"No, that is not a hooker. That is the girl that works behind the cosmetics counter."
Category: Travel and Places

"Good morning, staff!

This weekend's excursion to Vancouver with certain staff members has shown the importance of having rules when small town girls visit the city for a work conference/girls' weekend.  So let's get started.

Rule number one:  When I cover your mouth, it means stop talking.  Just stop.  I know this sounds harsh and you may not understand why it is happening but I assure you that there is a good reason and I will explain later.

Rule number two:  Please have at least a vague idea about the difference between Hastings Street, a haven for prostitutes and drug addicts ( http://www.yourpoliticalearth.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/10/143573967_06aaa1785e.jpg ) and The Hyatt Regency, a high class and expensive hotel where we were staying ( http://images.travelnow.com/hotelimages/s/000000/000965A.jpg ). Being clear on the difference between the two will not only stop you from giving the wrong directions to cab drivers, but will also prevent you from excitedly clapping your hands and exclaiming loudly, "That's where WE'RE staying!!!!" when the conference instructor mentions Hastings Street, causing the entire class to go dead silent and turn in unison to stare gapemouthed while your coworkers frantically exclaim in return: "NO, WE'RE NOT!"

For extra help with this rule, please see rule number one.

Rule number three:  PLEASE refrain from talking to strangers. They do NOT care that you've never been to the city before and that you're here for a fun weekend with the girls.  They don't want to know all about how you saw a hooker for the first time and they aren't interested in giving directions to the nearest place we can get a decent breakfast.  They are busy and not our own personal tour guides and no, they don't want to join us for breakfast.

Again you may find yourself needing to refer to rule number one.

Rule number four:  The dirty, skinny man standing at the end of the alley asking for money really just wants money.  It's very sweet that you walked up to him and said, "Here you go, love.  Have some yummy chinese food.  It's good for you!!  It's too bad you didn't see The Noodle Show, though, that they did afterwards.  Have a good night and take care!" while giving him our doggie bags, but don't get hurt feelings when he tosses it in the garbage and continues soliciting for change.  He's goin' to the show alright, but it's not the kind that you mean. 

Come along, you sweet little noodle.  I won't apply rule number one if you promise not to run back and demand to know why he wasted good kung pao chicken.

Rule number five:  Please do not touch the cab drivers.  They don't care that you think they are cute, are not interested in telling you their marital status, and want to drive their cabs, not you.  If they wanted to sleep with their fares, there are much younger, better looking, and sophisticated girls than us to choose from.  This excessive fawning over cab drivers and inappropriate flirting cost me way too much in tips and apologies this weekend.  No more, please.

THIS is the original reason for rule number one being put into place.    It's too bad that at the time you thought it meant "Please Continue This Behaviour In A More Obvious Manner".

Rule number six:  Granville Street is NOT the county fair and limo drivers do not give tourists rides for free to be nice.  A limo is not a pony that he wants to show off.  Knocking on the window of a limo and asking if the driver will give you a ride because you've never been in one before and then telling him your pitiful life story, not only puts him in an awkward position but makes us look like country hicks.  No, we are not trying to be mean to you when we yell, "What the FUCK are you doing???" and we are sorry you had hurt feelings.

However, it's quite likely you'll have to refer to rule number one as we drag you away.

Rule number seven:  Do not hug the club bouncers.  They are not letting us in to be sweet; they are letting us in because our concierge put us on the guest list and we'll each still have to pay a painful fifteen dollar cover charge.  When he moves the rope to let us in, it is not because we are "nice girls" nor because you spent five minutes telling him how we travelled five hours through crappy road conditions to get there, while I got the other guy to check the Guest List.  He really doesn't give a shit.  Really. And he doesn't want a hug and calling him a "nice boy" ruins the tough image he has worked so hard to achieve.

Just follow rule number one and get your ass into the club.

Rule number eight:  Not everyone in a short skirt and kneehigh boots is a hooker.  Yes, they look like identical outfits.  The difference is that if you are on Hastings, she is for sale; if you are in a nightclub, she is giving it away for free.  Asking me in a shocked tone if we are in a brothel does not endear you to the clientele, who are at least ten years our junior and can most likely run faster than us, even in their Fuck Me Boots. And no, the "nice boy at the door" is not going to save us. 

I don't care if you think people will think we are gay--in that situation, I'm going to wrap my arm around you and apply rule number one while moving to the music.


Rule number nine:  Singing Disney songs while the boss is trying to navigate busy city streets is unacceptable.  In fact, all children's songs are taboo at any point during the trip.  I don't want to know why you can't get to heaven on roller skates, don't want to hear about people throwing junk in your backyard, and Henry just needs to go buy another damn bucket and stop being such a whiney-ass bitch.

I need both hands to drive and text, but I'll certainly adapt rule number one to include duct tape in this case.

Rule number ten:  No crying on the drive home.  We'll do this again next year, I promise. "

6:45 PM - 30 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

Conjuration Dissertation.
Category: Life

"Quick and easy to assemble" was the matter-of-fact statement on the compact box of condensed dresser. 

Someone in marketing for that company is a damn liar.  The only way the project could be harder and more time intensive would be if they had included a bag of particles and molds for making my own particle boards.

Sixteen  number 9 screws and twentytwo number 19 screws into the project, when the palm of my hand was blistered from the screwdriver and my upper lip chapped from licking it while concentrating, I sat back on my heels to survey the barely begun project overwhelming my kitchen.

"Quick and easy to assemble, my ass," I grumbled, and found myself, for the first time in my cherished singleness, wishing I could conjure up some generic, nonspecific male of the species to finish the project.  I imagined handing him the instructions and the screwdriver and hopping up onto the counter to sip my tea and watch his muscles flex as he handily assembled the item.

I was immediately ashamed of the whole notion of wishing for another person just to put them good use and then wishing them away again.  Somehow this seemed even worse than if I'd conjured them up for sex; at least for sex I know they'd be getting just as much in return for their services as I was.  Bringing forth a nameless assembling slave, in my mind, would be tantamount to a man saying he wished he could imagine to life a woman to cook him dinner, give him a blowjob and then cease existing again.

But then I started to wonder...do you owe anything to the people you conjure up for your own purposes?   Do the momentary fleshly realizations of our wishes actually have rights and wants and needs of their own?  After all, we can imagine them to be anything we want.  My well toned conjuring would ENJOY assembling items, reveling in the delight of a job well done, would thank me profusely for the opportunity, before disappearing again with a glint in his eye, a boyish grin and a sassy one handed salute.

I mean, I SUPPOSE I could reward him in a sexual manner for his services, but then I'd have to take into consideration where he's been.  I mean, there's just no way of knowing which women have conjured him up before me and what nasty things they've had him doing...and enjoying.  What if MY conjuration was really popular?  What if that gleam in his eye as he faded away in wispy sexiness was not gratefulness at all but rather anticipation for the next project? 

What if someone I knew conjured him up?  The last thing I need is them on a bed, having a smoke and laughing at the fact that the last time I conjured him up, I was in the middle of a pms-y meltdown because I couldn't get the lid off of the pickle jar.  I don't want to be wondering if every weird look I get in the supermarket is because they know of some weird quirk that I have that is supposed to be confidential.  I suppose I could have him sign a confidentiality waiver...

But what if some other woman decided that he was her favourite man to conjure up and then when I needed him he wasn't available.  "Take a number and imagine yourself in a waiting room until Suzy Homemaker is done having him take naked pics of her."  I hated her already.  He's MY conjured man, dammit!! 

Then I'd have to ensure his availability by continuing to find things for him to do so that he would never be available for anyone else and I'd just end up with an unemployed man following me around the house while I find create makework projects for him and that would get damn annoying.  "Yes, I DO really want you to refold all the towels in the cupboard and count the pieces of dogfood in that bag.  Damn Purina is always ripping people off.  Don't you make that face at ME, young man!  I conjured you up and I can unconjure you at any moment. And when you are done, you can handwash my panties once again; that'll keep you busy for a few hours.  Just stop staring at me, waiting for my next directive!"  God, just thinking about it made me cringe and want my space.

Nope, no conjured men for me, thank you very much. And on that note, I heaved a big sigh and wrapped a towel around my blistered hand and thankfully carried on with the assembling on my own. 

11:31 AM - 32 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

A Birthday Back Scratch Blog for M.
Category: Friends

I was chatting with a very good friend of mine yesterday after my blog posted and he mentioned that he'd never had a back scratch.  He reassured me that he was not referring to sex, as that had been plentiful, but that he had never in his almost 33 years of life enjoyed the pleasure of an honest to goodness back scratch.

This struck me as a real travesty.  In my mind, a back scratch is one of the best manifestations of pure affection for someone.  It is given for the sheer pleasure and delight of another person, and although they may offer one in return, it is a selfless act, with the reward being the gift of something they could not give to themselves.

Last night I had trouble sleeping and I started mentally cataloguing all the back scratches I've doled out in my life and of which I've been the grateful recipient. 

There was the wonderful sleepover ritual as a preteen, where my best friend and I would give each other a back scratch when we were finally too tired to talk and giggle anymore; each sleepover, we would alternate who got their back scratched last, so that we could each have the wonderful luxury of falling asleep to the sensation.

Countless times I can remember sitting with friends, watching a movie and scratching someone's back mindlessly and lazily, and upon completion, having them tip their head back and smile a thank you before offering to switch positions.  The lovers that have sighed that a good back scratch is better than sex, whereupon I would nip at their earlobe and offer to challenge that statement.  The tender back scratch offered to a girlfriend after the sobs and hugs had subsided and some physical comforting was still in order...and the ones I have received when in the throes of emotional anguish. 


My kids. The impish little girl, who until recently, would grin up at me and ask for a snuggle and a back scratch.  The boy who was so tormented by growing pains that for a three year period I spent a good half hour in the wee hours of every single night, wearily sitting on the edge of his bed, trying not to nod off as I scratched his back until the tylenol kicked in.  The same boy who is now six feet tall and almost an adult and yet will still hesitantly knock on my bedroom door from time to time and timidly ask if I could please come scratch his back because the growing pains are particularly bad that night. 

A back scratch in this house is a gift of unconditional love.  And it is given with attentiveness and meticulous attention to covering every single inch of the recipient's back.  Not hard enough to hurt and yet not too light to tickle.  Nice long nails to give that Tshhhh-Tshhhhh sound as they start at the outside edge of the left shoulder blade and work their way across to the right in a three inch tall strip.  Then back the other way.  And so on until you reach the band of the pants, which gets pulled just a touch down to soothe the skin beneath the elastic.  Up each side, across the top and a good scratch down the spine.  And then the creme de la creme: the finger in the dead center of the back and the magic words:  "Tell me where it still itches."  Left...a little more...now up a bit...no, wait!  Down!...a little more to the right....Ahhhhhhhhh....yesssss....siiiiiiiigh.

A back scratch is innocent, decadent, and soothing.  A back scratch is a passionate romance between my fingernails and your smooth, exposed back: tender, intense, thorough and fulfilling.

To my friend who has never had a back scratch, I do wish we lived closer, as I would take your back scratch virginity and give you a first that would make up for all the lost ones.  But alas, all I can do is offer up the equivalent of a back scratch in other ways in our friendship and hope that one day you have more back scratches than you could ever want.  From my fingernails to your back, kiddo, with affection.  Happy early birthday.

And for the rest of you, may you always be blessed with the fingernails of good friends.

12:47 PM - 22 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

Like a Back Scratch in Your Vagina
Category: Romance and Relationships

Thank you, Jamie Lynn Spears.  Thank you very much for the opportunity to have a discussion with my nine year old daughter about WHY people want to have sex.

For those of you who don't understand the correlation, Jamie Lynn plays the very sensible and chaste character of Zoey on Disney's Zoey 101.  Every morning my 9 year old daughter and I read the news on CNN and every night we watch Zoey 101, so the other day we found quite a collision of the two with the news article announcing that the 16 year old was pregnant. 

Watching the Disney show together provided many opportunities for discussion about relationships, friendships, ethics and morals, and problem solving, and it was very important to explain to my daughter that Jamie Lynn and Zoey were very separate and distinct individuals and that real life is not as clean cut as a script that creates and solves a problem in 30 minutes. 

For as much as I do believe in sheltering children to some degree, I also feel very strongly about giving them the tools they will need to survive in today's world and also about providing a realistic view of the wide range of experiences (both negative and positive) that can happen to people.  Reading the news together provides us the opportunity to discuss real life scenarios and what leads people to get into certain situations and the alternative choices they could have made.

I don't think that children need perfection as a role model.  I think that if Jamie Lynn is responsible about the situation she is in, that there are positive things that can be learned both by her and by her fans.  Ideally it would have been wonderful if this had not happened, of course, but it HAS happened and for as much as we can encourage teens not to have sex, or to have it responsibly, poor judgement is sometimes the order of the day, and then what counts is how they deal with it.  Will they stand up and take responsibility for their choices and make the best of the situation instead of running away or pointing the finger? 

We all make mistakes and our character is shown by how we respond to that.  Anyone can be a fine role model when the path is clean and clear and we can just skip merrily along - it's a lot tougher to do the right thing and clean up our messes with the whole world watching.

Did I tell my daughter that I personally feel Jamie Lynn was too young to have sex?  Yes.  Did it lead to a discussion about contraceptives?  Absolutely.  Did we talk about how it will affect her career, as well as the new responsibilities of motherhood that will be on her shoulders?  You betcha.  But we also talked about how hard it must have been to realize that she was pregnant, and to tell her mom, and her producers and to do it all with the whole world watching instead of the privacy the rest of us have.

Those were the easy topics.

The hardest question to answer to the young lady-who believes that boys are "Ewww" and to whom the phrase "Smoochie-smoochie" can cause considerable gagging and grimacing-was the reason a girl would WANT to let a boy put his you-know-what anywhere near her.

"Well, honey,"  I said after taking a deep breath, "because sex feels good."

"Ewwww!  How could it?!?!  I thought sex was just something you quickly do when you want to have a baby."

"Well...hmmmm.  Wanting to have a baby is one reason people have sex, but nature made it so that it feels good so that they want to do it.  I mean, if sex felt terrible, no one would ever do it and then the human race would die out because no one would have babies.  Survival of the species."

"But still..."  She pondered this for a moment, before shaking her head and then leaning in with a horrified whisper.  "A penis, Mom!  In your vagina!  That is so...EWWW."

"You may change your mind one day.  You may kiss someone that you really really like and then you'll hug and then your hormones will start kicking in and you'll WANT to take your clothes off and be as physically close as you can be." I stared at her defiant little form, hands on her hips, one eyebrow raised, and added, "When you're, like, thirty."

A resolute shaking of her head.  "No.  I won't.  I won't ever want to kiss anyone, never mind do...that."

I shrugged.  "Okay."

Another thoughtful pause.  "Did you?"

"Obviously.  How do you think I got your brother and you?"

"Ewww."  Pause.  "And did it feel good for you?"

Ahhhhhhhhh!  I summoned up all the dignity I could and looked her straight in the face.  "Yes."

"Gross."

"No, it was not gross.  How could anything that made such a beautiful little girl be gross?"

"So what does it feel like?"

"Hmmm.  Well, you know how good it feels to get a back scratch?  You know that good "aaaahhh" feeling you get?  It's like that.  Like a back scratch in your vagina." 

"I don't think a back scratch would feel good in your vagina, mom?  What, does the penis have little claws that come out?"  She giggled furiously at that image.

"No, no, no!  It's not a scratching feeling inside of you - it's more like rubbing.  But the FEELING you get is the same.  That wiggly, satisfying, MMMM feeling.  THAT is what sex feels like."

"A back scratch in your vagina.  That's just wrong.  I think I've heard enough."

"Alright, well, why don't we watch Zoey 101...and I'll give you a back scratch?"

"Mom!  How about we play Life and I don't ever get another back scratch again?"

9:00 AM - 17 Comments - 38 Kudos - Add Comment

Me, Myself, and I
Category: Life

At 4:30 this morning, I awoke to the sounds of a very heated argument going on in my bed.

After a few disoriented moments of listening to two very concise and most definitely antithetical opinions about some inane topic, I realized that the debate was going on inside my head and that I was arguing with...myself.  

At the time, this realization was not met with fascination but with the tired annoyance one might feel when awoken midslumber by drunken neighbours.  The fact that I was not only engaging in a state of mental discordance with myself, but also watching said disagreement, did not seem to be out of the ordinary in the least and the prevailing concern was most definitely the inconsideration of the pair of me's yelling at each other while THIS me was trying to get her beauty sleep. 

"Do you MIND?!  I'm trying to sleep here.  I have to be up in less than two hours." 

Sheepish silence from the troublemakers.

"Thank you.  Finish the argument in the morning if you still have the desire."

As I drifted back off to sleep, making a mental note to remember that I'd woken myself up by arguing with myself, I could hear whispered grumbles about how they'd never be able to finish the debate if I was awake because I hogged all the thought trains. 

I rolled onto my side, clearing my throat pointedly, revelling in the ensuing silence.  I smiled contentedly at the realization that I was most definitely the boss of those two me's and drifted back to sleep.


Happy Holidays everyone!

8:26 AM - 16 Comments - 36 Kudos - Add Comment

Hot Wax, Brazilian Sphynxes, and the Status of My Own Personal Tourism Industry
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping

(This blog is a bit longer than usual and I do apologize, but I promised a few people that if I ever got a Brazilian wax, that I would detail it.  For educational purposes, of course!)

I am not sure when I became obsessed about the removal of hair from my body. 

I think it may have started about five years ago when I was reading a thread on the forum to which I belonged about another poster's consternation at the black hair growing above her left nipple.  It was about half an inch long and she was aghast at how she hadn't noticed it before her boyfriend had pointed it out.  After taking issue with the insensitivity of her significant other and then proceeding to mock her hairy nipple myself, I stole a surreptitious glance down my top and was aggravated to find my own little unwanted visitor loitering about my cleavage. 

After an adept show of master plucksmanship, I twirled my tweezers thoughtfully and pondered the unsavoury notion that perhaps this was not the only errant hair on my body.  AND, if I could have missed one within plain view, what of the other less conspicuous parts of my body?  This precipitated the implementation of my awkward and uncomfortable ritual of naked contortionism in front of the full length bathroom mirror.  "Mooooom, I have to pee!!!" was answered with "Just a MINUTE!  I'm BUSY!  Go pee in the backyard!" 

My quest to remove every little hair from every crevice soon progressed to a foray into soapy naked contortionism in a foot of water while wielding sharp implements, resulting in months of little nicks in delicate places, close encounters with drowning, and one rather undignified (and loud) episode of falling out of the tub, taking the shower curtain, rod, towel rack and half the water in the tub with me to the bathroom floor. 

After the aforementioned acrobatic destruction of my bathroom, I sulkily sat in my puddle of water and cursed the difficulty of shaving my own ass, before sticking one foot behind my head and feeling myself to see if I had indeed succeeded in achieving smoothness from every single angle.  After a second opinion from my handheld mirror, I cleaned up the mess and contentedly took my smooth ass self to bed . . . only to wake up the next morning to find my nether regions encroached upon by prickly aggressive stubble.  After ensuring that a stray hedgehog hadn't taken up residence between my legs, I decided that getting waxed was the way to go.

Research yielded the dismal news that I'd have to travel two hours to the city on a weekday morning which, when combined with my newly acquired singleness (and resulting celibacy), compelled me to give up the dream and to take up some hobbies that were much less dangerous than balancing on one leg with a razor blade pressed against sensitive areas of my body.  It didn't take much to reignite the flame of desire, though, and when word reached my ears that the local salon now offered Brazilian Waxing, I raced to the phone and immediately booked myself an appointment.  Living in a small town often means that I run into the same people in many different social circles, so I was relieved when the receptionist mentioned that the girl doing my waxing was a new technician from Vancouver.  And, after six days of waiting and innumerable reassuring conferences with a part of my body I don't usually have lively discussions with, the day arrived and I showered and moisturized and dashed off to the salon in anticipation of four weeks of no-maintenance smoothness.

After watching me wiggle excitedly with a big grin on my face, the receptionist checked her appointment book and confirmed that "you are booked for a brazilian wax, right?"  "YES!" I exclaimed excitedly, then checked myself and continued in a more subdued manner.  "Yes.  Yes, that is right."  I pursed my lips to supress the smile and forced myself to flip through a fashion magazine.  When I heard my name called, I turned to find myself face to face with one of my business clients.

"Sooooo," I said casually as I followed her down the hallway, "I didn't know you were back from Vancouver."

"Yeah, it wasn't working out there," she replied as we went into the room and she shut the door behind us.

I decided to just take the bull by the horns and ramble.  "Hey look, if you're uncomfortable doing this because we know each other so well and have to see each other in a business setting later, I can reschedule.  But if you're fine with it, I'm fine with it.  I mean, I don't want you to think that this bothers me, because it doesn't, so if you're okay with it, I'm TOTALLY fine with it.  I have...no shame."  I giggled nervously and then shut my mouth and stared at her with absolute seriousness.  "It's whatever you want.  If you'd prefer someone else to do it, I'm okay with that, too."

"No, no, I'm fine with it.  Really."  She smiled uncomfortably and we stood there in an uneasy silence for a moment, avoiding eye contact.

"Alright then!  I'll just...undress."  I slowly started to unbutton my shorts.

"Yes!  Get undressed!  I'll leave the room and you just call when you're ready.  It's easiest if you just keep your shirt on and take the rest off.  Do you want a sheet or anything?"

"No, like I said, I have no shame and you're going to see it all anyway."  More awkward laughter as the door clicked shut behind her.  I pulled off my shorts and panties and hopped up onto the table and was faced with the dilemma of how to put my legs.  I didn't want to sit with my knees up and my shirt pulled over them, but I didn't want to be spread eagle, either.  After trying out a few positions, I decided on having my legs straight, ankles crossed, shirt casually covering myself.

After calling her back in and addressing exactly what I wanted (absolutely no hair from stomach to tailbone except for a strip at the top), we got started.  Fortunately I was well-versed in contorting and wasn't disconcerted when asked to put my "leg over there" or "bend your knee and rest your foot here" or  to "put your hand here and your other hand here and pull apart so the skin is taut."  Between directions, we engaged in small talk, talking about summer travel, kids, her recent marriage woes and I was feeling quite at ease.  The pain was not nearly as bad as I'd imagined and each time she pulled off a strip of hair, she pressed down, immediately easing the discomfort.

Then she told me to get on my hands and knees and the awkwardness resumed as I suddenly realized just what a vulnerable position I was in.

"Did I leave too much hair at the top?" she asked, as she applied hot wax to my buttcrack.  I arched my back to lean forward to look, resulting in a clenching of my ass, gluing the two cheeks together.  "Don't clench!!  I'll never be able to unstick you!!"  I apologized and swiftly relaxed my behind, terribly relieved to find that I was not irreparably stuck together, and stated that I'd have to check afterwards.

"That's called a Sphynx," she stated as she pressed the strip against my skin and pulled quickly.  "What you asked for: all the hair gone except for the strip at the top. But don't ask for it at reception by that name because they won't know that that means.  But just for your information, that is the official name."

"Oh. Sphynx.  Okay." I was still disconcertated by my close call with disaster and was seized by a sudden urge to indulge in rambling.  "You know, I read that they have discovered in recent years that the excessive amount of tourists in Egypt has rapidly accelerated the deterioration of the artifacts there due to the humidity caused by breathing and perspiration."

After a moment of silence, I looked between my legs to see her paused by the vat of wax with a strange look on her face.  I continued my nervous loquaciousness haplessly.  "Not that that applies to THIS at all.  I mean, it's not like I'LL be having thousands of tourists viewing MY Sphynx every day. Not even close.  Hell, any visitors to my shrine at this moment don't breathe anyway...and they can hardly be called tourists!  It's not like I deck my vibrators out in flowered shirts and little cameras...and ...rent them camels...and..."

My words trailed off as I realized that I was making the awkwardness exponentially worse, and possibly alienating the possibility of future smoothness, and decided to bury my face in the table in silence for the rest of the time that I was in that position.  Fortunately we were almost done and after turning over and meekly assuring her that the strip was just fine, she stated that she needed a cigarette.  It was MY turn to look at her strangely and after a moment I said I'd take that as a compliment.  She left to go have a smoke while I redressed and after looking in the mirror, I was not sure which was redder for the remainder of the day: my face or the skin that got waxed.

By the time I had to see her as a client on MY turf, I had conveniently tucked the details of the experience into a little corner of my mind and with minimal effort I could momentarily forget that she had been more intimate with my genitals than anyone in the prior six months.  And even with the moderate pain of having the hair removed by the roots, I have to say that it still wasn't as awkward or uncomfortable as some past sexual experiences have been.

Not that I'll tell her that.  I have a LITTLE bit of shame after all....

12:44 PM - 30 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

Disaster Puppy
Category: Pets and Animals

I really wish I had a video camera following me around.  Well, a selective one, of course, that I could pause when I needed to pick my underwear out of my buttcrack, or when I am having a personal conversation, or sneaking a little taste of icing.  But for mornings like this one, I'd even suffer all my little secrets being revealed in order for today's disaster to be immortalized.

Funny how something that has happened dozens of times with predictability can take a freak twist and have an incredibly different (not too mention obstreperous and cataclysmic) result. 

I was very calmly loading the dishwasher just as I do every morning.  The bottom rack was pulled out onto the door and I had just finished filling it with dinner plates and bowls, when along comes the puppy (who just turned a year old yesterday and is now 100 pounds) to try, as usual, to sneak a couple licks of the plates. 

"No Ryley, not for you."  If we have had this exchange once, we have had it fifty times.  And, as usual, he sheepishly pulls back, feigning innocence.

Only this time his collar has somehow hooked itself onto the rack. 

The filled rack. 

And when he jerks back, the rack comes with him.  I see what is happening but before I can reach down to grab him or the rack, he has already been scared by the crashing of the rack to the floor and has decided to put as much distance between himself and the loud noise as he possibly can.

Only the loud noise is still attached to him as he starts racing frantically through the kitchen to the living room, the rack smacking him on the ass as he runs.  He rounds the corner, skittering on the slippery laminate, sending plates and bowls flying in all directions, hitting walls and furniture and breaking in an ear-slitting racket.

I am trying to chase him as quickly as I can through the sharp carnage he is leaving behind, while shouting every command he knows at him in the hopes that he will obey SOMETHING and just stop running so I can catch him and detangle him ("HEEL!!  STOP!!  SIT!! ROLL!!  SHAKE!!  DANCE!! PATTYCAKE!!"), but of course, the deafening noise just terrifies him further and he runs faster and more erratically through the house until he finally finds himself cornered. 

He turns, tail between his legs, shaking, contemplating which is the worse danger: to run back towards the noise or to stay where he is with the dreaded rack stuck to him.  Before he can decide, I have him by the collar and unhook the bent rack, and the two of us survey the vast trail of smashed china he has left in his wake.  I know I can't trust him to stay put while I go get the broom to start cleaning and no amounts of coaxing can get him to navigate his way through the broken pieces.

Somehow I manage, despite his outspread paws that are trying to dig their way into the flooring, to pick all 100 lbs of him up and tiptoe through the wreckage to his kennel where he thankfully takes refuge, practically slamming the door behind him.  He's still in there, refusing to come out.  I imagine he'll give the dishwasher a wide berth for a very long time in the future.

And after a very long laugh and an even longer sigh, I cleaned up the disaster, taking consolation in the fact that I was going to buy new dishes at some point anyway.

(I had already cleaned the mess up partially when I had the presence of mind to take pictures.  Please ignore the goddawful flooring; it's been over a year since they promised to "come next weekend to lay the tile".)

..

12:40 PM - 26 Comments - 44 Kudos - Add Comment

Face(book) Your Fears
Category: Friends

"You should join Facebook", my friend Michael said to me this past weekend.

I rolled my eyes and made my trademark Facebook Objection Face.  "God, if I hear another person say that to me...  What is so great about Facebook?  Yeah, so you can find people you went to school with, so what?  I don't want most of them to find me. Anyone that I've wanted to keep contact with, I have."

"Well," he said slowly, tossing me an easy grin, "you can throw sheep at people."

I just raised an eyebrow at him and made no attempt to politely disguise how unimpressed I was.  "Bah."

"Yes, that's right.  Baa.  Now come sit down here," he said, patting the seat beside him.  "Look...let's throw a sheep at Andrew."

I grudgingly flopped myself down on the couch beside him, arms folded in defiance, pretending to not look.  He threw a sheep at Andrew, who promptly threw a tomato back at him.  "See?" he said in a satisfied tone, as if that was the magic answer to all my Facebook objections.

"I'm not much of a bandwagon jumper, Michael," I protested and then relayed the story about how I'd been suckered into joining Classmates.com a few years ago, and ended up coughing up a membership fee so that I could see who had sent me a message.  The email turned out to be nine words-"Hey, how's it going? I know where you live."-and was sent by the same creepy guy who had stalked half our graduating class and who would randomly phone us and relay obscure facts about us that he had somehow discovered.

I had deleted my account and pinkie swore to myself that I would not be suckered into the deluded notion that all the people I'd deliberately lost contact with were now wonderful human beings that I suddenly had stuff in common with.  There were no "good times" to rehash with these people that I'd been forced to come in contact with day after day in the cesspools of the small town public school system I'd been plunged into where the education seemed to be less about building up the intellect and preparing individuals for contributing to society and more about how to survive (sometimes barely) in the face of the raw cruelty of fellow children and the refusal of the authority figures to intervene.

He stared at me for a moment.  "Still harbouring some hostility towards high school, are we?"

I thought about that on the drive home.  I suppose high school is tough for everyone.  You're together all day for ten months with people who happen to be born within the same five year span and the basis of your relationship is that you are there to learn.  Anything else you might find in common - morals, goals, personality traits, interests - is pretty much a crapshoot.  And what was I really afraid of?  Were my fears founded or simply irrational feelings generated by residual negativity from experiences in the past?  Was I really worried that the boy who made fun of my clothes in grade six would find me and mock my style now?  That the girl who stole my boyfriend in grade ten would have the desire to rub it in once again? 

I have a strong resistance to putting my real name and personal info on the internet, so it was a huge leap for me to sign onto Facebook and start filling in the required registration process.  Anything I could leave blank, I did.  And then I clicked on something that gave me a HUGE anxiety attack: "Find which of your friends in your address books are already on Facebook."  When I clicked on my gmail address book, 176 people were on Facebook and it told me all their real names.  Now, it's one thing for someone who already knows my name to search for me and request to be added as a friend, but it's an entirely different scenario for someone to find out my real name because we exchanged emails once or twice after meeting on a dating site, or crossed paths briefly on some gaming site, or whatever other fleeting anonymous interactions daily life on the web offers.  I started wondering how many address books my email was in and how many people I'd blocked on msn or decided not to have contact, people that I'd deliberately withheld personal info from, that could now discover who I was and see the network to which I belonged.  So I panicked and tried to delete my profile, but apparently you can only "disable" it, which didn't tell me whether or not I was still officially registered and still showing up in address book searches.  After some frantic searching in the Account Settings, I was able to change my profile email address to one that I rarely used, which put my mind at ease just the tiniest bit.

The next few days were a bit edgy as I waited for stalkers to emerge from the woodwork, for exes to magically reappear, for estranged members of my family to show up with their guilt-laden baggage and sour faces.  And, much to my surprise (and perhaps, if I'm totally honest, a little to my disappointment as well), nothing happened.  I added mainly current friends, and found a couple old friends that I'd been fond of in high school.  My search for my two childhood crushes revealed nothing.  Looking through the lists of members who went to my childhood schools resulted in dismal results.

But then!!! 

But then I found someone very interesting.  The first boy I ever really kissed as a teenager.  I gave him a tentative "poke", hesitant to invade his privacy.  He messaged me and we exchanged a couple messages catching up on the last twenty years, then added each other as friends.  Feeling very comfortable, I popped on over to his page and wrote on his wall.  "Well, well, look what I found on Facebook!  The first boy I ever kissed."

Within three minutes I had a message from him letting me know rather emphatically that he was married and had two beautiful girls.  Within the day, the message on his wall had disappeared.  That night his profile changed to a picture of himself with his family.  The next morning he had changed every interest, activity, movies, books, and other line on his profile, to make mention of his family:  "Troy likes to...spend time with his family."  "Troy is interested in...only his family."  "Troy likes to read...whatever his daughters want him to read to him."  By noon, his status read "Troy is very happy and wouldn't trade any of it for the world!!!!!1".  This morning he added 17 new pictures of his wife and kids to his profile.

I realized, to my amused chagrin, that I had induced the exact panic in someone else that I was worried would happen to me and I rather sheepishly faded back into the woodwork.  I would send him an email trying to reassure him that I mean no harm, but I'm afraid that I might inadvertently be mistaken for a stalker.  Maybe in another 20 years I'll check up on him again.

8:34 AM - 22 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

Have you looked in the Misplaced and Found box?
Category: Religion and Philosophy

The exchange started out innocuously enough.

"Can I have my pool pass?"
"No, you'll just lose it."
"I won't lose it!!"
"You've already lost it once.  Remember your panic when we were ready to go because you couldn't find it?"
"Bah, it was only misplaced.  See, I found it again."
"Hmmm. So, in theory, perhaps NOTHING is ever lost but simply misplaced and just hasn't been rediscovered yet."

I started thinking of all the things I'd lost over the years: the metal harmonica I had when I was seven, the flashlight with the clown face that used to amuse me for hours in my closet when I was supposed to be in bed sleeping, my scratch and sniff sticker book with the peanut and pickle stickers that had been scratched and inhaled beyond recognition.  No longer lost forever but simply waiting for rescue: perhaps wedged in between two fence boards, sadly humming a rusty little tune in the breeze while it bides the years, reliving the fall  from my pocket as I squeezed between the old tattered shop and the neighbour's fence in a game of hide and seek; a broken and worn clown's face peering up through the darkness of twenty feet of refuse to remember better nights with the tiny fingers of a little girl covering and uncovering its glowing face in a childish game of peekaboo; tiny shreds of paper and plastic, soaked by years of rain, beaten by the sun, blown by the wind until they are nothing more than scattered bits of lint on the prairie landscape.

Laws of physics will tell you that things don't just disappear into nothingness, that the same amount of matter always exists, despite changing form.  And I believe this holds true as well for things that are immaterial.  You don't "lose your innocence"; it passes into wisdom.  Sometimes it's a wonderful bittersweet process, like sugar cookies rolled out with care, neatly placed on a baking sheet and sprinkled carefully with coloured sugar and watched with great anticipation through the oven door.  Sometimes it's long and strenuous as we get mixed and mercilessly kneaded, stretched and formed, subjected to continuous low heat, then boiled, then baked until we feel like nothing more than a dense mass with a crispy exterior...but who doesn't like bagels?  Our innocence isn't lost but rather found inside that wisdom we have.  And it is easily rediscoverable if you so choose.  It's in that box of crayons or a neighbourhood game of cops and robbers or that Dr. Suess book your mom used to read to you.

People talk about losing their faith.  Losing their religion.  Losing God.  How do you lose a deity?  It's like the child in the department store bursting into tears when being reunited with their parent.  "I lost you!" they exclaim, when in reality it was they who was lost.  I strongly believe that anything spiritual simply has been misplaced or never discovered in the first place.  There are so many options of belief in this world, so many places to find hope and joy and to infuse yourself with the delight of simply being alive, that if you cannot find them, you are not looking hard enough or in the right places or for the right thing. 

Most of what we misplace is lost inside of us.

"I lost my best friend." "I lost the only woman I ever loved."  Every relationship has an expiry date on the physical aspect of it, whether it is marked by a job transfer, an irreparable disagreement, or a date on a tombstone, but does that mean that love ceases in that very moment?  Did you lose them when they went to their own home for the night or you were at work and they were busy with their lives?  We don't mourn everyone we love every second we are physically apart because their love doesn't only exist in the moments they are standing in front of us, or speaking to us, or touching us; the people we love don't cease to be real the moment they walk out of our door, only to magically come back into existence when they return and reaffirm their love for us.  When we love someone, we show it through a series of moments of demonstration that gather and chatter to each other within us, reminding us when we are apart that we are loved and love.  Everyone I love and have ever loved is inside my heart and at any moment I can pull out a bashful first kiss or passionate "I love you" or a long tight consoling hug.  Love is housed inside our hearts, and as long as we remember that, there is nothing that can steal that from us: not arguments, not physical distance, not death.  You haven't lost anyone; you've simply misplaced them in your heart.

Now, I do believe that there is an exception to this lost/misplaced rule and that is virginity.  You will not find me, anytime in this lifetime, tapping a certain man on the shoulder and having the following conversation:

"Excuse me?  Are you Randy Jinkerson?  You are?  That's great!  I don't know if you remember me or not, but about 17 years ago I misplaced my virginity on your penis.  I also misplaced my better judgement for the same ninety seconds but I found THAT shortly thereafter.  If you wouldn't mind, could you just please check in your pants and see if it is still there?  I'll look the other way and won't peek.  It's just...you know...it's kind of a special thing and I didn't mean to lose it there and I'd like it back.  Thanks."

7:00 AM - 33 Comments - 50 Kudos - Add Comment

I Do, I DO Believe in Elves
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

I think I have Garbage Elves. No, I know I do.

This is not a bad thing like the Ninja Mouse in the compost or the contumacious Lego troops under my washer or the fact that the other day my nine year old daughter was awoken by rodent jailhouse activities that would finally lay to rest the question of what sex her two gerbils are. ("Moooo-ooom!!! Mr. Squeakers is humping Zoom!!" was rapidly followed by some quick research that yielded the distressing knowledge that the average gestation period for a gerbil is 24 days and they can get pregnant again the night they give birth. Does anyone want some cute cuddly little creatures?) 

No, thankfully Garbage Elves are good news.  And their existence has become so accepted by everyone who lives in this house that mention of them has become quite commonplace; so much so, in fact, that I forget that not everyone is lucky enought to have these handy little critters and it takes me a moment to discern why people give me strange looks when I casually mention them. 

"So I was cleaning out my basement the other day and realized that I still have the old tent taking up space on my shelf, despite the fact that I bought a new one.  I asked around and no one wanted it, and I couldn't think of a charity that it would be appropriate to donate it to, so I decided to put it out for the Garbage Elves."

Blink. "The Garbage what?"

"Elves.  The Garbage Elves."

Silence.

"Oh, you don't have Garbage Elves?  I'm so sorry!  They are so handy, especially now that we have the "one can rule" for weekly garbage pickup."

"What, pray tell, does a Garbage Elf look like?"

"I'm not exactly sure what they look like.  I suppose I could sit in my hedge at night and stake out the alley but I'm afraid that they would be naked.  Then I'd have to sew clothes and I'm really not that fond of, nor talented at, sewing.  Plus I don't want them to leave."

"What?"

"What what?  Didn't your mother ever tell you the bedtime story about the shoemaker and the elves?  About how an old shoemaker was down on his luck and only had enough money to buy material to make one pair of shoes and upon waking up, the shoes had been made and were far superior to his mediocre creative style and craftsmanship?  And how he sold them for enough money that he could buy material for TWO pairs of shoes and so on? And how, after a while, the shoemaker and his wife hid in the workshop to see who had been saving their asses by making spectacular shoes for them and they saw naked elves working away into the night? 

"The wife wanted to thank the little elves for saving them from sure poverty and made them little outfits for Christmas.  When the elves saw the clothes all laid out, they danced for joy, got dressed and went away, never to return.  Apparently making shoes counterbalanced the shame they felt at being naked and the sheer joy of being clothed negated any need for productive labour. Or, if you like the J.K. Rowling theory better, the clothes free'd them.

"Call me philistine, but I have no desire to set my garbage elves free.  So they shall remain naked and in my charge."

"When was the last time you had a vacation?"

"I'm serious. I can put anything out by my garbage and it will magically disappear overnight.  To date, the garbage elves have absconded with:  two children's bikes with missing pedals, one wicker tea service, four kitchen chairs in need of reupholstering, one absolutely awful easy chair that was halfchewed by mutts, a wooden shield and sword made for a grade nine English project, three sets of unstable shelves, a bag of old towels, a broken tv, a cd player that didn't work, and a (very ugly) vase collection.  They are indiscriminate.  Anything that won't be taken by the garbageman, they carry away for me.

"At first I thought it might be the garbageman being generous, or someone who had a knack for fixing things up collecting items for a garage sale, or a poor person furnishing their house.  But every single night?  And what an eclectic assortment of items!  And how creepy would THAT be: to stumble upon a shack adorned with all of your discarded items!  I would rather stick to my elf theory, thank you very much.  Naked elves do not scare me as much as a naked stalker collecting my castoffs."

"Although...I suppose if I really wanted to know, I could put my old wedding dress out there.  Either my garbage would stop disappearing or there would be sightings of some bedraggled guy in a veil picking through the garbage in Lion's Park."

I think some things are better left unknown.  Elves.  I have Garbage Elves.

10:50 AM - 26 Comments - 48 Kudos - Add Comment