An “Adult” Relationship

It was a great anniversary, although a fairly no-frills one. We were on our way home from a business trip, and had the better part of the day free. We had a great lunch in a small, but charming bistro. We walked in the park, sat in the sun, and got caught up on each other’s lives. At one point, my sweetheart paused and remarked “You realize our relationship is old enough to vote.”

Yup, it’s now been eighteen years, really good years. Our first years together were spent flirting across the room during band practice. At university, when I’d been up all night studying, he’d wake me around noon with a sub sandwich and a cup of tea. We’ve been through four degrees, three houses, four continents, and a dog. We’ve crammed as much wonderful relationship stuff into eighteen years as two people can. Our relationship has definitely grown up.

It’s ironic that what’s got us here is our habit of being distinctly immature. Eighteen years has taught us that it’s okay to admit to being hooked on cartoons and cheesy talk shows. We’ve learned that bed heads and wrinkled pyjamas can be charming. We still hold hands and tell stupid jokes. We’ve found that an argument is officially over when one of us starts giggling. Our couplehood may have reached adulthood, but we as individuals have fought hard to remain the same dorky teenagers that we were when we hooked up.

A long time ago, we danced together for the first time. The song was “Forever Young” by Alphaville. Hmmmm…good advice.

Putting Barbie in Her Place

I had to suppress my gag reflex as they raised a glass of cheer in honour of her 50th. Words like "style icon" and "beloved" were rolled around as I rolled my eyes. Thankfully, I ran across this article http://www.thestar.com/living/article/599343.

I'll admit, I had a collection of Barbies as a kid (feminists like me don't like to fess up to that). Despite my mother's best efforts, the little plastic terror snuck into the house, along with her pink sports car, her prized plastic poodle, and her crew of factory-extruded friends. My sister soon added her own horde to the collection. In time, an entire Barbie compound occupied a sizeable chunk of the basement.

Barbie's life in our house, however, was less than fabulous. In the commercials, she cruised the strip with Ken, bought stylish knee-high boots and giggled on the phone. Our crew waged hostile take overs, got into in fist fights, and routinely lost limbs. We put Barbie through Darwinesque dramas, not to mention some goulish haircuts. Even as children, we saw through the carefully-moulded perfection that came with her in the box. Just as we kicked over lego buildings and purposefully dried (and ate) play-doh, we deconstructed Barbie, found out what really made her tick. If the manufacturers didn't want us to know her head was empty, they shouldn't have made it so easy to remove. According to my husband, it was just the right size to fit into her patented pink dryer.

Happy Birthday, old girl! Here's to fifty more years of little girls who aren't afraid to kick some plastic toy ass.

Lessons from My Dog and Bill Murray

He's flopped out in the middle of the floor, sporting bald patches and a handful of big, ugly stitches. There's a plastic cone around his neck that smacks of a bad episode of The Jetsons. In the past week and a half, he's been stoned from anesthetic, had his teeth cleened, had three lumps removed, and hasn't been able to do anything more than lift his leg without one of us checking on him. None of this has stopped him from wagging at the sound of his name, or draping his sixty-pound frame over my legs while I'm trying to sleep. A few years ago, when he cut his foot on some zebra mussels, he spent three weeks flying around the house in a permanent pirhouette, as if his fourth leg was, and had always been, completely superfluous. This is a creature who has taught himself to undo zippers so he may get to the granola bars at the bottom of our school bags, the same one who is happy to drink from a mud puddle or a toilet bowl when there's nothing else that's cool enough. When it comes to rolling with the ups and downs life sends, there is no one nearly as adept as my dog.

Recently, a very wise person pointed out that life goes in waves, like the rise and fall of the tides. Being happy when the tide comes in is easy. Knowing what to do with oneself when it recedes is the tricky part. For a control freak like myself, it's a bit like torture to be stuck on the proverbial sand, surrounded by nothing but flotsam and jetsam. But I'm learning a great deal from Zen masters such as the furry one sleeping on the floor, snoring with all four legs stuck in the air. I'm learning that there's peace to be found when life, the universe and everything tells me "Sit. Stay."

When I need an extra nudge to knock my out of my Sisyphusian rut, there's always Bill Murray's speech from the movie "Meatballs". http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3S_k1dRbXY

Things I Tell Myself As I Shovel

Yeah, I do the same thing that anyone does when faced with an obscene hill of white crud. I pull muscles trying to get the driveway cleared before my feet freeze. I forget to lift with my legs. I get a runny nose, and I curse my ancestors for ever leaving the homeland (even though the homeland isn't a whole lot warmer). I threaten to defect to somewhere tropical, even if it means putting up with a dictator and chronic sunburn. And then I finish, I go back inside, and I get philosophical about the whole exercise.

First of all, it's only snow. Instead of shovelling meteorological slop, I could be pushing a scoop through manure, entrails, or any manner of unspeakable goo. It's a neutral colour, it doesn't stain, and it doesn't stink.

From a cultural perspective, I'm a Canadian, and part of my identity hinges on this beastly ritual. This, along with taxes, is the price I pay for free healthcare, safe streets, Tim Hortons and excellent comedians. Moreover, if it weren't for winter, I'd have far fewer impressive horror stories to tell people in other countries.

Metaphysically speaking, it's important to remember that without evil, there can be no good. Without darkness, there can be no light. Without months of this depressing, chilly purgatory, there can be no appreciation of the bliss that comes with spring. In six months, the BBQ will taste better, the flowers will seem more colourful, and the popsicles will seem that much more refreshing because I had to wait for them.

When it comes down to it, this is Mother Nature's way of reminding me of how very little control I have. I may be master of my own destiny in many ways, but every so often, it's healthy to be humbled like this. Some mornings, it's actually nice to be told "Sit. Stay."

All I Want for Christmas...

Dear Santa,
I’m writing to inform you that you can skip over my house this year. It’s not that I don’t believe in you, or that I have anything against toy-making elves or airborne, cloven-hooved creatures. It’s not a comment on your cookie belly, or the nose that makes you look like you visit the liquor cabinet at every stop. It’s really nothing personal at all.

A few days ago, it was decided that we wouldn’t do stockings this year. My poor mother, a very generous soul, has spent more than thirty years running around like a wind up toy on crack, trying to find enough cute little things to appease all of us, and she’s pooped. I don’t blame her. I also heard that someone had been trampled to death by shoppers in a fit of holiday-induced mayhem. And then I heard about people shooting each other at a toy store.

I think we’re all pooped. We’re all pooped from tearing all over town to find gifts that will ultimately get shelved in other people’s closets. We’re pooped from making seven kinds of cookies and three kinds of potatoes and ten batches of eggnog. We’re pooped from untangling lights and screaming carols and walking around with holly-jolly fake smiles on our faces. It’s cold outside, and we’re all a little low on cash, and I think we all just need to sit still and have a nap.

So this year, Santa, I’m doing research. I’m looking through travel guides to find somewhere that people don’t turn into angry apes in red and green toques, and get drunk at office parties. I’m looking for a place where people don’t hate themselves for gaining five pounds here and there, and they don’t inflict lead fruitcake on each other. I’m going to spend a little while there, figuring out the true meaning of “peace on earth” and “silent night”. If you’d like to join me, you’re welcome to. I’ll keep a seat warm for you, and I’ll put on some hot chocolate. You don’t even need to bring presents.

Hugs to Mrs. Clause,
Amy

Hooray for Gross!

I’m on my third book by Mary Roach and I’m riveted. It’s called Bonk, and it’s a very graphic account of the anatomy of sex. Having taught gender studies, I’m not easily rattled, but I have to admit this makes me slightly queasy. I keep looking over at my dearest love, imagining his reaction to such medical monstrosities (in one section, Roach apologizes to her male readers for the shock and revulsion they’ll likely feel). This is my third book by Mary Roach in a month. For each one, I’ve stayed up late reading, my dreams filled with all manner of depravity.

Okay, I’m a sick person. I’m exactly the type of deranged, but harmless reader to whom Mary Roach and her contemporaries cater. I love this stuff, not the Hollywood fake blood and guts brand of horror, but the revolting wonders that only the human body can provide. I’ve passed thirty and I still love potty humour and playing the “which would you rather…” game. Whatever part of my brain controls propriety never grew in properly.

Perhaps it’s because I come from a family that doesn’t stand on ceremony. Perhaps it’s because I have friends with small children that leak (as small children do). Perhaps it’s because I have a dog, and have been the target of projectile everything.

What I’ve realized over the years is that “gross” is the great uniting factor for human kind. At the end of the day, we are six billion runny noses, and six billion rumbling stomachs. We can disagree over world politics, or environmental issues, but we’re irrevocably linked by the fact that most of our feet stink. Our cultures and histories are vast and varied, but we’re all familiar with pimples and sweaty pits. We can sleep tight knowing that on the other side of the world, someone else is sneezing and shedding skin flakes and carting around entire villages of microscopic organisms. Taro Gomi summed it up nicely with her literary masterpiece, Everyone Poops. Ah, the humanity of it all!

Velvet, Feathers and the Next Generation

I’m crazy about Halloween. Every year, I dress up, I perch myself on the front porch with a stack of processed sugar, and I wait for the crowds to descend. This year didn’t disappoint. There were witches and wizards, an entire zoo of furry creatures, things with wings and things with fangs. One kid even made herself into a pink Cadillac and toted around a bulky, cumbersome contraption with sincere commitment and dedication. Parents showed up as Captain Jack Sparrow, hockey heroes and other colourful characters.

Stuck in amongst the crowds were a handful of pint-sized pimps. Yup, boys too young to stay alone at home were dressed up in full pimp get-up, complete with purple fur jackets, feathered hats and platform shoes. One of them, ironically, was tailed by his little sister, who was dressed as a princess and sporting as much pink tulle and rhinestones as her little frame could carry. Trick or treat took on a different meaning.

It’s old-fashioned, I know, but I always saw Halloween as an opportunity to indulge in a bit of wish fulfillment. It was an occasion on which the phrase “I’ve always wondered what it might be like to be a…” was taken seriously. Over the years, I’ve tried on gypsy, punk rocker, rabbit, wizard, cupid, Captain Hook, fairy, pumpkin, and this year, Rosie the Riveter. I never really counted on “I’ve always wondered what it might be like to participate in the sex trade” being part of the dialogue. I didn’t realize there were parents comfortable with the idea of their sons becoming involved in the selling of other humans.

The whole notion of “monster” is being redefined. Creatures oozing pus and sporting six-inch claws are so passé. No one trembles at the idea of things that go bump in the night. The most terrifying entities by far are the ones that turn up on the news, and on dark street corners.