X, Y, Z

The Wimmin met for Unbook Club the other night.  We’re quite a diverse group, and conversations are always wild-ranging and free-flowing, especially as the evening wears on and more wine is consumed. This particular evening fit that description perfectly.  Laine decided to share again (for the benefit of those who were too drunk to comprehend it the first time she explained it) her theory on lesbians.

According to Laine, being heterosexual makes sense biologically:  Y chromosome in man meets X chromosome in woman.  Male homosexuality is understandable because of those Y chromosomes that men possess.  However, female homosexuality does not cut it because women have no Y chromosomes.  She is of the opinion that yes, women can love each other, but sex is really out of the question.  She believes that lesbians are just deluding themselves that they are sexually attracted to one another, that they simply can’t because they lack that crucial Y chromosome.

The rest of us howled with laughter, but she stood her ground.  She absolutely insisted that lesbians may love other women, but sexual desire isn’t biologically possible for them.  We argued points such as, “How would you know anything about how a lesbian thinks or feels?  You’re straight!” and “So all those millions of lesbians all over the world are LYING about having sex?!?” and “Who says love and sexual desire have anything to do with biology?  What about the emotional component?” and of course, the show-stopper, “You’re so full of shit!” 

We decided we should have a lesbian come over one night and give a talk to our little group so we’re properly informed on the subject.  But we’re afraid Laine might beat her up.

Where’s Waldo?

After work, I needed to buy some milk for the staff room and some wine for my upcoming Unbook Club gathering.  Rather than driving all the way home and doing those errands in my own neighbourhood, I chose to go to the liquor store and supermarket in the area in which I work.  I don’t know said area too well, despite the fact that I have worked there for just over three years.  Mostly, I go to work in the morning and I go home at the end of the day.  I don’t DO anything else in that community other than teach.

I parked at the liquor store, went in, purchased my wine, then debated whether or not to walk or drive over to the supermarket two short blocks away.  It was starting to rain, so option number two won out.  But as I drove off, I realized that I hadn’t enough cash to buy much of anything else, so I stopped at a bank just around the corner.  (Poor use of fossil fuel, I know.)

I got my cash, got over the fact that I have way less money in my account than I’d thought, and decided to brave the raindrops and walk the remaining block to the supermarket.  There, I bought my milk and a few other items (Isn’t it always that way?  You go in for one measly item and leave with several bags of groceries and an empty wallet.). I headed back to The Mighty Hyundai – and couldn’t find it. 

I stood outside the liquor store, clutching my milk and two grocery bags, pondering how it is possible to forget where you parked the car five minutes ago.  Then I remembered that I’d driven around the corner to the bank, stopped in there, then walked to the supermarket.  I retraced my steps and sure enough, The Mighty Hyundai waited for me in the bank parking lot.  

Even my subconscious is trying to get rid of that car.

Ageless

DD is participating in a medical study involving immune responses to revaccination against tetanus, diphtheria and pertussis.  She was part of the original study ten years ago to determine whether such a vaccine combination actually worked, and when it did, that vaccine was licensed for wide use all across Canada in 1999.  This follow-up study is to investigate repeat administration of the vaccine and its long-term immunity.

I went along to her first appointment today just out of interest and also I was the chauffeur (DD is not permitted to drive The Mighty Hyundai under my rental contract – not that she even wants to.).  We were there about an hour, and near the end, the nurse came out to the waiting room to enquire if perhaps I might be interested in being part of a similar research study.  

“We need people of all ages,” she told me.  ”Do you know when your last diphtheria shot was?”

“Actually,no, I have no idea,” I answered.  ”I don’t think I’ve ever had an MMR shot either.  I don’t think those existed when I was little.  Everybody just had chicken pox, measles and mumps as part of childhood. Except I’m not too sure whether or not I’ve had mumps.  I know I’ve had chicken pox and measles.”

The nurse looked at me and asked, “Well, how old ARE you?”  I couldn’t quite read the expression on her face.

I told her I was fifty, and she smiled sheepishly.  ”I don’t think we have any openings right now for people that old – I mean, that age.  But if you were between thirty and forty…”

First a slight compliment because I don’t look my age, then a bit of a stab because I actually am that age. Ow.

Don’t mess with me

Last night I got home about 11 p.m., had a shower, and went to bed with a book.  (Exciting information, I know, but bear with me.)  The book wasn’t high literature, more like a slightly more sophisticated Harlequin romance, but I just couldn’t put it down.  As a consequence, I was still wide awake at 1 a.m. when I heard all the noise outside.

There was a group of teenagers milling about on the street outside my bedroom window, drinking and yelling.  Not that I’m a prude or anything, but I’ve never heard the “f” word used so frequently in so many different connotations.  One of the guys and his girlfriend were having an extremely  spirited argument. Car doors were slamming, music was blaring off and on, and the occasional glass bottle was crashing to the street.

By 2 a.m., I’d had enough.  Not that I wanted to sleep, but I just wanted the noise to stop so I could concentrate on my romance novel and find out if Colette would, in fact, tell Christian that she was pregnant with his child and if Christian was, in fact, smuggling illegal aliens into the country.

So I called the cops.  I have never done this before.  I have threatened to do so, have regretted not doing so, but have never actually picked up the phone and punched those numbers in.  I didn’t think I should call 911, because it wasn’t strictly an emergency, so I had to hunt down the non-emergency number in the phone book (which I also had to hunt down.  I don’t use it very often, apparently.).

As I was describing the situation to the understanding woman who answered my call, I could hear that the noise outside was diminishing.  As she was telling me that a call regarding the situation had already been received and that a police car would be cruising by as soon as possible, I realized that the noise outside had completely stopped.  I got off the phone and peeked outside.  No one.  Nothing.  Every single one of those drunken kids had disappeared, leaving no trace of themselves.

Wow, I thought.  One phone call from me and people vanish.  Who knew I had this power?  I must remember to only use it for good.

Suck it up

I took my vacuum over to PG’s place last weekend.  He doesn’t have one, and being a man, doesn’t see the need to buy one.  I, being a woman, react sneezily to dusty tabletops and carpets.

He went off to his second job at about 7 a.m. Sunday morning.  I rolled out of bed shortly thereafter, got dressed and headed up the street to Starbucks for breakfast (Because PG is a man, he also sometimes doesn’t have acceptable food in the house.  Like coffee.  Or tea.  Or fruit.  Or even milk.  He does have vodka and wine, thank goodness, but I balk at that for breakfast.  But I digress…)

Anyway, after I had my breakfast and a refreshing walk uptown, I went back to his place and started cleaning.  I had volunteered to do it,  because I felt sorry for the guy, working two jobs now with no time for much else.  Of course, being a man, PG doesn’t even SEE the dust, but hey, I thought I’d help him out.

So his place was shiny, clean, and smelled of Vim when he got home around noon.  He seemed pleased, and we carried on with our day together.  Just before I was leaving, though, he asked me if I’d vacuumed the sofa and armchairs.  I hadn’t, so he asked if he could keep the vacuum for a day or so till he could do it himself.  

It’s now Thursday.  My own house has been steadily accumulating dustballs over the wood floors all week and I shudder to think what’s in/on the carpet in the TV room, but my vacuum is still at PG’s.  

How much do you want to bet that it’s still sitting untouched in his dining room where I left it?  Sitting there,  covered in dust.