In the fictional universe of Soap Operas, do you think Soap Operas exist? Most movies acknowledge that movies exist. Most TV families own a television. So do Soap Operas play against a backdrop where somewhere in their universe on television a Soap Opera is playing? And if so, don’t you think at…
oh, okay. if that's who you are everyday then cool. they all just seem very artsy...but then again i guess you are. so there you go lol
I used to get lots of questions like, “Don’t you think you try too hard to be artsy/quirky/indie?” & they made me really sad because those people couldn’t tell the difference between real quirkiness (which exists EVERYWHERE & is being suppressed EVERYWHERE) & the kind that’s manufactured to please other people. In the time that I’ve had a public presence on the internet as Kate Sloan, I have never tried to hide how weird & crazy I am… & as a result, people latch onto that & ridicule it & think I’m “making it up,” probably as a result of their own traumatic conditioning that weird = bad. I find it really upsetting that people think someone like me couldn’t possibly be authentic. Grr!
5 Famous People to Invite to Your Dream Dinner Party, Dead or Alive.
5 Bands/Musicians I’ve been Listening to A lot Lately.
Reverie Sound Revue
Tegan & Sara
Death Cab For Cutie
5 Things I’m addicted to.
peanut butter chocolate chip cookies
5 Biggest Celebrity Crushes.
5 Songs I Can’t Stop Listening to at the Moment.
Reverie Sound Revue - One Marathon
Chelsea Logue - Pyre
Stacey Kent - The Ice Hotel
Danielle Ate The Sandwich - When Will The Writer
Tegan & Sara - I Bet It Stung
5 Favorite TV Shows.
The L Word
Radio Free Roscoe
5 Your Dream Future: 1 Job/2 City/3 Car/4 Spouse/5 Pet.
Toronto (though I wouldn’t complain if I ended up living in New York)
no car, just a bike or the subway (or a chauffeur…)
John Krasinski… or, you know, some cute, sweet, funny actor/writer/artist who I love
a crazy snuggly cat
5 Things that Always Cheer Me Up.
making gratitude lists
a nice long nap
compliments from cute people
rereading old love letters
going to an improv show
Top 5 People I Want to Punch in the Face.
Emily Blunt (just ‘cause she’s married to JK…)
that guy who spread rumors that I slept with him
5 Favorite Actors/Actresses.
(…they’re all men. I don’t know why.)
5 TV Shows You’ve Seen Every Episode of.
The L Word
Radio Free Roscoe
(…I’m pretty sure that’s it.)
there is no place in my life for people who are weak of character, or malleable.
choose who you are & stick to it. don’t let your every attribute be blown away & revamped every time you spend time with someone new.
what’s the point of having an identity if you can’t even find one you like enough to stick with it?
few things turn me off a friendship faster than finding out you don’t have a fixed sense of identity.
if you’re a coy, witty pixie with me, don’t turn into a tough, brooding badass as soon as someone else enters the scene! i realize that we all do this to some extent, but when your entire personality & all your interests shift every time you’re with someone different, my opinion of you will plummet. dramatically.
life’s too short to be a hangdog or a yes-man - or to spend time around them!
She looked at me through her legs. Even the impeccable form of her Downward Dog couldn’t pacify that ferocious glare. “That’s not what I meant, Josh, and you know it.”
I chuckled. “So you like to do yoga slowly and gently. Yeah, it’s not even a little suggestive to mention that to your ex-husband as he’s being subjected to your neon pink spandex ass.”
Callie stood up, eyes wide. “Ex-husband? You mean you finally signed the divorce papers?” She sounded a little too cheerful for someone discussing the unraveling of an entire decade of her life. Of our life.
“Ah-ah-ah. Not so fast.” I opened my briefcase, took out the sad, creased document, and showed her the barren cell where my name had been typed by a lawyer but not signed by me.
Callie’s face fell. She collapsed in the purple beanbag chair that had always been her favourite, and I realized I’d missed seeing her there. Her hair, the colour of cherry chocolate cake, created an electric contrast against the violet hue, even now, pulled up in a ponytail and tousled from sun salutations.
She stared at me with a queer blend of contempt and almost maternal concern. “Josh. We’re getting a divorce. You were a neglectful husband who left my self-worth and self-esteem in the shitter, remember?” She recited it like it was the thirty-sixth time, which it was. “It’s been eight months. You’ve got to sign. I’m sorry. That’s the way it is.” I opened my mouth, but she quickly added, “And don’t you dare say ‘But I love you, Cal,” or I will rip that lying tongue right out of your melodramatic mouth.”
I had to laugh. The woman knew me. She had all my tricks and traps memorized. The trouble was, my favorite line of late – which, yes, may have been something along the lines of “But I love you, Cal” – was neither a trick nor a trap. I’d blamed it on the lawyers, I’d blamed it on my schedule, I’d even blamed it on a faulty pen, but the reality was, I couldn’t sign that contract. Not now, not ever; couldn’t and wouldn’t. But how could I tell Callie? Or better yet, how could I create just one more distraction to buy a little more time?
“I want the chair,” I announced, and immediately regretted it.
Callie crinkled her brow. “I already gave you that goddamn Eames. Hated it. Hideous. You know that.”
“No, not the Eames. I want that chair,” I clarified, pointing at the scraggly lavender beanbag which was presently swallowing her up like grape-flavoured quicksand.
She shifted her weight and lovingly fingered the ugly thing’s frayed edges. “But… but this is my favourite!”
I dropped down onto the mauve mess with her, suddenly overcome with a need to touch her familiarly yoga-svelte body. She screamed, and I knew everything had changed. Again.
“Do you always run in such tight clothes?” a voice asked, and Calliope’s heart jumped so far up her throat she could almost taste ventricles.
“Excuse me?” She wheeled around but kept running, backwards, not wanting to risk the wrath of a rapist. Oddly, he looked normal enough – even kind of cute – though the neon green terrycloth headband did carry a whiff of sexual miscreance.
“Oh, nothing, I just made a flirtatious comment in the hopes that it might lead to a conversation.” A bench approached by the side of the path, and he slowed, then stopped to sit down. Calliope had to make the split-second decision – stay or go? It was damn hot. Maybe she deserved to rest a little while.
“Get OFF me!” Suddenly I was sprawled on the hardwood floor. She’d gotten stronger. Maybe there was something to that yoga crap. “GOD, Josh!” She stood up and retreated to a cowering position in the opposite corner of our… of her living room. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”
I stared intently at the beanbag chair, trying to deduce whether I could play off my caveman outburst as an extension of my fictional love for this sorry sack of beans. Ultimately I decided truth won out over hippie furnishings.
“I just wanted to touch you,” I muttered. It was a pathetic explanation, but at least it wasn’t a lie. I looked up at her and tried desperately to make my eyes do that soft, sensitive, puppy-dog thing she used to like. “Don’t you want to touch me?”
“We’re getting a divorce!” she shouted. She untied and retied her trackpants’ drawstring, as though trendy activewear could keep her chaste and untouched.
I took one step in her direction. “I know. That’s not what I asked.” Another step. “Do you want to touch me, Callie?” Do you miss me when you watch our favourite game shows over TV dinners? Do you get so depressed by old photos that your friends drag you to strip clubs to cheer you up? Do you keep your ex’s sweater in the back of your closet to inhale from when times get tough? “Do you?”
Her eyes swam with fear. She was backed into a corner now, bordered on one side by her shelf full of the horror novels I loathed, and on the other side by my collection of Marvin Gaye records she couldn’t stand. I got closer, closer, closer. Her mouth hung ajar – perplexed, surprised, annoyed, who knows.
“I’m going to kiss you now, Cal,” I said, more cautiously than I needed to, given that I planned to do it whether she approved or not. I reached out to her but still she remained frozen and flooded with a big bursting yes-or-no.
“Who the hell names their daughter Calliope?” asked the boy as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Unless you’re a Greek goddess. Like Aphrodite. Love and beauty and all that.” One tooth in his grin had a chip in it; Callie had never found herself so attracted to a tooth before.
She laughed in a way she hoped sounded intelligent yet playful. “And who are you? The god of partying and drinking? What’s his name… Dionysus!” Her childhood afternoons spent cooped up in the library were finally paying off.
“And sex.” She peered at him suspiciously. “Dionysus was also the god of sex,” he clarified, “so I don’t know if I can be him.”
“Why not? Don’t you have any… masculine prowess, or whatever?”
“I dunno. What do you think?’
Secretly, Calliope wasn’t sure whether she thought this boy should be Dionysus; first, she’d have to check whether Dionysus ever fell in love with Aphrodite, and then she’d be able to make up her mind.
I’ve had a lot of sex in my life. In supply closets and in Xerox rooms, up in trees and down in ditches. With debutantes and executives, old friends and new friends. With actresses, teachers, and even, once, a rodeo clown. But all that, I see now, is nothing, nothing compared to a kind of sex that came into my life quite late in the game: sex with a not-really-soon-to-be-ex-wife.
If before, there were explosions, then now, there were Chernobyl-style nuclear massacres. If before, there was music, then now, there was an international broadcast-by-satellite “Hey Jude” singalong. If before, there were sparks… you see what I’m saying. This was the single, reigning, undisputable highlight of my entire sexual career (including the tryst with the rodeo clown, who was pretty freaky even without the foam nose and giant shoes).
I had never understood the meaning of the term “afterglow” until that afternoon at our/her apartment. Generally, when it was over, I wanted to throw on my pants and sprint away, but next to Callie, I wanted to attach myself to her like some kind of codependent crustacean and spend the rest of my days nuzzled in her nooks and crannies. There was great sex, and then there was great-sex-with-love, and then there was this.
We laid there just breathing for twenty minutes or so, and I could feel love and joy rising like a tidal wave inside me. Finally, I heard Callie sob, and then I turned and saw the tears. Beside me, my Aphrodite was dissolving, and as much as I wanted to cover her in kisses, I knew we were both beyond help, even divine intervention.
If you had been jogging alongside the West River that day, and if you had slowed down near the bench with the purple graffiti scrawled on the side, then you would’ve seen what appeared to be a very happy couple, bantering like only a very happy couple can. But the thing was, they had only known each other for forty-five minutes, and not only did she not know his name, but she kept calling him Dionysus.
Calliope had learned that he was an intern at a law firm (she found that boring, but didn’t say so), and that he liked Jeopardy (so did she), and that he had at least a cursory knowledge of Greek mythology. She knew already that his eyes, the colour of chocolate ice cream, had a way of softening to make her feel like none of the other joggers existed. And she knew – she had decided – that if he asked her home with him, she would say yes.
“I’m Josh, by the way.” This led them into a giggly lull while Callie mused to herself that Aeschylus might have suited him better. Josh cleared his throat. “Do you do other kinds of exercise? I mean, you’ve got the expensive lycra stuff, so you might as well…”
“I do yoga too.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You must be pretty flexible.”
“Of course. I like it slow and gentle.” Callie winked, and took his hand.