Saturday, December 31, 2011

Holiday Season*

Christmas time. A time for spending time with loved ones, for the spirit of giving, for the sound of children's laughter, etc.

Trouble is, I think I might hate the sound of children's laughter. It has the same high-pitched quality as children's crying. I loathe the sound of children crying.

It has its place, I suppose. I don't think its place is on a streetcar at 10:30 p.m. Is it inappropriate to ask someone else's children to use their indoor voices? The volume on my iPod was turned unhealthily all the way up, but I still couldn't drown it out.

Have been slacking for months on actual drinkning challenges. My Christmas wish is for a new drinking challenge. Just not for 8 cans of Kilkenny and a quantity of Glenfiddich, like last year.

*okay, okay. the plan was to let drinking-for-two** enjoy a quiet and peaceful death on the anniversary of the conception/s, which has come and gone. sorry if I'm letting anyone down. just not quite done yet.

in part, i admit, because I haven't quite mastered playing Jingle Bells on my Yamaha synthesizer*** And my mind is set on playing Jingle Bells on my Yamaha synthesizer and recording it so that I can post it for your listening pleasure. At current speed, I may be ready by Valentine's Day.

also, as a creature of habit, I'm not quite sure what I'll do with my spare time if not drinking-for-two, and feel a little panicked whenever I contemplate the end. drinking-for-no-good-reason-at-all as a substitute is not appealing.

also, would like to come up with something particularly cool for my send-off, and haven't come up with anything yet.

also, it appears that I have recently acquired audiences in France, Germany, Russia and Vietnam****, and I'd hate to let two entire continents down by stopping just as they've begun*****.

**or one and a half, whatever

***I've not been adhering to a very strict practice schedule. Not because I am completely musically inept: I mastered the melody as played by my right hand after only about 90 minutes' work. that may sound like a lot to some, but considering i have not attempted to play anything new on piano or keyboard in about 15 years, I felt very accomplished. Reading sheet music is not quite like riding a bicycle. Incorporating my left hand has not been so easy. I am easily both distracted and discouraged, so it's been slow and infrequent going.

****this could all be two people

*****thanks for reading, but see ya, wouldn't wanna be...

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

"Maybe the dingo ate your baby."

"What?"

"The dingo ate your baby!"

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Shove It Up Your

I got a voicemail the other day from one of my parental friends who wanted to tell me that his young daughter had asked him that evening if she could put a gerbil in Mr. Potato Head's bum.  He thought that I would find this endlessly amusing.

I was disturbed.  I don't think that there are any preschoolers who would come up with gerbil and rectum as part of the same thought sequence and decide to put the two together, thinking "Of course!!"  Who had this child been hanging out with?  Where would she have heard about such a past time?

The story had been recounted to me out of context, fortunately.  I'd forgotten that along with an assortment of eyes, noses, mouths and hats to choose from, Mr. Potato Head comes with his own butt plug, so that you can store his various parts and other odds and ends inside his cavity.  The child had a new eraser in the shape of a gerbil that she wanted to keep in there.

Relief.  I think three and a half is a little young for the Richard Gere talk, don't you?

Monday, November 21, 2011

happy birthday to me

Officially a year older.  Have had a few days to digest it.  And am thankfully no longer quite so down about the inevitable decline.  Felt pretty good about myself a couple of times over birthday weekend, actually, as I was carded more than once when going to buy alcohol.  I know that they were probably only enforcing the ID anyone who looks under 30 rule, but I'll take it.

When asked whether I felt any wiser, it was determined that I was most certainly not, though perhaps have become more of a wise-ass, and I'll take that, too.

Though it may be time for some pre-emptive botox.  Some people assume that I'm joking when I say this.  Clearly, they just don't understand the anti-aging process.


Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Quote of the Day

Walking on Queen Street this evening, I passed by a group of people just in time to hear someone exclaim, "Why would I eat that?  You can't get drunk on a sandwich!"

Awesome.

Anyway, in spite of the tone of my last post, I am not actually giving up the blog yet.  I am committed to lasting through to the anniversary of the conception.  And then we'll see.  Maybe I'll come up with a different theme and start something new.  Such as a gradual accumulation of felines and an equally gradual but inevitable descent into crazy-cat-ladydom.  Or maybe not.  So there.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Cutting Teeth

The baby update of the day (or of the last few weeks, I should say) is that Molly has started teething at a freakishly young age.  Given that most women sensibly stop breast feeding their children when they get teeth*, my days of drinking for two, or for one and a half, are drawing to a close.  I was going to wrap things up on the anniversary of the conception, anyway.

Besides, since Sara has started a blog of her own to track her adventures as a new mother of twins, I have started to guiltily feel that I'm stealing her material when I write about her life/offspring.

Which leaves me only with my own life to entertain you with.  Which is a sad state of affairs indeed, since I seem to be suffering both from writer's block and from a 1/3 of life crisis.  Impending birthday aside, surely I am too young to be suffering from a mid-life crisis.  Though definitely too old for the quarter-life crisis**.  Though since it's unlikely I'll live into my 90's***, maybe 1/3 of life crisis isn't right either****.

Whatever it is, it is likely to be a painful process from which I will (hopefully) emerge as a more complete and capable person.  First time for everything. Like getting teeth and gaining the ability to bite and chew. In case anyone didn't get the connection that was obvious to me in my head.


*Sara isn't breastfeeding directly from the breast, as we all know, but the principle is the same.  In my opinion.

**I survived the quarterlife crisis, with a lot of style, from ages 24 through 27.  And when I say style, I might mean cliche.  Though, I wouldn't be fair to myself to call my mid-20's a cliche, since I started using quarterlife crisis to describe myself long before it became a pop culture phenomenon.  I defined it as an Indian Summer of adolescence in combination with early onset mid-life crisis and for a long time honestly thought I'd made up the term myself.  I guess the same definition could apply to 1/3 of life crisis.

***Very unlikely, considering certain lifestyle choices.  Really must stop modelling my life after Hunter S. Thompson (minus narcotics and firearms).  Perhaps Charles Bukowski is more apt.  Not that I'm modelling my life after anyone on purpose.  And not that I'll ever produce a Ham on Rye.  Lack of talent and lack of initiative.  What a dismal combination.

****Though as far as that goes, quarterlife crisis isn't an accurate way to describe any experience around age 25, unless living to 100 is status quo, which it isn't.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Breaking Up

Whiskey, we're through.

I know everyone has their ups and downs.  I've gone long periods with conflicted feelings for you.  There are times when I've been convinced it would be best just to call it a day.  We've also had some really good times that I will fondly remember.  But I'm starting to think that you are a destructive influence in my life.  So it's time to move on.

And when I say "destructive influence", please don't take it the wrong way.  It's not that there's anything wrong with you.  One woman's destructive influence can be another's true love.  You've got a lot going for you and I'm sure you'll find someone new. 

It's just that I'm not confident that we're right for each other.

Please don't be angry.  It's not that I don't love you anymore.  This is hard for me, too.

I'm sorry.

Although, maybe I shouldn't shouldn't say "it's over" with such decisiveness.  "Starting to think" you are a destructive influence and "not being confident" that we're right for each other are hardly the words of a person who's 100% behind their decision.  So I guess what I really mean is I don't think we should see each other for awhile.  Take some time apart to seriously consider what we want out of life.  You know?

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Children's Story (revisited) (sorry if I overwhelm with two posts in such rapid succession)

I've learned that there has been some interest in my proposed children's book, "Why Are You Crying?"

And I'm open to suggestion. I'm thinking of "Why Are You Crying?" as an actual children's book, sort of a "Boy Who Cried Wolf" for the modern child, and "I'll Give You Something To Cry About" as the adult companion reader.  The trouble is, I'm really not sure what could be considered a reasonable and not entirely terrifying suggestion for a small child, and what is without question inappropriate and clearly intended only for an adult audience.  Some of the options are clear to me, some of them not so much.  Please tell me which is which.  I have a neverending source (it seems) of why a small child might really burst into tears.  My list of possible suggestions of what could be much, much worse is as follows:

"Are you being chased by ravenous wolves?"
"Is someone trying to sell you into slavery?"
"Is a hungry grizzly tearing you limb from limb?"
"Are you being attacked by ninjas?"
"Have you been kidnapped by aliens?  Are they about to perform heinous experiments on you?"
"Have you contracted the ebola virus?"
"Are you detoxing and would do anything for a fix?"
"Are you being murdered?"
"Have you been on a killing spree, feel the long arm of the law closing in, and have just now realized that you don't want to go to prison?"
"Have the neighbours reported me to CAS because with all the crying and screeching they think that I'm abusing you horribly, and now someone is coming to take you away?"
"Has your house been swept away by a tsunami and you've lost all of your worldly possessions, including your new puppy?"
"This sounds serious.  Take this doll, and show me where he touched you."
"Did you just watch 'The Notebook'?"

Etc.  I could go on all day.  This stuff almost writes itself.


Monday, October 24, 2011

On Request - Gas Station Drinkin' (though there's really not that much of a story, sorry)

I did not spend Thanksgiving weekend in Quebec.  Or anywhere in the USA.  I point this out because these are the places that come to my mind when I think of being able to buy alcohol at a gas station.  Having spent a considerable amount of money on cases of Molson Dry at the Ultramar across the road from my apartment when I lived in Montreal, I know for sure you can buy alcohol at gas stations in Quebec.  I don't know for sure that you can buy it at gas stations in the States, but I figure if you can get it at Walgreens, why not. 

No, I spent much of Thanksgiving weekend in very small town Ontario.  Very, very small town Ontario.  I'm not sure what the actual rule is in terms of distance, but if you live in a community considered to be unreasonably far from a proper LCBO or Beer Store, there is probably an outlet set up in whatever local business is available - grocery store, ice cream shop, gas station, whatever.  Principal business in Brigden is the Super Choice Gas Bar, hence, gas station whiskey.  The available selection cannot be described as extensive.  Jim Beam it was.  Some of it was brown bagged in the Super Choice* parking lot, which was also just outside the gates of the Brigden Fall Fair.  Which was amazing, if you're into demolition derby, monster trucks (in addition to the demonstration, you could take a monster truck ride for 5 bucks), lawn tractor races, displays of prize pumpkins and zucchinis and pie, horse shows, lumberjack competitions, carnies (both rides and food), and people walking around wearing T-shirts with wolves on, and not one of them ironically.  Having eaten a quantity of carnie food, sporting some beer bloat from the night before and apparently wearing a very, very bad choice of top, I was asked whether or not I was pregnant before I was allowed to ride the Polar Express.  No one hesitated to allow me on the Gravitron, whether because I did not, in fact, appear to be a few months pregnant, or because the carnie operating the Gravitron was not concerned about the health and welfare of the unborn no one will ever know.

Much of the rest of the bottle disappeared later that night as my companion and I ate cotton candy and played duelling solitaire while sitting in a trailer.  Not the immobile, shanty-town, 9 Mile kind of trailer (sorry, I meant 8 Mile), but the kind meant for camping, which is marginally better.  I play strategic solitaire, and won by two rounds.

*Not to indulge in a really terrible pun, but I will not (cannot) describe Jim Beam as a super choice. It was, however, perfectly drinkable.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

I'll Give You Something to Cry About

I'm almost growing accustomed to the twins' existence.  Except for spit up.*  And the disgusting snorfling sound they make when a little stuffed up.**  And the piercing shrieks.

I mean, I don't enjoy it, but I get that babies cry.  They have no other way to tell anyone that they're hungry or lonely or scared of their own wallpaper or have just peed themselves.  These situations can be dealt with with things like a bottle or a diaper change or just by picking the damn things up.  However, I don't really understand the spontaneous crying, where you have catered to every possible whim and they still won't let up.  As frustrating as that is, I still accept that they probably have their reasons and just aren't able to say.  Maybe they're pissed off to be out of the womb, life on the outside not being quite as awesome as they thought it would be during the months that they spent planning their breakout.  Like a university student foolishly looking forward to graduation, and then facing the grim reality of actually having to get a job after.

However, I always assumed that the development of language skills and bowel/bladder control would spell the end of spontaneous crying fits.  I was so, so wrong.  It turns out that these last well into childhood.

Surprisingly, I have access to little people besides the twins.  One in particular.  She is three, and is mostly a pretty good kid - which coming from me, says a lot.  She has language skills somewhat advanced for her age.  She has proven herself capable of deductive logic.  She does not soil herself - not even wet the bed.  But the crying.  It's inexplicable.  She cries when it's time to get up.***  She cries when it's time to go to sleep.  She cries when it's time to take a bath.  When she doesn't feel like eating dinner.  When it's time for her friends to go home.  After about 30 seconds of hide and seek if no one has yet found her.  When dropped off at preschool.  When picked up from preschool.  When a kitten that she has been  purposely teasing scratches her ankles, and/or when she believes herself to have suffered some other manner of injury (there is typically no injury, not even a flesh wound).  Etc.

And once started, she simply cannot be reasoned with.

I have therefore decided, in protest, to write a children's book called, "Why Are You Crying?" 

For example:

Once upon a time there was a little girl who didn't listen when her dad said to sit still until her shoes were tied. When she started running gleefully across the lawn, she tripped over her own feet, and fell down.  And then started wailing, even though she hadn't hurt herself one bit.  Her dad walked over to her and said,

"Small child, why are you crying?"

(sob, sob)

"Is someone trying to sell you into slavery?"

or

"Are you being chased by ravenous wolves?"

or

"Are you being murdered?"

And when the answer to the question is "no", the adult of the situation will cheerily say something like "what a relief.  I guess life isn't so bad then, is it.  Move along".

In actual baby news, the hellions now look like regular infants.  There were a number of things about their appearance that I found unsettling when they were new.  Mostly their legs.  I had the misconception that babies were supposed to be chubby.  The twins were not.  The skin on their legs was all wrinkly and saggy, especially around the knees, and brought to mind the legs of an elephant on the verge of starvation.  Not that I've ever taken a good look at the legs of an elephant on the verge of starvation.  But I have a visual imagination.

In drinking news, one of my most recent buzzes came from whiskey bought at a gas station.  A more recent buzz manifested itself outside a photo booth at the Steamwhistle Brewery.  Perhaps I will share these stories, or perhaps not.  More importantly,I just found out that Skull Vodka has been re-introduced as "Crystal Head Vodka".  I smell Halloween.

*About a tablespoon landed on my hand the other night.  Did I laugh and say it's only spilled milk?  If you say yes, proceed to footnote ****.  If you say I was horrified, proceed to footnote *****.

**Gross.  Like they're choking on something viscous.  Which I suppose they are.

***I'll own that I feel like crying sometimes when it's time to get up, and quite often actually whimper, but that's because I have to go to work.  If when I woke up I knew that someone was going to make me waffles and then encourage me to lounge peacefully and watch Fraggle Rock all day, I don't think I'd complain.

****you might be partially retarded.  A good occupational therapist should be able to help you implement strategies to make your life much, much easier. Maybe consider checking that out.

*****I screamed and said, "get it off, get it off".

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Circle of Life... Ongoing

No, I'm not feeling sad about the death of Steve Jobs.  Apple has had very little impact on my life thus far.  Until today I wasn't sure which Steve was which, recognizing them only as "the fat Steve" and "the other Steve".  Can't afford a MacBook or an iPad (not that I'm sure I'd want either), and still a little miffed about the premature death of my iPod.  Also not impressed with the iPhone for personal reasons.  Is an iPhone an appropriate way for an unemployed person to dispose of their limited income, I ask you?  Rather than, for example, buying groceries occasionally?  Grrr.

A very recent visit to Chatham is what has me a bit down. I know as people march through adulthood there is an inevitable point where you realize that you are taking care of your parents rather than they are taking care of you... not that it's reached that point yet, but still.  Seeing a shirtless guy getting arrested cheered me, somewhat.  Also, to look on the bright side, I may have cured myself of one of my numerous bad habits.

I live alone and have no dishwasher.  Drinking straight from the milk carton or juice pitcher is among my vices - I hate doing dishes.  While perusing my parents' refrigerator I happened upon a pitcher of what looked and smelled like refreshing and delicious limeade.  I was just awake and parched.  And was several swallows in before I realized that my morning beverage contained sugar and lime juice - and tequila.  Oops.

Could really use some good news and/or engage in some manner of life-affirming activity. I've had my fill of reasons to ponder mortality.  Inadvertantly drinking a couple of margaritas before 8:30 a.m. gave me a good excuse to go back to bed, which I liked, but was neither good news nor life-affirming.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Really Terrible Pun

In honour of R.E.M.'s retirement announcement, I had a request to drink whatever Peter Buck was drinking the time he went crazy on a transatlantic flight.

I was a little disappointed to discover that the two sides of the story are this:
  1. He drank a ridiculous amount of wine (14 refills according to airline staff), and/or
  2. He drank a moderate amount of wine which must have reacted badly with the sleeping pill he had taken (according to his publicist).
My disappointment stemmed from the fact that drinking wine in combination with a sleep aid has been business as usual for me the last few Saturday nights.  On the bright side, it was very easy to comply.

In response to Sara's text the following morning, which I quote:  "So did you go 'buck wild' last night?", the answer is no.

I may have listened to Country Feedback several times over, and I may have rambled morosely about a need for a career change, but I did not:
  1. Try to jam a CD into a beverage cart (or any other inappropriate place), believing the chosen receptacle to be a CD player;
  2. Get into a yogurt fight with anyone (though I admit I have been in a yogurt fight before, and enjoyed every minute of it);
  3. Hurl verbal abuse at any flight attendants (or other members of the service industry); or
  4. Damage any cutlery.
Ho hum.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Jugs

My internet woes are happily resolved, but my general overwork is not.  I am starting to very much feel like a harrassed new mother who spends every moment from the time she gets up - early - until the time she goes to bed - late - thanklessly tending to the needs of other people.  I am not wrong in comparing certain co-workers of mine to whiny babies, but at least at this point, unlike new moms, no one is actually calling me and disrupting my sleep at 3:00 a.m.  My sleep, however, is disrupted all the same:  I have often found myself waking up in a panic wondering how I am possibly going to finish everything that I need to do the following day, resetting my alarm to an hour earlier, and finding it impossible to go back to sleep.  At least new mothers sometimes get to grab a quick nap in the middle of the day, and for that I envy them.  (I will get over my envy as soon as I can resume working 7 or 8 hour days like a normal person).

I have been consoling myself with jug drinkin'.  Which is pretty much how it sounds.  I get a 3 L jug of very cheap wine - I'm sure you've seen them - and sit around - preferably out front of someone's house - passing the jug around communally, slugging directly from it.  Which for whatever reason seems so much more right than drinking from a glass.

The twins are doing their own form of jug drinking, but happily, in their case, are not sucking it back directly from the source.  To my knowledge.  That would not at all seem right to me.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Circle of Life, Again

In the continued theme of sad news, I am sorry to report that the life of Chris and Sara's deaf and retarded orange cat (beloved deaf and retarded orange cat) has come to an end.  The situation sucks all around, but he was suffering a lot in his last few days, so in a way I guess it's better.  Poor Tweaker.  May he be eating at the same time as someone is brushing him somewhere in the sky.

Meanwhile, and coincidentally, a very tiny orange kitten has been adopted by a household in the burbs with which I am familiar.  He didn't seem like a Clint Eastwood or a Dennis Hopper, and so has been named Steve McQueen - but he doesn't have much of a personality at this point.  He has, however, proven multiple times that no, cats do NOT always land on their feet, a trait that he and the late Tweaker share. 

I expect Sara will have some suggestion re what I should drink at Tweak's memorial, which I imagine will take place as soon as the hellions stop crying long enough for such plans to be made.  If I can drink a quantity of Rickard's and put on a fake moustache for Jack Layton*, surely there is some appropriate way for me to honour the Leo-tard's memory.

In good and exciting news, I have unearthed my 1986 Yamaha keyboard, and found a power source for it, so that I can even turn it on.  Synthesized backbeats in varying musical styles have become the new soundtrack of my life.  Perhaps tonight calypso.  I'll be playing Jingle Bells and swilling Tom Collinses and Freixenet in no time at all.  Which backbeat to choose?

I know all too well that it has been a long time indeed since my last post, but don't hold it against me.  Besot with technical difficulties and several personal stressors.  Pity me. 

*Moustache was very itchy and I kept accidently soaking it with beer.  But I was kind of cute with it on anyway, and will be posting some photos in near future.  Maybe even tomorrow.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Circle of Life

A week's vacation has come and gone.  Sigh.  I know that quite often people are actually kind of eager to get back to work after a week away.  Feel rested and ready to get back at it etc.  For me, not so much. 

On a brighter note, my life won't be completely devoid of meaning as long as I can keep drinking for one and a half.  The twins are now nearly two weeks old and their slug-like, squirming and leaking phase is in full swing.  What's so cute about babies?  Really, someone explain.

However, also feeling rather depressed.  With life, as usual, comes death.

First, Hazel, Chris' grandmother, died during my hiatus, leaving some to wonder (with perhaps some fear) whether either of the twins will grow up possessed by the spirit of an eccentric and sometimes surly old lady (RIP).  Newborns seem like such easy targets for a soul on the hunt for reincarnation.

Next assignment, therefore, is for me to enjoy a Tom Collins or two (Hazel's drink of choice in younger years), and perhaps progress to Freixenet (sparkling wine being her favourite in latter years).  I may also play Jingle Bells on a Casio keyboard (an accomplishment she took particular pride in after a couple of glasses of Freixenet).  And when I say Casio, I probably mean Yamaha, because that is the brand of keyboard actually in my possession.  Perhaps I can play Jingle Bells once through after each drink?  We'll see how it goes.  Would first have to pull some sheet music for Jingle Bells, and then learn to play it.  Reading sheet music and transferring it on sight to sweet melodies on an 80's era keyboard is not one of my skills.

All this in the hope that if I allow the spirit of our dearly departed to inhabit my body for an evening, perhaps I can release it somewhere appropriate rather than anywhere near the bodies of innocent babies.  I'm not really sure of an appropriate place to release the restless spirit of a woman who kept her underwear in the freezer to keep spiders out, but hopefully her loving grandson can offer up suggestions.

Hazel's death, however, has been somewhat trumped - at least for me - by Jack Layton's very sad passing.  In with one Jack, out with another.  Earlier today I read his final letter to Canadians*, literally weeping.  Not uncontrollably or anything, but there were definitely tears.  A grocery store clerk announced to me as I was buying some cereal that she didn't know much about politics but she sort of wished he would come back to life for a minute just so she could give him a thumbs up and say "Good job!" - which I thought was nice.  He was an inspirational leader and the embodiment of the possibility of positive change - and I won't say anymore because if you want to depress yourselves with detail there's plenty of newsfeed for that. There are leftist hearts breaking a little all over. 

I'm going to find some time over the next few days to hoist a drink or two in honour of the politician Canadians voted as the one they would most like to have a beer with.  I won't do anything to protect the twins from the possible proximity of his restless soul, either, because if a little of his spirit finds its way into either of them, it probably wouldn't be such a bad thing.  Which isn't meant as a shot at Hazel, but I'm not sure that she's the stuff that folk heroes are made of.

Anyway, his constituency office is only half a block from my apartment, so I'm off to sign the condolences book, and likely get choked up all over again.

*http://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/story/2011/08/22/pol-layton-last-letter.html

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Drinking for .... one and a half.

So.

The twins were extracted at about 10 after 7 p.m., EST.  I understand all went well, and they are both healthy and free of any visible deformities.  I won't have first-hand knowledge of this until I visit the hospital tomorrow.  I hear that one of them came into the world very relaxed and laid back, and the other one screaming its fool head off.  I'll leave you to guess which is which.

I say "drinking for one and a half" because Sara plans to breast feed, at least a little, and so I'll still be doing about half of her drinking for the time being.

You'd think that I might have devoted some time over the last 9 months to thinking about something to say on this monumental occasion.  But I didn't.  I figured something would come to me.  It hasn't. 

You'd also think that I'd be a little freaked out right now.  But I'm not.  Feeling strangely calm.  Perhaps once I actually see them I'll be a little more in touch (and by "in touch", I mean anxious and uncomfortable).  Right now it's still kind of like they're not real. 

Ever since we annointed Sara's belly with vodka last Saturday and expressed our wishes for the little demons in years to come, I've been giving a little thought to how their parents may have sealed their fates just by choice of names.  There are some who believe that a person's first name plays a big role in personality development.  I can only assume that it's not magic at work, but connotation.  I have not made a study of the workings of the brain, but it makes sense to me that one's personality could be the result, in part, of how he or she is treated, and that treatment could have a lot to do with subtle word associations.

So, let's consider the various ways that Jack captures the imagination:  Jack Kerouac, Jack Kevorkian, Jack the Ripper, Captain Jack Sparrow, Jack Bauer, Jack Tripper, Jack Layton, Jack Nicholson, Jack Lalanne, Jack Black, Jack White, Jack Sprat, Jack Rabbit Slim (and his Twist Contest).  Jackknife, jackhammer, jackpot, hijack, lumberjack, jack-in-the-box, jack o' lantern, jack off, jack-off.

Jack originated as a diminutive for the biblical "John" and as a Middle English slang for "man".  Its meanings include "god is gracious" and "he who supplants".

The Scottish form of Jack is "Jock", which, in addition to being an athletically inclined and possibly dim-witted high school student, is also a slang word for masturbation, in the Caribbean.

The associations one might make in their mind regarding Jack are fairly obvious, I think.  Molly requires a bit more explanation.  Since there aren't that many Mollys to choose from, I expanded to include the short form, Moll.  Here goes:

Molly is another name for pure MDMA/ecstasy.  It is also a word for a female mule.  Gun moll is slang for a female companion of an American gangster.  Moll is also Victorian slang for prostitute, and is still used as slang for "a woman of loose sexual morals" in Australia and New Zealand. Genetically engineered sheep.  Molly Hatchet, Molly Ringwald, Molly Shannon, Flogging Molly.  Albert Moll is the founder of modern sexology. 

Moll Flanders, the character created by Daniel Dafoe, is born illegitimately to a woman on death row in London, and grows up to become a servant in a household of two brothers, the eldest of which convinces her to "act like they are married" in bed, and later to marry his younger brother, who leaves her widowed.  She becomes a con artist, tricking various men into marrying her, and goes on to have multiple children with different fathers.  Molly Bloom, of James Joyce's Ulysses, is known mainly for her soliloquy and the fact that she has an extra-marital affair. 

Molly Grue is a character from The Last Unicorn, who is originally introduced as living in sin in the woods with a bandit named Captain Cully.  She leaves the gang of bandits to follow a unicorn, and eventually becomes a protector of unicorns, in her way. 

Molly is a diminutive of "Mary", meaning, the "virgin Mary" - as irony goes I'm sure it was intentional in 14th century Britain.  The name also means "star of the sea" (aka - the Kraken).

So.  It appears that Jack is destined to grow up as a bit of a maverick, a creative and innovative thinker. Possibly even an iconic figure.  Or an iconoclast.  And also, perhaps, a malnourished murderer of prostitutes.  Which doesn't bode well for Molly, who is destined to grow up to be kind of a whore.  If names mean anything.

Welcome to the world, childrens.

Monday, August 8, 2011

as ready as I'll ever be. i guess.

I will begin with Tito's Handmade Vodka because it's kind of amazing stuff.  The idea for possibly the last drinking challenge was to make good on the plan to pour vodka on my head to test it as a body coolant.  The idea was also for me to get Dan Aykroyd's skull vodka since some of it was destined to land on my head anyway.  Imagine my chagrin upon learning that skull vodka had been pulled from the liquor store because the skull shaped bottle was too much temptation for teenagers who thought it looked cool.  I substituted with Tito's Handmade Vodka only because the name Tito didn't exactly say vodka to me.  The individual who accompanied me to the liquor store was very enthusiastic, because apparently Tito's is an award winner that he'd been dying to try (I left him with a few ounces in a juice glass).

Tito's story is rather interesting.  He began his career running a dynamite seismic exploration crew for an oil company, before moving on to become a garbage man and then a realtor.  He was just some guy who, as a hobby, enjoyed making his own liquor.  When he decided to try his hand at vodka, he tirelessly researched by drinking some of every kind that he could find.  He is now so skilled that he can not only identify each brand of vodka by taste, but if you hand him a glass of several different vodkas mixed together, he can tell you which brands have been included, and in what proportions.  His friends assured him that his product was so good that he should try actually selling it.  He financed his distillery - which is across the way from an abandoned rodeo stadium - with 14 different credit cards.  His goal was to produce the cleanest and purest vodka ever tasted.  He designed it not only to be delicious - as delicious as vodka can be - but also to control what kind of drunk you would have and experience no hangover.  He won the Double Gold Medal at the 2001 World Spirit Competition in San Francisco, which means that every judge deemed his vodka the best, beating out the likes of Grey Goose and Belvedere.

But enough about Tito and more about Saturday night.  The weather wasn't quite warm enough for the vodka test to be very telling, so I improvised body heat by donning an emergency rain poncho and doing 50 jumping jacks in front of a samurai who was made very uncomfortable.  Then the dousing. I experienced an immediate cooling sensation which lasted for a good 45 minutes.  I recommend it to anyone who lacks air-conditioning and isn't troubled by the idea of smelling like a distillery.  Just for fun, we annointed Sara's belly with a couple of ounces also, each of us saying aloud something that we wished for the twins in life.  I wished that Chris and Sara manage to make it past age 45 without becoming grandparents.  I don't know that that's even physically possible (at least for Chris), but my sentiment was well-meant. 

Tito, for the most part, bestowed me with a slowly evolving and controlled drunk, right up until the emotional meltdown I suffered at the end of the night when it was time to go home.  It occurs to me that I maybe haven't been handling this pregnancy in the best or healthiest of ways.  The truth is that I don't deal very well with change and the last Saturday night before the births really marked the end of an era.  Also I'm a bit of a disaster of a human being, and I've come to rely on Chris and Sara to take care of me in a multitude of ways.*  Who's going to take care of me now?

My cab driver cheered me up slightly by putting 80's dance music on the radio and teaching me some conversational Swahili of which I remember none.  It's too bad, because being able to say "I really like this song" and "I expect I'm rather intoxicated", and then giving directions to where I live could have come in handy when visiting Nairobi.  On second thought...

I woke up after 6 hours sleep feeling very refreshed and hangover-free.  Still emotional, but cleansed, in a strange way.  Bring on the babies.

*Friendship with me has likely prepared Chris and Sara somewhat for the adolescent years, since I seem to be on a maturation loop, auto-resetting every 3 or 4 years and experiencing the mistakes of my late teens and early 20's all over again.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

countdown: 3

still not including today or birth day.  quite distressed. so distressed, in fact, that last night's cab driver felt bad for me and allowed me to smoke in the car.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Countdown: 6

A few days ago I sent Sara a text at 5:30ish in the afternoon.  When I hadn't heard from her by 7:15, I was in full panic and assumed that she was giving birth.  Which she assured me was not the case.  Although, it really could happen any time.  She tells me that she was in such severe pain on Saturday that she was convinced she was going into labour.  The truth is that Molly, who formerly was standing straight up, turned herself upside down.  Getting into position. 

Jack is still standing straight up, so the two are positioned head to toe.  Not 69ing, sadly.  Jack has his back to Molly, so it's more like they're 19ing.  Or 61ing. 

But 6 more days.  If everything goes according to plan.  Tension is mounting.  At least, it is for me.  I have had some people express surprise that I'm so anxious about it.  Not to make light of the life change that my friends are about to undergo - but it's going to change my life, too.  And I'm so not ready.  Clearly, they should have considered how it would impact me when they decided to throw caution to the wind and stop trying to avoid having children.

I spent a good portion of last weekend drinking mojitos for two reasons.

First, because of Caribana.  I have an annual tradition of getting as far away from downtown as possible on Caribana weekend.  Which I guiltily think might make me racist.  Or just agoraphobic.  At any rate, I opted for something tropicalish to mark the occasion. 

Second, to try and forget about current circumstances.  Delicious lime and mint denial.  Compliments to the bartender, but it seems things have progressed to a point where all-in-good-fun oblivion is no longer possible.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Countdown: 11

A few weeks ago I woke up to find that I was cuddling with a pregnant cat.  I could feel the little unborn kittens squirming around (each one seemed about the size of half a hot dog).  And I thought it was so cool. 

That feeling does not extend to human unborn.

I poked it.  The belly.  I didn't give it a good solid grope.  I poked it.  Tip of the finger.  That was plenty.  I was told after that it was a foot.  I poked at a foot.  Through the thin layer of another person.  Creepy.

At Sara's request, I'd just savoured a bottle of Reisling.  She didn't exactly request that I drink a bottle (rather than a couple of glasses) but it was a tasty bottle.  I don't usually like reisling - too sweet - but it was what Sara said she would be drinking on a lovely summer night if she could - so I did.  It was perky.

I've been drinking a little bit so I probably wouldn't make much sense if I spell out the details of our converation up until the point I poked the belly.  Somehow we ended up talking about death and dying and ghosts and whether we were afraid of dying and our experiences with dying people and how most marriages split up with the death of a child.  Morbid, I know.  I also freely admit that one of the reasons I'm reluctant to have kids is the possibility that they might die and I would be inconsolable.  I decided ong ago that if I have kids I want two, the second as a back-up, in case one of them dies.  Morbid, I know.

It makes some amount of sense to be thinking about mortality in the face of new life.  Which is, in effect, your replacement.  Which makes me sad.  That's all for now.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Countdown: 12

Sara tells me that she Homer Simpsoned a scale this morning.  Her belly rested against something that gave the illusion of much lower weight, and every time she shifted, her poundage yo-yoed out of control. 

I find it both hilarious and horrifying that her body has gone so far that she doesn't realize when she's touching something and when she isn't.  I choose to find it hilarious because how can you not know that you're touching something.  Horrifying because I'm not comfortable with reaching a point where my body is, quite literally, not my own.  Elaborating on this would depress me, so I won't... much.  I'll only say that one of the things that really turns me off about pregnancy is the objectification.  Being reduced to a vessel.  When was the last time an acquaintance asked Sara if she's read any good books lately?

The weather report for this Friday suggests that it will be too cool for an effective vodka-dousing.  I've requested alternate drinking arrangements.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Countdown: 13 Days

Not including today, or the day of the births, there are merely 13 days left before the minions are removed and all of our lives change forever. 

Now that her ordeal is drawing to a close, I asked Sara to create a list of the most inappropriate and/or offensive things that have been said to her over the last 8.5ish months, as a record of some of the more annoying moments of the pregnancy.  A list I hope that she will refer to as a method of birth control, the stinging memory of each comment preventing her from turning into one of those women who have vowed never to go through this again, and then after a couple of years have gone by, announce happily to family and friends that she's expecting again.  Her pregnancy has been largely free of fits of hormonal rage, so sadly, everything on her list is understandable rather than random. 

"You're expecting twins, oh my god I'm so sorry." 
"You know your belly is so big right now that I doubt a police officer would issue you a ticket if you were driving without a seat belt."
"Oh, you're having twins, that explains it." - what I don't know.
"Would you like those for here or to go." about the 7 giant cupcakes I ordered from The Second Cup to bring into work for my co-workers on my last day before maternity leave.
"Oh my god Sara, are you lactating already?" comment from a coworker at 8 months about water that I dribbled on my shirt. 

And my favourites:

"You must be so sad that you don't get to experience real, natural child birth."
"Oh, look you're so swollen you have cankles now"

and

"I am a twin too, but my sister died because she was the weak one."

I really thought that "you're slowing up the line, prego" would have made the cut, but I guess not.

As back up birth control, I encourage her to also compile a list offensive things that people say to her in the months following the births, when she is struggling with post partum hormones and sleep deprivation and will likely be very sensitive to perceived criticisms and/or completely redundant remarks.  I imagine that "you must be exhausted" will get annoying really fast.  Here's hoping she is not one of the unfortunate souls whose bellies stay swollen and rounded for a few months and she is repeatedly asked "when are you due?"  Probably effective birth control, though.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Vaginas (Still) On My Mind

I've been spending way too much time thinking about vaginas lately.  I had a dream last night that I looked at mine and discovered that it had transformed into the face of a star-nosed mole.  I woke up in a cold sweat, of course. Look below and imagine my horror.  Feel free to do a Google image search of "star-nosed mole" if this isn't enough eye candy for you.  Interestingly, if you Google "star face mole", you will be treated to many more pictures like this one, as well as a selection of photos of Sarah Jessica Parker. 















So, enough with vaginas.  Back to Sara's pregnancy.  It seems the twins haven't been up to much lately.  Just sort of hanging around waiting.  The ultrasound tech asked Sara this morning if they'd been doing a lot of fighting, as sometimes twins start punching and kicking each other during these late stages in a battle for space, but nothing like that.  Apart from the head kicking incident of several weeks ago, Jack and Molly have been surprisingly peaceful. In fact, last week's ultrasound showed that the gaylords-to-be were spooning each other lovingly.  Jack was the spoon.

Perhaps a drinking update is in order as well.  My drinking challenges of late have included a self-imposed weekend of drinking responsibly and in moderation, so not much to tell there, and a night involving a box of wine and a story that cannot yet be told.  That evening was also supposed to involve margarita popsicles but somehow we never got around to those.  A shame, because I was kind of excited to critique.

In more recent news, I was mostly well behaved at a hometown wedding this past weekend.  The end of the evening found me sitting on the sidewalk outside the hall, giggling hysterically with the matron-of-honour, for reasons I don't remember.  For other reasons I don't remember, I gave the deejay a big hug before leaving.  And I crawled into bed with my mom when I got home and had a little nap.  She didn't seem much disturbed, but quite groggy, so perhaps she didn't notice.  Thankfully I woke up after about an hour, and retired sensibly to the guest room where I belonged.

As for the upcoming weekend, it has been discovered that pouring alcohol on the top of one's head may be an effective way to reduce body temperature in excessive heat, so this Friday night will find me in Chris and Sara's backyard while they douse my head with vodka to see if it works.  Needless to say, I will also drink some of the vodka.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

it is much, much hotter than balls

Hotter than Mumbai.  Hotter than Al'Azizyah.  Hotter than Dallal.  Hotter than Bangkok.  Hotter than Death Valley.

I'm factoring in the humidity, of course, but when I left work today, it was 49 degrees Celsius.  To put that into perspective, it was hotter here today than it was in all of the above places, all known to be the hottest places on earth.

We didn't reach the disputed world record of 57 or 58 degrees, but at 49 not really that far off. 

To put it into further perspective, you will likely die if your body temperature reaches 44 degrees.  Yipes.

To think that I complained when it was a lovely and temperate 32.  32 would feel like a cold shower.  It's past 11 p.m. and still 42 with humidity.

None of this, of course, has anything to do with drinking and pregnancy, but the weather kind of has me preoccupied.  There is a candle lantern on my balcony.  The candle has melted.

Courtesy Stitch*

The third and final stage of my research involved leaving voicemails/messages at the offices of ten randomly chosen OB-GYNs, indicating that I was a "writer" doing an article on the pros and cons of different modes of delivery and would like to interview them.

I received no return calls.

Maybe something in the tone of my voice suggested that my final question was going to be "Courtesy stitch:  fact or fiction?"  It really was.  But I thought that maybe I'd get a few of them talking before things degenerated to that level.

*I have spoken to an alarming number of people in the last few months who are unfamiliar with this term.  I assumed that even if you hadn't heard it before, it was kind of self-explanatory.  I was wrong.  Click this link for enlightenment.  http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=courtesy%20stitches

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

And now... after a short delay... Science!

Or lack of science, as the case may be.  The second stage of my research into the C vs. V childbirth situation involved an attempt at an actual review of clinical findings.  I forewarn that I am not a trained medical researcher nor a gifted statistician (plus I have no intention of citing my sources), so you'll have to trust that I was thorough.  I should also point out that I should have known better than to use the internet to try to find legitimate information on this topic.  It was like expecting the people of Fox News to report on anything in an accurate and objective way.  Shudder.

Anyway, the internet is replete with webpages, most of which pass themselves off  as scientific articles, that offer virtually nothing in the way of actual data to back up their claims.  Or the actual data they refer to is misrepresented.  Need I say that these articles all assert that natural childbirth is the best and healthiest way of bringing children into the world and that a caesarean poses very significant risks both to the mother and child.  Also that caesareans are neither natural nor normal and the women who request them are so lazy and self-obsessed that they are willing to put their babies' very lives at risk in order to have things done according to silly and selfish whims. 

Whoever was responsible for the wikipedia entry on this subject very aptly put that "childbirth is an inherently dangerous and risky activity".  No argument there.

I'm listing the possible complications to mother and child in both vaginal and abdominal delivery below.  Just for fun, I'm going to spell out what can be done after the fact to resolve each of these pesky problems, as well.

Natural Birth:

From what I could determine, the risks to the baby in a vaginal delivery include breech, failure of descent of head into the pelvic rim, and a variety of dystocias (loosely defined as obstructed or difficult birth) which can include the head and/or the shoulders being too big to navigate the mother's birth canal, poor uterine contraction strength (the mother is simply incapable of pushing hard enough), and the umbicial cord being wrapped around the neck.  These can all lead to amazing things like fetal death, baby brain damage from lack of oxygen during delivery, and trachial nerve damage.  Oh, and about 1 of every 5 births has some kind of complication or another.  Oh, and they inevitably lead to emergency c-sections, otherwise, somebody's gonna die.

I am not a physician but I know for a fact that there's not really any recovery from brain damage, nerve damage, or death.

The risks to the mother include tears or epistiomies (stem to stern, ahem), prolapse (uterus falls down/slips out of place), post birthing incontinence of stool, urine, or both (urinary incontinence follows about 15% of births), sexual dysfunction, nerve damage, hemorrhage and infection.

Tears or epistiomies obviously are stitched up.  Prolapse can be corrected surgically.  Hemorrhage - blood transfusion, infection - antibiotics.  There's unfortunately not a lot of help for the incontinence, nerve damage or sexual dysfunction.

This might sound a little crazy, but I think I would have a hard time convincing myself I'd made the right decision in going natural if afterward I peed myself constantly and couldn't feel my clitoris anymore.  Or my bouncing baby had brain damage.  Or both.

Caesarean:

Complications to a baby in a caesarean birth include wet lung (retention of fluid in the lungs that would ordinarily be squeezed out when eking their way through the birth canal), the potential of premature delivery in the case the date of conception has been miscalculated, and higher infant mortality rate, at 1.77 of every 1000 births, as opposed to 0.62 of every 1000.

Fluid retention is dealt with upon birth with some manner of suctioning device.  I really did try, but couldn't find any info on long term complications of wet lung. 

While you can't reverse premature delivery, I find it a little hard to believe that the fetus age could be so far miscalculated that the delivery would be dangerously early.  Blood tests and ultrasounds have been used with reasonable accuracy to determine the stage of fetal development for decades. 

I am in no position to argue the statistic regarding mortality rate, and I can't deny that there's no reversing death, however, a little detail into the causes of death may have been helpful.  None was offered.

Complications to the mother are basically the same risks inherent to any abdominal surgery, which can include hemorrhage, infection (have I seen those words somewhere before?), internal or external scar tissue, and incisional hernia.  The recovery period following surgery is reported to be longer than with a vaginal delivery as well, which interferes with the mom's ability to care for the newborn.

See above re hemmhorage and infection.  Scar tissue and hernia can be surgically revised.  The recovery period varies person by person.  I won't deny that caesarean recovery does typically take longer.  However, I would guess that Stem to Stern wasn't exactly ready to jump into baby care action within hours of the birth, either.

And now, the wrench.

There has been virtually no research into the risks of elective c-sections.  All of the stats involving the risks of c-sections include those that have been scheduled on purpose for or have been performed as an emergency due to some kind of medical complication.  There's no real way to determine which of the C complications arose out of the pre-existing complications and which arose from the c-section alone.

I found one, and only one, scholarly article that seemed at all non-biased and acknowledged the flaws in what we believe to be the risks of the big C.  For one, it quoted a statement from the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists which suggests that maybe the autonomy of the mother should be a factor in how a baby is delivered, which sort of blew my mind because nothing else that I read factored in what a mother may want for herself at all.  Except, of course, for the endless stream of propaganda preaching that of course what a proper woman wants is to give birth naturally.

The article also goes on to refer to one of the only studies which compares elective c-sections to vaginal births, as follows:

"risk of perinatal or neonatal death or of serious neonatal morbidity was significantly lower in the planned caesarean group, with no significant increase in the risk of maternal death or serious maternal morbidity".

http://ecmaj.ca/content/170/5/813.full

I will not go on a full rant, but it sort of makes me spit with rage to know that your learned physician is giving you advice on which birthing method to choose, or flatly refusing to give you the c-section you request, based on statistical information which they know cannot possibly be accurate.

We have accepted that modern medical advances are safer than previous methods in almost all other areas.  For example, our hospitals are shockingly leech-free.

Before I shut this down for the day, just one message towards everyone who insists that natural childbirth is superior just because it's natural.  Think of all of the other medical advances that wouldn't be considered "natural" in a strict sense but improves our health and prevents early death.  Penecillin, tonsillectomies, insulin and dialysis?  Unless you are a devout Christian Scientist or similar and don't believe in medical treatment of illnesses, Shut the Fuck Up.  (Poor Jean Harlow).*

*Jean Harlow, of course, is the starlet of the 1930's who died of renal failure at the age of 26.  Ultimately she died in hospital, but not before spending some time ill and at home with her mother barring physicians from entering because they were Christian Scientists.

Friday, July 15, 2011

The great debate. For some reason.

I've been reminded that it's only 27 days until the birthing.  I'm running out of time. May as well share what I've learned re caesarean vs. vaginal delivery now before it's too late.

I conducted my research in 3 phases, not unlike the 3 phases of labour.* Except that the phases of labour are progressional and my phases of research are not like that at all.  What I discovered is that this is a really big subject and summarizing it all into one concise blog post is pretty much impossible, assuming I am reluctant to skip over some of my hard-earned information, which I am.  It's too bad about the limited attention spans of the modern age.  Try not to drift off.

I'll caution by saying that I'm really not trying to be preachy in anything that follows.  I have enough faith in modern medicine to believe that regardless of how they get the babies out, there's very little risk of actual death or serious injury either to mother or child.  Of course, that all depends on what you consider serious injury.  I think that things like the shredding of one's vaginal wall and incontinence are pretty serious, but what do I know. 

My bottom line is that I think that a woman should have control over her body and the method employed to get things out of it - and so, yes, I won't deny being a little ranty in reaction to the very real bias out there as to which way to go, and, for lack of anything else to base an opinion on, a little focussed on the long term consequences to one's body post-delivery.

My first phase of research involved trying to work the topics of birth and post-birth experiences into casual conversation with friends and acquaintances.  I don't know that many people with kids.  Of those that do, my questions were typically met by vacant blinking and what I presume was an assumption that I wasn't really expecting an answer to anything so personal.  I will not draw any conclusions from my limited data.  That would be biased.  But here's what I got from the eight people willing to talk.

Question 1 - how did the birth go?

One had a scheduled c-section (twins) and things pretty much went according to plan.

Four had vaginal deliveries.  One of them has done it four different times so for statistical purposes I should count this as seven different births.  The news there, no surprise, is that the process is excruciatingly painful and very undignified.  Only one very candid source volunteered further information, which was that she required so many stitches that they lost count, and the nurses of the ward all came to visit her after just to marvel at what she had endured.  Part of the reason for the unheard number of stitches was recounted to me in rhyme:  "from stem to stern is the splittage term."**

The remaining three had planned vaginal deliveries gone wrong.  All three, coincidentally, encountered the same problem, which was that each of their trusted OB-GYNs inaccurately measured the size of the fetus in proportion to their physical ability to pass them through their hips/birth canal.  After going through all of the torture of the first two stages of labour, they underwent emergency c-sections because their babies were too big for them to handle, and if not for the caesarean, both of them would have died.  In terms of how the procedure went from that point, I know that one of them had planned a natural delivery, and so was under no anaesthetic when they sliced open her abdomen and placed her internal organs on her belly so that they could access the uterus.  She could feel everything.  EVERYTHING.

Question 2:  What were the after-effects?

All eleven children are healthy and devloping normally.

One of the emergen-c ladies in question was really intent on the experience of the vaginal delivery, and was quite traumatized that it didn't go that way.  She's not morbidly depressed about it or anything, but it still upsets her 18 months later.

One of the others suffered damage to her abdominal wall during the surgery and is now incapable of crunches or sit ups. 

All women who had c-sections have surgical scars.  The incision is just under the top of the pubic hair line, so unless they're fully waxed, no one sees it.  Even if they are fully waxed, it's not as though their husbands are surprised or repulsed.  They know where it came from.

For the women who delivered via birth canal, one of them admitted to me sadly that her vagina just isn't the same.  She did not elaborate.  Another reported that it took some time, but eventually things tightened back up.  I only spoke to the husband of the woman who has had four vaginal deliveries.  He said that things were never the same after the first kid.  No significant change with subsequent.  He also mentioned that it's so long since he's experienced any other vagina that he doesn't really remember what they feel like pre-birthing and so no real loss there.  For him. We don't know what she's feeling.

Stem to Stern acknowledged that were she to have another baby, she would request a caesarean.

I tried to speak to many, many more than eight people about this when I began the interview process.  The trouble was that I unwisely jumped right into the question of whether the vag was ever the same after, and as previously mentioned, I typically didn't get a response at all.  Of those that did reply, I soon ascertained that I could not trust any of the information I was given.  Was anyone going to readily admit to me that ever since the birth it's like a hotdog down a hallway down there?  I suspect not.  I also suspect that it's physically impossible to do the number of Kegel exercises that would be required to restore things, but again, what do I know.

My next phase of research involved an attempt to find objective scientific data.  This proved difficult.  It turns out that my own attention span is a little lacking and so I'll save that for tomorrow.  Stay tuned for Science!

*For those that require the education, the three phases of labour are as follows.  1.  Early Labour.  onset of contractions that cause progressive changes in the cervix:  it effaces (thins out) and dilates.  2.  Transition.  The cervix dilates more rapidly and the contractions are longer, stronger and more frequent.   Transition ends with full dilation, also known as 10 cm.  3.  Pushing.  Expulsion.  I think self-explanatory.

**I know that's not really a rhyme in the strict sense of rhyming.  However, it contains both asonance and consonance, and that's good enough for me.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Hot as Balls

Everyone feels sorry for pregnant ladies during the summer.  What with all the extra weight they're carrying, plus oppressive high temperatures and poor air quality.  I thought of this earlier this evening as I hauled various heavy things around in 32 degree heat, imagining, of course, that I was sharing in their discomfort, in a manner of speaking.

This first crossed my mind as I made my way to the Beer Store to return some empties, which I towed behind me in a wheeled cart, like a hobo.  I should clarify that my thoughts were considerably more hobo-oriented than pregnant lady-oriented at this point.  I didn't go full hobo - it wasn't a grocery cart - but all the same.  I took my net profit of $5.60 and then empty wheeled cart down to the strip for some shopping, and returned home with a cart containing several amazing finds from Value Village, as well as a carton of some of the cheapest wine available at the Wine Store.  Hobo what?

Later on, the Chinese purveyor of my nearest laundromat ran out into traffic to help me with the startling amount of laundry I was carrying.  I told him I was okay, but he insisted.  There was a pregnant lady sitting on the doorstep who looked at me and said "looks like you're carrying quite a load there" as I followed my soiled clothing inside.  Huh.

When I sent Sara a text after to see how she was faring in the heatwave, her response was that indeed it was hot and that my apartment must be stifling, and did I want a window unit air conditioner that she and Chris had to spare.**

I may have to reconsider a number of aspects of my life in light of this evening.  If I can be compared to a hobo, and pregnant ladies are sorry for me both because of the weight of my laundry and because of the heat in my ghetto apartment, I am definitely making some bad choices.

*Hot as balls is an expression I'm fond of, but it makes no sense.  The whole point of dangling testicles is to ensure the lower than regular body temperature required for the production of sperm.

**The twins are still unevenly sized, and Sara is understandably preoccupied by the resulting back pain and the fact that she is being fitted for a specialized pregnancy belt tomorrow, which hopefully will take some of the pressure off.  Also, she has air conditioning.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Mythical Creatures

When I've had a few too many I develop what is known as "pirate eye", because I seem to lose all visual acuity in my right eye.  Which results, of course, in me squinting my right eye shut because it's useless anyway, and staring at things crazily with my left eye only.    In fairness to myself, I know that the vision in my right eye is significantly worse than the left, and neither are so good to begin with.  It stands to reason that the blurred vision associated with excessive drinking could render me effectively blind in my bad eye, hence, pirate eye.

I agreed to drink "The Kraken" spiced rum last weekend in order to amuse a number of people who felt it fitting because it somewhat resembles the name I am commonly known by ("The Granken", if that's not obvious).  Also, because the kraken are mythical scandivian sea creatures of monstrous size*, and I have, on occasion, also been referred to as a mythical creature.  When I got to the liquor store, however, and learned that The Kraken contains 47% alcohol, my mind travelled.  Rum?  Pirates?** Pirate eye?  I of course assumed that I was being set up for a very messy evening.  I am told I was being paranoid and pirate eye had not entered anyone's mind.*** Even so, I have to admit that I was apprehensive about the strength of the liquor and agreed to follow through only with a number of stipulations, as follows:

1.  Chris/Sara provide me with some mix.  I suggested coke (zero), ginger ale and ginger beer.  I encouraged Sara to be creative and throw in something else as she saw fit.

2.  Sara had to make my drinks as I tend to get more and more generous with my pours as things progress.  No one likes to slip into an alcoholic coma.

3.  At least one other person try some, too.

4.  Ensure that there was beer available so I could downshift in alcoholic content if I felt things starting to spin out of control.

5.  I leave any remaining rum at their house.  Having anything so toxic in my place could be dangerous, because I might get bored and drink it.

This is how it worked out:

1.  Sara's secret ingredient was Sunny Delight.  Which wasn't all bad.  I admit to a love of Sunny Delight.  Up until just now a secret love.  It's delicious!

2.  Sara made my drinks with glee.  No alcoholic coma for me.

3.  No one else tried The Kraken but I wasn't drinking alone, which is always a plus.

4. Sara's responsible service made the beer unnecessary.  I was in fine form - up until it was time to go home, when:

5.  I tried to take the bottle with me.  I was shut down.  To pacify me, I was sent away with a few ounces in an empty 7-Up bottle.  I freely admit that one of my favourite things to do when I get home after a night of drinking is to have one last drink to unwind.  And watch music videos on Youtube, which apparently is my new hobby.

*As it turns out, Chris and Sara's daughter is proving herself to be a sea creature of monstrous size.  She is a full half pound bigger than her brother, which may not seem like a lot, but when you're four and a quarter pounds and your brother is a mere three and three quarters, the half-pound difference is, well, monstrous.  I am not troubled by the sea creature comparison either, considering she is currently suspended in a pocket of salty amniotic fluid.  I know that Chris and Sara are fixed on her name being Molly.  I propose her middle name be Kraken in light of this situation.

**The birth certificate of the boy child will sooner than later prove his name to be Jack.  I have decided to make a personal project of teaching him to say "Why is the rum bottle always empty", in honour, of course, of Captain Jack Sparrow. If that phrase could be among his first words I would consider my time on this earth worthwhile.  It even makes sense considering fetus Jack was referred to as Johnny Depp long before his parents knew whether he was a boy or girl. 

***Sara suggested that I need not be worried about the strength of the liquor because I, myself, was already 47% alcohol.  Ahem.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Boom Goes the Dynamite

When I consider their parents, it should come as no surprise that the twins are jerks in the making.  Recent check-ups prove this.  There was one appointment a few weeks ago when the tech advised that she could probably get some really good pics of the girl, as she was sleeping.  Before the ultrasound probe was put into position, however, the boy started kicking the girl in the head.  She woke up unimpressed.  I would like to say that an in-utero cage match ensued, but it did not. 

The girl did, however, retaliate in a big way. The spiteful creature cut off the food supply.  I like to think that she physically and purposely pinched his umbilical cord shut.  Whether that is true is debatable. The result is the same.

Sara's appointment of last Thursday revealed that the girl is growing much faster than the boy.  Should that situation continue, there is a danger that the girl will start sucking up all of the nutrients, in which case the twins would have to be removed early, because otherwise the boy might, um, die. As if this is not enough of a problem, early extraction means they would both be born with underdeveloped lungs and likely suffer from bronchopulmonary dysplasia - which basically results in reduced lung function, susceptibility to respiratory illness, and lowered life expectancy.  For further details, see Google.  Sara had to get steroid shots to speed up their development. ("And boom goes the dynamite," Chris said, as the nurse pushed in the plunger).

But these are all details.  My selfish reaction to the news that the births might be sooner than expected was to exclaim that it couldn't happen because I wasn't ready.

Seriously, though, I'm not ready.  And not just because I don't have a dramatic finish planned for the blog.  Hold them in a little longer, please.*

*I drafted this a few days ago.  In the intervening time the boy has started growing normally again.  I'm not sure whether there can possibly be anyone happier about this than me.  Other than the expectant** parents, obviously.

**I am growing tired of the word "expectant" and decided to look up synonyms.  These included "great, anticipant, large, anticipative, enceinte, big, gravid, heavy, and, with child".  For some reason, you can't look up synonyms without also being subjected to antonyms, of which in this case, there were only two: "non-pregnant" and "hopeless".  Ouch.  Cheers to my hopeless future.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Baby Fat (Body Break)

There was a point about 5 years ago when a friend (that friend was Sara) suggested that one of the most hilarious things she could imagine was for me to turn into a Jesus-loving fitness addict, considering my unhealthy/debauched/godless lifestyle. Specifically, the image she entertained was one of me doing bicep curls and saying "love you Jesus" with each lift of the forearm.

I still don't love Jesus.  However, slowing metabolism and vanity have turned me into something of an exercise fanatic in intervening years.  I have grown so freakish and obsessive that it is not unusual for me to get home from 2 hours of dance class (one of my preferred modes of exercise) and deciding to go for a 5K run, just for something to do.*  Or to throw my cross-trainers into my luggage for 2 days out of town hoping that my hotel has a gym, and being disappointed when it does not.  It's a little out of hand.  Why don't I watch television like a normal person?

If you were to poke me in the belly, your finger would be stopped by rock-hard muscle.  Your finger would pass through an inch-ish of marshmallow flesh before reaching that muscle.  I call this "the wino layer". Liquor consumption is the only reasonable explanation for its existence.

I bring this up because last weekend Sara had me drink Pimm's exclusively because we were celebrating a birthday** at a bar that happened to have it.  Here is what I experienced.  Pimm's, on its own, is sweet, almost syrupy.  I didn't care for the tradtional way of mixing it with some ginger ale and adding a cucumber slice, so the bartenders made a mission of coming up with ways to serve it that I would enjoy.***  These ways involved a lot a lot of fruit/fruit juice.

Fruit, in itself, is healthy, as we all know.  Fruit juice, as any personal trainer will tell you, is a bad choice in terms of calorie consumption. (Alcohol is also not recommended).  I reminded myself of this the next morning as I poked at the wino layer and despaired.****

The estimated weight gain of your average lady carrying 31 weeks worth of of twins is 27 to 30 pounds.  Sara comes in under that at 21 pounds so far, 6 of which we know for sure is fetus.  The typical weight of everything else the average woman would be carrying is 3 pounds of placenta, 4 of amniotic fluid, 2 of breast tissue, 4 of water retention, and 7 of "fat".  For those of you capable of simple math, it is clear that Sara is lacking in at least one of these areas.  One would assume that her doctor would be concerned if she came up short in the  placenta, breast tissue or fluid areas, so it stands to reason that at this point she has lost fat rather than gained.

I had sort of hoped that after she expelled the minions Sara and I could embark on a shared diet and exercise regime in order to shed the unwanted weight we both have accrued over the course of this pregnancy.  I can't in good conscience blame the wino layer exclusively on drinking for two, but whatever.  It certainly has't helped matters.


*These runs sometimes end at the liquor store. Yin yang.

**I am making special note that we were at a bar "for a birthday" specifically because Sara is well beyond being mistaken for overweight and strangers have been judging her with their eyes whenever she is in a situation where alcohol is involved.  She won't even step into a liquor store anymore, not even to keep me company.

***Giving your bartender one uncommon ingredient and telling them to make you something delicious with it is pretty fun. They actually seemed excited.  I got several free drinks out of it, as well as fairly quick service.  They both had been enlightened to my drinking for two project, so perhaps that was additional incentive.  Toward the end of the night, one of them did a shot of Pimm's with me and told me I was a "real trouper".  Or trooper.  That could go either way.  They mean slightly different things.  Look it up.

****I am really, really vain so I feel the need to point out that even with the wino layer , no one would ever describe me as "you know, the heavy set girl".  However, my standards for myself are high and I know there is no reason why I shouldn't fit into slightly smaller pants.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Fist City

It's official.  The squatters have been served with their eviction notice and will be forcibly removed from Sara's premesis no later than August 10.  Which is to say, a c-section has been scheduled for August 10.  Most doctors in Canada refuse to do c-sections unless there is some valid medical reason, and since getting two freeloaders out is a little more complicated than one, the expecting parents actually get to choose.  Sara and Chris had been quite torn about which way to go, but it seems that the positioning of the boy fetus would necessitate Sara's doctor giving her a good deep fisting and using a vacuum to get him out.  Decision made easy.

I have been tirelessly researching the risks and benefits of both caesarian sections and vaginal (eww) delivery, with the intention of offering some well-informed advice, which seems a little redundant now.  I don't plan on letting my efforts go to waste, so more on that another day.  I will say this:  you hear plenty of horror stories about people having emergency c-sections because things have gone horribly awry during the planned vaginal (eww)/natural birth.  You never hear stories about a doctor performing a caesarean and midway through the procedure announcing in a panic that it's not working and the demon will have to come out the old-fashioned way.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Fertility Guru

It seems that there are people out there who believe that the state of pregnancy denotes special fertility knowledge.  I am quoting a conversation that Sara recently had with a cab driver, word for word as it was recounted to me, because there are some things in need of no embellishment.

Cab Driver:  So how far along are you?

Sara:  6.5 months.  With twins.

CD:  Oh wow... did you get any of those tests?

S: Yes, they're fine.

CD:  Cause my mom was 50 when she was pregnant with my brother and they told her that he was going to be messed up and have all sorts of problems.  But he's 6 now and fine.

S:  Oh that's good.

CD:  Yeah, she went to like 5 doctors and they all told her to get an abortion, but she didn't and only one gay doctor told her he'd be okay.  I guess you need to be gay to really know the insides of people if you know what I mean.

S:  (has no words)

CD:  So I really want to see Hangover 2.

S:  Yeah it looks good.

CD:  (takes phone call)

CD:  So I've been married for about a year and I really want to get my wife pregnant when I go back home this summer.  Do you have any tips?

S:  Not really.

CD:  Like should I bring insurance?  Like Viagra?

S:  I'm not sure that what that does to your sperm as it relates to fertility - I'd probably check that before I take it.

CD:  Is it true that women are most likely to get pregnant aout a week after their period?

S:  Yes... so you could time your trip that way... To make sure you get two cycles.  How long are you gone for?

CD:  Like a month and a half.  You mean ask my wife when she's having her period?

S:  Yes, so you can time it.

CD:  I don't think I'm comfortable doing that.  I hate the smell in the bathroom when my wife has her period.

S: (has no response)

CD:  I knocked up like 7 girls in high school - so I must be fertile, but that was 10 years ago.

S:  Uh huh.

CD:  All 7 girls had abortions... So I guess I'm responsible for killing 7 babies.

End conversation.

As some of you already know, since Chris and Sara's misconception occurred last winter during the 5 or so weeks that I lived under their roof, it was not special fertility knowledge but proximity to my sexual energy that gave Chris double-strength sperm and incited Sara to release multiple eggs in one go.  Sara recently ran into one of her neighbours while daycare shopping, and it turns out that this neighbour got herself in trouble at almost the same time as Sara... leading me to the obvious conclusion that my powers extended beyond Chris and Sara's four walls.

For those of you who feel the need to breed, don't waste your time with how-to books and ovulation thermometers. Just invite me to hang around your house through two cycles or so.  I guarantee that the women of your household and neighbourhood as a whole will start squirting out children within the following 9 months, since it appears that pregnancy follows me around much in the way a domestic cat lavishes the most attention on the person who dislikes it most.


Friday, June 3, 2011

The Rapture

So, both the rapture and the end of the world have come and gone, and here we all are.  Sigh.  These things are always a disappointment.  Remember Y2K and the mass chaos that was supposed to ensue?  What a let-down.  But there's always next time.  The end of the world is bound to happen - right on one schedule or another.  What is it about 2012?

At any rate, since a number of my friends predicted that if any of us were to be raptured we would likely be halfway to heaven before being tossed back to earth like unwanted carp, it was decided that drinking absinthe would be the next best thing.  There happens to be a Russian vodka bar not far from my apartment serving absinthe - the real stuff complete with wormwood.  So away we went.

Unfortunately, when we got to the bar it turned out that they were out of absinthe.  We stayed for a few drinks anyway.  I gave Sara free reign and she ordered two drinks for me - I started the evening with a Mr. Shakes* and I followed it up with a Boney M**, both of which were fine but not exactly absinthe.   The vodka bar soon grew too loud with Russian dance music for our liking, so we headed down the street to a neighbourhood pub, where typically there are tables available, frosty beverages on tap, 90's music playing, etc.  It turns out that my local pub has metamorphosed into an ill-conceived dance bar*** - a good place for a five minute party**** but not so good for a group of people looking to enjoy a conversation about Jodie Sweetin and a quiet pint.  We left without delay, but not before Sara went to the washroom***** to accidentally walk in on someone inserting a tampon.  All Sara said about the experience was that it was awkward - and that the offending girl said that it was probably more awkward for Sara than it was for her.    I wonder whether Sara experienced just a little bit of menstrual nostalgia? Did she think back to the time when she had regular cycles, the way others might think back to a really good summer?  If she did, she's not talking. 

We found another bar, a little disappointed with the evening up to that point, but that was nothing a pitcher of PBR couldn't fix.  At least the bar gave us front row seats to the parade of attendees of a nearby fetish party strolling by.  Query:  are there people with a pregnancy fetish?  I presume so.  I mean, plushies.  Not that the two are at all related, but surely if there are people who want to dress up as stuffed animals and fuck, there must be people who get off on pregnant women.******  I feel kind of bad for them.  The pregnancy fetish people, I mean. While there are plenty of pregnant women, I doubt that there are many who are ready and willing******* for the fetishists to indulge.  The fetishists probably only get about two periods lasting a few months each to live out their fantasy over the entire course of their lives.  Unless they have the luck to hook up with women who want to have a dozen children and don't mind that their uteruses fall and start to hang out. Prolapse.  It happens. 

Of course, maybe the people with a partiality for pregnancy are content to masturbate to pictures of pregnant women, of which there is certainly no shortage.  Why ladies in their third trimester think it's a fine idea to have their near naked photos taken and then post them on Facebook is a mystery.  I mean, really.  Most of you don't look good.********  Just puffy and jowly with bad skin.  Stop it.  Just stop it.  Or at least reserve the pictures for your baby book rather than publishing them for all to see.  Are you really comfortable with the knowledge that out there somewhere is a printout of your cherished photo with dried sperm on it?


*Mr. Shakes was a surprisingly tasty concoction involving schnapps, chambord, rum and champagne.  I ordinarily have too much respect for alcohol to order anything involving schnapps - apart from the summer that I worked at a bar where the staff were all liquor pigs who liked to drink while they worked.  Peppermint schnapps gave us all very fresh breath, so by the end of our shifts we smelled like we'd recently brushed our teeth, rather than stale and boozy like we'd been drinking for the last six hours or so.

**The Boney M tasted like blueberries and made me think of the Boney M Christmas album that my mom used to play incessantly during the holiday season.  My brothers and I smashed the cassette with a hammer.  It was immensely satisfying.  Parents: keep your collection in a secure location.  Children are ruthless.  If it's not quite to their taste, they will destroy all the music that you play all the time because you particularly like it.

***Katy Perry....

****more about that another time

*****she's going every ten minutes on average these days

******well, maybe not directly on them

*******I have no doubt that they're able

********Except Sara, of course, who is adorable.  When she's sitting down you'd never even guess that she's knocked up because her shockingly enormous bosom blocks the view of her swollen abdomen.