I planned to spend the evening exchanging texts with Sara about how the twins fared in their first swimming pool experience and writing about that. It was not to be. I won't go into how I did it, but I've effectively killed my phone, so I won't be sending or receiving any texts for awhile.
So I'm improvising.
This may be hard to believe, but baby Jack has taken a liking to me. He stares at me curiously whenever I'm around. Maybe more in a slack-jawed than curious way, but why split hairs. I have been able to captivate and/or make him stop crying several times by making my "snack hands" gesture at him - an example of which I would record and post had I not killed my phone. It's not complicated, though. I hold both hands out and wiggle my fingers around, saying "snaaaacks". Probably even more surprising than the fact that the mini-man seems to like me is the fact that I actually have held a baby. I perhaps would not have held him (for a good 20 minutes, maybe more) on Friday night had Chris not not put him in my lap. But so there.
I have this to say about my baby-holding experience: that kid's built like a Vienna sausage*.
I started out looking up the dimensions of a Vienna sausage so I could see how far off I was in guessing his proportions. I found out that a Vienna sausage is about 3/4 of an inch in diameter and 2 inches long - so both short and stout, like Jack, but I don't know how long Jack is, so I can't say whether that width/length ratio translates accurately to baby. But in looking up sausage dimensions I also ended up with all the nutritional information in front of me, so I did a little math. One Vienna sausage is about 6.25 grams and 37 calories. Fat content: 3 grams (1 saturated, 2 monounsaturated). 14 mg cholesterol, 155 mg sodium, 16 mg potassium, and 2 g protein. 1% recommended daily intake of iron. Jack is 17 pounds. Presuming he is made of the same stuff as a Vienna sausage, that translates to 44,921 calories, 3642 grams of fat (1214 saturated, 2428 monounsaturated), 18.2 grams cholesterol, 19 grams sodium, 19.7 grams potassium and 2428 grams of protein.
I read Jonathan Swift's A Modest Proposal in first or second year. For anyone not in the know, this is a satirical essay from 1729 wherein he suggests that the impoverished parents of Ireland would benefit financially if they sold their babies to the upper classes as cuts of meat, in that they would be spared the burden of feeding them and put a few dollars in their pockets at the same time. He also pointed out that adding baby to the menu would diversify local cuisine**.
Based on the above statistics, it is clear that baby would not make for a healthy meal. Or snack. I know that Swift was making a point and not actually championing either infantcide or cannibalism: I still respectfully suggest that eating babies is probably not the best idea. All fat. No nutrition***.
For educational purposes, I also tried to look up which species of fauna eat their young, and why, but that proved too much zoology for me. I remembered from childhood that you had to be careful with hamster babies, otherwise their mothers might eat them, so I satisfied myself with that****.
*Our connection is possibly a shared love of snacks. He is a portly fellow.
**oddly, when I looked up summaries of A Modest Proposal to make sure I wasn't getting my limited details wrong, I kept getting pop-up advertisements for Popeye's Chicken.
***Nutrition aside, I also learned that a nice Gewerztraminer is the suggested wine pairing for Vienna sausages. As a vegetarian, it is doubtful that there are any sausages - or babies - in my future, but a nice Gewerztraminer might not be out of the question.
****I've underlined some pertinent parts:
•Hamsters eat their litter for many reasons. If the litter is not weaned and you touch them then most of the time the mom will not smell her scent and might not care for them which is one way they will die, or she feels they are a threat so she will eat them.
•After a mother hamster gets pregnant you have to separate them from the males. They get stressed. That will cause them to eat their young as well. And the males try to take over.
•Another reason is the mother's overcrowding and territorial instincts. If you have too many hamsters in one cage, the mom will feel that there is not any to protect her babies anymore and will start eating them.
•Usually because she feels that they are under threat or she cannot cope with that many babies.
•Perhaps she does not feel safe. Perhaps she is underfed or missing some kind of nutrition.
•Typically a mother hamster needs to feel protected from people and other hamsters, with a comfortable partially secluded area. This may be a small nest box or a area piled high with shavings and litter, in a separate cage from other hamsters. Try not to disturb her too much when she has very young with her. Keep other pets away as well.
Read more: http://wiki.answers.com/Q/Why_do_Hamsters_eat_their_babies#ixzz1ne7Xc7Cm
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Sit Ubu, Sit
I was on the streetcar home from work tonight, unfortunately in the presence of a screeching toddler.
I would guess that this kid was about two years old. And holy fuck, did he ever want off the streetcar.
I'm not going to fault him for finding the situation uncomfortable. It was very crowded. I don't mind a crowded streetcar if I am able to maintain enough personal space to surf out the lurches, etc. This was not one of those rides. Not an inch of space anywhere. The child was ranting and crying that he didn't want to be on this streetcar, he wanted to be on the one behind. He was clearly not a complete dullard, and had figured out (unlike many adults), that if you are waiting a train, and you see two cars come up one behind the other, and the first one is full, chances are very good that if you wait out the 45 seconds for the next one, you will find that it is going to get you to the same place, doesn't smell all that bad and has plenty of available seating. Bravo, child.
However.
The dad first explained to him that the car behind was out of service, and the driver would not let them on if they tried. This proved itself a useless argument, the whiner clearly not hearing and/or understanding, and/or choosing not to hear and/or understand what "out of service" meant. Crying up one octave. The dad then switched gears, and tried to convince the whiner that if they weren't on the streetcar they'd have to walk, and it was both cold outside and a very long way. This proved itself a useless argument. The child immediately gulped out, between sobs, that he'd rather walk. Crying up another octave. The dad then tried to pacify the child by explaining how many more stops they had to go, and counting them down. This proved itself a useless tactic. The whiner maintained that he'd rather walk. Crying up an octave with each stop.
The worst part is that when, happy days, the dad told the child that they had reached their destination and could get off the blighted streetcar, he became even more hysterical, because he didn't want to.
The leaking, squirming, screaming creature was not even what I found most annoying - and believe me when I say it was shrill. It was the dad. I would not describe myself as a violent person. But I experienced a very clear vision of improvising a tracheotomy by stabbing the end of the umbrella I was carrying into his throat. "Try to talk it out now, bitch!"*
I will give him credit for his self-composure. There was never a trace of anger or the tiniest bit of reproach in his voice. As the education and nurturing of children goes, I understand that he probably perceived it to be an important tutorial on the intricacies of our transit system, or maybe one of the "suck it up" of life lessons (of which there will be many). Or maybe he was trying to sooth the child into silence by reasoning with it. Regardless of what he was trying to do, it was a waste of his time and my patience because the child didn't hear a word of it. Clearly, trying to reason with it was not working. He was not listening. All that self control for what?
I've heard that a toddler has about the same intellectual capacity as a Labrador Retriever. If you caught your dog in the act of tearing down and chewing up your shower curtain, would you crouch on the floor, stroke his ears, and try to explain that this was not an appropriate reaction to separation anxiety? No, you would not. You'd make him stop. Even a partially retarded dog knows that when you speak in a certain tone of voice it means STOP. It doesn't have to be violent. It doesn't have to be mean. There are many ways to make them understand that you're the one in charge, and that lashing out isn't going to accomplish anything. But it seems that we live in an age where telling your unreasonable child to behave him/herself is now considered abuse**.
The twins are going on 7 months old. I've done some reading up on developmental milestones***. They should soon be crawling and be capable of understanding - though not vocalizing - several words. By about age two, they should be able to speak around a 100 words and understand about 200. An average Retriever understands about a hundred words. An exceptionally bright Retriever understands upward of 2000 words. In a few more months, the twins'll be talking a little bit. Chris and Sara, I implore you, make sure that among the other words in their limited vocabulary, that they understand NO. And STOP. And not just when they say it.
You can nurture them and talk them through these traumatic experiences when they are calm and might actually listen to you. Don't waste your energy trying to talk to a developing creature that understands nothing but "I'm not getting what I want".
In an effort to be helpful, I have cut and paste a list of suggestions that I found on a website of what you should expect/hope to achieve when habilitating the young. As follows:
Step-by-StepPuppy Human Training Checklist
The arrival of a newpuppy human is an exciting time for any household. Your cute and cuddly little fluff ball skin tag will immediately command center stage from the whole family. Before long though, it becomes very clear that the new arrival means there's lots for you to do, and even more for him/her to learn. Puppy Human training must top your list of priorities.
Your youngpuppy human is totally reliant and dependent on you to help him habituate and fit into our human, civilized, domesticated world. Your guidance and leadership will determine what path his life takes and what type of dog human he will become. During puppyhood infancy and childhood you play the lead role and are responsible for shaping the character, temperament and behavior habits that your dog human will carry throughout his life. Your puppy's human's future is in your capable hands...
Will yourpuppy human become a well adjusted and trusted member of society or a social outcast?
How To Train APuppy Human - It's Not All Fun And Games!
It shocks some newpuppy human owners**** when their puppy human acts like, well a puppy. The little critter Satan is a pooping machine who chews, barks, leaks, digs, sucks, cries and much more! But we still love them anyway - we just need to provide them with some direction and boundaries to follow.
If you're anything like me you probably just want to get yourpuppy human off to the best possible start in life, and also set them up to thrive as adults dogs. Early puppy socialization and puppy training are the keys to your success as a dog human owner.
Bringing a youngpup human into our lives is a big responsibility and commitment to fulfill. Our puppies devil spawn have a long list of requirements and deadlines that must be met for their well-being and longevity. Tasks like puppy house training, crate training, basic obedience, puppy socialization, leash training basic obedience and basic obedience need to be addressed right from the very start.
*It would have been a damn shame to damage the dad's voicebox. He had a very unassuming British accent, and excellent diction. Kind of like Jason Statham.
**Seriously. What's so wrong with "behave yourself" being one of these early lessons? I understand that it's inappropriate to tell your child to shut up every time s/he is upset to be in a situation that they don't like and/or understand. But is it so very wrong that "hush" be among those early life lessons. If you've failed at working out their distress in a calm and nurturing way, why not*****?
***The minions are going to have their first pool experience this weekend. I hear that some babies take to water almost as though they recently were embryos, swimming around a womb. I also hear that some babies think that you are trying to drown them and scream murder. We'll see.
****feel free to substitute "parent" for "human owner" if it makes you happy.
*****Personally, I would have dealt with this situation in one of two ways:
1. I would have given the "hush" or "behave yourself" command, if it was something the child had mastered. But next time I was on a streetcar with the non-hysterical child, I would have talked them through the intracacies of the transit system, so that next time they were pissed about being on the crowded streetcar, they might have understood it when I explained it - again.
2. Anyone who's ever taken an intro to creative writing workshop knows about "show, don't tell". Showing being much more effectual than telling. He wants to walk? Fine. We'll walk. He'll remember that long, cold walk the next time he complains about this particular issue. Of course, there are some who feel that I would be a very Mean Mommy. Althouh honestly, I don't see what's so mean about that.
I would guess that this kid was about two years old. And holy fuck, did he ever want off the streetcar.
I'm not going to fault him for finding the situation uncomfortable. It was very crowded. I don't mind a crowded streetcar if I am able to maintain enough personal space to surf out the lurches, etc. This was not one of those rides. Not an inch of space anywhere. The child was ranting and crying that he didn't want to be on this streetcar, he wanted to be on the one behind. He was clearly not a complete dullard, and had figured out (unlike many adults), that if you are waiting a train, and you see two cars come up one behind the other, and the first one is full, chances are very good that if you wait out the 45 seconds for the next one, you will find that it is going to get you to the same place, doesn't smell all that bad and has plenty of available seating. Bravo, child.
However.
The dad first explained to him that the car behind was out of service, and the driver would not let them on if they tried. This proved itself a useless argument, the whiner clearly not hearing and/or understanding, and/or choosing not to hear and/or understand what "out of service" meant. Crying up one octave. The dad then switched gears, and tried to convince the whiner that if they weren't on the streetcar they'd have to walk, and it was both cold outside and a very long way. This proved itself a useless argument. The child immediately gulped out, between sobs, that he'd rather walk. Crying up another octave. The dad then tried to pacify the child by explaining how many more stops they had to go, and counting them down. This proved itself a useless tactic. The whiner maintained that he'd rather walk. Crying up an octave with each stop.
The worst part is that when, happy days, the dad told the child that they had reached their destination and could get off the blighted streetcar, he became even more hysterical, because he didn't want to.
The leaking, squirming, screaming creature was not even what I found most annoying - and believe me when I say it was shrill. It was the dad. I would not describe myself as a violent person. But I experienced a very clear vision of improvising a tracheotomy by stabbing the end of the umbrella I was carrying into his throat. "Try to talk it out now, bitch!"*
I will give him credit for his self-composure. There was never a trace of anger or the tiniest bit of reproach in his voice. As the education and nurturing of children goes, I understand that he probably perceived it to be an important tutorial on the intricacies of our transit system, or maybe one of the "suck it up" of life lessons (of which there will be many). Or maybe he was trying to sooth the child into silence by reasoning with it. Regardless of what he was trying to do, it was a waste of his time and my patience because the child didn't hear a word of it. Clearly, trying to reason with it was not working. He was not listening. All that self control for what?
I've heard that a toddler has about the same intellectual capacity as a Labrador Retriever. If you caught your dog in the act of tearing down and chewing up your shower curtain, would you crouch on the floor, stroke his ears, and try to explain that this was not an appropriate reaction to separation anxiety? No, you would not. You'd make him stop. Even a partially retarded dog knows that when you speak in a certain tone of voice it means STOP. It doesn't have to be violent. It doesn't have to be mean. There are many ways to make them understand that you're the one in charge, and that lashing out isn't going to accomplish anything. But it seems that we live in an age where telling your unreasonable child to behave him/herself is now considered abuse**.
The twins are going on 7 months old. I've done some reading up on developmental milestones***. They should soon be crawling and be capable of understanding - though not vocalizing - several words. By about age two, they should be able to speak around a 100 words and understand about 200. An average Retriever understands about a hundred words. An exceptionally bright Retriever understands upward of 2000 words. In a few more months, the twins'll be talking a little bit. Chris and Sara, I implore you, make sure that among the other words in their limited vocabulary, that they understand NO. And STOP. And not just when they say it.
You can nurture them and talk them through these traumatic experiences when they are calm and might actually listen to you. Don't waste your energy trying to talk to a developing creature that understands nothing but "I'm not getting what I want".
In an effort to be helpful, I have cut and paste a list of suggestions that I found on a website of what you should expect/hope to achieve when habilitating the young. As follows:
Step-by-Step
The arrival of a new
Your young
Will your
How To Train A
It shocks some new
If you're anything like me you probably just want to get your
Bringing a young
*It would have been a damn shame to damage the dad's voicebox. He had a very unassuming British accent, and excellent diction. Kind of like Jason Statham.
**Seriously. What's so wrong with "behave yourself" being one of these early lessons? I understand that it's inappropriate to tell your child to shut up every time s/he is upset to be in a situation that they don't like and/or understand. But is it so very wrong that "hush" be among those early life lessons. If you've failed at working out their distress in a calm and nurturing way, why not*****?
***The minions are going to have their first pool experience this weekend. I hear that some babies take to water almost as though they recently were embryos, swimming around a womb. I also hear that some babies think that you are trying to drown them and scream murder. We'll see.
****feel free to substitute "parent" for "human owner" if it makes you happy.
*****Personally, I would have dealt with this situation in one of two ways:
1. I would have given the "hush" or "behave yourself" command, if it was something the child had mastered. But next time I was on a streetcar with the non-hysterical child, I would have talked them through the intracacies of the transit system, so that next time they were pissed about being on the crowded streetcar, they might have understood it when I explained it - again.
2. Anyone who's ever taken an intro to creative writing workshop knows about "show, don't tell". Showing being much more effectual than telling. He wants to walk? Fine. We'll walk. He'll remember that long, cold walk the next time he complains about this particular issue. Of course, there are some who feel that I would be a very Mean Mommy. Althouh honestly, I don't see what's so mean about that.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Barbie World
I'm a little confused. I thought that my generation had collectively agreed that Barbie was kind of... um... Satan, rendered in vinyl with a 36 inch bust. I figured that by now Barbie would have gone gently into the night, existing strictly as a collector's item, rather than as a toy found in the bedroom of every girl under age 12.
I was wrong, as usual*. For example, I also thought that my generation had collectively decided that marriage was an archaic and unnecessary institution, and that we were all in it together on the matter of reproduction: accidents happen, but otherwise, for the love of god, why would you do that to yourself? Now look at me. One of the last of my immediate peer group who is unmarried. Friends without kids still outnumber the friends with kids, but the gap is narrowing quickly. I could be drinking for 4 or 5 right now, if I decided to. It wouldn't be right to say that I feel bad about my current circumstances or that they are the result of a belief that everyone else was going to be in the same situation, but then they all backed out on me. But still.
But Barbie. I just don't get it. Not that I'm all into the anti-Barbie crusade**. On the risk of sounding pretentious, I never got it.
I had one Barbie doll and one Ken doll when I was little. I requested these as gifts for my 7th or 8th birthday, under duress. The girls in my class, especially my next door neighbour/"best friend"*** Tina, wanted to play Barbies almost exclusively. I wasn't really into it****, but I didn't want to be a loner 100% of the time. If I wanted other girls to play with, I had to show up at their houses packing a Barbie.
Playing Barbies, without fail, always ended with Barbie hooking up with Ken and having babies. All the girls (but me) insisted that it work out this way. We would get our Barbies all hussied up for a date with Ken. Barbie and Ken would hit it off, there would be babies, and the rest of the game would be all about that. Baby's crying. Baby's hungry. Baby needs a change. As we got older, we started to include sex as part of the process. I don't think we understood what sex actually was or how it was connected to baby-making. We understood, from movies and television shows, that both parties getting naked was the end of a really good date. So we'd get our Barbies hussied up. Barbie and Ken would go on a date. Once Tina grew tired of their camping trip or whatever other pretext had thrown them into each other's company, she would get a crazed look in her eyes and announce that "it was time for them to get down to business". Meaning, we would take all of their clothes off, press their naked silicone bodies together a few times, and end scene. We'd silently put clothes back on them, and next thing, boom. They were a family. Baby's crying. Baby's hungry. Baby needs a change.
I would start with good intentions. I'd have dialogue, adventure and plot lines worked out in my head. I wasn't at all off-put by the idea of Barbie and Ken having a little fun along the way. Nor was I off-put by the idea of them having a little more fun, after a brief rest period. Then I wanted them to get back out there having adventures. But it was me against the rest of my grade four class. All the other girls wanted Ken and Barbie to have babies once the seduction was over, and that is how it had to happen. (Though, new mom with 18 inch waist? I think not.)
What I'm wondering is this:
Was the need for Ken and Barbie to procreate instinctual, or was it something that was learned? Either way, why didn't I see it that way? Why did we never pretend that Barbie went out with her friends, drank a lot of whiskey and to hell with Ken? Or maybe, make out with Ken a little bit but her regular life back the next morning? I'd like to say that we didn't understand what alcohol was, but that can't be the reason. We didn't understand what sex was, either.
*If anything, girls of today have more Barbies. When I was little, you didn't need more than one or two dolls. You'd get a couple then get different outfits for them. The whole point of playing Barbies with friends was that your friends would have different models, with different outfits. Nowadays, it seems that everyone has every possible variation. I urge the parents of these girls to get ahold of themselves. You keep buying the same doll over and over again. Is that really where you want your money to go?
**Although, giving it some thought, I guess I am part of the anti-Barbie crusade. The whole body-image thing aside, even. It's chilling that there were always multiple Barbies around, but we never bothered with more than one Ken. None of us tried to individualize our dolls as anything else than "Barbie". Once we got a lot of them together, we stopped referring to them by name at all. The unnamed clones were always out to win Ken's affection and have his babies, and nothing else.
**I don't put "best friend" in quotes for any derogatory reason, exactly. Tina and I were besties at a point in life where one's best friend was the person not related to you with whom you spent the most time with, playing. Playing didn't involve any particular personal connection. From what I've recently observed of young girls at play, they are playing "with" each other only in theory. It's more like they're both playing in the same room. I think there's a turning point in children's friendships, where they cross the line between being happy just to have someone else there and wanting to have someone to actually talk to. I remember in kindergarten being asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, and being tasked to draw a picture of it. Tina wanted to be a secretary: her mom was a secretary. I don't remember the illustration. I wanted to be a nurse. I knew that my mom had worked in the hospital at some point. My toddler mind reasoned that she must have been a nurse: what else would a woman working at a hospital do?
We had the same assignment every year. By grade 3, Tina still wanted to be a secretary. I wanted to be an archeologist, travelling the world, digging up bones and forgotten treasures.
****go ahead, call me a nerd. I preferred "playing school" over playing with Barbies any day. I liked to pretend that I was a pioneer, hacking a life for myself out of the wilds of my backyard, digging in the dirt, planting seeds, and building houses for myself out of ends of lumber. I liked to gather all of my stuffed animals onto my bed and pretend that we were all in a van on a roadtrip, with the chance of adventure at every roadside attraction.
Also, I had two brothers. I preferred to play He-Man or Star Wars or G.I. Joe. The action was always more interesting navigating Castle Grey Skull than it was with nothing but "let's go shopping. baby's hungry. baby needs a change."
I was wrong, as usual*. For example, I also thought that my generation had collectively decided that marriage was an archaic and unnecessary institution, and that we were all in it together on the matter of reproduction: accidents happen, but otherwise, for the love of god, why would you do that to yourself? Now look at me. One of the last of my immediate peer group who is unmarried. Friends without kids still outnumber the friends with kids, but the gap is narrowing quickly. I could be drinking for 4 or 5 right now, if I decided to. It wouldn't be right to say that I feel bad about my current circumstances or that they are the result of a belief that everyone else was going to be in the same situation, but then they all backed out on me. But still.
But Barbie. I just don't get it. Not that I'm all into the anti-Barbie crusade**. On the risk of sounding pretentious, I never got it.
I had one Barbie doll and one Ken doll when I was little. I requested these as gifts for my 7th or 8th birthday, under duress. The girls in my class, especially my next door neighbour/"best friend"*** Tina, wanted to play Barbies almost exclusively. I wasn't really into it****, but I didn't want to be a loner 100% of the time. If I wanted other girls to play with, I had to show up at their houses packing a Barbie.
Playing Barbies, without fail, always ended with Barbie hooking up with Ken and having babies. All the girls (but me) insisted that it work out this way. We would get our Barbies all hussied up for a date with Ken. Barbie and Ken would hit it off, there would be babies, and the rest of the game would be all about that. Baby's crying. Baby's hungry. Baby needs a change. As we got older, we started to include sex as part of the process. I don't think we understood what sex actually was or how it was connected to baby-making. We understood, from movies and television shows, that both parties getting naked was the end of a really good date. So we'd get our Barbies hussied up. Barbie and Ken would go on a date. Once Tina grew tired of their camping trip or whatever other pretext had thrown them into each other's company, she would get a crazed look in her eyes and announce that "it was time for them to get down to business". Meaning, we would take all of their clothes off, press their naked silicone bodies together a few times, and end scene. We'd silently put clothes back on them, and next thing, boom. They were a family. Baby's crying. Baby's hungry. Baby needs a change.
I would start with good intentions. I'd have dialogue, adventure and plot lines worked out in my head. I wasn't at all off-put by the idea of Barbie and Ken having a little fun along the way. Nor was I off-put by the idea of them having a little more fun, after a brief rest period. Then I wanted them to get back out there having adventures. But it was me against the rest of my grade four class. All the other girls wanted Ken and Barbie to have babies once the seduction was over, and that is how it had to happen. (Though, new mom with 18 inch waist? I think not.)
What I'm wondering is this:
Was the need for Ken and Barbie to procreate instinctual, or was it something that was learned? Either way, why didn't I see it that way? Why did we never pretend that Barbie went out with her friends, drank a lot of whiskey and to hell with Ken? Or maybe, make out with Ken a little bit but her regular life back the next morning? I'd like to say that we didn't understand what alcohol was, but that can't be the reason. We didn't understand what sex was, either.
*If anything, girls of today have more Barbies. When I was little, you didn't need more than one or two dolls. You'd get a couple then get different outfits for them. The whole point of playing Barbies with friends was that your friends would have different models, with different outfits. Nowadays, it seems that everyone has every possible variation. I urge the parents of these girls to get ahold of themselves. You keep buying the same doll over and over again. Is that really where you want your money to go?
**Although, giving it some thought, I guess I am part of the anti-Barbie crusade. The whole body-image thing aside, even. It's chilling that there were always multiple Barbies around, but we never bothered with more than one Ken. None of us tried to individualize our dolls as anything else than "Barbie". Once we got a lot of them together, we stopped referring to them by name at all. The unnamed clones were always out to win Ken's affection and have his babies, and nothing else.
**I don't put "best friend" in quotes for any derogatory reason, exactly. Tina and I were besties at a point in life where one's best friend was the person not related to you with whom you spent the most time with, playing. Playing didn't involve any particular personal connection. From what I've recently observed of young girls at play, they are playing "with" each other only in theory. It's more like they're both playing in the same room. I think there's a turning point in children's friendships, where they cross the line between being happy just to have someone else there and wanting to have someone to actually talk to. I remember in kindergarten being asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, and being tasked to draw a picture of it. Tina wanted to be a secretary: her mom was a secretary. I don't remember the illustration. I wanted to be a nurse. I knew that my mom had worked in the hospital at some point. My toddler mind reasoned that she must have been a nurse: what else would a woman working at a hospital do?
We had the same assignment every year. By grade 3, Tina still wanted to be a secretary. I wanted to be an archeologist, travelling the world, digging up bones and forgotten treasures.
****go ahead, call me a nerd. I preferred "playing school" over playing with Barbies any day. I liked to pretend that I was a pioneer, hacking a life for myself out of the wilds of my backyard, digging in the dirt, planting seeds, and building houses for myself out of ends of lumber. I liked to gather all of my stuffed animals onto my bed and pretend that we were all in a van on a roadtrip, with the chance of adventure at every roadside attraction.
Also, I had two brothers. I preferred to play He-Man or Star Wars or G.I. Joe. The action was always more interesting navigating Castle Grey Skull than it was with nothing but "let's go shopping. baby's hungry. baby needs a change."
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Watch Your Back, Van Der Beek
Indulge me, for a moment, in a walk down memory lane.
It came as no surprise to any of us when Anna Nicole Smith died of a prescription pill overdose back in 2007. I remember sitting there thinking, in my compassionate way, that it was too bad I didn't have any money on who would be the next celebrity to die, because she definitely would have been at the top of my list.
Sara had the same thought. Celebrity Death Pool was born.
It worked sort of like fantasy baseball. There was a $20 buy in. We set up some guidelines so as to avoid fistfights over the rights to Andy Dick, as well as to offset any form of foul play. Everyone had to throw in 10 suggestions. There were restrictions on who could be included. Anyone over 55 years old was out. Anyone under 55 suffering from terminal illness was out. We weren't restrictive on how the person had achieved their celebrity, but they did need a level of fame that would result in some media coverage of their demise. If you suggested someone that 2 or more members of the group had never heard of, they were out. In addition to my other picks, I threw in James Van Der Beek as an unlikely teen-star wildcard. We were prohibited to do anything that could hasten the end of our chosen celebrities. If you happened to run into a clean and sober Robert Downey Jr. on the street, you couldn't offer him some crack. If you came across a tearful and depressed Britney Spears standing on a rooftop, you couldn't suggest that it would probably be better just to end it all. We would each pick five names from the list of possibles, and we drew numbers to determine who would get first overall pick. People laughed at me when I chose Michael Jackson, because while all agreed that he was definitely very strange and had made some questionable life choices, we had no reason to believe that he might die. I maintained that an angry parent might kill him.
There were some who declined to participate on moral grounds. To each their own. It's not that we were hoping anyone would die. I didn't see it as so much different from pregnancy bets - date, sex, weight, length of labour etc. It was something that was bound to happen: why not make it interesting? I would have been quite content if Death Pool had continued for decades. It would have been a nice affirmation of life/triumph of the human spirit if the celebrities we thought were doomed lived to prove us wrong.
It was not to be. I won Celebrity Death Pool when Jacko died on June 25, 2009. I didn't feel at all guilty about the win, either. I won't deny that Billy Jean and Thriller were pretty awesome, but otherwise I was genuinely surprised at the outpouring of grief. On June 24th he'd been written off as a child molester. On June 25th, his death was a tragedy and it was a disgusting shame that so many greedy parents had taken advantage of the kindness he'd shown their children.
I don't remember exactly how I spent my hundred and forty dollar haul. I expect it involved beer.
Things got a little weird after that, though. I'd suggested Brittany Murphy for the pool, because there was definitely something sketchy about her, and she was possibly anorexic. (Brittany Murphy RIP December 20, 2009). I'd suggested Corey Haim, a suggestion which came as no surprise to anyone, but still. (Corey Haim RIP March 10, 2010).
The Haimster's death really shook me up. He was the third celebrity in a row to die that I predicted would soon meet his end. I felt responsible. Before Death Pool, he was a former teen star who, from what I can tell, had worked hard to overcome his demons and was doing reasonably well (apart from the poverty and lack of career). And then the long dirt nap wasn't even the drugs. Pneumonia. Pneumonia? It was definitely all my fault*.
Corey Haim's death inspired me to send an anonymous postcard to James Van Der Beek suggesting that he watch his back. I decided not to send it when it occurred to me that it could be construed as a death threat.
After Gary Coleman's tumble down the stairs on May 27, 2010 (Gary Coleman RIP May 28, 2010), I decided to end my career as a harbinger of death. Enough was enough.
I wasn't the only one made a little uncomfortable by the accuracy of my predictions. The Death Pool group decided to start a different bet, the "Last Man Standing", where we would each pick a celebrity that we thought would outlive everyone else on the list. The only restriction was that any celebrity we chose had to be over age 75.
I chose Sophia Loren, then aged 75. Some homework revealed that she comes from a long-lived family and that she had been widowed several years earlier (so she wouldn't be one to bite it within months of the death of her spouse, which often happens). A number of the Last Man Standing celebrities have since dropped off, but not Sophia. If things go well for her, she could live another 20 or more years.
I didn't predict Whitney Houston's death for two reasons. One, as mentioned above, I'd given up on predicting celebrity deaths because I was clearly casting a curse upon them just by thinking their names. Two, I actually believed that she'd recovered from some bad Bobby Brown related decisions and wasn't abusing herself in that way anymore.
But Wheels from Degrassi threw me off (RIP Neil Hope November 25, 2007). It's not that I predicted his death, exactly. But last week, when the news came out that he'd died almost five years ago, unbeknownst to anyone, I was surprised. I have very clear memories of the news coverage of his death from about five years ago.
Sara suggested, post-Whitney, that we start a new Death Pool because Last Man Standing wasn't yielding the desired results (people aren't dying fast enough). I'm not saying I won't participate in the bet (cause I will), but this time I'll defer my predictions to an impartial - and non-psychic - third party.
*I've been planning since then to visit Haim's cemetary to leave a stone on his grave, as per Jewish custom. That hasn't happened yet**, but I'm now inspired to follow through. If anyone*** wants to come with me to pay your respects to one of the stars of Lost Boys (any maybe toast him with some tasty liquor above his grave), let me know. Especially if you have a car. It'll take me about two and a half hours to get there by public transit. I mean, I'll do it, but it could be so much more convenient.
**Nor will it happen this weekend, when I am scheduled for Chris and Sara's annual ski getaway. Last year I spent the first night drinking twelve bottles of blueberry ale and discussing baby names. What will this year offer?
***it appears that since his pornstar divorce, Feld-Dog has also fallen on hard times. We recently discovered that his ex is brining him to court, to increase child support payments from $160 to $180 per month (Corey F. with a reported income of $1800 monthly). I couldn't wrap my mind around that, until someone pointed out that a heroin-addicted Feldman probably sold off his royalty rights to his 80's movies. Some of us are conspiring to raise the cash for Feld-Dog to visit the grave. That's another story entirely.
It came as no surprise to any of us when Anna Nicole Smith died of a prescription pill overdose back in 2007. I remember sitting there thinking, in my compassionate way, that it was too bad I didn't have any money on who would be the next celebrity to die, because she definitely would have been at the top of my list.
Sara had the same thought. Celebrity Death Pool was born.
It worked sort of like fantasy baseball. There was a $20 buy in. We set up some guidelines so as to avoid fistfights over the rights to Andy Dick, as well as to offset any form of foul play. Everyone had to throw in 10 suggestions. There were restrictions on who could be included. Anyone over 55 years old was out. Anyone under 55 suffering from terminal illness was out. We weren't restrictive on how the person had achieved their celebrity, but they did need a level of fame that would result in some media coverage of their demise. If you suggested someone that 2 or more members of the group had never heard of, they were out. In addition to my other picks, I threw in James Van Der Beek as an unlikely teen-star wildcard. We were prohibited to do anything that could hasten the end of our chosen celebrities. If you happened to run into a clean and sober Robert Downey Jr. on the street, you couldn't offer him some crack. If you came across a tearful and depressed Britney Spears standing on a rooftop, you couldn't suggest that it would probably be better just to end it all. We would each pick five names from the list of possibles, and we drew numbers to determine who would get first overall pick. People laughed at me when I chose Michael Jackson, because while all agreed that he was definitely very strange and had made some questionable life choices, we had no reason to believe that he might die. I maintained that an angry parent might kill him.
There were some who declined to participate on moral grounds. To each their own. It's not that we were hoping anyone would die. I didn't see it as so much different from pregnancy bets - date, sex, weight, length of labour etc. It was something that was bound to happen: why not make it interesting? I would have been quite content if Death Pool had continued for decades. It would have been a nice affirmation of life/triumph of the human spirit if the celebrities we thought were doomed lived to prove us wrong.
It was not to be. I won Celebrity Death Pool when Jacko died on June 25, 2009. I didn't feel at all guilty about the win, either. I won't deny that Billy Jean and Thriller were pretty awesome, but otherwise I was genuinely surprised at the outpouring of grief. On June 24th he'd been written off as a child molester. On June 25th, his death was a tragedy and it was a disgusting shame that so many greedy parents had taken advantage of the kindness he'd shown their children.
I don't remember exactly how I spent my hundred and forty dollar haul. I expect it involved beer.
Things got a little weird after that, though. I'd suggested Brittany Murphy for the pool, because there was definitely something sketchy about her, and she was possibly anorexic. (Brittany Murphy RIP December 20, 2009). I'd suggested Corey Haim, a suggestion which came as no surprise to anyone, but still. (Corey Haim RIP March 10, 2010).
The Haimster's death really shook me up. He was the third celebrity in a row to die that I predicted would soon meet his end. I felt responsible. Before Death Pool, he was a former teen star who, from what I can tell, had worked hard to overcome his demons and was doing reasonably well (apart from the poverty and lack of career). And then the long dirt nap wasn't even the drugs. Pneumonia. Pneumonia? It was definitely all my fault*.
Corey Haim's death inspired me to send an anonymous postcard to James Van Der Beek suggesting that he watch his back. I decided not to send it when it occurred to me that it could be construed as a death threat.
After Gary Coleman's tumble down the stairs on May 27, 2010 (Gary Coleman RIP May 28, 2010), I decided to end my career as a harbinger of death. Enough was enough.
I wasn't the only one made a little uncomfortable by the accuracy of my predictions. The Death Pool group decided to start a different bet, the "Last Man Standing", where we would each pick a celebrity that we thought would outlive everyone else on the list. The only restriction was that any celebrity we chose had to be over age 75.
I chose Sophia Loren, then aged 75. Some homework revealed that she comes from a long-lived family and that she had been widowed several years earlier (so she wouldn't be one to bite it within months of the death of her spouse, which often happens). A number of the Last Man Standing celebrities have since dropped off, but not Sophia. If things go well for her, she could live another 20 or more years.
I didn't predict Whitney Houston's death for two reasons. One, as mentioned above, I'd given up on predicting celebrity deaths because I was clearly casting a curse upon them just by thinking their names. Two, I actually believed that she'd recovered from some bad Bobby Brown related decisions and wasn't abusing herself in that way anymore.
But Wheels from Degrassi threw me off (RIP Neil Hope November 25, 2007). It's not that I predicted his death, exactly. But last week, when the news came out that he'd died almost five years ago, unbeknownst to anyone, I was surprised. I have very clear memories of the news coverage of his death from about five years ago.
Sara suggested, post-Whitney, that we start a new Death Pool because Last Man Standing wasn't yielding the desired results (people aren't dying fast enough). I'm not saying I won't participate in the bet (cause I will), but this time I'll defer my predictions to an impartial - and non-psychic - third party.
*I've been planning since then to visit Haim's cemetary to leave a stone on his grave, as per Jewish custom. That hasn't happened yet**, but I'm now inspired to follow through. If anyone*** wants to come with me to pay your respects to one of the stars of Lost Boys (any maybe toast him with some tasty liquor above his grave), let me know. Especially if you have a car. It'll take me about two and a half hours to get there by public transit. I mean, I'll do it, but it could be so much more convenient.
**Nor will it happen this weekend, when I am scheduled for Chris and Sara's annual ski getaway. Last year I spent the first night drinking twelve bottles of blueberry ale and discussing baby names. What will this year offer?
***it appears that since his pornstar divorce, Feld-Dog has also fallen on hard times. We recently discovered that his ex is brining him to court, to increase child support payments from $160 to $180 per month (Corey F. with a reported income of $1800 monthly). I couldn't wrap my mind around that, until someone pointed out that a heroin-addicted Feldman probably sold off his royalty rights to his 80's movies. Some of us are conspiring to raise the cash for Feld-Dog to visit the grave. That's another story entirely.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Stalking Robert Smith
I'd made up my mind to dislike Sara before I met her.
This requires some explanation, which involves a small (admittedly vague) slice of my life story.
I met Chris more years ago than I care to admit. I have no memory of our actual first meeting*, but the circumstances were this: I was in grade 10 or 11. For reasons I won't go into, my friend Jen had decided her home life was intolerable and left. For other reasons that I won't go into, Chris, though still in high school, was living on his own in a bachelor apartment. And Jen, who was very petite, took up residence in his closet.
Not that Chris and I made fast friends. Jen moved out of his closet within a couple of months and after that, we didn't see each that often. We moved in similar, but not the same circles, so our paths would cross sometimes, and we were friendly, but it didn't go any further than that. Our paths continued to cross, very occasionally, after we were both finished high school and moved away. He was an on-again-off-again resident of Toronto. I would visit my grade-10-boyfriend-turned-regular-friend Edwin in Toronto every few months. Edwin and Chris would hang out sometimes, so sometimes when I came to see Edwin, Chris would be around. But then I moved out west, and these visits stopped.
Fast forward several years. I was fresh from a series of personal disasters, needed a new scene, and picked TO because I had two friends here. I was not including Chris in that number. I was flat broke with a delinquent student loan. I found a low-paying, nine-to-five job. I found a low-rent basement apartment, which was about 250 sqaure feet, both smelled and looked musty (moss green paint), and never got any natural light - I mean, none at all. It could have been miserable, but it wasn't all bad**. I considered the work and home situations temporary, and only a couple of months went by before I took up with a boy. He had a lot of friends who all loved music and drinking. I was like a fish in water, busy doing something fun 3 or 4 nights a week.
A year went by, that relationship turned sour, and things took a turn for the lonely and discouraged. I was over a year into my "temporary" job. Still living in the basement apartment, which Edwin had started calling "junky hole". Without access to my now ex-boyfriend's social circle, I was virtually friendless. I still had Edwin, but that was all, my other friend in the city having decamped for Vancouver not long after I got here.
So when Edwin called me up and asked if I wanted to go for drinks with Chris, I jumped. A friend! Never mind that we didn't know each other all that well and I hadn't seen him in several years. We'd not known each other all that well for such a long time that it was good enough for me. Edwin called me on the designated Saturday night to remind me to come. And told me that Chris would be bringing his new girlfriend. I was not pleased.
It seems to have evened out over the years, but for a long time I got along much better with men than women. I didn't relate well to other girls for several reasons that would be too time consuming to go into. I didn't get them, and I accepted that as the way it was. My experience with the girlfriends of guys that I was friends with had not been positive. I won't try to travel back in time to get into any of their heads. I'm going to assume that they didn't relate to me any better than I did them, so a big part of it was just that they didn't understand me and/or like me very much. Add that to a bit of insecurity/jealousy/suspicion when it became clear that I had much more fun talking to their boyfriends than talking to them. It never went well.
Plus, I'd known a couple of Chris' ex-girlfriends, and had no faith at all in his taste in women. My happy reunion with fellow Chathamite/potential person to hang out with was going to be ruined by some stupid girl.
I don't precisely remember thinking "I'll show her" when I started to get dressed. I remember assuming that things were not going to go well, but that maybe Edwin could be convinced to go out after and I'd pick up - and I dressed appropriately. Not appropriate for a couple of casual pints at an Irish pub, in retrospect. After I was ready to go, I remember some satisfaction in the likelihood that I'd make the girlfriend uncomfortable. I arrived at the bar about half an hour late, dressed in a purple corduroy mini skirt, bright orange Converse high tops, and a very form-fitting Go-Go's T-shirt. Slurping on a Push-Pop***. Chris, Sara and/or Edwin would be better people than me to describe the impression I made. I wasn't paying much attention, since I'd convinced myself that I wasn't trying to make any kind of point but that this was just me on a Saturday night, and that anyone who thought anything of it was stupid and annoying. I sat down, ordered a pint, continued sucking on the Push-Pop, and pointedly ignored Sara, the girlfriend.
Had Sara been your usual kind of girl, things probably would have gone the way I thought they would. I would've left the bar thinking that it was a shame that Chris' girlfriend was so stupid and annoying, honestly believing that the social failure had everything to do with her and nothing to do with my mini-skirt or the fact that I'd just spent two hours talking to her boyfriend and pretending she wasn't there, except for when she tried to speak and I replied to her, indirectly, with something both condescending and sarcastic.
But you can only ignore one of the people sitting at a table for four for so long. I learned later that Sara thought I wanted to sleep with Chris, which she found hilarious. My recollection is also that she saw right through me, knew that I'd hoped to make her uncomfortable, and decided to one-up me by being especially friendly. Sara has a scathingly mean sense of humour. Sara being friendly involves her letting you in the joke****.
I don't know whether there's been much evidence of my scathingly mean sense of humour in the blog - given that I'm generally discoursing about people that I like. Regardless. I was like a fish in water. Sara and I made fast friends.
Why does this matter today, you may wonder?
It could be that I'm running out of material and that after spending more than a year writing about them, their family way, and how it all relates to me, I figured it was time to shed some light on how/why I know these people. But that's not it.
The truth is that the winner of the 2011 3 Day Novel contest***** was recently announced. A tale of an aging rock journalist who spends the novel following around a band under the pretext of writing their biography, but which ultimately turns out to be a chronicling of himself.
To backtrack, one of the things that Sara and I bonded over the night we met at Murphy's Pub was the fact that we'd both majored in creative writing in university, a bachelor's degree we both knew was not going to lead to any kind of career offering enough income, literally, to buy us lunch. We've planned several collaborative writing projects over the years, mainly a screenplay for "Pump Up the Volume II", the story of Mark Hunter/Happy Harry 20 years after his pirate radio project was shut down by the FCC and he was arrested. In our story, Happy Harry is just out of jail, moves back into his parents' basement, and tries to relive his glory days by getting the radio thing going again. Which is both sad and inappropriate since he is now a 38 year old man hoping to captivate a teen audience by masturbating on air. This project never came to anything, mostly because, as Chris pointed out, we had much more fun making fun of Christian Slater and how we could probably get him to reprise his role for cheap since he no longer had a career than actually putting pen to paper.
The one project****** that Sara and I did follow through on was entering the 2010 3 Day Novel contest. The tale of an aging rock journalist who spends the novel following around - or trying to follow around - Robert Smith - but ultimately telling the story of herself. We did not win. We were both unimpressed, to say the least, with the synopsis of this year's winner.
I won't deny that when re-reading our manuscript, it is very obviously the product of a semi-delirious 72 hours fuelled entirely by coffee, vegetarian lasagna, Space Pops and hard cider. But I also know that there's some really good material in there. After it was over, Sara and I agreed that it was a gruelling, but cathartic experience, and we should do it every year.
The following thoughts may seem disjointed, but they make sense to me.
Sara had three week old twins on her hands which precluded her from this year's contest. I entered on my own. I gave up and went drinking about 36 hours in, when it became apparent that I was not going to be happy with whatever I managed to produce. I didn't feel the weekend was a failure, though, since it motivated me to come up with a concept I might not have otherwise, and am still actually working on. After a decade-long dry spell, I think I might have something good.
But that's not exactly the point, either.
One of the reasons why I've tried so hard to avoid the entrapments of full-on adulthood - and that would include children - is the belief that that kind of responsibility would spell the end of any chance of following my misguided muse.
But since I've not personally done anything to propel me to full-on adulthood, that's not really the point either.
I spent many years doing no writing at all apart from largely illegible, vodka-soaked journals bemoaning my unhealthy relationships and overall position in life.
I think Margaret Atwood is a tad pretentious, so I hate paraphrasing her, but when talking about writing, she said something to the effect of, "anyone contemplating writing should go and stand in the middle of a library and ask themselves whether they have anything to say that's different from what's already been said".
It took Sara (and Chris), and their leap into full-on adulthood, to get me going again.
Not that I'm garnering enough income from my blog to buy me lunch (aka: nothing), but it's more than I've done it years, and I feel good about that.
Sorry in advance for being sentimental, and not that you did it on purpose for me or anything.
But thanks.
*I was possibly really high at the time. We liked to smoke up every day after school.
**I can't and won't deny that I spent my first few months listening to Phil Collins (this was my "sad" music) and drinking alone in the basement. But it didn't last so long.
***As accessories go, I switched back and forth between Push-Pops and Blow-Pops.
****I have no doubt that I was the brunt of these jokes for awhile. Actually, I know for sure that I was - and still am - I'm okay with it. Edwin made it really easy for our mean streaks to come out, however, when he invited his friend Vivos and didn't tell anyone. Or suggest that we find a bigger table and/or an extra seat when Vivos arrived. When Vivos announced, 3/4 of the way through a bottle of Heineken, "you know, I think this beer is bad", we thought it was the random announcement of a completely random person who'd been hovering over our table for nearly an hour*******.
*****http://www.3daynovel.com/
******I almost forgot. Sara and I collaborated successfully on the lyrics for a song called "Pocket Mullet Man"********, a song now performed by indie Toronto band When We Was Young http://www.myspace.com/whenwewasyoung/music. (I particularly like "Two Feet", "Out of Place" and "Itch", in that order). They sadly do not include a recording of Pocket Mullet Man on their MySpace. Nor do they include their cover of Kriss Kross, which is amazing.
*******Vivos could always be counted on for something completely random. "Sneakers are really making a come-back" (out of nowhere), "I like the white ones" (about 90 minutes after a conversation about jelly beans), and, my favourite, "lesbians always pick fights with me" (out of nowhere). Where is this guy? I kind of miss him.
********Pocket Mullet Man, his favourite colour is beige. Pocket Mullet Man, likes his girls under-age...
This requires some explanation, which involves a small (admittedly vague) slice of my life story.
I met Chris more years ago than I care to admit. I have no memory of our actual first meeting*, but the circumstances were this: I was in grade 10 or 11. For reasons I won't go into, my friend Jen had decided her home life was intolerable and left. For other reasons that I won't go into, Chris, though still in high school, was living on his own in a bachelor apartment. And Jen, who was very petite, took up residence in his closet.
Not that Chris and I made fast friends. Jen moved out of his closet within a couple of months and after that, we didn't see each that often. We moved in similar, but not the same circles, so our paths would cross sometimes, and we were friendly, but it didn't go any further than that. Our paths continued to cross, very occasionally, after we were both finished high school and moved away. He was an on-again-off-again resident of Toronto. I would visit my grade-10-boyfriend-turned-regular-friend Edwin in Toronto every few months. Edwin and Chris would hang out sometimes, so sometimes when I came to see Edwin, Chris would be around. But then I moved out west, and these visits stopped.
Fast forward several years. I was fresh from a series of personal disasters, needed a new scene, and picked TO because I had two friends here. I was not including Chris in that number. I was flat broke with a delinquent student loan. I found a low-paying, nine-to-five job. I found a low-rent basement apartment, which was about 250 sqaure feet, both smelled and looked musty (moss green paint), and never got any natural light - I mean, none at all. It could have been miserable, but it wasn't all bad**. I considered the work and home situations temporary, and only a couple of months went by before I took up with a boy. He had a lot of friends who all loved music and drinking. I was like a fish in water, busy doing something fun 3 or 4 nights a week.
A year went by, that relationship turned sour, and things took a turn for the lonely and discouraged. I was over a year into my "temporary" job. Still living in the basement apartment, which Edwin had started calling "junky hole". Without access to my now ex-boyfriend's social circle, I was virtually friendless. I still had Edwin, but that was all, my other friend in the city having decamped for Vancouver not long after I got here.
So when Edwin called me up and asked if I wanted to go for drinks with Chris, I jumped. A friend! Never mind that we didn't know each other all that well and I hadn't seen him in several years. We'd not known each other all that well for such a long time that it was good enough for me. Edwin called me on the designated Saturday night to remind me to come. And told me that Chris would be bringing his new girlfriend. I was not pleased.
It seems to have evened out over the years, but for a long time I got along much better with men than women. I didn't relate well to other girls for several reasons that would be too time consuming to go into. I didn't get them, and I accepted that as the way it was. My experience with the girlfriends of guys that I was friends with had not been positive. I won't try to travel back in time to get into any of their heads. I'm going to assume that they didn't relate to me any better than I did them, so a big part of it was just that they didn't understand me and/or like me very much. Add that to a bit of insecurity/jealousy/suspicion when it became clear that I had much more fun talking to their boyfriends than talking to them. It never went well.
Plus, I'd known a couple of Chris' ex-girlfriends, and had no faith at all in his taste in women. My happy reunion with fellow Chathamite/potential person to hang out with was going to be ruined by some stupid girl.
I don't precisely remember thinking "I'll show her" when I started to get dressed. I remember assuming that things were not going to go well, but that maybe Edwin could be convinced to go out after and I'd pick up - and I dressed appropriately. Not appropriate for a couple of casual pints at an Irish pub, in retrospect. After I was ready to go, I remember some satisfaction in the likelihood that I'd make the girlfriend uncomfortable. I arrived at the bar about half an hour late, dressed in a purple corduroy mini skirt, bright orange Converse high tops, and a very form-fitting Go-Go's T-shirt. Slurping on a Push-Pop***. Chris, Sara and/or Edwin would be better people than me to describe the impression I made. I wasn't paying much attention, since I'd convinced myself that I wasn't trying to make any kind of point but that this was just me on a Saturday night, and that anyone who thought anything of it was stupid and annoying. I sat down, ordered a pint, continued sucking on the Push-Pop, and pointedly ignored Sara, the girlfriend.
Had Sara been your usual kind of girl, things probably would have gone the way I thought they would. I would've left the bar thinking that it was a shame that Chris' girlfriend was so stupid and annoying, honestly believing that the social failure had everything to do with her and nothing to do with my mini-skirt or the fact that I'd just spent two hours talking to her boyfriend and pretending she wasn't there, except for when she tried to speak and I replied to her, indirectly, with something both condescending and sarcastic.
But you can only ignore one of the people sitting at a table for four for so long. I learned later that Sara thought I wanted to sleep with Chris, which she found hilarious. My recollection is also that she saw right through me, knew that I'd hoped to make her uncomfortable, and decided to one-up me by being especially friendly. Sara has a scathingly mean sense of humour. Sara being friendly involves her letting you in the joke****.
I don't know whether there's been much evidence of my scathingly mean sense of humour in the blog - given that I'm generally discoursing about people that I like. Regardless. I was like a fish in water. Sara and I made fast friends.
Why does this matter today, you may wonder?
It could be that I'm running out of material and that after spending more than a year writing about them, their family way, and how it all relates to me, I figured it was time to shed some light on how/why I know these people. But that's not it.
The truth is that the winner of the 2011 3 Day Novel contest***** was recently announced. A tale of an aging rock journalist who spends the novel following around a band under the pretext of writing their biography, but which ultimately turns out to be a chronicling of himself.
To backtrack, one of the things that Sara and I bonded over the night we met at Murphy's Pub was the fact that we'd both majored in creative writing in university, a bachelor's degree we both knew was not going to lead to any kind of career offering enough income, literally, to buy us lunch. We've planned several collaborative writing projects over the years, mainly a screenplay for "Pump Up the Volume II", the story of Mark Hunter/Happy Harry 20 years after his pirate radio project was shut down by the FCC and he was arrested. In our story, Happy Harry is just out of jail, moves back into his parents' basement, and tries to relive his glory days by getting the radio thing going again. Which is both sad and inappropriate since he is now a 38 year old man hoping to captivate a teen audience by masturbating on air. This project never came to anything, mostly because, as Chris pointed out, we had much more fun making fun of Christian Slater and how we could probably get him to reprise his role for cheap since he no longer had a career than actually putting pen to paper.
The one project****** that Sara and I did follow through on was entering the 2010 3 Day Novel contest. The tale of an aging rock journalist who spends the novel following around - or trying to follow around - Robert Smith - but ultimately telling the story of herself. We did not win. We were both unimpressed, to say the least, with the synopsis of this year's winner.
I won't deny that when re-reading our manuscript, it is very obviously the product of a semi-delirious 72 hours fuelled entirely by coffee, vegetarian lasagna, Space Pops and hard cider. But I also know that there's some really good material in there. After it was over, Sara and I agreed that it was a gruelling, but cathartic experience, and we should do it every year.
The following thoughts may seem disjointed, but they make sense to me.
Sara had three week old twins on her hands which precluded her from this year's contest. I entered on my own. I gave up and went drinking about 36 hours in, when it became apparent that I was not going to be happy with whatever I managed to produce. I didn't feel the weekend was a failure, though, since it motivated me to come up with a concept I might not have otherwise, and am still actually working on. After a decade-long dry spell, I think I might have something good.
But that's not exactly the point, either.
One of the reasons why I've tried so hard to avoid the entrapments of full-on adulthood - and that would include children - is the belief that that kind of responsibility would spell the end of any chance of following my misguided muse.
But since I've not personally done anything to propel me to full-on adulthood, that's not really the point either.
I spent many years doing no writing at all apart from largely illegible, vodka-soaked journals bemoaning my unhealthy relationships and overall position in life.
I think Margaret Atwood is a tad pretentious, so I hate paraphrasing her, but when talking about writing, she said something to the effect of, "anyone contemplating writing should go and stand in the middle of a library and ask themselves whether they have anything to say that's different from what's already been said".
It took Sara (and Chris), and their leap into full-on adulthood, to get me going again.
Not that I'm garnering enough income from my blog to buy me lunch (aka: nothing), but it's more than I've done it years, and I feel good about that.
Sorry in advance for being sentimental, and not that you did it on purpose for me or anything.
But thanks.
*I was possibly really high at the time. We liked to smoke up every day after school.
**I can't and won't deny that I spent my first few months listening to Phil Collins (this was my "sad" music) and drinking alone in the basement. But it didn't last so long.
***As accessories go, I switched back and forth between Push-Pops and Blow-Pops.
****I have no doubt that I was the brunt of these jokes for awhile. Actually, I know for sure that I was - and still am - I'm okay with it. Edwin made it really easy for our mean streaks to come out, however, when he invited his friend Vivos and didn't tell anyone. Or suggest that we find a bigger table and/or an extra seat when Vivos arrived. When Vivos announced, 3/4 of the way through a bottle of Heineken, "you know, I think this beer is bad", we thought it was the random announcement of a completely random person who'd been hovering over our table for nearly an hour*******.
*****http://www.3daynovel.com/
******I almost forgot. Sara and I collaborated successfully on the lyrics for a song called "Pocket Mullet Man"********, a song now performed by indie Toronto band When We Was Young http://www.myspace.com/whenwewasyoung/music. (I particularly like "Two Feet", "Out of Place" and "Itch", in that order). They sadly do not include a recording of Pocket Mullet Man on their MySpace. Nor do they include their cover of Kriss Kross, which is amazing.
*******Vivos could always be counted on for something completely random. "Sneakers are really making a come-back" (out of nowhere), "I like the white ones" (about 90 minutes after a conversation about jelly beans), and, my favourite, "lesbians always pick fights with me" (out of nowhere). Where is this guy? I kind of miss him.
********Pocket Mullet Man, his favourite colour is beige. Pocket Mullet Man, likes his girls under-age...
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
What's In Your Mom Purse?
I've been fighting off a cold for over a week. Slightly feverish, achy, dripping nose. It is not enjoyable.
You'd think that a person walking around with full coat pockets, a full purse and a full back pack would have at least one Kleenex or napkin at her disposal. Especially a person who's been fighting off a cold for over a week, in the winter.
I did not.
I will explain: I keep my cell phone and other items that I feel I might need quickly - but am not likely to lose - in my coat (these items go into my purse and/or pants pockets in warm weather). I keep items that I need quickly - but might lose (wallet, keys) - in my purse. I use my backpack for my exercise stuff and as a general carry-all: odds and ends I don't need that often but still like to have on me, anything that doesn't fit in my pockets or purse (because too big or otherwise), shopping purchases, needed supplies*.
I figure I'm usually carrying around at least the equivalent to a mom-purse (both by volume and by weight), so I was inspired to compare what I have in my assortment of storage compartments to what one may find in your typical mom-purse. I assumed that a mom-purse would actually contain spare napkins and/or Kleenex - but how else would they differ?
I googled the matter while waiting for Sara to get back to me about what she, herself, carries in her mom-purse.
I quickly found the website of a mom lamenting the days when she used to choose her purses by colour and by particular need. Generally a compact number which matched her outfit. She reported that the bulging mom-purse she now carries contains: napkins, Wet-Naps, keys, 2 lipsticks, lip balm, wallet, teething ring, small Tupperware container of Cheerios, some random plastic beads, an empty Tic Tac box, a pen from a mutual fund company, travel size hand lotion, emery board, loose change, a measuring tape, baby wipes, cell phone, Ziploc bag full of half-crushed Goldfish crackers, sunglasses, 1 blue plastic spoon, 1 hair elastic, 3 toy cars, extra keys, a parking pass, 3 "girl things", baby lotion, breath mints, gum, travel size hand sanitizer, diapers, 1/2 full sippy cup, 1/2 full water bottle, camera, 1 empty Ziploc bag, 3 ticket stubs from a minor league baseball game, sun hat, small cup of applesauce, and 1/2 of one green crayon. She expressed mortification that her giant she-purse was so full that the zipper split open at a soccer practice, and all of the other moms had clear view of the horror inside.
I didn't get the mortification for a couple of reasons.
First, anyone else at a kid's soccer practice is probably carrying the same kind of load. Who cares?
Second, why try to jam it all into one place, rather than compartmentalize items by need, as I do? And single dads? I know that they don't carry mom-purses around. They carry their wallets and personal items around in their pockets the same way non-dads do. For the needs of their offspring, they carry around sports-totes, level of organization dependant on both the individual and the quality of the sports-tote. You wouldn't ever find a dad spilling Cheerios and diapers out all over the counter at a drug store when trying to find their wallets to pay for "girl things".
Sara tells me that her mom-purse contains baby wipes, diapers (1 per baby per hour), bottles, bibs, spare clothes, a couple of toys, and some rice cereal in Tupperware. She clarified that she keeps separate bags for her own needs and for the twins'. Which makes a lot of sense to me in light of the above. She also pointed out that she has at least one baby strapped to her (a third bag) when walking out and about, because carrying her mom-tote and her regular purse doesn't leave any arm space for an infant.
This is what I was carrying:
Purse:
Backpack:
But no napkins. No tissues. I would've accepted a crumpled, crispy, dusty, used Kleenex. Nothing.
Wheels started turning. The constant snorting up my nasal drip was not only grossing me out but increasing sore throat and headache symptoms. I was reluctant to use the back of my hand and/or sleeve. I saw a streetmeat vendor handy, but diving into the bottom of my purse did not produce enough loose change for a hotdog (napkin). What did I have on hand that could be used to absorb some of this flow?
I won't tell you what I did. I will, however, leave you with the following thought sequence:
*lunch for work, change of clothes for overnight visits, alcohol for houseparties, etc.
**"If your answer is "no", please tell me before I spend $10 on drinks". I started out with 10 last January. Where are the other 9?
***I don't ordinarily carry deodorant and spare underwear in my purse. These were specific to an overnighter last weekend when I (uncharacteristically) chose to pack only a couple of necessary items in my purse and leave the backpack at home for lack of need of anything else in it
****Underwear/t-shirt bonanza related to the fact that I am much better at adding than taking away. Adding needed items for workouts in rush to pack back pack in mornings, without any thought to what might be in there already
*****we had a 1920's theme christmas party. my 3rd place prize money offset about 1/2 what I spent on the costume, which included: used 3-piece mens' suit, used wing-tip shoes, used fedora, fake moustache (from a theatre supply store, made from real human hair, and colour matched to my hair), fake blood (for fake bullet wounds), and fake tommy gun (which made real machine gun sounds). Third place? Third place?!? My fake moustache was made of real human hair. Grrr.
You'd think that a person walking around with full coat pockets, a full purse and a full back pack would have at least one Kleenex or napkin at her disposal. Especially a person who's been fighting off a cold for over a week, in the winter.
I did not.
I will explain: I keep my cell phone and other items that I feel I might need quickly - but am not likely to lose - in my coat (these items go into my purse and/or pants pockets in warm weather). I keep items that I need quickly - but might lose (wallet, keys) - in my purse. I use my backpack for my exercise stuff and as a general carry-all: odds and ends I don't need that often but still like to have on me, anything that doesn't fit in my pockets or purse (because too big or otherwise), shopping purchases, needed supplies*.
I figure I'm usually carrying around at least the equivalent to a mom-purse (both by volume and by weight), so I was inspired to compare what I have in my assortment of storage compartments to what one may find in your typical mom-purse. I assumed that a mom-purse would actually contain spare napkins and/or Kleenex - but how else would they differ?
I googled the matter while waiting for Sara to get back to me about what she, herself, carries in her mom-purse.
I quickly found the website of a mom lamenting the days when she used to choose her purses by colour and by particular need. Generally a compact number which matched her outfit. She reported that the bulging mom-purse she now carries contains: napkins, Wet-Naps, keys, 2 lipsticks, lip balm, wallet, teething ring, small Tupperware container of Cheerios, some random plastic beads, an empty Tic Tac box, a pen from a mutual fund company, travel size hand lotion, emery board, loose change, a measuring tape, baby wipes, cell phone, Ziploc bag full of half-crushed Goldfish crackers, sunglasses, 1 blue plastic spoon, 1 hair elastic, 3 toy cars, extra keys, a parking pass, 3 "girl things", baby lotion, breath mints, gum, travel size hand sanitizer, diapers, 1/2 full sippy cup, 1/2 full water bottle, camera, 1 empty Ziploc bag, 3 ticket stubs from a minor league baseball game, sun hat, small cup of applesauce, and 1/2 of one green crayon. She expressed mortification that her giant she-purse was so full that the zipper split open at a soccer practice, and all of the other moms had clear view of the horror inside.
I didn't get the mortification for a couple of reasons.
First, anyone else at a kid's soccer practice is probably carrying the same kind of load. Who cares?
Second, why try to jam it all into one place, rather than compartmentalize items by need, as I do? And single dads? I know that they don't carry mom-purses around. They carry their wallets and personal items around in their pockets the same way non-dads do. For the needs of their offspring, they carry around sports-totes, level of organization dependant on both the individual and the quality of the sports-tote. You wouldn't ever find a dad spilling Cheerios and diapers out all over the counter at a drug store when trying to find their wallets to pay for "girl things".
Sara tells me that her mom-purse contains baby wipes, diapers (1 per baby per hour), bottles, bibs, spare clothes, a couple of toys, and some rice cereal in Tupperware. She clarified that she keeps separate bags for her own needs and for the twins'. Which makes a lot of sense to me in light of the above. She also pointed out that she has at least one baby strapped to her (a third bag) when walking out and about, because carrying her mom-tote and her regular purse doesn't leave any arm space for an infant.
This is what I was carrying:
Purse:
- wallet
- change purse (containing no change)
- 3 packets of fast food ketchup
- 1 business card case (containing no business cards but my gym and dance studio passes, my buy-10-get-1-free card for bikini waxes, and 1 70's pick-up card**)
- dark green eyeshadow from Halloween
- 4 pill bottles (prescription; 2 empty)
- travel size hand and body lotion
- passport
- 1 cinnamon candy
- deodorant***
- 1 pair of underwear***
- 2 tampons
- 1 concert ticket stub
- January Metro pass
- February Metro pass
- subway transfers/commuter train tickets dating back to July 2011 (one with a grocery list written on the back; strange: I don't often buy groceries)
- movie ticket stub from A Very Harold and Kumar Christmas dated December 4, 2011
- Songs of Hawaii CD purchased at Starbucks
- loose change
- 1 subway token
- 1 Mac "Ruby Woo" lipstick
- tweezers
- 4 pens
- keys (which are secured to the inside of the purse, much in the way parents string their children's mittens inside of their coats to offset possible loss)
- the paper part of an empty gum package (with a daily itinerary for October 14 written on)
- ticket stub to American Idiot (wow. just wow. but for all the wrong reasons)
- 2 lighters
- receipts: BMV Bookstore January 8, 2011 $48.97, grocery store January 23 $14.89, bank machine December 27 $200.00, BarBurrito November 2 $19.87 (which for some reason I've written "Gary Busey" on the back), Co-Op Cabs December 9 $12.50, and one with print completely worn away.
Backpack:
- combination lock
- cosmetics bag containing razor, toothbrush, lip balm, eyeliner, foundation, mascara, sample size "It's Raining Men" body wash from Lush, 2 tampons
- 1 pair sneakers
- 1 pair flip flops
- 1 pair ballet shoes
- 5 t-shirts****
- 1 tank top
- 1 pair of leggings
- 2 pairs of socks
- 1 leg warmer
- 1 sports bra
- 5 pairs of underwear****
- orange juice bottle half-full of water
- 1 pack of gum (1 piece missing)
- antique cigarette case containing birthday candles (you would be shocked to learn how many times these come in handy for both planned and impromptu birthday parties)
- price tag from $80 Nike running pants
- unidentified lump of tin foil
- vanilla body spray
- receipt from Loblaw's dated October 22
- 1 hair elastic
- printout of piano sheet music for Jingle Bell Rock
- 8 plastic covers for disposable razors
- cheque book
- birth certificate (much crumpled - now in wallet)
- 9 loose birthday candles (2 broken)
- 2 pens
- 3 pay stubs (dated January 6, September 30 and August 19 - August 19 clearly exposed to water more than once, more of a pay-pulp than a pay-stub)
- 1 notebook
- the lid to a vitamin bottle
- some dust which may have once been vitamins
- cheque stub for my 3rd place prize in my work holiday party costume contest*****
- loose change
- empty bag once containing emergency rain poncho
- Notice of Intention to Appear re parking ticket dated September 6 (I have no car)
- 1 nose flute
- 4 packets of pepper
- headphones
- Post-It note with shopping list written on: unicorn, fabric store for purple velvet, candy store, black lentils, Purple Rain, liquor store, and note-to-self reading "are open-toe pumps the preferred footwear of the rebellious youth of today??"
- 2 Starbuck's Pick of the Weeks
- 1 Bingo scratch n' win (is it a winner? all of the "scratch" is worn away)
- 1 copy of the Bhagavad-gita (Krishna epistle given to me outside of the mall one day by someone who assured me that it would change my life)
- 1 smoke bomb (purchased last year when I tried to follow through on a plan to drop smoke bombs as a way to get out of awkward conversations - ie, wait for the first uncomfortable pause, drop smoke bomb, disappear, laugh maniacally. they weren't quite as effective as hoped, but maybe I shouldn't have tested them in a minus15 degree wind)
- cell phone
- loose change
- 1 zombie finger puppet
- pack of gum (1 piece missing)
- iPod (no headphones)
- 1 lighter
But no napkins. No tissues. I would've accepted a crumpled, crispy, dusty, used Kleenex. Nothing.
Wheels started turning. The constant snorting up my nasal drip was not only grossing me out but increasing sore throat and headache symptoms. I was reluctant to use the back of my hand and/or sleeve. I saw a streetmeat vendor handy, but diving into the bottom of my purse did not produce enough loose change for a hotdog (napkin). What did I have on hand that could be used to absorb some of this flow?
I won't tell you what I did. I will, however, leave you with the following thought sequence:
- is it unsanitary to wipe your nose with a tampon?
- no, not at all, considering the intended destination.
- will anyone notice and/or be disgusted if they see me wiping my nose with a tampon?
- more importantly, do I care?
- if I unwrap it inconspicuously in my pocket, and then dab at each nostil nonchalantly, might anyone who did notice think that I was using a Nyquil eucalyptus inhaler?
- more importantly, do I care?
*lunch for work, change of clothes for overnight visits, alcohol for houseparties, etc.
**"If your answer is "no", please tell me before I spend $10 on drinks". I started out with 10 last January. Where are the other 9?
***I don't ordinarily carry deodorant and spare underwear in my purse. These were specific to an overnighter last weekend when I (uncharacteristically) chose to pack only a couple of necessary items in my purse and leave the backpack at home for lack of need of anything else in it
****Underwear/t-shirt bonanza related to the fact that I am much better at adding than taking away. Adding needed items for workouts in rush to pack back pack in mornings, without any thought to what might be in there already
*****we had a 1920's theme christmas party. my 3rd place prize money offset about 1/2 what I spent on the costume, which included: used 3-piece mens' suit, used wing-tip shoes, used fedora, fake moustache (from a theatre supply store, made from real human hair, and colour matched to my hair), fake blood (for fake bullet wounds), and fake tommy gun (which made real machine gun sounds). Third place? Third place?!? My fake moustache was made of real human hair. Grrr.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Groundhog Day*
There are some things that I just don't understand.
I don't understand quantum physics. Though, I have no desire to understand quantum physics.
I don't understand why I am barred from starting a blog called hotpants.blogspot.com just because a teenaged boy wrote 3 posts in 2001**. Really?
And, I don't understand all the fuss about Groundhog Day. Or I didn't until yesterday. You see, when I was a small child, my mother told me that it works like this:
"If the groundhog comes out, sees his shadow, and is frightened back into his hole, that means there are still six more weeks of winter. If he doesn't see his shadow and decides to hang out for a bit, that means that spring is only 6 weeks away."
So I didn't get all the buzz about him not seeing his shadow meaning an early spring. I've been wondering about this for years. Had everyone else in the world forgotten that it was all just a play on words?
I googled it today to unravel the mystery. And it turns out, I the only one in the world who believed that it was a play on words. My history lesson: Groundhog Day is a pagan festival dating back to the Middle Ages, traditionally associated with weather prediction and fertility. Northern Europeans have agreed for hundreds of years that a sunny February 2nd means that spring is nowhere near coming, and a cloudy day means that it will be arriving any time now***. So Mom, you were wrong. I'm going to guess that what you were really trying to impress upon me is that the groundhog's predictions are bullshit, so I guess I forgive you.
Fertility, however, really got my attention. At last! It's been far too long since I had any reason to discuss the disgusting creation of life, and then drink to it.
Groundhog Day and fertility going together makes some amount of sense.
First, Spring is the season of fertility. How could a celebration of the imminent spring escape the association?
Second, as far as I can tell, most pagan holidays have do to with reproduction in one way or another. Elaborate ways to promote sex, and lots of it, all of them.
I was really hoping to find some specific mid-winter fertility rites or rituals, so that I could get drunk this weekend and act out the opposite. Apart from a suggestion that rubbing a groundhog's head might be good luck for women who are looking to conceive, I found nothing. Which could mean that the fertility aspect got lost somewhere in between the Inquisition and the commercialization of Wiarton Willie and Punxsutawney Phil. Or it could mean that the fertility bit wasn't that big a deal, and any specific rites or rituals were so boring and insignificant they weren't worth remembering. The ancient Celtic equivalent to starting on prenatal vitamins.
Ways to celebrate Groundhog Day did not escape my attention. There was some mention of beer for breakfast, intoxication being the only way an otherwise sane and normal adult would choose to stand outside for hours in mid-winter waiting for a glimpse of a ground squirrel. Hawaiian-themed parties also came up. So tomorrow night I'm going to put on a Hawaiian shirt and sip Mai Tai's. Or put drink umbrellas in my beer. I'll do something, anyway.
*No, not the one with Bill Murray. Not that I have anything against Bill Murray. I quite like Bill Murray. Not his entire body of work. Like Garfield. And Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties. I was going to include Groundhog Day as a thumbs down, but a quick check with Rotten Tomatoes revealed that Groundhog Day is rated as his best performance (96% Fresh). After reading the plot summary, I realized I've never actually seen Groundhog Day. But Meatballs. Ghostbusters. The Life Aquatic (I don't care what anyone says). Lost in Translation****, if you'll indulge a moment of pretentiousness. All amazing.
**Surely, if no one objected to two major motion pictures both called "Crash" being released within 8 years of each other, what could be wrong in relegating the 2001 hotpants blog to an archives folder and letting me use it now?
***Some trivia*****: the Germans were the first to allow a burrowing creature of the forest tell them whether they should air out their summer clothes because T-shirt weather was on the way.
****This is old news, but you know what he whispers in Scarlett Johansson's ear at the end of the movie? It's "I have to go, but I won't let that come between us, okay"
****Some more trivia. In Alaska, Groundhog Day is celebrated as "Marmot Day", actual "groundhogs" being scarce in those parts. Marmot Day was officialized in 2009 by an act of Alaska State Legislature under Governor Sara Palin. You remember Sara Palin. The woman who promoted oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge? Who said that "we've got to support our North Korean allies"? Who endorsed "predator control" and encouraged the hunting of wolves by helicopter, offering 150 bucks per carcass? Who ensured that sexual assault victims of Wasillia, Alaska be charged for their rape kits? (P.S. - Marmot is not a specific animal but a species, Marmota, and the groundhog is one of them).
I don't understand quantum physics. Though, I have no desire to understand quantum physics.
I don't understand why I am barred from starting a blog called hotpants.blogspot.com just because a teenaged boy wrote 3 posts in 2001**. Really?
And, I don't understand all the fuss about Groundhog Day. Or I didn't until yesterday. You see, when I was a small child, my mother told me that it works like this:
"If the groundhog comes out, sees his shadow, and is frightened back into his hole, that means there are still six more weeks of winter. If he doesn't see his shadow and decides to hang out for a bit, that means that spring is only 6 weeks away."
So I didn't get all the buzz about him not seeing his shadow meaning an early spring. I've been wondering about this for years. Had everyone else in the world forgotten that it was all just a play on words?
I googled it today to unravel the mystery. And it turns out, I the only one in the world who believed that it was a play on words. My history lesson: Groundhog Day is a pagan festival dating back to the Middle Ages, traditionally associated with weather prediction and fertility. Northern Europeans have agreed for hundreds of years that a sunny February 2nd means that spring is nowhere near coming, and a cloudy day means that it will be arriving any time now***. So Mom, you were wrong. I'm going to guess that what you were really trying to impress upon me is that the groundhog's predictions are bullshit, so I guess I forgive you.
Fertility, however, really got my attention. At last! It's been far too long since I had any reason to discuss the disgusting creation of life, and then drink to it.
Groundhog Day and fertility going together makes some amount of sense.
First, Spring is the season of fertility. How could a celebration of the imminent spring escape the association?
Second, as far as I can tell, most pagan holidays have do to with reproduction in one way or another. Elaborate ways to promote sex, and lots of it, all of them.
I was really hoping to find some specific mid-winter fertility rites or rituals, so that I could get drunk this weekend and act out the opposite. Apart from a suggestion that rubbing a groundhog's head might be good luck for women who are looking to conceive, I found nothing. Which could mean that the fertility aspect got lost somewhere in between the Inquisition and the commercialization of Wiarton Willie and Punxsutawney Phil. Or it could mean that the fertility bit wasn't that big a deal, and any specific rites or rituals were so boring and insignificant they weren't worth remembering. The ancient Celtic equivalent to starting on prenatal vitamins.
Ways to celebrate Groundhog Day did not escape my attention. There was some mention of beer for breakfast, intoxication being the only way an otherwise sane and normal adult would choose to stand outside for hours in mid-winter waiting for a glimpse of a ground squirrel. Hawaiian-themed parties also came up. So tomorrow night I'm going to put on a Hawaiian shirt and sip Mai Tai's. Or put drink umbrellas in my beer. I'll do something, anyway.
*No, not the one with Bill Murray. Not that I have anything against Bill Murray. I quite like Bill Murray. Not his entire body of work. Like Garfield. And Garfield: A Tale of Two Kitties. I was going to include Groundhog Day as a thumbs down, but a quick check with Rotten Tomatoes revealed that Groundhog Day is rated as his best performance (96% Fresh). After reading the plot summary, I realized I've never actually seen Groundhog Day. But Meatballs. Ghostbusters. The Life Aquatic (I don't care what anyone says). Lost in Translation****, if you'll indulge a moment of pretentiousness. All amazing.
**Surely, if no one objected to two major motion pictures both called "Crash" being released within 8 years of each other, what could be wrong in relegating the 2001 hotpants blog to an archives folder and letting me use it now?
***Some trivia*****: the Germans were the first to allow a burrowing creature of the forest tell them whether they should air out their summer clothes because T-shirt weather was on the way.
****This is old news, but you know what he whispers in Scarlett Johansson's ear at the end of the movie? It's "I have to go, but I won't let that come between us, okay"
****Some more trivia. In Alaska, Groundhog Day is celebrated as "Marmot Day", actual "groundhogs" being scarce in those parts. Marmot Day was officialized in 2009 by an act of Alaska State Legislature under Governor Sara Palin. You remember Sara Palin. The woman who promoted oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge? Who said that "we've got to support our North Korean allies"? Who endorsed "predator control" and encouraged the hunting of wolves by helicopter, offering 150 bucks per carcass? Who ensured that sexual assault victims of Wasillia, Alaska be charged for their rape kits? (P.S. - Marmot is not a specific animal but a species, Marmota, and the groundhog is one of them).
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