Some Calendar Art Just Stinks

In trendy stationery stores, I have seen expensive, glossy calendars with many themes: classic automobiles, flowers, fuzzy kittens, zodiac signs. I can understand the appeal these would have for much of the consuming public. But the one calendar theme that I do not comprehend is Outhouses. You know the one I mean: It features photographs of dilapidated outdoor facilities with peeling paint, sloped roofs, cedar shake shingles, crescent moon cutouts in their doors, stovepipe chimneys. They are meant to look funky, nostalgic and folksy, whimsical and charming in an old country sort of way. I look at them and think S.T.I.N.K.Y.

My childhood experiences with outhouses were nasty. The cabins my parents rented each summer lacked indoor plumbing. One was forced to spend one's "personal moments" in rundown, smelly, fly-infested little chambers of horror, and trust me, one made those moments as momentary as possible. I would hold my breath throughout the ordeal and then gag afterwards at the stench that clung to me even after I had escaped those torturous confines. Little wonder that I tended to wind up constipated by the end of each summer holiday. (When I got home I fairly hugged our familiar white bowl. Well, not quite, but I did regard its gleaming pristineness with great affection.)

Oh, how I envied my brother, who could pee outdoors with little risk of exposure - just a turn of his back would protect his modesty. I marvelled at how Dad, when he felt an uncomfortable twinge during a car trip, would simply pull over on the shoulder, open the front and back doors on the passenger side, and turn away from traffic while unselfconsciously relieving himself. (He did have the sensitivity to whistle so as not to offend his family with any unsavoury noise.) It wasn't that easy for those of us of the female persuasion, who lacked the handy little gizmo that permitted such discreet manoeuvres. Especially those of us with a painful amount of bashfulness. We didn't even want the rest of the world's population to know that we did such things, never mind witness us in the act. Roadside relief was out of the question for us. We needed three walls and a triple-locked door between us and others. So when my tiny and perpetually bursting bladder demanded to be emptied, I needed more than a fistful of paper napkins and a scrawny Dogweed alongside the highway; I needed tile and gleaming porcelain. I seldom got it.

The best I could hope for was a grimy service station washroom, which was invariably unisex, accessed from the outside of the building, and locked. I had to go inside and ask the grumpy unshaven gas jockey for the key, which was attached by a tire chain to a semi rim. Lemme tell ya, it wasn't easy to lug that thing around the side of the station, especially in the distress I was in. The fixtures were smeared with grease and the seat was always up, but by then the place seemed like Nirvana to me.

Over the years I came to reject potential recreation sites on the basis of their washroom facilities. If I had anything to say about it, I wouldn't camp or picnic anywhere that did not provide showers and flush toilets, and they had better be spotless. One time about a dozen years ago, a picnic planned by the neighbours on my street (we were big on block parties and such in those days) was being held at an attractive beach about an hour's drive out of the city. It had a large freshly painted building with what appeared to be modern washroom facilities. Smoke and mirrors....

The outside belied the inside. Oh, there were porcelain commodes, alright; but they were set over top of smelly holes where people had been doin their business since, oh, the turn of the century or so. I ran back outside, filled my lungs with clean air, and raced in to balance above the bowl and do what I had to do, as hurriedly as possible. When I leapt to my feet to yank up my elastic-waist shorts, the keys to our truck leapt out of my pocket and - you guessed it - slid down the encrusted aluminum chute, landing with a sickening splash.

We didn't have a spare set of keys with us. They were at home.

One of our neighbours was a plumber, and he happened to have a magnet that was sometimes used in his trade to retrieve things dropped into holes. I spent a couple of teary hours repeatedly lowering it on a long string into the depths of heaven-knows-what, to no avail. Finally, I smelled so bad that, had I succeeded in retrieving the keys, I probably would have been forced to ride home in the back of the pickup, even if the keys hadn't been corroded by detritus.

So would I pay $12.98 plus taxes to grace my bulletin board for twelve months with photos of outhouses?

Not stinkin likely.

Even Sick, I'm a Super-Hero

I went to school today, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, because report card marks were due at 9:00 am, and sick as I am, I never miss a deadline. (Even after I was almost killed in a car crash, I had examination papers couriered to my house so that I could mark them in bed, my fractured and casted leg propped up on pillows.) Secondly, because if a teacher takes any time off attached to the front or back end of a holiday (it's Spring Break next week), s/he had better be dead. Rumor has it, you have to run a bureaucratic gauntlet that makes what Richard Gere's Lancelot endured seem like a round of patty-cake.

Would that the majority of my students had been half so conscientious. About half of them skipped. Some were honest enough to hand in work owing this morning (I will be working over Spring Break even if they won't), telling me frankly that they had banking and packing to do before they leave on their European trips. (Ah, the envy one suffers as a humble public servant in an affluent community!) Bolstered and subdued by cold meds and Robitussin, I croaked my way through my first period English class, then staggered down to my cafeteria supervision with a valise full of essay marking. Five minutes before the end of my shift, my Dayquil-induced reverie was interrupted by some loud cursing. I looked up to see two girls circling each other like angry felines, a large and appreciative crowd gathering, eager to see some blood. I prayed it would not be mine, as I escorted one of the hell-cats out of the cafeteria. When I quickly paged the office about the possibility of a fight, the second girl sprinted past me and pursued the first, followed by the eager onlookers.

I hurriedly grabbed my valise and purse and scurried after the mob. The long and the short of it is, I managed to separate the two who were in dispute, learn what the cause of the brouhaha was, and get the pursued girl safely into the principal's office with no harm done.

Now can I have my holiday?

I'm Not Dead Yet

Not quite. But I'm sick. Real sick. Bronchitis. I'll be back. Stay tuned.

I Want Off

The scariest carnival ride I have ever been on - bar none - was Montezooma's Revenge at Knott's Berry Farm. It was a couple of minutes of sheer terror that left you with palpitations and a post-adrenaline crash. I knew beforehand it had to be something especially thrilling: First off, its ginormous yellow circular track could be seen from miles away. Secondly, the huge twin turbines, about six feet in diameter, that powered the thing, bespoke speed and brute force. And thirdly, why else would a crowd of people stand in a zigzag line for twenty minutes to board it?

It didn't disappoint. I nearly peed my pants. The acceleration of the ride took my breath and my voice away, so I gawped in mute terror and exhilaration for its duration. The woman behind me was not finding this to be a pleasurable experience, and she had plenty to say about it. From the instant we were catapulted into warp speed, she began to shriek, "I WANT OOOOOOFFFFFF! I WANT OOOOOOFFFFFF!" She kept this up until we lurched to a halt, when her wail became a whimper.

This morning, almost fifteen years later, I feel how she must have on that sunny day in Anaheim. I want off.

I want off this freaking, mercilessly frozen part of the planet. Airlift me, beam me - I don't care how - but get me out of this province with its cruel, capricious climate. Whisk me off to a more temperate, or at least a more consistent clime.

Two days ago, warm temperatures turned Winnipeg into a grimy, filthy sludgepot. One motorist, who nearly disappeared into a pothole the size of a Buick, deflected a wall of slush and muddy water onto my windshield and passenger side that blinded me for a city block, even with my wipers slappin hysterically. I had to stop at a gas station to squeegee my windows so that I could find the rest of my way home.

Yesterday, an Arctic wind caused temperatures to dip a bit below freezing. An opportune time to wash my car, thought I.

Wrong.

Who knew it was gonna plummet to -30 overnight? Even the protection of our garage did not prevent my car from turning into a solid block of ice. When I finally managed to de-ice my lock, the door would not budge, not even a molecule. Tuggin on the door handle just rocked the entire vehicle. It was hermetically sealed, the Hope Diamond would've been safe sittin on my dashboard.

I spent a full hour trying to coax the door open with antifreeze, matches, hot water, a hair dryer. I pounded my fist along the door seams to try to create a fissure in my Ford Glacier. All to no avail.

I'm such a girl. Humiliated and frustrated literally to tears, I called Curtis at work to come rescue me. Even he had a heckuva time pryin the door open, as I sat shivering and sniveling in his nice warm truck.

I was a half hour late for my first period English class. The vice-principal babysat my grade 12's, who were solemn with concern for me, because I am never late. My left hand is black and blue and swollen. I'm still chilled, two hours later.

I don't like this ride.

Did I mention that I want off?

Why Do I Do This to Myself?

10:23 am.

I'm so bored. Bored, bored, bored. Here I sit, at an uncomfortable picnic table kind of thing (who designs these benches, anyway - some sadist with a narrower butt than mine, no doubt), "supervising" the cafeteria. I suppose I should be grateful: 87 teenagers (yup, I counted, that's how bored I am) could kick up quite a ruckus, if they wanted to. Instead, they are amiably playing cards, eating "cafeteria food" (how's that for an oxymoron?), flirting, preening, laughin in that too-loud, is-everyone-lookin-at-me-gawd-I-hope-so kind of way they have. A few are even doing homework, God bless em.

"They." When did I start thinking of them as "They"? When did I stop flicking my hair and cracking my gum, and become the malevolent, hormonally-challenged adult presence in this society of the lithe-limbed, the tattoo-haunched, the fuschia-haired? I feel like Ninnie Threadgoode, who says in Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle-Stop Cafe, "One day I was a little girl and the next I was a grown woman, with bosoms and hair on my private parts. I missed the whole thing."

I don't know how to do nothing. I should take lessons from that boy over there, the tall skinny one wearin a toque and sittin all by himself, just staring with glazed eyes at nothing. He's been doin that for a half hour. He did it for 65 minutes on Friday. Maybe I should hold my lipstick mirror under his nose....Oh wait, false alarm; he just scratched his neck. Languidly. He puts me in mind of one of those geckos that sun themselves all day on rocks, blinking once per geological age. Then you look away for a sec and look back and they're gone. Poof.

I realize I'm rambling....

The only reason I have this rare luxury of bein so agonizingly bored, is that I am all caught up in both my marking and my lesson preparation. This is because I have never learned to pace myself, take it easy, work in increments, BREATHE. Nope, not me: If there's work to be done, I have to attack it like head shark in a feeding frenzy. I have to do it all, right away, fiercely, compulsively, no breaks, until it's all done. Because there's almost always more. So all last week, I spent every available moment planning and typing up assignment handouts for two teaching units I won't need for weeks yet - complete with downloaded graphics and really cool fonts - they rock, if I say so myself. And this weekend, I cleaned my house with fiend-like intensity, prepared a gourmet Thai meal, entertained a dinner guest, went to church, shopped, and did all my marking.

Whew.

And now I'm B.O.R.E.D. So bored I could eat my head. And it's only 10:43. Seventeen more minutes and I can amuse myself by typing this and browsing through a few blogs.

Quick, somebody stick a candy under my tongue.

Gah.

Underwear and Mating Rituals

Underwear plays a major role in modern sexuality. If you don't believe me, utter the words "Victoria Secret" to the first male you encounter, and note the glint in his eyes. And I'll betcha it's accompanied by a leer.

Where did it originate, this fascination with frillies, this panting after panties, this lust for lacies? History reveals that even Victorians relished a peek at an iron-ribbed corset, but I can only draw upon my personal experiences.

When I was a little girl, the only part of me that I deemed worthy of modesty could be adequately covered by a utilitarian pair of white cotton underpants. When Mom forgot to pack my swimsuit (for the umpteenth time) for a day at the beach, my distress delayed me from my fun in the sand and surf for about two nanoseconds - then I'd simply strip down to my skivvies and unselfconsciously have at it.

I measure my older brother Fred's sexual maturation by two milestones in my life: One, when he suddenly banned me from watching Mom bath him, which I had thoroughly enjoyed for years, outside the splash zone, from my vantage point on the toilet seat. Fred was extremely ticklish, and thrashed and splashed under Mom's scrubbing in a way I found highly entertaining.

The other earmark of his foray into puberty was one day when we were romping in the waves - I clad only in my underpants - and he suddenly pointed at my chest, chanting in a singsong voice, "I can see your circles! I can see your circles!" I could see his, too; what was the big deal? It wasn't until about eight years later, that my circles required covering, and I was introduced to underwear as an instrument of allure.

During junior high school, boys were like gnats, as far as I was concerned. They were small and annoying, buzzing around the girls they admired, persistently pestering. I expended a good deal of energy irritably swatting them away. The measure of a grade seven girl's popularity, was how often she had her books knocked out of her arms in the hallway, for boys had not yet acquired the finer skills of courtship - They seemed to believe that if they socked a girl roughly in the shoulder, they'd win her friendship. Heck, it worked with other boys, didn't it?

For boys who pretended to sexual knowledge, the brassiere became the focal point (no pun intended, although bras of that era were cantilevered and shaped like nuclear warheads) of their attention. Their favourite pastime was to give the backstraps of the females they liked a rough yank and then let go while yelling "Robin Hood!" at the top of their lungs. The boys never tired of this prank, finding it hilarious every time. Those of us girls who spent the better part of junior high with welts across our backs, felt otherwise.

No matter which way you look at it, this was sexual harassment, pure and simple, and something I am chagrined I ever tolerated. But as uncomfortable as this abuse was, I knew it signified that I was admired and should feel flattered, for girls who were not desired were ignored. And weltless.

As a high school teacher for twenty-five years, I have witnessed changes in teenage mating rituals. I deliberately use the word "changes," and not "evolution," which would imply progress. There has been adaptation, all right: adaptation to an increasingly permissive society, in which the display of scant and luridly coloured undergarments is public and commonplace. Maybe Madonna started it all, when she started wearin her bra - when she wore one at all, that is - on the outside of her clothing. Call me old-fashioned, but sittin in the cafeteria having my eyes assailed by some girl's "butt floss" is enough to put me off my chicken salad sandwich for the rest of the day.

The other day, one tootsie in my grade 12 class perched on the edge of her chair and reached back with a thumb to extract her purple thong from - I'd rather not think where - to ensure it was exposed well above her low-slung jeans.

I never see boys playin Robin Hood with those straps, even though they are right there, in the open. Is this due to some sense of political correctness or moral propriety on their part? Or a lack of interest because there is no mystique? I don't think it's because of disgust, because they leave their boxers hangin out above their pants, too.

Ew.