The 100th Post: The Blow-up Doll

The anti-septic kleenexes I rubbed my eyes with before I knew

It's like Alanis Morissette has a grasp on the way we see the world, according to this CTV story. How should I frame this humdrum lottery story, reporter asks himself. Open Jagged Little Pill at random. Catholic school girls? no. Hands in pockets? no. Old men dying as they (or their kin) win the lottery? yes.

I'm sick and my eyes and nose run constantly. My room gives visitors the impression they've entered a hamster's safe zone. The more shredded kleenex the better.

Last weekend my cousin and I did an assignment for her social deviance class where we performed a deviant act (something lawful that went against social norms). Some examples given by her prof were sitting down next to a stranger and striking up a conversation; wearing underwear over our pants; and reading porn in a public location.

We settled on a blow-up doll. After inflating her under some trees and giving her a black dress, we carried her around the mall for several hours, asking whether stores would have clothes to fit her, or whether a certain eye shadow went with her complection. As we descended the elevator to the food court, a group of older men were laughing, and one of them yelled, "Hey! That's my girlfriend!"

Before we had dressed her in the park, from a distance, two young men thought she was a corpse.

My cousin and I acted as though she was nothing more than a purse. In the Tim Horton's line, I held her sideways and swatted the man in line behind me with her toe-less legs. Then we sat down, a small Tim's coffee in front of our friend who was supposed to resemble Jenna Jameson. An older couple struck up conversation with us, and the woman told her husband she wanted to buy one of these dolls for someone named April.

Guess she thought the mouth was there for realism.

Afterwards, my cousin went alone into the Chateau Laurier with Jenna. I followed slightly behind, pretending not to know her so I could watch reactions. When she entered the lobby, the people erupted into screams and squeals of laughter, as though we had walked onto a stage, prepared to deliver scintillating comedy. The gold-trimmed plaster mouldings, white pillars, and burgundy curved furniture were one indication that we had entered a higher realm of the social faux pas. My cousin asked whether a room would be available for her and the doll, and then we left the building, laughter still trailing us. We walked past Parliament hill, past several police officers who merely stared and smiled, before finally deflating her into a backpack.