5 types of cereal

I love my boxing crew. And yes, they are still my crew even if I no longer box; I do the weightlifting and conditioning class 2x a week with Coach (re: Dr. Booté and Dr. Booté strikes again) and realistically, it is only a matter of time until I put the gloves back on. My home away from home. My happy place.  Anyhow, my boxing crew likes alcohol. And to party. And to be loud. And to occasionally throw chairs and start fights with scary bikers (I can’t elaborate, I wasn’t there. It remains something of a myth at the gym). Basically, I’ve never been to a party with my boxing peeps that didn’t involve piss-in-your-pants laughter and good times. Last Saturday was one such party.

At the party was a former boxer, who I will call Cereal due to his habit that night of walking up to people and randomly asking them to name 5 types of cereal in 10 seconds – go! (Surprisingly entertaining, as far as gambits go.) Cereal is as Québecois as they come. Think a rougher version of Patrick Huard, from my favorite movie, Bon Cop Bad Cop:

Cereal and I have bumped into each other at the gym for close to 5 years, he even acted as my coach in my corner for one fight, but this was the first time we actually partied together. Cereal is renown for becoming slightly colorful when he drinks, making him a perfect fit with my crew because #chairthrowing y’all. I was prepared to be entertained.

It was after midnight, when well-“hydrated” Cereal explained to the room at large (in loud, beautifully vulgar and vivid Québecois that I will never be able to adequately replicate),

For the longest time, I really didn’t like eating pussy. Wait, no, that’s not true. I was young, tsé, and I thought sex was just about cumming, I didn’t particularly care about the girl, but then I got wiser, and I learned that girls LIKE having their pussy eaten! Yeah, they really like that shit! No, its true! So, I started training for it. No, really. I trained for it. I’m ok with being honest, I’ve got nothing to hide: I wasn’t very good at it. I had to practice and practice. Like boxing! Repetition makes perfect. And I practiced a lot! I’m fucking good at eating pussy, like you wouldn’t believe. And now I tell all the young guys at the gym: eat pussy.

Cereal decided it was only right that he show one of the younger guys in the room some of his tongue techniques, despite Young Dude protesting that really, no, he was quite good with his own skill set. Cereal would not be deterred from his altruistic purpose. He approached Young Dude with intent, and right as he was about to brandish his tongue in Young Dude’s face with impressive bravado, Young Dude yelled at him, “5 types of cereal – go!” Cereal started naming all the cereals he could think of. Young Dude’s face of relief, tho. LOL.

[Now we get to the part of the story that I am less comfortable with my father reading. Hi Pa! Stop reading! Aunts and Uncles, y’all can stop too!]

Cereal approached me, as I was talking to Nene. Man on the prowl. “Vanilla, can I ask you a question?” Of course. “It’s a bit of a confidential question.” That’s cool. Me and Nene, we tight. Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of Nene. “Yeah, that’s true. Nene is a gentleman, esti! Ok, so here goes. Vanilla, do you like getting your ass eaten? Yeah? You do? On a scale of 1 to 10, Vanilla, how much do you like it? 7.5?! Wow, you like it a LOT.” Nene’s face of comical dismay, as he turned to stare at me, his impression of Vanilla completely shattered, is LOL#2 of the party. [Disclaimer: I did say this part shouldn’t be read by my father. Ok. So Pa, if you are feeling nauseous right now reading this, it’s NOT MY FAULT.]

And now for the coup-de-grâce. “Ok, Vanilla. Here’s my offer. Any time you feel like it, between now and the end of the night, you just ask me, and I will eat your ass so good, you won’t just like it 7.5, no. You’ll like it at least 8. Maybe even 8.5. Oh yeah! You’ll like it THAT much. 8.5! That’s a pretty good number. So any time you like, just let me know. That’s what I am prepared to do for you. And you don’t need to worry, I’ve been single for 3 years, and I’ve been tested for all the STDs, I’m squeaky clean, calisse. So yeah. Let me know if you want me to eat your ass. Offer expires at the end of the night. (sotto voice:) Actually, it expires in 2-3 months, because I am generous like that. Yeah. That will be our little secret. (normal voice:) So, you just think on that, Vanilla.  It’s not every day you get that kind of offer. Think on that real good. I don’t want you making any snap decisions.” Turning to Nene, who listened to this entire exchange with a look of rapt incomprehension, Cereal fist-pumped him, “So tell me, Nene, have you ever heard an approach so sincere, so honest, and so nasty?” Cue LOL #3. Cereal stayed true to his word, and gave me time to think about it. He walked tipsily away, leaving me and Nene in helpless giggles.

I did say piss-in-your-pants laughter, yeah?

P.S. No ass was eaten that night. [Ok Pa! You can start reading again! It’s safe now!]

P.P.S. I am not being a Mean Girl by writing this post. By Monday night, this story had spread all over the gym. I am not sure who got teased more, myself or Cereal. But the general consensus is that, no, no one has ever heard an “approche aussi sincère, honnête et cochonne.”


Chivas and Mr. Big

I first met Mr. Big on 2015 New Year’s Eve, at a small house party thrown by one of my besties, Superwoman. As that was only 4 months after I started this blog, I was VERY vanilla at the time. When I reread the post of that evening, I am amazed at how far I’ve come. #vanillawithchocolatesprinkles

Over the months, I’ve run into Mr. Big several times. He is a larger-than-life personality and as chocolate & spicy as I am vanilla. He derives great enjoyment, as many men do, in seeing how far he can push the enveloppe with me – the tantalizing prospect of making Vanilla less vanilla. I derive great enjoyment in seeing him try, without success.

He invited me to go see a movie a little while back. Unbeknownst to me, Mr. Big always smuggles in a mickey of hard alcohol to the movie theatres to properly enjoy the entertainment. He asked me if I liked Chivas. Rather than admit that I had no idea what Chivas was, I attempted to find out. I Urban Dictionaried the term, because I assumed it was slang for something. It is slang for heroin. However, it is also a very well known brand of Scotch… Needless to say, Mr. Big thought I was hilarious. So hilarious, he took a screenshot of our conversation and sent it to Superwoman. Superwoman thought it was so hilarious, she sent it to all our girlfriends and Coach.

I have not lived this down.

Chivas edited2

Last night, Superwoman threw another party. I arrived late, to find Coach and Mr. Big bonding over my Chivas-innocence. Picture 2 6-ft something guys built like football linebackers giggling uncontrollably. I am happy my existence brings such joy to my friends.

Mr. Big was delighted to see me. As is his habit, he offered me his sexual expertise for later that evening. As is my habit, I gratefully accepted, because that is part of our scripted game.  Mr. Big deviated slightly from our routine, by introducing me to one of his friends, and then telling me that they would DP me later that night. Now, I understand that I am vanilla, and am not well-versed in the logistics of arranging a threesome. However, I believe that typically, the girl is entitled to a say in both who will penetrate her and the timing of such an activity. I smiled, and said I looked forward to it. I scuttled to find Coach, to share with him this conversation. Coach delights in the absurd, and he settled back to watch the interactions between me & Mr. Big with glee. Every time Mr. Big spoke to me, Coach would give me an encouraging wink.

As was always my intention, I left at 2am. Coach was sad I was leaving as it meant the end of his entertainment. Mr. Big wondered why I did not stay, and was I sure that I did not want to enjoy a wild romp? He would gladly manhandle me! I thanked him, but regretfully pointed out that I had the hiccups – not ideal for good foreplay. #practicaldetailsthatarenevermentionedinporn

And off I went, satisfied that I had upkept my Vanilla reputation in the best possible manner. Hiccups > DP. That should be my new motto.


I wrote this ages ago, as y’all will see. Back when I thought I was discreet enough to not kiss-and-tell. Today, I was scrolling through my old drafts, and it made me laugh. I guess the road to hell is paved with good intentions, yeah?


Context: I was getting frisky with Beaut. As things were getting quite steamy, he did something that made me giggle (don’t remember what, it was truly inconsequential). He asked me why I was laughing.

I told him I find him funny. (Pause). “Funny-looking”.

If there existed a glare more lethal, I’d be dead. Of course, I thought his look of perplexed chagrin was the funniest thing I’d ever seen.

Between giggles, I explained to him that “funny/funny-looking” was my favorite joke ever. Exasperated, he pointed out that MAYBE using that joke when someone is butt-naked is NOT a confidence booster?!

I did warn y’all that I don’t do sexy properly, yes? Told you so.






The art of giving up

Back in 2013-2014 I did a lot of online dating. Here’s a list of the most memorable disasters. I’ve seen and done it all: OkCupid, POF, Tinder,, eHarmony… (Incidentally, POF is WAY sketchier than Tinder.) Online dating does NOT work for me.

In May 2013, I struck up a convo with Brad on POF. He did martial arts, was a good-looking Texan, recently moved to Mtl. (I’ve since learned that is a red flag: they are catfishing. Trying to play on the girl’s sympathy “oooh poor baby, you must be lonely, why don’t you put your penis inside me?”) He was articulate, witty, taller than me, responsive. Foundations for a marriage, really. After a few days of excellent banter, I agreed to meet up. That is when the weird started.

We agreed to meet up at a given restaurant for a late supper, around 9:30pm on a Friday night. The day of, he switched the plans: he wanted to meet at his hotel (seeing as he had recently moved to Mtl). He then proposed that instead of going to the restaurant, we could enjoy the hotel jacuzzi. I told him that I didn’t typically go for that kind of activity on the first date. He pressured. Summoning all of my assertiveness, I explained that I prefer meeting strange men in public areas, for safety reasons. He apologized. Of course, we could meet in the lobby, and go to the restaurant – he just hoped the restaurant wouldn’t be too noisy.

I showed up at the hotel 5 minutes late – on time, really. The lobby was empty. I messaged Brad “I’m here!” He told me to come up to his room. I playfully responded: no. He issued an ultimatum: if I didn’t have the bravery to come up to his room, I wasn’t the kind of girl he wanted to date.

Disclaimer: I’m very aware that I should have just bailed. I’m pretty sure that if the same thing were to happen to me today, I’d walk out, not even bothering to write back. But at the time I was naive and bemused by the turn of events, and couldn’t resist seeing how fucked-up the night would turn out.

As I took the elevator up to his room, I wondered if I was about to get raped or murdered. I figured that as we were in a pretty upscale hotel, he couldn’t be too messy – because, of course, a rapist would refrain from raping someone for the sake of keeping a fancy hotel room clean. He opened the door: a little taller than me, with a slight build – just big enough that he could probably overpower me. He smiled charmingly and asked for a hug. Too confused by what was happening, I gave him one, and then took a chair while he sat on the bed. He wanted to know why I wouldn’t sit with him on the bed. I told him the view was too lovely to resist. He wanted to know why I was so reserved. I waspishly explained that intimacy must be earned, not forced. He lectured me about psychology (because of course, he was an expert in psychology. That is another red flag in the online dating world: guys love to pretend they are psychologists, specializing in sex therapy. Often they just happen to be personal trainers. They share unsolicited stories about how their married, sexy, scantily-clad female clients moan with pleasure at the perfect amount of pressure being applied on their bodies during stretching sessions, and before they know it, these women just beg for rough sex. Yup this is a thing. Must have come across 20 different guys who shared this same story with me.) He asked me again to lie down on the bed with him. At this point, I’d assessed him to be a pathetic guy without any violent tendencies who got off on making women uncomfortable, so to shut him up, and move the story along, I got on the bed.

Honestly, I am amazed I made it this far in life without getting raped.

We talked a bit more, till I reminded him I was starving, and it was time to eat. He seemed disappointed our tête-à-tête was ending, I pretended not to notice, because nothing gets in the way of me and food.

Our time at the restaurant was unremarkable. Conversation was ok, until he asked me to go back to the hotel with him. I refused. “We don’t have to have sex.” Yeah, right. “No, its about getting to know each other.” Again, yeah right. “I’m serious. If you aren’t willing to show that you are committed to us getting to know each other, what is the point of dating?” Buddy, I can get to know you over a few weeks, it’s ok. “No! Best do it as fast as possible, so that if we realize we aren’t compatible, I’ve wasted the least number of days on you, and I can find someone else.” Wow, ok. For an expert in psychology, you seem to have a very bizarre approach to getting to know people.

I asked for the cheque, and while I paid my share, he asked me one last time, “Are you SURE you won’t come back with me? I think you are making a mistake.” Yes. SO SURE.


3 years have gone by since I did not get raped by Brad.

HE STILL EMAILS ME. Every 3-6 months, replying to the same Gmail thread. Sometimes I answer, mostly I don’t. Sometimes he sends me news articles and asks for my opinion. Other times, like today, he merely asks, “what’s up stranger?






Vanilla’s presence at a BLM gathering

You can read my reasons as a white girl, living in Montreal, Canada, for showing up at a Black Lives Matter protest/gathering here.

It is with some anxiety that I went. I accompanied Beaut, ashamed to admit that I viewed him as my token by which my presence at that gathering would be deemed eligible, as though without him, I would not belong (in case that wasn’t an obvious explanation, Beaut is Black & proud of his Haitian roots). I hate discovering the little ways in which my reasoning twists and reveals hidden biases and false assumptions – it’s a constant exercise in vigilance and humility. I spent too much time feeling awkward – kind of like the first time you go to a funeral parlour to pay your respects, and don’t know how to act, surrounded by the close friends and family of the deceased who are vocally expressing their grief. How should the White Girl stand? What do I say? I am in the way? I felt like a large teenager, uncomfortable with my body occupying any space, clunkily trying to blend in with the air. I eventually managed to put my self-awareness aside and concentrate on the ongoing event.

The event was a series of speakers and poets, covering a variety of topics. Feeling helpless, so far away from the racist trainwreck and slaughters happening in the States, yet so emotionally affected by it. The personal grief. Discussing how systemic racism against Blacks manifests itself in Montreal, Quebec and Canada – a warning not to let ourselves be distracted from local issues by the urgency of the American situation. The bottled up rage. Possible actions, proposed solutions, attitudes required to eventually convince the world that Black Lives Matter. What BLM means (spoiler: it isn’t anti-cop, it isn’t All Lives Matter and it isn’t anti-white. Blows my mind that this is even a required disclaimer.) 2 things really jumped out at me:

The color-blind argument is a subtle example of white privilege

One of the speakers gave a clear explanation for why the “color-blind” argument produces such resentment amongst visible minorities. You know, the phrase,“Oh, I just don’t see color, I’m color-blind when it comes to people, everyone is just the same to me.” This statement, full of good intentions, is actually just another privileged argument that only a white person can say. We are in a position to choose if we feel like acknowledging cultural/physical/other differences, and in being color blind, it is just a less violent way of denying these people the right to be fully themselves, and different from us. It’s a refusal to tolerate difference, packaged in a politically correct statement. The REAL goal is to celebrate differences (they can’t be eliminated anyhow!) and learn to live with them.

What it means to be an ally of the Black community

What we, as white people, can do if we want to end these injustices and help the Black community fight racism. The answer is not to be quiet. We must speak up. But to speak up, first we must listen in humility to their observations and conversations, to their explanations and points of view. Yes, we must tread carefully, but we must never be quiet. In today’s world, the Black community won’t successfully manage to get their voices heard and understood, without non-Black and white people to help bridge the gap. We should not talk FOR them, but we must advocate WITH them. We must NOT be silent.

I agree. But boy, do I find that hard. I’m petrified of accidentally whitesplaining (the condescending action of explaining racism to those subjected to it, as though I could ever know more about it than them). I’m scared I’ll say something wrong, betray an unidentified prejudice within myself, and be perceived as “poor little white girl” trying and failing to do good. I must learn to live with this discomfort by continuing to listen, to ask questions, to care, and to speak up with caution.

Towards the end of the demonstration, the leaders asked if anyone had anything they’d like to say. I REALLY wanted to say,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this is what you have to deal with. That by the tint of my skin, I daily benefit from privileges that are not available to you. I try to not take advantage of them, only taking the ones I’ve earned through my own hard work. But I know that nevertheless, I still have access to freedoms that you don’t. Emotional burdens that I’ll never have to carry. And I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry that through the actions of people who share my whiteness, including some of my ancestors, this is your reality. I’m sorry, and I’m with you.”

But I stayed quiet. I thought I would be out-of-place: the white girl so in need of attention that she needs to divert attention to herself at an event for Black people. As Jesse Williams said in his speech a few weeks ago, “The burden of the brutalized is not to comfort the bystander. That’s not our job. Stop with all that.” I stayed put and continued to listen to the speakers.

I shared my thoughts with Beaut afterwards – including how close I’d come to taking the mic and speaking up. He told me that he thought I’d been mistaken to remain quiet. He pointed out to me that what I’d wanted to share was an acknowledgment of the situation, and that their voices, the voices of the entire Black community, were being heard. They might speak, they might gather, they might protest, but without others (mainly whites) to say “yes, yes we hear you, this matters” the process is incomplete. A good ally must not be silent.

So here I am. In writing this, I will not be silent.


P.S. I strongly urge y’all to read this article 6-ways Well-Intentioned People Whitesplain Racism (and Why They Need to Stop). I’ve definitely been guilty of a few of these behaviours in the past. And right now, on social media, and mainstream media, oh boy, does this happen ALL the time.

Holding back from correcting someone when you think they’re wrong, sitting with uncomfortable emotions when you feel like you’re under attack, stepping back when you think you could explain something better – all of this takes some self-control.There’s one strategy that will help you figure it all out: Approach racial justice conversations with humility. – Maisha Z. Johnson


Vanilla the social activist


I’m going to my first protest. Its not fully a protest, more like a social activist gathering, but imma call it a protest because it sounds more badass.

What kind of protest am I going to? Am I worked up about obscure changes to the accounting policies of leases? Am I frustrated at the pervasive lack of training in Excel at universties? Am I fed up at the insane amounts of red tap imposed by the provincial government when it comes to inquiring about tax assessments (I am, actually, and so is everyone who files taxes in Quebec)?

None of those things. I am going to a Black Lives Matters protest hosted by the Mtl chapter. That’s right. I feel like prancing about and randomly telling people,

See? See?! In this province that is always protesting, boycotting, striking, rioting about EVERYTHING, including the most mundane topics EVER, a conservative like me can still be an engaged activist, and attend protests about REAL ISSUES that matter… WITHOUT DRESSING LIKE A HIPSTER. It is possible to not look like a disheveled hippie, and still care about social causes. #ishowerandicare Ha! Breaking down biases ONE by ONE. Accountant in da house!

Except I don’t say that, because I suffer from social anxiety and people would think I am crazy.

I mentioned my intention to attend today’s protest at work, and was met by blank stares by my team (all accountants, all white). Why, they asked.

Because the last I checked, out of my close friends I have more that are visible minorities than are white. Are they all black? No, definitely not. They are a nice little rainbow of colors. But they all have stories. Facing constant ignorance, if not discrimination, is part of their reality.

Because of my gym, the most wonderful melting pot ever, a successful example of multicultural  and socio-demographic diversity. Would that the world could follow my gym’s example.

Because, out of all the guys I have ever dated (excluding 1-time dates -I’m counting the guys I dated for a period of 3 weeks or more), only two were white. The rest have been Arab or Black. Not on purpose, it just happened that way. They all were different, some were lovely, some less so, but they all had one thing in common: an omni-present low-burning anger. A burden that I don’t have to bear.

Because of my ex’s family, and his cousins from Barbados that never got a fair shot at integration in this province, and became part of the statistics of disaffected youth, high school drop-outs, and gang violence.

Because of I spent 6 years of my life being judged and treated poorly due to a physical characteristic. On a small scale, I have experienced what it is like to have my identity completely invalidated and superceeded by people’s preconceptions. As I recovered from my injuries and my crippled state became less obvious, I was subjected to less mistreatment. People cannot shed the color of their skin.

Because my parents were immigrants. They might have been born with the right color skin, but they struggled to integrate into their new homes, struggled to reconcile their parents’ culture and national identities with their new Canadian ones. Because of the stories they told me, of their interesting experiences growing up. Because of my 4 grandparents, each of whom experienced WWII differently, with varying degrees of suffering and horror, but all of whom had permanent psychic scars caused by a war that tried to eliminate targeted minorities.

Because black lives matter. And until that is a self-evident statement I will show up and witness their struggle.


#altonsterling #philandocastile #blacklivesmatter

I wrote about my experience at the BLM gathering here. Glad I went.

I become a stereotype when PMSing

I like to believe I am an adorable, unique, precious, unusual unicorn. There is no one like me, the world would forever duller should I disappear. I fart rainbows and fairies dance along side me singing joyful hymns.


Unfortunately, I’ve recently acknowledged that occasionally, I exhibit some fairly stereotypical behaviour. And by occasionally, I mean on a monthly basis when PMSing. During the week preceeding the evacuation of all of my body’s red blood cells, I become a caricature of a hormonal woman.

Case in point:


I was chatting at the gym with a girl who is also single about our hopes and dreams and dating struggles and inevitable cat-less cat-lady destiny. As the conversation progressed, we both became a little emotional – a tad sad. So, we went next door for ice cream, which we scarfed down as we pondered why our lives had passed us by.

I am not making this up. But wait, it gets worse.

I decided to walk home, despite the cloudy skies and occasional drizzle. The weather matched my mood… and so did my playlist. Blank Space, by Taylor Swift – on repeat. Mumford & Sons. Francis Cabrel (for all you non-French speakers, this song is possibly the cheesiest most romantic song EVER. Translated lyrics are here.)

I walked slowly, uncaring of the rain drops on my face. I may have even been so overwhelmed with sadness that I cried as I walked. Luckily nobody witnessed that.


Back at the gym. I’d lost a total of 6lbs of water retention since landing in Montreal on Friday night (I bloat like crazy when I travel). You’d think that would make me feel good, right? WRONG. I felt bloated, and icky. My ovaries were beating their way out of my body. I was fat. No, I was FAT. EVERYBODY STOP TRYING TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER, CAN’T YOU SEE I AM FAT?!?!?

In the silence that followed my empassioned plea, I started to giggle. Then I started to cry. Weepy-giggles.

I refuse to write how much chocolate I ate that night.


The list of fighters participating in the boxing tournament this weekend was finally published online. I immediately stalked the girl I’ll be fighting online, relieved to find myself prettier than her. Because that will definitely help me when I fight her, right? Right.

I seriously hope my symptoms subside quickly. I can’t handle my absence of originality much longer.

Accepting limits, part 2

I’ve written about my life-long struggle to accept the limitations imposed by my ADD here.

A few days prior, I’d written about my inability to dream. My father asked me if I was on medication for ADD, because he noticed that when he cycled off Ritalin – ours is a multi-generational ADD, best kind of inheritance there is – time frittered away, and he couldn’t find the wherewithal to get anything done. He too would feel mentally lethargic, weighed down by the constant stream of thoughts spinning around in his brain. I pondered.

I’d noticed I was underperforming at work: I was falling quite behind in my projects for the year. While not a problem for now, I do have 8.5 months to catch up, at this rate, I won’t complete the workload allocated to me by my boss, which would result in a negative evaluation, and worse, shame and guilt at my inability to perform to my expectations. I did an inventory of my emotions regarding work: I love my job, the projects given to me interest me, I adore my boss and the team that reports to me, the work environment is dynamic and supportive. I did not have any attitude problems caused by low motivation, unlike my previous job, where I hated the work environment and my boss scared the shit out of me, which paralyzed my brain. I also validated my self-assessment with my therapist: no depressive symptoms for almost 6 months. So my lethargy was not attributable to that. Diet was good, sleep levels adequate, excercising 10 hours a week, no boy problems… I had no reason to underperform at work. Every week, I would make myself to do lists, determined to catch up. Every week, I would finish the week with hardly anything done, dismayed at my lack of productivity, exhorting myself to just try harder next time. Don’t fuck this up, Vanilla. Don’t be a fuckup. Just do it already.

Then I did something extremely stupid and entirely preventable that could have jeopardized my entire career. At the last millisecond I avoided the apocalypse, but the close call left me shaken: the only thing in my life that I have actually going for me is my career. My finances aren’t where they should be. My personal life is perpetually in shambles. It takes every ounce of energy I have to play at being a self-sufficient adult. I have trouble not boasting if I manage to get laundry done AND cook myself lunches in a given week. Pay bills on time too? Super woman. Given the status of the rest of my life, there is no way I would voluntarily blow up my career, the only asset I have.

As I scurried to fix my inattentive error, it suddenly dawned on me. My father’s comments. My new perpetual refrain of self-blame at work: just try harder, don’t fuck this up. My crazy inattentiveness about something I cherished.

Textbook ADD.

“You have to accept your limits, in order to properly address the issues at hand, and determine the best course of action. Everyone has limits. Refusing to accept your own is not a sign of ambition and drive, it is a sign of immaturity.” – my new therapist, circa August 2014

In that moment, I accepted that it was time for me to go back on medication. I was exhausted. Exhausted at never having my shit together, no matter how many coping techniques I implemented, reminders on my phone, to do lists, rearranging my schedule to do fit my concentration patterns. Exhausted that no matter how much therapy and exercise I got (the 2 most important non-medication elements in the management of ADD), I still couldn’t perform up to my potential. Exhausted from the familiar feelings of being way smarter than my behaviour indicates, like my brain is muzzled by my behaviour. Exhausted that I can’t ever move onto other projects, goals, LIFE other than trying (and perpetually failing, bouncing from one crisis to another) to keep my day-to-day shit together. Exhausted from having some dreams that I give up on before even starting them, because I am weighed down by the constant noise in my head, that I can never sift through, to get to a spot of peace and concentration.

So I found myself a doctor, one who smiled kindly at me, as I wept in her office. Confided in her my sense of shame at trying to medicate away my problems. Everyone has crosses to bear – so many people have been dealt a hand of cards much worse than mine. And yet, princess that I am, I am giving up the fight, and gonna pop some pills to make my burden smaller. She listened, handed me kleenex, and promised me that we would work together, one month at a time, to find me a dosage that gave me access to the best parts of my brain, while minimizing the side-effects of the medication. I sniffled, and decided to trust her.

My therapist didn’t even try hide his glee when I told him the news. He danced a full blown jig, even as I weepily told him how guilty I felt. This, this is progress, this is maturity. Life is about compromising, Vanilla. You are finally acknowledging all of yourself, the strengths and weaknesses, and figuring out how to build your best life. That is only way to achieve happiness. You are FINALLY doing it.

So here I am. On medication. Trying to find my true self, even as it is chemically changing. Every side-effect makes me nervous and sad. The heightened anxiety, the extreme loss of appetite, the dry mouth, the increased irritability (my coworkers are very entertained by the appearance of Bitchy Vanilla. Apparently Bitchy Vanilla is fun to hang out with. I think she is short-tempered and snarky), the heart palpitations. The rising panic that my identity can be so easily manipulated by a pill – what kind of a trade-off am I really making?

This is gonna be one long bumpy ride. 


That time I had a panic attack in a sex shop

The Universe has kindly warned me that my latest single stretch is going to last forever. This poses something of a problem, since my dating dry spells also translate into sexual draughts: despite the fact that all white girls are slutty, obvi, I’m just not comfortable with casual sex divorced from any emotion or meaning. Don’t get me wrong: I highly enjoy my hanky panky and do not favor making gentle, passionate love over a rough, bruising, noisy tumble between the sheets. But for that tumble between the sheets to be enjoyable for me – and really, what is the point, unless it is enjoyable? –  it has to be with someone I care about, and trust. That is just how I tick. Given that my last dating dry spell lasted 17 months, and the one before that lasted 26 months, and the one before THAT 18 months, y’all can see why I was pretty disappointed by the Universe’s warning that I was doomed to a life of singledom. I’m not ok with an eternity of abstinence, especially since I’ve only recently brushed off all the cobwebs, and rediscovered what it feels like to be a woman.


I decided that the solution to this quandry was to visit a sex shop and get myself some “assistance”. I might die a cat-less cat-lady, but this cat-lady wants strong pelvic muscles. #trainingcamp

On Saturday after training at the gym, I planned on visiting the sex shop next to the gym (our gym is located in vibrant area of town). That plan got slightly derailed because of froyo: Nene, 3 other boxers and I had a healthy post-workout snack. As we left the froyo place, they asked me where I was headed. “Ummmm, I have some errands to run.” I try never lie, whenever possible. Once I was sure they were out of eyeshot, I skulked into the sex shop. And froze, on the doorstep, as the door shut behind me. It turns out that I am definitely still Vanilla. Like, really Vanilla.

I saw things that despite looking at them for several minutes, I couldn’t figure out their purpose. I saw things that I did understand their purpose, and that made me nauseous. And I saw things that looked interesting, but at that point I was overwhelmed by the sheer plethora of items and nuances and variety.

I mean, why do some vibrators look as though they colorful dental instruments? Or weird mutant snail shapes? Why the fushia and the purple? So many questions.

During the time I stood there petrified, FOUR (one, two, three, four. 4!) adults in their fifties, strode in, like no big deal, confidently surveying the newest merchandise that could help them with their sex life. They all appeared unphased by the plastic penises long enough that I could wrap them around my neck like a new age fashionable scarf, or the anal plugs as big as my purse. There was a couple happily discussing the pros and cons of a wireless vibrator that looked like a purple bluetooth earpiece. When a helpful saleman approached me, I couldn’t even formulate a question to ask for assistance. My brain was so in shock, words were not with my repertoire; I just directed some hysterical hyenna giggles at the poor man. I needed a sex shop for beginners. I clearly was in the sex shop for the elite.

I left, empty-handed.

Next time, imma be sure to avoid the sex-shop rush-hour. I do not want any witnesses to my eventual conversation with the sales person.

Sex, even solo-sex, is an exercise in excruciating vulnerability.

I think the Universe is trying to give me a hint

One fortune cookie. 3x the same hint:

"Our first and last love... self-love."

“Our first and last love… self-love.”

I think the Universe is trying to warn me that I am going to die a selfish, single, cat-less Cat Lady. And in the mean time, Imma have to do a whole lot of self-lovin’, if you know what I mean. Time for the teddy-bears to go back into the closet.

I need to get me one of these, based on what those cookies are telling me. I think. Not sure I fully understand what is going on: