The Perfect Crime

The lesson of last week is never, ever, stand between a hungry and irritable pregnant lady and her sandwich.  Particularly if what's standing between her and her sandwich involves an accusation of petty theft.  Hanger and hormones have proven quite the volatile combination.

The short story is that a sandwich artist accused a certain hungry and irritable pregnant lady of stealing an iced tea.  She had opened the drink cooler, handled an iced tea, changed her mind, put it back, closed the door, changed her mind again, and selected a different iced tea.  When she went to pay, said sandwich artist insisted that she had taken two iced teas and put one of them in her pocket.  (How deep were these pockets?)   

Her husband's reaction was to start laughing and ask "Are you fucking kidding me?"  Her reaction also involved "are you fucking kidding me" but with considerably more rage – she hurled her purse at him, challenged him to search it, and stormed out of the Subway after he declined.

Given that a double baby bump apparently bears a startling resemblance to the outline of a 591 mL beverage bottle, I propose that Chris and Sara mastermind a criminal enterprise focussed entirely on the theft of one single iced tea with sandwich purchase.  I envision an underworld army of women using pregnancy as a clever disguise to steal liquid refreshment all over town.

Sara requested that I drink Long Island Iced Tea last weekend to commemorate – and I have to admit that I failed, because while I drank plenty on Friday, no tea-inspired alcohol passed through my lips, and circumstances precluded my planned drinking for Saturday.  I’ll have to work a way to make it up into my schedule.

First Comes Love

Sara requested that I drink Guinness or similar for St. Patrick's Day, and while drinking think of how she herself would be sitting somewhere angrily nursing a root beer. 

I have this to say:  Guinness is the alcohol that drinks like a meal.  The following is a summary of the nutritional content found in 1 litre, as I found on one very reliable internet source:

alcohol: 30 g carbohydrate: 30 g protein: 3 g phosphorus: 557 mg iron: 0.3 mg sodium: 25 mg potassium: 300 mg calcium: 54 mg magnesium: 133 mg thiamine (vitamin B1): 0.04 mg riboflavin (vitamin B2): 0.4 mg pyridoxine (vitamin B6): 0.6 mg nicotinic acid (niacin): 6 mg biotin: 0.01 mg folic acid: 0.07 mg. 

I'm a little suspicious that "nicotinic acid" does not exist, but look at all those other vitamins and nutrients.  I am seriously considering using Guinness as a meal replacement in future, sort of like a Boost or Carnation Instant Breakfast. 

I have to confess I'm not a huge stout fan, however, so I switched to cider before long. 

On our way home from the bar, my drinking companion and I stopped at a convenience store for some candy and I impulsively bought a tube of candy hearts – the Valentine’s Day kind that involve inscriptions like “Date Me”, “Be Mine”, etc.  Someone really should spice things up in the candy heart game, because while some of the epitaphs were quite apt (“Groovy Chick” and “Grow Up”), most of the messages are the same ones that have been used since the invention of candy hearts back in the 1860’s. 

Incidentally, I think I may have a real talent for writing confectionary copy and should apply it to a new career.  Once I selected a theme and found an online application for the generation of your own candy hearts  it was really quite easy.  Perhaps I will delve into greeting cards and singing telegrams as well.

So I hear that at least one of my three lone but loyal followers has complained about the long gap between my two most recent posts. 

I have an excuse. 

My computer is dead. 

Or maybe not completely dead.  When I turn it on it beeps at me steadily, much in the way of a fetal heart rate monitor with the volume way up.  However, unlike a fetus, it's showing no other signs of life at all.  I suppose some tech savvy person could possibly repair it, perhaps by harvesting/transplanting parts from another computer, but that tech savvy person is not me.  (what's a motherboard??)

Fortunately, I have an old laptop at my disposal.  A laptop so very old it that it works nicely for typing but has a 3 1/2 floppy disk drive rather than a USB port.  With a version of Windows so very old that it deems itself incompatible with any of the blank CDs that I coax gently into its slot.  I spent many days feverishly wondering how to transfer documents from the laptop onto a proper computer. 

Incidentally, my iPod also died last week - leaving me with little more than a 90's era laptop and a clock radio as far as modern technology is concerned.  Haven't decided if this situation is refreshingly retro or just kind of sad.

The Bad Touch and The Spirit of Evan Dando*

Eventually we all reach an age where there is no reasonable explanation to offer a cop as to why we feel the need to be drinking in an alley behind a bar, and when we are similarly too old to be thrown out of a show for sneaking in corn whiskey inside an emptied out bottle of Nestea Cool.  I surpassed that age some time ago, so I was determined to finish drinking my ½ mickey of Fireball Whiskey** before arriving at the Horseshoe for the Cuff the Duke show.  However, I also had reservations re the idea of downing a ½ mickey of anything while alone in my apartment, so I was also resolved to do my drinking (I guess I should say pre-drinking) while en route to the bar. 

I had my first taste after transferring the Fireball into the aforementioned Nestea bottle (following which I had a sudden urge to change into a bra and underwear in a beige-pink hue, so as to match my wrist brace***).  My second and third sips occurred when I stopped for a moment on the front steps of Broadview Gospel Hall (the fact that it would also be very hard to explain to anyone why I was drinking on the steps of an evangelist church having eluded me).  I finished the rest while on the streetcar, pacing myself by drinking only when stops were announced. 

On an unrelated note, Sara has started to show just enough that strange people feel it’s appropriate to approach her and start rubbing and poking at her abdomen without asking permission – a perfect example of what will hereafter be known as the bad touch.  Another form the bad touch occurs when some guy on the subway uses the crowded conditions as an excuse to press his erect penis into the back of your leg.  Or when you’re in a gym locker room and a naked lady passes by you more closely than necessary, and you can feel some part of her body brushing against yours, but you aren’t sure which part.  It makes it much worse if said lady proceeds to dry herself off on the opposite side of the room and you know with certainty that she is staring at you as you struggle to get a sports bra over your head.  In summary, the bad touch can be most easily defined as the invasion of personal space – in which case I suggest that pregnancy is the most extreme of all bad touches – because can there be anything more invasive than having someone literally inside you?  I think not****.

In any event, I also find that trying to stand and watch a show in a crowded bar leaves you vulnerable to the bad touch, which brings us back to Fireball Whiskey.  I understand completely that at a full venue it is often impossible to avoid brushing against people when trying to get to the bar, or to a place where you can see better, etc.  But that doesn’t mean that things like courtesy have been suspended.  It’s just as easy to push past someone and say “sorry” as you’re going by as it is not.  Frustrated by the repeated bad touches, emboldened by the Fireball, and possibly possessed by the Spirit of Evan Dando, I spent a portion of the show positioning myself so as to accidentally trip selected people as they tried to push me out of their way (for the record, I permitted the even half-heartedly apologetic to pass by unharmed). 

Sara ended her evening by throwing up a little into a lowball glass and running out into the street.  Consequences of going to a show with a pregnant lady.

*Chris nearly got into a fist fight with Evan Dando at the Horseshoe one night after Evan played a show that lasted about 40 minutes and largely involved him playing recorded music from a ghetto blaster into the microphone.  Chris may have loudly exclaimed something like “That’s bullshit, it wasn’t even a full set!”; Evan may have countered with something like “No man, it was totally legit”; Chris may have insisted that it wasn’t; Evan may have insisted that it was; and so on until Evan stormed off the stage (I think with a mature exchange of accusations something like, “you’re an asshole” – “no man, you’re an asshole”).  The Spirit of Evan Dando has since been a phenomenon occurring at every show at the Horseshoe Tavern, when at least one person from the crowd is overcome by the urge to be kind of a dick.

**Imagine melting a quantity of cinnamon hearts and transferring the liquid into a shot glass and you will understand the essence of Fireball Whisky.  For flavour and viscosity, I can’t in good conscience recommend it as a drink of choice to anyone.  If it’s not flavour you’re looking for, then I can’t deny that it gives you the desired head start on getting all fucked up, and accordingly I recommend it to anyone who doesn’t mind announcing to their friends that they just drank a ½ mickey of corn whisky on the streetcar.  I expect I am too old for that that sort of statement, but such is the price that I pay for drinking for two.

***It takes a certain kind of person to severely sprain their wrist while sleeping.  There’s no cool story involved.  Unless you think it’s really cool for someone to sprain their wrist while sleeping.  Grrr.

****okay, okay.  Rape.  I said it.

Provocative Photos

Laying on the table for a bikini wax this afternoon I was struck by the oddity of having a job that involves staring at genitalia all day, a distinction held by a limited portion of the population, including certain medical professionals, some aestheticians, and most members of the adult entertainment community.

One thought lead to another, as thoughts tend to do, and I was transported back in time to the day several weeks ago when Sara e-mailed me a copy of the first ultrasound.  The foetuses, Johnny Depp and Joan of Arc, didn’t look like very much to me –television static but without the hypnotic undulating patterns.  What I could see with complete clarity was the outline of the uterus.  Hanging around at work on an otherwise normal Tuesday, I open an e-mail attachment, and oh look at that.  My friend’s womb.

I realize that such images are passed around mainly to satisfy scientific interest, but it feels a little intimate to be sitting there eyeballing someone’s uterus – just as it would if one were to make a pictorial study of anything else in that general vicinity.  Like if this afternoon I had used my phone to take some snapshots of my vagina and forwarded them to select people from my contacts list, in satisfaction of any interest there may be in what to expect following a really well executed Brazilian. 

Blueberry Ale

Blueberry ale, to my surprise, was not even a little bit blue, dispelling any thoughts anyone may have had of me releasing a Rorschach of blue spit-up into the snow.  In flavour, it was very much like someone had taken a bottle of pale ale and then crushed some fresh blueberries in, which isn’t as unpleasant as it sounds.  For optimal drinking pleasure, I recommend that blueberry ale be enjoyed ice cold while basking in the sun on a patio in midsummer.  I do not recommend that anyone drink twelve in one sitting while cross legged on the floor of a hotel room in late winter, as I did, though to be fair I can’t say I was any the worse for it.

As usual, a group of people sitting around drinking  lead to some truly intelligent conversation.  There was a lively debate as to whether a moustache ride can be called a moustache ride if you don’t have a moustache (answer: no).  We established that men (and some women) who tragically lose the use of their arms and legs can find solace in the fact that they can still make a living offering moustache rides.  As it turns out, it is completely impossible to discuss moustache rides without also discussing Wilford Brimley (and oatmeal, and diabetus – spelling intentional).

Sara and Chris then agreed to name one of the twins Wilford Brimley should Sara develop gestational diabetus.  Talk of other baby names ensued, and when I failed to convince anyone that the other twin should be named Aloysius Granken (middle name in my honour), I suggested that a non-Brimley boy should be named Michael, because I’ve made out with a lot of Michaels.  This was misconstrued as usual – there was no intention on my part for Sara to cook up a Michael for me to make out with in 17 or 18 years.  The thought was that boys named Michael might get a lot of play and that as parents, Chris and Sara would be guaranteeing their unborn son a full and satisfying sex life. 

Things pretty much disintegrated from there.  2 a.m. found me eating a jar of jelly and several packets of Coffee Mate, as I was insatiably hungry and could find no other food in my room.

Stay tuned for next time and Fireball Whiskey.

So. Much. Vomit.

So far the creation of life has manifested itself in Sara as copious amounts of vomit.  She tells me that she throws up between 1 and 11 times daily.  Cold, fresh air is particularly noxious, though an outdoor temperature of exactly 4°C causes her no trouble at all.  She apparently has little vomit reflex control, and has recently been known to unleash profusely in unexpected and very public places.  The other day, for example, she threw up with such uncontrolled volume on the sidewalk outside a subway station that she got it all over her hands and coat and had to wipe herself down with a copy of the Renter’s News after.  She heaved so forcefully in an LCBO parking lot that she peed herself a little, and not 10 minutes later, already smelling like vomit and urine, she puked again behind a dumpster in the parking lot of Jumbo Burger.  It seems that not once has any good Samaritan stopped to ask if she is okay as she kneels spitting up in gutters and similar, and is accordingly convinced that people have come to regard her as a homeless alcoholic rather than lady with a baby - or two as the case may be.  I think she’s too well dressed for anyone to believe she is homeless; but perhaps she is not far off on the alcoholism, considering at this point she still doesn’t look even a little bit pregnant.  Quite the opposite:  she’s lost about 7 pounds so far, thus proving that bulimia may really be the answer to good weight management.  And giving up drinking, of course.  Think of all those delicious calories that are going unconsumed. 

While she has not said so out loud, I’m reasonably certain that Sara’s desire for me to drink wild berry coolers last weekend was a design on her part for me to share in the more bilious part of her incubation experience, and that she secretly entertained visions of me expelling magenta liquid over the side of the chairlift when snowboarding the following day.  I did not throw up … this time… but it occurred to me that the fatigue, the bloating and the nausea associated with early pregnancy are not dissimilar to the symptoms of a vicious hangover – which brought other displays of public puking to mind.  The knocked up don’t have a monopoly on it, after all.

There was one incident following a night of hard drinking, when taking a cab home, in start and stop traffic, with an acidic hangover, I had to insist the driver pull over so that I could throw up.  Before the cab even came to a full stop, I spilled out the door, landing on my knees in the gutter, and proceeded to hurl violently into a sewer drain.  The cabbie was unconcerned.  

One particular favourite involves a bathrobe my parents gave me for Christmas which required some alteration.  My mother took me back to the store of purchase one morning for fitting.  I had been out until about 5 a.m. the night before, consuming what must have been a very irresponsible amount of Mike’s Hard Lemonade.  The heat in the store was... I'll just say tropical, and I was dressed warmly for the winter weather, and sporting a thick bathrobe, waiting for the store clerk to pin up the terry cloth to the desired hem length.  So first I started to sweat.  Drip with sweat.  Sweat which was unfortunately about 10% saline and 90% pure alcohol.  (I can still see myself in cartoon form with little lines wavering all around representing the liquor fumes emanating from my body).  What felt like hours, but was in fact about 2 minutes later, I got a little faint, my stomach churned, and I tore blindly from the store, still in half-pinned bathrobe, just in time to projectile vomit into a planter outside.  Right in front of my dad who had chosen that precise moment to come join us.  Both of my parents were unconcerned.

This didn’t happen to me (I swear) but there was a time in high school when quite a lot of us were camping out and partying in a back field at the farm of one of our friends, and one of our number, feeling a bit sick, and believing herself stealthy, crept away from the group in order to vomit quietly against a fence.  Unfortunately for her, she chose an electric fence, and liquids being the sly conductors that they are, she had burns on her lips for more than a week.  Everyone involved was unconcerned.

***

Wild berry coolers were surprisingly hard to come by.  It was only through my dedication/determination, together with the patience of friend with car that I found any at all – 90 minutes, 1 Wine Rack and 4 liquor stores later.  Leaving me to speculate as to whether limited availability is a government ploy to keep such beverages out of the hands of the teen-aged girl target market.   I experienced a wave of nostalgia for high school with my first sip, which was a little strange: it was not until I was an older and more seasoned and discerning drinker that I ever sampled coolers of any kind.  Even then, it was purely as a cost saving measure, as the research skills I developed in university resulted in an understanding that a 2 litre bottle of Grower’s Cider cost less than a 6 pack of beer and at 7% alcohol was more likely to have the desired euphoric effect.

In honour of a significant amount of blueberry vomit that Sara projected all over a snowbank outside of her office building, this weekend I shall drink blueberry ale, served at a temperature of exactly 4°C.