MonkeyPants

Watching The 2009 Junos

I don’t usually watch awards shows. They leave me cold. But since E has been working the past eleven days straight on the Junos, I thought I’d see the results of his handiwork.

Nickelback? Insisted on pyro even though they were first.  That’s rude like making someone else carry your used tissues is rude. Plus, Chad whatshisface gives me hives. Even with his clean hair and sincere singer face on.

Who is Gord Downey singing with? The frontman looks like a math teacher. Where’s the rock’n’roll? Oops, wrong key for a second there! I caught that!

I am really glad Loverboy’s being inducted into the Hall of Fame. I love Loverboy. Who doesn’t, really? Those red leather pants are iconic! But wait, how did they get so old? And Mike Reno seems to have had some very satisfying meals! Oh, but the sixty year old in the evening dress across the aisle from them, making the ‘you rock’ sign? He just made me cry!

Also, this Russel Peters person. He is mildly amusing, but the punchline always seems to be that he’s brown. Hello, I am pink, more so in exertion. Can I host an awards show?

Hmm. This lead singer will probably regret his choice of what appear to be capri pants.  Although, I must say I like their music.

I think Bryan Adams is doing the Geddy Lee thing and aging appealingly. He was -aah! He just broke off laughing!  Yes, he is definitely getting cuter.

Urgh. Sam Roberts’s bandmate is sporting a terrible wanna-be-a-dictator ‘tache. And nobody in the band even bothered shaving. What’s with that? Oooh, but Dave Nugent is a very handsome young man.

Great Big Sea and Hawksley Workman are doing Gallows Pole. Scratch that. Butchering it. Where’s the melody? Oh. Wait. Maybe that’s it-oh, no. Too soon. And where’s the verse about the brother?  There’s the melody. Okay.  They definitely Great Big Sea-ed it. Yep. They Great Big Sea-ed the soul right out of it.

That was…an awards show. Now I’m going to go listen to some Led Zeppelin. Played by Led Zeppelin.

The Prurient Urges of Teens

...or why the Twilight series is so popular. Hm. I might change that title. I don’t know who’s going to Google that.

Anyhow, I’ve been thinking about this a lot recently. Why is Ed the Undead so popular with younger teenaged girls?  He’s totally safe. (At least until the fourth book, which my sister-in-law has read, and confirms that he does unveil his Sparkly Love Wand. “How does that work? Is it always hard?” my brother asked. “Yes,” said Carol. “So does it, you know, bend?” “It’s articulated.”)

But I digress. Edward can’t even kiss Bella for more than a little while before he has to draw back so he doesn’t suck her blood. His self-control is absolute. We know this because his passion is boundless, yet he never even considers making her into a quick snack. She is forbidden fruit, and he obeys the rules. Furthermore, he never tries to talk her into going a step further. He never says, “C’mon, baby, just with our shirts off.”  He’s safe. The safety and non-cajoling factor is important for your average early teenage girl, because she doesn’t have a lot of experience. Edward’s self-control is appealing because he’s not giving in to his bad self, and he’s certainly not letting Bella, either.

Notice the verb up there? Letting. He’s the one in control because “He’s older and he knows better.” And, boy, do we hear that a lot. But he’s older so he acts as guidance. And first love is scary. Who wouldn’t want a little guidance? But not from someone who is inappropriately older, because then there’s a power imbalance. But Edward looks the same age as Bella, so there isn’t that Creepy Older Guy thing going on. He’s calling the shots, and he’s staying within the safety guidelines. But because he doesn’t look grossly older, it’s okay.

Also, there’s his appearance. He’s handsome, and that’s nice. But hell, he’s sparkly! And only Bella knows it! It’s like he has a secret girlie side only she knows about! It’s the boyfriend who lets you paint his toenails!

Edward is actually a perfect recipe for young teenage girls to crush on. He’s virile, but he’s not going to force the issue, so he’s safe. He has loads of experience, but, on the surface, never strays into a power imbalance, because he looks like a teenager.   And he sparkles in the sunshine, like dollar-ninety-nine drugstore nail polish. What thirteen-year-old girl could resist?

Bus Bitches.

I’m on the bus tonight. It’s late, I’m tired. I want my couch, I want some crap TV, and I want to pet my cat.

Right now, though, I am forced to endure the conversation of three tipsy rich girls whose conversation is entirely made up of stupidity and cruelty.  They’re in first year at UBC, I can tell by the courses they’re moaning about. But they’re there for what my mother used to call their MRS degrees. They’re at school to find husbands. But since first year is too early to actually look for a husband, just now they are party girls with bad attitudes.

On an English prof: It’s like, he thinks writing, like, matters! I’m, like, “I’m here for the credits.”

On a roommate: I, like, can’t be around her anymore. She’s too, like, nice. She has, like these parents, who, like send her care packages and stuff! Her mom, like, sent her condoms! And a note! It said, “Don’t kiss any boys you don’t know.” Her mom thinks she’s like, getting some. And she isn’t!

On parents: My mom’s like, “I just need a view.” I’m like, “You’re moving again?” She’s, like, looking at places moving down from four bathrooms to two bathrooms.  My dad’s like, “It’s disgusting.”

On my other side are two alterna-lesbians who dart glances at theis golden trio, with combined disgust and terror in their eyes. This I get. Girls like these bitches are a cause of teenage suicide. They are the reason normal girls cry.

Their smug shells of complacent entitlement will protect them from a lot. But not everything. And not forever. Life will throw them curveballs. I wonder if they’ll grow into grace, or harden into brittle shells.

Time will tell, and part of me is glad I’ll never find out which way they go.

New Bag!

I don’t know how to make this bigger. But here you can see the sunglasses pocket and strap and sides, with the wicked cherry blossom design.

Really Random Roundup.

Stephanie, sorry the picture of the bag is so small. However, Flickr isn’t cooperating just now. The good news is, road-testing went well. I can sling it on or off one-handed (and look like a badass, I bet!) It holds all I want it to. I just need finishing touches.

The cane dance is coming together. Rachel and I practiced, and will practice again tomorrow. I have hopes of not being an utter disgrace at The Grand Bazaar on Saturday.

Thank GOD my car jockey boss is coming back on Saturday. Doug, our interim boss, is good. He knows what to do. But his weekend is the days I work, and so it’s hard to keep on top of it all. The office staff has been calling, wanting me to break the laws of physics and get a car back to its spot before the auto guys have a chance to do the work.

I have E on the couch beside me. I thought he was going to have to work until silly o’clock, but no. I like that. It’s good to like being with him. Even if he’s snoring right now.

I’m half-watchiing one of the Underworld movies. Thoughts on Twilight spring to mind. Twilight and what makes tween and early teen girls go crazy. But that’s another story.

Baking Bread.

Today have been baking. Well, the baking’s happening now.  Before there was the mixing, the proving, the waiting for loaves to rise.  Now the baking smell is beginning to permeate the house. Mmm!

The leaven arrived all dried up and I had to rehydrate it. I read the rehydrating and refreshing instructions like they were holy words. I was so convinced after everything I’d mess it up. But I didn’t!

I fed it and mixed it and named it Lemmy and left it in E’s room, which is way warmer than the rest of the house. It’s been a learning process and I really have this sense of accomplishment. I can only hope the bread tastes as good as it smells!

Bag Lady.

My old bag had been wearing out. This is more of a stress for me than for other women, because I have very exacting needs in a bag.  I can’t call it a purse, because it’s more than that. It’s not just about my keys and phone and wallet. I require something big enough to carry dinner (and sometimes breakfast), water, car jockey stuff, tutoring stuff, book, sunglasses, camera, and all the rest of the dreck that I may need throughout a day. It’s kind of my backup.

So blithely, I sailed forth, looking for a roomy and attractive messenger bag.  Nothing. There were a couple of faux-military ones at H&M. There were some ugly canvas ones at the army surplus store. There were Nike ones at the skate shops. So I got in a snit and made one.

It’s black with pink-and-green cherry blossom trim. It’s waterproof-lined, has pockets for everything, and doesn’t look stupid. I am delighted.

So yesterday I took my new bag up to Safeway to by vacuum bags. Safeway doesn’t carry them any more. Hey, Safeway, what are you thinking? Not everyone has those fancy-pants canister vacuums! Some of us still have our grandmas’ vaccuums from the eighties! Luckily, Shoppers Drug Mart still has vacuum bags, as they know my needs better than you, Safeway.

So. Now I am content in all my bag needs and may blog more. If anything interesting happens, I mean.

How Matthew’s Hat Saved Me.

Rachel’s recent post about her son’s school shenanigans reminded me of being in Grade Nine.  Given that he is not in Grade Nine, but Grade One, I think I must have been a bit of a late developer (Or Grandmaster B is a bit of an early one). But for the purposes of this narrative, neither matters.

In Grade Eight, I was bullied. Not by the popular kids, but by the kids who had been popular in my elementary school. High school just gave them the freedom to push me down stairs and tell me how ugly I was. High school had no lunch monitors, you see.

I went into a bit of a decline. Something in me decided that they hated me for being smart and quiet and neatly dressed. Maybe they did. They were crueller than wolves, nothing more than a small pack of assholes who worried that their mothers might find their cumsocks. But to me, they were walking hell.

I adapted. That’s what you do, right? I started wearing black eyeliner and a shapeless black cardigan of my dad’s. I affected disinterest in class. I even deliberately failed a test, to my mother’s horror. But most importantly, I got me some protectors. I made friends with The Bad Kids. Not just Bad, but Older and Bad.

It helped that my best friend had bigger boobs than I did, was more sophisticated (Read: Wore miniskirts and Coty Musk perfume), and by Grade Nine was already catching the Older Bad Kids’ attention.

One Drama class (all my bullies were in my drama class), we were supposed to bring hats. I forgot my hat. I couldn’t not have a hat. Drama, despite the bullies, was my favourite class ever. I loved Mr Green, I loved the exercises, I loved the wide-open risers. I needed a hat.

One of the Older Bad Kids was famous for his hat. it was a big-brimmed outdoorsman affair in some kind of rough leather. It was battered and distinctive. And, with five minutes before class, I gathered my courage and asked him if I could borrow his hat for an hour. I explained that it would just be with me in the Drama room, and I would certainly return it right after class. He was bemused, but he let me have his hat.

Oh, that hat. It smelled of smoke and power. When I put it on, I was transformed. Invincible.

All those bullies saw that I had Matthew’s hat. I’d like to say that I saw their eyes widen at the implications: She’s friends with HIM? We’d better not fuck with her anymore. But I didn’t. No one said anything about Matthew’s hat.

But they stopped pushing me down stairs. They stopped ramming me into walls and calling me ugly. They left me alone. Because Matthew and his friends were bigger than them, and might just squash them like the insects they were.

That’s A First.

Today I was going to go to a housewarming event. Morgan’s sister and her wonderful fiancee have bought property together, and I wanted to poke my nose in and say hi. I got off the Skytrain. I walked to where their house was.

And I froze.

This has never happened to me before. Always with a degree of social anxiety, I prefer small groups of people, most of whom I know very well. But I can do strangers.  I’m okay with new locations. I can discuss ornamental basil or TV shows or architecture with total strangers.

But I looked at that house and it didn’t look like anyone was there. The curtains were drawn. It looked too quiet. There was nothing happening there.  And I thought, “I have the wrong day. I can’t knock on that door.”

But now I reread the Facebook invitation. I think I did have the right day. Did I just see it in a quiet moment? Were the denizens inside wondering why no one was there? Should I have knocked?

I’ve been thinking all day, and I still don’t know: Should I have knocked on the door?

Le Sweet Moustache

For some time now, E has been sporting a moustache. Now, I am not one who regularly goes gaga over facial hair, but I LOVE the Sweet Moustache.  You have to say it like that, too: Moose-tash. It is that kind of facial hair.

E claims it is a sly nod to Lemmy from Motorhead. I rather think it looks like The Edge’s ‘tache, or maybe one of the Village People.  Anyway, I like it. Apparently, this makes me a gay man, which I totally didn’t know about myself.

I want to take pictures of E and the Sweet Moustache, and I want to make them all Rock’n Roll. God knows, we have the guitars. However, E is not buying into it. I keep referring to The Sweet Mousache Rock’n Roll Photo Shoot and he just rolls his eyes. I think he is just shy, but I also think The Sweet Moustache deserves to be immortalized in photos.

Maybe he just doesn’t want his pictures on the Internet. Too bad for him.