Crapper

I haven't posted in forever, because I am trapped in reno hell. A small en suite bathroom gut and rebuild has been going for a month and is still not done. In the second week -- after approximately 20-ish work hours had been done (ie four short work days) -- I did some research and wrote some notes for this post.  But now I can't find my notes and they were good, smart, funny.

The notes were about Thomas Crapper -- you know that guy that everyone says invented the flush toilet. Everyone except the people who say he didn't. The ones that say some guy who worked for or was related to Queen Victoria invented it. I'm thinking that those people are monarchists. Brits and monarch-loving, royal-baby-bump-watching kooks. Because what Queen V had was essentially a pit privy in her palace. A lovely pit privy fit for a royal highnie that leaked noxious sewer gases and other substances, since there really wasn't any sewer system to speak of. Yeah let's give that guy the credit. He was a knight or a peer or something...

And then there were other cool facts like how Wedgwood and Royal Dalton made the early toilet bowls and decorated them angels and such. Only rich people had toilets. Poor people had chamber pots... and that reminds me of something: he's so poor, he don't have a pot to piss in...and now it makes sense. Oh yes, and if you did have a pot to piss in, you emptied it by chucking the waste out the window. Nice...fancy a stroll luv?

But along came Mr Crapper and he figured out how to stop the ceramic toilet bowls from leaking the flushables, invented a proper flush mechanism, and just about everything else that makes a toilet a toilet in the modern, no seepage or sewer gas, vein. So I say give credit where credit is due and let's not allow wikipedia or anyone else call the Thomas Crapper story an urban myth (that's right, some people are trying to sell that load of....

....it's too easy. Too cheesy. I just can't make that joke. It's beneath me.

Adult vs Grown-up

I got a new book yesterday: “Neil Gaiman’s  ‘Make Good Art’  speech”.  If you’re looking for bookshelf art, it’s a gorgeous book. If I can figure out how to post a picture, I will. Otherwise, you’ll have to go to the bookstore and get one – do that anyway, because it’s an amazing book. And it will take less than an hour to read it because it’s a speech and the best speeches are the shortest.  But you will want to keep it close by and read it again.  It’s a commencement speech.

Do you remember your commencement address? I don’t remember mine. It was law school, so probably a lawyer or a judge. But that’s a guess. I can’t remember a single thing about it. So it was probably a sober, grown-up sort of speech about excellence in the profession and some cliché about the road not taken. What I do remember is that we stood for O Canada. And again for God Save the Queen. I was going to stay seated in protest because I don’t believe in any kind of inherited power or status, but then I noticed my mother watching me as she stood and sang -- like a good ex-pat brit whose family had not one single university grad. So I stood. And the rest is a blank.

But, if the speech was like Neil Gaiman’s, I would’ve remembered every word of it:

“…nothing I did where the only reason for doing it was the money was ever worth it…”

“I hope you’ll make mistakes…”

Are you are wondering who the hell is Neil Gaiman?! And why does he want me to make mistakes?

“…If you’re making mistakes, it means you’re out there doing something. And the mistakes themselves can be useful. I once misspelled Caroline in a letter, transposing the A and the O, and I thought, Coraline looks like a real name…”

That’s right, he wrote the book, Coraline. Which is way scarier than the movie and not at all for five-year-olds, so don’t read it to them at bedtime. Trust me. Just let them see the movie and do not leave their side. Because (1) it’s a little scary and (2) it’s an awesome movie.

Neil Gaimanis an adult, but he is not a grown-up. So his speech had lots of useful advice in it: Ignore the rules, the limits and ‘the way it’s always been’ and make fantastic mistakes. He is aware that bellies need to be filled, and bodies sheltered, but just don’t sell your heart and soul to do it. And -- I’m embelishing here -- people, love, and a healthy planet are worth more than things like great big cars, closets full of shoes, and McMansions with hot-glue-gun-scrapbook-rooms. 

Depending how you feel about that last paragraph, you will know if you are a grown-up or an adult. I am an adult. But not a grown-up. I like that last paragraph. Grown-ups will not agree. They are the ones who believe that late-slips make kids get to school on time. They make stupid playground rules like no skipping ropes in playgrounds because one time, somewhere, a kid got strangled by one. Which kind of reminds me of the pop-rocks and coke myth – you know, the kid who filled his mouth with pop-rocks and coke, held his mouth closed, and his brain exploded!?  Or the pop-rocks blew through the roof of his mouth and tore up his brain. I always wondered, why didn’t he just open his mouth? Grown-ups would ban pop-rocks.

The point is, there are adults: people who are over 18 years of age, have bank accounts and maybe even houses and kids, but they still think a lot of the rules of grade school are unfair and absurd, and that climbing trees is fun, candy is delicious and should be shared. And there are grown-ups: unbending, rule-making, non-sharing (because of ‘germs’) candy hoarders.

Adult vs Grown Up*. Sharer vs Hoarder. Choose your side.

*I am sticking to the word theme, as I announced last week. Today’s blog has been brought to you by the word ADULT  and it’s counter, GROWN-UP.

Is You Is or Is You Isn't...word of the week

That's right, there's a word of the week. Because I like words and it's my blog. So whatever else I'm blogging about there will always be a word of the week. And this week's word is IS. Because I said so and because Bill Clinton and Rob Ford have made it necessary. Words matter people.

First Bill Clinton: Do you remember the Monica Lewinsky scandal? As in: Did you have sex with that woman Mr. President? Oh no (he told his staff): "there's nothing going on between us."

Later, he explained that statement to the grand jury.

"It depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is." Seriously.*

As in, oh no I'm not nailing my intern. Anymore. That was months ago.  You see the difference? He's so smart. No wonder he was a Rhodes Scholar. (You don't have to be smart to be president -- remember George W Bush?  But you have to be super smart to go to Oxford on scholarship.)

But DC journalists, those jaded political hacks, saw right through it, while most of the rest of the world fell for it (at first). He's the president, he wouldn't do that / her, she's too fat, not pretty enough, beans on toast (as one journalist described her)...then one day a semen-stained dress turned up and the fat lady sang.

IS matters.

So when Toronto's mayor finally addressed the question of whether he smoked crack, the wording he chose has to be considered:

"I do not use crack cocaine. Nor am I an addict of crack cocaine."
(did Dr. Seuss write that?...I know, he's dead...back to my point)

Present tense. Nothing refers the past; not last year? last month? last week? Not ever? ...no never...well maybe once at school, but never inhaled, didn't like it...(ref: afore-mentioned former president of the USofA when asked if he ever smoked marijuana).

Mayor Ford's 'am' and 'do not' sound a lot like President Clinton's 'is' to me. If only he were accused schtupping his intern, and I wasn't a citizen of the city he governs, then I wouldn't care so much.

What happens when the semen stained dress shows up? Because you know, it always does.


* Just in case you don't believe me...

Clinton Grand Jury Part 4 - YouTube

► 2:59► 2:59

www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHlt1W83JFU‎

Nov 15, 2011 - Uploaded by WinningatDeposition

Clinton says it depends on the meaning of the word "is." For tips on how to make a witness answer your ...

Happy May Two-Four!

Happy May Two-Four Weekend! That’s right. May 2-4. Because, did you notice the date? It’s May 23^rd…and it’s Thursday, so tomorrow, Friday, is the 24^th and the beginning of the weekend. Are you with me? Fer sure!

Who really celebrates the queen’s birthday anyway? Did you know that’s what the May long weekend is about: a fixed date to celebrate / genuflect to the monarch’s birth. In a democracy…doesn’t make sense. So this weekend is my weekend of celebration.

Because, (1) I don’t believe in monarchies. No divine right to rule (they claim that you know). No primogeniture (first born son gets the crown , even if there's a perfectly suitable 1st born girl, which is kinda sexist if you ask me). And no more public dollars wasted on allegedly (no lawsuits here) inbred royals waving at the besotted citizenry.

And, (2) I grew up in northern Ontario where no one called it the Victoria Day Weekend (except my ex-pat brit parents). Everyone called it the May two-four weekend. As in you go to the Brewer’s Retail (remember that?  Your dad told them what he wanted and they just shot the case out on a rolling belt) and buy a two-four of beer, to be consumed over the weekend. On a dock or in a backyard next to a bbq.

I was in high-school when I finally figured out (ie my mom reamed me out for being a dunce) that Victoria Day = the May Long Weekend = May Two-Four. Say ‘two-four’ in kind of a hoser voice and it’ll make more sense; work in an ‘eh’ and a ‘giv’er’ and you’re good to go.

As in: "Oh ya eh, it’s may two-four this weekend. Gotta go the beer store and get me a case of blue. Gonna go out to camp* and just giv’er."

"Oh fer sure eh…"

* up north no one (except for prissy, poncey, pretending they’re Torontonian snots) calls it ‘the cottage’. And you don’t go up, you go out.  To camp.  And if you’re a very overweight or emaciated man you don’t wear a shirt the whole time.

So this weekend I will go to the LCBO, buy a micro-brewery six-pack and drink a bottle in my prissy Toronto backyard garden, while my husband, with his shirt on, fires up the bbq…and just giv’er! 

Because I am Canadian.

The M-words (words that make you go ewww)

Last week was the Toronto Hot Doc's festival and I was out watching some amazing documentaries. My favourite was Menstrual Man...oh no, did you just flinch? A little? Probably. Definitely, if you are a man. (Don't pretend you didn't, I know you did. But that's okay, because that's what this post is about.)

I told my husband that I was going to Menstrual Man and he made the pucker face...ewww...like some 11-year-old princess-brat. Seriously? He's a doctor. An emergency doctor in a rough end of town. How much blood do you figure he's seen? But holy christ, if it comes out of a woman's vagina -- ewww. And that's about the reaction I got from everyone I said 'Menstrual Man' to. So I said it alot. And then made them listen to the inspiring story of the film (check it out at www.menstrualman.com).
 The only person who didn't make a face was my guitar teacher -- who just so happens to be a bona fide rock guy, playing gigs and everything, which means I get to jam with a rocker ever week and that makes me an almost rock chick. I'm not sure what this says about rockers in general -- maybe fearless?-- but I kind of just wanted to work that in.

And that reminded me of another M-word: masturbation. Say it in mixed company, you'll see. Women will be kind of uncomfortable, maybe giggle. Men...they'll be that weird angry/embarrassed combo. I found out about this whole aversion to the word masterbation when I was taking a screenwriting course. We had to write something sexy...there was no masterbating in my scene, just the hint of it with some old-fashioned phone-sex fore-play (because you're supposed to take chances in a writing class). The discussion focused on OMG what if she really did TOUCH HERSELF? Yeah, no one ever said the m-word. In fact the women didn't say a thing.

Because I like things to have a beginning, middle and end, there's word #3: Mommy. Usually said Mawmmy in a really whiny voice. Don't get me wrong, I am a mom. I like being a mom. I just don't like being called Mommy. Like 'aww, don't like it? Go tell your mommy'. I blame Jamie V____
for it (I have to put the V____  in because he comes from that part of my childhood when all kids were called by their first and last names; remember that?). Anyway, during summer all the kids on our street would play Ghosts in the Graveyard until sunset (which was like 10pm, because we were way up north). But then, around 8 or 9 Jamie's mom would start to call, "Jaaaayyymie....Jaaaayyymie..." . And he'd ignore it. Then some kid would turn around and say, "Hey Jamie, your mommy's calling." To this day, I don't like to be called Mommy even by my beloved daughter.

So, three M-words, that almost no one likes. But why? They're ours. Menstruation, Masturbation, Mommy. Two of them we do. One of them we are...or about to celebrate this coming weekend. So I say it's time for a change. And, drawing on the timeless and inspirational words of Carrie Fisher (aka Princess Leia) in VF's Proust questionnaire, when asked about her personal motto: "FUCK THAT SHIT" Words to live by.

what this is...or isn't

I don’t like blogging. I don’t read blogs. I don’t tweet…don’t follow anyone…and, to be honest don’t really know how to do it.

But now I have a blog. For two reasons:

(1) Ken Nicol has one (www.every3point65.blogspot.ca). He is the most non-conforming person I know and he’s blogging every day for 365 days.

(2) I wrote a book. A memoir… ie a book about me. So, in a completely craven attempt to ‘build my platform’ so I can either sell my book or get an agent to do it for me, I am blogging.

I cannot promise regular updates, but I can promise there will be no tales of my daughter’s cuteness (even though she is way cuter than any of yours’); no recounting of my husband’s ineptitude or our arguments…because the Blogess does it better (okay, I’ve read a couple of blogs); none of my lame vacation photos or anything else that I think is fascinating, but totally irrelevant and boring when viewed by others.

And, possibly most importantly, I will not go all yogi, Yoda, guru on you – even though I survived a bout of brain cancer, had to re-learn all my motor skills, balance (etc) at the same time as becoming a new mom (the subject of the afore-mentioned memoir), had a near-death experience…and well, clearly in some way am constitutionally superior to just about everybody, I don’t want to lord it over you. Really. That's the kind of evolved person I am.

So, what will my blog about? Whatever I want it to be…because it’s mine.  Welcome.