That is, in fact, a young-ish Clive Owen. Something about this guy has always made me feel tingly, flushed, and indecent.

Well, I’m not going to say too much about this day. It just reminds me of when I was a kid, and Mother’s Day and Father’s Day would roll around and my siblings and I would do all of the appropriate, respectful things for our parents, but invariably, one of us would ask in a whiny voice:

“Why isn’t there a children’s day?”

“Every day is children’s day!” was always the response.

That’s what International Men’s Day reminds me of. Don’t get me wrong, I love men, but the critical word is men. Not man-children, who are infuriatingly drawn to my time and empathy like pantry moths to a pheromone trap; not the Men’s Rights Activists who once hooked up with a mentally ill, possibly abusive woman, and now believe every single female in existence is evil incarnate; not the incels who now collect disability because they had to work a single job that one time, and thus being a productive member of society is not part of their agenda; not sociopathic, opportunistic male chauvinists who bleed people of their money, energy, and goodwill; and certainly not brain-dead, egomaniacal heirs to a fortune who were born into aristocracy, had nepotism usher them into a position of power, systematically destroyed a stable country through hubris, ignorance, and madness, wouldn’t take a moment for private time when their pushed-to-the-absolute-limit significant other walked out, and who still strut around in a fog of delusional arrogance despite their own political party banding together to implore them to just fucking step down considering their approval ratings hover around 22% and they are a global laughingstock.

Not those creatures, but men! Men of maturity, integrity, humour, strength, intelligence, kindness, benevolence, competence, humility, and acceptance. Happy day, you splendid beings! As a very straight woman who has enjoyed many of you over the years, may you go nowhere.

…also, on a very superficial level, good dick should be classified as the most dangerous weapon a man can possess, and I’ll die on this hill.

I’ve been busy this past week or two, hence my not posting as much as I’d like, but I’m working on some longer pieces for this honest little blog. Along with considerable personal and professional matters, I am also concentrating on my first book. My goal is to have the the whole draft completed by the end of next year–the entire thing, complete with research, footnotes, and revisions–and that’s an exciting goal to have; the content, direction, and ideas have been shifting and evolving as I’ve been tackling the detailed outline and several sections. I’ve also been submitting pitches to a few publications, and being rejected as a writer is not only a rite of passage, but perhaps the only kind of rejection that builds your resolve and encourages you to never quit. Rejection from job applications is disappointing. Rejection when you thought you had a great interview is deflating. Rejection from men or women whom you really like is debilitating. But rejection after you’ve submitted an idea for a story to some online or print publication? This comes with the territory, and just having your pitch acknowledged is nice. One of the most well-known writers on the globe used to pin every single rejection letter he received onto his wall (back when they sent them through the post), which merely spurred him on and made every acceptance that much sweeter. I don’t doubt that he still hangs onto every last one of those letters.

I have also overcome the bouts of depression I sustained this year, and now feel happily balanced, optimistic, relieved, and very much in control. As I wrote somewhere else on this blog, these tiring, intermittent episodes were borne of circumstance and situation as opposed to a chemical imbalance. Despite what some may like to believe–because projecting like a ViewMaster is the domain of the wildly insecure and self-loathing–I am quite sound overall, and it’s recognizing when you need to work on yourself that advances one’s power, agency, and innate strength. No medication, no hospitalization, not even any counselling needed to come into play in my case (I’ve been there / done that and support any of you who are strong enough to seek help), but this time ’round, it was a recipe of self-reflection, gratitude, and balls-out effort. I think, sometimes, it can boil down to this: understanding what needs to be eliminated in your life, what might need to be added, what might need to be drastically changed, and then really doing the necessary hard work. This is an almost guaranteed recipe for spiritual, emotional, and psychological success. I ten out of ten recommend this approach. Nothing worth having ever comes easy.

Additionally, the autumn weather has always been wonderfully comforting. Autumn in Vancouver is wet, windy, and gorgeous, just like an urban rain forest should be. Winter is delightful here on the west coast, unlike the rest of Canada. Spring is magical, a time of renewal and newborn beauty. It’s summer that I can’t stand, and I’d be more than happy to scrap that time of year altogether. Allow me to grumble and complain yet again: the summers in Vancouver are now unbearably hot and just getting hotter by the year, it’s constantly light from the wee hours of the morning to the wee hours of the evening, it’s noisier than a Pomeranian mosh pit if you happen to live downtown (weed whackers! Lawnmowers! Electric hedge trimmers! Garbage and recycling trucks starting at 7 a.m. every single day! Strung-out meth addicts screaming down the alleyways!), thousands and thousands of tourists shamble about and clog up all the sidewalks, and there’s just no getting away from any of it.

Being in a very low-vibrational, woefully-compromised psychological state during the summertime is also a heinous place to be, and the Summertime Blues definitely hit me in 2024.

At least during this time of year–the blustery, dark days of November–people are too focused on staying dry and warm to engage in public shenanigans, and the civility that descends on an otherwise very mentally-drained, strained, pathologically passive-aggressive, confused city like Vancouver is a chef’s-kiss relief.

Until next time, here’s to all of the real men out there, many of whom I have had the privilege to spend time with, laugh with, dine with, converse with, plot with, gossip with, play music with, hug, kiss, hump, dump, and befriend. You’re the best. I’m obviously a champion of chicks, but there isn’t a single woman in the world who has ever made me feel the way these guys make me feel. And that’s just one little example.

Love

Nadya.