Going Off the Rails

I got to ride on one of those new-fangled C-Train cars today. In case you haven't experienced one yet, they feature two rows of seating that face the centre of the train, and lots of standing room. The arrangement allows for increased passenger-carrying capacity, which I can't argue with, as well as increased passenger awkwardness capacity, which I can.

Have I ever mentioned that I suffer from a certain degree of social awkwardness? Much like a functional alcoholic I've become adept at working around the affliction, so some people who know me are bound not to believe me, but I swear it's true. Gauged against the full possible spectrum of social awkwardness it's not too bad a case, but it does tend to result in (you guessed it!) awkward social situations on a regular basis. The matter is further compounded by my incredibly sensitive internal awkwardness alarm: at the slightest sign of social awkwardness the alarm goes haywire; adrenalin is released; fear and befuddlement further hamper my judgment; socially awkward acts are committed; additional adrenalin is released; and affected parties are sucked into an Embarrassment Vortex that can only be healed by vodka. Or the witness protection program.

One of the hallmarks of a social awkwardness problem is an impaired ability to extricate oneself from awkward social situations. Take today on the train, for instance: I entered the train with about seven million other people and jostled for a plum position, of which - on the new-fangled trains - there aren't many.

You know, during my entire pregnancy, no one ever offered me a seat on the C-Train. Today, for reasons not fully understood, the gentleman who beat me by a millisecond to the same plum position we were both gunning for - won it fair and square! - offered me the seat. The last seat on the C-Train. He stopped just short of claiming his prize, looked kindly in my eyes, and gestured toward the seat. Then we both looked toward the seat. And realized it was being overflowed by largish persons on either side and was effectively only one-third of a seat, and that there was no way in hell my also largish person was going to actually fit in the one-third seat.

Being the magnanimous person that he was, the fellow recognized that by retracting his offer for me to take the seat he would be implying that I was a lard ass who couldn't fit in the seat, so he continued to offer me the seat, while I - recognizing that by declining his offer of the seat would be conceding that I am in fact a lard ass who couldn't fit in the seat - in an adrenalin-induced haze of confusion continued to move incrementally toward the seat. The largish persons on either side of the one-third seat became aware of my intention to actually attempt to sit, and I tried not to notice the rising alarm in their eyes as I turned my rear end toward the one-third seat and began backing in. Praise the lord that I didn't start beeping.

But I did shoulder check.

Cinderella's slipper must have felt much the same way - when faced with her wicked stepsisters' grotesque feet - as those two unfortunate souls did, being completely powerless to stop the relentless descent of my bottom toward them. The difference being that largish persons tend to be squishier than feet or glass footwear, so squeeze in I did. SQUEEZE in. A completely-touching-from-shoulder-to-ankle kind of squeeze. And then we all sat there, decidedly not talking and not looking at each other and silently pretending not to notice that we were all doing wildly inappropriate amounts of touching.

Just when I thought the awkwardness had reached its zenith, I realized that, in enacting a straight-ahead-stare approach to coping with the outrageous awkwardness, the only item available in my field of view was seat-offering man's crotch. So I turned my focus toward also not-noticing his package whilst clearly staring directly at it, and that's when the true absurdity of the situation hit me:

For the love of gawd why didn't I just say  "no, thank you"? And did I actually shoulder check? I choked down a giggle. And why the hell can't this guy just do a quarter turn and get his junk out of my face? I started to shake from the strain of controlling my rising hysteria. No, don't think funny things. Don't think funny things. I think I'll play corners at the next turn. Ohmygawd that's funny stop that! Tears began rolling down my face. Deep breath. No funny things. Only serious things. What if I ripped a huge fart and pretended not to notice? A strangled squeak of laughter escaped my lips.

The largish persons actually stood up - both of them, one right after the other - and stood for the rest of the train ride.

Embarrassment Vortex accomplished. Commence vodka.

Tall Drink of Water

DH and I got some new life insurance this week. (Sorry if this puts a damper on your plans to knock us off, but none of you are the beneficiaries.) A nurse actually came to our house to take our "samples" & vitals - so easy! I had no idea it would be that easy. Why aren't more businesses so customer-laziness oriented? I'd probably buy way more stuff if I could do it without getting out of my pyjamas.

Oh, wait - I do. It's called "online shopping", and actually I should probably cut back on that. Lunar New Year's Resolution #146: less shopping in my pyjamas.

As an added bonus to the nurse's visit, I found out I'm actually taller that I thought I was. I'm not five-foot-five at all; I'm five-foot-five and a half!

Sadly, and contrary to popular belief, growing taller didn't make me any thinner, but I have noticed several improvements in my quality of life over the past few days. My salary hasn't increased as much as I had hoped (or as much as if I had, say, discovered I was actually a man all this time instead of just a vertically-gifted woman), but I imagine that's primarily a function of my not hovering around my boss's office frequently enough this week for him to notice my dramatic growth spurt. I'll figure out a way to work the good news into a meeting next week and then just sit back and watch the dollas start rolling in. But I'm, like, statistically way more attractive and successful now, and pantyhose hardly come up to my armpits at all anymore. Plus I can definitely tell that I'm living longer.

Yup, being tall sure has its advantages.

I wonder if it's too late for me to pass on this fortunate bit of genetics to my children, since I only discovered my tallness after I had them? Drat. Well, I'm not giving it up now - maybe I'll leave it to them in my will. They can have a quarter of an inch each, and if they need any more than that, they'll just have to learn to backcomb their hair.

T & A & W

I took this awesome evolutionary ecology course in university, fascinated the hell out of me. But I had a terrible time maintaining focus because so much of the subject matter pertained to the large amount of study that has been conducted over in Europe... on tits. And not just any tits, but great tits. My brains nearly blew out my ears from the strain of not-laughing at the four thousand times a day my prof said "great tits". Between those guys and their tits and Darwin and his boobies - by jove it's a miracle I survived university.

I just love sort of old-fashioned words that have taken on a risqué connotation (cunning, naughty, peeler, rubber, tickled) and - even more so - words that sound dirty but really aren't (bifurcate, fagaceous, masticate, prostrate, thallus, uvula). Yea, yea, so I'm a complete adolescent, whatev. Guess I should cut Small Fry some slack for killing himself over "poop" and "fart" these days - the average two-year-old's vocabulary only stretches so far. But what he lacks in diversity, he makes up for in sheer quantity and bizarreness of usage. Dinner conversations of late generally go something like this:

"Are you enjoying your noodles?"
"These not noodles. I'm eating poop sandwiches."
(Ignore) "Mommy really likes these yummy noodles. Yum, yum."
"You like poop sandwich?"
(Correct) "That's not something we talk about at the table."
"Daddy like poop? Grandma and grandpa like poop?"
(Reprimand) "That's enough."
"Stinky bum-bum. Poop. Tomato butt."
(Distract) "So what did you do today at Jody's house?"
"I eat farts. Poop. Butt. Stinky fart head."
(Redirect) "Hmm, why don't we talk about something else now?"
"Hmm, why don't we fart poop bum-bum poop stinky head?"
(Give up) *sigh* "Yum, yum. Poop sandwiches again. My favourite."

No matter the mental agility with which you engage your small male offspring, nothing can match his single-minded determination in bludgeoning your conversations to death with potty jokes. Making mealtimes even less pleasant than they already were! (Wait - is that possible?)

Actually, I've been calling the kids to dinner lately by yelling, "Kids! Suffer time!" - my own little inside joke with myself. You can use it if you wish, 'cause if you can't laugh about it you might just have to cry. And it would never do to let the little beasts sense weakness.

Wildlife Encounters of the Married Kind

MAMMAL FACT SHEETS: 

HOUSEWORK MAN

Description

Housework Man (Homo soapiens) is highly variable in appearance, achieving an average height of 1.736m throughout its North American range. Its plumage is often abundant, becoming more so on the back and ears with age.

Habitat and Habits

The call of the Housework Man is a plaintive, whinging sound that has been likened to pay attention to me, pay attention to me. Housework Man is active for approximately twenty minutes per week, and is rarely observed outside the breeding season.

Man housework comprises a minor, yet valuable, component of his habitat.

Conservation

Housework Man is a delicate beast. The savvy woman recognizes that man housework - no matter its quality or quantity relative to her typical weekly output - must be lavishly praised, and diligently and reverently maintained for at least seven days following its completion. Anything less is liable to cause Housework Man offense and, given his finicky nature, may put Housework Man off his man housework indefinitely.
 

Brains, Delicious Brains

Wow, I haven't written in weeks. This is in direct conflict with at least one ("post to blog weekly"), and possibly three-and-a-half ("reinstate hobbies into life" and "maintain contact with outside world - not just at work!"), of my New Year's Resolutions. But as they say, you gotta break some eggs if you wanna make an omelet.

Which reminds me, I also Resolved to try eating vegan this year, but discovered that I'm severely allergic to soy products. Otherwise I'd be "breaking" tofu to be making an "omelet", which admittedly doesn't flow (not to mention taste) quite as well. Which also reminds me, if you've never had hives over 99% of your body (my eyelids and toenails were spared), you just haven't lived. I had to use Lamaze breathing to make it through a project meeting without itching my ass.

But back to that omelet: what kind of omelet could possibly be as important to me as your mental health breaks and/or late-night breastfeeding reading, dear Minions? Not much of an omelet at all, it turns out. In truth, I've been playing Plants vs. Zombies. Obsessively. Maybe even compulsively. (And, by DHs account at least, disorder-edly.) I was forced to pitch all my regularly-scheduled Resolutions out the window in order to implement an Emergency Resolution to stop playing Plants vs. Zombies, cold-turkey. Just when I was totally on track to "lose fifty pounds" and "win the lotto" this year! Dang.

However, thanks to the fact that humans have invented numerous calendar systems throughout history - and assuming my Emergency Resolution has been successful by that time - I can still make a fresh start in the lunar new year. According to my calculations, if I really work at it I should be thin and rich... just in time for the end of the world in 2012.

Also dang. I think I'll go water my Zen Garden awhile and ponder my next move.

Technologically Unvanced

I appreciate technology. I'm happy that I can send my thoughts out into the blogosphere, by the light of a CFB, whilst my dishwasher makes sounds generally only made by vessels about to enter into orbit. I'm happy that someone invented the French press; that warm(ish) water comes out of my taps; and that soft-serve ice cream exists in harmony with stretch fabrics.

But aside from the most basic forms of technology - I can work a garlic press pretty good - I have to admit to a certain lack of finesse. For instance, when we bought a new car about a year ago, I couldn't get the trunk to open. The button says 'HOLD', which I took to be a hoity-toity term for the trunk. Turns out it means... uh... 'hold'. The verb. For months I tried to 'press' (verb) the button in order to gain entry into the 'hold' (noun).

And when I went to buy Small Fry a play phone so he would stop pestering me for the real one all the time, I grabbed the first thing I found that was rectangular in shape and had number buttons. Having not owned a television set for nearly a decade, I only discovered my mistake when Medium Fry wondered aloud to Small Fry why mommy kept talking to the remote.

AND when I finally decided to invest in one of those new-fangled "mobile telephones" a couple of weeks ago... actually, my ego is still pretty tender from the humiliation of it. Maybe another day. But seriously, what right did that young whippersnapper have to make me feel like such a complete freak of nature? Hasn't anyone told him someone's first time should be gentle? And why IS the "on" button camouflaged like that, anyways?

So I'm a dinosaur. So sue me. You know, there's a very good reason why young people can pick up new techy shtuff quicker than cat hair on a clean pair of pants: their brains are mostly empty. It's like a brand-new computer - lots of room. Works real good. Until, that is, it hits a certain point at which it becomes so bogged down with school/ activity/ vaccination/ poop schedules, what food groups have been consumed this week, and the words to Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, that any new input is likely to cause a complete system meltdown.

Sadly, friends, I've reached that point. If only I could free up some disk space, surely I could rule the world.

Getting to Hope You Like Me

I don't think there's any better way to get to know someone than driving long distances together. I suspect this results from a combination of a desire to break up the monotony of a long drive, and the fact that it's easier to bare your soul to someone if you never have to look directly at them. Because really, what are vehicles if not confession boxes on wheels? Ideally, by the end of a long drive, not only will you know what kind of music your travel companion favours, you'll also know such diverse things as whether s/he prefers Peanut to Plain; who's on his or her Free Pass list; and - if the trip is a successful one - a pantload of personal peccadilloes.

I've done a lot of long drives with a lot of different people, and believe me I've downloaded a whole lot of Grade A personal bullshit to almost complete strangers on a fairly regular basis. (Not even drunk!) This sort of random, intense emotional intimacy has often landed me in awkward morning-after-type situations:

"Uh, hey again. So was it, like, good for you? Bebeh?"

I've never asked if anyone has ever felt burdened (or alarmed!) by my cathartic urges, or resented that I insisted on chatting the entire way when all they really wanted to do was listen to sports radio. And frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn - I can only talk about the weather for so long before I'm forced to either shoot myself or steer the conversation into livelier waters. So I've only ever assumed that it was, in fact, good for them too. Judging by the number of repeat clients I've had I don't think my customer service is falling down too badly on this point, but just in case you wish to be a little more mentally prepared for the next time you're slated for a trip with me, here are some things* I usually** feel the need*** to talk about****:

Educational background; family history; pet peeves; what a jackass my ex is; hot office gossip; super powers; culpability; food; sex; parenting (experiences/ philosophy); relationships (experiences/ philosophy); recreational drugs (experiences/ philosophy).
(Bold type = repeat as necessary.)

Notes: 
* Conversation topics including, but not limited to, the above.
** Items are presented in no particular order. 
*** I never feel the need to talk about sports radio.
**** Expect frequent story breaks, semi-regular mental track derailment and heavy f-bomb deployment. And yes, I'm probably the John Candy to your Steve Martin. Get over it.