Saturday, May 05, 2007


I have to say that I think masturbation is under rated and does not get the respect that the act deserves. We joke about having to please ourselves when there is no other option available but to be honest, some of my most pleasurable sexual moments have been when I have pleased myself. This is all about the greatness of masturbation:

I can make love with any man I so choose. I can hear Nicholas cage whisper in my ear, telling me he lusts for my body to be pressed against his. I can throw a coworker on the lunch room table in the middle of the day and engage in wild passionate sex all the while knowing this would never be a reality.

I can say what I want to who I want and not risk a damn thing by doing it. There is no rejection while masturbating. I am the screenwriter, the producer, the director and the actor. It’s my show, anything goes. If I want to be the star, I’m the star. If I want to be the supporting actress, then I am it. If I want to be the one who gets seduced by the sexiest man of my dreams then I let him seduce me.

Masturbation is my chance to explore sexual fantasies, things I do not find myself wanting to do in reality but just to close my eyes and experience how I imagine them to be. To be touched in just the right way, to be kissed like I have never been kissed before. There is nothing that can go wrong when it is just me, my body and my imagination. I let my imagination take me to places I would never go with another. It’s that chance to be uninhibited, to have an audience watch you perform, to be the desire of another that you know would never be.

But then, I can recreate my most erotic encounters through masturbation. Those times when I never wanted that moment to end. You know the way you feel just prior to orgasm where you don’t want it to end? I can keep myself there in that moment, hold it there in my mind and focus on just how wonderful it feels. I am in control, keeping myself from going over the edge.
Dangling there, I keep myself in that moment. Yes, masturbation is a wonderful thing.

My place of preference for masturbation is the bath. I love to lay there immersed in hot water, bubbles covering my body. I close my eyes and clear my mind of everything weighing me down. I can sometimes relax myself so well that I have fallen asleep. It’s just prior to that sleep state that I find I most able to enjoy a moment of self arousal. It’s hot and sweaty, I am relaxed and find that here, my mind is more open to sexual stimulation.

Sometimes I just like to get myself off to help me sleep. Then it’s not a matter of being relaxed and sensual but quick and to the point. It’s imagining a stranger coming out of no where, unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them to the floor. There is no foreplay, no whispering in my ear. He wants me, I want him. Straight to the points he lays me on the floor next to my jeans and gives it to me. We are both rushed, our lives awaiting our return. It’s all about the destination. Who cares how we get there, as long as we do. It’s intense and it’s quick. Those times can be just as sweet as any other.

Another bonus to masturbation….I get what I want, how I want it. There is no tending to another’s needs, catering to the mood they are in. It’s perfect each and every time. I do exactly what I want to do, he does exactly what I want him to do. I can imagine him being in a state no other woman has brought him to. I am his one, his only, his best. He has never had it as good as I am giving it to him. Yes, I am the star. C’mon now, we have all gotten ourselves off to this one at one time or another!

Masturbation truly is a wonderful thing. Don’t cheapen its significance by getting off just because there isn’t another heartbeat in the room. Make it an experience to remember. Live out your fantasies. Have sex with your neighbor, your boss, the hottie at the gym. Have sex any where you want, any way you want it and with whom ever you want to. Keep those most amazing sexual experiences alive by reliving them over and over again. Feel again the kiss, the moment your bodies connect, the aching pulse as you prepare to release. Yes, sex with another is great but masturbation should not be left in its wake. And the bet part is that when you drift off to sleep after masturbation….you’re not fighting anyone for the covers!

My Life Series: Drugs

I can still taste the drip. Slowly from the back of my nose it makes its way down my throat. It has such a sour taste yet its feel is so sweet. It is the assurance that the ultimate high is to come. This is the moment I live for. The moment when I feel reality drift away. I find myself in a place where I am untouchable. No one can hurt me here. For the next hour, two if it’s a good line, I am ruler of my world. Those things people say about me, they don’t hurt. Those hurtful things I say about myself, they don’t hurt me here.

No, this is my place. Here, I can talk to anyone without fearing I will say something wrong. I am alive here and more importantly, I feel worthy to be alive here. When that drip begins its travel, I begin to dream of all I want to be and believe it may happen one day. I imagine being a stewardess for a large airline. I picture myself giving the emergency preparedness speech. I have always wanted to do that. “Please note the exits at the rear (point) mid (point) and front (point) sections of the aircraft….” Yes, I would dream that was me.

Sometimes I am a teacher. 30 little faces looking up at me, soaking up every word I speak to them. I would imagine field trips, showing them the world. Teaching them how to make friends, not to bully and try to explain why there are three ways to spell “two, to and too”. Other times I am just somebody. I could never figure out who that somebody was but I just wanted to make my mark, change someone’s life, make a difference in the world even if in some small way.
But as I come down I realize I am not a stewardess nor a teacher but a coke head. I’m not changing any lives, just ruining my own. No field trips, just the field I sleep in. Bullies are everywhere, it’s a dog eat dog world out here. And the worst part is, the only exit I have is that line, the sour drip, the burning in my nose.

The above was my life for thankfully, a very short time. I knew it wasn’t me. I knew it wasn’t who I wanted to be. My friends were all addicts. I'd look around me and see parents stoned in front of their children. I would see people living off the food bank because their last bill had to be used for snorting. I knew that would have been me had I continued down that path. But I don’t regret that time in my life as it drove me to feel the way I did stoned….sober. I got that glimpse of being carefree. I could feel what it was like to be confident. I had the sense to know I could get that feeling from living life. I didn't know how, but I knew it was out there. And I am there now, without the cocaine. I think I knew one day I could do it. I wouldn’t have fought so hard for a better life otherwise.

I think we are so quick to say that life is out of our control but I know as I look back on my life I realize that most of my ups and downs were a result of choices I made. I controlled my life, even when I thought I had none. I chose to snort. I chose to stop. We chose to live the lives we live.
I hope I am not naive in thinking that drugs are not as prevalent with teens as they were back then. Wow, I talk like back then was so long ago but really just a short 15 years ago. But it seems kids dabble in drugs a little later in their teens as opposed to us kids who were smoking pot at 12. For my sanity’s sake, raising a teenage daughter, I really hope that’s the case.

My Life Series: Depression, The End

I wont go into great detail here but it is something I must talk about it. I don't believe my intention was to end it all, or I am sure I would have done it. I just wanted to sleep, a very long time. After being released I kept refilling my prescriptions even though I was not taking them. Then one night I took them all. I remember being in a police cruiser, the back of it, kicking and screaming. My landlord had called them. This was different, this visit to the hospital. I wasn't admitted to Pshychiatry but to ICU. I woke up to my family in the room and wondered what was going on. What scared me was I could not feel my legs. I had lost feeling from my mid section down. This led to 13 months of therapy before I could stand on my own two feet again. But that was my road to recovery. Quite frankly it scared the shit out of me.

I never went back to the Morris wing. I wanted a better life. I took the scenic route, but I got there. I learned what I could handle and what I could not. I learned my triggers and most importantly, I learned what depression was. I don't think depression ever goes away. I know that I do not handle stress like most do because of my experience with depression. My fear of living that life again is so great that now, I can't feel. My mind doesn't let me go there. If something hurts, I turn it off. No, I don't deal with things that way but I am surviving...and doing so happily so it works for me.

Then I met my husband and I quickly learned to respect my father for all that I put him through. My husband was a victim of circumstance and a shitty childhood that he could not let go. The depression he suffered not only ruined his life but our marriage. No, I will not shun my part in the marriage breakdown but ultimately it was my inability to cater to his depression that did it. One thing we must learn as a society dealing with those suffering from depression is that we cannot enable them. It's either shit, or get off the pot. My husband would do neither so I got off the pot. Or is it, I shit? Either or, I had to leave. He would not help himself, no motivation to live a better life. Because of that he held me back from my life. I had to live his disability and I could do it no longer. I'm still here for him and I still press him to get help but I don't live his life anymore. He gets suicidal, I tell him to do it. Cold? No, not at all. He is looking for attention as I was all those years. I now tell him to get help or don't come crying to me....literally.

Depression is a horrible disease. It's not like a broken bone that is guaranteed to heal in six weeks. We need to talk about it and help those who suffer from it. But we also need to force them to deal with life. Not with hospitals, not with drugs but with a motivation for a better life. It may not kill them in the literal sense but it WILL kill their spirit, and who wants to live without a spirit? It can be beat and there is so much to life after depression. But I also know it will always be a part of me. Depression was my first introduction to myself. It made me aware of who I am and I think was the start of the journey I am on today. It is a marker in my life of a place I never want to go again. It keeps things in perspective for me and I need that.

If you know of someone suffering with depression, befriend them. Be there for them, hug them and lend your ear to them. But don’t be afraid to tell them to shit or get off the pot. Sometimes it’s the push they need to get on with life. As a side note, I have no qualification to professionally give that advice. I just know that I could have been spared a lot of BS many years ago had I had someone there to give me a dose of my own medicine. But then again, I never would have learned how to do a wheelie in a wheel chair either. :P

My life series: Depression Part 2

It was pretty routine, breakfast, meds, lunch, meds, dinner, meds. Day in, day out for 8 months. I opened up a little in that time but not to the staff. It was the patients I was most drawn to…surprisingly many of them just slightly older than myself. They understood what a bad day meant. They didn’t push me to talk. If I wanted to sleep, they let me sleep. But we did talk and I know now just how much I needed their companionship.

There was an older guy in there. His name was Charlie and he was very musically inclined. He’d sing and strum his guitar in the evenings as we all sat in the smoke room. I taped him one day just before I was released. I still have that tape to this day. I will never forget his voice. Then there was the married couple, both of them drug addicts. They came and went throughout my eight months stay. It was them who taught me how to play euchre, a game that became a daily routine…again in the smoke room. They both overdosed together about 10 years later. It could not have been a more perfect ending for them though, they lived and breathed one another in life and I’m sure they are together in death.

Then there was a guy I eventually fell in lust with. I’ve never spoken of him before but he was my crutch for a very long time. His name was Kipp and he lived for red socks. Yes, it was his way of keeping sane. Apparently his social worker once told him, “Go to your room and find something there to live for and think of that item on the days you feel unbearably suicidal”. He chose red socks.

There was a divorced woman whom I grew quite close to. Alcohol and depression were her sentence. I went to school with her youngest daughter. Long story short….she later married my father. There was a young messed up teen Amy. Her sentence was a life sentence. Bad hit of acid and she never came out of the “trip”. Didn’t know her name and always stole my toothbrush. Sad story, hers was. That was and will be her life for ever. Thankfully mine has a happy ending.

It was a different life in there, being isolated from the world. It was safe, no one could hurt me there. If I was feeling things I didn’t want to feel I would tell my doctor and he’d double up my meds. I had control, even when I really didn’t have any. Atleast, I felt like I had control. Months passed me by, months of white walls, waking up in the night to the screams of a new admission. Then I met Crystal. Don’t let the name fool you. On the birth certificate the name really read : “Daniel”. The biggest issue there? Which washroom should it use. Staff agreed that either/or was appropriate. Crystal was the “freak” of the group. You’d think Bob was but no, he was harmless entertainment. Crystal was just plain…..ok, not fair for me to judge.

Crystal would do my nails, fix my hair and tell me wild crazy stories of life on the streets. Crystal was known for “cutting”. Overdosing on Secanol and using a razor blade to slice his/her body. I’ll never forget walking into the washroom to see blood all over the tiled floor, Crystal slumped over the toilet. Scheduled for a sex change, he/she was in the midst of gender transformation. Very confused, very lost but somehow made me feel so much better about myself.

Then there was Jennifer, who is still my best (and only) true friend from my early years. She and I shared very much a similar childhood so we could relate to one another. Our paths have crossed several times over the years and we still talk atleast monthly. She saved me from myself. I’m not too sure how, but I know she did and I will be forever grateful to her for that. Ok, a little off topic.

I don’t think, even after eight months of being institutionalized I fully understood depression. I knew I hated life, I knew I hated myself but I also knew I’d never have the balls to end it. I was finally released and thought I could put the experience behind me. What I did not think about was what I had to deal with when I went home. Now I was the freak. Of course, the only one in my circle of friends who was certifiably crazy. The gossip of the neighbour hood, the gossip of school and now I found myself totally alienated. I had never thought about what I was missing while I was on the inside. The reality hit me that my life was about to change, and not for the better.

I tried going back to school. Aside from my boyfriend who still held my hand in public, no one would speak to me. I heard them whisper when I walked past them. Friends I had known for years totally alienated me. I never felt so alone. So, it was back to the cemetery. Day, night, next day, next night. I would nap there in the sun. I would eat my lunch there. I was obsessed and quite obviously out of control. My father had me re-admitted after three months of dealing with his rebellious teenager.

Same people, give or take a few. But this stay was not a vacation like the last one. What scared me most was I was comfortable being there. It had become my comfort zone. Again, no one could hurt me there and I didn’t have to feel. Feeling sorry for myself, I spiraled down….way down. Now I was depressed. I cried all day and became quite physically ill. I did become educated though in pharmaceuticals. It was a drug store, a live in drug store. This time there was no therapy. It was all about meds, but they worked. I was numb.

I was eventually allowed day passes. I could walk around the hospital grounds, visit the coffe shop and slowly integrate myself into society. I had a tutor from school who would visit me twice a week to keep me abreast on my studies. Although, I really didn’t care. Long story short….for the next 2.5 years I spent about 6 months in total out of hospital. I was dependant. I needed those white walls to survive. Each time I left, I returned more messed up. Then I tried to end it all.

My life series: Intro

My life series. I am going to venture out a little with my blog. A big part of my writing is for you to get to know me as something more than just an escort. For me to hopefully shed some positive light on escorting by opening up my life for you to see through my eyes. To better understand why I do what I do and how important these experiences are for me. As I reflect on where I was, where I am now and where I hope to be in life I realize that this journey for me started long before escorting. I am just now starting to correlate life events, moments in my time and how they have directly or indirectly paved this road I am traveling. I have given you a bit of insight into the friends and the loves in my life that have profoundly influenced me but have never really painted the whole picture.

Life. We all must deal with general issues in life. These things are not specific to you or I, there is no one that is exempt from these things. Life throws at us issues that we, as a society must face all of the time. I have made a pact with myself to not let these events take over my life. I am learning to own my life, accept my faults in life and in return I find I am gaining control of my life. I have never felt in control before. I have always played the victim, the one that cries “Oh poor me”. The one to always make the claim that no matter where I seem to be, that imaginary black cloud follows.

I have looked real deep lately to see what I do not like about myself. Things that I know I need to change if I am to better my place in life. Things that limit me from going after my dreams or that have impacted my life in a negative way to where it has hindered me from moving forward. Things that can be fixed without surgery of course. And I found that everything I want to change, from the way I think to the way I feel and act, I can relate to a life event or life issue that has made me that way. So I figure, if I can work through or at least better understand my part in those events, perhaps I can move past them and become a better, happier and more grounded person for it.

I will title each blog entry relating to these issues, “Life Series.....(topic)” so that if you are not interested in reading these entries you can skip over the posts. They certainly won’t have the sexual erotica that has come to be expected of my usual writings. Please don’t feel the need to read them, discuss them or give them a second thought. It’s simply a “me” process, moving forward one baby step at a time. If anything, I hope it inspires some of you to do something of the same. If you’re unhappy, don’t accept it….change it. Make a conscious effort to give yourself a better life. Take control, we all deserve that much.

These entries certainly will not replace my usual writing by any means. I need to reflect on Belle’s experiences just as much as I need to reflect on my personal experiences. I hope in my writing, you will find a way to relate at times to the things I am trying to say and if anything, simply continue to respect that there is no right or wrong. I write about my life through my eyes and as most of you have already become aware… eyes tend to be a little clouded over at times.


My Life Series: Depression Part 1

My life series: Depression Part 1

Have you ever been treated for depression? Have you ever had a loved one who has been treated for depression? I think most of you can answer yes to either/or. Depression is finally being talked about. It is being recognized for what it is….a disability. It disables your thinking, your ability to function at times. It damn near killed me as a teen and played a very large part in the breakdown of my marriage. Because it has played a major role in my life, it is something I feel worthy to dedicate a blog entry to.

I was sound asleep in my bed. No, it wasn’t even my bed but it was the bed I slept in for about a year. My father had custody of me, we lived in a motel. It sounds horrible but really, it was alright. We had a kitchenette, it was close to where my younger siblings lived and very near to my friends and school. So I was sleeping, when I heard my father come in fairly late. I was 14 at the time, my first year of high school.

My father was a fire truck chaser. Some of you may have had Dads like this, or are those kind of dads. The ones who listen faithfully to that police radio (although I don’t think this is as easy as it was back then). He’d listen to police chases and when he happened to catch an address for a fire near-by we’d hop in the car and go. It must have been not too long after I drifted off when he came into my room. He mumbled something about a shooting, a 14 year old in our town. I went back to sleep without computing much of what he said.

The next day I caught the bus to school. I skipped first class as I always did and walked to the coffee shop around the corner. I waited for my boyfriend who had a second period spare. There were a group of kids mingling around the doors, some crying and others just looking devastated. The story was that a very good friend of ours and his buddy were playing with a BB gun that our friend was given that night as a birthday gift from his father. The gun accidentally discharged and shot him in the chest. He died instantly. His life ended that night and at that moment I wished mine had too.

I didn’t know what was happening to me. I spent weeks visiting his grave site. I’d read to him, we always wrote poetry together. Times were much different then. From morning to night I would visit with him, I just couldn’t let him go. I had never dealt with death before. I certainly wasn’t doing it now. I’d go to school once or twice a week but I wasn’t really there. Then I lost it. I was in the girl’s washroom. I started to cry and I could not stop. I don’t remember this moment but was told I just began screaming.

The school nurse came in, an ambulance was called and when I arrived at the hospital my father was there. I was admitted to the psychiatric unit for depression. My dad stayed with me for a few hours. I really didn’t know why I was there, but at the time I really didn’t know what had happened at the school. I had totally blacked out. I chalk it up to a mental overload. My mind just shut down, I could not take any more. It sounds crazy, I mean what kind of stress can a 14yr old have? No bills, no car, no pressure. All I know is at the time life didn’t feel so black and white.

So that night I found myself sleeping (a drugged sleep this time) in yet again, a bed that wasn’t mine but became my place of rest for the next eight months. This is when I learned what depression was all about. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. A doctor visited me every day to order a new set of medications that were to make life more bearable. But the reality was that I was in some horrible place with people much worse off than I have ever been, even at my lowest point. I was surrounded by alcoholics, drug addicts and even a guy named Bob who swore he was Christ. I did have some fun with him. No, not that kind of fun…. sex with God? I could never!

The next eight months was a lot of group therapy and one on one counseling with a social worker. She was so phony, I saw right through her. It was pointless for me to be there but I did learn a lot about life in a short amount of time. I was a phase three which meant I was not allowed my own clothing. Nor was I allowed a razor or any electrical item with a cord. They called it the “suicide watch”. My fun was limited to hiding in closets and under beds when it was time for my 15 minute check-ins by the nursing staff. The rest of my time was spent in the smoking room. Yes, a smoking room dedicated to us on the Morris wing only. Could you imagine 30 psychotics going through nicotine withdrawls? I’m sure it was in their best interests.
My father would visit me every day, as did my boyfriend. What a dating experience that was! Bet noone could ever top that one. But, he stuck by me.

We never talked about why I was in there really. He was just there and it was comforting that he was. Most times I was stoned. It was easier to keep me drugged then to actually work through the issues that brought me there I suppose. I was stubborn. I didn’t want to talk, I didn’t want to get better. I just wanted to wallow in my own self pity just a while longer. So that I did.

Documentary Filming

I have to say that filming this documentary was a bit intimidating as I had no idea what to expect. I was excited to share my story yet feared the consequences of doing so. I will explain in a little more detail why I let the excitement override the fear. Many of you have asked how I could risk everything in my life for the sake of 15 minutes of fame. I don’t see it that way, perhaps I should.

I decided last minute not to film in my home. I know, many thought it was a bad idea to start with but that is not why I opted against. A few things were sprung at me the day or two prior to filming that made using my home impossible, my kitchen renovations being part of that. So, I booked a room for two nights at my favorite hotel and called Carolyn, the co-producer and asked that we move locations. Not a problem she assured me, and we were set.

I was heading out of the room, about to grab a quick cigarette to calm my nerves when I ran into the co-producer Carolyn Schmidt walking towards our hotel room door. She greeted me with a smile and a friendly hug as we walked into the room to await the crew with their equipment. Not being comfortable with idle chit chat until I took in some nicotine, I excused myself for some fresh air while Carolyn scanned the room for an idea of how to set things up. That’s when the butterflies hit. I had felt pretty calm up to this point. I suppose keeping myself so busy prior to filming didn’t leave much time for freaking out. I was making up for it now.
I stood outside the back door entrance to the hotel while I watched the crew unload their van, chuckling somewhat at the fact that I knew who they were yet to them I was just some woman out in the rain giving way to her filthy habit. I mistook the audio controller for the producer, apologized, then introduced myself to the real producer Mr. Duncan. We chatted for the next few minutes while I puffed the last of my butt and we headed for the room.

Inside, the crew were taking apart beds, positioning lights and adjusting the cameras. It was an awkward feeling to know this work was being done for me and the story I was about to tell. Don’t get me wrong, it was exciting to be a part of, just a little intimidating. I am used to giving what is expected of me but for once I found myself unsure of what was expected.
Mr. Duncan invited me to the lounge for a coffee while the team finished up so we spent that time talking about his experience in the business, his travels and his work. It was quite amazing to learn of his life and his view of the film business. The crew was ready so we headed up to the room. A table area was set up with flowers that I had brought with me, a gift from a good friend. Tropical “Birds of Paradise” in bright orange blooms contrasted with the most beautiful pink roses. A perfect touch that complimented the background quite nicely I thought.

I sat in the hot seat and was fitted with the Mardi Gras mask I had brought with me. Anonymity was key but I preferred to do it in a playful way as we felt that shadowing or pixelling would appear seedy and untrustworthy; an image I did not want to portray. I was explained the process, prepped on where to keep my eyes and to just talk as though there were no cameras, no lights and no film crew tuning in on my every word. I thought it would be easier said than done but once the conversation got flowing it really did seem quite natural. Eventually the camera disappeared, the lights dimmed and it felt like I was talking to an old friend.

As for the questions that were directed at me, they weren’t things I had to think about. They were all about my blogs, my views on the industry and the way I choose to run my business. There were a few challenging questions that I hadn’t ever given much thought to but I think I was true to myself in my answers. That is all I wanted to do. Be honest, be real and tell society that we’re really not bad people. Escorting is not dirty. It is not seedy and in my opinion it is not immoral. I am proud of what I do and I think I made that point quite clear.
We discussed how I made the decision to escort as well as my first date. That one was difficult for me as I did not want to talk about the negative side to what I do but I suppose it’s not a true picture if we did not address both sides of the coin. I was asked about my clients, who are they and what their story is. Not anyone in particular but simply as a whole, the type of clients that choose to see me.

Next we moved on to a few blog entries, making it obvious that they had done their homework. The blogs they were most interested in was “Choice, not circumstance”, “GFE/Emotion”, “What am I worth?”, “Exploiting to succeed”, “Society and sex” and “Why escorting?”. I won’t go into where these discussions led as I’m sure if you have read my blog you know the opinions I have about these aspects of the business.

We spent some time elaborating on other issues that actually gave me some great blog ideas. The friendships I have made, how I would handle my daughter expressing her decision to escort and what I plan to do with my life when Belle decides to retire. I had expected to leave the filming crew having answered all of their questions but I did not expect to leave with questions I didn’t have the answer to. It just proved to me that I still have a lot of things to learn yet. Not about escorting, but about me and my life. Questions are good, without them I would have all the answers. Having all the answers would make my journey complete and I’m not so sure I’m ready for that quite yet.

When I walked out of that interview I felt proud. I hope I do not sound arrogant in saying so. Aside from knowing I am a wonderful mother to my children, I have not felt that sense of pride in myself. I have come along way since I first posted to the review boards introducing myself 20 months ago. I have opened my eyes to what the world has to offer me. I am learning to understand the need to let people in and I am giving myself the ok to be selfish at times, to do what I need to do for me to be happy.

It doesn’t matter to me what happens from here as far as the documentary goes. They may air it, they may not. They may edit 99% of the rambling I did. I may be outted and lose my job. I may be recognized from time to time when I am out and about. Again, I don’t fear that. I am trusting my inner sense that there is something out there waiting for me. Something bigger and better than I had ever imagined. I hope it is to realize my dream to write but whatever it is I early anticipate it.

Or…my life will fall apart and I will find myself living in my van down by the river humming the song “I’ve had my moments”. If that is to be the case then I hope I don’t run into someone as cold as me who refuses to reach into their pockets for spare change. Either way, I know I’ll be smiling, that’s more than what most can say about their lives.

The documentary will be airing on CTV primetime in about six months. I will leave the link to DocTV below for anyone interested in their previous work or to learn more about Co-Producer Carolyn Schmidt and Producer Robert (Bob) Duncan.


I am Da Man...again

I am Da Man! Now the last time I wrote with this title it was about a very erotic experience for me. Unfortunately, this time has nothing to do with being naked but the experience itself gave me quite a laugh.

Ever watch a man while he is working around the house? All us women know how it starts off. Typically it’s weeks of pleading and begging to get the project done. He keeps putting it off until the week prior to that big event you are hosting in your home when he finally decides to pick up the hammer. That was me. Begging and pleading with myself to put all things on hold to get my kitchen done. Finally, just over a week to work with before I have the documentary crew coming to my home I decide to gut my kitchen. I am Da Man.

I pick up the hammer and start with my kitchen cabinets. My home is of older contsruction, my cabinets made of a tin and wood combination. The hammer wasn’t working so it was a short trip to the basement work bench and I returned with a crow bar. It was a great start and I managed to loosen the cabinets from the wall but could not get them damn things free! I went back to the basement and returned with a second crow bar. I am Da Man.

2 crowbars in hand, I use one as the lever, one as the destructor. When neither/nor worked I reached for the hammer. Board after board my cabinets came crashing to the floor. It wasn’t without a glitch here and there though. One of the base cabinets tore apart my wall, the curse to having plaster walls. A few times I swung the hammer a little too hard to add to the holes in the wall. A few times I may have uttered a few foul words. I finally decided that the walls must come down too. I am Da Man.

Cabinets down, dust in the air, it was time to remove my tin drawers. This is where I learned to appreciate the profoundness of foul language! Yes, I swore like a trucker. I also found myself talking to the damn things. “C’mon you sonnabitch, you’re coming down whether you like it or not!” Whether you like it or not? Did I really think the cabinets had a preference? Then I started to get personal with them. While prying them apart with the crowbar and swinging aimlessly with the hammer I was screaming at them! “Listen you b*****, you’re not going to get the best of me. I WILL get you off my frigging floor and before you know it you will be sitting at the curb side with the rest of ‘em. NOW-STOP PISSING-ME-OFF!” Yes, apparently they have a stubborn side and were chuckling at the sight of me. I took offense to this. I am Da Man.

Four hours in and finally my walls had nothing attached to them. It took me another two to take down the walls themselves. That’s when I stepped on the nail. Read the above paragraph, multiply by ten, add ex’s steel toed work boots to my feet. Now the floor. I know the tile guy said to use a skill saw and cut 6inch sections through the 2 layers of vinyl flooring then lift it up but no, I must do things the hard way. Peel away the vinyl, use the crowbar for the plywood, peel away the vinyl…and of course that last damn layer of plywood just didn’t want to lift. I was kicking, pounding, cursing. Took a break to turn my music up then cursed some more. 3/4 of the way through I had had enough. 2 cuts on my hand, a hole through my heel and a splitting headache I reached in the fridge for something to drink before I plopped myself on the couch. A beer. I have never had beer in my house. Can you believe that? I have never sat down and had a beer in my own home! But since there was a few cans left from the last house tour, I brought them home and put them in my fridge. I must have known I’d have a moment like this. I opened up the can, put my feet up on the coffee table and as I was looking at the oversized, well worn steel-toed work boots on my feet I thought to myself, “I am Da Man!”

If you will excuse me now, I am about to have a shower and head to the nail salon to get a well deserved manicure and pedicure. I need to wash “Da Man” in me away and reclaim my womanhood. :rolleyes:

Where did my "Get up and go" go?

I have always considered myself to be quite driven. I have ambition, love a challenge and certainly do not shy away from a little dirty work. I can survive on very little sleep, assuming I am to be personally rewarded by the project at hand. It was always my dream to own my own home, a goal that took me many years to reach.

I have lived on my own since I was 14. I went from living in the woods (my father kicked me out and rightfully so) to rooming at the YWCA while I participated in a “workfare for welfare” program. My first apartment was rented when I was sixteen, paid for by a jackpot winning at bingo. I moved several times, from low income geared housing to my first real apartment that I paid for with real hard earned money at 19. Those five years of being on my own is where my dreaming started.

I loved having a place to call my own. It belonged to me, it was mine. I could paint it any color, I could rearrange my furniture three times a week. I could burn my pretty scented candles, I could invite friends over for coffee. I was a grown up and it was fun to play house. As I matured through those years I began to dream of more, as we all do. I wanted a house I could call my home. I wanted grass to cut, a fire pit in the back yard. I wanted a barbeque and a front porch. I wanted two stories, a huge yard and yes, the white picket fence. It was a dream for me but things had not changed much for me financially. It was pay cheque to pay cheque just to make the basic ends meet. But it never stopped me from dreaming to one day be a home owner.

At 22, I finally bought my own house. Still no money to do much with it, but I owned it. I spent 8 years in that home. I didn’t do all that I wanted to do, but I did realize that grass cutting wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. My home I am in now, I bought almost 2 years ago, just before I started in this business. It was a steal of a deal. You know what that means. It was a fixer-upper…a money pit. Kitchen needs to be redone. House has not seen fresh paint in about 50 years, lime green was everywhere. Kitchen was wallpapered with tin cabinets throughout. Unfinished basement full of mold, unsafe outdated wiring, over run 60x234 lot and driveway that was worse than driving through the outback.

But….it has five natural bedrooms, a full kitchen with separate dining room, a fire place, a full basement. A large lot with potential for a beautiful deck and hot tub. It has 1800 square feet of everything I always dreamed of owning, just in need of a little TLC. The difference between this house and my old one? I now have the money to fix it up but where the hell did my drive go? I don’t know where to start, so I started everywhere. Started stripping off the tile in the bathroom until I decided the bedroom needed some work. Started stripping off the paneling on my bedroom walls to leave that and paint the upper bedrooms. One coat there and it was down to the living room with a fresh coat of mustard yellow. Then the kitchen. Oh my lord. My poor kitchen.

I bought new cherrywood kitchen cabinets and granite countertops last November. Finally, just this week, I opened the boxes and began assembling them. I got bored so I stopped that to put the second coat of paint upstairs. Back to the cabinets and as of last night…they are done! Yes, I finally finished something I started! So, I needed to get a “pass through” cut out of my kitchen/dining room wall. The original plan has a bar top of sorts to be put in here with a few stools on the dining room side to be used as a breakfast nook. Problem is….I reformatted my computer and in doing so, lost the kitchen plans. So I hired a contractor and told him to “just figure it out”. He started riping down my wall to prepare for the cutout and somehow in the meantime convinced me to put in new porcelain tile flooring before the cabinets. So we started lifting up the floor.

Then the contractor tried screwing me over so I fired him. Now I am left with nine days to fix a broken up wall, lay new plywood in my kitchen, lay 165 square feet of porcelain tile, install 18 cabinets that are currently not-so-strategically placed throughout my main floor, tear up and remove the boxes and bubble wrap that have taken over my home, paint each room that remains half painted and instead of being productive I’m having a smoke, drinking my Timmies saying “Fuck it!”. Not the most mature approach but considering my only other option right now is laying on the floor crying in the fetal position I figure I’m doing all right! All I wanted was to cut grass damn it!