Even people I like and have considered buds. It happens.

And, no, this isn’t an apology, because I think offense was either a) wrongly taken or b) deserved, depending who’s doing the saying.

I ranted about business-types and how keen they are to ladle praise onto their colleagues or companions, but how little genuine thanks gets expressed for the Little Things.

Like anything sandwiched into 140 words, a lot gets painted in broad strokes, and people get hurt, and I’m sorry for some of the offense I’m sure is being felt right now. But I don’t think it makes my point any less valid or needing of saying.

As an example, I’d like to tell you about my youth and a friendship I had then.

Me, I was 13, as was my friend Joyce. Everything I was, Joyce wasn’t. I was insecure, unsure how to act with others, and generally fumbling through my life. I had this habit of saying sorry for EVERYTHING — way more than my Canadian passport demands.

Joyce one day said to me, “No, you’re not. You’re saying sorry because you think it’s expected. When you say sorry every single time you do something, it makes the word mean less. When you really do need to apologize one day, it won’t mean anything, because you’ve given it all away so freely. Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

I’m pretty sure Joyce didn’t say it like that, but my 36-year-old mind remembers it that way. It hit me like a brick. She was absolutely right. If I was sorry all the time, I was never really moved by that sorriness, right? Sorry was just my state. *I* was sorry.

That’s what “daytime” Twitter strikes me as, when everyone’s bouncing around platitudes about their favourite service folk, et cetera.

And you know what?

As someone who’s not selling anything, who is a member of the buying public, if I think these service-provider tweets praising colleagues, exalting services they received as a business exchange, et cetera, SOUND inauthentic, isn’t that a point of concern?

I’m pretty “average person,” you know. My money gets spent, too, and it ain’t loyal ‘cos someone on Twitter says so — it’s getting spent wisely.

And this is the problem with using social media to drum up business. It can hurt you as much as it can help you.

Social media for business needs to be authentic. It needs to have credibility. It ALL reflects on you.

If you haven’t got the authenticity or credibility, you just sound like any other company pouring on the syrup in advertising.

Don’t kid yourself. Just because you’ve got a personality and meet people in the flesh doesn’t make you have one iota more credence than Coca-Cola or Ford. Not until you’ve proven it, not until you’ve genuinely connected with people more than a 30-second latenight commercial does.

But back to authenticity.

At the risk of not making anyone paranoid, let’s pretend I’m all rah-rah keener about my good buddy who I think makes THE best pancakes in the world.

If I tweet several times a week, “@PancakeFlipper makes THE best pancakes in the world!” or “No one makes me better pancakes than @PancakeFlipper can!”, then it loses ALL power. I’m not SAYING anything. It means NOTHING. It’s just words.

It’s like any kind of writing. Don’t TELL me, SHOW me.

“BREAKFAST! I can’t decide whether I should have the blueberry or the maple, because @PancakeFlipper makes it all so damned good!”

That gives @PancakeFlipper’s service value, and your TWEET a point.

My whole rant this morning began when I took offense at a friend asking for advice about something, and I took the time, like I always do, to give the advice sought. Then, I didn’t get a reply or a thank-you.

Yes, I take offense to that. Why? Because I’m old-fashioned and I believe in etiquette all the time. What are some etiquettes I live by I think should become eponymous in social media, too?

• I might be mouthy. I may swear constantly. I may say THE most inappropriate things — and say them very, very well. But you know what I don’t do? I don’t not thank people. I don’t deliberately offend people. And when I know I’ve offended someone, I will almost always apologize. I might not take back what I’ve said, but I’ll try very hard to at least be sure I’m understood, so that if offense remains, it’s for the right reasons.
• I have incredibly high standards for how I treat others and how I behave with my friends. I expect others to meet my standards. The good news is, I meet them too. But if you don’t? Tsk. How most of us judge people, whether you like it or not, is through little events in life. Are you on time? Are you grateful when it’s not a big deal? Do you treat little people well? That sort of stuff.
• I don’t flatter people needlessly. When I do praise someone, you KNOW I mean it, because I say it so infrequently. I won’t kiss your ass, retweet your stuff mindlessly, or say how much you rock.
• I don’t give my stamp of approval willy-nilly because I know it reflects on me. Until you have proven to me that you’ve earned my approval, you probably won’t get it in a public way. No one comes back to bite me in the ass, capiche?
• I want those who get my stamp of approval to feel like they’ve earned something. I’m not rich, I’m not famous, but I’m authentic, and when I say something, I say what I mean. Hence, Steff’s Stamp of Approval is oh-so-rarely given.

If you’re using Twitter and the like to drum up business, you better be aware that you’re not the only mouthpiece out there.

If you’re constantly lauding praise on “friends” in business, you better be sure your business practices are impeccable. If you fuck up, if you hurt clients or business relationships, all those people you’ve been singing the praises of, it tarnishes their reputation as well.

For most, this isn’t a worry. For some, it should be. There are those out there that would make me cringe if I received their approval, because we play from a very different rule book.

What else do I mean when I talk about “authenticity”? Hmm. Let’s see if I can nutshell this.

Happiness: Put a lid on it. Too much of a good thing is too much.

There’s a lady in my neighbourhood that I feel more sorry for than anyone — I think she had an accident and can never stop smiling. Seriously. Her eyes are so tragic, but her face has this awkward strained smile ALL the time. I’ve lived here for 10 years and that smile and sad eyes have never, ever left that face.

Imagine, never being able to show displeasure? Well, that’s what some people on Twitter seem like.

For some reason, when I think of all the happy-happy frou-frou types who are only ever cheerful, only ever singing the praises of others, and are never, ever authentic, I find myself thinking about the Dalai Lama.

See, one time I saw the Dalai Lama admit that he ALWAYS looks in people’s medicine cabinets when he visits private bathrooms. He’s fascinated by the reality behind that door. This makes him, among the holiest and most unattainable of men in the world, human. He’s nosy. He looks.

I’m pretty sure that when the Dalai Lama stubs his toe, he says something colourful, too. Because he’s human.

And that’s what some people are missing on Twitter. Humanity. Have a bad day. Share something boring you were thinking when you brushed your teeth. Be real. Look in the Twitter medicine cabinet, then comment about it.

And if you have something nice to say about a person, say it with meaning — give it value by showing us an example of why they’re awesome, like with @PancakeFlipper.

After all: Words are cheap, why should I buy yours?

Finally: I don’t care that we live in a faster, more harried world. You’re not entitled to my time. When I give you the advice or help you seek, then say thank you. Acknowledge it. Acknowledge anyone who takes the time to help.*

Life’s getting pretty stupid in the 2010s. Everyone’s on their hamster wheel, running like mad, seeing and doing all the same old shit, so lost in their days and ways that they forget what life was like when it wasn’t all about getting the next commission.

Stop it. Stop it now. Be real. Be grateful. Be genuine. Be present.

Otherwise, this whole social media shit’s going to the dogs.

*Sometimes, I get so many Twitter replies — I mean, I have 3,000 plus followers — that there’s no way I can thank everyone individually, but I do say general thanks in my stream, and would hope it’s noticed.

And, boy, has my body decided it’s had enough.

I became social again last year, which effectively doubled the amount I’d been drinking. It became far too regular, and had it not been for the drinking, I’d probably have lost more weight instead of just having maintained my numbers for a year now.

The drinking escalated last fall. More this spring. A good three or four nights a week would be 2-3 drinks, maybe more often than that if it was a busy period.

Just how often became a significant realization this week.

Now and then, too, I’ve had phases of a week or so when I have neck or back pain from too hard of working out, and have to take one or two painkillers a day for a few days in a row — the heavier Naproxen type. I honestly don’t like taking these pills, so I tend to use them very sparingly, but the price of ignoring escalating pain means I either start getting bad spasms or migraines, so taking pills is an evil but infrequent necessity.

But here’s the deal. I’ve always had a tough tummy, so when the doc says, “Oh, take these with food to prevent upset tummy,” but I never get the sick stomach, why worry about taking it with food?

Because apparently it turns out that the food prevents bad shit from happening to your stomach lining.

GOOD TO KNOW. DULY NOTED.

Yesterday, the doctor told me I’ve got gastritis. This, apparently, is why I vomited under a bridge after work on Friday, after a coffee sent me to hell and back — just the latest in unpleasant tummy-type developments in my recent past.

I’ve been putting all the information together since I got home last night, getting all Gregory House on my health’s downward trajectory.

Alcohol helps wear down the stomach lining so it’s more susceptible to things like gastritis and ulcers. So do painkillers like the ones I’ve been prescribed.

Best I can figure is, I had an unholy perfect stomach storm kick off when I decided to work at home, with a very bad set-up, upon the Olympics rolling into town. I was getting migraines daily, but it wasn’t until a week or so past their onset that I realized it was because my desk was too high. So, I’d been medicating with the pain pills, often on an empty stomach.

Then, the Olympics kicked off. You know, the “drunkest Olympics ever”, as dubbed by international press? Not many Vancouverites made it through the Games without a bender or two.

Normally, I drink wine. Beer’s not something my stomach enjoys in large doses, but when it’s sports and pubs? I’m a beer girl. I was a beer girl for the whole Games. A cheap-beer beer-girl. Oh, lawdy.

After a week of having to take two painkillers a day.

Well. Lawdy!

Let’s just say I’ve had a hell of a time for the last couple weeks, I thought I was getting an ulcer.

It’s part bad habit, part dumb luck.

But it’s all a fantastic lesson.

I’m tired of the booze. I went more than a year drinking once a week or so, maybe even once every two weeks. It makes me sluggish, cuts my effectiveness, makes me gain weight, maybe even depresses me.

I just happen to like it, too, is all.

Wine, oh! I mean, the non-alcoholic stuff has nothing on “real” wine. I’m a foodie, I love to cook, and I love a great wine that complements my efforts. I see no shame in enjoying the wine once or twice a week. That’s fine.

The frequency I’ve been drinking at is by no means “acoholic” status or anything like that, but it’s too fucking frequent for me. My body just does NOT like it. That’s the point. I don’t give a shit if it’s socially acceptable or not.

I’ve worked too hard to get too far on my health journey to fuck it up over some drinks. I’m angry, very angry, that I’ve felt as lousy as I have for the last two to three weeks.

That anger’s getting channelled, though. I’ve been eating fantastically — I’m doing really well for diet and nutrition, even portions. While I am indeed angry I’ve let my health go this far — regardless of the whole “once a lifetime” Olympicky business — I am absolutely ecstatic that I’ve re-found my commitment and desire to get on path.

Feeling like I have for the last month, it’s a goddamned crime after I’ve lost 70 pounds. But my body couldn’t handle the booze and greasy pub food overload that came with the Epic Olympicky Games In My City experience. My body got used to me shunning processed food and always getting back on a healthy path within a few days of neglect, not after a month, like it has been.

The funny thing is, I used to live with a pretty alcoholic intake — drinking a bottle of wine a night, eating absolutely shit food every fucking day, three meals a day, hitting likely 3,500-4,000 calories a day — for about two years around ‘99 to 2001. Never did I even need a Tums.

I guess it’s a testament to how healthy I was actually eating in the last couple years, then, that my body’s rebelled so harshly.

I’m oddly proud of that.

So, whatever. I’ve felt like shit. That corner’s turning. I’m glad that obstacle has come. I’m glad I remember what it’s like to be so tired and lethargic all the time, to feel like I’m getting absolutely no nutrition, to loathe the fog that comes from almost-daily drinking for a couple weeks.

I’m glad. I can use this. I can feed of it and become better. THAT’S how I choose to respond.

I might be young at heart, but my body’s 36. It’s important I act like it, and I’m grateful for such powerful motivation.

I’m also grateful for really powerful antacids.

*Fantastic drunken Tom Waits number.

**I am not giving up coffee. I am not giving up coffee. I am not giving up coffee. I am not giving up…

The Olympics are gone.*

17 days of madness, medals, and mountains have come to a close, and the emotional fall-out is like nothing I could’ve prepared for.

The last seven years of our lives here in Vancouver have been dominated by the controversy and catharsis of a city trying to get ready for an epic event that’d bring millions into our town for the celebrations.

Seven years! Planning, fighting, dreaming, waiting. They came, they saw, they used their Visa cards.

All done now. All over but the fallout and numbers.

Looking at headlines since, it’s clear the world got impressed with our desire to have a good time while the Games were in town.

But it sure as hell didn’t start out that way.

The city was collectively destroyed at the horror of Georgian Luger Nodar Kumaritashvili’s death hours before the opening ceremonies could even start… before, even, the torch relay reached its conclusion after the longest relay in Olympic history.

Then we really got cooking with some riot action.

That wasn’t all that was cooking — how about the record low snowfall at North Vancouver’s Cypress mountain, juxtaposed against the blooming cherry blossoms and shorts-wearing cityfolk? Arguably the warmest winter ever had pretty bad timing, leaving the whole province prepared for international embarrassment when news emerged that our “snow” ramps were being built out of… hay? Yeah. Cows, farms, that kinda hay.

After the riots on day two and the increasingly-warm weather forecasted, I think we all got a little scared that things were going sideways.

But then Alex Bilodeau won gold.

The first-ever gold won on home soil, after a wait of 34 years and two other Olympics. The talk of the “curse” had lingered as the Games opened with the ridiculous mantra for our athletes to “Own the Podium”, but Alex Bilodeau crushed the moguls.

At the end, in his jubilation, he hugged his big brother Frederic, (click for photo gallery) who lives with cerebral palsy. And the world was touched, just like all of us Canucks were. What a perfect first-ever gold-medal winner to exemplify our country — a guy, who, we like to think is like our country: accepting, loving, jubilant, and plain fuckin’ awesome.

The Games began to change, then, even as news began to leak from London, with the Guardian saying that we were on the path to be the worst Games ever. A model of everything not to do, they said.

Oh, yeah? Well, the simmering excitement that had blocks and blocks filled with people downtown became more packed, more fevered. Everywhere you looked, Canadians were wearing red. Worst Games ever? We’ll show ‘em!

And with the “quiet” Canadian determination, we pushed on.

Boy, did we.

I’m not sure the world realizes how “small” Canada really is. Do you? Let’s have a crash course.

We’re the second-largest country in the world, but we have about 10% of the population of America. We’re socialist, but that socialism has to fund a massive network of roads and infrastructure stretching through to three oceans, so we’re like that middle-income family who’s always getting by, but we never have flashy clothes or cool shit.

We’re dwarfed by Americans. You’re on our radios, TVs, newspapers, internet. Everywhere, every minute. Even the Canadians we love to brag about wind up living down in America, because that’s where the money is. Jim Carrey, Michael J. Fox, and a zillion others… all expatriates.

Well, this country made ‘em. There’s something in the water here, some newfangled mineral called “awesome”.

We’ve always been a punchline. We put up with it, but we’re tired of it. Yes, it’s a part of us, but the joke’s been getting old.

You’ve heard the joke, right? Something about a Mountie who walks into a bar with a jug of maple syrup under one arm and a beaver under the other, after parking his moose next to the dogsled in the 24-hour night, across from the Eskimo and his igloo by the salmon-smoking hut.

Have I covered all the stereotypes yet? Oh, and we drink beer and are funny. Sorry. Forgot to apologize for no reason, so: Sorry, eh?

That’s what the world thought. We know it.

And when our Games started getting slammed as the worst-ever, with nothing to lose, we busted loose and decided it was our party, and no one was gonna say different.

That’s when it became the Funcouver 2010 Winter Olympics, dude. Break out the beer.

The thing that separated the Vancouver Games from pretty much every other Olympics I’ve ever gotten to watch is, the parties in the streets. And I’ve heard from pundits and TV personalities who say they’ve been to 10 – 13 Olympics, and no city has ever celebrated the Games to the extent of Vancouver.

A lot of opponents will tell you the Olympic Games are a party for the rich, that The Average Guy gets left out of the experience.

On the one hand, I do think so. This is true. I even ranted about it last week. I’ve never felt so broke as when I watched friends who could afford to drink to the tune of $15-20 an hour, when I’m usually budgeting $40 or less for a night out. I’ve been pretty crushed financially by these Games, but that’s because I made the wrong decisions about where to hang out.

I had my “Olympic Tent Experience” when I stupidly went to the German Fan Fest Pavillion aka Germany House, which other people I know who’ve been to many “Houses” said was among the best. I fucking hated it. Why? I’m drinking $9 beers out of plastic cups, poured from bad-pressure kegs, surrounded by port-a-johns, in a tent built on a parking lot, so I can sit at 60-foot long picnic tables all crushed together, with too few TVs for watching the Olympic sports on. SERIOUSLY? And, after 6, a $20 cover? Haha, yeah, okay.

I went to one tent, then realized that pretty much none of them are really worth the 1-2 hour lineups or excessive prices.

Instead, I did what others did, and checked out the Olympics in packed bars or on the street, just walking everywhere. With more than 100,000 people partying on the streets inside a few square blocks every night, with live street performances everywhere, street vendors, and massive public art installations, it was a pretty easy thing to enjoy.

But our Olympic committee decided to make culture and public performance a priority. This isn’t business as usual for the IOC, you know. “The Cultural Olympiad” brought people together in the streets, the theatres, and everywhere else they could gather, for more than 600 performances over the span of the Games.

“The People” took over the city. The cops stood by and watched, night after night after night. Arrests were lower than on your typical New Year’s Eve — even though some reports list Vancouver as being the “most drunken” Olympics ever. The most-reported injury in this city’s police department after hosting the world’s biggest drunken party for more than two weeks? Sore hands from high-fives.

Vancouver had the most democratic of-the-people, by-the-people Olympics ever, if the initial reports are true. We drank in the streets, partied till wee hours every night, and everyone had access to Olympicky things.

And then there were the Games.

Sure, a lot of us were priced out of purchasing tickets. But we had four TV stations (and live streaming from each) simultaneously covering Olympic events. We could watch anything at any time, almost never with broadcast delays.

I’ve never been so overly-stimulated for so long in my life. I watched the Olympics every chance I could, like most people I know. If I wasn’t out there partying because of ‘em, I was at home absorbing ‘em.

What wasn’t there to absorb?

Aside from Alex Bilodeau, from a strictly-Canadian point-of-view, there was the amazing Clara Hughes, the only multi-medallist in both Winter & Summer Olympics ever, placing for bronze in her last skate ever, being lauded as one of the greatest Olympians the world has ever seen.

There were Scott & Tessa, skating into everyone’s heart with their flawless routines and show of costuming restraint in figure skating.

No one can forget the incredible Jon Montgomery who made winning look like THE FUNNEST THING EVER, who celebrated like every Canadian wishes they could after a victory — gulping down a pitcher of beer while wandering through the town square and basking in the glow of others thinking you fuckin’ rock.

There was seeing both of our men & women’s bobsled teams winning with black athletes on them, and First Nations included at all levels of the Olympic experience. Diverse games, just like our country.

But how about Joannie Rochette, who captivated the whole world when she skated through her grief after losing her beloved mom suddenly in the night a couple days before her first skate? Quiet and strong, like we think we are as a country. And then she won.

Oh. And hockey. So that happened.

In more than 50 years, the First Nation of Hockey had won Olympic gold only once and Canada had not once beaten Russia in Olympic hockey. Last week, both those realities were changed. We whipped Russia, devastated them. We stole the gold from America. This Miracle on Ice? 100% Canadian. We ARE hockey once again, saved by Sidney Crosby in overtime.

Canadians realized that our heroes don’t just compete for us, they represent us. They’re the kind of people we all want to be, and deep down inside, we think we have a little of ‘em in us, too.

Because we’re Canadians. There’s something about this country — our strength and our graciousness, our determination and ability to confront odds. It’s what we do. We do it quietly, most of the time, but we do it.

And for 17 days, we got to prove to the world that we’re more than just the stereotypes.

We’re the people you want to party with.

We’re people to look up to and want to live like.

We’re intelligent and articulate but we don’t take ourselves too seriously.

We’re — like Shane Koyczan said on Opening Night — an example of an experiment going right.

We are Canadians.

So, with the Olympics done and gone, my heart’s a little broken. I’ve never been so proud to be Canadian. I’ve never been so proud to see my compatriots realize all that we have as a nation. I’ve never been so happy to see my city inundated with the tourists who usually piss me off.

I’ve just never.

And now, odds are good I never will again. Not like that. Not “epic”-like.

But I can hope.

I can hope that the patriotism and unity we all found in the last three weeks, that slowly built up over the most amazing Olympic torch relay the world’s ever seen as it crossed Canada from coast to coast to coast, on dogsled and tractors and longboat and canoe… I can hope that that patriotism lasts, that it builds into something more, something we always measure ourselves against.

We’ve always known we were Canadians. But, for the first time, I think we’re really starting to understand what that really means.

We’re a country that’s better together than we are as the sum of our parts. We believe in equal opportunity, we think everyone needs a hand sometimes, and we believe in a system that provides it (*most of the time).

It’s my hope that Sunday’s closing of the Olympics weren’t just the end of something, but the start of a newly-defined nation that believes it deserves its place on the world stage, and who finally appreciate the magnitude of what “Canadian” means.

I believe Vancouver has just played a pivotal role in the nation-building of this new Canada, and I’m so proud of that.

For a little while, though, I think I’m going to be sad. Because we had that. That happened.

Wasn’t that a party, indeed.

___________________________

*I’m excited the Paralympics are coming, too. I know the national response won’t be the same, the feeling won’t be the same, the nation-building won’t be the same, and you can judge me for saying so, but it’s true. Still, I’m excited to see the kinds of competition and odds-defeating that Paralympians are capable of. “Special” Olympics, for sure, and they’ve achieved every bit as much, if not more, as the athletes we’ve come to love of late.

Yesterday, I stood at the top of an 8-story-tall tower, strapped into a harness, hooked onto a steel cable, and ziplined 550 feet across Vancouver’s Robson Square.

Holy shit.

I’ve had to get the news my mother was going to die, I’ve had to amass the guts to get back on a scooter after I nearly died when I flew head-first off of one — after which long-time riding friends claimed they’d never seen a casual rider as hurt as I’d been get back on a bike — and I have NEVER been as scared as I was when I stepped off that platform.

My friends with me didn’t see it, but I was crying when I took that step.

What they did see, though, were my knees shaking violently, my face suddenly 15 years older looking as all the blood drained from it and my jaw dropped in terror.

I almost vomited, I never even breathed as I zipped at 50k an hour and crossed the square, but about 2/3s of the way in, I finally snapped and realized, “I’ve done it!”

Unfortunately, part of my fear was about getting back onto the other platform, even thought I knew how it was done. Part of that has to do with my weight issues. I’m heavier than I look, by far, and I know it. Sometimes defeating a fear means defeating ALL of it from start to finish, and it’s not until after that you realize It’s Over, I Did It.

You can’t just ignore those hang-ups, you kinda have to face ‘em down and beat the shit out of them.

I got back on that scooter years ago because I knew I’d never respect myself again if I didn’t. The scooter didn’t almost kill me. My driver error did. I simply had to be better, be more in the moment.

This zipline thing, though, was purely symbolic and something I really didn’t have to do, I had no control over where it went, how I did, my success, survival or my experience. I had to just have faith.

Why bother, though? I didn’t have to do the zipline at all.

Except that I did. I did have to do it. I did it. I did.

My form? Complete shit. I was not graceful, not cool. I held on for dear life. I was CLEARLY the person doing it to tackle fear. I was fully conscious of everyone staring up and empathizing as they snapped photos, probably a thousand onlookers on the streets below.

I was totally freaked out until I reached close to the end. I was in terror again as I was being hauled to the platform, wishing I had longer legs.

But I fucking did it.

Also: I brought along spare panties, in case the obvious happened. Never needed them. Fantastic.

Whew. I still find it hard to fathom that I did that. I don’t even like climbing on the fourth rung of a ladder, man, let alone an 8-storey-high tower I’m about to strap onto with a harness and a kinda dubious looking carabiner in order to hurtle myself at high speeds through open air over concrete, steel, and glass.

For others, it’s no big deal. For me, I was close to having a complete breakdown up there.

Right before me, though? A nine-year-old girl, seen in the photo I took before my horrifying descent. All I kept thinking was, “A nine-year-old just did this. Everyone has lived so far. I’ll never respect myself again if a nine-year-old made me look like a pussy.”

I still can’t really process the quantity of fear I felt.

When they say fear is “paralyzing,” well, I guess now I really get what they mean by that.

But it’s like I wrote on Twitter last night:

Tomorrow I get to wake up knowing I’m the kinda chick who rides a zipline. That’s better than waking up the kinda girl who’s scared of ‘em.

Now I’ve asked my best friend if we can change our plans for celebrating my birthday at a swank restaurant — which was last September; he loves me but has time commitment challenges — and instead go ziplining on a mountain.

The mountain zipline terrifies me too. It’s really high. And it’s not a 60-second experience that takes 5 hours of build-up. No, it’s an eco tour that takes two hours to complete.

Yikes.

But I meant it when I promised myself that 2010 would be about facing fears and winning.

Yesterday was just the first really scary, profound, and transformative step in Steff’s Fear-Facing Throwdown of 2010.

One by one, I’ll tear down all the insecurities that have ever made me think I was This Girl and not That Girl.

Because I was clearly way fucking wrong on that count.

I didn’t get it done pretty yesterday, but I got it done. I did it for no one but myself, and my self knows what I’ve accomplished. It’s a small yet monumental change in who I am.

Sometimes, we don’t know the impact of the changes we make until time starts to pass. It hasn’t even been 24 hours yet and the emotions that bubble beneath my surface are murky yet. I’m unclear where this leads.

But like I say:

Today, I awoke a different kind of girl than the one I woke up as yesterday.

My decades of trying to play it safe so I don’t get hurt, they’re suddenly coming to an end.

Perhaps the most valuable lesson in my life can be found somewhere in all of this… that playing it safe doesn’t mean you don’t get hurt; it just means you get hurt without payoff or getting a great story out of it.

“Hurt” is inevitable for us all. Sometimes playing it safe maybe hurts more than having risk go sideways ever could, because playing it safe always, always comes with that feeling of emptiness you get from knowing you’re selling yourself short. I have two decades that tells me this is true.

Knowing my potential for true awesomeness, that particular brand of selling myself short has become the bitterest pill I’ve had to swallow. Oh, how unlike myself I’ve felt for so long. I’m better than the body that imprisoned me for so many years.

With a bunch of tough choices, fears faced, pride swallowed, and risks calculated, I may never have to swallow that bitterly disappointing pill again.

2010. Vancouver. Citius, altius, fortius. Faster, higher, stronger. For all the Steffs, too.

I win.

“The sound of a cougars claws slipping down the slope called age.”

That was the comment in its entirety, aside from quoting the entire paragraph under the blockquote-box’s question.

It pissed me off. Why?

I’m the anti-cougar. I wear Chuck’s All-Stars, not stilettos. I like concert t-shirts and trendy shirts with nice cuts, not revealing tight-skimpy things. I’ve never had a microskirt or a tube skirt. You know? I don’t flirt much, as I wrote about in this piece I called Flirting Fail.

I’m not saying I’m fail. I’m just not the stereotype, is what I’m saying. I like myself just fine, thanks. The world has plenty of busty chicks in tube tops.

But let’s leave that aside. You know what really pisses me off?

That it’s the mere fact I’m a woman over 30 who has more than a passing interest in sex that has left me judged a “cougar” by this stupid ass.

Every guy out there wants a woman who’s a feisty beast in the bedroom and Doris Day outside of it, if my 36 years of experience on this planet has any validity.

The trouble is, the moment a woman becomes overt in her sexuality at all, she’s judged as being a Different Kind Of Woman. She’s in some other class. She gets hurt less, is easier, can be acted around differently. The stereotypes are fucking ridiculous.

And the further trouble is, the women who ARE overtly sexual at a younger age, so many of them are using that sexuality to compensate for what they perceive to be shortcomings in other areas, because the REST of the younger girls are all freshly raised to believe that Women Who Like To Do It Are Whores.

This is changing a little, but not enough.

Women are still defined morally by what they like sexually. Men aren’t. Women are.

It’s a huge hurdle for women to get over. Every chick probably can tell you an experience when they felt absolutely disrespected or judged for some small little thing to do with sex or how they were dressed. And when that happens, it reaffirms all those moralistic preachings by our suburban parents about just what it is that Good Girls DON’T Do.

If men want more women to be comfortable with their sexuality, this hypocritical bullshit needs to stop.

They need to stop judging averagely sexual women, or sensual women, as if their morals are somehow different just because the enjoyment level for sex is more obvious than with others.

Authentic cougars — you know, women who are all about the sex or who value themselves only according to how well their sex life is going, like “Sam” in Sex In The City — are a stereotype and can be mocked a little. Anyone who allows themselves to fit squarely into a stereotype kind of deserves a bit of mockery, honestly, whether a horticulturalist or a hussy.

But making the mistake of thinking you know someone’s ethics or morality just based on their views on sex is about as fucking dumb as it gets.

Me, I have a sometimes-sex blog. Sure. I got skillz. You betcha. I’m able to write about sex in a way that has edumacated folks in the past.  (Like some of the oral sex how-to’s on this page.) But I barely date. I don’t sleep around. I like relationships. I’m never very public about my sexuality apart from things I talk or write about; I don’t flirt particularly well. I’m not a seductress. I’ve never cheated on a man. I bake muffins for boyfriends, giggle at their jokes, and get along with their mothers. I say please and thank you, I hold the door open for old ladies. I pay my taxes. I keep in touch with my dad, cared for my dying mother. Used to sing in the choir. Was a Girl Guide Leader and a Pathfinder Leader. I sing a wicked “Kumbaya.” I don’t have a criminal record, I’ve never been arrested. I’ve never tried a drug harsher than pot or drank gin.

But, yep, sex is a good thing. In many, many ways.

If you judge me on the fact that I’m a little dirty-minded versus EVERYTHING else I am, you’re a fucking moron. Flat-out. Hands down. And you’re missing out on probably one of the best friends you could have, the sort of person who’s a lock for a 3a.m. body-removal crew. Ethically, morally, I live to a higher standard than most people I know. I’m so old-fashioned it hurts. I demand better from people in my life, because I’ll deliver it, too.

Still, that sex thang, man. Always a good thing. And often.

Now, I haven’t been laid for at least one whole calendar, and it ain’t doing me no good at all, but that’s life and it hasn’t been something I’ve really tried to change because I was very disinterested for a long time. It sure as hell disqualifies me from “cougar” running, that’s one thing I know.

But go ahead. Call me a cougar.

Insult me for advocating that ALL women should be more in touch with their sexuality.

Deride me for asserting that no matter how “moral” we are, sexuality’s an awesome thing to enjoy in life and necessary for a full life.

Mock me for believing that society would be a greater and more productive place if everyone put as much focus on their sex life and communication as they did on making money.

You want to know why so many women keep their sexuality closeted, or why so many women won’t bring themselves to even masturbate, let alone get crazy with positions or initiating things? Because they still get shamed too much of the time. If women aren’t comfortable in their sexuality and don’t feel encouraged to grow sexually, they won’t masturbate. If they don’t masturbate, they’ll never learn what works for turning them on, or gain the physical comfort level needed for women to reach orgasm, and that’s why so many women never even orgasm until well after their 30s.

Because of the bullshit being spouted by hypocrites — whether it’s from asshole moralists in pulpits or men who don’t have the guts to own their own sexuality, THAT’S why.

Why women have SO MANY hang-ups is because of the mixed messages we’ve received for centuries. Bend over/BEHAVE. The church has done it, our parents have done it, our lovers have done it, and society as a whole still does it.

Let’s embrace real, healthy, vibrant sexuality. Let’s realize that’s a completely different thing from the bubblegum whorey girls who are using sex to get somewhere because they have nothing else to offer.

Sexuality comes in many different styles. If you’re gonna judge anyone for being that way, you might just be missing out on what could be a pretty wild journey of discovery. All of us, every one of us, unfolds differently when it comes to being physical. This ain’t no mass-produced experienced. It’s a unique thing with each person.

Don’t judge. Be open.

Life’s a hell of a lot more fun that way.

And I’m not a cougar, dummy.

But calorie burning and world-domination isn’t my goal this morning. My goal’s pretty simple this week — I don’t care at all if I lose weight or gain tone or burn fat. This week, it’s just about routine-establishing. Every day, a little something active. Every day, two healthy meals at least. Every day, the house is spotless before work and before bed. This is all I wish to achieve this week — routine.

When getting fit and thin and fab, don’t set yourself up for fail by going full-on-mode right off the bat. It’s hard to maintain it longterm. If you start by doing 10-20 minutes of good exercise EACH DAY, you’ll find yourself ramping that time up very quickly, but it’s the pattern of working out DAILY that will most benefit you.

All the things I’m doing this week, I did in February 2008, before I lost 50 pounds that year. I got my home under control, I started systems I could manage on a daily basis, and soon I was having success with all areas of my life.

It’s not about results this week; it’s about laying a groundwork for a new way of thinking and a plan for maintaining control and having consistent forward-moving results from this point on.

That’s this week, and I’m pretty pleased with how it’s going this far. At least my period had the decency to come yesterday so I can be done with all my physical hurdles come Saturday. Just slowly implementing a plan like this — daily activity, structured cleaning of the home, planning healthy food ahead of time — makes me feel so empowered.

You will feel it, too.

Seems to me too many people are all shame-filled about their ADHD. What the fuck is that about?

Here, take your stereotypes and shove it. Know what my ADHD doesn’t make me do? It doesn’t make me run around like I’ve had 42 coffees and have been mainlining coke and adrenaline, all right? It doesn’t mean I freak out on people. It doesn’t mean I can’t have a conversation with you. It doesn’t mean I can’t get to appointments punctually. It doesn’t mean I can’t be an awesome employee.

What it DOES mean is, I have organizational challenges that negatively impact my life and leave me predisposed to feeling overwhelmed and constantly daunted by the life in front of me. But that’s biochemical. It doesn’t mean I don’t BELIEVE I can do it all.

In fact, I’m getting really pissed off at the idea that I should somehow not admit I have ADHD, like I should hide the condition and pretend I’m “normal”.

Fact is? Without my ADHD, I wouldn’t be the writer I am. I wouldn’t have the wide range of artistic abilities with the keen scientific grasp of logic and philosophy that I have in spades, man.

The paradox of ADHD contributes greatly to the paradox of me — my odd mix of sensibilities, unpredictability, humour, quirky observation, talents, and wicked attention to detail.

Without my ADHD, I’d just be another person seeing the world through ordinary eyes. For whatever grief and challenge my ADHD put on me, its reward is the madcap swirl of perspective and hobbies that I live my life enjoying.

If you follow my crap on Twitter, you know I don’t shut up a lot.

I’m not on Twitter to be current on all the links or friendy-friendy with everyone. I’m there because it’s an extension of my writing. I record the minutae that I see around me, I comment on everything, I say things I probably damned well shouldn’t, and I probably blurt a lot of things most people barely have the guts to think and never say. Again, my Twitter stream is here.

Without my ADHD, you’d probably hear about me being in bank lines and eating Cheerios for breakfast, and not much more. The irrepressible impulses I get and the spontaneous outbursts I often have are just part of my “condition”.

In addition to that madcap swirl of thoughts? I’m also a fantastic cook, a wildly original home decorator, able to wield power tools, and garden, great at speaking, and more. I’m versatile and creative in pretty much every area of my life. I come up with original solutions to tricky problems at work and home. That’s part of ADHD, too — versatility, inventiveness, creativity, impulsiveness. It’s often all good if one can manage the other stuff.

Let’s face it, people. We’ve got to take the good with the bad with anything in life, but there is SO MUCH good that results out of the supposed “bad” of ADHD that I can’t tell you I wish I didn’t have this condition.

I LIKE the quirky, odd, strangely bright girl that my ADHD makes me. I like the fact that I surprise myself and make myself laugh with my observations of the world, but that other people seem to enjoy it too. I wouldn’t ask for anything else.

I may not be my ADHD, but my ADHD has helped to shape me into a more unique, more interesting person than I likely would have been otherwise.

Moral of the story? Don’t fight who you are. Make yourself the star of a play that suits your style in life.

It’s taken me a long, long time to realize that the things I used to hate about myself are the reason that all the things I love about myself are so strong. I’ve spent my life hating that I couldn’t get past my disorganization to get to a place of success. I’ve spent my life knowing that I’ve got a wicked sharp mind, an understanding of the public most people in some industries wish they had, and a way with words they can’t teach in school. And, yet, here I sit. All because I never knew how to control the one side of my life so I could maximize the other.

Learning that the two can, and do, play well together, but that I need to coach it out of myself, has been a fantastic lesson. I’m still learning and it’ll take a while before I successfully put it all together in a way that yields the results I want, but… it’s coming.Knowledge is power, and I’ve got the knowledge now.

Knowing my ADHD is such a gift helps me ignore the more “cursed” aspects of it. Understanding how much of “me” wouldn’t be a part of me without my ADHD? Helps me really decide that I need to learn to control it, because I fucking love the good it contributes to who I am.

Welcome to my journey.

Today, it’s the start of a whole new thang. It’s 2010.

This is a loosey-goosey promise ‘cos we all know weeks can go off-the-hook in a hurry, but I’m gonna try my damnedest to have 10 days of 2010 — postings big or small about either reflecting on the Year That Was or projecting on The Year to Be. They’re not written yet, hence the iffyness of my promise, but it’s exciting to think what crazy direction such an unplanned writing promise could lead me in. I prefer writing such things in the thick of the moment; it’s more honest and raw when I do. Here’s hoping. :)

The Meat

Here in Vancouver, Canada, it’s Olympics time. The big winter show rolls in this February. Everyone’s gonna get higher, faster, higher, stronger. Citius, altius, fortius, baby.

2009, my goal was to continue my weightloss and take another 50 pounds off, like I had in ‘08. Unfortunately… my back injury made that questionable. Deep down, I had an asterisk on my resolution. It was, if my back injury proved to be worse than suspected, I just wanted to survive the year and be much better than I ended it. Maintaining my weight would be acceptable…

But after losing / gaining for the year, I’ve succeeded in being about 20 pounds lighter than I was last New Year’s. Given that back injury took nearly a year to rehab past the daily-pain point, I’m really proud of that number.

This year, though. This New Year’s? There is no asterisk.

2010 is my bitch.

The Plan

Today was spent — after being sick since Christmas — doing light housework and rearranging my pantry. The first of my many steps I’ll be taking in the coming week toward total world domination.

My January will be spent getting back into the mode of being healthy, with a couple sharp kicks to the gluttony groin — cutting out butter on bread, and no more cream in coffee. At 3 cups of black coffee a day and 2 pieces of unbuttered toast five times a week, just THOSE TWO CHANGES amounts to about 10,000 calories in the month. Almost 3 pounds. Add in portion control, some calorie counting, and hardcore cardio exercise? Pretty easy to reach 10 pounds in that first month. Last year, I managed 12 pounds in 3 weeks after Christmas.

What are the practical steps I’m taking that you might want to consider as we all ramp up our health games in the early going of the new year? All the same ones I put into play before I lost 50 pounds in a year, then that quick post-Christmas 12 pounds in January ‘09. Let me share some with you.

1. Pantry Rearranging

I take stock of what I have in my house. Anything I use as a vehicle for unhealthy behaviour — like how I love Special K with brown sugar on it, but won’t eat it plain — I throw out or donate to the food bank. I’m rearranging things so that everything at eye-level is a whole-grain product, canned veggies and beans, and other food that requires actual cooking — not processed shit. In fact, you should be tossing as much processed food as you can. I’ll keep things like taco seasoning, but I’ll use it with turkey, not beef.

Also, I’m using this opportunity this time to re-evaluate those things in my kitchen. What’s the calorie-count in it? Fat? How high’s the sodium? Should I really eat THAT?

2. Getting a Food Gameplan that Works with Your Life

I’m doing the food gameplan thing, and it’s probably the most important step I take to ensure my success. How?

The best way to do this is, figure out the food you have on hand — a great thing to work with in the financially-strapped weeks after Christmas — and figure out menu plans with what you have, and what ingredients you need to fill the holes in that plan. Be realistic. If you don’t like it, you won’t eat it. Find a way to make things you love healthy, whether by changing how you prepare it or improving what you accompany with it. That won’t do much for you, though, if you’re not going to eat what you know you need.

The most unhealthy thing you can do when losing weight? Eating out or doing takeout. No matter how healthy that food looks, I guarantee you that every commercial place is making that dish with twice the fat and salt that you could/would use at home. Why? Because all the flavour’s in fat and salt.

Eating out ONCE a day, they say, adds an average of 500 calories to your daily intake. Oh, gee, and 7 days times 500 calories = 3,500 calories, or, boom-shakka-lacka, one pound.

Me, I have the luxury of rearranging my work schedule. I get up, stretch, do my writing in the mornings, start work late, then eat lunch/dinner on my job, so I can workout after work, then eat a post-workout snack before 9.

3. Schedule Time for Food Prep

To make the above plan work without resorting to takeout, I’ll have to do food prep before my week begins. What’s that entail?

This Sunday, like most Sundays, I’ll be cooking. I’m roasting a ham, making a quick-and-easy chicken soup, and whizzing up a batch of hummus.* The ham can be used in sandwiches or salads or with side veg, all week long. The soup freezes and is great for lunches. The hummus guarantees me healthy, easy eating at work all week, too. All low-fat, high-protein, and versatile for the week. When living healthy, I also like to take a large divided Tupperware container and chop up veggies for the week’s salads. Let’s face it, if you’ve worked out for an hour after commuting more than an hour for an 8-hour-day job, the last thing you want is complicated dinners — but takeout’s deadly. A salad you can literally throw together, with a few scraps of roasted meat from the weekend, saves your life, feels great after a workout, and is cheap on the pocketbook.

An afternoon of meal-prep work on Sunday can be the difference between a 3-pound weightloss and a 2-pound weight-gain in a week. Do the math.

4. Start Simple.

Just be accountable. KNOW what you’re eating. If that means doing the LiveStrong or FitDay calorie-counting for a few weeks, then you’ll be in the proper mindset without all that stupid fucking around with numbers, but, yeah, it’s necessary to obsess about it for 3-4 weeks because it creates the all-day-every-calorie awareness you’ll need in order to be successful.

And pick a way to eliminate 100 calories a day off the start, and try to find another one after a few weeks of successful losses, because you need to up those targets after a while. Me, I’m eliminating an average of 300 calories a day with two small steps, cutting out the coffee cream and the butter — because I know I’ve been blowing it calorie-wise for a while now.

So 300 calories sounds like a lot, but they’re small actions with huge reward. Know what happens to me when I have less butter on bread? I don’t want as much bread. And I’ll nearly never eat cheese if I can’t have it with buttered toast. Bad habits, I know, but that’s the dietary circle of life for you. Seldom does bad behaviour NOT have a domino effect.

That’s why, when I started all my weightloss with this no-butter-no-cream method two years ago, I lost 18 pounds in 2 months. I’ve used butter ever since then, though, so I’m curious how much effect it will have this time. (Rules are different this time, too — I’m allowed to cook with it, just never have it on bread, because then I’ll have less bread, mehopes.)

Tomorrow: Thoughts to consider as you tackle a better, healthier you. Where you come from mentally will dictate how successful you are long-term. My thoughts on that.

Here’s to us all kicking ass in 2010.

Citius, altius, fortius, baby.

*As an example: Hummus is a very important thing to make yourself. Tahini, one of the primary ingredients, is basically the same fat content as peanut butter. I make a lower-fat hummous by using the cooking or canning liquid for the beans and cutting tahini in half. I add very little oil. Many commercial hummus concoctions seem really heavy on the tahini… which is pretty pointless, as it’s pretty flavourless. Explore hummus recipes and substitute some tahini with liquid from the beans. It’s as good or better, guaranteed! You can make a large batch and freeze it in portions that will last a week in the work fridge.

Thanks, people. You rock!

I know I’m PMSing. I’m getting pissed off at obligations, frustrated at my lack of time, angry at the day ahead of me, and I have nothing I can do to really change or improve any of it, other than the plans on tap.

It’s chemicals, man. I’d apologize, but I don’t want to. I didn’t ask to feel like this. I don’t want to feel like this. I also know it won’t be around long. But it’s around now, and there’s not much I can do to shake that.

For now, my life’s pretty consumed with obligation. I’ve got a lot on tap in the next week, and it’s frustrating, because what I really want to do is just get back into a routine. Any, really. I’m stretched too goddamned thin. Still. I’m tired. It’s been a very, very long time of feeling this way. Normally it doesn’t bother me much, I’m used to it, but come PMS time, I get resentful as fuck. I’d like to live on Easy Street. That’d be a nice change of address, if even for a while.

But today is yet the end of another long week, and my workday hasn’t even begun.

Sometimes my life feels infinite and unchanging. I think it’s called winter.

Tomorrow, I sleep in. Then, I make candy for cool people. Then, I party for Halloween at the most unbelievable location ever. Boy, wait’ll you get a load of me.

Then I take a deep breath, deal with my shit Sunday, and then start yet another incredibly long week. This time, without the stupidity of so many early mornings.

If anything, I’m realizing I won’t write if I’m not at home in the morning. This going-to-work-at-7am-to-free-up-my-nights thing is for the shits. My creative circadian rhythm feels like I threw it in a blender with some speed, caffeine, and a mindfuck, then just hoped for the best. Not so good. Creative on the side of a busy life, now that’s a challenge to maintain over the longterm.

Don’t worry, lowly unpaying blogreaders. I love you. I have not deserted you. I shall remedy this pesky schedule thing. I shall rock the writing soon. We shall be together again.

Meanwhile: BOO! Scared ya, huh? Happy boolicious Halloween.