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There seemed, I observed today, to be nothing more female than bra-shopping with your friends. Of course, there was also nothing more boring, especially if they kept shooting down your suggestions for blue lace and electric pink ribbon, and stuck instead to white cotton. Bah.
Joined up later by a far more pragmatic friend who immediately made the sharp observation that we had bought nothing -- I excluded as I had been along in the sole role of visual consultant -- we made our goodbyes. My new companion and I then strolled to Yorkville to keep an appointment with yet another; while she pedalled her way closer, we explored a ridiculously overpriced retro toy store. Madonna's children, evidently, had been in the same store as we, their mother being in town for a few shows. I only realized when we were leaving, with a stylishly dressed man stopping us to ask what the commotion was, and my friend explained. That accounted for the other man -- on a red scooter -- who had been snapping photos of what I thought was an ordinary storefront. While we lounged on a rock, waiting, he managed to round the block twice more before seeming to finally have shot off to have his photos bronzed and framed, or some other. We watched as swirls of curious star-gazers came by and left slightly dazed and excited, even having seen essentially nothing. To pass the time, we fawned over the wonder that was Cecil Adams of Straight Dope fame, and fretted over the recent disappearance of Peter Mansbridge and Ian Hanomansing from CBC Television. (If you have any information...) Friends, a meal, a movie, a snack, conversation and laughter -- the day ended well. We all parted ways; I made my way to Donlands station via subway, to catch the connecting bus for the last leg of my journey. Once there, too late I discovered that the last bus left at 10:30 PM, an absurdly early time, for the absurdly underused and therefore underserviced station. It was 10:39 PM. I was, in a word, stranded. As, in that rather shortsighted practise of hindsight, I silently ran through my day snipping away seconds here and there so I could have arrived nine and a half minutes earlier, I picked up the payphone receiver and called home, to request a ride. My tone was of building confidence; my father had never failed to come through before. My mother shook my world. "He's not back from work yet." "Well, can I walk home then?" "You're not walking home." "But--" "It's a quiet street." And you know what I think about quiet streets, we both thought simultaneously. Honestly the chances of my being raped were quite slim, and as a plain girl with a negligible chest, they were slimmer still. But wisely I had wasted no breath attempting to explain the magic of statistics to my mother. "What's the payphone number?" she asked. "What?" "The payphone number." I reluctantly read the number to her. "All right. When he gets home, I'll call you." "What?" "I'll call you." Too shocked to protest, I agreed to stay put, and hung up. After fifteen minutes of jitterily watching the payphone, however, totally terrified of looking extremely stupid -- in my mind -- to perhaps a total of two people, including the dozing toll collector, I phoned her back. "Can I just take the subway back to Yonge, switch down to Queen, and catch the streetcar home?" There was a moment. "Yes, that would be acceptable. If you don't want to wait for your father." "I don't wanna." It was, in fact, inevitable that my father was about to arrive home just about any moment and be able to pick me up in five minutes flat. But somehow I felt I could not risk such a sure bet. Besides, I had been so wired up for the last quarter hour or so that now I had a desire for a little night ride. "Bye, then." "Bye." I was travelling backwards. Steppenwolf accompanied me for most of the journey, while I stared at a spot on the empty chair across from me. Luckily no one took it for the rest of the way; I surely would have stared at his or her crotch for minutes without the slightest realization. Two young men napped on either side of the doors -- one with his head tipped backwards, the other with his mouth open in an O as he slept. Another glanced at me occasionally; I smiled when he looked away. A couple shared grapes and laughed. A sensation of languidness washed over me, as I succumbed to sheer physical and mental fatigue. At Yonge-Bloor, a late-night crew was changing the ads. Half the station watched in fascination -- in fact, two Indian businessman stood as quite a matter-of-fact audience -- as they wiped down the plastic windows, opened the front of the light-boxes, and replaced the large sheet of heavy plastic printed with advertisements of cats and snowy white ducks. At Queen, I lumbered onto the streetcar and slid next to an open window. I leaned back, and turned my face towards the street. A man was taking me home, with no less than professional intentions (perhaps a minor minus). I was tucked up in my seat, my temple rested against the window frame -- the wind blew cool on my cheeks and ruffled through my hair. The rain-washed streets, still damp, smelled fresh, metallic, and earthy. The streetcar speeded along at a regular, constant rhythm, in the water-filled tracks. I closed my eyes. Glorious. . Tuesday, July 20, 2004There's no content today. Just an old art assignment.
I choose you, Mr. Vaguely-Angry-Looking-Pelican-Stork-Bird!  Wow. Hope you don't mind me tootin' my own horn, but that's pretty fucking good. Well, I kinda, sorta had a guide (not tracing, mind you, jeez, that's dirty), but still. And well, the shape's a bit screwy, but the texture's quite fine. Decent control. /Incoherence.
Sans social companions for the day, I trampled down to BMV to score a few books. Strange people congregate in bookstores -- myself included, naturally, but my strangeness is kept inside, whereas others seem to put it on the outside. I've been delayed by a blind Lord of the Rings fanatic and a man who told me a story about a Russian clown named Popov who threw bottles at fighter planes ... You can't make these kinds of people up.
This lovely Sunday afternoon, a couple was there. Their conversation, I realized, more or less crystallized the differences between the male and female mindsets.
Her: "I think we should get this edition." Him: "I think we should get this edition." Both: "Why?" Her: "Because it's nicer." Him: "Because it's bigger." Then she had to throw a wrench into the entire operation. Her: "Touch my tush." What? I thought frantically. And he did. I quietly inched away. People are bizarre.
Yep, this again. I'm not certain why my mother keeps asking me to accompany her to go shopping, since usually by the end -- or more accurately, the beginning -- I'm extremely testy and disagreeable, on the pure principle of disagreeing.
So this sunny Friday afternoon, we went shopping. The results, let's say, were entirely predictable. (Yes, we spent nearly $60.00 at Dollarama.) I love her. I really do. She is a wonderful person and I am extremely thankful to have her as my mother -- except when we try to exchange our socio-political ideas. Sometimes -- that being "often" -- we have problems communicating properly, both on the surface and more deeply. Originally immigrants, my parents still don't have a very skilful grasp of English -- despite having lived in Canada for nearly thirty years. I, on the other hand, am supremely fluent, more so than in what should be my native language, Cantonese. This linguistic discordance between my parents and myself has in recent years become a major problem. Once in a while my friends would complain that their parents didn't understand them and I would snort and say, while they roll their eyes at the familiar tirade, "You think that's hardship? My parents don't speak my language! Literally!" Clearly, many of these conversations were not carried out in so many words; I have added articulations of the thoughts I had at the time, and nothing of anything spoken is verbatim. I believe, however, the gist of it is accurate. Ding. We are on our way westbound along Queen Street East to catch a subway on the Yonge-Bloor line, before backtracking eastbound on the Danforth line to Scarborough Town Centre, a stop away from the end of the line. This will be a trip that adds roughly forty to forty five minutes to our itinerary, because my mother refused to wait at most thirty minutes for the bus -- a bus that would've taken us directly to the Donlands station -- about six or seven stops away from Yonge-Bloor -- on the Danforth line. In other words, it is folly. Our streetcar currently inches through a street parked with early 19th century cars and filled with milling extras in shirts and suspenders. It is obviously a movie set. Her: "Oh, look, they must be making a movie!" This is old news to me; Cinderella Man, starring Russell "Bee's Knees" Crowe, has been filming here for weeks, maybe months. (You'd be well-advised to ignore the inside joke about Crowe's knees; why I would post an inside joke on a place where none of the appropriate parties would see it is completely beyond me.) Myself: "Yeah." Her: "Look at those cards! They're definitely not from now." Myself: "Uh huh." She spots a couple of modern Toronto police officers in uniform. Her: "Well, those policemen are obviously from our time! Hahahaha!" She is very amused with herself, giggling loudly and nudging me gratuitously. She does this all the time. Myself: "It's not that funny, Mom." They've also replaced many storefronts with more period-appropriate displays. My mother spots a few and makes sure I, the girl who had previously considered a History major, know all the differences. Her: "And look at that fake butcher window! I bet that chicken is fake too! Hardy har har har!" Myself: "..." Her: "Did you see that t-shirt? I think you'd look cute in it." I look at it. Myself: "It says 'Brazil Soccer.'" In glitter, no less. Her [carrying on her browsing, turned away from me in what I am thinking is a masterfully subtle use of human body language]: "So?" Myself: "I don't like soccer. I don't have any particular affinity for Brazil either."
Her: "So?" Myself: "It would be against my principles to wear a shirt implying I am a soccer fan when I'm not. Worse, it devalues actual sports fans since the t-shirt would become meaningless if just anyone wore it." Her: "So?" I am sensing a pattern. Her: "Does it matter? If you like how it looks, you should wear it." Myself: "You don't get it, Mom." Her: "No, I don't." Myself: "I just said that." At her silence, I switch tactics. Myself: "OK ... would you wear, say, the Christian cross just because it looked good?" Her: "Sure." There is a pause as I am too appalled for words. Myself: "So you're saying that you'll wear anything regardless of the meaning behind it as long as it satisfies your aesthetic needs?" Her: "Yes." Myself: "So you would wear a swas ... the symbol of the Third Reich?" I correct myself as I think perhaps "swastika" will be too obscure a word for her. A customer at the counter turns around and stares at me for a moment as we walk by. Her: "Third Reich?" (I go through this all the time. I must simplify nearly every single thing I say in order to accomodate my parents. It's quite possibly more frustrating than you are equipped to imagine, forcing myself to boil down everything to the terms easiest and quickest to convey, when I will endlessly debate the nuances of "smart" versus "clever" versus "intelligent" in their appropriate usage. This is not to mention the added task of trying to find the equivalent in Cantonese.) Myself: "Nazis." Her: "What's a Nazi?" Myself: "..." No reply from her. Myself: "WWII. Hitler." Her: "Oh. No." Myself: "Why? Because of the history behind it or because you don't like how it looks? It's called a swastika, by the way." Her: "I don't like how it looks." Myself: "What's the huge difference, design-wise, between the Christian cross and the swastika?" Her: "I don't like it." Myself: "I think the swastika is well-designed. Simple, recognizable, iconic." Her: "When you speak in English, I don't understand you as well." Myself: "Sigh." Her: "Oh, look. Do you want one? It's a CD case with a calculator on it. It's on sale." Myself: "Why would I need a CD case with a calculator on it? I have a much better calculator at home, plus many other gadgets that have extra calculators. I don't need another calculator." Her: "But it's a CD case." I can hear the wheels turning in her head: She listens to CDs. CDs need cases. Everyone needs calculators. What's the problem? Myself: "It's a worse CD case for it. Not only is it heavier, it's more delicate due to the fact it has an electronic device attached. I don't understand how adding a calculator to something automatically makes it a better object when in fact the object in question has suffered both in form and function." Her: "Look. That store sells guitars." Ding. Let's all go to the lobby, let's all go to the lobby, let's all go to the lobby ... Ding. Her: "I think we're in the men's section. Let's go upstairs to the women's." Myself: "Ok ... but they might have Hogwarts-style ties down here." Her: "But men wear ties, Gloria." This is a very old discussion. Myself: "Mom? You know how women are allowed to vote these days? To drive? To hold jobs? To wear pants? I think they can wear ties." Her: "I think the escalator is on the other side." Her: [Derisive laughter] "Pink? Definitely not for Wesley." (Wesley is my little brother.) Myself: "Men can wear pink." Her: "If he's gay." Myself [trying to suppress my distasteful and mildly outraged tone]: "Mom. Who says that pink is only a colour for women and homosexuals? There is nothing inherent in pink that makes it that way -- nature does not dictate it. Only our society and culture has; if we had the courage to let go of that, pink would be fine for anyone. A man neither is nor becomes gay because he wears a pink shirt. It's a colour." Her: "Do you think Wesley will like these socks?" I am feeling the quiet but growing tension. Myself: "Do you want me to shut up? You don't seem to care about or listen to what I'm saying anyway." (Graceful, as always.) Her: "I can tell you to shut up any time I want. I'm your mother; you're my daughter. I can kick you out of the house any time I want too." Myself: "... Good, then. Ok." (My mother is apparently a Hallmark diehard. I had no idea she attached this much meaning to the cards she gave us until this conversation.) Her [reaching out towards the stacks]: "Do you see any cards for 17th birthdays?" (I have censored my other brother's name per his penchant for freaking out that I talk about him with other people he has not approved with his own acquaintance.) Myself: "[Bleep] doesn't care, Mom. None of us do." (Wesley is seven years old, so this is a valid blanket statement.) Her [sounding very hurt]: "Fine." Myself [after sighing under the fresh burden of guilt]: "Mom, do you really think we need cards to tell us that you care about and love us? You tell us every day, and we know it. It's not as though you made the card yourself; of course we'd keep something like that. But you just picked a card off a rack, a card that was probably previously picked by fifty other people." Her: "Yes. Yes." Myself: "I just saved you a dollar too." Her: "Mm-hm." Ding dong. So there you have it -- a day in the life of Gloria and her mother when on a consumeristic jaunt through an exceedingly trashy mall. (My mother also does not understand the concept of trashiness, and when I try to explain it to her, she rebukes me for being so negative about strangers. When I attempt to explain no one who matters will know, she becomes huffily silent and implies that my presence has sullied her immediate environment.) On this shopping trip as well, I had an actual, significant disagreement with my mother on a point of fashion -- an area over which we rarely have any troubles. I wanted new boots to wear with skirts -- she considered this request superfluous, as we had several pairs at home -- all of which, of course, I thought entirely unsuitable for my situation. Which is absolutely true. As a natural next course of action, I, needless to say (but I shall say anyway), must acquire these boots as soon as possible. I have entered teenagehood, truly, at long last.
I was bringing my bicycle home after a tune-up and repairs. It's a Raleigh, from I'm guessing the 1950s, painted a deep scarlet red. Prompted by my mother, I took a short test spin down the street; having not been on a bike for over five years, the cool wind rushing past my face and through my hair felt wonderful. As I neared the end of the ride, a woman walking by chewed me out for riding on the sidewalk.
Let me say now: I whole-heartedly agree with her sentiment that I was in the wrong, as I on principle also disagree with the practise (although, honestly, I had never had much trouble with bicycles on sidewalks. I step aside; I move on). Perhaps she had had some poor experiences with rude cyclists, or maybe her first son got run over by one or what have you. Even so, I felt maligned.
She will never see this, of course. But I am a petty human being. I am filled with a desire for justice, which naturally compels me to, yes, blog it. (1) The only reason I dared to risk Toronto bylaw -- because they are of course ever so strictly enforced -- was because the sidewalk was deserted, in a quiet residential neighbourhood. If, say, a string of kindergarten children or newborn kittens stood in my bike's trajectory, I would certainly have restrained myself. A lone, snotty woman who did not even stop to reprimand me but merely kept walking out of what I perceived as cowardice I consider low priority. (2) I have this distinct feeling that she would have never spoken to me if I had been a burly, well-tattooed man, or an elderly woman. I feel this, because I have a friend who is exactly the same type. She would rebuke young teenagers and stylishly dressed professional couriers, but never a word against tough-looking men, or those revelling in their golden age (the appropriate term nowadays, apparently). I have held my tongue against her, because she is a friend standing up for her personal principles. But if we are walking through a rough part of the city at 2:30 AM, I should think that it is a small sacrifice to just shut up until we have passed through. (The streets at this time, of course, are otherwise totally empty anyway.) (3) I stopped for her to pass, with plenty of room to spare. I think, such a courtesy could have been acknowledged. I was barely a five-man posse forcing my way by in a storm of pedals, spokes, and thick-tread wheels with enough grip to rip the flesh off your bones. (4) Very clever of you to quote the fine at me (which according to her is, by the way, $190). Pity you have no authority to enforce it, deferring to a higher power who is performing more important duties at this moment such as guarding your home city and your children. It is more of a pity that you so sincerely believe such monetary pittances deter any intent of criminal activity. (5) I was honestly amazed that she did not say a word about my lack of protective headgear. It astonished me exactly how much "self" was in her self-righteousness. She had absolutely not a drop of concern about the fact I was potentially risking my life, but only that she had a street-length of space for her walking pleasure. I said as much to her, but she was too far away and I was unable to discern her reply. (6) This is my lower class prejudice coming through. She was a well-dressed woman, living on a fairly well-to-do street. Frankly, it seems to me that only a few members of such a group would be able to have the time and inclination to bother fellow citizens about their transportation habits. The same will also rebuke you for consuming meat even when you are a natural omnivore, and make loud noises of disgust while you try to eat with what's left of your dignity and self-control. (7) Finally, I really do think there are greater causes to champion. Harassing a cyclist would be low on my list of "Things to Do for the World Today." Consider. At least I was riding a bike. I was not enjoying the recirculated air inside my monstrous sport utility vehicle guzzling fifty litres of petrol oil (the car, not me) while contemplating my next plan to disembowel and eat orphaned baby birds. You should have been thanking me. But anyway. The bike's looking really good. . Monday, July 12, 2004While observing a conversation on the tagboard on the topic of sexual schedules, I made the following remark:
"I like that term. 'Losing' one's virginity. As if it merely fell behind the dresser and is waiting for rediscovery while gathering dust ..." I am amused by this phrase. Obviously a construction with a bit of a history, it must've stemmed from a time and culture -- back in the proverbial "day" -- much more puritanical than today's ... so wonderfully conservative (as though I am not!) and innocuous-sounding. With current social trends every day taking a step forward in sexual equality for all, to say one has "lost" one's virginity seems a dated turn of phrase. It distances the person from what he or she has done, as though it had been through no fault of their own, maybe as a bow to the socially proscribed modicum of shame and modesty. To have "lost" also implies a temporary vacuum ... please help me find it. Perhaps the term was coined with women particularly in mind ... again, from an era past, when females were regarded much more as the fairer and weaker sex and as simple vessels in the act of reproduction, and when the most highly regarded attributes of femininity were qualities like passivity and demureness. (I use past tense here as a nod to recent advances, but I acknowledge that sexist attitudes prevail today, still rather rampantly ... against both sexes.) To say one's virginity was "lost" seemed to fit those modes of thought ... that she was not so much as the instigator as the one instigated upon ... that such an event was not so much in her control (although in some cases, this might still be applicable). To have "lost" implies clumsiness, carelessness -- in other words, the intellectual inferiority and emotional immaturity of women, as compared to men. As I mentioned before, a "loss" is never initiated by the bereaved; it happens when it does, hardly of the affected's own accord. "Oops! There it goes! Silly butterfingers ... simply wasn't paying attention." In the interest of equality and female empowerment, I suggested that more dynamic terms be used, to more closely involve the most relevant party, being the woman herself. "I obliterated my virginity last night! Take that! Bang! Bang!" (Pun unintended.) I. Action. She took charge. She caused an occurrence; the occurrence did not cause her. Wailfulrhyme came up with "annihilated" (which I remarked somehow reminded me of Space Invaders ... which might therefore make it a popular hit with gamers) and Rocker volunteered "desecrated" (which immediately made me believe that whoever used this term would have done so upon in a confessional box or cemetary). For those not so radically action-oriented, I offer "given away." Take it; I bestow it upon you. It's a gift.
A thought:
He reads, softly and clearly. The pages are turned with musical crispness; he smoothes them with large, gentle hands. The light is warm, golden, transforms the pages from a pale white to a creamy ivory, and reflects in his eyes. The room, quiet ... as though existing purely to accomodate his voice, which speaks the words with rhythm and surety. I lay my cheek against his lean, sturdy shoulder; my breath comes slow and gentle as I listen. He smells like soap, and ... himself. I stay at his arm; our legs entwine. I watch his toes flex and curl. He smiles when I brush his neck with a finger, and tilts towards me -- the heat between us grows in anticipation -- his eyes drop briefly to my mouth. But his smile becomes sly, and he leans away. Not a word is missed. I sigh. The seduction continues.
There's a tendency for alien underwear to creep into my collection now and again, usually my mother's, who used to buy the same Hanes as I did and which created all sorts of awkward, cringeworthy problems. (I've long since acquired a large distinct batch and defined clear borders, so I may return to my usual habit of grab-and-go.)
So when a few days ago I was weeding out old, ill-fitting, high-waisted undies -- which bunch up in a somewhat unsightly manner over my current styles of pants -- out of a crammed drawer, I wasn't all too surprised to find a batch of pretty, lacy panties. They were clearly not mine, I thought, as I shovelled aside a pile of practical white cotton, but I was fairly certain I knew whose they were. "Moooooooooom!" My mother was watching her soap operas. "What?" I held up the handful. "Your stuff." "They're not mine. They're yours." "Huh?" "Remember? That one shopping trip when you said you wanted to try something different and be feminine?"
"Uh..." But blue and violet lace? Impressionistic flowers? Ribbed edges? Black baroque lace? This was getting too sexy for my stodgy ways; did I know this supposed Gloria? Then ... "Oh. Oh. Yeah. Jeez." I stared, still flabbergasted. I had underwear I didn't even know were mine. I suppose as I grow older, this will become a more frequent occurrence (hopefully...?). Well, at least they were surprisingly comfortable. (For some reason, even though most of my upper undergarments are black, most of my lowers are white. Eh? Strangest of all is that I like to co-ordinate even my socks when I am able; how have I so long tolerated this discrepancy?) Now I face every female's worst nightmare -- I have these fancy skivvies (other synonyms for "underwear" include but are not limited to: bikini, bra, briefs, BVD's, corset, drawers, intimate things, jockey shorts, jockeys, lingerie, long johns, panties, shorts, smallclothes, underclothes, underclothing, undergarment, underpants, undershirt, underthings, undies, unmentionables, woollies), yet nowhere to wear them. Alack! |
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture. home | contact | profile art blogging body childhood consumerism dream durr family fashion film history humour internet language lit nerd people poetry rant romance school sex social relations toronto ttc work 
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