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Fifty Shades of Hey, Why Don't You Mind Your Own Damn Business Until You Read It Yourself?

So I had an interesting conversation with my new hairdresser this weekend. It was about books. As some of you may know, I LOVE to read. I was born loving to read. My favourite book at the age of 2 was Hiawatha and the Bear Hunt and I would follow my mother around the house all day, waiting for her to sit down so I could plop the book in her lap, insisting that she read it. AGAIN. AND AGAIN. Trying to be clever, and save herself time, she would attempt to turn two or three pages at a time, but I was cleverer, and would make her go back, because you just can't skip pages in a book. It's a rule. (Clearly OCD even at the age of 2. There really was no hope). My first box set of books was the Little House on the Prairie series, which I believe I received from my parents when I was about 5 or 6 years old, and I never looked back. Don't get me wrong. I wasn't a NERDY kid. I was totally cool (just like I am now). I read all the cool books, like the Babysitter's Club, and the Sweet Valley series, but I also read the Lord of the Rings at the age of 10 and by 13 was well into Stephen King and memoirs and poetry (that was right around the time my existential angst was starting, so poetry was an important accessory).

Needless to say, I've never understood how people could NOT love books; it's just been such a part of my existence for as long as I can remember. I can't live without them. So when my hairdresser boldly announced on Friday (let's call her....Katie to protect her privacy) that she had only ever read ONE book in her life, I was thankful for both my social work and mediocre acting skills, so that she couldn't see my shock and disdain, not because I was so worried about her feelings, but mostly because she was holding a pair of scissors. She said she'd read Of Mice and Men, because she'd had to read it for school. I nodded and pretended to look impressed, which was at least a little easier to do when she proudly told me that she had gone to the bookstore this week and bought two books: Steve Harvey's "Act Like A Lady Think Like A Man: What Men Really Think About Love, Relationships, Intimacy, and Commitment", and "Fifty Shades of Grey". She then told me that she was too ashamed to be seen reading either of them on the subway.



This then prompted me to tell her that I am currently reading Fifty Shades of Grey, and enjoying it. For those of you who don't know, it's classified as 'Erotica' and is basically a fictional novel about a 22 yr old woman who gets into a submissive-dominant relationship with a 27 yr old man. People have all kinds of opinions about this book; interestingly, a lot of these people haven't even read it. It's these opinions that are the exact reason why someone like Katie is ashamed to be seen reading it.

First of all, I've read some hoopla on the Internet that this book is anti-feminist due to the submissive nature of the lead character's relationship with her partner, Christian Grey. Now, I'm a feminist. And by feminist, for those of you who are unclear on the definition, I mean someone who believes in true equity (not equality, there's a difference, look it up, it's an important distinction), fairness and justice for everyone (including men). And I actually disagree with this argument. I actually think compared to some of the pop culture reading out there (Twilight, anyone?) this book actually describes a more equal relationship than many. OKAY WAIT. HEAR ME OUT.

For anyone planning on reading it (MINI SPOILER ALERT)I don't want to give too much away, but in the book, Ana, the protagonist, is in love with Christian Grey, and when he explains the nature of the relationship he would like to be in with her, she willingly chooses to enter into a consensual, dominant-submissive relationship with him. He ensures that she is completely knowledgeable about everything that this will entail and they even sign a contract. This is more equitable that most non-BDSM relationships. (I'm not suggesting that all partners in all relationships should sign contracts, but I think it's hard to argue that someone is being degraded when they have knowingly and willingly signed a contract to play a certain role in a relationship). (MAJOR SPOILER ALERT) Granted, the book does end with her curing him of his need for "dysfunctional" relationships, which I imagine the BDSM community would take issue with, but hey, baby steps. Mainstream literature has adopted a book about BDSM. That's a start.

My second point is that we live in a society in which, despite the rampant sexuality that we are bombarded with, we are pretty uptight about SEX itself. And in mainstream culture, we're pretty conservative. Anything that deviates from the norm tends to be fairly taboo and frowned upon, which is why some people tend to have somewhat of a reaction to people reading a book about sex on the subway. Why is that? People read books about murder on the subway. Murder is awful. Why are we cool with seeing that everywhere? Sex is a natural human activity, a need, in fact, programmed into us, otherwise we'd all just die out. Yet people are ashamed to acknowledge that they are reading a novel that's all about sex. I had a conversation a couple of weeks ago where someone asked me: "Can I ask you why you are reading that?" I refused to be ashamed of my choice of books and responded with "Because it's entertaining", which it is.

I think it's great that a book that falls under the genre of "Erotica" is planted firmly on all of the bestseller shelves in bookstores and that women are excited about reading it. Is it pretty "vanilla" when compared to people who are hardcore into that scene? Yes, I would imagine so. But is it a step in the right direction of bringing things that are outside of the norm into mainstream culture? I'd like to think so. And plus, it's getting people like Katie, who has read ONE BOOK in all of her twenty-something years, excited about reading. So let's not shame her into being afraid to admit that she's reading it.

So anyone who wants to judge people for reading it, read it yourself first before you start throwing stones. You might actually find you enjoy it.

Why My Life Should Be A Musical

So I just got home from watching the Tony Awards with my friend Kelly, and the opening number was basically all about why if life were like theatre, it wouldn't suck so much. I enjoyed this, for many reasons. One, because it was being sung by Neil Patick Harris, who I would marry if a) he were straight, b) there were any chance in hell we would ever cross paths in life, and c) I believed in marriage, but I'm getting away from my main point here. Secondly, it rang true for me, because I've pretty much always believed that my life should be a musical. If you ask most people who know me, they might inform you, sarcastically or otherwise, that if you have to spend any length of time around me it sounds like my life already IS a musical, since the noise filter between my brain and my mouth tends to malfunction and I more often than not burst into song throughout the day. This is not my fault, because my brain has been affixed with a feature where any random sentence automatically reminds me of a song which I am immediately compelled to sing (see above re: broken noise filter). This habit of randomly breaking out into song is occasionally accompanied by periodically busting out a couple of dance moves, my favourite being tap, primarily because this also makes noise, and is therefore the most fun. At least, more fun for me. I have a sneaking suspicion this may just be more obnoxious for others. BUT......

This would all be wayyyyyyyyyyyyyy cooler if I actually had a CAST and pit orchestra to back me up. And a costume crew. Because lets face it. Cash is low right now. And my wardrobe sucks these days. So this is what I'm envisioning.....

I haven't quite worked out the title of the show yet.....Therapy the Musical? Not a big seller, I don't think. I'll have to work on that. There will definitely be a narrator. It'll basically be a guy who will put a voice to the running commentary that goes on in my head all day that is essentially internally narrating everything I'm doing ANYWAY. I'm assuming I'm not the only person that has this stream of consciousness business going on....which is why I'm admitting to it right now. This is common, right? Bueller....? Bueller...? Anyway, I've decided to hire Alan Cumming as my narrator, because he did such a fabulous job in that role in Reefer Madness, so he will follow me around all day, inserting his dry wit and sarcastic commentary here and there. It will be brilliant.

Musical style, I'm thinking '80s pop/rock, which means: costumes? 80's! The ensemble cast is going to be quite large, because I have big plans for the dance numbers, which will, of course, be plentiful. There's going to be a number called "Damn This Dufferin Bus!" which will involve a lot of awesome choreography on bus seats and some bus pole-dancing. (Genevieve, I see a role for you in this number, since we've already rehearsed this on the subway......)

Now, before you start thinking that the show is going to be all fluff and nonsense, I want you to know that it's going to have it's heavy, serious moments. There will be a political piece too, like the scene where a crowd of us storm city hall French Revolution/Bastille-style and force Rob Ford to admit that he is completely incompetent as mayor and agree to step down. That musical number will be called "Free of Ford" or something like that. It's all still in the early stages.

I really think I might be on to something here. And I really do think my life would be way awesomer (yeah that's right. That's a word. Look it up. It's in the urban dictionary.) if it was a musical.


UPDATE: I just realized something that is, sadly, going to be a problem. THERE AREN'T POLES ON BUSES. Duh. Well, fine. There will just have to be 2 TTC musical numbers, because there clearly needs to be pole-dancing in this show. So a subway routine it is. Maybe one called: "Please Stand Clear of Doors".....or "Mind the Gap"......

Sometimes All You Can Do Is Buy Someone A Frappuccino.

Well, true to form, it has officially been more than a year since I last posted anything on this blog. I have decided to abandon my old game of trying to use Shakespeare quotes as blog titles that relate to the topic of my posts, mainly because I'm really not as well-versed in Shakespeare as you might think, and quite frankly I'm out of quotes. And, well, people grow and change, and I've moved on. Out with the old, and in the with the new! (Is that a Shakespeare quote? That would be really awesome if it was....Google says no. Damn.) Moving on.


Even though I wanted to revive (Yes, revive it AGAIN. I feel like this poor blog is like a zombie that has be re-animated repeatedly by some sort of cruel voodoo wizard. Oh wait....that wizard would be me.....)this blog as a place to write funny, witty anecdotes about my life, I've decided to write a not-so-funny post tonight about a really moving encounter I had this evening that made me really stop and think. And so I wanted to share. I'll get to the funny stuff some other day.

Earlier this evening:

I'm waiting for a prescription to be filled at Shoppers, so I decide to head over to Starbucks to get a smoothie while I wait. Sitting cross-legged on the ground just outside is a young woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, reading a book, with a sign in front of her that says "Too smart to steal, too proud to hook", with an upturned baseball cap in front of that with a bit of small change in it. As I pass in front of her, I hear her mumble something to someone else walking by about something to eat, so I stop and ask her if she wants something from Starbucks. She grins, and says that actually she and her boyfriend, who is sitting out in front of Netropass across the street, are really trying to get enough money together for a new backpack because their old one broke, and that the only thing she really likes from Starbucks is the oat fudge bar, and she's already had like 4 of them today. I like her honesty, and really, who wants 5 oat fudge bars in one day?

"That's fair," I say. "Although I totally love the oat fudge bars too". I tell her I was planning on using debit but that I might have a bit of change, and she says every bit counts, so I dig around in my purse for a bit while we chat and she tells me that she's found the peanut butter bars that Starbucks used to sell, at a little bakery down in St. Lawrence Market. We joke about how maybe Reese's had forced Starbucks to stop selling their peanut butter bars because they wanted a monopoly on the chocolate/peanut butter market, and then I ask her if she smokes and offer her a cigarette.

"My boyfriend and I are stuck here for awhile anyway," she tells me, and explains that they bought their bus tickets to BC in advance but that they are for a specific day so they have to wait until then to leave. She tells me she is from Halifax, and he is from Toronto. She tells me a few more stories, including one about how last week a guy offered her and her boyfriend each 400 dollars to wait in line all night at Nike for these new shoes they were going to be releasing, and how when they woke up in the morning, everyone was gone, because it turned out Nike said they were just going to release them online. Then I ask her if she has plans for when they get to BC.

"Well, I'm kind of hiding from my doctors. They're supposed to cut off my leg." This isn't really anything I was expecting her to say, and when she starts to hike up her pant leg, I'm not sure what I'm expecting to see, maybe some kind of mangled, gangrenous limb, but there's nothing there except a normal-looking leg with some scars along the the front and side of her shin and knee. She points to the scars. "They took out most of the bone a few years ago." she says. "Oh." I say. "I have cellulitis," she explains, "and it's in my bloodstream. I should have dealt with it before, but I can't deal with them taking off my leg, so instead I have to have pieces taken out of my body every now and then. I'd rather that then lose my leg. How messed up is that?" I ask her what scares her about losing her leg and getting a prosthesis. She tells me she loves to roller blade. I say she could probably still do it. She says it wouldn't be the same, and I agree. She then tells me how she's had two other surgeries, one to take out a piece of flesh from her armpit area, one from her backside, both damage caused by the cellulitis. She tells me how she wishes she'd gone ahead with the original surgery, when it was just supposed to be from the shin down, or then from the knee down, because the last time she was told they have to take her leg from the hip down. She's gone in multiple times, ready to do the amputation, signed the forms, but then the next day when they come in, she's gone, because she's decided she just can't go through with it.

Every time she runs away to live on the streets, people keep telling her she just needs to do it, that she needs to suck it up because it's what needs to happen. "People don't get it," she explains to me. "I KNOW that. But I can't lose my leg." She tells me that she's holding out, waiting for her lawsuit to come through. I don't ask her what the lawsuit is for, medical-related I assume. "With the 2 million dollars, I figure SOMEONE can save my leg". She grins at me again. Somehow we end up on the topic of food again, and she asks me if I know how long it takes to eat a box of Fruit Loops one at a time. "A jumbo box, or a regular size box?" I ask her. She grins. "A big dollar store box." she answers. "Hmm...." She doesn't wait for me to guess. "Two days. And that includes throwing handfuls of them at pigeons. This is what you learn when you've lost half your teeth." She shows me that she's lost basically all of her back molars, and tells me that she's worried that the cellulitis is responsible for this as well. We talk some more. She tells me that she wishes her friends could just go with her to the hospital and handcuff her to the hospital bed so that she can't run. She says "if the police are allowed to do it, my friends should be able to." She tells me "the drugs are just a way to entertain myself in the meantime," as we both light another cigarette.

While we talk I find the therapist in me frantically searching for the right thing to say to this girl. In fact, if I'm honest, it's probably not even the therapist part of me, but the part of me that contributed to wanting to be a therapist in the first place, the part of me that wants to save people, save them from themselves, from the sadness and horror that life brings to people for no other reason than that's just what life does. I think: others have tried to convince her why she has to go through with the surgery, she's told you that's not helpful, so don't do that. I tell her it's her body, she needs to make the right choice for herself because she wants to. That she'll do the right thing for herself when the time is right. I think: help her see that she has the power to make this choice, DO SOMETHING. But in the end I realize that I can't save her. Because at the end of the day we all hold the responsibility for ourselves. Nobody can handcuff her to the hospital bed. She has to walk in and sign the forms and stay there because SHE wants to. People can support her, and hold her hand, and be with her through the ordeal. Others can talk to her about it, and listen to her pain, and help her cope, but no can tell her when it's time to take the leap of the faith and say: NOW. I'm ready. Because only she will know when she's ready.

So in the end, we stand there together in silence for a bit until she mentions that she kind of feels like a strawberry frappuccino after all. I ask her if she would like me to get one for her and she says "Yes, please." So I buy her one, with whipped cream, and then we say goodbye and I wish her luck. Because I can do that for her today. And I say thank you to her, and hope that she knows that she gave a gift to me today as well.

Good luck strawberry frappuccino girl. I hope you decide to say "Yes".