Category: What the world needs now

A golden oldie, for a golden oldie

Well, friends, it’s finally happened.

Yesterday, at approximately 1:30 pm, January 10, 2012, I officially became AN OLD.

Red wine is totes an old people drink, right?

And just what exactly is AN OLD, you may ask?

AN OLD is basically the personification of the following situation:

[scene: Old codger (of indeterminate sex) stands on a creaky, wooden porch. They raise their cane and shake their fists.

Old codger: GET OFF MY LAWN YOU DAGNABBIT KIDS!!!

Fade to black.]

And how exactly have I reached this conclusion, you, dear reader, might deign to ask?

Well, it was a three pronged process.

Yesterday on my lunch break, I took a long walk around the downtown core in an attempt to stretch my legs (and breathe life into my computer-screened eyeballs and mousy wrists), but more importantly to procure a birthday present for a fellow OLD.

(Although, it should be clarified that at the time that I set out, I did not realize that we were fellow OLDs (or peers if you will) as this connection had not yet been cemented by the following three events.)

Now, for the sake of full disclosure, I’m not one to really begrudge the aging process – at least not anymore. (I had my first age related panic attack on the eve of my eighteenth birthday when I realized that unlike Mary Shelley I would not be publishing my first book before exiting high school.)

But now I’ve pretty much chilled the crap out about those kinds of things. Plus, I’m also happy to report that also unlike Mary Shelley I didn’t turn into some crazy sexual deviant who hangs out with Byron-esque characters and does a ton of hallucinogenic drugs.

(At least not yet.)

(KIDDING!)

Anywho, as I was saying, the first event that solidified my transition from HIP CAT to OLD (now, it seems I will need to start worrying about my hips) was when I was paying for said before mentioned birthday gift. As I gazed at the young woman who was ringing me up, I actually remarked on the following (albeit in my mind, thank goodness):

Lady – don’t you know that NO ONE IS GOING TO TAKE YOU SERIOUSLY WITH THAT MUCH METAL IN YOUR FACE?

Umm, Mom? Is that you?

Holy crap.

The second event took place as I was browsing through another store. The music pumping its way through the shop’s stereo system was, to put it mildly, utter shite. I actually thought to myself:

This isn’t music! This is just noise!

Ahem.

…

(This one actually cracks me the heck up, because I can actually hear it so clearly in my mom’s voice that I actually heard it as such when it played out in my head. Seriously hilarious. Also, I actually get a kick out of the LMFAO song, but it makes M’s hairs stand on edge.)

Finally, as I was walking back to work, I paused and stared a large window display, and asked myself (again, with my inside, mother voice):

Who the flipping heck would wear THAT? For serious!?

And BAM! It hit me – Oldsville, BC – Population 1. ME.

So bring on the miserhood! I have ordered pants that go up to my collarbone, orthotics, dentures and bifocals.

The thing that bugs me the most about all of this is that should I actually procure all that clothing, I’ll just end up looking like another idiot hipster, whom, it should be noted, are the usual recipients of my get of my lawns ire.

I’ll work on it.

But speaking of hipsterdom, I returned today to the store of said before mentioned horror-show window display, in hopes of conducting a very important sociological (or, you know, plain old fashioned-based) experiment.

I sought out three mannequins and then proceeded to try on the outfits showcased by each model, in hopes of validating my previous claim that no one should be wearing these clothes, lest they wish to be labelled unhinged, or you know, batshit insane.

Onwards to outfit #1!

You have to pay more for the bedpan purse and ice chips.

This can be summed up in three simple words: HOSPITAL. GOWN. CHIC.

SEXY PATIENT! and frog.

Next!

Outfit #2 is a bit tricky – due to my craptastic camera it’s a little hard to discern what the fresh hell is going on here. I am wearing some pretty snazzy corduroy shorts, made to look like a skirt, but with a neat pleat right up the middle. The shirt itself isn’t half bad, but the cardigan is STRAIGHT OUT OF DYNASTY.

Blanche called. She wants her sweater back.

Shoulder pads? DO NOT WANT.

SUIVANT!

Outfit #3 is probably my favourite because it made me feel like one of those really amped up shopping channel hosts, or you know, the guy who used to yell “COME ON DOWN!” on The Price is Right.

The hills are alive! With the sound of Plinko!

The jacket reminds me of something that Maria Rainer would put together if she was interviewing for a job at a Palm Springs retirement resort and not au pair to the von Trapps.

All in all, pretty weird stuff, and definitely not something an OLD should by sporting on a regular basis. Plus, I’m one to readily admit that I always give myself the creeps, skulking around change rooms and taking photos of myself (in outfits I know I will never purchase no less).

But don’t take that as an admission that I’m about to stop anytime soon.

It’s just that as I mature, I have to become more aware of my surroundings.

How else will I know if someone’s fooling around on my lawn?

A new order

Heading into the start of this week I’m definitely feeling a little better, a little brighter and little less like Phil from the warehouse with the pains in his head.

Don’t know Phil? Let me introduce you:

 

All in all, while I may not be in tip-top condition (or Phil’s for that matter), I’m not about to keel over either.

Side note: M really doesn’t know what to do with Kids in the Hall (whereas they sit firmly in my list of top comedy geniuses of all time.) He told me yesterday that he has a hard time taking anything produced in the 80’s seriously, particularly stuff made in Canada (re: by the CBC). This is both hilarious and devastating to me, especially because I’ve just discovered that old school episodes of Degrassi are now available on Netflix. For me, that stuff is 24 karat gold nostalgia – what memory lane is paved out of! (You know, that and The Goonies.)

One point of note (or perhaps, one two-pointer point of note) regarding this recent spat of illness is 1.) this is the first time, in a long time (almost two years), that I had been sick for more than two consecutive days, and 2.) despite this fact (or perhaps because of it), I have not pushed my body into working out, or going for a run whilst still in the clutches of this congestion, fever and fatigue.

This may not seem like that big of a deal, but for me, the more I think about it, the more aware I become of the positive implications I can derive from this decision.

See – I cannot even begin to count the number of times I have gone to the gym in the past, plagued by aching bones, clogged sinuses, and high temperatures just because I couldn’t handle the way my skin felt due to the length of time it had been since my last workout.

Going more than a few days, particularly while sick, without physical activity was an excruciating, live-action nightmare.

Now, I understand that I haven’t written extensively on my past struggles with food and exercise, but suffice to say that they were long-endured, damaging and incredibly complex.

And exercising (whilst ill) was just one symptom of my disease.

It is only now that I am into a period of recovery (I actually like to think of myself as living “clean”, in so far as I cannot view my eating disorders as anything other than what they were – addictions) that I actually can even step back and objectively look at my behaviour both then (disordered) and now (healthy) and feel okay about both.

Where exercise was once an agent of my disorder, it is now an antidote.

Edit: When I say that I am “okay” about my past behaviour, I am in no way condoning those choices or behaviours. What I am trying to communicate is that I am able to reflect on that destructive period my life, and not beat myself up over decisions made, or, more dangerously, fall back into old patterns.

I am okay with looking back; I am okay with moving forward.

I am okay with making, and keeping myself okay.

…

Yesterday M and I ventured outside of our little house, in an attempt to stave off cabin fever and to procure new passport photos.

Whilst at the mall I came across the following window display outside of The Gap:

I. don't. understand.

Erm.

What the FRESH HELL is a “sexy boyfriend” look?

What does that even mean?

YO AD EXECS! Can’t we leave gender alone for like, two minutes? It’s confusing me! And good ol’ J. Butler never accepts my collect calls anymore.

Also, something tells me that the marketing team over at Gap Inc. sure as sunshine won’t be releasing a “SEXY GIRLFRIEND” look for their men’s department any time soon.

Oh! You mean, the "SEXY BOYFRIEND look". I though you meant the "LOOK SEXY FOR YOUR BOYFRIEND" look. I mean, that's the only reason to wear clothes, right?

Because, jeeze, what self-respecting guy would ever want to dress like a girl?

THAT SHIT IS GAY BRO.

I mean, what about ladies that don’t have boyfriends? What about ladies that have girlfriends? What about ladies with un-sexy boyfriends?

I may be kidding here folks, but seriously NOT THAT MUCH.

Why can’t girls wear just pants and sweaters without it being about BOYS AND SEX AND FEMININITY AND MASCULINITY ALL THE GOSH DARNED TIME?

And seriously, when the frick were pants re-appropriated by the male sex?  And the SEXY contingent of the male sex at that?

(I’m so sorry to inform all the fugly gentlemen out there, but it seems that you are no longer allowed pants within the confines of your wardrobe. Unless, of course, you want to be accused of co-opting the style of your sexy peers, then by all means, go for it. You’ll be in good company.)

Sometimes I feel as though I am living in a bizarro world.

At least I now understand what that lady was talking about each time she told me to “mind the gap”.

And I’m telling you, sexy boyfriend-less legs and I?

We mind.

Book em, Dano

M and I received some pretty great books for Christmas this year. He was gifted some Stephenson and Pratchett, and I, some Murakami, Richler and Mantel.

Bliss folks – for us, THIS is bliss.

I am currently 600+ pages into 1Q84 by Mr. Murakami and if you were to catch me at any given time today you would have found me in a position similar to this:

Aomame and Tengo are my new best friends.

What happens with me is that, although I read quite a bit, and for the most part, I enjoy everything that I read (and even those books that I do not enjoy, I slog through them anyways. I finally finished Pol Pot: Anatomy of a Nightmare only a couple of months ago, after what seemed to be an on-again-off-again relationship with the book for close to eight months) I tend to go overboard on those works that I do enjoy, like, A LOT.

You see, there are some authors that I find so transcendent, that I develop an almost perverse obsession with findingand reading all of their published works, lest I miss out on experiencing everything their genius has to offer.

And I really mean everything.

Three of our bookshelves. I really fear that we will be crushed to death once the big one arrives. At least we'll go with the things we love...

The earliest memory I have of this phenomenon is from grade four, when I first discovered the great Canadian children’s author Kit Pearson. I picked up The Lights Go on Again not knowing that this book is in fact the third of a trilogy that explores the journey of two young English siblings’ experiences as war children, evacuated from a (fictional) small town in England and sent to live in the posh Toronto neighbourhood of Yorkville.

To say that I loved this book (and then the rest of the books in the series) would be an understatement. I am sure that I read each novel close to twenty times. This fascination with Ms. Pearson’s writing was then transferred onto her other works, The Daring Game and A Handful of Time.

So you must understand what a soul crushing blow it was to read her newest work (at the time) when it came out, hot off the presses, and to feel no connection whatsoever with the narrative or the narrator.

In fact, I remember despising the protagonist, and feeling utterly morose by both the story’s flaccid narrative arc, and (what I felt to be) rather limp conclusion.

To paraphrase Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda, I was DISAPPOINTED.

Alas.

…

In grade five I started reading “grown-up” book. Pilfering from my older sister’s collection, I read most of Anne Rice’s

Bedroom bookshelf. Now will more Gene Wolfe.

Vampire series, (do I regret this? No. But, erm, next time, I think I may take the left turn atAlbuquerque and forgo any literary adventures with Mr. Lestat), and pretty much everything John Grisham and Michael Crichton had written up until that point.

I remember passages from both The Firm and Jurassic Park as if they have been burned into my cerebral cortex (or whatever part of the brain is used when flipping those pages over, and over again.)

The one big mistake however? Reading Misery. Yeah, not about to get those nightmare filled sleeps back anytime soon!

…

In grade eight I started my five year love affair with Mr. William Shakespeare, obsessing over King Lear’s poor decision making processes, despising young Hamlet and his gutless procrastination, and emulating and loving (and therefore memorizing) Beatrice’s lines and soliloquies.

I read every one of his plays, including the ones that that most people probably wouldn’t recognize. However, I am sure that if you asked me right now, I probably couldn’t even remember the simplest of story details of those plays (let alone two hours after I had finished them) because they left no discernable effect on me what so ever.

I am sure I decided to read the entire canon not so much due to my burning desire and admiration for the Bard and his words (although this did, and still does very much exist,) but because I was fifteen and thought I was misunderstood and brilliant.

Kerouac I was not.

…

When I first met M, he gave me Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions to read on the long flight down to Nova Scotia and I almost died with shock and delight within the first few pages. During those next two weeks I inhaled every work of his I could find.

As I mentioned before, in first year of my undergrad I read Dostoevsky’s Devils and my brain (metaphorically) exploded all over my room. I gobbled up Crime and Punishment with an almost maniacal zeal, and after that devoured The Idiot and The Brothers Karamazov.

These are a few of my favorite things!

The next year I discovered the fabulous and hauntingly beautiful writings of the Swedish author Henning Mankell, and spent my summer telling everyone I knew to, “check out this guy from Sweden because holy frick you will never read anything so bloody good in your entire bloody life!!!”

I received a lot of strange looks during that time.

…

I could go on at length about all the books that have shook me to my core, but I think it may be impossible, and I really must try to reign myself in.

I just get so overwhelmed and confused when I hear that so many people don’t read anymore, and I get panicked and desperate when M tells me that his students at school are hard pressed to even read their assigned passages, let along deign to pick up a novel outside of class.

I even get anxious worrying over whether I’ll die not having read all the books I want to read.

Yeesh.

I just want to create a place where everyone can live peacefully, and where I will read to them from Thomas King, and Neal Stephenson, and Robertson Davies, and Hanif Kureshi, and Gunter Grass, and Terry Pratchett, and George R. R. Martin, and Richard Russo, and, Michael Palin, and Hunter S. Thompson, and Gene Wolfe, and J. R. R. Tolkein, and Robert Heinlein, and Richard Matheson, and Ray Bradbury, and P.D. James and well, this list grows ever long, and I’m sure, your patience short.

One day I will find the Dolphin Hotel

My great friend A gave me my first Murakami book this year for my birthday. A Wild Sheep Chase is gut busting hilarious, and heart breakingly sad. Reading it alone set in motion my newest “author” fixation, and I have blown through a good portion of his works to date.

So now, I sit (please consult the above picture for the exact positioning), reading his latest tome, and I am so inspired, and intimidated, and just plain breathless by what an extraordinary work it truly is.

I am trying to take it slow, to savour the process, each page, each line, each word, each letter.

But it is hard. So very hard.

I have around three hundred pages left, and I am sure to be done before I know it. I am sure that I too, like the characters in the book, will be living in a slightly altered world, because of this work.

So with this, I can’t help but say: “Bring it Murakami.”

Bring it.

When we were good

Hi friends,

I’m deviating a bit from our regular scheduled program because of the rage-out I am currently undergoing.

Today, in rapid succession, I read three newspaper articles, each of which could have been nominated for the most “inflammatory, intolerant and overwhelmingly ignorant article” of the year award.

I don’t know why I do these things, because it certainly isn’t for my health – physical, mental (or otherwise.) I must be one wacko masochist.

And I’m not going to lie; my heart is feeling really darn heavy at the moment.  These pieces have really got me down about the state of the world, and in particular, about my place as a woman in a society where institutionalized sexism and homophobia is not only the norm, and therefore accepted, but also propagated by large scale organizations that people look to as pillars of our “communities,” which just further reinforces these already cancerous and destructive ideals.

It’s actually at times like this that I feel as though I can never have children because I can’t imagine bringing them into a world where they would have to be subjected to this crap.

This is how I feel about the world right now.

My exact feelings on the matter can be summed up in a one line e-mail I sent to a friend:

THESE THINGS RUIN MY DAY AND GIVE ME WRINKLES!!!  AND I SHOULDN’T EVEN CARE ABOUT WRINKLESSS!!!

*brain explosion*

Okay. Breathe.

1. Dear Christie Blachtford.   WHY ARE YOU SO SAD AND ANGRY?  Seriously, what is your damage? Why must you constantly write about ridiculously-negative-to-the-point-that-I-think-this-HAS-to-be-performace-art things?  Does the Grinch actually exist, and if so, are you doing his PR?

Also, meditate on this thought for a second: if one of your greatest sources of strife in your life is coming across young boys (who are excited to see each other) hugging each other YOU ARE DOING PRETTY WELL.

Like, THE BEST.

Seriously, the entire female population of Saudi Arabia just collectively rolled their eyes at you before exclaiming, “LADY, WHAT THE SHIT ARE YOU COMPLAINING ABOUT? WE LIVE IN A COUNTRY WHERE WE AREN’T EVER ALLOWED TO DRIVE A BLASTED CAR!!!”

I am so incredibly exhausted of the whole “when men were men” fallacy – as if there is some naturally prescribed recipe for what “makes a man.”  After reading Ms. Blatchfords blechfest of an article (see what I did there?) I can make a pretty informed guess as to what she thinks are the ingredients:

  • Axe body spray
  • Budweiser
  • Flannel
  • Beard growth
  • General misogyny
  • No tear ducts
  • PENIS

Her whole argument is not only insulting to women (proposing that feminine traits are somehow lesser than the (long lost) masculine traits, particularly when embodied by a man) but also completely offensive to men!

Let’s use a seasonally appropriate simile, to help Ms. Blatchford understand the very simple, innate concept that MEN, (JUST LIKE WOMEN) ARE LIKE SNOWFLAKES. YAY!

Each one is an individual, with different traits, mannerisms, likes, dislikes, passions, ideas, goals (bloody hell, I cannot believe I am actually writing this or that THIS NEEDS EXPLAINING IN THE 21st CENTURY) – the list goes on and on.

The archaic notion that a man needs to be X in order to past some kind of Dude Test is silly AND CRAZY. Being a man isn’t like being a bush pilot.  You don’t need a licence.

And if you`re really wondering what makes a man?  The Dude here (that’s what you call him) and the Big Lebowksi have the answer for you:

…

2. Pat Hickey.  I don’t have too much to say to you other than you probably need to go away.  To Baffin Island.  For about forty-years of hard labour. That might just be enough time for you to think about the things you say and how utterly obtuse you ideas are about what it means to be a victim of sexual assault.

What is even worse is that you have a platform to spew your prejudiced bile.  You are like an internet troll that has somehow figured out a way to get paid to piss people off.

You need to know, need to understand, that it is attitudes like yours that are one of the biggest reasons that so many victims are unwilling to come forward and accuse their abusers.  Simply put: PEOPLE ARE AFRAID OF BEING BLAMED FOR THEIR ASSAULT BECAUSE VICTIMS ARE BLAMED ALL THE DAMN TIME.

You say so yourself that you have never been assaulted.  So what makes you think you could ever cast judgement on someone who has?

The old adage goes that you can’t judge someone until they walk a mile in their shoes, so Patty ol’ Boy, I think you should thank your lucky stars you haven’t ever had to endure that long march.

And you should thank them every day.

3. Dear Chicago Blackhawks organization – When you have a complete tool bag like Dave Bolland play for your team, and he goes on the radio and shoots his mouth off, delighting his listeners with a lovely array of sexist, misogynistic crap, it really looks as though your organization openly endorses these antiquated, dangerous and violent gender norms.

The only other thing I have to ask is:

WHAT THE HECK IS UP WITH PRO ATHLETES CALLING EACH OTHER WOMEN AS INSULTS?

SERIOUSLY.  WHY?

Do none of these idiots have mothers? Sisters? Wives? Daughters?

Do they respect these women? Do they love them? CAN they love them when they do crap like this EVERY DAY OF THEIR LIVES?

The thing that really gets me is that as much as I hate that this happens, it’s always women who come out looking the worst because at the base of it all – we (women) are the insult.  The punch line.

Our looks, our strengths, our intelligence, our capability, our interests, our passions, our friends, our choices, OUR EVERYTHING – REFLECT POORLY ON A MAN .

PERIOD.

This enrages me ever more when I think about how the Williams sisters (in tennis) are often called men, or manly, or

DAMN YOU GRINCH!

brothers, but it never has the same effect as when (for instance) that idiot Bolland calls the Sedin twins girls.  Because the Williams (as women) are still at fault for not being girly enough – manly characteristics are not  innately bad – they are in fact the socially prescribed superior characteristics, but for a woman to have these traits and not look like how a WOMAN should look, well, that just doesn’t jive.

BAD WOMENZ! BAD!

Either way, it’s either the female sex, or the female herself that is at fault, and ultimately, not good enough.

Yeesh.

Well, on that note, I’ve definitely just convinced myself to get me to a nunnery, and stat. I may also never read a fricken newspaper again for all the days of my life.

Dear Genie of the Lamp – tell me something good so I don’t have to cry?

Please?

What women want

Hello friends.

Have any of you had a chance to see that meme that’s been floating around facebook for the past few days?  It’s made up of two photos – one of Nigella Lawson and one of Gillian McKeith (a UK based nutritionist and tv presenter).

The nub and gist of its message is: one woman (Nigella) is kind of old but majorly hot, and the other, Gillian, IS SO OLD, OMG DEFINITELY LIKE CRYPT KEEPER STATUS AND SO UGLY I WISH I COULD UNSEE THAT MESS.

The comparison between the two is supposed to bring on the major LOLZ.

The reasons supporting this conclusion, and, undoutebly, your uncontrollable laughter?

That Hottie McHot Nigella eats butter, meat and carbs (aka doesn’t give a hoot about what she puts in her body and because of this attitude, holds the much coveted status of Hottie McHot), while in contrast, that Old Ugly Boot of a Bagmeister Gillian emphasizes clean, healthy eating (which in turn, only further emphasizes her Old, Ugly Boot of a Bagmeisterness.)

A relatively new boot, for comparison purposes.

Now, this is really grating my gears for a number of reasons:

1.)    It’s hasn’t been all that long (oh, I’d wager 30.7 seconds) since I was last told that my net worth as a woman is first and foremost determined by my looks that I really don’t need two hundred bastards on facebook reminding me of this.

2.)    Body-snarking?  Really.  Not.  Cool.  Or.  Groundbreaking.  Get back to me when you have something else – not at the expense of someone else’s looks – which you want to talk to me about.

3.)    Trying to frame this meme as an argument for the whole – eat what you want and feel great about yourselves!!! – movement is a total fallacy.  Anyway you look at it the people posting this image are still shitting on someone for not only what they eat but more importantly how they look.

Eat what you want and feel good about it – period.  Leave other people out of the equation.

If this meme was comprised of two photos, say, one of Chanel Iman and the other of Melissa McCarthy and the caption mocked Ms. McCarthy on not only her looks, but implied that she looks the way she does because of her eating habits, something tells me that people probably wouldn’t be posting it on social media, nor would it enjoy the same popularity of the current image (if any at all.)

4.)    Lastly, that photo of Ms. McKeith was taken when she was appearing in the (totally awful, tabloid schlocky) TV show “I’m a celebrity get me out of here” (meaning: she was living in the blasted JUNGLE and not the Clinique makeup counter at Harrods.  To be honest though, what in the world was she thinking not bringing at LEAST an under-eye concealer or eyelash curler?  Sheesh!)*

Nigella meanwhile (who I will freely admit is a gorgeous, glamorous woman) is pictured on the red carpet at some kind of soiree/movie premier deal.  Sitting at home in her snuggie, post-Saturday-night-do, she is not.

I cannot help but feel (and this relates back to #3) that if someone was to call shenanigans on the discrepancies between the two pictures – for instance yelling out: “NIGELLA IS TOTES OBVS ROCKING THE SPANX AND MAKEUP GUN HERE GUYS!!!” that this person would be lambasted as a body-snarking, fat-shamer.

Meanwhile, I would be there sitting in the corner whispering: you all are completely tone deaf to the rampant bullying that is presented in the original message. RED RUM.

Okay, so now that I’ve gotten that off my chest (and in its place I am putting some metaphorical vapo-rub – otherwise known as The Muppets Christmas Carol) I will move onto item #2 on today’s agenda.

Why for the love of Pete, WHY, do bookstores insist on marketing certain books under the banners: FOR HIM/FOR HER?

Seriously – I almost had a bloody coronary today walking into Coles.

HEY MS. REISMAN!  Could we emphasize destructive, totally outdated gender norms ANY MORE IF WE POSSIBLY TRIED!?! Oh sweet mother of pearl give me strength.

Let’s look at some of topics covered in the books put aside for him shall we?

  • Fiction, Sports, Politics, Humour, History and Biography.

And for those silly, simple womenz?

  • Fashion, Diet cookbooks, Regular cookbooks (thanks for not forgetting teh fatties guys!), and Autobiographies by some ladies from the “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills”.

What. The. Heck.

For serious, Tina Fey’s book was included in the men’s section and not the women’s!  My heart is actually racing just thinking about it.

The crazy thing is, I know that there is definitely an excellent meme in here somewhere.  So stay tuned!

I just need to make my way out of the jungle first.

*Please see: OED – sarcasm

…