Oh for fuck’s sake…

…do grow up.

Nothing grabs my attention more than the moans and groans of “Mah Christmas was ruuuuuined forevaaaaaah!!!!”and “ZOMG! Scarred for life!”  This is likely due to the fact that I have zero compassion for anyone or anything.  Really.  Years ago, my husband turned to me and said “I have finally figured it out.  You’re basically the real-life version of Frank Pembleton from Homicide.  No emotion or compassion what-so-ever.”  Now, we all know he’s wrong.  I do emote and feel the things.  It’s just that I only feel the things that are important or relevant to my own interests (ok…that’s called sarcasm, kids.  Narcissist, I am not).

Trying to get myself excited about working on bariatric analyses, I needed to surf the old internetz for inspiration (erm…riiiiiight) and I happened upon this bullshit on Gawker.  Apparently, some parents had a very unmerry Christmas because Santa brought their precious snowflakes a Play-Doh kit with a penis.  Working in healthcare for as many years as I have, I immediately assumed it was clinical and thought “Golly jeepers!  Educational play, at last!”  Nope.  The kit in question is Play-Doh’s Sweet Shoppe Cake Mountain Playset (so girls can prepare themselves for the workforce, I suppose).  Within this set is an icing extruder that happens to look phallic.  Maybe.  I mean, I’m pretty much the most frigid woman on the planet and I have neither seen nor touched a penis since I did my wifely duty of procreating five years ago (for the record, when I closed my eyes, I did not think of England) but after reading that it could, potentially, resemble a penis – I admit – I can see it.  I can also see that it looks like a really bizarre syringe.  We have tons of play syringes around the house for Milkface because he wants to be a veterinarian when he grows up (or maybe he wants to be a smack addict and lacks the temerity to fess up to that).

Christmas day comes ‘round and those blessed with the Make-Your-Own-Dry-Crumbly-Fondant-Nightmare-Cum-Poor-Excuse-For-A-Cake-Kit open their packages.  Much to their parents’ chagrin, the penis comes tumbling out.  Twitter goes bananas, as does every other form of social media.  The verbal spanking of Play-Doh begins.  The screams of “YOU RUINED MY CHRISTMAS!” echo throughout a good, Christian nation.  Appointments will be made with qualified mental health professionals to deal with the impending PTSD.  One family member will inevitably snatch up the icing extruder/penis and spirit it away to the bathroom to perform unspeakable acts which will be featured in DeadSpin’s “What Did We Get Stuck In Our Rectums Last Year” series.  Trauma will be inflicted upon otherwise clueless children who see things for what they are because that is what egocentric children do.  That is how the child brain works.  It is what it fucking is to kids.  You can hold up a pipe cleaner, tell them it’s a mind-reading device that detects fibs and they will believe it.  And, once again, a grown-up who is supposed to be setting the example of appropriate behavior shows the child how to behave like a fuckstick.

Behold the circle of idiocy.  Is it not a thing of beauty?

As Milky grows and his genius brain expands, I try to instigate some profound discussions with him in the hope that some of my wisdom and/or observations make an impact.  One thing I often tell him is that while grown-ups are the voices of authority and are to be the voices of reason, grown-ups are flawed and far from perfect.  Grown-ups make stupid mistakes from time to time.  It’s imperative to not only observe the mistake (and it is exceptionally impolite to point it out) but observe the follow-through; how the grown-up remedies the mistake.  There are times grown-ups won’t because they don’t understand they have done something incorrectly or, to be blunt, wrong.  There are times grown-ups won’t because grown-ups can be prideful which is foolish.  We don’t dance with fools.  Time is precious and precious time is not invested in fools.

The mind I previously considered a curse because it never shuts off, never stops thinking and never stops formulating ideas has become an actual blessing in this regard.  I’m able to quickly examine the situation, Milky’s behavior, my behavior and what the long term implications are going to be from my example.  It’s why I would never scream “Christmas is ruined!” in front of my kid.  If the phallic icing extruder came tumbling out of the box and landed in front of Milkface, I’d likely laugh and just carry on like it was nothing.  But, if I was genuinely offended, I certainly wouldn’t carry on in front of him and potentially ruin his experience (tainting the toy and potentially making Christmas awkward).

These stories pop up in the news and result in two outcomes:  a source for moral outrage for those who feel they are more righteous than others and a source for intellectual validation for those of us who feel we are smarter than others.  And yes, I ate the bait and am giving it play by writing about it and looking down on the ridiculous idiots who let their entire Christmas be ruined by something that really wasn’t worth being upset over.  So, shame on me.  And, shame on me, again, for being higher and mightier for laughing at people for being so thin-skinned and tight-assed.  Triple the shame for my judging their parenting.  Although, in this instance, I really think my brilliant approach is better.  If you don’t make a big deal out of something, your kid won’t either.  If you leave things be, you don’t run the risk of ruining a pleasant experience for others.  If you manage to keep your mouth shut, you may actually be giving the best gift of all:  selflessness.  You may also be teaching your children something, as well:  use of histrionics does not result in a positive outcome.

It’s not a crack house…

…wait a minute.  I was going to say it’s a crack home but I’m wrong.  It is a crack house.

Ever since Milkface began attending Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, I have been saddled with the burden of the commute from our house to central Durham. Without traffic, it’s a fairly easy breeze through RTP and up 147.  Maybe 20 minutes at most given the way I drive (probably would have been 10 or 15 if I still had Astrid).  Unfortunately, the drive is not made during off-peak hours so the slog can stretch upwards to 45 minutes (one way) if there has been an accident, bad weather or some witless fucktard in the left lane driving the speed limit.  As you can imagine, doing this twice a day has its drawbacks. While I love the opportunity to jabber with Milky or rock out to songs from My Little Pony, Equestria Girls or Taylor Swift, I have come to loathe missing the two to two and a half hours in my day. Particularly now that my shoulder has healed from the Great Shoulder Fracture and Tendon Tear Incident of 2013 and I am cleared to return to the gym to work off the manatee and get back to the small sized seal I once was.

About a month into the slog, I turned to Dock and said “Sorry, pal.  I know you hate urban life but we’re moving.  You’re going to have to take one for the team.”  Lacking a mirror, I have no idea what my expression was but it was apparently horrifying enough that Dock immediately consented and we decided to start looking for a house closer to PCSGU in central Durham.

Our decision to buy our current house in Agrestic was made after spending months trolling neighborhoods in Raleigh.  Given that a house is potentially the largest investment we would make, we wanted to make sure we were going to get what we needed:  enough space to avoid each other 80% of the time and what we really needed:  resale value.  We logged many a mile creeping through neighborhoods, taking notes, counting rental homes, reviewing tax cards, property values and comparable sales data.  Since it was suburban Raleigh, we really didn’t have to worry too much about crime statistics.  As for schools, well – Wake County is such a dismal clusterfuck, it really doesn’t matter because the school district will reassign your kid in a heartbeat so why bother with that?  The outcome was good.  We actually like living in Agrestic.  The neighbors, for the most part, are decent.  There’s little drama with the HOA and, holla, we have equity.

Given the outcome above, we decided to employ the same and start our search for a new home.  Last week, after feasting on mediocre fare at a brewpub in Durham, we piled in the car and started cruising the PCSGU’s neighborhood and a few others.  Surrounding the school are some fairly adorable homes that reminded us of what Five Points in Raleigh used to be like before the yuppy scum moved in, knocked over the small bungalows and built repro Craftsman homes but with six or seven floors (logic that one for me, please). My first thought was “Gee, wouldn’t it be great if Milkface could walk to school like I did when I was in elementary school?”  So, I was pretty darn excited.  We drove up and down a few streets and then turned (direction is not relevant).  In the background one could hear the dulcet tones of Elvis Presley except he wasn’t singing a happy tune.  He was singing the mournful one.  He was singing “In the Ghettoooooooo.”

Now, I’m not talking ghetto as in “I’m a snob and I look down upon thee.”  Nor am I talking ghetto as in “ratchet.”  I’m talking ghetto as in crime and not that petty, bored, suburban vandalism shit, either.

Growing up mere miles from the city limits of Philly, I consider myself to be somewhat urbanized and somewhat of a badass.  Stuff like this doesn’t usually turn me away.  But – my husband travels for work and he travels a lot.  And while he does own many firearms, he is an antiquarian and I just cannot envision a break-in going down like this:

Felon:  Well, hello Lady of the House.  Would you be so kind as to give me your valuables, your legal tender, your credit cards, your ATM card and your pin code, please?

Me:  :ammo thing clamped between teeth:  Hold on for a second, Mr. Burglar/Serial Killer/Rapist/All of the Above.  I’m loading this long arm circa WWI and it’s a bit of a sticky bitch but have you seen this the Finnish stamp which has been marked over and replaced by this Russian/Bolshevik mark?  A very interesting time in history, would you not agree?

Felon:  My goodness.  That’s quite a find.  How much did your husband pay for it? Should I take that instead and sell it at a gun show? Perhaps, if you wrote down the history of this fascinating firearm, I might make enough bank to give up this life of crime, return to medical school and realize my dreams of becoming a neurosurgeon.

Mmmmhmmmm.

Each and every street, it seemed like we were either on “Adorable Bungalow Boulevard” or “Omar Comin’ Drive.”  The oddest part of all, there wasn’t any sort of delineation.  There wasn’t a transition.  It was either urban splendor or urban blight.  For a woman with lofty dreams of not losing hours in a day to traffic and commuting, this was extremely disappointing in a :sniffs: first world problems sort of way.  Especially since the more time I spend in Durham, the more I really like it.

Raleigh is so damn milque-toast, it viscerally upsets me whenever I return after a period of time elsewhere; mainly up North or abroad. Fucking Lexus SUVs, Japanese mini-vans and dvd players in every car.  There is this feeling that no one really works during the week – it’s just a series of carpool upon carpool.  The strip malls are the exact same.  My father lives across town from me.  We have the same exact strip mall with the same exact stores.  No variation at all.  There is very little local flavor and color.  From what I understand, one of the few assets is the annual hoovering of the fallen leaves.  I’m not sure if that’s compelling enough to make me stay.

Durham seems to be experiencing a demi-renaissance of sorts.  It’s always been a place that drew artists because *surprise* rents are low. One can drive through downtown Durham and see various tall-ish (there are no tall buildings here) being erected.  Some of the neighborhoods are positively darling or genuinely quaint.  It seems like the largest problem is finding the one that isn’t backed up to hAmsterdam.

*I realize that I have used this title previously but it is considerably appropriate in this scenario so accept my apologies for my laziness and lack of creativity.

How to Buy Cheap Wine in Sweden: Go to Germany

One of the things about living in Europe is that due to the small size of some of the countries, it’s possible to leave one country, drive all the way through another, and then into a third country all in one day. That’s what we did on Saturday.

We wanted to get as early a start as possible, so Daniel and I got up at 4:45am. Hans wanted to hit the road at 5:30, although we ended up leaving closer to six. He drove the three of us through the pitch black of the early Autumn morning to the Scandlines ferry terminal in Helsingborg. It took about two hours to get there, and the sun was just rising as we arrived at about eight. Daniel paid for our return ticket to Puttgarden, Germany, and we drove our rented pickup truck onto the ferry. This was a very short crossing, only about 15 minutes, barely enough time to use the bathroom and browse the tax free shops. I only had time to purchase two bags of Halloween candy.

We got back in the truck, drove into Helsingor, Denmark, and continued on our way. Daniel took the wheel for this leg of the journey, where we passed through very flat but beautiful Danish countryside, with its endless fields of yellow rapeseed blossoms destined to be made into cooking oil. In another two hours we arrived at a second ferry terminal. Once again we drove onto the ferry, but since this was a longer crossing we had the time to do a little duty free shopping. Hans bought some red wine, which seemed rather foolish because after 45 minutes, we arrived at Puttgarden and the enormous border shop contained in a barge floating in the harbor.

It was about the size of an Ikea, four stories high, with a different type of alcoholic beverage on each floor. We started with the wine floor and began filling up our three shopping carts. Daniel and I bought forty boxes of wine equivalent to 125 bottles. Each box was at least a third, and in some cases a quarter, of what we would have paid for similar wine in Sweden. This is how you recoup the cost of the trip itself.

After we paid for our wine, we pushed our carts out to the truck and loaded it up with our combined eighty boxes. Then we headed back into the shop to fill up on beer and liquor. Everything was half the price you would pay at Sweden’s alcohol monopoly, so we stocked up on bottles for the pub in our house (the only “real” pub in Alvesta) and for Christmas and New Years. The boys are experienced border shoppers; we packed all the bottles in boxes we found in the shop, and cushioned them with pieces of cardboard for the drive home.

At this point it was about three in the afternoon, and it was time to head home. We drove our booze-laden truck onto the ferry and then, at last, we were able to relax and eat some lunch. Five hours later we arrived back in Alvesta, unloaded all our boxes and crates and bottles, and stashed them temporarily in the garage.

So now I can say I’ve been to Germany. Well, at least to a very small part of it.

Teachers Know – a personal application letter

Dear Sir or Madam,

Sometimes it’s hard to be a teacher. You have to deal with stressed out parents, students, colleagues, and administrators. At times it’s a completely thankless job, and you feel undervalued and under-appreciated. It’s like that most of the time, in fact.

Yet, for all of those moments where you find yourself sitting on your couch crying after a really difficult day, there are those other moments that make it all worthwhile.

Those moments are why I have been a teacher for fifteen years. When I see a student’s face light up like a pinball machine, I know I have reached him or her. The kind of joy a teacher feels at those moments can’t really be described, but teachers know. Only teachers know.

When it comes down to it, teaching is about the students. It’s not about meetings, and exams, and statistics. It’s about helping students to see, and to understand, and to think, and to learn, and to create. If I have only the slightest effect on the future of young people, then I consider it a job well done. I take that responsibility very seriously.

Sometimes it’s hard to be a teacher. You have to really want to do it. You have to care. You have to realize that nothing is more important.

Yours sincerely,

Gwen Maddy

44 Degrees With The Humidex

Having flown a long way the day before,
I realize I need exercise,
So I head out my sister’s door,
To the wall of heat that’s there to greet,
This Scandinavian, no longer versed in,
The nuances of the humidex,
How the temperature never ever reflects,
The actual heat and its affects,
So off I go onto Bartley Bull Parkway,
And I stick to it because I figure that way,
If the heat starts to melt my brain,
I can still make my way back again,
And walking my reflecting mind sees,
In Stockholm it’s 18 degrees,
But not here, as I start to sweat and totter,
And find myself searching somewhere for some water,
I buy some in a dollar store, to keep me alive,
(though I notice a dollar’s a buck twenty-five)
And as I wander on further in heat and in haze,
I’m amused by the thoughts my mind has in its daze,
For I observe as I go on my Bartley Bull track,
Italian & Chinese grandmas look the same from the back,
Soon I’m growing concerned, for odd as it sounds,
My mirage is a mailman doing his rounds,
Though it seems he is real as we chat about heat,
And the problems he has with the dogs on his beat,
He says when he was in Cuba last year they got snow,
I ask “Are you serious?” he laughs and says no,
Then with just a few steps I’m back at my sis,
Sweat from my brow greeting pavement with hiss,
And what North American wonder greets me?
I open the door to a wall of A/C!

(July 18, 2013 I travelled from my home in Stockholm to Toronto in my homeland of Canada. I took a walk through my sister’s neighbourhood that first morning, Friday July 19th. This is a true and accurate reflection of that walk.)

The Orgasm Button: Is technology making sex as we know it obsolete?

What if it were possible to give yourself an orgasm simply by pushing a button?

It would mean having special simulators implanted in your hypothalamus, but this could be done in seconds without surgery, involving only a relatively painless injection. This orgasm button could be something you carry with you at all times, perhaps available as a standard feature on a futuristic smart phone. You could download an orgasm app and use it whenever and wherever it happened to be convenient for you.

It doesn’t seem all that unrealistic, does it? If such technology existed, most of us would be very enthusiastic adopters of it.

However, if it were possible to give yourself an orgasm by simply pushing a button, would you be willing to give up sex? Most of us would say not a chance. Brain-induced orgasms couldn’t possibly be an adequate replacement for sexual intercourse. But what if, just for the sake of argument, you had to?

Recall that scene in the 1994 science fiction comedy film, Demolition Man, in which Sandra Bullock asks Sylvester Stallone if he’d like to have sex. He answers in the slightly surprised but definitely enthusiastic affirmative, as yet unaware that he has woken up in a time when a series of increasingly devastating sexually transmitted diseases have caused traditional sex to be banned by the government. Therefore, having sex in this version of the future involves using a kind of orgasm brain-stimulation helmet.

After Stallone insists that they nevertheless do it the old-fashioned way, Bullock’s character reacts with horror and goes on to explain that “fluid exchange” and similar behaviors almost ended civilization. This lead to the outlawing of everything determined to be unhealthy for the individual or society, including smoking, drinking, eating meat, even using profanity. Though draconian, such measures were deemed necessary in order to prevent mankind from destroying itself.

In this fictional scenario the prohibition of traditional sex leads to the development of technology designed to enable people to get around the problem of not being allowed to touch one another. Yet, this is certainly not a new idea. The 1973 Woody Allen film, Sleeper, features a similar orgasm-inducing device called the “Orgasmatron.” How it works is not explained in the film but it’s essentially an orgasm booth; one simply steps inside it and comes within seconds.

It has replaced sex entirely in a future where, as Diane Keaton’s character explains, “everyone is frigid.” One can see hypothetically how the Orgamsatron device could have been developed in order to solve the pervasive frigidity problem. Then again, maybe it actually caused it. Perhaps people had been using the device for so long they lost their ability to have sex the old fashioned way. Or maybe they forgot how.

After all, high tech manufacturers of today know that we’re basically goldfish when it comes to new technology, and they frequently dangle shiny objects in front us, which we are told we absolutely must have or else our friends will think of us as uncool. With this in mind, if such a device existed today it’s easy to see it becoming as standard a piece of household equipment as a vacuum cleaner.

Furthermore, if it worked as efficiently as portrayed in the film, then one can see it entirely replacing sex. If one’s Orgasmatron happened to break down it would be as just as aggravating as losing one’s internet connection. Whether the over-use of such a device would cause us to lose our natural ability to have sex is another question entirely, but it seems unlikely. Maybe we just wouldn’t want to anymore, since using the device would be much more efficient and convenient than doing it the old-fashioned way.

The idea of a sex-free future may seem far-fetched, but it’s entirely plausible. Woody Allen certainly thinks so, and he isn’t the only one. Despite its deliberately tongue-in-cheek portrayal of the future, Allen wanted the film to be as scientifically accurate as possible, while still maintaining its comedic tone. In fact, while he was working on the screenplay for Sleeper, he consulted with science fiction icon and futurist Isaac Asimov, as well with the leading science fiction writer Ben Bova, and confirmed the “scientific feasibility” of his futuristic predictions

But how far away are we, really, from this sex-free future? From our perspective, light years away. A biological crisis necessitating the development of bodily fluid free sex-replacement technology has not yet occurred. Thankfully, sex is safe (provided one uses protection) and science-fiction is not the same thing as science. Moreover, if one takes a quick look at some of the devices currently available, then it’s abundantly clear that we won’t be abandoning sex any time soon. In fact, we’re still pretty excited about it. This is demonstrated by the myriad of devices and toys on the market that were obviously never meant to replace sex. Rather, they substitute for it and enhance it, as such devices have always done.

One invention that has gotten a lot of attention over the past year is the Japanese “French Kissing” machine. It was developed for couples in long distance relationships who wish to do something a little more intimate than just chat online, but a little more innocent than engaging in cybersex. The concept seems so sweet and almost quaint, until one learns how it actually works. Suffice it to say, it doesn’t really imitate kissing. Using it involves fellating a little plastic straw like thing, while the movements of one’s tongue are recorded by a computer. Later on, one’s long distance partner puts their own straw, hopefully inside their mouth, and plays back in reverse their partner’s previously recorded tongue swirlings.

As can be expected, the reception for this kiss transmission machine has been mostly chilly. People are finding it anything but sexy, and many of the articles written about it have been derisive and dismissive. Yet, the “bi-lateral control” technology used in this device is simply amazing. There are so many applications, both sexual and not, for a machine that records movement in real time. Doctors could record surgeries, for example.

However, the kissing machine inventors have something far more superficial in mind. They’re thinking that pop stars could record their “kisses” and such recordings could be downloaded onto people’s home devices for a small charge. Just imagine being able to buy a kiss from somebody famous. Then again, one could never be absolutely certain that the downloaded kiss actually came from Justin Bieber or Katy Perry. And of course there’s the inevitable problem of illegal kiss downloading.

However, this still leaves the question of the orgasm button. There actually is one, or at least there was about sixty years ago. In 1953 Dr. John C. Lilly , who was then working for the National Institute for Mental Health, did an experiment in which he implanted electrodes into the orgasm centers of the brains of monkeys. He then gave the monkey a button to stimulate itself every three minutes. When the monkey wasn’t sleeping, guess what it was doing all day?

Of course, we’d like to think that our brains are slightly more sophisticated than those of our lower primate cousins, but, come on. Our lives are definitely more complicated. We’ve got jobs and yoga classes and deadlines.

But if we didn’t have other stuff to do, you just know we’d be pushing that button all day long.

Things I’ve failed to do.

1. Floss. I promised the dentist I would but I only did for about a week after my last checkup. Why did I say I would? Now I’ve lied to a dentist and I feel really awful about it.

2. Get a Driver’s Licence. I did try pretty seriously at one point. Even took driver training classes. But I suck at it. I took the driver’s test three times and I failed it three times. At this point I’ve come to the conclusion that I just wasn’t meant to drive, especially now since my epilepsy diagnosis won’t allow me to drive anyway.

3. Ridden in a Limousine. Probably the only realistic opportunity to do this would have been on Prom Night, but I never went to my high school senior prom because I was a huge dork and most boys wouldn’t talk to me, let alone ask me to the prom.

4. Gotten Married. At my age that’s pretty pathetic. Then again, at my age, I really don’t see the point. My boyfriend and I have been living together for seven years and we’ve already done almost everything that married couples do, like buy furniture together and occasionally have sex.

5. Had Kids. Not from a lack of wanting or trying, though. Well, perhaps from a little lack of trying. I am woman with a functional reproductive system and my boyfriend is also fully functional, but I remain non-knocked up.

6. Go to the Gym. I really hate exercise. I mostly just watch TV in my free time, which currently makes up most of my time in these post laid off from work days. I very occasionally do other stuff, but laziness is my predominating characteristic.

The Domestic Philosopher

There are many things to wonder about,
Whilst taking all the garbage out.
Like why we throw out so much stuff.
Are we recycling enough?
And what if a truck came everyday,
To take all our past mistakes away?

There are many things to contemplate,
Whilst watching laundry agitate.
Like how detergent really works,
When washing away all that dirt.
And if it’s good at cleaning clothes,
Can it also remove stains on souls?

There are many things that make one think,
Whilst scrubbing out the bathroom sink.
Like whether to get a plumber there,
When the drain is all clogged up with hair.
And can we really ignore our worries away,
If we don’t think about them everyday?

These are the things I think about.
The things I try to figure out.

How come it’s harder to clean up my life,
Than it is to clean my house?

CROWDWALKING

I love walking through crowds.

Some things sit deep in the bones. For me walking through crowds is one of those things.

I grew up in the heart of downtown Toronto, so I got lots of practice.

I have to be alone. It’s pretty much an individual sport.  I prefer to have a destination as well.

It’s not absolutely necessary, but helpful, because then one walks with more of a sense of purpose.

It can be with or against the crowd, though going against the flow completely presents a bigger challenge.

Reading the flow. Looking for the gaps as they open and close. Anticipating them. Weaving in and out seamlessly, like water in a maze. Kind of like parkour without the gymnastic s.

Sometimes the crowd gets too thick to read, or too erratic. When it’s filled with old women, junkies, children, and dogs all at the same time it makes it too difficult to see a clear path. That’s when you retreat to the edge of the sidewalk, walking that narrow strip of concrete at the edge of the sidewalk, moving fluidly, dodging lampposts on one side, and traffic or parked cars on the other.

Then there is the challenge of the crowded subway platform. Weaving through, whilst looking for the break, the slight space with the best chance of being near the door when it opens, and feel that little inner victory for calculating correctly.

In the best moments it becomes quite poetic, with a beautiful flow, gliding through the human urban landscape.

See! See?

Insight. It’s a simple word,
Whose meaning is quite often blurred,
When you can’t see past your nose.
So wrapped up in feeling hurt;
Your victim mode on high alert,
To see you’re “one of those”,
One of those who come what may,
Just can’t see the role they play,
Blame others when you step on your own toes,
So try and try as others might,
There’s just no way to force insight,
You’re so wrong you can’t see right,
Drowning in your  “woe is me”,
You’ll need more than therapy,
To ever help you see!  See?