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.

I own Anchovy Paste?

I wanted to share with y'all this lovely discovery I made today. I have been hankering to eat healthy lately - I feel like I am always saying that, but lately I've really been giving it the ol' college try. Probably a better college try than my university thesis, in fact, though both endeavours have been feeling really futile. I have been devoting so much time to the thesis and library, that my fridge is a bit of a barren wasteland. Sitting today, noshing on almonds, I thought about the contents of my fridge with despair. Greek yogourt, one egg, orange juice, a head of romaine lettuce, a chicken breast...hold up there. I think, somewhere in that mix, was the fixings for a chicken caesar salad. Did you catch it? Hint - I threw in the egg and orange juice as red herrings. "But Sydney," you may (or may not, if you don't really care) protest, "Greek yogourt does not equal caesar salad dressing." No reader, no it does not. But I thought "maybe it could!" and Reader - it could.

So I did some blog exploration on the subject and discovered a reference to a Jamie Oliver spin on caesar salad dressing that utilized Greek yogourt rather than egg yolk and oil (no - there is no cream in caesar salad dressing, in fact). It required a trip to the grocery store on my way home to grab Worcestershire sauce, garlic and, yeah, anchovy paste. But man, whip that stuff together with some lemon juice, salt, pepper and parmesan, and it is delicious!

I don't have pictures - I nommed that down far too quickly. But I wanted to introduce that to your worlds. You are welcome.

Number One on "The Ways Jersey Shore Stars Are Better Than Me"...

GTL every day, baby.

Every day? You do laundry every day, Mr. Pauly D?

You win sir. You win.

Sexual Cynic: Stop Ruining Yoga

I felt the general response to my previous post concerning the appalling mattress contortionism demanded of us by women's magazines was positive, bold-faced vaginas and all. I am not alone! Well, actually, I am in fact - alone that is - so when a gentleman at the bar last night suggested we go home together - and I can only presume from there we would churn butter - I thought it was high time for another look at this Women's Health list of suggested positions to see what exactly I was turning down.

So, submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story...

The Om

 Ok, I challenged myself a little more this time around. This one doesn't look like something a horny 12-year-old boy imagined sex could be like. This is the product of the minds of horny 20-something-year-old girls: imagining that all their sex will be intimate tantric love making on silk fuscia sheets in the middle of a vaguely pastel blue ether. The Om is the single romantic's wet dream (and anyone in a relationship who has progressed to the "get in, get off, get out, get napping" phase). I do realize that I am going to come across as a bitter, disillusioned single girl whose only chance at sexual intimacy comes in the form of grinding during the vocal stylings of Ja Rule, but this really just doesn't strike me at the hot new sex position you have to try in order to attain better, longer, deeper orgasms, or whatever the hell GlamourCosmoWomen's Health is shilling this as. It seems like the sex you have to try to attain longer, deeper hip flexor cramps. But before I further illustrate why my serious long-term live in relationship is with a 4-year-old feline, let's look at how you get into this pose:

He sits cross-legged (yoga-style), you sit in his lap facing him. Wrap your legs around him and hug each other for support.

Ok, so obviously I take issue with using yoga as inspiration for sex. It creeps me out, and it kinda perverts the entire purpose and spirituality behind yoga, and this position doesn't even make an attempt to veil that. Why? The logic seems to be "Yoga. From India. Also from India, the Karma Sutra. Yoga = Exotic Orientalist sex!" I only skimmed Edward Said, but this explanation seems to be derived from the same condensed, over simplified, kinda-colonialist and fairly-racist thought that led 17th century explorers to believe that Asian women had sideways vaginas (I know there exist illustrations of this, but 30 seconds of google searching has made me feel far too perverted and racist to endure, so take my word for it, people thought that).
Another objection I have is over the idea of getting off in a man's lap. The word specifically, not the geography. Laps are innocent. Laps are for little ridiculous dogs, kids asking Santa for stuff their parents can't afford, and little girls having their dad's explain to them the rules of football, and I really resent its use in a sex guide. Like, lets call a spade a spade; sit in his crotch. If your going to throw around specific anatomical terminology, we don't need to sugarcoat what's going on with phrasing most often associated with children and animals, ok? [note:  "crotch" is specific anatomical terminology, right?]
Though, to be fair, why, Women's Health, do I want to do this?
Best for tantric sex. Rocking, not thrusting, is the key when it comes to this very intimate position.
I'll keep this brief, since my inner po-mo feminist theorist exploded all over the place up there. First: I strongly maintain that Sting and only Sting has tantric sense. With Sting. And second: rocking?
Oh oh, what are the bonuses, since you've already ruined the child-associated terminology of laps and rocking?
Lock into each other’s deep gaze to put some extra “oh” into the big O.
No. Again, I have been single for a while, I cannot stress this enough, but I refuse to believe that eye contact will have any impact different than the impact headlights have on road deer. I want to be either close enough that I can only see small blurry portions of your face, or facing away from you so I can pretend you're Kunal Nayyar

...by the way, that is entirely a teaser for next time...

Until then, enjoy your missionary and/or doggy style and/or woman on top sex that I know you're all really having. I'm going to go eat some applesauce.

Five Senses Friday VIII

Feeling:

Euphoric. I have "completed" my last real thesis chapter. As I described to a couple friends (who were repulsed) that post-orgasmic stupor has set over me now. Which would make sense, since thesis writing is just academic, self-congratulatory masturbation anyways, no?

Smelling:

I just took such a deep breath it gave me a little headache. I wish I had a heightened sense of smell. That said, all I can smell is the Aqua Di Gioia I slathered myself in this morning.

Hearing:

oh oh! 98 degrees! Yessssss! I recently had a neighbour come down at 10:30 to inform me to turn the sick 90s pop, that Claire and I had been belting along to, down. Well...he didn't phrase it that way. More of a "it's me from upstairs. Again..."

Tasting: 

Just Got Mind-Laid High Fives for Everyone!

Pecans. I packed the healthiest and yet most satisfying snack for the library today; raspberries, blackberries (which were my childhood favourite berry, and now I remember why) and pecans. And some unremarkable watermelon, but let's focus on the amazing.

Seeing:
Myself leaving the library early. My mind-load is too blown to focus anymore. If I'd actually gotten laid, this would be when I throw out high-fives to everyone I know.

OHIO

I have recently dedicated myself to learning the names of all 50 states, so I can potentially contribute to Ye Olde Orchard trivia. But that is not actually why I titled this post after what is apparently the hardest state for me to remember (that, and Wisconsin...don't know why...). OHIO is actually an acronym. No, not the state, but in world of time management: Only Handle It Once. My brilliant friend Kirsten was telling me about this organizational philosophy which seems both straight forward and obvious, and yet is somehow very difficult to abide to.
Take my morning thus far, for instance. I woke up at 6:15, polished off a container of greek yogourt (with my new obsession, chia seeds) and went out the door to yoga. What I did not do, which a true OHIO adherent would, was a) make my bed or b) wash out my yogourt container, thus only handling either of those tasks once. Instead, my bed is still unmade, and the yogourt container was rinsed out so I could put watermelon in it to take to the library today.
This may not seem like it makes a whole lot of difference, but anyone who has been too lazy to do the dishes after dinner or walks into their house and throws their coat across the back of the chair is probably familiar with how quickly those little things build up into huge eyesores and time consuming chores.
I had been obsessed with OHIO when I got back to Montreal. I would walk into my apartment repeating the mantra "only handle it once. only handle it once..." until I started to feel just a bit crazy. But it is very seriously a helpful tool, and though, like with many other things, I fell out of using it, I kind of hope that writing this will be a helpful reboot.

I sort of made the decision this morning "Ok. Starting fresh today." My long weekend included some shameful food choices (4 am poutine???), no activity, and really minimal productivity, and I have just been feeling really sheepish this week. Even yesterday, I slept through my alarm for yoga, and just never went. Didn't go for a run instead, didn't go later in the day. Just shrugged it off. It is that frightening reminder that I was not always an active person, and I could really slip back to 5-hour CSI Marathons and pints of Ben&Jerry's very easily. And I don't want to.
So, until Monday, here's what I hope to accomplish: daily yoga, at least 2 runs, no more protein-bars-as-meals, salad for at least 3 dinners, and finishing my fifth thesis chapter!