Do you type to your Grandma with those fingers?

I've got a job for all the socially-conscious hacktivists out there.  Join together you cyber Robin Hoods - join forces and find the anonymous trolls who spread their bile throughout the Interwebs.  Identify these trolls, procure evidence of their gross violations of common civility and then give transcripts of those violations to the trolls' Grandmothers.

Public shaming on a social network scale doesn't work for these folks - they get off on flaming things up in the comments sections of newspapers, blogs and twitter feeds.  You need to bring in the big guns for these people.

Post something mean to another kid at school?  Get a call from your Nonna.

Post something racist? Dinner across the table from you Grandma.

Joke about gay-bashing or slut-shaming?  Wake up to your Granny at your door.

Threaten to rape, assault, murder someone...?  Not only will the Cyber Robin Hoods give the transcripts to the police, but they'll tell your Mee-Maw. 

Reading "SHAME ON YOU!!!" from the masses won't faze them, but I can bet that having the person whose good opinion means the most to them in the world - be it a parent, grandparent, favourite aunt, uncle,  mentor?  Having that person shame a troll?  I bet that'd stick.  I bet having to look your Nana  in the eye and explain to her why you've called someone a dirty whore and hope they were hate fucked would bring your shame to a whole different level.  Modern shame isn't working - we need Old School for this.

What 80s movie are you?

What 80s movie are you?  What's your old person's name?  Which  Dwarf are you? What breed of dog?  What Harry Potter Character?  What ice cream flavour?  What Shakespearean heroine?  What turn of the century inventor?  What Norse God?  What Titan?  What Dr. Seuss book?  What Mathematical Equation?  What Scrabble letter?

Okay, I admit it - when these quizzes pop up in my Facebook feed, I am just as guilty as the next person.  I'll take the 2 minutes to do them. Hell, I'll take the 2 minute quiz that guesses your age based on what three drinks you like.  For some reason, I drew the line at What breed of dog.  I don't know why.  "Oh please, oh please, oh please, let me get Weimerander!!!"   (Fingers crossed, eyes shut.)  

What breed of dog??  I found myself channelling Sally from When Harry Met Sally.  "I am the dog?  I am the DOG?!?"

Then I was thinking - great, next one'll be: What type of slut are you?  Are you a dirty, DIRTY slut - or just a dirty slut?

If a hacker was going to to try infect someone's computer with a virus - all they'd have to do is attach it to one of these quizzes.  Anyone from Generation X is already pre-disposed to eagerly waste time, desperate to grab a quick shot of nostalgia, because apparently, life in the new Millennium is too... much. 

Way, WAY back, when... quizzes were done in magazines...  Does anyone else remember having to sharpen a pencil? 

He was probably dead by the end of the movie.

It was my favourite day.  MOVIE BINGE DAY.  It's right up there with Christmas Holidays with family and Front Row tickets to Violent Femmes.  MOVIE BINGE DAY has to include at least three, if not four movies.  (Just seeing two isn't nearly decadent enough.)  David's even created an app so that you can plan your day, figuring out the best way to see as many movies as possible while optimizing travel times between different locations and possible healthy food breaks. 

We were on movie three. As I was waiting for Rissa and David to come out of the bathroom, I spotted this guy at the edible petroleum product dispenser in the lobby.  I was on the other side of the lobby.  For some reason, I started counting when he began adding the "butter" to his small popcorn.  I counted to 32.  I wasn't 1-mississippi-ing it, but pretty close.  He held his finger down on the button for a count of 32.  I'm just guessing here, but I figure that you probably get at least 1 tbsp of topping per second.  That would be 32 tablespoons of topping on his small popcorn.  2 cups.  He put 2 CUPS of topping onto his small popcorn.  I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth.

I love movie theatre popcorn.  I adore it.  The salt, the oil.  LOOOOOOOVE it.  I will monitor my food all day so that I can share a large popcorn with David and Rissa.  It becomes a meal for me.  But when they ask " Would you like butter or topping?" I say "Just a little please..."  and then I watch them with an assassin's eye across the counter, shouting after the third squirt, "THAT'S GOOD THANKS!  THANK YOU!!!"

A small movie theatre popcorn, sans topping is about 400 calories.  With two added cups of topping?  This dude was preparing to ingest close to 4500 calories in his small popcorn.  I would be puking my guts out, or at the very least, becoming very acquainted with the feel of a toilet seat for long periods of time.   How many napkins would you need to wipe your hands after ingesting that much topping?  Fats and oils can send your body for a loop.

This one time, David came home from work, looking really green.

"What's the matter, love?" I asked solicitously.

"I was sick.  I had to get off the subway and throw up into a garbage can and then get back on."

"WHAT?  Are you okay?  Do you have a stomach bug?  Food poisoning?"

David couldn't meet my eyes.  "Mumble.... mumble...mumble...mumble..."

"I'm sorry?"

"I ate a few shortbread cookies."

It was becoming clear.  "How many?"

"Maybe 15."

What do you reckon?  1 tbsp of butter in each short bread cookie?  This dude at the movie theatre ate double that amount.  I wouldn't want to be the usher to clean up after that movie.

It's not a tee-tee...

It's a vagina.  Say it with me folks.  VA-GI-NA.  Vagina.  Half the people in the world have them.  You might have your very own.  Check now.   If it's an 'INNY" it's a vagina.  If it's an "OUTY" it's a penis.

That's not to say that, as an adult, I haven't used comic euphimisms to get a cheap laugh.  I frequently do.  My favourite is "hooha."  But as I was never raised with euphemisms, my daughter hasn't been either.  Rissa's known she's had a vagina since she could ask about body parts. 

We didn't baby talk with her.  We didn't ask if she needed to 'tinkle' or 'make poopies.'  Although the phrase, 'Who just tooted?" did have some traction in our house. 

When I was pregnant as a surrogate for another family, Rissa was 4.  We had some very pointed discussions about how babies were made at that time because it was important that she understand the general process of insemination (ie - that I did NOT have sex with the father of the baby), and why we weren't bringing another baby to our home.  In my 2nd trimester I had an ultra sound.  I explained that the ultrasound would tell whether I was having a boy or a girl.  Rissa had a friend 2 years her senior who said, "I know how they'll be able to tell!!  If it's a boy, it'll have short hair, and if it's a girl, it'll have long hair."  Rissa looked at this girl like she was nuts.  With a slight eye roll, Rissa said, "If it has a penis, it'll be a boy, and if it has a vagina, it'll be a girl."

Words have power. A great vocabulary goes hand in hand with great knowledge.  I had a friend whose kindergarten-aged child was reprimanded in school for exclaiming, "My penis is stuck in my zipper!"  "We don't use words like that," the teacher later said when she had the inevitable conversation with the boy's mother.  Why not?  They're body parts.  We don't have euphemisms for other body parts - other than because we aren't all doctors and don't know the proper Latin names.  Femur for most people is 'leg bone.'  Your rotator cuff doesn't get all 'niced up' for everyday conversation.   It isn't called a stretchy joiny bit for arm support.  But if that body part or bodily function has anything to with sexual activity or reproduction - the euphemisms pile up - puritanically clad in 'cleaner' language - lest we give kids knowledge.

Fact:  Women are supposed to bleed once a month from puberty through to their 50's.  It's called menstruation.  They bleed... from their vaginas.  They use pads, tampons or Diva Cups to catch the blood.  The phrase "on the rag" comes from a time when women had to use and then wash rags specifically fashioned to catch menstrual blood.  At this point in human evolution, menstruating should no longer come as a surprise to anyone.

Fact:  Babies are made when sperm from a penis, meet an egg from an ovary.  The fertilized egg then matures inside a uterus.  The baby then exits the female body via the vagina, or in some cases, through the stomach, via a c-section.  The stork does not bring babies.  Pregnant women do not swallow a watermelon seed.  Babies are not made when Mummies and Daddies love each other very much.

Fact:   The Rhythm Method, pulling out, or peeing right after will NOT protect against pregnancy.    You know what protects against pregnancy?  Not having sex.  But since we are all genetically programmed to want sex, the next best thing to protect against unplanned pregnancy is to use condoms, spermicidal foam, a cervical sponge, a diaphragm, an IUD, the patch, the shot or the pill.  Using the first three together, might ruin the mood, but a gal probably won't get pregnant.

Fact:  If a woman wants to be protected, she needs to protect herself.  Those of us with daughters need to make sure they are armed with knowledge, because other than carrying a condom and maybe some duct tape to attach it to his penis, the dude who wants to screw your daughter ain't all that armed - even if he plays "Just the tip."  Yes, it would be wonderful if everyone waited until they found a partner they loved, who respected them and they explored the mysteries of intimacy together.  In spite of my best intentions, I lost my virginity at 16 in the back seat of a Duster.   It's sheer dumb luck that I didn't end up pregnant or with an STD.  You get tingly, you get wet, things feel good -  if the person knows what they're doing, things feel freaking fantastic... You lose your mind a little bit.  You play Russian Roulette.  You  can recommend abstinence all you want, but remember what it was like when you became aware of sex... Remember that?  Remember how great that was?  How great it felt?  How much you wanted to do it?  This is the time to eschew embarrassment.  Have the talk about birth control with your daugthers EARLY. 

She started it!!

"Don't crash while I'm doing this," I say as I unbuckle my seat belt.

"O....kay," says David - eyes now glued to the road in front of him.  His peripherals have extended to a 6 foot radius around the car.

We're on our way to the airport.  Rissa is travelling to Vancouver. BY HERSELF.  At 14.  And yes, there are kids who travel as unaccompanied minors, all over the world, at much younger ages, but those unaccompanied minors don't have legs up to their armpits and  perky boobs.  They don't get mistaken for 21.  The last time Rissa travelled by train to my parents' place she had a guy in his 30s ask where she went to school.  She gave the name of our home town.

Dude says, "I didn't know there was a university there."

Rissa say, "There isn't.  It's a public school.  I'm in Grade 8."

That's when Dude moved seats, fearing incarceration just by proximity, I'm guessing.

I would have been okay if we could go through security with her - if I could have sat next to her until she boarded the plane.  But it's the 21st century, unless you have your own boarding pass, that ain't happening in an airport.

So there I am, climbing into the backseat of the car.

"Needed to be back here, huh?" says Rissa.

"Yes."  I wrap my arm around her, trying to absorb her into my side.  If we become conjoined before we reach security, they'll have to let me in.

She snuggles into me.  We chitchat the rest of the way to Pearson.  We sing at the top of our lungs to her airport playlist.  By the time we make it to the airport, my stomach has calmed a titch.  It'll be okay.  She'll be fine.

As my foot steps into the terminal, nausea takes hold.  I'm holding Rissa's hand, fake-smiling as we wend our way to the security station.  We'd  checked-in online - so I didn't have any person behind a desk to say this to:  "She's only 14!!!  She might look like she's all grown up, but she's ONLY 14!!  Don't let any creepers try to feel her up before she's on the plane!  LOOK OUT FOR MY BABY!!!"

Instead, we walk past the shops and restaurants towards security.  We see the queue barriers and Rissa stops dead.  I'm keeping it together.  I am KEEPING IT TOGETHER.  She turns to me and gives a little smile, but then her bottom lip trembles a bit and she grabs onto me as if I'm a life preserver.  I can feel her hiccuping to hold back sobs.  I'm done for.  I start bawling like a newborn calf.

"It's okay, baby... It's okay baby...  It's okay..."  I'm smoothing her hair.  To David:  "What's the cheapest ticket we can buy!?!"

"Heather, you're not helping," says David.

"She started it!"

David pulls me away from from her.  "You okay?" he asks Rissa.

"Yeah..." she says, putting her chin up, not meeting his eye.  "I'm fine."  Then she pats me on the shoulder "Mummy, I'm fine," she says.  "See?"  She gives me a broad grin.  "I'm okay.  I'll text you when I get to the gate."

We walk her to the bottom of the security line.

"May I see your boarding pass?" the security guard asks.  He checks it over.  "Okay, you're all in order.  You can line up there."

"SHE'S ONLY 14!!!" I blurt out as she walks away from us.

She's not in yet.  There are a few people in front of her.  I'm holding David's hand so tightly, I've cut off the circulation.  Just as she's reaching the door, one of the female security guards asks to see her boarding pass again.  The uniformed officer takes the pass and checks it with the first guy.  She returns to Rissa.

"You'll be heading to gate 227.  When you get out of security, you'll turn to your left," the officer says.  Rissa nods and thanks her.  I share a moment of eye contact with the security guard and mouth THANK YOU to her across the queue line.  Then Rissa's through the door.  I can't see her.  I CAN'T SEE HER!!!  David moves me further around so that I can at least see the back of her head as she's moving by the conveyor belt.  I lose sight again.

"Where is she?!?"

"She's going through the scanner," he says.  He's half a foot taller, and can crane his head much further, than I.  "She's through.  She's putting her shoes back on.  She's got her bag now.  She's opening it.  She's putting her boarding pass into the zippered front...  There she is..."  He indicates this tall young woman, shoulders back, head up, striding towards her gate.

"You okay?" David asks.

I start to nod my head, but then shake it.   My bottom lip starts trembling.  My morning coffee threatens to travel back up my esophagus.  "I think I might throw up."

"Let's have a bite to eat," he says.  "Your blood sugar's probably low.  We can wait until she's on the plane."

"Okay," I say.  "She didn't wave after she went through security."

"No, she didn't," he says.  "She probably couldn't see that far - she didn't have her glasses on."

He's right.  She can't see that far without her glasses on.  That was why.  It wasn't because she didn't need us any more.  She just couldn't see us.  That was it. 

After the waitress takes our order, I rest my head on the table.  This is so much worse than her riding from the Downsview subway south across the city, around Union Station  to meet us at Wellesley Station when she was 12.  She was 1/2 a foot shorter then - she wasn't mistaken for a university student then.

"I need Gravol."  I'm up, out of my seat running across to the last-minute shop.  Organic Gravol is all they have.  Here I wanted something to knock me out - the anti-nauseau equivalent to Xanax - and what was at the shop?  Organic, made from dried, crushed ginger, Gravol.  "You don't have anything that will put me into a short-term coma??"  I buy them anyway.  I head back to the restaurant and down one more than the recommended dose, hoping that might do the trick.

bing

David looks down at his phone.  He holds it out to me.

I'm at the gate now parental units.

"Do you want to text her back?" he asks.

"Yes!!!"  I take the phone, but can't make my fingers work.  My organic drugs have yet to take effect, I'm still shaky.  "Tell her to fake a seizure if anyone gets close to her."

He rolls his eyes.  Texts back "yay."

bing

Boarding now.  Love you.  MWAH!

            Text us as soon as you land.

Yeppers!

"That's it," he says.  "Off she goes.  You okay now?"

"I'm fine," I say.  "But she totally started the crying.  It wasn't me, you know."

"I know."

We leave the terminal, heading towards the parking garage.  17 feet away from the terminal, I stop dead.

"You want to make sure the plane leaves the runway?"

"Yes please."

She's not 3 any more...

When I look at Rissa now, I can't remember her as a toddler.  Even when I see photos of her from that time, it's like I'm looking at somebody else's kid.   I know that she was this small elfin child,

but that child bears next to no resemblance to the tall, poised 14 year old, who looks 18 without makeup and about 25 with it.

We're out shopping for her Grade 8 Grad shoes.  MY CHILD IS GOING INTO HIGH SCHOOL IN THE FALL!!!  She wants something sparkly - silver and sparkly.  Our small town doesn't really cater to the silver and sparkly set.  We have to go to a higher populated town to get a good mall.   So there she is, finally in Le Chateau (oh, the irony because our mall does have a Le Chateau), having already exhausted every other shoe store in the mall - three shoe boxes in front of her.

The first she tries are platformy.  She becomes a leggy giantess in these shoes.  My stomach plummets.  NOT THOSE!  PLEASE NOT THOSE!!  SHE LOOKS TOO OLD IN THOSE!  SHE LOOKS TOO SEXY IN THOSE!  BOYS WILL WANT TO INSERT PARTS OF THEIR BODIES INTO HER BODY IF SHE WEARS THOSE!!!

She takes one step, before turning to me. "Nuh-unh... NOT these.  Nope.  I'd be breaking my ankles after the first step."  She attempts another step.  "Whoa... WHOOOOOOAAAAA!"  She's walking on an invisible tightrope, her steps tentative.  Just as I'm thinking that, she pretends she's on a tightrope and fakes a trumpet version of a circus theme.

"So not those?" I take them from her, all nonchalant.  Thank Christ.  I hand her the next pair.  Ballroom style shoes studded in rhinestones.  My stomach calms a bit.  These ones aren't as sexy.  I could pretend she was on Dancing With the Stars if she wore these.

She slips the second pair on.   "Ooooooh... I like these!"  She takes a few steps - does her best imitation of a runway model.  Shoots me an over-the-shoulder glance and then makes a goofy face.

"They good?"

"These're pretty good."

Next pair.  1950s style peep-toe with a slightly thicker heel - MY 14 YEAR OLD IS TRYING ON A FRICKIN' PEEP TOE!!  Then I remember that in grade 5, my mom let me buy high heeled blue satin running shoes... In Grade 5...  Because I wanted them.   Deep calm breaths...

"These feel really good, I feel more steady in these, but my toes show."

"What's the matter with your toes?'

"They're showing."

"You have beautiful toes."

She grimaces.

"You do!  I love your toes!  Walk in the shoes.  Walk back and forth a bit."

She walks a bit in the new pair.   Every time she turns away from me - it's like there's a strange woman in the store in front of me.  Then she turns and makes a face and I'm okay again.  Until she comes back to me, slings an arm around my shoulder and towers.  She's 5' 7" without the heels - so at least 5' 10" with them.  I'm just shy of 5' 6".

"Quit gloating."

"I'm not," she says... gloatingly.

"So which ones?  Ballroom shoes or 1950s shoes?"

She's chewing on the inside of her cheek.  "I can't decide."

"Put one from each pair on either foot and walk around some more."  She does.  Depending on which foot is hitting the ground, she has a completely different facial expression.  "Dance a bit."  She does a ridiculous cha-cha, but with a big jazz hands finish at the end.

"1950s" she says.  But then almost immediately, "Which ones do you like?"

"I like both of them.  You pick which one you like."

"But if you were buying them for you, which ones would you buy?"

"The dancy ones - but I'm not buying them for me, I'm buying them for you."

"1950s!" she now says decisively.

"You're going to have to practice walking in them before Grad," I say.  "You know, like around the house.

"Yep."

I'm sorry? Beef costs HOW much!?!

I spent $253 at the grocery store last week.  Three people live in our house.  Three.  Yes, $25 of that was because the ginormous 24/7 kitty litter was on sale for $3.00 off the regular price so I had to get at least two of them, but that still means that the other grocery type items cost a whopping $228.00.  For a week's groceries. And I wasn't buying shampoo or deodorant or toilet paper in bulk.  I wasn't buying junk food or pop.

You can cross out the two loaves of over-priced gluten free bread and that will knock the total down another $10.00 and we're down to $218!!  For a week's groceries.  FOR THREE PEOPLE!!!  But really, a loaf of regular rye bread is still over $3.00.  For a loaf of bread.

I'm morphing into Elinor from Sense and Sensibility...

David & Rissa

Surely you are not going to deny

us beef as well as sugar?

Heather

There is nothing under $10.00 a kilogram.

We have to economise.

David & Rissa

Do you want us to starve?

Heather

No. Just not to eat beef.

How do poor people manage? If I'm balking at paying $10.00 for a kg of ground-freaking-beef - how are people who don't have money managing to get their protein?

Sure, they could go the vegetarian route, just shop around the outside aisles, but even peanut butter costs a good chunk of change now and despite what the peanut butter companies try to tell you, it's not really a good serving of protein.  Vegetarian 'meat' products are pretty much as over-priced as the gluten-free products.  One could have tofu - which apparently is cheaper, but I'm not supposed to ingest soy - at least not in the 4 hour period surrounding my medication.  Beans.  They could eat beans.  They could buy them in bulk and soak them overnight, cause we all know that planning meals 24 hours in advance is what working families have time for.

Meat is expensive.  Milk is expensive.  Cheese is expensive.  In our house, we go through all three of those things like hotcakes.  Wait a second!  That's IT!!! We should  just eat hotcakes!!! We could save tonnes of money.  Flour, eggs*, a little milk... although David is determined not to skimp out on the syrup, which means we only have maple syrup, so that runs us about $10.00 a litre.  So we're pretty much screwed on the syrup front.  *Frankly we're screwed on the egg front as well, now that we're eating free-range eggs.

When Rissa was little, I used to budget about $125 a grocery shop.   So $500 a month for groceries - ish.  Now we are spending about $800 a month on groceries.  What are the families doing who have two kids?  What about the families who have three or more kids, two of them teenaged boys who eat their weight in carbs?

You can't skimp on food.  You can't.  And yet I put down those red peppers and/or those individual apples because they're too expensive - I can't afford them.  And if I'm doing that, what is the single mom who lives from pay cheque to pay cheque doing?  What are her kids missing out on?  What are the families who live in Northern Canada missing out on?   The families who have to pay $12 for a box of freaking Rice Krispies...  or $8.00 for spaghetti, not to mention fresh produce?

I struggle to make vegetables a priority for our family, knowing full well that I need to be pumping us full of vegetable and fruit supplied nutrients because those foods have supplanted grains at the bottom of the Food Pyramid... The Canadian Food Guide doesn't even have a pyramid now - it  has a rainbow with vegetables and fruits as the top colour.

And yet, there are only 4 colours on this rainbow which is just wrong  PLUS those colours mess with my sense of the proper ROYGBIV colour spectrum because this rainbow goes GYBR.  OCD kicking in - in 4,3,2,1...

So what do we do about it?  Do we become bulk coupon-cutters?  (Which, whenever I'm looking to use them, never seem to improve on No-Name prices anyway.)  Do we only shop when No Frills has their $2 (which used to be $1) Days??    Do we turn back the clock and live like we did in our early 20s, existing entirely on rice and pasta?  Remember Ramen Noodles?  Remember those?  My family can find some spare change on the incidental line in our monthly budget if we really want the good produce.   We can buck up and finance a healthful diet.  But not every Canadian has that... I was just about to type  'luxury.'  Eating healthfully in Canada shouldn't be a luxury.  Feeding your kids well shouldn't bankrupt you.

Dance of the Sugar Plum Sluts...

These girls are 9

So there I was... watching the baby sluts dance...  It was not, as might be inferred, the END OF DAYS - nope, that wasn't it.  Dance competition season had begun.  The last time I endured this was 5 years ago, when Rissa did a couple of group numbers at the age of 9.

I thought we were safe, this time around, I really did.  I told David, who came late to the party, that this year the dancers were mostly wearing clothes and weren't too slutty.

Hubris.  That's what it was.

No sooner had we sat down in the theatre (waiting for Rissa's group to dance), when pint-sized hip-hoppers clad in next to no clothing, all began shaking their little asses to the delight of their parents.  At least, I'm hoping it was their parents who, when these delightful little divas started doing the ass popping move, hooted hollered and cat called.  I hope to God that it wasn't some random pedophiles off the street who thought they'd found their own personal Heaven.  (Media Alert: ANYBODY can walk into a dance competition.) The booty-poppers were in the mini class - which means that they were 5 - or younger.  David and I shared looks of horror.  These wee little bits of spandex and sequins danced with this subtext:

"Hey, look at us grind our little asses!  See us shake our non-existent boobs!  We are A-D-O-R-A-B-L-E!!  Doesn't it just make you want to..."

"I swear to you," I said.  "This is the first that I've seen of it at the competition."

"My eyes!" David said.  "I need to bleach my eyes!!"

Then the Irish Step Dancers came out.  They were 15. Their costume: barely there, sparkly mid-torso shirts missing an arm, leatherette booty shorts and, wait for it... fishnet stockings with a seam up the back.  'Cause you know... that's what Irish dancing is all about.  Sex.  The fishnet stockings are there, I guess, because they were fishing.  Fishing for... sailors.   The girls were fabulous dancers - very precise, synchronized beautifully... and all I could think was "WHY ARE THEY DRESSED LIKE STRIPPERS?"  David turned his head so violently to avoid looking at them (and going straight to hell), that he almost broke his neck.

Dance schools have dress codes.  Really fricking serious dress codes.  You have to 'bunnify', you have to be covered, no jewelery, you can't look sloppy.  At least not until it's competition season and then apparently you're allowed to look like a $25 hooker who gives blow jobs in the drive-thru of an all-night Tim Hortons.

It can't just be us, can it?  Please God, tell me that David and I aren't the only parents who don't want our daughter graphically sexualized!  Rissa's 13, and if I discovered her doing the choreography that some of these 7 year olds were doing?  I'd be bringing up the dance studio on child pornography charges.  Over the weekend, I watched young girls performing to these songs:

I'm a Good Girl - A jazz solo by a sassy little 13 year old who basically did a burlesque number. Don't get me wrong - I love a good burlesque number - LOVE them - hell, I'd love to do one myself.  What I don't love?  Is watching a 13 year old offer her boobs up to the audience as something akin to the dessert section at all-you-can-eat buffet.

Put Your Grafitti On Me danced to by a group of 10 year olds in sequined bras and panties, splaying their fingers all over their bodies - basically indicating where they'd like their full-body bukkake.

The topper?   Flaunt - danced to by a  trio of 13 year olds who did a lot of gesturing to their own tatas and hoohas before they finished the number off by grinding their asses.  The lyrics of this song are:

Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna see me flaunt what I got?
Baby, come a little closer
Come and get to know me
And what I got?
Baby, won’t you come and see me?
Won’t you come and be with me?
See what I got
‘Cause what I got is what you need
What I got is what you need
What I got is what you need
It’s what you need
It’s what you need, so
Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna see me flaunt what I got?

"NO!  NO, I DON'T!!!  You're 13!  WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS??  Put on some fucking clothes!"

I'm not a prude.  Read my posts about sex, you'll see.  I love sex.  I read tonnes of erotica, I enjoy off-colour smut.  Have done, since I was a young adult.  My daughter is 13.  I am not comfortable with her being thought of as a sex object.  I don't want her to become accustomed to receiving applause for popping her booty.  I don't want her to think that being clad in next to nothing in public doesn't have consequences.   Yes, in a perfect world, we should all be able to run around naked and nothing would happen.  Yes, the human body is just skin with hills and valleys defining our primary and secondary sexual organs.  It shouldn't cause such riot.  But it does.  We can pretend that the world has changed, but it hasn't. For millennia men have been schooled to believe that women's clothing and behaviour can warrant a Get Out of Jail Free card...  Yes, it's 2014, and yes, it's still happening.

So how about this?  Let's just encourage our children to... dance.  In clothing that allows them to move without sharing their asses with the world;  to music that empowers rather than subjugates.  Can we please be vigilant parents, protecting our precious progeny - allowing them the time to grow up?  'Cause here's the hard truth folks:  Your little girl, who used to skip around the dance studio in innocent abandon, pretending to be a butterfly?  That little girl, when she dances all 'grown up', is going to have random strangers in a crowded theatre wanting to fuck her. And if you're cool with that?  You need to re-examine what it means to be a parent.

When the past comes back to bite you in the ass...

I should have been prepared. It's not like I'm new to this.  I've done shows before - I've suffered from Post-Show Depression.   But this time around - there's a 6 piece set + carry-on of emotional baggage that I hadn't counted on.

As an actor - for concentrated amounts of time - your cast and crew become your family. Generally from tech week through to closing, they're the people you see the most;  the ones you tease, the ones you cuddle, the ones you laugh at/with, the ones you tell to shut the hell up when they're making too much noise backstage.

Five years ago I did another show.  We were a tribe.  We got naked - both emotionally and physically and the fallout PSD from that show was spectacular.  Weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - fallout. Those forged friendships then, bonded some of us together on a cellular level.  We were a mess.  5 years ago, right after HAIR closed, one of my best friends died.  The last conversation I had with Shannon was my coping with the loss of my onstage tribe.

On Sunday night, I closed Jesus Christ Superstar.   Half the cast had also been in HAIR.  Same people. Same bonds.  Same teasing, cuddling and laughing.  I thought that I'd be too busy to fall into PSD.  We're moving - take possession of the house this week - my days and nights are full.  I am too busy for fallout.   Thing is? This time 5 years ago, when I was coping with PSD, I could talk to Shannon.  Shannon, The Queen of Commiseration.  Shannon, the  holder of hands and reminder to breathe.  Shannon,  the depository of secrets and the safe haven to get through the bad.

I dreamt all night of my tribe... Upon waking, my first thought was "I need to talk to Shannon."  My second thought was, "I can't, she's dead."   Hiccuping sobs, near to vomiting, as David smoothed my back and told me it would all be okay.   He doesn't understand though, that the perfect emotional storm has been set into motion. Tamped-down memories from 5 years ago, compounded with new-felt anguish from the loss of this cast and crew to which was added the remembrance of Shannon's death.   My stomach pitched and roiled - I didn't have my sea legs under me until half way through the day.

Stoicism is not amongst my character traits.  I immediately reached out to my friends, old and new, who support and 'get' me - those who suffer along with me as we regain our footing and remember that life goes on - even without those you love within arms' reach at your side. 

My heart broke at Value Village

The shoes were stunning.  Beautiful burgundy brogues, glowing in the flourescent lights of Value Village.  I spotted them from the end of the women's jackets aisle.    I'm always on the look out for a great pair of mens' shoes for David.  They have to be big shoes, David has massive feet.  Wide, wide, WIDE, flipper feet.  He usually buys an 11.5 or even a 12 to fit his toes into them.

So when I saw these spectacular shoes on the wall, my heart leapt.  They were pristine.  Beatifully polished - I looked at the soles, hardly any wear to them.  The tag said 14+ on them.  They were at least a size 14.  Such a shame - they were actually too large for David.  They'd be like clown shoes on him.  But they were stunning.  Probably from the 50s - I wanted to photograph them and make an encaustic print of them to hang upon my wall, they were so lovely.

Then I spotted another pair of shoes - same size - equally beautiful.  And another... and another.  6 in total.  All beautifully polished, all size 14+.

My heart sank.  These shoes, like everything else in Value Village, had belonged to someone.  They had belonged to someone who cared for them, who polished them, who took pride in wearing them.  These shoes had been donated in bulk.  Not because they were unfashionable or worn out, but because their owner had died.  A man, with size 14+ feet had died.  A snappy dresser of a man who shoed himself in the 50s - was now dead.  I imagined him very tall and thin - like a young Jimmy Stewart, with pleated trousers - possibly suspenders, a quick smile.

My heart sank again.  Who had donated the shoes?  His wife?  His life partner?  Had his surviving loved ones been responsible for the impeccably polished leather?  Had they spent an afternoon polishing these shoes before carefully placing them inside a box?  Before stuffing that box with paper and then taping it shut to go to Value Village?  Had their hands trembled while holding the packing tape?  Had they wept?  I was near to weeping imagining it all.

I started when Rissa placed her hand on my arm.

"What's wrong?"

"These shoes belonged to someone," I said.

She looked confused.  "Didn't they ALL belong to someone?"

"Yes baby, they did.  But this someone is now dead."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

She didn't ask any more questions.  She held my hand and squeezed it.  We stayed quiet for a few moments more before we turned away, still holding hands and walked to the jeans aisle.

The Human Whisperer

It was one of the worst days of my life. My friend Shannon had died. It was about 2 weeks after she'd had a successful stem cell transplant - her prognosis had been good. Except now she was dead. I almost threw up when her partner John told me, my knees threatened to buckle, white-knuckled fingers held the top of our kitchen island so that I wouldn't crumble. The rest of my day was bi-polar.  I'd be okay for a few minutes, but then I'd choke on sobs - I couldn't breathe. The pit of my stomach was roiling - my own internal hurricane - I kept swallowing bile.

We watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - a really bad choice when one of your best friends has just died. Life and death are so skewed in that film. I collapsed in bed at the end of the night - another crying jag - David smoothing his hands across my back - me trying to catch my breath - clutching for calm before the emotions slammed me again.

Our cat, Minuit, leapt onto the bed. She dropped a soft toy on my chest. It was part of a monster doll set - little plush pieces that velcroed together - you could add an arm or an extra eye, a tail or horns - like making your very own tribe of Wild Things.

"Honey," I said to her. "I can't.  I can't play right now." Minuit liked you to throw the toy and she'd fetch it for you - it was one of her favourite games. I took the toy away and stashed it in my bedside table.  David held me as I started to cry once more.

A few minutes later, Minuit dropped another piece on me.

"Minuit. No. I can't." That piece, too, ended up in the bedside table.

A few minutes later - another piece, and then, when I refused the throw that one, another...  and another... and another...

She didn't want to play. She was bringing me gifts. We were on the second floor, and every time I took a toy, she'd tromp two floors down to the basement - jump into the toy box to find a piece and she'd offer it to me. 

I guess she didn't know what else to do, given my bouts of hysterical sobbing. She was giving me the equivalent of dead mice - she wanted me to feel better. It went on for about half and hour. I found myself laughing and crying, with 23 monster toy pieces in the bedside table by the time she was done. Then, she lay beside me, pressed to my side - pumping her paws against my ribs to let me know that she was there.

So go ahead, try and tell me that cats are anti-social. You're wrong.

Did you guys KNOW about this?!?

It was a revelation.  With the first one I thought I'd just been lucky.  Even the second.  What a happy coincidence!  How delightful!  It was only upon savouring the third that I thought something was up.  I looked at the box.

Ladies and gentlemen, Pot Of Gold makes a CARAMEL collection!  I am undone. 

Dear God what was I thinking? I had five of them.   Okay, possibly six.   Which means that in 6 mouthfuls of sin, I ingested over 30 grams of sugar and 380 calories. Which, when you really think about it, considering the oral orgasm that I had, isn't that bad a calorie count.

I'm in rehearsals right now, we're getting down to the crunch - rehearsing on the set, bonding with the cast and crew, and people are bringing snacks to the rehearsals.  And apart from a fantastically healthful crock pot of lentil stew on Sunday - the food is utter crap.  I mean, it all tastes a-fucking-mazing, but it's crap.  M&Ms, chocolate cupcakes, chocolate bars - the newly discovered box of caramels...

Fruit plate.  We need a fricking fruit plate.  Or a vegetable plate.  Communal food is terrible for me.  The snack table, in my peripherals, beckons - it seduces.  Shiny wrappers and colourful bags with their upwards of 25 grams of sugar in them, waiting to spike my blood sugar and then allow for a good old, wallowing in my willpowerless misery, sugar crash.  High, and then not-so-high, in the space of minutes.  Eyes rolling back in my head.  People with 911 at the ready, in case I actually do slip into that sugar coma.

I need to get my shit together.  I have two days before I'm called again.  I shall gird my loins for battle.  Time for the buddy system.  Time to call in the big guns.  I have at least 5 girlfriends in the show who know me well.  They know what sugar does to me.  They shall be my security team.  See?  The first step is admitting you have a problem.  The second?   Asking for help, so that you don't have to conquer this shit alone. I'm following Bill Withers's advice.  I know I'm not strong.  I'm leaning. 

And that's why I need a Tardis.

Because 3000 sq feet of furniture from a 2.5 story century home will not fit into a 1500 sq foot 1.5 story... even older century home.  No matter how much we might want it to.

David's a list maker.  It calms him - it gives him purpose.  So we took his laptop and went from room to room and we itemized every single piece of furniture that we have.  It was supposed to give us... perspective. I got chest pains.  And a little hyperventilate-y.  We had four options for the stuff.  Move. Sell.  Donate.  Dump.

Where was the Tardis option?  I want that option!  The option where I can just open the door to a closet and miraculously find 1000 square feet of storage space in it?  Where's that option?!?

If someone could actually work out the technology for The Tardis, they'd make gazillions of dollars to downsizing families.  Forget cold fusion people, make me a freaking Tardis!

I have a whole 4' x 8' room in our basement that is devoted to Christmas Decorations, a 10' x 10' room for crafts and sewing and another 8' x 8' room that is... who am I kidding here?  It's full of crap.  It really is.  It's got suitcases and old books that were taken off the shelves in the office when were first staging the house for selling three years ago, and furniture that was too big or superfluous.  It's a room full of stuff we never use - have NEVER used, not since we moved into this house 8 years ago.  Boxes of electronics and old stereos and extra sofa cushions from when we turned our Ikea Ektorp corner sofa into a massive chesterfield.  If I were Barbara Eden, I'd wiggle my nose and nod my head and the room would magically deposit its contents to the appropriate corresponding locations: Kijiji purchasers' homes, the Habitat ReStore and the dump.

Two closets and a cubby under the eaves.  That's what the new house has.  We do have a basement, but it's the basement of a150 year old house - a gravel and dirt floor and a sump pump working overtime.  Anything stored down there needs to be off the floor on plastic shelving in Hermetically sealed containers. 

And really, other than Christmas decorations, what needs to be stored?  The record collection that I've been carting around for decades without a turntable to play them on?  The boxes of fabric that I might find a use for, come Halloween 2020?  The books that have laid in their boxes for years now, no one to open them, no one to peruse their contents?    It's just stuff.  And it's not stuff that is bringing us joy.  We don't cling to that stuff, soak up its nostalgia and cuddle in its warmth.  We store it, just in case.  Just in case... what???  No really, just in case what?  Just in case we suddenly reside in a mausoleum where these items are displayed as relics of our past?  Where they are under-glass memories of days gone by?  Where we keep them just to say they're kept and puff up our chests in the knowledge that we hold onto our heritage?

Nope.  Not going to happen.  No more storing things.  No more just-in-casing things.  We either use them or they go.  Just typing that and a weight has fallen off my shoulders.  "They go."   Keep what's precious and let go of the rest of it go.  No buts, no gasps of  near-intention, no hemming or hawing... decide and live with that decision.   Let that beat up Elvis album find a place of pride in someone else's home - in the home of someone who plays it on a turntable with all of its skips and analog noise.  And you can rest easy in knowing that because you let go - you gave someone else joy.

Wet enough for you?

I'm Canadian.  An Air Force brat, I split my formative years between the Maritimes and Prairies (PEI, Manitoba, Nova Scotia, back to Manitoba - with a brief anomaly in California in '81 and '82 - until I finished high school and then I found myself an Ontarian).

I remember those winters in Nova Scotia and Manitoba where, as I child, I would pray for a Snow Day.  They happened infrequently - they held MIRACLE status in my mind.  Between the ages of 9 and 12, I lived in Nova Scotia's Annapolis Valley  - so many of the kids were bussed in from either the North or South 'Mountain,' that when it snowed, 3/4 of the school population would disappear.   In Winnipeg, heavy snowfall, combined with strong wind-chill, would shut 'er down perhaps twice over each winter.

I'd never had a wet winter until I moved to Ottawa.  November came and the locks froze on our car - we had to jackhammer sheets of ice off the windshield.  I was bone-chillingly cold - could never get warm.  I'd willingly take a cold sunny day in Manitoba over Ontario's damp overcast and icy.  Even with a crappy damp November, come December and straight through to the end of March it was winter - even in Southern Ontario.  There was snow.  It was cold.  Until there wasn't and it wasn't.

Sure, a 1.6 c raise in temperature over 50 years doesn't seem so bad - how can that affect anything?  It's January 6th folks, and it's raining in Southern Ontario.  We have a FLASH FREEZE WARNING.  Flash Freeze Warning?  It should already be frozen - we live in Canada!

"It's just slushy now," said David this morning, as he prepared to depart.  "Only wet.  It's raining.  The sidewalks are fine, the roads are fine."  And then he left.  To drive half an hour away.  And I let him, because I hadn't checked the morning's news yet.  And now I have read the morning's news - seen the warnings from Environment Canada and I've already left my first of what are sure to be several emails for him.

Yeah, sure, right now it hasn't frozen over. NOT YET.  You glance out your window and you see winter slush and actual puddles - nothing to worry about...  I'm not saying that it's a The Day After Tomorrow kind of storm,

I'm just worried about my spouse attempting to make his way back on the 401 at the end of his teaching day and whether or not I should try to drop off Rissa's skates at her school so that she can skate home.

Please be safe everyone.

My cat suffers from dementia.

You wouldn't think her head could do a 360 would you?

Or she's possessed.  It's an either/or I think.

We were all lazing about during the Christmas holidays - comfy and cozy in the family room - in front of the fireplace, and Minuit - the most crotchety of our beasts - went cuckoo bananas.

Not the most sociable of cats, Minuit routinely growls when the doorbell rings before waddling away to hide. This was different.  Nobody at the door.  No loud noises.  She wasn't startled by anything.  She's sitting there - eyebrows pitched in an evil tilt - growling... at... Lola.  Younger black feline Lola, is not a new addition to our household.  She's been here over 2 years now.  But there was Minuit - growling - her fur standing up on her neck. And then Lola, worried that she might get attacked - got her back up.  Deeper growling - yowls - our aged Minuit had morphed into the vocal equivalent of two tom cats marking their territory.  Deep, throaty, ANGRY growls - now at Steve, who wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

So?  What do we need here?  A cat whisperer or an exorcist?

And if it IS dementia - how do we properly deal with her new condition? 'Cause your gut impulse is to say, "Minuit, get a grip!  It's your sister Lola... Don't you remember her? (In a louder clear voice)  It's LOLA AND STEVE... YOU KNOW... LOLA AND STEVE..."  Which is possibly the worst thing that you can say to a dementia sufferer.  If they don't remember at that precise moment, they DON'T remember - calling them on it will only confuse them and make them more anxious.  (It's kind of like saying "No, Nana - you're losing your memory, but I'll badger you about it so that I'LL feel better.)

Not to anthropomorphize Minuit, but she does have a brain - so the next time that she loses it - maybe proper introductions are in order?  Spray the other cats with positive feline pheromones?  Suggestions?

Best Christmas Present Ever...

I have been taken in by British department store John Lewis.  I didn't even know that  John Lewis existed before today, and now here I am tearing up - TEARING UP - at an animated commercial.  Albeit an animated commercial that celebrates Christmas with woodland animals all to a lovely soundtrack by Lily Allen, but it's still a commercial for Cripe's sake!

What is it about the holidays that gets us all so sentimental?  Are those early Christmas memories imprinted on our DNA?  Does wonder, joy and excitement become part of our cellular structure, providing that we've had wonder, joy and excitement in our lives during the holiday season?

Getting nearly apoplectic with excitement when you see the first snow?  Opening the gift that you thought only Santa knew of?  Watching a parent/friend/partner/spouse/child open the perfect present.  And by perfect present I don't mean expensive - I don't mean put yourself into hock to get your honey a diamond encrusted watch.

The best Christmas present that I ever received was a calendar.  We had just moved to a smaller town from Toronto.  Rissa was only about 2 1/2 years old.  David handed me this thin, poorly wrapped gift - I could tell from its dimensions that it was a calendar.

"Open it up," he said.

He had booked babysitters once a week for three months.  Friends, relatives, local teenagers - all booked from January to the end of March  - 12 dates.  He'd arranged babysitting for 12 dates.  He didn't just know what I wanted, he knew what I needed.  I needed to get out.  I needed not to be the one to plan things.  I needed to remember what it was like to be a person and not just a parent before I lost my mind.

He knew.  He still does. 

Best present ever.

ps. if you're not quite in the holidays spirit - YouTube the rest of John Lewis's Christmas commercials - if they don't bring tears to your eyes you don't have a soul.

The Boob Cage

Luman L. Chapman's design, 1863

When the words left her mouth - it was epiphanic!  "Boob Cage."  That's what Rissa called it. "Boob Cage." What a revelation!  'Cause that's exactly what a bra is.  A cage for your boobs.  It is the perfect description.  It completely brings to mind the sensation at the end of the day when the underwire is digging into that place between ribcage and armpit and the strap's dermatographia is indenting your skin with patterns that will take hours to disappear.  In my mind's eye I can hear the nearly-orgasmic sounds that fall from my mouth when my cage comes off.  "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...."  And for those who don't worry about giving themselves a black eye, the shaking of the girls when they are finally free range, the way a shampoo model shakes out her hair.

It got me to thinking about women's undergarments and wondering when the shift from corset to brassiere actually happened.  From the 16th century up until the late 19th, the corset reigned supreme.  That was the go-to for support - at least for the upper classes.  Working class women knew better than to invalidate themselves with something that would stop full breaths, possibly damage ribs and/or internal organs and gave you bowel disorders.  Yes, they might be poor, but they didn't swoon and could poop properly.

Just imagine the noises that you'd be making if you were taking one of these babies off at the end of the day:

In case you can't tell from Mr. Lesher's 1959 patent -
this is basically like wearing armour.
The bits that look like metal... ARE.

Feminine garments such as the above are the reason why Elizabeth Stuart Phelps cried for women to "Burn your corsets" - in 1874!  Although there wasn't much to burn in these early support garments - melt down might be more appropriate.

Olivia Flynt - a Massachusetts seamstress of 25 years, and also a proponent of the Clothing Reform Movement,  created the Flynt Waist in 1876.  In the patent for her Improvement for Bust Supporters she writes:  

"This garment fits the person closely; there are no objectionable seams; it does not need whalebones or steels to keep it in place; the body is allowed to move with perfect freedom; the garment is a most comfortable and pleasant one, and by reason of its cut, as described, the shape of the garment is always preserved, and is not liable to be distorted or strained."

In 1882's The Manual of Hygienic Modes of Underdressing for Women and Children Flynt states:

"While the Waist permits natural circulation, perfect respiration,and freedom for every muscle, it imparts an artistic contour and elegance of motion, that all corsets utterly destroy."

In 1889, Herminie Cadolle, a famed Parisian corsetière, designed the first "bien-être," a "well-being" for your boobs.  A garment in two parts, the lower, a corset for the waist and the upper, a support for the breasts.  The top soon was called the "soutiene gorge" - which is what your modern woman in France still dubs the "bra."   (Though the direct translation is throat support - which begs the question, how high up are French women's boobs?)   But even Cadolle's first kick at uplift still bore closer resemblance to corset than of the modern day brassiere, so full of stays and ribs was its construction.

Marie Tucek turned the world on its caboose when she patented this breast supporter in 1893:

This is NOT porn, it's a patent.
It took everything in me NOT to colour her nipples pink.

Tucek's patent involved a metal supporting plate, not unlike the underwire support from the "up and outers" that every lingerie company in the world now shills.  Just think of the posture that you'd have to have to maintain to ensure that the metal supporting plate didn't literally cut you in half, thereby offering you the starring role as the unsuspecting victim in a magic trick gone wrong. No slouching at a keyboard for women wearing this breast supporter. When I showed David this illustration, he was terrified - he thought that the cup support was also metal and had serrated teeth.

And then Mary Phelps Jacobs changed everything.  In 1910, Mary purchased a daring evening gown, under which, her regular corset was visible.  What to do?? She and her maid fashioned an undergarment from two silk handkerchiefs and some ribbon.  Et Voilà!  The brassiere was truly born.

She patented it in 1914 and sold the patent to the Warner Brothers Corset Company soon thereafter.  A lot can be inferred about Mary Jacobs and her silk handkerchief brassiere - of this you can pretty much be certain - she was a B cup or less - there is no way that anything C or above could be adequately supported by two silk handkerchiefs and some ribbon.

Tomorrow's research shall be on the athletic supporter.