Can We Get Another Doctor in the House?

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

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

According to the Global website:

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

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

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

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

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

Labia mis-matching.

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

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

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

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

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

No Matter How Cute They Are...

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

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

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

I found her sensitivity humorously touching at the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hypnobirthing: A Good Approach, Despite My Previous Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

Absolutely not.

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

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

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

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

Burn After Reading Not Worth the Heat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And almost every time I am disappointed.

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

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

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

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

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

The opening SNL skit? Meh.

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

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

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

Hypnobirthing: Look Into My Eyes

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

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

Her flaring nostrils basically said: You Are Bad Parents.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Is Pregnancy Congratulated and Motherhood Ignored?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANTM Recap: The Future is Here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

America's Next Top Model Premieres Tonight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Labour is No Excuse for Looking Bad

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan Freeman "Real Good"

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid Things People Say to Pregnant Women

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

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

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

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

Being period-free is so glamorous.

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

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

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

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

I say bullshit.

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

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

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

Tyra Nominates Herself First Lady

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

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

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

Scary.

James Bond Meets Iron Chef

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

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

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

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

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

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

Top Model Takes On Broadway: Charges Laid

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

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

Note to self: do not challenge men from Louisiana.

NOW versus New Yorker

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

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

Until now.

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

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

Here is blurb from the NOW email I received:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Yorker Depends on Staff for Coke Leads

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

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

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

Is Labour Just Too Uncivilized?

On the CBC Radio this afternoon, they hosted a call-in on C-sections.

To be honest, I ignored most of the broadcast, since I assumed it would be the classic face-off that makes doctors look like scalpel-wielding monsters and midwives appear like pro-vagina-stretching pilgrims.

But the last caller of the show was so confident and weird, she grabbed my attention. According to the caller, after she watched a filmed delivery in her pre-natal class she announced she was going to have a C-section and left.

According to the caller, she insisted both her babies be delivered by C-section, despite what she characterized as unfair pressure from her medical caregivers to deliver naturally.

In her words: Giving birth is "barbaric."

She also equated ignoring the option of a C-section as being as absurd as ignoring medical life-saving measures when faced with death.

When I heard the woman's vehement description of the barbarity of birth, I felt an intuitive disgust with her. Is this the same kind of woman who carries anti-bacterial spritz in her purse and keeps her eyes closed during sex?

Last night I accidentally caught a C-section delivery on the Discovery Network (it's baby month)and I have to admit, when I saw them whip the baby out of the stomach, I was like: That is fucking disgusting.

It just looked so wrong seeing a baby come out that way. Of course, I didn't fault the woman (who had no choice in the matter; it was deemed necessary by her doctors). That said, the woman was actually smiling while the doctors pulled the kid out, and chatting to someone off-camera.

I've spoken to a woman who recently had a C-section and she said that she didn't even realize the kid was out until the doctors handed it to her. Apparently morphine trumps motherly instincts, which would explain why there are so many heroine-addicted moms on Intervention.

I also recently saw a natural birth on the Discovery Network and my stomach did a complete Holy Shit flip. I mean, wow.

So the real question is: when is too much information, well, too much information? Without the context of knowing the woman and celebrating the miracle of birth, should expectant parents bear witness to labour? Does watching a complete stranger in what appears to be great anguish do any kind of service for first-time parents-to-be?

It's not like watching CSI stops folks from killing each other, so I can probably safely assume delivery shows won't inadvertently put an end to the human race.
But as Western medicine becomes increasingly specialized and patients become increasingly disempowered, perhaps de-contextualized labours should be shelved in favour of discussions with our mothers on how they remember their labours.

A picture might be worth a thousand words, but sometimes the words they express aren't the ones we need to hear.

Watch Out, Fat Chicks

Now that my belly is out there in all of its 25-weeks-of-fetal-development glory, there is no doubt that I am pregnant (or hiding a small watermelon under my shirt).

What is most amazing about my growth (other than the miracle of life, yada yada) is how fat chicks take on pregnant women like it's a challenge.

So far today, four overweight women have: out-wobbled me to a seat on the bus, pushed me out of the way as I was exiting an elevator, budded in front of me in line for a free hot dog, and glowered at me in the mall.

I know: buses, dogs and malls, sounds like a dream life I lead. And perhaps it would be if women with unjustifiable lumps of upper arm fat, wide loads and bad 'tudes weren't raining on my hormone-happy parade.

I have now been offered a seat on Toronto public transit exactly twice during my entire pregnancy. And I take transit every day. Meanwhile, I was on the subway in NYC last week for one minute and was offered a seat.

When I look around in the morning, the people avoiding my gaze are the men (because no man of any age seems aware that offering his seat is sort of a nice thing to do for any woman, let alone a pregnant woman).

Meanwhile, every fat chick spreading her seams over a seat and a half is staring right back at me with indignance as I shift my weight from hip to hip.

I like to imagine they are thinking, "I weigh more than you so I deserve to sit more than you." And when I think about it, maybe they're right. The are just as responsible for their fat as I am for my fetus. Is a fetus-bearer any more entitled to rest than a fatty?

Probably not. But along with my growing belly is an ever-growing fearlessness in using it for both good and evil. Which is why I hip-checked Miss Chunky at the elevator and tsk'ed openly at the bus budder. I may not deserve to be treated with any special kindness because I'm knocked up, but I don't plan on getting shoved aside by any ass, no matter how big they are.

The Unbeard-able Lightness of Being

Last week my husband walked into the living room and looked at me rather sheepishly.

I scrutinized him for a half-second before my heart dropped.

"You shaved your beard?"

He nodded slowly. "The razor slipped."

Right. After two days in Manhattan, my partner had yet to sight one hipster with facial hair. His growing self-doubt, along with his increasingly unruly beard, had him stroking his sparsely haired chin with growing apprehension.

And then it was gone.

When I was a kid I arrived home after school one day to discover my dad had shaved his mustache. I remember feeling profoundly uncomfortable, as if I had walked in on him without pants on and discovered the door locked behind me.

That's sort of how I felt looking at my husband. I mean, I am used to seeing him nude...just not that nude. I was suddenly looking at skin that hadn't been hairless in four years, almost the entirety of our relationship.

It was like walking in on my husband and finding him peeling his face off like the lizard queen Diana in the V Miniseries. Disturbing. And again, the echoes of a helplessness and discomfort I haven't felt since the '80s.

How is it that a thin and poorly groomed beard came to represent my life partner? Perhaps because its temperamental, burly, masculine, over-striving and yet doesn't look like it's even trying attitude was the perfect cosmetic signifier for my hubby.

Clean-cut, baby-soft, hyper-sensitive nicked skin... who is this stranger leaving shavings in my sink?

I've often thought I could identify any body part of my partner in a photo line-up but now, seeing his head in context and not recognizing it, I've got my doubts.

And maybe that's the real impact of lost facial hair: the phenomenological schism it creates between your experience of someone you love and your present witnessing of them. Knowledge and observation disconnect, which, surprise surprise, pretty much sums up my childhood.

So it seems my husband's clean-shaven face has erased years for both of us.

Where's Horatio When You Need Him?

Almost two weeks ago our brand new Audi A3 got jacked. Well, sort of.

Someone who had spent way too many hours playing Grand Theft Auto 4 decided to hop into our driver's seat and repeatedly ram a butter knife into the ignition.

I know this because when I got into the same driver's seat three days later I discovered a butter knife on the passenger side with the tip broken off. I also found a lighter and blood all over the steering wheel and driver's door handle.

While admittedly the new-car-and-leather smell had been getting on my nerves, the urban stench of depravity, nicotine and hemoglobin was hardly an improvement.

Sadly, instead of looking at car seats, the hubby and I are now shopping for The Club, that red beast that hooks onto your steering wheel to deter retards from ramming butter knives into holes where they don't belong.

To add to the frustration, our neighbor (a full-time sweat pants and beer cans kind of guy) said his tenant likely broke into our car. I called the cops to let them know where they could find a DNA link to the evidence they took from our vehicle (the perp's blood literally left a trail from our car to our neighbor's front door) and 10 days later...nothing. No follow-up interview, no phone call, nada.

I get that Horatio wouldn't be in any hurry to start up the Hummer for an attempted car theft. But I've been pulled over by cops in this city for jaywalking and biking on the wrong side on an intersection. Are our finest really too busy handing out tickets to actually solve crimes??

As for our car, it remains in the shop with the ETA of the replacement part being pegged at next week. Apparently Audi uses Viking ships to transport its parts from Germany.

If Your Friends Jumped Off a Bridge...Oh, Never Mind

What do you do when you're a bored high school student in Gloucester, Mass.?

You sign a pregnancy pact with your BFFs!

In a high school of 1,200 students, 17 girls under the age of 16 are entering summer va-kay with some serious muffin top action.

Residents blame the bad local economy, Time Magazine blames the school for "accommodating" pregnancies by offering onsite daycare. Meanwhile, the school's nurse and doctor resigned in protest in May after being denied the authority to provide birth control to students.

Expectant freshman students are apparently looking forward to the "unconditional love" their babies will provide. Very little is noted about the fathers, other than the school's principal discovering one of them is a "24-year-old homeless guy."

I feel sorry for these girls, mostly because they have totally bypassed the greatest phase of sexual development: dry humping.

This is the profoundly pleasurable stage of adolescence where down-the-pants action is still somewhat forbidden and all desire locates itself in the harsh rubbing of teenaged crotches. This jean-on-jean foreplay can last for hours, providing endless erotic ecstasy.

That is, until you actually have sex.

After that, dry humping never really regains its magic because instead of being an end in itself, it's relegated to the status of foreplay (not the forte of any teenaged boy, or homeless dude for that matter).

So, realities of mothering aside, young ladies, before you go signing a pregnancy pact, consider this: Are you really prepared to foresake dry humping for wet diapers?

Angelina Makes Us All Look Bad

Are you pregnant and feeling good about how you're handling all the changes in your life?

Well, unless you are expecting twins, piloting planes, leading peace missions to Afghanistan, having your doodles made into permanent tattoos and enjoying hot sex with Brad Pitt on a regular basis, guess what?

You're not feeling as good as Angelina Jolie.

When Angelina Jolie is not pregnant, her status as Better Than Everyone Else is slightly diminished. Sure, she is already the mother of four (soon to be six) but she slips her kids Cheetos and can be assumed to have a fleet of domestic help (despite her claim that nannies never sleep over).

However, pregnant-Angelina seems hellbent on remaining on the cover of every tabloid magazine, where her beaming plump-lipped smile can remind all women (pregnant or otherwise) that no matter how much they accomplish in life, They Will Never Be as Accomplished As Angelina.

Sure, you might be a pilot. But are you a pilot in your second trimester?

And hey, you might be keeping in shape while your belly expands, but would you call pregnancy "great" for your sex life? This morning I woke up to discover I no longer have the ability to turn myself over on our soft mattress. For a few minutes I panicked wondering how I was going to turn the alarm clock off.

Since when is feeling like an overturned turtle good for the booty (unless you are, in fact, a turtle)?

Never mind the multi-million dollar chateau in France, the mansion in New Orleans, the UN speaking engagements and Cannes Festival. Forget about the endless supply of designer bags, designer mat frocks, and cheekbones. I could look past the leading roles, the graceful and unwavering self-assurance and even the perfect body.

But please, Angelina. For the love of god. Go back to adopting. Until you are cursed with DNA that causes stretch marks, acne and sagging boobs, you need to stop creating such an unreasonable benchmark for pregnant women.

Because there is only one Angelina. Which means the rest of us are reduced to being that chunky ass in the portrait behind you. Our message is clear.

Mommy Herding May Cause Stampedes

Apologies for the delay in posting. I have taken on new professional responsibilities, which make blogging nearly impossible. It has also been a busy June with lots of birthdays, parties and I-thought-were-parties (yes, I showed up at a friend's house on Friday with a chilled bottle of Proseco and some stinky cheese only to learn that the party is actually next week).

But I did make it to my sister's fete on Saturday where I was faced with the first of what will inevitably be many instances of "mommy herding."

Mommy herding is what non-pregnant, childless people do to expectant mothers. It involves steering all the bumps in the room into one central area where the bump-bearers are expected to spontaneously connect over all issues baby-related and otherwise.

The hostess intro goes like this, "Amber, meet Jane! She's pregnant, too." Hostess exits. Two pregnant women are left staring at each other.

It is assumed that pregnancy is a universalizing force which can bond the most disparate of individuals. In fact, bringing two pregnant women together is the social equivalent of air-dropping a thousand mines into an open field.

See, when Jane tells me she's seeing an OB/GYN, she makes note of the hospital, relating a sense of pride in where she is delivering. I respond that I am using a midwife and immediately Jane wonders if I am judging her for using a doctor and I am wondering if she assumes I am a masochistic Wiccan.

When I ask Jane how the pregnancy has been for her, if she says it has been good, she sounds like a show-off. If she complains she sounds ungrateful. I admit to back acne and get a scrunched nose, but Jane admits to gaining 10 pounds more than me and a smug grin inadvertently pries my lips apart.

With the exception of steroid-pumped professional athletes, there is no one in the world with a more volatile competitive spirit than an expectant mother. Even the moms-to-be that, at eight months pregnant, brag about not having read a single book are still competing to win the unspoken title of "World's Potentially Greatest Mother." They're simply opting for the falsely humble "who-me?" approach to winning the title in which not only do they get to claim the prize, but they also get to claim that they weren't even really trying.

The hopes that us moms-in-waiting bestow upon our still-developing babies are huge but they hardly measure to the expectations we place upon ourselves.

Take our mounting insecurities, hormonal surges, and physical discomfort, and then double it by throwing us in the ring with another crazy, swollen lady and it is no surprise that us sober ladies at the party will opt for the company of our drunk baby-free friends.

At least we can feel reassured that we won't feel as bad as them in the morning.

The Long Overdue Sex and The City Review

I rushed out with the BFF to see Sex and The City the day after it opened and left the theatre determined to post a review that night.

Two weeks later and here it is. The reason for the delay? I felt obligated to take on every published review of the movie in order to re-affirm just how wrong they all are.

The task felt overwhelming and then irrelevant. Yes, Anthony Lane's New Yorker review was misogynistic and the accompanying caricature of the four girls was spiteful (it depicts Samantha, who is maybe a size 4, as an ogre). And Rick Groen's and Joanne Schneller's reviews in The Globe and Mail were baffling in their fervent distaste for the film. Both reviewers claim to be fans of the show and yet they both accuse the film of being a "disappointment."

The most popular accusation levied against the SATC film is that it presents Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha as cliches. Um, maybe that's because the women are so entrenched in our popular psyche that they are iconic figures, known intimately by millions and yet understood to stand in as symbols of feminine experience.

It isn't the film's responsibility to reveal the finer quirks and histories of the four women: we already know them. In the same way I don't need my girlfriend to contextualize when she says, "He made another excuse why he doesn't want kids" I don't need the movie to reveal what it is about Mr. Big that keeps Carrie coming back for more.

Ultimately, my movie-watching experience should outweigh the negative impact of these reviews. I have now spoken to eight different women, ranging in age from 28 to 62, who have seen the film and every one of them absolutely adored it. We laughed, we blew our snotty noses into popcorn-greased napkins, and we all felt a quiet sadness when it came to an end.

White Tiger: Indian Fiction That Crushes the Cardamom Cliche

Yesterday I finished reading Aravind Adiga's novel, The White Tiger. As I savoured the last word of the novel (which sums up the thrill I felt while reading it) I tried to thwart the sense of loss that creeps up on me whenever I reach the last page of a novel I adore.

The White Tiger (both the novel and its narrator) kicks ass.

For the last few years, publishers' catalogues have been packed with "new Indian literary talents." These writers are almost always female and almost always rely on sentimental descriptors, melodramatic plot lines and recycled mythologies.

In other words, most of these books have been shit.

But the world of half-baked cardamom fiction has been swept aside by the narrative strength of Adiga's first novel. The White Tiger fearlessly chronicles the hypocrisy of India's rich and poor. It is a scathing indictment of the country and its inhabitants, narrated by one of the most compelling characters I have ever encountered in fiction.

Balram Halwai is born into poverty and claws his way up into the driver's seat, both literary and figuratively. Driving his master around in his Honda City, Balram is introduced to call girls, shopping malls and government pay-offs.

Disgusted by the degrading influences of the city, his master's family, and the demands of his own family, he becomes increasingly (and unapologetically) absorbed by the corruption.

Early in the novel, Balram confesses to murder and the action of the story leads us to this pivotal scene. What is especially impressive of Balram's narrative prowess is how his particular crime ultimately implicates an entire country without ever coming across as preachy or parabolic.

The White Tiger is a furious force to be reckoned with. This book is a must-read.

Be Scared of This Feminist Mommy-to-Be

When you're pregnant, the world starts to act as if it owns your ass.

I am referring to the strangers who touch your belly or comment on how you're "exceptionally big," and basically everyone else who judge pregnant women as if they were cattle grazing at a fence line.

Yesterday was my first experience with the general expectation that Pregnant Women Are Carrying Our Future and Must Therefore Dress Neutrally, if Not Matronly.

I was walking through the park on my way to brunch with a girlfriend when a couple walked past me. The woman crinkled her nose at my t-shirt and shook her head. Yeah, I was wearing a shirt that read "Kiss My Ass" but it always received snickers of amusement when I wore it pre-belly.

I thought I was maybe being paranoid when another woman passed me (this one with a small child) and said out loud, "Kiss my...oh my god."

Now people, "ass" is one of the most banal words you hear on TV these days (and I am not even talking cable channels). And the shirt is a shout-out to one of the most entertaining bands of the late 70s, a band whose outfits were not that different than those worn by circus performers.

But I got dirty looks from folks for the rest of the day, even in the Dufferin Mall where I walked past a woman who was showing off a g-string tan line that would have taken months at a tanning salon to achieve. This is the fashion-morality barometer at the D-Mall and I was dressed inappropriately?

The thing is, a pregnant woman is falsely held as this ideal of virginal innocence (thank you Old Testament) when really all her belly says is, Yep, I had unprotected sex!

It takes neither altruism nor inherent goodness to get knocked up and yet many people seem to regard a pregnant woman as an icon of both (ah, the Madonna complex nails us again).

For the same reason strangers feel free to yell at you for taking your child out into the sun without a hat on, they also feel entitled to let you know that you're a bad-mom-to-be.

Of course, these are the same people that would never interfere in a domestic dispute, one situation where a woman's body may actually require some intervention. Because the judgement placed on mothers is not about a communal concern for women or children; it is about believing that a woman's body is not really her own.

Whether it is a partner, or an unborn child, the masses will generally be willing to hand over a woman's rights to the nearest possible claimant.

As someone who has no intention of anyone owning my body but me (and yeah, my little one has unencumbered billeting and feeding rights) I might have to bust out the Kiss My Ass shirt more often. If anyone asks, I'll let them know I mean it.

Does Procreation Destroy A Home's Aesthetic?

After our fire, my husband and I paid the original cost of the art to salvage some of our more sentimental pieces (including a Heidi Conrod oil painting whose new smoky finish lent it a certain other-worldliness, and a massive Duncan Johnson piece that continued to smell like a chemical BBQ for months afterwards).

We then used some of our insurance money to buy a few more oil paintings, a double-headed Kristy Langer polar bear, and a whimsical Heather Goodchild diorama.

It's only recently that folks have started pointing out to us that our tastes are rather dark, a judgement that seems to be facilitated by the fact that we will soon be parents.

This weekend, we had friends and their one-year-old over for a visit and the chaos that is the world of young-uns commenced. In the arm's reach of a child, all cherished objects become either projectiles or landing pads.

Cleaning up some salsa spatter from the cover of the latest Art Review, I self-consciously touched my expanding pregnant belly.

I considered our possessions in a new light: our hanging paintings (bulls' eyes for baby pee streams?), our polar bear installation (would the bared fangs accidentally bang into our newborn's fontanel creating permanent brain damage?) and the diorama of a murder scene beside the bed (would the bloody axe be a deadly choking hazard?)

When I told my mom that my husband wanted to hang his Chairman Mao portrait in the nursery (thereby necessitating a red and black colour theme for the room) she paused before moaning. "Noooooo. Not for a baby."

I weakly argued that red and black are the first colours a baby can discern and that perhaps old Mao could aid in our kid's cognitive development. But inside I too was thinking: How much longer can we keep our aesthetic identities in check before caving into the power of pastels and primary colours?

Some folks with kids manage to keep their cool look, like blogger Jim Harbison and his wife. However, I am not sure my hubs and I are that cool or that competent with room design. And Jim's look doesn't appear to include a diorama called "Motherless Children" or an illustration of a pile of steaming dog turd.

Will we be replacing oil paintings with Dora place mats?

Probably not. But just as the fire drew us to art with obtuse and dangerous narratives, perhaps the experience of parenthood will inspire a new creative perspective.

Then again, I can't imagine anything more terrifying than raising a child.

American Idol: Your Time Has Come

Yes, I know. Most self-respecting adults either do not watch American Idol, or at the very least, do not admit to watching it.

And since I am not even American, it's not like I have a patriotic compulsion to ensure that the right singer represents brand America.

Blame it on the writers' strike. I got hooked early on and never let go (although I usually watch episodes in fast-forward).

Last night's final performances from David Cook and David Archuleta were...painful. Like watching a blinking light while listening to a mash-up of Collective Soul and Josh Groban.

What was Cook thinking? Anyone who sings a U2 song sounds like everyone else in the world who has ever been on a road trip. And Archuleta is what happens when a human breeds with a mole. There is dewy-eyed and then there is "dude, do you need eye drops?".

It seems that the voting tweens will beat the teens in the David & David battle, and Archuleta will win.

Thank god So You Think You Can Dance is starting on Thursday.

Gossip Girl Wins Me Over in the End

Maybe it's the pregnancy hormones (which, similar to adolescent hormones, have made me break out in zits while feeling emblazoned by an unfounded sense of fearlessness) but I really enjoyed the last two episodes of Gossip Girl.

Yes, the storylines are as far flung as a teen aged boy's pleas for getting down your pants (remember when he tried to convince you that blue balls could actually cause long-term damage to his nuts?).

In the world of GG, teenagers rule upper Manhattan, while their parents indulge in drug habits, affairs, and band practice. Teenagers give best man speeches and lecture their fathers on not skipping out on their bonds, all while wearing fabulously over-the-top designer duds.

The boys are sulky, effeminate and conniving while the girls are resilient, hard-liquor swilling ass-kickers.

It's the Bizarro world of logic (ie., a teenager's worldview).

In Monday night's season finale, every couple breaks up in the last 10 minutes and realigns with a new partner. Hell folks, it's summertime. What else is a sixteen year old gonna do? (Other than head off to Tuscany or the Hamptons).

The fantastically adolescent nature of the storylines and dialogue is what makes the show works.

It reminds me of how evil teenagers can be and reassures me that my 30s are a cakewalk in comparison.

Whitney Small, Big and Bigger

It seems that ANTM winner Whitney Thompson keeps growing right before our eyes.

The 'plus-sized' model admitted to being a size 10 on the show, but in her July Seventeen Magazine spread, she claims to be a size 14.

Then there are these pics circulating around the internet of Miss Whitney looking like a trim size 4 or 6. According to Whitney, these photos were taken when she was in high school.

Funny, seeing as I distinctly remember Whitney offering quite the sob story about teased all her life for being big...Wonder if the branding was her idea or the producers?

Fat is the New Black: The Surprising Finale to ANTM

From 14 girls to 3: Whitney, Fatima and Anya.

While I would like to brag that I knew exactly where last night's season finale was headed, when the episode started I was like, it is so obvs that Anya is the only real contender.

What I was not taking into account is that reality and America's Next Top Model have always had a tenuous relationship at best and never, ever, in the history of the show has anyone with actual model looks (with the exception of Caridee) ever won.

The first challenge of the episode is a Cover Girl commercial and print ad shoot that will appear in Walmarts! And Times Square! (which for those of you who have not been to NYC recently is like a big outdoor Walmart with lots of flashing lights.)

Saleisha (last season's winner) arrives to remind us how doggy Fatima is while Anya breaks down in tears in the make-up chair. With her increasingly adorable Zoolander accent she sighs, "Modelling is my passion. My desire." (Water is the essence of life...)

The girls all provide painfully stilted performances for their commercials, while everyone's print ad looks pretty hot.

At judging panel, Tyra says Anya's commercial is a "train wreck but in pieces, it's the best commercial."

Again, I was screaming out, "Just give the $100,000 modelling contract and Seventeen Magazine cover to Anya!" Little did I know...

Now, I was certain the final two would be Fatima and Anya. But, to be fair to myself, I didn't know the Seventeen cover shoot would include a July 4 Independence Day theme, replete with giant American flag. If I had known this, I would have known that the Ethiopian Muslim who wants to be an advocate for victims of clitoris-removal would not be heading to the final two.

Yes, Fatima is kissed off, in order for All-American blond Whitney and Aryan Anya to run off gleefully to their final photo challenge (see above).

The fashion show runway-off between the two finalists is easier than any we've seen in previous seasons (think Chinese stilts, 5km long Thai boardwalks, water-submerged runways). The girls are told they are to walk in a Versace fashion show.

Except that when we get there, it is pretty clear that this is just an ANTM runway show that has simply borrowed Versace dresses. I mean, Mr. Jay is the show director, the ANTM make-up folks are doing the make-up, and the judging panel gets to walk down the runway like royalty before the show begins (oh, and there is an audience of like, 30 people who look like they thought there was going to be free booze at the event.)

Anya sort of flakes out on the runway, looking more tired than ethereal, and Whitney clomps the planks like a Clydesdale in bubble gum pink.

At panel I thought the judges were simply going through the motions to make it look like Whitney has a chance. Since day one, with her thousand "she has a pretty face" comments, it has been pretty clear that Paulina is totally disgusted by Whitney's 'massive' size 10 frame. But Paulina wasn't called out by the tabloids earlier this year for looking dumpy in a one-piece (remember the candid Tyra shot which revealed, gasp, that she had woman-thighs?)

In fact, I should have been more in tune with what Tyra's agenda on her talk show has been all year (girl power, real-sized women and talking about sex in a way that puts you off wanting to have it). Modelling? Who cares?

Despite a strong effort by Nigel (who notes, Anya is "an educated model" hehehe) Whitney is the next ANTM winner who will slide off into oblivion until she is called back into action next season as a visiting guru on what it's like to be an unemployed model.

Because while Anya may have been high fashion, Whitney is Walmart and in the end, that's as good as this show gets.

Next Season: Tyra breaks more modelling boundaries by insisting a midget can look as good in cut-off jean shorts as Kate Moss.

Because Continuing Ed Writing Workshops Don't Offer Enough Crappy Writing Sharing

HarperCollins is launching, Authonomy.com, a website for lisping assholes. Just kidding.

But not really. The site provides an opportunity for aspiring authors to share their manuscripts with "book lovers."

Never mind that book lovers read books and only aspiring writers read aspiring writers' manuscripts for free, this new "social networking site" promises to provide me with daily reasons to set my own self-generated slush pile on fire and throw myself onto its burning pyre.

As with any ill-conceived publishing project, there is the feint promise of consideration for publication for the most popular uploaded works. And, like all poorly run writing workshops, jerkoffs with no literary background and way too much arrogance are free to comment at will on your work.

May the bloodshed and purple prose flow freely.

Child Proclaims: Boobs Better Than Mango

Um. Er.

I am generally uncomfortable when people judge mothers for breastfeeding their children for "too long." Since the global average age for weaning is 4 years old, most babes in Canada are ahead of the curve (for better or worse).

But Jezebel has a clip of a British doc called Extraordinary Breastfeeding, which shows a mother breastfeeding...her eight year old.

Cue involuntary, politically incorrect shudder.

Her articulate daughters claims breast milk is better than anything in the world, better than a "million melons" (melons, heh) but um, wow. I mean, the mom and kids all have great, milk-fed complexions, and they seem content in that "we might live on a compound and believe in aliens" sort of way.

So why do I find this so...wrong?

Getting Waxed Doesn't Make You a Bad Mommy-to-Be

Today the New York Post has an article on women getting primped for labour and cites a number of cases where dilated woohoos got Brazilians and nails got manicured during contractions.

The Jezebel site has a link to the article and sums it up as being another example of women getting their priorities all wrong.

I've got a couple of issues with both sides.

First of all, whoever Dr. Lisa Fishman is, any doctor who recommends a blow-out so your hair looks fab for delivery is an idiot.

Having read exactly one book on pregnancy-- Jenny McCarthy's Belly Laughs (which reveals more about Jenny McCarthy than pregnancy)-- I know that you get cold compresses on your big old sweaty head and any kind of 'do will last all of about 5 minutes in active labour.

That said, the article suggests that women are getting Brazilian waxes before labour for the same vain reasons. But um, hello, who would choose a nurse's razor over a professional waxing? It's not like a woman goes into contractions and thinks, "man, I better get my vadge looking porny for my ob/gyn."

Last week I got my hair highlighted and cut for the first time in six months. It felt great. And I admit, when I was there I was sorting out in my head when to return for my last effortless colouring and cut before my due date.

This doesn't mean my priorities are messed up. It simply proves that I am fully aware that my priorities post-labour will be completely different.

The Expansion Begins

Finally paying attention to my pregnancy means finally getting nervous about what the hell it's going to do to my body.

If I had to pick one word to sum up my biggest fear (disregarding all my ongoing paranoia about whether or not the fetus is still alive): streeeeeeetch.

As in stretched-out belly, stretched-out boobs and stetched-out vadge.

Since I've never paid that much cosmetic attention to my vee-jay (oh, and a bikini wax while you're preggers is a whole other level of hell) my new sudden obsession is keeping my skin as smooth post-labour as it was pre-pregnancy.

This means feeling justified in spending money on new body products since I had to throw out so many when I got knocked up. Good-bye parabens, hydroquinone, salicylic acid. Hello Mama Mio.

This British product line created by three mommies has just been introduced to Canada thanks to The Bay. I was there today picking up my Mama Mini-Kit and Tummy Rub Butter to prevent stretch marks.

All the ingredients are mom-to-be-friendly, including the fragrance.

Whether or not these products will actually have a positive cosmetic impact is sort of secondary to the fact that I need some pampering. Yes, pregnancy feels cool and I am totally pumped about walking around with two hearts beating in me.

However, not fitting into your fat pants and being sober requires some compensating.

Miss J: Je Suis Fatigue, Aussi

So I was away for a couple of weeks and I missed two recaps but when all is said and done, do we care?

The 'A' in ANTM clearly stands for Anya, who is the only one of the remaining four girls who has the right size, gender, and complexion to be a model.

Is it just me or does Fatima looks like a before-shot for Proactive?

Sigh. So I will keep this recap short since the only moment of awesome happened during judging panel.

Fatima, Whitney, Dominique and Anya are in Rome. They are challenged to take pictures of Paulina and it turns out that Fatima is far less annoying behind the camera than she is in front of it.

Since she wins, Fatima earns 50 extra frames at the photo shoot the girls do later on with Nigel Barker.

Most of the episode is consumed by the very bored girls trapped in their loft whining about one another. Much more Big Brother than ANTM.

Anyway, Nigel and Mr. Jay direct the girls for their night shoot, which pairs them with Italian male models, and dresses them (the girls) as '50s starlets.

Every girl is a bit of a disaster on her shoot, but Anya still looks hot in her photo, despite looking like a bad Madonna impersonator in her heavy eyeliner.

At judging panel, Whitney and Dominique show up wearing matching all-black outfits with big shiny belts (now the showdown at the house when they realized they were matching would have been worth seeing) but Dominique is schooled by Tyra for looking ghetto.

When the panel is left alone to judge the girls' fates, Miss J continues his ongoing anti-Fatima campaign by fanning himself with her photo and sighing, "Je suis fatigue."

Checking out Dominique's photo (and how Miss J loves his big old trannie) he announces, "That's why it's called Cover Girl. Because it covers up the man in you."

However, Dominique needs more than make-up to hide her balls and she's sent packing back to the U.S. where she is likely eating candy and talking about herself in the third person.

Fatima is saved from the chopping block once again. Oh, poor Miss J. May you get your wish next week!

Sad Dads Now Another Thing to Worry About

After four months of a distracted pregnancy, I am finally starting to pay some attention to all things baby-related.

Holy shit. Ignorance is bliss.

At some point in recent history, parenthood became really complicated.

Never mind trying to make your baby a genius, apparently your mood will affect your little one's vocab.

As if it's not enough that parents suffer from sleep deprivation, sex deprivation and general dishevelment, it now turns out that parents are twice as likely as the general population to be clinically depressed. Oh, and if daddy's feeling the black dog, well, your kid will be spewing "mama" while the rest of the tikes are waxing philosophic on the merits of Jack and Jill.

Toddlers with sad dads have more limited vocabularies than those with glum mums. Perhaps this is because in the tradition of Sylvia Plath, low women tend to be hyper verbal, while depressed men clam up?

Regardless, moms and moms-to-be now have the added pressure of keeping their baby daddies happy or risk raising children perpetually at a loss for words. For some kids, this might not be such a bad thing...

21 More Sleeps Until Sex in the City

It's the final countdown to the Sex in the City movie and speculations abound.

The latest rumour claims Mr. Big is killed off, but according to the director, Michael Patrick King, that's just not true.

Which is a bit of a shame since that kind of epic Carrie tragedy would rival the Aidan break-up episodes for sheer heart-breaking, sob-inducing tragedy satisfaction.

For those of you who don't think of Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda as a sort of surreal extension of your real social life, you are probably:
a) a man;
b) the kind of woman who thinks she's better than most women and has a lot of male friends;
c) one of those Mormons who was arrested in Texas.

Sex in the City was one of those shows that synchronized so perfectly with my own life lessons that I often looked to it for guidance and empathy in the same way I looked to Beverly Hills 90210 in high school and how I occasionally still look to horoscopes. The reality of either is about as relevant as the 'reality' of gravity.

Is the theory of gravity real? Who the hell cares? All that matters is that I can depend on it to keep me grounded and that's what a good laugh with Samantha, or a wail with Charlotte, does.

As for the movie, I know that Carrie's outfits will be distractingly ridiculous and careers will be secondary to cocktails and brunches but this isn't really different than my own social circle (minus the awesome Manhattan addresses and designer labels).

Because, unless you're 16 years old (or my husband) and looking forward to the sequel of the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants what other upcoming movie portrays not one, but four women who are all educated, opinionated and independent?