Baby It's Banned Outside...

Baby, It's Cold Outside won't be played on some radio stations, including CBC - CBC News

Is Baby It's Cold Outside an ode to rape that deserves its sudden banishment from Canadian radio? - National Post

'Baby, It's Cold Outside' Banned From Canadian Radio Stations, Too - HuffPost Canada

December 2018 - "Baby It's Cold Outside" is being banned from the radio waves left, right and centre - okay probably not from the right, but left and centre most definitely. Frank Loesser crafted his 1944 call & response song as a fun party piece to perform with his wife who thought the song was a gas to sing and was distraught when Loesser sold its rights to be used in the film Neptune's Daughter. If you've been living under a rock and don't know the plot... a "Wolf" (usually voiced by a male singer), tries to convince a "Mouse" (usually voiced  by a female singer) to stay the night or at the very least get to 1st base and maybe steal 2nd. (See lyrics at the bottom of this post.)

Yeah, when taken in a modern context, a couple of phrases read questionably. "Say what's in this drink?" and the 'aggressor's' continued pushing after she says "The answer is no," take on a whole new flavour in the MeToo era. Thing is? I can almost guarantee that Loesser didn't write this song about slipping the girl a Mickey Finn and wasn't intent on promoting date rape. When you contextualize the song given the time period, it is truly less about a guy strong-arming a girl into putting out, and WAY more about a girl worried about how her reputation will fare if she does. When sung well, (apart from the juxtaposition of those two lines) by a couple who obviously have the hots for one another (either with a man in the so-called 'power' position or with the woman in that role), the song should read as clever and flirtatious.

That said, last night when I watched Ricardo Montalban man-handle Esther Williams in this clip  from Neptune's Daughter, it creeped me the hell out. The pair don't really have any chemistry and I can almost feel the bruises on ol' Esther's arms after the choreography. But keep watching, because seeing Betty Garrett and Red Skelton do the role reversal is incredibly charming and very slap-stick. Double standard? Yep, you betcha.

I would love to say that sexual mores have changed a lot over the past 74 years. They haven't. Women continue to be shamed for proclaiming any sexual inclination, unmarried or otherwise. The song is rife with sexism - but the overtone of persuasive sexual advances is much less offensive to me than the expectations of female behaviour.  Why does she care what her mother, father, sister, brother, maiden aunt and neighbours think? What business is it of theirs if she is having consensual sex with someone?

All the mouse's waffling in the song - and there is soooooo much of it - seems to come from a fear of owning the fact that she wants to stay: "Well maybe just a half a drink more," "I ought to say, no, no, no..." "At least I'm gonna say that I tried," "Well maybe just a cigarette more." When one reads into every nuance of this ditty (and that's what we're supposed to be doing now), it becomes fairly apparent that somewhere between verses 3 and 4 the couple has had sex or at least a near facsimile thereof. She's asking for a comb to fix her state of disarray. I don't know about anyone else, but when I'm truly rumpled, it's from more than 1st base. I might have wrestled a bit before hand, 'cause I get off on that. And maybe this girl does too.

Apart from those two problematic lines, I dig the song.

But maybe I shouldn't. If this 1944 holiday song was filled with allusions to minstrel shows or outdated referrals to northern peoples - we wouldn't be having this discussion. The song would already be banned. But because it's garden variety sexism and sexism continues to cloud the lens through which we view the world, maybe I'm only a slightly more 'woke' version of women the generation before me who say "Aw c'mon - boys will be boys." Should I be more offended? By allowing this duet to play on public radio will it continue a pattern of sexual coercion and shame?

What I want is to have a dance company take multiple versions of the song and choreograph them to show the difference between flirtation and assault. I want a dozen covers showing exactly how charming and how uncomfortable it can be.

They can start with Pearl Bailey and Hot Lips Page's version.  It's just about perfect and Pearl is definitely the driver - in the Mouse role.

I really can't stay (Baby it's cold outside)
I gotta go away (Baby it's cold outside)
This evening has been (Been hoping that you'd dropped in)
So very nice (I'll hold your hands they're just like ice)
My mother will start to worry (Beautiful what's your hurry?)
My father will be pacing the floor (Listen to the fireplace roar)
So really I'd better scurry (Beautiful please don't hurry)
Well maybe just a half a drink more (I'll put some records on while I pour)

The neighbors might think (Baby it's bad out there)
Say what's in this drink? (No cabs to be had out there)
I wish I knew how (Your eyes are like starlight now)
To break this spell (I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell) (Why thank you)
I ought to say no, no, no sir (Mind if move in closer?)
At least I'm gonna say that I tried (What's the sense of hurtin' my pride?)
I really can't stay (Baby don't hold out)
Baby it's cold outside

I simply must go (Baby it's cold outside)
The answer is no (But baby it's cold outside)
The welcome has been (How lucky that you dropped in)
So nice and warm (Look out the window at that storm)
My sister will be suspicious (Gosh your lips look delicious!)
My brother will be there at the door (Waves upon a tropical shore)
My maiden aunt's mind is vicious (Gosh your lips are delicious!)
Well maybe just a cigarette more (Never such a blizzard before) (And I don't even smoke)

I've got to get home (Baby you'll freeze out there)
Say lend me a comb? (It's up to your knees out there!)
You've really been grand, (I feel when I touch your hand)
But don't you see? (How can you do this thing to me?)
There's bound to be talk tomorrow (Think of my life long sorrow!)
At least there will be plenty implied (If you caught pneumonia and died!)
I really can't stay (Get over that old out)
Baby it's cold
Baby it's cold outside!

FRANK LOESSER 1944

And then we were carjacked...

Driving towards Rissa's university residence, we blithely follow the directions offered by the nice young people in their bright orange safety vests.

"Just drive around there folks, and they'll help you out."

I'm a bit confused - we are still relatively distant from her Residence. But we do it, we drive through the parking lot towards the dozen or more colourfully clad students. "Oh look there's a welcoming committee, isn't that..."

Clapping, stomping and whooping, these hoodlums swarm our Honda Civic.

"FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!! FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!!"

"What's going on?!?" asks Rissa.

"They are apparently encouraging you to leave the car," David posits.

Our "Welcoming Committee" comes closer, faces at the window, yelling to a decibel level that, moments before, would have seemed impossible.

"FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!! FIRST YEARS OUT OF THE CAR, FIRST-YEARS-OUT-OF-THE-CAR!!"

"Oh, crap!  Crap, I guess I'd better get out!" Rissa departs the vehicle.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" The students explode with joy.

"I've got her!" says a young man in face paint and a dozen bandannas wrapped around his limbs. "You just drive up there and the guy in the vest will tell you when it's safe to go."

"When it's safe to go?"

"What's her name?" asks another student.

"Rissa..."

"RISSA!!" she yells as she checks off the name.

"RISSA!!!!!" Everyone else yells.

A sharpie scrawls onto a pre-printed, university-issue, green paper. "Here's her room number, you drive up to the Res. We've got your daughter." She hands us the piece of paper "Don't lose it or you'll never know where she is." She laughs.

They've got our daughter?  What the fuck just happened here?

We drive up to the guy in the vest.

"Is everything..."

"You just drive up there and we'll take care of everything." He smiles reassuringly.

"So she's just..."

"He's got her. She'll get there."

O...kay. We drive towards the Res.

"RIGHT THROUGH HERE FOLKS! RIGHT THROUGH HERE!!" Music is blaring, new packs, larger packs, of university students bounce up and down in excitement.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! WHAT'S THE NUMBER?!? WHAT'S THE NUMBER?!?"

We show them the green paper.

"IS IT OKAY IF WE UNLOAD YOUR CAR?" a spokesperson yells.

"Uh... yeah, yeah... sure... it's okay."

"POP THE TRUNK!!! ALL RIGHT... LET'S GOOOOOOOOO!!!"

(Perhaps now is a good time to mention that I was recently diagnosed with Endolymphatic Hydrops - an inner ear disorder that affects the fluid in the ear canals. Some of the symptoms make me super sensitive to sound, which, in turn, makes me dizzy and nauseated. Usually this isn't an issue outside, unless it's incredibly loud.)

I stagger out of the Civic. So much yelling. Music SO loud. I grasp blindly for anything to help me regain my balance - finally finding the car's side mirror.

Equilibrium regained... now I can help with the... I do a cartoon double-take to the back of the car. Everything's gone. All Rissa's stuff is GONE - two shopping carts are disappearing into the Res. They took my daughter and now they've taken all her stuff! I start to hyperventilate.

David is commends everyone on their organization and energy. I can't breathe.

"You guys are fantastic!! Can we get a picture?"

A picture? He wants a picture of these people?!?

"ALL RIGHT! YOU FOLKS CAN HEAD OUT NOW."

Head OUT? But we haven't... I haven't...

"PARKING LOT IS LOCATED HERE." The university-issue paper with Rissa's room number is turned over and we are shown a map to parking. "THIS ACTS AS YOUR PARKING PASS. YOU GO PARK NOW!"

We get back in the car. David says, "Wow - that was amazing! They are like a well-oiled..." He looks at my face. "Love...?"

Tears... streaming down my cheeks, I shake my head. "I'm just going to..." I reach into my purse for my emergency ear plugs. "I'm just going to put these in."

We drive away from the Res. I have no idea where Rissa is. I have no idea where her stuff is. I succumb to a few moments of hiccupping sobs before I get my shit together. Eventually, I blow out a calming breath.

"You okay?"

I nod. "They took her. Then they took her stuff. We were car-jacked."

"Oh love..."

"No, it's okay," I say. "It really is okay. It's amazing. You're right they ARE a well-oiled machine. It's  wonderful for all these kids to have such excitement, such joy when they arrive at school. I was just... I was... unprepared for it, is all."

***

The week leading up to this day provides me with the opportunity to do the best acting I've ever done in my life. She's so excited to get going - every day is a new thing that she's thrilled to talk about. All her Frosh Week activities, the messages on her chat groups... each thing has a new superlative outdoing the one before it. She practically vibrates with anticipation. I respond positively to everything.

"It's so great that you're so excited for this!" I feel like I'm going to vomit. "Really? They'll have a carnival? That's great!!" I'm this much closer to death. "Yes, this is going to be the BEST THING EVER. Yay!!" My heart... my heart is... breaking.

***

I manage to stop the tears before we exit the car. Now in a full-fledged hydrops attack, I clutch David's arm so that I don't fall off the world as we walk back to the Res. I watch as other shell-shocked parents listen to the cheers and chanting and see their child's belongings disappear into the Res. We get directed to her floor and are greeted in the stairwell by another dozen excited students, this time chanting:

"PARENTS ON THE MOVE! PARENTS ON THE MOVE!!"

They're clapping and hooting. David has one arm and I'm clinging to the banister with my left hand; even with the earplugs firmly inserted, I'm so dizzy I feel like I could double for Sandy and Danny in the Shake Shack.

As we descend those stairs, the kids eventually notice that this particular parent is not so much "on the move," but instead, looks like she's going to keel over... or vomit... or both. They tone it down. I smile/grimace at them in thanks.

We get to Rissa's dorm, and knock politely. She bounds to the door Tigger-like, grabbing us both in a huge hug. And her smile? It could light up the galaxy. "HI GUYS!!!" She immediately goes back to unpacking her clothes. "I think I'm going to need more hangers. Can we get more hangers? I thought I'd counted them all, but somehow I think I don't have enough."

I rest on her bed and watch for a moment. I watch this person who grew in my body. This person I snuggled with, even last night, as we watched a movie together. This person I love so much, that our  impending departure at the end of the day is already making me feel like my organs will liquify. I  feel the panic creep into my chest and I close my eyes for a moment to regain my equilibrium.

And then I start helping her unpack.

Careful what you say over pancakes.

David, Rissa and I are enjoying our weekly Sunday pancake breakfast.

"These are great!" says Rissa. "The texture is magnificent!"

We've been trying to perfect gluten-free pancakes for the past several years. It's been hit or miss.

"Yeah," says David, chewing on his maple syrup-soaked pancake. "These are the ones. We've done it! Which is great, because these breakfasts are soon going to be a thing of the past."

I swallow my bite of pancake. My throat tightens. Moisture fill my eyes.

Rissa looks at my face. "Dude!" she says to David. "What did you just do?"

If someone were filming this moment, there would be a well-timed shot of a single tear sliding down my cheek.  Suddenly Rissa is no longer living at home with us. She's at university. She's graduated university. She's living in a different city. She's married and has kids but we only see her twice a year, because she's so busy and has so many commitments. "No more family breakfasts?"

David's eyes are wide. "No! I mean..." He shoots Rissa a panicked look. She shakes her and gives him a "you're the one who said this" eyebrow raise. He reaches over and takes my hand.  "No, we'll still have lots of Sunday breakfasts."

"No," I say. "We won't, actually. You're right. I've got The Cat's in the Cradle playing through my head. I know that it's not really completely appropriate to this situation, but the... end... of the song... that kid who now doesn't have time for his Dad...?" There is more than a single tear now.

"Awwww... Mama," says Rissa. "It's okay. We'll still do Sunday breakfasts."

"But not every Sunday! Not if we're living in different cities! And I know that life is like that. I know that. And I know that we don't see Mor-Mor and Far-Far all that often because we live far from them, but it's different because they had two kids and weren't as hands on and really didn't care when I left home, hell they wanted me to leave home, were wondering why I hadn't yet, but we really like you and like spending time with you and..." I can't continue speaking.

Rissa's taken my other hand. "Mama. It's okay. I promise we'll still have breakfasts. They won't be all the time, but we'll still have them. Just like we have them when we're at Mor-Mor and Far-Far's."

"Yeah?" I sniff, before wiping my eyes with my pajama sleeve.

"Yeah." She turns to David. "You can't just say shit like that. I mean, seriously! She's fragile!"

Turns out? I'm that Mom. If we had a problem child going through her teenage years in a funk of eye rolling with a side of whiny sarcasm, peppered with irrational outbursts, we'd be opening the door for her, we'd be packing her bags.

This is what you get for having a functional relationship with your daughter. Spontaneous fits of weeping over gluten-free pancakes.

The Destruction of Generation Z.

It might take a village to raise a child, but God forbid if you actually attempt it in North America. 

Parenting in the new Millennium seems to have taken on the Three Monkeys approach: See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. 

Parents have become myopic helicopters hovering over their children's playgrounds, test scores and job interviews. The result? You can't swing a selfie-stick without hitting an entitled, self-serving Millennial or Gen Zer who is in no way ready for the real world. Basically our generation is fucking over our children's generation  - all in the name of supportive parental love.

I never thought I'd become that vintage dinosaur.  "Back in the day..." if any of my parents' friends saw me fucking up, I'd get called out on it and after I took that deserved tongue lashing, I'd get to tell my parents what I'd done. Now? Our village is more apt to speak up about strangers' kids than friends' kids. When a child's safety is in question? Folks mobilize. That kid left in the backseat - the child teetering on the edge of the sea wall? Emergency Services are called and the parents are virally shamed. But with friends' kids? When their kid is behaving abominably, when they themselves are sucking at their job? Surreptitious, eye-rolling silence.  You don't mess with other people's parenting. It's the unspoken rule. "Darling, it just isn't done." 

Why not? Why can't we tell our best friend that their kid is a whiny asshole? In the nicest way possible, of course. Why aren't we speaking up? Why do we not call out our friends' bad parenting choices - when they allow their 7 year old to take them hostage because they don't want to cause a public scene? When they do their kid's homework so that little Morgan gets her 'A.'

Isn't it our job as parents to raise contributing and functional members of society? Can't we help each other do that? We're not supposed to be their best friends, we're supposed to teach them not to be dicks. For every autonomous young adult, it seems as if there are three more absolute dicks beside them. 

So, no, your kid doesn't get a ribbon just for showing up. Mediocrity isn't something that should be celebrated. Having a cell phone active in class is not a requirement. Your kid is in school, learning - if it's an emergency the office will contact her! Didn't you see Ferris Bueller's Day Off? Please don't call to negotiate with potential bosses when your kid fails at a job interview. You're ensuring that they will NEVER be considered for employment. Don't text your 19 year old every five minutes while they are at their summer job - they are fully capable of putting in a full day's work without communicating with you.

Kids need to fail to thrive. They really do. Failure will help them learn. They need to be able to regroup on their own. Allow them the opportunity to make mistakes in safe ways, like not studying for a quiz and roiling in the "12% OF MY FINAL GRADE!" panic when they get that D+. Sure, you can proofread their essay, but don't rewrite it for them. They can do it. I promise you. Kids are resilient. They're smart. They can multi-task, plan and figure shit out. They're the future -  please, for the love of all that's holy in the universe - don't fuck it up for all of us.

The tilted tata - using transformational positioning to achieve a youthful bosom

"Do you think we can take tasteful pictures of my breasts?"

David perks up. "Most certainly."

"For public consumption?"

"Pardon?"

"You know, for my blog..."

"Ummmmm..." His mouth opens and closes. "Don't get me wrong.  I am ALL for your breasts being on display. But... why do you want to have tasteful breast pictures on your blog?"

"I want to discuss breast balance with visual aids."

"Ahhhh... Might I say again... I am all for your breasts and your right to proudly display them in the public domain... I just worry that if you have pictures of your breasts on your blog that you will then get blocked because of nudity... frankly, because of nipples. Breast health sites get blocked because of the nipples."

"Well that's ridiculous.  They're just nipples. On breasts. Which 50% of the adult population has."

"And I reiterate, I am all for them being out there."

"It's not like I'm filming myself having sex - I'm not going to be playing with my breasts in the pictures."

David had not anticipated this escalation. "Uhhhhh...."

"I just want pictures. I want to compare the breast balance."

"Balance?"

"Yes, comparative balance.  When lying on your back, most middle-aged breasts C cup or higher, pretty much slide into your armpits. I have discovered that there is a particular ribcage roll combined with torso tilt that gives the appearance of youthful firmness so that your breast - because it only works for one breast at a time - resembles a vintage jello mold."

"Is that what you're doing when you say 'Look at this! Look at this!' in bed?" David asks.

"Most of the time, yeah."

"I think for this particular post to work, and by that I mean so that you don't get blocked and you don't get a bunch of whack - pardon the pun - jobs stalking you, you'll have to take euphemistic pictures."

My eyes light up.  "That I can do."

As I'm gathering up my visual aids, David comes back into the room with his phone in hand.  "I found a level app that should help, lie down on the carpet."

That right there? That's why our marriage works.

With this app placed on my chest, we discovered that a
16 degree ribcage roll  with 3 degree torso tilt helps
 my breast achieve faux firmness. The level that
resembles a breast? An unexpected bonus.

how to raise a diva

A beautiful child is ahead of me in line at the Big Box store. She is approximately 7 years of age, dark hair, striking blue eyes. Freaking adorable. I find myself inclined to smile simply because of her incandescent beauty. And then I hear her scream/whine this:

"I want TWO Kinder eggs!!!"  

The tone immediately pulls back my parental shoulders and raises my "Mummy" eyebrows. I take a calming breath.

Don't say anything Heather. Don't say ANY. THING. Not your kid. She is NOT your kid. Maybe the adult will parent-up. 

I wait patiently. The dad has yet to reply.

He's going to make a good choice. He's got this.

"But sweetie you already have one Kinder egg."

"I want TWO Kinder eggs!!!"

"Now sweetie, what did I just say?"

"I want TWO Kinder eggs!!!"

"Well, you'll have to ask your mother..."

She'll have to...? Did that motherfucker just do what I thought he did? Did he just fucking pass THE PARENTAL BUCK?!? 

"Mummy!  MUMMY!!!"

"What is it sweetie?"

In a slightly less whiny tone. "I want TWO Kinder eggs." No 'please,'  no 'May I have?" 

"You already have a Kinder egg."

"But. I. WANT. TWO!!!!"

I make eye contact with another parent waiting in the line next to mine. We are 1980s Cold War spies. We give each other almost imperceptible head shakes. Present etiquette restricts our ability to act. As long as those parents are not physically or verbally abusing that child in front of us we keep our mouths shut.

"But you already have one sweetie."  

The mother is calm. She won't cave.

"But I want TWO!!!"

"Well, allllllllll right, you pick out one more, but just one..."

What the fuck just happened? Our Cold War spy duo has now become a trio with another parent from the line to my left. You could cut diamonds with our glances. Without saying a word we all know that if that were our child she would not be leaving that store with ANY Kinder Eggs.

Instead, the pocket-sized prima donna rushes to the candy shelf. "Yay!  Barbie Kinder egg!"

Now the father pipes up, "You can have the toy....but I get to eat the chocolate from the second one."

"But I WANT the chocolate too!"

"You'll have enough chocolate with your own egg sweetie," says the mother.

"BUT. I. WANT. IT!!!"

"Oh well, we'll see..."

Oh yeah - this kid's going to be a joy when she's a teenager.

The reason for all those baby/kitten/puppy videos #2016Election

The stress of the 2016 Presidential election has my lower intestines in Stevedore Stopper knots.  I'm not even American.  The outcome of the election won't really affect me as someone north of the 42nd.  I mean, apart from all the anti-Hillary Republicans who are threatening to move to Canada should the Democrats win and the anti-Trump Democrats/Independents who are threatening to move to Canada should the Donald win.

If Trump wins and he builds a wall across the US/Mexican border - it won't affect me.  If Hillary wins and it turns out there are even MORE emails that she didn't safeguard appropriately -  it won't affect me.  If Trump wins and throws Hillary into jail - it won't affect me.  If Hillary wins and raises taxes on wealthy Americans - it won't affect me. If Trump wins and he repeals the Clean Air Act - it won't... wait a second...  If Hillary wins and there is a Second Revolutionary War - it won't... uh... I'm really close to that northern border.

It's the end of the world as we know it!! 
Deep cleansing breaths, deep cleansing breaths... 

Hey everyone look! Baby ostrich racing cars.






And these are ANIMALS jumping on TRAMPOLINES!

Kittens and puppies with babies!

Dogs meeting kittens for the first time.

It's a baby who laughs when you tear paper!

And then if you really start freaking out and you need to take control back - channel your inner Jesse Jane McParland.

Knock knock. Who's there? DEATH.

In a parallel-dimension I must be Betazoid.  Holy fuck - my empathetic core is in hyper-drive tonight.

David's Dad died unexpectedly this past summer.  On our 17th wedding anniversary, as we made our way into Manhattan to make some dreams come true, we got a text from his brother telling us that his Dad, John, was on his way to Toronto General Hospital, in liver failure.  David flew back that night.  About 60 hours later, John was dead, the victim of accidental Tylenol poisoning.

While David was in Toronto with his brother, step-mother and step-siblings, I remained in Manhattan, prepping our show for a New York theatre festival.  The afternoon we got the news that John had fallen ill, we were heading into the city to start tech week.

A couple of times in my life I've experienced the "Show Must Go On" phenomenon.  In 1995, while on a Canadian National Fringe tour, one of my grandfathers died.  I was in the middle of the Prairies. On tour.  Unable to hold my Mom's hand.

This summer, when my husband needed me most in his life, I was a day's drive away, making sure the show would go on.  And John?  John would have been leading the "Show Must Go On" mantra.  He was a true theatre lover, with the heart of an impresario.  How he loved the stage.  He was so proud of the work that David did in theatre, the work that I did.  John would have been the first one to smack me upside the head if I'd abandoned our production... But still... my husband was holding his comatose father's hand in a sterile hospital room and I was...  in Manhattan, directing a vampire rock opera.

Tonight I'm thinking of my mother-in-law, John's widow.  Today, almost 6 months to the day since John died, she said goodbye to her own father who passed away from Alzheimer's. No, let's not sugar coat that.  He fucking died. Last summer, when John fell ill, they were in the midst of a basement renovation, so that her parents could have a suite where they'd have family close by.  Her father was only there about a month before his illness incapacitated him and he needed full-time care.  Today, he died.  So in the space of 6 months, she has had to say goodbye to two men in her life whom she loved unreservedly.

So I'm hear to say, DEATH - you suck.  Seriously.  You couldn't give her a break?  You couldn't have allowed her more time to breathe?  And here the rest of us are - offering bland platitudes - expressing our love and support and sorrow...  We will sign sympathy cards, make donations to his favourite charities, tamp down the true pain of it.  And it all fucking sucks.

And because I'm empathetic - when I stop to think of any of this, really THINK of it, I have chest pains.  Nausea churns in my stomach.  I didn't know her father all that well.  But I know her, and it fucking sucks that she has to deal with this shit.  Her husband died accidentally at the age of 68 and her father, who until recently had been in good health, had his mind and his life ripped from him by Alzheimer's.

And here I sit, scattering tissues beside the laptop, ineffectually wiping at tears.  And I don't have the right to this sorrow.  I didn't love those men the way that she did.   But I love her, and I want to vomit the pain of it out for her - so that she can move on.

So DEATH, if you've got any sense of balance, please cut her some slack.  Put your fucking scythe down and let her have a chance to regroup.  I can deal with the emotional shit for a bit.  Please.
 

One girl's Bowie.

In 1983 I thought David Bowie was Elton John.  Modern Love had just hit the airwaves with its pop-happy sound.  I glommed onto its vibe as something dancy and fun and cluelessly mistook his voice for the Rocket Man's. At 15, I wasn't familiar enough with Bowie's work to make the distinction.  I do know that I couldn't remember hearing Bowie singing happily.  It wasn't until two years later, when the lyrics of Changes appeared at the end of The Breakfast Club that I thought to learn more about him.  And in '85 you couldn't just do a YouTube search and mainline every video he'd made, like I've done today.  By the time Absolute Beginners, with all its kitsch, schmarm and ridiculousness, was released in 1986 - he had cemented himself into my still-evolving psyche - a British rock idol, chewing the scenery with a delicious American accent - my teenaged heart fluttered wildly.

Last week I saw a meme.  A grown up Jennifer Connelly standing with the Goblin King behind her, his hand resting upon her slim neck.  Return of the Goblin King - visual wishful thinking for the Generation Xers.   I did a quick search, hoping against hope that it wasn't a hoax, only to find myself disappointed.

Bowie's extensive personae provided enough visual stimuli to give people a smorgasbord of fashion and musical style.

From decade to decade, sometimes from year to year - he redefined his sound and his look: glam rock, plastic soul, rock & roll, industrial, experimental.  I didn't realize he had actual pipes until he did a cover of Nature Boy for the Moulin Rouge soundtrack - I had to look that up too.  Who was this man with power and vibrato killing the tune? The Bowie I knew spat words out - rapid fire -  held no notes, spoke/sung his way through songs.

I don't know another actor/singer who has imprinted so completely upon me.  I can as easily picture him as Ziggy Stardust singing The Jean Jeanie,

as I can visualize him 'dancing' with La La La Human Steps, 

or morphing into Tesla in The Prestige.

I shall miss the Thin White Duke terribly.  I was waiting for my teenage daughter to appreciate him on her own -  that process will now be jump-started.  A crash course in Bowie - she can pick and choose which persona to love most - if I know my kid, 80s Bowie will be her in, but 70s Bowie is going to steal her soul.

Worth every last penny...

They sell food at Winners.  Gourmet food.  High-end, gluten-free, organic, tri-coloured pasta type food.  For a fraction of regular high-end, gluten-free, organic type prices.  If I wanted to have a 12 year Balsamic Vinegar at bargain prices, I can get it.   Now, on occasion, I will spend 5 times as much for a specialty food item.  Yes, I can get coarse salt for less than $2 at No Frills, but I can get PINK Himalayan rock salt at Winners at a mere $7.99 for... 1/2 of the amount.

This is one of many things that causes my mother to shake her head at me, blood pooling in her gums from a bitten tongue.

But I say this to you: Pink Himalayan salt has restorative powers - worth more than $7.99 for 454 grams.  Every single time I fill up my salt grinder and see that pink salt in it, I smile.  Every time.  I'm looking across the kitchen at that grinder filled to the brim with pinkness right now, not even touching it and it is giving me joy.  When my hands are actually on the grinder, I get a contact high.   My life is better with Pink Himalayan salt.  454 grams will last me months and months.  For a mere $0.05 a day I have visual (and culinary) joy. What else can you get for five cents a day that has the ability to induce immediate joy? 

One might say, "But the joy a child or pet brings is free - the love you feel for them is priceless." I call bullshit.  You're wrong. 

Sure, you can acquire the kids or pets for free, but on a daily costing basis?  My child eats at least 8 bucks of food a day.  The cats, are much more economical at only about a buck for food and litter.  I'm not saying that the Pink Himalayan salt gives me as much joy as my child (who will gargle Gershwin) or pets (who will chase their tails), but when I need a quick hit?  Casting a glance at the Pink Himalayan salt makes me feel like this:

I just love my butterfly...

Leafing through Woman's World while waiting at the vet's office...   Ad after ad after ad for drugs/products that spend the last 1/16th of their page on the small print.

WARNING: may cause dizziness, nausea, itchiness, dry mouth, sneezing, anxiety, twitching, muscle aches, depression, seizures, anal leakage, loss of feeling in your left foot, temporary blindness, limping, complete blindness, dismemberment, tap-dancing, Judy Garland impersonations, ennui, giddiness, and death...

But then I come upon this ad:

On first glance, I was sure it must be for a new vibrator or sexual technique.  People of a certain generation will remember the L.A. Law episode from 1986 entitled The Venus Butterfly which alluded to a sexual technique that drove women wild.  Sex toys were actually created capitalizing on the buzz from this episode.  So, when  someone says:

...next to a picture of a butterfly-ish thing, I'm thinking that a lot of women (who also just happen to be the target demographic for this company), are going to be thinking the same thing I was. 
 
WHOO HOO!!!  SEX TOY!!!  and/or
WHOO-HOO!!! SEXUAL TECHNIQUE!!!

How disappointing to then read on, only to discover...

Two thoughts quickly ran through my mind:

1. 'Butterfly,' for me, was now going to be associated with accidental bowel leakage and
2. How many people suffer from this, that the company advertises products in Woman's World?

Maybe, just maybe, the ad execs who designed this are doing exactly what I think they're doing, which is attaching a positive 1980s memory to a discomforting condition in the hopes of selling more of their products to their target consumers.  I pee when I'm ill-prepared for a sneeze, cough or jump - Poise pads should be aimed at me.  And really, this ain't that much different.  In decades past, nothing 'icky' was advertised either in print or televised media.  In my Mom's generation, there were no maxi-pad or tampon ads.  Adult diapers hit the aisles only relatively recently.  Thank God that we can now talk about this sort of thing...  I'm still a little miffed that they stole the word 'butterfly' from me, but I'm willing to give that up if it can make dealing with ABL a little easier for those who experience it.

p.s.
In the writing of this post, I might have gotten distracted when I tried to locate Ann's reaction to Stuart utilization of the Venus Butterfly technique.  I found the L.A. Law Episode where Stuart first found out about it (Season 1, Episode 10 about 24:50 minutes in for the lead up), but not Ann's reaction.  I might possibly have spent a bit of time... uh...  hours searching.  If anyone knows exactly where it falls, please let me know.

Surefire cure for the blues...

Feeling down?  In a funk?   Is your life a great honking pile of crap?    In your circle of friends/family you must know one child in pre-ballet class.  It's spring.  It's the end of recreational classes.  Find a dance recital.  I can guarantee that upon viewing a pre-ballet recital, your mood will improve.

There will be raindrops skipping across the stage, probably with another raindrop carrying a lemon yellow umbrella.  Little ballerinas/ballerinos in tutus/shorts will plié from their positions on 'this is where you stand' cut out stars on the stage floor. There will be fairies and baby birds and kittens and flower pots and ladybugs and they will all have toddler pot-bellies covered in varying shades of sequins/flowers/stars/spandex/lace/tulle.  They won't know the dance, but they won't care.  (You won't care.)  They'll all be jumping up and down.  They'll laugh - (you'll laugh) - so thrilled to feel the heat of the stage lights - they'll look over at their little friends and see how those stage lights make sequined pot bellies sparkle.  Some will get tired and need to sit down on those cut out stars on the floor.  They will have to be wrangled by the dance teachers.  They will all leave the stage in a little train, holding onto each other's shoulders, waving with one hand to their relatives/friends.  Your chest will feel lighter, your cheeks will lift, happy freaking tears may come to your eyes.  (Unless you're soulless, and then, my friend, you've got bigger problems.)

Go ahead.  Test it out.  Dissolve that cynicism.  And then, when another day sucks, close your eyes and remember back to those kids - to the joy you felt - just watching their joy.  And next spring, when the memory of that has faded... find another recital.  Recharge that feeling.  Carry it around with you, like a picture in your wallet.  When the world throws you a crap sandwich - press "PLAY"...  We need more joy.  Come over to the light side... we have sequins.

Sex Ed in the New Millennium

WARNING: REAL LIFE IS DISCUSSED

In 1979, my mother attended a parent council meeting in Kingston, Nova Scotia.  The topic: SEX EDUCATION.  (Gasp!)  The community was up in arms - what were they going to be teaching our kids??  If you teach kids about sex, all they'll want to do is try it for themselves!! Sex Education belongs in the home!!!

The classes at Kingston Elementary School were not mandatory. If you felt that teaching your child this information at home was better for said child, you had every right to do so.  Problem was... the kids who were being pulled from the Sex Ed classes weren't likely to be getting sex education at home.  They were given instructions to abstain and the rest was radio silence. 

Fast forward to Ontario 2015.  A new Sex Ed curriculum is in the pipeline for September of 2015.  At the beginning of May, panicky parents across Ontario were pulling their kids from school to protest the proposed fall Sex Ed curriculum.

Here's the kicker... the Sex Ed component of Ontario health classes is not mandatory.  Let me repeat that: THE SEX EDUCATION COMPONENT OF ONTARIO HEALTH CLASSES IS NOT MANDATORY.  So basically, if you don't want your kid to be educated about puberty, the concept of consent, safe sex, gender diversity, STIs, and masturbation - your kid doesn't have to.  You can opt them out.  Because why?  Because...

THE SEX EDUCATION COMPONENT OF ONTARIO HEALTH CLASSES IS NOT MANDATORY.  

By all means, pull your kids out of the classes.  If Sexual Education goes against your belief system, makes you uncomfortable - pull your kids.  Go for it.  But that's all I'll let you have.  If you protest what MY child could be learning, if you protest that kids should know that a vagina is a vagina and a penis is a penis and that STIs are bad?  I'm going to have to smack you upside the head.  When you protest discussions about consent, safe-sex (for everyone on this planet, regardless of sexual orientation),  and the fact that mutual masturbation is a viable option in place of having intercourse?  It makes me want to parade uninformed 13 year old pregnant girls in front of you.  It makes me want to force you to look full on at the physical effects of gonorrhea.  It makes me want you to listen in extreme discomfort as  kindergartners tell stories about adults who touched them IN (not on) one of their private spots because they were never told that they could say "NO" to a grown up.

Your kid DOESN'T HAVE TO TAKE THE COURSE.  But please, don't tell me that my kid shouldn't be educated because potential Sex Ed topics make you feel 'icky.'  Sex Education isn't for you.  It's for the kids who are rounding 2nd base on their way to 3rd while possibly being pressured to allow someone to slide home or having the urge to slide home themselves.  Just like you probably did.  My generation got a quick thrill from looking at a skin mag.  My daughter's?  They can find free porn on the Internet that shows six guys jerking off onto a woman's face.   And unless they're told differently, they think that this is something that 'all chicks dig.' 

Sex in 2015 ain't squeaky clean, it ain't easy and it sure as hell ain't simple.  Yes, it can be amazing when you're mature enough to deal with its emotional fall out, but without education - proper education - (not just what they hear from peers, or what they can Google on the Internet) - kids have to walk through a mine field.  I want the Sex Ed we talk about at home supported by the educational equivalent of a bomb squad to keep my daughter informed and sexually safe.  Knowing there are parents out there who don't want my daughter informed and sexually safe, scares the crap out of me.  Knowing there are parents who would rather have their children uninformed, flailing in the dark when it comes to the most basic functions of their bodies is freaking terrifying.

Sure, we might dream of a world where abstinence is choice number one, but it's 2015 - most kids with a cell phone will be sexting at some point.  The kids with the knowledge?  They generally aren't the ones who think that condoms alone will stop you from getting knocked up.  They aren't the ones who inadvertently spread chlamydia, because they don't know what it looks or feels like.   Sure, you go ahead and keep your kids out of Sex Ed, go for it... but don't you even think about telling me that my daughter shouldn't have access to that knowledge. One of my major priorities as the parent of a teenage girl is not to become a grandparent before my daughter graduates high school, so I'll take ALL the help I can get thanks.

Life with a perfectionist.

Rissa may look like me, but she gets her perfectionist streak from David.  David comes from a long line of perfectionists.  On his worst days, David will despair, "I'm not good at anything!!!"  David is on crack when he says this.

"I'm a Jack of all trades and master of none," he huffs.

"Okay, first off, you're a David of all trades and master of most of them."  And then I shoot him an angry eyeball, warning him that he doesn't want me to itemize the myriad of ways he is much, much better than your average bear at almost anything he sets his mind to.  What he is not, is PERFECT at all of them.  But he comes pretty frickin' close.

Rissa, since she began to move, has had the highest of expectations for her performance.  I remember her wailing at Air Zone, at the top of the 30 foot inflatable slide saying, "I want to but I can't."  Which makes sense, because her 3.5 year old gaze was on the 30 foot downward slope of primary-coloured plasticized fabric that I, at the age of 35, would have had to work up my nerve to propel myself down.  I went up and carried her down, but she squared her shoulders and climbed up again and sat there, working herself up to it - all the while crying, as child after child went past her and down the 30 foot drop.  All the parents in Air Zone, looking at me like I had set this Herculean task upon her toddler shoulders, when it was ALL her.

"Rissa, honey, you don't have to do this!"

"I want to but I can't!!!"

Cut to 11 years later...  Dancing.  Rissa has always danced.  We have the obligatory naked baby dancing videos where she bounces to bagpipes and taiko drums from a Cirque du Soleil soundtrack.  Like her father, she understands music and tempo.  It's always served her well.  As she gets taller and taller, her physical centre has shifted and the dance turns she had accomplished so easily last year, are, in her mind, now causing her grief.  Lately, she comes home in near tears, having practiced her turns at the end of an already long day. David brings her home from the dance studio, throws me a sidelong, wide-eyed 'I don't know how to deal with this' look and shakes his head slightly in warning as he brings her into the house.

"I can't turn," says Rissa.  It is obvious that one mislaid comment could send her headlong into hysteria...

"Tonight," I reply.

"Pardon?"

"You can't turn tonight.  You're probably tired.  Go have a shower."

Her face crumples.

"Okay, let's head upstairs," I say.

We flop onto the bed together.  I smooth the tears off her face.  My heart aches for my perfectionist child.

"I'll never be able to turn!!"

"Well that's patently untrue."

"I won't!"

"You already have.  I've seen you do it.  You can't say that you'll never be able to do it, because you've already done it."

Her breath hitches in with fresh sobs.  We're on the precipice of of true irrationality here...  What I say next could make or break the situation.

"It's times like these," I say, "where you really need a shoulder gnome."

"A..." sniff, sniff...  "What?"

"Shoulder gnome.  It's a little gnome who sits on your shoulder and tells you when you should continue with something... or not."

Rissa's eyebrows meet in a scowl.

"So... you know... if you were... say, attempting to do something physically taxing at the end of a very long day, the shoulder gnome would grab you by the chin and say, 'Dude.  Now. Is. NOT. The. Time.'  And then if you try to ignore the shoulder gnome, it will slap you upside the face and say, 'Seriously.  I'm. NOT. Kidding. Around.  THIS. IS. A. BAD. IDEA.' "

The beginnings of smile touch the corners of her mouth.  Then she frowns again as she glances at the clock.

"It's SO late!  I still have to shower and I need to shave my legs."

"Why do you need to shave your legs tonight?"

"Because it's spring and I'm wearing capris now to school..."

"I can promise you that no one is going to notice your hairy ankles.  Besides, no one should be close enough to your ankles," I give her a pointed look, "to know that they're hairy.  Wait, unless they are the shoulder gnomes who have jumped down, then yes they will notice...They are notorious for noticing leg hair.   'Jerome - you won't believe the undergrowth this gal has on her stems!'  Then they'll come at you with their miniature scythes and cut down your crop of leg hair, carting it off for sale in the local shoulder gnome black market, where all things human go for ridiculous amounts of gold." 

And there it is, a real smile.

"Wait!  How is the shoulder gnome going to hold onto my chin?  They're just little."

I demonstrate with two of my fingers, indicating a shoulder gnome's arm length.  I move her chin from side to side.  "Do not underestimate the grasp of the shoulder gnome."

She laughs.  The tension in my chest eases.  She is back.   My pessimistic perfectionist has retreated.  I hug her, pressing my cheek to hers imparting through osmosis that our love is not dependent upon how well she turns, or whether she has an above 90 average or if her hair is straight  -  I can't say all that right now in case it sends her spiralling once more.  So instead I say,

"Love you hon."

"Love you too Mummy." 

Disney does Dress Porn

The most recent live-action retelling of Cinderella allows the viewer to get as up close and personal with red carpet style as one can get without attending the Oscars or Golden Globes.   I watched most of the movie with my mouth slightly open... it was Canada Day with silk and taffeta fireworks.  I've been told by almost all media outlets with any sort of feminist bent that I shouldn't have enjoyed the film.  And I'm definitely not supposed to lust over Sandy Powell's haute couture costume style, especially as it clads the body of the incomparable Cate Blanchett.

My mouth should not salivate at the swish of layers upon layers of princess tulle undulating on a dance floor.

And yet...

Upon watching the Cinderella ballroom scene, bibbidi-bobbidy-fucking-boo if I didn't want to swish across a parquet dance floor in layers upon layers of my own tulle-crinolined dress, in the arms of a man who knows how to truly lead.   I could feel my inner proactive feminist dying and I DIDN'T CARE.   

Sparkly blue princess dress...  Must have sparkly blue princess dress. 

I don't even like  princess dresses, but this dress? It hypnotized me. 

What the fuck???  

It's been drilled into our heads that corsets are bad for women, corset training is akin to binding feet.  Promlem is?   I love the feel of wearing one - I like how it lifts my girls up, gives me a breast-shelf at nearly chin level upon which I can eat.   I enjoy the feeling of containment while in a corset.  I like that my devolved sitting-in-front-of-a-computer posture can be brought back from its near-Neatherthal state while wearing a corset.   I like that my back fat disappears in one.  I don't want to wear one 24-7, but for special occasions?  I adore them.  I'm not saying every woman should wear one - but if they work for you?  If you're not destroying your internal organs when you wear them on occasion?  Go for it.

Most of these hand-drawn or computer-generated fairy tale female characters could never be imagined as human.  There was even speculation that Cinderella's waist in this version was CGI'd.  It wasn't.  In this live-action version (filmed almost shot for shot like the 1950 animated version), Lily James's already tiny real life waist is corseted, thereby shrinking it by another 5 inches, and pushing her boobs up to her armpits.  The dress's voluminous skirt then makes her tiny waist seem even tinier with its yards and yards of fabric floating around her hips.  Lily James did not go on a prolonged liquid diet as most headlines are screaming.

"When [the corset] was on we would be on continuous days so we wouldn't stop for lunch or a lovely tea like this—you'd be sort of eating on the move. In that case, I couldn't untie the corset. So if you ate food it didn't really digest properly and I'd be burping all afternoon in [Richard Madden]'s face, and it was just really sort of unpleasant. I'd have soup so that I could still eat but it wouldn't get stuck."  Source: E-News

This 'diet,' this particular dress, its corset and Lily James's waist have unfortunately smothered the message of the film with talk of too much tulle and boning. 

Cinderella's dying mother tells her to:

"Have courage and be kind."   

This credo, especially in our 2015 of net shaming and cyber bullying, is something to which all children should aspire.  Yes, I still wonder why Cinderella allows herself to be doormatted under the heels of her step-mother and step-sisters and yes, I still prefer the screenplay of  1998's Ever After,  which gives Drew Barrymore's character more... character...  But having courage and being kind?  How can anyone not want to share that notion with the children in our world?  It's a great way to live one's life... whether you dress in a corset or not.

Oh chocolate, thou Christmas strumpet!

Self-control, why hast thou forsaken  me?  I know that I shouldn't eat this shit.  I know that.  I'm a grown up, I've lived with my body for long enough to understand how it works.  So.....  

WHY
  CAN'T
   I   
STOP
   MYSELF??  

I'm going to hell.  It's the freaking holiday season, sending me headlong into the Hell of a Thousand Sugar Plum Comas.   Tonight's conveyance?  A box of Pot of Gold chocolates.  Sweet Jesus, the rum butter caramels and the mocha caramels and the almond caramels... You see a pattern developing here?

I was given free boxes of chocolates.  Yes, you read that right - boxes - plural.  You cannot say NO to free boxes of chocolate.  I defy even a diabetic, to say NO to receiving free chocolate.  Hell, if you can't eat them, you could at least watch someone else eat them. You know, vicarious-like.  Saying NO to boxes of chocolates is akin to turning away lottery winnings.   Have you ever heard someone say, "No thank you, I'd rather not have the 7.6 million - give it to that person over there..." ?  No, you have not.   At the very least, one accepts the lottery winnings before giving those winnings to charity.

Me?  I'm offered sinful confections and I respond thus,"FREE CHOCOLATES!?!  ALLLLL RIGHT!!!!"

And now I type this post high on sugar and chocolate.  Caramel is my Achilles Heel.  The feel of it, its sweetness on curve of my tongue - it undoes me.  You want to hobble me?  Throw a box of caramel chocolates in my path.  I'm high, with the added bonus of a sugar headache behind my eyes.  I am also consumed with guilt for eating 7 chocolates - on top of the 6 I had earlier.

Watch how Heather's blood sugar spikes then plummets - right about here on the chart.  Why does she do it, you ask?  Because once those pleasure sensors in her brain are activated, she will not be satisfied until all the caramel chocolates in her view have been consumed.  

Holiday chocolate bingeing brings on the holiday wrestling with one's inner bulimic.  I will not make myself throw up.  I will not make myself throw up.  I will not make myself throw up.  

Time to get Rissa to hide the other box before the cellophane is cracked.

Shoulders back.  Own this.  I apologize blood sugar - I fucked up.  I'll do better tomorrow.