Evan Dando Penis

No, I am not in the process of turning this into an all-evan-dando-all-the-time sort of blog.

But it recently came to my attention that the Google searches connecting people who are not friends or family to this site include:

“Evan Dando penis”,

“Evan Dando unpleasant”,

and my favourite,

“is Evan Dando a complete asshole”.

I have since decided that I am not above celebrity name dropping, especially if I can do it in tandem with the mention of intimate body parts, as an admittedly juvenile means of increasing traffic.  If anyone has any celebrities and body parts they’d like to see linked, I’m open to suggestion.  Just make sure they’re not too famous, because the internet is clogged with people talking about them already so they won’t help my cause at all.  Maybe sticking to musicians who enjoyed modest success in the 90’s will work as a theme.

I’ll start.  Liz Phair nipple clamps. Easy.  Incorporating Liz Phair nipple clamps into an entertaining tale of mid-term pregnancy and binge drinking might be a bit of a challenge, but it'll give me something to work toward.

The Pixies and Umbilical Cord Blood

The first time I saw the Pixies in concert I nearly didn't get a wristband which allowed me access to the 19-and-over drinking cage for lack of valid photo identification.  This obviously would have been a tragedy.  At age 27 I wasn't asked for ID with consistent frequency and so I had opted to leave my passport* at home so as not to accidentally lose it.  Fortunately, I found someone who was handing out wristbands and irresponsibly not checking ID, so crisis averted.  Just before the band hit the stage, I impressed Sara so much with the speed at which I drank 2 bottles of Smirnoff Ice that she asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, thus cementing our long and lasting friendship.     

I saw the Pixies for the 5th time last week.  They were awesome, as usual.  Even more awesome was the fact that both times that I went for beer I got carded, first by a security guard monitoring entry into the lounge area, and then by the bartender.**  The first security guard glanced over my passport, looked back up at me, and said "Wow.  Still looking good."  Sara was right behind me and was also asked for ID.  The security guard was not put off by her "But I'm pregnant," replying "Doesn't mean you're legal."  Valid point.

When I got to the bartender, she looked at my ID, squinted at it, squinted at me, and then asked, "So what's your secret?"  I responded that it was expensive moisturizer compounded with the use of an elixir made up mostly of the tears of young boys.  I should clarify that by "young boys" I don't mean children***, I refer to the numerous boy-men that I have left heartbroken as I tornado my way through the dating pool.  Now that I think of it, I may have to amend my youth-enhancing formula, as the tears of young boys are increasingly hard to come by.  I'm not confident that the tears of age-appropriate men in their 30's will have the same rejuvenating effect.

On a not completely unrelated note, Sara and Chris attended a baby show several weekends ago at which they were enlightened to the benefits of harvesting and storing umbilical cord blood stem cells.  These can presently be used in the treatment of more than 70 unidentified life-threatening illnesses, and in the future it is believed they will be used therapeutically for many more afflictions, including diabetes, heart disease, stroke, lung disease and spinal cord injury.  The company representative admitted that after the 5 years the company has been in existence and many thousands of clients, nobody has actually made use of any umbilical blood, leading Chris and Sara to the conclusion that it's probably a huge waste of about a thousand dollars a year and not an investment they are likely to make.

It left me to wonder, however, if umbilical blood can be used to rebuild a severed spinal cord, is there anything of a more immediate nature that it might it be capable of rebuilding?  Surely I'm not the only one who's noticed that the sleepless nights and general stress involved with child-rearing tends to age new parents 10 years over the course of a few short months.  It seems a shame to let precious stem cells drip into a biohazard bucket when perhaps they could be massaged into the tired skin around the eyes and mouths of said new parents, restoring its elasticity to that of teenagers.  Maybe they could store the stem cells on something like a contingency basis... if the skin on their faces is restored, maybe spinal cords as well.

Of course, umbilical stem cells are only useful to people with matching genetic material, so they won't help me any.  However, my history of getting ID'd at their shows leads me to believe that there is something about the Pixies that restores some of my youthful vitality, so perhaps I will give myself weekly pore-refining and fine-line reducing facial masks while listening to Doolittle over and over again.  And Botox.  I'm not at all ashamed to admit that I'm thinking of incorporating Botox into my 5-year plan.  And by 5-year plan, I might mean 5-month plan.  We'll see how it goes.

*Yes, I carry my passport everywhere as my go-to ID.  I have a paralyzing fear of driving and have never attempted to get a driver's licence.

 **I am compelled to point out that it is largely believed that habits like the drinking of alcohol and the smoking of cigarettes cause premature aging of the skin.  I offer myself up as proof that neither of these assumptions can possibly be true, because I drink and smoke like a savage yet continue to exude a youthful glow.  Drink up.

***While not the biggest fan of children, I don't actually take pleasure in making them cry.  Having a child around is enough of a challenge, never mind a crying child.

Belly-Off 2011

I am told that there is a happy point in every pregnancy where the expectant mother progresses from looking a little bit fat and perhaps as though she's just eaten a big meal to looking truly like the carrier of a fetus.  Which comes with a number benefits, including no longer having to be embarrassed that people think you’re fat, and more importantly that people start to treat you indulgently, doing things like offering you a seat on the subway and so on.  Sara has finally started to show properly, and has been trying to score seats on the subway by pushing out her stomach as much as possible in the effort to look even more pregnant.  To date, she has gotten some sympathetic looks from other (standing) passengers, but no one has offered up a seat.

I have to say, it doesn't take too much effort for a non-knocked up lady to look 5 or 6 months if she puts in just a little effort.  When I was a bright young undergrad in Montreal, one of the favourite hobbies of my roommates and mine was to make our way to Chinatown, spend many hours at a buffet, and walk the streets after, forcefully sticking our swollen food-baby bellies, smoking.  The reason we did this was two-fold.  First, in the spirit of healthy competition, we wanted to see who could look the most pregnant on a scale of one to nine months.  Second, we wanted to see what sort of reaction we'd get out of people.  There were some glares, but nothing more than that except one aged french lady who stopped us and said we should be ashamed of ourselves.  Not because of the smoking (no mention of that), but because we were young and unwed and we shouldn't flaunt our sin in such an obvious manner.  I have to admit the sight of our stomachs poking out from the bottoms of our baby-Ts was may have been a little graphic. 

So when Sara mentioned that she couldn't get a seat on the subway to save her life, I was of course compelled to remind her of my talent for looking at least as pregnant as her, or even more, with a little gluttony. A challenge was born.   

My drinking assignment for the weekend was to put my money where my mouth was and drink as much beer and eat as much food as possible, just to see, at the end of the night, how I measured up.

Feast your eyes on the progression of my svelte self into swollen beast of a lady.  I promise you these pictures are really of my stomach and not random photos found online.  Sara, as the photographer, can attest to that.  I forewarn that while gorging oneself on beer and food may be a good way to be a contender in a belly-off challenge, it is certainly not a good way to attract boys.  If there are any cute boys reading this, please, as a favour to me, look no further.  Well, maybe at the first picture, but then, definitely, I implore you to shut off your computers and walk away.

This is just me on Saturday before the challenge began.  Something about this angle... I'm not looking quite so fit as usual.

Did you just drink three cans of Mill Street Lemon Tea beer and eat three slices of pizza? Yes, yes I did.

At this point, my ultrasound technician, should I have one, would be able to clearly discern the swirling foam of five tall boys and a selection of half-digested green olives and mushrooms from half of a pizza.

I would hope that standing passengers would look at me sympathetically if no one offered me a seat on the subway.  I am no longer comfortable admitting how much beer and pizza were ingested to get to this size.

Please bear in mind that I am not quite so disgusting as to have eaten and drunk enough to look this way unassisted.  I am also flexing my abdominal muscles outward as hard as I can.  Try it.  You can look pretty big, too.

I threw up on arrival at home from a combination of excessive fullness and sheer relief.  I'm told that marathon runners often throw up after a race as well.

And the winner is... me.  I think it's safe to say that I am the champion of Belly-Off 2011.  Though Sara is the real, albeit not impartial, judge.  I'm very, very happy to report that by Monday morning I had shriveled back to my normal size.  Poor Sara will just get bigger and bigger for the next three or four months.  Hooray!  I'm the winner on two counts.

It's A Mystery! (And A Boy!)

Ultrasounds of last week confirmed one boy and one – something.  Apparently Twin A (who we all know is a troublemaker anyway) refused to co-operate and kept its back to the ultrasound device throughout the entire 2 hours of the appointment.  Twin B (now officially Johnny Depp) proved itself to be a boy… though I’ve looked at the ultrasounds and can’t see a penis anywhere.  Of course, at this point I don't see any way to confirm that Johnny Depp is actually human at all.  Humanoid, possibly, based on the image below, but you will note that he appears to have a pair of wings, like a pegasus:

Additional concerns regarding species arise from the second image, which clearly illustrates that Johnny Depp is a Seuss-inspired bird/turtle combination.  Consider images below:

(Lovely plumage).

Perhaps it's a changeling, and able to take on any form it chooses?  I guess we'll see with next round of pics.

Incidentally, these images made me considerably less squeamish than the last.  I certainly couldn't say squeam-free, but better.

Hot Lesbian Action

Girl on girl seems to be a recurring theme lately.  First, Sara booked herself a pre-natal massage at the same time friend Eva booked herself a regular massage, and the receptionist assumed that they were an expecting lesbian couple and thoughtfully asked if they wanted to be nude in the same room.  (They declined).

Then, I watched Black Swan – I hadn’t previously heard of the Sapphic sex scene between Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis, so it came as a bit of a surprise when it happened, though I’ll admit, kind of a turn on, if you’re into that sort of thing. 

Next, after I had a couple of Long Island Iced Teas* at a bachelorette party on Saturday, Sara and I decided that, in an effort to outdo Black Swan, I would very sensuously eat a candy necklace from off of her body.  We also intended to shout “Black Swan this!” after but never quite got around to it… the shouting, not the necklace eating, which went ahead as planned.

To backtrack (?) to the thought of lesbians and parenthood, lesbian couples who opt to breed and then share their offspring 50/50 with their sperm donors really get the best of both worlds.  All the joys of parenthood but only half of the time, so the other half of the time they can be gloriously free.  I’ve lately become a bit of a proponent of part-time parenting as a solution to the “I like my child well enough but I really miss having my own life” problem.  It’s a practical option for straight or gay-straight combinations of single people who want children but can’t find suitable mates.  They could even arrange to live together through those first few troublesome years, sharing both the workload and the experience of things like first words and learning to walk.  I’m not going to go so far to suggest that married people should consider splitting up once their children reach a certain age – but it can’t be denied that it’s a sort of “look on the bright side” by-product of failed marriages and shared custody.  

Some people say that once you have kids the loss of your freedom and related sacrifices seem worthwhile. 

I have my doubts. 

That being said, I may even consider part-time parenting myself, should I change my mind about the birthing thing anytime between now and the time my eggs dry up.  Who knows? 

*See, I always follow through with the drinking.  Though, Long Island Iced Tea might be one of the worst drinks ever.  Like skimming a little bit off the top of each of your parents’ liquor bottles, mixing it all together, and then trying to make it drinkable by adding a little cola and lime.  It doesn’t help.  For the love of god never order a Long Island Iced Tea.