tracy from Moksha Yoga Halifax. These are teachers whose classes you not only love, but who make you want to practice better. You want to be the class pet, getting praise, and ample help along the way. That's the big one for me: any teacher who will give me an adjustment is immediately really high in my book, particularly if it's an awkward or hilarious adjustment (a couple of days ago Hannah at Moksha Yoga Monteal aggressively grabbed my hips, straightened them, and began to help stretch my hamstring, for instance).

Well I have a new one. I am big time in love with Annie from Moksha Montreal. She is so charming, willing to make fun of the class and play while still respecting the spiritual renewal it can provide. And yes, she gives ample shout outs ("this is beautiful!") and is not afraid to touch your sweaty, twisted body. And she has the most adorable French Canadian accent to boot.

Today she came up to me and apologized "I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name," and after I reminded her, she said "Sydney, you've had an absolutely beautiful practice today. Amazing."

flutter flutter flutter.

The Boyfriend Malaise

Misleading title alert - before you get your horses, I don't know, unheld(?), note: no, I do not have a boyfriend. No, indeed, if a woman's relationship status can be accurately gauged by the kinds of movies she watches when she's alone - which is an intricate science being developed at the University of Wisconsin, I'll have you know - I have already whipped past uplifting MTV biopics, psychological thrillers and pathetic rom-coms and have settled in nicely on the Resident Evil franchise. That's right gentlemen - this sassy young lady has traded her hopes of romantic escapades for Mila Jovovich snapping zombies necks with her thighs. Zombies.

But I have noted an alarming trend as of late amongst my female compadres/compatriots/coconspirators. I am friends with some truly fabulous (young) women (when does one drop that clarification? I feel like it probably is when you have some lasting/meaningful/relevant relationship. With a person. And not a cat. Or when you're truly old I guess...). I have friends who are really smart. BAs, MAs, Law-degrees-in-progress. But those amalgams of letters do not exhaust the font of awesome that are my friends. They are also, for the most part, athletes, or at the very least take care of their bodies and their health. Add to this a general care for appearance - my friends are stylin' bitches! Some are funny, some are fabulous conversationalists, some are established rapstresses, some have phenomenal boobs. They are all, in my humble opinion, fucking awesome people to be around.

And yet.

Yet.

Of an rough estimate of ten close girlfriends (what? How many legitimate close friends do you have? What. Ever) three- read that, THREE - of them have boyfriends. And though I don't know if this is to their credit or to my general annoyance, they are all long-term relationships. I'm going to credit it to my annoyance, simply because what I find so infuriating lately is that my sexy, accomplished, smart friends are not being asked out. As you may recall, my prior experiences dating men since moving to Montreal resulted in creepy carny hands and an offer of vitamin sales. This leads me to ask the inevitable question: quesque fuck?

I find it baffling, yes, but also alarming. When this trend has been discussed amongst ourselves, over beers and wine, as we do, we comfort ourselves with varying bullshit:

men these days just seem to like stupid insecure girls

we are really just very intimidating - when they grow up, they will stop slut-hopping

I don't want to be with anyone who actually thinks I have my shit together. If someone thinks this is the pinnacle, they are deeply distrubed

etcetera, etcetera etcetera.

Is it bullshit? Is it He's Just Not That Into You incarnate (ok, I did get at least one pathetic rom-com in)? We make ourselves feel better about being single by blaming the cowardliness of guys, their lack of standards or, on the inverse, their standards being too high for batcases like us. By doing this, do we displace our own agency in the situation? Do we need to filter through the Usana salesmen and circus freakshows if we expect to stop our bitching and moaning?

The alarming corollary is that many of these women also find themselves pining over men they've already been with. In a world where new men don't appear to exist, girls look back over their past boyfriends and think "wow...maybe that was as good as I will do?" or some much more optimistic "love-of-my-life" reiteration of same. This seems even more depressing than the possibility that I have the endeavour through a bunch of awful dates. This seems to imply begging for forgiveness, if the ex-revival is actually possible, or just escapist, nostalgic fantasizing. Lets just eat a plate of petite madeleines with Proust and put ourselves out of our misery.

I mostly rant about this with no conclusions. I think women in their early twenties shouldn't have to worry about relationships or lack there of. But then again, I don't know much about reproductive biology, and my cultural guide being reruns of Friends leads me to the conclusion that everyone will just end up with someone perfect in the end. Except Joey.

But what if we are Joey? And the stupid girls who put out and did coke in high school are Rachel? What if, rather than establishing cool varied groups of friends with great 9-s hairstyles, the self-fulfilling prophecy of "like attracts like" has been realized, and my friends and I are a bunch of Joeys, never to see a fulfilling relationship that wasn't one-sided and heartbreaking, to be perpetually throwing prosthetic limbs into proverbial fires. Ok. I don't know what that means. But my point stands - maybe we don't all get a fairytale romance. Maybe good vampires and sexy werewolves aren't going to battle for my heart.

To be clear. I really do not feel bad about being single. I know my rants give that illusion, but I'm of the third of my examples' school of thought: when I have my shit together, then I'll worry about why men aren't falling at my feet. Until then, well, there are two days of unwashed dishes in my sink and job opportunities I should be perusing. What is frustrating is that the option would be nice. And not just for me - I'm no diva - but for these fabulous women I know.

And yeah, cuddling is nice.

Blog Zombie

And by that, I mean, I am back from the dead.

So I haven't posted in a long.long.long time. I'm sorry. I haven't even been reading the plethora of blogs I love and adore. It was the thesis.

Did I say was? But that would mean...

Yes.

I finished

my

thesis

Fuck yes, friends, fuck yes.

So here is my list of post-thesis submission projects, because God knows that I am going to go crazy if I don't have some goals for the rest of my summer:

Clean out my fridge/pantry

Clean my apartment

Yoga. Every. Day.

Start running again

Finish all the magazines I have piled up

Finish A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genuis

Write letters

take more photos

Go to the Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit

Go to Picnic Electronique

Return library books

Boring? Oh yeah. But I am so excited. I am sure in a week I will tire of living life like a stay at home mom, but right now? Bliss

The Sexual Cynic: Sexual Harassment in the Workplace in the Bedroom

So this time around, when choosing a position to eviscerate, I took advantage of a hilarious link that says "Spin to Get Lucky." There aren't exclamation marks there, but there certainly should be. If spinning is all one needs to do to get lucky, my universe-imposed celibacy is even more mind boggling. But I am overjoyed I did spin, because it means that next up on the chopping block is...

The Chairman

I can't imagine the team meeting that took place where the staff of Women's Health had to sit around and come up with names for these positions, particularly when some of them look nearly identical. I can only imagine someone saying, amidst the ubiquitous boardroom-meeting bagels and starbucks that tv has led me to believe are mandated in corporate America, "Hey, why don't we make corporate patriarchy sexy again?" Voila: The Chairman. The fact that this position is nearly identical (in my humble opinion) to the position they have christened The Champagne Room, inadvertently speaks volumes about the nature of sex and gender in business: why, there is no difference between the domination and aggression of a CEO and the douchebaggery committed by guys in strip clubs in the eyes of the first-rate writers at Women's Health! Women are objects for the sexual gratification of men, in the boardroom and in the stripclub - now hold onto that racy though and lets take it to the bedroom. Sexy!

Ok, I confess that I may read some feminist literature every now and again, but seriously, doesn't this position just scream "naughty secretary fantasy" and doesn't that, in turn, just scream sexual harassment? But, should you be indifferent to patriarchy and partial to sex on the edge of the bed, here's how you achieve it:

He sits on the edge of the bed and you sit on him, facing away.

Shit. They are clearly onto me at WH. Despite the fact that this is fairly vague, there's nothing overly objectionable. I apologize - I've let you down. I promise I'll have better luck once we consider the Benefits:

This move will hit the spot…as in your G-spot. Good for G-spot stimulation while you can use your hands to stimulate his scrotum or perineum.

The first sentence screams bad sitcom up-speak sex joke, at which point the studios play both the laugh and groan tracks. So lets hope the benefits aren't limited to the joy I genuinely get at poorly executed sex jokes. Oh yeah, oh yeah. Your G spot. Cool. But you want me to do what? Stimulate his scrotum or perineum? Ok, sure, I'll play along, but how? Note that our heroine is leaning away from her man friend, and does not have her feet securely on the floor. Which not only begs the question "how do you actually move, once in this pose? Or is this one of those weird tantric things I don't believe in again?" but also, "how do I keep from plummeting off the bed? Is he supposed to hold on to me? What if I don't sleep with men with any measurable upper-body strength? Or is his scrotum/perineum supposed to function as reigns of some sort?"

Lesson? Do not ask me to stimulate your scrotum, gentlemen. Finally, how can we ramp up the heat with a racy bonus?

Bring your knees closer to your chest, supporting your feet on the bed.

Excuse me, what? Remember my curiosity about how you're supposed to move in this position? Yeah, never would I have imagined bringing my feet up next to the party would be the answer. I am a strong proponent of the entirely racist belief that only people from the continent of Asia can actually squat comfortably with their feet flat on the ground - so people from the continent of Asia, hit this position up! Do IT! If you're not, however, I predict you will garner some truly unflattering rolls in your attempt to achieve the illusive squat. And also, do you really want your sex position to share the name that indicates road-side urination? And while I have strong thighs, I don't think I would be able to hold myself a quarter inch above his business for more than about 30 seconds before I would literally somersault backwards over him.
Land it.
Throw hands up.
Wait for judges results.