Sunday, May 15, 2005


In so many ways, I feel like such a child. My insecurities, though muted or muffled, are the same as they were when I was very young - when I first experienced judgement and criticism. The little Pavlovian paths are difficult to reroute. Every now and again, I meet someone who makes me more self-aware, validates my emotions. Someone who demonstrates twisted behaviours similar to my own. These people are irresistible to me. The kinship I feel, my willingness to expose my emotional guts to them is deeply connected to the fact that I can anticipate their response. I adopt these people immediately. I can recognize you from a distance, and I'll tell you when I do.

Sign the papers, share in my drama and Sunday afternoons.

Call me in the early evening while you have an anxiety attack on a busy city street. Sneak into the bathroom with me at a party, just to have a moment. You, me and the toilet. Confess that you are heartbroken about the girl standing next to us. Make me curry while I sleep, and laugh a tired laugh, saying you cried while you made it. Make me birthday cake. Drink too much and worry none. Laugh at how trashy we look in our little dresses. Give me a long hug, even though you don't usually like to do that. Ask, very politely, if you can kiss my cheek, and then continue to brood. Offer to kick that guy's ass, while in your hot pink tights, if he gives me any more trouble. Explain that you are incapable of being mad at me, but that you're "sad at me" because I failed to respect a passion of yours. Run away with me to the comforts of our friend's bedroom, two duvets, a terrible TV movie and fantasize about coffee with me. Hide under the covers with me, giggling, when she gets home. Become annoyed with me when I consider self-restraint. Assume that they probably deserved it, whatever it was. I can sleep comfortably beside you, in our underwear, make-up smudged around our eyes, with morning breath and bad hair. We're beautiful - even with bleeding, broken hearts, bruises on our calves, and blisters on our feet.

No wonder it took me so long to find you.

There are so many little pieces.

Monday, May 09, 2005


While the black-flies were thick enough to drive any sane person to twitching, we still really wanted to go outside. Not only was I trapped in a classroom for most of my childhood, that classroom was trapped in a tiny school in the woods away from the ocean breeze. One spring hits, there is no respite from the blood-sucking insects. Even the males, the ones that don't bite, will land in your eyes, and crawl into any uncovered orifice. Still, we wanted to go outside. It was a beautiful day, a spring fair. The sun shone and the local volunteer firemen brought their trucks to the school to show us how they honk their horns and engage their sirens.

As is often the case, however, a minority of students ruined it for the rest of us. They were acting up, and after the third warning, we were banished to the classroom, heads down on the desk for the rest of the fair. I was livid. It is the earliest injustice I can recall.

Last night, with visitors in town and ale in our veins, we made our way to a peeler bar. We were four giggling girls, one tough-looking-only lesbian (who passed as a boy to get us inside) and a boy with long hair, the designated driver.

It wasn't 2 minutes before the first set of men approached my friend and me. Full nudity on stage, and guys are vying for our attention? They wanted to shake my hand. I smiled, and said, "No offense, but look at where we are. I know where your hands have been." My hands remained folded on my lap. One of the men agreed I had a point.

Positive that nothing they could say wouldn't annoy me, I completely ignored them. I chatted instead with my neighbour, who'd never before visited such a seedy establishment. The strange men were drunk, and clearly "American-males-on-vacation (AMOV)" ---a particularly belligerent breed.

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"You are all whores. And, I hope you die of AIDS," said the AMOV, attempting to punish us for ignoring him. My friend's jaw dropped, and I responded calmly to his friend, "Your friend is the reason women aren't usually allowed to visit these places alone."

The less drunk of the two insisted on over-explaining, apologizing, while the AMOV sneered over his shoulder. Chicago and Boston, respectively. Sure, it was the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me, ever, but people who allow words like that to spew from their face have deeper, darker goings-on. I am sure it is mucky in their heads, full with general contempt for humanity.

People like this punctuate life events, and make me glad I don't harbour resentment. Not even for AMOVs which swarm like blackflies, or whores, which I believe are mythical creatures, like mermaids. People think they've seen them, but really they're just surfacing fish.

The AMOV punctuated his own vacation with prickly harshness, no doubt bringing the sentiment back to his hotel room, where he'd sleep, uncomfortably, on it all night - his lone companion.

Looking back on the night's events, I prefer to remember the story told to me by the club's balding DJ, originally hailing from Cole Harbour, NS, about the lobstermen who'd import pails of crustaceans to the club and and holler: "Who'll dance fer lobstah?" And, I will think about how the dancer beside laughed at that until she snorted. I'll recall that we have mutual friends, and that she also hailed from NS. She, like many women, is kin, not a mythical creature.

I'll go on to think about how my friend allowed a man to ogle her as he left, just to stick her foot out and trip him. I'll think about how the girls and I paused at the exit, looked back, winked and made rude gestures at the already irate jerks inside. I'll think about how the male friend was the coolest guy within a 20 miles radius of the club, and that is why we not only shake his hand, we kiss-kiss him good-bye.

It will eventually occur to me that I was the misbehaving minority.

And, then I will will justify my actions by explaining that we are just trying to reinvent the reason why women aren't usually allowed to visit peeler bars. It is no longer because the men can't behave themselves. It's because girls just aren't very nice.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Wait. Did I say sex?

I tore the package apart, slowly uncovering its hot pink contents. I knew I was to be published, but what I didn't know was that it would be in the sort of publication I can't show my parents. The book features excerpts from my blog. This one. The one you are reading. And, as a reader, I would like you to think back about all the entries on the topic of sex. Need a minute? Yeah, didn't think so.

I'm quite certain that if you read my words to arouse anything other than your mind, you'd be sorely disappointed. You might shrug and move along to something more suiting to your mood. I imagine that is exactly what all the Googlers, who happen upon this site by searching for: "little+girl+models", do. I would prefer that they burst into flames, but alas, the world is not fair.

I was sure that the kind editor was confused, and had sent me the wrong book. My stories have nothing to do with sex. The only connection I have to the more sultry side of blogging are my links to others, like
The Wandering Webwhore and Fuzzybunny's Disjointed Thoughts.

But, I opened to the contents page, and there it was, listed as: You Silly Little Girl: Little Exorcisms.

Which, if you've paid attention is technically not the name of my blog. I would never refer to myself as a silly little girl. I am nearing 30. And, frankly, "little girl" is far too loaded a term for a place as sketchy as the Internet. Nevertheless, there were my words, a chapter dedicated to me.

It's exciting to be published. I liked it. I just wish that the representation of my writing was a little more accurate, palatable, polite. I suppose that is why I couldn't quite find the words for the kind editor,
Maxim Jakubowski, when he asked for my reaction. That, and because I am currently participating in the production of a history book, and I know how nit-picky people can be about the most insignificant things - like getting a name or title wrong. I know what it is like for people to entirely overlook everything you did right, because all they can see is that "Katherine" should be spelled with a "C", even if their nickname is "Kay".

And, contrary to what you may have thought, the reason I can't show my parents this book is that the address of my journal is at the beginning of my chapter, not because it's too raunchy. In fact, I am certain my mother could spend hours reading about swingers and gay sex, but if she starts reading my journal, I won't be able to write about her anymore.

As you may have noticed, my family is a great source of inspiration for me. Not sex. I don't like writing about sex. Erotica usually sounds ridiculously rehearsed, contrived, dishonest. If I were to write about it, I would get into the politics of it. I would make it academic. I would make you lose your sex drive. And, I can't say I wouldn't do it on purpose. I will leave the honest writing to The Wandering Webwhore, who somehow avoids all the typical traps, and comes across simply as a fascinating adventurer.

To me, the Sex Diaries book is more of a mystery than a collection of erotic journals. I think the kind editor may just wanted to give me a chance to be published. And, I sincerely thank him for that. It is very cool to read aloud to my friends, stories of events they'd experienced with me, from a bound book, published in New York and London.

I will, however, forever be confused.