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?

Drunk Seal Claims Penguin Wanted It

After two weeks on hiatus, I return only to discover seals are as sexually discerning as drunk frosh boys.

Yes, a fur seal in Antartica was caught on tape trying to have sex with a king penguin.

"At first glimpse, we thought the seal was killing the penguin," says Nico de Bruyn, of the Mammal Research Institute at the University of Pretoria, South Africa.

What is so especially awesome about the BBC article is how it describes the cross-species rape in tabloid journalistic form.

The seal then alternated between resting on the penguin, and thrusting its pelvis, trying to insert itself, unsuccessfully.

After 45 minutes the seal gave up, swam into the water and then completely ignored the bird it had just assaulted, the scientists report.

No word on whether or not charges will be laid.