I don’t make New Year’s resolutions…should I?

I could resolve to eat three meals a day, none of them take-out.

I could resolve not to start so many silly arguments with my girlfriend.

I could resolve to spend less money on sex toys, or to spend more money on sex toys.

I could resolve to promote my work more shamelessly, or to eat seven servings of fruit and vegetables every day, or not to have sex with married people.

I could resolve to get more sleep, or to get less sleep, or to be more charitable, or to drink less coffee, or to drink more coffee, or to start lifting weights, or to take sick days instead of struggling through, or to consume more protein, or to make peace with the dead.

I could resolve to do a lot of things, but the resolution itself would have little to no impact on reality. The trouble with resolutions is that you have to put them into action, and action tends not to be the writer’s prerogative. I put words on paper when I can’t say them out loud, or as a means of repairing the mistakes of the past. It’s reparation, but it’s passive.

Perhaps it’s lazy of me never to resolve to be better, or kinder, or to live differently. Or maybe it’s realistic. Or maybe I’m just happy with my life the way it is.

Happy New Year,
gigi

Today I met my girlfriend’s mom.

For all the anxiety this first meeting generated, it turned into a pretty anti-climactic event.  It helped—or…didn’t help?—that Sweet’s family doesn’t know she’s transsexual.  To mom, Sweet is just her son and I’m just his plain old hetero girlfriend.  Nothing more complicated than that.

“I’ve been at mom for years because of the way she talks about those people,” Sweet told me.  “I’ve asked her how she can think of someone as a friend until she finds out they’re gay.  Being gay is part of who those people are, and probably a big part of why she liked them in the first place.  I hate that my mother’s so homophobic.”

“Is she transphobic too?” I asked.

“She wouldn’t know where to begin to understand the trans issue.”

As far as mom’s aware, her son is my boyfriend.  God, that just sounds so wrong!  Her DAUGHTER is my GIRLFRIEND.  We are a lesbian couple.  It bothered me to pretend to be something I’m not.  I felt a little closeted, but I’m hardly going to out my girlfriend to her family.  We all progress in our own time and it’s up to everyone to allow our partners room to grow.

photo credit: jeangenie

That said, it was great to get the inside scoop on Sweet’s adorableness growing up.  I have no idea how the topic came up, but her mom suddenly started telling me how much Sweet hated dressing up when she was a kid.

“Even at Halloween, he never wanted to get in costume,” mom told me.

I had to bite my tongue.  Sweet started cross-dressing when she was quite young.  Many transgender children do, but often it’s a private matter.  I guess mom really wasn’t aware.

“And then when he finally did start going out for Halloween, he always dressed as a tramp!”

photo credit: gwalton1

Bite…tongue…harder!  She still dresses pretty trampy, mom!  You should see her in a miniskirt and platform boots! No, that’s mean.  Sweet is a perfectly respectable woman who wears perfectly respectable outfits.

Though, as I write this, my mind wanders to yesterday afternoon when she taped her “boobs” to create the most extraordinary cleavage, then wore a low-cut sweater for my amusement.  God, I spent most of our time together with my face buried in her tits!  I only came up for air when I was on the verge of asphyxiation, then it was right back into it, licking my girlfriend’s cleavage.

I didn’t tell her mom any of this, obviously.  It’s up to sweet to reveal her queer sexual and gender identities to her family in her own time.

“I’d love for her to be taking mom out to lunch,” Sweet said as we kissed goodbye.  “And maybe some day mom will have lunch with her daughter and she’ll just have to accept it.”

Bright Blessings,

Giselle Renarde

My girlfriend Sweet is a Christmas FANATIC, so I knew I couldn’t give her just any old greeting card as we celebrate our first Christmas together. It’s not that she expects anything over-the-top, but I really wanted to WOW her. The solution? I recorded a lovely a capella Christmas song and made a video card as this special gift for my girl:

A Christmas Card for my Sweet

I wasn’t 100% sure that Sweet would respond positively to my posting her card on YouTube, but I had to do it because I want the world to know how much I love her. After watching the video and wiping the tears from her eyes, Sweet asked me, “Can everyone see this, or just us?”

“Everyone,” I admitted. “But I can make it private if you want, or I could take it down altogether.”

“No, no,” Sweet said. “I like that other people can watch my card. It’s like…it’s for us, but it shows everybody how you feel about me.”

photo credit: Stephan Geyer

There is nothing better than receiving a personalized gift. It shows the giver took the time to contemplate what I would like, then took even more time to create it for me. Assuming Sweet will appreciate a gift from the heart and the hands, I knitted her a pretty pink scarf and strung her a necklace of funky freshwater pearls.  I can’t wait to watch her open it.

What am I hoping to get for Christmas? From those I love, there would be nothing better received than the gift of time. I don’t see my mother half as often as I’d like. Same goes for the rest of my family and my friends. We all work so much, be it outside or in the home. There is nothing I would appreciate more this year than to spend more time with my family and friends.

But time isn’t something you can put under a tree, and my family needs to see things beneath the tree. To that end, I’ve been relying for years now on a magnificent site http://buynothingchristmas.org/ which contains an “alternatives” page for those of us looking for meaningful, non-consumerist gifts.

photo credit: skye820

To be perfectly honest, though, buying nothing at the holidays is something I never was able to master. When I finish this blog post, it’s off to the great big internet shopping world. I’m buying most of my family books this season.

If you’ve got someone on your list who would drool over some erotic books or sexy lingerie, check out my little shop of Giselle Renarde Erotica. It features anthologies containing my work, my ebooks in kindle format, and—because I’m a sucker for gorgeous women in corsets and stockings—there’s a huge lingerie section as well! Check it out at http://astore.amazon.com/dondes-20

Happy Holidays!
Giselle Renarde

Freedom has been on my mind this month. On Remembrance Day–Tuesday November 11th–I was sitting at my computer as 11am approached. Last Call played on the radio and I found myself standing, facing the window looking North across my country, and preparing for a moment of silence.

In silence, I honoured freedom. I honoured my country, Canada, which allows me the space, both physical and mental, to be who I am. I do not support war, generally, but when I consider the basic human rights my grandparents fought to preserve, I am awed. When I imagine the atrocities of the concentration camps my sexual identity would have landed me in, tears fill my eyes.

I am free. I am free to speak my mind, even when my opinions are unpopular, even when my radical feminism sparks controversy. I am free to walk my girlfriend to her car, to kiss her lips as I say goodbye, with little fear of prejudice and no fear of imprisonment. To me, this is the greatest freedom of all.

We Canadians don’t say this as often as we should, but…I love my country.

While I’m on my knees, I might as well take to opportunity to beg for your vote in the Midnight Seductions Endless Romance Contest.

It’s reader’s choice! From now until December 8th 2008, you can vote on the hottest love scene. I would be delighted if you could vote for mine, but even if you don’t it’s certainly worth checking out all 42 contest entries. Can you imagine? 42 love scenes to melt the snow outside my window.

My entry is a scene from erotic romance TANGLED ROOTS, available from eXcessica. And don’t forget, I’m donating every last penny of profit from all my sales through the eXcessica website until December 15th 2008 to the LGBT YOUTHLINE, a valuable organization providing peer support to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transsexual, transgender, 2-spirited, queer and questioning youth.

Get on over to Midnight Seductions to vote for the love scene that melts your butter. I hope it’s mine!

Bright Blessings,
Giselle Renarde
Canada just got hotter!

To celebrate the re-release of my debut e-book THE BIRTHDAY GIFT, I would like to offer up a gift we can all take part in giving.

From now until December 15th 2008, the proceeds of each and every purchase of GISELLE RENARDE EROTICA through the eXcessica website will be donated to the Lesbian Gay Bi Trans YOUTHLINE!

LGBT YOUTHLINE provides queer-positive, non-judgmental peer support to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transsexual, transgender, 2-spirited, queer and questioning youth. Based in my home city, LGBT YOUTHLINE offers free services through its toll-free phone number, by email and instant messenger. To find out more about this organization, visit their website at www.youthline.ca.

Please join me in raising funds to help LGBT YOUTHLINE expand its services and continue providing an open ear and an open mind to queer youth.  All you have to do is visit eXcessica.com and purchase a copy of THE BIRTHDAY GIFT, TANGLED ROOTS, or CUNNING LITTLE VIXENS by Giselle Renarde before midnight on December 15th 2008. After Paypal takes its thirty-nine cents or so, every penny from the sale will go to support this righteous cause.

Together, we can ensure LGBT youth are supported through times of trial and triumph.

Bright Blessings,
Giselle Renarde
www.freewebs.com/gisellerenarde/
donutsdesires.blogspot.com

poverotica /pawvirottikaw/ (n) literature or art lending erotic qualities to the state of being extremely poor.

As you might have guessed, there’s no such thing as poverotica.  It’s a new addition to my lexicon of made-up words.  And you’ve probably never wondered why poverotica doesn’t exist amongst the numerous categories of erotic fiction on the market.  I never did either until the righteous Alessia Brio asked Coming Together contributors to think about poverty as a blog topic.  Have you ever asked yourself, “Why are there no sexy stories about those members of our society living at subsistence level?”
The question answers itself, doesn’t it?   Of course we don’t think these things.  Poverty isn’t sexy.  In fact, without even realizing it, most of us have been conditioned to adopt a fundamental belief in just the opposite:  Money is sexy.  Without it, there is no romance.
Before erotica consumed my life, I was an academic.  As such, I wrote a thesis on the surprisingly hegemonic implications of sex advice articles in women’s magazines.  As a sidebar to my observations, I noticed that much of the advice given about improving one’s sex life involved purchasing products.  For instance, when one woman wrote in to ask how she could begin to enjoy sex with her husband again after he’d cheated on her, the columnist advised her to “throw away your comfortable nightgown” and “switch over to some sexy lingerie.”

photo credit: jorgemejia

Apart from reinforcing the disturbingly common belief that her husband’s affair was this woman’s fault, by advising the inquisitor to “switch over to sexy lingerie,” this, like many other advice articles, subtly reinforces the role that sexuality plays in supporting Capitalism and consumerist behaviours.
The entire category of romantic love conspires with Capitalist endeavours to encourage commercialism through the purchase of roses, chocolates, jewellery, “romantic” holidays, weddings and much more, as signifiers of love and commitment. The conventional relationship-oriented objects and rituals that have the highest symbolic values, like the wedding, the wedding ring and the honeymoon, also have the highest exchange values.  Just think about how incredibly profitable the wedding industry has become!

photo credit: jorgemejia

The idea that love, or sexual desire for that matter, is expressed through the exchange of items drawn from the specific lexicon of love-connoting merchandise has established a culture wherein “love” and consumerism exist in a symbiotic relationship:  It is in the corporation’s interest to emphasize the symbolic value of its product in relation to love and sex, because this vastly increases the product’s exchange value.
From the example given above, it is far more likely that the advice-seeker, and other women in her situation, will purchase expensive, over-priced lingerie when they are led by magazine articles to believe this will help to salvage their sex lives and even their marriages.

Conversely, such advice misleads readers into believing their relationships are doomed if they can’t afford the trappings of romantic love and desire.  This is not just academic theory; it’s rehearsed again and again in real life.  Hell, my girlfriend’s always reminding me how much she loves being treated to fancy meals and expensive gifts; they make her feel special.

How is it that even we, the educated and the socially aware, still fall into these Consumerist traps?  The costly signifiers of romance are just that: empty vessels of connotation.  There are far better ways of showing our loved ones we care, and these methods don’t require us to spend our life’s savings.  Words cost nothing:  “I love you.  You are special.  Come to bed and I’ll show you…”

Bright Blessings,
Giselle Renarde
freewebs.com/gisellerenarde/
donutsdesires.blogspot.com

Here in Canada, we’re celebrating Thanksgiving this weekend.  The holiday’s got me thinking about everything I have in life.  I may not own half as much stuff as most North Americans, but I’m very aware of the abundance in my life.  As long as there’s food in my fridge and a roof over my head, the rest is pure luxury.

That’s in terms of “stuff.”

But “stuff” isn’t the half of it, when I start to think about the things for which I’m really, deeply grateful.  In that vein, I would like to publicly and officially give thanks for the most special person in my life: my mom.

I’m grateful for her sensibility and good decisions.  It takes incredible strength for a woman to remove herself from a bad domestic situation.  It takes diligence, hard work, and excellent budgeting skills to support four children unaided on a secretary’s salary.

Sure, mom and I had our screaming matches when I was in my teens, but as adults we’ve established a close bond.  When I admitted to her, many years ago, that I’d been involved with a married man, she just listened.  She didn’t lecture me like a child, she listened to me as a friend.  That’s how I knew there’d been a shift in our relationship.

How fortunate am I to have a mother who, when I introduced the topic of sexual identity, wholeheartedly encouraged me to identify as “queer” if that’s how I felt?  And how many moms would react to a daughter’s romantic relationship with a transsexual woman by saying, “That’s kind of weird, but I’m so proud that you’re so open-minded and accepting”?  And since then, she’s gone on to become very interested in and supportive of my relationship with Sweet.  She sees that I’m loved, and that’s all that matters.

I couldn’t ask for a better mom.  The trouble is, I’m really bad at telling people just how much they mean to me.  Tomorrow, when I gather with my family for Thanksgiving dinner, let’s see if I can finally work up the courage to tell my mom just how great she is.

And to all Canadians, Happy Thanksgiving and don’t forget there’s a federal election on Tuesday.  Get out there and vote!

Bright Blessings,
Giselle Renarde
Canada just got hotter!

My friend Monty is old and set in his ways, but that’s no excuse.

For many years now, my friend Monty has been my comrade and confidant, but ever since I started seeing Sweet, a wonderful transsexual woman, Monty’s usefulness in those roles has been on the decline. The more I’ve spoken to him about my life with Sweet, the more blatantly homophobic and transphobic Monty has become.

Now, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Hell, I invite people to share their dissenting opinions on LGTBQ topics because once those opinions are out in the open, we can discuss them. We can clear the air. We can talk about how hatred of what’s different, of what’s unknown, is always rooted in fear. We can shine light on ignorance. We can make the subject matter not about “those people,” but about this person. It’s about me—I’m queer; it’s about my lovely partner—she’s trans; it’s about our relationship.

I hung up the phone on Monty two days ago.

It made me feel like a moody teenager, but I couldn’t take his ignorance anymore.

Let me tell you about the kind of conversations we’ve been having lately…

Monty (scoffing):
How’s Sweet?

Me:
Oh, she’s great. I had lunch with her today.

Monty:
You had lunch with HIM…

Me:
No…I had lunch with HER. When she’s out in the world, dressed as a woman and identifying as female, it’s her.

Monty:
No, it’s HIM. This guy’s got a dick, doesn’t he?

Me (trying to keep my irritation in check):
How can you base gender on something as arbitrary as genitalia? And you’ve never even met Sweet; what makes you think you’re in a position to select a gender identity for her? That’s a very personal thing, and it has nothing to do with YOU and your opinions.

So it’s been stuff like that in every conversation: Monty challenging my views on gender and transgender issues, and me sharing a lot about my life and relationship in hopes he’ll start to understand. But, you know what? It isn’t working. My tension level has been on the rise. During each new conversation I’m finding myself thinking, “I can’t listen to much more of this.”

Two days ago, Monty made another inflammatory remark about Sweet. He said she doesn’t exist, that “she’s” just the product of a warped mind.

He was putting down a person I care for, a person I love, my partner, and I just wasn’t having it anymore. I’d given Monty so many opportunities to shed the ignorance and gain an understanding of trans life. Enough is enough.

I finally had to say to him, “You know, when you say cruel things about Sweet, you’re hurting ME. You’re supposed to be my friend, and here you’re deliberately and consistently upsetting me by insulting my partner and my lifestyle! If you’re going to keep on offending me like this, I’m going to have to hang up.”

You know what he said? “Well, I guess you’d better hang up, then.”

So I did.

I realize how High School all this sounds, dumping the best friend because he isn’t keen on my girl. It parallels that whole mom-doesn’t-like-my-boyfriend-so-I’ll-slam-my-bedroom-door-and-crank-up-the-radio stereotype of the teenage girl. But I made it very clear: saying mean things about someone I care for is hurtful to ME. And my mom would agree that anyone who hurts you on purpose is not a real friend.

Bright Blessings,

Giselle Renarde

We have this bizarre custom here in Canada:  If somebody pushes you, shoves you, steps on your toes, YOU say sorry.  Whether it’s an accident or an act of deliberate malevolence on their part, you must say sorry when you are affronted.  That is part of Canada’s unspoken code of social conduct.

I do not abide by it.

I think this inability we Canadians have to stand up for ourselves feeds a more universal problem: namely, that of blaming the victim for crimes committed against her.  About a year ago, I read a short article in my local paper.  It was a report about a woman who had been sexually assaulted in my area.  Apparently, she’d gotten off her bus and was walking home when a car slowed beside her and the driver offered her a ride.  The woman said no and kept walking.  The driver then got out of his car, pulled the young woman in, and assaulted her.

The police officer my local paper interviewed regarding this crime said that the point this event should really hit home is that women need to be more vigilant about their personal safety.

When I read that article, I was irate.  Why?  Because of all the comments that could have been made regarding this crime, the officer uttered and the paper printed one that, albeit with a certain subtlety, blamed the victim for the assault against her.  Had SHE been more vigilant, this crime may not have occurred.

And why, I ask, does this crime not “hit home” the point that men shouldn’t rape women?  That tougher laws should be imposed?  That greater police presence is required in that area?  That systemic injustice is alive and well in this country?  There are any number of points that could have been made.  The fact that the one comment uttered and published without editorializing implies the victim ought to have done something differently in order to prevent this attach speaks volumes about police perception of crimes against women.  And if police hold this general belief, how much are they really going to do to aid the victim?

As I stood waiting for my bus this morning, a woman pushed me out of her way to get by.  Did I say sorry? Nope.  I said, “If you want to get by, you say ‘excuse me,’ you don’t push people.”  That was rude of me, according to the Canadian code of social conduct.  I got some looks – some ‘she must be crazy’ looks – but I don’t mind.  It’s time for us – for Canadians, for women, for victims -  to stop saying sorry for the crimes committed against us.  It’s time to speak up.  No apologies necessary.

Bright Blessings,

Giselle Renarde

I have formulated a scientific hypothesis. Put on your thinking caps and don’t doze off, because after the academic stuff I’ll be talking about boobs.

One day I was watching Allan Gregg in Conversation on TVO. Psychiatrist and Medical Researcher Norman Doidge spoke on neural plasticity in relation to memory, stroke, Alzheimer’s, etc. and some of the evidence he cited to support his theory that neural receptors don’t age as we thought they did was this:

Neurologist Dr V. Ramachandran was working with patients who’d lost limbs and were experiencing phantom limb symptoms. For instance, one patient lost an arm, but he still experienced an ongoing unscratchable itch. How do you deal with that, as a doctor? The arm is gone; there’s nothing to scratch.

The brain is not a rigid structure; it has the ability to change. With the loss of limb, cortical reorganization takes place. What does that mean? Stuff moves. Neural pathways take detours.

So, with neural plasticity in mind, Dr Ramachandra recommended that this patient we’ve mentioned scratch his cheek every time he had an itch on his phantom limb, tricking the brain into rewiring itself. Eventually, this method started to work. Every time the patient had that itch, he’d scratch his cheek and that would satisfy it.

The doctor cited this as evidence that we CAN change neural pathways; they’re never fully broken, no matter how much they get screwed up or damaged.

Okay, are you ready for boobs?

photo credit: .imelda

I may have mentioned once or twice that my partner, Sweet, is a transgendered woman: a wonderful girl with a guy’s body. She wants boobs. (Hell, I’m not exactly opposed to the idea either. I’m a breast man…breast woman, actually) Now, Sweet is not quite ready to commit to life as a girl 24/7, but “Ahhhh, wouldn’t it be nice,” we muse, if she could feel her fake boobs? If she could experience them as real?

So, here’s MY hypothesis: This phantom limb evidence could be used to help restructure cortical connections until Sweet could actually FEEL something that wasn’t truly there. The neural pathways just need to be changed so that, for instance, if I were to touch under her arm or touch her chest, that sensation could be experienced in breast tissue that wasn’t really there. Her brain just needs to think it’s there.

I shared my response with Sweet, and here’s what she said, “I know what you mean and I know it would work. There are times I get to that state even now, but ultimately I have to get ready for bed and poof! reality check hits and all the refocusing is reset.”

But Sweet and I aren’t research scientists, so, really, what does it matter what we think is feasible? Let’s just hope some brilliant neurologists picks up on this conception and runs some trials, achieving great successes… and crediting me, of course, when she wins the Nobel prize.

Just imagine… Giselle Renarde, Nobel Prize Laureate in the Field of Boobs…

Bright Blessings,

gigi

freewebs.com/gisellerenarde
photo credit: *bene*