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

WHY ARE YOU SHOWING ME THIS?!?

Nostalgia has bitten me in the ass.  And Rissa's ass, because she was forced to watch four, count 'em, four 1980s movies with me.  Floundering after Bowie died - it got me thinking that we hadn't shared Bowie movies with Rissa.  She'd never seen Labyrinth, or Absolute Beginners.  And when I was ordering those movies from Amazon the "if you like that you might like this" algorithm came up with Xanadu and of course she had to see that too.

We started with Xanadu.  About 15 minutes in she turned to me.  "Is the whole movie like this?"

"I think it is."

"Seriously?"

I remembered the roller skating and the mash up number where they mix 1940s swing with 'modern' rock.  When the animated section came on I exclaimed,  "OH MY GOD - I totally forgot about this!"

Rissa looked at me in disbelief.  "Wait... now she's a... FISH?!?"

"Yes.  Yes, she is, and it's freaking brilliant!"

Upon reflection, Xanadu might be a little unpolished and poorly acted... and just one music video after another... and why oh WHY did they make Olivia Newton John attempt to roller skate?  She could NOT roller skate.  Was there no budget for a skating double?  Rissa is also adamant that Gene Kelly should be erased from the film so that it doesn't sully his reputation.

After Xanadu, Absolute Beginners, which, apart from its first steady-cam shot (that clearly inspired all the "walk & talk" shots in The West Wing) - was a made up of a nearly-incomprehensible plot, surrounded by even more weird-ass plot points, with a brief scene where Bowie plays an American ad exec who gets to chew the scenery and Sade sings a spectacular Killer Blow. Strange, after having listened to the cassette tape of the soundtrack for years, I had remembered the film as having much more substance.  Rissa fell asleep during the race riot scenes near the end - not quite the gripping action the producers hoped for, methinks.

Next... Labyrinth, where Bowie's spectacular codpiece was front and centre for most of the film.  Huzzah!!!  Unfortunately, the codpiece was not enough to distract Rissa from how much Jennifer Connelly's portrayal of Sarah annoyed her. 

"Why is she being such a douche?  He's just a baby!"

Rissa's favourite part of the movie?   The special features - where almost all the FX were practical and she got to see Jim Hensen in all his puppeteering/directing glory.

Although Rissa recognized that Fame was a far superior film - better acted, danced... hell... made, the depressing verisimilitude of  the film had her jonesing for a therapist and had me wishing that I'd broken her in gently by showing her the  TV series - especially the episode where Doris gets to re-enact The Wizard of Oz.

Crap - I thought it was only four movies.  It was five.  I showed her The Lost Boys too.  And although she did appreciate how pretty Jason Patrick was... the oiled up sax player at the boardwalk made her throw up a little in her mouth... I owe her.

It's time to remind her of other 80s films that she's seen already and actually likes.  The ones that I've watched in the intervening decades since the 80s, nay  WILL watch any time they're on, the fabulous and the cheesy, from the sublime to the ridiculous: Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Footloose, The Blues Brothers, Back to the Future, The Breakfast Club, Heathers, The Princess Bride, Tootsie,  Bladerunner, Ghostbusters, Stand by Me, The Neverending Story, E.T., Indiana Jones, Top Gun, The Karate Kid, Pretty in Pink, Working Girl and, and, and ... 

Chasing Cyd Charisse

In the mid-80s the bus dropped me off on Ness Avenue and I walked two major blocks south to get to high school.  I walked down the alley behind Ainsley Street -  this was Winnipeg - we had alleys everywhere.  I had two goals every morning: get to school early and walk faster than Francine Bishop.

I would see Francine walking ahead of me down that alley and it became my obsession to overtake her.  It was an impossible task.  Francine was at least six inches taller than me, with Cyd Charisse legs that bent the laws of physics and physicality.  Her legs appeared at least 10 inches longer than mine.  Maybe I had a long torso and she had a short torso, but I swear those legs went all the way up to her fucking arm pits.  I looked up to her, figuratively and literally.  She was a year ahead of me, took drama was super smart.  I have no idea why the need to walk faster than her kicked in.  Maybe my inner Neanderthal took control and needed to be the lead hunter/gatherer.

"Gronk need be first!"  Chest thump.  "Gronk fast!"

It was ridiculous.  I'd have to practically run to even get close. I'd be pumping my arms, speed walking - then, if I managed to get within striking distance, I'd have to act all nonchalant as if I was not attempting to break the land speed record to catch up to her and her unbelievable legs. 

I did it once.  I passed her, offered a cheerful "Good morning!" and then kept powering through, the lactic acid burning in my legs, the muscles in my ass twitching by the time I made it to the school.  I could barely manage the stairs before collapsing beside my locker.  But as I lay there, gasping for breath, I imagined the head of the Olympic Committee presenting me with a gold medal.  In a near-coma I saw the Canadian flag being raised as I mumble-sang Oh Canada to the crowd.  It never happened again.  I think maybe the day I passed her she was sick, or tired... or humouring me.

Welcome home my lovelies!

It took 15 years, but I have finally done it!  I have replenished the shoe cache that I had before Rissa was born.  Pre-Rissa I had a... I'm not going to call it a shoe fetish, 'cause it wasn't like I was humping them or anything...  instead I'll call it a shoe... fascination.

I had a good 75 pairs of shoes.  Every colour in the ROYGBIV spectrum, kitten heels, wedges, stillettos, boots, leather, suede, floral... I was a happily-shod girl.  Then, when I was dumb enough to gain 50 lbs while pregnant, my feet, the actual ligaments in my feet loosened and then SPREAD.  (Seriously, DON'T gain 50  lbs when you're pregnant - not even if your midwife says 'Some women need 15 lbs to grow a healthy baby and some women need 60." She is wrong - you don't need that much weight to grow a healthy baby - it will take you four years to lose it.)  All my lovely shoes no longer fit me.  There was no possible way that I could regain what was now lost to me.  After-pregnancy, I had to buy shoes at least a 1/2 size too large or specialty shoes in a D width.  The cost was going to be astronomical.  It could not be warranted. 

But now, after a decade and a half of shopping only when items were on sale, of scouring the Value Villages and thrift stores, I am finally back to where I have the perfect pair of shoes to go with those pants, or that skirt, or that dress.  I have the knee-high boots that make David salivate.  I have comfortable sneakers that fit the width of my post-pregnancy dew beaters.

These shoes will not bring about world peace, they will not help educate my daughter, they will not support my spirituality.  My plum, heeled Mary Janes have no greater purpose than making me happy when I see them and perhaps giving my stems a little shape.  I'm not saying it's the best $11.99 I've ever spent... but comes pretty close.   

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.

BUY A HOUSE

In honour of our new house purchase and attending renovations, I'm sharing an earlier bit from my show How To Leave Adolescence at 30 - written and performed in 1999, shortly after we bought our very first home in Toronto.

Buy a House

Upon returning from our honeymoon, David and I realize that for the first time in almost a year, we don’t have a project.  We flail about very briefly in panic like a couple of large bass on a catch and release fishing show before we come up with a new plan.  

We start looking at those Resale Homes magazines that you can get for free at the Shoppers Drug Mart.  It’s this nice little game we have.  It’s called “Let’s Pretend.”  Let’s pretend we are responsible adults.  Let’s pretend that we have enough money for a down payment and can carry a mortgage.  

We pore over magazines and think about where we would like to own OUR home.  Do we want a house?  Do we want a condo?  A LOFT.  Wouldn’t owning a loft be great?  We could be like Laura Holt on Remington Steele with that great loft apartment with exposed brick and beautiful wooden beams.  We could live in an old factory.  It would be so romantic.  And affordable.  Because everyone knows that lofts are an affordable alternative to owning a house. 

We enter the Candy Factory lofts showroom – filled with large windows and exposed brick and beams as far as the eye can see. We smile at one another knowing that we’ve come home.  Then we look at the price sheet.  For approximately 750 square feet of living space you have to part with approximately 400,000 dollars. Check out the security cameras from the Candy Factory Lofts right after David and I see the price sheet. You know that cartoon wolf whose eyes bug right out of his head when he sees the she wolf and he makes that noise that sounds something like AOOOOOOOOGA?  That’s exactly what David and I look like before we run screaming from the building.

We go back to looking at the Resale Homes magazine and make a call to Betty, the agent.  Two weeks later, after having seen 9 houses in total - thereby becoming true housing connoisseurs - we buy house number 4. 

Why don’t you tell them what they’ve won Bob?  

“Heather and David you have just spent the most money of your entire life on a two bedroom fixer upper with 'potential.'  This home features small cramped rooms, sloping, gouged hardwood floors, a delightfully claustrophobic staircase to an uneven second story and a bathroom so small that only a toddler could find comfort in it!” 

We take possession and spend the entire month renovating.  We’re not just talking painting and wallpapering here.  We’re talking major demolition.  We open staircases replace bath fixtures, move walls. We get WAY dirtier than Bob Villa has ever been.  The kind of dirty where you’re afraid to blow your nose at the end of the day.

We lay our own IKEA laminate flooring in the living and dining rooms.  We take a weekend to do it.  You have to pour some glue into each groove and then whack it into place with a hammer and this special groove shaped thingie that IKEA provides you with.  First day, an hour into our operation, I whack my ring finger.  Really hard.  I don’t just whack it, I rip skin off it.  Mindful of the fact that my Mother-in-law is there helping out I manage to say “Wow, that really hurts.”  

I jump up and down a little bit and get a bandage and that’s that.  It hurts, but I am above giving into the pain and a better person for it.  The next day?  Just as we are on our second to last row?  I hit my middle finger, same hand.  All the poise and grace that I had demonstrated the day before leaves me as I collapse into a heap on the floor, wailing and screaming and weeping screaming phrases like “JUST KILL ME!”  David tries to help me up and I wriggle through his arms like a toddler still screaming, "I WANT TO DIE, OH GOD, PLEASE LET ME DIE!!!!"

It takes 4 months for my fingernails to lose their blackened ends.  But you know what?  It’s worth it.  I look around our house and I know that pretty much everything, we did ourselves.  We are creating our home.  And we’re doing it from the inside out.  And every time a person comes in and says “Wow, nice floor,”   I have to smile and say “Yeah, it is.”  

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.

Shredding the Past

Boxes... and boxes... and still more boxes.  And there I was, on my ass in the Rec Room, sorting through them.  Boxes of books and fabric.  Boxes of craft supplies and more fabric.  Boxes of Tae Kwon Do equipment and MORE fabric.  And the mother lode of nostalgia... a box of letters.

Decades of correspondence in a bankers box.  Untouched letters, languishing in a box for the 8.5 years we've resided in our present home.  And before that, they languished in another box in our other two homes and before that, I carted them around in an old Cougar boot box until there were too many letters to fit into that box.  Letters, read once, then stacked in order from past to present - wrapped with elastics, now so aged  that the elastic is stuck to the paper and disintegrates if you touch it.

I sat amidst my paper equivalent to carbon dating.   Letters from childhood friends written on Care Bear cards with stickers of horses and kittens,

international penpal letters from France and Australia, letters from  high school friends (Bug, Skin, PJ and Cam),  notes from a "Secret Admirer," that had appeared in my locker first year university.   Love letters from old boyfriends.   Letters from my parents and grandparents, my Mom's best friend Vivien.  Cards and mementos from my friend Shannon who died unexpectedly in 2009.

A box full of forgotten history.  Glancing through, there were return address names that rang NO bells at all and yet I found an old napkin, from when I was 16, that I'd slipped to an older guy (he was probably all of 23) at the mall that said, "Dir Sir, you are incredibly handsome."  He'd returned it to me, having written on the other side, "Dear 'Madame' THANK YOU!" with a smiley face below.

I was prepared to shred it all.  I'd hefted the shredder down from the office when David demanded I eat lunch.  After eating though, I was going to bite the bullet and purge it all.

"I haven't looked at them for this long.  It'd take me months to read through everything and distinguish the good from the bad.  I don't have the time.  We don't have the space."

David shot me a glance.  "We can make space.  It's one box.  You've kept them.  They're part of your past.  One box isn't going to make a difference.  We can tuck it in under the stairs."

"Maybe..."  A weight lifted.  That felt better.  "Plus when I'm dead, and Rissa has to sort through them all, it'd probably be fun for her..."  I stopped.  

"What?"

"Nothing," I said, swallowing my last bite of grilled cheese.  "It's okay.  I'll just... I'll just..."  I ran back down to the basement.

Read.  Shred.  Read. Shred.  Read. Shhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrread.

"What are you doing?" asked David from his shop area.

"So I found this erotic story that, uh... Tim wrote me..."

He raised his eyebrows.  "You did huh?"

"Yeah..."   Shhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrread.  I was blushing.

"That good huh?"

"Yep..."  Shhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrread. "I'm thinking that reading erotica where one's mother figures prominently, might not be quite the nostalgic experience Rissa would be hoping for upon my death."  Shhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrread.

"You might be right."

I glanced through the other letters.  They were innocuous enough - slightly titillating, but not downright graphic.   Proclaimed affection - even love - my romantic past in ink.  That, I thought, she might want a glimpse into.  Hell, I do to.  Maybe next weekend, I'll sit down with a pot of tea or a good single malt and dive into my past.

And that's why I should be having sex more often...

WARNING: THERE IS TOO MUCH INFORMATION IN THIS POST

On account of the fact that when it's this lackadaisical, only when we we're not exhausted, happen to be on the same bio-rhythms kind of encounter, my body feels like this the next the day.

And we weren't trying anything new here.  We were doing our standards.  Nothing groundbreaking - nothing we had to stretch for.   I hadn't thought that I'd done myself an injury.  It wasn't like when you're first together and you go at it for so long and so hard that you can't walk the next day.  But they never tell you about that in romance novels or erotica.  Nope.  It's all banging for days, trying out numbers 32-49 of the Kama Sutra, hanging from the chandelier...  Literary depictions rarely mention the Epsom Salts baths and two days of rest you need before it doesn't hurt to pee because of micro tears around your lady bits.

Nor do they mention the bladder infections that you get if you get too cuddly after sex. When David and I were first together and were going at it like bunnies, I ended up in the Emerg - all feverish and having... shhhhhh.... blood in my, um... urine.  

The triage nurse looked at me...  looked at David.  "You're a new couple?"

 "Um, yeah... fairly new."

"You need to pee after sex."

"Pardon?"

"You need to pee after sex."

"Because why?"

And here's where she told me something that NO ONE ever thinks to tell you.   Until you wind up in the Emerg and the nursing staff give you these sad commiserative glances and finally pass along information that should be de rigueur in Sex Ed.

"Because seminal fluid can wind up in your urethra and you can get a bladder infection."

So trust me ladies - if you're at that point in your relationship where you've both been tested for STDs and he's good and you're good and you're on the pill, or the patch, or the shot and you're riding bareback - as much as you might want to cuddle right after you've done the deed...  DON'T!  Get up, race to the bathroom, pee, wash, and then head back to bed and do the cuddling then.  It can still be all romantical and snuggly - just a little bit later.  Save youreself a trip to the Emerg.  TRUST ME.  And when you're older - invest in lube.

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.

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

I don't know if it's ALL nature vs nurture or vice versa.  But I DO know that perfectionism is genetic.  Rissa got her perfectionist streak directly from her father's side of the family...  from her paternal grandmother to her father to her.  From the ages of two to about seven, Rissa would melt down when she couldn't complete a task.  She was unwilling to fail at anything.  If she couldn't get it on the first try, that child imploded. She wasn't much of a tantrum thrower, but man that kid could simply refuse to communicate.  She would hide behind chairs, tables, simply close her eyes to shut you out.  The stubborn crossing of the arms stance was a staple reaction for my kid. 

I remember her, age four, at AirZone.  AirZone was one of those party places with jumpy castles, big slides and obstacle courses.  Rissa was determined to go down the 20 foot slide.  DETERMINED.  It was a big frickin' slide.   She got all excited and climbed to the top of that monster slide.  Then she looked down the slide and understandably panicked.  It was a LONG way down.  She sat at the top of that slide for a good 15 minutes, letting child after child after child in front of her.

"Rissa sweetie, you don't have to go down honey.  Just climb down the ladder.  It's okay hon."

"NOOOOOOO!"

"Sweetie, it's okay.  Just climb down the ladder..."

"No Mummy!  NOOOOOOOO!"

I couldn't take it any more.  My heart was about to burst.  There was my little girl sitting up at the top of that slide quietly sobbing, mumbling to herself like some some sort of JK schizophrenic.  I climbed up and went down with her - even though it was against the rules.  The minute we reached the bottom, she climbed up again to the top, still determined that she would go down on her own.

"Sweetie, you don't have to do this.  This is a big kids' slide..."

"Mummy I want to!"

"Then just go ahead and do it!"

"I want to!"

"You can do it!"  I put on my best RAH! RAH! voice.

"I want to... "

"You can..."

"I want to... BUT I CAN'T!!!!!"

There might as well have been a pit of rabid, slathering Hounds of Hell, covered in barbed wire at the bottom of that slide, instead of a safe, bouncy landing - she was petrified.  Desperate to go down, but terrified of the drop.  Other parents in the joint looking at me like I'm torturing my kid.  Don't look at me!  I don't need her to go down the slide!  This is ALL her.  I am just a terrified bystander.

45 minutes we waited it out.  Her yelling occasionally from the top, me doing my best to keep my voice calm and give her support. The backs of my legs were bruised from where I had wedged them so firmly under my chair seat to stop me from leaping up to rescue her.  See, I'd said that I wouldn't come get her again.  I'd drawn the line in the sand.  Was it the wrong line in the sand?  Probably.  I should have probably climbed up again, hefted her under one arm and left the building, but for whatever reason, this rite of passage seemed to mean more to her than being the focus of attention for all the patrons of AirZone, so I was all in.

And sure enough after that 45 minutes and countless "I WANT TO... BUT I CAN'TS!!!", she went down.  ONCE.

"I'm so proud of you sweetie!  Good for you!!"  How was I supposed to  play this now?  Do I encourage a second trip down?  Do I just zip my lip?  Zipping the lip is never really my thing.  "Do you want to....?"  I left the end of the sentence hanging there, my tone ambiguous.

"No, Mummy.  I'm good.  I know I can do it now."  Then she ran off to be a four year old again.

It's official. I'm the adult.

Courting trouble

When I was younger, I did things...  I courted trouble.  I was the brash girl with the great rack who wasn't afraid to use words or breasts to my advantage.  Back in the day, I faked my Driver's License with green liquid paper, a fine-tipped pen and a steady hand.  I shop-lifted bad romance novels and inhaled Clove cigarettes.  I made bad choices, I took a walk, if not on the wild side, definitely adjacent to it.  But I never got caught.  'Cause I was a girl and I was sneaky.

Boys?  Aren't generally as sneaky.  And adolescent boys?  Aren't really forward thinkers. Which is why David and I pretty much caught the kid red-handed.  Actually white handed - because he still had the white spray paint on his hands, even though he tried to hide it.  We also had him trapped inside the skateboard park.  Kids? If you're going to deface public property?  Probably best not to do it in an enclosed space with one gate and a high chain link fence around it where two adults can block your only exit.

We could have let him be.  Could have turned that blind eye.  We started to walk past, then my head fell when my social conscience kicked in.  I could see the word that he'd scrawled on the ramp...

'Fucked' - not terribly original - the 'd' started out as a 'b' - poor kid was probably dyslexic.  If this were a park where everyone tagged the ramps - where there were broken bottles and drug dealers, or I guess, more accurately, if it wasn't part of a park that lots of little kids walked through, where they didn't watch the older kids doing their tricks on their skateboards, I probably wouldn't have called him on it. I could've easily gone the "not my problem" route.

The kid, an awkward guy, probably 11 years old, a little extra weight around his middle, wearing a baseball cap and a jersey from a sports team, was still at the edge of fence, behind the half pipe, disposing of his spray can when we approached the park.  He panicked as he saw me walking towards the fence, reaching for his bike which had been left inside the fence.  David imposingly blocked the gate, all six feet of him true adult menace.  The kid looked like he was going to crap his pants.

"Dude.  Is that the best you can do?" I said.

"What?  No, that wasn't me.  I didn't..."

"Aw hon.  We saw you do it.   We saw you from the road and then we watched you ditch the can to the side there.  Why don't you go pick it up?"

Red-faced, this Campbell's-Soup kid trundled to the side and picked up the spray can.

"It wasn't me..."  He wiped at his hands, probably still feeling the paint on them.

"Yeah... it was.  Let me ask you.  Was 'Fucked' the best you could do?  Seriously?  'Fucked?' This is what you chose to leave behind?  Dude.  Kids come here.  Little kids.  Learning to read little kids who like to watch the big kids skate. What about when they ask their parents, "What does that spell?"  What about when they try to sound it out?"

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't be sorry, " I said.  "Make better choices."

"I just wanted..."  he began.

"Just wanted what?"

"I just wanted to know what it felt like to..."

"To what?"

"To do it."

My heart broke a little right then.  God, I could see this kid at 12 just wanting to know what smoking felt like and at 14 wanting to know what beer felt like...  Trying to be the bad kid so that he could have something to brag about.  He was nearly in tears.

"How 'bout this?  How about the next time you get this urge - instead of defacing something - instead of writing 'fucked,' instead of that..."  I grasped for a concept - what could I say to this kid?  "How 'bout... you make art?  I swear to God, if you had been spray painting a mural here, something that had artistic worth, I would have given you props for doing it.  I would have come up and told you how great your graffiti was." He hung his head.

David and I left the fenced area.

"Are you going to... to tell anyone?"  He called out to us.

We turned around.  The kid was holding onto his bike handlebars like they were the only thing keeping him upright.  Who would I tell?  What was I going to do?  Have David lock the kid in the skateboard park while I ran downtown to grab the police?  I figured the terror from having strangers call him on it might be enough for today.  "Nope.  We're not going to tell anyone."  We took a few steps away.  Then I yelled back at him, over my shoulder.   "MAKE BETTER CHOICES!"

Where did the time go?

For all you parents dropping off your children (of all ages) at school this week...  an excerpt from More Work Than a Puppy (or what your mother never told you about procreation).  I was told by the mother of a university-aged daughter that I'd missed an important demographic.  I added this particular monologue in 2005 with a few revisions this past spring.  Keep a tissue handy...

I’m dropping her off at university today.  And as we’re driving there I hope that I haven’t screwed up.  Have I given her the right values?  Will she make the right choices?  Will she ever need me the way she did before this day?

Home movie flashbacks fill my head.  She was so accident prone.  At two, she was riding one of those springy horses in the playground.  Giggling and smiling – until her hands slipped and her chin went down on the handle and I’m looking at her chin bone.  My two year old’s chin bone is visible, and I’ve gone to that calm maternal place where I have to be in control and make sure that she doesn’t panic—but her chin bone is showing—but I still smile and tell her everything will be okay... And as her arms encircle my neck, she doesn’t even realize that she’s bleeding. 

Then she’s 4, playing with her friend on the concrete stoop across the street.  She’s wearing a red nylon jacket with a hood, you know the ones - that have that soft white flannel inside?  She’s swinging from her knees on the metal railing and in slow motion I see her fall - on her head - on the concrete.  In the 5 seconds that it takes me to reach the other side of the street, the white flannel of the inside of her hood has turned literally blood red.  The doctor says that it it’s a cut no bigger than the tip of her baby finger.  But to me, at that moment, her brains were probably seeping out into the hood.  So I tie the strings tight around her chin to make sure that no brains fall out.

At 11 she falls through our glass table in the rec. room.  (She’s trying to jump over it after using the couch as a trampoline.)  I hear this crash from the basement and fly down the stairs even before I hear the crying. She’s lying there in the middle of transparent shrapnel – her left leg bloody from the knee down.    And as she reaches for me, she’s saying “Mummy – Mummy, I broke the table.  I’m sorry.”  She hadn’t called me Mummy since she was 6.

I look at the young woman she is now.  She’s 18.  So self-assured… and right about absolutely everything.  Everything’s black and white for her – there are no Fifty Shades of Grey for her.

Have I told her everything she needs to face the world?  

“DON'T DO DRUGS!”  

She looks at me.  

“I mean, don’t do the bad drugs.  Organic is okay. Stick to organic... Don’t do acid! Oh God, do they even DO acid now?  Is it Ecstasy now?  DON'T DO THAT!! ...  Pot’s fine – it’s great with sex... OH!! USE CONDOMS! – I know you’re on the pill, but use condoms – PROMISE ME YOU'LL USE CONDOMS!  ... And act crazy on the bus if you’re riding late at night.  If you act crazy on the bus, people will stay away.” 

We pull up at her dorm.  She had the option to go to Trent, but she wanted Queens.  What the hell has Queens got that Trent doesn’t?  Besides all the good stuff?  The reputation stuff.  Everyone knows that a reputation can be totally wrong.  Reputations are like rumors.  Who started this one? Queens isn’t so great.  It’s 2 hours and 8 minutes away according to the Google Maps.  What if something happens to her?  It’ll take me 2 hours and 8 minutes to get to her!! 

If she had gone to Trent, she could have lived at home.  She’d be getting free food with me.  I’d make sure that she was eating balanced meals.   I would do her laundry.  I’d even fold it and everything!  She’s going to be living in a dorm.  With other kids, and I don’t know these kids.  These kids will be a bad influence.  They’ll lead her into stuff.  Bad stuff.  If she stays at a dorm, her life will go to hell.  She’ll hang out with the wrong crowd.  What if they turn out to be small-minded and prejudiced?  We always took her into Toronto once a month so that she could see that there was more to life than small-town white-bread people.  We had dinner in Little India, we went to Chinatown.  She knew that there were different colours of skin.  Does Kingston have a Chinatown?  Or is it going to be one Chinese restaurant that serves bad fried rice?

I’m trying so hard to be the cool Mom who can let her go and trust that she’ll make the right choices.  I wonder if she knows I’m faking it.  I’ve been crying myself to sleep for the last six nights. 

God, what am I thinking?  She’s not dumb.  She’s never been prone to peer pressure.  What, she’s going to stop using her brain now?  Now that she’s been accepted to Queens with a 93 average?  If I were a sane, rational mother I would know that she’s going to be fine.  I would know that.  But she’s my baby.  I breastfed her and snuggled her and scared away the dragons from under her bed. 

How did 18 years go by so quickly?  In my head she’s still 5 years old, ringing the doorbell, wearing her little yellow duck boots - completely covered in mud - and she’s holding a bouquet of dandelions that she picked especially for me. 

I feel like I’m leaving that 5 year old on the curb with her suitcase in hand – not this woman who is ready to start her own life.  She’s following her own yellow brick road, and I’m Glinda the Good Witch... just pointing her in the right direction.  And she’ll be okay.  She smiles as she waves to me.  I start to drive before I cry.  As I’m pulling away, she runs up to my window and knocks on the glass.  I roll it down and she gives me a great big, wet, sloppy kiss.  And then she says:  “Don’t worry Mom, I’ve got my ruby slippers.”

© Heather Jopling 2005, 2013

The Right way to do Laundry

David and I are doing laundry at my parents' place. It’s such a lovely day that we decide that we’re going to hang the clothes on the line to dry. After about 5 mintues, from within the house, I hear shrieks from my female relatives.  My mother, Granny, Gran and Aunt Bea are all in the kitchen.  My Mother’s voice assaults me from across the deck.

“Heather!  What are you doing?” my mother yells to me.

“I’m hanging up the laundry.”

“You don’t hang up laundry that way!”

“Pardon me?”

“You don’t hang up laundry that way!”

“What way?”

“One sock, one towel, one t-shirt…”

“What?”

“You have to hang things up in groups.”

“What?”

“You have to hang things up in groups.  All the t-shirts, all the socks, all the underwear…”

“Who says?”

“It’s just the way it’s done!”

“Why?”

“Because it makes a nicer looking clothes line.”

“What, are the laundry police going to come out and give us a ticket?”

“Don’t you get smart!”

“All I want to know is who decided that this was the way laundry has to be dried?   I mean, does it dry faster your way?”

“You are not too old for the wooden spoon young lady!”

My mother still threatens me with the wooden spoon.  If I swear in the house, she’ll threaten.  If I’m too sarcastic, she’ll threaten.  If I make a face …  you name it, if I’m 'sassy,' she’ll bring out the spoon.  The thing is – I don’t actually remember her ever using the wooden spoon. I just remember hearing about the spoon.

Let me give you an idea about the type of person my Mom is.  She is the classiest woman I know, even when she’s leg wrestling.  My husband challenged her to a match and she kicked his ass!  She’s one of my best friends.  Not everyone has the privilege of having a friendship with their mother.  I do. Not only do I get along with her – I actually choose to spend time with her, especially when she’s singing obnoxiously at the top of her voice “I am the CHAMPION!  I AM THE CHAMPION!!”  And then doing her half-assed attempt at a fist pump.   

"Whu-whu-whu-whu-whu!"

And you know, no matter how old I am, no matter how much knowledge I have, my Mother will always know more than I do.  Because she did it all first.  And I’ll always turn to her and ask for her advice.  Sure, the details of the advice may not be exactly what I want to hear, but I know that regardless of generation gaps and differences of opinion, a lot of these things that she tells me?  Are exactly what I need to hear.   And what’s scary?  It really does make a nicer looking clothes line.

*This piece is an excerpt from my show How to Leave Adolescence at 30 written in 1999.  As I stumbled about in our laundry room this morning - it seemed appropriate.