the gall of it all

ANTM: I See Scary Girls

2009-03-09T11:37:00.010-04:00

So far this season, American Idol and America's Next Top Model have taught us one thing: Puerto Ricans are cool, but not cool enough.

Both series have had spirited P.R.'s as top thirteen finalists, and both were the second contestant eliminated. Maybe it's because none of us are sure exactly how Puerto Rico fits into the American political landscape. Is it a state? A dominion? It's own independent country? We know it's hot and sunny and we'd all like to be there right now, but would we pay for our tropical drinks with American dollars?

In a refreshing twist of sincerity, this season of ANTM has decided to forgo any pretense of looking for genuine model material (was this ever the objective?) and just cast a bunch of weirdos. How else to explain Allison, the bug-eyed blood lover who was named winner of the first photo shoot? I keep waiting for a giant lizard tongue to snap out of her mouth to snag a fly.

Also, has anyone caught the ANTM casting call for next season? Tyra is looking for models...under 5"7. Because there is such huge demand in Milan for designer dwarfs??

You know Tyra is just looking for a way to combine midgets, high heels and a slippery cat walk. I called it here first!

The Angel Riots Sings

2009-02-04T14:01:00.007-05:00

I've finally managed to read my first novel since the baby was born and it was a quick and dirty read.

The Angel Riots, by Ibi Kaslik, enters the touring mayhem of fictional bands The Divine Light Orchestra and The Angel Riots. Through the eyes of Jim, a teen aged violin prodigy, and Rize, a mentally unstable trombone player, we are introduced to a cast of rising Canadian indie pop hipsters.

The brush Kaslik uses to paint some of her characters is not always a kind one. Margo, the only female singer, is described as a chubby, manipulative lush. Kellogg, the mastermind behind the many-membered Montreal pop orchestra, is an egotistical, coke-sniffing self-promoter.

With more tender considerations, Rize and Jim emerge as complicated, poetic voices nearly consumed by the monster of pop success.

For this seriously sleep-deprived mom, The Angel Riots comes alive when Kaslik delves into the gritty lifestyle of touring. I flipped through the pages, hungry to read more about the drugs, the booze, the destructive force of such a transient lifestyle. The book is juicy but it was hard for me to discern how much of the thrill I experienced was informed by my sense that, ahem, some of the characters seemed awfully familiar.

Penguin made no bones when it was promoting The Angel Riots to suggest it was inspired by Kaslik's relationship to certain popular Toronto indie bands. And anyone who is familiar with the personalities in these bands may recognize certain physical and emotional characteristics in some of these characters.

At times I caught myself losing sight of the fiction of Kaslik's work and focusing mainly on the scandalous non-fiction possibilities. Oh my god, has he really done heroin? Wow, was her ex really that crazy?

These sorts of questions are not the kind that normally arise when I'm reading a novel, and Kaslik herself has mentioned to me that she is sick of folks forgetting that she is a fiction writer, not a tabloid editor.

Based solely on the strength of Kaslik's writing, the novel could maintain its page-turning pace for a reader less familiar with the indie scene in Toronto. And its poetic moments are strong. I'm just not currently in a head space to appreciate fine writing. Which is maybe why the dirty angels in Kaslik's novel entertained me the most.

Holy Frak! What's Going on With Battlestar?

2009-01-27T15:51:00.007-05:00

I am not a geek but I did marry a man who likes shows that take place in outer space.

This union means that for months I was stuck watching recorded episodes of Voyager, a show rivaled only by Three's Company for bad acting.

In a desperate move to save myself from yet another episode where Captain Janeway goes Renaissance, I bought the first season of Battlestar Gallactica,a show most nerds I know claim is the greatest series ever made.

We've now watched all 4 seasons on dvd, the webisodes where Gaeta turns out to be...gay, and we're now watching Season 4.5.

There have been some ups and downs to the show's arc (the downs being the webisodes and Season 2, Episode 14) but so far this season has been pretty...ney.

As the final season, expectations are high. I wanted Adama growling hard decisions at his crew, the President disregarding ethics, Starbuck having sex. Instead we get Colonel Saulty Dog doing his best Captain Highliner impression at an ultrasound image of his baby with Number Six? Ahoy matey--when the hell did that copulation take place?

And my eyes are still burning from the image of the President naked in bed with Adama. Between her smooth bald scalp and his crater face, there was just way too much scary skin being exposed. It was like a ProActive ad, with old people.

As James Parker points out in this month's The Atlantic, Battlestar is "presenting all the symptoms of an extended-run high-concept TV series in its decadent phase." This doesn't bode well for viewers like myself, who appreciated the earlier fusing of good special effects, scary alien robots and relevant philosophical discourse (the parallels to 9/11 have been noted duly by all for years).

The most pressing question entering the final season of Battlestar was set up to be: who is the twelfth Cylon? But so many strings have been unravelled and left unaddressed that the plot is becoming tangled in the small annoyances. Like, what does Gaeta's sexuality have to do with anything? Why make Cally an unfaithful wife? And who the frak makes all the plastic replicas the Captain uses to plot out attack strategies?

Ultimately, Battlestar may turn out to be as whimsical and flip-floppy as Gaius Baltar's morals. Let's hope the end of Earth's promise doesn't signal the end of good television.

Colic is Hell

2009-01-26T15:25:00.005-05:00

When I was pregnant and reading baby books, there was one word that lurked in the literature like an evil menace: colic.

The definitions of colic were varied, vague and sometimes conflicting, but I always skipped over the sections on it because, well, there was no way I was going to be cursed with a colicky baby.

Let it be said that I am now a self-defined scholar on the matter. So, what is colic?

Colic is hell.

Colic is what takes over your baby so that you and your husband stop referring to your son by name. Instead you says things like: "How was colic today?" and "We can't go out because we'd have to take colic with us."

Colic dehumanizes your baby, thieves your nights, and makes you feel like a really, really bad mom.

While other new mothers are joining yoga classes and going out for lunches, you are googling "gastro-intestinal" for the thousandth time and wondering why a baby sedative hasn't been invented.

Colic leaves you so delirious with exhaustion that you start scratching itches that aren't there.

After three months, you and your colicky baby are still only wearing sleepers for days on end and you constantly feel guilty because you spend what little energy you have willing away the days until your baby is eight years old and able to make you pancakes while you sleep in.

Colic convinces you that your baby's insides are shredding apart, that his farts are sharp as knives and that when he grows up he will have a weak disposition and complain frequently.

If your baby has colic your pediatrician will tell you "it will pass" and you will fantasize driving a pen into her eyeball.

Colic is being able to rock 16 pounds of distressed flesh in your arms for hours on end. Colic is denying your own physical agony, dislocating your thumb from so many hours of back patting, staying up for hours, days, on end.

Colic is nearly giving up a hundred times but always finding that little extra bit of resolve you need to keep on going.

For coping with colic, see www.fussybaby.ca, askdrsears.com, or visit a naturopath who treats infants.

If you are reading this because you googled "colic," my heart goes out to you.

Biggest Loser Returns With Profanities of All Kinds

2009-01-26T14:39:00.004-05:00

A new season of Biggest Loser and new dramas.

Last season went the way of bad reality television, with undeserving alliances and immature rivalries. However, this season has all the makings of awesome reality entertainment.

We have Bob screaming at Joelle to "shut the f** up!"

We have partners being split up with one half of the team checking in from home (does someone want to tell orange team David that fried chicken and fries do not a healthy meal make?).

And best of all, we have the weekly weigh-in spectacle of tit-tych brown team daddy Ron. I have never seen a man with six breasts before. Dude's got a man udder. He's a human titadactyl. I don't know whether to scream when he takes his shirt off or start throwing dollar bills at his chests.

Speaking of cash, my money is on the black team. With both big boys still on the ranch, they're going to be posting numbers that the ladies won't be able to catch up on.

Back From the Near-Dead

2009-01-26T12:00:00.002-05:00

Four months ago I had visions of writing this blog, my new baby snug against my chest, snoozing peacefully.

Yeah, right.

So, there's been four months of radio silence. I rarely get more than 90 minutes of sleep in a row but for my own sanity I thought I'd take some time to blog.

My entries will be sporadic, probably rife with typos, and after four months of colic, my sense of humour may be stretched, but I promise in all sleep-deprived earnest, to keep up with the site.

Time will tell if this is a threat, a pipe dream, or a promise.

Can We Get Another Doctor in the House?

2008-09-26T10:20:00.006-04:00

Has anyone seen the new Dr. Phil-spawned talk show, The Doctors?

It's a show where people who look like real estate agents but apparently went to med school sit on a huge stage and offer solicited medical advice.

According to the Global website:

This medical dream team will be the "must-go-to" source for information on the latest medical breakthroughs and cutting-edge practices and procedures, providing a valuable resource for viewers who might not have access to the most updated medical advances.

In other words: Fear not, uninsured Americans. Why face an unfriendly HMO when you can just turn on your TV and assume your own hot doctor diagnosis?

The medical legitimacy of applying this crew's diagnoses to oneself is up there with the psychotherapists quoted in US Weekly, the ones who "have never treated Angelina Jolie but believe she is suffering from post-partum depression."

I suppose it was only a matter of time before self-help spilled out from the puddles of talk therapy and began applying itself to other pools (justice, medicine).

So what specific "medical condition" did I catch being addressed yesterday afternoon?

Labia mis-matching.

Apparently a viewer thought her one inner labia fold was larger than the other and wanted to get surgery to correct it.

The Doctors were eager to let viewers know about surgical options and were very reassuring that plastic surgery of the labia is an increasingly popular procedure.

There was no mention of the fact that there is nothing abnormal about large or un-matched labia. Nor was there any mention of the dangers involved in snipping away unnecessarily at a part of the body that is riddled with nerve endings.

In fact, the Doctors underscored how if the woman wants to surgically alter her body it's a reassuring sign, since most plastic surgery candidates are driven to change themselves based on requests from their partners.

I am not sure what is more depressing: being so insecure that I'd spend thousands to mutilate my lady lips, or being so insecure that I would be involved with a partner who'd even think it was an option.

No Matter How Cute They Are...

2008-09-22T14:53:00.003-04:00

When you're pregnant, this insane maternal instinct kicks in where you can actually be brought to tears at the sight of a baby animal in jeopardy.

The first time I witnessed this was two-years ago, when my friend was pregnant and a group of us were watching a YouTube video of an alligator attacking a lion cub.

My friend backed up from the computer and waved her hands in front of her face. "Turn it off! Turn it off! That's horrible!" she shouted as we contined to watch the safari-gone-bad moment with wide eyes.

I found her sensitivity humorously touching at the time.

Then, three months ago, I saw a baby skunk stumbling in the park across from our house. It was mid-afternoon, not really skunk-patrol time. It was all alone. It lopped side to side. It was a baby.

My husband had to hold me back from running across the street and scooping it up in my arms.

A number of torrential rainstorms came shortly after, and I spent most of the summer convinced that our little Pepe Le Pewe was a goner.

Until this weekend. The little guy, still a runt with barely-there-hair on its tail, was spotted by my hubby Saturday morning limping through the park grass. He pointed him out to me and you would think my lost long baby had been returned. More tears were quickly wiped from my eyes. We drove off, me feeling a huge sense of relief that the natural world was indeed a just and good place.

That is until that night, when the skunk came across the street and shot his love juice at our house.

Two days later our living room still carries the residual stench of stunk.

What compelled this little black and white bundle of stink-ass to come to our property?

And why do I suspect that this is the same sort of payoff I can expect for the first six weeks of my baby's life?

Hypnobirthing: A Good Approach, Despite My Previous Post

2008-09-22T14:05:00.008-04:00

So, my post on HypnoBirthing generated more comments than any other, and the responses were thoughtful and thought-provoking. I am very grateful to all the HypnoBirthing instructors whose comments underscored what the birthing approach is really about.

Reflecting on both the post and my experience with the classes, I shouldn't have been so cavalier and inflammatory in my accusations. My disappointment in the learning experience overshadowed the fact that I do think HypnoBirthing is relevant and important.

As someone who has studied mindfulness meditation (and in fact used it along with both Chinese and Western medical practices in order to get pregnant), the principles of HypnoBirthing seemed like a natural extension of my approach to pregnancy.

What I should have underscored is how unnatural it felt to work a nine-hour day at an office, then race home, perform prenatal yoga for 90 minutes and then head directly to a 2 1/2 hour Hypnobirthing class that usually ended around 10:45pm at night.

Even when I gave up yoga (much to the chagrin of my hips) the late night class (and the instructor's admonishment when we arrived late) felt more burdening than empowering.

Did the instructor realize the strain my body and mind felt by 10pm? Maybe. Did she believe that the value imparted by Hypnobirthing was more important? Perhaps. Did I agree with her?

Absolutely not.

I appreciate that HypnoBirthing is about reinforcing the choice we have as parents to determine how our children are brought into this world. But that choice, that responsibility, doesn't start with contractions--it begins now. I've already made dozens of choices as a mother--my choice to be with a midwife, to practice prenatal yoga, to take classes, to warn my family that my hubby and I want privacy for the first couple of days with our newborn.

If I choose not to forgo dinner and thereby come 15 minutes late to a prenatal or HypnoBirthing class than I am making a parenting choice that should be respected by someone advocating for parents making informed decisions.

I was told by another prenatal instructor not to be "too skeptical" about HypnoBirthing. It's good advice for life in general, and upon reflection, my first post really didn't present a fair picture of my view on the practice.

To remember to breathe, to remember that we are our own advocates--these are important daily lessons that rest at the core of HypnoBirthing. In my exhaustion and prenatal-class overload, I may have lost sight of how simple these principles really are.

Burn After Reading Not Worth the Heat

2008-09-15T13:46:00.004-04:00

Have you ever been invited to a really cool party and then you got there and stood awkwardly with a warm beer for a couple of hours, wondering why you thought you'd want these people as your friends?

The filmic equivalent of those uncomfortable hours is Burn After Reading, the new movie from the Coen brothers. It's being toted as a satire but it's actually a farce, with overblown characters and ludicrous incidents leading up to...well, not much.

It's almost painful to watch an actress as respectable as Fran McDormand reduced to hysterically squealing, while Brad Pitt's interpretation of a personal trainer has the subtlety and originality of an eleven-year old's performance in an improv exercise.

Maybe the inclusion of a guy named Cox (John Malkovich) and a guy obsessed with his cock (George Clooney) push this film into the darker regions, but there is nothing particularly funny about the dialogue or plot. And again, the actors' deliveries are so ham-fisted that they border closer to annoying than entertaining.

If you are looking for a party that you'll actually enjoy, I recommend going out to see Hamlet 2. It includes Steve Coogan, a musical number about sexy Jesus, and a testes-temperature moderating caftan. Now that's comedy.

Me and SNL: The Break-Up That Will Never Happen and Is Long Overdue

2008-09-15T12:57:00.004-04:00

Every time I hear any hype about an upcoming episode of Saturday Night Live, I tune in, anticipating hilarity and timely wit.

And almost every time I am disappointed.

My hubby has never understood my commitment to SNL. He belongs to the camp that thinks the show should have been cancelled sometime around Dennis Miller's departure.

This might be true, but then we would have missed out on some of the most hilarious skits in recent years, including Timberlake's "Cock in a Box" duet and the Diaper Thongs ad.

That said, this weekend's season premier was so unfunny that I only lasted until the second commercial set before I conceded the remote control and relented to watching the Food Network.

Yes, Tina Fey looks exactly like Sarah Palin. Yes, I love Tina Fey. But really, was her skit with Amy Poehler as Hillary Clinton really that funny?

At the Republican Convention, the Daily Show coverage of the Republican's hypocrisy when it comes to women's issues and this election was brilliant. Witty. Tear-inducing.

The opening SNL skit? Meh.

And watching Michael Phelps read cue cards while fully dressed was as painful as having the gym lights come on at the end of a drunken high school dance. Dude, you are WAY uglier than I thought.

So, do I end my 15-year lip lock with unreliable comedy? Probably not. With the funny business, I will always respect attempts at humour, even if they fail. Because comedy is hard. And you have to be willing to try a hundred times over, if only for one laugh.

I know this makes me a bad comedy enabler but what the hell. Sometimes those ecstatic drunken moments before the lights come on make even the ugly boys worth giving a chance.

Hypnobirthing: Look Into My Eyes

2008-09-10T10:27:00.006-04:00

Last night the hubby and I snuck out of hypnobirthing class like a pair of cons making a break from Alcatraz.

It was at 9:45pm. We were only halfway through class. We were exhausted. And when we explained as much to our instructor we got a barely concealed sneer of contempt.

Her flaring nostrils basically said: You Are Bad Parents.

We had high hopes for hypnobirthing when we signed up. I imagined calm weekly meditation sessions, similar to the mindfulness meditation course I took last winter. Lots of breathing. Maybe a babbling brook or two.

Instead, we've been subjected to weekly propaganda sessions held in a cramped yoga studio that stinks of unwashed feet. Hour after hour has been spent letting us know how the medical profession has every intention of wrenching our baby from our arms and stabbing it with needles as soon as it's forcepped out into the world.

We've been told 'stats' on the evils of epidurals and Pitocin. Eye drops? The doctor might as well drop his pants and piss in your kid's eye. And nurses? Hysterical, uninformed, and condescending.

The instruction has been fear-mongering at best. In fact, last night, I realized that I had never had any anxiety towards labour until I started going to these classes.

After painstakingly going through every detail of a three-page birthing plan that we are supposed to present to our health care providers, I finally asked: Does any of this apply to couples who are using a midwife?

The short answer: no. Turns out that 4 weeks spent belabouring the evils of the medical approach to childbirth were pointless since they have no real application to how my own labour will be.

And, in fact, some of the concerns expressed about the medical approach were irrelevant to Canada (we no longer have nurseries for newborns, for instance).

Despite all the emphasis on parents being advocates for their own choices during labour, it seems our hypnobirthing instructor has lost sight of respecting her own students' choices.

Already the hubby and I are considering skipping our last class. I mean, I've been staring at her illustration of a uterus for 4 weeks. I get it. It looks like a whoopee cushion.

Frankly, I've had enough of the hot air.

Why Is Pregnancy Congratulated and Motherhood Ignored?

2008-09-05T14:33:00.005-04:00

Suddenly in the last couple of weeks, my pregnancy has been embraced by the world at large.

Waitresses, store staff and random female strangers are all now commenting on my belly, wishing me luck and basically cheering me on.

For some reason, the only men who rally my bump are homeless dudes, which is sort of sweet and also sort of sad. Usually because I start to imagine a time when the homeless dude was just a regular dude trying to get by, with a girlfriend and a baby.

Then I realize something had to happen for him to make the leap to the street so I start wondering about the girlfriend and how maybe he didn't treat her so well when he got drunk and then I think about the odds of his baby making its way out of a cycle of poverty and substance abuse and I get depressed and sort of angry at the homeless dude because he's high and happy and hooting at me "Hey Congrats!" and meanwhile his offspring is rolling dubes behind her grade seven mold-ridden portable, begrudging her single mom while devising lists of high school boys she can fellate. Sigh.

Anyway, while my body is feeling the extra 35 pounds and the pressure against my organs mount, the general attitude of festivity has been appreciated. I like repeating my due date a dozen times a day because, frankly, it's all I'm thinking about.

But as the number of supportive strangers increases, so does my bafflement with social attitudes towards motherhood. Why is it that we cheer on women in their third trimester but huff with annoyance when we have to step around an exhausted new mom and her stroller?

As far as I know, women don't rush up to mothers and pat them on the back and say, "What you do is amazing. Congratulations!"

From what I've seen, new moms are basically invisible, while their squirming, time-consuming, pooping, barfing, crying babes are the ones who garner all the praise.

Which means I have 6 weeks to suck in all the attention and sympathy and well-wishes that I can. Because after that, the hard work begins and, until my kid can thank me in his valedictorian speech (after earnestly musing that high school was the 'best years of our lives,' hrmph) it's pretty much a thankless job.

ANTM Recap: The Future is Here

2008-09-05T10:13:00.009-04:00

Watching the premiere of America's Next Top Model was sort of like getting a glimpse of the future and having it confirmed that reality television really will be responsible for the downfall of civilization.

Sort of terrifying and sort of mesmerizing in the campiest of all possible ways.

Cycle 11's opening episode is all about the future, which is also confused with martians, models and translucent rain coats. It begs so many questions:

Why was Miss J given the title Alpha J while Mr. Jay was relegated to the Beta second fiddle? Is this Tyra's attempt to further emasculate a man already forced to wear silver lame and white pants?

Why must the judges beam in and out of every shot like a triage of drag Captn. Kirks? Which leads to...

Why is the future of modelling so unbelievably fugly? White/grey hair, ill-fitting cruise wear for men, wetsuits for women?

Despite the rocking outhouse called the Glaminator 11.0, ANTM is alllll about ham this cycle. And not the ham that gives you listeria but rather the type of ham that offers Tyra-rific performances including:

Tyra as a moose
Tyra as a robot
Tyra as a humanitarian (did you know she has white friends?)

Of course, Tyra has got some semi-finalists competing for the crazy crown. Front runners include Marjorie (think Woody Allen disguised as a blond French Amelie), Elina (she's the girl in third year university who made you contemplate your bisexuality until she started rambling about animal liberation and then you suddenly realized her breath stunk of vegan halitosis and you stopped going to your philosophy class)and Clark (Southern hostility and a mannish face that the judges inexplicably keep describing as pretty).

The least crazy pair are Ultimate Fighter McKey, who took her hair style from Run Lola Run and Isis, the first transgendered contestant on the show. Isis is serious and gangly and looks like an awkward boy in a bathing suit, but she's so badgered and abused by most of the other girls (especially Clark and Hannah Alaska) that I hope she makes it to the finale.

I am also loving Sheena, a hot Sandra Oh channelling 50 cent.

Marjorie's photo ends up on top, and some girl who we don't care about because it's too early, is eliminated.

Next week: Elina converts Clark to the bi-side and Hannah Alaska is accused of racism. Scandal!

America's Next Top Model Premieres Tonight

2008-09-03T13:42:00.002-04:00

Yes, Tyra is back. It's like we hardly had a chance to miss her.

Cycle 11's two-hour premiere unleashes its beastly self this eve. As you most likely already know, this season promises to be more scandalous than ever before because, great balls of fury, there's a transgendered contestant.

Actually, I am not sure if the bits have been snipped from the bob, but you know that won't stop Tyra from repeatedly upstaging the trannie. She will probably also use the she-man to belittle the rest of the starving gazelles by pointing out how s/he is ten times more feminine than them.

Since I will be at pre-natal class, I won't be able to recap the show until Friday.

Birthing Video Outburst Confirms: My Husband and I Will Never Fit Into Prenatal Classes

2008-08-14T11:02:00.004-04:00

Last night the hubby and I attended a prenatal class at our midwives' clinic.

Now, the night before I had attended prenatal yoga and then we'd gone to a hypnobirthing class, so needless to say, we were already feeling some birthing burnout.

We were one of ten couples at the class last night. The instructor, a doula, announced she was going to show us a video of couples birthing in the Black Sea, just so we could see that birth does not have to take place in a sterile hospital environment.

Then the video started. Keep in mind my husband and I were sitting right beside the TV, in front of everyone.

So, first there's some soothing '70s flute tunes accompanying grainy colour footage of naked Russian couples hanging off each other while the mother labours. The couples are surrounded by other naked men and women who seem intent on rubbing the labouring mom.

More flute tunes worthy of a 1976 margarine commercial. A pale newborn and its umbilical cord float in the water. Then a slo-mo shot of a seagull soaring past the clouds.

This is when I started to giggle. I actively avoided looking at my husband while I tried to catch my breath.

Cut to a shot of a naked boy playing flute on a rock. I saw my husband's foot shaking up and down. I bit my lip and used my hand to hide my face from the other, very serious, couples around us.

At this point, tears were streaming down my face, my whole body was shaking with laughter. I could hear my husband making little squeaks as he gasped for breath.

More babies float in the water and then: the dolphins arrive.

I actually blurted "Dolphin!" and my husband and I made eye contact and all was lost. We both collapsed in hysterics, our faces bright red and soaked in tears.

When the movie ended a few minutes later, the class was silent. My husband and I hung our heads and stared at our toes. I used the cuff of my sweat shirt to wipe my running nose.

When I finally faced the room, I realized not a single person was at all amused. But we had just witnessed naked Russians and dolphins and flute-playing toddlers!

It wasn't like we'd laughed because birth is silly or naked women freak us out. We're not a pair of 12-year-old boys (which I was quickly starting to feel like). It was an awesomely bad video. And one that is apparently available on You Tube and hugely popular with birthing classes.

Maybe that's the real purpose of the film. When I'm in labour I can keep in mind: thank god some dolphin isn't lurking around me.

93-Year-Old Writes Her Way to Old Lady Freedom

2008-08-12T10:49:00.004-04:00

93-year-old Lorna Page has become one of the oldest first-time novelists, with the debut of A Dangerous Weakness.

The book is described as a "raunchy" feminist thriller set in the Alps. Page used her advance to buy a country house, where she plans to locate her friends who would otherwise be destined for the old folks' home.

I'm not surprised that a great-grandmother can write but it's reassuring to see that she can also be published. A couple of years ago I taught creative writing to seniors and while the talent was there, it was often presented (especially by the women) with a sense of embarrassed humility. And yet these writers had so much more to say than most of their young twenty-something counterparts.

Unlike the undergrad writing class I taught, where every other story involved a couple having an argument (inevitably over the phone or in a car), the seniors wrote about abandonment, war, immigration and domestic joy and strife.

Their stories offered surprises (and of course, some cliches) but they were eager to get their lives on paper. And yes, there were some raunchy stories (one male student always described his female characters' "bosoms") which when read out loud had to complete against the snoring of one student who could never remain awake for the entire two-hour workshop.

In retrospect, I loved my class. Hearing aids were more popular than Havaianas and when I asked them to bring in snacks for our last class, not one but two students brought in homemade Christmas cake. The students, who ranged in age from 70 to 92, were earnest, passionate and committed. Lorna Page would have fit right in.

Because Labour is No Excuse for Looking Bad

2008-08-08T09:28:00.003-04:00

On the Jezebel site, they note the latest in over-priced and unnecessary fashion directed towards pregnant women: the birthing gown.

Called the Dar-a-Luz Maternity Gown (Spanish for "to give birth"), it's basically a $98 jersey dress made with 100% organic cotton.

According to the marketing copy, "You're a fashionista in every aspect of your life, why not when you are bringing new life into the world too?"

Um, maybe because you have more important things on your mind? Like, uh, giving birth?

Despite my disgust with the marketing, I have to admit, the dress is pretty. But even this admission makes me feel shallow.

Morgan Freeman "Real Good"

2008-08-07T15:41:00.003-04:00

Morgan Freeman is feeling "real good" after being released from Elvis Presley Regional Medical Centre today at "12 noon Memphis time" (not to be confused with "Love Me Tender" time or Greenwich Mean Time).

Freeman, 71, was driving his lady friend's '97 Nissan Maxima on Sunday night when it rolled. His lady friend is 48.

Morgan Freeman, who is famous for playing, well, Morgan Freeman, will be wearing a neck brace for the next six months.

His wife, however, will likely be wearing half her husband's earnings after her divorce attorney is finished with him. It was confirmed today that the pair, married since 1984, will be parting ways.

I normally don't post gossip but I just really wanted you to know that Morgan Freeman press releases sound just like Morgan Freeman.

Stupid Things People Say to Pregnant Women

2008-08-06T10:33:00.003-04:00

Before I was pregnant, I could usually be counted on to say things to pregnant women that, in retrospect, were entirely un-funny and/or stupid.

I share my former ignorance with you now, if only to save me from having to hear you repeat these same ridiculous comments.

It Must Be Awesome Not to Get Your Period for Nine Months
Oh yeah. 50 days of heavy to light bleeding are totally unbearable compared to a 100+ days of random fluids leaking into your underwear.

The other morning I was chatting to my husband when I realized I had a dribble of pee running down my thigh.

Being period-free is so glamorous.

Looking Bloated!
I actually used to say this to a pregnant coworker while pointing my finger at her like a schmuck.

The fact that I was completely jealous of her pregnancy and on some pretty heavy-duty drugs is no excuse.

A pregnant woman has a giant uterus taking up space previously occupied by her lungs, stomach, bowels and bladder. She is not bloated, or fat, or as one giant asshole recently called me "tubby." A pregnant woman is pregnant and the best way to acknowledge it is by offering her your goddamn seat on the bus.

You Look Tired
My husband and I debated this one the other week. He thinks that when people tell me I look tired they are expressing a genuine concern for my well-being.

I say bullshit.

Unless it's my boss directing me to leave work early so I can sleep, there is no concern being expressed. It's just damn rude to point out to someone that she looks haggard.

I look tired? Dude, I am tired. And guess what? Tired people are not the people you want to go insulting. I spent all night getting kicked and punched from the inside out. And now I have the privilege of having my appearance scrutinized?

How about I follow you around for a week, sucker-punching you every time you shut your eyes? But don't worry. I'll then tell you how exhausted you appear, proving that I really do have your best interests at heart.

Tyra Nominates Herself First Lady

2008-08-06T09:45:00.002-04:00

In a creepy display of narcissism and idol-worshipping that even by Tyra's standards are over-the-top, Ms. Banks is in this month's Harper's Bazaar posing as Michelle Obama.

The photos are a terrifying display of Tyra's posing dictum: Look Angry.

Check out Harper's to see Tyra look like an angry madwoman reading to fearful children, an angry madwoman dressed in Harvard sweats post-coital and an angry madwoman pulling out her earring in order to stab her child with it.

Scary.

James Bond Meets Iron Chef

2008-08-05T15:25:00.003-04:00

Over the course of two days on the beach, I read the latest installment of the James Bond series, The Devil May Care. Penned by Sebastian Faulks as Ian Flemming, the novel follows Bond through Iran as he tracks an evil dude with a deformed hand (it looks like a monkey paw).

Bond attempts to thwart monkey paw's plans to kick start a cold war, relying on a cast of American, British and Iranians characters to assist him.

If it seems like I am being light on details, it's because very little of this novel's plot, characters or themes made any kind of impression. That said, what more does one want from a beach read?

I have never read a Bond book before, so I am not sure how Faulks fares in capturing Flemming's voice. I suspect Faulks relies too heavily on descriptions of food (I could list every meal Bond eats or doesn't eat during his time in Tehran) while skipping nervously over more intimate encounters (it is still not clear to me if Bond actually has sex in this story or not).

Rules on caviar are expressed with the kind of heavy-handed glee novice researchers usually impart in their early novels (Gee, did you know caviar should smell like the sea, not like fish?) and it betrays an authorial insecurity about Bond's character.

That said, now having the sweet joy of imagining Daniel Craig shirtless in every scene made reading The Devil May Care a much more enjoyable beach experience than say, imagining Roger Moore taking on a dude with bad teeth.

Top Model Takes On Broadway: Charges Laid

2008-08-05T15:11:00.004-04:00

America's Next Top Model mouthpiece Bianca (you know, the one who gave Asperger's a hard time) has been charged after getting into a fight with Hairspray star Nikki Blonsky.

Both D-listers were charged by cops in Turks and Caicos after Bianca challenged Nikki for blocking off five seats for her family in the crowded airport lounge. Blonsky's dad was also charged, for allegedly beating up Bianca's mom.

Note to self: do not challenge men from Louisiana.

NOW versus New Yorker

2008-07-18T13:47:00.006-04:00

After I bought a feminist T-shirt for a gal pal to wear during our 2004 march on Washington, the National Organization for Women (NOW) has been sending me regular emails.

And in four years, they've actually never taken a position that I haven't fully agreed with.

Until now.

This morning I received a call to action from my fearless American sisters full of outrage over...the current New Yorker cover.

This is the much-maligned cartoon that depicts Barack and Michelle Obama as the embodiment of right wing fears (Barack wears a turban while standing next to Michelle, his Black Panther honey, in front of a cozy American flag-burning fire).

Here is blurb from the NOW email I received:

New Yorker Cover -- Satire or Slur?
Send Editor Remnick A Message!
You don't even need to open the latest edition of the New Yorker to see racism in the media and the presidential race. All you need to do is look at the cover!

The July 21 issue of the New Yorker magazine features a caricature of Senator Barack and Michelle Obama in the Oval Office...
New Yorker editor David Remnick says it is satire, so that makes it okay?

Action Needed:
Sorry, we're not buying it. This cover will appear on newsstands across the country, possibly the world, and will likely do more to fuel racist stereotypes than to skewer them.

Perhaps NOW would have bought Remnick's explanation if he had noted the cover was actually an example of bad satire. Because it is.

Satire is supposed to be witty ridicule and the problem with the cover is that it confuses the target of its scorn. While the target may be Republic fear-mongering gossip about the nature of the Obamas' past political affiliations, the illustrations sets up the couple as the targets.

I mean, we all know the New Yorker's political leanings (left) and we all know that, more often than not, their cartoons hardly reach the comic heights of, say, Garfield.

But even if every actionator at NOW was completely daft to the history of the New Yorker, my other immediate reaction to their email was, WTF?

Are there not enough seriously pressing women's issues tied up in the upcoming American election? How about pro-choice supporters being denied access to a McCain town hall, even though they had tickets? Or his self-proclaimed unawareness that insurance companies in the US cover Viagra but not the birth control pill?

I appreciate that women's issues include marginalized women's issues, but I really don't believe that the New Yorker has set out, or succeeded, in setting back black women. In fact the only thing it has done is highlighted the precious attitude media is taking towards America's first black presidential candidate.

Will it be safe for anyone in the media to take on the Obamas as comedic targets? It seems that the challenge remains to be taken up.

New Yorker Depends on Staff for Coke Leads

2008-07-18T12:41:00.004-04:00

David, Carr, a culture reporter with the New York Times, is also the author of Night of the Gun, a forthcoming memoir detailing his darker days of addiction.

The book includes copies of Carr's rejection letters, including this one from the New Yorker.

I only wish my own New Yorker rejection slip had included an inadvertent reference to its coke-addled staff.