In my university residence, there were two guys named Andrew. I knew one of them had a glass eye, but I could never keep straight which one it was, so whenever I was with one of them, especially if there was alcohol involved, I was always stealing surreptitious glances at their eyes trying to figure out if one was fake.
In one of my Comp Lit seminars, there was a guy with one arm. When he wore a shirt with the guy from A Clockwork Orange on it to class one day, I realized he looked almost exactly like the guy from A Clockwork Orange. A few times the class went out for drinks, but I was always afraid to get drunk around him because I was terrified that I would blurt out an insensitive question about what happened to his arm. Which, in retrospect, probably wouldn't have been that big a deal and he probably got asked all the time. But back then, many things seemed like a big deal that probably weren't.
Also, it's possible that I drank too much.
Showing posts with label awkward discussions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label awkward discussions. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Facebook Groups: Oh, the Humanity
I belong to two groups on Facebook - a "Moms in Your Area" group which I don't recall joining, I was just suddenly in it, and an "Ottawa Freecycle" group which one of my friends administrates, so it kept showing up in my feed and I asked her to add me so I could get rid of some clutter.
I say "I try not to judge" a lot. It's not strictly true. I try not to judge too harshly. I try not to judge out loud too much. I try not to judge based on things that people can't help.
These groups do not make that task easier.
Although there are many reasonable inquiries on the first timeline - which gymnastics program is better for young children, request for hair stylist recommendation, has anybody tried the new Italian restaurant - there are also frequent indications that many of the moms in my area are of a venal, sub-intelligent, parsimonious type.
First there are the "Let me Google that for you" questions: what time does Wal-Mart open? What street is this dentist on? How do I wash lamb's wool?" Then there are the seemingly topical inquiries that inevitably devolve into unseemly gossip: "Why are there so many sirens down this street?" "I drove by and saw an accident." Good, there's an accident, everybody avoid driving in that area. No wait, there's more. "It was three cars and there are five people involved and one was drunk and two are wearing fur." "Last week near there I saw a woman almost hit a dog. I could tell by looking at her that she doesn't breastfeed." There was a thread about police cars and ambulances at a house near my son's school and people speculating about what had happened in the family that was really quite icky.
The appeals for hairdresser, doctor, dentist or optometrist suggestions usually result in a good number of honestly helpful ideas and testimonials. But there is often one person who feels the need to contradict at least one referral, while offering some horrendous personal experience as a reason: "OH GOD, don't go to Lisa at Hairy's, she cut my daughter's hair into a 666 pattern and then charged me seventy-five dollars!": "I can't believe anyone is recommending Dr. Patterson at Optometrists R Us, he put up an eye chart that had obscene words in it!": "Avoid this doctor's office, you will be drugged and sold into human slavery."
I know, I know, I could just remove myself from the group. It clearly doesn't bring out the best in me. When I'm not rolling my eyes, I'm weeping in envy at the ease with which women with small children can now find other people in similar situations to get together with - this group could have saved my sanity ten or twelve years ago. I guess you have to take the bad with the good.
I feel like that's enough snark for one post, so I'll save my Prolegomena on any Future Metaphysics of Freecycling for a post later in the week.
I say "I try not to judge" a lot. It's not strictly true. I try not to judge too harshly. I try not to judge out loud too much. I try not to judge based on things that people can't help.
These groups do not make that task easier.
Although there are many reasonable inquiries on the first timeline - which gymnastics program is better for young children, request for hair stylist recommendation, has anybody tried the new Italian restaurant - there are also frequent indications that many of the moms in my area are of a venal, sub-intelligent, parsimonious type.
First there are the "Let me Google that for you" questions: what time does Wal-Mart open? What street is this dentist on? How do I wash lamb's wool?" Then there are the seemingly topical inquiries that inevitably devolve into unseemly gossip: "Why are there so many sirens down this street?" "I drove by and saw an accident." Good, there's an accident, everybody avoid driving in that area. No wait, there's more. "It was three cars and there are five people involved and one was drunk and two are wearing fur." "Last week near there I saw a woman almost hit a dog. I could tell by looking at her that she doesn't breastfeed." There was a thread about police cars and ambulances at a house near my son's school and people speculating about what had happened in the family that was really quite icky.
The appeals for hairdresser, doctor, dentist or optometrist suggestions usually result in a good number of honestly helpful ideas and testimonials. But there is often one person who feels the need to contradict at least one referral, while offering some horrendous personal experience as a reason: "OH GOD, don't go to Lisa at Hairy's, she cut my daughter's hair into a 666 pattern and then charged me seventy-five dollars!": "I can't believe anyone is recommending Dr. Patterson at Optometrists R Us, he put up an eye chart that had obscene words in it!": "Avoid this doctor's office, you will be drugged and sold into human slavery."
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| Photo by Eunoia |
And finally, the inquiries about where to buy goods or services that all end in earnest requests for economical recommendations: "Where can I get winter tires without spending a bunch?" "Best place to get custom-made birthday cake without spending an arm and a leg?" "Who sells mattresses at a reasonable price?" "Does anyone have a yacht for really cheap?" Look, I get it. Times are tough and no one wants to spend more than they have to. But really, what do they think people are generally going to suggest? "Go here - it's extremely expensive." "Oh, ask for Roger, he'll screw you right over." "We paid way too much at this place and we STRONGLY SUGGEST YOU DO THE SAME."
I know, I know, I could just remove myself from the group. It clearly doesn't bring out the best in me. When I'm not rolling my eyes, I'm weeping in envy at the ease with which women with small children can now find other people in similar situations to get together with - this group could have saved my sanity ten or twelve years ago. I guess you have to take the bad with the good.
I feel like that's enough snark for one post, so I'll save my Prolegomena on any Future Metaphysics of Freecycling for a post later in the week.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Evan from EvoShield gets me. He really gets me.
Alternate title: "Most embarrassing thing I've had to ask about since going to Rogers Video and saying "um, I was wondering if you happened to have noticed that I mistakenly returned an Iron Man DVD case with a Dora's Mermaid Adventure DVD inside?" Well, the most embarrassing one I'm willing to admit, anyway.
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Friday, May 31, 2013
Birds do it, Bees do it, Fleas are more educated than my kids about it
Remember when Eve and I talked a little about the facts of life and then she didn't want to talk about it any more? Turns out we should have talked about it a little more. Yesterday she was telling me about school. She said that they knew they were having health class and the grade fives in her class (she's in a four-five split) were afraid they were going to talk about where babies come from. (Let me interject that I felt the slightest bit smug about the fact that I thought Eve knew where babies come from, in a gigantic pride-goeth-before-a-fall douchebag moment). It turned out they were actually studying germs. But Eve said one of her classmates said "I know where babies come from. A man and a woman make them." Then EVE said "two women can make a baby".
What now?
I looked up from whatever I was chopping. She said her friend disagreed, but she got someone else to corroborate. I said "were you joking?" (please god, say you were joking). She looked confused.
Shit.
I said "two women can't make a baby."
She looked at me and said "I'm pretty sure they can."
Jesus.
I said "we talked about this. Remember? Sperm comes from him, egg comes from her, you need both?"
She said "but remember those people we met at the New Year's party, and they were lesbians, and they were getting married and they wanted to have the same last name in case they have kids because then they would all have the same last name?"
Ah.
So I said, leaving out the fact that I was probably too drunk to explain effectively at the time, "two women can HAVE a baby, and one of them can carry it and give birth to it, but they need sperm from a man to make it. They need what's called a sperm donor."
She said "THAT must be awkward."
And now I have to write a letter of apology to Eve's teacher and possibly a few parents. Sigh.
What now?
I looked up from whatever I was chopping. She said her friend disagreed, but she got someone else to corroborate. I said "were you joking?" (please god, say you were joking). She looked confused.
Shit.
I said "two women can't make a baby."
She looked at me and said "I'm pretty sure they can."
Jesus.
I said "we talked about this. Remember? Sperm comes from him, egg comes from her, you need both?"
She said "but remember those people we met at the New Year's party, and they were lesbians, and they were getting married and they wanted to have the same last name in case they have kids because then they would all have the same last name?"
Ah.
So I said, leaving out the fact that I was probably too drunk to explain effectively at the time, "two women can HAVE a baby, and one of them can carry it and give birth to it, but they need sperm from a man to make it. They need what's called a sperm donor."
She said "THAT must be awkward."
And now I have to write a letter of apology to Eve's teacher and possibly a few parents. Sigh.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Distance Learning - and I use the term advisedly
There was a scheduled chat for my course on Mobile Technology for Library Technicians last night. There haven't been any chats in my last few courses. I haven't missed them, exactly, but they can be fun and productive. It's a rare chance to get a glimpse of fellow students and share ideas, when usually we're all toiling away in isolation and only seeing the odd remark on a discussion board. I tend to have a good time in chats because a) I can type really fast, so I'm always able to reply quickly and address people before ten more comments have been entered and b) I'm old now and, whereas I used to concentrate on getting the right answer the most times, now I try to get the most people to comment on how funny I am. I can't seem to stop myself from trying to get the professor to say "Allison, you're being slightly inappropriate." In the really tough course on subject analysis, wherein the Dewey Decimal System almost drove me to rack and ruin, the chats were a great opportunity to commiserate, realize that everyone was having an equally rough time, and share strategies for not letting the course break us. So yeah, a good chat can be useful and entertaining.
Last night's chat, on the other hand, was a total clusterfuck.
It was too early in the course. Nobody had read enough to have any really intelligent questions or enlightening comments. There is a huge number of students, so it's almost impossible to follow a conversation or reply to someone or keep track of who the instructor is addressing. A couple of people had posted in the discussion groups about making their own QR codes, which had made me afraid that this group was going to be way more advanced than I am in mobile technology and I might be out of my depth. If you're the kind of person that thinks it's kind of horrible of me to go into the chat worrying that people might make fun of me for sounding dumb and then proceed to make fun of people for sounding dumb, this is probably a good time for you to go read something else.
So there was an online quiz we had to do. There were a few technical difficulties with the online quiz. There are almost always a few technical difficulties with something at some point in these courses. The instructor had already told us in a group email that she was working on it, and not to worry about it.
Many, many people were very worried about it. They had not gotten perfect on the quiz, and they didn't understand why. They had seen that other people didn't get perfect and didn't understand why either, so they felt entirely justified in demanding to know why they didn't get perfect (obvious answer being 'you answered some of the questions wrong'). They couldn't see if their answers had been submitted properly. They were VERY UPSET that they couldn't see if their answers had been submitted properly.
Then there's the part of the chat where (this happens even in the good ones) several people want to know when we will getting back our marks from the first assignment. Even though it's always been clearly laid out when we can expect to get our marks back. Then someone (or several someones) always ask "how did we do on Assignment 1?", when what they really mean is "How did I do on Assignment 1?" and, well, yeah, you still have to wait for your mark, because the instructor is most likely not going to say what she's actually thinking, which is, "most of you fine, a couple of you really well, and some of you should get whatever money back is possible and buy lottery tickets" .
My husband came up to make me tea as I was staring in disbelief at the screen. I told him what was going on. I said "somebody just asked what WiFi is". "Say that you're confused about your sexuality", he said helpfully.
"Nicole has to leave early to walk her dog", I said. "Forty people just said good-bye to Nicole." He gave me my tea and told me not to bang my head on the table too hard. Someone asked the instructor if she had any advice for doing well on the course. She suggested reading the lectures and working carefully on the assignments.
The last time I had a course with chats, the power went off here just as one was about to start. I have a bad feeling that might happen again.
Last night's chat, on the other hand, was a total clusterfuck.
It was too early in the course. Nobody had read enough to have any really intelligent questions or enlightening comments. There is a huge number of students, so it's almost impossible to follow a conversation or reply to someone or keep track of who the instructor is addressing. A couple of people had posted in the discussion groups about making their own QR codes, which had made me afraid that this group was going to be way more advanced than I am in mobile technology and I might be out of my depth. If you're the kind of person that thinks it's kind of horrible of me to go into the chat worrying that people might make fun of me for sounding dumb and then proceed to make fun of people for sounding dumb, this is probably a good time for you to go read something else.
So there was an online quiz we had to do. There were a few technical difficulties with the online quiz. There are almost always a few technical difficulties with something at some point in these courses. The instructor had already told us in a group email that she was working on it, and not to worry about it.
Many, many people were very worried about it. They had not gotten perfect on the quiz, and they didn't understand why. They had seen that other people didn't get perfect and didn't understand why either, so they felt entirely justified in demanding to know why they didn't get perfect (obvious answer being 'you answered some of the questions wrong'). They couldn't see if their answers had been submitted properly. They were VERY UPSET that they couldn't see if their answers had been submitted properly.
Then there's the part of the chat where (this happens even in the good ones) several people want to know when we will getting back our marks from the first assignment. Even though it's always been clearly laid out when we can expect to get our marks back. Then someone (or several someones) always ask "how did we do on Assignment 1?", when what they really mean is "How did I do on Assignment 1?" and, well, yeah, you still have to wait for your mark, because the instructor is most likely not going to say what she's actually thinking, which is, "most of you fine, a couple of you really well, and some of you should get whatever money back is possible and buy lottery tickets" .
My husband came up to make me tea as I was staring in disbelief at the screen. I told him what was going on. I said "somebody just asked what WiFi is". "Say that you're confused about your sexuality", he said helpfully.
"Nicole has to leave early to walk her dog", I said. "Forty people just said good-bye to Nicole." He gave me my tea and told me not to bang my head on the table too hard. Someone asked the instructor if she had any advice for doing well on the course. She suggested reading the lectures and working carefully on the assignments.
The last time I had a course with chats, the power went off here just as one was about to start. I have a bad feeling that might happen again.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Scintilla Day 2: Instructions
Prompt 2: Tell a story about something interesting (anything!) that happened to you, but tell it in the form of an instruction manual.
Step 1: Find yourself living in Toronto with your husband of a few months, working for a cool little independent bookstore, finally getting treatment for depression which will surely solve all of those problems in short order and forever (insert slightly bitter snort).
Step 2: Figure things are going pretty well and it would be a good thing to find a way to give back to the community.
Step 3: See an ad for PAL-Reading Services in the paper.
Step 4: Feel struck to the core with the conviction that this was Meant To Be in every possible way - Blind People who are Tragically Denied the Joys of the Written Word (because you don't know Braille, or there aren't enough books in Braille, or something!), LET ME BE YOUR READER!
Step 5: Go in for a short test. Be accepted with alacrity and praise despite a slight quibble over the pronunciation of the word 'eschew'.
Step 6: Take the subway to that part of town a few times a month. Enjoy being ensconced in your own tiny room with a window, a counter, a tape recorder and a book. Resist the temptation to add editorial comments or introduce yourself ("Hi, I'm Allison and I'll be your reader today").
Step 7. Marvel at the range and variety of material you're asked to read. Biology textbooks. Historical treatises. Inspirational memoirs that make it necessary to remove all traces of eye-rolling from your voice.
Step 8: Encounter issues such as: How do I read the word 'deftness' without making it apt to be mistaken for 'deafness' and yet still maintain the flow of the narrative?; Should I vary my voice to indicate when different people are speaking?; Have I really been pronouncing 'detritus' wrongly my whole life?
Step 9: Show up as usual one day and enter your little room.
Step 10: Find a volume of poetry for the first time and think that this will be interesting.
Step 11: Get set up and scan the first poem.
Step 12: Realize in short order that the book is, in fact, a volume of African-American lesbian erotic poetry.
Step 13: Check the room reflexively for hidden cameras -
Step 13a: not hidden microphones because THEY DON'T HAVE TO HIDE THE MICROPHONE, IT'S RIGHT THERE ON THE COUNTER.
Step 14: Wonder if you're being punk'd, except Punk'd doesn't actually exist yet.
Step 15: Decide that perhaps you're being silly.
Step 16: But then think, are you really? It's Toronto, for crying out loud - centre of multiculturalism and diversity and difference. And if you're not the straightest, whitest straight white girl they could have given this to, you have to be close.
Step 17: Look around more carefully for hidden cameras.
Step 18: Decide that you're probably just being silly. Who knows what kind of roster of readers they have? And hey, blind African-Canadian lesbians deserve their sexy poems as much as anyone else. And you haven't been Catholic, strictly speaking, for quite a while.
Step 19: Become involved in the work at hand.
Step 20: Do a pretty damned good job, if you do say so yourself, including reading out the phrase "To the woman who makes my clit dance" without exclaiming 'okay, seriously?' afterwards.
Step 21: Turn in the book and tape recorder and give some pretty serious side-eye to the chick at the front desk on your way out. Be unable to decide whether her expression is a little TOO suspiciously deadpan.
Step 22: Spend the subway ride home alternately blushing and giggling like an idiot.
Step 23: Resolve to become less naive and easily embarrassed.
Step 24: Take a second, many years later, to be fervently grateful that you weren't doing this kind of volunteer work when Fifty Shades of Grey was published.
*****************
Step 1: Find yourself living in Toronto with your husband of a few months, working for a cool little independent bookstore, finally getting treatment for depression which will surely solve all of those problems in short order and forever (insert slightly bitter snort).
Step 2: Figure things are going pretty well and it would be a good thing to find a way to give back to the community.
Step 3: See an ad for PAL-Reading Services in the paper.
Step 4: Feel struck to the core with the conviction that this was Meant To Be in every possible way - Blind People who are Tragically Denied the Joys of the Written Word (because you don't know Braille, or there aren't enough books in Braille, or something!), LET ME BE YOUR READER!
Step 5: Go in for a short test. Be accepted with alacrity and praise despite a slight quibble over the pronunciation of the word 'eschew'.
Step 6: Take the subway to that part of town a few times a month. Enjoy being ensconced in your own tiny room with a window, a counter, a tape recorder and a book. Resist the temptation to add editorial comments or introduce yourself ("Hi, I'm Allison and I'll be your reader today").
Step 7. Marvel at the range and variety of material you're asked to read. Biology textbooks. Historical treatises. Inspirational memoirs that make it necessary to remove all traces of eye-rolling from your voice.
Step 8: Encounter issues such as: How do I read the word 'deftness' without making it apt to be mistaken for 'deafness' and yet still maintain the flow of the narrative?; Should I vary my voice to indicate when different people are speaking?; Have I really been pronouncing 'detritus' wrongly my whole life?
Step 9: Show up as usual one day and enter your little room.
Step 10: Find a volume of poetry for the first time and think that this will be interesting.
Step 11: Get set up and scan the first poem.
Step 12: Realize in short order that the book is, in fact, a volume of African-American lesbian erotic poetry.
Step 13: Check the room reflexively for hidden cameras -
Step 13a: not hidden microphones because THEY DON'T HAVE TO HIDE THE MICROPHONE, IT'S RIGHT THERE ON THE COUNTER.
Step 14: Wonder if you're being punk'd, except Punk'd doesn't actually exist yet.
Step 15: Decide that perhaps you're being silly.
Step 16: But then think, are you really? It's Toronto, for crying out loud - centre of multiculturalism and diversity and difference. And if you're not the straightest, whitest straight white girl they could have given this to, you have to be close.
Step 17: Look around more carefully for hidden cameras.
Step 18: Decide that you're probably just being silly. Who knows what kind of roster of readers they have? And hey, blind African-Canadian lesbians deserve their sexy poems as much as anyone else. And you haven't been Catholic, strictly speaking, for quite a while.
Step 19: Become involved in the work at hand.
Step 20: Do a pretty damned good job, if you do say so yourself, including reading out the phrase "To the woman who makes my clit dance" without exclaiming 'okay, seriously?' afterwards.
Step 21: Turn in the book and tape recorder and give some pretty serious side-eye to the chick at the front desk on your way out. Be unable to decide whether her expression is a little TOO suspiciously deadpan.
Step 22: Spend the subway ride home alternately blushing and giggling like an idiot.
Step 23: Resolve to become less naive and easily embarrassed.
Step 24: Take a second, many years later, to be fervently grateful that you weren't doing this kind of volunteer work when Fifty Shades of Grey was published.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
The Post-Plague Diaries
I went out to get some groceries tonight since Matt's leaving for Asia early on Saturday and the kids don't have piano/guitar on Monday afternoon, which is when I usually get groceries for the week. I also went to the public library. This means I did my Monday errands on Thursday. I can't figure out if this puts me ahead or behind.
Eve came and hung out with me and the librarian while I was shelving books in the school library. She found a Roald Dahl book that she hadn't read yet and the librarian checked it out for her even though she already has her two books checked out for the week. She then danced around the library singing "I'm so happy, I have so many books", confirming that she is indeed my child. On the way home someone on the radio referred to someone (from Liberia) as Liberian and she sighed dramatically and said "I can't STAND when they don't speak properly - is it so hard to say LIBRARIAN?" And you must never, ever tell her that I told you about that, but it fits with my general conviction about blogging about my kids, which is that I MIGHT write something here that they would be embarrassed about if they read it tomorrow, but I will never post anything that they would be embarrassed about if they read it in ten years.
I got stuck in the public library parking lot. I waited until everyone went around me and then backed up very slowly until I could go forward again. Our neighbour's lawn is stacked with snow higher than I thought snow could be stacked. The friend who drove us home from school had to drop us off at the end of our street because anything that's not a four wheel drive can't make it through the sidestreet mess. Go home winter, you're drunk.
Have you ever heard of Capgras Syndrome? It's a neurological condition that makes you think your family and/or friends have been replaced by impostor look-alikes. I read a book about it that was pretty bad, and there was a Scrubs episode about it that was pretty good. Lately I've been wondering if there's a similar syndrome that applies to toothbrushes instead of people. And that's all I want to say about that.
While I was driving home from the grocery store I was listening to a program on CBC about families who have to discuss taking a driver's license away from an elderly relative who can no longer drive. Some people tried to argue that most people know when they're not driving well any more, but most agreed that when people are in the early stages of Alzheimer's or dementia, they're under the impression that they're still driving well when it's obvious to everyone else that they're not. Whereas I am almost constantly terrified while I'm driving that I'm going to do something catastrophic, and when I have to park between two vehicles (rather than beside at least one empty spot) I'm nearly paralyzed with fear. Therefore, I have made a mental note that if I ever start feeling like I'm rocking the driving thing, I should definitely start to worry.
That should work, right?
Eve came and hung out with me and the librarian while I was shelving books in the school library. She found a Roald Dahl book that she hadn't read yet and the librarian checked it out for her even though she already has her two books checked out for the week. She then danced around the library singing "I'm so happy, I have so many books", confirming that she is indeed my child. On the way home someone on the radio referred to someone (from Liberia) as Liberian and she sighed dramatically and said "I can't STAND when they don't speak properly - is it so hard to say LIBRARIAN?" And you must never, ever tell her that I told you about that, but it fits with my general conviction about blogging about my kids, which is that I MIGHT write something here that they would be embarrassed about if they read it tomorrow, but I will never post anything that they would be embarrassed about if they read it in ten years.
I got stuck in the public library parking lot. I waited until everyone went around me and then backed up very slowly until I could go forward again. Our neighbour's lawn is stacked with snow higher than I thought snow could be stacked. The friend who drove us home from school had to drop us off at the end of our street because anything that's not a four wheel drive can't make it through the sidestreet mess. Go home winter, you're drunk.
Have you ever heard of Capgras Syndrome? It's a neurological condition that makes you think your family and/or friends have been replaced by impostor look-alikes. I read a book about it that was pretty bad, and there was a Scrubs episode about it that was pretty good. Lately I've been wondering if there's a similar syndrome that applies to toothbrushes instead of people. And that's all I want to say about that.
While I was driving home from the grocery store I was listening to a program on CBC about families who have to discuss taking a driver's license away from an elderly relative who can no longer drive. Some people tried to argue that most people know when they're not driving well any more, but most agreed that when people are in the early stages of Alzheimer's or dementia, they're under the impression that they're still driving well when it's obvious to everyone else that they're not. Whereas I am almost constantly terrified while I'm driving that I'm going to do something catastrophic, and when I have to park between two vehicles (rather than beside at least one empty spot) I'm nearly paralyzed with fear. Therefore, I have made a mental note that if I ever start feeling like I'm rocking the driving thing, I should definitely start to worry.
That should work, right?
Friday, November 23, 2012
Nablahpomo
I should go back and read last November's posts to see if I felt as disenchanted and resentful at this point as I do right now. Posting every day? Craziness! How is this a good idea?! What the hell was I thinking!? Would anyone notice if I stopped? Wouldn't everyone just be kind of relieved?
While I'm waffling, a couple of amusing anecdotes about testicles:
When I was living in Toronto, my parents were visiting and we were sitting out back drinking beer. The cat belonging to the people who lived in the basement was frolicking around and my dad, who loves cats, was playing with it. After it went back inside, someone asked if it was a male or female. My dad said it was a female. I said I was sure I had heard them say it was a male. He said it had rolled over and he had seen it didn't have testicles. I said maybe it was just fixed. He got very indignant and said "well I'm fixed and I still have mine!" And that was when we all realized my father didn't know that male animals didn't just get vasectomies when they got fixed.
This reminded me of when I was playing Trivial Pursuit with my friend Kim and there was a question about an American President (I think it was Lyndon Johnson) who was 'publicly castigated' for pulling his dog's ears in public. I read Kim the question and her eyes got huge and she said "they chopped his DICK off?"
And she wasn't my dumbest friend.
While I'm waffling, a couple of amusing anecdotes about testicles:
When I was living in Toronto, my parents were visiting and we were sitting out back drinking beer. The cat belonging to the people who lived in the basement was frolicking around and my dad, who loves cats, was playing with it. After it went back inside, someone asked if it was a male or female. My dad said it was a female. I said I was sure I had heard them say it was a male. He said it had rolled over and he had seen it didn't have testicles. I said maybe it was just fixed. He got very indignant and said "well I'm fixed and I still have mine!" And that was when we all realized my father didn't know that male animals didn't just get vasectomies when they got fixed.
This reminded me of when I was playing Trivial Pursuit with my friend Kim and there was a question about an American President (I think it was Lyndon Johnson) who was 'publicly castigated' for pulling his dog's ears in public. I read Kim the question and her eyes got huge and she said "they chopped his DICK off?"
And she wasn't my dumbest friend.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Moral values and men in drag
We watched Hairspray for a family movie night last week. We watch it quite often, Eve especially. One night while Angus and I were out, Matt was desperate for something to watch with her that didn't involve fairies or barbies, so he stuck it on. Eve loves anything with singing and dancing, so she was all good. Of course, it's not without its parental pitfalls: "What's a Negro?"; "Why can't the white people and the brown people dance together?"; "What's sintegration?". Sometimes I'm more surprised by things they already know (at one point Michelle Pfeiffer's bitchy bleached-blonde character pulls the padding out of a young dancer's bra -- Angus: "what was that?" -- Eve (dismissively): "just some fluff to make it look like she has boobies" -- Me: sputtering inarticulately).
It's funny with kids. When they're very young they find almost nothing surprising because they know nothing to begin with -- everything is possible. Eve used to make her female Barbies kiss and get married. I hadn't thought about it, but after a few years of Disney movies I don't think she does that much any more. I also have to remind myself that just because I'm all for homosexual rights including marriage, she doesn't necessarily know that just by osmosis. We had a funny/ appalling moment when Christopher Walken as Wilbur Turnblad and John Travolta as his wife Edna were kissing, and Matt said "you know that's actually a man, right?", and the kids were mouth-hanging-open shocked, which kind of surprised me (really? they bought that?), but then they kissed and Angus said "ew, then that's a man kissing a man", which also surprised me in a less amusing way, and I said "well, that's fine", and Matt said something really stupid like "well, it's okay because he's pretending to be a woman", and my head exploded, but then I looked at Matt and it was obvious he hadn't really meant to say that, and then we had to pause the movie and have a small discussion.
Then we watched some more and the whole integration thing came up again and we went back over the whole white people thinking that dark-skinned people weren't as smart or as good, and policemen hassling them and people not letting them be in the same classroom or swim in the same pools. Eve looked distressed and said "but Mia's not that bad" and we had to pause the movie and emphasize once again that those white people were WRONG WRONG WRONG. Then Eve started to list the people in her class that wouldn't have been able to be there in the 1950's, and Angus reiterated his original opinion, which was 'well that's stupid.'
Oh, and the moment in the first song when she sings "There's the flasher who lives next door" and Angus asked what's a flasher, and we said some people walk around naked except for a coat and then whip open the coat at random passersby. Angus sat there looking stricken, until we finally added that these people are not well, and this behaviour generally results in a fine and/or imprisonment, whereupon he looked extremely relieved -- I guess he thought we were laying it out as a legitimate career choice or something.
So yeah -- fun movie night and all-around education in how you can start to assume too much about how your kids think and what they know, and how the time we make to spend with them can be really important. Although thankfully I won't have to advise Eve on stuffing her bra when the time comes.
It's funny with kids. When they're very young they find almost nothing surprising because they know nothing to begin with -- everything is possible. Eve used to make her female Barbies kiss and get married. I hadn't thought about it, but after a few years of Disney movies I don't think she does that much any more. I also have to remind myself that just because I'm all for homosexual rights including marriage, she doesn't necessarily know that just by osmosis. We had a funny/ appalling moment when Christopher Walken as Wilbur Turnblad and John Travolta as his wife Edna were kissing, and Matt said "you know that's actually a man, right?", and the kids were mouth-hanging-open shocked, which kind of surprised me (really? they bought that?), but then they kissed and Angus said "ew, then that's a man kissing a man", which also surprised me in a less amusing way, and I said "well, that's fine", and Matt said something really stupid like "well, it's okay because he's pretending to be a woman", and my head exploded, but then I looked at Matt and it was obvious he hadn't really meant to say that, and then we had to pause the movie and have a small discussion.
Then we watched some more and the whole integration thing came up again and we went back over the whole white people thinking that dark-skinned people weren't as smart or as good, and policemen hassling them and people not letting them be in the same classroom or swim in the same pools. Eve looked distressed and said "but Mia's not that bad" and we had to pause the movie and emphasize once again that those white people were WRONG WRONG WRONG. Then Eve started to list the people in her class that wouldn't have been able to be there in the 1950's, and Angus reiterated his original opinion, which was 'well that's stupid.'
Oh, and the moment in the first song when she sings "There's the flasher who lives next door" and Angus asked what's a flasher, and we said some people walk around naked except for a coat and then whip open the coat at random passersby. Angus sat there looking stricken, until we finally added that these people are not well, and this behaviour generally results in a fine and/or imprisonment, whereupon he looked extremely relieved -- I guess he thought we were laying it out as a legitimate career choice or something.
So yeah -- fun movie night and all-around education in how you can start to assume too much about how your kids think and what they know, and how the time we make to spend with them can be really important. Although thankfully I won't have to advise Eve on stuffing her bra when the time comes.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
How Much Information is Too Much?
I did just post a couple of days ago that I'm not against lying to children. And I do believe that some books do not belong in an elementary school library. So I guess I can't write this post with quite the snotty, outraged tone I kind of had in mind before I started. That said, some things do make me think some people have way too much time on their hands.
We had a copy of Revolting Rhymes by Roald Dahl in the library. One of the poems has the word 'slut' in it. It's British, so slut doesn't mean sexually promiscuous woman, it means untidy person. A mother objected. Then she said maybe we didn't have to take the book out of the library, we could just white out the word. But, um, it's a rhyming book. And the kids aren't stupid.
Even our library technician questions a lot of the subject matter in books for young adults these days. Books about dealing with a parent's depression, books about bullying and drugs and such. I don't know. I tend to think kids in real life have more to deal with these days, and maybe having a few books about those things is not bad. We also have truckloads of Mary Kate and Ashley, Star Wars and Geronimo Stilton and his bad cheese puns.
Yesterday I read Looking for Alaska by John Green. I liked it as much as the other two I've read by him. I think he delineates the struggles and perils of adolescence really well -- plus he's a laugh-out-loud funny writer, who slips the odd devastating insight in.
The main character moves from his home state of Florida to Alabama to attend the same boarding school his father went to. He is intelligent and quirky and has no real friends at home, and he's in search of a new start, a "Great Perhaps", a la Rabelais. He finds it in spades at his new school -- a roommate who becomes a great friend, and a cute, messed-up, irresistibly self-destructive girl named Alaska. It was kind of refreshing that, even though he's captivated by her personality and looks, he does get tired of her being moody and bitchy.
There is mention of sex in the book. The main character receives his first blow job (and it's a hilarious, realistic description), his roommate alludes to having sex with his girlfriend, and condoms are found under someone's mattress. That's pretty much it. A few of the reviewers on Goodreads think this is way too much sex for a YA novel. That's their right, of course. "Too much information", one reader says. I think it's a little naive to think that a book written for teen-agers should pretend that adolescent sex doesn't exist. Show me a teen-ager who, even if they're not having sex, doesn't spend a good portion of their time thinking about it. And whoa -- one blow job, and a reference to someone having safe, responsible sex with her boyfriend. Call me crazy, but could it not be a whole lot worse?
Anyway, that's not even the real reason I had to write this post. The real reason was the comment left on that offended reader's review. The comment that I really really hope was supposed to be a joke: "I read Looking For Alaska and learned things about sex that I hadn't learned in 30 years of marriage".
????????????????????????????????????????????
Even our library technician questions a lot of the subject matter in books for young adults these days. Books about dealing with a parent's depression, books about bullying and drugs and such. I don't know. I tend to think kids in real life have more to deal with these days, and maybe having a few books about those things is not bad. We also have truckloads of Mary Kate and Ashley, Star Wars and Geronimo Stilton and his bad cheese puns.
Yesterday I read Looking for Alaska by John Green. I liked it as much as the other two I've read by him. I think he delineates the struggles and perils of adolescence really well -- plus he's a laugh-out-loud funny writer, who slips the odd devastating insight in.
The main character moves from his home state of Florida to Alabama to attend the same boarding school his father went to. He is intelligent and quirky and has no real friends at home, and he's in search of a new start, a "Great Perhaps", a la Rabelais. He finds it in spades at his new school -- a roommate who becomes a great friend, and a cute, messed-up, irresistibly self-destructive girl named Alaska. It was kind of refreshing that, even though he's captivated by her personality and looks, he does get tired of her being moody and bitchy.
There is mention of sex in the book. The main character receives his first blow job (and it's a hilarious, realistic description), his roommate alludes to having sex with his girlfriend, and condoms are found under someone's mattress. That's pretty much it. A few of the reviewers on Goodreads think this is way too much sex for a YA novel. That's their right, of course. "Too much information", one reader says. I think it's a little naive to think that a book written for teen-agers should pretend that adolescent sex doesn't exist. Show me a teen-ager who, even if they're not having sex, doesn't spend a good portion of their time thinking about it. And whoa -- one blow job, and a reference to someone having safe, responsible sex with her boyfriend. Call me crazy, but could it not be a whole lot worse?Anyway, that's not even the real reason I had to write this post. The real reason was the comment left on that offended reader's review. The comment that I really really hope was supposed to be a joke: "I read Looking For Alaska and learned things about sex that I hadn't learned in 30 years of marriage".
????????????????????????????????????????????
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Dude, where's my backbone?
A man came into the little independent bookstore I worked in one Sunday in Toronto. He was pleasant and well-dressed. He wandered around the store for a while, asked a few questions about cookbooks by the Urban Peasant. When he went to pay for his purchases, he felt in the back pocket of his pants and got this horrified look on his face. He said he had thrown his jacket in the trunk of his car without realizing his wallet and car keys were in it. His two kids were playing in the park near his house and he was supposed to go pick them up. He tried to call his wife but couldn't reach her. He reached a locksmith but since it was Sunday it was going to cost a hundred dollars for him to come and unlock the trunk.
I'm sure most of you can see where this is going. I was young and nice and stupid. I lent him the hundred dollars. He gave me his name -- Brad Jacobson -- and the number where he worked, at the University of Toronto. He asked me if I liked homemade wine. Naturally, when I called the number a few days later the person at the switchboard immediately sounded weary and annoyed and said that no one named Brad Jacobson worked there.
Why didn't I go with him to the car to wait for the locksmith, or at least look out the store front window, since presumably he was parked nearby? Why didn't I ask him why he couldn't just pay the locksmith after he unlocked the trunk? Why didn't I just say, sorry buddy, not my problem? Because I am a people pleaser. I hate saying no to people, even people I've just met. Anyone with half a brain would have considered his story and found half-a-dozen weak points. But if I'd done that, it might have hurt his feelings. He might have thought I was unkind. He might have left not liking me. Since I was never going to see him again, you could be forgiven for wondering why the heck that matters to me, but apparently it does.
Not only is this not the only time I've ever been a number one resource for criminals -- it's not even the only time at that bookstore. A couple of teenage boys came in one afternoon, hung around in the back near the New Age books for a while. As they were getting ready to leave, one of them asked how late we were open. I said we closed at six, and he looked at his buddy and said "We've got lots of time". Turns out he meant they had lots of time to use the credit cards in my wallet which they had just stolen from the back room before I went to take the subway home and realized it was gone.
At least that time it was just stupidity on my part (I should have put my bag downstairs). I really really hate the idea of this 'Brad Jacobson' ass feeling smug and superior because he put one over on me. Don't you think there must be a special place in hell reserved for people like that? Because of him, I've never again been able to think about helping a stranger in distress without first wondering if they're just running a scam, if I even consider helping them at all.
Last summer while my husband was away, a young Israeli girl came to the door with some paintings. She said she was an art student that was trying to make money to keep on with her education by selling paintings she and her classmates had painted. I have tried and tried to strike the perfect tone with door-to-door salespeople or solicitors; if it's your job and you have to do it, I'm going to try not to look at you as if you're a tiresome inconvenience or a loathsome specimen, and I should just be able to say 'no' politely but firmly and go on with my life. Somehow it never works out that way. I get all flustered and either end up sounding like an idiot housewife who can't do anything without her husband's consent or I end up with chocolate-covered driveway sealer or something equally useless.
So I told the Israeli girl to come back the next day and I would buy a painting. Then I went inside and freaked out. Money was a little tight and I needed some painting for over a hundred bucks like I needed a hole in the head. I was trying to figure out how to explain this to Matt when he got home and suddenly I thought, 'wait. I didn't sign anything. She didn't have a gun. She's not even very big. I don't actually have to buy the goddamned thing.' But of course now I was going to be a ball of anxiety until the next day when she showed up again and I had to say the no I should have said in the first stupid place. As I went over the whole thing in my mind, it started to seem more and more fishy. I went to the computer and googled 'Israeli art door-to-door sale'. Imagine my delight when a multitude of results popped up for a swindle involving young people passing off cheap art prints as their personal work.
Let's pause and savour the ludicrousness of this. I was happy because now that I knew it was a con, I could righteously and indignantly refuse to buy a painting (since politely and firmly had failed utterly). In order for me to say no when I really want to, the person has to be at the very least a misdemeanour fraudster, and an outright felon would clearly be preferable.
I still didn't have the guts to meet her at the door. I printed out a copy of the description of the scam, stuck it on the front door, took an Ativan and went to bed. Thinking once again that I am in dire need of some sort of help.
I'm sure most of you can see where this is going. I was young and nice and stupid. I lent him the hundred dollars. He gave me his name -- Brad Jacobson -- and the number where he worked, at the University of Toronto. He asked me if I liked homemade wine. Naturally, when I called the number a few days later the person at the switchboard immediately sounded weary and annoyed and said that no one named Brad Jacobson worked there.
Why didn't I go with him to the car to wait for the locksmith, or at least look out the store front window, since presumably he was parked nearby? Why didn't I ask him why he couldn't just pay the locksmith after he unlocked the trunk? Why didn't I just say, sorry buddy, not my problem? Because I am a people pleaser. I hate saying no to people, even people I've just met. Anyone with half a brain would have considered his story and found half-a-dozen weak points. But if I'd done that, it might have hurt his feelings. He might have thought I was unkind. He might have left not liking me. Since I was never going to see him again, you could be forgiven for wondering why the heck that matters to me, but apparently it does.
Not only is this not the only time I've ever been a number one resource for criminals -- it's not even the only time at that bookstore. A couple of teenage boys came in one afternoon, hung around in the back near the New Age books for a while. As they were getting ready to leave, one of them asked how late we were open. I said we closed at six, and he looked at his buddy and said "We've got lots of time". Turns out he meant they had lots of time to use the credit cards in my wallet which they had just stolen from the back room before I went to take the subway home and realized it was gone.
At least that time it was just stupidity on my part (I should have put my bag downstairs). I really really hate the idea of this 'Brad Jacobson' ass feeling smug and superior because he put one over on me. Don't you think there must be a special place in hell reserved for people like that? Because of him, I've never again been able to think about helping a stranger in distress without first wondering if they're just running a scam, if I even consider helping them at all.
Last summer while my husband was away, a young Israeli girl came to the door with some paintings. She said she was an art student that was trying to make money to keep on with her education by selling paintings she and her classmates had painted. I have tried and tried to strike the perfect tone with door-to-door salespeople or solicitors; if it's your job and you have to do it, I'm going to try not to look at you as if you're a tiresome inconvenience or a loathsome specimen, and I should just be able to say 'no' politely but firmly and go on with my life. Somehow it never works out that way. I get all flustered and either end up sounding like an idiot housewife who can't do anything without her husband's consent or I end up with chocolate-covered driveway sealer or something equally useless.
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| photo credit creative commons license |
Let's pause and savour the ludicrousness of this. I was happy because now that I knew it was a con, I could righteously and indignantly refuse to buy a painting (since politely and firmly had failed utterly). In order for me to say no when I really want to, the person has to be at the very least a misdemeanour fraudster, and an outright felon would clearly be preferable.
I still didn't have the guts to meet her at the door. I printed out a copy of the description of the scam, stuck it on the front door, took an Ativan and went to bed. Thinking once again that I am in dire need of some sort of help.
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