Eh vs Huh

So while I'm on my rant about racial stereotypes, I thought I'd add in this post.

A few weeks ago, I snuck out for a much needed mental health break. Some friends invited me to go along with them to Niagara Falls for a few hours to visit the casino and have dinner. Since I'd never been to a casino before, other than the temporary one that runs during the CNE, I jumped at the chance.

After everyone had had their fill of the casino, we decided to go for dinner. One of my friends insisted that we cross the river to the States and go for dinner at their casino. He claimed that the buffet at this particular location was amazing. Starving, we all climbed into his car and headed for the bridge to cross the border.

I have to stop and give a little background on the occupants of the car. There were five of us in total; three men, two of whom were Caucasian and one who was of Persian descent. The other woman in the car was of Taiwanese descent. Three of us were Canadian born (the two Caucasian guys and myself), the other two were Canadian citizens.

The only ones in the car who had acceptable forms of identification were me (I carry my birth certificate at all times) and the Persian guy who had his citizenship card. EVeryone else just had their drivers' licences.

The customs officer at the border was this whitebread type who just seemed to be on a power trip. He had the temerity to say that I and the two other non-Caucasian passengers didn't look like the average North Americans and that we would therefore have to proceed upstairs. Now, I completely understand the reasons for taking extra precautions. What I didn't agree with was the way in which he felt it necessary to point out that since three of us were non-Caucasian, we didn't fit the bill of a Canadian. I mean, truly, what the hell does a Canadian look like anyway? My friends kept shushing me because I started on my spiel about how I was under the impression that North America was a multi-cultural continent.

What made me even more irritated was the attitude of the officers upstairs. We were called in as a group and each of us were asked to state our birth country. I pulled out my birth certificate yet again as I re-stated that I was Canadian born. I was then subjected to a multitude of questions, obviously posed to sniff out an imposter. What burned me was that my two Caucasian friends only had to say that they were Canadian and were immediately and politely dismissed. They weren't required to produce any corroborating documents or identification. The Taiwanese born woman? Like the other two guys, she didn't have anything other than her driver's licence and yet she was raked over the coals. And despite the fact that the other guy had his citizenship card, he was given the third degree and treated like shit for the longest amount of time. I would have thought that as soon as he produced his card, the conversation would have been over.

The entire time this was taking place, I thought about a childhood lesson I'd been given regarding diplomacy: you can ask for almost anything if you just ask nicely and with respect. I would have been fine with having the extra security measures taken if everyone hadn't gone so obviously out of their way to make their racial stereotypes known. Why didn't the guy at the booth simply say "Some of you appear not to have adequate identification. Please proceed upstairs"?

Of course, now I'm left with the lingering impression and ensuing stereotype that all U.S. Customs Officers are ignorant, power tripping asses.

Forty isn't too old for a frat party, is it?

The other night I went to the worst and stupidest excuse for a party ever.

The event in question was a neighbour's birthday party. The birthday boy has a natural daily inclination towards inebriation. He clearly enjoys his drink. Since we are acquainted with a few of his friends who are also heavy drinkers, we knew that this party would be one big long alcohol fest.

What I didn't realise was that it was also going to be a party filled with alcoholic affluent but ignorant WASPs. Apart from the five nannies who were working industriously in the kitchen that night, I was the only non-Caucasian there.

All of the nannies in our neighbourhood (and there are plenty) are from the Phillipines. Apparently, this couple's nanny was asked to find assistance for the party, so she got a bunch of her friends and fellow countrymen to come in and help out.

We arrived about forty minutes fashionably late. By that point, most of the party-goers were half in the bag. About twenty minutes post-arrival, I got hit on by some guy who was completely wasted. So drunk that he first dropped his cutlery onto the ground and spent several minutes crawling around trying to find it to no avail. He then went back into the house to get extra cutlery and emerged shortly thereafter clutching two forks ("just in case, you know"). Apparently, the combination of speaking and sitting was just too much in his state, and he promptly dropped his plate facedown into the grass. He then scooped his food back onto his plate and began eating it quickly, all the while trying to pay me disingenuous compliments in a very slurred voice. At the first available opportunity, I excused myself and hurried into the house.

Unfortunately, the company that awaited me inside was no better. As I was squeezing through the bodies in the hallway to get to the washroom, another guy spotted me and enquired very loudly if I was the nanny. He then proceeded to tell me how he was looking for a nanny and that he would love to hire me since he'd always wanted to have a hot woman working for him. When the host informed him that I was most definitely not the nanny, but rather a neighbour with a bunch of kids of my own, the idiot thought he was kidding and kept asking "No, but seriously, whose nanny is she?" Brcause what else could an Asian girl be but a nanny? I personally loved the way he ignored the fact that I was dressed quite nicely, spoke English better than he did and was holding a wine glass.

It got worse. When the host was finally able to convince him that I really was a neighbour, the idiot then asked if I was the next-door neighbour's wife, knowing full well that that particular guy rented a single room in the house next door. Because apparently, there was no way an Asian girl could not be a nanny AND own viable real estate. When I pointed out which house I lived in, he then reverted back to the obnoxious question "Are you sure you're not having me on? You really are the nanny, aren't you?"

The last straw was when I went back outside to find my husband, and the wasted guy who ate his dinner from the ground, felt me up while I had both hands completely occupied (one holding a wineglass, the other holding some chick's umbrella while she rummaged around in her purse for a lighter).

The whole night reminded me of my experiences from my early twenties. The joke amongst my friends was that I always managed to attract the weirdest men in any given situation (I even got hit on at a Homo Hop by the one heterosexual guy who had no idea where he was). Not that I ever enjoyed being around ignorant drunken men, but at least back in my university days they were a whole lot cuter.

Back in my day ...

When I was growing up, a few of my friends and I used to have some fun with the phone. On PA days and during the summer holidays, we would phone kids from our class and pretended that we were officials from some kind of adolescent group and were gathering information via a phone survey. We wrote up a script so that our opening patter was flawless, and without pausing, we would move straight from it into a list of questions. We began innocuously enough, enquiring about their age and grade level, whether or not they smoked or drank or did drugs. From there we would quickly move the interrogations towards sex. Since we were only in the fifth or sixth grade, our questions revolved around the basics like "Have you ever been kissed? Have you ever French kissed? Have you ever been felt up? Do you masturbate?"

It was amazing how many of our classmates actually fell for this and were forthcoming with so much personal information. It was hard for us not to burst out laughing during key moments. Surprisingly, no one guessed our identity.

As we got older, our fun with the phone evolved. Through one of our older siblings, we caught wind of something called "looped lines". These were dedicated phone lines used, I believe, by Bell telephone employees to communicate between themselves. My usually photographic memory is a bit foggy on this front, but these numbers either all had the same first three numbers, or the same last four numbers. If you happened to dial in while someone else was also dialing that particular number, you got connected or your lines became looped. Otherwise, you simply encountered dead air.

My friends and I used to congregate at one or the others' houses after school and after quickly doing our homework (we were good students, after all!) would spend hours cruising the looped lines. I'm not sure exactly what our intentions were. Mainly, the lines were jammed with older teenage guys looking for phone sex. As fascinated as we were, we were only twelve or thirteen at the time, and therefore lacked the experience or the desire to have these kinds of conversations. Nevertheless we continued to make these calls on a regular basis and pretend that we were much older girls.

One day while at one of my closest friend's house, her younger sister gave us a slip of paper with a name, a phone number and a brief description of a person (twenty-eight, very horny and dirty-minded) whom she'd accidentally called once and who stupidly (or desperately) gave her his correct home number during the process. Curious as hell, we dialed the number and crowded around the receiver, giggling as it rang.

Quite obviously, the voice on the other end belonged to a man in his late twenties or early thirties. For whatever reason, he very willingly entered into a conversation with us and was quite graphic in his descriptions of what he liked to do. The most bizarre thing was that he never once asked us who we were and how we had gotten his number.

I'd like to say that our fun ended there, but unfortunately, we were strangely drawn to this aberration of a man. We called him on a regular basis, with different friends present, and essentially egged him on to tell us about himself and his sexual conquests. Each time, he never once asked us who we were, must simply eased himself into conversation without question.

Finally, one day many phone calls later, a friend and I decided it was time to find out what this pervert looked like. We made arrangements for him to come and pick us up at a street corner, and then watched from far away as he sat in his car and stopped every girl that might match the description we'd given him.

I grew up firmly believing that one should never judge a book by its cover, but really, this guy was completely ugly and slimy looking. He was quite obviously desperate for something because he apparently hung around waiting for us for close to an hour (we hopped on a bus and went shopping after the first five minutes, but found this out during a subsequent phone call).

I haven't thought about this stuff in years. I'd almost completely forgotten about looped lines until just the other day. Ironically I had been patting myself on the back the other day about how vigilant and careful I am about my kids' use of the computer and internet at home, when really they could have been in the other room using the phone for all I knew.

The only thing I have over them is that at least I was focussed -- I didn't multi-task!

Don't think it through, just do it

I read a little miscellaneous bit of nothing in the Globe and Mail the other day. The title of the blurb was "Why we need sex". (I realise I sound like some kind of obsessed nympho since I'm so often writing about sex and correlated issues, so I should abstain this one time, but this was just too damn funny to pass on).

The bit of piffle referred to research which looked into why members of the Kingdom Animalia engage in sexual relations versus asexual reproduction. Indeed, according to a quote from Smithsonian Magazine, the act of sexual reproduction requires a great deal of energy to carry out, while it only allowes an individual the possibility of passing on half of its genes, as compared to cloning in which one hundred percent of an organism's genes are transferred.

The part that cracked me up was the following quote: "Scientists have long wondered why organisms bother".

Um hello? Have you guys been spending that much time in the lab that you don't know the answer to that question? I realise that this was meant within the context of energy expended as compared to the genetic output, but really!

Why do we bother to have sex? The answer list to that could be endless ... because we're trying to have a baby, because it's damn good fun, because we're horny, because we're bored, because the power is out and the T.V. doesn't work, because we're too broke or cheap to go out on a real date, because we're procrastinating on a work deadline and this seemed like more fun, because she wanted the old geezer to give her a pretty and expensive bauble and this seemed like a good way to get it, because this is a good way to destress, because we just fought and the make-up sex is the best, or just because it feels amazingly, awesomely good.

The real issue here is why would anyone even question the reasons for doing it? I mean, why look a gift horse in the mouth? Are scientists going to come up with a more efficient (and less pleasurable) way for us humans to reproduce?

I was curious if any of those genius scientists had done any research into why people bother to engage in oral or anal sex. Why does that physiological drive exist when it doesn't have anything to do with reproduction per se? I smell a doctoral thesis in there somewhere.

Labour of Love

A number of my friends have buns in their ovens at the moment, and it's caused me to reflect back upon my own pregnancies. Snooze once said I should post something about my first pregnancy in particular. Apparently, she finds this little anecdote quite amusing for some reason -- no dobut because it was about me and not her.

I think I am not in the minority when I state that first pregnancies are special. The novelty is, at first, completely exciting; the excitement then gives way to nerve-wracking insecurities, a fear of the unknown and the anticipation of an irrevocable change in one's life.

Now, most sensible people think things through before they decide to conceive. Although typically a planner, I somehow naively and unthinkingly went along with the general idea that we would start trying to get pregnant. Fortunately, or unfortunately, my husband and I are a walking ad for the saying that "it only takes one time". We literally got pregnant the very first time we had sex after deciding to try.

In the ensuing excitement of pre-natal vitamins, leafing through What to Expect When You're Expecting, and eating healthily, my husband decided that it would be a nice idea to put together a photographic triptych paying homage to the dramatic changes happening to my body. The idea was that he would take a picture of me wearing the same outfit and posing the same way each trimester. Since I was self-conscious and shy back then, I refused to do nudies and the shots were of me clad in bra and panties, as well as in a black dress. It became almost a pregnancy flipbook because other than the emerging bump, the photos were identical.

We eagerly awaited the arrival of the first two trimesters so we could immortalise my tummy in our photo shoot. Time being relative, those early months just crept along while the last two flew by. During the final trimester, I would fall into bed exhausted at the end of each day and as I would be turning out the light, my husband would remind me that we hadn't taken the final preggo shots yet.

One week before I was due to give birth, I was at my office helping out a colleague prepare for an offer presentation. After counselling her, I returned home at midnight and felt compelled to start cleaning the house like a fanatic because I deemed it to be in a complete state of shambles. That should have been my first clue that something was up. The second clue that should have tipped us off was my subsequent freak out over my discovery of hubby's dirty socks on the floor. After kicking toys and clothes around and nonsensically screaming four letter words, I flopped into bed, frothing at the mouth and silently resolved to never again speak to my husband.

My mortatorium on silence lasted but a short while for several moments later, I felt something weird -- a sort of scratching from the inside of my stomach. I held my breath and lay in the dark with my eyes wide open. After a few minutes, I whispered my husband's name. He was instantly awake and off the bed like a shot.

"Whaaaaaa??!! I'm up ... I'm up," he exclaimed, running around the room as if his rear end was on fire.

I quietly explained that I felt weird but wasn't sure why. He immediately reached for the multitude of pregnancy reference books which he'd purchased for his own sanity during the early hormone infused days of my condition. He quickly flipped through each of the dog eared tomes to the "Signs that you are in labour" sections and started reading off symptoms. At this point, I was sitting up with my back against the headboard and was beginning to feel silly because that scratching feeling had completely disappeared.

Suddenly, a small river wound its way down the bed. I jumped up in horror and disgust.

"What in the bloody HELL is THAT?" I shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the mess on the bed.

Hubby looked up from his books and then nervously flipped to the index, all the while muttering "Membranes rupturing or water breaking". At this point, I started protesting that it wasn't that; I wasn't entirely unsure if maybe I'd just lost control of my bladder.

My husband recited a passage out loud that described the smell of amniotic fluid in great detail. This is where we reached the point of no return. We looked up from our respective positions on either side of the bed and without hesitation, my beloved husband then bent down, put his face close to the pool of liquid, took a deep whiff and then announced that yes indeed, my water had broken.

I knew right then and there that if one's relationship is at the point where one is sniffing the significant other's bodily fluids, it's a pretty good indication that one is going to be with the other for life.

While I frantically rushed about the house simultaneously trying to get dressed, throw random things into a bag to take to the hospital and communicate with the triage nurse on one phone line while calling my doula on another, my husband suddenly came to a screeching halt.

"The pictures! The damn pictures! We haven't taken the last set of pictures!", he exclaimed.

He coaxed and cajoled me into first stripping down to my unmentionables for the first shot, then donning the black dress for the second shot. In the meantime, that scratching feeling had suddenly transformed into full-blown contractions. I started snarling at my husband to hurry up and capture the moment already. (Much later, a close friend of the family saw the triptych pictures and asked why in the last framed shot, I'd looked so upset).

As if that wasn't enough ... as we drove away to the hospital, my husband realised that I didn't have any suitable nursing bras. Obviously we weren't thinking very clearly because in my leaky condition, who really gave a fig what kind of a post-partum over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder I had stashed away in my bag? So, while I sat in the car panting and puffing, he stopped off at several 24 hour drugstores and purchased a couple at each location. This while my uterus continued to expel amniotic fluid all over the car seat -- who knew a woman's body could hold so much liquid!!

Twenty-four hours later, our beautiful son came into the world and the whole importance of a prenatal photo triptych simply vanished. It was unimaginable that we'd once spent so much time discussing it and planning it, to the point where we'd taken the last shots at the nth hour. The only images we cared to capture on film were those of our scrumptious baby. It was ludicrous that I'd sat with my legs tightly crossed in the car while my husband shopped for some stupid undergarments. Suddenly none of that mattered any longer.

So for all you moms and expectant moms, I wish you a Happy Mother's Day.

Firsts

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.

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.

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".

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.

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?

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 ...

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.

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!

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?

Happy Anniversary!

I just realised that it's been a little over a year since I began blogging.

A year for me is a significant period of time. For one thing, up until my husband, I'd never had a romantic relationship that lasted beyond a year. I had some commitment issues which were fuelled by my insecurities and poor self-image, and so I always managed to end things at the one-year mark. The logic being that once you got beyond a year, things became considerably more serious and you would find yourself at the tinkle-or-get-off-the-pot point. Since my secret fear was that it was only a matter of time before I would be found out and revealed as being a bad tinkler, I hurriedly got off the pot.

Fourteen years and three kids later coupled with many hours of introspective therapy, I'd like to think that I've laid all those demons to rest. But then I have to wonder about my commitment to blogging.

In the beginning, as with most relationships, things were hot and heavy. I referenced the world and my life in terms of whether I could blog about it. Snooze and I once had a laugh about our obsessive blog behaviours, because we said that we both actually found ourselves composing blogs about an event while said event was stili unfolding. My husband would come home, find me glued to my computer and would just ask "Can I talk to you now or are you blogging?" (most of the time, he would quietly slink off after I would wave him away whilst madly typing).

Sadly, I've become negligent in my blogging duties. Not only have I failed to post on a regular basis, but I've also stopped checking in every other second with my fellow bloggers. Does this mean that while I may have affectionate feelings for blogging, I have fallen out of love with it? Could it be that we've reached our tinkle point, and my failure to perform means that I must give up my seat on the pot? Should we seek counselling, or should we just maturely acknowledge it's over and go our separate ways?

PC = Politcally Confused

Every time I offer my mother-in-law some Brazil nuts, she recounts in hushed tones the name by which, during her childhood, they were called. Nigger's toes.

Back then, of course, "nigger" was the term du jour. It may not have been acceptable to refer to a black person, nay a person of African-American descent, in this manner, but it was common. (Think of the children's chant Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe ... catch a nigger by the toe. Now of course, the nigger has been changed to tiger, but that's not the original version). Those who were more cultured, like my mother-in-law, referred to them as being "coloured" (no doubt while they secretly thought of them as "niggers)..

Now, while I privately express shock and dismay at either of these terms, I had to wonder last night if I wasn't guilty of the same crime.

I have a nightly ritual with my children. They each like having me come and spend a couple of minutes in bed with them. I'm not allowed to just lie there though; I have to come prepared with a funny story. At the end of the story, we then kiss and hug. My daughter's kiss-and-hug routine takes place in four parts: we kiss, hug, bump heads and then Eskimo kiss.

Last night, my eldest son pointed out that Eskimo is an outdated and unacceptable term. Inuit was the correct word. Of course, I know this, and never refer to an Inuit as an Eskimo, but somehow, I never extrapolated that term and carried it over to "Eskimo kiss". Should I have?

Similarly, when referring to the lovely Oriental carpet in my parent's home, should I be calling it an Asian carpet? Growing up, we always referred to ourselves as being Oriental, but now that's not the PC term. But where does that leave the carpets?

Killing me soft(ly)

Like Snooze, I'm a real stickler for good grammar and spelling. While I am somewhat more lax about applying these rules when speaking rather than when writing, some things make me cringe.

At the moment, I am going into month three of my mother-in-law's visit. Now, I adore my mother-in-law. She is supportive, a wonderful and caring grandmother, and would do anything for me. This should be good enough for me, right? In a perfect world, it would be. Unfortunately, in a perfect world, bitchy women like me wouldn't exist.

Sadly, my mother-in-law seems to have an allergy to adverbs. I know it's petty of me, but it drives me insane to hear her utter statements like the following:

I found a pear that wasn't froze.
Make sure you drive careful.
Please sit quiet.

I mean, is it too much to ask her to add the appropriate letters to the end of each of those last words in the sentence??!!

Along with her obvious omission of adverbs, she somehow manages to slaughter the King's English in other ways. These are a few of my all-time favourites:

There is some boughten water in the fridge.
The cat ran acrosstt the street.

Sigh ... I know these things shouldn't matter. She's a good person, but I find I have to bite my tongue when she speaks in this manner.

Recently, my mom asked me to help out a young girl who is applying for pre-med at McGill. The girl had asked my mom for a reference letter. She passed along her four page cover letter to my mother, which sent my poor mom into a tizzy. Since shit flows downstream, my mother gave me a copy of the offending letter and asked me to help the girl fix it up. Shocked and appalled at the lack of the girl's ability to write properly and convey her ideas in a clear and concise manner, my mother kept repeating "But she was born, raised and educated here" (i.e. in Canada).

I suppose this is what I find so disturbing about people's inability to speak or write correctly; English is their first language. My mom and dad arrived in North America as adults. English wasn't their first language. Hell, it wasn't even their second language. My dad has a huge number of publications to his name and has always been complimented by colleages on his incredible grasp and use of the English language. I have to admit, even if from a biased point of view, that my dad is a beautiful writer and an articulate speaker.

Why then, I ask you, is it so hard for Canadians to speak and write properly? I feel like Canada's answer to Henry Higgins!!

You suck (face)

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Flashback

The longer you put off doing something, the harder it becomes to do it. I can think of a few prime examples -- the gym routine being one of mine.

When I was nine years old, I was invited to a classmate's birthday party. Back then, parties were relatively tame affairs involving a small handful of friends at the birthday person's home. (I think I far prefer that whole way of celebrating than the out-of-control and over-the-top events that parents feel compelled to throw in honour of their precious one turning two).

Being a Montrealer, fashion has always been a big part of my upbringing. It was always important to be presentable and, when possible, to look utterly fabulous. At that age, I was somewhat unsure what was considered acceptable attire at any given point in time. My mother, who encouraged me to dress more like an adult than a child, didn't exactly foster my desire to fit in. All too often, I showed up at school or at social occasions looking like some miniature thirty-something, replete with scarves, cameo brooches and/or handbags as my accessories. I might have looked fab if I'd been twenty years older. As a child, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

So, hours before the party was to begin, I stood before my closet and surveyed the goods. What to wear? I was a very timid child and felt that control always lay without, namely with my parents, the powers-that-were, and more specifically with my mother. For some reason, I felt paralysed to make this particular fashion decision without her sanction, so I consulted her. "Mommy, what should I wear?"

For whatever reason, my mother was not in good humour that day and reacted very badly to my question. I guess she thought I was being weak, dependent and incapable of making my own decision (she was right). Now, my mother while she has the best of intentions, seems to never know how to effectively realise those goals. Her people skills' toolbox is often empty. Noticeably absent are encouragement and finesse.

She chose that day to try and empower me. Good plan, but wrong execution. Essentially she freaked and yelled, among other things, that I was immature,weak and silly. Before she dismissed me from her room, she instructed me to select my own party ensemble after which I was to appear before her and utter the words "Is this satisfactory, Mom?"

Well, for some unknown reason, her speech didn't elicit any action. If anything, it had the opposite effect. I went to my room and immediately picked out a dress which I'd worn to the last birthday party I'd been to. Then suddenly, I lost my nerve and couldn't bring myself to ask for my mother's approval. The script she'd given me felt utterly unnatural and foreign to my ears. Nervously, I waited, completely immobilised, within the confines of my small room and hoped that I would gain the courage to bare my soul to my mother. The more time that passed, the more rooted I felt; since I'd taken so long to make a decision, I became worried that my mother might feel that it wasn't good enough. Neither courage, nor my mother, ever appeared that afternoon.

Hours later, feeling defeated, I changed back to my play clothes. I'd missed the party and the opportunity to show my mother that I wasn't a silly weak girl but a strong, independent one with knock-your-socks-off fashion sense.

It's been so long since I've posted. I've been waiting for inspiration to show up and give me a good subject to write about. Somehow it was too painful to sift through and write about the complex emotions and thoughts that arose when my dad was in hospital. Suddenly, the funny little post I'd been working on about my children discovering the non-existence of Santa Claus seemed so trivial in the face of the possible death of my father. Then, as I started to feel a little less stressed out, I tried to come up with something brilliant to write about as I felt the need to wow everyone after my long absence. So much for empowerment ...

I'm still alive!

I've had a number of phone calls and e-mails from friends and fellow bloggers concerned about my absence from the blogging world. It's all been very touching.

For those of you with whom I haven't spoken (as well as all the people surfing for porn who keep getting mysteriously directed to my blog), I am okay. It's been a crazily busy time for me what with the Christmas holidays, a serious bout of flu and most recently my dad suffering a heart attack, so I will resume posting once I've gotten a handle on everything.

In the meantime, I will be travelling back and forth between here and la belle ville de Montreal (my hometown), so won't have much time to blog. Hopefully I don't go into withdrawal!

Thanks everyone for your concern, and as Arnie once said "I'll be baaaah-ck!"