Saturday, 21 July 2012


I almost ripped my mother in half and no one warned her.  "Just do your breathing," the nurses said.
"GO DIE OF HERPES!" she shrieked in reply. It was epic.

I sat beside a very pregnant young woman on the bus home from work last night.
She was sitting there with her hand on her monstrous belly, reading a book of baby names. So I felt safe asking her what I almost never ask women who look pregnant but may just be fat: "When are you due?"
"Next Saturday," she said, smiling shyly.
"Your first?" I asked.
"Yes. I'm having a girl, I think. I'm pretty sure."
"I know what you mean," I said. "I knew all three times that I was having a girl."
"Wow," the young woman said, "three girls. So how was your first childbirth?"
Careful now, I told myself. Because that's a very telling question.
Notice she didn't say: "What's it like having three girls?" or my personal favourite, "You don't look old enough to have three kids." 
She said, "How was the childbirth?"
See, most of us instinctively know the unwritten code of womanhood: Never tell a first-time-pregnant woman the truth about childbirth and the horrors of the immediate afterwards or she will jump in front of the next available train, and truthfully, that's probably a less painful fate. (Warning that occurs to me a few sentences too late: If you are pregnant, stop reading NOW. Nothing to see here. Move along.)

Once she has already had a child, the game changes.
Get a group of women who've had kids together and things get gruesome. They try to outdo each other about how many stitches they had, how long the baby's head was stuck in the "birth canal," how long it took before they could pee without screaming.
But you don't tell a woman who's pregnant with her first child any of that. Because you know there's nothing she can do about it at this point except be scared shitless from now until the baby crowns. 

You know that, just as it was with you and your sister and your aunts, once she's mid-birth, she will feel like she is live on the set of The Exorcist. She will scream and twist and sob, she will beg for drugs, she will wonder how "this thing" is ever going to get out of her.
And then she'll be fine.
She will even, eventually, forget how it almost killed her.
It's nature's way of ensuring that we keep getting knocked up. And "the code" is part of that cosmic conspiracy.

So when I looked at that young woman's shining face and innocent, hopeful eyes, I just smiled back.
"It was fine," I said. "You'll be fine."
Then I got off the bus and prayed I wouldn't see her again until after she'd had the baby.

Friday, 20 July 2012


So many people commented on the earlier Sugar Beach post  Sugar Beach's Sugar Daddies, I decided to reward them with a little more eye candy. In this instalment, we get a much better look at the thong-sporting gent in Where the Boys Are. 

Hmm. So what IS this, really? Is it a pair of black tightie-whities with a thong on top? Is it a one-piece, bi-layered bathing suit? Is it an optical illusion? 
I just . . . I can't . . . how is this even . . . it makes me want to thing. Thing a thong. Thing it loud, thing it thtrong 

 OK that's enough. Soon I will never get invited to anything if this is how I carry on afterwards.

Wednesday, 18 July 2012


Well how about EVERYTHING? Tarps? Muddy elbows? Damp food in plastic wrap?
HALF-EMPTY WINE BOTTLE? Good God, just take me to a hotel.

So, camping, what's with that? What's the thing? I just don't get it. To me it is one giant step backward for mankind. 
Think about it: you go to the bathroom in murky holes so fetid they trigger your gag reflex, you cook over an open flame (assuming you can keep it going long enough to undercook whatever meat you brought with you), you spend the better part of the day gathering wood and cooking and cleaning up and then, if you're lucky, you have time for a boring game of cards before the final, ultimate luxury: sleeping on a mat in the dirt. 

Really, people. Haven't we evolved beyond this point?
The On-Again and I had a chance to experience this sacred ritual recently when we visited my daughter and her husband, who were camping in Grand Bend. 
How quaint, we thought. Two generations bonding in the wilds. It'll be fun!
Instead, it turned out to be a textbook example of the worst time four people can possibly have, ever.  

For starters, it began raining as soon as we got there, and became torrential within minutes. So what, I says. Let's just have a drink and get din-din going.
Right. Din-din. 
Normally, I would rather eat the dirt you chip out from your sneaker treads than a hotdog. It's the ultimate mystery meat. And marshmallows? If you soaked a cheap pillow in aspartame for three days and then cut it into squares, that would taste better. Yet that day, I wolfed back these very items with zeal, because at least it took my mind off the driving rain and mosquitoes the size of kidney beans.
After three hours of this, we'd had enough. Sorry kids, love ya, gotta go. 
The kids debated cutting and running, then the rain stopped and they decided to tough it out. They told me later that it resumed raining at about 3 a.m. By 4 a.m., they couldn't take it anymore and drove 45 minutes to the nearest motel, where they slept until the hedonistic hour of 6 a.m. Then they went home and had a good cry.
Ah well, at least one member of the family had a great time.



Note to self: Before heading to Toronto's adorable Sugar Beach for a relaxing Saturday afternoon, check to make sure it's not THE BIGGEST GAY FESTIVAL OF THE YEAR. In my defence, I am apparently not the only one who didn't get the memo. Yes, you there on the right in the black dress, I am talking to you. See the hundreds of men all around you? Not one of them is looking at you, but if they were, they would be hearing this song in their head: "One of these things is not like the others, One of these things just doesn't belong." It's okay, sister. There will be other Saturdays. Come with me and we will get a margarita and we will enjoy some insightful girl talk . . . starting with how unfair it is that that guy's butt looks better in a thong bikini (centre) than ours ever will.  

EDITOR'S NOTE: Well this looks kinda fun!


Observe chipped, sketchy-looking mess on thumb and 
middle finger. (Funny, I was just thinking of using that finger 
on the person who did this to me.)
If, at a nail salon, you are offered the choice between air-brushed tips and glue-on tips, always go with the glue-ons. Two weeks later, glue-on tips under gel nails will still look pretty. Three days later, air-brushed nails will look chipped and crack-whoreish. That's all for today. Tomorrow I will have some great advice on how to keep your linens smelling fresh as a field of wildflowers.