A few months ago, my step-daughter called me from university to announce that THE event had happened: she'd lost her virginity. Since the recipient wasn't someone whom she'd been dating for any great length of time (they were both a bit drunk), she'd failed to inform him that it was her first time.
As their relationship progressed (they are now officially boyfriend-girlfriend and in love), she never fessed up because it became too awkward to bring up with the passing of time.
The whole situation reminded me of a guy with whom I had a few brief interludes during our second year of university. P. and I had been part of the same circle of friends since we were about seventeen years old, but we never really got close to each other. We were somewhat attracted to each other, both physically and otherwise. I believe that we both sensed that we were a lot alike in some respects; P. was often uncomfortable in large groups and social situations. I felt much the same way but was far more successful at faking it.
We flirted playfully and harmlessly with each other on and off but never pursued anything. When I moved away to Toronto to attend university, we began corresponding, and our friendship developed.
The big moment came when I went home for a weekend visit. Naturally, I was scheduled to get together with all of my friends who still lived in Montreal and attended McGill. We were supposed to meet to watch a movie outdoors on campus one evening. Somehow only P. and I showed up. It started to rain and P. wrapped us both up in the blanket which he'd conveniently brought. Being that close to P. after all the years of eyeing each other longingly without acting upon our lustful thoughts, was just too much. We exchanged a few kisses and came away from that evening knowing that the next step was inevitable.
Because of the distance, P. and I had few opportunities to see each other over the next few months. Since we were both terrible communicators, we never really discussed our thoughts, feelings or expectations, and therefore neither of us knew what those intimate moments meant to the other. For my part, I was seeing other people, but I thought off and on about P.
Later, when I met someone else with whom I was developing a potentially serious relationship, I didn't know how to deal with the awkwardness of resuming a non-sexual friendship with P. At the first opportunity, I picked a fight with P. and ended all communication with him. It was fairly easy to avoid P. since the rest of our circle of friends had been having some difficulties with him and had stopped associating with him as well.
A few years ago, I was able to get back in touch with P. Luckily, we've both matured (sort of) and were able to put aside the past and pick up the thread of friendship. Finally, we were able to be honest about some of the issues which we'd both had in the past which had affected our relationship.
During one of our candid conversations, P. confessed a jaw-dropping secret: I'd been his first lover. I certainly would have never guessed that given that he'd seemed so self-assured and confident.
I wonder if it will take my step-daughter over twenty years to confess to her boyfriend that he had been her first.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
If ...
When I was in the second grade, my father was on a year-long sabbatical. He chose to go to Brussels, Belgium, mainly I believe so that he could meet Dr. Ilya Prigogine, the Nobel Prize Winner for Chemistry.
Although we didn't fully appreciate it at the time, it was a rich and fabulous experience for my brother and I to live in another continent. We were immediately immersed into Belgian culture and although we looked markedly different than the average Belgian child, within months, we were spouting French and Dutch as though we had lived there all of our lives.
Since we were already in Europe, my mom and dad decided to take full advantage of our ability to travel. I'm sure they broke the bank that year because we went to France, Germany, London, Italy, Luxembourg, Holland and various other places during the school year and our summer holidays.
One of my favourite trips was when we travelled several days by train to the south of Italy and then to Rome. The idea of spending a night in a sleeper car was an absolutely magical and enchanting one for us.
Sadly though, since I was relatively young, a lot of the culture was lost on me. After all, taking young kids on cultural trips can often be a waste of time and money. In retrospect, I realise what a wonderul experience we had; however, at the time I failed to appreciate a great deal of it because let's face it, when you're seven or eight, traisping through various countries in Europe and visiting museums, art galleries and other sightseeing landmarks at a less than leisurely rate can start to wear thin after awhile.
I remember when we travelled to Rome. We had spent about three blissful weeks in a villa in the south of Italy and then travelled from there to the Holy City for a brief stay. Not wanting to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime, my parents dragged us everywhere worth seeing in Rome. By the afternoon of our second or third day there, I was exhausted, hot and extremely thirsty. My parents, being frugal people, weren't one to stop and buy us drinks or snacks. We'd run out of our own water which we'd been carrying and by this point, I could barely work up enough saliva to keep my mouth from achieving desert status. I asked my mother incessantly when we could stop and get a drink, and my enquiries were met with the unsatisfactory response that drinks were expensive and that we'd have to wait until mealtime before we'd get to order our libations.
At last, we reached the final destination of our sightseeing tour that day -- the Trevi Fountain. My parents spent several minutes oohing and aahing over it. No doubt, they'd seen it in Fellini's La Dolce Vita and were impressed with the real McCoy. I had no knowledge of the magnitude and importance of what was in my presence. All I knew was that my feet were killing and that I was unbelievably hot and dehydrated.
My mother then took my brother and I aside and told us that this was a famous fountain and that if you threw a coin over your right shoulder whilst making a wish, that wish would come true. She then pressed a coin into each of our palms.
Being older, smarter, savvier and more mature, my brother considered carefully before tossing his coin into the waters of the Trevi. I, on the other hand, closed my eyes and thought "I wish my parents would break down on their rules and just buy us a drink now", before pitching my coin over my right shoulder into the fountain.
As soon as I opened my eyes, my mother announced that she was going to go and buy the family some soft drinks from a street vendor; a statement which if you knew my parents and their stance on both the evils of sugary pop and spending money needlessly, could only have been propelled by some miraculous force.
I enjoyed the ice cold bottle of Coke immensely, but it was gone all too soon, and I was suddenly struck by the thought that I'd wasted a wish. If the Trevi fountain had this kind of power to make my mother open her pocketbook and buy us a round of pop, what else could it do? I needed another coin to make a really proper wish!!
I ran to my mother and asked for another coin. Unfortunately, my mother had a one-wish-per-customer policy in effect. Since she'd already spent money on drinks, there was no way she was going to give me more money so I could throw it into the Trevi. I begged, pleaded, wheedled and whined to no avail. I was dragged away from the Trevi fountain, all the while looking back longingly and mournfully.
I've never been back to either Italy or Rome since but I know that when I do, a trip to the Trevi will top my itinerary list. This time I'll be wishing for more than just a drink.
Although we didn't fully appreciate it at the time, it was a rich and fabulous experience for my brother and I to live in another continent. We were immediately immersed into Belgian culture and although we looked markedly different than the average Belgian child, within months, we were spouting French and Dutch as though we had lived there all of our lives.
Since we were already in Europe, my mom and dad decided to take full advantage of our ability to travel. I'm sure they broke the bank that year because we went to France, Germany, London, Italy, Luxembourg, Holland and various other places during the school year and our summer holidays.
One of my favourite trips was when we travelled several days by train to the south of Italy and then to Rome. The idea of spending a night in a sleeper car was an absolutely magical and enchanting one for us.
Sadly though, since I was relatively young, a lot of the culture was lost on me. After all, taking young kids on cultural trips can often be a waste of time and money. In retrospect, I realise what a wonderul experience we had; however, at the time I failed to appreciate a great deal of it because let's face it, when you're seven or eight, traisping through various countries in Europe and visiting museums, art galleries and other sightseeing landmarks at a less than leisurely rate can start to wear thin after awhile.
I remember when we travelled to Rome. We had spent about three blissful weeks in a villa in the south of Italy and then travelled from there to the Holy City for a brief stay. Not wanting to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime, my parents dragged us everywhere worth seeing in Rome. By the afternoon of our second or third day there, I was exhausted, hot and extremely thirsty. My parents, being frugal people, weren't one to stop and buy us drinks or snacks. We'd run out of our own water which we'd been carrying and by this point, I could barely work up enough saliva to keep my mouth from achieving desert status. I asked my mother incessantly when we could stop and get a drink, and my enquiries were met with the unsatisfactory response that drinks were expensive and that we'd have to wait until mealtime before we'd get to order our libations.
At last, we reached the final destination of our sightseeing tour that day -- the Trevi Fountain. My parents spent several minutes oohing and aahing over it. No doubt, they'd seen it in Fellini's La Dolce Vita and were impressed with the real McCoy. I had no knowledge of the magnitude and importance of what was in my presence. All I knew was that my feet were killing and that I was unbelievably hot and dehydrated.
My mother then took my brother and I aside and told us that this was a famous fountain and that if you threw a coin over your right shoulder whilst making a wish, that wish would come true. She then pressed a coin into each of our palms.
Being older, smarter, savvier and more mature, my brother considered carefully before tossing his coin into the waters of the Trevi. I, on the other hand, closed my eyes and thought "I wish my parents would break down on their rules and just buy us a drink now", before pitching my coin over my right shoulder into the fountain.
As soon as I opened my eyes, my mother announced that she was going to go and buy the family some soft drinks from a street vendor; a statement which if you knew my parents and their stance on both the evils of sugary pop and spending money needlessly, could only have been propelled by some miraculous force.
I enjoyed the ice cold bottle of Coke immensely, but it was gone all too soon, and I was suddenly struck by the thought that I'd wasted a wish. If the Trevi fountain had this kind of power to make my mother open her pocketbook and buy us a round of pop, what else could it do? I needed another coin to make a really proper wish!!
I ran to my mother and asked for another coin. Unfortunately, my mother had a one-wish-per-customer policy in effect. Since she'd already spent money on drinks, there was no way she was going to give me more money so I could throw it into the Trevi. I begged, pleaded, wheedled and whined to no avail. I was dragged away from the Trevi fountain, all the while looking back longingly and mournfully.
I've never been back to either Italy or Rome since but I know that when I do, a trip to the Trevi will top my itinerary list. This time I'll be wishing for more than just a drink.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Whither the arm candy?
I hate ironing. It is the absolute bane of my existence. I've never liked it, even as a small child when dreary domestic stuff seemed sort of neat and exciting.
Whenever I am carrying out the dreaded task, I always feel as though I'm trapped in some kind of existentialist horror novel. Didn't I just iron this shirt the other day? What is the point of doing it again if it keeps coming back at me?
When I was single, I remember once dressing hurriedly for work one morning. I had this beautiful suit and needed a blouse to wear underneath. The problem was that I'd done the laundry but hadn't done any ironing. Checking my watch, I realised that I wouldn't have enough time to iron my white blouse, so I quickly ironed the cuffs and collars, buttoned the jacket and presto! I looked fabulously professional.
Later on at the office, I was dying of heat because we were at that dubious point in the year when building maintenance staff err on the side of caution and don't shut off the heat and turn on the air-conditioning. Everyone was walking around the office in shirt sleeves and several colleagues repeatedly suggested that I remove my jacket. As I knew my blouse was a total disaster beneath my jacket, I frantically declined, insisting that I was fine. This despite the perspiration streaming down my face.
The whole experience reminded me of that universal warning all moms give their kids about ensuring that one is wearing clean underwear at all times in case one gets into an accident.
When I first met my husband, his standard daily uniform was a pair of Edwin's baggy jeans or khakis, a button down Oxford-type shirt and a pair of deck shoes. He was the picture of immaculate preppiness. His shirts and jeans were always ironed perfectly, so despite the fact that he was dressed casually, he looked good.
As we began to have more children, I started suddenly looking at ways in which I could lighten my domestic load. Naturally, I turned to my least favourite zone -- the ironing pile. Despite all of my efforts, that damn pile never seemed to get any smaller. Worst of all, none of the clothes in the pile were mine! I started counting the items in the pile and realised that my husband was wearing about seven to ten pairs of pants and ten to fourteen shirts a week. This was just too much, so I started to scheme up ways in which to lighten the load. (Dry cleaning wasn't an option since I just couldn't justify the cost).
I started small. I began by attacking my husband in a subtle way.
"Exactly who irons their jeans? That just seems a bit too anal and fastidious. Jeans are meant to be worn unironed. Can't we just hang them up carefully after they've been washed to produce that crease?"
Unconvinced and skeptical, my husband insisted that I could never recreate the razor sharp crease. However, when I simply refused to iron his jeans, he had no choice but to capitulate.
Step two of my grand plan involved convincing my husband to wear shirts that didn't require ironing. Like long sleeved polo shirts or t-shirts.
Step three involved the khakis mysteriously disappearing.
Eventually I managed to get my ironing pile down to a manageable minimum -- the occasional dress shirt several times a year. I was in heaven.
Last week, my husband and I made arrangements to meet up somewhere. As I sat waiting for him, I noticed this very unkempt man approaching me in a pair of unfashionably creased jeans and a crew neck shirt. With a shock, I came out of my reverie long enough to realise that the man was my husband. While I sat there wondering why he looked so awful and so completely removed from the preppy, clean cut man I'd married (Geez, he's really let himself go, hasn't he?), it suddenly occurred to me that I was singlehandedly responsible for this vision.
Earth Mother's moral is that "Behind every untidy man, lies a lazy woman".
Whenever I am carrying out the dreaded task, I always feel as though I'm trapped in some kind of existentialist horror novel. Didn't I just iron this shirt the other day? What is the point of doing it again if it keeps coming back at me?
When I was single, I remember once dressing hurriedly for work one morning. I had this beautiful suit and needed a blouse to wear underneath. The problem was that I'd done the laundry but hadn't done any ironing. Checking my watch, I realised that I wouldn't have enough time to iron my white blouse, so I quickly ironed the cuffs and collars, buttoned the jacket and presto! I looked fabulously professional.
Later on at the office, I was dying of heat because we were at that dubious point in the year when building maintenance staff err on the side of caution and don't shut off the heat and turn on the air-conditioning. Everyone was walking around the office in shirt sleeves and several colleagues repeatedly suggested that I remove my jacket. As I knew my blouse was a total disaster beneath my jacket, I frantically declined, insisting that I was fine. This despite the perspiration streaming down my face.
The whole experience reminded me of that universal warning all moms give their kids about ensuring that one is wearing clean underwear at all times in case one gets into an accident.
When I first met my husband, his standard daily uniform was a pair of Edwin's baggy jeans or khakis, a button down Oxford-type shirt and a pair of deck shoes. He was the picture of immaculate preppiness. His shirts and jeans were always ironed perfectly, so despite the fact that he was dressed casually, he looked good.
As we began to have more children, I started suddenly looking at ways in which I could lighten my domestic load. Naturally, I turned to my least favourite zone -- the ironing pile. Despite all of my efforts, that damn pile never seemed to get any smaller. Worst of all, none of the clothes in the pile were mine! I started counting the items in the pile and realised that my husband was wearing about seven to ten pairs of pants and ten to fourteen shirts a week. This was just too much, so I started to scheme up ways in which to lighten the load. (Dry cleaning wasn't an option since I just couldn't justify the cost).
I started small. I began by attacking my husband in a subtle way.
"Exactly who irons their jeans? That just seems a bit too anal and fastidious. Jeans are meant to be worn unironed. Can't we just hang them up carefully after they've been washed to produce that crease?"
Unconvinced and skeptical, my husband insisted that I could never recreate the razor sharp crease. However, when I simply refused to iron his jeans, he had no choice but to capitulate.
Step two of my grand plan involved convincing my husband to wear shirts that didn't require ironing. Like long sleeved polo shirts or t-shirts.
Step three involved the khakis mysteriously disappearing.
Eventually I managed to get my ironing pile down to a manageable minimum -- the occasional dress shirt several times a year. I was in heaven.
Last week, my husband and I made arrangements to meet up somewhere. As I sat waiting for him, I noticed this very unkempt man approaching me in a pair of unfashionably creased jeans and a crew neck shirt. With a shock, I came out of my reverie long enough to realise that the man was my husband. While I sat there wondering why he looked so awful and so completely removed from the preppy, clean cut man I'd married (Geez, he's really let himself go, hasn't he?), it suddenly occurred to me that I was singlehandedly responsible for this vision.
Earth Mother's moral is that "Behind every untidy man, lies a lazy woman".
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Shit happens ... (don't read this if you are squeamish)
My day started off on a revolting note, then quickly descended into humiliation and defensive bitchiness.
Last week, I took my daughter to the doctor. She had been complaining about stomach pains on a daily basis for quite some time now. In addition, she had other accompanying symptoms which led me to believe that she had something worthy of looking into (I am refraining from details and won't get that graphic because it might gross you all out).
Our pediatrician decided that a stool culture was in order and dismissed us with a lab requisition form. I was told to bring a sample to the neighbourhood lab ASAP. Ew ...
Since it was nearly the weekend, I decided to have my daughter produce by Monday because there was no way I was going to hang onto a sample until the labs re-opened. Of course, the problem is that the weekend actually presents itself as the easiest time to obtain a sample since she is at home and not at school.
Finally, this morning after breakfast my daughter announces that today was to be the momentous event, and trotted off to the washroom in short order. Minutes later, she emerged with a disgusted look on her face and handed me the container. I bagged it (tightly and several times over), fished out the requisition form from my pile of papers littering my desk and stuffed it (the requisition form, not the container) into my purse.
After I dropped off my kids at school, I headed straight for the lab because there was no way I was going to have this thing in my car for any longer than was necessary. I figured that I would probably be able to just palm off the sample onto the technician and basically run in the opposite direction. No such luck.
I had the misfortune of having to deal with the world's unhappiest and rudest receptionist. After standing in line for about five minutes and listening to her kvetch loudly at other patients, I finally made my way to her desk and handed her my daughter's health card, the requisition form and the triple bagged container.
"What's this," she asked loudly, looking around the room.
"A stool sample," I whispered, suddenly turning a lovely beet red.
"What?" she practically yelled out.
I repeated myself about half a decibel louder.
She then asked me really loudly where I got the container from. Well duh ... it's a disposable tupperware as she can plainly see through the three opaque bags acting as a shield. Am I supposed to tell her where I shop for my goods now? What the hell difference does it make where I got the container from?
She shook her head, made this annoying "tch tch" sound that I've only ever heard from my ex-nanny and her family and then muttered nastily that the sample needed to be placed into a different container. All this while I stood in front of a packed room with all eyes on me.
She proceeded to pound on the keyboard in front of her, and yell indiscreetly at another patient about his test requirements, before she turned her attention to my requisition form.
"What's this" she asked, pointing to the part of the form that my doctor had filled out.
"It says 'stool culture'," I stupidly read off.
"No, this! Is this a stool?" she asked. I stared blankly at her wondering what the hell she was asking me exactly.
I then realised that she was pointing to this miniscule damp spot on the form.
"It's water," I chirped brightly. "It's raining outside".
She then leaned in and practically sniffed me (I kid you not).
"It's not water," she snapped loudly. "I think it's some of the stool sample. It's contaminated".
I shook my head and assured her that it was most decidely not spillage from the sample, while simultaneously grossing out and feeling pissed off that she'd think I was that much of a pig that I'd have splatter stains on the form.
Sour-faced, the woman banged down two labelled containers and then snapped that the stool samples needed to be moved into them. She then dismissed me with a comment that the washroom was one floor above.
At this point, I was steaming. Mainly because I knew that the lab has a washroom for patients to use when producing urine samples and that she was making me walk up a flight of stairs for stupid reasons, rather than offering to let me use the washroom onsite. Oh, that's right ... it's because she thought I was a contaminated slob and felt compelled to announce it to the entire patient population in the waiting room.
Normally, I'm a fairly patient and polite person, but this just ticked me right off. How can a cow like this be allowed to work in the healthcare field where respect for a patient's right to privacy, confidentiality and respect are essential? I then said very quietly that I would be happy to accomodate her by going upstairs to the public washroom, but could she please provide me with a pair of rubber gloves?
My request was met with indignation and blatant bitchiness.
"You want what?" she practically yelled out.
"Rubber gloves. You have those, don't you?", I asked snottily. After all, this is a chick who clearly has contamination issues -- you'd think she'd come to work entirely dressed in latex.
She stood there glaring at me and shook her head. I gave her THE look in response ... this is the same stony stare I give my kids on the rare occasion when they are being openly defiant. I continued to stand there tapping my fingers against the counter and refused to move aside for the patient behind me.
Now, I won't elaborate upon some of the details but the containers that I was supposed to transfer the samples into were small pill containers. I was supposed to do this with my bare hands? I guess in Bitchy Receptionist's opinion, it shouldn't matter since I was already contaminated.
Moments into my stare fest, a technician emerged, looked at me sympathetically and handed me a pair of rubber gloves.
Later, the deed having been done, I dumped the bagged containers onto Bitchface's desk. She snapped that they were to be deposited into the bin by the washroom which I wasn't permitted to use. I threw her another dirty stare and complied, but as I sailed out, I made a special point of coughing and wiping my hands on her desk counter.
Moral of the story: Just because someone has crap in their hands, doesn't entitle you to treat them like crap.
Last week, I took my daughter to the doctor. She had been complaining about stomach pains on a daily basis for quite some time now. In addition, she had other accompanying symptoms which led me to believe that she had something worthy of looking into (I am refraining from details and won't get that graphic because it might gross you all out).
Our pediatrician decided that a stool culture was in order and dismissed us with a lab requisition form. I was told to bring a sample to the neighbourhood lab ASAP. Ew ...
Since it was nearly the weekend, I decided to have my daughter produce by Monday because there was no way I was going to hang onto a sample until the labs re-opened. Of course, the problem is that the weekend actually presents itself as the easiest time to obtain a sample since she is at home and not at school.
Finally, this morning after breakfast my daughter announces that today was to be the momentous event, and trotted off to the washroom in short order. Minutes later, she emerged with a disgusted look on her face and handed me the container. I bagged it (tightly and several times over), fished out the requisition form from my pile of papers littering my desk and stuffed it (the requisition form, not the container) into my purse.
After I dropped off my kids at school, I headed straight for the lab because there was no way I was going to have this thing in my car for any longer than was necessary. I figured that I would probably be able to just palm off the sample onto the technician and basically run in the opposite direction. No such luck.
I had the misfortune of having to deal with the world's unhappiest and rudest receptionist. After standing in line for about five minutes and listening to her kvetch loudly at other patients, I finally made my way to her desk and handed her my daughter's health card, the requisition form and the triple bagged container.
"What's this," she asked loudly, looking around the room.
"A stool sample," I whispered, suddenly turning a lovely beet red.
"What?" she practically yelled out.
I repeated myself about half a decibel louder.
She then asked me really loudly where I got the container from. Well duh ... it's a disposable tupperware as she can plainly see through the three opaque bags acting as a shield. Am I supposed to tell her where I shop for my goods now? What the hell difference does it make where I got the container from?
She shook her head, made this annoying "tch tch" sound that I've only ever heard from my ex-nanny and her family and then muttered nastily that the sample needed to be placed into a different container. All this while I stood in front of a packed room with all eyes on me.
She proceeded to pound on the keyboard in front of her, and yell indiscreetly at another patient about his test requirements, before she turned her attention to my requisition form.
"What's this" she asked, pointing to the part of the form that my doctor had filled out.
"It says 'stool culture'," I stupidly read off.
"No, this! Is this a stool?" she asked. I stared blankly at her wondering what the hell she was asking me exactly.
I then realised that she was pointing to this miniscule damp spot on the form.
"It's water," I chirped brightly. "It's raining outside".
She then leaned in and practically sniffed me (I kid you not).
"It's not water," she snapped loudly. "I think it's some of the stool sample. It's contaminated".
I shook my head and assured her that it was most decidely not spillage from the sample, while simultaneously grossing out and feeling pissed off that she'd think I was that much of a pig that I'd have splatter stains on the form.
Sour-faced, the woman banged down two labelled containers and then snapped that the stool samples needed to be moved into them. She then dismissed me with a comment that the washroom was one floor above.
At this point, I was steaming. Mainly because I knew that the lab has a washroom for patients to use when producing urine samples and that she was making me walk up a flight of stairs for stupid reasons, rather than offering to let me use the washroom onsite. Oh, that's right ... it's because she thought I was a contaminated slob and felt compelled to announce it to the entire patient population in the waiting room.
Normally, I'm a fairly patient and polite person, but this just ticked me right off. How can a cow like this be allowed to work in the healthcare field where respect for a patient's right to privacy, confidentiality and respect are essential? I then said very quietly that I would be happy to accomodate her by going upstairs to the public washroom, but could she please provide me with a pair of rubber gloves?
My request was met with indignation and blatant bitchiness.
"You want what?" she practically yelled out.
"Rubber gloves. You have those, don't you?", I asked snottily. After all, this is a chick who clearly has contamination issues -- you'd think she'd come to work entirely dressed in latex.
She stood there glaring at me and shook her head. I gave her THE look in response ... this is the same stony stare I give my kids on the rare occasion when they are being openly defiant. I continued to stand there tapping my fingers against the counter and refused to move aside for the patient behind me.
Now, I won't elaborate upon some of the details but the containers that I was supposed to transfer the samples into were small pill containers. I was supposed to do this with my bare hands? I guess in Bitchy Receptionist's opinion, it shouldn't matter since I was already contaminated.
Moments into my stare fest, a technician emerged, looked at me sympathetically and handed me a pair of rubber gloves.
Later, the deed having been done, I dumped the bagged containers onto Bitchface's desk. She snapped that they were to be deposited into the bin by the washroom which I wasn't permitted to use. I threw her another dirty stare and complied, but as I sailed out, I made a special point of coughing and wiping my hands on her desk counter.
Moral of the story: Just because someone has crap in their hands, doesn't entitle you to treat them like crap.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Perplexed
What is it about young kids and their aversion to bread crusts? I've never been able to figure it out, but it seems to be a universal dislike.
For lunch today, I made my children pizza bagels. They adored them, particularly since they were Montreal bagels which I'd bribed a friend of mine to bring back on his last trip to my hometown.
My youngest son asked for second and third helpings of the mini pizzas. What cracked me up was that he left three small rings on his plate. Since when did bagels have a crust?
For lunch today, I made my children pizza bagels. They adored them, particularly since they were Montreal bagels which I'd bribed a friend of mine to bring back on his last trip to my hometown.
My youngest son asked for second and third helpings of the mini pizzas. What cracked me up was that he left three small rings on his plate. Since when did bagels have a crust?
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Ain't technology grand?
Just read an article about a robot birth simulator which is in high demand within the North American medical community.
Noelle, the life-sized blonde (of course) high-tech mannequin is used to train professionals in situations surrounding live births. Apparently, she can be programmed for a variety of complications, as well as for cervix dilation. Ultimately, she delivers a plastic doll, which can change colours (pink for healthy glow, blue for oxygen deficiency). Both computerized bots emit "realistic pulse rates and can urinate and breathe". During the birth scenario, according to one doctor "if she is bleeding, there will be ample blood in evidence everywhere".
Wonder who had the honours of knocking up Noelle? Also, curious as to what some of the more desperate staff do with Noelle once she gets off work ...
Noelle, the life-sized blonde (of course) high-tech mannequin is used to train professionals in situations surrounding live births. Apparently, she can be programmed for a variety of complications, as well as for cervix dilation. Ultimately, she delivers a plastic doll, which can change colours (pink for healthy glow, blue for oxygen deficiency). Both computerized bots emit "realistic pulse rates and can urinate and breathe". During the birth scenario, according to one doctor "if she is bleeding, there will be ample blood in evidence everywhere".
Wonder who had the honours of knocking up Noelle? Also, curious as to what some of the more desperate staff do with Noelle once she gets off work ...
Friday, April 14, 2006
How to Look like a Schizophrenic Sleaze
So much for being good on Good Friday ...
I was talking on my cell phone today while driving. Since I'm a responsible and careful driver, I was using my headset so I could have both hands free (one to hold the steering wheel, the other to flip the bird at those who are shitty drivers).
Since it's a holiday today and I was just planning on spending the day with my kids, I dressed in a completely non-professional (read slobby and grungy) outfit. I was a walking fashion faux pas but happy as a clam.
The person with whom I was conversing is a male friend of mine. Since we are such good friends, almost no subject is sacrosanct. Recently, he told me about some great condoms he'd picked up at Shoppers Drugmart. The thing he found most fascinating was that he'd discovered them in the women's section. Indeed, they were billed as being contraceptives for "her pleasure".
So while we were chit chatting, I passed a Shoppers and decided to go in. I needed to get my husband a last-minute birthday card and that was the only store open. I told my friend that I was going to stay on the phone with him during my shopping expedition because I wanted to check out the women's aisle and make sure he wasn't just pulling my leg. As I disembarked from my car, I elected to keep the head set on and pocketed my phone.
We were like two school kids, giggling conspiratorially while I walked up and down the aisles searching for feminine products and reporting on my progress all the while.
"Ah ha!" I exclaimed as I rounded an aisle.
"I found it! Let's see ... douches, flavoured lubricants ... oh here they are ... wow! You really weren't kidding me ... there's a whole bunch of of different types of condoms for her!" I squealed with delight.
My friend then instructed me to read some of the labels to him. We chortled over the names of some of the products. We chuckled when I told him that there was a disposable vibrating cock ring. I roared with laughter when he observed that since they omitted the word "cock" from the label, some moron might buy it and put it on his or her finger.
We were having a great time, until I happened to turn around and see some elderly lady standing about two feet away from me with her jaw hanging to her knees. Since I have long hair, she couldn't see the piece attached to my ear. I can only assume that she thought I was talking to myself.
I high tailed it out of the store practically screaming with laughter. My reputation as a morally challenged person has been sealed.
I was talking on my cell phone today while driving. Since I'm a responsible and careful driver, I was using my headset so I could have both hands free (one to hold the steering wheel, the other to flip the bird at those who are shitty drivers).
Since it's a holiday today and I was just planning on spending the day with my kids, I dressed in a completely non-professional (read slobby and grungy) outfit. I was a walking fashion faux pas but happy as a clam.
The person with whom I was conversing is a male friend of mine. Since we are such good friends, almost no subject is sacrosanct. Recently, he told me about some great condoms he'd picked up at Shoppers Drugmart. The thing he found most fascinating was that he'd discovered them in the women's section. Indeed, they were billed as being contraceptives for "her pleasure".
So while we were chit chatting, I passed a Shoppers and decided to go in. I needed to get my husband a last-minute birthday card and that was the only store open. I told my friend that I was going to stay on the phone with him during my shopping expedition because I wanted to check out the women's aisle and make sure he wasn't just pulling my leg. As I disembarked from my car, I elected to keep the head set on and pocketed my phone.
We were like two school kids, giggling conspiratorially while I walked up and down the aisles searching for feminine products and reporting on my progress all the while.
"Ah ha!" I exclaimed as I rounded an aisle.
"I found it! Let's see ... douches, flavoured lubricants ... oh here they are ... wow! You really weren't kidding me ... there's a whole bunch of of different types of condoms for her!" I squealed with delight.
My friend then instructed me to read some of the labels to him. We chortled over the names of some of the products. We chuckled when I told him that there was a disposable vibrating cock ring. I roared with laughter when he observed that since they omitted the word "cock" from the label, some moron might buy it and put it on his or her finger.
We were having a great time, until I happened to turn around and see some elderly lady standing about two feet away from me with her jaw hanging to her knees. Since I have long hair, she couldn't see the piece attached to my ear. I can only assume that she thought I was talking to myself.
I high tailed it out of the store practically screaming with laughter. My reputation as a morally challenged person has been sealed.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Ssshh ...
Snooze tagged me a long time ago with a meme that required me to name three unknown facts about myself. I honestly meant to do it but was so challenged by the whole notion of what to reveal. I somehow had forgotten until recently, that when I'd first begun blogging, I'd sent out an announcement to a whole bunch of people in my address book. As I later found out from random e-mails, people with whom I'm only vaguely acquainted are reading my blog surreptiously. It led me to wonder who exactly I'd told about my blog. Six degrees of separation being what it is, I figured one of my mom's good friends would probably end up at my site. The thought was a sobering one.
Beyond that though, I think I have a whole set of neuroses around secrets. I grew up in a household where pretty much everything was a big fat secret from the entire world. When you are raised in that kind of climate from birth, you just develop this habit of compartmentalising things and facts, and even yourself. Hence, we always had a public face. What went on behind our closed doors, of course, was quite another thing.
I remember this scene from the movie Body Heat. Kathleen Turner kicks her lover, William Hurt, out of the bed so she can change the sheets before the maid comes for the day. Naive Willie asks he why she just doesn't let the paid help do her job, to which Katie responds that she doesn't want her seeing the stains on the sheets. "Knowledge is power," she maintains in her smoky voice. Willie comments that the saying wasn't meant to be applied in that particular way.
Now, while I do know the true intent behind the meaning of that saying, I still am very much like the Kathleen Turner character. I am very careful about what people see and know about me because I can't really shake that concept that my parents beat into me at a young age which states that you must hold your cards closely lest someone use that information against you.
What I later discovered though is that no one really likes a secretive person. Sure, they respect and trust someone who is capable of keeping a secret, but there is a distinct and palatable difference between a discreet person and a secretive one.
What I've also discovered is that most people aren't discreet, and a lot are too stupid to be secretive. I've got some secrets that I'll take to my grave, and they're not even secrets that necessarily apply to me. It's just that if I promise someone I'm not going to say anything to anyone, I believe in standing true to that promise.
When I was in university, I was seeing this one particular guy. For whatever reasons, after we'd meet up secretly, he'd more or less make it obvious that he didn't want anyone to know about us. There weren't really any nefarious reasons for the secrecy, such as a girlfriend in the picture; I think it was more that he didn't want to appear serious with any girl and he was worried that I was going to cramp his style somewhat. True to my word, I didn't tell a soul, not even my close girlfriends. Much later, I discovered that he'd been just too proud of his conquests to keep it to himself, and a ton of people knew about us through Mr. Loose Lips himself. It reinforced what my parents had told me -- you can't always trust everyone.
I'd like to think now that I'm better about the whole aspect of secrecy. I am pretty open about a lot, but sometimes it's not always appropriate to tell all to absolutely everyone. Would I want some of my colleagues knowing about my private life, for instance? Probably not.
So Snooze, I think it may be awhile before I actually post that meme, if I ever get around to it at all!
Beyond that though, I think I have a whole set of neuroses around secrets. I grew up in a household where pretty much everything was a big fat secret from the entire world. When you are raised in that kind of climate from birth, you just develop this habit of compartmentalising things and facts, and even yourself. Hence, we always had a public face. What went on behind our closed doors, of course, was quite another thing.
I remember this scene from the movie Body Heat. Kathleen Turner kicks her lover, William Hurt, out of the bed so she can change the sheets before the maid comes for the day. Naive Willie asks he why she just doesn't let the paid help do her job, to which Katie responds that she doesn't want her seeing the stains on the sheets. "Knowledge is power," she maintains in her smoky voice. Willie comments that the saying wasn't meant to be applied in that particular way.
Now, while I do know the true intent behind the meaning of that saying, I still am very much like the Kathleen Turner character. I am very careful about what people see and know about me because I can't really shake that concept that my parents beat into me at a young age which states that you must hold your cards closely lest someone use that information against you.
What I later discovered though is that no one really likes a secretive person. Sure, they respect and trust someone who is capable of keeping a secret, but there is a distinct and palatable difference between a discreet person and a secretive one.
What I've also discovered is that most people aren't discreet, and a lot are too stupid to be secretive. I've got some secrets that I'll take to my grave, and they're not even secrets that necessarily apply to me. It's just that if I promise someone I'm not going to say anything to anyone, I believe in standing true to that promise.
When I was in university, I was seeing this one particular guy. For whatever reasons, after we'd meet up secretly, he'd more or less make it obvious that he didn't want anyone to know about us. There weren't really any nefarious reasons for the secrecy, such as a girlfriend in the picture; I think it was more that he didn't want to appear serious with any girl and he was worried that I was going to cramp his style somewhat. True to my word, I didn't tell a soul, not even my close girlfriends. Much later, I discovered that he'd been just too proud of his conquests to keep it to himself, and a ton of people knew about us through Mr. Loose Lips himself. It reinforced what my parents had told me -- you can't always trust everyone.
I'd like to think now that I'm better about the whole aspect of secrecy. I am pretty open about a lot, but sometimes it's not always appropriate to tell all to absolutely everyone. Would I want some of my colleagues knowing about my private life, for instance? Probably not.
So Snooze, I think it may be awhile before I actually post that meme, if I ever get around to it at all!
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Tracking the madness
So I'm of two opinions when it comes to my blogging. But first, a brief synopsis:
I lost my rhythm awhile ago. I attribute it to a few factors. Firstly, we had that elderly man who was losing his mind living in our house for a few weeks during the month of December. It was a singularly painful experience watching the deterioration of such a disciplined and strong man. Although I was sympathetic to his situation, it was emotionally draining having him in my house. That and he had to be waited on hand and foot. Somehow he seemed to eat away at what little creative juices I had.
Then Christmas rolled around in all its loveliness. We had some mildly horrible things happen here -- well okay, not horrible in the grand scale of life but just plain bad for me in terms of my psyche. I wanted to do a post on it shortly after Christmas because it was mildly amusing, but I never got around to it because I was so busy recovering from the various traumas of my household.
Then I had my mother-in-law living with us for her lengthy three month stay. Talk about stifling. Somehow I couldn't work myself out of my funk enough to get it together to write anything worthy of posting. I tried ... believe me I tried. There are about two dozen posts sitting as drafts. I sometimes feel like they call to me; "Delete me or rewrite me, damnit!"
After Christmas, I got sick a whole bunch of times -- four to be exact. In between a couple of my illnesses, my dad had his heart attack. Couldn't get it together to post anything without bursting into tears.
Then of course, inertia kicked in. It's been so long since I've posted on a regular basis and I'm just not sure where to begin. Do I wait until I feel the creative urge again, or do I just jump back onto the horse and nauseate the crap out of you guys with my straight-stream-of-consciousness drivel and hope that in so doing, eventually my blogging inspiration will come back?
Guess which one I picked?
I lost my rhythm awhile ago. I attribute it to a few factors. Firstly, we had that elderly man who was losing his mind living in our house for a few weeks during the month of December. It was a singularly painful experience watching the deterioration of such a disciplined and strong man. Although I was sympathetic to his situation, it was emotionally draining having him in my house. That and he had to be waited on hand and foot. Somehow he seemed to eat away at what little creative juices I had.
Then Christmas rolled around in all its loveliness. We had some mildly horrible things happen here -- well okay, not horrible in the grand scale of life but just plain bad for me in terms of my psyche. I wanted to do a post on it shortly after Christmas because it was mildly amusing, but I never got around to it because I was so busy recovering from the various traumas of my household.
Then I had my mother-in-law living with us for her lengthy three month stay. Talk about stifling. Somehow I couldn't work myself out of my funk enough to get it together to write anything worthy of posting. I tried ... believe me I tried. There are about two dozen posts sitting as drafts. I sometimes feel like they call to me; "Delete me or rewrite me, damnit!"
After Christmas, I got sick a whole bunch of times -- four to be exact. In between a couple of my illnesses, my dad had his heart attack. Couldn't get it together to post anything without bursting into tears.
Then of course, inertia kicked in. It's been so long since I've posted on a regular basis and I'm just not sure where to begin. Do I wait until I feel the creative urge again, or do I just jump back onto the horse and nauseate the crap out of you guys with my straight-stream-of-consciousness drivel and hope that in so doing, eventually my blogging inspiration will come back?
Guess which one I picked?
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