Sex Talk

I have some very horny neighbours who need approaching before I lose more sleep. But I don't know what to say. Maybe I don't have the words because Sex Talks with my Mom went like this:

On the Matter of 'Your Changing Body':

Mom: You know that bra & pantie set your Auntie V. sent for Christmas?

Me [headvoice]: You mean the hot pink set that looks like it came off a Barbie doll? The one that humiliated me when I opened it and everyone cooed at how cute, bla bla bla?

Me [out loud]: Yeah.

Mom: Maybe it's time you started wearing it. You're starting to develop. [The phrase 'starting to develop' fell on me like an anvil.]

Me [headvoice]: Can I go now?

Me [out loud]: Um...it's kind of ugly. And won't it show through my clothes? Do I have to?

Mom: It's time. Besides, it's cute and I don't think we'd find anything small enough for you. It's perfect for now.

Me [headvoice]: Shitballs. Trapped. I am *not* wearing that overstetched Barbie crap. It has a picture on the crotch, for fuck's sake! A little bit of childish scenery I'd rather not sport around, thanks.

Me [out loud]: Sure. Okay.

I never wore the pink bra & pantie set. What normal 'budding' 12-year-old would? So, instead of taking me shopping, two white training bras appeared on my bed as a gift. Bras which took several months for me to try on. Bras which I wore long past their expiry date. My Mom never said a word about bras & panties again. After the hot pink set and the training bras, I somehow waded into the complex world of fitting my boobs with the feeling that I should keep the fact that I have breasts a secret.

Even today, when friends or lovers suggest that bras can be sexy, that lingerie is fun, I am somewhat shy. Sure, I have a drawer dedicated to bras - all plain black or white, all highly functional, and all purchased in haste and frustration. I have yet to step foot in a fancy bra shop (too much stimulus), but I hear it's a total turn-on. Makes you feel like a woman.

Hm. Maybe I should talk to my neighbour. Ask her where she shops for lingerie. From what I hear through the walls, she's having a lot of that fun I've been missing.

Great Balls of Fire

We wanted to name him Nolan, but my mother insisted on Trigvy. "I want at least one member of the family to have an Icelandic name," declared my mother. The compromise was Trigvy Nolan, but we yelled for Trig.  The only male child in the house, Trig's favourite sport was sprinting. When he broke out for a run, we piled into our green Ford Torino and drove around the court - slowly - with a piece of white bread as dog bait.

Trig ran like a pumped up rabbit and had us whipped like no other pet we'd owned. He was a real boy, a pure breed, destined to sire a great line of show dogs - until we cut off his balls. My mother took the position that Trig's forebears had led horrible lives and she was not about to see Trig suffer long hours of grooming and training. Trig's failure in puppy school after puking up a box of elastics (which my Dad stuffed neatly into his suit pocket) had nothing to do with my mom's decision.

When the time came, Mom took Trigvy off to the vet to be fixed. Just on the cusp of adolescence, I was more than interested in the mechanics of this operation and had great expectations about the changes I might notice. The best information I had from Mom was that Trig would "settle down" after the surgery. "He'll be less rambunctious," is how she put it. I took her at her word, but was hoping for something more dramatic. These were his parts, for God's sake, and I could only wonder what it might mean to have my newly sprouted breasts lopped off for the sake of behaviour modification.

Had we placed a bet on the outcome, Mom and I, I would have won. Trig came home more than a little stoned and took his position in the middle of the kitchen floor. Sprawled out on his back, Trig clearly needed air to cool the heat of his groin. His scrotum were like red baseballs, rolling casually over his white belly. Castrating the poor dude was a bad idea and, once the swelling went down, there was no difference in Trig's behaviour. I got my drama alright, but Trig was the ultimate victor.  One week later, we were out chasing Trig in the Ford.

Fire and Ice

When we visited Iceland together, my Mom told stories of the Vikings and volcanoes. Known as the land of fire and ice, in Iceland it is possible to sit on warm sulphuric mounds (or lava crust) and reach just a few feet over to grab a handful of ice. It's an incredible land, this country, one that puts you in your place if you understand the power of what lies very close beneath your feet. In Iceland, I walked on fresh lava fields, drank glacier water from a stream and bathed in milky blue hotsprings. This is where I decided that, in my next life, I would be a geologist.

On our trip, I took photos of a boiling pool that my mother had bathed in 12 years earlier. Now too hot to touch, I stood atop a crust of sulphur at the edge of this pool and felt the roar of water blasting out from under me. This pool sits at the base of Kafta, a volcano that has been ready to blow for some time. Now, the Eyjafjallajokull volcano has begun to rumble, and the worry is that an eruption at Kafta will be triggered in its wake. All I can think of are the pots of steam we saw all over the country and the houses surrounded by hardened lava.

Recently, Iceland has suffered economic collapse and its citizens just rejected a new plan by the government to pull the country out of crushing debt. And now this? If I learned anything on my trip to Iceland it's this: these people are survivors. They eat putrid shark and sheep's head, their museums display children's toys made out of bones, and they have only recently entered the modern world. The people of this country (only 320,000) will show the rest of us what it means to hold fast and make due.

Time to call Mom and see what she thinks.

Lurk, Lurk

When I think about growing up in my mother’s care, I have to wonder, was it really that bad? Close behind the question is a voice: "No, honey. It wasn't that bad, so what the fuck have you been complaining about all these years?" Well, then, this is my conundrum. Am I full of crap, or do I have a case?

Here's a primer from the archives of memory:

Mom [charging up from the basement]: Why did you vacuum the living room after school today?

Me [looking up from my homework]: Uh...

Mom: Do you know what your grandmother is doing right now?

Me: Uh ...watching T.V.? ...knitting? ...hissing at the cat?

Mom [spitting swords]: She's downstairs talking about how hard you work.

Me: Uh...OK...

Mom: So what? Are you trying to make me look bad in front of your grandmother? Huh? You little shit...

[Shit flew with such force out of my Mom's mouth that I nearly left a slick of the stuff on the kitchen chair.]

Me: Uh...

The end. Mom made a nice clean break for it and headed back down to the red dungeon. I, on the other hand, had Calculus to massacre and a buzz of adrenaline so strong I nearly stroked out. At the time, though, I did a fine job of biting my stiff upper lip. Nothing penetrated this bitch (Yeah, right) 'cause I was an Ice Queen in the making. Impervious to slings & arrows, I was not at all ruffled by this tantrum. Not one bit.

Alright, fine. Maybe I was a little ruffled, and maybe there are a few daemons in this girl's memory chest looking to escape. And, while I'm no drama queen, let's just say I've never invited my dark side out to play (Okay, once...and I liked it). Perhaps it's time I grabbed some toys and got going. Memory, after all, is a persistent playmate. Wouldn't you say?

One Horrible Thought on an Otherwise Perfectly Lazy Sunday

Oh boy. I am more like my mother than I thought.  Two clues have set me all a-flutter today: (1) I dumped clean sheets on the bed and didn't bother to make it - why now when later is sure to arrive? (2) I just realized my Christmas lights are still up - and the garden furniture is still out. Crap. Why do these blasted moments of clarity creep up on a person so stealthily? I've avoided housework all day, and now that I've finally got the dust rag out, I have this little revelation to face. Poop on this Sunday.

Here's the thing.  My mother's house is a disaster.  And, while my place appears to be all perfection and shine, there are signs, my friend. Signs, I say! Big freaking signs that say You Have Not Escaped. In part, I know a visit to my parent's house requires careful navigation of last week's newspapers (which I sift through and read), never mind the impossible situation in the kitchen (beautifully renovated into complete dysfunction). To cook in my mother's kitchen is to risk injury when cupboard contents tumble forth; to dress a burger from my mother's condiment collection is just bad-assed risky behaviour. The old joke about making penicillin in the fridge ain't so far off in this offspring's case. Until this blog began, I thought I was better than all of this.

But alas, it's in me.  I have spent all of today begrudging the stale-dated leftovers in my stuffed fridge. I need to purge, but can't get off my butt to do it. I've even done my taxes to put off the task, for crying out loud.  How bad can it be to haul out the garbage can and dump? Funnily enough, I secretly toss things out of my mother's fridge when I visit, and I am ruthless at work. Office mates who leave long-expired yoghurt, fossilized pizza slices and fuzzy oranges in a shared fridge should simply know better. Didn't their mothers teach them the basics of cleanliness and mutual respect? So, here I sit, confused about the lessons I learned.

Clearly, I did not grow up in an ordered and meticulously kept household, so where did I get my tight-assed attitude about how a person ought to keep their personal space? The first, most obvious answer lies in a theory of opposites: when we live in one set of conditions, we aim to break out and create another, more enviable (envied?) environment. I wanted nothing more, as a young girl, than to invite my friends over after school without wondering if there would be a big green bag of garbage sitting in the kitchen. Would this be our greeting to snack time? Usually. Rarely did I invite anyone home.

As of today, I think it's time I dug deeper. What does my battle (the need for clean vs. the need to relax already) really mean? What was so bad about the mess? To be brutally honest with myself, I have to fess up on some things...take a hard look at why cooking and cleaning were far from priority 1. Check it out:

Instead of living in an ordered household, I got art and music.

Instead of having an empty waste basket, I wore hand-made costumes in the school play.

Instead of building a proper hope chest, I learned to fend for myself.

Instead of eating pancakes & syrup, I learned to tell time (another blog, another time).

Instead of learning to cook & clean like a good girl, I earned an education & an independent life.

Already, I am admittedly humbled. It's time I gave dear Mum a break and swallowed some of my stiffly guarded pride. What do I take from this little refelction, after all my self-righteous fist pumping? Take a load off, honey. Enjoy a Sunday, unburdened by agenda and expectations of getting things accomplished. Let the garbage fester and allow a little chaos into the mix of life. After all, has it hurt you any in the past?

Family Fare

My mother is lousy in the kitchen - and a fabulous cook.  A child of the '70's, I was fed every permutation of beef casserole possible, and I am a long suffering victim of bad kitchen experiments. Still, I have been fed deliciously creative food and taught the value of good eating. Consider the evidence:

I've eaten cow's tongue - marinted for a full day in an ugly yellow pot -and could not, would not overcome the sight. To be clear, humans aren't the only creatures with a tough, bumpy skin for tasting. Just ask the butcher to cut you a slice.

I've known the joy Maroccan chicken flavoured with homemade preserved lemons at my mother's table.  The hours of preparation, I hope, were gratified by our celebration of flavour.
I've choked down canned cream corn several times too many. Thanks to California and Mexico, creamed corn is off the menu.

I've anticipated Mom's steamed chocolate pudding at Christmas. Thank you, Mum, for every bite.  I've begun to wonder who will take up the tradition and do it justice.  Help...

And, can someone please explain why a mother would make corn chip casserole the first time she feeds her future son-in-law?  Honestly. Thankfully, she left before dinner and simply slapped the dish on the table.

[Then again, she did make that incredible Spannish Paella that took days to prepare and hours to consume. Now there was a meal that brought the whole fam-dam-ily together.  Legends do not happen overnight.]

The result is this: my mother is the best and worst cook I know.  She is the reason I am both adventurous and cautious about food.  She has every tool in her kitchen for exotic and experimental cooking, but can't be bothered to make sure there's enough salmon on the table for Christmas dinner. She spends days creating delicate flowers to top a cake, but sends me to the grocer for the cake mix. In every meal, there is a victory and a disaster, and I have learned my way around her table.

Here are the rules:

1.   Expect the least; be surprised by the best.

2.  Contribute. Generously. To every meal.

3.  Drink. Wrecklessly, but not irresponsibly.

4.  Count on indigestion.

5.  Smile through the gustatory upheavals.

6.  Help with the dishes. Leave just enough undone to ward off the Guilt Monster.

7.  Say thank you, and part in good time (remember #5).

8.  Accept leftovers. Stop at the pound to adopt a dog.

9.  Print the recipe. She'll just know...

10. Expect the least; be surprised by the best. 

I cannot deny that I find family meals frustrating. Politics, preparations and expectations complicate every gathering and test every nerve. Fear over what will be served, consumed and digested is very real in my family.  But still, however odd or spectacular the menu, I can always count on the uncertainty of surprise. Slowly, I am beginning to make sense of a simple lesson: the less we expect of people, the more we are surprised and gratified by what we are given.  Especially if we didn't ask for it.

To Be - Or Not

I wonder
about the possiility of
writing in e-prime -
without 'to be'.

This exercise
tests my flexibilty
rids me of my wordiness -
unwinds the knots.

No future perfect,
no past perfect,
only now must suffice -
Look inside the moment.

A worthwhile moment,
this one we live.
Stay.
        Linger.
                   Discover.
Do you see?
It works!

No lazy lolligagging
with words,
no windy lines of
overblown prose.

With this restriction
verbs pop and crackle
under my fingers -
what fun with words!

Just This Once, Mom. Please?

Because my mother taught me good manners, I was unable to haul off and hit a co-worker today. On a good day, this particular colleague has a bad habit of charging up behind a person too early in the a.m., and I have an intensity of character that does not invite an early morning invasion of workspace. Today was not a good day, and I so wanted to wind up and let'er have it that I nearly cocked my fist (note: my tongue was also sharpened and ready to let fly). But sadly, there was no trashy girl fight in the office and I lost out on the primal release of deep irritation by way of scratching and kicking. Instead, I sucked back two cupcakes and had a highly productive morning.

So what stopped me from busting out and throwing knives?  Well, apart from keeping up appearances, I have my standards. That is, I have my mother's standards for getting along and her voice is clear: When you go out in public, be polite, be nice, and help with the dishes. In other words, no hitting, no biting, no scratching.  File your nails, keep your complaints to yourself and suck it up (or back, as the cupcake may be). Makes sense to me - most of the time.

Obviously, my mother's lesson is basic, useful and appropriate. To succeed as social beings, we must often put our instincts in check - we must all, on occasion, set aside minor and insiginificant irritations in the name of getting along. Killer bees beware: If we cannot find this restraint within ourselves, then we are the 'hothead' in the room.  We are the loose cannon, the one with the temper, the intolerant beast that everyone sidesteps and talks about later. Clearly, courtesy and diplomacy earn us points on the social acceptability scale. Repeat mother's mantra in times of need and all will be well. How else, my cool-headed compadres, do you think I scored my morning cupcakes?

But where does this well-practiced suppression of impulse leave our unspent frustration? Somehwere, somehow, do we all not experience ill-timed erruptions that follow the long, low rumblings of exposure to our workmates? Most commonly, we excuse our inappropriate displays with, "I lost it. I couldn't take it any more and I just lost it on the bitch." And then guilt tortures us - the guilt of knowing that we broke the code of social decorum and, much worse, the guilt of knowing how disappointed our mother would be. She's not a bitch, she's just freaking loud, immature and obtrusive (that she, by the way, is your co-worker and *not* your mother). Coming unhinged is not cool and feels like a confirmation of failure - yours and your mother's.

So back to this morning with a question (or two): Did throwing a cupcake into the pit satisfy the gods? Has the cheap girl-on-girl fight fantasy been sufficiently held back? I think not. While mother would have been pleased and the day unfolded as it should, the gators remain unfed and I could use some bait. Now don't get me wrong. To launch torpedos this morning would have been off the mark of anything near acceptable. My poor target knew nothing of my ire, nor should she.  I felt like a bear this morning and she was the first to get in my way. Not her fault. But what to do about this fantasy of mine?

Now that I am no longer out in public, though, I ought to blow up that punching bag, hit the gym for some cardio, or crank up some raunchy tunes. But even in private, these healthy outbursts of my darker self feel embarrassing and oddly unnecessary.  This is silliness, I think. This morning's urges have dulled and I've more than burned off those cupcakes, so why would I deliberately flail about and punch a bag of air? It's over.

...or not. 

Truth be told, the very thing we would often like to do, is not the thing we can do.  And it sucks.  So, for now, the pit remains deep, the gators await their meal, and I carry on.  Maybe tomorrow will be the day I unleash - or not.  The fact remins that my need to appear sane (and more than a little in control) is greater than my need to let loose.  I am 'better' than my instincts.

For now.

The Attraction/Revulsion Effect

I don't get it.

Am I the only only who is weirded out by The Bachelor? Do people really believe in this crap? Has our ability to connect authentically with other living human beings in real time and space gone completely to hell? Honestly, only in America (sorry, neighbour) is it possible for such vapid content to be so voraciously consumed as though it had worthwhile substance. I know, I know, it's mindless entertainment, a 'fairy tale' world we enter to escape our own flatlining romantic lives. Lives with real people who have real connections - full of frustration and conflict and, oddly enough, fulfillment. And yes, I know we watch, in part, to balk at the crazy notion that such artificial circumstances (They're in paradise, don't ya know?) can give rise to 'true and everlasting love' (Oh baby, oh baby). But still, I marvel. Why do we watch this drivel with such hunger? What is it that we are missing - missing so deeply that we rely on such shallow fabrication to satisfy ourselves that the possibility of what we are witnessing is possible for us - in real life?

Indeed, I have had my own own fun at the expense of the man & gaggle of women who inhabited the proverbial island, all planted there for one purpose: to find a deep, meaningful and lasting connection with another. Heck, I even had fun with the fantasy and spent more than a few Monday evenings (alone on the couch) getting in touch with that lovin' feeling I've known with that special someone. So you've caught me. Yes, I followed this season's sickening trip...or 'journey' as they who came to find true love prefer to call it. But, to my credit, I did not commit my Monday nights to every episode...or 'Rose Ceremony' as they who produce the show like to call it. Often, I had better things to do and did not even flutter at the thought of missing The Bachelor: On the Wings of Love. I have my pride. Heck, many a Monday night, I even forgot that it was the Monday-thing-to-do. Sometimes, a girl just wants her couch and a good book. Or a little yoga, a warm bath and some sappy music on her iTouch (how sexy!).

But truly, I am mildly baffled by those who did set aside their Monday evening me-time for this me-fest (Have you ever noticed how narcissistic this Bachelor/ette phenomenon is?). With great importance and - it seems to me - reverence for the 'journey', I know at least three single & over-40 women who could not/would not miss their Monday night fix of TB. Not only were they hooked, but they followed, outside of the Monday night realm, the rumors and gossip and blogs, and all the sundry accessory marketing/bullshit that comes with the show. If I missed a Monday, I could count on all three sources to fill me in - and gall darn it if they didn't make the whole damned thing seem important enough to follow. Here, it behooves me to admit that I am more than a little miffed at how things turned out this season (He picked her?).

But let's get back to the heart (ha-ha) of things. Did the lovers find love? Did the shiny happy people make a real connection? This cynic says, um, likely not (Just check the tabloids and you'll see). I think we can all look at the packaging, read the ingredients, and recognize that real life has yet to be lived. Before long, this hot couple (You saw it, too, right? That undeniable spark?) will have to confront the work and commitment they must pour into enduring love. Soon, we will all hear the disheartening news that the couple has split (bad things happen to good people) and our fairy tale bubble will be burst. TV is a tough place to start and carry on a romance, after all. Just look at all the the movie-star marriages that have gone bust. But hey, let's be fair. When you live in America and go public with your love, it's pretty obvious by now that holding-IT-together is darn near impossible.

Truly, though, I am not at all cynical about love. Not even close. Yes, I am mystified by the willingness of some to completely expose their so-called search for love on national TV - but I am more mystified by what I have discovered from being deeply in love with another. It's an incredible feeling - a feeling that occupies my senses long after the end of the affair. Which is where The Bachelor begins to make sense for me. That is, I suspect my girlfriends may still be searching. That they need some context for a modern 'happily ever after' scene laid out in front of them. These girls have yet to connect and to know the pefectly wonderful depths of surrender. And, perhaps there is a part of me that needs a boost of faith to know that love may come my way again.

So, this is where I back off and give credit to those who created The Bachelor. For many, your show is hope and a dream within reach. We need to know that our ideals have some place in mundane reality. Whether long attached and looking for a little reminder, or still single and looking for some reassurance, we all need a little jolt of that romantic fire once in a while. It just feels good, and now I get it. Looks like I'll be checking out the score next season.