Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in twistedhip's LiveJournal:

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Tuesday, August 1st, 2006
10:09 pm	frogtoggle.com! Do it!! i can't do it no mores! i can't keep updating two different blog sites. Go to frogtoggle.com to read twistedhip, which is awesome. Stay here if you wanna read Suzy's blog about lip gloss. - the Author Current Mood: finished Current Music: Mama Bunker by Spanktrough (Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 26th, 2006
11:24 pm	... until i saw hobo porn. i was having a conversation with a friend at work the other day, and it was interesting enough to record for posterity. Or, at least, for Internet posterity, which means as long as the electricity lasts. One fine day we’ll be banging rocks together to make fire, eating beans from a can with a switchblade that we plundered from the rubble of the local supermarket, and my seemingly indellible online journal will be no more, but the poetry of Yeats, being available in hard copy, will persist. i ask you, where’s the justice in that? This and a wackload of other skipped posts are waiting to be read by YOU at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Tuesday, March 14th, 2006
11:03 pm	Ad infinitum It amuses me to imagine the person who defaced this billboard. It was probably a woman. i don't know why i think that. But it was probably a 50-year-old former schoolteacher who took the early retirement package and now roams the streets of Toronto with her felt-tipped marker looking for spelling and grammar to correct because there are no children left in her life and no eggs left in her ovaries, and her husband left her two weeks ago because she constantly corrected him whenever he dangled his participle. It's sad, really. At first i thought this picture was amusing, but no. It's actually quite sad. Mostly because of the part about the teacher. Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Monday, March 13th, 2006
8:08 am	Joseph and the Amazing All-White DreamCast i managed to drum up a little controversy with my last few entries, and i hope i don’t generate too much serious discussion with this entry about rassism in all its ugly forms. Silly discussion, as usual, is welcome. i’ve told you all about how i’m not exactly racist, but i fear that i am, and that fear makes me more race-paranoid than anything. i’ve got sort of a racism Spidey-sense now, having moved from a distant, white suburb of Toronto to the city itself, where skin colours range from deep brown to even deeper brown. There are a few white people kicking around too. (Note: for the purposes of this discussion, by “black people” i mean people with very dark brown skin, and by “white people” i mean people with very light brown skin. Rest assured that now matter how you slice it, it’s aaall brown, baby.) Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
8:05 am	A clear present danger It’s been a rough week for the mysterious caged present i discovered on my first day back to work. It seems that while i was able to resist its unseemly allure, other Torontonians succumbed to their passion and curiosity. i returned to find the bars bent open and the prezzie ... investigated in a most uncivilized manner. Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
8:02 am	You're fired i’m sure many of you have had the experience of coming home and there’s a firetruck at or near where you live, and for a moment you think “oh man - did i leave the toaster oven on or something?” There’s usually no cause for “alarm,” so to speak - Mrs. Herpleschmidtz next door left lint in the dryer vent or something. But today i came home to this: Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Wednesday, March 8th, 2006
10:12 pm	The Ballad of Chad Tautbottom Pt 2 My opinions on homosexuality, being Bible-based and formed by my unique experiences growing up a 90’s teenager in the community theatre of a Toronto suburb, are not popular. i would hate to harp on a sin that gets altogether too much coverage by angry, intolerant Christians (of which you may just consider me one). But when i started journalling, i only wanted to write down some entertaining stories from my life that people might enjoy reading … and friends, this one fits the bill. Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Tuesday, March 7th, 2006
10:11 pm	Eat More Amato's Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Monday, March 6th, 2006
10:10 pm	On my first day back to work ... Here, then, are a few of the stranger things i saw on my way to work this morning: Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Sunday, March 5th, 2006
10:09 pm	The Ballad of Chad Tautbottom Pt 1 It was very difficult growing up heterosexual in the community theatre. Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Monday, February 27th, 2006
11:50 pm	Babies and Hades i once worked in a college library, and doing so gave me the utmost respect for anyone who isn’t a librarian. Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 22nd, 2006
10:20 pm	Over-the-shoulder boulder breakdown i was told well ahead of time that having a baby was going to be difficult. i was amply warned that things were going to change. But when people said that, they’d cite things like having to wake up all through the night, and having to change diapers all the time. Changing diapers is fine. Waking up is no problem. Breastfeeding … is a BITCH. Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Monday, February 20th, 2006
11:39 pm	The stork rips my wife a new one My daughter was born on Friday night at 11:15 PM. Her mom laboured for 20 hours at home with no medication. She is 6 pounds and 14 ounces. She is the softest thing i have ever touched. Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 15th, 2006
11:46 pm	i married grandma i remember quite clearly when i was a kid that when i grew up, my house was gonna be a certain way. i’d go to other people’s houses and they’d have stuff there that i really didn’t like, and i composed a little mental checklist and promised myself that when it was my place, i wouldn’t have any of that. Macrame owls are a great example. Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 14th, 2006
10:43 pm	Reverend Whitey Read it HERE at frogtoggle.com! (Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 7th, 2006
11:17 pm	Drawing shapes on backs. My wife and i drew shapes on each other's backs in bed last night. It was something i suggested, and i posed it as a sort of a guessing game, when really i just wanted her to rub my back. Sometimes that'll fly, and sometimes it won't. By introducing formalized rules to the backrubbing, i gave it purpose, and thus made it more of an appealing, productive exercise than just frivolous touching. And my wife fell for it. The first thing she drew on my back was very easy to guess. It went like this: "It's a flower!" i said. And i was right. We weren't keeping track of points, but if we were, that would have been one for me, and i'd have been winning. But really, i had tricked my wife into rubbing my back, so i was already winning. She didn't suspect a thing. The second thing she drew on my back was difficult. It went like this: i thought that it was a very stylized giraffe, and i was kind of impressed that my wife had cooked up such an interesting interpretation. But i was wrong. It was, in fact, a banana. Truth be told, i did not think that my wife would draw such a bendy-legged giraffe, unless she had meant to draw a very nervous giraffe, perhaps one that was due to give a speech in front of a lot of other giraffes ... but of course, that's a very difficult thing to guess when someone is drawing shapes on your back. Best to keep things simple. By this point, my wife was running out of ideas. The very next thing she drew went like this in my mind: i remember that the bottom part confused me. i thought it was our baby, due to be born in the next couple of weeks, but i was worried because her legs felt all wiggly. It was worse than the giraffe. i thought that maybe my wife was depicting our baby with polio, but again, that's a very difficult thing for someone to guess when you're drawing shapes on his back. At any rate, i guessed "Baby?" "No - it's not our baby," she said. i was kind of relieved. She rubbed my back with the flat of her hand, which meant she was erasing or starting over. Then she said she was drawing a close-up of the bottom part, the part that had confused me. It was like this: Ah! It was all clear. "Kermit the frog!" i said. It was a cartoon frog, she said - not necessarily Kermit. i feel it necessary to point out that Kermit the Frog is not a cartoon, but a Muppet, so my guess was technically wrong. But as i mentioned, i was already winning. By now, i felt that my wife was beginning to get tired of my game, and i really wanted to keep it up. But it had taken her a solid three minutes to cook up her frog idea, and i could tell she was drifting off. So i suggested she roll her big pregnant body over and let me draw shapes on her back. Now i know i'm not a terrible artist, so it must mean that my wife was either borderline comatose, or a very very bad guesser. This is what i drew: i thought that the square heel part was a dead giveaway, but she didn't know what i was up to. Nervous, i rubbed the image away with my hand and drew something different in the same series: By now, i thought that i was just handing her the point. i mean, there was no mistaking that bow. But still, she couldn't guess it. Nearly at a loss, i tried another object in the series: This one was vague enough on its own, but putting the three of them together should have painted a crystal-clear picture, or so i thought. But she had no idea. In a last-ditch effort, i drew an alternate third picture: Nope. She had no idea. i had failed. "It's footwear," i said. "A pump, a sneaker, and a boot - both laced and unlaced." "OH," she said. She must've been half asleep, but i felt a little paranoid because i had done alright with her shapes. i needed to find out if it was her or me. Here's what i drew next: "A broom?" Not a bad guess! But close enough that i thought i could draw a few more things, again in the same series, and she'd figure it all out in no time. i forget what she guessed this time ... maybe a shovel, or a noose. Fair guesses, but i thought that putting them together with the first shape made it all clear. Not so. So i drew again: Obvious!! There was no screwing this one up. i thought. But my wife, through mumbled sleepy words, couldn't figure it out. i was devastated. "It's cutlery!! A fork, a knife, and a spoon!" i drew the knife again, just to prove my point: No good. By this point, my wife was also starting to feel kind of bad. That's not a good thing, because drawing shapes on backs is supposed to be a very pleasant experience, and guessing things right just adds to it. i felt that i was denying my wife the ability to guess things right, and therefore robbing her of one entire half of the pleasant experience. i was determined that she guess the next drawing. i pulled out all the stops for my final shape. Thinking back to her choices, specifically the flower and the cartoon frog, i decided to choose something alive and flower or nature-related to hopefully jog something in her brain that would conjure a correct guess. She was rapidly drifting off, so i knew i only had a few shots at it. "Ok," i said, "Maybe you're getting confused? This here is the top of my drawing." i drew a line with my finger across her right side. "And this" (another line) "is the bottom. Maybe that'll help?" She was lying on her left side, and her back was hard to get to because of pillows and blankets. That's why i clearly outlined the territory and shape-drawing boundaries before i began. People don't enjoy playing games, especially shape-drawing games, when they don't know the rules. With these ground rules firmly in place, i began to draw: With bated breath, i awaited her guess. "Um .... " "Um ... i don't .... i don't know." What?? It was impossible. How could she not know?? Anxious, i erased the drawing and told her i was making a more simplified version: "Um .... i .... i can't figure it out. i'm sorry. Can i go to sleep now?" "No!! You have to guess one of my shapes!" It wasn't exactly fair, but i really wanted her to get one. My shape-drawing reputation was at stake. i needed to feel vindicated. It was ... such an empty feeling, not having your shapes guessed. "Let me do the close-up version again!" And so i did: "Do you know what it is?" "... um ... " " ... come on .... think ... " " ... it's ... Is it something alive?" "Yes! Yes, it is! You know what it is!! Now tell me!" "Um ... Can you maybe ... can you ... " "What - you want the simplified version again?" "Um ... yeah." There i went: "Uh ... Can you uh ... Which side is the top again?" i felt like i was watching a Jeopardy contestant in the Special Olympics. "This side." i drew the boundaries again. "Oh! Ok. That's where i'm getting confused. Can you rotate it so that my neck is at the top?" "Sure!" "Um ... " This was it. "It's a .... " She was about to guess. "What you call one of those ..." She had it ... she had it ... "A kangaroo?" A kangaroo. Four wings and two antennae make a kangaroo. Clearly. i was finished drawing shapes on backs. Game over. Sure, loving touches are nice and all, but a kangaroo??" Was it me? i felt somehow inadequate, like i had failed to live up to some masculine ideal touted by cologne companies and Ford truck ads. Built tought. Suave and sophisticated. Draws good shapes on backs. We fell asleep, and i vowed that the next time we drew shapes on backs, things would be different. i might practice on the cats. But truthfully, they can't guess anything that's not tuna, liver or chicken. And even then it takes them three tries. Anyway, did i ever mention how awesome marriage is? ;) Current Mood: chocopated Current Music: Noseflute Symphonies by Fari Harem (5 Comments |Comment on this)
9:59 am	Our water breaks. Being that my wife is now 8 1/2 months pregnant, i've had to get used to the fact that i could be nudged, phoned, hollared at, or downright wrenched out of a comfy sleep in which i've been dreaming about sexy princesses to hear that her water has broken. And so it happened yesterday at four in the morning. In a manner of speaking. The sexy princesses and i were about to go windsurfing when i heard my wife yelling at the top of her lungs that water was streaming out of our bathroom ceiling fan. Immediately, i dispatched the Plumbing Kangaroo, a good and faithful friend of mine in DreamLand, to go help her out. The trouble, of course, was that the water streaming out of our bathroom ceiling fan was, to the surprise of everyone (not least of all the sexy princesses) a real world thing, and so the Plumbing Kangaroo's expertise was useless. i jerked out of bed like a staked vampire and sped into the bathroom where, indeed, water was literally pouring out of our ceiling fan, as though a tap had been turned on and that's how people were actually meant to fill the tub. My wife was doing a good deal of fussing, stressing, and crying, which left me to the practical task of catching the water in something - in this case, some blue mixing bowls. The little bowl was to catch the narrow, dribbly stream. The big bowl was to catch the inch-wide jet of soapy yellow water. We live in a condo, and are no strangers to leaks. Last year, in a different building, we had to replace our entire tub area because the guy below us was getting a bubbly ceiling from our dripping pipes. In this building, it was all paid back and then some. The lady above us was on her fourth leak by the time a laundry pipe burst and the soapy yellow water came streaming in through the bathroom ceiling fan. In another corner of the combo, the inside of the air duct sounded like a thunderstorm. After my wife made a frantic call to the front desk, on of our concierges showed up, soaked from head to toe, after doing battle with the burst pipe upstairs. He left us with a very large blue recycling bin and went back up to the front lines. The next time we saw him, it looked like he had been swimming with his clothes on. All this, as you can imagine, is unsteady ground when you have a wife who is 8 1/2 months pregnant. i have heard that stress can bring on a baby. My wife was experiencing not stress, really, but more of a shrieking hysteria. She was freaking out so bad i thought she was gonna have twins. Most of her anxiety came from the fact that our midwives were due to pay us a home visit that day. i didn't know what dirty hippie midwives got up to at a home visit; they'd probably eat our food and play Joan Baez songs on the guitar for a few hours, and then we'd probably get all uncomfortable and ask them to leave. For her part, my wife thought that they were coming to proclaim judgment on our living space to tell us that we could or could not have a baby there ... and if there was any place you could not have a baby, even by hippie standars, it was one where all the carpet had been peeled away from the walls and siz large blue industrial dryers were blowing day and night to remove the water from our flooded condo, as by that time they were. The midwives came a few hours later - an hour and a half behind schedule, predictably. (You just can't rely on hippies - or midwives, for that matter ... and when you combine the two, look out.) They didn't bring a guitar, but they did mention that while my wife was labouring, they might help themselves to some toast (honest to goodness). My wife asked if there were any other snacks they enjoyed and i thought "granola - duh," but they sorta said that whatever we left lying around was fine. They were wide-eyed at the state of our place, buried as we were in unopoened baby toys and boxes upon boxes of hand-me-downs from some very generous friends. They tried to pretend that it was an okay place to have a baby, but i could tell they were just being kind. We just have to hope that baby doesn't fight her way out within the next few days, before the big drying machines are sent back and we can push all the furniture against the walls. Add to all this the fact that i'm duking it out with the common cold and you have a recipe for baby-unreadiness ... we couldn't be any less ready if the floor was covered in broken glass and we had invited the McBabyEater family over for dinner. (They're Scottish.) i hope that we're able to put the place back together soon, but i've always said that babies happen when God wants them to happen. i just hope that in this case, God cuts us some slack. Current Mood: bauhausian Current Music: Tuneful Swanfart by Possum Band (Comment on this)
Thursday, February 2nd, 2006
10:14 pm	Lawless birth. My wife and i have spent the past three Saturdays and one hundred seventy five bucks on birthing classes. This was time better spent of slaying the hordes of evil monks in a fantasy video game of my choosing, since Lord knows i'm going to have my fill of baby when the day finally does come. But it takes two to make a marriage work: my wife makes all the plans, and i agree to them. By this delicate and nuanced arrangement, we remain wed. i have to tell you that birthing class was good for a few laughs, once i stopped thinking about all the great LEGO playsets one hundred seventy five bucks could buy. It was good for laughs because when you are an illustrator, and you're not very good at what you do, you get to draw posters for birthing class. The instructor was trying to explain to us how the various stages of labour work, while using a visual aid poster. In the centre column, you can see the intensity graph and timing of the contractions. On the far right column, you'll notice a badly-drawn cartoon face of Xena: Warrior Princess. For the purposes of this demonstration, Xena is having a baby. Note that in the opening volley of labour, Xena has an inquisitive look on her face, as though she's about to begin the exciting new journey that is childbirth. It's a look that says "Oh! Oh, gee - what's this? It ... it feels as though my uterus is contracting! Wow! That hurts a whole damn lot, but ... but it means i'll be having my baby soon!" (note: labour typically lasts between 3 and 53 hours. That's the kind of knowledge that one hundred seventy five bucks buys, baby. And that's how i choose to waste that knowledge, sarcastically in a seldom-read blog.) Fine. Dandy even. Let's move on to phase two, as Xena's contractions get closer together. You may notice Xena's plucky optimism has all but faded away, and she's figuring "Oh. When they said it would hurt, THIS is what they meant. This horrible pain in my gut that feels like my insides are imploding. THAT kind of pain. i uh ... i see. How many hours has it been? Heh heh. Hoo." Chart #3 is my personal favourite. This is what, in class, we called the "angry orange spiky" phase. We asked if there was anything we could do to minimize this phase. There is not. Those of you who are most astute will notice that Xena's hair has grown more and more dishevelled across the different charts. In the angry orange spiky phase, Xena looks downright pissed to be having her baby. She looks like she wants to bust out some of that crazy She-Ra sword action on someone. Actually, it looks as though her wrath is directed straight at the actual graph of the labour contractions. She wants to annihilate the conceptual depiction of the labour pain she's enduring. That's very heady. Perhaps too heady for this type of journal. Let's move on. In the final phases of labour, someone has slipped Xena four or five pieces of Juicy Fruit chewing gum, most likely because she requested it, and who's gonna say no to that face? i think that's what's going on here. That, or Xena has gained a final fifteen pounds of fat on her cheeks in these, the final moments of her pregnancy. At any rate, the good news is that there's no bloody way this chick ain't having her baby. If i were her baby, i'd be clawing my way out of her womb just to escape her terrible ire. Xena's gonna split some heads, friends. You'd be in a hurry to get born too. Of all the charts and diagrams we studied in birthing class, (the same birthing class that robbed me of three Saturdays and one hundred seventy five bucks, by the bye), Xena: Warrior Princess's chart was the most entertaining, if not the most informative. Here's a quick survey of the others: Mommy's Innards With Baby vs. Without The point here, i guess, was to discover how much Mommy's organs got squished by virtue of the fact that she's playing host to an eight pound parasite in her body cavity. In an effort to make the study more demeaning, we were asked to point out various organs on the picture. The teacher gave us a list. i pointed to the anus. Sorry, Mom - Your Baby's Effed This one had a series of illustrations depicting babies who are deciding to shimmy down the birth canal in increasingly creative ways, including spine first, umbilical cord first, one foot hanging out of the chute, double baby fakie. (That last one nets you 50 000 points in Tony Hawk's Pro Foetus.) A Pict... Oh GOD - Is That an Episiotomy?? There w... you know? i dunno. i have no good business discussing this chart. It was not pleasant. i am doing my best to unlearn, but i fear the image is branded into my psyche. Let's just say that there's a reason your mom told you never to run with scissors, and it's because you might injure yourself like that. It's becoming clear that the baby is as anxious to come out as we are to get her out. i've not spent much time around pregnant ladies in my life, and one thing that's come as a surprise is just how ... real it is that a lady's belly holds a baby. Earlier on, the midwife said that i'd be able to see the baby kicking from across the room. i thought she was just teasing. No - it's true. It's like seeing something unholy writhing around in a gellatinous pus-filled alien egg sac in a Cronenberg movie, but in a good way. At any rate, whether she decides to pull a double baby fakie or not, i'll be quite pleased to meet her. And it won't be long! Current Mood: wysiwyg Current Music: Ostrich Nuggets by Symphonic Throw-Up (Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 1st, 2006
8:59 pm	Boy oh BOY. The big news in our house is that we moved the computer into the bedroom. That, and my wife is having a baby in three weeks. The excitement is mounting ... and with it, the number of people telling me things like "boy oh BOY, is life EVER gonna change!" Je m'excuse ... i should really say that people aren't telling me things like that. People are telling me exactly that. Like, word for word. It's because there's a societal script that people read from, some kind of collective conciousness that dictates "When you are faced with situation A, utter soundbite B." In this particular case, if you meet a man whose wife is due to have a baby in a few weeks, you should say "boy oh BOY, is life EVER gonna change!" In case the conversation persists past the point of shallow water cooler talk, perhaps if the person you're talking with is nuking something in the staff microwave and you're next in line, and you have to make small talk for the next two minutes and fifteen seconds, the remainder of the script goes thusly: "So do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet?" and "Do you have any names picked out?" Beyond that, the collective consciousness fails people, and they generally resort to staring at their feet until that sweet moment of release when the microwave goes BEEP. Phew! Time to heat up a TV dinner and go back to thinking about myself! i realize that somehow my life is going to change, perhaps in a big way, but i admit i can't fully comprehend it until it happens, and then what am i gonna do? So i have to soothe the baby and change a bunch of diapers during three-hour feeding periods that feel like they're never going to end. So i have to be woken up constantly throughout the night and somehow drag myself to work the next day and be on my game. So i have to deal with a very sore, very cranky wife who suddenly feels lonely and alienated at having to stay cooped up all day and night and has trouble forging an emotional bond with a creature who's only in it for her boobs. (Never stopped us from getting married, did it?) Does any of that mean that my wife or i are suddenly going to pack it in and drop the baby off in a mailbox somewhere? The fact is, people happen. Therefore, the challenges facing new parents, however difficult, must somehow be surmountable. Even if new parents had to suffer third degree burns while eating glass and cutting their lips off with cuticle scissors, people would still happen. It's a fact of life. Ask Tootie. So why do people have to constantly remind a guy that "boy oh BOY, is life EVER gonna change" ? What need does that meet for them? i think that somehow, people enjoy the pain that new parents go through. There's a very weird anti-childrearing streak in my generation, and a lot of people my age aren't getting married or settling down or having kids, and maybe they have to remind themselves that if THEY want to have babies, "boy oh BOY, are things EVER gonna change!" There's some weird need to justify their non-baby having, and to maximize, at least in their own minds, the pain and discomfort that they're certain new parents must have to feel. Even people who have had kids say the same thing to me - "boy oh BOY, are things EVER gonna change!" It's like i'm pulling the cord on a talking doll. i don't know what's in it for these people - the parents. But they REALLY enjoy saying it. Maybe it's because they've been through it, and that's their badge of honour. They've survived the initiation rites, and now they have to lord it over the new pledges. i'd rather experienced parents just make me waddle across the commons with my scrubs down and a quarter squeezed between my buttcheeks than to hear that phrase over and over again. "Boy oh BOY, are things EVER gonna change!" What do you want me to say, man? Am i supposed to pee my pants right there? Would THAT satisfy you? Because i DID, okay? Nice job. Real friggin nice. It's true. There's something in people that makes them want to hurt new parents. Case in point: birthing class. Because i'm so frequently reminded that "boy oh BOY, are things EVER gonna change!", i thought that my final days as a childless husband could be spent loafing around eating homemade sno kones and playing video games. My wife had other plans. She's kept every weekend chock full of so much baby-related bullcrap that i'll feel releived when i finally get to endure sleepless nights and three hour feedings. Finally, some peace! Birthing class is where you go when you somehow think that the baby's not coming out unless you're educated on how it happens. News flash to all other sucker couples: it's like spending three Saturdays and a hundred seventy-five bucks taking a class on how to breathe. The most memorable part of birthing class is an exercise on how to endure "discomfort" - "discomfort" used here in the same way your dentist uses the word "sensitivity" (hint: rhymes with "horrible, excrutiating schblain"). The instructor put little plastic cups out for everyone at the table and filled them with a few ice cubes apiece. i guess i wasn't paying attention - everyone was thanking her, and we were on lunch break, so i poured my cream soda into my cup. That's not what the ice was for. She explained that we were going to be practicing our labour breathing while holding chunks of icy cold, cold-as-ice ice in our bare hands. "Oh good," i thought - "This should be a great exercise for my wife, because she is having a baby. She is having a baby, and she will be holding the ice. Her. Because of the baby. That she's having." That's not who the ice was for. Instead, everyone at the table was asked to hold the ice. Mommies, daddies, people auditing the class because they were learning to instruct more classes so that other terrified new parents would have to cough up one hundred seventy five bucks ... heck, even one mommy's female support friend had to hold the ice, and she didn't even get to put her penis into anyone nine months prior. i felt very bad for her most of all. At least the teacher and the teacher-in-training were doing it for the hundred and seventy-five bucks. So there we all were, holding the ice, in an attempt to recreate the "discomfort" of enduring labour contractions (which, i have it on good authority, actually happen in the vicinity of your hoo-ha). The teacher made us hold the ice for a minute, and she had one of those infuriatingly soothing and encouraging voices that make you want to set fire to things, especially when you're holding the ice. She'd fill the minute by cooing things like "you're doing veeeeeerry weeeeellll," and "haaaaaaalfwaaaaay throooough ... " The first time we did it, it was sort of like a Mexican stand-off, or a really tense poker game. We all shot frightened, furtive, desperate glances around the table. Everyone knew that everyone was going to keep holding the ice. And you can be damn sure that everyone at the table wanted to stop holding the ice. Because the thing is, ice is really cold, like way colder than you think it is, because you usually don't hold it. Most of the time, you pinch it by the scruff of the neck and drop it into your glass of fruit punch. You don't ever hold the ice. Especially not for a minute. At long last, the minute was over, and we were allowed to not hold the ice. Then we went around the circle and talked about what it was like to hold the ice. It was that kind of class. Eventually, after a few more rounds of holding the ice and practicing what each one of us decided would help us keep holding the ice (my thing was to imagine punching some midgets), we got to the part where the mommies had to hold the ice - in two hands, no less - while daddies got to rub their backs and whisper patronizingly into their ears. Aww yeah. Consider the gender war won, ladies. When we arrived at birthing class on the second week, i was all excited to learn some new stuff. i knew from last week's preview that we'd be talking about birth defects and bloody shows and protruding umbilical cords and i was pretty jazzed about it. But then, five minutes into the class, the instructor broke out the ice. i'm sure that if birthing class instructors were legally allowed to flay new parents and stretch them on the rack to teach them how to visit their happy places while experiencing "discomfort," they would. Is it naive of me to look forward to having a baby, and to want to take the inevitable discomfort as it comes? Do i need to be repeatedly punished before i've even reached the difficult stretch? If my theory is sound, the answer is "yes." Oh, yes my friend. Because you're having a baby, and boy oh BOY, are things EVER gonna change! Now stand still and let me put out my cigar on your neck. Current Mood: waspish Current Music: Transtomatic Beauregardous by Chuffling Wand (Comment on this)
Tuesday, January 31st, 2006
8:00 pm	The High Fashion of Hammer Pants When i was a kid, i was not a snappy dresser. That shortcoming has followed me into my adulthood when now, i consider "dressing up" to be when i wear the T-shirt with the intact neckline. It doesn't really matter a whole lot now - i may be overlooked for promotions at work, and viewed with disdain - even disgust - by my fellow man, but at least they keep quiet about it. Things are different when you're a kid. Kids are real quick to latch on to the lies peddled by brand managers. If a commercial says that a certain brand is good, and it's perceived as cool, and the manufacturer's suggested retail price is sufficiently high - when these three factors come together, it enables the cool kids to stay cool, and everyone else to be ridiculed by the cool kids. i remember when i was in junior high, shoes were very important. Anything made by Nike was okay. Kids read each other's shoe labels fanatically, and if you had Nikes, you were okay. Otherwise, no good. One time, my mom bought me some shoes to replace my old, faded and delapidated Nike Air sneakers. The new shoes were much more comfortable, but they weren't fashionable. i had a man on the inside, a cool friend who stuck up for me and made sure i didn't draw too much heat from the cool faction, and he advised me to switch back to the Nikes. A few years later, my mom bought me a pair of sneakers that said "Winner" on them. That was a bad scene. This cool kid came up to me, read my shoe label, and said "So ... i hear you're a winner." i tried to shrug it off. "Are you a winner, guy? Do you win? Do those shoes help you win at things?" "No, i'm not a 'winner,'" i mumbled. i wanted to throw those shoes in the garbage. But you know - it was hard to sell a single mom on the virtues of Reebok Pumps, those shoes with the big rubber basketball on the tongue that you pressed to inflate the soles with air to get better performance on the basketball court. i thought Pumps were kind of stupid, but if i had them, i doubt i'd be harassed for being a winner. Or so i thought. The fact was that you just couldn't win with the cool kids. When i was in school, there were a lot of fun California-themed labels that were all about surf and sand and palm trees and stuff. One of the labels was called Ocean Pacific. i liked Ocean Pacific clothes because i really liked beaches and water. If Southern Ontario had a viable beach, i'd have been there. (As it stands, we have an enormous body of tepid water called Lake Ontario which, because i rowed a dragonboat in it for one summer, will probably give me prostate cancer.) So i'd wear this Ocean Pacific stuff, and on more than one occasion, the cool kids would talk to each other while i was in earshot (a very passive-aggressive way to bully someone) and say "The thing i don't get is why nerds wear all of these sports labels when they're not into sports! It doesn't make sense! Ha ha ha! Point point laugh! i'm going to get divorced when i'm thirty and die from an expensive cocaine habit!" You couldn't win. If you wore "nerd clothes" - i dunno ... button-down plaid shirts (pre-grunge era) and Dockers (pre-grunge era) and trucker hats (pre-ironic dotcom trucker hat era), they'd make fun of you for being such a geek. It upset the cool kids that geeks had access to the same clothes they did - namely Ocean Pacific sportswear - so they had to get you somehow. i often think, and i know i'm not the only one - that i wish that i knew what i know now. These same kids felt really threatened in gym class when we started lifting weights. The teacher had us rotating in a line-up at the bench press, and every time he cycled through the entire class, he'd up the weight on the bar. Eventually, all the weak kids would be weeded out, leaving the strongest kids still "in the game" trying to best each other at pressing heavier and heavier bars. Keep in mind here that gym teachers themselves, despite their ancient 70's hairstyles and gross ponchy manflab, were once part of the cool crowd, so it's no surprise that the way they structure their gym classes is perfectly devised to humiliate the nerdy kids and glorify The Hated. The point here is that, while far from being at the top of my class, i lasted far longer in the weight competition than any of the cool kids expected me to. i wore Ocean Pacific clothes, and they attacked me because i'm not athletic. But then what happened when i actually showed myself to be somewhat athletic? Cool kids do not handle a threat like this very well. One of them came up to me and said "Are you strong, guy?" Exact same tone. Might've been the same kid, now that i think about it. Of course, he had nothing. It was a total stab in the dark, because he felt threatened. Was i strong? How is anyone supposed to answer that? And when it's said in a belittling way by a bullying cool kid who's put you down so many times in the past, your likely response, as mine was, is to say "Me? Uh. Naw. i dunno. No. i mean - no, i guess not." And then slump away. i know that i could have lifted a lot more weight that day. Because you know what? i am strong. i don't have very big muscles, and i can't lift nearly as much as someone who trains regularly, but more than a few times in my adult life, someone has raised their eyebrows at me and said "Well, there's no question about it - you're strong." My squash instructor, my personal trainer, my dragonboating coach ... and that scrawny little kid in junior high who, if he had faced me now, would be feeling the full wrath of my Winners in his ass. i mention all of this because on my walk to work this morning, i came up behind this junior high kid wearing a really unfortunate napsack: Sorry if you're squinting to see it - it's kind of hard to take candid shots of children while walking closely behind them through public parks without getting thrown in totally jail. What you're seeing is a kid wearing a napsack that says "Fun Satchel" on it. Fun Satchel comes with a picture of a monkey. Additionally, the monkey enjoys soccer. Cool kids will be mean when you don't conform to their concept of what's cool to wear. We've established that. There's not a whole lot you can do; if they want to pick on you, they'll pick on you. But there is some onus on the nerdy kid to keep from directly asking to be mercilessly ridiculed. So take my advice, kids - the next time Mom drags you down to Chinatown and wants to save a buck by buying you the napsack that says Fun Satchel on it, just say HELL no. Current Mood: auspicious Current Music: Plush Strompet by Chocolatebottom (Comment on this)