MAKE ME UNCOMFORTABLE, PLEASE! THE ECONOMICS OF MASOCHISM.

Lauren Sandler has a new book out: One and Only: The Freedom of Having an Only Child. She defends limiting the number of kids because more women are breadwinners today and fully engaged with their jobs. They don’t want to spread themselves too thin, she says. Plus, they want to have more fun than parenting can offer. Wrong, and wrong again, Lauren. Listen to me:

First of all, mothers can be breadwinners AND have babies. I mean, look at Angelina Jolie. She earned 4 million Dollars for photo shots of daughter Shiloh in 2006, and 14 million for her twins in 2008.  I don’t call that spreading yourself thin. Oh, but she is a celebrity, you say. Well, then what about Jamie Lynn Spears: 1 million for her baby daughter in 2008. You think I made a mistake – I meant Britney Spears? No, I’m talking about Jamie Lynn “Nobody has heard of since” (Globe, 12 July). So, don’t believe a word of One and Only. First of all, dropping babies is a fully engaging and well paid job. And, secondly, it hurts. Yes, you heard me right. That’s a big plus. Hurting is IN, or why do you think women wear stilettos?

But you’ll be glad to hear that gainful suffering isn’t just for women. Daniel Merriweather, an Australian song-writer, has jumped the gender gap. He is set to collect a lot of royalties from his song, Water and Flame, which has been picked up by Celine Dion. And you know why? Because that song has every ounce of his heartache and pain in it (TO Star, 7 July). You see a cultural meme taking shaping here: the economics of masochism. Hurt and get paid!

But just as in other financial transactions, you can hurt now and get paid later. Metabolite blood tests are here, people. They can determine your life expectancy, give or take a few years. The possibilities of hurting right now are limitless: Cry yourself to sleep pondering your best before date. Write a tentative obituary. Design your coffin and flower arrangements. Just don’t do your planning while crossing a busy street. Getting hit by a car isn’t covered by metabolite tests.

A new bar in the New York Hilton on 6^th Ave also offers equal opportunity pain, if you dislike winter as much as I do, that is (Metro, 10 July). Called, Minus Five, because the temperature is kept at -5 degrees Celsius (22 Fahrenheit), the bar offers ice walls and ice benches, allowing patrons to wear gloves, boots, parkas and other ungainly articles of clothing that hurt your image. Naturally you will want to drink your vodka straight up – I mean, standing up to keep your butt from freezing. Unless you understand the economics of masochism and plan on selling images of your blue butt online.

Bonus points if you are Canadian! You can hurt and still feel patriotically good – because the ice around you is guaranteed 100 per cent Canadian.

They must be running short of the stuff in Alaska. If so, I hope the Feds slap an export tax on the Canadian winter.

 

EMAIL REVELATIONS. MIRANDA JULY AND ME.

Miranda July has a new project called WE THINK ALONE. She asked a number of famous women -- Kirsten Dunst, Catherine Opie, Sheila Heti -- to share with her their emails on certain topics. You, too, can read them. July’s motto is: Let’s make everything not-private.

With 171,000 results in 0.23 seconds after plugging my name into a Google search, I consider myself famous enough to start my own project and share with Miranda July and my readers the emails I’ve received on the tantalizing topics of sex, money, and friendship.

Friendship:

• LinkedIn sends me frequent updates on people, many of whom are unknown to me, but nevertheless reach out to let me know about their professional development. I’m so touched, whoever you are. And good luck getting a job.
• The Facebook people recently sent me a friend-request from someone I usually meet at the corner café, but they are anxious to wean me from that 19^th century mode of communication. They just know that my friend and I would have more fun looking at the same newsfeed than looking at each other’s same old/same old faces.
• A friend sent me an email with the subject heading “Oh, dear”. What’s it about? Don’t know. Was afraid to open it.
• Angelina Jolie, Natalie Portman, Anne Hathaway, and Britney Spears all appear in subject headings in my inbox, but disappointingly none of them want to “like” me.  They just want me to go to a weight clinic they “like”.

Sex:

• I had two notifications recently with the subject heading: Returned Mail. See transcript for details. Sounds like missed opportunities to me. That’s so sad, don’t you think?
• The chair of the Writers’ Union wished me a “howlin’ good Canada Weekend”. Sounds painful. But could be M&S sexy, no?
• I get frequent offers to have my penis enlarged  – I forward them to the husbands of friends, who might benefit from an improved performance. This should really go under the heading of “friendship”, but I’m short on “sex” entries. I know: I'm disappointed too.

Money:

• Klingne Takacs and other people with unpronounceable names invite me to become their mystery shopper.  Where? In unpronounceable places like Nyiregyhaza or Cwmbran?
• Antiaging Central offers me a discount on intelligence boosters and an even deeper discount on stuff that guarantees energy, longevity, and weight loss. I suspect this has something to do with my on-line pics, which make me look old, stupid, and fat.
• The World Bank Payment Director is angry with me for not replying to his earlier email, in which he offered me millions of dollars.
• The Bank of Montreal, meanwhile, wants my account information – I don’t think I want to do business with people that can’t keep track of my account number.
• Streamyx has only a brief message for me: “Urgent Finance needed?” Not sure I do. What’s an “urgent finance” anyway? Will it boost my intelligence? Or is it just a typo for “urgent fiancé”? In which case: No, thanks. I’ve never liked urgent men.

Anyway: move over, Miranda July. I have a better project than WE THINK ALONE. It’s called WE DELETE ALONE.

THE PROMPOSAL or HOW TO TAKE CONTROL OF YOUR NARRATIVE.

Until recently, only royalty and Hollywood stars were in control of their image. We saw and heard whatever their publicity managers fed to the media. Only their nearest and dearest knew what was going on behind the scenes – the nip and tuck, the screaming fights, the drunken bouts, the overdoses. But that was in prehistoric times, circa Elvis Presley. Now the nearest and dearest are kept out of the picture as well. Angelina Jolie’s father heard about her operation the same way you and I did: through the media. He was as surprised as anyone, according to telegraph.co.uk.

Ah, the mediating media, channeled by Jolie. Only she knows who she is. Which makes me wonder: Does she and her kids communicate via Twitter? Is the Brangelina duo a cozy media construct? Do the two lovebirds have actual first-hand knowledge of each other? Or do they just read the updates provided by their respective publicity reps?

But these are modern times, and even ordinary people want to control the narrative of their lives.  Formerly, if you had a problem with substance abuse, you confessed it to your partner, or your shrink, or your clergyman. Quaint, wasn’t it? Now you take your confession to a publisher, and your partner can read your version of the events in the book. If he has a different version, let him write his own book. In the last two months, the confessions of two hard-drinking women hit the market with a best-selling thunk: Jowita Bydlowska’s Drunk Mom and Lauren Davis’ The Empty Room. So if you feel a nervous breakdown coming on, or a desire for rehabilitation, don’t waste a good story on your loved ones. I mean, what can they do for you? Take your story to the media, and with any luck you’ll cash in on your misery.

Of course, image control for ordinary folks isn’t entirely new. The 70s gave us the Xeroxed Christmas letters, which let us all know exactly as much as the writer wanted us to know about his/her innermost feelings: nothing, that is. The Christmas brag & good news sheet has now been replaced by Facebook and Twitter, which allows for by-the-minute updates and frequent polishing of your image without requiring a copier or an expensive PR machine.

The latest narrative to be controlled are prom dances. Whatever you do, DO NOT sidle up to the girl of your choice in the cafeteria or try cornering her by the locker to pop the question: Will you go to the prom with me? That method sucks. It gives you no control over where the conversation will go or the spin she’ll put on it later when she talks to her girlfriends. No, remember that going to the prom is the climax of your coming of age story. You need to take control of that narrative by going public with your PROMPOSAL. Say it with a balloon-covered hallway or a rose strewn path to her house, or deliver the message via a flash mob. And of course document it on YouTube. Fix that narrative for eternity!

Abigail Pugh (The Star, May 26) explains it all to us. People prefer Facebook and carefully staged YouTube performances because it allows them to edit and retouch. You choose your identity like soup du jour and change it depending on your conversation partner. So much easier than face-to-face interaction. And safer, too.  

Hmm, is that why I’m blogging?