Have you seen this bear?

One thing did happen in Disney World that was not a happy memory. My son lost his beloved teddy bear, Dickie. He's had Dickie since he was a curly-headed toddler. He gave him the name Dickie. I don't know how he came up with that name but he names all his stuffed animals. He has a stuffed toy rat that he calls Animal and a large teddy called Uh-Huh. But Dickie has always been his favourite.

Whenever my son goes on a trip, Dickie goes with him. He's travelled to Niagara Falls and Nova Scotia, and to Beaver camp. So of course, he went with us to Disney World. I'm not sure exactly how he got lost, but I think my son had him under the bed covers and when the maid changed the bed, he got swept up with the bedspread and sent to the laundry. Of course we went looking for him but couldn't find him anywhere. We reported him to Lost and Found and checked back there day after day. Nothing.

After several conversations with hotel staff, I find out that the laundry is done off-site and that there's a good chance Dickie went with it. It could be weeks before he's found, they tell me. In the meantime, we've returned home without him. My son is heartbroken. At bedtime, he cries and asks me "Where is Dickie? I miss him." I tell him Dickie is off on an adventure and will come home when he can. I hope.

Ben's Bluff

Well that was a pretty intense episode. Sawyer was heroic, Hugo was noble, Aaron was cute, Jack was sick. Ben sits at the piano, playing Chopin. Either the Raindrop Prelude or the Funeral March, although I'm not 100 % sure.

Don't get me started on Ben. Sacrificing his beloved daughter to save his own skin. Seeing his bluff backfire was excruciating. I knew poor Alex was dead as soon as he said she wasn't really his daughter. Alex was one of the few truly "good" people on the island. By that I mean she was kind, considerate, forgiving (even of her psycho father) and sweet. Heck, just the fact that she hadn't killed anyone must put her in a minority on the island.

All seemed hopeless until Ben unleashed that fog monster. Still don't know what the heck that thing is. Ben's private pit bull? Whatever. Time to say goodbye to hunky ex-marine mercenary Martin. He of the pale eyes, itchy trigger finger and non-existent moral code.

I noticed Ben checked into the hotel in Tunisia under the name Dean Moriarty, the hero in Kerouac's On The Road. Another literary reference. And Aaron (named for the brother of Moses) gets placed in a basket again, another Biblical reference.

Chew on this

Just returned from Florida after taking my son and nephew to Disney World. It was a fantastic trip. But here’s something odd. Did you know that you cannot buy chewing gum at the Orlando airport? Neither did I!

We’re heading for the departure gate and my sister says, “Hey, let’s get some gum for the plane.” I say: “Hey sis, great idea.” OK, I didn’t say the “Hey sis” part. But I did want to get some gum because it helps when the plane is taking off or landing and my ears start to hurt.

So I go into this ridiculously crowded shop that is full of candy, chocolate, books, drinks, etc. But I can’t find any chewing gum anywhere. So I ask the cashier.

“No gum,” she snaps.

Um, OK. I try to ask where I can find some.

“No gum! No gum!!” she barks, sounding eerily like the Soup Nazi.

Still, I press on.

“Is there anywhere I can get some gum?” I ask.

“No!”

“Not anywhere in the airport?”

“No! Not in the whole airport!”

Now, I want to ask why. But I’m afraid to even utter the word “gum” again. Everyone is glowering at me, as though I’ve just asked for the most unreasonable contraband imaginable, like endangered Siberian tiger testicles or something. I’m expecting to feel an elbow in my ribs and a voice hissing urgently: “Let it go. Let it go, you fool. Walk away!”

Everyone seems nervous and jumpy. But still, no one explains why gum is taboo.

So I leave and go into another shop.

Nope, no gum there either.

“No gum! No gum!” shrieks the woman at the counter, again without explanation.

Did I somehow enter the Twilight Zone? I feel like I’m in one of those cheesy old horror movies where some clueless outsiders stumble into a quaint little village in New England. All is cheery and pleasant until they ask about the old McAllister place on the hill and then everyone starts slamming shutters in their faces.

I find my sister and tell her about my unsuccessful quest. She reports a similar experience. Probably part of those new security measures, like the no gels, no liquids thing, she suggests. Still, I’m surprised gum would be among the banned items. What do they think I’m going to do with it? Chew up a huge wad of explosive Juicy Fruit and spit it into the cockpit? Do I look like MacGyver?

After returning home, I check the Internet to see if gum is on the list of banned items on flights. It’s not. So what gives?

Further research reveals the airport in Orlando legally prohibits the sale of gum. No store in the airport can sell it. Why? Because they are afraid people will spit it onto their carpets. That’s it. There's no great explosive chewing gum plot. Just their way of keeping the carpets clean. Could they not just say so? How about a sign? Sheesh.

Nim's Island

I took my son to see Nim's Island on the weekend. It was fun, despite some silly plot contrivances, and I had a few good laughs. Jodie Foster did a good job with the physical comedy and I liked the young girl in it, Abigail Breslin (I think that's her name.)

Just for the record, I'm not a huge Jodie Foster fan and unlike most lesbians, don't find her that attractive. I know, I'm a bad lesbian. I don't like Martina either. Sue me. I liked Jodie Foster better when she was chubby, which was about 20 years ago. Somewhere around the time she did "Nell" she lost a ton of weight and I lost interest. Whadevah. Back to the movie.

It was fun and I did enjoy Foster's character, a neurotic fiction writer who lives alone in a funky apartment. Her creative process is very similar to mine. Yes, I can relate. I'm not quite that neurotic and my apartment is not quite as funky. But still.

The ending of the movie was kind of odd. It seemed rushed and non-cohesive (Did she finish the book? What about the volcano? What happens to her alter-ego Alex Rover?) I guess we're not supposed to care as long as she gets laid.

The Bath-house

It sounds so mysterious doesn’t it? The bath-house. It makes me think of Romans in togas feeding each other grapes whilst lounging around huge rectangular pools of steaming water. Well, never having been to a bath-house, I really had no idea what to expect.

So when I hear that one of the city’s popular bath-house spots has been booked for a women-only night, I think what the heck? I’ll go, and I’ll dip myself into those steaming, erotic bathy-things. My ever-helpful therapist gives her blessing and encourages me to venture into these (ahem) uncharted waters.

First, what to wear? The website says wear leather, or sexy lingerie or whatever. I’m a little on the shy side so I’m not going to suit up like a dominatrix and I’m certainly not going dressed as a hooker either. So I put on my black Levis and a black T-shirt, black leather boots … you get the picture.

Now, it’s cool out and I need a jacket. So I pull my trusty black leather jacket from the depths of my hall closet. I haven’t worn it in about 10 years but it’s still in great shape. I bought it in 1992 and it definitely has that late ‘80s-early ‘90s look to it. I put it on and look in the mirror. OK, I look ridiculous.

Oh well, I won’t have the jacket on for long, I tell myself. I get in the car and drive to the place. It takes me about 30 minutes to get there because it is on the other side of town, in a downright hideous neighbourhood. I park and look at my watch: 8:45 p.m. I’m early but I might as well go in so I can get a good “room.”

I’m expecting the place to be like a big party, with music, go-go dancers and lots of women mixing and talking, etc. You know, like a key party in the ‘60s, which I’m really too young to remember, but never mind.

I go in and realize I am very, very, very early. There are only about three other women there and one of them has not been a woman for more than 15 minutes by the look of it. She’s the only one who smiles. I pay for a “room” which turns out to be tiny cubicle with plywood walls, a tiny locker and a small bed. The guy at the counter is nice. He gives me sheets for the bed and tells me to drop them into the laundry hamper when I leave. What does he think I’m going to do with them?

I go into this tiny room and start to get changed into my “bath-wear” which is my bathing suit and my black cover-up. I wonder where the pool is.

Then I realize it’s past 9 p.m., my son’s bedtime. I usually call and say good night to him. I go back to my plywood room to get my cellphone. That’s when I realize I left the damn thing in the car. I don’t want to get dressed and go outside again, so I go out to the front lounge, where the same three or four other people are hanging out together. I ask the guy in the office if I can use the phone. He says sure.

Now I call my ex’s place, cringing. I’m trying to remember if she has caller ID on the upstairs phone. I wonder what it will say? Bath-house? Spa? Den of Iniquity? Luckily, she doesn’t seem curious about where I’m calling from, so I figure there’s no ID on the phone. I say goodnight to my son and blow him kisses. Hanging up, I see the lounging people staring at me. I guess it’s not the usual bath-house etiquette to make phone calls to your kids. Whatever. I head back down the hall to find the pool.

It turns out there isn’t a pool here. No bath either. Just a few showers, a sauna and a steam room. I wander around a bit, checking out the play rooms. They are all deserted but I go in anyway, just to see what’s there. One of them features a large TV screen playing hard-core porn that appears to be straight but it’s so raunchy I don’t watch long enough to be sure.

I wander around a bit more, passing a few people in the hallways. None of them even make eye contact let alone smile. I figure everything I’ve heard about bath-houses must be complete bull. A few more people trickle in but they’re all in couples. They disappear into plywood rooms and begin making ridiculous amounts of noise. I wonder why they don’t just do it at home. It’s bizarre and really not my cup of tea so I grab my towel and head to the steam bath which is actually quite nice. Five minutes in there, about 10 in the sauna, then a shower. I manage a brief conversation with a couple in the sauna, but they leave after about 10 minutes. No one else seems the slightest bit friendly. Everyone is wandering around barefoot and I begin to worry about how often the floors are cleaned and whether bleach is used.

Finally, even my obsessing about the floors begins to bore me, so I retire to my cubicle. The people next door are going at it like mad cattle. I’m surprised they have enough room in there to do what it sounds like they are doing. What should I do now? Take a nap? Meditate? Masturbate? I really don’t feel like doing any of the above and frankly, I’m now convinced that coming here was a big mistake. I finally pack up and leave.

When I get home, I grab a bottle of rubbing alcohol and swab the soles of my feet. My mind goes back to my sophomore year of high school, when I picked up athlete’s foot or some equally hideous kind of fungus in the locker room. It took weeks to get rid of it, as I recall. Paranoid? Maybe. But I learned my lesson.