A few months ago, in the throes of insomnia and a TV coma, I stumbled across a show called Is She Really Going Out With Him? Despite the cute titled - and theme song, which played as an updated version of the classic Joe Jackson heartbreaker - the show itself was a celebration of all things douche. The premise is simple: take one long-term relationship between a relatively normal girl and a self-involved jerk, add cameras and ultimatums, and watch it on TV. You tend to see match-ups like the one I witnessed: she was a stunning nursing student who wore PVC leggings, and he owned his own hair straightener. Their abiding conflict was that she wanted to get married and he wanted to get bottle service in cheesy Orange County clubs.
The conspicuous consumption, the emphasis on gifts as a prerequisite for reconciliation (he eventually gave her, not a diamond ring, but an emerald necklace the size of a frying pan), the asinine behaviour, the mugging for the camera...it was just so douchey.
I'm not sure when the word "douchebag" became such an easily tossed around pejorative. It's clearly been around for a while, but I can remember a time when a popped collar and a snide remark wasn't going to earn someone the label. It has certain 1980s overtones, at least for me: it's always seemed like something surfer dudes would say to a particularly harsh bylaw officer for frowning on their sparking a jay on a public beach. It's possible that it's one of those words that magically appears when you're old enough to hear it. Unlike the big-gun curse words (and you know what I'm talking about if you took French immersion and remember that magical day you learned the French word for seal), there's a plethora of minor names to be called and swears to be sworn. Douchbag seems to fit right in there: it's kind of gross, lends itself well to being spat out in disgust during an altercation, isn't the H-bomb in terms of offensiveness, and evokes a a very specific type of jerk in this day and age: the mirrored-sunglasses-wearing, tanning-bed-using, collar-popping, line-saying ass who is in love with his own self.
When did our culture start liking this guy? I know we're all self-obsessed and superficial, but the douchebags presented in pop culture are so flagrantly unappealing. Anyone familiar with the show Jersey Shore knows what I'm talking about; for people (like me) who got 20 minutes into that trainwreck and had to turn it off, this is the guy with gel in his hair who refuses to move over on the sidewalk for strollers. I thought we hated these people. Why are they getting their own television shows?
I think part of it is helplessness we feel when we encounter a class-1 jerk in our daily lives. There's a sense of injustice that pervades dealing with these people, since they just seem so horrible that they should have, by all rights, been smote by the hand of God. Television, with the editing process that goes along with it, allows us to feel a gleeful schadenfreude when the assfaces inevitably get fired (for being morons), rejected (for bathing in cologne), or punched (for being themselves).
I also think that a certain part of us admires the douchebag, though. They seem to represent a tiny slice of our ids, in a way; the part of us that wants to be loud and obnoxious, the part of ourselves that considers us to be the smoothest ladies' man to ever grace the dancefloor. The douchebag subsection of society has a brute self-confidence that's simultaneously appealing and repulsive. Most people consider how they're perceived by those around them, and modify their interests and habits to be more likable. The douchebags, on the other hand, have faith that they are liked simply for being themselves, and concentrate their mental energies on picking up the girl in the short skirt at the end of the bar.
While I understand the appeal of the douchebag ikon, I am loathe to see the trend become too widespread. We're already a generation that's pretty into ourselves, what with the iPods and the Facebook and the whatnot (and, God, could I sound more crotchety?), and douchebags just take that to its natural end point. If this type of confidence was plastic surgery, most of us would settle for a nose job, while the douchebags have pumped up their breasts to the size of small moons. It's just too much. It becomes cartoonish.
Cartoonish makes for riveting TV, but the thought of actually living in proximity to one of these charmers in my life makes me want to throw myself in front of a train. Which is, I guess, the appeal of the TV influx of douchebags: it's a combination of "know thine enemy" and a laughable example of the 21st century's contributions to the ever-growing trainwreck that is Western pop culture. They confuse and delight me. They annoy me and freak me out. They are a mystery to be savored and ultimately discarded, like one of the bottles of premium vodka that is their lifeblood. Drink 'em in.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Girl Crush
As much as I love men - and I do - there are fabulous women who hold a special place in my heart. This isn't, like, an ode to my mother or anything like that...she's wonderful, but applying the term "girl crush" to my mom raises my eyebrows, at the very least. The girl crush is a special category, reserved for fabulous strangers and acquaintances who make your heart soar with the possibility of one day being as awesome as they are.
I'm not talking about women who scare you into striving for awesome. As much as I admire her chutzpah and ferocious bob, Vogue editrix Anna Wintour's reputation is that she is a mean, scary woman. A bitch, if you will. (AND YOU WILL.) Women who produce results by intimidation can be inspiring, but there's also something less accessible about them. If I'm afraid to knock on a woman's office door to say hello, then she's not inspiring me...she's making me uncomfortable.
So the women I get girl crushes on are amazing, but in a fun way. For example: even though she's sort of a fictional character, I loved Meryl Streep's portrayal of Julia Child in Julie & Julia. Hilariously histronic emotions, deeply felt care, and an I-don't-give-a-fuck re: being liked attitude that is utterly charming. I can't tell if I have a girl crush on Meryl - although she's undeniably awesome - or on Child, but the intersection of the two is just so much fun to watch.
That's the thing about girl crushes. They're so much fun to watch. I've palled around with some of my girl crushes; there's a feisty writer/photographer who shares my irrational hatred of pants and can wrestle most of her skinny hipster dude friends to the ground, and just watching her in action at a bar or a party is such a pleasure. She'll say the most outrageous things, wear the cutest outfits, goad the bouncer into letting her and her fourteen closest friends in for free, and shark someone at pool once she's in. It's just so exciting!
Girl crushes are, by their nature, a fickle mistress. If I was tighter with this girl, I would see more of her vulnerabilities. Maybe she gets homesick, or rampantly PMS-y, or is an unrepentant dishes-leaver. But because I only see her when she's at her most incandescently fun, she's like a beacon of awesomeness. Girl crushes give the illusion of being dependably good at being great: your intellectual flames are never sleepy-eyed over the cornflakes, your party girls are never wearing sweatpants for a Saturday night Twilight marathon, and your career inspirations never accidentally pour Diet Coke all over the photocopier's command center. I mean, they do, but because they only present the appealing side of things, you never have to see them being klutzy and sweaty. You just see the shiny side of things. The fun, smart, strangely-bespectacled side of things.
It's not just "girls" who fit the bill - women of all ages are entitled to the mantle, and it's good to have a roster of girl crushes. On of my former girl-flames was a sassy professor who dressed in jewel tones and told her class, "I'll take you from Moses to Mel Brooks, if you let me," which is just an awesome thing to say when you think about it. Or a Nia instructor in Stratford, who is appealingly human when she dances, and therefor seems to transcend the whole glossy-dance-instructor stereotype to become gorgeously relatable. It can be anyone: a waitress who understands your gluten sensitivity without being a diva about it; an author who wrote a book about your very favourite city and who has a great haircut; an acquaintance who has mastered the who-cares school of dressing to a degree that you find yourself envying her snowpants.
I think the real appeal of the girl crush is the perceived confidence. As someone who often feels unsettled in her own skin (like, you know, most human beings), the illusion of boundless competency and confidence is intoxicating. The fact that it's a mirage is sort of beside the point, since girl crushes are more about fun and inspiration than following a particular path to a particular destination. It's about seeing your world through fun, funny, smart, competent lenses.
I'm not talking about women who scare you into striving for awesome. As much as I admire her chutzpah and ferocious bob, Vogue editrix Anna Wintour's reputation is that she is a mean, scary woman. A bitch, if you will. (AND YOU WILL.) Women who produce results by intimidation can be inspiring, but there's also something less accessible about them. If I'm afraid to knock on a woman's office door to say hello, then she's not inspiring me...she's making me uncomfortable.
So the women I get girl crushes on are amazing, but in a fun way. For example: even though she's sort of a fictional character, I loved Meryl Streep's portrayal of Julia Child in Julie & Julia. Hilariously histronic emotions, deeply felt care, and an I-don't-give-a-fuck re: being liked attitude that is utterly charming. I can't tell if I have a girl crush on Meryl - although she's undeniably awesome - or on Child, but the intersection of the two is just so much fun to watch.
That's the thing about girl crushes. They're so much fun to watch. I've palled around with some of my girl crushes; there's a feisty writer/photographer who shares my irrational hatred of pants and can wrestle most of her skinny hipster dude friends to the ground, and just watching her in action at a bar or a party is such a pleasure. She'll say the most outrageous things, wear the cutest outfits, goad the bouncer into letting her and her fourteen closest friends in for free, and shark someone at pool once she's in. It's just so exciting!
Girl crushes are, by their nature, a fickle mistress. If I was tighter with this girl, I would see more of her vulnerabilities. Maybe she gets homesick, or rampantly PMS-y, or is an unrepentant dishes-leaver. But because I only see her when she's at her most incandescently fun, she's like a beacon of awesomeness. Girl crushes give the illusion of being dependably good at being great: your intellectual flames are never sleepy-eyed over the cornflakes, your party girls are never wearing sweatpants for a Saturday night Twilight marathon, and your career inspirations never accidentally pour Diet Coke all over the photocopier's command center. I mean, they do, but because they only present the appealing side of things, you never have to see them being klutzy and sweaty. You just see the shiny side of things. The fun, smart, strangely-bespectacled side of things.
It's not just "girls" who fit the bill - women of all ages are entitled to the mantle, and it's good to have a roster of girl crushes. On of my former girl-flames was a sassy professor who dressed in jewel tones and told her class, "I'll take you from Moses to Mel Brooks, if you let me," which is just an awesome thing to say when you think about it. Or a Nia instructor in Stratford, who is appealingly human when she dances, and therefor seems to transcend the whole glossy-dance-instructor stereotype to become gorgeously relatable. It can be anyone: a waitress who understands your gluten sensitivity without being a diva about it; an author who wrote a book about your very favourite city and who has a great haircut; an acquaintance who has mastered the who-cares school of dressing to a degree that you find yourself envying her snowpants.
I think the real appeal of the girl crush is the perceived confidence. As someone who often feels unsettled in her own skin (like, you know, most human beings), the illusion of boundless competency and confidence is intoxicating. The fact that it's a mirage is sort of beside the point, since girl crushes are more about fun and inspiration than following a particular path to a particular destination. It's about seeing your world through fun, funny, smart, competent lenses.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
High Society In the Gutters
Back when I was in my early teens, I used to read the glossy fashion mags - Vogue, Elle, Harper's Bazaar, the Hollywood issue of Vanity Fair - with the sort of curiosity that made them more pornographic that relatable. Is there anything less accessible to a twelve-year-old girl that fashion spreads featuring $5000 couture gowns and lavish, drippy photoshoots of someone's Hamptons summer "cottage"? As an easily impressed twelve-year-old girl, I was absolutely gobsmacked with the type of glorious, frothy fashionable lifestyles that were depicted in those pages. They seemed both completely alien and 100% attainable.
Fast-forward fifteen years. No one reads anymore, an reality television has supplanted even scripted shows as vectors for smooth, honeyed lifestyles. The most popular reality TV tends to be the shows where something is at stake - a modeling contract on America's Next Top Model, a record deal on American Idol, a pile of money on The Biggest Loser, Bret Michaels on Rock Of Love - but even those are losing ground next to the aimless drama of the Fancy People Reality TV.
I guess it would have started with Laguna Beach, which was supposed to be a slice of reality to offset the hype of The O.C. Both shows dealt with typically dramatic, wealthy and attractive high school students in SoCal; the better one had Peter Gallagher's eyebrows, but Laguna Beach went on the spawn The Hills (the post-high school spin-off), which begat The City, where the action moves to New York. All were/are sort of watchable: the people are attractive, but the "drama" mostly involves people drinking cocktails in futuristic vodka bars an having stilted conversation on windy patios. Plus, as more of the girls got plastic surgery, they became harder to tell apart on a cursory glance.
The success of the Laguna Beach offspring clearly gave someone pause, because the viewing public has now had High Society inflicted upon its corneas. High Society was designed to be a glimpse in Tinsley Mortimer's fabulous, glittery life. Tinsley is a newly divorced handbag designer who runs with New York's jet set, and the show revolves around her search for love and happiness. I guess if it had a thesis, it would be, "Can money buy you happiness?" which manages to be both trite and dated. Um, hello? World-wide recession? The general distaste the public is developing for massive, disgusting, unnecessary expenditures? Please.
This show is the worst thing to be broadcast on TV, ever. The characters - people? players? What exactly is the preferred nomenclature for folks who appear on reality television? - are repulsive. In that many, many people who appear on reality television are not exactly Girl Scouts, the general level of awfulness found on other shows is kind of understandable: they're reaching for a golden prize. The High Society folks, on the other hand, are just showcasing themselves. And boy, is that aquarium filthy.
Tinsley herself isn't so bad: a little naive, and clearly scripted to seem relatable to twenty-something viewers despite being in the process of divorcing her husband of fifteen years. No, it's her friends that are the pits. Jules Kirby and Paul "PJC" Johnson-Calderon are tied for last place: Kirby announced that she's not really interested in gays, or Jews, or black people...or anyone who isn't a white man, really. She also told the cameras that she feels okay with using the n-word. She then went on to say that she'd like a job at the UN. PJC, her nemesis, is a hyperactive brown gay man who has already thrown a drink in a woman's face, stiffed his mother for $25,000, been to rehab (twice!) and announced that he'd really like to settle down and start a family. Immediately after saying that, he chucked a can of beer out his limousine's window.
The show is a trainwreck. I can't imagine wanting to be on it, to be associated with it. Having seen two episodes, I can safely say that I won't be returning. In order to watch a show, people need to be able to relate to what's happening on the screen. I know, I know: TV is all about escapism and fantasy, but even the fluffiest, most elaborately glam shows have something you can like about them. Maybe it's an insecure character, or a funny sidekick, or a great friendship. Maybe it's good writing. Maybe it's being able to identify with someone - which I think explain the popularity of the interminable Hills, which always seemed to me like the girlfriends people who have no girlfriends would want.
But High Society is different. There's no heart. There's no real point. I mean, Tins, you seem nice and everything, but as a woman in your thirties, it might be time to get real. You claim - on camera! - that your marriage ended because your name started showing up in newspaper gossip columns. That seems...willfully, almost myopically, innocent. I'm no marriage counselor, but if my wife had the same priorities as Heidi Montag-Pratt, I'd be asking some serious questions. Maybe it wasn't so much the pictures and the gossip column inches as the fact that you even cared in the first place.
I've wasted a lot of internet inches on this sucking black of hole of a show, and for that, I apologize. Just consider this a warning, for anyone who's thinking about taking a gander: High Society is bad for you. Do not go there. Stay in your middlebrow society. Hell, read Vanity Fair for all I care. Just, please. Don't encourage these people.
Fast-forward fifteen years. No one reads anymore, an reality television has supplanted even scripted shows as vectors for smooth, honeyed lifestyles. The most popular reality TV tends to be the shows where something is at stake - a modeling contract on America's Next Top Model, a record deal on American Idol, a pile of money on The Biggest Loser, Bret Michaels on Rock Of Love - but even those are losing ground next to the aimless drama of the Fancy People Reality TV.
I guess it would have started with Laguna Beach, which was supposed to be a slice of reality to offset the hype of The O.C. Both shows dealt with typically dramatic, wealthy and attractive high school students in SoCal; the better one had Peter Gallagher's eyebrows, but Laguna Beach went on the spawn The Hills (the post-high school spin-off), which begat The City, where the action moves to New York. All were/are sort of watchable: the people are attractive, but the "drama" mostly involves people drinking cocktails in futuristic vodka bars an having stilted conversation on windy patios. Plus, as more of the girls got plastic surgery, they became harder to tell apart on a cursory glance.
The success of the Laguna Beach offspring clearly gave someone pause, because the viewing public has now had High Society inflicted upon its corneas. High Society was designed to be a glimpse in Tinsley Mortimer's fabulous, glittery life. Tinsley is a newly divorced handbag designer who runs with New York's jet set, and the show revolves around her search for love and happiness. I guess if it had a thesis, it would be, "Can money buy you happiness?" which manages to be both trite and dated. Um, hello? World-wide recession? The general distaste the public is developing for massive, disgusting, unnecessary expenditures? Please.
This show is the worst thing to be broadcast on TV, ever. The characters - people? players? What exactly is the preferred nomenclature for folks who appear on reality television? - are repulsive. In that many, many people who appear on reality television are not exactly Girl Scouts, the general level of awfulness found on other shows is kind of understandable: they're reaching for a golden prize. The High Society folks, on the other hand, are just showcasing themselves. And boy, is that aquarium filthy.
Tinsley herself isn't so bad: a little naive, and clearly scripted to seem relatable to twenty-something viewers despite being in the process of divorcing her husband of fifteen years. No, it's her friends that are the pits. Jules Kirby and Paul "PJC" Johnson-Calderon are tied for last place: Kirby announced that she's not really interested in gays, or Jews, or black people...or anyone who isn't a white man, really. She also told the cameras that she feels okay with using the n-word. She then went on to say that she'd like a job at the UN. PJC, her nemesis, is a hyperactive brown gay man who has already thrown a drink in a woman's face, stiffed his mother for $25,000, been to rehab (twice!) and announced that he'd really like to settle down and start a family. Immediately after saying that, he chucked a can of beer out his limousine's window.
The show is a trainwreck. I can't imagine wanting to be on it, to be associated with it. Having seen two episodes, I can safely say that I won't be returning. In order to watch a show, people need to be able to relate to what's happening on the screen. I know, I know: TV is all about escapism and fantasy, but even the fluffiest, most elaborately glam shows have something you can like about them. Maybe it's an insecure character, or a funny sidekick, or a great friendship. Maybe it's good writing. Maybe it's being able to identify with someone - which I think explain the popularity of the interminable Hills, which always seemed to me like the girlfriends people who have no girlfriends would want.
But High Society is different. There's no heart. There's no real point. I mean, Tins, you seem nice and everything, but as a woman in your thirties, it might be time to get real. You claim - on camera! - that your marriage ended because your name started showing up in newspaper gossip columns. That seems...willfully, almost myopically, innocent. I'm no marriage counselor, but if my wife had the same priorities as Heidi Montag-Pratt, I'd be asking some serious questions. Maybe it wasn't so much the pictures and the gossip column inches as the fact that you even cared in the first place.
I've wasted a lot of internet inches on this sucking black of hole of a show, and for that, I apologize. Just consider this a warning, for anyone who's thinking about taking a gander: High Society is bad for you. Do not go there. Stay in your middlebrow society. Hell, read Vanity Fair for all I care. Just, please. Don't encourage these people.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Swap Meet Me In St. Louis Vuitton
Today I went to a clothing swap, and let me tell you, there's nothing quite like seeing your duds lying bedraggled on the ground to make you feel cheap. Not that the clothes were horrible or anything: I snagged a nice pair of Club Monaco jeans and a hilarious Garfield sweater that will be worn to death despite the fact that it's a size too small. But the little hillock of clothing lying in the middle of the living room? Sigh. Kind of a bummer, to be honest.
The whole clothing swap vibe is a little declasse. I tried on a running hoodie that would have been nice, except for the mold down one sleeve. Picking through a pile of clothes on the ground is just sort of humiliating. On the other hand, I love free clothes, and it was such a nice excuse to ditch the ill-fitting and out-of-season clothes that were clogging up my closet and draining my mood every time I tried them on.
Seriously: the clothing swap is the best thing ever, if you're looking for an excuse to dispose of the jeans you've been keeping since high school. Unless you are magic, you have gained some weight since you were sixteen. Oh, I'm not suggesting we're all ballooning up like those pillowesque characters in Wall-E. It's probably not more than a few pounds - a size, probably. I blame beer and its corresponding calories (delicious beer...oh, I can't stay mad at you!). But hanging onto those jeans, whether it's for aspiration, guilt, or some complicated blend of both, is no good for the soul. The only downside to slipping them into the swap pile? Watching your fellow swappers pull those Special Since High School Jeans on and have them be baggy. Annoying? Yes. Fact of life? Also yes.
I scored some jeans that are too big for me, since I love pants that are flexible and lend themselves to clambering. Skintight nonsense has never appealed. I also grabbed the aforementioned Garfield sweater, which delights me to no end. Did I mention there were also cupcakes? Absolutely, which does no-one any favours in terms of trying to slip back into the high school pants, but cupcakes belong in their own special category of Feeling Good, one that corresponds not at all with the category of Feeling Good that skinny jeans inspire. Plus, cupcakes help relieve the bummer feelings associated with going clothes shopping from the floor. I wish there were other food/experience overlaps: like, if pho was a proven way of combating job-interview stress, or grilled cheese sandwiches helped a sister out on bad hair days. That would be amazing, no?
So, long story short: skinny jean feelings and swap-related feelings of ick? And did I mention it was pouring horrible, mean, pissy mid-March rain all day? Not awesome. Cupcakes, Garfield sweater and a leaner closet, plus a post-swap trip to the Shopper's Drug Mart to buy Diet Coke and fancy juice? Very awesome. So: balance it out. Like everything, always.
The whole clothing swap vibe is a little declasse. I tried on a running hoodie that would have been nice, except for the mold down one sleeve. Picking through a pile of clothes on the ground is just sort of humiliating. On the other hand, I love free clothes, and it was such a nice excuse to ditch the ill-fitting and out-of-season clothes that were clogging up my closet and draining my mood every time I tried them on.
Seriously: the clothing swap is the best thing ever, if you're looking for an excuse to dispose of the jeans you've been keeping since high school. Unless you are magic, you have gained some weight since you were sixteen. Oh, I'm not suggesting we're all ballooning up like those pillowesque characters in Wall-E. It's probably not more than a few pounds - a size, probably. I blame beer and its corresponding calories (delicious beer...oh, I can't stay mad at you!). But hanging onto those jeans, whether it's for aspiration, guilt, or some complicated blend of both, is no good for the soul. The only downside to slipping them into the swap pile? Watching your fellow swappers pull those Special Since High School Jeans on and have them be baggy. Annoying? Yes. Fact of life? Also yes.
I scored some jeans that are too big for me, since I love pants that are flexible and lend themselves to clambering. Skintight nonsense has never appealed. I also grabbed the aforementioned Garfield sweater, which delights me to no end. Did I mention there were also cupcakes? Absolutely, which does no-one any favours in terms of trying to slip back into the high school pants, but cupcakes belong in their own special category of Feeling Good, one that corresponds not at all with the category of Feeling Good that skinny jeans inspire. Plus, cupcakes help relieve the bummer feelings associated with going clothes shopping from the floor. I wish there were other food/experience overlaps: like, if pho was a proven way of combating job-interview stress, or grilled cheese sandwiches helped a sister out on bad hair days. That would be amazing, no?
So, long story short: skinny jean feelings and swap-related feelings of ick? And did I mention it was pouring horrible, mean, pissy mid-March rain all day? Not awesome. Cupcakes, Garfield sweater and a leaner closet, plus a post-swap trip to the Shopper's Drug Mart to buy Diet Coke and fancy juice? Very awesome. So: balance it out. Like everything, always.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
You Are What You Eat
There are few chores in life that I take as much pleasure in as grocery shopping. Scrubbing down the kitchen? Nah. Getting my hands dirty in the bathroom? No way. Even vacuuming, with its loud noises and immediate gratification, isn't really on my radar. Spring cleaning at my house is me, halfheartedly waving a broom at the cobwebs that have accumulated on my ceilings, and dusting. I'm not a neat freak.
But grocery shopping really gets my blood moving, chore-wise. First of all, it gets me out of the house: I'm not choking on chemical cleaners or room sprays or what have you. In the winter, this can be kind of a drag for a non-driver like myself, but in the spring months, it's a lovely treat to hop on my bicycle and breeze over to the Loblaws. Grocery shopping on my bike is one of the top-tier instances of feeling like A True Cyclist. I'm not at the trailer-hauling level that some folks are, but a girl can dream.
Once I'm actually at the store, and have wrestled my bike into the (never adequate) bike parking, I'm free to wander, exploring the possibilities. I can generally gauge how optimistic I'm feeling based on the kind of food I pick up: tomatoes and brie are a staple, bananas are a solid maybe - hey, even if they go bad, I can always magic them into delicious banana bread - and mangoes are like a shot at the wild blue yonder. I eat, like, one mango a year. do I buy one mango a year? I buy...more than that. And they rot.
Grocery shopping let people try on new personalities without having to invest in, say, a condo on the waterfront. Am I the type of person who eats goat yogurt and organic salsa? Let's find out! And it won't cost as much as either tickets to a monster truck rally or a spa visit.
I know that kind of argument can be specious. I've called bullshit on defining yourself through what you consume, but food is so fundamental to survival, and there's such a range or ways you can eat. Some folks are very much of a soymilk and manuka honey mindset, while others are completely content to graze on Hot Pockets and Mountain Dew. Most of us fall somewhere in the happy medium, scarfing down both free-range eggs and Twizzlers. I know you're supposed to shop the periphery, leaving the centre aisles - the ones that contain delicious things like tacos - out of your cart. But in the words of Mandy Patinkin, fuck that bullshit, they can blow me. Tacos, butter chicken sauce, rice cakes and tins of tuna all live in the centre aisles. And they are good.
But grocery shopping really gets my blood moving, chore-wise. First of all, it gets me out of the house: I'm not choking on chemical cleaners or room sprays or what have you. In the winter, this can be kind of a drag for a non-driver like myself, but in the spring months, it's a lovely treat to hop on my bicycle and breeze over to the Loblaws. Grocery shopping on my bike is one of the top-tier instances of feeling like A True Cyclist. I'm not at the trailer-hauling level that some folks are, but a girl can dream.
Once I'm actually at the store, and have wrestled my bike into the (never adequate) bike parking, I'm free to wander, exploring the possibilities. I can generally gauge how optimistic I'm feeling based on the kind of food I pick up: tomatoes and brie are a staple, bananas are a solid maybe - hey, even if they go bad, I can always magic them into delicious banana bread - and mangoes are like a shot at the wild blue yonder. I eat, like, one mango a year. do I buy one mango a year? I buy...more than that. And they rot.
Grocery shopping let people try on new personalities without having to invest in, say, a condo on the waterfront. Am I the type of person who eats goat yogurt and organic salsa? Let's find out! And it won't cost as much as either tickets to a monster truck rally or a spa visit.
I know that kind of argument can be specious. I've called bullshit on defining yourself through what you consume, but food is so fundamental to survival, and there's such a range or ways you can eat. Some folks are very much of a soymilk and manuka honey mindset, while others are completely content to graze on Hot Pockets and Mountain Dew. Most of us fall somewhere in the happy medium, scarfing down both free-range eggs and Twizzlers. I know you're supposed to shop the periphery, leaving the centre aisles - the ones that contain delicious things like tacos - out of your cart. But in the words of Mandy Patinkin, fuck that bullshit, they can blow me. Tacos, butter chicken sauce, rice cakes and tins of tuna all live in the centre aisles. And they are good.
In grocery shopping, the stakes are so low: you hate something? Just don't buy it again. It's not like you have to sit your veal chops down and tell them "It's not you, it's me." Some days, you feel fancy, like a quinoa and walnut salad would be the perfect accompaniment to your Perrier. And others...well, let's just say I've had several evenings with Wine Gums and my couch, and they were very nice. After all, we are what we eat. Sometimes we eat crap, and sometimes we eat fancy.
Eat hearty, my pretties!
Friday, March 5, 2010
Gearing Up For Riding Season
Today I went to the 24th Annual Toroto International Bike Show, and it made me feel grumpy.
Don't get me wrong: I love bikes. But most of my bikes in the past few years have been either tooled up from scratch, or bought from independent dealers in Toronto. The Bike Show is not like either of those things; instead, it's rows upon rows on ungodly expensive cycling machines, ugly jerseys, and things that are labeled with an incomprehensible series of letters and numbers. Shimano Ultegra 6700? Sounds like something that would get into a harbourfront rumble with Godzilla 3000. I saw hundreds of really, really nice bikes...and nothing that got my blood pumping.
I know it's sort of a hipstery thing to be really into your bike, and talk about parts and routes and how you rebuilt your bottom bracket using only, like, dental floss and an avocado pit. But for us lesser peeps, what ends up happening is an us-v.-them style dichotomy, wherein we have the experts - both trained and lay - and then we have everyone who gets nervous entering a bike shop.
Which happens to include me. I'm not a pro: I like riding my bikes, and I'm interested in cycling culture and making our communities safer and more open to those who choose to put the fun between their legs. But I'm certainly not a gearhead, and bikes are machines. Oh, sure, there's more to them then that: increased mobility on a global scale, a healthy alternative to sit-on-your-butt methods of commuting, an economical way of getting around, a fun way to meet people. But they are first and foremost a machine, and machines have parts. And anything with moving parts will inspire a range of low-to-high knowledge bases. I fit in the most awkward part of that: I know how much I don't actually know.
In addition to feeling totally out of place, the Bike Show was super frustrating because it only repped the gearhead side of the cycling community. I would have liked to have seen more stuff, in a wider range: bags and spoke cards, magazines and books, clothes that weren't tacky jerseys (or the line that was designed especially for women-type folks, and I can't decide if that's condescending or cool), family-oriented stuff, more BMX stuff, and maybe a hey-how's-your-bike-running setup. I realize it's a trade show, but unlike the annual auto shows, cycling actually inspires some people to feel part of something. It would have been nice to go and feel included, even though I'm not a pro.
Don't get me wrong: I love bikes. But most of my bikes in the past few years have been either tooled up from scratch, or bought from independent dealers in Toronto. The Bike Show is not like either of those things; instead, it's rows upon rows on ungodly expensive cycling machines, ugly jerseys, and things that are labeled with an incomprehensible series of letters and numbers. Shimano Ultegra 6700? Sounds like something that would get into a harbourfront rumble with Godzilla 3000. I saw hundreds of really, really nice bikes...and nothing that got my blood pumping.
I know it's sort of a hipstery thing to be really into your bike, and talk about parts and routes and how you rebuilt your bottom bracket using only, like, dental floss and an avocado pit. But for us lesser peeps, what ends up happening is an us-v.-them style dichotomy, wherein we have the experts - both trained and lay - and then we have everyone who gets nervous entering a bike shop.
Which happens to include me. I'm not a pro: I like riding my bikes, and I'm interested in cycling culture and making our communities safer and more open to those who choose to put the fun between their legs. But I'm certainly not a gearhead, and bikes are machines. Oh, sure, there's more to them then that: increased mobility on a global scale, a healthy alternative to sit-on-your-butt methods of commuting, an economical way of getting around, a fun way to meet people. But they are first and foremost a machine, and machines have parts. And anything with moving parts will inspire a range of low-to-high knowledge bases. I fit in the most awkward part of that: I know how much I don't actually know.
In addition to feeling totally out of place, the Bike Show was super frustrating because it only repped the gearhead side of the cycling community. I would have liked to have seen more stuff, in a wider range: bags and spoke cards, magazines and books, clothes that weren't tacky jerseys (or the line that was designed especially for women-type folks, and I can't decide if that's condescending or cool), family-oriented stuff, more BMX stuff, and maybe a hey-how's-your-bike-running setup. I realize it's a trade show, but unlike the annual auto shows, cycling actually inspires some people to feel part of something. It would have been nice to go and feel included, even though I'm not a pro.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Sleep On It
Whoo! Sorry, I've been AWOL for a week or so. I wish I could be all, "Oh, I was jet-setting around Europe with my Siamese cats and my manservant Raoul," but that would be a stinking lie. I've mostly been lazing around: Reading week was last week, so there was skiing, snowshoeing, and watching an entire season of The Office. This week, it was coming home and disrupting my sleep schedule to the point where I've been falling asleep at dawn and then lurching through my days like a scary zombie. Going without sleep is a terrible, terrible thing.
When my mom mentioned that babies make people into early risers, it was the first inkling I had that maybe parenthood wasn't going to be my bag. After a terrible run-in with insomnia in my first year in university, I've been what might be characterized as a bad sleeper: it takes me forever to fall asleep, I'm tired all the time, and it's way too easy for me to go completely off the rails, vis-a-vis scheduled bedtimes. I'm terrible at naps. I hate sharing the bed (and I'm not alone). Sometimes, I'd prefer just to sleep on the floor. It's tricky, because these things aren't exactly easy to explain. And sometimes, they make me sound totally insane.
Sleeping is a non-negotiable. It isn't like fancy bottled water or internet access: sleep deprivation makes me people go crazy, in a very real way. The torturers in Gitmo use it as a way of fucking with the enemy so deeply, it can rearrange selves and personalities. And while my sleep-suckitude is a very different levels than those people, the difference between well-rested, sleep-scheduled me and falling-asleep-at-dawn me is astounding. If I were a different kind of writer, I might say it was night and day (rim shot!); not sleeping properly makes me feel enough nausea without needing to devolve into Jack Paar-esque comedy.
I've tried it all: turning the light off at eleven means that I toss and turn for hours; reading in bed means I'm sucked into a Stephen King book and then can't sleep because I'm too busy wondering if there's something trying to get in my third-floor window; watching TV is no good, because I just keep watching, leading to TMZ viewings that are no good for anyone; warm milk helps, as does a hot bath, but only a little.
It's troubling: my body seems to crave the most zzzs between the hours of eight am and noon. This is going to make getting a real-person job sort of a nightmare once I leave the Magical Garden of University Living. Most jobs - ones with benefit packages, anyway - seem to require some sort of commitment to being there in the morning. I've worked a few jobs wherein I had to be there at nine; these were summer jobs and the sun was already pouring through my window, being cheery and heating my bedroom up like a convection oven. Let's just say it was better to leap out of bed at eight than sweat to death under the duvet until noon. But I've never really had a job through the winter, where I had to get up under the cover of darkness, bike somewhere as the sky was lightening to gray, and slog through the day. That sounds terrible!
Over the next couple months, I need to figure out a way to get better at sleep. I quit piano lessons in elementary school, because I didn't want to practice. Practicing my sleep sounds equally lame, but I figure getting those forty winks in an appropriate timeslot is one of the best steps I can take towards becoming a functional grown-up. Plus, I figure it's best to practice sleeping; that way, if I do have a baby someday, I'm already a seasoned vet, not some junior-league amateur.
When my mom mentioned that babies make people into early risers, it was the first inkling I had that maybe parenthood wasn't going to be my bag. After a terrible run-in with insomnia in my first year in university, I've been what might be characterized as a bad sleeper: it takes me forever to fall asleep, I'm tired all the time, and it's way too easy for me to go completely off the rails, vis-a-vis scheduled bedtimes. I'm terrible at naps. I hate sharing the bed (and I'm not alone). Sometimes, I'd prefer just to sleep on the floor. It's tricky, because these things aren't exactly easy to explain. And sometimes, they make me sound totally insane.
Sleeping is a non-negotiable. It isn't like fancy bottled water or internet access: sleep deprivation makes me people go crazy, in a very real way. The torturers in Gitmo use it as a way of fucking with the enemy so deeply, it can rearrange selves and personalities. And while my sleep-suckitude is a very different levels than those people, the difference between well-rested, sleep-scheduled me and falling-asleep-at-dawn me is astounding. If I were a different kind of writer, I might say it was night and day (rim shot!); not sleeping properly makes me feel enough nausea without needing to devolve into Jack Paar-esque comedy.
I've tried it all: turning the light off at eleven means that I toss and turn for hours; reading in bed means I'm sucked into a Stephen King book and then can't sleep because I'm too busy wondering if there's something trying to get in my third-floor window; watching TV is no good, because I just keep watching, leading to TMZ viewings that are no good for anyone; warm milk helps, as does a hot bath, but only a little.
It's troubling: my body seems to crave the most zzzs between the hours of eight am and noon. This is going to make getting a real-person job sort of a nightmare once I leave the Magical Garden of University Living. Most jobs - ones with benefit packages, anyway - seem to require some sort of commitment to being there in the morning. I've worked a few jobs wherein I had to be there at nine; these were summer jobs and the sun was already pouring through my window, being cheery and heating my bedroom up like a convection oven. Let's just say it was better to leap out of bed at eight than sweat to death under the duvet until noon. But I've never really had a job through the winter, where I had to get up under the cover of darkness, bike somewhere as the sky was lightening to gray, and slog through the day. That sounds terrible!
Over the next couple months, I need to figure out a way to get better at sleep. I quit piano lessons in elementary school, because I didn't want to practice. Practicing my sleep sounds equally lame, but I figure getting those forty winks in an appropriate timeslot is one of the best steps I can take towards becoming a functional grown-up. Plus, I figure it's best to practice sleeping; that way, if I do have a baby someday, I'm already a seasoned vet, not some junior-league amateur.
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