Wednesday, August 18, 2004
The Feminine Side
There’ve been a lot of girly activities lately, which have given me the opportunity to get more in touch with my feminine side – without squatting over mirrors or anything. The first was the dreaded baby shower.
Baby showers often have a lot to recommend them: there’s good food (always save room for dessert, parties with women know the value of an exceptional dessert bar), lots of wine, ribald conversation, and tips (not necessarily stock tips but the types of things you’d expect to read about in Chatelaine or Good Housekeeping). But then there are the minuses.
This was a work-related party, so it “allowed me to relax in an informal setting with my coworkers.” Does anyone actually buy that? I was the only single non-mom among them, and they made me pay for that. I made the cardinal mistake of paying more attention to the conversation than to my cocktail when I heard people start talking about the last stages of pregnancy. Despite having been to this sort of event before, and knowing how candid these women are wont to be, I turned to the speaker with polite interest.
And that’s when she started talking about something called a “mucous plug.”
I don’t know what it is, all I know is I had to sleep with the lights on for three days in case one tried to sneak into my room and suffocate me while I slept.
Why, oh why, do women feel the need to relive every terrifyingly gross moment of the birthing experience when they get together? You’d think that since it was a baby shower that that would make sense, but it’s not so, talking about stuff like that is bound to terrify the mom-to-be. These get togethers are by far the most effective form of birth control ever. Now when I look over at Rage and think about how neat it would be if I had a baby the words “mucous plug” flit through my head and my ovaries seize. Jesus, give me boys talking about the size, girth, and consistency of their bowel movements any day.
The next event was a Stag and Doe, but it was really more like a joint wedding shower. When I think Stag and Doe I imagine gambling, drinking, and listening to Platinum Blonde and Def Leopard. What we did was sit politely around the apartment of a girl G and I went to high school with and discuss the plans for various girls’ upcoming weddings. The boys were on the balcony admiring, what the host assured me was, the “million dollar view.”
G and I had been sort of dreading this a little. It was kind of a Bridget Jones sort of deal where two single girls who are in no special hurry to “settle down” are going to an event where everyone more or less has. They ask the questions, about your love life and about your career, that you dread answering ‘cause you’re not exactly where you’d planned to be and you’re certainly not doing what everyone else is. I think that I can speak for G in this instance when I say that we are both, normally, pretty happy with our lives but events like these pierce little holes in our armour and remind us that maybe we haven’t really been working as hard as we should to attain our own modest goals. Should we want a boyfriend to settle down with? Should we want a different higher paying job? Kids? A house? A suit? Are any of the choices we’ve made adult and appropriate?
And then they start with the games. We played the game with the necklaces you wear and have to give up if you say either of two agreed upon words. We left when they started the smelling game. First all the men would line up, the bride-to-be would be blindfolded and she was to identify her fiancée by smell. He would then do the same thing with the girls. We left before I could make any dog related jokes, which is probably just as well.
The last girl-related activity I participated in was last night’s book club. Big M is in a book club in Toronto and I asked if I could join too. My feeling is this, I really only have the one hobby (more or less), so why not incorporate other people into it? Plus, any excuse to spend more time with Big M is one I’ll take.
We were supposed to meet at six forty-five last night, but we were both fifteen minutes late. I’m all stressed because this is my first meeting, and I didn’t have time to pick up some wine to give to the hostess. I was hoping we’d pass something on the way, but we didn’t. It’s while we’re making our way down to the street the meeting’s on that she says to me,
“Did you bring the directions?”
“No, I thought about that on the subway, but I wasn’t too worried, ‘cause I was sure you would.”
“I didn’t!”
“Oh. Shit. Well, it was either 307 or 595. I know the name of the street!”
“307 or 595?”
“I think.”
Silence.
Sigh. “Okay, well let’s just head down there. I’ve been there before, but it was awhile ago. I think it was close to a church.”
It was a little like trying to find a body with a psychic. “Yes, yes, this is familiar. I remember seeing that potted plant. Yes, that’s the church. We’re close, I can feel it!”
Fortunately another girl came up behind us going to the same place, and she’d had the foresight to bring the directions with her. The address was 495. We were the first three to arrive at a charming home in downtown Toronto. It was a beautiful, clean home, owned and lived in by the most perfect family. Dad was hot, mom was beautiful, and the two little girls were sweet and funny and blonde and perfect. I wanted to hate them, but they were so sweet. I want her life!
Predictably, you only ever end up talking about the book for about a third of the time you’re there, the rest of the time is spent catching up, telling stories, drinking wine, and eating. There were a couple of truly hilarious things said. I had mentioned I’d lived in Edmonton so our hostess’ husband (or, our host) asked me if I’d seen any Oilers’ games, which I had. While we were talking about hockey one of the women said, “Oh. Who’s that one player? The big dumb one?” As one our mouths dropped. I think his name is Joe, and he’s from Canada. As it turned out, she was thinking of Eric Lindros.
The book we were discussing was Emma, so clearly this lead to discussions of Clueless and the various versions of Emma that exist. This of course led to discussions of how yummy Colin Firth is. The following conversation ensued:
“Did you hear about that movie he was in? They had to cut the nude scene because his penis is so huge that it was distracting everyone.”
Every girl in the room, whipping streaked hair around and shouting, “What?!”
“It’s true; I can’t remember the name of the movie though…”
“Oh, I know the one you’re talking about, but that wasn’t Colin Firth, it’s Colin Farrell.”
Collectively in tones of deepest disappointment, “Oh.”
“I liked the story better when it was Colin Firth.”
Everyone, “Me too.”
“Oh, did you guys see that movie Seabisquit? That was so good, I was crying after about five minutes.”
“Really, why?”
“You know, ‘cause of the Depression.”
“Yours or the historical event?”
“It was sad! The parents had to give up their son; he must have been so scared.”
“Why was Toby Maguire’s name Seabisquit, anyway? What kind of a name is that?”
Silence.
“That was the horse’s name.”
“Oh.”
There’ve been a lot of girly activities lately, which have given me the opportunity to get more in touch with my feminine side – without squatting over mirrors or anything. The first was the dreaded baby shower.
Baby showers often have a lot to recommend them: there’s good food (always save room for dessert, parties with women know the value of an exceptional dessert bar), lots of wine, ribald conversation, and tips (not necessarily stock tips but the types of things you’d expect to read about in Chatelaine or Good Housekeeping). But then there are the minuses.
This was a work-related party, so it “allowed me to relax in an informal setting with my coworkers.” Does anyone actually buy that? I was the only single non-mom among them, and they made me pay for that. I made the cardinal mistake of paying more attention to the conversation than to my cocktail when I heard people start talking about the last stages of pregnancy. Despite having been to this sort of event before, and knowing how candid these women are wont to be, I turned to the speaker with polite interest.
And that’s when she started talking about something called a “mucous plug.”
I don’t know what it is, all I know is I had to sleep with the lights on for three days in case one tried to sneak into my room and suffocate me while I slept.
Why, oh why, do women feel the need to relive every terrifyingly gross moment of the birthing experience when they get together? You’d think that since it was a baby shower that that would make sense, but it’s not so, talking about stuff like that is bound to terrify the mom-to-be. These get togethers are by far the most effective form of birth control ever. Now when I look over at Rage and think about how neat it would be if I had a baby the words “mucous plug” flit through my head and my ovaries seize. Jesus, give me boys talking about the size, girth, and consistency of their bowel movements any day.
The next event was a Stag and Doe, but it was really more like a joint wedding shower. When I think Stag and Doe I imagine gambling, drinking, and listening to Platinum Blonde and Def Leopard. What we did was sit politely around the apartment of a girl G and I went to high school with and discuss the plans for various girls’ upcoming weddings. The boys were on the balcony admiring, what the host assured me was, the “million dollar view.”
G and I had been sort of dreading this a little. It was kind of a Bridget Jones sort of deal where two single girls who are in no special hurry to “settle down” are going to an event where everyone more or less has. They ask the questions, about your love life and about your career, that you dread answering ‘cause you’re not exactly where you’d planned to be and you’re certainly not doing what everyone else is. I think that I can speak for G in this instance when I say that we are both, normally, pretty happy with our lives but events like these pierce little holes in our armour and remind us that maybe we haven’t really been working as hard as we should to attain our own modest goals. Should we want a boyfriend to settle down with? Should we want a different higher paying job? Kids? A house? A suit? Are any of the choices we’ve made adult and appropriate?
And then they start with the games. We played the game with the necklaces you wear and have to give up if you say either of two agreed upon words. We left when they started the smelling game. First all the men would line up, the bride-to-be would be blindfolded and she was to identify her fiancée by smell. He would then do the same thing with the girls. We left before I could make any dog related jokes, which is probably just as well.
The last girl-related activity I participated in was last night’s book club. Big M is in a book club in Toronto and I asked if I could join too. My feeling is this, I really only have the one hobby (more or less), so why not incorporate other people into it? Plus, any excuse to spend more time with Big M is one I’ll take.
We were supposed to meet at six forty-five last night, but we were both fifteen minutes late. I’m all stressed because this is my first meeting, and I didn’t have time to pick up some wine to give to the hostess. I was hoping we’d pass something on the way, but we didn’t. It’s while we’re making our way down to the street the meeting’s on that she says to me,
“Did you bring the directions?”
“No, I thought about that on the subway, but I wasn’t too worried, ‘cause I was sure you would.”
“I didn’t!”
“Oh. Shit. Well, it was either 307 or 595. I know the name of the street!”
“307 or 595?”
“I think.”
Silence.
Sigh. “Okay, well let’s just head down there. I’ve been there before, but it was awhile ago. I think it was close to a church.”
It was a little like trying to find a body with a psychic. “Yes, yes, this is familiar. I remember seeing that potted plant. Yes, that’s the church. We’re close, I can feel it!”
Fortunately another girl came up behind us going to the same place, and she’d had the foresight to bring the directions with her. The address was 495. We were the first three to arrive at a charming home in downtown Toronto. It was a beautiful, clean home, owned and lived in by the most perfect family. Dad was hot, mom was beautiful, and the two little girls were sweet and funny and blonde and perfect. I wanted to hate them, but they were so sweet. I want her life!
Predictably, you only ever end up talking about the book for about a third of the time you’re there, the rest of the time is spent catching up, telling stories, drinking wine, and eating. There were a couple of truly hilarious things said. I had mentioned I’d lived in Edmonton so our hostess’ husband (or, our host) asked me if I’d seen any Oilers’ games, which I had. While we were talking about hockey one of the women said, “Oh. Who’s that one player? The big dumb one?” As one our mouths dropped. I think his name is Joe, and he’s from Canada. As it turned out, she was thinking of Eric Lindros.
The book we were discussing was Emma, so clearly this lead to discussions of Clueless and the various versions of Emma that exist. This of course led to discussions of how yummy Colin Firth is. The following conversation ensued:
“Did you hear about that movie he was in? They had to cut the nude scene because his penis is so huge that it was distracting everyone.”
Every girl in the room, whipping streaked hair around and shouting, “What?!”
“It’s true; I can’t remember the name of the movie though…”
“Oh, I know the one you’re talking about, but that wasn’t Colin Firth, it’s Colin Farrell.”
Collectively in tones of deepest disappointment, “Oh.”
“I liked the story better when it was Colin Firth.”
Everyone, “Me too.”
“Oh, did you guys see that movie Seabisquit? That was so good, I was crying after about five minutes.”
“Really, why?”
“You know, ‘cause of the Depression.”
“Yours or the historical event?”
“It was sad! The parents had to give up their son; he must have been so scared.”
“Why was Toby Maguire’s name Seabisquit, anyway? What kind of a name is that?”
Silence.
“That was the horse’s name.”
“Oh.”
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